BL lover Love burns in yearning ❤️‍🔥

I. Opening with Lust: Why this matters more than sexuality.

The episode opens with a thematic nod to the Seven Deadly Sins, specifically highlighting Lust. That’s already fascinating because lust in Christian theology is so often misunderstood. It isn't merely "feeling attraction." Rather, lust is traditionally framed as disordered desire: a craving completely detached from relationship, dignity, or emotional integration. But notice the brilliance of the writing here: Tanrak’s suffering in this episode isn't a simple case of, "I want Barth physically." Instead, his agony stems from a much deeper question: “Why does wanting someone suddenly feel incompatible with who I thought I was?” With that single conflict, the episode immediately elevates and complicates the category.

II. “It's been ten minutes since my last confession.”

Barth’s joke sounds harmless, but symbolically, it’s brutal. Confession exists to name the very things that separate a soul from God. On the surface, Barth is basically teasing: “You're so good at being holy, you confess professionally.” But underneath that wit lies a dual tragedy. First, Barth assumes Tanrak still belongs to that sacred world. Second, he assumes his own exile: “God wouldn't listen to me anyway.” That line destroys me. It proves Barth still views God relationally, it's just that his God doesn't answer. When he says he forgot the last time he confessed, the subtext is devastating. Confession requires believing someone is listening. Barth stopped expecting that a long time ago.

The staging in this sequence is incredible. Tanrak is waiting outside the confessional, paralyzed by a sudden fear that he no longer qualifies as “God’s favorite son.” Watch how they move toward each other: Tanrak pauses at the holy water font, waits in the queue, but ultimately never crosses the threshold. It makes Barth’s teasing even sweeter in hindsight. Barth isn’t mocking the sacrament of confession itself; he’s trying to ease Tanrak’s tension. It’s the: “Come on, what could you possibly have to confess?” Meanwhile, the audience knows the truth. Tanrak thinks he is carrying an unforgivable, crushing weight.

III. The Father’s sermon on “God is Love” is doing an insane amount of psychological work.

The thematic structure is clear:

Human hearts naturally seek love.

People get lost along the way.

Some forms of love mislead.

God waits for your return.

While this is meant to sound comforting, to Tanrak, it’s a psychological trap. He hears: If love can lead away from God, what if my love is a sin? The accompanying montage makes this explicitly clear, cutting from the church rituals and communion straight to Tanrak’s lingering gaze. That editing is anything but subtle. The sermon is talking about God, but Tanrak’s entire universe is centered on Barth.

This is where the Episode 2 Corinthians reading gets so much richer.

Episode 2: Love challenges doctrine.

Episode 3: Doctrine begins speaking the language of love.

That’s dangerous, because now Tanrak can't separate them. The Father's advice is so shockingly gentle it stunned me. When Tanrak asks, "If feelings make you feel bad, are they wrong?" the Father gives a radical response: "Sometimes they aren't bad. You're just afraid." In doing so, he draws a sharp boundary line: feeling is not synonymous with sin, and fear is not moral truth. This completely upends Tanrak's internal theology. Where Tanrak assumes feeling is danger, the Father suggests feeling is simply information.

And then: “God isn't in a rush.” That single line might secretly be the theological axis of Episode 3. Tanrak lives entirely through a framework of urgency. Perfect grades. Perfect devotion. Perfect obedience. Perfect certainty. But God (at least within the walls of this conversation) doesn't rush. People do. Institutions do. Fear does. God doesn't.

IV. Tanrak kneeling before the Holy Family gives us a perfect, devastating reversal of Episode 1.

Think about the parallel: in the first episode, Barth stares at the icon with the question, “Why wasn't I chosen?” In Episode 3, Tanrak faces the exact same image, asking, “Can I still belong?” It’s the same holy imagery, but a completely different wound. Barth feared exclusion. Tanrak fears disqualification. The idea of the Holy Family remains entirely impossible. But now, it is an impossibility they share.

V. I am so fascinated by this section and the way it handles why Tanrak becomes so much brighter afterward.

Right after the Father notes that feelings aren't a sin, Tanrak just... relaxes. He smiles, flirts, and actively returns to life. That matters so much. Before this, love meant catastrophe. Now, love means possibility. Just look at the physical transformation: his body starts behaving before his theology catches up. That's a crucial distinction. Tanrak doesn't intellectually decide to change, his body already knows the truth.

VI. The choice to have Tanrak watching the football scene instead of supervising it is absolutely huge.

It beautifully follows what I pointed out in Episode 2: recognition precedes desire. Episode 3 officially turns that idea into visual language. He doesn't care about the game; he only has eyes for Barth. Love, quite literally, starts shifting his entire focus.

VII. Episode 3 isn't just a repeat of the Episode 2 bread scene; it reframes and escalates it.

And then comes the line: “This is my body given to you.” That hits like a truck. In theology, the Eucharist isn't just food; it’s an offering of the self. The core movement is simple: I give myself, therefore relationship becomes possible. That’s why communion was never meant to be solitary. When you look at Barth’s vulnerability in that moment, the way he admits, “You’re my only friend,” and begs, “If I upset you, tell me,” that line about his body changes entirely. It stops being irreverent and starts feeling like an ultimatum of the heart: “Take me seriously. Know me. Don't leave.” For a character who has been so guarded, it’s a devastatingly perfect arc.

VIII. I love the way Barth temporarily slips into "priest-language."

When he jokes, “Maybe one day I’ll get to say that in Mass,” the narrative irony is layered. On the surface, it’s a casual quip. In reality, it’s a fantasy of an impossible belonging.

Think about it: the priest is the mediator of communion. The priest stands at the very center of belonging, and Barth is jokingly inserting himself into that role. It’s a painful masquerade, especially because he admits moments later, “A guy like me won’t go to heaven anyway.” The contradiction is heartbreaking: “I’m never getting into heaven, but let me practice the liturgy anyway.” It sounds like someone standing outside a window, imagining a warmth they know they’ll never feel. It brings us right back to the core of his character arc: Barth never looked indifferent to faith. He looked exiled from it.

IX. The structural inversion from Episode 2 is brilliant, and it might be my favorite layer of the entire episode.

Episode 2: Barth offers the bread; Tanrak receives.

Episode 3: Barth offers; Tanrak breaks and shares.

That shift matters because communion is meant to be shared. Look at Tanrak’s exact movement here. Instead of taking the donut whole, he divides it. Breaking bread is one of the oldest Christian ritual images we have. It’s not about consuming; it’s about sharing. With that single choice, Tanrak actively participates, turning a one-sided offering into a mutual invitation.

To top it all off, the fact that he still accepts the piece of bread right after telling Barth, “God will punish you,” is the absolute kicker. His theology says caution. His body says yes.

There is a second, even more fascinating possibility here: the scene is a quiet confrontation between sacramental love and deep-seated shame.

Trace the structural timeline of the episode.

First, the Father states that God is love while Tanrak wrestles with the fear of his own desires.

Then, the bread enters the frame.

Barth speaks the language of the Eucharist, Tanrak receives it, and their eyes meet.

If this sequence is deliberate, the subtext is wild: if communion is the act of receiving another with love, what happens when the one offering himself believes he is already exiled from grace? It’s a dangerous piece of symbolism because it shifts the narrative axis. Barth’s body stops representing temptation and corruption, and instead becomes an instrument of relationship and gift. It beautifully mirrors the episode's overarching thesis: turning the human body into a place of encounter instead of a place of shame.

X. I can't stop thinking about the framing of Tanrak looking up at Barth.

The camera constantly places Tanrak in the lower position, which feels like a deliberate choice. It’s easy to label it as just attraction, but it goes deeper than that. In every emotionally charged scene, Tanrak is positioned below him. It’s a brilliant inversion of their social reality, where Tanrak holds all the cards. Emotionally, Barth takes the lead as a sort of prophetic guide. Tanrak looks up to him because Barth is the only one brave enough to name the truths that Tanrak keeps hidden.

XI. Tanrak’s first real rival isn't a girl, and that is what makes this Christmas segment so utterly devastating.

Because everyone in their world assumes a "Barth plus a girl" narrative, Tanrak panics. However, I don't think his panic stems from romantic jealousy; rather, he is jealous of legibility. Mary and Joseph make sense to people. They fit the script. They get the applause, and they fundamentally belong. Meanwhile, Tanrak is hit with the sudden, crushing realization that his own feelings don't fit the stage. The real tragedy here isn’t that Barth might like a girl; it's that the world already knows exactly where that story goes. This beautifully mirrors the "Holy Family" wound introduced in Episode 1. Once again, it comes back to family. Once again, it's about the pain of being outside of it.

XII. My favorite visual in the series has to be the communal bath, which acts as a profound inversion of the pool imagery.

Look at the progression: Episode 1 gives us an empty pool and a failed baptism. Episode 3 fills the baths to the brim. It’s full immersion. Bodies, exposure, and absolutely no escape. The breakthrough that failed to happen spiritually is now happening emotionally; they are entirely submerged. Then, the crowd thins out until only Tanrak remains. That isn't accidental. The communal ritual ends, and the private revelation begins.

XIII. “Scoopy-Doopy-Doo” (yes, seriously).

This scene is deceptively vital to their dynamic. Watch how Barth masterfully translates care into play, masking his intimacy as a joke by checking off the essentials: medicine? temperature? warmth? He doesn't offer a confession first; he establishes safety.

Once that safety is there, the physical contact follows. Forehead, neck, tickling, water on skin. The camera deliberately lingers on these points of contact. That stylistic choice matters immensely because, historically in this series, touch has always carried the weight of discipline, control, and institutional policing. In this room, however, touch is entirely stripped of that baggage. It becomes a vehicle for genuine attention.

XIV. The staging of the "confession booth" is absolutely insane.

Notice how they utilize the wire window? I think this framing is entirely deliberate. Suddenly, we have Barth on the outside and Tanrak on the inside, visually mimicking a priest and a penitent. But the brilliance lies in the ambiguity: who is actually who? At first glance, Tanrak looks like the confessor and Barth the sinner.

But then, Barth starts asking the real questions, naming the hidden truths, and inviting raw honesty. In an instant, the roles reverse, and Barth becomes the confessor: a lost sheep who has somehow stepped into the role of the Shepherd. Look at the dialogue. When Barth says, “You’re running from yourself,” that isn't an attempt at seduction; it’s a spiritual diagnosis. And when he follows up with, “You felt what I felt, too,” the choice of words is everything. He isn't pleading, “Love me.” He is demanding, “Tell the truth.”

XV. “I'm not God's favorite son.”

That line destroys me. It’s not a declaration of being bad, sinful, or hated by God. It’s the language of a favorite son, an aching vocabulary of family, inheritance, and belonging. Barth’s core wound isn’t that he thinks he's evil; it's that he thinks he is less loved. It beautifully reframes why he stopped confessing all those years ago: why speak into the silence if you aren't the favored child? He only returns to the "booth" now because he knows Tanrak is on the other side, listening. That realization hurts on an entirely different level.

XVI. “I'm not God's favorite son either.”

This is one of the most stunning romantic confessions I've witnessed in a while. Tanrak isn't just giving a simple, “I like you too.” He’s revealing his own fractured identity: “I thought I belonged, but I don't.” It makes the moment feel less about physical desire and entirely about soul-deep solidarity. It’s not passion first, it's mutual recognition first.

XVII. I love the choice to have the camera pull away after the kiss.

It’s beautiful because the camera’s retreat isn't about voyeurism; it’s about establishing enclosure. Suddenly, we become the outsiders, looking in on a world where they finally belong to each other in a way we can't touch.

Being framed between those two water containers adds such heavy symbolism. It instantly mirrors a confession booth, a baptismal space, a womb, a secret sanctuary. They’re hidden, but not dirty. It’s private, but it’s completely safe from condemnation.

XVIII. This brings me to my biggest takeaway from the series so far:

Episode 1: “Will anyone come for me?”

Episode 2: “What does love ask of us?”

Episode 3: “What if the thing that saves me is also the thing I'm afraid will condemn me?”

And Episode 3’s answer to that final question feels surprisingly gentle. It isn't that desire saves, or that religion saves; rather, it's that truth is the first step toward making either possible. What I wrote during Episode 1 remains true: Tanrak knows how to belong, while Barth knows how to be himself. Episode 3 is simply the first time they exchange those inherent gifts. Barth offers Tanrak honesty. Tanrak gives Barth the terrifying possibility that maybe, he isn't as excluded as he thought.

XIX. This kiss isn’t about temptation. It’s a mutual confession.

This kiss changed my brain chemistry.

Since the last episode, we've seen Tanrak's feelings awakened by desire, the analogy that the sin of lust happens when we give voice to our deepest desires. Tanrak ended the last episode giving voice to these desires, and in this episode, he's fueled by jealousy.

Meanwhile, Barth, who has always been certain of his feelings, spends the episode trying to figure out if Tanrak feels the same and if the reason for the distance is really jealousy.

The whole episode builds tension to finally reach the "confessional" scene and the confession that led to the kiss. A kiss full of desire, fascination, and the relief of knowing that the feelings are reciprocated.

the thing that really gave it away for me was the last scene in episode 1, but honestly i think tanrak was tipping his hand that whole episode. he's presented as this model student, the father's golden child, practically a priest in training. and yet despite the fact that the father asked him to perform his duties as the good catholic and look after barth - the foreigner in their land as mentioned in the beginning of the episode - tanrak doesn't really do that. in fact the absolute bare minimum, holds barth at arm's length as much as possible, pretends not to see. and that doesn't jive with the impression we're supposed to have of tanrak, which is kind and jovial and easy going and above all else, obedient. and yet he's almost cold with barth, all but abandons him to fend for himself. yes, we the audience see the conflict in him over it (bc tanrak is, ultimately, kind) and yes he comes around in the end but the reality is that he still acted out of character, still wanders into the murky grey zone of not disobeying the father but not exacrly doing as he tells him either. still turned his back on barth when he was all alone, even if he did hesitate. even if barth didn't see him turn away.

a character like tanrak is not going to behave like that for no reason (especially not when contrasted with how we see him behaving in ep 2, and even at the end of ep 1). he clearly values his faith above all else at this point in the narrative - and yet the way he treats barth initially does not honour that faith. why? well, because tanrak knows temptation when he sees it. (what is it he said about the painting? 'along the path beasts devour sinful humans and tempt people off the path?')

but maybe even more importantly than even that is the fact that tanrak can see barth being othered. and he knows the good, christian thing to do would be to step in, protect the foreigner in his land, defend the weak and the fatherless, uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed - that's what's expected and asked of him (hence why the father is so harsh with him in ep 2 - not just because he handled the situation 'badly', but bc he shouldn't have allowed it to even get to that point in the first place). he's supposed to stand with barth, and yet he turns away. because tanrak is smart, and more importantly he's self aware. he knows what he is. he knows his hands are not clean. and he knows the last thing he needs is to bring undue attention to himself, or to stand out to his peers in any way - especially not to defend the new violent queer kid.

if the attention is on him and people look too closely or ask too many questions, then they're more likely to notice the thing tanrak is trying so desperately to hide.

the last scene of episode 1 is what really gave him away. episode 2 confirmed that tanrak isn't particularly afraid about getting into trouble, or adverse to breaking some rules. and yet he had such a big reaction when they were caught in that last scene - you could literally feel the panic building and the walls closing in on tanrak. dread was written all over his face. but he didn't have that reaction bc he was caught and might get in trouble. it was because he was caught with barth. alone together and had been all night. he knows how that looks. he knows what people might think, what they might say. because tanrak, who on some level is already aware that he's gay, is hyperaware of that perception of him. and now, after trying so hard for so long to be good, he thinks he's been caught out.

of course, he hasn't been. not yet. but the guilt of allowing them both to end up in that position in the first place all but ties him to barth after that (and it's unwarranted guilt yes, but understandable too. he didn't do what was asked of him by the father. he didn't behave as a good catholic in the way he treated barth. and because he was trying so hard to protect himself, he dishonoured god and barth ended up hurt. of course he's gonna prey for redemption for that). he has been entrusted with barth's care. he will look after him. and he will not be pulled off the path in the process, but rather pull barth to him. but in order to do that, he has to let barth in, at least a little bit. and that's an awfully slippery slope. now he's lying for barth. now he's opening up to him. now he's playing along, getting in more trouble, allowing himself to be touched. to touch. shoulders, fingertips. thighs. in the dark, behind people's backs.

we all know how it ends. i think tanrak knew how it was going to end, too, deep down. it's why he allowed himself to act out of character in order to keep barth at arm's length. it's why he prays the rosary, asks for redemption in advance. when asked what for, he looks up at barth and it's an answer. lust means letting desire control us. what if you can't stop it? then you fight it. but the tree of the knowledge of good and evil is extending a branch, offers temptation, says come on, just a bite. tanrak couldn't even bring himself to touch barth in that scene, did you notice? he pushed his arm away with the end of his pen. fighting it.

but the tree says, i'll help you up. says, next time i can come here with you. says, why fight it?

I. First of all, let's look at that jarring editing.

Is it happening because the show cares more about the religious and psychological conflict than the romance? Quite possibly, yeah. Like I mentioned in my review, the vibe I get is basically: "It's like someone giving you the long story short version of a script." That's because the show cuts out the connective tissue, not the actual plot. As an audience, we’re rarely confused about what happened. But we’re completely denied access to how it felt to move from one emotional state to the next.

Normally, romance-heavy shows spend a ton of time on connective tissue. You know, the lingering glances, awkward conversations, daily routines, gradual comfort, and repeated interactions. Those scenes don't really move the plot forward, but they're what allow the emotional attachment to build up. But Ticket to Heaven feels way more interested in thematic progression than experiential progression. It keeps asking: What does belonging mean? What does faith require? What happens when desire collides with doctrine? What's the difference between institutional authority and actual, genuine care?

When you look at it that way, a lot of the scenes play out like philosophical illustrations rather than slices of everyday life. I mean, look at how fast Episode 2 burns through the punishment, the study partner assignment, the wall scene, the bread scene, the riddle scene, and Tanrak's internal crisis. Those aren't just random milestones; they're all different angles on the exact same underlying conflict. So, yeah, the editing might be intentionally trading "relationship realism" for thematic density. The tradeoff is a distinct feeling: we get Tanrak's guilt and Barth's alienation incredibly fast, but we don't always get to live through those moments right alongside them.

The irony is that the show appears deeply interested in intimacy as a theme, while sometimes skipping the mundane moments that actually build that intimacy for the audience. So, I don't think the editing is bad; rather, it's operating according to a hierarchy of priorities that looks something like: 1. Symbolism, 2. Theme, 3. Character psychology, 4. Plot, 5. Relationship progression, and 6. Everyday realism. A lot of viewers naturally want to see relationship progression moved much higher up the list.

II. Is Barth a devil in disguise?

Well, I don't really buy that. It's easy to label Barth as a "red flag" character or even the personification of the devil himself for making Tanrak sin. People easily notice that he challenges authority, breaks rules, disrupts order, tempts Tanrak, and causes trouble. But that's a pretty shallow reading. If Barth were truly functioning as a devil figure, we'd expect him to corrupt for corruption's sake, delight in destruction, manipulate people toward ruin, and reject moral connection. Instead, what does he consistently do? He tests. And that is a very, very different thing.

The scene with Kongdech’s seat is a great example. Barth actually obeys Tanrak by asking Kongdech to give up his seat. It’s fascinating. A true power move would have been just taking the seat without even bothering to ask. Instead, he sets up a social test, and suddenly everyone has to show their true colors. That’s a recurring pattern with him. Barth keeps manufacturing these situations where people are forced to choose how to respond to him. And it's not because he's trying to destroy them; it's because he's trying to figure out if they're safe. That fits his character perfectly. When a kid gets rejected repeatedly, they develop this intense hypervigilance. They start probing people. Testing boundaries. Looking for proof. Not because they're malicious, but because trust has become almost impossible.

The choir scene is an even stronger example. It’s a really interesting moment because Barth puts Tanrak in a seriously awkward position. But look at what happens. Tanrak lies, and he does it to protect Barth. That’s huge, because the scene is actually revealing something about Tanrak, not just Barth. The institution wants clean categories: obedient or disobedient, good or bad, rule-breaker or rule-follower. But Barth’s presence keeps exposing the messy moral complexity beneath the surface. Suddenly, Tanrak realizes that being compassionate and following the rules don't always align. That's a massive theme in religious narratives. Barth isn't forcing Tanrak to sin; he's forcing him to confront competing values. And honestly, that is so much more interesting.

And that's exactly why Barth reminds me more of a biblical questioner than a biblical tempter. Honestly, while watching, I kept thinking that Barth doesn't really behave like the devil at all. Instead, he acts like any of us who constantly want to ask: "Do you actually believe the things you say?" That's why he keeps exposing inconsistencies. People preach love, but do they show love? People preach hospitality, but do they practice it? People preach forgiveness, but do they forgive? People preach belonging, but do they make room for outsiders? Those are the questions Barth forces people to answer through their actions. To me, that feels a lot closer to a prophetic critique than demonic temptation. After all, we've all been there, haven't we?

I haven't really seen anyone talking about this, but the subtle details about Barth's talents are actually super important.

In good storytelling, repeated "throwaway" skills are rarely an accident. Think about how Tanrak keeps finding out that Barth can sing, play the piano, and understand computers. What's fascinating is how these talents are introduced. They aren't treated like massive, dramatic plot twists; the show just drops them in casually.

That usually signals a very specific choice: the writers want us to gradually realize that Barth is way more than the label everyone else has given him. To the institution, he’s just a troublemaker, a problem student, a disciplinary case, and an outsider. But then these little cracks start showing up in that reputation. "Oh, he plays piano." "Oh, he can sing." "Oh, he's actually great with technology." But there's another layer to this that's easy to miss: these moments aren't just revealing things about Barth, they're changing Tanrak's perception. Every new skill forces Tanrak to completely rewrite what he knows about him. At first, Barth is just the problematic new kid. Then, he's the problematic new kid who plays piano. Then, the problematic new kid who sings. Then, the problematic new kid who understands things Tanrak never saw coming. This is exactly how real attachment starts. It doesn't start with raw attraction; it starts with surprise. It's the moment Tanrak realizes, "The guy I thought I had figured out is way bigger than the box I put him in." That's why those small moments matter. They are quietly tearing down Tanrak's assumptions.

I think the show paints Barth less as a symbol of rebellion and more as a symbol of unresolved exclusion. And honestly, looking at it that way makes so many more scenes click. Just in these first two episodes, we learn so much about him: why he constantly tests people, why he stays instead of walking away, and why he keeps running back to Tanrak. It explains why he reacts so intensely to belonging versus exclusion, why he craves connection while pretending he doesn't care, and why he's so angry and wounded at the same time. Those scenes subtly show us that Barth's real issue isn't a lack of worth, it's a total lack of recognition. Everyone starts out treating him like a problem that needs to be managed. But the audience, and definitely Tanrak, keeps discovering that he's a complex, whole person. His gifts, his intelligence, and his emotional depth are entirely invisible to the people who have already judged him. It's a beautifully complex way of asking a deeply relatable question: How much of a person do we fail to see when we've already decided who they are?

Which brings us to why Barth's experience feels so recognizably queer. The way the story treats him perfectly mirrors a social dynamic that a lot of queer people describe. I mean, if you look at these two episodes, Barth's central conflict isn't actually "being attracted to Tanrak." His deeper struggle is being reduced to a category before anyone even bothers to get to know him. Everyone encounters a label first: troublemaker, delinquent, outsider, bad influence, disciplinary problem. And then they filter everything he does through that label. If he breaks a rule, it confirms the label. If he asks a tough question, it confirms the label. If he challenges authority, it confirms the label. The institution isn't interested in discovering who Barth is, it's just interested in managing what Barth represents.

A lot of queer people describe a similar experience. It’s not necessarily overt hatred, but more like a feeling that your identity enters the room before you do. People don't encounter a funny person, a talented musician, a loyal friend, or just a complicated human being. They encounter a gay person, a lesbian, or a trans person, and then everything else gets filtered through that single category. Not because identity doesn't matter, but because the label becomes the entire story.

Hence, Barth's talents in this story fit this pattern perfectly: the singing, the piano, the computer. Narratively, these details constantly interrupt the audience's ability to flatten him into a single dimension. Every time we learn something new, the story is essentially saying, "See? You thought you knew him already." While that experience is not exclusively queer, it deeply resonates with the queer experience because queer people have historically been subjected to exactly that kind of reduction.

And no, I'm not here to deny difference. I'm here to resist reduction. There's a huge difference between saying "sexual orientation doesn't matter" and "sexual orientation isn't the entirety of a person." Those are two completely different claims. A lot of debates get stuck because people assume that if you emphasize our common humanity, you're trying to erase identity. But that's not the goal here. The point is more like: "Why does this single category become the primary lens for interpreting everything else?" In other words, I'm not saying queer identity is irrelevant. I'm just questioning why it so often becomes the first thing people see, and the last thing they ever move beyond.

It's that feeling of being pre-interpreted. People already have assumptions before you even open your mouth. They have expectations before they’ve actually listened. They’ve already jumped to conclusions before they’ve even bothered to be curious. And that can happen with sexuality, religion, race, class, disability, nationality — any identity category, really — that society forces a meaning onto.

This is where I think the conversation around "love is love" becomes relevant. Because beneath the slogan, there’s a question that hits so close to Barth's story: how do we acknowledge what makes someone different without letting that difference become the only thing we see in them?

It’s a nice coincidence that P'Aof is directing this series, since he's always been the one to sit down with new GMMTV pairings and talk to them about "love is love" before they start filming a BL series. Personally, I think the reason some people push back against that phrase is that it can sound like it's flattening important differences in our experiences. There's a valid worry that it ignores the specific struggles queer people have to go through. But that’s not the only way you have to look at the phrase.

The phrase only exists because society doesn't treat love as simply love. If society genuinely saw love for what it is, nobody would need to say "love is love." The slogan actually emerged as a response to a world that kept saying, "Wait, what kind of love?" The qualifier came first. The category came first. The label came first. So the slogan is, in a sense, defensive. It's pushing back against a framework that insists on sorting people before actually understanding them.

The way I see it (and what I think P'Aof and the executives at GMMTV mean when they use it) is more existential than political. It's not saying, "All relationships are identical." It's saying, "The fundamental human capacity to love belongs to all of us." It's closer to saying: before we start sorting people into categories, there is a human being right here experiencing affection, longing, devotion, heartbreak, hope, fear, and attachment. These are the exact same emotional realities that have existed across cultures and centuries. That doesn't erase identity. It just refuses to let identity have the final word.

But I think there's a real tension here. On one hand, queer people want their identities to be recognized, especially since those identities have historically been erased. But on the other hand, they don't want to be reduced just to that label. Both of those things can be true simultaneously. Wanting someone to "see me as queer" while also wanting them to "see more than my queerness" isn't a contradiction at all.

This perspective is actually very close to how the show writes Barth. What makes Barth compelling is that everyone seems convinced they understand him after a mere five-second assessment. Meanwhile, Tanrak's growing attachment begins precisely when those labels stop being sufficient. He starts noticing details that don't fit the preconceived narrative, until the label becomes too small to contain the person.

The longing isn't necessarily, "Don't see that I'm different." The real longing is, "See all of me." Or maybe, "Don't stop looking once you've found the label." That's the key distinction. A label can be completely true, but still be totally incomplete. A person can be queer and still be so much more than "queer." A person can be religious and still be so much more than "religious." A person can be a troublemaker and still be so much more than "a troublemaker." The point is, a person is always larger than the category assigned to them.

Barth's pain isn't just that people hate him. It's that they've already decided who he is before they've even known him (like we saw in the pool conversation). That's a much subtler wound, but honestly, it's often a way deeper one.

III. Now, let's look at Tanrak, because I'd actually argue he's the more tragic character right now.

Not because his suffering is worse than Barth's, but because Barth at least understands his own pain. Tanrak doesn't. Barth might not know how to handle his conflicts, but at least he knows they're there. Tanrak, on the other hand, seems to have spent his whole life becoming whatever everyone else needed him to be. So when real desire suddenly shows up, he has no framework to process it.

Anyway, Tanrak's defining trait isn't faith.

Personally, I don't think religion is his core trait at all. I think obedience is. (By the way, it’s a super small detail that’s easy to miss, but did you notice how Tanrak adjusts the chairs¹, both his and Barth's, in the Father's office right before he leaves? That’s exactly what I love about this show. It uses these seemingly "throwaway" scenes that feel unimportant on the surface, but tell you everything about who these characters are.)

Faith and obedience are just not the same thing. A genuinely faith-driven character asks, "What is true?" But an obedience-driven character asks, "What is expected of me?" Those questions can overlap, but they aren't identical. Throughout these first two episodes, Tanrak constantly seems more focused on fulfilling a role than exploring himself. He’s the good student, the good seminarian, the good son, the good believer. He’s amazing at stepping into roles that already exist. The problem is, none of those roles actually answer: "Who is Tanrak?"

The biggest clue is actually Barth, specifically how he keeps dragging Tanrak into these situations. Barth is almost always the one initiating, and Tanrak just reacts. That pattern really matters. It suggests that Tanrak doesn't know how to act out of pure desire, he only knows how to act out of obligation. The institution says study, he studies. Pray, he prays. Sing, he sings. Mentor Barth, he mentors Barth. Everything in his life comes with a clear set of instructions.

But then Barth shows up. Suddenly, the question becomes: "What do you want?" And Tanrak seems completely unequipped to answer. That's why I think the core of his character is "devotion without self-knowledge." He knows what the Church wants, what his teachers want, what authority figures expect, and what doctrine dictates. But he has no idea what makes him happy, what makes him angry, what he desires, or what kind of life he wants. That's why Barth is so disruptive to his world. Not because Barth is evil, but because he forces Tanrak to have self-awareness.

And the bathroom scene is interesting for this exact reason: it isn't about sexuality, it's about fear. For me personally, the scene isn't focused on attraction; it's focused on terror. And I think that's closer to what the show is actually portraying. If Tanrak were merely attracted to Barth, we'd get butterflies. Instead, we get panic, guilt, judgment imagery, and catastrophic thinking. Why? Because Tanrak's entire self-concept is built on certainty, yet suddenly, his own body introduces uncertainty. The crisis isn't, "I like Barth." The crisis is, "What if I don't fully know myself?" For someone like Tanrak, that's much scarier, and it's exactly why I don't think Tanrak's arc is about becoming less religious.

On the surface, you might instinctively assume the story is heading toward a basic "religion equals bad, desire equals good" trope. But the show doesn’t really back that up. Instead, what I see is rigid certainty being challenged. The core issue here isn't faith. The issue is whether Tanrak's faith can survive contact with the real world. Can it handle ambiguity? Compassion? Desire? Contradiction and complexity? A shallow faith can't handle those things, but a mature faith can. That's why I don't think Barth is trying to drag Tanrak away from his faith. I think Barth is forcing him to figure out if his faith actually belongs to him, or if it just belongs to the institution.

The riddle might actually secretly be about Tanrak.

On the surface, it looks obvious. Tanrak is the believer, Barth is the lost one. Done. Except the episode immediately starts scrambling those categories. By the end of it, Tanrak is still the believer, but he’s also becoming the lover and the lost one. Meanwhile Barth, the guy who is supposedly "lost," keeps displaying all this insight. That's why I think Tanrak's story is ultimately an identity crisis. It's not a crisis of sexuality. It's not even primarily a crisis of faith. It's an identity crisis. He's spent years mastering roles, and now he's being asked to discover a true self. Those are two completely different tasks.

The real tragedy of his character is that everybody admires him. Teachers trust him. Friends like him. The Church values him. He succeeds academically, he excels religiously, and he’s completely respected. But from what we’ve seen so far, he might actually be the least free person in the entire story. Barth gets punished constantly, but he always speaks his mind. Tanrak gets rewarded constantly, yet he seems completely unable to ask himself what he truly wants. That's what makes them such perfect mirrors for each other, and it's probably why their bond works so well symbolically, even before the romance kicks in.

NOTE:

¹Let’s look closer at that chair-fixing moment. I think it fits into a much larger behavioral pattern rather than just being a one-off thing. I don't want to look at this action as some isolated piece of symbolism, I want to connect it back to my bigger point that Tanrak is fundamentally an obedience-oriented character. Sure, you could just say Tanrak straightens chairs because he's a neat freak. But it could also mean he instinctively restores order because maintaining the expected order of things is a core part of who he is.

So, why this interpretation? Well, my argument is that Tanrak is someone who automatically fulfills roles and expectations. Adjusting the chairs functions almost like a micro-behavioral manifestation of that exact trait. Nobody tells him to do it, there's no reward for it. It’s just simply what he does. Psychologically speaking, these tiny, unconscious actions are often way more revealing than big speeches because they happen before reflection can even kick in. A character can say they’re obedient, faithful, rebellious, or compassionate, but a throwaway gesture shows you what actually feels natural to them.

The reason I think this holds up is because it perfectly mirrors several other patterns I've noticed: he follows institutional expectations automatically, he reacts rather than initiates, and he's always attentive to propriety and presentation. He also works to smooth over disruptions rather than creating them, feeling personally responsible for maintaining harmony. You can see this clearly in how he called Master Phak to break up the fight between Kongkit and Barth. He wasn't trying to snitch, he just wanted to stop the chaos. Straightening the chairs is basically the physical version of those internal tendencies.

What's really fascinating is that he doesn't just fix his chair. He fixes Barth's, too. That's where I think this goes way beyond simple characterization. If he only straightened his own chair, you could just chalk it up to personal neatness. But correcting both chairs suggests he's restoring the entire room to the way it's supposed to look. In other words, he's not just regulating himself, he's regulating his environment. That feels so consistent with someone whose identity is wrapped up in preserving institutional order. Still, this scene isn't definitive proof of my "obedience over faith" thesis. It supports it, sure, but it doesn't prove it. Others could easily argue that the exact same action is just a sign of conscientiousness, consideration for others, respect for authority, anxiety, habit, or seminary training.

The Father blaming Tanrak is a massive turning point because it forces Tanrak into the role of the shepherd. Suddenly, keeping Barth on the "straight and narrow" is his burden. On a literal level, it’s just strict discipline, but symbolically, the Church has recast Barth as the lost sheep and Tanrak as the one who must retrieve him. The genius of the writing is how it subverts Luke's parable. The parable is about searching for the lost, not controlling them. By drawing a line between the Father’s version of responsibility (correction) and the Gospel’s version (pursuit and care), the episode exposes a massive hypocritical gap.

Take Barth's reaction to his punishment: "I don't know what I did wrong."

This might be the most important line in the entire episode, because look at what he's actually rejecting. He isn't fighting the punishment just because it sucks. He's rejecting the premise behind it. Psychologically, Barth is looking for meaning, but the institution is just demanding compliance. Having to write lines only works if the kid agrees they actually did something wrong. Barth doesn't. So, the whole exercise becomes purely symbolic. The school wants a confession; Barth wants an explanation. Since nobody gives him one, we get the exact same result as Episode 1: he experiences the institution as demanding total submission without a shred of understanding.

The study buddy assignment looks simple on paper: the smart student helps the struggling student.

Symbolically, it's so much richer than that. Episode 1 forced Barth into Tanrak's uniform, but Episode 2 forces Tanrak into Barth's life. The movement goes both ways now. The institution keeps trying to solve its problems by making them share a space. Ironically, it works. Just not the way the institution intended. The school is looking for academic improvement, but the story wants intimacy. And suddenly, those two goals are starting to blur together.

Why does Barth cling to Tanrak?

One thing that stands out to me is how Barth attaches himself to Tanrak almost immediately. While we might interpret that as flirting, I think there's something deeper happening first. Tanrak is the first person who consistently returns, the first person who doesn't completely reject him, and the first person who shows up repeatedly. Remember the lost sheep imagery: a lost sheep isn't looking for doctrine, it's looking for the shepherd who came back. That's exactly what Barth keeps testing. Every tease, every interruption, every invitation to break the rules, and every attempt to drag Tanrak somewhere is a variation of the same question: "Will you leave too?" And every time Tanrak follows him, lets him, helps him, studies with him, or searches for him, Barth receives the same answer: "Not yet."

The scene involving the wall and the roti (the bread) feels incredibly symbolic.

Barth wants the bread, and Tanrak refuses. But then, he boosts Barth over the wall anyway. Look at the contradiction here: Tanrak won't break the rule, but he’s willing to help Barth break it. He’s caught right between obedience and desire, which is pretty much his entire character arc so far. The wall is a huge piece of symbolism, too. Walls separate worlds. Inside the seminary, you have duty; outside, you have freedom. Tanrak doesn't cross over, but Barth does. But here's the thing: Tanrak physically helps him do it. For the first time, Tanrak's body is participating in Barth's rebellion, even if his mind is still resisting it.

All those little details in the scene really strengthen the idea that there's both communion symbolism and desire symbolism happening at the same time. The big takeaway here is that symbols in a drama rarely mean just one thing. Good visual storytelling stacks meanings on top of each other. If Barth had simply bought the roti and eaten it alone, I'd lean much more heavily toward a "forbidden fruit" interpretation. But the fact that he offers it to Tanrak changes the entire dynamic.

Christian symbolism around bread isn't really about the bread just existing. It's about it being shared. Sharing a meal creates a real bond. When Barth offers Tanrak a bite, he's doing something that perfectly mirrors what he's been doing emotionally the whole episode. It’s his way of saying, "Come over to my side." Not necessarily in a romantic way yet, but definitely relationally. The institution just assigned them as study partners, but Barth is trying to turn that assignment into a genuine connection. The roti becomes this beautiful vehicle for intimacy.

So, why does the teasing expression matter so much?

Well, Barth's teasing face is important because he's not just sharing food here, he's testing Tanrak. Throughout Episode 2, Barth constantly pokes at him. He teases him, invades his space, climbs into his bed, challenges his rules, solves his puzzle, and drags him into small acts of rebellion. The roti scene is just another version of that. It’s almost like he’s saying, "Come on. Live a little." The food itself becomes an invitation. Not just to eat, but to genuinely participate.

What's fascinating is that Tanrak almost never initiates these boundary crossings. Barth does. Tanrak resists, but then eventually yields, and this pattern repeats constantly. That's why the roti scene matters so much structurally. The question isn't just whether Tanrak wants the roti. The question is whether he'll accept something offered by Barth. And he does. It’s a small choice, but it's symbolically significant.

When Tanrak starts noticing Barth's lips while they're sharing food, that’s where the scene starts layering symbols.

On one level, it's just two boys sharing a snack. On another, it’s an awakening attraction. And on another, it’s full-on communion. These meanings aren't mutually exclusive at all. In fact, they completely reinforce each other. Food and desire have been linked in literature for thousands of years. People don't just watch what someone eats; they watch how they eat. That's usually how attraction first gets visualized on screen, when the camera turns an ordinary act into something incredibly charged.

This is also where the nod to 1 Corinthians 13 gets really clever. Tanrak excels at religious knowledge; he gets a perfect 10/10 and is the definition of an ideal seminarian. But right after that, the episode begins teaching him something he could never learn in catechism¹ class. It's not about doctrine. It's about connection, affection, desire, and actually paying attention to another person. Notice how Tanrak spends the whole episode just looking at Barth. Really looking. He’s not evaluating him, supervising him, or trying to correct him. He's just looking. That is a totally different way of relating to someone. The episode isn't even really about desire yet. It's about recognition. Because desire always follows recognition. First you truly see someone, and then you realize you can't stop seeing them.

And that's why I think the scene isn't just a straight Adam and Eve reference. Forbidden-fruit symbolism is usually all about taking, but this scene centers on an act of giving. Barth shares, and Tanrak receives. That feels much closer to the symbolism of a shared meal than a theft. I suspect the scene deliberately straddles two different symbolic worlds. On one hand, you have Adam and Eve: boundary crossing, awakening desire, and the loss of innocence. On the other, you have Communion: shared food, relationship, mutual participation, and intimacy.

The genius of this scene is that it doesn't force us to choose. The roti can be both. It’s the forbidden sweetness that awakens Tanrak's desire, and it’s the shared bread that starts to build a bond between them. That's why it lingers in the story way longer than a random snack run ever should. The roti isn't just food. It's likely the first moment in the series where Tanrak accepts something from Barth. Not because he has to, but because he actually wants to. For a character whose whole life is built on obligation, that distinction is absolutely huge.

So, why does that "bathroom stall" scene matter so much symbolically?

Let's assume he's already crossed a line inside his own head. The most fascinating part isn't the act itself, it's the timing. This happens right after Tanrak spends the whole episode trying to maintain order, discipline, and absolute control. And then, his own body interrupts that mission. Religious stories usually paint temptation as some outside force, but this episode gives us something much subtler: Tanrak realizes the conflict is actually inside him. That is a massive shift. The threat isn't Barth anymore. The threat is how he reacts to Barth. The battlefield has moved inward.

Put yourself in his shoes: this is a boy who has lived his entire life trapped in his own head and anchored by rigid structures. That's why those flashing images on screen feel like such a gut punch:

The Holy Family vs. The Lost Parents: For Tanrak, the stakes couldn't be higher. His biological family is gone, and Heaven is the only place left where they exist. If he fails to be the "perfect believer," he isn't just risking Hell, he's losing his parents all over again.

The Last Judgment & The Ticket to Heaven Painting: Flashing Michelangelo's Last Judgment alongside the show's titular painting plays out like psychological horror. The Ticket to Heaven painting shows a soul scrambling for safety while surrounded by demons waiting to tear them apart. Suddenly, Tanrak looks at that fragile stairway and realizes he's the one standing on it. And the "demon" trying to drag him down into damnation isn't some monster, it's his own growing, uncontrollable desire for Barth.

When Tanrak walks with heavy feet and a troubled face, he's not walking toward pleasure. He's walking toward his own spiritual execution. Whatever happens behind that bathroom door is a desperate surrender to a human urge, one that he genuinely fears has cost him his eternity.

The puzzle of the believer, the lover, and the lost one may be the most interesting symbolic object in the episode.

Tanrak's brain teaser explicitly names three figures, and even before it’s solved, those labels feel deeply thematic because they map surprisingly well onto the story. Tanrak represents the believer: his entire identity is built around faith and obedience. Barth represents the lost one, which is exactly how everyone in his life treats him, a role practically assigned to him by the Luke scripture. That leaves the lover as the missing category, the unknown variable, and a role neither character fully understands yet. This is what makes the puzzle so fascinating: the story itself is becoming a puzzle about identity. Who is who? Can one person occupy more than one role? Can the believer also become the lover? Can the lost one become the one who guides? The puzzle is a miniature version of the entire narrative.

Barth solving the puzzle while peeing feels almost comically symbolic.

While Tanrak approaches truth through disciplined study, Barth approaches it through pure intuition. Where Tanrak sits surrounded by books, Barth solves the problem casually. This scene subtly undermines the assumption that institutional knowledge equals wisdom. Barth repeatedly fails the system's tests, yet he constantly demonstrates profound insight. Ultimately, the episode keeps suggesting that being highly educated and being truly wise are not identical.

This is where the deeper meaning of Luke 15 comes in.

The lost sheep parable gets way more interesting when you apply it to both boys. At first glance, the roles look simple: Barth is the lost sheep, and Tanrak is the shepherd. Except, the episode completely complicates that. Barth might be lost socially, but Tanrak is lost personally. Barth knows what he wants, Tanrak doesn't. Barth struggles with belonging, while Tanrak struggles with desire. Barth is wandering outside the community, but Tanrak is wandering inside himself. So, by the end of Episode 2, I'm not convinced there's only one lost sheep anymore. I think the show is quietly suggesting there are two.

Episode 2 asks: "When someone is lost, what does love require?"

The authorities answer with correction, while Barth answers with understanding. Meanwhile, the Gospel verse answers: "Go after them." And Tanrak is slowly discovering that following Barth may change him just as much as it changes Barth. That's why the passage from Luke is such a perfect framing device. At first, it sounds like it's about saving Barth. But by the end of the episode, it looks more like Barth might be the one leading Tanrak into the very part of himself he has spent his entire life avoiding.

After all, who is actually changing here? Not Barth. Barth enters the episode already intimately acquainted with several uncomfortable truths about himself:

He knows he's angry.

He knows he's lonely.

He knows he doesn't fit in.

He knows exactly what he wants.

The person having the existential crisis is increasingly Tanrak. By the end of the episode, Barth is casually eating bread and solving riddles, while Tanrak is lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering why his body has suddenly become a traitor. That's not the emotional state of a shepherd confidently leading a sheep home; that's the emotional state of someone who has just discovered he might be lost, too. And that's where the Luke verse becomes so much richer. In Christian theology, the parable isn't actually about the sheep's competence. The sheep doesn't rescue itself. The story focuses entirely on the one doing the searching. What happens when the shepherd starts following the sheep?

Officially, Barth is the one being guided. But narratively, Tanrak is the one being led. That's such an elegant inversion. And then there's the Corinthians verse, which I think is doing way more heavy lifting than it initially appears to:

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love..."

Think about it, who in this episode speaks the language of religion most fluently? Tanrak. Who gets the perfect score? Tanrak. Who knows all the right answers? Tanrak. And yet, the verse quietly reminds us that none of that matters without love. That's a dangerous verse to drop into an episode about a seminarian developing feelings for someone. Because suddenly, the question isn't:

"Can Tanrak remain doctrinally correct?"

The real question becomes:

"Does Tanrak even understand what love actually is?"

I think the riddle might actually be my favorite detail, though.

The believer. The lover. The lost one. By the end of Episode 2, Tanrak is still the believer, and Barth is still the lost one. But Tanrak is also becoming the lover, and you could argue he's becoming lost, too. Meanwhile Barth, the guy everyone writes off as "lost," is the one who actually solves the riddle. Which is almost hilarious symbolically. The "lost" one is the one who sees the answer, and the "believer" is the one who can't stop staring at him.

Theological Context Note:

In Catholicism, the catechism covers the absolute essentials of the faith: the Creed, the Sacraments, the Moral Life, and Prayer. But passing a catechism test with a 10/10 (like Tanrak does) doesn't mean you're a saint; it just means you're good at memorizing doctrine.

That’s why the inclusion of the Corinthians verse in Episode 2 is brilliant. The Apostle Paul famously argues that knowing religious truth means nothing if you aren't living out religious love. Tanrak has the academic answers down perfectly, but the narrative asks if that's actually enough.

Meanwhile, Barth tanks the test with a 4/10, showing he’s either checked out or actively resisting the school's rigid structure. And yet, Barth is the only one wrestling with real, heavy spiritual dilemmas: exclusion, punishment, and what it actually means to belong. The show is beautifully illustrating that head-knowledge and heart-knowledge need each other. Dogma without empathy becomes cold and brittle, but raw emotion without a framework can lose its way. By forcing them together as study partners, Tanrak might be teaching Barth the textbook definitions of God, but Barth is teaching Tanrak the actual meaning of love.

listen up fellas cause horrible quality aside i find myself already going through the shots and this one particularly drives me CRAZY.

Who is gonna talk about their choice to put Barth right at the bottom of the stairs to heaven, and Tanrak amongst demons, threatening to corrupt everyone on the right path with their sinful ways? Even though it is Tanrak who is, from a catholic standpoint, fifty steps closer to god than Barth and Barth the one with the seemingly corrupting influences that’ll push Tanrak to sin and lose his faith?

Not to speak of the school crest and statue of mary on Tanraks side of the shot and the open door and the clock on Barths. There is also the reflection of light and the windows visible right there, while Tanraks side is gloomy and dark except for that one speck of light on mary.

It’s a very, very deliciously arranged shot and it makes clear where they want us to position ourselves, as if that’s not a given. Cause they make it pretty clear that Barth is on the right side. That Barth is closer to true revelation, to a way out, to light, to happiness, that it’s only a matter of time until he’ll leave all of this behind and it will be the right choice, that his decision to reject catholic dogma is the way to salvation, while Tanrak is still caught in literal hell between the influences of the school and his desire to see his parents again.

qinduang sit there, in duang's room, in duang's space where duang talks about creating new memories at qin's house and so, qin let's open another part of him- wantingly, with trust and acknowledgement- all at a place where everything around him is simply duang's; and for the first time, qin shares smthg he never had before except this time it's with certainty that someone would see him.