Chapter Text
“Does it really bother you so much what they think?” The Cambodian held his hands in his lap, looking up from his seat at his bodyguard, who stared out of the window across at the group of paparazzi, who barely stuck to the rules of staying a respectful distance from the main gate. He supposed one millimetre was about as respectful a distance as they could maintain.
“They write about me like I’m your sex toy,” he grumbled, turning away from the window. “Like you can’t feel affection… like I’m just some whore…”
The younger man’s shoulders were incredibly tense, and the elder rose to massage them gently, resting his cheek atop the other’s head. “We know the truth, don’t we? Besides… we need to leave the office eventually. We can’t afford to be worried about what they think.”
Sighing, the Brazilian walked away to open the door for his client. “I just wish that sometimes…”
There was silence, and the tension was palpable. The scientist folded his arms, blinking pale blue eyes at the other. “Sometimes…?”
Looking to the floor, Sam shrugged. “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t be afraid to be affectionate.”
Moving out ahead to keep the paparazzi away, Sam didn’t look back at Phirun, who stopped to dwell on that for a moment. How to be innocently affectionate in front of such vultures as the British press?
And then, inspiration struck. It was so simple he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner.
Joining Sam at the main gate, he quickly slipped his hand into his boyfriend’s, interlacing their fingers, his sights set on his car. He couldn’t see the young man’s grateful smile, but the gentle squeeze communicated everything. Dragged through the crowd as security dealt with the gate, he laughed off questions and camera flashes before climbing into the driver’s seat of his car and heading off for home. At the next red light, he flashed a sideways grin to his faithful passenger, who silently held his hand out. Giving it a squeeze, the Cambodian sighed contentedly.
“I don’t think it’s going to stop them writing their stories about you,” he pointed out, both hands back on the steering wheel. Sam shrugged, relaxing.
“Maybe not,” he conceded, stretching his legs. “But at least they’ll have some nice close-up photographs.”