Chapter Text
I.
In the quiet of his bedroom, Kim can keep Ché pillowed in his arms—a hip pressed firmly against Kim, the other bracketed against the wall—Kim’s fingers tracing along the curve of Ché's jaw, down his neck, to the hollow at the base of his throat.
Ché sighs, head tipping back and lips parting as if he'll say something, but nothing comes of it, and he merely relaxes further, sinking into Kim's arms. And Kim shifts them both again, so that his fingers can press gently to the soft skin just under Ché's ribs—a gentle, inquisitive pressure that Ché allows to linger.
II.
Ché wakes up with an empty bed and a note tacked to the fridge; he stares at it, zoning in on the few lines, written in hurried black ink.
Tankhun called in a favor—I'll be out late, call me when you're awake.
Ché smiles wryly. As impersonal as the message reads, Ché still stacks every note that Kim leaves in a corner cabinet.
III.
Before Ché can ask a myriad of questions, Kim slips in a quiet, “I’m sorry.”
Just like that, Ché loses all wind in his sail, shoulders hunched forward as he regards Kim with more fretful energy than anything, wordlessly reaching forward, fingers twitching as he quickly catalogs all of Kim’s bruises and open wounds, unsure of where he can hold Kim without causing further injury.
Kim can’t help his small smile—Ché being tentative was characteristically sweet, despite Ché understanding how much damage Kim could reasonably take.
“We got out in time—I’m fine,” Kim says, because he isn’t fine—his body feels bruised from the inside out. But, he doesn’t mention the cuts littering his torso, or the darkening gash on his knee. Doesn’t comment on any of the bandages that the family doctor had to hastily wrap around his ribs, nor the fact that several layers of his clothing are currently stained red.
Instead, Kim folds forward, carefully pressing his forehead against Ché's collarbone, and focuses on the warm weight of Ché’s hand beneath his own.
IV.
“I’ll drive him home,” interjects the stranger—who had formerly introduced himself as Kim, but Ché’s met several dozen people in the last hour, and he’s quickly losing track of all of them—but Kim just nods slightly at Ché, who blinks back in surprise.
Ché lands his gaze on his brother briefly, and Porsche's shuttering expression tells him everything he needs to know.
"Absolutely not," Porsche says flatly, “he’s staying here.”
Here is the length of Porsche's stale hospital room, where Ché has spent the last week curled up on one end of an uncomfortable couch, his legs frequently tucked close to his chest, mindlessly watching a series of bad soap operas while he waited for Porsche to finally stabilize and wake up.
Surprisingly, Ché hasn't been asked to leave yet, though he's starting to suspect that Kinn—another severe looking man, who had introduced himself as Porsche's employer—might have some pull with the hospital staff. Ché will question his brother for information later; now, he's got to focus on aiding Porsche's recovery.
From a bullet wound.
Which was apparently meant for Kinn.
Ché reconsiders. He's going to get his answers first, before he lets anyone drive him anywhere.