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Kinn likes fruits for breakfast. He will sit by the balcony, overlooking the city and eat his fruits almost peacefully, before the world comes knocking on his door bearing work and bad news and violence.
He doesn’t drink coffee, prefers tea, green tea when he’s happy, mint when he’s tired, chamomile on the bad days, when someone died, one of the bodyguards were shot, someone attempted on his life or– attempted on his family.
Kinn is not a morning person, Porsche found, but he gets up on time and goes on for the first hour silently, almost on autopilot. He doesn’t talk, not because he’s in a bad mood, but because he’s not yet fully awake.
Morning sex doesn’t work either, Kinn would rather stay asleep and though he never turns Porsche’s touch away, reciprocates to the best of his not-entirely-conscious abilities, but between sex and more time to sleep there’s an obvious answer, Kinn loves sleeping.
“More than you love me.” Porsche teases, mouthing at his shoulder, not really expecting an answer as Kinn swallows another piece of melon quietly.
He’s more awake after a long shower ( cold, because rich people don’t know how to enjoy the luxurious things their money can buy) and by the time he’s dressed, he’s talking about his daily tasks and making plans for dinner.
Porsche leaves the room first, trying to keep the illusion that no one yet knows about the fact he hasn’t used his own bed in weeks , after a long kiss and another promise to be careful, to come back for Kinn at night, for dinner in their– Kinn’s bedroom.
“I’ll be safe as long as you’re safe.” Porsche says, but they both know Kinn is always in danger. The moment he leaves this room, the moment he was born .
There’s not much Porsche can do, but he will die trying, this is his job, this is his life, this was his choice. The moment he fell for Kinn, there was no going back. Either he will die for him or he will die with him and that is their reality.
( Come back to me Porsche.
I will.)
*
Pete gives him a worried look when he follows him downstairs and towards the gym instead of simply going with Kinn as he’s been doing for the past few months. “You–”
“ No. ” He barks out, slamming the glass door on Pete’s face. He takes off his tie, rips the buttons of his shirt open, sending them scattering around the room in his haste to get rid of the clothes, the smell of the fresh blood covering all over his front.
Big is already there, on the treadmill, the only other idiot who can’t sleep, who thinks and worries and is ready to risk his life for a man with no self-preservation instincts, and Porsche instead goes for the punching bags. He doesn’t want to run, he doesn’t want to remember, he just wants to punch something, destroy someone, rip them apart.
The blood doesn’t bother him anymore, the killing doesn’t make him lose sleep, he’s long made peace with the fact this is something he has to do to keep Kinn alive. No , the fact he wanted to keep shooting the corpse on the ground doesn’t even surprise him, what really makes him angry is how much he wanted to leave tonight, how tired he is of fighting the same battle, having the same empty arguments.
I protect you .
We protect each other , Kinn gives back and Porsche– Porsche can’t live like this, can’t put Kinn’s wellbeing first when Kinn is always jumping to protect Porsche instead.
He loves Kinn so much it hurts, but some days, more than he would like, he hates him just as much.
“Want a partner?” Big offers at some point and while Porsche would love a moving object to hit , even more if that object is Big , he knows he wouldn’t stop with a punch or two. He knows his own temper, knows his own feelings, this isn’t just to let out the steam, this is the Porsche that would be able to kill someone with his bare hands.
For Kinn he would.
“Fuck off.” He growls, landing another punch and barely registering the pain from his bloody knuckles. “Go to hell.” He spits out when Big snorts, “go to hell,” he tells the punching bag and adds another “ go to hell ,” in hopes that Kinn will feel it all the way in his room.
He’s out of breath, exhausted and the blood drips down his hands and leaves red imprints on the bag every time Porsche brings his fist against it.
If only he could make this stop, if only he could erase the fear and the devastation when Kinn is in danger, if only he didn’t love him so much–
“What are you doing? Stop! ”
The shout sends Big scurrying away from the room, but Porsche’s hands can’t stop, he hasn’t had enough, he can still see it, he can’t still smell–
“Porsche!”
“Leave me alone!” The tears are now spilling freely and he can barely see where his punches are going, but if he stops then he will feel it again and he can’t– he can’t have it, he wouldn’t survive.
The voice whispers his name this time, much gentler and when a hand touches his arm, Porsche falls to his knees, sobbing. He always thought he was strong, always saw himself as a rock supporting his brother, but even a rock, when constantly exposed to water and wind and sun, can still collapse. How much can Porsche handle until he starts to break into tiny pieces, until there’s nothing whole left.
“Porsche,” Kinn whispers, strong arms encircling his body, bringing him closer and holding him so tight Porsche can feel Kinn’s heartbeat in his soul, “I have to.”
“I can’t protect you,” he sobs, clutching at the back of Kinn’s shirt, “I can’t protect you, if you keep doing it. This is my job–”
“This is not a job.” Kinn argues, pulls back and takes Porsche’s face in his hands, “it’s more than a job, it’s you .”
“Then I’ll leave,” he says and they both know it’s not true, he tried , “I’ll go to the beach and I’ll open a bar and I’ll make you forget me–”
“If it were that easy,” Kinn says, lifting up Porsche’s hands and dropping a kiss on his bloody knuckles, one then the other, so soft, so adoring, Porsche almost forgets his pain. This is why he hasn’t left, this is why dying would be worth it, because every day that he is with Kinn, he is happy, even for an hour, for a minute. It’s a happiness he would not be able to find away from him, with anyone else, “we wouldn’t be here.”
People say there’s a thin line between love and hate, but to Porsche, that line has already disappeared. While he loves Kinn with all he has, with all that he is, he hates him just as fiercely, hates the way he makes him feel, the person he became, the devil he could become for him.
As they share a kiss, Porsche tasting his own blood in the other man’s lips, he knows it is the same for Kinn.
( I hate this, I hate feeling like this, I hate you .
I know. I’m sorry.)
*
Every time he comes home, he finds a taller Chay, with chiseled cheekbones, less softness on his face. Still, Chay hugs him just as tight, smiles just as bright, demands Porsche cook his favorite meal, look at his school projects, listen to his new song. They don’t spend much time together and Porsche refuses to combine this world and the other world. Where he can be just a big brother, Chay’s hero, there, he is a weapon, Kinn’s weapon, Kinn’s .
And yet, he still wants to, because Chay isn’t alone in his heart anymore and if one day he doesn’t come back home and someone has to tell Chay he is gone, he wants his brother to understand that he didn’t die because of a job, he died protecting the man he loves.
“I want to meet him.” Chay announced one night, slipping in bed next to Porsche. He’s almost as tall as Porsche now and it’s a tight fit on the bed that used to be his, but they make do, Chay making himself as small as possible, Porsche holding him as close as he can. “You love him, right?”
“Yes.” Porsche admitted and that is how they found themselves like this, in the kitchen of the house that used to be his, with his brother sitting on the counter, overlooking Porsche seasoning the food and, once in a while, asking him to add more pepper. Kinn, sitting by the table, looks awfully out of place, wide eyed and confused, but he still accepted when Porsche asked, still offered to buy dinner, expensive food for his brother.
He changed his outfit twice that night, going through pink and blue dressing shirts and a black suit that made Porsche’s mouth water, before settling on the green one he’s wearing now. I don’t want to scare him , he had said, and Porsche had to bite his lip to stop the myriad of loving words to escape from his mouth.
It’s only when Chay makes an offhand comment about music that Kinn joins the conversation. “I used to play the violin.” Porsche hears and the surprise on Chay’s face mirrors his own.
“Really?”
Kinn shrugs. “After I realized I didn’t have enough talent to become a singer, I picked up on something else.” He adds, “as a hobby.”
It breaks his heart how Kinn says as if it’s normal, as if that’s how life is, if you can’t do what you like, you just move on to something else, until you are forced to abandon it altogether, for the sake of the job, of the family.
There’s still so much Porsche doesn’t know.
“It’s burning.” Chay warns and Porsche realizes he’s been staring at Kinn the entire time, lost in thoughts, heart breaking for the innocent kid Kinn once was.
“Right,” he clears his throat, files the thoughts away, for another time, and goes back to the sauce, “why don’t you–” he tells Chay, “why don’t you show Kinn some of your songs?”
By the end of the night, Chay and Kinn have found something in common, spending most of dinner talking about music and singers Porsche never heard. Chay’s happy, almost child-like innocence is contagious and Kinn looks years younger when he’s smiling freely. Porsche wishes he could keep living in this moment forever.
“ I like him,” Chay says as he passes him by, on his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t try to keep his voice down, clearly wanting Kinn to hear, and when it’s time to go, he pulls Kinn in for a hug, whispers something in his ear that makes Kinn nod, serious, before adding, “come back soon!”
Kinn reaches out for Porsche’s hand. “We will.” He promises, and together they make their way to the car.
( “He wants me to take care of you .
You already do.
If I were a better person, I would let you go.
If you were someone else, I wouldn’t stay.)
*
For someone so rich, there aren’t many things that Kinn owns because he likes them. His room has always been weirdly devoid of warmth, no trinkets that he bought just to keep them, to make his room more like a home than a hotel room that he sleeps in every day.
The cars are all black SUVs, bought for their purpose and not to satisfy any desire Kinn might have, like many rich boys Porsche has seen. No DVDs of his own, the books are kept in the library, the clothes are bought in bulk, always the same black and dark blue suits, dress shirts, formal shoes.
It didn’t take long for Porsche to realize Kinn, essentially, doesn’t exist outside of his job, of his place in the family. He’s his father’s son, his bodyguards’ boss, the head of his family. Even the ring he wears serves a purpose, the gun he carries, his lucky gun, is a weapon that he needs to protect himself.
“I don’t need anything else,” Kinn said one night, when Porsche pointed out how cold he feels in this room, “just you .” And that, well, Porsche can understand, but still– he didn’t grow up with much, but he kept posters of his favorite movies, pictures of his family around the house, drawings that Chay made when he was a kid. It made that house, empty after his parents died, a home again, full of memories and love.
He wants the same for Kinn, he wants him to walk into his room and feel like he can be himself in this place, the real Kinn and not his titles, just– the Kinn Porsche loves.
So he starts with the pictures. One day, he lets them on the bed and later overhears Pol and Arm scrambling to find picture frames like Kinn ordered. The next week, when they go on a date, he insists on playing on one of those claw machines, the stuffed (and, admittedly, horrendous) dog he won now lives on Kinn’s bed.
They go to one of Kim’s concerts and Kinn buys his albums, when Porsche says it would look good on a shelf, next to the photo of the ocean where they went on a vacation together, Kinn gets a new shelf only for family pictures, pictures of him with his brothers, with Porsche, one with his mother and the dog he used to have as a kid. Sometimes Porsche will find him running his fingers over the pictures, lost in thought and memories, and he will hug him wordlessly, take him to bed and kiss his frown, run his own hands over Kinn’s chest, tenderly, and hug him through the entire night, as they sleep together in a room that is becoming a home, a sanctuary, for Kinn.
( For us.
It's your home.
It’s only a home because of you.)
*
It’s not a secret anymore, though most of the bodyguards still pretend it is. When Kinn summons Porsche to his office, they hurry to leave the room, making excuses and then, when Porsche reemerges two hours later, pretend not to see the bruises on his neck.
Punishment became a synonym to fucking , Porsche found, and is used freely when someone asks where Porsche is or why he hasn’t slept in his room for the past month. Ken sometimes teases him about it, says his ass is the only reason why Kinn keeps him around and Porsche, when he doesn’t want to simply ignore him, assigns him to Tankhun and watches as he scrambles to keep up with all the Tankhunness .
He is aware of the nicknames too, Kinn’s new boytoy, Kinn’s wifey, Kinn’s past-time. He’s heard it all, knows the looks most of them give him, knows and hears it all. Most days it doesn’t bother him, other days he hopes it would stop and on the rare days, the bad days, he ends up on top of one of them, knuckles bloody, punching his anger away.
“Are they right?” A newbie asks one day, “is he– is he forcing you?”
“ No .” Porsche growls. These are the comments that lead to bad days. Porsche can handle being called a toy , but when it comes to Kinn, when they imply Kinn would force him– “we are–”
“You are?” The newbie prods when Porsche can’t finish the sentence.
The truth is, there isn’t a word, there isn’t a way to explain.
They aren’t boyfriends exactly, that word doesn’t hold the multitude of feelings they share; and they aren’t just lovers either, Porsche doesn’t like how it implies their relationship is purely physical. Because it is a relationship, without words to define them, he cannot find a way to explain to others. “Something,” he answers, “we are something.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Not to you.” Porsche says, pushing the kid towards the gym before he can start asking more questions.
Porsche and Kinn don’t talk about it, about definitions and words and public announcements. To the outsiders, Kinn is still a single man with countless people dropping at his feet and the marriage proposals aren’t rare. For the past few months, after word got out that Mr. Korn’s health is getting worse, the proposals almost tripled in number.
“It’s expected,” Chan said, “he’s the heir.”
And Porsche is his something , his trusted bodyguard, his shield, his friend at most.
Porsche hates that he understands, hates that he thought about pulling back, ending it all. And hates himself even more for thinking he would be fine with just being his other , his lover on the side while his wife poses as the queen , gives him children.
He hates it, but he would, for Kinn. If he asked, Porsche would.
But Kinn never asks, never even entertains the idea. When Mr. Korn brought it up, he denied; when Porsche brought it up, he locked himself in the shooting range for hours and then came back to make Porsche promise not to suggest it again.
“ Never ,” Kinn said, “I won’t marry someone for an obligation. Let the Theerapanyakul name die with us, I won’t put a kid through this life.”
He cried and Porsche hugged him and they promised– something, everything .
“You’re mine, Porsche.” Kinn said, then, and he still says it now, every morning, every night.
(My Kinn.
My Porsche.)