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Big misses his guns. And he’s not thinking about his arms, though he does worry that he’s getting flabby while on desk duty.
Nah.
He’s talking about the heavy artillery. The swift lock and load of his glock. The way the trigger feels under his finger.
If you told Big that he’d one day become a bodyguard to the wealthiest, deadliest mafia family in Thailand, he would be skeptical, but flattered you thought of him for the job. But if you told him he’d be opening fan mail for some internet YouTube pop star? Well, he would’ve shot you and then himself.
But here he is. Instead of guarding Kinn, he’s with Kim. And instead of a glock, he’s got a letter opener.
Big snorts as he sits in a cramped room in Kim’s apartment. It’s not that Kim doesn’t do anything; Big respects the whole sing-some-songs, prance-around-on-stage gig he’s got going on. Hell, it’s even lucrative. Kim’s rolling in money and pussy. And dick. It’s just that…
He’s not very exciting.
He didn’t hate that Kinn gave his detail to Porsche, since his arm was out of commission, but the newbie getting the most important job? Fresh out of failed training sessions? Didn’t exactly put Big’s mind at ease. And because Big was useless, it made sense to give him to the one sibling that’s not in the main house. When Big got assigned to Kim, he braced for the worst sort of feeling a bodyguard could have: boredom.
“Your arm is broken. The others can escort me, according to my schedule.”
“I understand, Mr. Kim. What would you have me do instead?”
“Open mail.”
“I’m sorry?”
Kim jerked his thumb to the other side of his apartment. “In the other bedroom. There’s fan mail. The carriers already flagged anything dangerous, perishable, or odd looking, so you don’t have to worry about any injury.” Kim smirked. “But the rest of it needs to be opened and checked.”
“...I understand, Mr. Kim. Would you like it organized a certain way?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure out a system that works for you.” Kim’s tone let Big know that the conversation was over, and that he was dismissed.
And that’s the story of how Big became a mailman.
A month later, Big’s still with Kim, and damn, he misses his guns.
But he doesn’t envy those who have to keep an eye out for the youngest son. Kim’s gotten so good at evading them lately. And Kim’s always done that: just freaking vanishes and then the rest of the detail scrambles to find him. Big chalks it up to self-inflicted middle child syndrome, even though he’s the youngest, refuses to see his family, and gives absolutely no fucks about his own safety.
When his arm was somewhat functional again, Big sneakily tried to join the escort, but Kim waved him off. “Just the mail.” Big knew what this meant; Kim could hardly run away from him. Big could find Kim no problem, knowing all his hiding spots. And Big knew that Kim knew that Big knew.
So here he is: strong as hell, handsome as fuck, sitting at a stupid desk, opening fan mail.
And it’s disgusting.
Okay, only a portion of it is disgusting. Big’s gotten all too familiar with large manila envelopes that he tears open. At this point, Kim could have opened a lingerie store in the back of his place.
Every time Big pulls out another bra from an envelope, he has three thoughts:
Who the fuck does this?
What does this accomplish? (Sometimes, this is followed with, “Maybe it’s booby trapped.”)
Aren’t these things expensive?
He doesn’t spend much time thinking about the panties and boxers though. They go straight into the trash. Big does, however, appreciate the occasional male fan. It takes balls to send your underwear to another guy.
Sometimes, people send fan made shirts, and while that’s a bit more tame, most are repetitive: proposals, lyrics, or usual images. Some are less tame. His favorite so far was a black shirt with a picture of Kim flexing his bicep on the back. On the front, bold pink letters: “PUNCH ME IN THE FACE WIK.”
Big knows he wouldn’t mind if Kinn punched him in his face. So, he gets it.
Kim prefers to keep the unique pieces. There’s one shirt in which a fan hand painted WIK’s silhouette and some lyrics, beautifully made, so Big set it aside. He’s sure he’s seen it in the spare room’s closet. All jewelry is kept. As if he doesn’t have a freaking Tiffany’s at his disposal already. But Big’s actually seen Kim wear some of them, particularly the beaded or silver bracelets that fans send with stories of how they became fans and what inspired them to make him something.
Big thinks it’s kind of sweet and totally uncharacteristic for the youngest Theerapanyakun. But he doesn’t want to die, so he doesn’t mention it to Kim.
What Big wasn’t expecting was the sheer amount of paper mail. Everything from requests for WIK to play at events to death threats. One woman said that her husband and her met at a WIK concert, so they formally invited him to their wedding. Another person sent a very cryptic message: “Join us.” Below it was a link. Of course, being the thorough bodyguard he is, Big followed the link to a cult of flat Earth believers.
He made sure to put Kim’s personal email address for the cult’s weekly newsletter.
Thankfully, no body parts, but he’s seen every body part. Pictures of tattoos were always interesting because they were intricately done and mostly sane. Though, he tosses those because he’s sure WIK’s Instagram is tagged in a million of those photos.
Big’s seen way too many dicks and tits he's never wanted to see. So, the nude pictures are always trashed.
But what Big really wasn’t expecting were the stories.
Aren’t there websites for this stuff?
Some are cute. Most are absolutely filthy. The first one he read was about a male fan meeting WIK at a gay club. He kept reading, because, well. It was fucking great. Big was about three pages in when he heard a voice.
“Big?” Kim called out from the other room.
“Y-yes, Mr. Kim?”
“Try not to get too distracted.”
Big just knew that Kim was smirking. Fucker.
Today, he’s knee deep in paper mail, trying to push past the sex fueled fantasies and find something threatening so he’s got an excuse to pull out a gun.
Rarely does that happen, but man, does Big wish.
Kim appears at the doorway, with his guitar in hand. “I have to be at the studio. I’m taking the Audi.”
Big relinquishes his keys without a fight. He doesn’t bother following Kim because that’s useless. He hears the front door shut.
He’s been like a ghost these days: coming in and out of the apartment at weird times. Big rolls his eyes. Probably another teenage angst album in the making.
Big’s shredded the eighth raunchy love letter he’s read today when his phone rings.
It’s Arm. “Did you install the GPS tracker on your car yet?”
“My Audi already has one.”
Arm huffs impatiently. “Yes, but that’s the manufacturers. We also need ours there too.”
“Does it fucking matter?”
“Yes! It’s a security measure. All you had to do was take it to the garage.” Arm groans. “Why do you make my life so hard?”
Big snorts. “I’ll get it installed, don’t worry.”
“I’ll do it. Where’s the car?”
“Mr. Kim’s got it.”
“You gave a car with no GPS tracking to Mr. Kim?”
In hindsight, Big knows where Arm’s coming from, but he’s overreacting. “He always takes my Audi. I’m not about to say no to him. You know how moody he gets.”
“He’s taking your car because it doesn’t have our GPS,” Arm complains. “Why is Kim like this? What are you people doing to me?”
“Alright, alright, hold up, I have access to the map data for the Audi. Relax. You keep forgetting that I’m a genius.”
“Just tell me where the car is.”
Big pivots to his laptop and types away for a few minutes. When he pulls up the trip history of his car, there’s a bit of a problem.
Kim’s not at the studio.
He’s in some neighborhood. Big stares at the screen. Why is that address so familiar?
“Big?”
“Arm! Give me a minute.”
Big opens another file, the one on the Kittisawasd brothers. He scrolls through that.
Oh shit.
“Uh, Arm.”
“Finally. Where’s the car?”
“He’s…” Big pauses. “He’s at the studio. The one that’s like fifty miles away.”
“This guy-”
Big cuts in. “Don’t worry about the GPS. I promise I’ll bring it to the garage tonight. I’ll take care of it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I will. He said he’ll be back tonight. I got it.”
Arm huffs. “Fine.”
Big hangs up and leans back in his chair, staring at the map, where the little car icon is sitting neatly outside Porsche’s family home. He grins.
“Mailman turned wingman.”