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Their weekly tradition started in order to help Tankhun practice. The after effect was just a bonus.
Khun’s hands shook. Non-stop. His fork would clatter to the ground while he ate. He couldn’t hold a pen while doing homework. Simple tasks became carefully timed movements. For the longest time, everyone thought the worst: a symptom turned permanent reminder of the worst day of Khun’s life.
Khun could handle most things because there were others to help.
But his breaking point was the nail polish.
And Khun, who could no longer trust a single manicurist after the spa accidentally cut into his cuticle too deeply due to his tremors, did his best. And manicurists, who could no longer be patient with the trembling man, simply gave up and collected their day’s paycheck, and never returned. So, he collected fancy kits, with all the little tools, and a rainbow of colors.
But Khun would wail. The bottle would spill onto expensive hardwood floors. The little wand would color out of the lines. Frustration came every Friday.
“I just,” Khun gritted out. “I just want to do my nails myself.”
Two weeks into his new job as Khun’s bodyguard, Pete offered.
“Can I try?”
Khun snorted. “What could you possibly know about nails? You guards are so filthy, sweating like animals in the gym and crawling around in the dirt for the sake of exercise.”
Pete only smiled. His hands were certainly a mess. “Then you can practice on my nails.”
Another guard snorted and made a poor attempt to cover the sound with a cough.
Tankhun, though, immediately turned. “What was that, Bell?”
“Nothing, Khun,” the guard said.
With another huff, Tankhun eyed Pete up and down. “And you? Do you expect me to teach you basic hygiene? Who do you think I am?” Tankhun’s leather pants squeaked as he sat back down at a stained table. “Well?!” He demanded. “Get out! I need concentration!”
A month later, Tankhun looked at Pete’s hand as he put down a card on the table. “Someone’s learned to wash his hands.”
Pete feigned annoyance, but also nodded. “Chan taught me. Twice a day.”
Tankhun rolled his eyes before looking at his own hands; far from polish and sleek, blues and purples bled onto his skin and stained his fingertips.
So Pete offered once more. “You can practice on me.”
“I want my nails done, not to do someone else’s nails, you doofus.”
“Chan says practice makes perfect whenever my hand wavers.”
Of course, this advice was for shooting practice, but Pete left that minor detail out.
With an eye roll, Tankhun dropped the subject.
It took an hour for Tankhun to call Pete to his dressing room.
“Fine. But your hands stay on the table at all times.”
Pete knew people were talking shit. People don’t know how to do much else.
From the doorway, he heard Bell’s voice in the communal area for the guards. “And he offered! Every week. Must be gay.”
Uncomfortable laughter. No one wanted to say anything back to Bell, of course. He’s one of Khun Korn’s favorites.
Someone else snickered before they added, “Maybe Pete likes it. You know, one of the girls.”
“Be honest. He’s got Pete on the side.”
A murmur of disagreements rippled through the room. Pete made note of those who were louder than others.
“Oh, come on. He has to. Even crazy people need someone to fuck.”
The first punch came from Pete’s right hand, adorned with lime green nail polish, and landed squarely on Bell’s jaw.
“I want him fired.”
“Violence among the bodyguards-”
“I want Bell gone, Father. Put Pete in charge of my security detail.” Tankhun snapped his fingers towards Chan. “Make it happen.”
So tradition came, stayed, and never broke. On Fridays, every Friday, with no necessary reminder, Pete met Khun in his dressing room, and together, they sat at Khun’s vanity. And Pete didn’t mind when Khun’s trembling hand streaked nail polish across his fingers, nor did he mind that the acetone burned his nostrils. He didn’t really care about what colors Khun picked or the stickers that went onto each half-dried nail because Khun couldn’t use any of the detailing tools. He certainly didn’t care about anyone who made comments about his nails, whether it was other bodyguards or whatever date he went on.
What Pete ultimately cared about was progress, which he saw years later when, with a smooth stroke of the wand, Tankhun painted Pete’s left thumb’s fingernail.
And only Pete’s left thumb’s fingernail.
Pete’s eyes went wide while Tankhun, his hand only twitching slightly dipped the wand back into the polish. “Khun-”
“Hey!” Tankhun snapped his fingers. “Hands! On the table!”
“Khun!” He held up the thumb.
Tankhun dropped the wand. He yelled. He smiled; a smile so large that Pete felt like he was being hugged.
The next finger went terribly. As did the rest of the hand. And the right too.
But Pete’s left thumb was a success.
“It’s okay if you twitch. It’s okay if you shake.”
“Annoying. All the time, and I still!”
“It’s gotten better. You hardly shake. Only when someone’s touching you, like now.”
“I want it to go away.”
Pete held Tankhun’s left hand in his. A scattering of Q-tips was also on the table. Pete had opened a fresh bottle of acetone and poured some out into the cap. With a Q-tip, he dipped into the clear liquid and began to clean the edges of Tankhun’s nails, ensuring that the bright fuchsia was only on his nails.
“But it’s okay if it doesn’t,” Pete said quietly, before taking the bottle of nail polish and opening it once more. He still had to paint Tankhun’s ring finger.
Tankhun turned his head. “No, it’s not. Because then we’ll be here forever.”
“Then that’s where we will be.”
“Porsche is taking us to Hum Bar on Saturday!”
Pete smiled. “Nails?”
Tankhun gave Pete a haughty look before breaking into a smile himself. “Duh! Of course!”
Porsche became the first person to ask. “So, every Friday?”
Pete turned the page of a magazine. “Yeah.”
“Did you always paint your nails?”
Pete sighed. “No. My…”
“Girlfriend?”
“No, no. My grandmother. She has shaky hands too. It’s because she’s old though. Hers won’t go away. And one time, she cut her nail at an angle, and she nicked herself. So I learned. She never wore nail polish until I said I could help. It takes a little longer, but it makes her happy.”
“Look at you. You’re smiling. You don’t talk about her a lot.”
“I don’t.”
“Is someone else helping her now?”
Pete smirked. “I send an esthetician to her every week. Khun’s is from his kidnapping. But it’s a good sign that it’s lessened a bit.” Pete paused, looked at Porsche, who never really made any comment about nails, colors, or what it means to be a man. “Painting his nails reminds me of her.”
“You must miss her.”
“I do.”
Today, it’s Friday.
Pete dangles from Vegas’ ceiling.
Death would be a blessing.
As his wounds throb, as fever begins to set, he conjures in his head little flashes of comfort. His grandmother placing a ridiculously large bowl of food in front of him for his birthday. The look on Porsche’s face when they first met. The many nights spent at Hum Bar together, dancing, drinking, singing.
He looks up. He sees chipped pink nail polish on his fingertips.
It’s Friday.
He sees the belt. He makes his move.
“Pete doesn’t go on vacation.”
“Khun, he deserves to be left alone-”
Tankhun stamps his foot. “Are you stupid? This dream means something. Pete is in danger!”
Another guard steps forward with concerned eyes. “Please, Khun, we will-”
“Pete PROMISED. He promised me EVERY FRIDAY.” Tankhun points to his phone. “It’s FRIDAY. Are you listening to me?!”
The others have that look on their face. The look. God, does Tankhun hate it. He scoffs again and sits in his chair. He grabs the bottle of yellow nail polish.
He tries to open the bottle.
“Khun?”
With all the bitterness he can muster, Tankhun raises his hand to his face. It twitches.
“Let us help, Khun, we can…”
No.
Unable to hear anything else that the idiots around him say, Tankhun gets up and throws the bottle back down on the vanity. “Where is Kinn?”
“He’s busy-”
“Not anymore.”
When Pete stands in front of him, Tankhun leaps forward, hugs him despite his bloody shirt, and thanks God he didn’t put his limited edition London Butter nail polish set into the fire.
It’s Friday.
This time, Pete’s hands shake.
As they sit at Tankhun’s vanity, Pete accidentally drops the bottle of OPI in Lavender across the plush carpeting. Tan and lavender hardly mix well.
“It’s okay,” Tankhun says, sighing deeply, as he picks up the polish.
“We don’t have to do this,” Pete says, voice hollow. “We can get you a manicurist again.”
“No! No, no, no.”
“Khun,” Pete tries to sound firm. “You-”
“I’ll scare them away,” Tankhun warns. “I’ll make their life a living hell. Do you know me?”
Pete fights a grin. “I know you. But…” He sighs too. “This is going to take a while.”
“Fine! Fine!” Tankhun grabs the bottle of nail polish. “I’ll paint your nails, and then I’ll paint mine! Okay! You choose shitty colors anyways. Honestly, Pete. Lavender? So off-trend.” Takhun rolls his chair to the massive wall of polish, organized by color. “I don’t think I’ve even worn this color yet! I should’ve trashed it. Who wears lavender?”
Pete remembers that day all too well. While he insisted that organizing by brand would be easier, Khun insisted on organizing by color. The wall became a rainbow and Tankhun became its keeper, painstakingly moving each bottle aside when a new color came into his collection. When he’s allowed, Pete helps.
“Here! Look at this.” Tankhun brandishes a bottle of black and then another bottle with glitter swirling inside. “Black! Since you’re wearing black and white for your welcome back party. And glitter!”
Pete sighs. “It’ll take too long to wait for the black to dry.”
“So?”
“We’re going to be late.”
Tankhun rolls back over. He places both bottles on the counter before taking Pete’s hand. The movement astonishes Pete, and that surprise is mirrored when Tankhun himself widens his eyes before he scoffs, and maybe to save face, ignores the bruises on Pete’s wrists. Yet, with careful fingers, with mild annoyance, with a soft patience that Pete has never seen before in Tankhun’s eyes, Tankhun brings Pete’s fingers closer to him before dipping the brush into the black polish.
“Then that’s what we will be.”