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“Yes! Ya-hoo!”
Porchay pushes away from his computer. “Fourth campaign win of the day. That has to be a record,” he says out loud, even though his only friend is the setting sun. Golden light pools into the room, letting him know that four campaigns definitely took longer than he anticipated and that over thirty minutes had definitely passed; meaning, it’s time to rinse the hair dye out too.
Shutting his laptop close, Porchay stretches before taking his phone. He walks towards the front of the bar. His sneaker squeaks, and he nearly trips.
He looks down. “What the-”
It’s blood. There’s blood on the floor.
He looks up.
“Shoot!”
A half dozen bodies litter the ground, and the stench of blood dampens the air with a coppery scent. Porchay’s hand immediately goes to his mouth. It’s too much. He looks to his right and sees three other men, gunshot wounds that left little holes in their chests, red staining their clothes. He takes a step back, the visceral scene in front of him making his stomach lurch.
“Ahh,” Porchay breathes out. He wraps his arms around himself and takes a step back, but the squelching sound interrupts the eerie silence. “Oh fuck.”
With shaking hands, he takes out his phone. “Porsche, gotta call Porsche,” he mutters. But his fingers can barely swipe the pattern to unlock his phone.
He drops his phone.
“Shoot!”
A part of him wants to leave it there and run: run back to home, run back to his house, his parents’ house, and hide away in his room. But Porchay bends down to pick up his phone.
That’s when a tiny gleam of silver catches his eye.
“Oh, oh, no, no, please-” he chokes out.
Next to a small pool of blood in a familiar necklace.
Porchay pockets his phone and crawls. A lonely little safety pin lays on the ground, and a broken chain is streaked with red. With clammy hands, he picks it up.
He only knows one person who wears this necklace.
His breathing quickens as the pieces come together.
Kim was here. Kim was here. Kim was here-
Kim killed people.
Kim shot people to death.
The necklace dangles from Porchay’s fingers as the final piece snaps in place.
Bile rises in his throat. Is one of the bodies Kim?
Porchay gets up. “Kim?”
If he’s dead, would saying his name out loud even matter?
No. Kim's not dead.
But you don't know that.
He does it anyway. “Kim?”
Porchay moves quickly to the bodies on his right. No, none of them are Kim. Neither are the ones in the front.
But there’s so much blood. And it’s not like Kim would take a necklace off mid gun fight.
Porchay holds the necklace in his hand as he meets the glassy eyes of one of the bodies. He imagines it’s that man who pulled the necklace from Kim’s neck. He imagines, with his blood racing, that one of them took aim, fired, and succeeded.
“Kim?!” Porchay’s voice turns frantic. He bursts through the front doors of the bar but is only greeted with fading sunlight and stares from concerned people.
He reaches for his phone again. This time, he manages to get it unlocked and when he hits “dial” Kim’s number for the first time in weeks, he brings the phone to his ear.
No one answers.
The bile is back.
Porchay opens a rideshare app. He hears Porsche’s voice telling him to go back into the bar and wait for him.
But all he feels is press of the metal necklace into his skin and the wild beat of his heart.
The evening traffic doesn’t help Porchay’s thoughts as they move like molasses across Bangkok.
The driver glares at him. Oh yeah. His hair still has the dye in it. And there’s blood on his shirt. But when Porchay stuffed all the bills he had in his wallet into the reluctant man’s hand, he beckoned Porchay inside.
So why is he so mad?
Lights start to come on as the sun sets.
Porchay’s never prayed before. Temple on important days felt more like a chore, and following the motions made him feel like a farce. He’s not even sure how to properly conduct himself; whenever he went, he followed whatever Porsche did or said.
But in the little car, he shuts his eyes.
He prays.
Kim resists lighting another cigarette. He hates smoking in his apartment; even when he’s on the balcony, there’s a chance the smoke will seep inside and settle into the room.
But, God, would he kill again for another.
He winces when rummages through the bathroom cabinet looking for the medical kit. Clearly, he’s missed a step or two. A graze is nothing, but a year ago, there would have been no graze. There would have been far more broken bones and far less gunshots. He admits that the gun made the job easier, but when that one guy’s skull cracked against the bar, Kim’s heart leapt.
Violence is easy, but protecting someone is hard. And that’s where he missed the step. When another thug reached towards Porchay, he forgot about the one guy he left standing and got into the kerfuffle with those closest to his former lover.
Loving someone means missing steps. It means he shot several people, forgot about the guy in the front until he drew his gun, and they both fired together. Kim got the guy in the chest, and the guy got him in the arm.
Loving someone means getting grazed instead of walking away unscratched.
Kim tries to ignore the voice that tells him he’d do it again and grabs the medical kit before going into the living room. There, he tries to open the case with one hand, the other still pressing loose gauze against the bleeding wound. He’s unsuccessful.
“Ah, fuck it.” Doesn’t even hurt that bad. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out a crumpled box of cigarettes and a lighter. He takes the gauze away from his arm. The wound throbs and he feels a familiar trickle start coming down his skin. He lights the cigarette, pulls once from it, leans his head back on the sofa, and closes his eyes, exhaling into the quiet.
“Kim, you should stop smoking.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ‘yeah?’ me! It’s so gross.”
“I thought someone said I look cool though? Hm, Chay?”
“Stop, Kim! Haha, no! Stop, that tickles! And you smell like smoke!”
“And you like the smell, too, right?”
“Ah, Kim! Don’t, don’t kiss me like that! There are people around-”
“So? What else am I supposed to do with my mouth?”
“Anything besides smoking.”
“Anything?”
Kim exhales another breath of smoke. No reason to stop now-
His door slams open. Kim nearly drops the lit cigarette.
In his doorway, with his chest heaving, with blood on his sweater and hands, is Chay.
Kim gets up so fast that he goes lightheaded. “Porchay?”
“Oh, thank-” Chay crushes himself into Kim. “Thank goodness-”
Kim doesn’t know what to do with his arms. Or his voice. He knows his wound is practically gushing now. He knows he should feel pain, discomfort. He knows he should feel the blood coming down his arm. But all Kim feels is Porchay.
Chay takes him by the shoulders, his eyes brimming with tears. “You idiot.”
“How did you,” Kim croaks. He can’t find any more words.
Chay shakes his head. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Just watching me? Protecting me and never saying a word?”
Kim feels Chay’s fingers dig into his skin; the piercing nails feel good. They feel real. I'm not hallucinating.
“Were you ever going to say anything?”
Kim looks away. “No.” He raises his arms and puts his hands on Chay’s forearms, trying to be gentle. “You should go home. To your house. It’s not safe here.”
“It’s not safe here?” Chay’s voice becomes high pitched. “You killed a dozen people, for me, and you’re telling me to be safe somewhere else? Without you?”
Kim closes his eyes.
“No, okay? No. I’m staying here.” Chay shakes his shoulders. “And if it’s not safe, then you better protect me, Kim. Because I’m not leaving.”
Kim looks down. He doesn’t remember dropping the cigarette on the ground. He finally looks back at Chay, who looks unafraid, or maybe just wonderfully unaware, of all that’s happening at the Main house.
“Okay. Stay.”
Kim feels Chay’s hands leave his body. He wishes they wouldn’t because they left little warm spots that are quickly eaten up by the cold.
“God, Kim, you need stitches.”
“No, I don’t.” Kim looks at his arm. He needs stitches.
“I can try to wrap it up. Sit down.”
Kim does. It’s then he finally notices that his shirt is matted with blood and that his arm actually does hurt.
While Chay gets the rubbing alcohol and a mesh of cotton, Kim steps on the cigarette. But even that movement causes him to wince. The pain is radiating downwards now, his whole arm feeling dead and hanging uselessly.
“Can… can you lift your arms, Kim?”
Kim shakes his head. The ache is now rippling through his body. He can’t feel his hands. He looks down at them and flips them upwards so that he’s looking at his palms.
“I’m going to cut your shirt.”
Kim nods. Is that really Porchay in front of him? Maybe he’s hallucinating.
Didn’t I just ask that?
Kim feels smooth metal across his shoulder and hears the sound of fabric ripping. The cool air meets his chest. He closes his eyes when Porchay runs a hand down his chest. He tells himself that it’s not like how it was before, when they fell asleep together on the couch and Porchay would blush and run his hands up his chest. Through his bleary gaze, he knows Porchay is only concerned.
He’s not a giggly boy in love anymore.
Then, white hot pain bursts through all other sensations.
“I’m sorry, Kim, I’m sorry! The bullet… The bullet is still inside you.” He hears the panic in Porchay’s voice. “We need to go to the hospital-”
“No. Tweezers,” Kim pants. “One motion. Be fast.”
“Kim, please-”
“It’s not safe.” Kim turns his cheek. “Be fast. And don’t tell me when you pull.”
Kim hears the clinking of metal. He feels Porchay’s hand holding his shoulder steady. He braces himself.
Agony tears into him. Kim jolts forward, eyes wide open before they shut as his body contorts.
“Kim? Kim!”
Red and pink spots cloud his vision.
“Porchay,” he says with a ragged breath.
“Kim! Hey! Stay with me-”
“Smell like hair dye,” Kim whispers before his head goes dark.
I guess that’s why the driver looked at me like that.
Porchay looks in the bathroom mirror.
Kim’s been asleep for thirty minutes. He finished bandaging him up and left a bottle of water and painkillers on the table next to the couch. In the meantime, he discarded the cut-up shirt into the garbage, cleaned up all tweezers and scissors, put away the kit, and dragged a blanket from Kim’s bedroom to put on top of Kim.
“It’s late. I should take you home.”
“Or…”
“Or?”
“I could… I could stay. Just for tonight. If you’re too tired to drive.”
“Porchay-”
“I’m not saying we should sleep together! I don’t want you to drive me when I can take the couch! Ugh, I’m sorry, I’m being weird, I didn’t mean it like-”
“Stay. And take the bed.”
“Alone?”
“Have I ever left you alone?”
Porchay resisted the urge to stay in the bedroom. He closed the door after getting the blanket.
And now he’s standing in front of the mirror, his hair petrified and sticking up in all directions. He sighs.
On the vanity, he sees another safety pin.
Hmm.
Porchay reaches into his pocket and takes out the broken necklace. He turns on the faucet and washes the blood off the chain as best he can. With the second safety pin, Porchay carefully slides both ends of the broken necklace onto it. He clips it closed.
“You should really wash the dye out.”
Porchay whirls around, stuffing the chain back into his pocket. Kim’s rubbing his eyes, moving gingerly. He's shirtless. The wrap seems to be holding. “Kim-”
“Hey,” he says, obviously uncomfortable.
“Hi. I, uh… I thought you were asleep.”
“I fainted.”
“Right. Yeah, that.” Porchay rubs the back of his neck. “How’s your arm?”
Kim ignores him. “You should wash your hair.”
“Yeah, I should go home-”
Kim shakes his head. “I’ll help you.”
Porchay shakes his head. “No, I can do it.”
“Your hair won’t survive another hour. You’ll go bald.” Kim gestures to the tub. “Sit down. Lean your head back into the tub.”
Hesitation creeps in. “Kim…”
Kim walks into the bathroom and takes one of the deep blue towels hanging from the back of the bathroom door. Chay holds his breath while Kim wraps the towel around his neck. “There. Your clothes won’t get wet.”
Porchay lowers himself onto a plush bath mat. “Doesn’t your arm hurt?”
Kim doesn’t answer. He, instead, detaches the shower head and turns on the water. Porchay watches Kim run the water under his hand, and when the temperature is to his satisfaction, their eyes meet. “Tilt your head back.”
Porchay does.
As the water begins to wash through his hair, Porchay keeps his eyes on Kim’s face, looking for any sign of pain or discomfort. It’s a fruitless search. By now, he should know that Kim’s face betrays no secrets. But when Kim leans in closer, Porchay’s breath hitches because he’s blessed with all the familiar oddities that make up Kim Theerapanyakun. How he always smells like tobacco but never of smoke. The cut of his jawline when his cheeks look so soft. The peculiarly empty neck that should have something dangling from it.
The necklace burns in Porchay’s pocket.
Porchay hears a bottle snap open, and before he can protest, Kim is washing his hair. Nimble fingers that once guided Porchay’s own across a guitar are now pressing into his scalp. Porchay sighs deeply. After a few minutes of bliss, another bottle opens. Then Porchay feels fingers running through his hair again, combing it back slowly.
The water shuts off. “You have hair dye on your face.”
“Oh.”
“I have a face wash.”
Stay.
After a moment, Kim comes back and rubs a cotton ball across Chay’s forehead. Kim stays focused on his skin. Porchay, focusing on the slopes of Kim’s neck and collarbones, bites his lip.
Please, kiss me.
“I got most of it.”
Porchay nods.
I know we hate each other, but please, kiss me.
“I’ll wash the conditioner out of your hair now.”
“Okay.”
I know I said I never wanted to see you again, I know you’re hurt and don’t want to deal with me. I know I’ve been ignoring your calls.
The water starts again, and warm waves of it crash down onto Porchay’s head.
But I’m a liar too. I’m a liar too.
After a few minutes, Kim shuts off the water and brings another towel to Porchay. He motions Porchay to sit up. He does, and Kim sits in front of him. Porchay watches Kim raise his arms.
“Ah, Kim-”
Kim starts to towel dry his hair.
Porchay can’t help it. He hums, though he wishes Kim would run his fingers back into his hair again.
Would he say no if I asked?
Kim pulls the towel away after some time. There are black streaks on the blue fabric.
“I’m sorry,” Porchay says in a rush.
Kim shrugs. “It’s fine. It’s just a towel.”
“Yeah.”
A minute passes. Kim looks curiously at Porchay, and when the mafia son doesn’t look away, Porchay bolts up. “I should go.”
“Porchay-”
A hand stops him.
They’ve been here before.
“Have you ever loved me?”
“I’m sorry.”
Porchay flinches but stops. He turns.
“How…” Kim starts, looking up at him. “How did you know it was me?”
Porchay’s knees go weak. He sinks back to the bathroom floor, knees touching cold tiles. With an unsteady hand, he reaches into his pocket.
The necklace shines under the fluorescent lights.
“My necklace-”
Porchay swallows. “I tried to fix it with one of your safety pins.”
Kim stares at it, stunned.
Porchay unclips the safety pin and moves forward. He drapes the necklace around Kim’s neck, gets closer, and then clips the pin shut. “It’s fixed now.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Porchay doesn’t move away. He wants to stay this close. He wants to see, he wants to kiss, he wants to feel, he wants to-
Kim grasps the other towel that’s around Porchay’s neck and pales slightly. He pulls, just slightly.
Porchay soars when their mouths meet. Tears spring to his eyes but his heart sings, his body rejoices as Kim’s hands come to his face. And when Porchay parts his mouth, when his exhale is simply a plea for more, Kim meets him.
Porchay wants to get carried away. In what sense, he’s not sure. But he doesn’t stop, even when Kim tries to pull away. The kaleidoscope of emotions that he has towards Kim blend into one: not quite forgiveness, but certainly not hatred.
Kim pulls away.
Porchay could sob at the loss.
“We should talk about things,” Kim whispers quietly. “I should explain myself before anything happens again.”
“We should,” Porchay agrees.
Kim nods. He looks at Porchay’s mouth.
“We should talk,” Porchay repeats before kissing him again.
“Yeah.”
Again, again, again, again.