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Chan arrives just in time to see Big die.
That’s what it looks like, from where he is, entering the main warehouse area behind Kinn. The other guards fixate on Tawan, the threat; Kinn’s attention is solely on whether or not Porsche is okay. But Chan – all Chan sees is the crumpled body on the floor next to Porsche, flowers blooming crimson across his stomach. Chan’s chest seizes, shocks skittering across his skin and locking his hands ever tighter around his gun. They are steady, but his heart is not – it beats a harsh, irregular rhythm, one that spells out Big’s name in bold, underlined font. Big, someone says, and for a moment Chan thinks it was himself, but then he realises it was Kinn’s voice; Arm rushes over to Porsche and the body – because that isn’t Big, not anymore. Big was strong and harsh and rough around the edges; Big was grumpy and, at times, a pain to be around; Big was capable and tough, and he was loyal to a fault, and he was selfless –
And he was alive.
That body, lying in a heap on the floor, is not Big.
Somehow, in some fashion that Chan cannot begin to fathom, everybody in the room moves on. The only acknowledgement of the body is Kinn’s uttered name and Arm’s brief concern, before his attention is captured by more pressing matters. Matters more important than the man that used to be Big, covered in red, on the dirty warehouse floor.
The conversation between Kinn, Porsche and Tawan continues, but it’s futile; Tawan is cornered, and everyone knows it. The taste of triumph permeates the air, and Chan is sure Kinn is revelling in it, but on his own tongue it tastes bitter and stale. Triumph, because Tawan’s plan has failed, and Porsche is alive, and everything is okay –
Everything, except –
Suddenly the room is a ticking time bomb, Tawan is dead, Kinn is yelling at them to run, darting out to catch Porsche’s hand and pull him from the room, no care for anyone else –
And the body stays.
Anger fills Chan, running in thick, bubbling rivulets from his pores, scalding his skin as it drips down his fingertips. The injustice of it all lays hot and cloying on his tongue, sickening – all those years of undying loyalty, thrown away – all those times Big had unhesitatingly thrown himself in harm’s way for Kinn, and he repays him by not even sparing him a glance as he runs, uncaring, already forgetting.
Well. Chan isn’t going to forget so easily.
Feet moving before his brain has made the decision to, Chan finds himself dropping to his knees beside the body – and, this close, it’s so difficult to deny that it was once Big; so difficult not to see the man that once lived inside it. Even in death, Big is beautiful, Chan thinks, with a bitter, self-deprecating sort of humour. He doesn’t dwell – even though before, when Big was a body who was not just a body; when he was a person who would arrive to training on time every day without fail; when he was a somebody who would mutter scathing remarks about incompetent new recruits under his breath that Chan would pretend not to hear but smile about secretly; when he was Big, who would stay in the gym after everyone else left, pushing and pushing not for recognition but because that’s simply who he was – somebody who set his mind to something and did it. Before, Chan would look. He would allow himself to, justifying his lingering stares as the calculating gaze of someone assessing form; searching for errors to improve.
Now, there is no time to look.
Now, Chan shoves his arms beneath Big’s limp body, not noticing the barely-there twitch of a finger; the almost-inaudible intake of breath – and runs.
The next day, Chan finds that Big lived.
After carrying him out of the building, only barely making it in time before the explosion, he had handed him off to the medics, unable to look at him any longer; unable to be near him any longer, lest he do something utterly stupid like tighten his grip and refuse to let go. He had walked away without looking back, as if acting like everything was normal would make it so. Despite his efforts, the image of Big’s body, so unbearably weak in a way that Big never was, hung before his eyes like a curtain, flickering in and out of opacity with every blink.
But, remarkably, when Chan receives Arm’s report the next day, Big’s name makes him startle.
“ – and Big hasn’t woken up yet, but the Doctors say there’s a good chance he will soon. His injuries were –”
“I know what his injuries were, I saw him,” Chan interrupts, lips moving before his brain catches up to what he’s saying. “I scrubbed his blood from my skin after everyone else left his body to burn.”
Arm’s mouth snaps shut, eyes wide. Chan breathes out slowly through his nose. Images in his head set themselves to rewind, and he watches through his past self’s eyes as he crashes down next to the body, mind too frazzled; too distracted to notice – there. Lips parting. Finger twitching.
“You’re dismissed,” Chan says abruptly, and Arm leaves with a short nod. Allowing only a minute, Chan follows, turning right and heading straight for the hospital wing.
When Chan enters the room, the body is nowhere to be found.
Instead, Big is lying in the bed, eyes half-lidded; barely open, drowsily watching a doctor move around his bedside. For a moment, Chan simply stands there; so unlike the feeling of his entire body seizing up that took over him when he saw what he thought was Big’s lifeless body, now he feels his breath leave him in one, long moment; his shoulders drop and he finds himself closing his eyes in utter relief.
When he opens them, Big is looking at him.
The doctor bows their head respectfully as they leave, but Chan doesn’t spare them a glance. He walks forward slowly, and Big’s eyes follow him as he does. They’re barely focussed, and it looks like it’s taking all of his strength just for this, but he never drops his gaze. Chan is overcome with a sudden wave of fondness – of course Big survived. Stubborn, persistent, strong Big, of course he wouldn’t let himself be erased that easily.
Chan sits, and for a moment, neither of them say a thing.
Then –
“They said you saved me,” Big says, voice barely audible in its weakness. He blinks, slowly, eyes staying closed for more than a second. Everything about him is painfully frail, and Chan finds himself wanting to offer his own hands to hold him together until he finds the strength to do it himself once more. Instead, he simply inclines his head, just slightly – an acknowledgement. He had, he supposes – saved Big. Granted, everyone, including himself, had thought he was dead. Chan had thought he was carrying a body to safety, not a person.
He doesn’t even think of what might have happened had he left the body, because he knows without a doubt that he never even considered it.
Chan’s eyes are drawn downwards suddenly, to where Big’s fingers twitch; small, barely noticeable. Chan’s own hand is resting on the bed, and Big’s movement puts their fingers millimetres apart.
When Chan looks back up, Big’s eyes are glistening.
“Thank you,” he whispers, before they drift shut.
It takes a while before Big can walk again.
Nobody protests Chan spending all his free moments in Big’s hospital room. Perhaps word had spread about Chan sprinting from a burning building carrying Big’s limp body; maybe Arm had told everyone about Chan’s reaction to his report on Big’s condition. Chan doesn’t care. All he knows is something brings him to Big’s room every second he isn’t required to be anywhere else, a rope tied tightly somewhere deep within his gut, tugging at his insides painfully whenever Big isn’t near. Over the weeks, he makes a home at Big’s bedside, withholding comment when he has to feed Big meals since he’s too weak to do it himself and clearly ashamed about it, cheeks burning hot and embarrassed as Chan wordlessly wipes the corner of his mouth. He listens intently to the doctor’s instructions, engraving the words into the meat of his brain so that he won’t forget. He brings water to Big’s lips when he is thirsty, and silently wraps an arm around his waist when he wants to try sitting up, breath ragged and pained.
When Big first stands after being shot, he falls forward, legs weak, hands clutching at Chan’s shoulders. Chan grips his waist and holds him close but not too close, and tries not to notice the way the red that spreads across Big’s nose bridge makes him look so, so beautiful.
It’s easier when he realises it reminds him of the red that spread across his abdomen when he was lying prone on the floor of a warehouse.
“Sorry,” Big mumbles, and Chan only barely stops himself from holding on as he pulls away.
There’s a slight complication, somewhere down the line.
Big has been walking, slowly, back and forth across the length of the hospital room. He’s getting restless, Chan can tell, wanting to be back to his usual strength; wanting things to be how they were. He hears him asking the doctors, one day, when he can go back to sleeping in his own room, the one he shares with Ken, and doesn’t realise what’s going to happen in time to stop it.
“Oh, well, you could go back now, but we were informed that you might not want to, after what happened with Ken,” the doctor replies, and Chan pushes the door open in time to see Big’s confused expression.
“What do you mean?” He asks, and Chan clears his throat loudly; meaningfully, at the doctor. Too late, realisation dawns, and they duck their head in fearful apology, hurrying out of the room.
“What about Ken? What happened to Ken?” Big demands, voice growing louder and more agitated.
Chan sighs.
After he tells him, Big lays in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling for a long while. Chan gets up to leave, thinking his presence unwelcome, but a hand snaps to his wrist before he gets very far. Big says nothing, but the movement seems to have shifted something inside him; jostled the carefully placed rocks holding back the current, sending one scattering as a wet trail makes its way down his temple.
Chan sits back down.
What seems like hours pass, and Big’s hand never leaves Chan’s wrist.
“You don’t have to go back to that room,” Chan says eventually, voice low.
Big doesn’t react.
“You can use mine. If you would like to.”
A moment passes.
“Thank you,” Big croaks, voice rough with tears.
The day Big moves into Chan’s room, he is still weak.
He walks there himself – mostly. It’s only when they’re almost there, alone in a near corridor, that Big allows himself to grip onto Chan’s arm, breathing hard. Chan doesn’t comment; simply waits, stepping closer and hovering an arm around Big’s waist. I’m here if you need me.
After a moment, Big pushes forward, eyebrows furrowed and determined. Chan turns away, lest Big see his smile, endlessly proud.
Neither of them comment on the fact that the building is large enough that Big could simply occupy another bedroom – one different to the one he shared with Ken. Big doesn’t mention it, and Chan doesn’t push his luck.
“Rest here,” Chan says quietly as Big finally lets go of his arm, seated on the bed. “I’ll go and collect your things.”
Big looks up at him. “What things?” He asks.
Pausing, Chan stares back, feeling one of his eyebrows raise. “From your old room, Big.”
A pause. Big’s fingers shift restlessly over the sheets below him. He looks unsure, like he’s been asked a question to an answer he should know, but doesn’t.
“Oh, right. Alright. Thank you.”
For a moment, Chan is almost overcome with the urge to step forwards; to cast a gentle hand over the side of Big’s face; to smooth over the furrow of his brow and trace letters in the form of three short words over Big’s lips.
Instead, he leaves.
When he reaches Big’s old room, he realises the confusion. There’s nothing there. The only possessions Big has, if they can even be called that, are the clothes in his closet and drawers, a towel in the bathroom, and a toothbrush by the sink. Chan closes his eyes, filled with some unnamed emotion.
Big, so unerringly loyal that he had discarded personality completely in favour of becoming a nobody – a body – for this family.
But – no, that isn’t right.
Big was never a nobody. Not to Chan, anyway.
Pushing open the door to his – their, now – room once more, Big’s small amount of possessions in his arms, Chan finds Big sitting against the headboard, book in hand. When Chan enters, he startles, snapping the book shut and placing it back down on the bedside table with a loud noise. He’s red, eyes avoiding Chan’s, as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Sorry,” he says, and Chan thinks it might be a habit of his to curl the sheets between his fingers when he’s unsure or off-kilter. “I just…”
“Sorry?” Questions Chan, walking forward and laying Big’s clothes over the back of a chair near the bed. “For what? Reading?”
The way Big looks at him knocks cracks into the cement of his heart, just a little. His lips are parted, eyes unsure; he’s bracing, as if he’s certain Chan is supposed to be reprimanding right now and is confused as to why that’s not happening. Very deliberately, Chan smiles, and usually these things feel foreign on his lips but with Big, it feels much more like coming home.
“Help yourself to anything in here, Big. This is your room, too, now.”
He looks away. Too late, he realises the extent of the cracks was far more than he thought; he seems to have splintered open entirely with just one look from Big. Or, maybe, Big has been chipping away at him for years and years, and it’s this one innocuous moment that conducts the final blow.
He hasn’t felt vulnerable for a very long time.
As Big mumbles a small “thank you,” again – and, how many times has he thanked him since he woke up? Chan can’t count – he thinks that it might be okay, just here, just with Big, to feel it.
They sleep in the same bed now, is the thing.
Chan never thought he could have this, before. He thought he would spend the rest of his – most likely short – life, staring at Big across training rooms and shutting the door in his mind firmly against any notion of want, or, god forbid, hope. The idea of waking up with Big still asleep beside him was always so unbelievable that Chan doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he has it.
In the light of the morning sun curling its tentative fingers around the edges of the curtain, peeking through to check if they are awake, Big is beautiful. That word seems to reside permanently at the forefront of Chan’s brain these days, having snuck through a crack in the door when Chan wasn’t looking and made itself comfortable. Beautiful, he thinks now, tracing the slight part of Big’s lips with his gaze. Big’s hand rests delicately in front of his face, and Chan drinks in the sight, because he never knew Big could be delicate. Strength and weakness coexist within him now in a way Chan hasn’t seen before; his mind is as stubborn as ever, pushing him toward recovery every day without fail, but his body lags behind, playing catch-up. Perhaps if Chan were more selfish or less in love, he would wish that Big would stay like this forever: weak, dependent on Chan to be by his side; to touch him and support him and hold him. As it is, there isn’t anything Chan wants more than for Big to be as strong as he was before, simply because that’s what he knows Big wants.
In his line of vision, eyes flutter open.
Chan is caught; it’s too late to look away. So he commits, holding Big’s gaze, and Big doesn’t look away either.
For a moment, silence hangs like dust in the air. Chan feels a piece of it settle on the bed in between them.
“Good morning,” Big says in a low voice. Morning voice, Chan thinks. I know what his morning voice sounds like.
“Good morning,” Chan offers back – and then, Big smiles.
Chan can only hope the breath he sucks in isn’t audible.
After a moment, Big turns onto his back and attempts to sit up. From the look on his face, it hurts, and Chan can’t stop himself from pushing himself up and moving an arm around Big’s waist – not supporting, not yet, just there in case Big falls.
He doesn’t.
When Big manages to sit upright, their faces are very, very close.
“Thank you,” says Big, quiet and low.
“You’ve been thanking me a lot lately,” is all Chan can manage, staring at a freckle on Big’s left cheek.
“You’ve been doing a lot to deserve my thanks,” Big shoots back, and when Chan wrenches his eyes upwards, Big is staring at him.
The surface of Chan’s skin tingles. He feels as if the very particles of it are yearning towards Big, so full of desire for touch that they ache with it. He’s so close he can feel the warmth of him sinking into his own body; burrowing inside him and making a home in his arteries. It pumps through him, one with his blood, settling comfortably into the cracks of his heart.
Big is still staring at him.
“I didn’t save you because I wanted your thanks,” Chan says, sure that Big can feel the words spoken on his own lips, close as they are. “I saved you because you deserved to be saved.”
Big seems to freeze, then. His eyes widen, just a little, and if Chan wasn’t so close, he might not have seen the way his muscles tense. He waits, mirroring Big’s stillness; he doesn’t know all of Big’s intricacies well enough quite yet to be sure whether this is a positive or negative reaction. Maybe Big himself doesn’t, either. So he waits, skin still staticky with the need to touch. He waits, until Big’s throat moves with a deep swallow, breaking the ice around his figure.
Then, he leans forward and presses his forehead to Chan’s shoulder, turning just slightly – just so that his breath plays a soft tune against the base of Chan’s neck. Slowly, still in disbelief that this is even allowed, Chan reaches up with one hand and rests it gently against the back of Big’s neck, burying fingers that, for once in his life, are unsteady, in the length of Big’s hair.
The breath on Chan’s skin shakes.
Quiet has settled in their hair and collected on their shoulders by the time they move. Knowing that this moment cannot last and their day must start, Big sits upright once more and Chan rises from the bed. He’s reminded of Big’s attire as he looks back and sees the way the t-shirt he’s wearing falls on his frame; it’s Chan’s, because Big doesn’t own any comfortable clothes that aren’t workout clothes, which leads Chan to imagine Big sleeping naked, which in turn is a thought that he hastily shoves behind his newly fortified door, leaning against it heavily, panting. The t-shirt – Chan’s t-shirt, on Big’s body – is large, Chan being broader than Big. It slips halfway off one shoulder as Big yawns, and Chan thinks Big must be able to feel the way Chan’s gaze trails fingers across his exposed collarbone.
Big looks up, and Chan looks away.
Their day starts.
Chan learns that Big likes to feel useful.
It’s become a habit, is the thing. Chan pushes open the door after he has been dismissed for the day, muscles tired and aching in a satisfying sort of way. The first time it had happened, Big had hesitated, greeting Chan with a tentative smile and a short nod before walking over to him, movements just slightly stilted. And Chan had waited, as he does so often these days; he had waited because he had come to recognise the look on Big’s face: one that was built of hesitation; one that would betray itself if Chan was simply patient enough. After a moment, Big had reached for Chan’s shoulders, movements slow, eyes avoidant, as if he was waiting to be admonished.
Chan, of course, had remained still.
He had allowed Big to push the suit jacket off his shoulders, folding it carefully and placing it to the side. Next was Chan’s tie, which landed neatly atop the jacket. Then, Big had dropped to his knees, and Chan had turned immediately to whatever higher deity may exist and begged for strength, and then forgiveness when the first was not granted. The sight of Big on his knees comes unwillingly to him in dreams often, and Chan is familiar with it – but Big had simply turned his attention to the shoes on Chan’s feet, untying the laces, movements methodical and precise, before resting his hands lightly on Chan’s ankle, looking up at him in question.
The realisation had come to Chan just then, as Big stared up at him as if he was the one asking for something; as if Chan could offer something to him just by letting himself be taken care of. Even when Big is on his knees, Chan is still held firm beneath his thumb, powerless.
Wordlessly, Chan had lifted one foot, then the other, allowing Big to slide the shoes from them, placing them quietly next to the door.
And so, it had become routine.
This time, after Chan’s jacket, tie, and shoes have been removed, Big doesn’t move away like he usually does. He stays, wavering in Chan’s eyeline, and Chan notices that his ears have gone pink. They’re barely visible these days, Big preferring not to raise his arms too high to tie his hair. Chan had noticed, and been too selfish to do anything about it – too selfish to offer to tie it himself, because he adores the way Big’s hair falls loose around his jaw. Too selfish to offer, because to do so would be an indulgence; to touch him, to take care of him.
Slowly, Big’s hands rise, and – once, twice, his eyes flick up to note Chan’s expression as he curls his fingers around the top button of Chan’s shirt, and pauses.
Big’s own blood sings within Chan’s veins, and he would be a fool to let him continue.
Chan waits.
It takes only a moment for Big to overcome his hesitation. He methodically unbuttons each button on Chan’s shirt, tugging it out of the band of his trousers when he reaches the bottom. Chan thinks he might stop there, but, in a mirror of only a few minutes ago, he reaches for Chan’s shoulders and pushes the fabric down, down, down. His touch, unlike before, is not clinical; a means to an end – he covers Chan’s shoulders with the palms of his hands and slides them down his bare arms, the shirt falling to the floor with barely a sound.
All throughout, Big doesn’t meet Chan’s eyes.
Feeling as if it would be a crime to even breathe, Chan resigns himself, allowing a quiet, unsteady breath to escape him. He sees Big’s throat move in a hard swallow.
“Sorry,” Big whispers, and crouches down to pick up the shirt. He still has to be careful, with his injuries, but he can manoeuvre himself well enough that he’s barely out of breath when he stands, stepping away to fold the shirt and place it next to the already-folded jacket.
The next morning, Chan gives in, and adds to their routine.
The hairbands have resided guiltily in Chan’s bottom drawer for some time, and now he reaches for them as Big sits up in bed, hair dishevelled and falling across his face. He knows Big sees the one in his hand because his eyebrows furrow and his lips part, but he doesn’t speak, waiting.
Waiting, always waiting.
Chan has the pleasure and the torture of watching Big’s eyes flutter shut as Chan combs through the strands of his hair, lightly scratching fingernails against his scalp. Seemingly unconsciously, Big leans towards him, propped up on one arm, and Chan’s t-shirt – the one he still wears, even after ample time has passed in which they could have acquired one of his own – gapes open at the front. Chan has always prided himself on his strength, but as with most things, in Big’s presence, he is deprived of everything he thought he was and instead filled with something new; something entirely other; something so familiar he feels as if he’s always known it, impossible as that thought is. His eyes are drawn to the slope of Big’s neck; the gentle up-and-down of his collarbones; the stretch of his chest, still tightly muscled even after weeks of bedrest. Once he has it in his vision, he is unable to look away, drinking in the sight of it greedily, a beast deprived of water suddenly thrown into a pool of clear blue. He stares, hands still buried within Big’s hair, until he is drunk; unsteady, and when he looks up, Big’s gaze freezes him in its grasp.
The hairband secures itself around Big’s hair. Big leans forward, just slightly, t-shirt slipping a centimetre further.
“The way you look at me,” he begins quietly, something not quite yet visible simmering beneath the surface of his expression. “Is different.”
Big looks at him. Chan holds very, very still.
“Different to what?” He asks.
“To everyone.”
The way Big says it is simple. It isn’t a question; it is an observation. He says it as if he has already figured out that it is truth. He knows that the way Chan looks at him is different; different to how he should look at him; different to everyone else. Chan can only hope he hasn’t figured out why.
“Does that bother you?” Chan asks after a moment’s silence, instead of confirming what Big already knows.
“Why would it?” Big responds, voice suddenly coloured with genuine confusion, as if he can’t possibly figure out why it might bother him that instead of regarding him emotionlessly, as a superior should, Chan looks at him as if the very essence of him has found its way into Chan’s veins, because it has.
“When I saved you, I thought I was saving a corpse,” Chan says, because he needs Big to know this. He ignores the way Big flinches a little, eyes that were relaxed flicking open wide, because Big doesn’t understand, not really. He doesn’t know the true depth of Chan’s dedication; doesn’t know the way that the only air Chan’s body accepts is the very breath from Big’s lips; doesn’t know that when Chan bleeds, it’s Big’s blood that falls from beneath his skin. It isn’t fair to him, to let him believe that this is superficial: shallow desire, perhaps. Because if it was, then Big might let himself sit here, leaning towards Chan in invitation; if it was mere lust, he might allow it; accept it, even. But, instead, it is the simple fact that Chan has given up his very self to Big a long time ago, without Big asking for it, and it is not fair for Chan to let him sit here and invite Chan to him when it would be Chan’s soul that he’s getting, not just his body.
“I thought you were dead, Big, when I carried you from that building. I’m not asking for thanks,” he tacks on quickly when Big opens his mouth, eyes still wide and shocked. “That’s not why I’m saying this. I just need you to know that in that moment, I decided to prioritise your dead body over my live one. When you say I look at you differently –”
He cuts himself off. Already, he’s said enough, and Big’s expression is frozen. Grimacing, Chan lets shame lick at his insides; welcomes it, even. This is the secret he was supposed to take to the grave, and here it lies, spilled out over the sheets between them, a mess of blood and bone.
In the moment, he forgets that Big was never one to mind mess.
Picking his way through Chan’s insides, Big moves closer. His hand shakes, but it lands just above Chan’s knee, at the edge of his thigh.
“When you look at me,” he says, and Chan braces himself. “It’s the only time I ever actually feel like a person.”
Quiet, in the brush of Big’s eyelashes and the hollows of his collarbone. Ever loyal, Chan waits.
“I used to like it, feeling invisible. Like I wasn’t even real. It made it easier; better. I could do my job well, like that. If I died, it wouldn’t matter, because you can’t lose someone if that person never really existed.”
Big is closer now, and Chan, the blood and muscle and bone of him, aches to hold him, to push all the parts of him tightly together into one whole being, so that he can see himself and think yes, this is me. Chan wants Big to use him as a mirror, to see his reflection in Chan’s irises instead of his own, because if he did he’d have no choice but to live and to be in a way he has never allowed himself to.
“But then you looked at me,” Big whispers, and amongst it all; all the aching and yearning and wanting, Chan realises that Big is leaning into him once more, the tip of his nose barely a breath away. “And, for once, I wanted to learn to be somebody. I wanted to learn how to be alive.”
“Big,” Chan croaks, and it’s only when Big lets out an unsteady exhale that he can breathe again.
“I wasn’t sure before,” Big continues, and there’s a note of desperation in his voice this time. “I wasn’t sure what it meant. I didn’t know if it was all me, or what it meant, or anything. But now, these past few weeks, I think – I think maybe I’m figuring it out.”
“Take your time,” Chan says, and, suddenly, he laughs, so out of place that he can tell it shocks Big for a moment. He’s not sure he could explain why – inside him is a maelstrom of guilt want regret hope love that he can’t even begin to decipher – but, as it turns out, he doesn’t need to, because after a moment Big begins to laugh with him. Somewhere along the way, they end up closer, foreheads pressed together, the only breaths entering their lungs each other’s.
“Big,” Chan whispers, watching as Big takes the word into his mouth readily, rolling it over his tongue and swallowing it whole.
“Chan,” he offers back, the taste of it tangy and sweet.
The day that Big goes back to training, Chan dresses him.
“Payback,” he says, hoping to make Big laugh. It works. He’s been making Big laugh a lot these days. This one is short and accompanied by a roll of the eyes, and Chan takes it and stores it away with the others, safe.
He’s not really going to be training – not like he used to, anyway. He’s still got to be careful, so he’ll be helping train the newer bodyguards. As they walk through the doors and see everyone gathered, Chan realises he knows Big well enough now to sense that he’s nervous, just a little. He’s never much liked attention, and, being out of action for weeks, some of these people are seeing him for the first time, gazes curious. Chan draws himself up to his full height, levelling them with an unimpressed stare, and they look away.
“This is Big,” he tells them. “The most capable bodyguard of the main family – apart from me. He’ll be helping train you today.”
Beside him, Big scoffs quietly, but out of the corner of his eye, Chan can see him fighting a smile.
Over the next few hours, Chan watches Big in his element. He takes to leadership well, sharp eyes spotting errors that even Chan may have missed. He’s precise and quick, able to communicate concisely and accurately. He’s focussed, attention on his task unwavering.
Chan is so in love with him.
“The most capable bodyguard of the main family, huh? Interesting statement,” Big says afterwards, through a smile that Chan is sure is supposed to be wry but instead just looks endlessly pleased. He’s halfway down Chan’s shirt, fingers steady and sure.
Chan raises an eyebrow. “If interesting means true,” he responds.
Once again, Chan witnesses Big attempting to push down a smile – he thinks he sees him actually bite the inside of his lip to supress it. He always responds to praise like this; soaking it up readily, so obvious in his want for more but unwilling to express it. Instead of responding, Big tugs the shirt out of Chan’s trousers, just like he usually does, but unlike usual, he pauses. Head ducked, Chan can’t see his expression anymore. He hasn’t had to for a while, but now, Chan waits.
As with every time, it pays off. Big doesn’t reach for his shoulders this time, instead placing tentative hands on his lower abdomen, just above his waistband. At Chan’s sharp, involuntary intake of breath, he lifts his head, and whatever he must see in Chan’s gaze seems to transform his expression from hesitant to assured. Slowly, his hands slide up, up, up – over Chan’s stomach and chest. When they finally reach his shoulders, Chan is on fire, scorched marks trailing over his skin.
“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” Big asks, casual as anything, and the flames turn to a blaze.
Chan can’t help but laugh despite the sizzle of his skin. Wonderful, stubborn, apparently extremely forward Big. God, he loves him.
Big’s lips twitch in response to Chan’s laugh, but he stays quiet, gaze intense. There’s nervousness there, just a little, and Chan wants to touch him, so he does – he steps closer, impossibly, and places his hands on Big’s waist.
“I didn’t think it would be fair,” Chan says. “I fell for you first, so you have to kiss me first. Then we’re equal.”
This time, Big does laugh, and it’s accompanied by the look he so often has – like he’s trying to seem annoyed even as mirth takes over his expression. Chan can tell he’s pleased – the slight insecurity in his face is gone; the small, persisting notion that Chan might not have wanted to kiss him. The idea is preposterous, and it makes Chan want to chastise himself for ever letting it exist, but a larger part of him is rejoicing, celebrating the death of that very same uncertainty that resided within him, too.
Big wants to kiss him. Big wants to be kissed by him.
Big is so, very close.
The hands on his shoulders flex, fingers kneading at the muscle there. Chan’s own hands respond, pulling Big closer in a movement entirely of their own accord. The breath from Big’s lungs dances giddily over Chan’s lips, and something like an electric shock sparks through the live wire of him as Big’s lower lip catches on Chan’s own for a split second.
Then, Big pulls away.
He sighs, looking anywhere but at Chan.
“It was a long day. I think I’m gonna shower,” he says nonchalantly – and, as Chan stares, mouth open, eyebrows raised in disbelief, he notices it: the tiny, pleased-as-punch little smile waving at him cheerfully from the corner of Big’s lips as he turns and begins to walk away.
“You little –”
Chan catches up quickly, wrapping his arms around Big’s chest and lifting him, careful to avoid the still-tender spots on his abdomen – and Chan has never been a fan of music but the laughter that meets his ears, loud and unrestrained, might just change his mind. Big’s mirth is entwined with delighted surprise, and he throws his head back even as he struggles against Chan’s hold with no real intention to be freed. In fact, although he puts on a mildly convincing show, Big’s body relaxes back into Chan far more than it pretends to pull away, head comfortable where it rests on Chan’s shoulder, tilted towards him. Chan looks back at him; the smile he sees knocks him breathless, and it's at this point that he gives up on holding back.
The first thing Chan tastes when he kisses Big is his laughter.
The second is a muffled sound made of surprise, bubbling over the edge of Big’s lips and exploding across Chan’s tongue.
The third is the last and the sweetest: Chan’s own name offered from the curve of Big’s tongue past Chan’s lips, sliding down his throat and coating his insides with the nectar of it.
“I thought it wasn’t fair,” Big breathes, pulling back barely a millimetre, Chan’s lips following the movement of his words as he speaks. “If you kissed me first.”
“You are welcome to even the score,” Chan responds, feeling Big’s grin before he sees it.
When Big kisses him, turning in his arms and reaching for him, it is neither fire nor ice. It is not fireworks or shooting stars, and it isn’t roaring waves and endless skies.
It is Big, and it is Chan, and it is two bodies together; alive; one.