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Spring break.
Finally.
Not that going to an international school doesn’t have a certain element of freedom to it. Macau was floored when Vegas agreed to let him go after everything. He was floored Vegas let him out of his sight, let alone leave the ‘safehouse’ after everything. But aa’Korn insisted, under the pretense of Chay having someone to watch over him, and Vegas was in no position to refuse.
It was kind of fun to watch Chay take down every single pretentious asshat at the school, armed with nothing but unassuming sincerity and boundless enthusiasm. He just liked things so much and didn’t give a single fuck what anyone thought and it was so refreshing Macau couldn’t help but wish he could be like that.
But he is Pa’s son, even after his death and caring too much about appearances was how he was raised, was in the air he breathed. Not as much as Vegas, but he’s—no he was—Pa’s eldest, the heir of the minor empire. And now—well.
“ai’Cau.” Chay nudges Macau with his elbow, doing the universal taking earbuds out of the ears gesture. “We’re about to land.”
“Mn.” Macau pulls his earbuds out, smiling at Chay. “Thanks.”
“Happy to be going home?” Chay asks. “It’ll be nice to see Hia again.” He gets this funny, complicated look on his face. “And Khun Nu, and Khun Kinn—”
“He’s practically your brother-in-law now,” Macau points out. “I’m pretty sure you can call him p’Kinn.”
Now Chay looks scandalized. Macau can’t help but laugh. Chay scowls at him. “It just sounds weird,” he mutters. “p’Kinn, p’Kinn.” Macau laughs harder, because in English, it almost sounds like he’s saying “peek in.” Chay elbows him, staring straight ahead like his entire family’s been insulted.
But no, that’s Macau’s family.
He stares out the window. He is happy to be going home. But like everything in his life, it’s complicated. Vegas seems happier now, despite being unceremoniously stripped of the title he’d been promised for as long as Macau could remember.
No, he is happier. Macau’s still not really sure about all the details surrounding how he and Pete ended up together, but it really seems to be for the best. Only, before Macau was sent away, Vegas sometimes had these bad days. Days he and Pete tried to keep from him, which was almost as insulting. Macau’s not a child; he grew up in Pa’s household just as much as Vegas did. Sure both Pa and Vegas tried to shield him away from the worst of it—he knows, he knows that Vegas paid for trying to protect Macau from the worst of it—but that’s the thing. Macau knows, but the worst thing he can do is to let Vegas know he knows because then it would’ve been in vain and Vegas already blames himself for so much.
Macau sighs, shoving his fingers into his ears to combat the pressure change as they descend. Almost faster than he’s ready for, he’s jolted as the wheels touch ground, thrown back against his seat as the plane decelerates. He glances over at Chay and he’s grinning like he’s on some carnival ride.
Right. This is only the second time he’s been on a plane. Ever.
Macau can’t help but grin, like it’s contagious. Which, maybe it is. Maybe some of Chay’s puppy-like eagerness has infected him. He just has this way about him that makes Macau feel like everything’s going to be okay. Which is probably stupid considering just how not-okay so much of everything is.
Vegas isn’t the heir to the minor family anymore but, if anything, he’s under an even tighter leash now, disgraced, than he ever was as Pa’s heir. Aa’Korn seems to have forgiven him for his part in the attack on the main family—yet one more thing no one will tell Macau about—but he’s proven he’ll never forget. Or keep Vegas out of his sight.
Vegas and Pete are more or less prisoners in that safehouse, given more than enough of an allowance to cover any expenses, including a brand-new PS5 when Macau asked for it. They’re just never allowed to leave. To have other jobs or—well. Vegas never seemed to have any hobbies other than working for Pa, but even if he did—
And then there’s Porsche.
Macau refuses to call him anything but Porsche and no one seems to care, least of all him. Every time he came over to the safehouse—and he came over a lot—Macau would glare at him, touching the scar he still has on his head from when Porsche threw him into the koi pond. Porsche would drop his eyes, flushing, and it was the best thing every single time. But Macau can’t help feeling a teeny bit bad for him. Getting the job that Vegas had been raised into, had been groomed for, with hardly any experience at all, it had to suck. And Chay, God, Chay. He had no idea what to do around Khun Nu. Probably still doesn’t—not that Macau blames him. Khun Nu is…a lot.
Finally the fasten seatbelt sign shuts off, Chay bolting up like a jack-in-the-box. Macau rolls his eyes as he stands, maneuvering around Chay to open the overhead compartment and pull out their shoulder bags. They’re in first-class, of course, so they’re the first off the plane, Chay all but jogging down the jetway. Macau shakes his head as he strides just behind him.
But he can’t help but smile. It is good to be home.
#
Chay:
Yok is holding an open mic night at the bar
all ages
you in?
Macau stares down at his phone, frowning. It takes him a minute to remember who Yok is. Right, she’s the one who owns the bar where Kinn and Porsche met. He tosses his controller aside, grabbing his phone as he glances across the living room. Pete’s stretched out on the long part of the sectional, reading a book around Vegas, who’s lying in his lap. It’s kinda gross how content they look even if it’s kinda cute, the way all old people in love are. He’s threading his hand through Vegas’s hair, Vegas’s eyes closed like he’s asleep.
Maybe he is. He naps a lot more than he did before he was shot.
Wait. He isn’t, because when Pete takes his hand away to turn the page, Vegas grabs at it like a cat who’s not being pet, kissing the back of it. Macau rolls his eyes.
Me:
yeah
when?
Chay:
\o/
tomorrow night
Wait? Tomorrow night? Chay’s been teaching him how to play, but he’s not nearly good enough to come up with something by tomorrow night.
Chay:
don’t worry
i’ll play for you if you like 😊
Me:
uh, sure?
any ideas?
Chay:
hmm
what about that song we’ve been working on?
Macau frowns at his phone again. Not that he doesn’t like the song they’ve been working on, it’s just—wait. He knows exactly what he’s going to do.
Me:
i have an idea
something i’ve been working on
Chay:
omg!
i can’t wait to see it!
ooh, maybe i’ll do this other song i’ve been working on! 💕
“Uh.” Macau turns to Pete, and Vegas, who’s apparently awake. He opens his eyes, giving Macau this shrewd look that’s a bit too close to Pa’s. “Would it be okay if I go out with Chay tomorrow night? I won’t be out late.”
Vegas sits up, looking even more suspicious, if it’s possible. “Where?”
“Uh, Yok’s?” He tosses his phone aside, picking up his controller like it’s no big deal. “There’s some sort of open mic night. All ages.”
“Sure.” Vegas lays back down, closing his eyes. “Sounds like fun.” Macau breathes out a sign of relief. He thought for sure that Vegas would put up more of a fight. Would insist on driving him, or, worse, coming with. “Oh, I have a tracker app on your phone. If you go anywhere else, I’ll know. If you try to remove it, it’ll disable your phone and send me an alert.” He turns to him with a smile only an older brother can give. “Be home by midnight.”
#
Macau shifts in his stool, adjusting his guitar strap. It still doesn’t feel quite right, the strap pulling on his shoulder, the guitar still a strange weight on his lap, across his chest. He strums a few notes, quietly. It sounds in-tune to him, but he wishes Chay was here to tell for sure.
He glances up, catching his eye. He’s sitting in the closest chair to the makeshift stage, grinning at him, giving him a dorky thumbs-up. Then he lifts his drink, a coke, raising it to Macau before he sticks the straw in his mouth. Macau rolls his eyes, looking over the rest of the bar.
He doesn’t recognize anyone else, which should be scary but it’s oddly settling. No one to see him mess up on his ‘debut’. God, if Porsche was here—if Vegas was here—
Macau strums a couple more chords, his fingers working on muscle memory, placing themselves in the right spot, easing his nerves. It’s fine, it’s cool. The bar is half-empty, either because it’s all ages, or because it’s open-mic night, or because it’s the middle of the week.
“Tired of being who you want me to be,” he sings. Or starts to, until he fucks up the chord. He halts, his heart kicking up. It’s fine, it’s fine—he strums the first chord again, starting over. “Tired of being who you want me to be, feeling so faithless, lost under the surface.”
Everything just kind of falls away after that. Somehow his fingers know what to do, his voice, too soft and tentative at first, gaining strength, gaining volume. “Caught under the pressure of walking in your shoes.” He thinks of Pa, of Vegas, of how accurate this is.
“Can’t you see that you’re smothering me?” he sings, his voice threatening to catch. Maybe this was a mistake, maybe this was the wrong song to sing. It was one thing, alone in his dorm room, thousands of miles away from it all, but it just feels so real now. “Holding too tightly, afraid to lose control—”
He can’t. It’s too hard. Too close. He can’t.
“Cause everything that you’d thought I would be,” Chay takes over, “Has fallen apart, right in front of you.” His voice is soft and plaintive, giving the lyrics a whole new meaning. He takes over, standing beside Macau, playing his own guitar. “Caught in the undertow,” he chants. “Just caught in the undertow.”
Macau somehow manages to recover. “And every second I waste is more than I can take—”
“I’ve become so numb.” They sing in unison, Chay naturally shifting into rhythm guitar, Macau managing to take back the melody. He turns to Chay, focusing on him, on his quietly earnest face, on the energy he’s giving Macau, bolstering him, keeping him from drowning.
“And I know,” Macau belts out, “I may end up failing too.” He jumps up, leaning into the mic. “But I know, you were just like me with someone disappointed in you.”
Somehow they get through the rest of the song. It’s all a blur to Macau until he hears Chay play the last little trill at the end. Then he falls back, slumping against the edge of the stool. He’s panting, his heart racing. He wipes a streak of sweat off his face.
It’s not sweat. He’s crying. He’s on stage, on a stupid open mic night at Yok’s bar, and he’s crying. Like a baby. He blows out a breath, swiping all the evidence from his cheeks as he walks away—Chay grabs his wrist, towing him back onstage, bowing. Macau can’t help but follow. And then he hears it.
Applause. A lot of it, way more than there should be for the number of people he’d seen before. He lifts his head and fuck. The place is packed, a sea of people whooping and clapping and hollering.
“I think you’re a hit,” Chay says, his voice barely carrying over the noise. He squeezes Macau’s hand, guiding him off the ‘stage’, over to a table in the corner. Macau nearly bolts as he takes in who’s sitting there. He should’ve known that Vegas wouldn’t just let him go out, that he’d insist on coming—he lifts his eyes, meeting Macau’s and no. He’s crying, clearly has been the whole time. Pete gives Macau a look and he doesn’t know what to say. What to do.
He’s not stupid. One of the reasons he picked this song is because it’s so accurate. But to get just how much—he can’t. He shakes his head, backing away. He wants to run out the door, to run—where? He has nowhere to go. Anywhere he goes Vegas will find him.
For lack of anywhere else, he goes into the alley. It’s better than the bathroom, anyway. He leans against a post, tilting his head back, willing away the tears that threaten at the corner of his eyes.
“All I want to do,” Chay sings, his voice low and soft, “is be more like me and less like you.” Macau sniffles, swallowing down a sob. “You were so good tonight.”
Macau snorts. “I fucked up the first chord.”
“Nobody cares about that.” Chay rests his hand on Macau’s face, stroking his thumb over his cheek. “You made people feel things. That’s what matters. That’s what music’s about.”
“Is it?’ Macau laughs, but it feels more like a sob. “I guess.” Chay leans in, taking a deep breath, nosing a hawm into Macau’s neck.
“You did good,” he says again, pulling back and threading his fingers through Macau’s, leading him back inside. “Now, let’s go meet your fans.”