Work Text:
Bison’s an hour late to help Fadel close the restaurant. Months ago, he’d have half a dozen increasingly angry text messages on his phone but when he leaves Kant’s place, there isn’t so much as a “where are you?”
The doors are locked but the lights are still on when Bison arrives. He bypasses the lobby and heads to the back, through the rear entrance and into the kitchen.
He can hear Fadel before he sees him, a tone of voice Bison can’t ever remember coming from his stoic, grumpy big brother. It’s playful and slightly breathless. Bison should turn around now.
Fadel is unrecognizable these days. Smiling to himself when he thinks Bison’s not watching, humming under his breath. Whatever voodoo Style’s used on his brother, Fadel is a different, happier person. And Bison has always been too nosy for his own good.
“Style,” Bison can hear Fadel say, low and teasing. “Let me finish.”
Bison is not spying on his brother. It’s a lot like pulling up to the scene of a car accident – his own curiosity stronger than his sense of self-preservation.
Bison rounds the corner, choosing a spot out of sight behind a tower of supplies, and finds Fadel at the prep station, hands braced on the counter with Style behind him, no space between them, Style pinning Fadel with his hips.
There’s nothing explicit going on, beyond Style’s hand tucked into the waist of Fadel’s jeans. But there’s a telltale flush of pink on his brother’s cheeks. That and the dopey smile have Bison rooted to the spot, a voice telling him to leave but the novelty of it all keeping him frozen in place.
Bison barely recognizes Fadel. With sweat-damp hair in his eyes, loose limbed as he relaxes into Style, Fadel is more at ease than Bison has ever seen him, even long before Khun Mae started training them to kill.
I like his lips, Fadel said not that long ago when Bison pressed, wanting to know the details. Fadel doesn’t let anyone in these days but all it took was for an overconfident, tall drink of water to show his brother a little attention and Fadel was putty.
Bison might be more inclined to give Fadel shit about it if it weren’t so fucking adorable.
Bison enjoys the freedom he and Kant have these days but more than that, he looks forward to being at home and at the restaurant now that Fadel’s regularly getting laid and not quite as much of a rain cloud to be around.
Bison shifts his position to get a better view, despite the voice telling him to leave and go back to Kant’s. Clearly his brother won’t miss him.
Style has his chin hooked over Fadel’s shoulder; his mouth pressed to the side of his throat. Bison can’t hear what he’s saying but from the mischief in Style’s expression and the way Fadel’s eyes slip shut, lips parted, it’s something filthy.
Bison has spent enough time on double dates to know that Style has a dirty mind and zero filter. It’s fascinating to watch Fadel try to resist when Style turns it all up to a hundred and unleashes the force of it on his boyfriend. He’s seen Style sweet talk his brother into line dancing at a kitschy western-themed bar, an endless round of arcade games until he won Style the giant pink panda he insisted on having and a memorable night at a strip club during which Fadel earned several hundred baht.
Bison has a photo album on his phone of prime blackmail material these days, thanks to Style.
It’s probably not a good idea to interrupt, Bison tells himself. It’s altruistic, really, turning and slipping back out the way he came. It has nothing to do with the fact that cleaning the grill is the last thing he wants to do tonight, particularly since Babe’s spending the night with a friend and Bison has plans to see how loud he can make his boyfriend.
He spares one last look over his shoulder in time to catch a glimpse of Style pushing Fadel face down onto the counter.
Bison can’t wait to hold this over his brother’s head.