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Parakul says, “I don’t like getting my hands dirty,” like everyone on the street doesn’t already know that Dissaya’s son is more partial to directing as opposed to carrying out, like there aren’t rumors that he doesn’t know how to fire a gun, and that Dissaya is so protective because her son is fantastic at planning but too soft otherwise.
The last two theories are looking more and more unlikely the longer Pat feels the chill of hard concrete under his knees, and the sticky slide of blood down his temple from where Parakul had pistol-whipped him moments before, but at least the first one is accurate.
Pat lets a smirk twitch at the corner of his mouth, waiting for Parakul to take a step back—to let his incensed right hand man take over.
But then Parakul doesn’t. Instead, he just crosses his arms, tapping the barrel of his gun against his elbow, and regards Pat and Korn carefully.
“You don’t have to,” Pat mocks, slightly disconcerted by the continued attention.
Parakul simply smiles, sharp enough that Pat realizes immediately that he’s done exactly what Parakul was hoping for, has cut himself with his words, and now Parakul has scented blood. He lets his gaze bounce over the rest of the men in the room, and finds that none of them look tense or meanly amused about Parakul taking the lead—in fact, some of them look anticipatory.
Even the man standing next to Parakul, whom Pat had quickly noted as trigger-happy, has shifted his posture to lean on his back foot, lazy, confident, sure that his services won’t be needed even as anger tightens the rest of his face.
So maybe they’re a bit fucked.
“I wasn’t saying I’m scared,” Parakul murmurs, low and amused, almost sing-song. He holds Pat’s eyes, lips quirking, and fires his gun.
Pat doesn’t look over even as Korn lets out a muffled howl of pain, and neither does Parakul. Instead, he steps forward and lowers himself onto his haunches in front of Pat. “I was going to say that I don’t mind getting them dirty with someone like you, Napat.”
Pat stares back as impassively as he can. “Flattering,” he replies.
Parakul reaches out, tips Pat’s chin up with the end of his gun, the metal cool against his heated skin. He resists the urge to swallow, and Parakul tilts his head.
“You’re right,” Parakul says slowly, baring his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “You should be flattered.”
He flicks the gun up, jarring Pat’s jaw, and then stands back up, turns to his men.
“Get this one to Louis, and I want Napat in my room,” he smiles at Pat while his men begin to bustle around him. “We have things to talk about.”
—
"I feel like your interrogation tactics need a bit of updating," Pat says, because Parakul has been leaning against his desk and watching him silently for what feels like the last ten minutes. Pat's knees hurt—the muscle had been unnecessarily forceful in getting him to kneel after they'd shoved him into the room. "What is this? Coercion by staring contest?"
Parakul's expression doesn't change as he tips his wrist to glance at his watch from the corner of his eye and then looks back at Pat. "Can't even last five minutes, huh?" he says mildly, and Pat suppresses the urge to let out an exasperated sigh, because it certainly doesn't feel like it's only been five minutes.
His knees really hurt. Also his wrists—they'd really wrenched his arms back while zip-tying him.
"I shouldn't be surprised," Parakul muses, pushing himself up to stand and walking behind his desk. He pulls open a drawer and takes something out. "Undisciplined, just like your father."
"You—" Pat blurts, cutting off when Parakul reveals the object in his hand to be an excessively sharp letter opener. It glints in the light and looks far too much like a dagger. "Cute," he scoffs, and Parakul raises a brow at him.
"I don't think you're in a position to make comments," he says, shutting the drawer again. Pat bites the inside of his lip, holding back his retort, because as much as he hates it, Parakul is right, and as much as people would say otherwise, he does have some sense of self-preservation.
"I guess you're lucky I have no interest in starting a war." Parakul tugs his gun out from his holster and lays it on the desk. Pat frowns at the move, but the reason for it becomes evident quickly. Parakul takes steps around him and slides the letter opener into the space between the zip tie and Pat's wrists, freeing Pat with a quick flick upward.
However, he keeps his hand wrapped around Pat's wrists, tipping close to whisper into his ears. "Try to be intelligent," Parakul says with a quick, firm squeeze, and all the condescension of someone who doesn't trust Pat to not do something wildly stupid, like attack Parakul while there are at least four armed guards outside the door, waiting for an excuse to put a hole in Pat.
Parakul lets go and straightens up to walk back to his desk, tucking his gun back into place. Pat shakes out his wrists but doesn't get up.
Instead, he watches Parakul warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop—there are lots of things that Parakul freeing him could mean, and Pat isn't quite sure that he likes any of them.
"Dissaya doesn't know I have you in custody," Parakul says, and Pat's eyes widen. "She will in a few hours, but I'm hoping to have you and your sidekick out of here before then. If you cooperate."
"What do you mean?" Pat asks carefully.
"I don't want a war," Parakul repeats, heavy with intention, and Pat waits a beat, searching his eyes. Parakul stares back, unyielding.
Pat blows out a sigh, because there's only one thing that Parakul would possibly risk snatching him off the street for without his mother's orders. "The new Prasertslip deal."
"I don't want a repeat of the last time," Parakul says. "And I know you don't, either."
"And how do you know that?" Pat asks, hackles rising, because Parakul's admittance of his assumption is edging dangerously close to something that Pat thought they'd put behind themselves, towards something he'd abandoned long ago in favor of throwing himself into working for his father to make up for his mistake. For his idealism.
Parakul swallows, shoulders slumping, and looks away.
"You told me," he whispers softly, and Pat digs his nails into his palms. When he meets Pat's eyes again, he bears an astonishing resemblance to the boy Pat used to love. "Pat, I didn't—"
"Don't call me that," Pat snaps, and Pra—Parakul flinches, mask sliding back into place, eyes going flat. "Don't—don't fucking—it's been years."
"Fine," Parakul replies, cold, hurt. Which is ridiculous, because if anyone has the right to feel betrayed, it's Pat. "I know that a bloodbath isn't in either of our interests, nor is Dissaya and Ming competing because they're blinded by pride."
"I don't think either of us want to take over an organization that's been gutted by their efforts to annihilate each other. That's how I know, and that's why—"
"—you really came back here after seven years and decided the first thing you were going to do was usurp your own mother," Pat scoffs. "I knew you were ruthless, but this is really—this is really something else."
"I'm not usurping her," Parakul hisses. "You know why—"
"I don't," Pat says, "Nor does it matter to me. You're right, we have common interests in stopping this, no matter your motivations."
He's being far ruder than he should be, unarmed in a room with Parakul, but that brief moment—that brief moment had managed to unravel seven years of defenses, revealing the gaping, unhealed gashes underneath, and it fucking hurts, has Pat lashing out like a wounded animal.
Parakul crosses his arms, mouth pursed. "So we're in agreement, then?"
"I guess we are," Pat replies. He rises to his feet and dusts off his pants before turning around and putting his hands behind his back. "Glad we've got that sorted. I'm going to leave before your mother comes and tries to put my head on a spike."
For a long moment, there's no sound of Parakul moving behind him, just the heavy weight of his gaze on Pat's neck, but Pat refuses to turn around, can already feel the way that his anger is cracking with hurt in ways that no one ever learned to recognize other than the man in this room with him.
Well, not this man—a version of him, sweeter, brighter-eyed, and gentle. Pat's temple throbs pointedly.
Finally, there's a rustle, and the feeling of air shifting as Parakul comes close and wraps a new zip tie around his wrists.
"We can meet at the usual place," he says as he tightens the cable, and Pat laughs, sharp and bitter, because he hasn't been back to that damn noodle stand since life stopped being rose-tinted.