Work Text:
There’s small light blinking in the corner of the ceiling. Green. The same shade as an underripe mango. Three second intervals, illuminating the stark white paint in a little flashing circle. On-off. One, two, three. On-off. One, two, three.
An hour ago it was barely noticeable, drowned in the golden glow streaming through borrowed windows. Now, with twilight fading to dusk and fingers too listless to reach for a lamp, it holds Porchay’s attention like a beacon.
It’s a smoke alarm, he thinks, or maybe a camera. He wouldn’t be surprised if the main family is monitoring his every move. He’s under no illusions as to why he’s here, as prettily as they dressed up the welcome speech. He squints his eyes enough to blur them, and watches the light.
The video from Kim had been a punch directly to his solar plexus. Sure, he’s here, in this house, chained to it by Porsche’s inability to see the tightening noose, but he was finally starting to feel like maybe he could move on. Kim’s been a ghost this past month and maybe it’s because he was respecting Chay’s space or because he truly doesn’t care, but either way it isn’t Chay’s problem. Or it wasn’t, right up until the moment Kim sent him that video. It's upsetting for multiple reasons, the least of which being the new phone number Kim must have acquired to contact him.
The thing is, that’s his song. The song he wrote that very first day. The one for Porsche. Kim remembered, and he took it and rewrote it into a love song, and it would be beautiful if it didn’t feel so empty. In the video, Kim looks like maybe he’s genuinely sorry, but it’s clear he doesn’t realise what he’s done. The guitar resting across Chay’s knees is made of lead, and it’s been hours and he can’t move a finger to pluck the strings or push it away. He watches the blinking light on the ceiling and wonders if he’ll ever move again.
Because suddenly, his music is just one more thing for this fucking family to take.
..
Porchay doesn’t have a destination in mind when he leaves his room, but his feet carry him to Tankhun’s quarters all the same. He tries not to visit too often because Tankhun has a life of his own, but he really and truly has nothing better to do. Tankhun is enthusiastic in his unfounded affection for Chay but his welcome will wear out eventually, he knows.
It might be different if he had a job, or classes to attend, but he doesn’t. Porsche doesn’t want him to work, and he’d doubtless end up in danger trying, so that avenue is out. He’d have started university by now if he hadn’t thrown his application in the trash in a fit of rebellion, effectively cutting off his education with one impulsive action. He has nobody to blame but himself for that, but he lets it feed into his simmering rage at the main family anyway.
Porsche doesn’t know, because Porsche doesn’t care. Or, more accurately, Porsche currently has his head so far inside his own ass that it hasn’t occurred to him to notice. If he thinks Chay is spending his days at university and living a normal enough life given the circumstances, then Chay is not going to be the one to shatter that illusion. He’ll find out sooner or later.
His brother loves him, Porchay knows that. But he also knows that Porsche’s whole spiel about doing this for Porchay is bullshit. Like Porchay would have ever wanted him to get involved with the fucking mafia. He’d offered, point blank, to leave school. To sell the house and rent a small place and keep each other afloat the way they always had. But Porsche had snuck out in the middle of the night to sell his soul to the devil anyway. And then, because Porsche does nothing by halves, he’d crawled right into bed with that devil and stayed there.
And to a certain extent, he gets it; despite what Porsche may think, Porchay isn’t an innocent. He’s done his fair share of stupid shit to impress a crush. But compromising his principles and trampling his own moral compass in the name of ‘love’ is something he can’t forgive. Porsche, ironically, taught him better.
So, he knocks quietly at Tankhun’s door, and lets himself be swept into the colourful chaos of the eldest Theerapanyakul’s evening.
“Porchay, Porchay!” P’Khun scoops him into a hug, and before Chay has time to decide if the familiar gesture is something he wants to return he’s being dumped onto a plush couch, backs of his thighs colliding with black-clad knees as Pol protests being violently gifted a lap-full of teenager.
“You’re just in time! We’re going to do……” Tankhun clicks his fingers, ever dramatic, and Pol rights himself enough to start the drum-roll. “Face masks!”
Chay smiles reflexively, letting the flutter of Tankhun’s gold-lined dressing gown drape a curtain over his roiling thoughts of Kim. The two may be brothers, but they couldn’t be more different if they had never met. He sits obediently still while bright pink goo is smeared across his cheeks, and throws popcorn for P’Khun to catch in his mouth. It’s an unproductive use of his time but he needs it, and he tries not to wish that his own brother was here, too.
“You okay, man?”
Out of the three of them, he’s not surprised that Arm is the one to ask. He does it quietly, casually, out of the corner of his mouth so that Chay can decide whether or not to hear him. He gives half a shrug and an uneasy nod, letting the noncommittal gesture speak for itself, and the bodyguard gives his shoulder a sympathetic pat. He doesn’t ask for an explanation, but he does wave off Tankhun’s suggestion of a dance battle, and Chay is quietly grateful.
He hasn’t worked out yet if he trusts these three, but they seem the least interested in the goings-on of gang wars and violence and there is true comfort in the warmth of their laughter. He stays until Tankhun falls asleep midsentence, Pol already snoring across his lap.
..
There’s a small box crouched squarely in the centre of Porchay’s bed. He knows that his room is not his own but this intrusion feels offensive; it’s one thing for the maid to creep silently through, but another altogether for an unnamed presence to abandon gifts in his personal space. The box is white, and offers no hints to its contents.
It’s been a silent week since the song and he feels stupid for the flicker of hope, but it betrays the back of his mind all the same. He doesn’t want it the same way he doesn’t want anything from Kim, and there’s something halfway sinister about the box on his bed.
He ignores it for an hour, curling in his favourite borrowed corner with his favourite borrowed book, and on the ceiling, that small green light blinks steadily. The words on the page float, aimless and without meaning, until he can’t take it anymore and gives in. In his mind he throws the book across the grey carpet and screams, but his hands fold it carefully closed and place it on the nightstand. The box is cool to the touch and snaps crisply open to reveal the perfect circle of a braided leather bracelet.
Porchay's not superstitious like his brother, but still he finds himself burying his fingers in his sleeves before he dares to lift it out, holding it to the light and turning it over and over for inspection. It’s beautiful and clearly handmade, and it’s a testament to the past few months that his first thought is a tracker.
Arm comes when he calls and magics it away, returning thirty minutes later with a nod and a shrug. It’s just a bracelet, and Arm asks no follow-ups, but even he must know that the little silver music note woven through the strands is as good as an inscription. Porchay could throw it in the pond or hide it in a drawer but sets it on his dresser, caged safely in its box, and glares at it every time he passes. It’s the perfect reminder: he’s still here because a force beyond himself has willed it so.
..
Somebody is strolling through the garden. It’s not somebody he knows, but his proud stride screams his surname, and Porchay places him with ease as the youngest Theerapanyakul. He wanders to a stop beside Chay with his hands in his pockets, giving him a once-over that feels more like an x-ray.
“Who are you?” The question is blunt, but not unfriendly.
“Uh, Porchay.” It seems like he should have a better explanation, but he’s not really sure what to say.
“I haven’t seen you before, which makes you the most interesting thing to happen today. I’m Macau.” The guy shoves his hand forward and Chay shakes it like proper adults, pleased with his own powers of deduction. “You’re Porsche’s brother, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m here because Vegas asked me to check on Porsche.” Macau shrugs, returning his hand to his pocket. “It’s supposed to be a secret, but I don’t really care.”
“Oh. Um, okay.”
Macau flicks his eyes downwards, nodding to the guitar at Chay’s feet.
“That yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. You play?”
“A bit.”
There’s silence, and then Macau plops himself right onto the grass, crossing his legs underneath him. He’s about the same age as Porchay, but he conducts himself like no peer Porchay has encountered.
“Go on, then.”
“What?” Porchay sits down slowly, placing himself between Macau and the guitar in a move he’s not entirely sure is conscious.
“Play it. I want to hear.” It’s friendlier than a command, but Porchay tenses anyway.
“No,” he says, just because he can, and because a few months ago he wouldn’t have dared.
“Oh.” A tiny frown materialises between Macau’s eyebrows. “Well, alright, then.”
And maybe it’s because he accepted defeat so easily, or maybe just because Porchay is bored and lonely, but Porchay picks up his guitar.
“Actually, I will. If you still want to hear.”
“Yeah, man. Play it.”
So Porchay plays but he doesn’t sing, and it’s a little stilted because he feels off-balance, but Macau gives him a nod when he finishes anyway.
“I don’t like that song on the radio. But I think it’s alright when you play it.”
It’s as close to a compliment Chay thinks he’ll get so he takes it, smiling back at Macau.
“Thanks.”
“I used to want to learn guitar. When I was little.”
“But you didn’t?”
“But I didn’t.” Macau stands, dusting dried grass off the back of his trousers. “Alright, well I have a top-secret mission to fulfill. I’m gonna go annoy your brother until he agrees to go see Vegas himself. I’m tired of being the spy.”
“Okay, well.” Chay stays seated, fingers still positioned on the strings. “Good luck?”
“I’ll show you my bike next time. If you want.”
“Sure.”
“Cool.”
Macau leaves without a goodbye, humming the song under his breath as he goes.
..
“You don’t have to keep seeing her, if you don’t want to.” Porsche’s voice is patient, but his eyes flick to his watch for the third time. “It’s okay.”
It’s not that he doesn’t want to see his mother, Chay wants to explain, it’s that his mother doesn’t want to see him. Korn and Porsche both say she’s getting better, that she’s lost her memory, that it will take time, that seeing Chay can only help her recovery, but something in her eyes makes him think both of them are lying, whether Porsche knows it or not.
Namphueng stares at nothing, moves only when someone moves her first, and paints only when a brush is placed in her hand. She never speaks, never shows a sign that she can hear, and never returns an embrace. What she does do, though, is shake.
It’s tiny, just a miniscule tremor that begins at the corner of her mouth, barely noticeable, but Chay has stared at her face enough to be sure that whatever else is happening, his mother is very, very afraid.
He wants to tell Porsche, and he’s sure Porsche would listen, but he doesn’t trust the walls in this house not to eavesdrop. And besides, Porsche is too busy to give him more than an hour of his day.
“It’s alright, bro,” Chay bumps his arm, going for casual, knowing there’s time for nothing else when his unofficial hour is almost over. “I just think she needs a break. It’s probably overwhelming for her, learning that she has grown up sons.”
“You might be right.” Another check of his watch. “I’ve got meetings the next few days, so how about we both stay away for a while?”
It’s awful, the relief of distance from his mother, but Porchay feels it all the same. He’s loved her all his life without knowing her, but he needs time apart from those blank, terrified eyes.
..
As soon as he steps into his bedroom, Porchay knows something is wrong. He’s adjusted to finding his bed made and his laundry vanished, his bookshelf and dresser refusing to gather dust, but today something is different. He walks in a slow circle, trying to place the alarm bells he can feel ringing just outside his consciousness. When he uncovers the source, it freezes him in place.
After weeks of standing uneasy watch at their post, the bracelet and its box are missing from his dresser.
Porchay yelps, diving across the room to scramble through his belongings, throwing books and shirts over his shoulders without care. He hates that little box and what it represents, but he needs it to stay where he can see it. Kim grew up in this house but aside from Tankhun’s photo, he is nowhere else within these walls.
He finds it, eventually, tucked in a drawer next to the watch Porsche gave him for his fourteenth birthday. The watch is a fake, Porsche said so himself as he handed it over, sheepish but defiant, and back then Porchay had no concept of what that might mean. How can a watch be fake when the time it tells is real? He’s taken care of it, pulling it out to wear only on special occasions, polishing the metal and buffing out scratches on the face. Even though Porsche could snap his fingers now and have Chay fitted with a timepiece more expensive than their house, it’s one of his most prized possessions. He wants Kim’s gift nowhere near it.
The new maid must have moved it, trying to be helpful, trying to keep Porchay’s belongings neat and together the way his life could never be. The thought of her hands tucking it reverently into the drawer like it’s something precious makes him shudder. The flashing green in the corner of the ceiling is starting to drive him mad.
Desperate, he plucks the braided leather from the box with two fingers. He imagines it burning him, melting through his flesh as he slides it over his wrist, pulling it tight by the strings. It fits perfectly, made by hand for the curve of his wrist and it feels like a brand, but he doesn’t pull his sleeve down to cover it.
The bracelet needs to stay where he can see it.
..
Tankhun is in a mood today. He’s been all smiles until now as far as Chay is concerned, but the crash of overturned furniture from behind the door is enough to send him fleeing without knocking. He doesn’t want to stay in the house but he has nowhere to go, until in a stroke of genius he remembers.
He begs Pete’s number off a bodyguard in exchange for not tattling on an extra smoke break, and dials without hesitation to ask for Macau’s. Pete won’t send the number but he puts Macau on the phone, and then he’s there at the main house with his motorbike and an extra helmet. Porsche might be furious but he’d be a hypocrite, and Chay grips Macau’s waist for dear life.
It’s exhilarating, the way he rides; not as fast as Porsche but more daring, weaving between traffic, showing off the way only a teenager with no real responsibility can. Chay never wants it to end but it does, and before he drives away Macau puts his number in Chay’s phone with a lopsided grin.
..
“Sorry, about yesterday.” Pol hands Porchay a glass of water. “Khun gets like that sometimes. I know you heard him screaming.”
“Is he okay?” The noodles taste like nothing, but Chay doesn’t care enough to reach for something else. He’s unsure about Pol, who exaggerates his emotions in a mirror of Tankhun’s and never seems to show anything real. But the man is sombre now, and he came to sit with Chay of his own accord.
“Yeah, he’s alright. He took his medicine late last night, so he’ll probably sleep all day.” Pol chews thoughtfully. “He’s less insane than he seems, you know, but he really does have trauma.”
“I know.” It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, the way people talk about Tankhun. Pol is an exception, it seems, and Chay’s opinion of him rises.
“Arm and I are going to the shooting range this afternoon, if you want to come?”
Chay can think of few things less inviting than learning to handle guns. He shakes his head, but he still gives Pol a smile for asking.
..
Porchay can’t sleep. The small, intermittent light from the smoke detector is not keeping him awake, but it is proving a distraction from any helpful train of thought. He tosses in bed, desperate for his own mattress and a blanket that smells like home.
He could leave, he thinks. He could grab his guitar and run away and go further than he ever has before, but although his wallet holds a black credit card he has no money of his own, and the taxi fare would be a beacon leading right to him.
He gives up as the numbers on his digital clock flick to three, and pads across the room to where his phone sleeps on its charger. He could call Macau, who has trouble sleeping too and would probably answer, but that feels too intimate for a friendship so new. Porsche would pick up but he’d panic, and this is the first full night of rest he’s afforded himself in weeks. Chay isn’t spying but he is keeping tabs, worried that this family is going to run his brother into the ground.
Tankhun has been quiet in the aftermath of his episode, listless and unmoored, willing only to play chess or to rewatch his series. Chay holds no judgement but the silence makes his skin itch, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s headed that way too.
On-off. One, two, three. On-off. One, two, three.
Without his permission, Chay’s fingers tap his screen until he’s staring at his folder of deleted messages. There’s a few days left before the song is gone forever, and he should let it fade along with his feelings but he can’t, because it’s three-a.m. and there’s a bracelet on his wrist, and his room is not his own and the blinking light might be a camera but it’s probably not, and he’s been kidnapped and lied to and uprooted and dropped here and he’s only eighteen but his heart hurts so much that it might simply explode.
Kim’s song (his song) fills the borrowed bedroom. It doesn’t make him cry this time. He lets it play through twice before saving it to a locked and secret folder, and then forces his tired body back into bed. Sweet, melancholic voices and grass-coloured lights invade his dreams.
..
There’s another box, and this one is not on his bed.
It waits politely outside his door and he takes it to Arm unopened, trying not to gasp in wonder when the bodyguard pulls from its depths a beautiful, custom guitar strap. It’s a warm, tawny brown, the pattern of overlapping leaves shot through with gold, and it’s been brought to life directly from Chay’s favourite Pintrest board. He doesn’t want it. He wants it so badly his hands shake. He wonders how both of those things can be true and turns it over in his mind for so long that he misses Arm’s entire security scan.
It's just a guitar strap, Arm concludes, and when he hands it over it feels too big and precious for Porchay to hold. He wraps it in a shirt and tucks it into his sock drawer, right in the back, and knows if he lays eyes on it again he’ll fold.
But a guitar strap is not an apology, nor is it an explanation, and so the drawer slides closed.
..
Porchay doesn’t tell his mother much. Porsche says to talk to her and he always does himself, but Chay can’t speak past that fear in her eyes. He watches, hawk-like, knowing he’s making it worse but unable to stop, desperate for the slightest crack that will answer his question.
“I’ve been trying to draw leaves the way you do,” he says to her, and it’s not a lie. The pattern on that guitar strap is seared into his brain.
Wik’s new single came out last week, and Porchay didn’t want to watch the video but Macau finds humour in his cousin’s fame, and already there are hundreds of comments. Most are on the lyrics, analysing the meaning, taking up pitchforks against whoever broke their innocent precious baby angel’s heart, but a handful are demanding to know where Wik got his accessories. Fans will copy him, buying cheap imitations which Kim will doubtless sign, but he and Porchay will both know the truth: that guitar strap is part of a pair, and they compliment each other perfectly.
His mother hears none of this because he doesn’t tell her, and they spend the rest of their time in uncomfortable silence.
..
“Do you want some eyeliner?”
“Uh, no, thanks.” Porchay feels his nose crinkle. “You look incredible, but it’s not really my thing.”
P’Khun pouts.
“Well, it should be! You’ve got the face for it. Not like Pol.” He waves an indignant hand to where the big bodyguard sits, wiping at the blue smudges on his eyes with a tissue. “You idiot, if you’re going to wipe it off you need a proper remover!”
“Well, where is that?”
“The packet next to you, babe.” Arm points without looking up from his tablet. His own eyes are lined in a shimmering green. The colour doesn’t suit him, but he wears it with enough resignation that Porchay thinks it looks kind of okay.
“Babe?” Pol’s forehead scrunches.
“No, I didn’t like that either.”
“Well, I did!” Tankhun, who wasn’t asked, rushes to throw his arms around both of them. “You two are just too cute!”
Arm and Pol’s relationship is new enough to still be hot gossip, but the only ones who know for certain are in this room. Tankhun was the puppet-master, scheming to an alarming degree, but all’s well that ends well and the two of them are happy. Chay feels proud that they trust him enough to know.
“You’ll get makeup on your shirt,” Pol warns, and it’s more of a threat than it seems because when Khun doesn’t let go, Pol scrubs his face across the material to leave blue streaks there on purpose.
“What a shit!” Tankhun’s screech could shatter eardrums, but Porchay is relieved to see he’s laughing. “The cleaning fee is coming out of your wages!”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“You hate that shirt anyway,” Arm supplies helpfully, causing another round of indignant shrieks.
It’s the kind of chaos Porchay loves, and he has nothing to add, but he soaks it up like sunshine and savours it.
..
Porsche invites him out for dinner. It’s not a business meeting, Porsche made sure to tell him that, but the fact that he had to clarify makes Chay feel uneasy. Will he be expected to be involved soon then, too?
It’s not a special occasion, but the restaurant he’s delivered to by the too-nice car is uncomfortably fancy. Porchay wishes they’d just gone home for an evening instead. It makes his heart ache to think of their lovely house standing dormant, belongings they have no use for still lined up in their places. A loyal dog waiting patiently for its boys to return.
Despite the overwhelmingly formal atmosphere and the unfamiliar tightness of his new tailored suit jacket, Porchay breaks into a grin as the waiter leads him to his brother, seated already at a private booth. Porsche is at ease, fingers loose on a glass of champagne, shirt unbuttoned to his middle and hair slicked away from his face. He looks rested, for once, and it makes Chay’s heart feel full to see it.
He slides into the booth with a cheerful greeting, and the cushion may be too rich under his ass but he’s here with his brother who has finally made time for him, and they could be eating garbage under a bridge for all he cares. Maybe tonight, he will get the chance to show Porsche his new song, or to finally voice his worries about their mother.
Then, he notices the third plate setting.
It’s not that Porchay dislikes Kinn Theerapanyakul. It’s just that when Kinn walks into a room, it’s impossible not to feel overshadowed. Heads turn in the restaurant as he strides towards them, shoulders back and head high enough to hold a crown, and Porsche’s eyes unlatch themselves from his brother and snap onto Kinn like the man is made of magnets. Porchay sinks down into his seat.
“Baby,” Kinn drops a long kiss onto Porsche’s forehead.
It’s not that Porchay dislikes Kinn Theerapanyakul. It’s just that the minor family ring glints on Porsche’s finger as he reaches out to entwine their hands, and suddenly some of the tension is back in his shoulders.
Kinn takes his place, head of the table even though it’s a square, and it’s not that Porchay dislikes Kinn Theerapanyakul, except it kind of is, because Kinn is the one that dragged Porsche down into this goddamn underworld in the first place.
Dinner conversation is stilted, and Porchay is glad when he returns to the oppressive silence and blinking green light of his borrowed stark-white walls.
..
“This one is clean, too.” Arm drops the necklace into Porchay’s reluctant hand.
It was on his desk, this time, cutting through the sound of Macau’s laugh in his headphones. It was loud even though it wasn’t, really, and the buzzing static grew until it was the only thing Porchay could hear. Macau accepted his quick exit with good grace, and it took Porchay’s trembling fingers two tries to hang up the phone.
Arm turns to leave and then pauses, taking his glasses off to polish them on his shirt. An excuse to linger. The silence stretches until Porchay is on the verge of breaking it himself when Arm draws in a breath. Porchay knows that he knows but he’s never said it outright, and finally Arm chooses this moment to crack the illusion.
“They’re from Kim, aren’t they?”
Porchay’s stomach drops. It was coming eventually, it had to: three gifts examined for spyware is too many to let slide without the question. But until now there was nobody else in his life that had a single suspicion of Chay’s humiliation, and he was praying naively that he would be allowed take it to the grave.
Because that’s what it is, really. Humiliation. Kim lied to him from the start, used him and discarded him, and now he’s leaving gifts in some inexplicable form of psychological warfare and there’s sadness there too but for the most part, all Chay feels is embarrassed. He’s judging Porsche for being fooled by this family when the truth is, this family deceived his own heart, too.
He sags, running a finger over the pearlescent guitar pick on its delicate silver chain. Just a necklace. No hidden cameras or microphones or any of the infinite number of things of which Kim might be capable. Just a necklace. Just a bracelet. Just a song and just a pile of bodies behind Chay in a bar.
“Yeah.” There’s no use denying it. Arm is too perceptive and maybe, just maybe, what Chay needs right now is a friend. “They’re from Kim.”
“He must love you.”
“I don’t know if he does.”
..
Sometimes, Porchay’s phone pings with a notification from a friend. Not Arm or Pol or Tankhun or Macau, but someone from another life. His old life, he supposes, but it’s so far away it has detached completely. The pings become less frequent the more of them he ignores, and he knows he should answer but he can’t. He has no explanation for his absence.
His friends will give up one by one and Porchay will let them, because no answer he could give could possibly both satisfy and keep them safe. The green light watches him from the corner of the ceiling and he imagines it as a star, blinking its way through the vast expanse of nothing.
..
“He’s like a cat,” Arm muses, clearly less invested in the conversation than the gun he’s cleaning.
Now that he knows about Kim it’s sort of nice to talk about it, and Chay agreed to let Pol into the secret too if they could both keep it from Tankhun.
“A feral one.” Pol extends a hand, large fingers curled to mimic a claw. “He’s leaving dead mice all over your heart.”
Porchay laughs at the mental picture but there’s truth to it, too.
He had a cat once, when he was nine. He’d found it in the garden – a scared, snarling thing – and saved meat chunks from his dinner to lure it for two weeks straight. The first time it trusted him enough to touch his fingers, Porchay had cried.
Porsche was more wary but he’d helped him sneak it in, creeping through the side door like fugitives even though Uncle Thee’s promise of ‘back in five minutes’ had been broken hours ago. Porsche was the real authority in that house, even back then.
The cat adored Porchay, but it didn’t adjust well to indoor life. Porsche came up with the money to get it wormed and neutered and fed, and Chay made it a little bed of blankets beside his own, but it scratched frantically at the door until there was no choice but to let it out.
It came back, sometimes, some little dead lizard dangling from its mouth. Chay would crouch down and pet it and coo over the big brave hunter, but secretly he was sad. He loved the cat. And clearly, the cat loved him too. So why didn’t it love him enough to stay?
He’d resented it then, but now, fingers creeping towards the leather band on his wrist, he thinks maybe he is starting to understand.
..
“Do you think,” Porchay rolls onto his side, fingers tucked into a fist to prop up his cheek. His lunch lays half-eaten in its wrapper on the grass. “That people can fall in love without meaning to?”
“That’s most of what love is, right?” Macau crosses his legs, balling up a chunk of bread to squeeze between his fingers. There’s an odd look on his face. “Nobody ever means to fall for anyone. Especially when it’s somebody inconvenient.”
He pops the bread into his mouth and chews for a moment, gaze focused thoughtfully on the middle distance.
“Take my brother for example. I’m sure he never meant to fall in love with Pete. From what I’ve overheard, Vegas was supposed to kill him. But look at them now.”
“They’re happy, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, they are.” Macau’s voice softens. “I’ve never seen Vegas like this with anyone. Usually, even the hookers he hires don’t come back a second time.”
“Hookers? You mean like actual prostitutes? People really hire those?”
“Oh, Porchay, you sweet summer child.” Pulling on a grin like the devil he is, Macau leans over to pat Porchay’s knee, letting his fingers rest there once he’s done. “Any guy with money does. You should hear the rumours about your dear brother-in-law before he met Porsche. You could probably fund a small kingdom with the money he wasted on escorts.”
“Does Porsche know?”
“No idea, and I don’t really care because it’s none of my business.”
“Have you hired one?”
Macau shakes his head, grin turning wry.
“Papa said he’d gift me one on my birthday like he did for my brother, but, y’know,” he spreads his hands, not seeming much like he cares either way. Porchay’s knee feels kind of cold without the touch. “The old man’s dead, so I remain tragically a virgin.”
Chay turns his head to hide his surprise. He’s never talked about things like this with Macau, and the other boy is so self-assured he’d never guess there was something he has done that Macau has not. Chay thinks he should treat this confession with respect, but he can’t help teasing gently anyway.
“You’re aware you could sleep with someone you don’t have to pay, right?”
“I could try,” Macau agrees easily, letting his eyes meet Chay’s with an intensity the conversation doesn’t seem to require. His tone, though, remains light. “But it’s less likely you’ll be rejected if you’re giving them money.”
The thought jolts Chay to sitting.
“Do you think Kim hires escorts?” It’s not what he really wants to know, but the principle is the same, and it makes Chay feel cheap in a way that sets his skin crawling. The jewellery. The song. The guitar. The goddamn tutoring sessions for which he could have charged hundreds.
His goal wasn’t to get Chay into bed but it had worked anyway, and now what? He wants that back? Chay isn’t full enough of himself to think his body is the only reason, but surely if Kim wanted anything real he would have found a way to apologise.
In front of him, Macau’s smile snaps closed. His eyebrows pinch together, and for a second there’s a hint of genuine pain that Porchay doesn’t have the bandwidth to untangle.
“Is that who your first question was really about?”
His voice sounds uncharacteristically distant, like for once in his life he doesn’t want an answer. Porchay hesitates, wondering if he should play it off as a misunderstanding but Macau is his friend, and whatever problems he has with his cousin, Porchay could really use his advice.
“Yeah.”
“You’re in love with my cousin, then?” The question is flat. Porchay lets himself flop back to lying, catching his head under his hand.
“Unfortunately, I have been for months.” It doesn’t hurt any less to say it out loud. “What I can’t figure out, though, is how he feels about me.”
“Did he hurt you?” It’s more of a growl than a question. “Because I swear–”
“Only emotionally. He lied to me.”
Beside him, Macau blows out a breath.
“What happened?”
Chay tells him the story while staring at the clouds, wishing he was narrating a stranger’s life. He feels so stupid.
“And now he’s leaving me presents like a fucking cat instead of driving his ass to the house to talk,” he finishes, letting all of his limbs go limp. A starfish drying out in the sunshine. “I just want to hear him tell me the truth.”
There’s a long silence, and then Macau declares his cousin braindead, and the conversation drifts back into calmer waters. Something is clearly bothering him, but he just shakes his head when asked, and soon it’s time for them both to go.
As he folds the remains of his lunch into a neat little packet, Chay hears his friend mumble low enough that he can only just make out the words. He knows it means something, but without context there’s no way to understand, and he might be imagining the way Macau tenses when Chay grabs his waist to steady himself on the motorbike.
He turns it over in his mind all night but comes to no conclusions, and the words blink in time with the little green light:
“Maybe I am more like Vegas than I thought.”
..
“Are you happy?” he asks Porsche, and they’re standing in the stairwell outside their mother’s attic, and the walls might be listening but he has to know. Porsche’s smile falters for a moment and Chay amends his question, because they both know the real answer anyway. “Does he make you happy?”
And this time, Porsche’s face softens, and the hand he presses to his heart isn’t the one bearing the ring.
“He does. It was a rocky start, I know, but he really, really does.”
And maybe he doesn’t like Kinn and maybe his reasons are valid, but he can’t deny the truth in his brother’s voice. He knows that really, Kinn wasn’t the mastermind, and they’re all just pawns in Korn’s twisted game.
And maybe, since his brother is happy, that’s enough to let it go.
That night he listens to the song again, and it feels like pressing on a wound but he can’t help it. He pulls the drawers out of his dresser so he can drag it across the room and climb onto it, bracing himself with a hand on the wall. His fingertips just brush the little green light and if he perches himself up on his toes he can grip the white disc it’s attached to. He gives it a twist and yanks it free, and is thankful for the soft carpet that catches his tumble.
It bears the name of a smoke alarm brand but he pries it apart with a screwdriver anyway. Inside is nothing but wires and a battery, and he feels insane for his suspicion.
..
“Uncle Korn’s sending me to university.” Mac stretches out on his stomach, letting one of his hands trail into the pond. “I should have started a few months ago, but with everything that happened, I got kind of overlooked.”
“And you’re okay with accepting anything from him?” It comes out more judgemental than Chay had meant to sound, but Macau doesn’t seem to take offence.
“The way I see it,” He flicks the water from his fingers, waving them to demonstrate his point. “I can’t change who my family is, or anything they’ve dragged me into. But what I can do is take full advantage of anything they offer that will get me one step closer to my own life.”
“I dunno. Doesn’t that sort of mean you owe them?”
“We’re mafia, Chay. I owe them for being fucking born.”
It’s this, Porchay thinks, that makes him feel comfortable around Mac the way he doesn’t with any of the others. Macau sees things exactly as they are, and he isn’t shy about saying it.
“Uncle Korn’s let Vegas do his own thing while he recovers,” Mac rests his head on his arms. Casual, like he’s discussing the weather. “But it’s not going to be long before he wants him back in the game. Which is not going to be pretty, for a variety of reasons. I’d rather not get caught up in all of that.”
“Smart move.”
“You should think about it, too.” Macau’s hand returns to the water, spelling lazy words across the surface. “University, I mean. You’re in the family now, and that’s a choice that’s been made for you. But there are benefits to being on the side that’s in charge of everything, and you’d be stupid not to use that to your advantage.”
“I missed my shot at uni. Didn’t go to the interview.”
“Dumbass.”
The silence after that is comfortable, the sun in the public park warming Chay from the inside. He’s not sure that they’re supposed to be here without black-and-white-clad babysitters, but they’re both the younger brothers, and nobody seems to notice when they come and go. Or, if they do, they’ve kept their mouths shut and their presence undetected.
“You know…”
“Uh-oh.”
From experience, that tone of voice means Mac has an idea.
“You were going for that fancy music school, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Kim went there, didn’t he? I know he holds a lot of sway with the board, what with being famous and all.” Macau snorts, but his amusement at Kim’s music career has turned bitter in recent weeks.
“Don’t, Macau.”
“Touchy, touchy. I was just going to say, if he’s sending you gifts then he clearly wants something, and maybe you can give him that something in exchange for getting you into the school?”
The thought fills Chay with an acute sense of dread.
“I couldn’t use him like that. I wouldn’t.”
“You’re too pure for this world, Kittisawasd.” Macau reaches out to ruffle his hair, the gesture dripping both affection and pond water. “It’s an excuse to talk to him at least. That’s what you really want, right?”
“I want him to talk to me on his own. No more lying or fancy bracelets.”
“Alright.” Pushing himself to his feet, Macau stretches. His eyes are sad as he traces the leather band on Porchay’s wrist, but his voice stays bright. “Then let’s just focus on that. But still, think on what I said about the family.”
..
Tankhun is in a mood, but it doesn’t seem like a bad mood, just sort of weird. He’s going through his wardrobe throwing clothes on the floor, because apparently they’re going out and apparently everybody is coming, and it seems important enough to him that Chay indulges the chaos.
He lies to Porsche about finishing non-existent homework so that he’s allowed an invite, and he does feel guilty, but not guilty enough to come clean. He lets Khun doll him up and gets in the car and tries not to think about how Kim never replied to the group chat. Mac will be there, at least, and he won’t judge Porchay for trying to drown his sorrows.
They pull up to Yok’s and the crew is all there, and Chay’s knee jiggles under the table just like his brother’s does. By the time Macau arrives to whisk him away, Chay’s already decided that perhaps getting drunk will not solve his problems, after all.
Mac’s in a weird mood too, and he’s come up with a plan he seems nervous about, and it’s batshit insane but honestly, it’s the only thing that might really get Kim’s attention. Chay’s never thought of himself as proud but it’s his pride stopping him from just picking up the phone, and he wants Kim to come to him first, goddammit. So, he agrees.
The plan is as simple as it is stupid: an Instagram post, on Mac’s public account, with the two of them sharing a kiss. It will only work because it’s Mac, and Mac is Kim’s cousin, and Kim is a Theerapanyakul and therefore automatically allergic to letting his cousins have anything he wants.
The first part goes off without a hitch, even if Mac does kiss like he’s got something to hide. Chay’s finger shakes when he hits ‘upload’ because even though Mac writes the caption, he makes Chay pull the trigger himself.
It takes thirteen minutes for Kim to leave the group chat.
..
Kim is here, and he’s furious. He stalks through the crowded dancefloor with so much purpose that people trip over themselves to let him pass, slamming Mac against the hallway wall with enough force to crack the panelling. It would be sexy to witness if it wasn’t Chay’s friend he has pinned.
He says nothing, simply holds Macau there, spelling out his cousin’s murder with his eyes.
“Kim…” Porchay tries, and all it does is make Kim’s shoulders tense.
“Are you pleased with yourself, you little asshole?” he spits through gritted teeth, and beneath his fist Macau gives a gallows grin.
Porchay has never been scared of Kim but maybe he should be, and it takes Tankhun’s intervention to pull him off. The plan has backfired and Chay pleads his case, and Kim’s eyes are as dead as a snake’s.
He leaves, and Porchay wants to follow, but the sticky hallway floor has melted to his feet.
“Make him listen.” Macau tells him softly, right against his scalp, and his arms around Porchay are a shield.
There’s guilt there, of course there is; Chay feels it even if he can’t find the source. The security camera in the corner blinks like a smoke alarm, and half of him hopes that Kim will be gone when he makes it outside.
..
The streetlight in the alley is flickering, and he stares for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Kim is facing away from him, leaning against the wall in a pose that’s not quite casual.
“What do you want from me, Porchay?”
“Why are you here?”
Answering a question with a question feels like cowardice, but Porchay is the one who deserves the answers. When Kim turns to look at him, Porchay isn’t surprised to see that his face is wiped of emotion. Kim is good at that.
“Why do you think?” Even his voice is hollow, and if Chay hadn’t spent so long listening to his music, pausing and rewinding interviews, tracing his expressions with his fingers in bed, he might have believed Kim doesn’t care at all.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tankhun move in the shadows, and rather than being annoyed by the intrusion he straightens his spine, the knowledge that he has backup making him brave. Tankhun may not know what’s happened between them, but Chay trusts him enough by now to let him hear.
“Posting the photo wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had, I know that.”
Kim’s eye twitches.
“You told me that what I do is my own business.” That night at that bar plays over in Chay’s mind, a jerky stop-start of overlapping scenes. “And I guess I wanted to hurt you like that hurt me.”
“So you posted a photo of you making out with my cousin?” That flat, empty voice again.
There’s no good explanation, really, and Chay didn’t think he’d be the one apologising but all the hurt between them boils down to this:
“I’m sorry.” The words he wants from Kim, falling out of his own mouth. He can’t even blame Macau for the idea when he was the one who agreed to it. “I thought it would be a good way to get your attention.”
And it served its purpose and Kim is here, but the expanse of concrete between them is an ocean.
“But Kim,” Porchay feels his own voice crack. “Did you really think showing up here and physically assaulting Macau was the best idea either? That it would make me forgive you?”
And finally, the truth.
“You lied to me, Kim. You lied to me the entire time I’ve known you.”
Kim moves, then, stepping closer to Porchay in the first un-graceful stumble Chay’s ever seen him make.
“Chay-”
“Don’t, Kim.”
This is what he’s wanted for so long but now that it’s time, now that he might finally get some sliver of explanation, he finds that all he wants is for Kim to listen. To really, truly, for once in his goddamn life, listen to what Chay is telling him. He can feel the first tell-tale prickle of tears, hot behind his eyes.
“I told you I loved you and you acted like you loved me but I know you never did. I know what I am to you, and maybe we could have even been friends despite that because I genuinely like you. I think you’re cool and sophisticated and you’re so goddamn pretty, but you’re a fucking liar.” The tears spill, choking him, and it isn’t how he really wants this to end but he adds it anyway, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Leave me alone.”
And he knows. He knows by the way Kim’s mouth turns down, just slightly, at the corner, that he will. He’ll go. He’ll leave without a word and he’ll keep writing his songs and living his lie and maybe he’ll keep an eye on Porchay from the distance, but there will be no more jewellery or guitar straps or messages from unknown numbers full of music that makes Chay feel empty.
It’s over, and Porchay will never truly know how much of it was real.
“If you go one more second without telling that boy how you feel,” Tankhun announces, and they both jump. His too-high heels click on the concrete as he stalks to Kim’s side, leaning in close to make his threat clear. “I will personally destroy every single one of your guitars.”
It’s the buffer they both need to shatter the stillness, and Kim frowns just slightly as though he’s coming back to himself. He flicks a glance at his brother, who steps back, seeming satisfied that he’s said his piece in Porchay’s defence. He half expects P’Khun to leave, but he simply clicks his toe against the concrete and waits.
Kim’s nostril’s flare as he draws in a breath, and Chay shoves the back of his fist across his own face, refusing to feel shame about the mix of eyeliner, snot, and tears.
“Chay… What do you need from me?” And isn’t that the question. “What else could I have done?”
Part of him still wants to tell Kim to fuck off, to go back to that moment when he was willing to walk away. The rest of him, though, spills out the answer.
“You could have come.” He knows he sounds pathetic, blinking up at Kim through dripping lashes. Next to Kim, composed even though his lower lip is trembling, Chay feels like a child. “You wrote me songs and left me gifts but you never came to see me. You never came to explain. What am I supposed to do with a song when I have no answers, Kim?”
“Porchay, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” It’s an apology, finally, but still not an answer.
“Then why…”
“I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you. I’ve never felt-” He breaks off, searching for words, and Porchay waits. He waits and he waits until finally, he gets his answer. “Porchay, I’ve never felt the way I do with you ever before in my life, and it scared me so fucking bad that instead of telling you the truth, I just ran. That’s what I do. I run. Tankhun will tell you. I always run.”
“It’s true. It’s kind of his thing.”
It’s all Chay can do to stay on his feet. He thinks he’s still crying but he doesn’t care, because a tear is forming in the corner of Kim’s eye, too. He thinks of his cat, the one who loved him but didn’t stay, and the flickering streetlight watches over them both.
“I’ll answer any questions you have, I swear, Porchay. I’ll tell you everything. I agreed to tutor you because of Porsche, but I kept the lessons going because of you.” The tear falls, and finally, finally, Porchay can breathe. “Please don’t leave me, Porchay, you’re the best thing in my entire goddamn life.”
Chay takes a moment to steady his feet. His hand rises on its own as he moves forward, and Kim holds his breath. It’s only a single tear but Kim’s never been this vulnerable, and that, more than anything is what makes Porchay believe. He’s a long way from forgiving, and there are many hard conversations ahead, but for now he simply traces the path of that tear with his fingertip, and lets himself feel.
“Porchay…”
They stay at a standstill, neither wanting to make the first move, until they both crack at the same time and they’re kissing, wrapped in each other, and its like the first kiss again but this time it’s better, because Porchay feels like for once he’s on solid ground.
He expects Tankhun to interrupt but when he looks around there’s nobody, and he seizes the silence and backs Kim up against the wall. Even though Kim is taller and stronger he goes easily, hooking a leg around the back of Chay’s thigh, and it’s probably too soon and it’s probably too much, but right now, he needs Kim like air.
..
On his phone there are three missed calls from his brother, and Chay heaves a sigh into Kim’s chest. He’s really made a mess of things tonight.
“I have to go explain myself,” he says, and Kim’s lips purse but he doesn’t disagree, fingers tangled in the hem of Porchay’s borrowed shirt.
“im still at yok’s” he texts back, “i’ll meet u outside if u wanna talk.”
..
“I’m not happy here!” It bursts out before he can stop it. He had intended to explain, to go from the start and beg forgiveness, but the last year of his life bubbles over violently and throws itself right at Porsche’s face.
“Here as in the bar?” Porsche cocks half a smile, and lets it fall just as quickly. “Tell me, Chay. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? You left me, brother.” He doesn’t want to make a scene but he knows his eyeliner is running, and he can’t seem to lower his voice. “You sent Uncle Thee away and then you left me! And I know if you told me why I wouldn’t have understood, but maybe I would have been able to protect myself!”
In his periphery, Kim has the grace to look ashamed.
“I never wanted you to be part of this.” Chay swipes the back of his hand over his eyes, and it comes away black and silver. “But you are, and now I am, too. And I’m stuck in that house because of everything you decided, so you have to respect the choices I’ve made, too.”
“Okay, okay, Porchay.” Porsche reaches out a hand and hovers it above Chay’s shoulder, and that aches more than anything else that’s happened. His brother has never been unsure if Chay wants his comfort. “But you still have a life outside of all this stuff. What about university? Your music?”
“I don’t go to university, Porsche.” The truth hits the air with a dull thud. “I never went to my interview.”
“Oh.” Porsche lets his hand fall to his side.
“Yeah.”
There’s a long beat of silence, and for a moment, Chay wonders if he has finally and irreversibly fucked up. He stares at his feet and his brother’s, trying to draw strength from Kim’s uneasy presence. A small, strangled sound makes him look up.
Porsche is crying.
“Brother?”
“I’m sorry.” It’s barely a whisper. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry that I didn’t notice.”
“It’s okay,” Chay tells him, even though it isn’t, and they both know it enough that it doesn’t need to be said. He reaches out his hand, and Porsche grips it like a lifeline, pulling Chay into a crushing hug.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers again, this time into Chay’s hair.
“I am, too.” Chay admits when they pull away, Porsche’s arm still looped over his shoulder. “I know you wanted better for me, and I let you down.”
“And him?” The glance Porsche flicks at Kim is pure venom, as though if he can pin even the slightest blame on the man it will save him.
“I love him,” Porchay says simply, both because it’s the truth and because he wants it to be. “I’ll tell you the whole story when I know it. I promise.”
And he will, and Porsche won’t like it, but he will listen.
“You can save your shovel talk.” Kim says, before Porsche can start. “Porchay gave me his own already, and he’s scarier than you.”
Porsche accepts this with a scowl, and Chay can guess this isn’t the last of it, but right now if this is the acceptance offered, it’s what he will take. He twines his fingers with Kim’s, pulling him close enough to lean on his shoulder.
“I love you,” he says to them both, and despite the makeup running down his cheeks he feels lighter than he has in months.
..
“Porchay, grab your shit!” Macau jumps into the back of the car, hauling two of the large bags towards him. He hands one to Chay, who slings it over his shoulder. “Why is this all you have?”
“Why does all your crap fill the rest of the car?” Chay shoots back, scooping up a box with bulging sides and balancing a smaller one on top of it. “Surely you don’t need this many clothes!”
“For your information, I absolutely do.”
“Well you’re carrying the rest of it yourself.” Chay kicks the passenger door closed and heads towards the building, grateful they had managed to find one with an elevator. Apparently living in a ground floor apartment is a safety hazard, and if he had to haul his ass up two flights of stairs daily he might quit on the spot.
He supposes mafia money is good for something, at least.
Agreeing to go to university was easy, but Porchay can’t help but feel a little like he sold his soul. For all his conviction about refusing to throw around the main family’s influence, it was Kim’s persuasion that convinced the board to give him a second chance at an interview, and Korn’s generous donation that sealed the deal. He’s starting a semester behind his peers with a lot of catching up to do, but he really is thrilled to be doing it at all.
Their apartment is the midway point between his university and Macau’s, with two small bedrooms and a space in the underground garage for Mac’s bike. It’s not freedom, but it’s as close to it as Porsche could negotiate on his behalf.
Kim’s waiting in their little kitchen when Chay opens the door. He doesn’t have a key, but of course that didn’t stop him. His white shirt camouflages him against the borrowed stark white wall, and Chay resolves to paint the entire room before he goes insane. It’s Korn’s money, and Macau is up for any chaos, and he’s already smiling picturing the two of them smeared in streaks with brushes in their hands.
He sets down the boxes and lets Kim pull him into a kiss, hands hooked under Chay’s thighs to lift him onto the counter. It’s nothing new but it still startles him, and they’re still kissing when the door opens and Mac makes a retching noise in the back of his throat.
“Oh, god! I’ve made a mistake! Why did I agree to live with you? Sweet lord, take my eyes!”
“Fuck off,” Kim mumbles, face buried firmly in the crook of Porchay’s neck, arms wrapped around him tight, like he’s trying to share his skin. He really is like a cat, Chay thinks fondly, petting a hand through Kim’s hair. It’s almost funny, the difference between now and what they had before.
Kim will leave soon, because he promised, and because even though it’s no secret that he doesn’t like it, he’s putting the work into respecting Chay’s boundaries. This is Chay’s apartment, and Macau’s, and Kim is welcome to come over but he cannot live here. Porchay is determined to take things slow, to not be blinded again by Kim’s beauty and status. And this time, Kim will talk to him, and he will tell Porchay the truth.
Mac orders food delivery for the three of them, and they eat it on the floor because they can’t be bothered taking the plastic off the new chairs. They raise glasses to the new place, and at least one part of Kim is touching one part of Chay at all times. Their smoke detector is one Chay bought and installed on his own, and instead of a blinking green light there is just a little orange glow, steady and comforting.
Later, when Kim leaves, Macau blows out a breath and asks with a lopsided smile:
“Does he make you happy?”
And Chay might be caught up in the mafia and still living in borrowed walls, and his relationship with his brother may be a work in progress, and his mother may be in some kind of danger, but at least to this question, for once, he can honestly answer yes.