Work Text:
The night shift always smelled like burnt sugar and too much effort. Too much effort and too much perfume and too much false laughter. It always was like stepping into another version of the city. Another version of Bangkok at night during rainy season. A version that Chay had not known before. He had only known the clammy nights full of fear and worry, then the soft nights full of hope and gentle love, and then the miserable, endless long nights full of sorrow and mourning.
The place Chay recently decided to spend some nights at was a coffeehouse. Open 24/7 for students, drunks, exhausted salarymen, and people who just didn’t want to go home. Like him. Except that he got paid for being here. The lights were soft, golde and the air conditioning was working good enough to pretend the world outside wasn’t humid, hot and rainy. And it was always raining lately.
Chay pushed the heavy glass door open with his shoulder, juggling his backpack and a stack of notes from class he’d pretend to review but definitely wouldn’t. He was already tired. Today had been one of those days where every professor thought group work was the answer to all questions. Of course, the kind of group work they had to do out of class, and everyone knew that only one of five persons did all the work while the others pretended to be busy or at least provided snacks. Then Porsche, his stupid, well-meaning, overprotective brother, had called while Chay was still on the bus on his way to the café.
“You know you don’t have to work, nong. You don’t even need to think about money anymore.” Or about taking the bus, walking, or even just doing a single thing on his own without someone trying to do it for him.
Right. Because Porsche was head of the minor mafia family and husband of the head of the main mafia family now and money just… appeared. Chay had laughed it off, told him it wasn’t about money. That he wanted independence. Routine. A place where no one knew who he was related to. Because this life that Porsche had built for himself, this luxurious yet dangerous mafia life, was not Chay's. Chay didn't belong there. Not in the compound and certainly not in the house of the minor family, where Vegas, Pete, and Macau lived and the spirit of something unspeakable still lingered in the air.
But Chay didn’t feel like he belonged anywhere since Kim.
So he went barista.
For once not because he needed the money. No. Because wiping tables felt safer than being protected by mafia men. Because steaming milk was easier than answering Porsche’s hopeful questions. Because a whirring espresso machine drowned out the sound of his own heartbeat and most importantly, his own swirling thoughts.
He didn’t tell Porsche the real truth. Of course not. How could he tell him that he needed noise. He needed something to do with his hands.
That he needed to stop wondering if blocking Kim was the worst or the best decision of his life.
The shift manager barely looked up when he clocked in. The place was half-full. A girl asleep over her laptop, headphones blinking red. A middle-aged man watching soccer highlights on mute. Three students exchanging notes like they were passing state secrets, one of that cursed group work allies. Two night nurses holding large cups of steaming coffee like life support what it most likely was. Nothing unusual. The smell of espresso clung to the air, grounding and focusing.
Another shift. Another… whatever this life was he had been dragged into.
Chay tied his apron. Took a breath. Moved behind the counter.
And then he saw him.
The sight hit him like a punch in the face. Or in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere that hurt like hell, but he was still forced to remain standing.
WIK. No, Kim.
Kimhan Theerapanyakul sat on a table near the window of that common coffeehouse that wasn’t even fancy or special or Instagram worthy. Just open around the clock. And he wasn’t alone. He was with a woman. Not any woman. Of course not any woman. The new star on Bangkok's pop sky couldn’t date just any ordinary mortal. It was Fah. Model, actress, social media star. Beautifully styled, long, dark, glossy hair, sharp cheekbones, full read lips, sharp eyeliner. Tight leather pants, tight shirt. Chay not only vaguely recognized her, he’d long made it his mission to stalk her Instagram and her every step. She mainly posted café reviews, about new projects, expensive outfits and occasionally a blurry picture next to the popular up-and-coming artist WIK that his fanbase pretended not to notice. Some were even shipping them. It always got Chay sick when he accidentally stumbled over a KimFah fanaccount.
But that was nothing compared to the feeling he had now. Chay’s stomach clenched. His hands were sweaty, and he felt as if all the warmth was draining from his body and his insides were falling victim to gravity.
At first, Chay didn’t breathe because his body just forgot how. Then he didn't breathe, because the sight of Kim simply took his breath away. He was just... breathtaking.
Although Kim looked… exactly the same. As beautiful and godlike as he looked when Chay first saw him in person. Of course he did. It wasn't as if years had passed since they last met. It just seemed that way to Chay. Years and at least two more relationships for Kim, and none at all for Chay.
Black leather jacket, white t-shirt, silver rings catching the low light, hair pushed back in that lazy way that made him look both expensive and sleepless. There was a passion fruit mousse replica on the table. One of those ridiculous high-end desserts shaped like tiny glossy fruit, bright yellow and beautiful and most of all impossible to eat with dignity. Worst date snack ever.
Kim had a black coffee. Of course he did. Always black. No sugar. No way would Chay ever forget that. Kim had always teased him about how he liked to drink coffee, if at all. Way too sweet with way too much milk. And actually, he much preferred bubble milk tea anyway. “You're just too sweet for me,” Kim would always say. Just too sweet.
Fah certainly wasn't too sweet. She looked grown-up, delicate, and expensive.
And she was talking. A lot. While stirring her latte macchiato vigorously, occasionally glancing at the glossy dessert without touching it, and clearly not enthusiastic about the way the date was going.
Kim on the other hand didn’t say a word. He just sipped his pitch black coffee from time to time but never took his eyes off her. Good. So he couldn’t have seen Chay at all so far.
Chay took a breath, stepped farther back behind the espresso machine, because disappearing into thin air was just no human option, letting the steam and noise hide him. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He tried not to. But then Kim began to speak and… Kim spoke softly. Something about the tone was so strange to Chay that he couldn't help but listen.
“Fah… we’ve tried. And tried. And trying is… all we did.”
Chay froze. This was no date anymore. It was a gentle execution, Theerapanyakul style. Although... Chay had experienced the Theerapanyakul style firsthand. This was different. It looked as if Kim had evolved. Chay could almost have been impressed.
Fah’s voice cracked. “…So that’s it? You really… after all this time and… What have I done wrong?”
“It’s me, not you.”
God, he was really using that line? Perhaps he hadn't evolved that much after all, but had simply changed tactics.
“This isn’t love,” Kim said quietly. “But I hope you find it. With someone else.”
Chay gripped the counter until his knuckles hurt.
It was almost funny. Kim trying to break up gently. Kim, who used to slice people open with a look or a knife or rather both. Kim, who once sent Chay a video with Why Don’t You Stay and thought that was communication, not a masterclass in emotional incompetence
Maybe he had changed. No. That wasn’t it. He just didn’t love her. Of course not. Kim couldn’t love anyone. Maybe he’d almost loved Chay. Or the idea of him. Hard to say. Impossible to ask.
“Stop pretending you’re doing this for me,” Fah snapped, too loudly for a place like this after 10 pm. “You’re cold, Kim. You always were.”
Kim didn’t flinch. He just breathed out, long and slow. “At least I told you the truth.”
Fah stood abruptly, her chair screeching, nearly falling backward. People looked, she obviously didn’t care. She grabbed her designer bag, wiped a tear angrily from her cheek, and stalked out the door, all long thin legs and Louboutin high heels. Chay thought he remembered a post she’d made. Last Christmas. A red gift box. Kim's hands. Chay had recognized his silver rings. Caption: black glossy shoes from my glossy black love. #louboutin Had Chay cried when he saw the post? Maybe. Had he continued to follow her and absorbed every post like a parched sponge? Most likely.
The bell chimed after Fah like a punchline and ripped Chay out of his thoughts.
Kim stayed sitting there, staring at the untouched dessert. He looked… tired. Not destroyed. Not heartbroken. Just… empty in that very own special Kim way. As if he thought he deserved nothing else.
Chay hated how familiar it felt.
He swallowed once, then again, then walked out from behind the counter before he could stop himself as if on autopilot.
When Kim finally looked up, Chay not only saw it but also goosebumpingly felt it. That sharp, startled flick of dark eyes snapping into focus. Recognition hitting so fast it was almost physical.
Chay didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just placed a fresh hot black coffee on the table and pushed it toward Kim. “Refill,” he said. His voice was surprisingly steady. He was so proud of that. “On the house.” Chay slid into Fah’s abandoned chair without invitation. This was his domain. He worked here. His compound.
Kim stared at him like a ghost had just sat down.
The dessert between them smelled faintly of citrus and sugar. Sweet on the outside, slightly bitter and sour on the inside. The kind of thing you bite into knowing it’ll sting.
Kim swallowed. Hard. He didn’t touch the coffee.
Outside, the summer rain kept falling. Inside, Chay waited, calm, unreadable, heart pounding so loudly he wondered if Kim could hear it. And what was worse, he had no idea what he was waiting for. But he also didn’t speak first. He wasn’t seventeen anymore. He stopped cute, unfocused babbling right after he saw all those bodies on the floor of Hum bar.
Kim opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Por… Chay.” One word. Soft, raw, like it hurt to say.
Chay rested his elbows lightly on the table. Had it really been a year since he last heard his name in Kim's voice? “Your dessert’s melting,” he said. “Would be a shame to waste something so expensive.”
A pause. Kim’s jaw tightened. Anger? Guilt? Something Chay couldn’t name. Something real. He didn’t reach for the dessert. Or the coffee. He just watched Chay with that too-sharp steady focus, like he could cut the silence open with it.
Chay held his gaze. He didn't even blink unless it was absolutely necessary. Let Kim sit in the mess he made. Let him taste his own passion fruit. Bitter and sweet and impossible to swallow clean.
The night shift always smelled of too much effort and burnt sugar. But tonight it also smelled of regret and maybe, just maybe, a do-over.
Without asking, Chay reached for one of the forks and pierced the overpriced Passion Fruit sin. The shell cracked. The sweet, fluffy curd oozed out. He couldn’t help but smile when Kim’s lips tugged upward in a small, surprised curve.
And still smiling, Chay took a bite.