Work Text:
The evening crowd was thinning out when Palm wiped down the bar counter for what felt like the hundredth time that night.
After everything that had happened, opening a bar had felt like the right way to honor both his mother's memory and those breezy days he'd once spent with Nueng by the sea. It hadn't been easy to convince himself to accept Nueng's help—Palm never liked the idea of depending on him—but Nueng had been firm. Whatever we do, we do together.
So the beginnings of a small seaside bar had grown into something unexpected. Seventeen locations now dotted Thailand, three of them in Bangkok alone.
Palm Cove, coastal-themed and breezy, served fast food and cheap beer; it was usually full of college kids and live music from local bands trying to make a name for themselves.
Moonlight, sleek and high above the city, was the largest and most refined—Nueng often held his meetings there.
And then there was ‘Nuengdiao’—Palm’s favourite.
He’d named it after his favourite person, despite Nueng’s protests. It sat halfway between the other two, connected to one of Nueng’s hotels, a place that felt lived-in and warm. The sign above the entrance read Nuengdiao in silver Chinese lettering that caught the light just right at dusk.
Palm looked up when he saw the silhouette of someone walking in. It was almost closing time, too late for customers. His hands stilled on the counter he'd been wiping.
Nuengdiao stood in the entrance, suit jacket slung over one arm, tie loosened, looking every bit the CEO who'd just spent twelve hours in back-to-back meetings. But his eyes found Palm across the room like they always did, like there was a compass inside him that only pointed in one direction.
"We're just about to close," Palm said, unable to keep the smile from his voice.
"Good thing I know the owner." Nueng crossed the space between them, sliding onto a barstool. He draped his jacket over the seat beside him. "I hear this place has excellent service."
"Depends on the customer." Palm set down the cloth, leaning forward on his elbows. "What can I get you?"
"What do you recommend for someone who can't actually drink any of the thousand bottles behind you?"
It was an old joke between them—the irony that Palm had built a bar empire while married to a man who fainted from a single sip of alcohol. But Palm had made sure every location had an entire menu of mocktails, fresh juices and specialty drinks. Some of his bartenders were more creative with the non-alcoholic options than with actual cocktails.
"For you? Something sweet. You've had a long day." Palm was already reaching for the passion fruit syrup, fresh lime, and sparkling water. His hands moved with muscle memory, mixing and muddling, adding a sprig of mint at the end.
He slid the glass across the polished wood. Their fingers brushed as Nueng reached for it.
"How did it go?" Palm asked. "The meeting with the Singapore investors?"
"Exhausting but productive. They want to expand the partnership." Nueng took a sip, and his eyes closed briefly—that little expression of pleasure that Palm had been cataloging for over a decade. "This is perfect."
"I know what you like."
"You do." Nueng's gaze was warm over the rim of his glass."Thought I'd pick you up. Drive home together."
Palm's eyebrows rose. Nuengdiao choosing to leave work early was like the sun rising in the west, especially after his mother stepped down. He worked day and night like he still had to fit into empty spaces his father had left behind.
"What happened?"
"Can't a man just want to surprise his husband at work?" Nueng's smile was a little too innocent.
"He can. But you look like you've had a day." Palm started clearing the bottles. "Talk to me."
Nueng loosened his tie further, rubbing a hand over his face. "Rai’s teacher called this afternoon."
Palm's hands paused mid-reach. "What did he do?"
"Punched another kid."
"He what?" The bottle of syrup nearly slipped from Palm's grip.
"During lunch break. Apparently, some boy in his class said..." Nueng's jaw tightened, "said Rai wasn't really our son because he doesn't look like us. That he doesn't have a 'real family.'"
The anger that flashed through Palm was immediate. He forced himself to take a breath.
"Is he okay? Is the other kid okay?"
"Both are fine. Rai's teacher said our son has impressive form for a nine-year-old." There was something complicated in Nueng's expression—anger, pride, concern all tangled together. "She wants us to come in Friday for a conference. Talk about appropriate conflict resolution."
"And what did Rai say?"
"That he'd do it again." Nueng took a sip, closing his eyes briefly. "That nobody talks about his papas like that."
Something warm and painful expanded in Palm's chest. He glanced over at Tong, who was already clearing up his station at the other end of the bar, giving them space. Palm moved closer to Nueng, leaning against the counter.
"We can't encourage violence," Palm said quietly.
"I know..."
"But?”
"But I wanted to punch that kid myself," Nueng finished, and his laugh was strained. "What does that say about me?"
"That you're a good father. That you love our son and want to protect him." Palm's hand found Nueng's on the bar, fingers linking briefly. "We'll talk to him tomorrow. Together. Explain why hitting isn't the answer, even when people say horrible things."
"Will we also explain why I want to call that kid's parents and tell them exactly what I think of their parenting?"
"Probably not. Because you're supposed to be the mature one, remember?"
"I don't feel very mature right now." Nueng set down his glass, his voice dropping lower. "I feel like the scared kid who thought loving you would have destroyed your life. And now we have a son, and people are cruel to him because of us, and—"
"Hey." Palm glanced around—the nearest customers were engrossed in their own conversations. He leaned in closer across the bar. "Look at me."
Nueng's eyes met his—those eyes that had been haunted in a hospital corridor, that had been determined when he'd found Palm and refused to let him disappear, that had been shining with tears when they'd brought Rai home six years ago.
"Rai has two parents who love him," Palm said firmly. "Who would do anything for him, who chose him and who he chose right back. That boy at school? He's nine years old and repeating garbage his parents probably fed him. But our son knows who he is. Knows he's loved."
"He punched someone, Palm."
"Yeah. And we'll handle it. But he punched someone defending his family. That's not nothing." Palm's thumb brushed across Nueng's knuckles. "He's ours. And he's fierce. Wonder where he gets that from."
Nueng's smile was genuine now, even with the tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "We're disasters as parents."
"We're learning." Palm squeezed his hand. "Together."
"Boss, I've got it from here," Tong called out, checking out a few of the last customers. "You're good to go."
Palm nodded, untying his apron and walked over to Nueng’s side.
Nueng's hand reached out, fingers curling into the front of Palm's shirt, pulling him closer. Palm's hand came up to cup Nueng's jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. The kiss was inevitable—it always was when they were alone like this. Nueng's fingers tightened in Palm's shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. Palm's other hand found Nueng's waist, steadying them both as the kiss deepened, turning hungry.
Eight years of marriage, and it still felt like this. Like they were making up for lost time, for every moment they'd spent apart, for those horrible weeks when they'd thought they'd lost each other forever.
Nueng's mouth was soft and Palm could taste the passion fruit and lime on his lips, sweet and tart and perfectly Nueng. His husband made a small sound in the back of his throat—the one that meant he was forgetting they were in public, forgetting everything except this.
Palm pulled back slightly, breathless. "We should go home."
"We should," Nueng agreed, but his hands were still fisted in Palm's shirt, his pupils blown wide. "Rai will wake up early. School project about marine life. He wants your help."
"Because I grew up in a fishing village?" Palm asked with a slight smirk
"Because you know things I don't." Nueng's forehead rested against Palm's. "And because he thinks you're cooler than me."
"Impossible. You're the heir of the Kiattrakulmethee empire who owns half of Bangkok."
"And you're the one with the motorcycle and the bar empire. Somehow that’s more exciting for a nine year old.”
"Our son has good taste." Palm said and stole another quick kiss, softer this time. "Come on. Let's go home."
Nueng slid off the barstool, grabbing his jacket. But before they reached the door, he turned back, looking at the bar—the warm lighting, the carefully curated bottles, the name above the door.
"Do you ever regret it?" Nueng asked. "This life?"
Palm knew what he was really asking. The life that came after the bullets and the blood, after the hospital room where Palm had tried to walk away because he'd been terrified of being a burden. After Nueng had found him anyway, had looked at him and said I can't do this without you.
"Never," Palm said, and he meant it. "Not for a second."
Nueng's smile was blinding. He reached out, lacing their fingers together as they walked toward the door.
Behind them, Tong killed the lights and the bar called Nuengdiao went dark—but Palm knew it would be there tomorrow, and the day after, and every day that followed.
Just like the man whose hand was warm in his.
Just like the life they'd built from the ashes of everything they'd lost.
Just like coming home.