Work Text:
It comes out as a flippant comment that gets quickly snuffed out like a candle.
But it still rings in Mok’s head and turns his ears red, every time Khun Thee sends him out on an errand.
He’s well practiced in stoicism, but being friends with Thee for years means that sometimes Mok lets his guard down just to show Thee exactly what he thinks about whatever new endeavour Thee has taken up.
Mok lets Thee see his curled upper lip, lets Thee hear him suck his teeth, and feel every single one of his sighs.
Thee takes them well enough. Thee’s told Mok once or twice that it makes him feel human, between the all the yes men and the way that everyone bends to his will at every turn. It’s a good feeling, to be venerated that way, but the distance that it creates between Thee and everyone else sometimes makes him feel alienated.
But Mok hides his face, this time. Tucks his chin against his chest, feeling every bit like a teenager in the face of something so bizarre and asinine. It shouldn’t have stuck, but it did.
—
“On another one of those missions, Khun Mok?”
Mok hums at the other man, a disposable tail he hired several days ago on Thee’s command. Arm is a tall and stocky man that can’t resist conversation, even if the other party is clearly uninterested. His approachable and open nature makes it easy to place him in restaurants, stores, and bars with Khun Peach. He never looks out of place the way the rest of Mok’s immediate team does. Mok admits that Arm adds some flair to the new team.
“Where to then, Khun Mok?”
“Plaza Sequence,” Mok answers, “The floral shop.”
Arm nods and winks at Mok, starting the car with a flourish that Mok envies only a little bit.
As they pull out of the Arseni campus, Mok notices Arm trying to catch his eye in the rearview mirror. Mok raises a manicured eyebrow at him and Arm smiles, cheeky and obviously ready to turn their afternoon upside down.
“You were at Khun Peach’s home for a bit a few nights ago,” Arm says, aiming for non-chalant but failing spectacularly, “and now…”
“Now?”
“You’re getting him flowers.”
“Our boss, Khun Thee, is getting him flowers.”
Arm hums and navigates through a blocked intersection smoothly, like he’s not slowly making Mok want to crawl out of his skin.
“Okay, so,” Arm continues, “you stay at his house for a while, on Khun Thee’s command. Then you get him flowers, on Khun Thee’s command. Then, what? You take him out on a date, on his command too?”
“What exactly are you implying?”
Arm lets out a sigh, as if he was disappointed in Mok’s inability to connect the dots.
“You gonna fuck him on his command too?”
—
Arm lasts for a few more days until he’s transferred to a different Arseni property.
—
The comment rings in Mok’s ears for days after, coincidentally only losing its heat once Arm is hundreds of miles away and completely unable to get to him in unsuspecting hallways.
Mok doesn’t get distracted easily, but the concern in the 50th floor front desk admin’s eyes told him otherwise. Khun Game’s taken to handing him folders with a slightly weary look on her face, as if she was waiting for him to crack under some pressure she’s not privy to. He brushes her concern off with a gentle smile and it works for a while, until he realises that the concern has made its way to Thee’s desk.
“Am I to expect a resignation soon, Mok?”
Mok flinches. The folder in his hand nearly slips but Thee catches it before it touches his desk.
Thee places the folder to his left and straightens in his chair. “Mok?”
“It’s nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?” Thee huffs, “this nothing has Khun Game worried that you’ve not been taking vacations enough and that I’m exhausting you to the point of no return, Mok.”
“It’s nothing,” Mok repeats, “I just—”
“Is the family okay?”
“Yes,” Mok answers, “Sir, it’s—”
“Is…”
Thee pauses, steepling his fingers under his chin. Silence falls between the two of them and Mok doesn’t want to break it, in fear of Thee’s next words.
“Is he—”
“It’s not him.”
Thee stares him down for a few beats, stiffening at Mok’s slight hostility. “Are you—”
“It’s just an off day, sir,” Mok tries, softening his voice just to ease his friend.
Mok’s chest smarts at the need for avoidance. They talk around it, unable to acknowledge the thing that stands apart from them but brings them together at the same time. The euphemisms are a necessity. They can’t acknowledge it or him, without opening wounds that open and shut without their consent. He knows that Thee’s chest softens for him at times, at the things that Mok can’t do, for the things that they both can’t say or be. It hardens again, cementing another set of boundaries and things to avoid, encasing Thee in another layer of things they can’t talk about anymore.
“It’s just an off day, Khun Thee,” Mok repeats, opting for something more familiar.
Thee huffs at him and rolls his eyes. “We used to share everything, once.”
“Used to,” Mok answers, “Still do.”
“Perhaps then,” Thee concedes, “You might share the reason why Peach’s team is short one man all of a sudden. Or—”
Mok stills. “Khun Peach has mentioned that he doesn’t enjoy having a security team,” Mok replies, “Our compromise is a smaller team to—”
“Our compromise?”
“As a royal we, sir.”
Thee clicks his tongue and leans forward in his chair. “The compromise is to send Arm off to dawdle behind a desk in Chiang Mai instead of letting him go?”
“Sir.”
“Are we getting soft in our old age, Khun Mok?”
Mok stops himself from rolling his eyes at Thee and instead flashes him a sarcastic smile. Thee lets out a disbelieving laugh and picks up an errant paper on his desk. “Glad I’m not getting a resignation,” he continues, “I know how we can be these days, far from who we were as kids, but…”
Mok hums. “Is that what we were?”
Thee nods. “Kids, teens, us.”
“Would Khun Thee care for ice cream after your 14:45 meeting with Ms. Parungao and her team, then?”
—
Mok’s first mistake is letting Thee tug him onto the couch for a night cap.
Thee forces a pillow on his lap and directs his attention to the screen in front of them, playing a special episode from one of his mother’s dramas. They’ve both seen it dozens of times, probably more than Mok can count, but Thee still watches as eagerly as the first time.
Thee’s sentimental today, for some reason. Maybe because of Peach and some new lesson about how to treat people around you with some measure of kindness, still allowed in an important businessman and mafia heir. Whatever Peach has been teaching Thee has shifted the air between him and Mok that turns him equally sentimental too.
For a few minutes, Mok sits stiffly, preparing for Thee to remember the places that they’ve both grown into in the past few years. When it doesn’t come, Mok allows himself to remember the years between the two of them, spent elbows deep in mud, wrestling against musky training mats, and trying to stay friends despite the way Thee’s status constantly forces the two of them into two different stations in life. For a moment, Mok no longer stands behind Thee, instead Mok sits beside him as if they were both freshly in college trying to forget the concept of homesickness.
“They don’t make shows like this anymore.”
Mok laughs. “Budget constraints and quantity over quality take precedent, sir.”
Thee fakes a full body shiver and Mok’s chest goes warm with affection for his friend. “How do you expect to fully conclude a story in 25 minutes?” Thee complains, “What happened to sense?”
“Studios are gunning for one liners that can be clipped and made into fan edits, sir.”
Thee groans and turns to him. “Where’s the story, Mok?”
“Though I’m sure you’d be fantastic at fan edits, sir.”
A woman on screen faints and is subsequently caught by the second male lead, causing the first male lead to rush for the two of them to pull them apart. The woman stays unconscious throughout the chaos of the two male leads pressing into each other’s spaces in anger. One argues that he deserves her because of his care and the other says that people don’t deserve people. Mok tries not to roll his eyes for Thee’s sake.
“Mok.”
The woman groans, catching the attention of the two male leads.
“Mok.”
The male lead that argued about deserving the woman, clutches her arms tightly, desperate to hang onto her as she gains consciousness while the second male lead struggles not to pull her away from him.
As the woman starts to open her eyes, Mok feels a tug on his ear.
“Mok.”
“Sir?”
Mok turns to Thee and tries not to stiffen under his watchful eyes. “Sir?”
“What do you call me in your head?”
“What?”
Thee huffs and sinks into the couch. It’s unbecoming of a businessman and heir, but Mok lets it slide.
“Khun Mok? Phi—”
“Phi?!”
Thee laughs and nods. “Yeah,” he answers, “Phi. P’Thee.”
“Absolutely not,” Mok hisses, “Sir—”
“You can’t possibly be calling me ‘sir’ in your head all the time,” Thee cuts, “You call me ‘Thee’ sometimes, so you must—”
“Sometimes I need to get through that thick ass head, sir.”
Thee sits up, faking being scandalized at Mok’s words. He crosses his arms and clicks his tongue at Mok.
“They’ve never been able to get that smartass mouth off you, huh, Mok?”
“Someone has to talk straight between the two of us,” Mok counters, “The need to translate your long winded speeches and ‘drama’ monologues will do that to someone.”
Thee gasps and uncrosses his arms. He pulls the pillow off Mok’s lap and smacks it across his face, startling a yelp out of Mok.
“You’re a bastard!” Thee cries as he smacks Mok over and over again.
“Takes one to know one, sir!”
Thee lets out a final groan of complaint and stands, trying to loom over Mok, who sits in slight disarray. “You just don’t get it.”
Mok laughs at Thee and tugs him down back onto the couch, forcing him to nearly topple over the back of the couch and into the mass of flowers behind them. “I don’t need to get it, sir.”
As they both try to regain their breath and straighten out their clothes, the on screen action takes their attention once more.
The two male leads are back in each other’s spaces, foaming at the mouth with rage and accusing each other of things that Mok’s since lost track of.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wants to argue that the woman should just ignore the two of them and live her life on her own. She doesn’t need them, in Mok’s opinion. Even as a character in a period piece, the woman has freedom afforded to her by her family’s wealth and her parents’ eccentricities when it comes to treating their daughter like an actual living breathing person. Surely, she can make it on her own and find a better suited man that won’t argue with a wall about her belonging to him.
Elsewhere in his mind sits Arm, stupid fucking Arm.
What if they shared? What if the two male leads stepped away from each other for just one second and realized that the woman loved them just the same. Maybe they could work it out? Who knows.
The thought makes Mok want to find Arm and throttle him.
Khun Peach is a great man. Peach is the only man in a musical who doesn’t sing, but still accepts it in his own way. Anyone who can get Thee to be ‘normal’ for a few minutes is a saint in Mok’s books.
Mok appreciates Peach.
He doesn’t like Peach.
Not like that.
Not the way that Arm crudely suggested as he poked and prodded at Mok on the way to the flower shop.
Mok does things for Peach because he’s asked to. It’s a part of his job the same way that reorganizing Thee’s schedule around a headache is. He does things because Thee asks him to.
It’s not just his job. It’s the way it’s always been.
It’s written on his skin in ways that he can no longer untangle himself from. There’s sacrifices that Mok makes in order to find peace for his former friend. There’s a phone burning a hole in his pocket, unanswered but still buzzing periodically, because Mok keeps his eyes forward for Thee’s success. He can’t break and has never been taught to do so. He stands second, behind Thee, because that’s where he’s meant to be.
“You’ve got that look on your face again.”
Mok hums and nods at the screen. “I’m fine, sir,” he replies, “Focus on the show.”
“Another rough day?”
“Sure.”
“Not even going to lie to me?”
Mok tries not to laugh, afraid of the tone that it might come out in. “Just so you can see through it and send Khun Game after me?”
Thee laughs. “We used to share everything, remember? Friends?”
Mok swallows. “Sure, sir,” he answers, “but we’re not kids anymore.”
“Sure, but Mok—”
“We’re not friends anymore, sir.”
Ah.
There’s the sting.
Mok keeps his eyes forward for Thee. He sits on the couch beside Thee, but knows his station.
“And if I command you to tell me what’s wrong?”
Mok stiffens. “Sir.”
“If I fucking tell you what to do, Mok?” Thee grits out, “Will you finally fucking tell me why you’ve got that look on your face?”
“Thee.”
“Only when it’s convenient, isn’t it, Mok?” Thee accuses, “I’m only ever really ‘Thee’ when you think I’m acting like a kid and you need to knock me down a bit, right?”
An eerie stillness settles over the two of them. With the show forgotten, dialogue turning into white noise as the two of them poise for battle, Mok wants to sink into the couch and disappear into the furniture, deep into the flowers behind them.
“How else should I call you, sir?” Mok answers, “Boss? Khun? Master?”
Thee stands suddenly, startling Mok. He backs away from the couch, nearly tripping over the coffee table in front of them. Mok watches Thee’s shoulders tremble, not knowing whether it’s from rage or something else.
“Don’t you ever fucking call me that,” Thee says, turning with anger, “Not even in your head. Not even as a joke.”
“You can say we’re not friends anymore, I know how it’s been for the two of us for some time now, but god, Mok,” Thee continues, “Never that.”
Mok nods, conceding to Thee’s anger. “Thee, I—”
“You can call me anything but that, Mok.”
Mok rises, stepping forward into Thee’s space but keeping some distance between the two of them. He holds his arms out, as if trying to calm a spooked animal. “Thee,” he tries, “I was just— I was just angry.”
“Even when you’re angry, Mok,” Thee tells him, “Even then.”
In silence, Mok nods and stands before Thee. He watches as Thee settles, stepping back into his body, stretching layers of boundaries back over his wrinkled suit. Mok remains unsettled, unbalanced by Thee’s anger, and toppled over by Arm’s words shifting into odd thoughts about his own autonomy.
“In our compromise, I meant to ask the security team to create more distance between themselves and Peach.”
Thee looks up at him. “But?”
“Instead, I transferred Arm to a regional office in Chiang Mai,” Mok answers, “He did nothing wrong.”
“But he did something?”
“He made a comment…”
Thee stiffens. Mok recognizes the flash of anger from their youth. He remembers the rage that takes form in Thee’s body, the spit flying, the fists connecting, and all the ways that Mok tried not to cower behind him. Back in their youth when other staff and security would look at Mok with a critical eye, wondering how someone like him could protect their young master. Mok remembers the euphemisms. He remembers the way his body would hit the mat as they tried to toughen him up, so that he wouldn’t be so soft and different.
“Not like that,” Mok says, trying to ease the strain in Thee’s shoulders.
“Tell me, Mok”
“‘You gonna fuck him on his command too?’”
“What.”
“Thee—”
“And you just transferred him? You didn’t report him to Khun Style?”
“It was a joke, Thee, that’s all.”
“You’re— god— you’re not a fucking robot, you’re not a toy,” Thee sneers, “You’re— Mok, holy shit.”
“Thee, I know that,” Mok replies, “I know—”
“I wouldn’t…,” Thee pauses. “I would never make you do that, Mok. You know— you know that right?”
Mok places a hand on Thee’s shoulder and squeezes. “You’re a little strange to people,” Mok tells him, “I know what I know and that’s all that matters.”
“I’m not a freak that would tell someone to do that,” Thee continues, “That’s— it’s fine, people do that, but god I wouldn’t— jumping that shit on someone? Without asking?”
Thee stills. “Is that what they think of me?”
“All that matters is what I think of you, Thee.”
“Then why?”
“Why what?”
“Why have you been so weird in the past few days?” Thee asks, “You don’t—”
Mok sighs, glad for the slight change in emotion and tone. “Arm suggested that it’s not an isolated ideology,” Mok offers, “The whole…”
Mok waves his hand around. Thee follows it and his eyes widen. His jaw drops and he lets out a few empty sounds.
“They think I’m a cuck?”
Mok lets out a startled laugh. “Sir.”
“My employees think I’m cucked?”
“God, Thee,” Mok laughs, “stop saying that!”
“My fucking employees think I’m fucking cucked, Mok!”
—
Once Thee settles, Mok watches the way that his shoulders droop and his jawline softens. It makes Mok miss their late nights, pouring over business reports while struggling to keep up with major requirement classes on writing. Their friendship is strained, not in the sad way that clings to people who’ve grown apart and away from each other but still yearn for the connection.
Their friendship is strained in a somewhat comical way. They’re in sync, like their bodies remember the way they hobbled through alley ways drunk off their asses after nearly failing an exam they forgot to study for. Mok is allowed to make faces and talk back to Thee in his own way, because history allows him to do so. Thee is himself, in full dramatics and chaos, with Mok because he’s the only person that he’s ever let in that way. Thee can turn to Mok, in the middle of an annoying meeting, and make a face about the executive currently taking up his precious time.
It’s funny but it’s sad in its own way.
“Mok?”
“Sir?”
Mok creates distance once more, for the sake of the two of them. For the sake of Mok’s plans and designs for their future. He says ‘sir’for the sake of the unanswered phone calls and text messages that turn his chest into one big open wound every time Mok doesn’t reply.
“Never mind.”
“Yes, sir.”