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After the sixth time his call went to voicemail, Home's anxiety had begun to spiral.
Peach hadn't ignored this many calls from him since the video of the car accident went viral. Even when he was cooking, he found a way to answer with video. Home had had many conversations with the ceiling because Peach's hands were too messy to stand the phone up properly. And Home always at least texted back if Peach tried to call while he was in a meeting about one of the Vimarnsukman properties – new or old. Peach always praised him for working so hard and Home preened every time.
The point was, Peach didn't stay out of contact. Even when he was mad, he would text and tell Home he needed time. Which meant, if he wasn't answering, either he was majorly pissed – like break up levels of pissed – or he was hurt.
Peach wouldn't break up with Home over restaurant reservations. Right?
The car took a turn that should've been sharp just from the car's speed but was, somehow, barely noticeable in Suradech's capable hands. Trusting his driver meant that Home could give his entire focus to hitting his second most used contact.
"Pangpang~," Home whined as soon as the call connected. "Peach—"
"Sorry, P'Home, can I call you back?" Pangpang interrupted, her voice harried. "There was an accident at the restaurant and I'm helping Hia and I'll call you back, okay?"
She hung up before Home could do more than open his mouth. Home pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at his recent calls list.
Not angry. Hurt. Hurt enough to not answer calls.
Heart in his throat, Home leaned forward, gripping the edges of the front seats to get his face near Suradech's. "P'Suradech. As fast as possible. Now."
The car sped on.
…
…
The Cooking Long Lasting parking lot was empty, even though they had had guests scheduled. It had never mattered how long the meal actually took to prepare and eat, guests always stayed well past their allotted time just chatting and reminiscing. It was why Peach scheduled guests so far apart. The early afternoon guests should still have been there, but they weren't.
Home threw himself from the car before Suradech had it fully in park. The front door was locked. It was never locked during business hours.
Hearing the car shut off and the driver's side door click open, Home yelled, "P'Suradech! I need the keys!" then pounded on the door. "Peach! Pangpang!"
He needed to start carrying his keys himself. Waiting for someone to unlock the door for him was torture akin to bugs crawling over his skin.
As soon as Suradech got the door unlocked, Home raced inside. The restaurant looked mostly normal except for a Wet Floor sign. Neither Peach nor Pangpang were in sight, nor the waiter Peach had hired, Note.
Before he could properly panic and start calling every hospital in Bangkok, the side door opened and in walked Note. At the sight of Home, the young man blinked in surprise, his head tilting to the side.
"P'Home?" He checked his watch. "You're not meant to be here until the evening meal in—"
"Where's Peach?" Home interrupted, then looked to the empty open kitchen. "What happened?"
"Ah." Note scratched the back of his neck, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. "One of the guests today got really emotional. Started crying. I panicked and called P'Peach over." He motioned to the Wet Floor sign. "They accidentally knocked over a bowl of soup."
That wouldn't be enough to close up early or make Peach not answer his phone or Pangpang hang up on him.
"And?" Home pressed, taking a few steps closer to the twenty-year-old. Maybe he should just take his phone out and start calling Peach again. Maybe he'd answer this time.
Note's shoulders hunched. "P'Peach got splashed and the guests sort of panicked too? P'Pangpang had to calm everyone down. She went outside with them but I don't know where after that cause I had to clean up."
"Okay, but where's Peach?" Home pressed again, now nearly on top of Note.
Blinking owlishly, Note pointed up. The apartment upstairs. Peach was at home? Home turned and raced up the stairs, leaving Suradech with Note. The apartment door wasn't locked—probably because the actual outside door was—so nothing stopped Home from bursting in like a stampeding herd.
"Peach!?" he called, looking around.
The place looked exactly like it had the last time Home was over—yesterday. The same clothes spread over the back of the couch. The same cup sitting beside the sink. The same chairs around the same dining table. The same curtains covering the same balcony window.
The sound of running water only registered when it suddenly stopped, leaving the apartment in true silence. Home crossed the room, down the hall, and flung open the bathroom door with a shouted, "Peach!"
And there, finally, stood Peach, a towel wrapped around his waist and a startled expression on his face.
Expression smoothing out into something calmer, Peach said, "Ai'Home, what the heck? You scared the crap out of me."
His voice was fine, but Home could see the red on his forearms—where he must have gotten splashed. Home didn't answer his question, just crowded into the bathroom with him and lightly grabbed a spot on Peach's arm that wasn't red.
"Shit. Do you need a doctor? Suradech is downstairs. He can drive," Home rushed out, gently turning Peach's arm this way and that to examine the red skin. It was mostly on one side, and there weren't, like, boils or anything. That was good, right?
With a sigh—though it sounded fond—Peach used his other hand to force Home to look at his face and not his arm. "Stop. I'm fine."
Home's expression tightened in distress. "But Note said—"
"A guest spilled some hot soup on me, yes," Peach said, nodding. "I ran my arms under cool water for a while and rinsed off the soup in the shower. I'm fine."
All of Home's muscles felt entirely too heavy now that he knew Peach was okay. He dropped down onto the toilet seat with a loud exhale.
"Man, I thought…"
"Hm?" Peach used a second towel to scrub at his hair. "What?" He gave Home a concerned look. "Did Note make it sound that bad?"
Shaking his head, Home stared at Peach's bare stomach while he spoke. "You were upset about the reservations, and then you weren't answering. I thought…"
Peach rolled his eyes and let his towel rest around his neck. He rummaged around in the cabinet as he spoke, pulling out an ointment and white wrapping. "Gaggan Anand is not just 'reservations,' Home. It's a chef's table restaurant that's earned a spot in the top fifty restaurants worldwide multiple years in a row. It's one of the most expensive places to eat in all of Bangkok. It's—" Peach sighed and stared down at the things he'd pulled out, rather than at Home. "It's too much. We could go on a dozen dates for the price of that one meal, you know?"
A nod. "Right. But you weren't answering my texts or my calls and the last time you did that, you blocked me and didn't talk to me for over a week and—" Home forced himself to stop. Neither of them liked talking about how his uncle had tried to kill him. Multiple times. "And then Pangpang sounded upset on the phone. She said there'd been an accident, and I thought, the only reason you wouldn't answer is if you were too hurt to…"
He lifted his eyes from Peach's lower back as Peach pulled the towel from around his neck and his words trailed off. There was a thin scar on Peach's right shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Peach said, even as he hung up the towel. "I think my phone got left in the kitchen, so I didn't hear it ring."
"What's this scar from?" Home asked, standing and crowding in close to Peach to get a closer look.
Only a few millimeters wide, an inch or inch and a half long, along the back of Peach's shoulder. It wasn't all that surprising that Home hadn't noticed it before. Even when he and Peach had sex, he didn't get a good look at Peach's back. They either faced each other, or the lights were too dim, or his hand was in the way, or—
But in the bright light of the bathroom, the slight discoloration had caught his eye. And now, standing close by, Home spotted more of them. Razorblade thin scars dotted across Peach's back.
"Hm?" Peach turned his head, even though there was no way he could see the mark himself. Home brushed his finger along the skin just beside the scar and Peach's eyes lit with recognition. "Oh. It's from the car accident." His voice was nonchalant. "Best guess is that my bag cut me or something."
Home touched a few of the other scars. That night was burned in his memory, but so were the nightmares about that night. Peach had been wearing a white shirt, lying face down on the pavement, blood streaking out from his head. The shirt had been clean, hadn't it? Or…?
"Those are from the road. The irony is that my clothes were fine," Peach said, as casually as if they were talking about what to make for dinner, "but there were all these scrapes and cuts underneath. I assumed they all healed, but Pangpang pointed out the scars later."
"I'm sorry."
Home traced the scars down, then back up. He'd put these marks on Peach. It was a wonder that Peach could even bare to look at him, let alone kiss him or hold his dick.
"Hey, mueng," Peach said, shrugging his scarred shoulder in an attempt to gain Home's attention. It at least worked to get Home staring at the shoulder scar instead of the back ones. "They don't hurt, and I forget they're even there. Don't make a big deal out of…"
Home leaned forward to place a kiss to the scar on Peach's shoulder.
"…it," Peach squeaked out, followed by a mildly startled, "Home?"
Leaning his forehead on Peach's shoulder, Home wrapped him in a back hug. "I'm so damn glad you're alive."
For a moment, there was quiet between them. Peach laid his hands over Home's and tilted his head to rest against Home's.
Home had spent three years believing that he'd killed someone from reckless driving. It was a miracle that Peach was alive. And today, he'd been afraid that Peach was terribly hurt, but no one could tell him why. They dealt with ghosts on the regular, but shit. Home never wanted to deal with an injured or dead Peach.
Clearing his throat, Peach broke the silence with, "Okay." He pat Home's hands. "If you keep your hands on my bare stomach much longer, I'm gonna start expecting things, and we still have to prep for the dinner guests."
Home jerked back, putting his back against the wall and a foot of space between himself and Peach. Not that he'd be against starting something with Peach, but Home wasn't one for quickies. If they were going to start anything, he wanted time to really savor it and make sure Peach enjoyed it too.
"Sorry, sorry," Home said in English, holding up his hands and sidling toward the door. "I'll just—"
"Before you go," Peach said—and Home stopped in his tracks—then held up his red arms. "I could use some help treating these."
Brightening at the chance to be of help to his boyfriend, Home bounded forward. "Sure thing!"
If he helped treat the injury, it wouldn't be so scary anymore. And yeah, Home had never had to dress a burn before, but he had to be better at that than at cooking, right?