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Thee was in his study when Peach arrived, and even from the arch of the doorway, the moody air seemed to be flanking him like great dark wings.
On the desk, between two fingers, was a flute of red wine, the glint of his signet ring twinkling in the glass surface under the lamplights. By some saving grace, the study wasn’t plunged into deep darkness, even though the glum low lighting in it was far from reassuring for Peach.
“Khun Thee?”
Any minute now, he expected Mok to detach from the shadows and bend politely into his space, muttering “Boss is preoccupied with brooding.” But the longer he remained in the room, the harsher the absence of light grew, the thicker the drag of the second hand on the grandfather clock on the opposite wall. Ornate, opulent, secure in its place. Peach took another uncertain step inside, and realized that there was nobody hiding in the darkness—he and Thee were alone in the room.
A click of glass on hardwood. “You live a life of such powerlessness, do you not? Peachayarat.” He spoke Peach’s name as a period—a full stop, a question mark—and with such deliberateness that seemed to be just for the sake of it. It was as if the name was a placeholder and a harbinger, and Peach was momentarily unsure if he was expected to answer to it.
Finally, he gathered up the wicked courage to stalk closer, and pulled up the chair across from Thee. It was smaller and cozier, but it fit Peach just fine as he sank into it. This close, Thee’s gaze was palpable, a bruising kiss on his skin. Suddenly, he was glad that they were in almost total darkness.
“I’m not as powerless as you think, Khun Thee,” he replied, voice as composed as he could manage.
There was a shift in the smokey darkness; realization followed it too late that it’d been Thee’s smile, “You always tell me to think rationally. Have I been listening to you?” His deep, smooth voice buzzed with teeth, “Have I been good?”
The conversation had shifted and whipped him across the face so harshly that Peach was left gaping, fingers tightening and loosening on top of his knees, his already unnatural, rigid posture becoming even more uncomfortable as he went completely still. The now-familiar but no less humiliating flash of heat curled at the bottom of his stomach, like a hunting dog catching the scent of prey. “I- You mean—Yes, Khun Thee, you’ve been getting better at understanding normal people.”
Somehow, he had a feeling that he’d said the wrong and the right thing simultaneously.
“Peach.” The chair in front of Peach was suddenly empty, and Thee’s voice was a bit closer, “I had a difficult day today and I am going to rationally deal with it. But I want to grant you a favor, right here, right now.”
Peach shifted, turning his head gently towards the circling sound of playful, abnormal danger that encompassed his chair, “Okay?”
Warmth descended on him, the pulsing of a solid body without its echoing touches: only gentle, unobtrusive distance that dilated the air in Peach’s lungs until he was forced to inhale more strongly, more sharply, to fill the sudden low pressure in his chest. Thee’s voice curled behind his neck, thick as smoke, “I want you to show me your anger.”
That was it—the space of sense got swallowed by pure nonsense. Peach turned his head more sharply to the direction of Thee’s voice, incredulous, “You want me to what?”
Instead of answering, the man moved in liquid pauses from Peach’s periphery to the center, and Peach felt the first, slow trickles of apprehension. Thee’s hand curled around a paperweight kept on his desk, his signet ring clicking against it, the quiet in the room total. “I want you to smash the first thing you see. Anything is fine. You can break my desk if you want.”
“Khun Thee—”
Thee leaned in, “Na khub?”
Peach was still reeling when Thee stroked the side of his head gently, gazing down at him with a smile that seemed surreal in its beauty. Peach’s throat clicked wetly when he swallowed. “I don’t feel angry right now.”
“You don’t have to be.” Thee tilted his head, and lifted his hand from Peach’s head as he circled the desk, “Just think of the anger you couldn’t express in the past. Today is the chance to feel the power in your anger, Peachayarat.”
The power in your anger.
Peach stared at the collection of important-looking files on top of the desk, and imagined himself striking them down to the floor in one sweep, like the great hand of God felling the tower of defense in an ancient war. He blinked, and looked hesitatingly at Thee’s patient figure near the chair.
“Fine,” he said, then sighed, strangely nervous. “I’ll throw things around for a bit. You’ve got really strange hobbies.”
Thee’s eyes took him in hungrily as he rose from his seat, an expression of pure pride lighting up the stern lines of his face.
Honestly, Peach didn’t think that he would give in so easily; even as he was picking up the same paperweight Thee’d been holding moments ago, he was surprised that he was actually going through with this strange request—or, no, a “favor”, granted to him.
He meant to lightly throw a few small items to the floor and watch them harmlessly bounce against the plush carpet of Thee’s study. Instead, his focus narrowed with each “Harder” and “Let it go, Peach” until suddenly, he was hurling a small bundle of hardcovers through the air, their spines cracking on the rug with a muted thump, and the sound wasn’t enough so he grabbed the leg of the table lamp and watched it crash through a stumbling, clumsy arc. The wine glass was nowhere to be seen. He felt eyes on him as he stalked towards the basket of golf sticks in a corner, meant more for decoration than for purpose, by the looks of them. His breathing quickened. He remembered the weight of a heavy club as it struck his skull. Now, he reached out, and gripped each club one by one, angled his torso and threw them blindly, trusting Thee to dodge out of the way, and the increasing crash-kcht-CRACK of expensive items being destroyed in the study was music to his ears.
Thee remained silent throughout, but his presence was a clear beacon of light in the storm. Each flash of his studious face in an utterly relaxed body sent a little zing of reassurance through Peach. His hands were red from gripping and throwing so many things around.
The last golf club sat in the basket, gleaming with mocking intent. Peach pulled it out, barely noticing the sting of pain in his wrist and the mysterious throbbing in his shoulder. His head was empty, a blank space, a room of mirrors in which a strong white light kept splitting into colors and colors until eye sockets could bleed. He knew what he had to do.
“Go ahead,” is all Thee said, taking out one hand from his pocket to gesture generously at Peach.
Peach breathed out of his mouth, pulse hot and urgent under his skin, paper-thin heat stretching over his body, and watched the whole study dismantled into a room he recognized from childhood—a proper, adult room, a place where Peach had taken quite a few slaps for accidentally tipping over a stack of books or entering without knocking first or crying too loudly after he was hit. He blinked slowly, savoring the sight of this pristine memory palace. His hairline was damp with sweat, his arms were shaking, but he was not tired—the opposite, in fact. With his free hand, he pushed his fingers into his hair and swept it back.
And then he started smashing.
He hit everything at least once: the edges of the wall, the wood-paneling, the desk, the bookshelves, the tall lamps, the armchairs, the little gleaming Chinese figurines—some of it shattered, the sound sweet and discordant, shards of destruction flying everywhere as he moved, braced, hit. There wasn’t any glass in the room, and mostly it was solid things that made a lot of noise when struck but ended up rolling to the carpet with a few violent club-scratches on their surfaces.
He struck the desk several times, teeth gritted, hating the familiar shape and structure. He managed to totally break the table lamp he’d thrown to the floor before by splintering it in three places. Finally, on a blind whim, when the club was raised over his head to wreck the next thing that came in its way, Peach made to turn, and Thee’s face stood in front of him. Peach froze. Thee didn’t say anything, just stood there as if waiting for Peach to make a decision.
And just like that, all the strength left Peach’s arms. He lowered the club, still panting, his neck and ears hot with exertion. Thee took a few steps towards him, and calmly extracted the club from his hands, long fingers coaxing Peach to loosen his fist in gentle tugs and pulls. Peach stood there, breathing hard, staring at up this beautiful man whose study he had just completely thrashed.
“That’s enough for me,” Thee said, deep and low, almost absurdly pleased. The club fell to their feet but neither cared; Thee took both of Peach’s hands and rubbed his thumb over the back of his knuckles, then caressed the side of Peach’s face, palm cupping protectively under his jaw, “I must thank you for indulging my wishes. Are you hurt?”
Peach could only shake his head. His whole being was lighter in such a way that made him think he might fly up into space. He was glad Thee was holding him.
“Well,” Thee said, “then we are done here.”