How are you? Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Is it very hard?
Heart’s mom always asks the same questions whenever she calls, hands clasped together after she’s done. Sitting back in his couch, Heart can predict the signs before she even finishes them. His father lets her speak, an arm around her shoulders, his eyes following Heart’s replies. Heart doesn’t mind the flow of their conversation, and he doesn’t think his father is uninterested. Sometimes, his father will wire him money and tell him to buy a book he had mentioned he wanted, or tell him to buy something for dinner when Heart mentions studying late into the night.
His father is always polite to Li Ming when he sees him, while Heart’s mom says Li Ming is too skinny and has dark circles under his eyes and is he taking care of himself, are they taking advantage of him at work, are they treating him well?
Heart understands his father a little more as he learns to live with Li Ming.
He has categorized his smiles — genuine to Heart’s mother, strained when he gets home, tired but warm in the morning. He can tell by the curve of his spine when something is bothering him, and Heart pokes at him until Li Ming speaks. When he wakes up before Li Ming, when he has the privilege to watch Li Ming rise, the pale sunrise on his face, the light reflecting in his eyes, Heart follows every movement he makes. The tilt of his chin, his fingers closing around the blanket, the shadows cast by his eyelashes on his cheek. His lips say good morning and Heart’s lips form the same words, and it still makes Li Ming smile wide, showing all the cherished creases on his face.
Every day settles on him like the warm sun, routine falling into place with ease. Every day, Heart knows a little more. Knows when Li Ming needs to vent his frustrations or excitedly share something new he learned at work. Knows when Li Ming needs to be left alone, eyes still looking for the bartending job he wants but does not yet have. Another day ends, another day begins.
How is Heart doing?
Heart can attend classes again, have his own groups again. Now he has people on his phone who post a really absurd amount of stickers and talk shit about their professors just like everyone else. He can eat ice cream when it’s chilly and do his homework outside while brown leaves fall from their branches. He takes pictures of stray cats and sends them to Li Ming – even though he knows they can’t keep a pet at their current housing – like a shared secret. Sometimes Li Ming says they could sneak it in through the back door. Maybe just to see Heart laugh, but Heart would not put it past him. Not when Li Ming gets a certain glint in his eyes.
America is colder, but not always. When he can walk with Li Ming, his hand in Li Ming’s hand, it’s different. To walk with Li Ming in daylight, to discover everything with him, is different. He watches Li Ming speak with others with increasing confidence, lips shaping words Heart learned once, but that are harder to recognize now. He doesn’t get lost with Li Ming. They walk and walk and walk, until the streetlights are on and their legs are sore, and Heart doesn’t get tired of it. Maybe he will, someday. Heart doesn’t think about that. There is so much he wants to see, and so much Li Ming wants to share. With his hand in Heart’s hand, careful so Heart can follow.
When Heart finishes all of his homework and the night is long and Li Ming is not yet back, Heart grabs his phone and dreams of endless places to see with Li Ming. He wants to travel to see the cherry blossoms in Japan, to roam through the streets of Hong Kong at night, see the color of Indonesian waters. What is Canada like during autumn? What are the lavender fields like in France? Heart dreams of the days he first left his room with Li Ming, seemingly so long ago now, and the exhilaration he can’t help but seek again and again and again.
But when he talks to Li Ming about it, there’s a straight line in his lips. He looks at the pictures Heart shows him and he agrees that it all looks beautiful, but there is no enthusiasm in him. Heart doesn’t look for a promise, for a solid plan. When he shows his phone to Li Ming and looks at him, Heart is only thinking of the following year. And the one after that. To be with him, to stay with him.
Perhaps his flaw is that he has become too comfortable. That he believes they understand each other perfectly, but forgets Li Ming can’t read his thoughts. When Heart keeps talking about traveling, when he pulls Li Ming to look when he tries to turn away, he doesn’t expect Li Ming to explode.
“I don’t know when we can leave! I don’t know, Heart!”
His mouth moves as he signs, and then he aborts another phrase, something that Heart thinks he knows, thinks he understands, from all that Li Ming has shared with him.
“I can do it for you,” Heart tells him, because he can. Eventually, Heart believes anything will be possible. “For us. You don’t have to provide for me.”
You’re not my caretaker, he thinks, but doesn’t externalize. He’s thankful he doesn’t. The fight leaving Li Ming in heavy breaths is enough, as are the hard steps that Heart feels but can’t hear as Li Ming walks away and leaves, the dinner forgotten on the stove.
Heart can’t sleep without Li Ming.
Or he can, but he doesn’t want to. His body aches, his eyes sting, but he doesn’t allow himself to sleep. He doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss Li Ming coming back. He wants to stand by the front door, but he doesn’t. He paces around their bedroom, sits on the bed and hugs his knees to his chest. He looks at the lamp on his bedside table until the glare draws shadows on his retinas.
Before Li Ming, he didn’t want much. He wanted to breathe, and to walk, and to extend his arms beyond the walls of a home that didn’t feel like a home. With Li Ming, he wants so much. Every second is precious, a moment he can’t miss. He wants to graduate fast, and start working, and feel like he can stand on his own for the first time. In a paradoxical way, he never wants the current days to end; he, sitting by Li Ming’s side in the living room, both of them immersed in their own studies, until Heart drops his head on Li Ming’s shoulder, feeling the vibration of his English practice, until the words morph into humor, until Li Ming is nudging him and poking him and he’s giggling and they’re wrestling on the floor, and every worry seems as small as a speckle of dust when compared to Li Ming’s smile.
Heart wants everything. The future, every city across the globe, every minute and every second of the present with Li Ming. He wants Li Ming. How long has he been gone, will he come back now?
Heart only realizes he’s crying when he looks up at the figure of Li Ming by the door and he can’t properly see his face or his expression, his vision blurred by dark spots and tears. He stays where he is, raises his hands before he lets them drop to his lap and then he raises them again. He wants to reach for Li Ming and wipe his own tears because this is his fault, and he’s saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” until Li Ming stops his hands and embraces him.
Li Ming isn’t crying. After a few minutes of crying all over his shirt, Heart feels embarrassed, but he still keeps his arms around Li Ming, and his head on Li Ming’s shoulder. He’s playing with the hem of Li Ming’s shirt and wondering if he’s too selfish when Li Ming pushes him back and they finally look at each other. Li Ming looks exhausted.
“Did you eat?” Heart asks, and Li Ming can only give him an unconvincing half-smile. Heart makes to stand but Li Ming grabs his wrist and pulls him back to bed.
“Tomorrow,” is his response, and Heart frowns but doesn’t fight him.
Li Ming stands and starts changing, and in the warm pool of the lamp light, Heart thinks about how different he already looks from when they first met. Li Ming had always carried himself with a firmness in his step that Heart admired. Like he knew his place in the world. Heart knows it’s not exactly like that, now that he doesn’t worship Li Ming so much. Now that they have shared so many secrets, now that they share a life. But his shoulders seem broader now. Maybe not too much, but it’s noticeable to Heart. A small touch of time in their story.
Li Ming turns back to him. He’s tired but sincere, and Heart is filled with longing. He does open his arms to Li Ming then, calls for him without words, so he can finally lie down with an armful of Li Ming and surrender. What was it like to fall asleep without Li Ming’s scent, his weight against him? Heart doesn’t want to remember.
Are they sleeping? Are they eating? Are they well?
It’s colder in America. There are still places where Heart feels a tinge of helplessness if he goes alone, because people look at him and his language like he’s not someone who belongs there. There are days he sleeps slouched over the coffee table in the living room and wakes up with a headache when Li Ming has to get him to go to bed. And having to leave for classes and leave Li Ming asleep, peaceful and warm and beautiful, is a battle Heart has to fight too often.
But Heart loves his days. He loves his friends with whom he shares notes, stories from home, and movies every Thursday after class. He loves the overly sweet hot beverages the coffee shops serve once October comes. He loves it when children walk by his group of friends and wave and stare at the way they sign. And at the end of the day, at the start and end of it all, in every plan of his future—
The first snowflake Heart ever notices melts against Li Ming’s cheek.
“Ah,” he sees Li Ming say, his mouth opening in delight. Then he turns to Heart and signs, “the first snow.”
Heart doesn’t think Li Ming should lie with his head on Heart’s lap on a public bench, but Li Ming doesn’t seem to care.
“Wet,” Heart signs, and smiles when Li Ming chuckles.
“I know, I know. We’ll go in a second.”
Li Ming looks at the slowly falling snow and then at Heart. His red beanie almost matches his flushed cheeks perfectly. Heart places a hand on Li Ming’s chest. He wants to take Li Ming ice skating at the place his friends told him to go. He wants to go on a Christmas date with him with the city’s multicolored lights twinkling overhead, illuminating the night. And when the new year comes, he wants to tell Li Ming about all the new years he wants to see with him. Anywhere he wants to be.
Li Ming waves a hand in front of his eyes and he focuses back on the boy lying on his lap. The boy at the end of his scented road.
“I’m hungry,” Li Ming signs, and Heart laughs. It’s the way he says he doesn’t want to cook tonight.
“Let’s go home,” Heart replies. Still they don’t move. Not for a few beats, while the snow falls in thin swirls around them.
Tomorrow, Heart will tell him that he loves him.
Tonight, he loves him so much he cannot say anything.
Gun focuses back on his kitchen, his soggy instant noodles, and his boyfriend on the phone.
“Yeah. Of course. You—”
He hears a sigh from the other side of the line.
“Have you slept well since you got back? Are you eating well?”
He slouches on his chair. He can absolutely take care of himself.
“I can take care of myself, Tinn,” he says as much.
“I know you can,” says Tinn, his voice softer, a lot less like a doctor and more like the man he’s in love with.
Not that Gun minds doctor Tinnaphob. He loves him too. But he’s tired, and finally back home after a full month of promotions and concerts and public appearances, and his boyfriend is several miles away and he can’t be with him.
“I just don’t want you to sulk,” Tinn continues, as Gun slurps up some of his noodles. They’re not that bad.
“I’m not sulking. I think it’s perfectly reasonable to be upset that I can’t attend my boyfriend’s first conference.”
“They’re grossly overrated, you know,” Tinn says, and from the breathy sound of his voice, Gun can tell that he just lied down on his hotel bed. He probably has a great view from his window. Gun can see a few skinny stray cats from his bedroom window sometimes, and they even look up at him when he makes sounds at them.
“I know I’m too stupid for them—”
“Gun—”
“—but I wouldn’t even make a sound in the audience! They’d let me in.”
“Gun, you’re not stupid. It’s just not your area, and that’s okay. You can sing flawlessly in at least four different languages.”
Gun pushes his bowl of soggy noodles away to lean both his elbows on the table and hide his face in his arms, as if it would help him with Tinn on the other side of the line.
“Yeah, but I don’t speak them. It’s just for the songs.”
“Baby,” Tinn says, and it’s unfair, because Gun is upset and he’s self-deprecating and Tinn’s voice is so sweet and he’s several cities away. “We can figure something out next time, okay? Don’t worry too much about it.”
“Okay,” Gun says, trying to sound like he’s not a seventeen-year-old anymore. And he’s not. He hasn’t been for some time now. It’s just...
“Will you tell me what’s really bothering you now?”
He really does wonder if Tinn can read his mind sometimes. Probably not. Would have made their dating in high school a bit different. Not too much, but a bit. Tinn still gets flustered when Gun professes his love for him, just like that day in the hospital, that many years ago, when he first told him he wanted to sing a song just for him. What would he have said if he could read all of Gun’s thoughts for him?
“I just want to be there for your accomplishments, that’s all,” he says, and Tinn is silent for a beat, and maybe he spoke too quietly, he does that sometimes, so he’s ready to rephrase it into something a bit... less when Tinn is speaking again.
“You are. Gun, you are there for me. You take care of me so much better than you take care of yourself that it honestly drives me a little crazy sometimes. But I’m really so— Gun, I don’t know if I’d have gotten here without you.”
Gun’s voice is muffled when he speaks next, as he tries to hide away further. “I do take care of myself.”
“You do,” Tinn says, voice crystal clear and kind, like the finest, perfect note of a tuned piano. “But I take better care of you just as you take better care of me, not because we owe each other but because it makes us happy to do so, hmm?”
Gun hums back, because it’s true. Tinn would have probably asked for takeout if they were both too tired to cook. Gun should have done that, damn it.
He wants Tinn back already, but he’s not selfish enough to say it.
“Do you ever get this upset when I can’t attend your concerts?”
He does get upset. But Tinn makes it to every concert he can, and by the time Gun sees him in the audience, he’s already forgotten those where Tinn had been absent.
“No,” he says, and means it.
“Do you feel I don’t support you enough? Be honest—”
“Tinn.”
“Gun.”
“I’d never feel that way. You know that, right?”
Tinn has to know. He has to. After all these years, all the times Tinn stayed up with him when he was scared about his future, anxious about failing, or just too damn wired about tomorrow to sleep and Tinn just listened, held him, looked over Gun’s papers and lyrics as if they were just important as all of Tinn’s books, how could Gun ever ask him to do more? He was already just quite...
Was everything too much to say?
“I know,” Tinn says, and he sighs again, and Gun feels the distance gets to him just as much. But Tinn knows, and it feels criminal that Gun can’t hold him about it. “So why would you feel that way about yourself?”
Gun hits his head against the table, and regrets it, because Tinn probably heard it.
“Because I’m dumb.”
“Gun. We have talked about this.”
“Okay, so I am sulking.”
He’s also pouting, and he almost wants to switch to a video call so he can throw it at Tinn.
“Is that just it though? You’re allowed to sulk, even if I’m not happy you’re doing it alone, but—”
“See? Now we’re both suffering from unimaginable unfairness.”
He huffs a laughter, and hears Tinn let out a chuckle from his side. The line goes quiet. There’s no sound coming from Gun’s closed windows, no music in the background, and Tinn’s breathing is quiet. Gun closes his eyes, his cheek against the table, and tries to imagine he’s lying on Tinn’s chest, so he can feel him breathe, more soothing than any lullaby.
“You should go to bed. You know mom doesn’t like it when you drive when you’re tired.”
Gun has to agree, picking himself up from the table and bringing his bowl to the sink.
“Yeah, okay.”
“I love you.”
Gun stops by the sink, turning the faucet off. He smiles at the unremarkable window in his kitchen, form which he can see only darkness at this hour.
“Sing me a song before you go.”
He hears a noise from Tinn’s side. It’s not exactly a snort or a giggle, but a very distinct noise Tinn makes when he’s embarrassed. It’s one of Gun’s favorite sounds in the world, but he just loves Tinn’s singing more. He loves those precious moments when Tinn trusts him with his voice.
“Okay. For my number one fan.”
Gun tries not to make any noise as he washes his dishes. Tinn is still singing by the time he’s in bed, calm and not quite as sulky, and his head finally quiet.
***
He’s at the sink when his mom asks, “So when are you going to spill it?”
“Huh?”
He doesn’t think he’s been planning on spill anything. His mom rolls her eyes at him, and he didn’t think he had done anything wrong just yet, he got there just two days ago?
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you so bad that I could see it the moment you walked through that door.”
Gun pouts, turning to look at the bowls in the sink, his hands still covered in dish soap.
He doesn’t want to lie, but putting his feelings into words has always been difficult for him, no matter how many songs he’s written in his career. It’s easier to sing his feelings out, to carry on for a few minutes, hit the high notes and then let them fade out. There’s hardly a follow up to that.
Gun’s not scared of talking about his feelings. The people he opens up to would never hurt him.
It’s the words themselves that struggle to form, heavy in his system like he can’t digest them.
Tinn has definitely noticed, but he’s been kind. Mostly because Gun hasn’t spent much time alone with him since he came back from his conference and joined Gun at the shop.
Gun looks over his shoulder, and sees Tinn at the register, putting his phone away and smiling when a customer arrives. He’s probably still tired, but too stubborn to rest while Gun is helping out at the shop. Gun has been counting the minutes until he snaps and kicks Tinn upstairs to lie the fuck down.
He turns his face back down at the sink, and says, “I talked about dad in a recent interview.”
He’s not looking at his mom but he can hear her coming closer, until he can see her in his peripheral vision. He keeps his eyes down.
“It was a good memory. I liked talking about him. It’s just...”
His mom doesn’t touch him or place an arm around his shoulders or hug him. She leans her hip against the sink and crosses her arms and looks closely at his face, even though he’s still looking away. If Tinn sees her touch him, he’ll know. He’ll be worried. Gun isn’t crying. He’s not even sad. He finds himself smiling, actually, just at the mention of his dad. But it fades away, dims like sunlight behind a curtain.
“I spend so much time away from Tinn and you and my friends now. Is it okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay, dear? You’re doing what you love, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he answers easily. “Yeah, but...”
“We understand, you know. We’re happy for you, and proud. Tinn sends me everything he can, I couldn’t possibly miss it.”
“It’s not that,” he says, and finally looks at her.
He used to have to look up to meet her eyes. Now there are pretty wrinkles at the corner of her eyes when she looks up at him, her favorite shade of lipstick still on her lips.
“What is it then?”
He turns on the faucet, and starts rinsing the bowls. Over the sound of the running water, he says, “I’m scared that any moment might be the last time I talk or see you.”
His mom doesn’t say anything. He keeps up with his mechanical task, pretending there are no tears in his eyes. When the last of the bowls and spoons are put away, his mom turns the faucet off. She touches his cheeks and wipes the tears before they fall, and then she brings her hands up to brush his hair, as if he’s still a disheveled teenager.
“You must have missed us very much.”
He nods, drying his hands on his apron and trying really hard to keep eye contact.
“You know, not many people have a home to come back to.”
Her eyes are on him, but she’s seeing something else. He can tell how long she spends there, looking past him and remembering him as well. He feels bad for it, but she doesn’t cry as much anymore. She doesn’t cry now.
“You need to go out there, and live out your career, eat well, sleep well when you can.” She unties his apron and pulls it over his head, patting down his clothes to get of any wrinkles. “And at the end of the day, or the week, or the month, you pick the safest way home, where we’ll be waiting for you.” She places her hands on his neck, the weight of them more comforting than any blanket. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes. Don’t ever rush it. Take your time. You don’t ever need to rush anything, dear.”
Tinn has definitely seen them by now. Gun tries not to move or give anything away. Even if Tinn will be able to tell. He can always tell.
“Don’t ever keep your fears to yourself, okay? Talk to Tinn. They’ll grow too big if you keep them to yourself for too long. And...”
She pats him on the cheek.
“You can’t always think about the end like that. If you think about the end all the time, you won’t get to live the middle, and wouldn’t that be terribly lonely?”
He chews on his lower lip, and finally looks down. His mom messes up the hair that she had just brushed into place moments ago.
“Take Tinn upstairs, he’s yawned more in the past hour than I’ve ever seen him do since I met him. Order some food, take a nap. I’ll close up soon.”
Gun nods at her, giving her a hug. She pats his back, her hand soothingly moving up and down, then moves back and shoos him away. Gun can’t help but chuckle.
He walks to Tinn and hopes his eyes aren’t too red. Either way, he doesn’t make a lot of eye contact before he’s saying, “And you’re done here,” moving to untie Tinn’s apron.
“But—”
“Boss orders, come on.”
He takes Tinn upstairs by the hand, assuming the lead. Once in his room — their room, every time they stay over — he tells Tinn to shower first, nodding along to his complaints, but nonetheless pushing him out of the room with clean clothes in his hands.
His room hasn’t changed much since he moved out. There are old clothes that still fit him somehow, as well as worn-out shoes that he should really put away. The bed is new, and bigger. The family portraits are still in the same place they have ever been, not a speck of dust on them. His old guitar sleeps in its case in the corner, and he makes a mental note to check which strings need to be replaced. Even though he hasn’t taken it to his new place, he doesn’t neglect it. There are too many memories in it. Bad times, good times. One song on a certain birthday, many years ago now.
Gun only notices he’s given his own clothes to Tinn when he walks back into the room. He puts his phone down and beckons Tinn over so he can dry his hair for him. He can see Tinn’s shoulders rising and falling as he sighs, not out of weariness, but like a cat, comfortable and pleased, right before it falls asleep.
“Mom said we should rest a bit. She’ll call us when dinner’s ready.”
Tinn hums before he says, “I’ll wait until you’ve done showering.”
Tinn’s habit of waiting for him even when he’s exhausted always fills Gun with both endearment and exasperation. He throws the towel to the side and wraps his arms around Tinn’s middle from behind, hugging him tightly. Tinn lets out a little oof just to be dramatic, but he places his hands over Gun’s and keeps them there.
Gun sits there, with his world in his arms, and his mind is in complete silence. He just touches his forehead to Tinn’s shoulder, closes his eyes and breathes in. Time doesn’t seem to be running out. It’s a standstill, and he doesn’t have to move or rush or be anything or be anywhere. He’s here. Tinn is here. Mom is here. Sound sent him a message in their groupchat earlier, and slowly, the orange afternoon will fade into a purple dusk.
Gun breathes. Tinn smells like lemons and clean clothes. He’s wearing his clothes. He’ll fall asleep in Gun’s arms if Gun doesn’t get up to shower, but then, just then, Gun keeps holding him.
Letting go of Tinn still sends a wave of uneasiness through him, but he’s spent a long time away from Tinn. And he needs sleep. Maybe if he wakes up by Tinn’s side later, he’ll feel content enough to remember that it’s not going to end. Not like this. Or any time soon.
“Wait,” Tinn says when he gets up from the bed, and Gun blinks as Tinn gently pulls him back to the bed.
Tinn gets up and walks to his suitcase. His clothes and possessions are always neatly organized, so it doesn’t take long until he’s found what he’s looking for.
At first, Gun is confused at the sheet of paper. It’s obviously from one of Tinn’s notepads, the ones Gun has constantly tried to get Tinn to retire because he could just use his tablet, for God’s sakes, but Tinn insists on using because he prefers writing by hand. And Gun, who writes all of his song lyrics in a notebook he keeps with himself at all times, can only roll his eyes at him.
He thinks it might be notes from Tinn’s conference, but once he starts reading, it’s clear they have nothing to do with medicine. It’s…
“I couldn’t sleep the first night,” Tinn says, “so I just… well…”
“Tinn,” Gun starts, then stops. He puts the sheet down and looks at Tinn, who’s fidgeting in a way Gun hasn’t seen in a long time. “Baby,” Gun starts again, touching Tinn’s wrist and gently pulling him to sit down by his side. “Did you write a song?”
“It’s for you,” Tinn says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world to admit. Gun stares. “I mean, I can’t really compose on my own, and I didn’t have a guitar with me, and it’s meant for you to sing, so I thought you could—”
“Tinn,” Gun repeats, and Tinn stops, looks at his eyes. “You wrote me a song?”
Tinn smiles, finally. A small, timid thing. Gun wants to cry and kiss him and hit him and kiss him and cry some more, all at once.
“Do you like it?”
Gun forces himself to look down at the sheet again. Tinn’s handwriting is a bit messier now, after years in med school, but he must have rewritten it until it was presentable for him. He looks at the words, at every meaning interwoven in them, about staying with him wherever they are, being his home, his comfort, his safe harbor. Despite everything and everyone and even after everything and everyone. I will always be…
Gun throws himself at Tinn, and they both fall over on the bed. He’s saying “I love it” and “I love you” in such quick succession and with such emotion but he’s not worried about Tinn understanding him because he will. He does. Everything, all the things Gun doesn’t say, even if Tinn doesn’t know completely, every worry and thought that crosses his mind, Tinn is there, keeping them all in a safe net. Keeping him safe. Until he can pick himself up again.
Gun clings to him until his breathing stabilizes again, and then Tinn is softly saying, “You should shower,” and he goes, because he doesn’t want to waste a minute more.
There’s already a melody in his head as he showers, as he gets dressed, as he climbs in bed with Tinn. Maybe by the time he wakes up again, the song will be fully formed, and Gun will be able to present it, however imperfect it may be, to his biggest loves, on the stage in his mom’s shop that means so much to them all.
“Gun,” Tinn says, voice heavy with sleep. Gum hums back, to signalize that he’s listening. “I can handle the shop tomorrow, you should go out with your mom.”
Without opening his eyes, Gun says, “If I can convince her to go out. But why do you say that?”
“It’s been some time since you came over. You should spend some time together. Don’t worry about anything else.”
Gun can feel Tinn’s chest moving up and down with his calm breathing as they hold each other close. His hand on Gun’s back is still lulling him to sleep with soothing motions. His leg over Gun’s is a welcome weight, one Gun misses to the point of ache when they’re apart.
Tinn shuts down all of Gun’s worries just by being himself. Didn’t he know? He should know. He should.
“We should all go out together,” he says.
To live in the middle, instead of the end.
“Do you think she’d like that?”
Gun snuggles impossibly closer, his nose brushing against Tinn’s neck.
“I do.”
One of them falls asleep first. Which one, it’s impossible to tell. Limbs, breathing, hearts — they’re all tangled together as one.
As for their tomorrows, only Gun would know. As long as he let them come, one after another, after another, after another, never once too scared to say, “I love you. Take care.”
As long as they share the same sky, his feet would bring him back to the ones he loves.
***
ต่อให้วันที่ฟ้าไม่เป็นใจ ต่อให้วันที่ลมหนาวเท่าไร
Even when the day the sky is not happy, no matter how cold the day is
ต่อให้เธอต้องเจอเรื่องร้ายๆ สักแค่ไหน
No matter how bad things have happened to you
ขอแค่เธอหันมา และไม่ว่าเนิ่นนานเท่าไร
I just want you to turn around, and no matter how long it be
และไม่ว่าเธอไม่มีใคร
And when you don't have anyone
จะมีฉันที่คอยดูแลเป็นที่พักใจ
You have me who'll take care of you as a place to stay
รักโคตรร้ายสุดท้ายโคตรรัก | KinnPorsche: The Series fanfiction
Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham/Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun
A post-end interlude
Rated M for canon typical violence
Read on AO3
Pete doesn’t know how the man got past the guards. Pete had picked them out himself, with the approval of the magnanimous Khun Korn. I’ll take care of them, Khun Korn had said, and Pete had as many reasons to believe him as he had to think the words held no meaning at all. Still, Khun Korn had let him pick the guards to the safe house, and Pete had picked the best he could. Not as smart as Arm is or swift as Big had been, but the best he could without taking from under the wings of Kinn or Tankhun.
In the spaces where the guards fail, Pete fills in.
The man must think he makes no noise. He must think he’s hiding in blind spots of the CCTV, or that he casts no shadow under the moonlight. Pete can hear him clearly. Footsteps as loud as old tree branches swaying in the evening breeze. Maybe the man thinks he has an advantage, since this house is unfamiliar to its occupants. A temporary house without soul, personality or hidden doors leading to an armory big enough to slay a king’s army. When Pete corners him, hiding in a spot perceptible only to someone who had memorized the house’s every corner, Vegas’ gun in his hand — maybe then the man finds out that the house doesn’t matter, as long as Pete is in it.
Pete shoots without asking questions — once, twice, in the man’s shoulder, his knee. The sounds are barely heard. Silencers can’t cancel noise, but Pete only needs them to be muffled, so the occupants of the house aren’t disturbed. He doesn’t kill the invader. He has one of his ties wrapped around his hands, and he uses it to silence the man in a makeshift gag. When the man starts thrashing against his hold, Pete hits him against the head with Vegas’ gun, knocking him out cold. He won’t be dying tonight. Dying is a mercy he has to earn.
Pete drags the unconscious man to the guards. They’re alarmed, nervous and agitated that the man got past them. Pete forces them to focus, to search the perimeter. He goes with them, not the image of a bodyguard, no suit or pin or image to merge with theirs. He wears one of Vegas’ shirts — the first he had seen and taken, when he had gotten up — and sweatpants. He leads, despite it all. Signals where the men should go, where to look, and when they find no one else, switches the guard assigned to the CCTV. They listen to his every word and obey his every command without complaint. And the intruder — that one goes to the basement. Pete and Vegas can talk to him once the sun is up, make him bleed his confessions.
It’s a cold night. Cold outside, cold inside. The chill in the air seems to catch in Vegas’ shirt, too light a fabric. Pete safekeeps Vegas’ gun in the waistband of his pants, runs his hands up and down his arms. Now, outside, there are only the sounds of the night — the wind and the birds and the song of the trees. He looks out one of the windows that take up a whole wall and gazes at the stars. In this place, so far, so isolated, so serene — he can almost hear the stars, too. Twinkling little sounds of the future, telling secrets to those who can decipher them. He thinks Vegas must have a book like that, somewhere. If not, he can buy it for him.
Pete climbs the stairs, not sluggish with sleep, but firm and attentive, and checks on Macau first. The creaking sound of the door doesn’t wake the boy. Pete sighs at his sleeping form, walks into his room, and slowly removes the headphones that Macau fell asleep wearing. He doesn’t wake when Pete adjusts his form on the bed, careful with the boy’s neck, lest he get sore and whiny in the morning. Pete pulls the covers up to Macau’s chin, pats them down. He checks the shadows of the room to see if they’re just shadows, and not monsters with murder intent, and then he goes. Macau snores softly and only moves when Pete is about to close the door. Just a sleepy reflex, pulling the covers down, releasing his arms. Pete smiles and leaves, the door closing with a click.
There is a guard outside his and Vegas’ room. Pete dismisses him with a nod and a smile. For a brief moment, he had considered leaving him there, but it’s only brief. Pete had been a light sleeper ever since they left the minor family house, and he would not be caught off-guard.
That, and he didn’t want anyone to listen in to his and Vegas’ nightly conversations.
He walks into their bedroom. There, his eyes don’t linger on shadows or think about threats. There, he is always drawn to Vegas. He walks to him, footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. He peels the satin shirt off, the smell of Vegas rising to his nose like a fragrant flower. He takes Vegas’ gun from his waistband and sets it under his own pillow. In the morning, it will be Vegas’ again. While the darkness of the night is still thick, Pete keeps it on his own side. To fight Vegas’ monsters for him.
Vegas has been prone to restless nights, since his father died. Some nights, he doesn’t sleep at all. Pete stays up with him, or tries his best to. Watches him frantically pace, talks to him, listens to him. They talk about stories of times half-remembered, sweet stories and bloodstained stories alike. They both have ghosts to talk about, to exorcise when the clock signals 3:45am. Vegas takes more and more shape, the shape of the man Pete falls in love with. When did it all begin, where were they going? The clock moves yet forward, even on those endless nights. Pete holds his hand, draws constellations against Vegas’ skin with his fingertips. The sounds of Vegas — Pete doesn’t want anyone to hear them. They’re for Pete to breathe in, to swallow, and to give back in return. Nights of discovery, always under the orange light of Vegas’ bedside lamp.
Some nights, Vegas sleeps profoundly. Like tonight. Pete tilts his head and watches him, watches the rise and fall of Vegas’ naked chest. He sleeps all night in the same position, exhausted from all the worrying and the grieving and the coping. Exhausted from being born again, into a man that doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. The bedside lamp is always on, as if to ward off ghosts. But on that night, the moonlight peeks through the curtains, pallid and clean, and shines down on their bed. The glass windows on this safe house are clear, no color to filter through and immerse the world in vibrant shades. Under the moonlight, Vegas looks almost peaceful.
When Pete sits down on the bed, Vegas stirs. Pete hushes him kindly. “Shh, don’t get up,” he says, getting under the covers, opening his arms to accommodate Vegas. Not once does Vegas open his eyes, does he speak. They face each other on the pillow, and Pete can’t make out Vegas’ expression anymore, they’re too close. He smiles anyway — a smile that no one can see, a smile that exists only for him, like it once did, such a long time ago now, when he first faced Vegas like this, surrendered. He touches Vegas’ hair, combing the strands away from Vegas’ face. He should be sleepy. He should be tired. But he feels wide awake, thinking about the man in the basement.
Pete kisses Vegas’ forehead, breathes Vegas in, and closes his eyes. It’s almost 4am now. There are no stories to be told. Holding Vegas closer to him, in Pete there is only a promise now. Safe. I’ll keep you safe. I won’t lose you again.
Wide awake, he opens his eyes. He watches the shadows of the branches of the tree outside, drawing patterns on the wall. The branches are like fingers, like arms, like all the ones that want to take Vegas and Macau out. Stretching closer, then away. Closer, then away.
He waits in the silence. Waits for his heartbeats to match Vegas’, for their breathing to fall in harmony; him breathing in the air that Vegas lets out. When every part of him, all the possible parts, are touching Vegas, when his skin becomes Vegas’ skin, maybe then, only maybe, he can fall asleep.
Pete keeps Vegas’ gun under his pillow, and waits for the breaking dawn.
รักโคตรร้ายสุดท้ายโคตรรัก | KinnPorsche: The Series fanfiction
Pete Phongsakorn Saengtham/Vegas Kornwit Theerapanyakun
A post-end interlude
On exorcising the ghost of a dead father
Read on AO3
He wakes alone in his own bed. Feels the mattress next to him, but it’s already gone cold. He blinks, sleep heavy on his eyelids, raises his head to look around, but there’s no one there. Still processing the morning sounds, Vegas lets his head fall back on his pillow. His eyes focus on what’s before him, at his hand, and at the thin scars that now adorned it
He flexes his fingers. In early morning, time is infinite, made for thinking. His brain is still working with images from a half-remembered dream. A red-tinted dream, but not a nightmare. Even in dreams, Vegas kills and he kills well. He had learned young, how to kill. How to aim and take a life with precision. Better than that — his hands knew how to work a man. The places in the human body where it hurts the most, how to cause so much agony that the words spill out along with the blood. The procedures had been, to him, even entertaining. Papa had made Vegas into the perfect weapon. Honed him, sharpened him, turned his fingers into claws. When he walked into a room, everyone knew. He was the monster of the minor family, piece by piece put together by a mad father.
Papa isn’t around anymore.
Vegas flexes his fingers, his hand blocking out the sun, and grips the air as if he’s holding his old gun. In a world after the war between families, Vegas’ hand no longer seeks out his gun. Not often. In this house, bright-colored and wind-kissed, Vegas holds his books, turns the pages with care. He traces the lines of poems Pete bring him, memorizes them until he can recite them in his head. Poems about freedom, about discovery, about love — love that had once been an idea, an ideal, a bitter taste, like the sermons that could never truly calm his heart. His fingers comb through Pete’s hair when he reads them for him, English rolling easily out of his tongue, words finally understood, and when he gazes down, Pete will be looking at him and not at the book. Before he kisses Pete, he puts those books away — those marked, underlined, well-loved books — by his nightstand, marking the pages he wants to go back to. Marks the verses where he finds himself, so he can find his way back again.
He still kills. Still hurts others. Still poses as the same man he had been. It makes his hands tremble, at the end of the day. Is he weak for it? For hating to work for Korn, with Kinn, to see Kinn, to be surrounded by Kinn? I’ll take care of you, Korn had said. It sounded an awful lot like, I won’t let you leave. The person you are, the person we both know you are — I’ll keep you where you belong.
When Vegas cooks, his hands are firm. The knife he uses warm to his touch, to the steam of the pot. He could become so engrossed in it, that he wouldn’t notice Pete until he had his arms wrapped around Vegas’ middle and propped his chin on Vegas’ shoulder.
“What? Am I the trophy wife you claim at the end of your day?” He would say, and Pete’s laughter was melodious next to his ear. It made Vegas shiver, it made him smile and lean against Pete.
“Yup,” Pete would say, and Vegas would kick him and push him and kiss him, hands smelling of spices touching his beloved’s face.
Papa is still around.
He feels him in the cold of his gun’s grip. He sees him when he pulls the trigger. That is it — that is everything. Day by day, moment from moment, that is everything. Papa whispering in his ear, you’re a failure. Papa sneering at him every time he stood next to Kinn, you’ll never measure up to your cousin. His hands, those hands molded by Papa — what was Vegas supposed to do with them? No matter how much he washes the blood away, they are stained, stained. He touches the white of his bed, and in his mind’s eye, he sees the red streaks left behind. Vegas closes his eyes, grabs a fistful of his blankets. He breathes in and out, in and out, slowly, the way Pete had taught him, back then. . .
“Vegas?”
. . .when the blood on his hand had been his. Pete had rushed to him at once, his feet crushing the pieces of glass into tinier fragments. “What happened?” Pete had asked, and Vegas hadn’t know what to answer. There had been an anger. Wrath. Papa’s voice in his head, the scent of Papa’s cologne in his nostrils. It had lingered around Vegas all day, as he worked around men that Papa used to work with. Kinn couldn’t possibly know what it was like. Maybe Kinn thought he was being kind. He wasn’t. Vegas could feel Papa in their eyes. Judging his every movement, his every word. The deal had been sealed. The wrath had settled in his stomach like an ulcer, hurting, and hurting, and hurting, making his middle tremble, and his hands—
So, the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” Vegas had said as Pete tried to clean him and bandage him as much as possible, before he threw Vegas in their car and rushed to a hospital. “I’m sorry,” he had said, more statement than answer, meaning everything and nothing. They stitched him up, took all the broken glass from his flesh. The wrath flowed away with the blood. “I’m sorry,” he had breathed against Pete’s chest, in a badly lit parking lot.
“I’m not leaving,” Pete had said. He could always hear the plea, even if Vegas never said it. Not like that. Not in those words. He had laced his fingers with Vegas’, the ones unhurt — had brought Vegas’ hand to his lips and kissed him there. I’m not leaving, Pete had said then, would always say, and Vegas leaned towards him every time, whether the words were spoken or not. I’m not leaving, he would say when he took Vegas to their home, changed his clothes, brushed his hair. I’m not leaving, he would say when he cooked for him, when he read for him, when he laughed at something Vegas said. I’m not leaving, he would say, when he brought those bloodstained fingers to his mouth, and whispered Vegas name against his digits.
Lying on their bed, Vegas breathes in. Pete’s scent is everywhere. It calms his heartbeats. His fingers, that had been gripping the covers fiercely, like a weapon, go lax, twitch with longing.
“I know you’re awake,” Pete says from the door. Vegas raises his head to look at him, watches as Pete walks in with a tray full of food. He sets it down on the foot of the bed before sitting down beside Vegas. Vegas doesn’t rise, not yet. He looks up at Pete, at the halo the morning sun draws behind him. Pete touches his face, his thumb tracing Vegas cheekbone. He lets out a tiny laugh at something he sees in Vegas’ expression. “Are you awake, Vegas?”
He might not be. He places his hand on Pete’s, against his cheek. Pete is warm, and his hand fits perfectly in Vegas’. It’s perfect because it’s Pete, who held him when he was dying, who held him when he was born again. Pete’s hands slot into his when he trembles at night, after all the blood has washed away.
Vegas pulls Pete down. Not for a kiss, not yet. He pulls Pete until their foreheads are touching. One hand he keeps on Pete’s face, the other touches his hair, his ear. It trails down his face, his chin, his neck, and stops at his heart. There, his hand lies, as if it wants to catch those heartbeats and never let go.
“It’s my birthday,” Vegas says. He feels Pete smile even before he backs away enough to look down at Vegas.
“I know,” Pete says, giving Vegas a brief kiss on the lips. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
Vegas hums. Both his hands move to Pete’s middle and in a swift movement, flips their positions, making Pete laugh. Somehow, the glass of orange juice that sits patiently on the tray does not fall from the bed and onto the floor.
“What do you want to do today?” Pete asks, mirth in his eyes. Vegas knows his line, says it just to make Pete laugh again, and then he kisses him breathless. Under the rays of sunlight, Pete worships his hands. He kisses Vegas’ palm, reminds him that he likes being held firmly, tightly. Vegas’ hands traces the well-known topography of his body, traces his tattoo with his fingers. His lips follow his hands, and at those words on Pete’s hip, Vegas kisses them slowly, reverently, knowing that Pete would never lie. That in this light, in this now, in this life, his hands will never be used to hurt Vegas, but to hold on to him. To cling back to him, fingers perfectly intertwined, and never let go.
In time, when Vegas holds his gun again, when Kinn deigns him worthy of working with him, allowing him back into the family business, Vegas’ grip won’t falter. His stance will be strong and firm, and he will never miss his target. His hand will be not just his hand, but the hand of one of the most capable bodyguards the main family ever had.
In time.
Pete cups his face in their afterglow. Some of the breakfast he made is definitely on the floor now.
“Vegas. We should get dressed. Macau has your whole day planned out for you, and he’s waiting downstairs.”
Vegas kisses the inside of Pete’s wrist. He thinks he wants something tattooed there. Maybe they could match; their hands becoming mirrors, or pieces of a map, complete.
“Vegas,” Pete says, and Vegas hums again, closes his eyes. He might still be half-asleep, he might still be dreaming. Pete calls his name, and again, and again, and Vegas kisses him because he can.
In his mind, there is only Pete’s voice, calling his name.
“It’s bigger than in the pictures,” the man says as he leans forward, trying to take a peek of the manor through the closed gates.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” His companion asks, looking over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to close in on them. “A man this rich is sure to have some sort of bodyguard to kick us out.”
“Why would he kick us out? We’re not trespassing. We want to have a genuine conversation with the chairman.”
“Are you sure he’ll see us?”
“Of course he will,” the man says, running his hands through his jacket’s lapels, dusting off invisible dirt. “I know how these rich guys work, okay?”
“I don’t know...” His companion says, looking at his own shoes. The business-looking man turns to his companion and holds him by his shoulders.
“You want a promotion, don’t you? Then you gotta do a certain amount of ass-kissing. That’s all these guys want, you hear me?” He shakes the nervous man just a little, enough to force him to look up into his blazing eyes, lit with ambition. “If it were a woman, we’d need to be careful, they’re annoyingly over-sensitive nowadays, but the chairman is a man. We need to be loud in approving of his ideas, we need to make ourselves seen. That’s how we become directors.” The smirk on his face gives his companion hope. “We gotta say whatever bullshit it takes to climb up the ladder, buddy.”
“Ah, what a coincidence,” a third voice says, startling the two men who jump in place before facing the speaker. “I didn’t know I’d find others like me around here today.”
“Who the hell are you?” Asks the businessman who holds his chin high in hopes of brushing off his embarrassing reaction to the woman’s arrival. Such a petite, smiling woman. Wasn’t she dressed too lightly for the weather? And where the hell had she come from? Had she simply walked there?
“Someone like you, of course. I’m here to pitch my ideas to the chairman so I can profit off him.”
“You... Are you even from the company?”
“Me?” She asks, touching her chest in surprise. “No, of course not. I’m an aspiring entrepreneur.”
“Then get lost,” the businessman says, shooing her like she’s a dog. “The chairman is a busy man, he’s not gonna waste his time on you.”
“Oh, he can’t see both of us now, can he? Busy, busy...”
She holds her hands behind her back, her smile turning her eyes into twinkling half-moons. The businessman swallows, already feeling like this party-crasher of a woman is going to ruin his plans for the day. She takes step upon step closer to him and his companion, and when she gets too close, they take a step back. With no effort at all, without even touching them, she presses them up against the gates.
“So what’s the plan? I need to know so I can learn from you, sunbae.” She blinks sweetly. “Butter him up? Compliment the company’s recent developments in robotics? Maybe go as far as say you long to have your very own Ji? How useful he’d be around the house?”
“We have nothing to say to you,” his companion says, and her head whips so swiftly in his direction that the man is sure she’s going to hoist him off the ground and throw him away. She doesn’t, of course, she’s just a frail little woman. Her smile only widens, showing off her teeth.
“Of course not, I couldn’t dream of being treated like your equal. I couldn’t dream of having my very own office, with a glass plaque with my name on it, and a comfortable chair to lean against while I place my feet on the table and think, ‘Ah, chairman Kim Min Kyu is very easy to manipulate, very easy indeed.’” Her words fall heavy on their ears, her smile falling millimeter upon millimeter with every stress on her words. His companion looks between him and the girl, anxious, almost waiting. Waiting for what?
“You know what else would happen in your office, sunbae?” She asks, taking hold of his tie and looking straight as his eyes. She’s very cute. But surely he’s seen her somew— “I’d go there too, to congratulate you. To use all the techniques I learned from you, you know?” Her voice is so low, he swallows. “And I’d walk up to your desk, I’d lean over your chair, and I’d choke you with your own tie, you freaking bastard!”
She yanks on his tie and his eyes almost pop out of their sockets. In a single movement, she pulls him from his place against the gates, lets go of his tie, and stands between them and the chairman’s manor. His companion rushes to his side, fussing over him, and he pushes him away in annoyance.
“Get out of here, you vile, proliferating protozoa! And if I see any of you around here again, I’ll personally chase you down with an army of robots to rip out your tongues and feed them to the fish!”
She yells at the top of her lungs, her voice projecting and filling the entire space around them, and the two men look alarmed at her, then at the windows of the manor behind her and, worried that the chairman might hear the insults and recognize them, run to their car and drive off as fast as they can to regroup and replan. Maybe they should avoid the chairman altogether for a while, until the whole incident is in the past.
She claps her hands together, dusting off invisible dirt. Butler Sung pokes his head around the corner of the gates, mouth hanging open.
“Impressive, Miss Jo.”
“Nah, I think I’m losing my touch. But it was effective, wasn’t it?” She says, giving him a thumbs up, which Butler Sung returns with enthusiasm. “Now please let me in, it’s freezing out here!”
“Through the back gates again?”
“It really doesn’t matter, sir!”
“Where were you, Ji Ah?”
She blinks from her spot on one of the kitchen stools, catching the eyes of a very suspicious Kim Min Kyu.
“Just... the bathroom.”
“It was a long bathroom break, though. Are you sure you’re okay? I’m barely started with dinner, I can make you something light,” he says, laughing when she hits her hands against the counter.
“Hey! That was one time!”
“I’m just concerned for your well-being!”
“Stop!”
She leans forward to playfully hit him but he had already paused on the vegetables he was chopping up to give her a little bit of attention so he catches her wrist with ease.
“Jo Ji Ah, if you just went to the bathroom, why are your hands so cold?”
“...The tap water is cold.”
He hums, taking hold of both her hands and holding them sandwiched between his.
“So it definitely wasn’t you that I heard shouting outside.”
“Definitely not.”
He hums again, looking straight at her eyes, and Ji Ah bites her lower lip.
“Ah, by the way, you should really be careful with people who seek you out at the company.”
He laughs.
“Where did that come from?”
“I just... It was just a sudden thought. You’ve been away for two years so you might be out of practice but there are some really opportunistic assholes around and you need to be careful, okay?”
He nods.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
However, he doesn’t let her hands go, which prompts Ji Ah to raise her eyebrows at him in question and laugh when he only keeps staring at her.
“What?” She asks.
“Are you sure you don’t want to work at the company? You could be my... bodyguard.”
“Okay, and who would make your favorite inventions?”
“We could, hmm, go over them together after working hours.”
“So I’d be with you, what, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week?”
“Exactly.”
She narrows her eyes at him.
“Nice try.”
He shrugs.
“It was worth a shot.”
He leans forward, easily closing the space between them, and gives her a lingering kiss that could have lasted her entire breath or just a few seconds. When he backs away from her, and before going back to his cooking, he winks at her and she can do nothing but blush and hide her smile away behind her hands from the silly, cheesy man she loves so much.
“Are you sure you don’t want like, porridge or something?”
