Chapter Text
The club is dark. It smells like artificial fog, beams of neon light piercing through the hazy clouds of it that curl weightlessly over the dance floor.
The rear hallway is even darker.
Chay stumbles backwards through it, uncaring where his feet fall, trusting the spinning, tilting world to rise up and meet him wherever he lands.
A stranger’s hands steady him, rumbling giggles barely audible over the thumping music that fades slightly with every step. They manage to trip out the back door and into the balmy night, never taking their hands off each other. It’s cooler out here, less humid without the twisting throng of bodies closing in around them.
Chay finds himself crowded against chipping paint over rough cement. It scratches at his bare shoulders, cool against his back through the thin fabric of his tank top. His silver necklaces suddenly feel like ice against his clammy skin.
The music of the club is gone. Traffic, voices, and a messy din of clashing bass echoes down the alley from far to Chay’s left.
For a second, Chay almost feels sober again. The world around him comes alive, his world expanding all at once from a quiet, intimate bubble to the effervescent rush of Bangkok.
There’s a dumpster shielding them from the distant open street. Chay wonders how trashy it is to hook up with someone next to a literal pile of garbage.
Trashy.
He giggles to himself.
He kind of likes being trashy.
Warm, wet lips meet his own, stealing away his laughter. The kiss tastes like cinnamon whiskey. Chay isn’t a fan of cinnamon, but he lets it slide, because the guy in front of him is hot .
The stranger pulls back. He’s a little bit taller than Chay. He’s wearing a leather jacket. His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass. Chay wants to lick it.
And why shouldn’t Chay do whatever he wants to do?
He leans forward and nuzzles into the side of his new acquaintance’s neck, trailing his lips upward until he finds the hinge of his jaw. He drags his tongue along the edge of it.
The stranger moans.
“You’re so hot,” he rasps.
“You think so?” Chay purrs, batting his eyelashes up at his handsome new friend.
He likes this game—likes the thrill of it, likes learning how to say the right words and do the right things to get pretty men to give him everything he asks for and more.
As Chay has recently discovered, there are a lot of pretty men in Bangkok.
City of angels, indeed.
“What are you going to do about it?” Chay challenges. He tilts his head to the side, baring his neck. His tank top is cut low enough that half his chest is exposed to the open air.
He knows exactly how sexy he looks.
It’s all the encouragement his new friend needs—he leans back in, slotting their bodies together. Chay closes his eyes as their groins connect through layers of denim, letting his head bump back against the rough concrete wall as needy lips latch onto his pulse point.
The world isn’t spinning quite as much now as it was earlier. Chay is focused on the friction between them, arching his back to seek out more of it. He runs his hands up the stranger’s shoulders and curls them into his hair.
He wishes it were longer, wants to wind strands of it between his fingers.
Chay opens his eyes and pouts, dropping his hands to lace around the back of the guy’s neck.
“I want more,” he pleads. He sticks his lower lip out just a bit, gazing up through his lashes, and watches with near-predatory satisfaction as his quarry’s eyes darken. Large, possessive hands slide down Chay’s sides and grip his ass.
Chay hums appreciatively, feels his body aching and wanting in response. His feet spread apart on instinct and press against the inside of a pair of black Doc Martens.
Chay’s sexy stranger leans down and nibbles at his ear.
“I don’t have any protection,” he murmurs, voice low and husky.
Chay manages to resist rolling his eyes.
There’s no way he’s letting someone fuck him in an alley. Or the other way around—though he’s noticed that everyone who has ever propositioned him has assumed the former.
Chay slides one hand down to the man’s chest and pushes him back, creating some distance between them. Once he’s sure he has his partner’s undivided attention, he raises his hand to his mouth and licks a wet stripe across his own palm.
Dark, dilated pupils track his every move.
“I was thinking of something a little more hands-on,” Chay smirks, toying with the button of the guy’s jeans.
He thinks he has to go soon anyway. Macau has class in the morning.
Luckily, his partner seems eager for anything. It only takes a few seconds of fumbling before they’re both rutting together into Chay’s hand.
“Ah—let me—” The stranger replaces Chay’s hand with his own larger one, wrapping it around both of them.
Chay groans, letting his head fall back against the wall, basking in the wet, velvety slide of them rubbing together between their open waistbands.
A thumb rubs over the head of Chay’s cock, circling his slit. He can feel himself throbbing in the stranger’s grip, both of them wet with precome.
He closes his eyes again.
There’s a sharp, needy tension rising in his gut. He chases after it, thrusting into the tight, wet grasp around him, hands gripping the leather on the stranger’s shoulders, bracing himself.
Chay draws the man in, burying his face in the crook of his neck, leaving little nips and love bites to occupy his mouth while his brain starts to fuzz out of focus.
Fuck , Chay loves the smell of leather.
“Yeah,” Chay gasps. He can hear the pitch of his own voice rising, needy gasps melting into desperate, quiet squeaks. “Fuck—just like that.”
“God damn, you’re so—”
Chay arches his back and comes between them, rising to his toes. Hot pleasure surges through his bloodstream, before curling lazily through his muscles and sinking into his bones.
He can hear his new acquaintance breathing hard above him, still thrusting. A few seconds later, Chay feels a new bloom of wetness leaking down his already sticky cock.
The alley is spinning again when Chay opens his eyes. He’s staring up at the murky night sky, tinted vaguely orange from the blended glow of city lights. For a second he’s lost in it, forgetting where he is, the heady veil of sex and liquor dragging him away from his body and into some mislaid, wandering thread of thought that smells vaguely of bourbon.
He hasn’t had bourbon in awhile.
He looks down between them and the cold clarity of sudden sobriety settles over him.
They’re a mess.
Somehow, thankfully, his own shirt was spared—but his nameless partner is going to have to zip up his jacket to look presentable again.
They stand there, catching their breath, flagging cocks hanging out of their unbuttoned jeans.
“That was—” the stranger begins.
“Yeah,” Chay agrees. He feels weightless, a distant static buzzing on his fingertips. He thinks, as it begins to settle into a steady, satisfied hum across his body, that he should probably begin making his strategic escape before this guy gets the wrong idea.
People have a tendency to look at Chay’s big eyes and slender frame and assume he’s looking for attachments.
“So I was wondering—” the stranger begins.
Chay inwardly cringes.
They are interrupted by the back door of the club swinging open a few feet away from them. Macau strides out, scanning the narrow, cramped space.
His gaze lands on them a second later.
“Oh my gosh!” he shrieks. He immediately slaps both hands to his face and pivots in the opposite direction. “I did not need to see that!”
Chay takes advantage of the distraction, powering through his embarrassed blushing to tuck himself back into his jeans. It’s not comfortable by any means, his underwear still damp and sticky, but at least he looks decent.
Next to him the nameless stranger does the same, buttoning his jacket for good measure to hide the very telling stains on his black shirt.
“Sorry,” Chay grimaces. He ducks out from within the man’s arms, shooting him an apologetic glance even though he’s not actually very sorry at all. He directs his next words to Macau. “You could have like, texted me, or something—we’re decent now. You can turn around.”
Macau spins back around slowly, one hand still covering his eyes, the other braced against his hip. He parts his fingers and peers out from behind them suspiciously.
He kind of looks like Sailor Moon in that pose. Chay imagines him in the little blue skirt and has to hold back a giggle.
“Thank fuck,” Macau sighs, dropping his hand. “That was scarring, bro. I never want to see that again. What’s wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” Chay repeats, this time meaning it. He’s definitely blushing. Maybe the alley is a bad idea. He should stick to the bathrooms. They have stalls, even if it’s weird that people sometimes just walk in and out while you’re trying to make out with someone.
Behind them, someone clears their throat. Both Chay and Macau turn to look at Chay’s hookup, who is now leaning with his back on the wall he only just had Chay pinned against moments before.
“Uh, hey,” the guy says awkwardly. “Could I maybe get your number?”
Macau rolls his eyes and snorts. Chay shoots Macau a scolding look.
“Um—sorry,” Chay says gently, turning back to the guy he just got off with. He’s not very good at this part of hookups yet. He feels like every word out of his mouth for the past minute has been some form of apology, and tries not to dwell on any grander indication that might hold on the current state of his life.
“Right. No. It’s cool.” The stranger nods, accepting the rejection with grace. He shuffles hesitantly past them to the door. “Cool. Have a good night. And uh, thanks?”
Chay smiles sweetly and waves, bouncing on his toes. He still has a surplus of faint, fizzing energy coursing through his veins from their shared release.
“You too! Have a good night!”
The heavy metal door back to the club closes with a loud thud . As soon as it does, Macau groans and rubs his eyes.
“Oh my gosh,” he complains. “That was so painful. What’s wrong with you?”
“What?” Chay asks defensively.
“ And uh, thanks? ” Macau mimics. Then he raises his voice several pitches. “ You too! Have a good night! ”
Chay socks him in the shoulder.
“Be nice! He was actually kind of sweet. And I do not sound like that.”
“Ew. Wash your hands before you touch me.”
Chay pouts. “Don’t you have hand sanitizer and water on your bike? I don’t want to go in there and run into him again.”
Macau groans and turns toward the street. Chay follows.
“I can’t believe you abandoned me to go hook up with some guy in an alley ,” Macau complains.
“How many times have I been stuck here waiting for you to get your rocks off?” Chay replies, unmoved. “I’m just getting my revenge.”
They’ve only been hanging out for a little under three months—since shortly after Chay moved back into the main house. Still, Chay has already fallen into an easy comfort with Macau that he no longer has with any of his old friends—even Ohm.
Ohm, whom he was supposed to room with at school.
Instead, Chay is basically living in a luxury resort.
He supposes being in the mafia can do that.
A tiny, aching sliver of something painful and familiar tries to wriggle its way into Chay’s chest. He’s thinking about bourbon again. He digs a cigarette and his lighter out of his pocket.
“Porsche is going to throw a fit if he smells that on you,” Macau warns.
“Porsche barely even knows I exist any more,” Chay shoots back. “Besides, I’m almost nineteen. He can’t stop me.”
Macau only shrugs.
“Your funeral.”
~*~
Chay stretches as he strolls down the hallway of his private floor.
It’s just after midnight. He’s still a little bit buzzed, and his blood is still humming from his giggly, drunken tryst behind the club.
He closes his eyes and drifts a second, smiling at the memory of soft leather scrunching beneath his fingers.
He can still count on one hand the number of times he’s done things like that—at least, that he’s gone that far with. He’s not so sure he can count the number of people he’s drunkenly kissed. He might not remember some of them.
As it turns out, he gets very touchy when he’s drunk.
When Chay opens his eyes, he stumbles to a sudden stop. All thoughts of booze and sex flee down the hallway and out the emergency stairwell opposite.
The door of his suite is sitting open.
He stands there for a long second, staring at it, unsure whether he should peer inside or flee immediately. In this house, one can never be sure.
He should probably be worried.
He’s in the mafia now, after all. Technically.
Still, he passed over half a dozen bodyguards on the way in. Surely no one snuck past all of that firepower specifically to get to him ?
This isn’t his house. This is a compound .
Chay isn’t sure he’s ready to face the embarrassment of summoning the bodyguards for nothing. He should at least try to take care of himself independently.
It’s probably fine. He just didn’t close it all the way on the way out.
His mouth tastes sweet, vaguely like ether. He shoves the imagined taste away, boxing it up in the back of his mind.
The lights are clearly on, a golden glow spilling out into the darker hallway. Chay doesn’t think someone trying to get the jump on him would leave the door open and the lights on. They would have to be extremely incompetent kidnappers.
Cautiously, he peeks around the door frame.
Oh.
Oh no .
Chay immediately ducks backwards, spinning on his heel to flee. This is far worse than an encore kidnapping.
“I saw you there, Chay,” comes Porsche’s voice from within.
Chay cringes and halts. He takes a deep breath. He pauses to tug his shirt up so it shows a bit less skin, hoping the cigarette stench was carried away by the windy ride home.
At least he doesn’t have any stains on his shirt like that other guy did.
He turns around.
“Hi hia,” he greets, peeking sheepishly back around the door frame.
He shuffles into his own bedroom like he’s worried he might be ambushed there after all. He’s uncomfortably aware of the come still drying in his underwear. The fabric is sticking to the inside of his leg.
Porsche sits on Chay’s bed, facing the door. His arms are crossed, expression darkened by a worried frown.
“You were out late,” he remarks. “Have you been drinking?”
Chay crosses his arms too, cocking out a hip, mirroring Porsche’s pose.
At least Porsche didn’t comment on the cigarette smell. Chay might be safe in that department. The last time Porsche suspected him of smoking, it devolved into a days-long argument.
“I was hanging out with Macau,” Chay answers, avoiding the line of questioning entirely.
Porsche’s frown deepens.
“You weren’t at the club again, were you? I’ve told you that place isn’t—”
“Hia,” Chay interrupts. “What are you doing in my room in the middle of the night?”
Porsche sighs.
“There was a family meeting tonight. I came to talk to you after, but you weren’t home. I asked Arm to tell me when you returned so I could check in.”
Chay turns to drop his wallet and keys onto his dresser.
Ever since Kinn and Porsche took joint control, the major and minor families have been working as a united front, meeting regularly for family-wide updates and planning.
Chay tells himself he isn’t bitter that no one ever sees fit to include him in the family discussions.
At least this time, he had Macau to hang out with. Sometimes, even Macau is summoned to make an appearance, leaving Chay sulking in his room alone.
Chay never wanted anything to do with the mafia anyway. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.
Porsche interrupts his musings with a sudden yelp.
“Is that a hickey ?!”
Eyes wide, Chay spins around and slaps his hand over the side of his neck.
“Chay!” Porsche cries. He’s standing now, looking simultaneously outraged and utterly lost.
Chay stares at him like a deer caught in headlights.
Porsche takes a half step forward, then seems to change his mind.
His voice is pained when he speaks again.
“Please tell me… that’s not from Macau , is it?”
Chay blinks at him. Silence draws out between them.
Macau?!
Chay bursts into laughter.
“Oh my gosh. No ! Please do not ever say that again. That’s horrifying.”
“Oh.” Porsche hesitates. He seems relieved at first, then worried again. “Are you… are you seeing someone?”
Chay blushes.
“No.”
“Oh.”
They stand there awkwardly.
Chay walks over to his jewelry box and begins removing his accessories, one by one. It feels weird with his brother watching him.
He never used to wear much jewelry, aside from the occasional necklace. Nowadays, he drapes himself in silver and pearls whenever he goes out. He feels like Porsche is taking note of the differences.
They see each other so rarely these days.
Things never used to be this uncomfortable between them. Chay wonders if it always would have been like this eventually—if no matter the life they lived, Porsche would always want to shield him from growing up, creating space between them from his own inability to adapt to Chay’s leap into adulthood.
Chay feels like Porsche barely knows him now.
“You know,” Porsche says carefully, “we haven’t talked about school in a while. I’ve given you a few months to get used to things, but you should really think about reapplying. You need something to do , Chay.”
Chay angles himself away from his brother and takes his time removing his rings.
He doesn’t want to think about school. School means music. Music only makes him think about—
“What was so important that you had to stay up to tell me?” he asks evenly.
Behind him, Porsche sighs. Chay sets his jaw against the tide of disappointment he hears in that single sound.
He’s done removing his rings, but he hovers near his jewelry box. He’s not ready to turn around.
“Nothing really. I was just worried about you, when I realized you were gone and hadn’t told me.”
“I lived alone for months before moving in here,” Chay reminds him, trying not to sound bitter and failing spectacularly. “You never checked on me then. ”
“Chay,” Porsche says gently. Chay can hear the hurt in his voice. It cuts sharply into his own chest.
He turns around to face his brother. His buzz has faded rapidly. He’s starting to get a headache.
“Sorry.”
When Chay shuffles forward, Porsche wraps his arms around him without being asked, enveloping him in a big, tight hug.
It feels good to be held. Chay melts into it.
He misses this.
“I’m worried about you,” Porsche says. “You’ve been… different.”
Chay shrugs as much as he can within the confines of their embrace, talking into the fancy white silk of Porsche’s shirt.
“Sometimes different is good.”
Porsche hums.
“Sure,” he agrees tentatively. “But sometimes different is also… reactionary. Is there anything you want to talk about? I know this has all been a lot.”
Chay sits down on the bed. Porsche follows close behind him, refusing to relinquish the moment now that he has seized it.
“No,” Chay says quietly. “There isn’t. But I promise to start looking at applications for next year, okay?”
Porsche presses his lips together and glances at Chay’s abandoned guitar in the corner of the room. Whatever it is he wants to say, he doesn’t say it.
Chay can see the moment he blinks away the thought. He looks instead at Chay’s neck, a new kind of concern clouding his expression.
“You know, I know I’m the last person to be lecturing you about abstinence,” he says.
“So don’t,” Chay cuts in, already blushing.
Porsche holds his hands up defensively.
“So I’m not,” he continues. “But I will say this—after I met Kinn, things were different.”
Chay looks away.
Porsche leans to the side, nearly falling over in his attempt to catch Chay’s eyes again.
“I’m not saying anything you’re doing is wrong,” Porsche continues, with a sly grin, “As established, I’m the last person who could throw stones, and I know we’ve had the talk so I won’t humiliate you further with that sort of thing.
“What I am saying is that when you deeply care about the other person involved—about how they feel, about what they want—it’s different. And it’s okay to have high standards. Someone, someday, will meet them.”
Chay closes his eyes as Porsche speaks. He can’t look at him.
There are embers behind his eyelids, threatening to burn away all the progress he’s made since his life first fell apart. They burn atop a dark pit of self-doubt, black and fathomlessly deep. He builds a fragile glass bridge across it before it swallows him whole.
Chay’s standards have become permanently unattainable.
How can anyone ever compare to the fairytale he already lost?
That’s all fairytales are, in the end. Cautionary lies.
Chay is happy for Porsche. He is. But not everyone gets to have what he has.
Chay wants a cigarette.
“Chay?” Porsche asks softly.
Chay hates the worry in his voice, hates how sad he sounds.
“I’m tired.” Chay says, miraculously managing to keep his voice steady. “Can we talk about this another time?”
Again, Porsche looks like he wants to say something.
Again, he holds back.
“Okay,” he finally allows. “Goodnight, Chay.”
“Goodnight, hia.”
Chay stares at the wall until Porsche stands up and walks away, afraid that if their eyes meet he might burst into tears. He blames the hangover shambling its way ominously over his consciousness.
When he reaches the door, Porsche pauses.
“You know,” he says softly, “I miss the old you. I hope I get to see him again one day.”
Chay curls up on his bed and faces the window. Outside, neon city lights shine bright against the black sky.
A few seconds later, the door clicks closed.
~*~
The music in Chay’s room is loud, bass thumping in his chest. He tests out his new jeans by dropping to the floor. The denim stretches with him, tight as a second skin, his socks sliding across his fluffy rug. He can’t help but continue to bob back and forth as he pops back up and circles his room, grabbing an ear cuff as he passes his jewelry box, then a necklace the next time around. The third pass is for rings, and then Chay is prancing backwards, singing loudly, his voice drowned out by the track thumping overhead.
If there’s one advantage to living in the main house, it’s the amenities. The recessed speakers in Chay’s ceiling can get loud enough to shake the floor. He’s lucky that no one lives in the suite across the hall—he has no doubt they would be able to hear this, loudly .
Chay checks himself out in the mirror that spans his closet doors. His black hooded top has cut outs for his shoulders, and ends at his midriff to show off his newly-sculpted abs.
He looks hot.
He better look hot. He’s earned it.
One of the best amenities in the main house is the gym, and Big is more than enthusiastic to play personal trainer for someone who actually listens to him, even now that he’s back to full-time duty.
Chay likes Big. Big says what he means, and he never holds back. He likes most of the bodyguards, actually. They’re surprisingly nice.
Chay is still dancing as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He expects it’s Macau, waiting outside on his bike, so he opens the conversation without even glancing at the name.
When he looks down, he stumbles mid hip thrust and drops his phone.
From the floor, frozen in time two months prior, Kim’s eyes stare back at him.
The yawning, gaping well of darkness in Chay’s chest opens up again. His heart skips off-beat, like it’s afraid it might fall in.
He picks up his phone.
He never managed to make himself delete that video. Now it taunts him from the conversation’s history, preserved above the new text that prompted the notification.
Chay hasn’t listened to it in over a week. He thought he was over it.
Unsaved: I’m coming by the house. Can we talk?
Chay stares down at the message. He feels unmoored, and suddenly rather dizzy.
It’s been two months of blissful silence.
Why is Kim texting him now ?
A tiny ache awakens in Chay’s chest.
It’s the same ache he feels whenever he looks at his guitar, abandoned in the corner of his room, and thinks about playing it again. Or even worse—when he glimpses the other guitar, hidden away in the depths of his closet behind a stack of unpacked boxes.
It’s fine. He’s fine. He honestly feels great.
It doesn’t ache quite as much as it used to, to think of Kim. Chay isn’t sure how he feels about that.
He thinks maybe he’s moving on. For real, this time.
The first thing he’s going to do when he gets to the club is step out back and have a cigarette.
He locks his phone and slides it back in his pocket.
There’s nothing he needs to discuss with Kim. He’ll be long gone by the time Kim arrives at the main house, and he won’t return until late tonight. He can continue avoiding him, just like he has been for the past two months.
The song on the speakers switches, and Chay jumps back into the beat of it, bouncing across the room, trying to get back in the headspace for a night out.
He wants to try out the eyeliner he bought last week. He hasn’t worn it in public yet, his hands still too awkward and shaky to draw a smooth line, but he feels suddenly emboldened. He wants to try something adventurous.
Before he can open the cap, however, his phone buzzes again.
Chay’s heart skips a beat. He sets down the eyeliner. He unlocks his phone.
He tries to ignore the slight quiver in his hands.
Macau: I’m here, loser. Get out here within 5 minutes or I’m leaving without you.
The tension in Chay’s chest dissolves. He grins. He knows Macau won’t leave without him—but if he takes too long, Macau will bitch about it for the rest of the night.
His knight in shiny, mafia-crested armor.
He double-checks himself in the mirror, nods, and skips off to the elevator.
It’s bright outside, the sun just beginning its descent behind the busy skyline. Chay unfolds his aviators and slides them on as he steps outside through the front doors.
He stops in his tracks.
There’s someone standing next to Macau’s baby blue Ducati.
Chay would recognize that slender, unruffled silhouette anywhere.
Dread pools in the pit of his stomach.
Kim.
Kim is wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, and Chay can’t help but acknowledge in some reluctantly fond corner of his brain how typical that is of him.
He was always wearing leather.
His hair is different, though—longer. It’s pulled back into an artfully messy bun, a few stray flyaways framing Kim’s face like a dark halo.
Chay’s heart kicks into overdrive.
The last time he saw Kim face to face, Kim left him sobbing in the street.
He looks so different now, and so heart-wrenchingly the same.
Chay doesn’t feel ready to pick back up the pieces of their final conversation. They’re still sharp and dangerous inside of him, threatening further injury if he jostles them.
He considers turning around and going back inside before he is noticed, maybe telling Macau he’s suddenly sick. He could hide in his room until the coast is clear, like he’s done time and time again during family meetings or when the boys all returned together from the kinds of jobs they artfully avoided mentioning in Chay’s presence.
But Kim has never texted him before. What if he comes looking for him?
Before Chay can come to a decision, the decision is made for him. Macau’s eyes find him, still rooted to the pavement right outside the doorway.
Macau waves, oblivious to Chay’s distress.
Chay is deeply grateful for the sunglasses hiding his eyes as Kim turns around and spots him.
The world stops. Kim stares at him. He’s not sure for how long.
Some ashen ember inside his vacant chest sparks and spits back to life.
Chay feels it like something physical, a taut golden string drawing him forward—toward those dark, wary eyes that widen as they fall to take in the full picture he makes.
Kim always looked so constantly overwhelmed when they were together, once Chay learned how to read his little micro-expressions. He looks a bit like that now.
Chay thinks that perhaps it was the overwhelming weight of all the lies piling up on him.
He tries to channel the smooth, confident persona he’s been inhabiting with Macau for the past few months, sliding into the role like a new set of clothes. He raises his chin and glares back at Kim, refusing to be the one to look away. He strides forward.
He’s not letting Kim ruin his night before it’s even begun. He has plans .
He’s over Kim.
He’s fine.
He comes to a stop beside Kim and Macau. Macau looks between them, clearly picking up on the tension.
Chay forgets, sometimes, that Macau doesn’t know. He knows Chay has an ex (his not ex, as Chay insists on calling it), but Chay skimmed over the specifics as much as possible, terrified of revealing the true depths of his gullibility, of admitting just how pathetic he was at the mercy of a pretty face and a nice guitar.
He reminds himself now that he’s not at their mercy any longer.
“Porchay,” Kim greets. His voice sounds slightly strained.
All these weeks of peace, and now Kim is right here in front of him, bathed in the honey-warm glow of the golden hour.
“Kim,” Chay responds, with notably more ice. He leaves off the phi on purpose, wondering if Kim will notice.
Kim’s eyes drop very obviously to Chay’s outfit. Chay feels the heat of them like fingertips skimming over his skin. It takes a reactive, nearly instinctual blush rising to Chay’s cheeks before he realizes Kim is checking him out .
And oh , isn’t that a strange new sensation?
Kim is looking at Chay the way men do at the club. It’s the kind of look that often leads to breathless encounters in bathrooms and alleyways.
Maybe fewer alleyways, after Chay’s last disaster.
A burst of confidence rushes Chay all at once. He’s not sure what comes over him, but he has the sudden feeling that nothing matters. That Kim is just another guy , making eyes at him from across the dance floor.
Chay smirks, tilts his head, and bats his eyelashes.
“You’re in my way,” he says, mocking sweetness.
Next to him, Macau chokes.
Kim’s eyebrows shoot up. A flash of something dangerous sparks behind his eyes. There’s a responding jolt of electricity in Chay’s chest.
“We need to talk, Porchay,” Kim responds, pointedly ignoring Chay’s acrid tone.
Chay doesn’t answer, just holds Kim’s gaze.
He’s sick of tip-toeing around the compound like a rat in a house full of cats.
Kim stares at him.
Chay stares back.
Slowly, a hint of curiosity flickering behind the dangerous neutrality of his gaze, Kim steps out of his way.
He watches as Chay brushes past him and swings his leg over Macau’s bike. Chay wraps one arm firmly around Macau’s waist, leaning into it more than is entirely necessary. Kim’s eyes dart down for just a second to take note.
“Porchay—” he starts.
With his free hand, Chay reaches up and slides his shades down his nose.
“ Sorry ,” he interrupts. “I’ve got plans. Let’s go, Macau.”
Never mind his hammering heart.
Macau seems more than ready to make his escape. He revs the engine and peels off, leaving Kim standing there in their dust, alone in the street.
Chay hopes Kim is gaping at them, but he doesn’t have the courage to turn around and check.