Chapter Text
“I thought your silence was a punishment.
But now I think it was mercy.”
— Kim Theerapanyakul, unsent message draft #27
The night he sends the music video, the sky is bleeding.
Kim sits in his apartment, lights off, rain tapping gently on the windows like a ghost requesting entrance. The screen glows with his face. Raw, untouched, filmed months ago when his fingers still trembled from the shape of Chay’s jawline. From the feel of soft skin beneath his lips. That dreaded kiss he gave in the studio — the one where he felt that if he didn’t kiss him now, Chay would forget all about him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He still remembers the moment he uploaded the “Why Don’t You Stay” video with shaking hands. Not to the world, just to the one inbox he cared about most. Kim’s gotta give it to Chay. That little shit dared to ghost him. THE Kim Kimhan Theerapanyakul.
Porchay Pichaya Kittisawat.
How he wished his Bambi was in front of him. How he wished he’d smile and look back with those beautiful eyes, the ones that told Kim he could love every side of him.
But then — nothing. And it’s all Kim’s fault. He did this.
No reply. No anger. Nothing.
Absolute silence from his angel.
Even when Kim was at the compound, trying to reach Chay felt like tracking a ghost. Nobody had seen him. Nobody had talked to him.
Even so, Kim doesn’t cry. He doesn’t blink.
He pours himself a glass of something expensive and bitter, watches the screen until the static in his head becomes a lullaby. Somewhere, he hears Chay’s voice again, soft and sorrowful.
"Was any of it ever real?"
Kim presses play on the video again.
Again.
Again.
Chay hasn’t sung in months.
Not since the breakup. Not since the lie. Not since he found out Kim Kimhan Theerapanyakul — the boy who said he loved him — had only entered his life under false pretenses.
And yet, the way Kim looked at him…
The way he held him, kissed him, whispered lullabies into his shoulder that night they fell asleep on the couch…
It couldn’t have been fake. Could it?
But he still doesn’t tell Porsche anything.
Porsche wouldn’t understand. He’d fly off the handle and blame himself, when it was Chay who’d been stupid.
How could someone as perfect, as unfeeling as Kim, ever have feelings for Chay?
Besides, Porsche wouldn’t notice anyway. He’s too wrapped up in Kinn to even think about him.
Chay had entertained the idea of coming clean to Porsche, but in every scenario playing in his mind, none of them ended well for the Kittisawats. Especially when they’re only allowed to stay here, in the compound, at the mercy of the Theerapanyakuls.
Let hia think he’s just heartbroken (he’s not heartbroken — he’s splintered).
Let him call Kim “that useless playboy” and tell Chay he’s better off, without knowing Kim’s identity.
At least the pain is quiet now, a numb hum, like standing too long in a blizzard and forgetting your fingers are frostbitten.
Gone.
When he opens the message again that night and sees Kim’s video, he doesn’t watch it.
He doesn’t have to.
He hears it.
Even without pressing play, he knows every note. Every lyric. Every breath.
How could he not, when it burrows into him, the way every note plays in his bones.
Meanwhile, Porsche is drowning.
Between managing his duties as the head of the minor family, his husband and his brother’s silence, he feels like a man trying to plug holes in a sinking ship.
Kinn is… loving, in the way a storm is — consuming, intense, warm when it wants to be. But lately, he’s been distant.
He seems… fixated on Chay.
As a former underground fighter, Porsche’s only ever survived by trusting his gut; and right now, it’s screaming.
But this is Kinn. His husband, for god’s sake.
He wouldn’t do anything to Chay.
He knows how much Chay means to him… right?
“Your brother’s not eating,” Kinn says one evening, swirling his whiskey.
Porsche frowns. “You’ve noticed?”
“Of course I have. I care.”
Porsche tries to smile.
But something about the way Kinn says “care” makes him shiver.
Kinn watches Chay like a collector admiring a rare artefact.
There’s a softness in him when he sees Chay that Porsche never brings out. Something almost sacred. He calls it concern. Protection.
After all, Chay is Porsche’s reason to live and that, by extension, makes him Kinn’s too.
It’s nothing but extended protection for his lovely and defenseless nong.
But if anyone ever looked closely, they’d see it for what it is.
Obsession.
Kinn remembers the first time he saw Chay. Not noticed, but saw him, truly.
That night, when Chay sang at the pub. That seedy pub where there are more broken dreams than empty glasses.
His voice — soft, tremulous with nerves, but so sincere it ached.
Something clicked inside him.
Not lust. Not love.
Need.
Chay reminded him of something long buried, a photo of a young boy torn from his father’s past.
A face that haunted Korn in the dead of night.
And Kinn? Kinn inherited the same feeling. The same rot his father had.
After all, isn’t he his father’s son?
And now, Kim — his lovely, dear brother Kim — dares to send Chay a song?
Dares to beg for Chay’s love after all Kinn did to ensure he’d never show his face again?
He plays the video from Chay’s inbox — because of course he has access.
Watches it. Once. Twice.
His lips twist into a smile that never reaches his eyes.
Kim always thought he was the monster.
He doesn’t know how far Kinn is willing to go.
And Kim?
Kim drinks alone.
He lights a cigarette with the same hands that once wrote songs, the same ones who killed for Chay, and every time he exhales, he thinks about Chay’s laugh.
The one he killed.
He doesn’t regret lying to Chay — not truly.
He regrets being found out. He regrets not erasing every truth that could’ve driven Chay away.
But most of all, he regrets how much he still wants him.
Despite everything.
Wants to crawl back under his skin.
Wants to tear the world apart just to hear him sing again.
Wants to own the silence Chay gave him.
So he sends a second message.
“If you won’t stay, then I’ll come for you. And this time, I’m not asking.”