He slips into the room quickly, shutting and locking the door behind him with a soft ‘click!’ that draws Gun’s gaze just the way he had hoped. He has that little wrinkle between his brow and his face is set into the scowl he makes when he’s ruminating over something that will inevitably piss him off. Chan takes a few large strides and sits in the armchair across from Gun’s. He doesn’t reach out to touch him, knows it wouldn’t be appreciated, so he sits with one leg crossed over the other and hands folded in his lap patiently. 

“I thought you couldn’t get away.” Gun gestures with his chin towards the pager sitting at the corner of the coffee table. 

“Khun Korn allowed me the rest of the evening off after a successful mission last night,” He explains, watching Gun’s jaw tick before his tongue rolls around in front of his teeth. If he’d had any doubts on what had soured Gun’s mood they were all now laid to rest. 

“How generous of him.” Gun practically spits the words with all the venom in his body and Chan closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to do this again, doesn’t want their little time alone soured by a war of attrition between brothers and blood rights. He knows things aren’t easy for Gun, he’s had to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of success he could eke out from under his brother, and Chan’s guilt grows each time his loyalty teeters perfectly in the center. 

He remembers their conversation a year and a month ago, sat under the dim lights of a noodle shop at three in the morning. 

Chan’s knuckles were bruised, a cut bisected his lips, and there was a distinct imprint of a boot outlined against his dark shirt. He pressed the frosty glass of beer to his cheek which was already swollen and mottled a rainbow of different colors. He glanced up as Gun returned from the pay phone outside, hating the concern he saw in his eyes. 

“Don’t start.” He mumbled, lowering his glass to take a long drink before licking away the foam on his upper lip. Gun made a soft ‘tch’ sound as he sat back down, drinking his own beer and digging into the steaming bowl of noodles that had arrived in his absence. 

“You can’t keep doing this shit, Chan. I think it’s time to consider my offer.” Gun gave him a pointed look before diving into his food. 

Chan lifted his glass to his cheek again, watching the broth of his soup cool and separate. He watched the little globules of fat dance around on the surface before heaving a large sigh that irritated his bruised ribs. 

“Fine.” He knew he sounded defeated but there really wasn’t any other way around it. If he continued fighting his brother’s debtors like this he’d end up dead in an alleyway somewhere. Who would miss him, anyway? He had no one left that would even know he was gone – no one except for Gun. 

“Good. I’ll pick you up in a few days and we can get you settled in at the compound.” Gun had that pleased little upturn to the corner of his lip and suddenly Chan couldn’t remember why he’d been fighting this all so hard. 

But Khun Korn had ruined that as well. Chan had been cornered the very next day and made an offer to join the latest batch of recruits for the main family. He hadn’t been in a position to decline if the gun held by the head of the guards was any indication. Gun had been apoplectic, storming the halls of the tower with teeth bared and accusations loaded. Chan hadn’t been there for it, but he’d heard the rumors and seen the way the other guards looked at him. 

All his free time had then been monopolized by Khun Korn and the rigorous training planned for the new recruits. He’d excelled at firearms training but struggled with escaping his bonds underwater. His only skills were what he had learned in back alley brawls and schoolyard tousles, far removed from the ex-military and gang-born men that had been around him. 

He blinks back into the present, watching as Gun anxiously rubs at his outgrown stubble and tosses a stack of papers onto the table. Chan decides to rise from his chair, feeling Gun’s eyes on him the entire way to the drink cart where he pours them each a few fingers of whiskey – the good stuff. 

“He was pretty upset you managed to solidify that drug deal with the Italians.” It wasn’t leaking information if it was obvious, merely an olive branch. It is worth it when he hands Gun a drink and watches his lips curl into a smile. 

“Come here.” He stops when Gun gently tugs at his wrist and guides him to sit beside him on the sofa. Little moments like this have a way of bringing a flutter to his chest and relaxing all his bones. He misses his best friend in the tower, misses these scarce days when they can shed their roles and settle back into what they were before they became entangled in the dichotomy of the major and minor families. 

They clink their glasses and each takes a sip before settling against the cushions at the back of the couch. Gun’s hand falls to rest on his thigh and Chan hides a smile behind the rim of his glass at the sensation. It’s grounding; draws him back to the now, and pushes away his guilt and his worries. 

He turns his head just in time to feel Gun’s lips press against his, his stubble scraping against the corners and the hand on his thigh tightening its grip until it almost feels like he’s extracting the tendon from his flesh. Kissing Gun is something like pouring gasoline on a house fire; explosive, volatile, untamed. He wishes he wouldn’t get swept away in it each time he feels the flames lick up the walls of his ribcage. He doesn’t think a tidal wave could cool the burning longing in his chest. 

It’s sweet agony when Gun shoves him backward onto the sofa, glass tumbling from his hand and rolling across the floor. He can't remember if it had been empty but he knows he doesn’t care as Gun’s hands spread the flames across his hips, his waist, and his chest; fisting the lapel of his coat and almost tearing it from his shoulders. His arms are caught behind his back, chest forward and shoulders straining as his mind flickers back to hours of training to escape his bonds. He feels Gun’s tongue lick a molten stripe from his collar to his jaw and he can’t help the way his mouth falls open in a ragged groan. 

He knows the guard outside the door can hear them, knows he can probably pick up the sound of his belt hitting the floor, but that’s just something else he can’t bring himself to care about at this moment. His eyes roll back and he arches into every touch on his bare skin, a moth to a flame that he knows will inevitably leave him a pile of ash. 

“Good, you came prepared.” Gun’s voice is low, a deep timber that has Chan moving his shoulders, desperate to reach out and embrace him, but Gun seems disinclined to remove him from his makeshift bonds. He swallows the whimper rising in his throat at the feeling of long fingers crooking inside him, prodding and stroking and teasing until he’s panting open-mouthed and dappled in sweat. 

It wasn’t always like this. They used to take their time to pull each other apart piece by piece. They used to lay in bed together after, teeth clicking as they tried to kiss through their smiles. They’d spent hours upon hours basking in the afterglow and tracing gentle patterns across flushed, sweat-soaked skin. He used to linger in bed, watching Gun dress in the fragile hours of the morning, before stealing a kiss and whispering goodbye. 

Now, he pulls his belt off the floor and threads it through the loops of his trousers. Gun is pouring himself a drink, half a room away at the drink cart, and he knows he’s been all but dismissed. He smoothes out the wrinkles in his jacket and touches the raw skin of his neck. “You left marks.” He tries to keep his voice from sounding accusatory but he can’t tell if they’re bites, bruises, or beard burn. He presses his fingers into the sting just a little harder before dropping his hands back to his sides. 

“You’ll figure something out,” Gun replies and returns to his seat on the couch. He picks up the papers again without a second look at Chan and he swallows down the disappointment. There’s no second glass offered, no invitation to stay, and Chan knows it’s time to leave. He’s fulfilled his purpose today and soaked up any attention he was allotted. 

“I always do,” he mumbles under his breath, turning towards the door and stepping through without a goodbye. His mind digs up a memory of Gun pressing him to the very same door, refusing to let him leave before he’d pressed a kiss to his brow, his cheek, his nose, his jaw, and his lips. He clenches his hands in his pockets as he nods a farewell to the guards at the gate and climbs into his car. 

He makes it two blocks before pulling over, tucking himself away down a residential street and pressing his forehead to the steering wheel. His hands are clenched in a white-knuckled grip and his stomach roils with self-loathing and guilt. He is a traitor in every sense of the word; to Gun, to Khun Korn, and lastly (always lastly) to himself. 

His skin feels like it’s crawling and he tells himself it’s just the sensation of putting himself back together. Each time he grabs the pieces of his humanity from the ashes they fit together less and less; edges worn away and ill-fitting. He should be tempered to the flame by now but as with all things he files it away as a personal failing to ruminate on in the quiet hours of the night. 

After a few more moments he pulls away from the curb, continuing his way to the tower and pulling into the parking lot beneath. He returns the keys to the peg board next to the elevator and steps inside, jamming the button for the dorm rooms a little too hard. He is grateful it's late, too late for many other recruits to be outside their rooms. He doesn't have to deal with the sideways looks and backhanded comments questioning his loyalty. 

Chan counts the doors just like he used to the first few weeks here until he reaches the fourth door on the right. The key in the tumbler sounds overly loud to him, but he knows he’s just on edge. He strips out of his suit on the way to the bathroom and doesn’t pay attention to how hot he turns the dial. It will never be hot enough, anyway, not for what he wants to accomplish. 

The constant spray turns his skin a mottled red but even still he stays leaning against the tiled wall. Chan keeps his eyes closed, lips slightly parted, and arms braced despite the slight tremble throughout his frame. His skin feels dirty, tainted, and he can almost imagine a viscous ichor dripping from every pore. No amount of soap or scrubbing wipes it clean, no matter how hard he tries or how many layers of skin he digs away. The sensation lingers even as the water runs cold and trembling turns into shivering. 

The tap squeaks as he turns it off and dries himself off with stilted, automatic movements. Chan doesn’t bother drying his hair as he walks to his bed and all but falls in, curling himself around his duvet and spare pillows. It didn’t used to feel like this and he doesn’t exactly know where it all began to go wrong, but he knows it’s peeling him apart piece by broken piece. He misses his best friend. He misses the lover that used to touch him gently and beg him to stay. He misses when his heart felt like a functioning organ, bursting with affection, and not a withering plant deprived of sunlight. 

He falls asleep with damp eyelashes and memories of open-mouthed, laughing kisses by the river. He dreams someone is bandaging his hands and kissing his knuckles, asking him to be more careful next time. 

The next time they meet is better; Gun’s eyes are bright and crinkle at the corners in the way Chan loves. They retreat into one of the sitting rooms, away from the pressures of Gun’s office, and settle in close. There are no immediate, demanding kisses or groping hands. They sit beside each other, sip their drinks and talk about their days (as much as they can.) Chan feels that familiar bubble of warmth in his chest and feels like he draws in a full breath for the first time in months. Maybe things aren’t irreparable, maybe they just needed time to settle into their new roles with one another. 

They kiss, slow and languid in a way that says they still love each other and it slowly heals the cracks at the walls of Chan’s heart. Gun touches him so gently, so reverently, that he feels like he’s picking up the cracked porcelain pieces and slotting them together as if they’d never been broken in the first place. He shudders at the sensation of calloused palms sliding up and under his shirt, spanning across his ribs and shoulders and coaxing him into his lap. He swallows the words he wants to say and stifles the ‘I missed you’ he knows would only dampen the mood. 

They take their time undressing each other like they have all the time in the world, and they each pepper kisses over every expanse of skin they uncover. Chan feels like molten metal when Gun finally ushers him to the bedroom and pours him against the sheets. He can’t remember the last time they’d taken enough time to make it here and he inhales deeply the scent of frankincense and jasmine. 

He knows he’ll have stubble burn between his thighs but he can’t bring himself to care as his back arches tight like a bowstring. There’s that telltale pull in his stomach - a little trepidation and a little anticipation - and before long he’s exhaling all his passion and arousal in a low, drawn and breathy moan. Gun’s touch borders on too much, his skin humming with oversensitivity, but Gun knows exactly how long he can bear it before he draws his way back up and captures his lips in another slow kiss. 

It takes a few moments before he feels the synapses in his brain connect again and he’s running his hands down Gun’s chest, his lips are traveling across his jaw, and his teeth are gently scraping against the shell of his ear. He takes a moment to spit into the palm of one hand; it’s inelegant and crass but it will do. He’s never been a selfish lover a day in his adult life and he’s not about to start now, not with how weightless and right he feels again. He strokes and twists his wrist the way he knows Gun likes, his thumb swiping and pressing in just the right spot. It doesn’t take long, a few gentle bites against his ear, a few more strokes with added pressure each time, and he feels the familiar bite of nails against his upper arms and warmth wash across his fingers and palm. 

Chan wipes his hand on the sheets, knowing Gun will have someone change them later, and lays back against the pillows in liquid contentment. He can’t help the small smile that stretches the corner of his lips as he’s pulled over, head cradled against a strong shoulder and a stubbled chin resting against his hair. The words threaten to bubble up again, ‘I missed you,’ but he swallows and forces them down with the bob of his throat. 

“We can’t linger long, I have a meeting soon.” Gun breaks the carefully crafted silence, but his hand is still stroking gently up and down Chan’s arm so he can’t bring himself to mind. Besides, he likes the way his voice rumbles beneath his ear. 

“They’re expecting me back for some additional training later, anyway,” Chan replies and turns his head to press a feather-light kiss just above a dusky nipple. The sun is peeking through the shutters and casting scattered rays of light on their tangled bodies. He feels warm in a way he hasn’t in so long and he’s perfectly content to spend the few moments they have left silent and absorbing the attention he’s craved for months. 

Chan sighs when their time comes to an end, as it always does, and he reluctantly extracts himself from Gun’s embrace to begin pulling on his shirt and redoing each button with a methodical patience he wouldn’t have previously had before joining the Family. Gun is an obstacle the entire way, pressing gentle kisses to his shoulders until Chan has to shrug him off, hands spreading across his thighs until he has to tug up his trousers. Getting dressed becomes something of a battle between them and by the end of it, Chan is laughing and pressing a quick kiss to Gun’s waiting lips. 

He waits until Gun is dressed in his preferred florals and saturated colors that never cease to make him question everything about his lover’s fashion taste, but he supposes he isn’t much better in his grayscale wardrobe or the faded band shirts he'd once favored. Gun walks him to the door with a final kiss and a promise to reach out to him later. Chan lingers for a moment, stealing one more kiss, then two, before he seems to have withdrawn his limit and Gun is pushing him out the door. 

Chan catches himself just before he runs into a figure taking long strides down the hall, but he can’t help the way his brow creases and his head tilts at the sight of them. He’s never seen her before, a petite woman with a figure that must be sculpted with the best of self-restraint and work. She peers up at him with large brown eyes and he feels it like a punch to his gut, the way her look is almost knowing, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s judging him. 

Unconsciously, he smooths his palms down his suit and offers her a nod before taking a step away. 

“There you are, dear.” He turns at Gun’s word, feeling his chest and his stomach bloom with affection and love. That warmth quickly turns to frigid tendrils of disbelief as he watches Gun place a hand on her waist and draw her close to press a kiss to her cheek. Once again, he feels it like a punch to his center and he nearly doubles over with it, only rigorous training and determination keeping him upright. 

Gun spares him a parting glance and a raised brow over her shoulder and Chan can only duck his head and hurry his way down the hall, a hot wash of mortification turning the back of his neck and his ears an unmistakable shade of scarlet. He hopes he’s imagining the looks of pity some of the guards are giving him, but he’s sure at least a few of them are real. He wonders if they tell stories about him, the foolish street thug turned bodyguard reaching far beyond his station. He should have known better.