#chankim

“Do you wonder?” Kim whispers.

Chan says nothing. Averts his eyes like he does when the boy’s father gives him orders.

Boy. Not a boy. Kim hasn’t been a boy in years. At twenty three years old, the youngest son of the Theerapanyakun family is older. And more. Musician. Assassin. Model. Drug trafficker. 

A man. 

At nearly two decades his senior, Chan had watched him grow from petulant child to ruthless Mafia leader. Growth didn’t happen overnight; growth happened under Chan’s hand and discipline because Khun Korn could not be bothered to do it himself.

Chan had not realized that training Kim would result in Kim learning more than hand to hand combat. He could talk his way out of any scenario. Or worse, into. Chan recalls when Kinn deployed Kim and Chan to a client’s home. Kinn explained that the client had dues, and that the safe in his nightclub could pay for his debts handsomely if given the choice between it and his life.

Kim came back with the money and the deed to the club. And not a hair out of place, not a sweat broken.  The boy-turned-man had a predisposition to the art of manipulation. 

Chan should know. 

He’s being manipulated now. Kim’s been playing the long game. Chan figures he planted the seed years ago: insisting Chan spar with him when a younger bodyguard would be a better choice. Requesting Chan as his bodyguard and being obviously disappointed with Big’s appointment. Catching the man’s eyes, and if Kim’s lucky, his sleeve too. Just to remind Chan that smooth talking and violence were not the only traits that Kim developed over the years. Kim has a face, too. One that people like to look at, listen to, and that he could play it the minute Chan falters.

And now, Kim wants to go all in for whatever secrets his father has hidden in his study.

Chan expects the sleeve thing again: predictable. He has seen Kim’s dance before because it works. A touch. A pinch. Lean in, a mouth to their ear and then move away and leave them guessing and come back and pull on them, gently, let them believe that you see something they don’t, that you have answers they need. Offer them something sweet and intangible. Freedom. Purpose. Assurance. Peace. All of which are possible and fleeting, that secures them crawling back to you. Open the blinds. Close them. Check your phone, smile, put it away. He’ll tell you it’s okay. It’s safe now. You did good.

Chan doesn’t move, in case he does shoot Kim down, which would be the right thing to do. Chan will die amidst Korn’s chess game, but it’s a death he is contently anticipating. Korn had provided him with luxuries and pleasures, so Chan’s loyalties lie with Korn above all else, no matter how beautiful, young, spiteful, foolish, cunning, tempting Korn’s son appears.

But Kim doesn’t need to know that. 

“I wonder. I wonder all the time.”

-

II. (tw: blackmailing, violence, implied sexual assault/noncon)

Fuck.

Kim can feel eyes on his back. He knew coming back here would be a problem. But he has to know. Korn told him nothing besides his stupid resurrection plan that Kim holds little interest in. Unsatisfied, he crash landed into his father’s study, tearing open the books on the shelves, opening the locked drawer and finding no answers.

“Are you here to lecture me about how to keep a tidy room?”

Chan says nothing. So Kim keeps going. He takes out a knife and drags it across his father’s beloved arm chair. Worn stuffing and fabric explode out like a cartoon. Nothing. Next is the coffee table. Where was that tab? Ah yes, under, left hand side. Kim hits the switch, and another secret compartment within the table opens.

Nothing.

“You must know,” Kim drawls as he looks at the hideous globe on the shelf, hoping to beckon the man to slip out something. “Either Korn or Porsche told you.” He takes hold of it and lets it crash heavily to the ground. The ceramic shatters instantly. Hilariously, there is a kilogram of snow inside, but that’s hardly of interest.

“What do I know, Khun Kim?”

“Where they hid the brother,” Kim accidentally answers too quickly. 

But it’s over. The head bodyguard of the Theerapanyakun family has a smirk on his face. Chan has won. Kim can keep up the passive look, pretend that he has a fighting chance, but it’s over.

“I do know.”

Kim can get one more bite in though. It would feel damn good to do so. “Korn whispered it into your ear last night?”

In a flash, Chan pins Kim against the bookcase, his calloused hand around Kim’s throat. The wood digs painfully into his back and the furniture rattles alongside his bones.

“You should respect your father.”

“Does that include getting fucked in the ass by him?” Kim grits out. He’s not afraid. Chan has done much worse for far less. “Must be nice knowing all your needs are taken care of.”

Chan’s grip tightens. There’s no pain though. Something else, something so hideous runs through Kim as Chan’s face clouds over. 

“I can give you the location tomorrow, if you'd rather.”

Kim’s body goes numb and it is not Chan’s doing. Tomorrow is too late. Vegas and Gun will be here in hours. Kinn and Porsche will take up arms against him, and by the looks of his uncle’s army and his cousin’s idiocy, there is a very good chance none of them will make it out alive.

But Porchay can. Porchay can make it out alive. 

“Or you can behave,” Chan says quietly. “And when you’re done, I’ll give you the coordinates. And you can run off and play house with the brat for as long as you want.”

Kim closes his eyes; Chan loosens his hand; Kim, defeated, reaches for the guard’s dress pants. 

“It’s a pity you destroyed your father’s armchair. I quite liked bending you over it.”