#tumsa writes

Porsche has taken well to his new role. He manages to sound steely, not heated, like someone in charge of the situation, and he doesn't have to add any threats. It's an order, even if Porsche has no hierarchical power over Kim. Porsche doesn't know that Kinn is just a placeholder for Kim. 

"Okay," Kim says, with his perfected poker face and neutral tone. He can tell from how Porsche squints and grips his macchiato that Porsche had expected some resistance. 

"Okay," he finally nods, sips his drink and turns to leave. Kim picks up his guitar and waits for Porsche to take a few more steps.

"Porsche," he says because there is a good reason why Kim has trailed Chay for a few months now. Kim has killed at least seven people that wanted to get their hands on the precious innocent baby brother of the minor family's new leader. "Chay's bodyguards are horrible."

Porsche freezes. There are still people around them, some of Wik's fans lingering around, as well as regular customers, so they cannot talk openly. Kim knows that's why Porsche had chosen the location, but it's funny to see him regret that choice now. Porsche opens and closes his mouth, quickly figuring out Kim's words' meaning.

Kim leaves. 

- - - 

It's not surprising that Chay barely gets to leave the compound afterwards. And when he does, his security detail matches one of Kinn's and Porsche's combined. 

"He hates it," Pok says, sliding a photo over Kim's desk. And yes, Chay looks miserable in the image; he looks small in his soft hoodie and loose jeans. Kim knows how it feels to be surrounded by all these suited men and still feel isolated and lonely. 

Kim hates how thinking it's for the greater good, his own safety doesn't chip away at the guilt he feels knowing it's his fault.

- - - 

It's also not surprising that another few months later, Chay moves out. Just like Kim, Chay is not made for golden cages; there's only so much that your love for your brother(s) can balance out, and Chay has always been brave enough to go after what he wants.

Kim keeps his promise and stays away, he's too busy trying to keep Wik's career from exploding. He knows his father will end it if the fame draws too much attention to their family. The freedom Kim has is imaginary; it's just a leash made longer, long enough that sometimes Kim forgets it's there until he makes one step too far, and it chokes him viciously.

"Do you want me to keep following Khun Porchay?" Pok asks.

Kim thinks about his father's chess board, the pieces he moves around, and the plans he executes. He thinks about his father saying: "I will fake my death", "the minor family will attack", and "you have to protect Porsche's brother, I know what you've been doing with him". He thinks about Korn killing his own brother, Vegas and Macau being pushed away their whole lives only to be embraced when they are no longer needed on the board, and Chay's mother, drugged and unaware.

"No," he says because he is tired of being his father's son. He makes a choice and tells himself to be brave and be like Chay. "Leave him alone."

Pok nods and leaves quietly.

- - - 

Kim buries himself in music because music loves him back. 

- - - 

"Your new album is so sweet," the boy says, and his voice shakes slightly as he smiles shyly, handing over the card to be signed. His older sister is recording their conversation with a cheeky grin on her face. Kim can imagine that this will be future blackmail material. 

"Thank you," Kim smiles, "what's your name?"

"Rune," the boy says, still in awe, as Kim writes him a small, personalized note. 

"I am glad you wrote some happier songs," the older sister says conversationally, unbothered that Kim is Wik, while Rune picks up his signed card like it's the greatest treasure. "All the sad ones Rune was playing for months made me a bit worried for you. He still gets teary-eyed about the Why Don't You Stay one."

Ah. Kim is saved from answering it because Rune is mortified and pulls his sister away, telling her to shut up, oh my god.

"Hi!" the girl that was next in the line waves at him with a big grin on her face. "I love your new album; it's very sweet!" 

Kim smiles back.

- - - 

Your new album is amazing, and we are so proud! We miss you. 

Kim reads the message again and again; he swallows tears and thinks about the song he wrote weeks ago, about the tiny hints he left there, knowing that nobody but him would know. He didn't think that-

"Kim?" Kinn picks up right away. He sounds hopeful, and Kim realizes that their father is so wrong. The love has not made Kinn weaker; it has made him human.

"I miss you too," Kim says. He can hear Kinn smiling.

- - - 

"I am disappointed," his father says, and Kim thinks nothing has ever made him feel more proud than Korn's disappointment. "Maybe I was wrong about you."

"Maybe," Kim says, and they both know he means, yes, yes, you were.

"I don't know what I did wrong," Korn says, defeated, in a rare moment of honesty, "how all three of you ended up like this."

Like this, he says. And he means stupid, weak and pathetic. He means, why would you pick anything over power, ambition, or being the victor? Why would you willingly lose a fight? Who would you do that for, and why?

"You wouldn't understand, father," Kim smiles, pushing Kinn's ring across the table, "after all, you killed your brother and locked up your sister."

He gets up and leaves, half expecting a bullet in his skull, but it never comes. 

- - - 

The knock on the door makes Kim jump. Only a few people know where he lives, and all the ones who do know to inform him before their arrival. Tankhun has started to show up unannounced, but Kim (now) knows that Wednesdays are shopping days; Tankhun has discovered the magic of shopping malls, and they are a lot shinier than Kim's apartment.

Kim finds the gun before heading for the door but puts it down when he looks at the security camera. He unlocks the door, suddenly very aware of his messy hair, worn shirt and mismatched socks that Kinn had gifted as a joke.

"Hi," Chay says. 

Kim has not seen him for almost two years, so he files away the new haircut, a bit broader shoulders, a sharper face, but the same sweet smile and big, innocent eyes. 

"Hi?" Kim answers, unsure because Chay's smile is short-lived, and he looks closer to tears.

"I know you loved me," Chay says, and he might as well kick Kim in the stomach, "I mean, I listened to your new album, I mean, sorry, it's none of my business, I should not say that, I just, well," he keeps talking, nervously shifting, looking anywhere but at Kim, "I need you."

Kim feels like someone dropped him in an ocean, leaving him to drown. There are waves of feelings crushing him, pushing him down to the seabed. I know you loved me. Apparently, Chay still knows how to flip Kim's world around. Kim moves before Chay can flee, opening the door wider and stepping aside.

"Come in," Kim says, his voice trembling funnily. And then, because he cannot help it at all, he asks, "You listened to my new album?"

"Of course," Chay says, and it reminds Kim of Tankhun's eye rolls.

Did you like it? Kim wants to ask, but he doesn't. He doesn't get to have this, and he won't be selfish if it hurts Chay, not anymore, and he's been doing good so far. 

"Why do you need my help?" Kim asks instead as they walk to the living room. Chay sits on the sofa, back to looking like he is about to cry, but like crying is not a choice he is allowed to make, and it makes Kim's insides hurt. Chay needs to point, and Kim will aim his gun. 

"It's about my mom," Chay explains, "I don't know how much you know, but-"

"I know everything," Kim says, and their knees brush as he sits down next to Chay. "I am sorry, I-"

"It's okay," Chay brushes it off quickly as if what Kim did is not a big deal. And Kim wonders if it isn't for Chay anymore. Maybe Chay has learned that there are worse things than stalking and using someone, maybe Chay is helping Porsche now and has done similar things, or maybe Chay has killed someone. Kim has no idea, and it's making him a bit dizzy.

"She remembers everything," Chay explains, and Kim doesn't say that he suspected that too. He looks at Chay's hands that are nervously moving around, wants to grab them and keep them still, but talks himself out of it. "She told me a while ago, she remembers that Uncle Korn killed dad, and wants to tell Porsche, but she's worried that Uncle Korn will... And I am so worried about her and Porsche, and I think Porsche maybe knows too, and something is about to happen, and I-"

"Do you want me to kill my father?" Kim asks carefully. He realizes that he would if Chay asked.

Chay looks horrified. "What? No, of course not!"

Kim is lost, has been lost since he opened the door. "So, what do you need me to help with?"

"I didn't say that," Chay says so quietly that Kim almost doesn't hear it. "I said I need you."

Oh.

And because Chay is the bravest one of them both, he climbs into Kim's lap, hugging him like he did the very first time, with everything he has, and bursts into tears.

"I don't know," he whimpers in Kim's neck, his tears mixing with Kim's, shaking as Kim holds him closer, "what I will do if Porsche dies. I don’t want to be alone anymore, Kim."

Kim wishes he could hide Chay inside the walls of his chest, away from everything, but nowhere is safe with his father alive.

"Shhh," he says instead, "it will be okay, you are not alone."

- - - 

"Chay," Kim says hours later when it's getting dark in the apartment. They are still on the sofa, and Chay is half lying on top of Kim, cuddling like they used to, except Chay is quiet and looks defeated under the weight of the world. 

"Mm?"

Kim takes a breath and tells himself he can do this. If Tankhun can go to the shopping mall and Kinn can choose Porsche over their father, Kim too can face his fears. "I want to apologize. I am sorry; I know I hurt you, and you didn't deserve any of it. I wish I could take it back."

Chay hums and looks up through the bangs that are half covering his eyes; there's a small smile on the corners of his lips, and Kim wants to press it there, make it stay, and never let anything make Chay sad again.

"I forgave you a long time ago," he says, "Porsche told me how silly Theerapanyakul siblings are. I am very proud you used words this time."

He's teasing Kim, and Kim can't decide between laughing or crying; he settles on neither, holds Chay closer, and moves his hand to stroke Chay's hair gently. He thinks fate is being funny, giving him something only after he learned to let it go.

"And you did write me fourteen love songs."

Kim laughs.

- - - 

He returns early in the morning when the dawn settles over the city, a new morning ahead. Chay is still on the sofa, covered in blankets; he gets up when Kim enters the living room.

Kim puts down the gun on the coffee table. He knows he is still covered in sweat and smells like cigarettes that he shared with Porsche when Chay hugs him. 

- - -

It begins with Chan yelling at both of them for breaking the sacred rules of peace, "no fights between bodyguards", and being childish. It's Ken's second week on the job, and he has finally lost it and punched Big in the face. The pained whimper that Big had made before pulling a gun and aiming it at Ken's chest had been glorious.

"I will not have this," Chan's voice is snappy and cold, as his eyes throw daggers at both Big and Ken, "this is not a playground. I am giving you one last chance to fix this."

He walks them to Big's room, opens the door and waits for them to get inside, pushing Ken when he is too slow to move. 

"You have until Monday," Chan says, closes the door and then locks it. He adds through the now-closed door: "If you break the lock, I will know. If either of you dies, I'll kill the other too."

"But-" Big protests pointlessly, then shuts his mouth and turns to face Ken, scowling. There's a red mark on his face where Ken's knuckles met his skin, and it makes Ken gleeful. 

"Nice one," Ken says because Big does not know how not to show emotions on his face, and right now, he looks like one of those small, angry dogs that old ladies put in their handbags. 

"Fucking great," Big says, kicking the door, "it's all your fault."

"No, mate, that's all you for being such a dick."

It's funny to watch Big reaching for his gun, only to realize that it's not there, that Chan didn't give it back. 

"Well," Ken says, because he doesn't actually want to die, and he can see Big eyeing a collection of knives on his wall, "give me a tour. Are we sharing a bed?" 

He winks, changing his mind because getting stabbed might be worth seeing Big all flustered. And then, because Big is no fun at all, he sits down on the sofa, turning away from Ken.

- - -

By Saturday, Ken thinks getting shot by Chan might be a relief. It's not the multiple fights they have had in the past two days (although Ken's ribs feel bruised and sore, and his split lip burns). It is boredom. Someone, probably Arm by Chan's request, has turned off their access to the internet so they cannot watch anything on the TV, and they are not allowed to have phones or computers, and Big has nothing else in his room that is even remotely entertaining, so Ken is dying. He can feel the time moving agonizingly slowly. Every minute feels like an eternity, and Ken might just kill Big so Chan can end the misery.

"Shoot me," he says, from where he is lying on the carpet and staring at the ceiling.

"I wish," Big unexpectedly replies, and his voice has no heat in it. They have not talked to each other outside of insults. 

"How did humans survive without the internet," Ken wonders, not for the first time. "What did they do all day?"

"Fuck if I know," apparently, they are talking now. 

Except Ken doesn't know what to say, they are not friends and have nothing in common. None of Chan's bodyguard lessons or videos included the "How to talk with your annoying coworker" tutorial.

"My grandparents play board games," Big breaks the silence. "Not that I have any."

Ken sighs, his eyes travelling down the shelf across him, full of Big's stuff. They stop at a bottle of whiskey.

"Or," he says, grinning, "we could get drunk."

- - -

"I love you, man," Ken is wheezing with laughter hours, days, or weeks later when they have emptied two bottles of whiskey and popped open a random champagne bottle.

Big is grinning on the sofa next to him. He's wearing a stupid "I <3 New York" shirt that makes Ken giggle even more. 

"That's it," Big finally slurs, looking pleased, "that's how I got the job."

"Fucking legend," Ken says, and he would clap Big on the shoulder if his arms cooperated a bit better. "If I were you, I'd sleep with my eyes open."

Big makes an agreeing noise. "I did, for like a year. He still might kill me."

From what Ken has heard about Khun Vegas in the two weeks he has been in the main family's house, he really might. 

"You'll die a hero," Ken says, looking at Big and bursting into laughter again. 

Big is fucking awesome.

- - -

Ken doesn't know who is more surprised that they both make it out alive by Monday morning, them or Chan. Or maybe it's that Ken is teaching Big how to do a backflip, and they are laughing when he opens the door. The eyebrow rise speaks volumes. 

Ken moves in with Big on Wednesday.

- - -

Ken doesn't know when things change again; there is no whiskey this time. He's used to having Big by his side, used to having Big's back during the missions; within a year, he has learned every Big's strength and weakness, he knows where to cover for him, where to let Big balance out Ken's shortcomings. They quickly go from "Big" and "Ken" to "Big and Ken". Chan takes them on missions together or not at all, and they quickly become Khun Kinn's favourites, trailing him every step he takes outside the mansion. Ken is used to it, even to the ugly parts of it, the parts where Big gets hurt and Ken worries, or parts where Ken gets injured and feels ashamed of not doing better.

It shifts, and it's a sudden, terrifying realization, and the implication of it creeps up Ken's spine like a poison ivy. It's the moment when Big enters their room, eyes wet, face bruised, red, angry finger marks on his cheek, right after he has told Ken he must tell Kinn about his suspicions of Tawan. It's the moment when Big swallows a sob as he slides down the wall, shaking and trying not to cry openly, and Ken thinks I will fucking kill Kinn that it hits him right in the solar plexus and takes his breath away.

"Big," Ken says, and his voice trembles; he feels a little untethered and a lot like the ground beneath him is moving, shifting, falling open.

"He," Big whispers, and the despair in his voice makes Ken sick, "he didn't believe me."

Ken wants to say something, anything, but his voice is drowning; he is drowning. I'm in love with you, he thinks, and the thought is like a match, setting his insides on fire, blazing its way into Ken's stomach, settling in his bones, burning.

"Fuck," he finally says, mumbles, desperate to regain some control.

"What if he dies?" Big asks as he starts weeping, trying to hold his sobs, pressing the back of his palm against his mouth, and Ken feels like someone is slicing his chest open.

"It will be okay," he says because he wants Big to stop crying and fix this somehow; he wants Big to smile and laugh about Ken's dumb jokes. "We will figure it out. I have your back, remember?"

Big nods and tries to smile through tears. Ken reaches an arm out, and Big takes it and lets Ken pull him up. Ken's skin burns under his touch.

- - -

The first time it happens, they are drunk again. They are celebrating a mission gone well. Big cannot stop grinning because Kinn had praised and promoted him to the head of his bodyguards. He looks so happy. Something ugly warms its way into Ken's bones, and yet he cannot stop grinning back.

Big leans and kisses him. It's soft and warm and nothing like kissing anyone Ken has kissed before. The gentle nip on Ken's bottom lip feels like salvation.

Big pulls away and gets up, then reaches for Ken's hand, still smiling. Their fingers lock together, and Ken thinks that for someone more used to holding a gun than anyone's hand, he could get used to it. 

He doesn't care that Big turns off the light, the soft and sweaty heat of his body, the tiny whimpers, squirming, twisting and writhing, all of it outweighs the way Big murmurs and pleads Kinn's name, between the shaky breaths, it almost sounds like Ken's. 

- - -

It happens again and again and again. It messes with Ken's head; he gets more irritable and sulky; something inside him wants to claw its way out, and it scares him. He looks at Kinn sometimes and forgets his job. He looks at Kinn and wonders how it would feel to tear him apart and have Kinn's blood on his hands, slimy and thick. 

He knows it would kill Big, so he stands between Kinn and a knife, between Kinn and a bullet, and between Kinn and the world trying to kill him. He smiles when Big hugs him after another well-done mission and swallows bitter bile when Big's eyes still follow Kinn. 

- - -

"He will never belong to you," Vegas whispers, tempting, "while Kinn is alive."

"Vegas?" Kim asks, not because he thinks it's someone else walking through the door but because Vegas would most likely kill him if Kim didn't announce his presence somehow.

Vegas practically falls through the door. In the lowly lit entrance part of the gym, all Kim sees are blood stains all over Vegas's shirt as Vegas collapses on the ground and slowly rolls himself over, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes.

"Hello," Vegas slurs, grinning, and his teeth are stained red, "sweetheart."

Kim crouches down, slightly panicked that Vegas might be dying, is losing consciousness from blood loss, and the strong scent of alcohol punches him in the face as hard as Vegas tends to.

"What happened to you?" Kim asks and immediately regrets it. They don't do that. Kim is not supposed to ask Vegas about his life. He expects to be kicked or slapped, or pushed against a wall.

Vegas just blinks. Kim realizes he is too drunk to tell Kim to shut the fuck up and mind his business. There is still also the blood that is or isn't coming from a possibly deadly wound. Upon closer inspection, it doesn't look like Vegas is actively bleeding to death, but it's hard to tell where all the blood on his shirt is coming from.

"Was my fault a deal fell through," Vegas finally answers as if it took him over a minute to figure out both the question and the answer, his words are slurred and slow. Kim crawls closer to him and starts unbuttoning Vegas's shirt to see if he needs to be taken to the hospital. He's two buttons in when he realizes what Vegas has said. Something ugly and dark crawls its way into Kim's stomach and settles there.

"Vegas," he asks, but it sounds more like a whisper, as if Kim knows this, this is a secret he is not supposed to know. "Did your father-"

Vegas laughs, then winces in pain, and Kim resumes unbuttoning his shirt. There are purple and red bruises everywhere; it's not that unusual for either of them, Kim's gone home with similar patterns before, but most of them are too fresh to be from their fights. The bruises are mixed with long, dark stripes from what Kim guesses was a belt used all over the ribs and stomach. Some of the belt marks are bleeding at the edges where the belt hit multiple times and broke the skin. Kim swallows and takes a breath.

Korn is a horrible father, objectively. Kim doesn't believe he loves any of his children; he pretends to, tries to, but a sociopath like their father cares about one thing only, power tripping all over their lives, controlling them in the worst ways, keeping his kids on their toes and destroying their dreams whenever they get too close to victory. But Korn has never done this. Kim cannot imagine a world where that could happen to him. He knows he is staring and has been for too long, but now when Kim sees what Vegas is dealing with, he cannot look away. There's a pressure building behind his eyes, and Kim blinks, and takes a breath that feels stuck in his throat.

Vegas mumbles something about pain and hurt, pulling Kim out of his mind.

"Wait here," he says, even though he knows Vegas is too drunk even to sit up. He gets up and finds the first aid kit and a towel that he wets in a half-broken sink that leeks some water on Kim's shoes.

Vegas is still awake when Kim gets back; he is no longer smiling like a maniac, now his face looks void of all emotion, and his eyes travel all over the grey ceiling, struggling to focus on anything specific. He whimpers quietly with every other inhale.

"I'll clean up the blood," Kim says, putting the wet towel on Vegas's stomach. Vegas makes a whiney sound.

"Stop, 's cold," he mumbles, trying to shoo Kim away, but his hands are as uncoordinated as his eyes.

"I know, shhh," Kim says, trying to go for calm, caring. He has no idea how to do it; nobody in Kim's life needs soothing. His hands are trembling as he slowly moves the towel around, as it stains red and picks up the blood from Vegas's bruised skin. Thankfully none of the wounds looks deep or dangerous, there’s just a lot of them. He drops the bloody towel and finds the wound-cleaning solution and some cotton pads.

"Vegas, hey," he tries to get Vegas's attention, knowing that Vegas will not like the sting from whatever is in the bottle. "I'm sorry," he apologizes and almost laughs because he has punched and kicked Vegas, nearly broken his ribs, and actually broken his thumb once. This is nothing, but somehow it feels worse. "It's gonna hurt."

"It's okay, mom," Vegas murmurs as Kim gently presses the cotton on the first wound, "it always hurts."

Kim's vision blurs as he cleans the tiny cut.

~*~*~

The title is from a song called “Drilled A Wire Through My Cheek” from Blue October, that I was listening to when I wrote the first VegasKim bits. I fell in love with these lyrics:

Vegas dozes off despite the pain within minutes and stays asleep as Kim carefully cleans his wounds and places patches on the bigger ones that ooze blood whenever Vegas moves in his sleep. Kim removes the bloody shirt and throws it in a trash bag with whatever he used to clean the wounds. He considers putting the shirt in some cold water in the sink, but it's probably a lost cause already and the least of Vegas's problems. 

Kim knows he can call someone to pick Vegas up and get him home, but Vegas must have left the house for a reason. Kim decides that Vegas has had enough trouble for the day. He gathers foam mats from the room that houses leftover equipment and puts them together in a makeshift bed near the entrance. It's not a great place to sleep, but Kim wants to move Vegas only a little to prevent his wounds from reopening.

He moves purposely and efficiently until he runs out of things to do and he no longer has a task to throw his full attention at. Staring at Vegas, who is still out on the foam mats with his bruised and battered torso on display, Kim exhales shakily. In the dimly lit lights, relaxed in his sleep Vegas looks his age, barely twenty. It's easy to forget how young he is when he punches or throws Kim on the ground, when he laughs maniacally before pulling Kim closer, either for a kick or a kiss. Or when he talks about where to shoot or stab to kill someone, where to do it to make it really hurt. Make it count. Vegas is twenty and talks about torturing someone like Kim's friends talk about writing music. It gnaws at Kim and unsettles him how much he cares about Vegas. It's stupid.

Kim forces himself to turn away and find something else to do. He texts his bodyguards to let them know he won't be home. These days they don't trail him silently at his father's orders and stay away when Kim demands. Then he finds his bag, headphones and a phone charger and sits down in the tiny office room, between cardboard boxes and broken chairs. Then he spends the next few hours listening to music and talking his way out of checking on Vegas.

Nobody looks for Vegas. His phone stays silent the whole night. 

Around four in the morning, Kim can no longer keep his eyes open no matter how much he tries. He considers going home but doesn't want to leave Vegas alone. Doesn't want to be alone either. 

Carefully, to not disturb him, Kim lays down on a foam mattress next to Vegas. There's still a scent of alcohol mixed with whatever perfume Vegas prefers these days and the wound solution Kim used. This close, Kim can see he missed a few blood splatters on the cheek and chin when cleaning up the split lip. It looks painfully swollen.

Sleep finally wins.

- - -

Kim wakes up because Vegas is making quiet, whiney noises. He's awake, sitting beside Kim, covering his face with his arms. Kim opens his mouth to ask how Vegas feels but stops himself. He wants to allow Vegas to leave while he thinks Kim is asleep. Vegas can disappear as he always does after their fights, and they can never mention this again. Kim can already imagine their next fight; Vegas will ensure Kim knows there is nothing soft or vulnerable between them, and Kim's ribs will hurt for days.

"Fuck," Vegas murmurs in English, as he always does around Kim these days. Kim guesses there's a hangover that's pounding Vegas's head and a layer of shame and regret on top of it. If their places were swapped, Kim would be mortified. 

Vegas doesn't move while Kim tries to focus on even, slow inhales and exhales. And he thinks he has the "pretending to be asleep" role under control until Vegas touches him. He takes Kim's left arm and moves it away from Kim's side. For a moment, Kim thinks that Vegas will do something insane, like stab him in the sleep, dig a grave and bury Kim with his secrets. He wonders if Vegas can feel his heart picking up the speed as he moves Kim's hand enough to lie down in its place. 

Kim freezes, only for a second, and wills himself to stay relaxed as Vegas wraps himself around Kim's body carefully, still making tiny pained noises. Once settled, Vegas presses his cheek against Kim's shirt and settles.

Kim tries to breathe normally, but Vegas can probably hear his racing heartbeat because he grips Kim's side and then pets it as to soothe a startled animal. 

"I'm cold," Vegas murmurs. "Move your arm."

Kim snorts at the audacity but obeys and moves his arm around Vegas's shoulder. "Better?"

"Much better," Vegas replies, yawning. He's unbothered with the whole cuddling situation, and Kim can feel Vegas's weight relax against his body.