Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rumors swirl, as they always do. Maybe Kim was quitting music. Maybe he was having a crisis. Maybe he was getting married.

His manager texts him. “Get off Instagram. Your comeback show is sold out for tomorrow.”

Kim takes a lengthy sip from the glass tumbler, the amber liquid pooling in his mouth. It doesn’t burn like it used to. He swipes over to Twitter. Fans are cruel and kind in the same breath. Some wish he would put out new music, and others advise him that it’s better to quit if he can’t take the pressure. Any manager would tell their client to stay off social media. Any good friend would say to ignore everyone’s criticism and expectations. But none of that ever hurt Kim. Doesn’t hurt now either. In the end, there is, was, only one person’s opinion that ever mattered to him.

Kim polishes off the rest of the whiskey.

The day Porchay learned the truth was the day that Kim realized that the Theerapanyakul family wasn’t ruining his life. No, Kim finally understood he brought that sort of hell onto himself the minute he called Porchay and offered to be his guitar tutor. He’s never been good at chess, never been the person who thinks four, five steps ahead like a true master. All he knew was that the intention was there. How could he not do everything in his power to protect his brothers, his family? He could only keep so much distance.

The concern was genuine, but maybe he was fooling himself the whole time, telling himself and Big that there was something uneasy about the Kittisawasd brothers. And maybe there was, at first, with Porsche. After all, everyone was wary of the former bartender turned bodyguard. Kim’s fatal mistake, however, was thinking that the younger Kittisawasd would be the one to reveal who exactly is the new bodyguard.

All fishing expeditions begin as simply that: expeditions, maybe with expectations that need to bend with the water. Kim had high hopes.

Then, suddenly, meeting with Porchay, talking with him, playing music alongside him, became the priority. The mission had all but faded to the background. And how could his heart not give into his eyes? The way Porchay smiled every time he greeted Kim at the door, how Porchay would take diligent notes every time Kim spoke: every little thing he did made Kim’s sight focused on Porchay rather than the mole.

Kim had every intention of telling Porchay, especially the day Porchay reached for him.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and Porchay had canceled his lesson with Kim because of exams. By then, Kim could tell when the younger man was distressed, and it didn’t take long to drive to Porchay’s house and find him, a complete disaster, in the living room. Books, paper, sprawled about, with Porchay in the middle, face tear streaked and red. Kim didn’t hesitate; he turned off his phone, and Kim spent two hours calming him down, playing him a silly song before sitting with him and making flashcards. Lately, guitar lessons were fading into the background too; sometimes, they’d do just this: strum on their respective guitars for a moment, talk about progress and writing, and then Porchay would launch into talking about school, his day, a new comic he was reading, and all Kim could do was listen. At some point, guitars were abandoned, lunch was made or ordered, and their backs against the sofa as they talked.

It was a Sunday afternoon when Porchay’s hand stayed a little longer against his, when Porchay really looked at him and Kim looked back, the younger man’s eyes darting to Kim’s mouth. Some days, Kim could hardly believe that Porchay was the same stuttering boy that asked for guitar lessons on the first day they met. Guitar lessons were now lessons in love; Porchay took more freedoms with Kim than any other lover Kim had. The student would brush Kim’s hair back in the name of convenience. Or he’d fix Kim’s necklace if it was askew. Once, Kim nearly tripped over the folded edge of the living room rug, and Porchay gripped his waist to steady him. The motion left Kim breathless, even though Porchay quickly removed his hands from Kim.

It was a Sunday afternoon when Porchay shyly twined their fingers together. It was a Sunday afternoon when Kim didn’t pull away.

“Porchay,” he started. He tightened his hand on Porchay’s, only enough to stop him from coming closer. “Not like this. When everything’s back to normal, I promise we will. But not like this.”

Porchay looked crestfallen. “Back to normal?”

Kim swallowed, knowing well that if everything returned to normal, there would be no more guitar lessons, no more sitting on cheap carpeting and sharing noodles. “After you’re done with school.” He forced a smile, mused Porchay’s hair. “Let’s get back to studying?”

Porchay, who rarely appeared angry even when he missed a note or accidentally scratched the bottom of his guitar, looked frustrated. “School’s taking forever,” he complained, ducking his forehead into Kim’s shoulder.

Kim, always awestruck by the younger man, could only brace himself. “School’s almost over. Three more months.” Is that all we have left?

Porchay sighed. “Don’t remind me.” Suddenly, he turned to Kim. “And because of you, I applied to university and programs.” He pouted. “If I’m in school any longer, it’s your fault.”

Kim laughed, looking down. “Maybe I’m too good of a tutor. Not that you’ll need me much longer.”

“Don’t say that. You promised to tutor me until the semester ends.” Porchay grazed his fingers across Kim’s, back and forth. “And other things.”

Kim forced a smile. “Three months,” he repeated.

“I hope they go by quickly.” Porchay returned the smile.

Kim closed his eyes as they sat, now holding hands. I hope they don’t.

Kim rereads the text message from his manager while pouring another drink. Sleep’s been impossible lately.

The rumors are, at best, half correct. Kim was, and still is, indeed, in a moment of crisis.

Most days, all he could do was replay the moment in his head. How Porchay overheard his conversation with Big about Porsche as the mole. How Porchay took his phone and scrolled through his messages. How Porchay demanded to know why he had pictures of Porchay’s room, shrine and all, pictures of Porsche and his parents. The truth came out easily from there. Kim spilled everything about who he is and where Porsche was, and while Porchay had known his older brother was tied up in nasty business, he had no inkling that so was Kim.

Kim did his best. He reached out weekly until the messages wouldn’t send anymore. Porsche mentioned, with a sympathetic look, that his brother had changed his number. And his social media. That he’s busy with school, and that Kim should be patient.

When Kim learned Porchay had graduated, he sent a card, expressing his congratulations and pride, and heard nothing back.

By now, Kim had hoped for some contact. He certainly isn’t expecting forgiveness. That would be too easy. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hope, that he doesn’t look at his phone constantly, that he doesn’t manically scroll through Porchay’s Instagram feed (from a burner account) to see how Porchay’s doing.

But now six months had passed, and the mole was gone. Beside all the traditional mafia affairs, Porsche and Kinn fell into a steady sort of love that left Kim aching, for it looked not too far from what he almost had with Porchay. His brother and his lover would walk the garden, have picnics on the grass, sing old tunes terribly. And Porsche either asked Porchay for some slick moves or the brothers even romanced the same way. Now witness to tender moments, Kim saw Porsche fix Kinn’s hair whenever a strand looked out of place. Or he noticed how Porsche would adjust Kinn’s collar before sending him off to a meeting. Sweet domesticity now plagues the Theerapanyakun household, and it makes Kim bitter and happy and sick all at once.

He wants to warn Kinn to never take those little gestures for granted.

His phone pings again. “Seriously WIK. Sleep now.” He knocks back the entirety of the glass’ contents.

When Kim goes to bed and he closes his lids, he still sees Porchay’s broken gaze. Alone in a hotel room, he still hears Porchay telling him to take the guitar and leave, his voice cracking.

Kim hardly sleeps. He wakes up bleary eyed, hungover, but he can no longer put off the demands of his manager, the record company, and all the other asshats in the industry. He already pushed the tour back, citing health reasons on an Instagram live video that was not sanctioned by anyone. He had hell to pay for that, but his tour manager ended his shouting with a sympathetic look. Like his stage presence and his voice, Kim’s depression radiated throughout his staff, musicians, and more. They agreed to give him the time off, but it could only be a month. And that too passed quickly before the record company threatened to involve lawyers for unfulfilled contractual agreements. So, today, Kim gets up and looks in a mirror and splashes cold water on his face. The late afternoon sun greets him, shocking his system with a new day. Though, today begins like yesterday and the day before.

Kim spends the rest of the afternoon strumming on Porchay’s guitar. It’s the only guitar he plays now. He pokes at lunch, feeling despondent. Today’s his last Bangkok date before he’d hit the road to continue the tour. He wants to stay in Bangkok just a bit longer in hopes to see Porchay on the street, in case he needs him. The idea is so ludicrous, so impossible and naive, but it’s what grounds Kim.

Eventually, he’s shuttled to the venue, and while today’s show is sold out, it’s by no means a huge space. He’s always preferred smaller, intimate sets as to really connect with the crowd and feel their energy.

In the back room, Kim makes final adjustments to his guitars, though he plans to only use Porchay’s. The record company has several others set up on stands. They insist on doing so because he should be swapping instruments between songs, for advertising purposes, but Kim doesn’t bother. “It’s the top model,” Kim explains away, knowing full well his team whispered about the guitar’s case that’s covered in cute stickers and had a little, but uncharacteristic charm dangling from the zipper.

He plays the guitar, but it’s always going to be Porchay’s.

There’s a reason why recording companies have set lists. They’re strategic. Certain songs elicit certain responses. Starting a concert with something high tempo, fast, upbeat, brought the crowd’s energy to the forefront. Starting with a song that’s been released as a single gets the crowd ready to sing along, even to the songs that they’re not familiar with. Screaming fans, regardless of gender, liked familiarity at the start of concerts.

Kim understands. It’s formulaic even when he doesn’t want it to be, even though music has been formulaic since Porchay left. Putting out new music has never been more of a struggle simply because writing music has been nonexistent in Kim’s life now. He writes a few lines, abandons them out of frustration, and pours a drink until he can’t hold the pen without shaking.

Performing isn’t the same either. Like hotel rooms, dressing rooms and backstage set ups have always felt impersonal and foreign. Carrying Porchay’s guitar is a double-edged sword; there’s a grim, flickering light in each room he’s forced into. It is both comfort and constraint.

Someone pops their head in. “Three?”

He nods. He hasn’t choked live yet, but there’s a first time for everything.

When he gets on the stage, he’s greeted by dozens of faces, more than he expected for an artist who hasn’t put out new music in six months. Lately, everyone in the crowd looks faceless and bland, but being on stage does distract him. Tours and shows are always lonely, but performing means that, temporarily, he is not alone. There’s a sea of hands reaching out to him in front, and the barricades strain to keep fans in. He’s not sure what, or who, he’s looking for as he greets the crowd. The first track begins to play, the single that went viral on social media, and the crowd swells when he begins.

Three songs in, and there’s a moment, just briefly, that Kim feels okay, that everything’s put together. He interacts with the crowd, which shouts back at him, and the cheering overwhelms his ears just enough to take his mind off Porchay. He moves into the fourth song with ease, slicking his hair back, nearly smiling into the mic-

Porchay is here.

No. He’s not just here. He’s right there. Right in the front, maybe three rows from the barricade. Kim knows it’s Porchay because he’s the only person really looking at Kim. Deep dark brown pools pore into Kim’s, bags under each eye telling Kim that he’s not the only one who hasn’t slept a full night since That Day.

And Kim can’t look away. It takes all of Kim’s body to keep his composure.

When the backing instrumental tracks begin to play, Kim looks to the sound manager on the side of the stage and flags him down. “Stop the track, stop the track.” The crowd, and probably the entire staff backstage, murmurs in confusion as Kim jogs to the other end of the stage. There, he picks up an acoustic guitar. He picks up Porchay’s guitar. The crowd screams because no one could have expected an acoustic set. Kim plugs the guitar into the amp and walks back to the microphone.

He finds Porchay easily, who looks at Kim with wide eyes.

Did you think I’d play with anything else?

For the first time in his life, Kim stutters into the mic. “Hello all, I hope… I hope you’re enjoying the performance so far.” He keeps his eyes on Porchay, and his throat tightens. He can’t say anymore. The crowd’s energy falters; there’s no screaming, just whispers. Kim feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. It must be his manager, but all he can see and comprehend is Porchay.

Without another word, he strums the guitar, and a hush falls over the crowd. No one’s heard this one before.

Except you.

Kim watches Porchay’s eyes close when he sings the first lines of their song. Their song was the only one he worked on in Porchay’s absence. How could he ever write anything new? How could he play anything else? Porchay’s eyes stay closed as Kim begins to sing, and Kim hopes it’s because Porchay’s singing too, hopes that Porchay remembers depressed couch cushions, cold forgotten noodles that needed to be reheated because of long conversations, and the way their fingers touched.

“When you came in, I began to realize. All this time, I've waited to see you.”

At some point, the fans light up their phones, some recording a new, unheard WIK song, others trying to start a wave of lights. From the corner of his eye, Kim sees his manager staring at him, completely dumbfounded that he was hiding an acoustic track for six months and chosen to premiere it right now. But Kim doesn’t waste another moment on him, the crowd, or anything else. His gaze rests again on Porchay, even though it’s fucking terrifying to look at the very person who wrote and inspired the song he’s playing.

“Why don’t you stay?”

Kim watches Porchay rub his eyes with a sleeve before looking back up at him. And as he continues to sing, Kim realizes this moment is the first time in six months that he’s felt something besides the deep-seated depression that he carries on his shoulders. He feels his stomach churning in anxiety. His throat burns like he’s drunk in a hotel room again. And he’s relieved because both are so much better than the constant nothing, the endless empty that he’s endured for months: until today.

He surrenders to the feelings, his voice cracks in desperation. “I’ll be okay. Let me always have you by my side.” His fingers strum the final chords as the song ends, and all he can see now is Porchay, looking at him with the same sad look that Kim’s sure he shares. “So you just stay, stay.”

When the echoes of the guitar fade out, the crowd screams, cheers, but Kim remains motionless. That is, until Porchay turns around and pushes his way out of the crowd. It takes Kim a second to comprehend that Porchay is leaving, and before he can stop himself, he says into the mic, “Chay, wait!” The crowd erupts in frenzied speculations as Porchay leaves through the backdoor.

“Who’s Chay?”

“Who is that!?”

“Is that who the song is for?”

Kim rips the guitar strap from his shoulders, unplugs the instrument before putting it on the ground and walking off the stage.

His manager stops him when he reaches backstage. “What the actual fuck is-”

“Get out of my way!”

“Where are you going-” His manager grabs Kim by the arms, shaking him. “You need to finish-”

“The fuck I do, let me go!” Kim’s sure he looks like an insane person, but he doesn’t care how badly this will fuck up the curated look that the industry makes him wear.

“If you go, you’ll violate your agree-”

“I fucking quit!” Kim shoves his manager aside and leaves through the fire exit. The alarm blares, and he hears the shouting of fans worsen as he runs down the block, frantically turning his head, looking for Porchay.

He moves towards the backdoor where others are evacuating because of the alarm. Fuck, I’m a fucking dumbass- He’s surrounded by people, some calling for his name as his security guards build a human wall around him. “Fuck!” He wants to scream, wants to scream at everyone to leave him alone, scream for Porchay to come back. He turns his back to the guards, deaf to their commands. He starts running down, past the boutique stores and little food marts, leaving his bodyguards calling after him.

Kim’s lungs are burning as he stops at an intersection, cars whizzing past him. He bends over, gasping for breath before coming upright and peeling off his trademark leather jacket and tossing it on the ground. In his back pocket, his phone is permanently ringing. Sweat pours down his face, and anger ignites. He’s gone, he’s gone. He’s fucking gone-

He sees Porchay down at the end of the street.

Sense leaves Kim’s body as he takes off after him, nearly getting plowed by a car. He shouts at the Audi as other cars stop short until he makes it to the other side of the street. When he grabs Porchay’s arm, and the younger man turns around, Kim is met with the same face from That Day. A broken man looks at Kim before quickly averting his gaze, his face wet with tears, lips pressed firmly.

“Porchay,” Kim says breathlessly. “Porchay.”

“What do you want?”

The words make Kim’s blood run cold. In the months he spent with Porchay, he never heard him sound so despondent. “I-” Kim looks at him, trying to meet his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Porchay nods. “Figures. Goodbye.” He yanks his arm away from Kim and turns away.

“Wait!” Kim grabs his arm again, though Porchay doesn’t face him. “I want to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Kim. WIK.” Porchay tries to twist his arm out of Kim’s grasp. “Or whatever you’re calling yourself.”

The jab stings Kim. Badly. “Then why did you come to my show? Why did you come-”

Porchay finally looks at Kim. “I wanted to make sure that I still hate you.”

Time freezes. His answer leaves Kim breathless. His hold on Porchay’s arm slackens, the fabric slipping from his fingers. “Yeah? Do you?”

Porchay grabs Kim by his shirt, bunching it up into his fists. Kim staggers back, shocked at the sudden violence. “Are you an idiot? Of course I hate you. I hate you more than anyone I’ve ever known.” Porchay’s voice cracks as he shakes Kim, backing him into the brick wall behind him. “I loved you. I loved you more than life, more than music. Did you know that?”

Kim swallows.

“You had to know, right Kim? The pictures I had on my walls? The song we wrote together, the songs I sang to you. I loved you.”

Kim wraps his hands around Porchay’s fists, only to have the younger man shove him. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Porchay-”

“Seeing you was a mistake. Have a nice life, Kim.”

Before he can step away, Kim reaches for him again, this time shoving Porchay into the wall. “We’re not finished here,” Kim yells. “I called every day. Heard nothing from you, so I gave you space. I left you alone, but I’m done waiting around.” Kim takes Porchay’s chin, steadying his gaze to his own. “We’re going to talk about this. Whether you like it or not.”

Porchay scoffs. “Where should we begin, Kim? How you lied about who you are? How you manipulated me into trusting you?” Porchay’s face scrunches, and Kim feels the hot tears coming down Porchay’s cheeks, onto his hands. “The guitar lessons? The-” Porchay sobs now, his fists curled into Kim’s shirt.

“I’m sorry, Porchay. I’m so sorry.” Kim lets go of Porchay, only to have his former student pull him back into a hug.

“I loved you,” Porchay repeats, and with every word, Kim feels his soul crack. “I loved you,” he says again, into Kim’s chest.

Kim doesn’t know how long they stand there, hugging each other while Porchay cries, but when he begins to hear people whispering around him, he tenses. “Is that WIK?”

“Porchay,” he starts. “It’s okay that you hate me. But we need to move before you end up in a tabloid alongside me.”

Porchay says nothing. Kim pulls away, wiping some of Porchay’s tears away. Porchay avoids his eyes but doesn’t fight him. With some hesitation, Kim slowly slides his hand into Porchay’s, and when their fingers lace together, Kim walks them both away from the small crowd.

“What-what is that sound?”

“Hm?”

“That ringing? It’s been going off for ages. Is that your phone?”

Kim curses. He drops Porchay’s hand and takes his phone out. Without another thought, he rips the backing off, removes the battery, and shoves the pieces back into his pocket. He then takes Porchay’s hand again, pulling him to another direction.

After a few minutes of walking, Porchay asks: “Where are we going?”

Kim stops. “I… I don’t know.”

After Kim flags a taxi, and after a silent car ride, they end up at Porchay’s studio.

Porchay unlocks the door, and Kim steps inside. “I didn’t know you moved.”

Porchay leaves the keys on the kitchen counter. “I…” He looks at Kim. “I couldn’t stay there. At my parents’ house.” When Kim says nothing, Porchay continues. “Dead parents were bad enough. And then That Day happened.” Porchay’s voice wavers. “I couldn’t stay there.”

Kim stands awkwardly, silent.

“I started a job after graduation. And Porsche helps out.”

Kim traces the edge of the wall. After a moment of silence, he says, “I used to drive by your house.”

“What?”

“Your parents’ house.” Kim shoves his hands into his pockets. “I got desperate when you changed your number. I’d drive by your house.”

“Did you ever go inside?”

“No.” Kim pauses. “I was afraid,” he admits.

They both fall silent again, and Kim takes a look at Porchay. Gone is the timid student that shook under his palm when he signed his school uniform. Somehow, in six months, Porchay grew at least an inch. His hair has grown as well, longer in the back and curled around his ears, but still has that same coarse texture that’s visible in the moonlight that comes in from the single window of his studio. Kim briefly recalls how Porchay’s arm felt when he grabbed it earlier; taut muscle endured his bruising grip. If he wasn’t swollen from tears, wasn’t so hardened by heartbreak, Kim would say how beautiful Porchay looks, just standing there in the tiny space.

The microwave reads 23:36PM.

“You should sleep,” Kim says, leaning against the wall.

“Are you asking to sleep with me?”

“Porchay,” Kim warns sharply. “Watch your mouth.”

Porchay scoffs, looks at Kim. “You’ve fucked my life over. Are you here to finish the job?”

It takes all of Kim’s willpower to not grab Porchay by his collar and throttle him. “You’re tired,” he says. “I’m tired.”

“You wanted to talk.”

“Not like this. Not with you coming for my throat at every other word.”

Porchay gestures to the door. “Then leave.”

“I’m not fucking leaving, Porchay.”

“Then what do you want from me, Kim?” Porchay shouts. “What do you want?”

Kim tries to keep his voice steady. “I want to talk. But it’s late. And we’re both emotional. What are you doing tomorrow?”

Porchay tenses up. “I…” he stammers for the first time since they’ve met, and the sound is so reminiscent of how Porchay sounded months ago that hearing it wounds Kim. “It’s my day off.”

“So let’s talk tomorrow.” Kim sits on the worn couch. On the coffee table in front of him, there’s a small note pad and a pen, a stack of magazines, the remote to the tv, and an open bag of chips. Some things haven’t changed at all. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here.”

“Why do you have to stay here?”

“Because I’m not letting you walk away from me again. Not again.”

Porchay looks at him blankly, but Kim doesn’t care how desperate he sounds. He is a desperate man.

Kim listens to the crinkling of sheets, the groan of a cheap mattress. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep,” Porchay whispers in a small voice.

“Neither do I. But we should try.”

Porchay knocks out after ten minutes of silence.

He snores.

Some things haven’t changed at all.

Kim tells himself to stop thinking that. Porchay has changed, and Kim is the one who changed him. There is no way to escape this new reality, no medicine Kim can give Porchay to help him revert back to a time when they would speak sweetly to one another, loving each other. That precise thought is what keeps him awake. For at least an hour, Kim lays on the couch, wishing for sleep or some form of alcohol to magically put him to sleep.

Kim fishes his phone out of his pocket. Sliding the battery back into place, he turns on his phone, and is greeted by 48 missed calls, 102 text messages, and the thousands of mentions across all social media platforms. He groans. He knows a few dozen of those messages and calls are from his manager, but he opens Twitter first.

@WildelyDawn: “omg!!! #WIK just abandoned his concert!!”

@NoticeMeWIK69: “I want my money back, but its okay still luv u #WIK”

@Cris1997: “Okay but was that his new single and when is it dropping on Spotify? #WIK #WIKWalksOut2022”

@ModernMusicThailand: “Famous musician appears in concert after 6 month disappearance, only to walk off stage mid concert. #WIKWalksOut2022”

Ugh.

Kim turns off his phone. He gets up and stretches, looking over at Porchay. With careful steps, he walks over to the sleeping form. There, Kim sees Porchay curled up, all adorable and sleepy, clinging on to the sheets rather than wearing them. Less adorable is the puddle of drool on his pillow.

Kim covers his mouth to stifle a giggle. How can someone be this cute? He fights the urge to wipe Porchay’s mouth, to brush his hair back.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Just remembering makes Kim shiver.

Kim ventures back to the couch, even though he sees Porchay’s desk and computer on the other side of the room. Sleep is impossible.

Instead, Kim takes the notepad and pen from the coffee table. And he begins to write.

Chapter Text

“You lied to me.”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Was it worth it, Kim?”

“I hate you more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

“Take it. I don’t want it.”

“I loved you.”

Kim bolts awake. The pen and pad clatter to the ground. Cold sweat is sticky on his forehead.

He first glances at Porchay, who’s still asleep. He breathes a sigh of relief. Thinking Porchay would get up and go from his own apartment in the middle of the night is a pretty paranoid thought, but for Kim, it’s a real fear.

The microwave in the kitchen reads 6:15AM. The whispers of the sunrise begin to filter into the apartment.

I hate the sun.

He rubs his eyes. He remembers staying up until 1:00AM, at least, and from there, he must have drifted. But, even with his head alarmingly clear, any sleep without the bottle is a win. Kim’s body aches from the couch and the lack of sleep, but he gets up, stretches until his bones crack, to get a better look at Porchay.

He’s still here. He runs a hand through his hair, before padding to the other end of the studio to the bathroom. The more Kim sees, the worse he feels. The bathroom is tiny, like someone’s shoved a shower, toilet, and sink into a corner. Here, standing on the cold tiled floor, Kim realizes how much Porchay has shrunk his life: that leaving his parents’ home, the one that the brothers fought so hard to keep, and moving to this cramped place, was truly Kim’s doing.

There are little things that make it quintessentially Porchay though: outside the bathroom are slippers with the same character that’s on the charm on his guitar case. In true Porchay fashion, dirty clothes are hanging from the towel holder, and there’s a minor disaster of hygiene products cluttering the sink.

He turns on the faucet, runs the water until it’s icy, before splashing it into his face, running the remainder into his hair. Mirrors never lie, so Kim carefully inspects his dark circles, the smudged eyeliner from his performance the other night, his chapped lips that he gnawed on all night while writing.

Kim dries his face on a paper towel before sighing deeply and exiting the bathroom. When he gets to the living area, he sees Porchay, awake, flipping through the notepad.

“Is this a list?”

“Yeah.”

Porchay flips a few more pages and holds up the pad. “And this?”

“Just a few words running through my head.” Porchay puts the pad down. “Did you get some sleep?”

Porchay nods. “Did you?”

Kim wipes his palms down his jeans. “A little. Better than the last few weeks.”

“Can’t have been that much better. You wrote a list of stuff we should talk about and a new single instead of sleeping.”

Kim looks away, towards the window. “Writing’s been hard.”

Porchay wordlessly walks past him to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. Kim exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Porchay seems less volatile from yesterday, but nothing feels certain, even though Porchay hasn’t kicked him out yet.

Kim walks towards the window, tracing the windowsill gathering the dust. He samples the rest of the room in the morning light: there’s not much here either, like Porchay never really moved in. Nothing very personal besides a single picture of Porsche and Porchay: the same photo that’s in Kim’s file of the brothers. On the floor near his desk is Porchay’s high school diploma, framed but unhung. There’s a box under his desk full of school supplies, notebooks, and other materials.

It’s weirdly clean, Kim thinks, with a half-smile.

“I don’t have any food here.”

Porchay’s voice interrupts Kim’s thoughts.

Kim turns. Porchay’s wearing a different t-shirt, his hair combed. Kim wants to muse it back to the mess it was. “That’s okay. You don’t have to feed me.”

“There’s a bakery. A block away. I’ll be a few minutes.” Porchay slips on his shoes.

Kim’s throat tightens, panic flooding his chest at the thought of Porchay leaving. “I can go with you,” he says, too loudly, too eagerly.

Porchay stares before taking his keys. “It’s okay, I got it.” He pauses. “You can…” Porchay shuts his eyes. He lets out a hard breath through his nose. “I can’t believe I let you stay here.” Keys slipping from his hands, Porchay braces himself against the kitchen counter.

Immediately, Kim is next to him, but Porchay takes a step away, his hands up. “Don’t. Don’t, please don’t. If you touch me again, if you do that,” he says in a rush. “If you touch me again, I’ll fall apart.”

Kim recoils.

“I came here to hide from you, and you’re here. And I should want you to leave. But,” Porchay’s eyes squeeze shut again. “I’m so pathetic.” Before Kim can say anything, Porchay takes the keys again. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Unlike you, I keep my promises.”

The door slams.

Within the first minutes that Porchay’s gone, Kim’s hit with the possibility that Porchay could leave him there. So, he stands, rooted where Porchay left him.

“Unlike you, I keep my promises.”

He just knows that those last words will be in tonight’s nightmares.

When he can finally breathe normally, and after he convinces himself that Porchay must come back (it is, after all, his studio) Kim opens Porchay’s fridge. He wasn’t lying. There are half used condiment bottles, little cans of pop, three takeaway containers (two of which look very suspicious) and a few water bottles. He takes one and as he closes the fridge, he reads the few sheets of the pad stuck to the door. Some are from months ago. Others are as recent as this week.

“Interview @22:00”

“O’s Bday @ 20:00”

“BKK @ 10:00”

Kim sits on the couch again, glancing at the microwave. Exactly six minutes since Porchay’s left.

Kim sighs.

Ten minutes of waiting in, Kim figures he should call someone and say that he isn’t quitting. With a grimace, he powers on his phone. The numbers are worse from hours ago, and there are missed calls from Kinn, Porsche, Big, and several more from his manager.

The first person he calls is Porsche.

“You never told me he had another apartment,” Kim angrily says when Porsche picks up.

Porsche doesn’t hold back. “He told me not to tell you. And it’s none of your business, Kim. My brother was never supposed to be anyone’s business.”

“I was losing my mind trying to find him. I fucking looked everywhere, and you knew this whole time-”

“I could not give less of a shit about you, Kim. He needed space from you, and we agreed-”

“We?” Kim’s voice reaches a fever pitch. “Kinn too? I swear to fucking God-”

Porsche snorts. “Does it matter? You found him. Congratulations on continuing to make his life a shit show.”

“Fuck you, Porsche, you douchebag, you cocky fucking asshole-”

“Don’t fuck it up, and when you do, don’t try to blame anyone but yourself.” With that, the line goes dead.

But calling Porsche every name under the sun doesn’t help because Porsche is right. And while Porsche was somewhat understanding about Kim investigating him, he drew a very hard line at Porchay, which, and Kim is sure, that Porsche will never forgive the youngest Theerapanyakul for crossing.

There really is no one to blame but himself. But, and he’ll stick by this: it felt kind of good to yell at Porsche, especially since he’s sitting alone, twiddling his thumbs.

Kim’s phone rings.

I wish I could flush this fucking thing down the toilet.

But it’s his manager. Kim picks up.

“Hello?”

“Do you want to keep me as your manager? Do you actually care about your career?”

“I-”

“I’ll tell you something, WIK. There are hundreds of pretty boys like you on YouTube, covering songs and strumming on a goddamn guitar, but I picked you-”

“Yes-”

“Without your father’s help, remember? You found me. And I pranced around with a mafia kid for a whole ass year, didn’t I? Put my own ass at risk, didn’t I?”

Kim sighs. “Manager Pond. I am so sorry.”

There’s a moment of silence before Pond speaks. “Well, fuck me. There’s a first for everything.”

“I really am. I’m so sorry. I…” Kim trails off. How do you even explain this situation to someone? “I took that leave of absence last month because I fucked up badly. I hurt someone badly.”

“That’s old news, kid. Go on about yesterday.”

Kim breathes out through his nose. “They came to the show,” Kim admits in a rush. “I haven’t seen them in six months, and now I’m trying to make it better.”

“Goddamn it, WIK, are you serious or are you taking this from a fucking television show?”

“I’m serious,” Kim whispers. “I think I only have one shot at this.”

Pond sighs, and it’s a familiar sound that lets Kim know that Pond is about to lecture him. “What makes you think you can fix it?”

The question devastates Kim, knocks him speechless. When Kim doesn’t answer, Pond begins his lecture carefully. “You said six months? That’s a long time. And you’re scheduled for Singapore on Saturday. You can fix six months of silence in a few days?”

“I have to try. I need to try. I don’t even want forgiveness, Pond. I-” Kim’s voice breaks, eyes suddenly itchy. “I need to make sure they’re okay before I go.”

“You can’t fix people Kim.”

Kim gets up from the couch and starts pacing the perimeter of Porchay’s studio. Why do you have to make so much sense all the time. “I have to try. I’m not giving up because of a tour.” He stops at the window. “This person. He’s important.”

His manager sighs again, this time in the angry, “I hate working with you” sort of way. “We can’t postpone again, WIK. They’ll drop you. You’ll have to pay all the fees and then some for breaking the contract. I don’t think any studio will pick you up again if you abandon this tour. Not to mention your socials.” Kim hears the notification sound ping in the background. “Have you looked at Twitter? You’re trending. And not in the good way.”

Kim looks at the microwave. It’s all a bit too much. It’s all coming down on him a bit too quickly. And Porchay’s been gone for thirty minutes now. Anxiety fills in his chest. “He’s important, Pond,” he repeats lamely. Pond says nothing, and Kim breathes out through his nose. “I’m not a very good person. And I’ve fucked over a lot of people in my life. You included. But he’s important to me. I can’t let him go.”

“WIK-”

“You’re right. I can’t fix people. But I can fix my shit.”

“Alright, alright.” Pond sounds frustrated, but Kim knows his manager. “Keep your fucking phone on. I’ll see what I can do. Answer me when I call you, you brat.”

“Yes, sir.” But for the second time that day, Kim’s speaking to the dial tone.

Kim sags back into the couch. He’s not quite sure what Pond can do besides bully him into going on tour. Maybe I can piss off Big enough to break my leg. Or maybe I should let Porsche try.

It’s tempting, but hardly sane.

Kim lays down on the couch, and though curling up into a ball wouldn’t be the best way to greet Porchay if he comes back, Kim folds his knees to his chest and closes his eyes.

Kim doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he startles awake once he hears the door open. Porchay walks in with iced teas in a carrier and two bags of groceries.

Kim awkwardly stands in the kitchen as Porchay places the items on the counter. “You could’ve called. I can help.”

“New phone doesn’t have your number.”

“Oh.”

Porchay slides a drink to him and opens a small box. “Breakfast.”

“Thanks.”

Porchay puts a few things away into the fridge and Kim just stares. Porchay catches him, and Kim looks away.

“Why are you staring?”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“That was the plan,” Porchay says a little too easily.

Kim doesn’t want to ask the next question, but he knows it’s important. He collects the little droplets of condensation on the cup, unsure what to do with his hands. “Did it help?”

“It did.” On the other side of the counter, Porchay clasps onto the counter. “At first.”

“What changed?”

“Seeing you.”

“You told me everything you did, but not why.”

Kim’s sitting on the couch. Porchay’s across the room, at his desk. Kim’s list is on the coffee table between them.

“I wanted to tell you. You asked me to leave.”

Porchay looks annoyed. “I know. I thought you’d stay.”

“I couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. You were-”

“Yeah, I know. I was in danger. But that was your fault, wasn’t it?”

Kim exhales. “It is. I…” He stops, rubs his neck. “Porchay. You know why I did it-”

“Kim.” Porchay’s voice cuts like a knife. “I need to hear it from you.”

Kim’s throat gets dry, but he starts.

The ice in both of their abandoned teas has melted, and the cups leave rings of water on the coffee table.

The sun’s never been brighter.

Kim, if possible, hates himself even more than when the day started.

“Did you… did you ever find anything out about my parents?” For the first time in the hours that they’ve been talking, Porchay’s voice wavers.

“No,” Kim says immediately. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Big looked, even after I stopped suspecting Porsche. But after That Day happened, I told him to stop.” Kim looks into Porchay’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Porchay. If you want to keep looking-”

Porchay shakes his head. “I can’t handle that right now. I was perfectly fine thinking they died in a car accident, and I want to go back to that.”

Kim tightens his lips. “Anything else you’d like to go back to?”

“Yeah. I wish I never listened in on your conversation with that guard.”

The answer surprises Kim. “That’s all?”

“I mean, I didn’t always think that.” Porchay bites the nail of his thumb. “I used to think, ‘I wish I never met him at all.’” Porchay looks up at Kim. “I’m sorry. That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“No. No, it’s not.” But it hurts.

“I used to lay awake at night and wonder how much of it was real.” Suddenly, Porchay looks away from Kim. “I would lie awake, hating you so much. And then one night, I thought about how I hate myself for still wanting to be around you, even after That Day. So now…” Porchay trails off. Kim doesn’t speak. “Now, I wish I could go back to when I was missing you because you were ignoring me. Because when it’s the other way around, it’s like I’m drowning.”

Kim resists moving across the room to wipe Porchay’s eyes. “Would you believe me if I told you that it was real? That it is still real?”

Porchay smiles sadly. “No.”

Porchay’s been staring at the clock on the microwave. Kim’s been staring at him staring at the time.

“What are you thinking about?” Kim whispers from the other side of the room.

Porchay sighs, keeping his eyes on the clock. “I’m hungry.” They haven’t touched the little breakfast snacks Porchay bought earlier; and quite frankly, Kim’s nauseous as hell. Between the conversation and being sober for more than 12 hours, he doesn’t know if he can handle eating.

“I can get us something.”

“Okay.”

A half hour later, Big leaves a brown bag of lunch boxes, cartons of soup, and other things.

Porchay sits at his desk while Kim puts stuff together.

“Plates? Bowls?”

“I have paper in one of the cabinets.”

When Kim brings the food out, he sees Porchay sitting on the floor, on the other side of the coffee table

“Are you… are you okay with me still being here?”

Porchay stares into the bowl. “I don’t know. But I know I don’t want us to stop talking.”

Kim folds himself on the floor. “We can keep talking after you’re done eating.”

“Won’t you eat too?”

Kim rubs his neck. “I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No,” Kim says firmly. “I’ll manage.”

They eat in silence, for the most part, with Kim moving food around in his box.

“What’s next on the list?” Porchay asks, while he’s putting away the leftovers.

Kim swallows hard. “The song.”

Porchay sits back at his desk; Kim misses him already. “I didn’t know you finished it.”

Kim wishes he didn’t put that down on the list. But honesty is not enough of a price to pay for the last half year. “I, uh. I was going to play it for you. Whenever we decided to celebrate your graduation.” He laughs bitterly. “Kind of hate that I played it in front of all those people. It’s your song, not mine.” He sucks in a breath. “Telling you to write a song about your brother and then having that be the only song I work on for six months. While you’re gone.”

“It-” Porchay hesitates. “You used the lyrics I wrote.”

“Some. I wanted you to know-” Kim’s throat tightens.

Wordlessly, Porchay gets up and sits back at his desk. He opens his desk drawer. He takes out a peach-colored envelope. From that, he pulls out a card with a familiar, silly character on it.

“To Chay, Congratulations on graduating. I hope you know that-”

“I want to always stay by your side,” Kim finishes. This time, it’s his eyes that mist over.

“I don’t know anything about you,” Porchay says, suddenly. The admittance startles Kim. “I know a lot about your music. I know who WIK is. I know about your family. What they do.” Porchay rubs his eyes. “You ordered noodles for us. But I don’t even know if you like spicy food.”

Kim just stares at the younger man.

“And you know everything about me. Where I went to school. What instruments I play. You even know what schools I’ve applied to.”

“I don’t know everything about you,” Kim says hotly, feeling himself flush.

“You have a secret file on me, Kim.”

Kim fights a grin. “Yes, but your favorite food wasn’t on it.” He pauses. “I just happen to know you like noodles with a stupid amount of chili oil.”

“You know so much about me. I know nothing about you.”

“I only know that because you’ve ordered it a dozen times.” He smiles softly. “I hate spicy food. Always have.”

Porchay folds his knees to his chest, swiveling slightly in the computer chair. “That’s what bothers me. This whole time, you knew me. Went to my school. Talked to me. Taught me. Went into my house, my room. And because I can’t shut up, I told you everything about me.” Porchay closes his eyes. “I hate how easy it was for you to know me. I’m naïve.”

“Stop saying things like that.”

“Everyone must think I’m so stupid-”

“Stop.”

Kim gets up, and the movement startles Porchay. He sits right in front of Porchay, his hands on the arms of the chair. “I wanted to know you. Yeah, at first, it was for the mole. It was for my family. But after you said you liked all sides of me…” Kim’s fingers tighten on the plastic. “I wanted to know who could possibly like all sides of me, or even all my music.” Words keep bubbling out of Kim. “And when I found all your stuff, I thought I could make myself feel better about all the things I do, all the shit I’ve fucked up, by making this innocent person write a love song.” Kim runs a hand through his hair, leans back; he realizes he’s practically shouting at Porchay, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of him. “Maybe that’s when I stopped thinking about my family and started thinking of-”

“Of?”

“Of telling you the truth. Of telling you about who I am. By then, I knew that Porsche wasn’t involved.” Kim grimaces. “But I’m a coward. Then you-”

“I played the song. In front of your place.”

Kim nods. “How can you be naïve, Porchay? When I’m a coward,” Kim says, and for some reason, it feels good to say, feels like a burden is off his shoulders. “I didn’t tell you how much the song meant to me. Because I wanted more, wanted to hear you sing it all the time.” Kim looks out the window. “So I kept our guitar lessons, even though you play guitar perfectly fine. Kept visiting you even though I knew something was wrong back home. I didn’t know how to tell you that I care about you.” I still don’t know how.

Kim buries his face into his hands. I’m sick of metaphors. He pushes his hands into his hair, eyes on Porchay. “I saw you in the crowd, and it’s like my brain stopped. And I had to play the song, Porchay. I had to.”

Porchay stays quiet for a while, and it drives Kim mad. After a few long minutes, Kim asks, “What are you thinking?”

Porchay unfolds himself from the chair, his feet on the wooden floor. “I’m thinking you suck at love.”

Kim laughs. And it’s a real laugh, and it’s ringing throughout Porchay’s apartment, and Porchay’s sly smile just makes him laugh harder. “How can you be naïve,” Kim says, “when you’re right? When you know me better than anyone else?”

“I’m always right.”

“I’m beginning to think that’s true.” Kim wipes his eyes. “I do suck at love.”

Porchay’s foot nudges Kim’s knee. “Yeah.”

Kim’s still on the floor when Porchay yawns, and Kim stares a little too long at how his body extends. “You’re a little taller,” he hastily says when Porchay catches him looking.

“Only a little. You’re still taller than me.” Porchay sighs, looking down at him.

“You’ll end up being taller than me. Porsche is tall.”

“Don’t jinx it.” Porchay yawns again.

“If you’re tired, you can go to sleep.” It’s not very late into the afternoon, but considering all the talking, all the tension, they’re both exhausted.

“Don’t want to.”

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?”

Porchay shifts his eyes. “Don’t you? Aren’t you supposed to be in Singapore?”

Kim fights a smile. “How’d you know that?”

It’s Porchay’s turn to flush. “All the cool artists go from Bangkok to Singapore-”

“Oh? So I’m cool?”

Porchay waves his hands. “You know what I mean!” Kim smirks, and Porchay flails a little more. “Stop that!” Kim laughs, catching Porchay’s hands before he teeters out of the chair.

“If you touch me again, I’ll fall apart.”

Upon remembering, Kim drops Porchay’s hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, while Porchay runs his hands against his legs.

After an awkward silence, Porchay coughs. “It’s getting harder to stay mad at you,” Porchay admits. “But I’m still mad at you. And I still hate you.” He idly fiddles with the hem of his shorts. “I still miss you. Even when you’re right there. I miss you.” Laughter leaves Porchay’s face. “When I moved here, I wanted to avoid you entirely. I wanted to prepare.”

“For?”

“To run into you. My brother’s practically married to yours. You would’ve seen me eventually.”

“But not soon enough,” Kim says. “You could’ve stayed away. I wouldn’t have ever known.”

“I know. I know.” Porchay’s eyes well up. “I kept waiting for me to hate you less. So we could try.”

“Porchay,” Kim begins. “I want us to be together, but…”

“I want to go back to that.”

“We can’t go back to before That Day.”

The younger man scrambles up from the chair, stands over Kim. “You think I don’t know that?” Porchay shouts. “You think I don’t know that? God, Kim, if I could erase one day from my life, it’d be that one! Because how fucking unlucky am I? I have to know what it was like loving you for the rest of my life!”

When the tears come, Kim stands and takes Porchay by the shoulders, and lets him weep into his t-shirt. “It’s never going to be like that again,” Porchay cries. “It’s never going to be like that again.”

They’re on Porchay’s bed.

Porchay’s asleep on his pillow, and Kim has an arm wrapped around him. Kim looks over at the microwave clock; Porchay had been crying for what felt like an hour, but only twenty minutes had passed. And after covering Kim in tears and snot, Porchay dry heaved himself to sleep.

Kim gently pets Porchay’s hair, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It’s at that moment he considers leaving.

It would be cruel. It would absolutely destroy Porchay. But it would allow him the clean break he needs. Because maybe Porchay is right. Maybe seeing Kim again unraveled everything Porchay did to protect himself.

Kim looks over to the coffee table, to the pad and pen.

I could end this.

And he can move on.

Acid burns into his throat and he coughs. Porchay stirs slightly, and when Kim thinks he’s about to wake, Porchay buries his head into Kim’s chest and wraps an arm around Kim’s waist.

For a moment, Kim imagines how Porchay would be torn up again. How Porsche might actually strangle Kim, and how he’d welcome death. Porchay would go off to college, live a normal life: as normal it could get with his older brother practically married to a mafia lord. He’d do well in school, maybe begin performing at venues and develop a following.

Maybe Porchay would write a song about how an asshole torpedoed his life.

Kim’s heart races at the thought.

No, Porchay would move on.

But could I?

As if on cue, Porchay murmurs Kim’s name, snapping him from his thoughts. Kim relaxes into Porchay; he goes back to softly playing with Porchay’s hair.

“I’m sorry, Chay," Kim murmurs. "Won’t you let me be selfish a little longer?”

A few moments later, Kim’s phone vibrates. Very carefully, he pulls away from Porchay: no easy feat, since the younger man clings onto the collar of his shirt.

“Manager Pond.”

“I’m sorry, WIK. You’re used up all your favors. We need you in Singapore on Saturday.”

Kim looks over to a sleeping Porchay and the way the late afternoon light fills the tiny room.

I just want to stay here.

“Fuck." Fuckfuckfuck. "Okay.”

“I mean it. I tried.”

“I need-” Kim hasn’t taken his eyes off of Porchay’s sleeping face. “Can I let you know tomorrow morning?”

His manager groans before hanging up.

Kim puts his phone down before sitting on the floor, near the bed. “Pretending to be asleep again?”

Porchay opens his eyes. “Are you mad?”

“No.” Kim brushes the hair out of Porchay’s eyes. “But we need to talk.”

Porchay sits up. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re right again. About Singapore.”

“I know. You have to go.”

“I don’t have to go-”

Porchay cuts him off. “No. No, you need to go.”

Kim looks at Porchay, and for the first time, he’s angry. “Why… why do you want me to leave?” I thought we were making progress. “Are we really unrepairable, Chay?”

“Kim-” Porchay puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s… it’s not that.”

“What is it? I will,” Kim chokes. “I will do anything-”

Porchay gets up, goes back to his desk. He doesn’t speak as he takes out a manila envelope and hands it to Kim.

“What is it? What is this?”

Porchay just shakes his head.

Kim turns the envelope right side up. It’s addressed to Porchay.

From the Manhattan School of Music.

Kim looks at Porchay, and with shaking fingers, he opens the envelope and slides a stack of papers out.

The first is a letter.

“Dear Pitchaya Kittisawasd,

Congratulations! I am pleased to inform you that you have been recommended for admission to the International Summer Immersion Program at the Manhattan School of Music. The ISIP is a world-renowned program that gathers the next generation of musicians and performers across the globe to gather in the city that housed jazz, blues, and urban rock, birthed fusion music from all walks of life, and continues to pioneer new and contemporary genres of music.

At this point, we are also excited to offer you one of our funding offers; this offer will come as a separate message from the Program Director, is subject to change, and is contingent on your VISA application, but we are happy to offer you full tuition remission for the program, as well as a stipend for living costs.

Please wait to hear from the School before contacting Student Financial Services regarding alternative or additional financial arrangements for attending MSM.

We are excited to be able to welcome you into the ISIP Cohort of 2022, Pitchaya. We hope you will spend the next six months in New York, alongside all that the MSM and your peers have to offer. Please contact me at the email address in my signature below if you have any questions.

Sincerely…”

Kim stares at the letter. He doesn’t have to ask. He knows what this means.

The next page is Porchay’s visa application. He doesn’t need to look at that either. The page after is more information about the funding, and the next is what the schedule will be for accepted students. The rest of the pages are pamphlets and forms that Porchay filled out.

Suddenly, Kim looks at the coffee table, at the pad and pen.

The sticky note on the fridge.

BKK @ 10:00. BKK. Bangkok Airport, 10AM. For Friday.

It's Wednesday.

“I told you,” Kim says.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know everything about you.”

“I knew it was too good to be true.”

“Hm?”

“This apartment is too clean for you.”

Porchay throws a pen at Kim. Kim ducks, but it hits his shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Ow.” Kim feigns pain a little too easily; Porchay’s pen is nothing compared to the shotgun wound he’s leaving Kim with.

They both sit on the floor, their backs against the bed. The sun is setting.

“And you lied,” Kim says coyly. “It’s not your day off.”

Porchay smiles to himself. “It’s not. My last day was yesterday.”

After some time, Kim finally gathers the courage to ask: “Tell me about New York?”

Maybe on instinct, Porchay folds his knees to his chest, stares ahead into the kitchen. “I applied to universities here. The ones I told you about. I got into the Faculty. You know, the one we first met in?”

Kim nods. How could I forget that day?

“I wasn’t sure what I was going to do after school. I mean, I knew I should get a job after graduating. Save up money for school. But I thought… I thought about how you tutored me, and how you said I was getting better. And someone from the music room was talking about the MSM.” Porchay breathes out. “I applied. And I got in. And you know what I thought when I read the letter?”

“What?”

“‘How am I going to survive six months without Kim?’” Porchay tightens his hold on his knees. “I wasn’t even happy. And everyone else was happy. But I wasn’t happy at all.” Porchay turns to Kim. “I was going to turn down the offer.”

“I would’ve hated you if you turned down the offer.”

“I know. But I didn’t want to go to a new place alone.”

“And now?”

Porchay turns to Kim. “Do you know how much of my life revolves around you? I knew nothing about you, but my life, for a really long time, was me trying to become like WIK. Even before we met. I covered all the same songs you covered on your channel. I started to learn your songs on the guitar. Sometimes, I think my lyrics could just be yours, if you were drunk.” Kim tries to cut in, but Porchay shakes his head. “I know you’re not actually WIK, and that you’re Kim, but then I tried to be like you. Like Kim.”

Kim is silent.

“And I don’t know a lot about you,” Porchay repeats. “But so much about my life is about you, even when I stopped talking to you. Fuck, I’m even going to the same Faculty as you. After That Day, I accepted the offer for MSM. Not just because I wanted to get away from you, but because I don’t really know who I am without you in the picture.” Porchay relaxes his legs, stretches them out, as if he too has unwound himself from a great burden. “It’s like I don’t want to be Porchay anymore, but I don’t know who else I could be.” Porchay grimaces. “God, I sound so cheesy.”

“No, you don’t.” Kim’s throat is tight with emotion. “I’m proud of you. You, Porchay. And all you’ll do.”

“Thanks.”

A manic voice in Kim’s head wants to ask if he can go to New York with Porchay. But before he can ask, Porchay leans his head against his shoulder. “I came to your show yesterday to see if I was over you. If I could go another six months without actually seeing you.”

“I think you’ll be okay,” Kim whispers. It’s the hardest thing he’s said today.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It’s nighttime again. Kim tries not to look at the clock on the microwave.

All it does is remind him of what’s to come.

“Kim?”

“Yes?”

“Will you… can you stay tonight too?”

“Yes.”

Porchay yawns languidly. “I didn’t know talking would be so tiring.”

“Really?” Kim raises an eyebrow. “That’s rich coming from you.”

Porchay elbows him. “Hey,” he says. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Will you be okay?” Porchay tenses. “While I’m gone?”

Kim doesn’t know how to answer. Even after all the talking, he hasn’t told Porchay about the sleepless nights, the constant haze of alcohol that plagued the last six months, the writer’s block, the lack of life in his day to day. He wonders if going on tour while Porchay’s away is the best route for him to take, especially since he fell apart so easily yesterday. “I don’t know,” Kim finally admits. “I don’t think everything’s okay between us.”

“I want to forgive you. I didn’t think it would take this long.” Porchay’s fingers touch his, ever so gently. “Forgiveness is hard.”

Kim closes his eyes. “It is. I don’t know what I’m hoping for.” When Porchay closes his hand over Kim’s, Kim’s heart aches. “And even if you forgave me right now, it wouldn’t help.”

“Can I tell you what I’m hoping for?”

Kim holds his breath; he nods.

Their fingers lace together. “I hope I come back, still hating you and everything you did. And I hope…” Porchay whispers while rubbing his thumb against the back of Kim’s hand. “I come back loving you anyways.”

Kim becomes undone.

Upon his tears, Porchay’s follow. “I hope so too.”

Chapter Text

When Kim startles awake, his head hits one of the creaky boards of the bed. For the umpteenth time, he’s waking up with cold sweat weighing down the hair that curls around his ears.

He squints at the time. 1:19AM.

There’s something heavy in his lap. His back hurts.

In the hazy moonlight that streams in from the window, Kim makes out the silhouette of Porchay’s head, sound asleep. With a cracking stretch of his neck, Kim comes to. “I hope so too.” Sometime after that, they dozed, and then slept, propped against the bed rather than using it. He doesn’t recall when Porchay slid from his shoulder to his lap, but, my, is it lovely to wake up to.

The sweat soaked shirt? Not so much.

As smoothly as he can, Kim collects Porchay into his arms: not an easy feat. How can someone so cute be so heavy? He manages to succeed without waking the younger man, though he tosses in the bed slightly, mumbling something about an octopus. Kim suppresses a laugh.

Sitting on the couch, he realizes the entire front of his shirt is damp; he’s been in the same clothes for days. Kim pulls off the shirt and lays it across the coffee table before taking the bed sheet and drawing it over his chest. The cold sweats. The trembling. The nausea. By no means is he a heavy drinker, but after That Day, he drank at least one whiskey, neat, a day, usually sometime before bed. Once a day became two or three on bad days, like the few days before the tour started. The habit isn’t something Kim’s proud of; the way he wants something to drink to help sleep is particularly shameful.

“I don’t know anything about you.”

He turns away from the table, staring into the couch cushions as he hears Porchay snore softly.

“I don’t know anything about you.”

The annoying vibration of his phone wakes Kim up; this time, at 6:20AM, according to the microwave’s clock. The early rays of sunrise begin to sneak in as he gets up and walks to the kitchen to take the call.

“Do you have an answer?” Pond asks.

“Good morning, Manager Pond.”

“There’s no time. I need an answer.”

Kim looks towards Porchay.

“Lucky for you, I have one.”

Kim doesn’t sleep after answering Pond’s call. Pond, HR repairman extraordinaire, at the very last minute, pulled together a press conference for today, 10:00AM. “You have to apologize,” he said. “And I swear WIK, if you don’t…”

Kim reassured his manager that all will be explained to everyone, especially the fans. His reassurance didn’t help; Pond emailed over a list of talking points, socially correct and sensitive responses to any questions from seedy reporters, and a formal apology statement.

This reads like a bad YouTube apology video.

After his verbal lashing, Kim meanders to the bathroom. Despite waking up several times in the night, he doesn’t feel as exhausted. Though his dark circles are prominent and his skin sort of dull, he feels slightly more put together. He tugs on his shirt.

He wonders if it’ll last when Friday morning comes around.

On the couch again, Kim tries to assess whatever damage Manager Pond is bent over. And damage indeed: for a whole day, “WIKWalksOut2022” trended with fan captured videos of himself running off stage. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be any videos of his conversation with Porchay, but that victory paled in comparison to the hundreds of tweets that asked the same question: Who’s Chay!?

Oddly, he wants to like some of the videos, participate in his own mental breakdown as an audience member, but that would be an absolute disaster. He’s been offline, unplugged, for much too long to engage with fans; there would be too many questions. “A formal statement is the best course of action,” as Pond insisted on the phone. “You need to sell the story. Say that you got excited over a friend visiting, and that it took you by surprise. Don’t mention the guy’s name again, don’t give any personal details. Stick to these two sentences.”

Kim looks over to Porchay.

“It’s for his safety,” Pond explained.

With a frustrated groan, Kim takes the pad and pen, and once more, he’s writing.

“What are you writing now?”

Kim looks to the bed. Porchay’s awake, looking intensely sleepy, his bed head impossibly adorable. “Notes for the press conference.”

Worry flashes across Porchay’s face. “Is it bad?”

Kim sucks in a breath. “Not bad… but…”

Why is my instinct to lie?

Kim’s stomach turns. It’s instinct because it’s all I’ve done to him.

“Kim?” Porchay’s now next to him.

“I have to apologize for leaving the concert. And I need to explain why I left.” Kim glances at his notes. “My manager said to write it off as seeing a friend, and not to mention you beyond that. For your safety.”

“Makes sense.”

“Are you worried?”

“Should I be?”

“The trending tag was ‘WIKWalksOut2022.’ Followed with '#WhosChay.'”

Porchay smothers a laugh. “That's pretty clever. I haven’t looked through the WIK fandom in a while. For obvious reasons.”

Kim groans. “Please don’t TikTok about me.”

“You’re such an old man when it comes to social media,” Porchay jokes before walking towards the bathroom. The joke feels familiar, as if Kim’s getting glimpses of Porchay before That Day. There were times when Porchay would show Kim these silly little videos made with his music, and all Kim would do was stare blankly until Porchay explained the trend. Hence, despite only being four years older than him, Kim was officially an “old man.” And Kim’s avoided social media for most of his life because of the family, but his manager convinced him to get a Twitter to let fans know what he’s up to. Using it, though, was relatively rare (he ended up hiring a social media manager to help) and he never let Porchay live down his active role in the WIK fan discourse.

When Porchay emerges from the bathroom, Kim asks, “Do you remember when I found out that you moderated a fan Twitter account?”

It’s Porchay’s turn to groan. “Why are you bringing that up?”

“I don’t know. Some of those moments. They feel so far away from now.” Kim fiddles with the edge of the torn-out paper he’s been writing on since morning. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said last night.”

“About?”

“Not knowing me.” Their eyes meet. “I really thought that you knowing my every move, every lyric, meant that you knew me. And that was my excuse for not telling you anything sooner.”

Porchay folds himself onto the couch. “I did know all of that, because all of that was WIK. I mean that I don’t know much about you, Kim.”

Kim nods. “Right.” He breathes out. “Telling you things is hard because I want to protect you. And it wasn’t a good enough excuse then, and it’s not a good excuse now. I was lying to you and myself.”

Porchay looks at him, confused. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t want to use protecting you as an excuse to keep holding back.” Kim reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. “I’ve never been one to talk.”

“Kim?”

Kim removes a key from the little ring. “It’s going to be uncomfortable for you. But you deserve answers.” He takes Porchay’s hand and presses the key into his palm. “You should go today, while I’m at the press conference.” Kim then takes the pad and rips a page off. “Here’s the security code. It’s Tankhun’s birthday.”

“Kim-” Porchay starts. He rubs his thumb over the key. “Where is this coming from?”

“I know it’s different from what I did. I... I violated your home, and here I am, giving you permission. But you should get the chance to see. It’s not going to fix anything. I don’t know if it’ll even help, but-” Kim tapers off, unsure what else to say.

Porchay’s hand closes over the key. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do. I do because I’m going to keep myself in the shadows and expect you to be okay with that.” Kim looks bitterly at the carpeting. “I’ll keep telling myself to leave out details, to maneuver around you, out of protection.”

“I don’t always need protection.” Porchay’s voice starts rising. “I’m not a child-”

“I know,” Kim says, melancholic. “I know you’re not a child. And that’s why you should know everything.” After a moment, Kim adds, “You don’t have to, but I want you to.”

Kim watches Porchay palm the key. Suddenly, the anger is gone, replaced with hesitation. “What if…I find something I don’t like?”

“You’ll probably find a lot of things you don’t like.” Kim closes his hand over Porchay’s. “But you deserve to know as much as possible before you go.” He nearly stutters on the last words.

Porchay inhales deeply. “When’s the conference?”

“10:00AM. I know you have a busy day.” Kim gets up and offers his hand to Porchay. Porchay takes it and stands. “Big can drive us, if you want to go. And he’ll take you back home when you’re done.”

“But where will you be?”

Kim pulls at his t-shirt. “At my manager’s. I’ll get what I need for the conference, and you can take your time at the apartment.”

“And after?”

“Wherever you need me to be.”

It’s not long when Big picks both of them up from Porchay’s building. In the backseat, there’s Kim’s bag, courtesy of Big, wedged between them. Kim notices how Porchay looks out the window, watching the rest of the city wash by. He’s sure there’s plenty for Porchay to be doing now, rather than cutting into old wounds.

We’ve never driven in the car together before.

Another voice, cruelly snickering, interjects. You always met him somewhere. Or just showed up, like you were something more than a stranger.

Kim turns towards the other window, the muscles in his throat working.

Besides the hum of the engine and the occasional swear from Big, the ride is silent.

“On time?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kim walks past Pond and into Pond’s apartment. “I need to shower. And get ready for this.”

“I’m still in shock. I’ll need a moment.” Pond laughs. “Must be some guy.”

“Fuck off.” Kim makes his way to the bathroom and shuts the door. Though, inside, Kim smiles as he strips.

When Kim emerges from the shower, Pond’s ready to go. Shaking off the water from his hair, he slips into a familiar costume: t-shirt, leather jacket, black jeans. Kim does his best to pay attention to everything his manager’s saying: the script, the right answers, the wrong ones, how to explain the situation. And it’s all on the notes that Pond sent him, all on the pages he has in front of him, but Kim lets his mind wander.

I wonder what he’s found so far.

“WIK! Over here! WIK!”

The walk to the venue is tortuous. Kim’s never been great at public speaking, and it’s not that he doesn’t know what to say or how to say it. He feels uncomfortable. It’s so much easier to perform music than talk to people directly.

But not talking directly, honestly, is the reason why he’s in the position today.

When he sits at the table, his manager on his right-hand side, the chattering of fans, reporters, journalists comes to a halt.

He clears his throat.

“Good morning, everyone. Today’s press conference is to address my actions two days ago when I abruptly left my Bangkok show in the middle of my set.” Kim folds his hands together neatly, staring into an empty white spot on the wall at the other end of the room. “I sincerely apologize for my behavior. I have the utmost respect for my fans who spent their time and money to come see me perform. That day, I let all of them down, as well as the crew of the venue, my supporting acts, my tour crew, my managing team, as well as the record company. I want to assure those fans that they can get their money back at the point of their purchase. I hope to come back to Bangkok and be better prepared to perform for my fans. Once again, my deepest apologies to you all.”

“WIK,” a journalist immediately says after he finishes. “Why did you walk off stage?”

Kim hesitates. “My friend,” he says finally, at the clicking of cameras. “My friend was unexpectedly visiting, so I wanted to see them.”

God, I don’t even believe what I’m saying.

Another journalist cuts in. “Who’s your friend WIK?”

“Who is Chay?”

“Tell us about Chay!”

Manager Pond begins to rise, a sympathetic hand on Kim. “WIK won’t be taking any more questions. As a reminder, please contact the point of-”

“My friend,” Kim says into the mic, “is not up for discussion.” He feels his manager clamping down on his shoulder, but Kim stays put in his seat.

“Are you dating this friend?!”

“Are you gay WIK?!”

“Who is Chay!”

Kim clears his throat again. “My friend isn’t up for discussion. But my actions are. I was wrong for walking off stage, but the person who I walked off stage is worth all of this. Worth the bad press. The videos. This conference.” Kim looks directly into a camera. “I don’t regret my actions that day, but I do regret putting myself and my selfish wants above others. And for that, I am sorry. I am so sorry, and I hope to do everything in my power to uplift the person, the people, I’ve let down. I hope you will give me the chance to do that.”

The cameras flash like mad as Kim gets up and walks away.

In his car, Kim considers blocking his manager’s number for the night. Because it’s pointless to have people yell at him about what he’s done wrong, what he should have not said, what he should have done rather than not. What he really wants is to turn the phone off again, but there’s a chance Porchay or Big may call him.

He sits alone, phone vibrating in the cup holder. His own words come back to him in flashes. This habit of performing whatever he needs to tell Porchay angers him. There’s still so much to tell Porchay, so much more to talk about, that Kim feels like they haven’t even scratched the surface yet.

Porchay leaves tomorrow.

“You can’t fix people.”

So what am I doing? Why did I send him, alone, to my place?

Uselessness settles into his stomach when he pulls onto the highway. And when he’s speeding down the roads, realizes he doesn’t know where to go. Or if he has a place to go.

Porchay leaves tomorrow.

With a terrible screech, Kim hits the brakes and his car scrapes to a halt on the side of the road. Anger pulses throughout his whole body, hands shaking on the steering wheel, breathing uneven and heavy. A storm of thoughts crosses his mind. It’s finally clear now. Porchay leaves tomorrow, and all he’s done is blame everyone, everything around him. Everything on the stupid list was ticked off except himself. Porchay’s so fucking worried about being treated like a child, but it’s me.

Everything in Kim’s life is justified away: protection, family, business. Every move is so calculated because it has to be, because every action and every decision is the difference between life and death. A philosophy of success in the mafia life, but a disaster for anything else because nothing can explain this guilt away. There is no logical explanation for what he’s done; just hollow excuses parading as kindness, as empathy, protection, best interests.

Porchay leaves tomorrow. I destroyed his life, and he leaves tomorrow.

What if Porchay can’t ever forgive him?

What if Porchay stays in America?

He wretches the car door open, dry heaving at the dirt below him.

“Fuck! Fuck!” He hangs his head, his hands over his shaking face.

I want him to stay. I want him to stay.

Hours later, Kim’s sitting in another parking lot. This time, it’s at his, and soon to be Porchay’s, Faculty: where it all began. At first, Kim was sure he’d end up at a bar, but he fights the temptation. Though he’s out of his mind with anger, desperation, sadness, he doesn’t want to cloud these last few hours.

Hours.

Feeling particularly pathetic and masochistic, he begins to envision Porchay as a full-fledged college student. Would he still have those panic attacks before exams, and would he still make flashcards, swearing that they help rather than take up valuable study time? Probably. Kim’s so sure that Porchay would love the library, where he’d fall asleep because he’s not an all nighter type of person when it comes to school. He can imagine Porchay saying, “I’ll stay awake!” with all the determination in the world, before snoozing on top of a textbook.

Porchay’s going to love the music rooms. Kim doesn’t believe for a second that Porchay will only stick with the guitar. In fact, he would bet his Rolex that Porchay tries out the drums before anything else before understanding drums are much more complicated than just hitting surfaces. Maybe he’d take up violin. Something about that image makes Kim’s heart swell: how Porchay’s eyes would close, how he’d pull the bow gently across the strings.

And he’d meet new people, as one does in university. There would be people who would bully him out of studying, entice him to stay out past his bedtime of 22:00, and make flash cards with him. Mentors and professors eager to take him under their wings, and critics who would break him down and build him back up. Classmates who would encourage him, and friends who would show him a world beyond work and worry.

There would be friends who would, inevitably, hopelessly, fall in love with him.

Kim closes his eyes.

Kim can’t drive fast enough when Big calls and asks him to meet back at Porchay's studio. And when Kim gets there, he sees boxes out in the hallway and Porchay’s door slightly ajar. His knees go weak.

Big comes out first. He’s got tendrils of hair framing his face as he lugs another box out. Clearly hard at work, Big’s abandoned his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

“Where is he?”

Breathless, Big jerks his thumb behind him.

Kim walks in and sees even less in the apartment; the boxes under Porchay’s desk are gone, and many of the little messes are now swept away or gone entirely. Porchay’s desk is nearly bare, except for a small stack of papers.

The fridge door only has one note on it.

Porchay emerges from the bathroom, a handful of bottles and other things. He deposits them into the trash before looking at Kim with sad eyes. And when Big comes back in, Kim turns his head slightly. The guard takes his jacket, mumbles something about moving the rest of the boxes, and shuts the door behind them.

Silently, as if on opposing sides of a courtroom, Kim sits on the couch, and Porchay sits at his desk.

“I didn’t know,” Porchay says after a minute, “that you were drinking so much.”

Kim sighs. “Neither did I, until the first night I stayed over.” He rubs his neck; the thought of a drink makes his throat parched. “Sleeping’s been hard.”

“I’m not that dumb,” Porchay says, forlorn. “I knew you were struggling. Porsche-” He stops.

“Porsche?”

“Porsche was a mess when my parents… you know. I still think he drinks too much.” Porchay smiles sadly. “There I go again, telling you everything.”

“Tell me more, then. Tell me everything.”

Porchay reaches under his desk, taking his backpack. “Okay.” He takes out an empty bottle. “I told Big to toss all the empty ones.”

“Never thought you’d be giving orders to my guards.”

“I think he was happy to help.” Porchay puts the bottle on the ground. “Thinking about you drinking alone… makes me sad.”

Kim gulps. Porchay’s not suave at all; it’s obvious he’s trying to guilt him into stopping, and it’s working. “I’ll do better.”

“I wish you’d say more.”

“I can’t,” Kim admits. Because I’m ashamed.

Their eyes meet.

Say it.

“Because I’m ashamed. Been detoxing in your living room these last few days.”

Porchay looks bewildered at his admittance, as if he expected Kim to say nothing at all. “I understand. I hope you… I hope you don’t do anything stupid.” Porchay clears his throat. “Should I keep going?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t believe you have a favorite brother.”

Kim rolls his eyes. “I don’t.”

“Your security code is Tankhun’s birthday. He’s the only picture in your entire apartment.” Porchay swivels in his chair, holding said frame in his hands. “Besides that crazy portrait of yourself.”

“Did you… just take things from my place and bring them here?”

“It’s my list. Stop distracting me.”

“The portrait was a gift from my father. We all have a portrait of ourselves in our rooms. To remind us of who we are.” Kim recalls the day he got it; he had hung it out of sheer obligation. “It’s a shitty reminder.”

“You’re avoiding talking about Tankhun.”

Kim sighs. “Tankhun’s a complicated topic. He’s not my favorite brother. I don’t have favorites. But,” Kim says quickly, when Porchay tries to interrupt. “He sees right through me. Truthfully, I should have sent you to him rather than my apartment.”

When Porchay says nothing else, Kim continues. “Kinn is the boss, and he’s going to take over when something happens to our father. And I’m not really consulted for anything with the family affairs anymore, and I’m okay with that. But Tankhun is in the middle, and I worry about that. And maybe that’s why he’s a mystery to me. I don’t talk to him because after everything that happened to him, he still stays with the family. Participates in the meetings. Listens to our father. While I ran away.” Kim rubs his neck, scoffing at himself. “He’s my older brother, and I don’t talk to him because at least I can see Kinn’s disappointment. I can never untangle what Tankhun feels about his younger brother who abandoned him.”

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

“Maybe I should.”

The next thing Porchay takes out of his backpack are the pictures of his parents. Kim’s heart nearly stops.

The board.

Nothing is said for a few minutes, mostly because Porchay is staring at the pictures in his hands. Waiting for Porchay to speak is pure agony, so Kim gently asks, “Have you ever seen those?”

Porchay shakes his head no. Kim watches him trace his index finger across their faces. He braces himself; he never took it down, simply out of drunken stupidity and laziness. Some days, he’d stare at the board and when he’d finally tear his eyes away, he’d find that hours had gone by. Other moments, he wanted to look at it and scream at the top of his lungs because all it did was remind him of all the wrong he’d done.

Maybe that’s why I kept it up.

Finally, Porchay says, “Can I keep them?”

“Yes.”

“I have something for you.”

“Yeah? From my apartment?”

“Yeah.” Porchay’s on the floor now, and takeaway containers are on the coffee table that separates them. From the backpack, he pulls out a necklace. “I always thought this was a weird necklace.” Porchay holds up a delicate chain with a safety pin at its center. “Did you break it?”

Kim nods. “I did. The safety pin holds it together. Because I never bother to get it fixed.”

“I don’t know why it’s my favorite necklace of yours.” Porchay twines his fingers into the silver chain. “Those fancy necklaces don’t suit you.”

“Keep it.”

Porchay shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Keep it.” Kim wipes his palms against his thighs. “Keep it, and maybe, one day, we can swap.”

“Swap?”

“The necklace. For the guitar.”

Porchay’s bottom lip quivers. They both look towards the door, where a lonely guitar case is propped against the wall and a little charm gleams in the fading afternoon light.

“I don’t know why I brought it with me. I can’t take it with me, but I…” Porchay puts the necklace down on the table and wipes his face. “I wanted to see it again.”

“I can’t-” Kim whispers. I can’t go on without you. “I can’t go on tour without it.”

“I know, I know,” Porchay complains, voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe you kept it,” he confesses, drawing little circles with the chain. “I thought you’d throw it out or destroy it.” Kim reaches across the table, his fingers tracing the chain too now. “Why did you keep it?”

Kim takes the chain and gets up. When he sits behind Porchay, he feels the younger man tremble as the cold metal brushes against his neck.

Because I love you.

“If I ask you what you learned, would that feel like you were back in school?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll ask anyway.”

“Hmm. I learned that Kim Theerapanyakul lives in a stupidly large apartment. He wastes sheet music and chews the caps of all his pens. He uses acne wash in the shower.” Kim nudges Porchay, but now Porchay’s having fun, so he beckons him to keep going. “Kim Theerapanyakul likes skewers because that’s all he orders. He’s got this huge egotistical picture of himself in his own apartment, but he loves his older brother enough to have exactly one picture of him.” Porchay sticks his tongue out and Kim retaliates by doing the same.

“I learned that Kim Theerapanyakul drinks too much. I learned that Kim Theerapanyakul is suspicious and cautious. And lonely.” Kim’s breath hitches. “He… he has trust issues and daddy issues that are not my fault. He needs therapy,” Porchay offers casually.

That makes Kim laugh. “Anything else?”

“You like to write on everything.”

“Napkins aren’t safe around me.”

“You sleep with three blankets.”

“I like options.”

“You have a picture of your mom at the bottom of your desk drawer.”

Kim closes his eyes.

“She was beautiful.”

“She was.”

When Porchay starts dozing off against him, Kim gently wakes him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I want us to keep talking.”

Kim groans. “You have a flight in… 12 hours?”

“14.”

“Right.”

“Suck at math too, huh?”

Kim playfully nudges Porchay. “Love and math. Very hard subjects.”

“Study while I’m gone.”

While I’m gone.

Kim shivers. He stands, offers a hand to Porchay and pulls him up. “You should sleep. You have a long day tomorrow.”

“Right.” Porchay stands stiffly by the bed.

Unexpectedly, Kim feels the air around them become awkward. “I can leave-”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.” Kim stares at Porchay, who stares back. “Okay.” What is he asking? He turns his head towards the couch. “I’m going to be over here.”

“Okay.” Porchay slides into bed.

Kim shuts off the lights and sits on the couch. What am I doing? After a few deep breathes and collecting himself, Kim stretches across the lumpy couch.

Minutes pass in the dark before Kim hears, “And if I want you here?”

Oh. “Chay-"

“You’re not going to sleep next to me? On the day before I leave?”

Kim’s off the couch and standing over Porchay in a heartbeat. Though, instead of sliding under the covers, he sits on the bed. “If I touch you again,” Kim confesses. “I’ll fall apart. I’ll ask you to stay.”

Porchay sits up and scoots over. “Then just sit next to me.”

So Kim does, and his throat is tight when Porchay sighs as their shoulders bump into one another. Porchay reaches for his hand. “If you asked me to stay, I don’t think I could say no.”

In the dark, Kim exhales. “I won’t ask.” Their hands are intertwined.

“Ask me something else. Say something so I can fall asleep.”

“Should I sing you a lullaby?”

“Just say things. Anything.”

“Will you be safe there?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t stay out too late.”

“I won’t.”

“Make sure you study hard.”

“I will.”

“Did you pack jackets?”

“It’s warm there now.”

“It will get colder later.”

“So send me jackets then.”

“I will.”

Minutes pass, and Kim’s nearly asleep when he hears Porchay say, “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t drink alone anymore. Drink with Porsche. With Tankhun. With Big.”

“I will.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I said I won’t.”

“Because we have unfinished business.”

Kim lazily raises an eyebrow in the dark. “Is that a threat?”

“Yes.”

“What happens if I find a beautiful American girl?”

“Are you trying to rile me up?” Kim’s fingers dance across Porchay’s shoulder. Though he’s sitting up, Porchay’s head has slid down onto his chest. “It could happen. You might be cute enough to pull an American girl.”

Kim’s met with a playful punch to his chest. “You’re so mean.”

I should say it.

Kim’s heart thuds.

“Chay.”

“Yes?”

“I can’t control who you’ll love. But I know you are so loved.”

Porchay’s fists tighten on Kim’s shirt.

“Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“How lucky New York is.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you too. I’m going to miss you so much.”

“I wish I could stop time.”

“Funny. I was hoping to fast forward.”

In the early morning, Kim feels Porchay wake before him. Pretending to stay asleep, he watches Porchay put his backpack towards the front of the door, sees Porchay pack away his chargers, laptop, and other little things. When Porchay takes the stack of paperwork from the desk, Kim stretches awake.

“Porsche is coming to get me soon.”

Kim says nothing.

Porchay bustles around some more, and Kim stays out of his way, fixated on the way he weaves in and out of each room. He looks like an adult. It’s a stupid thought, as Kim, days ago, mourned over the changes in Porchay, but by God, do they lend a hand for today.

“You should stay here.”

Kim snaps his head up. “What?”

“Stay here. Sometimes. In the studio.” Porchay gestures to it. “It’s not great and huge, but… I don’t know. I leased it for a year, and I’m leaving six months in. Porsche said he’ll find someone to take it over, but he can get busy.” Porchay shrugs passively, but Kim is dumbstruck. “You can take it over and… be here. Whenever.”

Kim runs his hands through his hair. “It would be hard to stay here.” Without you.

Porchay sits next to him on the bed. “Might be worse to be at your place.” He squeezes Kim’s hand. “If you ever need a place to go, you can stay here.”

Stay.

Porchay’s phone rings. Kim stands up, as does Porchay. Kim pockets the keys and Porchay slides on his backpack. Their eyes meet again.

The phone continues to ring.

“You should tell him you’re coming down.”

Porchay says nothing: just taps at his phone and slides it back into his pocket, not taking his eyes off Kim’s.

Kim’s not sure who closed the gap first, but he’s holding Porchay in a tight hug. And when Porchay whispers into his shoulder about how Kim should go to bed early, how he should eat something more than skewers and take out, Kim whispers right back, his voice cracking when he tells Porchay to have fun and look both ways before crossing crazy New York City streets and to do his best.

They pull away after some time, their foreheads pressed against each other. Porchay closes his eyes, and Kim’s thumbs rub circles against Porchay’s soft cheeks. Porchay’s hands could, and probably will, bruise him, the way he’s holding onto him. Kim slides his hand down to Porchay’s neck; there, he fixes the necklace before cupping his face again.

“Okay.” He steps away first because that’s the right thing to do.

“Don’t forget.”

“Unfinished business.”

Porchay gives him a weak smile before closing the door behind him.

When Kim finally has the courage to move from the spot that Porchay left him in, he looks behind him at the room they shared. The bed, unmade, looks like it could still be warm with their sleep.

He’s gone.

Kim sits on the couch. The coffee table in front of him is clear, neat. He looks back over to the kitchen. The microwave clock tells him it’s 8:18AM.

When he looks over to Porchay’s desk, because of the blinding sun, he nearly misses the notebook and pack of pens.

Kim walks over to the desk, worried that Porchay left something behind. But on the notebook is a final page from the notepad. “Open,” Kim reads. He does.

Inside the notebook, on the first page, in messy handwriting:

“Write in me! But don’t chew on my friends. ❤ Chay”

Kim doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Before deciding on which, he pulls the chair out and sits down. He opens the pack of pens. He begins to write.

Chapter Text

Six months later.

Outside, on a park bench, Kim licks an ice cream cone.

Today, he went with the strawberry flavor. Usually, he opts for chocolate, but why not try something new? Outside, in the sun, Kim’s tongue catches a little pink trickle that comes down his wrist. Damn, what a mess. He has a careful eye on the little street vendor, who looks a bit overwhelmed by his customer. The customer, with a sweep of his fuchsia coat, stomps over to Kim, brandishing a vanilla ice cream cone like a sword.

“Can you believe they only have vanilla left? The most boring of all flavors?”

Kim raises an eyebrow at his older brother. “If it was that boring, they wouldn’t sell it.”

Tankhun shakes his head. “It’s boring enough to be the last flavor left, you dolt.”

“Alright, I’ll have it then,” Kim says as he makes a grab for the cone. Tankhun swiftly dodges with a face. “Thought so.”

Tankhun grumbles. “Hmmph. Rude.”

“We could find a new place.”

“Yes! I’m sick of this place. It’s been three weeks. Let’s find a proper cafe for the next time.”

“A place that doesn’t serve vanilla, I presume?”

“Yes! Interesting flavors! Can you imagine… mimosa flavored ice creams?!” Tankhun pulls out his phone. “I’ll have Arm begin looking right away.”

Kim laughs. And when Tankhun shoots him a look, Kim laughs harder, melted ice cream running down his arm. “Gross!” Tankhun swats him away. “You’re making a mess! Leave it to the spoiled one!” In response, Kim tilts his cone towards Tankhun’s precious coat, making the oldest Theerapanyakul leap up with a scream. “Don’t you dare!”

Kim gets up, a wild look in his eyes as he starts to run after his brother, across the park, onto the sidewalk, past the ordinary people around them, and then back towards the bench while Tankhun yells for Pol’s help.

Some things do change.

June.

That Friday morning, after he found the new journal and wrote down some drifting thoughts, Kim made the first of many lists. The first list was, as he called it, Porchay’s List. It only had three items on it:

1. Eat and sleep well.
2. Drink with others, not alone.
3. Talk to Tankhun.

At that moment, while sitting at Porchay’s desk, the list seemed quite silly. But when Manager Pond called, screaming at him to come back to his apartment to prepare for his flight, and Kim’s instinct was to find a drink, the list looked a bit more daunting. Everything seemed easier when he and Porchay were on the bed, wrapped around each other, making promises as if they were as easy and sure as sunrises. With him gone, the little tasks appeared more like mountains. And when Kim rose from the desk and saw the empty apartment, his stomach lurched. Mere hours had passed, and he knew shotgun wounds take much longer than that to heal. Journal in hand, Kim made his way to Porchay’s bed and laid down, breathing into the pillow as deeply as he could without becoming too lightheaded. I miss you, Porchay. I miss you.

Sleep was tempting. Drinking, and then sleeping, was tempting. Every ounce of his body told him to stay right there, to cancel the tour. To make excuses. Kim got up. He looked longingly at the studio; he imagined himself on the couch and Porchay on the other side of the coffee table too easily. Remnants of their conversations flashed through his head.

“Plates? Bowls?”

“I have paper in one of the cabinets.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you suck at love.”

“But where will you be?”

“Wherever you need me to be.”

“I wish I could stop time.”

“Funny. I was hoping to fast forward.”

With one more look around the apartment, Kim left.

A short car ride later, he entered his own apartment. He half expected the place to be a mess, considering Porchay had rifled through everything, but miraculously, the younger man exercised some restraint while exploring. Even in his apartment, Kim found traces of Porchay. In the trash, he saw an empty cup of Porchay’s favorite iced tea. Tearing his eyes away from the bin, he walked into a cold apartment, one that he knew would have been much warmer if Porchay were still there.

Kim opened his fridge and found it empty. Porchay had thrown away any remaining bottles and takeaway. Kim could not help the half smile on his face. He looked to the lounge area, where a few books traveled from the bookcase to his coffee table. He saw one of his many notebooks opened to a page. On it, he had simply written Porchay’s name all over, in loopy letters. Looking back caused Kim to feel astonished with himself and Porchay. He couldn’t remember writing that particular page. Judging by the untouched notebooks on the bookcase, however, Kim knew Porchay had only looked through this notebook.

Even with free access, he respected you, a cruel voice whispered over his shoulder.

Kim placed the opened notebook back onto his desk. There, he opened his drawer and found his passport and tickets for his upcoming flight. With those in hand, Kim looked at the empty corner; Tankhun’s picture was still at Porchay’s studio.

In his bedroom, Kim pulled together a smattering of necessities into a suitcase. Most clothes were provided by the record company, touring crew, and stylists, but he needed to bring the essentials. After rummaging through his closet and drawers, he zipped his suitcase. It was then noticed the indent on his bed.

Did he sleep here?

The image came to him instantly. How Porchay might have tired himself out, sought out his bed, and napped. How he may have flipped through the notebook while in Kim’s bed. How he could have found the bottles and the board and cried himself into a sleep. At that moment, all Kim wanted to do was curl up in that same spot and think of how each day onwards, he would see glimpses of Porchay here, there, anywhere.

So that’s what he did.

June & July.

The two-month long tour was a good distraction. For the most part. The schedule was hectic, demanding, and emotional. Upon arriving in Singapore, Kim learned that ticket sales shot up. Even though Pond scheduled the tour with plenty of down time between countries, for his sake and Kim’s, the original tour schedule had one show per major city. When tickets sold out, there was talk of an extra show in Seoul. Then an extra show in Tokyo.

Pond blamed it on the #WIKWalksOut2022 scandal. “If they want extra shows, we’re doing extra shows. After what happened, I own your ass, WIK.”

Kim didn’t argue. Enduring the stress of touring was the least he could do, not only for Pond but for his fans. Loyalty, he learned, went a long way, as many fans quickly forgave the incident and instead, overwhelmingly begged him to play “Chay’s Song” every night. They weren’t alone. The record company, after managing to hold him down for the tour dates, asked when he’d be available to record “Chay’s Song” as his newest single.

“It’s not my song,” was all Kim could say. Anything more would amplify the dull ache in his chest.

To help remedy such pains, in each new city, in each unfamiliar hotel and dressing room, Kim carried his journal that once looked brand new, but slowly began to show signs of wear. In it, he’d write down quick notes about his day. Little rhymes that stuck with him. Funny things or sounds he heard in the unknown streets of unknown places. Other times, particularly after difficult shows, he would write a short letter to Porchay. Gradually, the pens fell victim to his constant gnashing, and the pages became heavy with ink, thought, and patience.

Since That Friday, Kim had not reached out to Porchay, and Porchay had not contacted him. Oddly, this didn’t wound Kim as much as he expected. “I don’t know who I am without you in the picture.” Kim repeated these words, out loud, whenever he felt his heart sink over the silence. Though he wouldn’t think, hope, that Porchay had forgiven him or that he’d return, this silence felt easier to cope with unlike when Porchay had first left. Prior to parting, thinking of Porchay and missing Porchay, was akin to being set on fire. Now, it was like pressing against a partially healed bruise, feeling the throb, and immediately remembering that he survived.

Kim wanted to speak to Porchay, and in some ways, he did. On more troublesome nights, he’d play their song. Or he’d read through his journal. And with each place he traveled to, he collected little charms that reminded him of Porchay. He initially planned to send them to Porchay or collect them and give them to him whenever he came back, but both of those avenues felt too forward, too pushy. Instead, he added them to Porchay’s guitar case, and their soft clinking was the ever-present reminder that time was passing.

August.

When the tour ended, Kim found himself with too much free time. Besides dodging questions on when he would record a new album and attending smaller promotions and fan events, Kim was left with a very open schedule. Pond insisted he take a break, but rest did not come easily. Coming back home to his spacious apartment was devastating, that first day. He slept restlessly, the bed too big, the room too empty, the air too heavy. After the third night, he felt desperate. Touring and performing would tire him out every night, so sleep would come easily, even if he was on uncomfortable mattresses and in hotel rooms that perpetually smelled like cleaner.

“You should stay here.”

Sleeping or even visiting Porchay’s studio hadn’t crossed Kim’s mind during the tour and certainly not after. He did take over the lease because he did not want another thing on Porchay’s or Porsche’s shoulders, but after That Friday, after they both left, he hadn’t even driven past it.

Truthfully, he was intimidated. Beyond celebrating with Pond or the crew, Kim had kept his promise; he had not, not even once, drank alone since Porchay’s departure. Would going there, staying there, be the final blow to his resolve?

“Might be worse to be at your place.”

The next day, after battling sleep all night, Kim resolved to, at the very least, drive to the studio and check in. Once the door opened and he stepped onto the creaky floor, memories flooded Kim’s head. Everything is exactly where we left it, he thought to himself.

A light layer of dust covered most of the surfaces, but other than that, nothing had disturbed the studio. Kim gently placed the keys onto the counter before turning to the fridge, where a little note welcomed him back.

“BKK @ 10:00”

Kim could not believe over three months had passed since those three days he spent with Porchay. Even more unbelievable was that he still stood, somewhat whole. For no reason at all, Kim opened the fridge, just to look at something. The cabinets were mostly bare besides the throwaway cutlery, the drawers empty besides stray rubber bands and crumbs.

When Kim left the kitchen, he sat on the couch, and strangely, felt comfortable for the first time in a long time. Tiredness washed over him much like how whiskey would, making him pleasantly sleepy and thoughtless.

It was the best sleep he had gotten in months.

September.

The most daunting task on Porchay’s list was the last item.

The first time Kim approached Tankhun, his older brother merely slammed the door in his face, telling him to come back when they (Tankhun, Pol, Arm, and Pete) finished their Bad Buddy marathon. Sheepish, Kim had turned away from the door, ready to give up, when Tankhun wrenched the door open again.

“Arm says you’ve never watched a drama before.”

Kim caught Arm’s eye; the bodyguard gave a curt nod, as if he knew precisely what Kim was attempting. “No, I haven’t.”

“New members have to bring snacks.”

“I can do that.”

It wasn’t perfect. Kim had to learn all the rules of what watching (or re-watching) a drama with his older brother entailed. Ironically, the last item also spurred the next list: Tankhun’s Rules. Mastering them would, and did, take much of Kim’s time. Face painting, finding the right snacks, and enduring reruns were all par for the course. Nailing the right reactions was much harder, however. Arm gave him a master list, broken down by drama, episode, scene, and corresponding emotional expression. “It’s… it’s not a complete list,” the tired guard said.

And though watching dramas was not exactly “talking,” Kim felt doing so was the first and necessary step. He was right. After a week of sitting with Tankhun, his brother began to talk to him, using more than verbal jabs and insults. Tankhun asked how “that music thing is going.” Later, he explained that his new carps are named “Catherine and Mortimer” and his reasoning behind those names. Sometimes, Kim would verbally spar back at him, but he always answered honestly: a feat both he and his brother were alarmed by.

Sometime soon after establishing the “talking” phase, Kim thought of taking Tankhun out to have ice creams. Pete tagged along, because Tankhun could not be separated from his favorite guard for too long, and sometimes Porsche did as well, but Kim didn’t mind. They talked too, at first walking on eggshells and then gradually about music, Kinn’s terrible singing voice, and other shenanigans.

Each time Porsche tagged along made Kim anxiously wonder if he should ask about Porchay. He often remembered how Porsche said that he did not care for Kim’s intentions or feelings, so long as Porchay was okay. But it was a minefield that Kim dared not approach simply because he was unsure how much Porchay had told his brother. Kim put the topic off until one day, Porsche brought him up.

Both men watched Tankhun and Pete on a swing set. After a stretch of silence, Porsche said, “Chay asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

Porsche nodded. “He asked if you were okay.” When Kim didn’t say anything, Porsche followed with, “Are you okay?”

“I’m… doing better. But I have a long way to go.” Porsche raised his eyebrows. “What?” Kim questioned.

“Chay said something similar. When I asked him the same question.”

Kim fought the urge to ask what else they spoke about, knowing all too well that Porsche would probably say nothing else. Was Porchay enjoying America? Was he struggling with school? Had he made new friends? Did he meet any-

“I’m going to marry Kinn.”

The statement caused Kim to drop his ice cream, to which Porsche howled over. “You’re proposing?”

“I mentioned it to Chay. He keeps saying we’re ‘practically married.’ You’ve said it too. So, why not?” Porsche bit into his ice cream, a move that made Kim cringe. “I don’t want to wait for the world to get better for us. I'm ready now. We are who we are.”

Kim shook his head with a smile. “I thought Kinn would’ve asked you first.”

“If you tell Kinn, he will.”

“Secret’s safe with me.” Kim paused. “Though, if you propose, Kinn’s just going to propose back.”

“He fucking better.”

October.

Porchay called him first, precisely two hours after Kinn delivered the news of Big’s death to Kim and the rest of the family.

Kim sat alone against the couch in Porchay’s studio, his journal open to an empty page when the call came. He did not recognize the number, but when he heard his name, breathless and worried, from the other end, he could barely see straight.

“Kim?”

“Porchay,” he rasped.

“Kim. Kim, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

His grip on the phone became slack. How easily Kim became unwound at Porchay’s voice worried him, but he could not stop. “He was my friend.” The sob ripped through his throat. “My friend.”

Kim couldn't remember how long he cried on the phone before they started talking about Big. Porchay described when Big pushed the portrait of Kim aside to reveal the board. “He thought I should know,” Porchay said sheepishly. Kim imagined the scenario in his head. Of course Porchay could melt a heart as seemingly stony as Big’s, though Kim knew that Big was the kindest and most loyal of his guards. Of course Porchay got along with him. Porchay started talking about their car rides; apparently, Porchay insisted on sitting in the passenger seat instead of the back, ignoring the uncomfortable look on Big’s face. Kim had to laugh at that. All it took was a few short car rides, and Big was just as dedicated to Porchay as he was with Kim.

“I told you. He helped me clear out all the bottles from your place.”

“Are you sure he helped, or he took them home?”

“Uh…” Porchay stalled. “If he did, would you be mad?”

“Not at all.”

They spent the entirety of the phone call talking about Big. Though Porchay couldn’t have known him well, Kim talked about when Porsche and Big first met, guns drawn and tensions high. About the condom delivery incident, to which Porchay coughed loudly upon hearing. When an hour had passed, Kim realized that Porchay wasn’t on his time.

“You probably have to go.”

As if on cue, Porchay yawned. “I do. It’s late.”

“What time is it?”

“1AM.”

All at once, Kim’s head became a mess of questions he wanted to ask Porchay. Yet, all he could manage was, “Do you have classes tomorrow?”

“I do.” Porchay yawns again.

“Porchay?”

“Yes, Kim?”

“Can I call you again?”

There was a pause. Kim tried not to panic at the shuffling on the other end of the line. Porchay needs time to think-

“I’d like that.”

Kim’s heart stuttered. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Porchay hummed. “Maybe we can text and find a time that works for us both?”

“I’d like that. I…” I miss you. “Thank you for calling, Porchay. It means a lot.”

“Goodnight, Kim.”

“Goodnight.”

They had settled on every other Thursday, 8:00AM, which was 21:00PM for Porchay; Porchay said it was the best time for him, since he had no Friday classes. At first, the calls felt awkward and out of place. They mostly talked about others: about Big, especially the first few calls. For this, Kim was grateful. While the others cared about their fallen coworker and guard, Kim and Big had developed a special bond during his investigation. Even though everyone knew about Kim’s sneaking around by now, talking about it with Porchay made the grief just a smidge lighter. Kim chalked it up to how Porchay knew Big outside the strict confinements of “a bodyguard of the mafia.” To Porchay, Big was just a helpful guy, someone who had a good heart: exactly how Kim saw him.

Porchay talked quite a bit about school, but most of it was surface level. He often complained about classes: that they were boring, tedious, or a pain to attend. He never spoke about his practicing or his friends. And later, Kim found out why. He never quite deleted that burner account. Old habits die hard. So he snuck over to Porchay’s Instagram page and saw a set of photos with friends. In the last photo was someone, a guy, kissing Porchay’s cheek as Porchay laughed into the camera. The picture was blurry (actually, most of them were; is this a new trend?) The caption simply read, “October photo dump.”

Kim had, as best he could, prepared for something like this. So, at first, he ignored the picture, put down his phone, and carried on with his routine. Yet, by now, Tankhun could read his face like no one else, so any irritation would be poked, prodded, until Kim snapped. And Kim certainly did not want to do that; he resolved to put it to rest.

But Tankhun’s far more cunning than meets the eye.

“Eyeeee heard,” Tankhun drawled out while they sat in a dessert cafe, “that our littlest brother has new friends.”

“Does he?” Kim asked passively.

“He does,” Tankhun said before slurping at his tea. “One very good friend, actually. Seems like a nice boy.”

Kim snorted. “I’m sure he is.”

“Porchay can’t possibly be missing anyone here, when he’s got a hottie in America-” Kim slammed his cup down, denting the plastic and interrupting his oldest brother. Tankhun grinned. “Feeling jealous?”

Kim closed his eyes, breathed deeply through his nose. “Yes, actually.”

“Eh? What happened to my cool, uncaring younger brother? Feeling emotional?” Tankhun tsked. “Jealousy does not look good on you.”

Kim tapped the side of his cup.

“Some things change.”

Tankhun waved his hand, as if dismissing Kim. “That they do! Like Kinn! How could he let Porsche propose first? Are all of you getting soft?”

Kim chuckled. I hope so.

November.

By November, Kim was spending more than half his week at Porchay’s studio. From Tuesday evening to Friday morning, he’d stay at the smaller apartment. Fridays would be for Tankhun, weekends taken up by local events or traveling out of town. The routine felt strange, since he was now at the Main House on a weekly basis, but he stayed as cordial as possible with his father, made small talk with Porsche, and spent the most time with Tankhun. Strange and uncomfortable, but the previous days at Porchay’s soothed him enough to prepare for such visits.

After he visited the studio for the first time, he cleaned it up bit by bit, whenever he had time, and began to keep a few sets of clothes there. Alongside sleeping on the couch or bed, Kim began to use Porchay’s smaller desk, with a photo of the three brothers on the corner, whenever he wanted to write or compose music. A guitar stand was on one side of the desk, a wastepaper basket on the other, allowing him to freely use as much sheet music as he wanted while hearing Porchay chide at him.

More quickly than he anticipated, Kim filled the journal Porchay had given him, so he hunted high and low for another of the same color, binding, and size to continue. Whenever Kim flipped through the pages, his own writing reminded him of what he had untangled so far. His relationship with his brothers, a repetitive topic from the start of his journal keeping days, seemed to be better. At least now he could write that Tankhun no longer wondered when he’d die. The journal also helped the mourning process; it certainly couldn’t end it, but Kim recognized the benefits.

Kim felt stuck whenever he wrote about Porchay. Some days, he saw clear progress. He saw that he could forgive himself and thus, help pave a way for Porchay to also forgive him. And the very next day, he’d see the words of a man wallowing in self-pity. Roller coasters didn’t have as many up and downs as Kim’s journal entries.

But somewhere between describing his intense regret over the past and hope for the future, Kim began to appreciate the subtler changes in his life. More than ever, he talked, both to the journal and to the people around him. He stepped out of the shadows more, though he was still most comfortable in the background. He tried new things, wrote about them when he hated the experience, and then tried newer things.

Perhaps the biggest evidence of this was agreeing to be one of Kinn’s groomsmen.

Thus, another list was born; Kinn’s Wedding. Not that Kim had to plan the wedding, but Tankhun fought everyone else (guns loaded) for the role of flower girl and best man, so this left Kim with the part of secret-best-man. Really, all the position entailed was making sure nothing went wrong the day of and to reign in Tankhun’s ideas. Time and Tay were the other groomsmen. Obviously, Pete, Jom, and Tem were slated to be Porsche’s, but Kim asked about Porchay anyways.

“Having an 18 year old be my best man is cute, but ridiculous,” Porsche explained with a smile. “Pete’s my best man until Chay comes around. He’ll be at the wedding, so long as he doesn’t fuck up his semester. He said classes end in the first week of December, so he should be back by then.”

Kim could only nod.

December.

On the first of December, Kinn and Porsche held a private ceremony at the temple. Kinn had made it very clear to the rest of the family that he would prefer the rituals and religious ceremonies to only include Porsche and himself, and Porsche agreed. Kim didn’t push back, and neither did anyone else. From his understanding, Kim saw both his brother and his now husband as men who preferred extravagance when it was privately done for one another. He knew his brother spared no expense on their ceremonies, though it would be just them.

Instead, they opted for a Western styled ceremony to follow, for the rest of their friends and family, happening today, at the Main House. Kim half expected Kinn to find an abandoned castle and hold his wedding there, but oddly enough, and perhaps because for Porsche’s comfort, they decided on the Main House’s Garden. While the Garden was always pleasant to look at, even Kim had to agree that once decorated for a wedding, the Garden was heavenly, fit for a princess’ dream wedding. With the late afternoon sun, they had strung hundreds of lights across the shrubbery and trees, all along the fountain and balconies. An enormous display of flower decor, in various shades of pinks, whites, and purples erupted from every surface. Under an arch crafted by hand, the ceremony would take place before moving at the other end of the Garden and under the tent for other festivities.

Beyond how beautiful everything looks, the preparations are not going great.

Kim’s having a hard time trying to convince Tankhun that there is no fucking way he can be the flower girl, change his clothes, and then walk down the aisle again as Kinn’s best man. The way Tankhun talks, you’d think a costume change is something he deals with on the daily, but Kim assures him it’s not.

“Once you’re down the aisle, you can stay there. You don’t have to change into a suit.”

Tankhun sighs. “Fine. So long as the others don’t get too jealous of how good I look.” He hums to himself. “Don’t want to steal the show.”

Kim breathes a sigh of relief. Another item on his list checks itself off. Now just a million other things to do, like making sure he doesn’t lose the wedding band that Kinn spent a month looking for across the continent. Kim keeps patting down his jacket pockets to ensure that it’s actually there and not a figment of his imagination. And he has to ensure that the seating charts are accessible. And keep the vendors to schedule. And make sure a livestream is set up for those who couldn’t attend. Not many people were invited, but those who can’t come, like some of Porsche’s college friends, want to watch from afar.

Far. Some people are still too far away.

Yesterday evening, Kim and the other Theerapanyakul brothers watched Porsche slam his phone down in frustration. He explained that Porchay’s flight was delayed, and that his own brother would be missing his wedding. Fuming, Kinn held Kim’s shoulder back and Porsche stomped away, shaking his head slightly.

“Couldn’t we postpone? Porchay will be devastated if he misses it,” Kim explained, trying to keep a level voice.

Kinn shook his head. “Yok closed her bar down. Friends flew out to see us get married tomorrow. It would be unreasonable.”

Their level-headed leader. On the surface, that is. Kim could see the hesitation and disappointment in his brother’s eyes: perhaps because they mirrored his own.

A day didn’t make a difference to Kim. Sure, he had spent the last two weeks preparing a mental script for when he finally could see Porchay in the flesh again. And he had made sure he stuck to his skincare routine. And he had Porchay’s guitar in the backseat of his SUV. Among the worried vendors, last minute flower arrangements carried by wedding coordinators, and bartenders who looked suspiciously tipsy on their own supply, Kim knows his relationship with Porchay is the last thing on anyone’s mind.

But even today, on his brother’s wedding day, Porchay is all he can think of.

Before anyone else can call his name, Kim ducks into the bathroom as he fishes his phone from his suit jacket. Besides the phone calls, Porchay and he had texted here and there. In true self-restraint, Kim kept most messages sparse and predictable; Porchay’s still in school, and with exams and final classes, Kim did his best to keep that space between them to reduce any distractions. Still, they would send sporadic messages when the time was appropriate. Kim scrolls through the messages, smiling at a particular photo Porchay sent: Porchay with his head on his desk, surrounded by sheet music, pens, and the neck of a guitar in the corner. Before he loses his courage, Kim types a quick message.

“Wish you were here. Have a safe flight.”

He hits send and puts his back against the bathroom door, fingers clutching at his phone. He can hear someone shouting his name, but before he can respond, his phone vibrates.

“Me too (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ See you soon! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧”

Like all of Porchay’s messages with emoticons, the text makes him laugh.

“Kim!”

He hears Tankhun calling for him. With a groan, he puts his phone away and wrenches the bathroom door open and steps back into the chaos.

Walking down the aisle is strange. Nothing prepares anyone for this. At the end and under the arc, Kinn stands in a deep royal purple suit. Kim tells himself there’s no one on there more nervous than his older brother, so he takes a deep breath and leaves the smaller tent, parts the curtain and steps onto the aisle. Eyes are on him as he walks to the pace of the music, and when people smile at him, he forces a smile back, knowing the familiar click of the cameras will collect evidence of his melancholia unless he ensures his disguise is well fitted.

In his gray suit, he finally makes it to Kinn, who bear-hugs him as soon as he’s in his designated spot. “Thank you,” Kinn murmurs into his shoulder. Kim only tightens his hold on his brother before letting go and nodding at the officiant while the others begin to make their ways down. Kim’s oddly impressed at how well Porsche’s friends clean up, and somehow, Pete looks like the least threatening person on the planet when he carries flowers and has lilacs tucked behind his ear. Probably Tankhun’s doing.

It’s safe to say that no one is prepared for Tankhun’s look, which is a cascading lavender gown, adorned with all the varying flowers that are used for the decor. With his usual dramatic flair and gloved hands, he tosses flower petals into the air, letting them shower all over jaw dropped guests. He takes as much time as he likes and no one complains because while Kinn is the most nervous of brothers, Tankhun is, without a doubt, the most excited.

After Tankhun settles himself between Kinn and Kim, everyone stands and turns towards the end of the aisle. And when the curtain parts, Kim becomes lightheaded.

In the middle is Porsche, in a soft lilac colored suit, holding a decadent arrangement of florals. On his left is Yok, in a sparkling purple gown. And on his left is Porchay, wearing the same gray suit as the other groomsmen.

Kim feels hands squeezing his arm and hand; he tears his eyes away from the aisle to both Tankhun and Kinn, who look at him with love in their eyes, and just a little bit of got you! But Kim can’t even be mad for a second, too preoccupied with how Porchay’s hair is long and curled around, white flowers in between the strands, and the smile he has on his face. As the officiant speaks, Kim hears nothing, too shell shocked by Porchay’s presence; so much so, that when the officiant asks for the rings, Kim doesn’t hear him until Tankhun nudges him painfully.

“You can stare at Chay later, where are the rings, you dolt?!”

The comment makes the guests chuckle and Kim blush furiously as he hands over the cases to Kinn. Porchay looks down, flushed as well, and for the rest of the ceremony, Kim pretends that Porchay’s smile is just for him.

When Kinn and Porsche walk hand and hand down the aisle, and the wedding party begins to pair off to follow them, Kim glares at Tankhun until he gets the message: You can walk with Pete. I’ll walk with Porchay. Tankhun relents, and Kim walks side by side with Porchay, trying not to move too quickly.

“You lied to me,” he says from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe I fell for that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Porchay says back while smiling at the guests. He looks at Kim. “I said I’d see you soon.”

After chaotic speeches are made and appetizers are served, the band asks Porsche to meet Kinn on the dancefloor for their first dance.

Kim swears he’s never seen Kinn happier as he twirls with his husband in front of their family and friends, the world, and God. He watches Porsche throw his head back in laughter; no doubt they’re whispering about how grumpy Kim looks, sitting at his table while Porchay is at another. After a minute alone, the band asks other couples to join the newlyweds. At first, Kim keeps a sour look on his face as people get up, but when he feels Porchay’s eyes on him, he sits up. Porchay gives a questioning nod towards the dancefloor.

They both rise, and in a small corner of the floor, Kim takes Porchay’s hand and gently rests the other on the younger man’s waist. Kim doesn’t try to keep Porchay at a distance; he lets his cheek brush against the top of Porchay’s head as they sway.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Porchay whispers.

Kim holds his gaze. “I think we’ll be okay.”

The dance ends much too soon and the rest of the festivities take much too long for Kim’s liking. Unfortunately, sneaking off with Porchay is in “bad taste,” according to Kinn when he caught Kim trying to exit left. “Plus, we need you for the final dance, when everyone leaves.”

Kim sighs as he watches Yok and Porchay talk, the latter animated and waving his hands in front of his face. “Right.” He takes a sip from a champagne glass as they stand together. “It’s not the time or place, anyways.”

“There’s tomorrow.”

“I hope so.” Kim’s never talked about Porchay with Kinn. It’s a touchy subject since Porsche felt adamantly against Kim for quite some time: not that Kim wanted Kinn to see his perspective and not that Kinn could give any rational advice when That Day happened. What happened, happened, but Kim never felt the need to explain to Kinn. If anything, deep down, he knew Kinn might have actually approved of his actions.

“What do you mean by ‘hope so?’”

Kim fights the urge to drain the glass before answering. “Do you ever think they’ll get up and run?” he asks without taking his eyes off of Porchay. “About how easy it would be for him to leave?”

“Are you talking about Porchay or both of them?”

“I guess both. Loving anyone else in Thailand would be easier for them.” Kim puts the glass down on a table. “Not to bum you out on your wedding.”

Kinn hums. “I think about that all the time.”

“Really?” Kim can hardly contain his surprise.

“Of course. Don’t tell Porsche. It’ll inflate his ego, but he can have anyone. Anyone that might not get him killed, anyone that would make his life carefree.” Kinn’s eyes soften. “But I trust him to choose me. Every time.”

“Porsche’s never left you though. Mine went radio silent for six months, and then fled the country.”

Kinn laughs. “That’s true; I could never fuck up as badly as you did.”

“Believe me. I know.”

“But he’s young. You are too. And he came back. What does that tell you?” Kinn gives his empty glass to a waiter who walks by with a tray. “Maybe you should trust him.” He puts a reassuring hand on Kim’s shoulder before walking away to entertain other guests.

Kim blames his depleted tolerance when he texts Porchay, who’s only just across the tent.

“Can we talk tomorrow?” He watches Porchay glimpse down at his phone and then look up around the tent. When their eyes catch each others’, Porchay types away. A ping from Kim’s phone breaks their gaze.

“Yes! But… I might sleep in. I’ll text you? (o^ ^o)”

“That’s fine. Get home safe, and get some rest.”

When drunk guests begin to stumble to their cabs or into the house, Kim gives Porchay a final wave before watching him walk away with Tankhun. He desperately wants to follow but takes Kinn’s advice and stays rooted as people mill around him. The rest of the tent empties slowly, wait staff clearing the last of the silverware. After ten minutes of staring in the direction that Porchay walked off in, Kim goes to his car and takes out a guitar case that has too many charms hanging off a pair of zippers. Even though Kim insisted they choose, Kinn and Porsche gave him the honor of picking the song for their final dance.

Luckily, he knows the perfect song.

Kinn also insisted that Kim sleep at the Main House, but Kim knows better; he hasn’t slept over in years, and he doesn’t plan on starting now. More importantly, he wants to sleep somewhere familiar, some place that will guarantee some form of rest after the emotionally taxing day. Kim walks into the building, exhausted. Seeing Porchay at the wedding brought him to such disbelief that he still feels as if he’s in a fever dream. Dancing with him, talking with him again: it’s all more than he expected. More than he could have expected. As Kim waits for the elevator, he stares at his hands: one empty, the other holding the guitar, and how good it felt to hold Porchay's hand after months.

As he makes his way to Porchay’s studio, he loosens the tie around his neck before slipping the key into lock and turning.

“Looks like someone’s been breaking into my home. Again.”

At his desk, Porchay sits.

Kim drops the guitar. “Fuck!” He rubs his chest. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Getting up from the desk, Porchay laughs, and Kim wants to bottle it up, keep the sound so it can bring him back to life whenever necessary. “Because someone’s been living in my studio.”

Kim turns on the lights. Porchay’s in the middle of the room, his suit jacket hanging off the desk chair. The first few buttons of his shirt are open, and his tie is on the ground. He looks older, or maybe just tired, but he has that sly grin on his face that reminds Kim of Porsche’s when he said he would propose to Kinn first.

“Did you all plan this from the start?” Kim tries not to sound irritated, but his heart is still racing: whether from the scare or just Porchay’s presence, he’s not sure.

“It was mostly my plan.”

“Keeping secrets?”

“Just a few.”

Without noticing how or when, Kim’s inched closer to Porchay, meeting him at the coffee table, where a notepad has Porchay’s original flight information written on it. “Like?”

Porchay’s eyes hold his gaze. “Like how much I missed you.” Kim’s breath hitches. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you surprised me. You said you wanted to talk tomorrow.”

“I did. It’s tomorrow in…” Porchay looks at the clock on the microwave. “18 minutes?”

Closer now, Kim can see the glint of a silver safety pin hanging from Porchay’s neck. “You were always better at math.”

“Yeah.” Porchay’s looking at him. “Yeah, looks like you didn’t study that at all.”

Kim stares back. “I didn’t.” He rubs his neck. “I missed you too.” When Porchay says nothing, Kim glances away from his face, looking out the window where the moonlight spills into the studio. “Let’s talk, then. How was New-”

Porchay’s mouth is on his before he can finish his thought. Kim’s only caught off guard for a split second; he doesn’t miss a beat after that, placing his hands on Porchay’s face, the soft skin finally back underneath his fingertips. Porchay’s hands take fistfuls of Kim’s shirt as if trying to drag his former guitar tutor closer to him; when their hips knock against each other, Kim hears Porchay sigh deeply into their kiss. Kim’s grip tightens slightly as they move haphazardly, his tongue sweeping against Porchay’s bottom lip, his hands moving upwards into his hair. Kim, rather painfully, bumps into the coffee table, breaking them apart.

“Fuck,” he swears. He’s got his hands on Porchay’s shoulders as he hobbles on a leg.

“Are you okay?”

Kim looks at Porchay’s face, wild with passion, heat pooled in his eyes, his mouth the color of raspberries. “I am, I’m-” Kim straightens and brings his face back to Porchay’s, kisses him lightly. “I’ve never been better,” he murmurs between breaths. He pulls away before Porchay gets the chance to deepen it any further. “I missed you. I missed you.”

“I missed you. When you walked in, I told myself to go for it.” Porchay’s nose skims against his. “I was so nervous you’d say no. Or worse.”

Kim kisses the corner of his mouth. “Worse?”

“That you wouldn’t show up.” Porchay laughs, and Kim’s fascinated with how the corners of Porchay’s eyes laugh with him. “Even though Tankhun said you’d be here, I thought, ‘What if he decides to stay at the Main House?’”

“Never,” Kim breathes out. “This is home.”

“It was mine first.”

“Okay. It’s yours. It’s yours.” Kim takes Porchay’s hand from his waist, puts it on his mad heart. “I’m yours.”

“Kim-”

“I love you, Porchay. I’m in love with you.” The words he should have said sooner, the words he wrote dozens of times in worn out journals with chewed on pens, overflow out of Kim. “I didn’t study a single thing about math, but I’ve studied me, and I’ve studied you, and I’ve spent days wondering who I am and who I’ll be when you come back. And I’ve just got one answer for you, and it’s that I’m in love with you.” Porchay’s grip on Kim weakens and he hunches over, and Kim catches him, sliding onto his knees with the younger man. “I love you, Porchay.”

“I love you too,” Porchay cries. “I love you too,” he repeats again as Kim takes him into another kiss. Kim holds him as he cries, listens to him as he swears his tears are happy tears. Kim takes no apologies when Porchay offers them, just kisses him harder each time Porchay mutters a “I’m sorry for crying.”

When Porchay calms down, Kim asks, “Can I ask my question now?”

Porchay scoffs.

“Tell me about New York.”

Porchay does. With glitter in his eyes, he talks about the street vendors, how he still got lost in a city with a grid system, how he missed homemade food. He describes tall buildings, dirty subways with beautiful people, friends who swear they will come visit him in Thailand when they scrape together enough money. Kim very nearly asks Porchay about the friend from the picture, but Kinn’s voice cuts in. “Maybe you should trust him.” Instead, Kim stays quiet as they lay on the floor holding hands and listens to Porchay describe the facilities at the MSM. He talks about professors who mispronounce his name, he talks about his first concert at Terminal 5, he talks about failing his first musical foundations exam. Kim eggs him on about every detail, simply because he doesn’t want Porchay to stop, afraid he’ll vanish if his voice fades out.

It’s nearly 3:00AM when tiredness begins to settle into Kim’s bones. They get up, and when Porchay admits he left his luggage at the Main House because he was too excited, in too much of a rush, to take anything when he left the wedding, Kim throws him a t-shirt and shorts and points him to the bathroom. Kim strips out of his suit jacket, tie, and dress shirt, leaving his undershirt on. He slides into a discarded pair of shorts near the edge of his bed and lays on the couch as Porchay comes back into the room.

“Why are you on the couch?”

“Because I’m trying to sleep.”

“You’re not going to sleep next to me? On the day I came back?”

Kim opens an eye. “That trick only works once.”

“So mean.”

“Did you talk to Yok about kissing me?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, we’re definitely sleeping separately.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Do you want to talk some more?”

“Is that all you wanted to do? Talk?”

The budding daylight greets Kim as he wakes. Next to him, Porchay is wrapped around him like a squid. The bed creaks slightly as he stretches his body, trying not to wake Porchay and failing when the younger man’s eyes flutter open.

“I’m sorry,” Kim whispers. “You can go back to bed.”

“Mmm,” Porchay groans. “I can try, but…”

Hesitantly, Kim asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m inexperienced, not fragile,” Porchay fires back. “I’m fine, really.” He kisses Kim’s shoulder. “Thank you.” Kim nods, looking down at the sheets underneath them. “Hey,” Porchay whispers, letting go of Kim and hosting himself up on his elbows. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Kim says quickly. When Porchay’s face falters, Kim tries to be brave. “I’m worried you’ll leave,” Kim says carefully. “I’m glad you went to New York. But I’d be lying if I said I’m not worried that you might disappear entirely again, like after That Day.”

Porchay traces circles on Kim’s bare thigh. “Do you think we’ve changed?”

“I think I changed.” Kim focuses on how the necklace swings from Porchay’s neck. “I’m worried on the outside now.”

“On the outside?”

“I used to worry about you on the inside. Lately, everyone could tell whenever I was thinking about you.” Kim reaches for the necklace and rearranges it. “I like this change though. I feel more honest about myself. About how I feel. About how I feel about you.”

“I like it too,” Porchay says softly. “It’s easier to know you. And I didn’t have to break into your apartment.”

Kim smiles. “Do you think you’ve changed?”

Porchay tilts his head, and Kim resists the urge to kiss him. “I thought about you every day,” he admits. “But not in the way I used to. Instead of obsessing over everything that happened, I just kept thinking if you were okay. And I wasn’t worried,” Porchay tacks on hastily. “But I wasn’t spending hours questioning everything.” Porchay crawls a bit forward and places his head on Kim’s chest. “I think seeing you before I left helped.” Porchay sighs, his breath tickling Kim's skin.

“I might miss Porchay the WIK fan.”

Porchay swats him. “I prefer this.”

“So do I.” Kim pets Porchay’s hair.

“Do you think you can forgive yourself?” Porchay asks. The day is well into the afternoon. They’re still in bed.

Kim takes a long moment before answering. “I don’t know. I don’t hate myself as much as I used to.”

“I don’t hate you as much either.”

“What a relief,” Kim sighs. “I was prepared to spend the rest of this life convincing you otherwise.”

“I still think you have a long way to go. So keep convincing me.” Porchay’s necklace is cool against Kim’s skin. “Anything else I should know?”

Kim kisses the top of Porchay’s head. “I’m very moody. You may hate me when I get into those mood swings. And I’m still too quiet.”

“I love you anyways, so I'll stay.”

“And I promised Tankhun we’d re-watch his dramas with him.”

“Still love you.”

“I chewed all the pens you got me.”

“Still love you.”

“I never sent you jackets.”

“I’ll steal yours, instead.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Say it back.” Porchay pokes his cheek.

“Say what back?” Kim teases.

Porchay pouts. “So mean.”

Kim turns Porchay’s face towards his, kisses him hard. “I love you, effortlessly.” When Porchay kisses him with the same momentum, Kim melts. Only after he’s satisfied with the state of Porchay’s blush does he pull away.

Porchay stretches against him, covering his eyes. “The sun is too bright,” he complains as he settles into Kim’s chest again.

“I know,” Kim whispers. “It’s wonderful.”