Archive of Our Own ^beta

They come to him first with money. 

It's his only true day off for months and Big is alone at the bar, pretending to look for a hookup for the night, but the place he chose is pretty empty and most of the decent prospects left hours ago. He doesn't have the energy or desire to go elsewhere. 

One of the men sits next to him while the other hovers a few feet away, visible just out of the corner of his eye. 

It's a substantial amount of money, but pitiful considering the risks he'd have to take to earn it. And yet, it's still enough that, had Big gotten it earlier, would have kept him from ever having to work for the mafia—and they can throw it around like pocket change. That alone sets his teeth on edge.

They say they work for a rival family, one of the many that vie for a piece of the Theerapanyakul wealth, but it's obviously a lie. 

They don't like being told no. The glare he gives is half-mocking, half-sharp enough to cut their throats. He watches them coldly as they try to threaten him, but he didn't become Kinn's head bodyguard by being easily intimidated. When one goes for his face, he grabs their hand and breaks two of their fingers before they can even touch him. They leave hastily after that. 

Big finds the envelope of cash tucked under his drink. The bills are crisp and stick together slightly as he fingers through them. They didn't lie about the money, at least.

He brings the envelope to Chan's office door. It's late, past 1AM, and Big's clothes smell like the inside of a bar, but the light is on inside like it always is. He still doesn't know when Chan sleeps.

Chan's "Enter!" makes his spine snap straight through sheer conditioning. 

Chan looks up from his computer, blueprints spread over half of his desk. A cup of coffee curls steam next to his face. He doesn't ask Big anything. He expects to be told.

Big steps forward and places the envelope of cash on Chan's desk. 

Chan raises his eyebrows, just slightly. He doesn't reach for the envelope. "What is this?"

"A bribe, sir. From the Cardillo." 

Chan's expression settles back down. "What did they want to know?"

"I didn't let them ask. Told them to get lost."

"Break any bones?"

Big swallows a grin. "Just two fingers. They left quickly after that. Left the bribe on the bar for me. I assume their plan was to find me again."

Chan lets out a small breath, but he doesn't look displeased. Amusement even seems to glimmer in the corners of his eyes. "Consider seeing what they want to know, first, next time. Before you break any bones. Just so we know what they're looking for. Otherwise, good job."

"I will. Thank you, sir." Chan's praise is rare, and always makes Big feel proud of himself.

"Unless you have anything else, you're dismissed. You're off until tomorrow afternoon, correct?"

It's less of a question and more of a statement. Chan sets most of the schedules, and Big has no doubt that he has them all memorized, somehow. 

"Yes, sir." 

"You will be accompanying Khun Kinn offsite for an event. There's a meeting at 7PM. Bank will be taking point." 

"Yes, sir." Big ducks his head and turns to leave. With one hand on the door, however, he hesitates.

He turns back. Chan looks up from his computer again, gaze questioning. 

"Sir," Big starts. 

He hesitates long enough for Chan to actually prompt him. 

"Yes?"

"The Cardillo are from Palermo."

Chab tilts his head, and Big goes on. 

"Their men speak Sicilian. All of them. The men tonight were all from Northern Italy. Lombardy, I think."

"How did you notice that?"

"I heard them speaking together before they approached me, sir. The dialect is distinct."

"Hm. And?"

Big takes a deep breath. "And I think, next time you hire men for this kind of job, make sure they're from the right region of Italy."

Chan stares at him for a long moment. 

Big almost thinks he's misread the situation entirely, but then—then Chan grins, just slightly. No more than a small lift of his lips, but it's more than he's ever seen from Chan before.

"Excellent job, Big. I will keep your comments in mind."

Relief goes through him, twined with a deep, warm thrill at making the imperturbable Chan smile. He can't quite keep his excitement from his voice. "Thank you, sir. I passed?"

Chan nods, eyes unexpectedly warm in the low light. "You already passed. This is above and beyond."

Big can't help the answering grin on his face. 

They come to him next with money. It's a decent amount, enough to get out of the country and buy himself a new life, at least for a while. 

This time, he lets them ask a few questions, draws out their excuses and their information and gets a handle on who they are and what exactly they want.

And then he breaks their fingers. 

He hands the cash over to Chan at the end of the night, answers all of the questions Chan has, and suggests who he thinks it is that is gunning for Kinn. 

Chan even asks for input on how they can use the information Big gathered against the small, ambitious group that clearly has designs on part of the Theerapanyakul import business. It's not a test, this time, but he still feels like he's passed, anyhow.

The life of a Theerapanyakul bodyguard is defined by taking orders, by being obedient. By not thinking for oneself. Big likes that Chan wants his input, assesses his thoughts as worthy of consideration. It's the first time he feels in control of his job—his life—in a very long time. It's disconcerting how much he's missed it.

He wants to be able to help Kinn in this way, to provide these skills. He feels like can't do anything else for Kinn, even though he wants to. Everything he does doesn't seem to be enough to get Kinn to notice him in the way he wants. 

He's dreamed of kneeling before Kinn in a different way, of following a different type of order, but it's clear Kinn has been trained not to look at his staff that way. It hurts to be so completely disregarded, but Big makes himself swallow down his disappointment. It's better that the line remains professional between them, no matter how he might wish otherwise. 

Big will give Kinn what he can, and that will have to be enough.

Over the years, he tells himself, again and again—he can live like this. 

Then Porsche arrives, and it all goes to shit.

Porsche, who couldn't find the bullseye of a target if it were an inch away from his face. Porsche, whose endurance is reserved for fucking in back alleys and bar fights. Porsche, who can barely undo a simple knot, who mocks Big to his face and disrespects Kinn in front of Korn. 

Porsche, who Kinn can't stop watching. Porsche, who sparks Kinn's desire that Big has ached for years to have directed at him, in any amount, no matter how small. 

Porsche, who isn't worthy by any metric of Kinn's consideration. 

Porsche, who Kinn wants, anyway. 

The night Big figures out Kinn and Porsche are fucking, he finds himself in the shooting range, emptying multiple clips into an unfortunate target. It doesn't matter that they all hit the black outline, a perfect spread across the head and chest of a paper enemy.

When he moves onto the running track on the floor above, it doesn't matter that his sprint is the fastest it's ever been, his heart like an open flame in his chest. It doesn't matter that he completes set after set of push-ups, more than he ever has, even as his arms and core burn, his body awash with sweat. 

As he dives into the pool, it doesn't matter that his form is perfect, his stroke smooth and quick as he cuts through the water. 

It doesn't matter, because Kinn doesn't care about any of these things. Porsche couldn't do half of these things, wouldn't even bother to try, but Kinn still—still.  

Kinn will never care. These are the things Big has to offer Kinn, and they will never be enough, because they are not the right things. 

Because it is Big who is offering them. 

He's never had any hope, not really. But it still stings. 

Someone better than him would be happy Kinn has found someone to smile at—Big can hear his laugh through the door when Porsche is in the room. But Big can only resent it, and wonder why it couldn't be him. Why it never is. 

His love for Kinn has always been selfish. He has always been selfish.

Perhaps that's why. There is someone better than him, and Big will never be able to measure up.

Midnight finds Big at the edge of the pool, lips bitter with chlorine, unable to stop himself from swimming lap after lap, even though his arms tremble from exertion.

No one is in the pool area at this time of night. Technically, Big shouldn't be here, either, but Chan gave him permission years ago to use the gym whenever he wanted. He seemed to understand that what Big needed to retain his sanity in the Theerapanyakul meat grinder was to occasionally beat a punching bag to bits with no one around, or run until his legs gave out from under him.

Sometimes it's one of the only places Big can be alone, sweat and tears trailing salt down his face, his body running on empty. Again and again, grinding his thoughts down into nothing, so the next morning he can put on his suit and go back to his job.

No one cares that he's here. 

Kinn and Porsche are fucking their way through a box of condoms, no doubt christening every available surface. Ken is out tonight, off to get laid or whatever he does when he leaves the compound, and he has never understood Big's feelings for Kinn, anyway. Pete melts into the background any time Big so much as looks at him. Arm and Pol barely talk to him, which Big knows is his own fault. He's never been very nice to them, jealous of their closeness, how easily Tankhun treats them like friends, not bodyguards. 

There's no one else that would even come near him. This has always been by his own choice, he thought, but it no longer seems that way. The looks he got from the other guards when the news broke about Kinn and Porsche are burned into his mind. Smug. Mocking. Pitying.

A sick, gnawing feeling twists his stomach and rises up his throat.

Jealous, vindictive Big. Petty and angry about his own failures. Lonely and unwanted. That's him. It's always been true. Now there's just proof of it. 

The emptiness of the cavernous room echoes around him in the low light. He's alone, and no one cares that he's here. He doubts anyone even knows.

He wishes he could hollow himself out, scraping out all of these ugly things clawing at his insides. The anger that burns at his throat, the want that makes him feel sick, the strange, dark loneliness that weighs down his skin. It's no wonder Kinn has never looked at him. 

His body is exhausted but still his mind spins, spins. The thoughts will not disappear. The pain will not release him. 

If Kinn doesn't want him, doesn't need him anymore—what is Big good for? 

The answer is: nothing. Nothing. He would be useless, and easily replaced. 

The water laps at his skin, pulling at him. His body feels like a stone. With every breath, his head sinks a little further under the surface. He should get out. 

His hands let go of the grate at the water's edge.

Big closes his eyes, lets himself sink to the bottom of the pool. His breath escapes from his lips in a slow stream of bubbles. Under the water, his heartbeat is the only thing he can hear. Pale blue light from the floodlamps ripples across his eyelids as the surface smooths above him. 

He feels weightless, the water the same temperature as his skin. He's tired. Exhausted. His muscles feel completely drained. His whole body hurts, even his heart—it aches with the strange, overwhelming desire to go home, but—he doesn't have one. 

This is his home. Here. With Kinn. 

The thought is no longer comforting. It no longer seems to fit like it once did. 

If this isn't where he should be, where is?

Big runs out of breath to release. 

He lets his muscles relax, hearing his heartbeat slow to a minimum. His hands brush along the rough concrete of the bottom of the pool, the only thing he can feel besides the hollowness of his lungs and the throb of his heart in his chest. Silence presses in on him as his lungs begin to burn, his throat working to move air that isn't there. 

Time stretches, unwinding its sure grip around his skin and spooling out into pale blue space. There's nothing outside of this place, no one looking for him, no one waiting for him. He doesn't belong anywhere but here. 

In the silence, he lets go. 

Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, disappearing into the water, though he doesn't understand why. The rest of his body floats away, separate from himself.

His mind finally goes quiet. His body is still. He feels almost like he is being lulled to sleep. Under the water, just like this. It'll be easy.

Easy, like nothing else has been. 

In the increasing space between heartbeats, his chest begins to throb with pain. His muscles clench and lock up with the desire for air. He forces them into stillness, resisting the growing urge. 

His body doesn't rule him. 

But the quiet of his mind has been severed by need, and now he can't focus on anything else but the thought of a breath. The feeling of suffocation squeezes him like a vise, drawn tighter and tighter with every passing second. As darkness begins to blur the edges of his vision, a primal fear seizes him.

He doesn't make the decision to move—his body makes it for him. Suddenly, he shoves off the bottom of the pool, hands clawing for the surface which seems far—too far—above him. 

He breaks through the glassy surface with a gasp. His first breath in hurts, caught strangely in his throat, water in his nose, and he lunges gracelessly for the edge of the pool. When he regains it, his hand grips the grate so hard he can feel the metal cutting into his skin. 

He coughs and coughs as he tries to regain his breath, stomach clenching like he's going to throw up. The smell of chlorine jabs up his sinuses, and his forehead throbs with a sudden headache. He can't appear to get enough air. 

Finally, slowly, his breath settles, although it's ragged and his throat still burns.

He slams his hand on the grate in frustration, metal stinging his skin. Disappointment cuts at him, deeper than the physical pain. He couldn't do it. He couldn't. 

He was too weak. 

Footsteps jolt Big from his thoughts. Surprised, he abruptly loses his grip on the edge of the pool. Without it, he drops like a stone. For a long, terrifying moment, the water closes over his head again. His body resists him as he tries to regain the surface, slow to react in its exhaustion. He hauls himself to the grate with all the strength he has left, and sloshes water over familiar black boots. 

Heart beating high in his throat and still gasping for air, Big looks up, not sure what he expects to see. But Chan is just watching him, his gaze unreadable. 

Chan doesn't say anything, but shame flushes, acid-hot, over Big's skin anyway. He can guess what Chan is thinking, the type of judgment Chan might make about what he has no doubt just seen. 

Big's been foolish. All this time, with Kinn. But especially now.

He doesn't ask how Chan knew he was here, or why he's suddenly shown up when he never has before. Chan always seems to be watching, always seems to know things others don't.

Big's breath and the slap of the water against the sides of the pool are the only sounds in the cavernous room. He feels pinned under Chan's gaze, at once dissected and put back together. 

Chan leans over, holding out his hand. It's not a request.

It takes all of Big's remaining energy to push himself from the water and grab it. Chan's grip is firm around his forearm, unexpectedly warm on Big's cold skin. 

Chan lifts him out of the pool as if he weighs nothing and deposits him on his feet.

On land, Big's legs tremble from overexertion and he can barely stand. His head spins, dizziness making his stomach roil with nausea.

Chan doesn't let go of him, and Big holds onto his arm for another minute to steady himself, too exhausted to care about propriety. Without Chan's grip, he's sure he would fall back into the pool. He feels too weak to do anything but stand and breathe. 

Finally, Big straightens up until he and Chan are almost eye-to-eye. His body feels ready to collapse. He lets go of Chan's jacket, embarrassed at how crumpled and wet he's made it. Chan hardly seems to notice. 

Chan drops his grip on Big's arm but doesn't step away, doesn’t give him any space. They're standing so close Big can feel his breath on his skin.

Chan watches him, just the slightest furrow to his brow. 

Big feels stripped naked by the look, by Chan's steadiness, in contrast to all of Big's ugly desires and failings which seem so on display, now. He can't handle things like Chan, with an almost inhuman calm. He's tried, but it all just bubbles up anyway, spilling out of him. 

Big swallows, and prepares himself for judgment. 

"I gave you permission to be here after hours with the assumption that you knew your limits," Chan says, his voice quiet and stern. 

Shame roils Big's stomach. He clenches his jaw, ducking his head slightly. 

Chan leans in immediately. "Big. Eyes here."

Big snaps his head up to meet Chan's gaze. It's hard—harder than it's ever been. But he forces himself to hold it.

"Do I need to reassess that assumption?" Chan asks. 

Big's reply is immediate, desperate. "No, sir."

Out of the water, he can see how foolish he was being. How stupid a mistake it would be to do what he almost did. For what? Because Kinn has a new fuck buddy? It should be no different than it usually is with Kinn's hired partners, even if it feels worse. 

The real issue is that he knows he shouldn't care either way. Kinn can fuck whoever he wants—it has nothing to do with Big. It never has.

Chan watches him, assessing. 

Big tries his hardest to appear certain of his words. If he loses this privilege, he doesn't know what he'll do. Being able to come here, to be alone, to run his thoughts down to nothing—it's the only thing that sets him straight. He needs it.

Finally, after a long moment, Chan seems satisfied and nods. "Okay," he says, voice less stern than before.

Relief runs through Big. "Thank you, sir." 

He wishes he didn't sound quite so desperately relieved, but he can't help it. 

Chan gaze sweeps over him, intense and all-encompassing. 

Big is suddenly aware of how close they're standing. He's only wearing his swim shorts and Chan is fully dressed in his black suit, shirt, and boots. 

Unexpectedly, he feels his face heat up. He swallows around a strangely dry throat. 

Chan tilts his head just slightly. "Let's go." 

Big startles. "Sir?" 

"Go get your things." 

Big nods, but what he doesn't expect when he turns is for Chan to follow him, only one or two steps behind. Big forces himself not to look around. 

Chan follows him to the locker room, waiting silently as Big strips off his shorts and roughly towels himself off. Big's skin is damp and clammy when he shoves his tracksuit back on, his wet hair dripping water down the back of his jacket. 

All he wants to do is go back to his room and pass out face-down on his bed. But when he's done, Chan leads them out of the gym and to the elevator. 

Big knows, without Chan saying a word, that he is to follow. 

Although he will undoubtedly be punished, there's no more judgment, no more questioning. Chan seems to have taken Big at his word that he will not do this again. Despite the situation, the fact that Chan still trusts him is comforting.

Big is surprised when they get off on one of the lower levels, where the cafeteria is located. It's empty at this time of night, but there are still a few staff members around, prepping for tomorrow or cleaning up the kitchen, the door propped open to the back. 

Big waits as Chan talks quietly with one of the workers. They obviously know each other well, as the woman makes a joke and Chan even looks amused, the side of his lips quirking up.

The woman hands over a couple of plastic bottles, and disappears into the kitchen.

Chan turns around. "Here." He holds out a bottle of energy drink to Big. 

Big is thirsty, more than he perhaps realized. Although his throat still hurts from the chlorine, he gulps down the first bottle almost without stopping. When he finishes, Chan takes it from him and hands him a bottle of water. 

He drinks the second bottle more slowly, feeling the heat of dehydration cool from his face. He feels better almost instantly, his tongue no longer sticking to the roof of his mouth and his skin no longer feeling quite so tight.

A minute later, the worker reappears and hands over a couple of brown boxes to Chan. 

Chan leads them back to Big and Ken's shared room. He doesn't bother to knock on the door. He must know already that Ken isn't in tonight. 

Big doesn't know what to expect, now, but Chan sets the boxes on the table and says, "Sit." 

As usual, it is not a request. 

As Chan disappears into the other room, Big slides into the chair and opens up the boxes. Inside are rice and grilled meat and vegetables, all freshly made and steaming. 

Big stares at the food, uncomprehending. 

It takes until Chan comes back and hands him a fork and spoon before he realizes that Chan is not punishing him. 

It's care. Chan is taking care of him. 

Big feels his throat close up with a strange emotion and heat floods over his skin. Exhausted and raw as he feels, this small gesture cuts straight to the heart of him. It's something he's never gotten before. It's not something he ever expects, here. 

And frankly, he doesn't deserve it. Not after tonight.

Certainly not from Chan, who seems so often to exist on a separate plane from the rest of them, never faltering, never failing.

He looks over at Chan when he sits down next to Big. He wants to ask him why he's doing this, why he came to see Big in the pool, why he would bother to accompany Big all the way back to his room and feed him dinner, but he can't make himself say the words.

Maybe he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want Chan to tell him it's just duty, doesn't want to hear it's not important to Chan like it is to Big. 

"Eat," Chan says, his voice quiet. 

Big hesitates for a moment, fingers curling around the utensils. It feels too weird to sit here and eat alone, while Chan watches in his usual clinical way. He thinks of Chan, sitting alone in his office all of those nights, always there when Big knocks, never seeming to eat, or sleep, or rest. 

He holds out the fork to Chan. 

"Big," Chan says, real command sharpening his voice for the first time. "Eat."

Big clenches his jaw. Usually, he would never hesitate to obey a direct order from Chan, but this doesn't feel like a normal situation. Instead, he meets Chan's gaze and extends the fork further toward him. "Please."

It takes Chan a long moment but he finally accepts the fork, his warm, calloused fingers brushing past Big's cool skin. "Okay."

A small smile deepens the furrows in Chan's cheeks, and Big pretends the sudden tightness in his chest is only hunger, nothing more.

Chan sits with him as he eats, the food settling Big's stomach. 

It's not that strange, at least not as bad as Big thought it would be. Chan has a comforting presence, his usual competence and control making it easy to feel safe. And as Big eats, it feels normal, like they do this everyday, except—he's never done this with Chan before. He wonders what it would be like, to do this every day with Chan. If they were friends, how easy it might be to accept his care without an answering sense of guilt of taking more than he's worthy of. 

Afterwards, he walks Chan to the door. Right before he turns the handle, Chan turns and looks back at him. 

The words press at Big's lips, begging to be asked, but he doesn't know how to say them, doesn’t know what answer he wants in return. 

Why are you doing this?

There's understanding in Chan's gaze, something kind behind his usual stern expression. 

"Get some rest," he says, voice quiet. "Report for your shift tomorrow at 3PM."

Big starts. It's exhaustion that allows his protest to slip out. "But my shift is at 6AM—" 

Chan tilts his head, an edge of authority to his voice now. "Tomorrow. 3PM. That's my order, Big—" he says as Big opens his mouth, then shuts it. His next words are softer. "I'll take care of it. There are no meetings tomorrow that require your presence. Rest. I need you at your best." 

I need you at your best.

Big swallows around the words he wants to say. 

He doesn't understand why Chan is being so—so nice to him. The care presses heavily on his shoulders, making his heart feel like a burden in his chest. Tonight he's made mistake after mistake, arguing when he shouldn't, and still—Chan allows it, makes room for him, gives him leeway Big has never seen him give to anyone else.

Chan's eyes sweep over him, gaze dark under his heavy brows, sending a slow shiver of awareness through Big. It's like a sudden spark, arcing through the air before it's gone.

Big feels his breath hitch, caught off guard by the feeling, by the look. It slips through his sternum, hooks somewhere deep in his chest, tightens. Something shifts, like the twist of a camera lens, drawing everything that happened tonight into focus.

For a brief moment, Chan's hand rests, warm and grounding, on Big's shoulder. "Goodnight."

It's an impulse. 

Before he can turn, Big steps closer, his cold hands lifting to cradle Chan's face. The world goes silent around them as Big leans in and kisses him. 

Chan's skin is warm under his touch, short beard prickling across Big's palms, hair soft where Big's fingertips slide into it. Up close, his body holds the scent of his shampoo and the traces of the day, something familiar and comforting in it. In him. It twists up with something in Big, his heart leaping to his throat, pulse quickening. 

For a moment, Chan is still under Big's lips, just the slight tremble of his breath across Big's cheek, so light it's almost nothing. 

A flash of cold rushes over Big's skin, icy and sharp. A mistake. He's made a mistake.

And then Chan tilts his head, just slightly, until his lips can press more fully against Big's. He moves slowly until they're kissing more deeply, the drag of his lips and the burn of his beard against Big's face making him inhale a little, so quiet, his hands tightening on Chan's face. 

Chan lets out a low sound, desire caught in his throat, and then his hands are cupping the back of Big's head, warm, and fingers tangling in Big's hair. His mouth opens against Big's, lips soft and hot, the tip of his nose brushing against Big's cheek. Something sweet and hot melts and tightens in Big's belly, hunger like a fist in his chest, heavy and tense. 

Want sharpens its knife in him, cutting deeper and deeper into the soft core of him, and he wraps his arms around Chan, opening into the kiss with a moan that rises through his chest and into Chan's where they're suddenly pressed up together, Chan walking them back against the wall, his hand protecting Big's head from hitting the paneling. Big is heedless of any danger, exhaustion flushed from his body under a wave of overwhelming desire. 

The weight and feeling of Chan on him makes him inhale sharply, the kiss sweet and piercing in the same moment. Chan's mouth is demanding on his in a way that wipes the questions from his mind, drawing Big's lips between his own and sliding his tongue against Big's, the heat of their breath caught between them. Chan's hand traces like a firebrand down his spine as he holds Big close.

Every touch whets his appetite further, hunger clawing in his stomach as he tries to press closer, closer, kissing Chan—kissing Chan, oh fuck, the thought heady, the strange power inherent in it because it's Chan —who returns the kiss with a matching hunger, his body tense under Big's hands, his pulse high in his throat as Big's fingers slide down his neck, pushing aside the collar of his shirt and sliding his hand around the nape of Chan's neck. Big breaks the kiss just to get his mouth on Chan's skin, kissing across his cheek and licking down the slope of Chan's neck, the taste of salt and desire sharp on his tongue, his teeth. 

Big's head spins, he can barely breathe. They're pressed so tightly together, and yet he can't seem to get enough. He's never been so tripped up by want, overwhelmed and made silent by it. Chan smells so good, even now, the scent of him so familiar, Big wants to burrow into it. He wishes he could fall to his knees right now, hands on Chan's waist, to get his mouth on the cock he can feel hardening under the fine wool of Chan's suit. 

Chan's hand tightens in his hair, body taut under Big's touch. He kisses over the rise of Big's cheek, his beard scraping over the sensitive skin. And then his lips trace the shell of Big's ear and there's the slight scrape of his teeth over the lobe, a metallic click as he softly bites down, warm breath brushing over Big's ear, the pain and the soothing slide of his lips sending an unexpectedly strong jolt down Big's neck to pool with the rising want in his belly. 

Everything in Big tightens, his body rising up into Chan's embrace. His cock throbs, and he's already half-hard, everything in him responding so readily to Chan's touches that he's surprised he never thought of this, thought of him.  

With a wordless plea, Big arches into the bite, the tug of Chan's mouth. He wants to be eaten up, swallowed whole until there's nothing left of him. 

Everything else is gone, quiet. His mind is silent, wiped clean in the moment, except for this.

Chan might take him to bed, might fuck him—Chan, who Big has never thought of wanting anything, too controlled, too perfect—might want Big and the thought is heady, overwhelming, like something out of a fantasy. To be desired by Chan… Big has never thought about it but now that he has, he can think of nothing else. He can want nothing else. 

And then Chan pulls back, his hand on Big's jaw pressing him away. Big's mouth hangs open for a moment more, body straining forward on impulse before he can catch his breath, before his brain restarts.

Big feels wrecked, his heartbeat pulsing under his skin like a live wire, his lips and cheeks warm and tingling with the memory of Chan's beard against them. Everything has narrowed down to them and Big wants nothing more than to fall into the heat and pull of Chan's body on his. 

He looks at Chan, inches away. Chan's hair is rucked up and wild, his lips glistening and dark pink. He looks thoroughly kissed, and Big—Big wants to lean in again, capture his mouth, compel Chan to push him up against the wall and make him forget everything.

But this close, Chan's eyes are commanding, holding Big in place more effectively than a hand. 

"Chan," Big breathes, ready to ask, or beg maybe. He'd beg.

Chan's gaze flicks up from where it's been fixed on Big's lips. His expression softens somewhat, like he's been lost in thought and is now back. His hand slides over to cup Big's face, his thumb tracing over Big's lips. They're still sensitive, slick from Chan's kisses. 

Chan is watching him. 

Big opens his mouth, just slightly, just enough for Chan's thumb to press inside, the tip of his thumb sliding between Big's teeth. He has too much energy. The desire that pulses under his skin has nowhere to go, nowhere but here.

Eyes on Chan, Big bites down. Harder than he should, and Chan's brow flickers, his eyes darkening. There's that smile, just a hint at the corner of his mouth, like a secret just for Big.

Big's lips close around Chan's thumb as he soothes the bite with his tongue. The small taste of Chan is enough to send a wave of searing want through him.

Chan's gaze is piercing, just on the edge of too much. He isn't looking away from Big and the attention is—is what Big wants. He's always wanted Chan to look at him, now more than ever.

And then Chan pulls his hand away. Before Big can protest, or apologize, Chan kisses him again, quick, rough, pressing him against the wall and stealing the breath from his mouth for a blazing moment before he pulls back. His lips are almost touching Big's when he speaks. 

"If you still want this tomorrow, come to me after your shift," Chan says, voice less controlled than usual. Big can't read his expression so close. "If you don't, we won't speak of this again. Understood?"

Disappointment pulls at his gut. Big wants him now, doesn't want to wait, doesn't want to think anymore. He's afraid if he thinks too long he won't follow through, will convince himself he shouldn't. 

Maybe Chan knows this. Maybe Chan just wants to give himself an out. Or maybe he wants Big to be sure.

Big nods.

"Understood."

Chan murmurs another 'Goodnight' against Big's lips as he brushes his thumb across Big's cheekbone, and then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Big alone and winded.

Big heads to his bedroom in a daze and crawls straight into bed, fully dressed. His heartbeat is still pulsing under his skin, every sense heightened. He swears he can still smell the slight trace of Chan on him, and the scent evokes a flash of heat that goes straight to his cock. 

He pulls the neck of the tracksuit up around his nose, breathing him in as his other hand slides into his briefs. He's so sensitive his whole body jerks when he gets his hand on his cock, and he presses the fabric of the tracksuit to his face, hard, to muffle the moan that slips out. He strokes himself quickly to full hardness with the thought of Chan's hand on him, stroking with him, with the memory of Chan's mouth on his neck, his voice in his ear, his body up against Big's, wanting him, wanting Big. 

Desperate for something he can't name, he bites down on the fabric of the tracksuit, and it's not enough, the fabric rough against his tongue, but it's all he has. 

Chan's lips on his, his teeth, his hands everywhere, watching as Big falls apart. 

Big barely has time to think about it before he's coming messily all over his hand, orgasm whiting out his mind. As he strokes himself through it, he can almost feel Chan's weight behind him, the smell of his skin. A wave of relief washes through his body. 

He could have more, if he wants. He could. Tomorrow, Chan said…

Big is so tired that he can't even make himself get out of bed. He can barely clean himself with a handful of tissues before he passes out, exhausted in every way.

It's only right before he falls asleep that he realizes he hasn't thought of Kinn since Chan appeared at the edge of the pool. 

In the morning, he jolts awake suddenly, the memory of the night before clinging to him like a dream. It takes him several long moments for him sitting in bed to come back to himself.

It couldn't have been real. Chan, watching him, pulling him from the water, sharing food with him, kissing him.  

Big feels his face flush with heat, which turns scalding when he spots the used tissues next to his bed. He's still wearing his tracksuit, and underneath, his shorts are uncomfortable and sticky. 

When he goes out to the living room on the way to the shower, the empty food containers peek out of the trash can in the corner. Big's stomach swoops.

It was real. 

Big bites his lip, hard, trying to quell the strange embarrassment from last night that's tangled up with the want in his belly. How desperate he was. Ready to get on his knees for Chan or pull him straight into his bed. And yet blood is already rushing south just from the idea, just from the memory of Chan's hands on him last night. 

And Chan said if he still wanted it, they could continue. He said if he didn't, they'd never mention it again. Big believes him on the latter, so the former must be true, too. The thought sends energy fizzing through him. 

Big has never really thought of Chan like this before, at least not seriously—nothing more than fleeting pulses of attraction when Chan emerges victorious from another training spar, his skin aglow with sweat and his eyes dark like a predator, or when Chan murmurs orders into his ear, his hand heavy on Big's shoulder; just things like that—but now that he has, he can't ignore the appeal or pull. It's a surprise—but it's not. Not really.

By the time he peels off his clothes and gets in the shower, he's already half-hard. Hot water pours over the top of his head and down his spine, loosening the tension from his shoulders and allowing arousal to pool lazily in his belly. He runs his hands down his neck and across his chest, brushing against his nipples, which harden under his touch.

Normally, he doesn't have much time to himself, but he doesn't have to report until the afternoon—because Chan gave him this extra time, he reminds himself. He doesn't know why the thought affects him as much as it does, why it sends a low thrum of desire through him.

Chan noticed him, considered him. Chan wanted him to be alright.

It takes Big hardly any time at all before he's turned against the wall of the shower, face pressed into his arm as he strokes himself to full hardness. He imagines it's Chan holding him there, wrapped up behind him, hand guiding Big's hand on his own cock, so like the way he's trained Big—at the shooting range, on the wrestling mat, in front of the punching bag—for so many years. Sure, confident, calloused fingers wrapped over Big's as he adjusts his grip, tightening it as his fingers slip over the sensitive head, the slight brush of his lips on Big's neck, the burr of his beard on Big's skin. His voice, something Big would recognize anywhere, saying something under the shirr of the water—it doesn't even matter what it is, Big will listen. 

Pleasure rises up his spine and spills over the crown of his head. Big comes with a choked-off groan into his arm, his whole body pulsing with the aftershocks. Hot water pours over him, washing across his overheated skin. His legs feel strangely weak, and he has to brace his back against the shower wall for several long moments before he can finally regain his breath. 

It's only then that he thinks of Kinn, and Porsche, and the contentment leaves his body in a cool rush, followed by a wave of simmering resentment. 

He screws his eyes shut and tries to push the thoughts away, but they won't budge. He scrapes his fingernails down his body, digging into the skin, streaks of pain down his front that he can't help but arch into anyway. He thinks of Chan, his hands like bands of iron around Big's arms, fingers digging into his hips as he fucks him. 

The image of Kinn and Porsche together on Kinn's bed dissolves, disappearing under a wave of sheer arousal that leaves Big breathless, again. 

There's no way this can end well. 

He knows he's going to do it, anyway.

When he knocks on Chan's office door late that evening, Big half-expects him to not answer. But the light is on, and Chan's "Enter!" cuts through the door just the same as it always does.

He opens the door and steps inside. His heartbeat kicks in his chest as Chan looks up, those dark eyes immediately on him like a promise. 

As usual, Chan does not ask. He expects to be told. 

Big inhales quietly, remembering Chan's words from the night before. If nothing else in the world remains the same, he can trust Chan to make good on his word. There's no doubt in his mind. 

"Sir, you said," Big starts, words coming out far more measured than he expected, "if I still wanted this…"

When Big trails off, Chan tilts his head, expectation obvious in his expression. 

There's no judgment in Chan's gaze, just a question.

Big clenches his jaw, pushing away the self-consciousness that threatens to silence him. His face burns. He just has to get the words out. "I still do. I want it."

Chan's eyes soften, just slightly, their edges golden in the low light of his desk lamp. 

"Big, come here," Chan says quietly. 

It's not an order, but Big still reacts like it is one, body obeying before his brain can kick on. He rounds the corner of Chan's desk as Chan stands, and they stop just a foot apart.

Big feels the already familiar curl of arousal tightening in his belly just from this, just from Chan moving closer, his broad shoulders shifting under his jacket as his hands slide into his pockets. For a brief moment, he wishes Chan would reach out to him first, but he quashes the feeling. It doesn't matter. 

Chan makes Big meet his gaze before he asks, voice low and intimate, "Big, what do you want?" 

For a second, the words sound like, "What do you need?" 

But the answer is the same.

Big feels the word fall out of him, drawn by Chan's insistent gaze. "You."

A quiet tension that he hadn't realized was there falls from Chan's shoulders, like the release of a breath. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen, his lips pressing in a small, hidden smile.

The idea that Chan was unsure, in some small way, squeezes Big's heart. He swallows around a sudden lump in his throat. His hands clench with the desire to move closer, but he forces himself to stay in place. Waiting.

And then Chan lifts his hand, fingertips tracing under the edge of Big's tie. Big's overheated skin is sensitive; he can feel every touch when Chan slips his fingers under the silk, knuckles brushing his chest through his thin cotton shirt as Chan moves up, up. Big feels like he's holding his breath, waiting to see what Chan will do, even though he already knows. Or, he hopes.

Then Chan wraps his fingers around Big's tie, tightens them. Tugs, just slightly. A suggestion, not a command. But it's enough.

Big's heartbeat thrums higher as he allows himself to be pulled forward, his eyes on Chan. Chan's gaze sweeps slowly over his face, his lips, and desire pulls taut inside him. 

"Okay, Big," Chan murmurs, so quiet that Big can hardly hear him. "Okay."

And then Chan kisses him, and everything beyond them falls away. 

It's impossible to think of anything else when Chan fucks him. When Chan rolls Big over on the bed, his hips raised on a pillow, his face and hands in the sheets, and slides into him with long, slow thrusts, there's nothing else in the world but them. It's a relief. 

Chan tangles their hands together, pinning one hand to the bed as the other slides under him and grasps his cock, strokes quick and maddening, blindingly good, drawing the pleasure out almost in spite of himself, and Big comes with Chan's name on his lips and nothing else on his mind.

Afterward, Big tells himself this was enough. Just this once, he can be allowed this. It'll be enough.

And as he leaves Chan's room in the middle of the night, warm contentment making his joints liquid and latent desire still pulsing across his skin, he can almost believe it. 

Big doesn't expect their encounter to change anything about their professional relationship, and it doesn’t. 

In front of the other guards, Chan treats him exactly the same as he always has, with his usual high standards and perfect equanimity. There's no trace of a knowing smile on Chan's lips as he orders them to run during training, no lingering look as he prowls behind them at the shooting range. Even if Chan's gaze on Big's skin feels tangible, now, Big knows that's his own awareness.

His own failing. 

It's not as easy as he thought, to forget Chan's hands on him, how they traced everywhere, Chan taking his time, infinitely patient even in this, until Big's entire body simmered with want and he could barely think, until he nearly begged. It doesn't seem quite fair that Chan looks entirely composed, when Big can't seem to get the thoughts out of his mind.

The only thing that gives him hope that it's not entirely a one-sided desire is sparring. When everyone else has been paired off to start their bouts, it's just Chan and Big left at the edge of the mat. It's not unusual for them to spar, as they're well-matched, but Big didn't miss the way Chan's gaze occasionally swept over him in a way that made awareness ripple through him. 

He could have misread it, but somehow, he doesn't think so.

Nerves knock around his chest. The promise of Chan's touch on him again makes something tighten low in Big's belly, his focus narrowing down to just this. 

Whatever the reason, Chan wants to spar with Big. The thought sets his skin alight.

As they step into their starting positions, Big meets Chan's eyes, and finds himself giving him a challenging grin. Something sparks in Chan's eyes, the corner of his lips rising in return. 

Big's heartbeat kicks up, his breath quick. It's the first time he's seen Chan like this, almost playful, and he can't say he doesn't like it. 

"Ready?" Big asks, his voice coming out in a strangely enticing curl. He clears his throat, feeling his face flush. 

Chan's amused expression deepens. For a moment, it looks like he's about to reply, and then his hands are on Big's collar, yanking him forward, and Big nearly ends up on the mat in less than a second, all his training gone out the window. 

Attack when they least expect it. One of Chan's first lessons to recruits.

Big recovers his footing just in time, twisting to pull Chan off his stance, and then they're wrapped up in each other, struggling across the mat as they try to push the other off their balance. Big's hands are twisted up in Chan's tracksuit jacket, knuckles digging into his chest.

Chan is strong, and keeps his center of gravity low. Trying to push him off his feet is almost impossible. Big catches the grin on Chan's face right before he drops backward with his full weight, pulling Chan over with him. His heart skips, one-two, making him gasp which nearly turns into a groan when Chan arrests the throw and lands half on him instead, pushing him into the mat.

Even so, Big recovers first, shoving at Chan, and they roll across the mat, each trying to gain the advantage. The struggle alights something in Big's chest, until the competition is hardly the point—all he can focus on is Chan so close to him, touching him, putting his whole weight on him. Big has been thinking about this for days.

Finally, he manages to get Chan on his back, and straddles his waist. He tries to pin Chan's arms, but can't get a good enough grip to make Chan let go of him. 

Chan's hand tightens in his collar and he yanks Big closer. For a moment, they're inches apart, lips close enough to kiss.

Tangled up together, Big catches the scent of Chan's skin and it sends a bolt of unexpectedly strong desire through him. Molten heat pools deep in his belly, his heart already racing in his chest.

For a moment, the thought of leaning in and kissing Chan flashes across Big's mind. He wouldn't—not in front of everyone—but just the thought is enough to distract him momentarily, and that's all Chan needs.

Suddenly Big is on his back, Chan on top of him. His left hand is pinned under Chan's knee, his right tangled up in Chan's tracksuit, Chan's hand tight around his wrist. He bucks up, but Chan is too far up his body to be bothered by his struggles. 

Big can't help the way this makes him want to laugh, suddenly. He should be mad at how quickly Chan got him pinned, but he can't find the anger anywhere when Chan is inches away, looking down at him with that half-smile, dark gaze deeply amused. 

"Give up," Chan murmurs, just the slightest tease lifting his words. 

Chan, teasing him? Is he also having fun? Big can't help the way his breath quickens at the possibility, a full grin spreading across his lips. He wants to do whatever it takes to keep Chan looking at him like this.

"Never," he replies, playful defiance strengthening the words that suddenly want to come out no louder than his breath. 

Chan raises his eyebrows in surprise, but he looks pleased at Big's answer, nonetheless. "Alright," he says. "Bring it on, then." 

He knocks on Chan's door again. 

In the long seconds before there's a reply, Big considers turning away. Neither of them said this would be more than a one-time thing. He told himself he would forget Chan and the relief he felt when Chan kissed him, held him down on the bed, fucked him until words turned to nonsense in his mouth, body narrowed down to just his instincts, thoughts burned from his mind. 

But he doesn't leave. He waits. 

And Chan opens the door. 

This time, they send better negotiators. And more money. Much more. He could probably live out his whole life on it, if he needed to, if he didn't try to be extravagant.

He thinks about Porsche, so often at Kinn's side these days, giving orders like he has any idea what he's doing. He thinks of what it would feel like to wipe the board of them and start over. He thinks about taking the smoldering heat in his heart and setting it all aflame. 

If he was anyone else, he might say yes. 

He says no.

Every time he knocks on Chan's door, Chan lets him in. 

Big always leaves before morning. He doesn't allow himself to fall asleep in Chan's bed. He knows better than to expect more from this than quick fucks for relief, or distraction. He can't allow himself to want more than that.

But one night Chan is lying with him in the dark, his arm around Big's waist, his hand on Big's heart. Big is too tired and well-fucked to move. He can close his eyes for a moment, just to rest.

Chan's bed is much more comfortable than his own, and leaving before he falls asleep has been getting harder and harder. There's something in the scent and the warmth of his bed that's so familiar, that Big wants to burrow down into and never emerge from again.

Chan's lips trace over the sensitive skin right behind Big's ear, sending warmth down his neck. His breath raises goosebumps over Big's skin. 

"I thought about this all morning," Chan says, his voice low, rough. "I was hoping you'd come to me."

Heat floods through Big at the words, what they could mean. He's too comfortable to feel guarded, to stop the drugging pull of want that tugs at him, its hands cradling his heart. He is close to the edge of sleep, its dark edge sweeping toward him. 

It's the only reason he can think of that he murmurs, "Why didn't you ask?" He sighs, feeling his breath deepen, each exhalation relaxing him more and more. "You could have told me." 

Warmth blankets him, holding him to the bed. Chan's knees brush up against the backs of his own, his thighs under Big's, like puzzle pieces fitting together. Big can stay for just a moment more. And then he'll leave. 

"Would you have come?" Chan asks quietly.  

His voice threads through the beginning of Big's dream, weaving itself in like a golden cord. Big's eyes are already closed, and he feels himself being pulled along that line, following it into the dark. He can always trust that voice. 

Big can barely form the words before sleep takes him. "If you had asked."

They don't always fuck. 

Sometimes Chan is too busy, his mind obviously elsewhere when he lets Big inside. He works constantly, even more than Big thought he did, organizing the bodyguard shifts and training, reviewing endless surveillance reports, keeping an eye on everything and everyone within the Theerapanyakul family business in a way that's dizzying. Big has no idea how Chan keeps it all in his head, or handles it alone. 

When Big offers, one night, to help him, at first Chan pauses, a frown creasing his brow. Big nearly takes it back, struck by the unpleasant feeling that he's overstepping, but then Chan tilts his head. 

"Yes, now that you ask—there's something I think you'd be good at," he says. He picks up a tablet and hands it over to Big. "Take a look at these surveillance reports; let me know if you see anything interesting."

Big takes the tablet, knocked off guard by Chan's faith in him. It seems easy, but he knows Chan wouldn't offer it to just anyone. There's so much he's been asked to handle alone. 

The thought that he, Big, is one of the few people Chan trusts enough to help him, fills him with a glowing, unfamiliar pride. 

He hides his pleased expression as he takes a seat next to Chan at the table, and gets to work. 

Sometimes, all Big wants is somewhere away from everyone else, somewhere he doesn't have to see Porsche, or Kinn, or the other bodyguards who still whisper behind his back, like he can't hear them anyway. Like they know anything worth talking about.

Chan's room is quiet when Big needs a moment to think, and his bed is larger than Big's and softer in a way that Big is convinced is a perk from working for the family for so many years. Chan laughs quietly when Big brings it up one night, shaking his head.

"It's no different from yours," he says, "except the size."

Big resists the urge to make the obvious joke, although something in Chan's expression tells him he knows what Big is thinking—and he set it up just for that. Big can't help the grin that spreads across his face, even as he grumbles, "Shut up."

Chan's low laugh ripples through Big, warmth evident.

In private, Chan is different. Just slightly, but enough from the face he has so long presented to the rest of the world that Big can't help but wonder what it means.

Because he isn't sure what to make of it when Chan looks at him like this, gaze limned with a fondness he can't quite parse the source of. He doesn't know how he can keep it, because he doesn't know what he's done to deserve it.

And he wants to deserve it, especially from Chan. 

Of course, that's when it all goes to shit. 

The money they bring him is considerable, this time—enough to be truly tempting to the right person. 

That's not what catches Big's interest. 

It's the way they talk. They don't say exactly who they are, but something in the cadence of their words and the casual way they look at him, like they've met before, sends a prickle of awareness down Big's spine. He doesn't recognize them, but suspicion squeezes a cold hand around his heart. 

It's almost exactly like—the thought stops him up short, freezing the disinterested expression on his face as pieces fall into place. 

It's almost exactly like the way Gun and Vegas and even Macau talk, that exaggerated confidence, entitlement underpinning every sentence. They don't treat him like this because they're trying to make themselves bigger—they treat Big like this because they know him, somehow. 

There's only one explanation.

They're guards from the minor family. Ones he's never met before or seen around, but as they continue to talk, there's no doubt in his mind. 

Danger narrows his vision, and he forces himself to breathe normally. Chan's words drilled in when he was first being trained, years ago, echo in his head. 

Let them talk. Don't react. If you don't know what to ask, let them lead.  

They talk and talk, undeterred by his lack of reaction. The more they do, the more his certainty grows that he knows who they are, and who they work for. 

Gun or Vegas, or both. 

To pretend to accept their overtures would be fatal, either now or later. To deny them with his usual methods would exact on him a similar punishment, no doubt. If not immediately, then soon, under some pretense—or not. When it's punishment that needs meting out, the minor family will always find a way. They might kill him, even. 

Bodyguards, even bodyguards as highly ranked as Big, are cheap fodder in the mafia world—this much he knows by experience. 

There is no safe answer. If they're courting him, if they need him, there's undoubtedly something larger already brewing between Korn and Gun. Something he will not be able to stop alone.

A coup. A restructuring of their entire world. 

The thought freezes Big's heart in his chest. Death brushes a hand over the back of his neck, its touch soft but undeniable.

Even a whisper of this to the wrong person could destroy everything. Petty disagreements between mafia groups can cost lives. A full-scale war between the main and minor branches of the Theerapanyakul family would undoubtedly lead to a bloodbath. No one would be safe.

Not him, not Chan—and definitely not Kinn.

Eventually, the guards leave him alone at the bar, the promised envelope resting just beyond his fingertips. They don't say they will return, but Big knows they will. Soon.

Gun is many things, but he has never been patient.

He takes the bribe straight to Kinn, this time. That's his first mistake.

Kinn listens to him silently, his expression impossible to read. Even after so many years together, Big still isn't sure how Kinn feels about his uncle and cousins. It seems to range from bone-deep resentment to some strange form of love and back again, sometimes all at once.

It's only as Big says the words out loud in Kinn's well-outfitted office, the Theerapanyakul family crest flashing on Kinn's platinum ring as he rests his chin on one hand, that Big considers that it'll just be his word against decades of family ties. Just one no-name bodyguard's suspicions against the most powerful family in Bangkok. 

The years of his life that he's dedicated to the Theerapanyakuls, all the injuries he's taken to keep Kinn and his brothers safe, the lives he's taken to keep them in power—suddenly, the things which have made up the substance of Big's life seem like nothing. If Kinn thinks he's lying—even if Kinn doesn't think he's lying, but decides it's better to pretend it's not true—Big will have just drawn a target on his back and handed Kinn the gun to kill him. 

He didn't think this through.

For once, Big doesn't know what Kinn will do. The faith he's always thought he had in Kinn, which has always seemed solid as stone, quakes very slightly under his feet. 

After he finishes speaking, Kinn nods, but his expressive face is blank in a way that makes an unsettling chill travel down Big's spine. The questions which have been burning in his mind since the men approached him at the bar turn to ash on his tongue. 

Silence yawns open between them, heavier with every moment that passes. 

Finally, Kinn speaks.

"I need your discretion on this," he says quietly. "You understand."

Big nods, and takes Kinn's averted gaze like the dismissal it is.

He doesn't tell Chan. The words rise up his throat, weighing down his chest as he tries to breathe. 

It doesn't matter that Big would trust Chan with his life. It doesn't matter that Big would take a bullet for him, easily—and again and again, if need be. It doesn't matter what Big would do for him in this situation. 

Kinn didn't explicitly forbid it, but Big knows. He can't tell him, not yet. Not until Kinn says the word. 

So, he stays silent.

That's Big's second, more fatal mistake.

The next morning, Kinn calls Big into his office. Porsche stands at his elbow, but there are no other guards inside, which makes Big uneasy. Whatever this is, it can't be good.

"Big, I need to speak with you about the bribe."

Big nods sharply, feeling his shoulders lock into place. 

Porsche doesn't react to the words, so Kinn must have told him everything already. A brief flash of anger rolls over Big, that Kinn obviously didn't wait long after he left to call Porsche in. He didn't hesitate, like Big did, torn between duty and personal desire. But why should he? Kinn is the boss; he can do whatever he likes. And he has always been blind when it comes to love.

"What about it, sir?" 

Kinn's fingers drum on the tabletop. "Did you tell anyone else about it? Anyone at all?"

"No, sir."

Porsche cuts in. "You didn't tell Chan? Or Ken?"

Big glares at him. Porsche has been getting far too big for his boots, recently. Just because Kinn keeps him close these days doesn't mean he's Big's boss. Just because they're fucking, maybe even in love, doesn’t make him family, won't grant him Big's loyalty. 

"I said 'no.' No one else." He looks at Kinn. "I brought it to you because—"

This time, it's Kinn who cuts him off. "I know. We just wanted to be sure."

We?  

Big swallows down the bitterness that comes with that. It's reflexive, more habit than anything else, but he still doesn't like it. He still doesn't like Porsche. Just because Big has saved Porsche's life on occasion doesn't mean he has to like him.

Kinn's fingers stop their rhythm. He sits up, looking at Big straight on. "I need you to do something for me. And it has to stay secret."

Big nods. Perhaps there's a way they can resolve this before it even begins. He hasn't been able to think of one, but maybe Kinn has had an idea. 

"You need to accept the bribe."

Big stiffens, unable to stop the disgust and confusion from showing on his face. "What?"

"After recent events—" Big knows he means Tawan, and the disaster at the warehouse with Vegas "—it's become clear that we have a mole in our ranks. One that's already close to me. But they obviously want something more—someone even closer." Kinn's dark eyes fix on Big, sharper than usual. His next words are said softly, but cut deeper for it. "I need it to be you. You're the only one I trust with this."

The words should thrill him, but instead they make Big's heart go still in his chest. "Me?" 

"I need you to tell us what the minor family is planning. And if you can, flush out the mole."

Unease slides, sticky and hot, over Big's skin. "They'll be watching for a double cross. They won't tell me anything important."

"I think you can figure it out," Kinn says easily. 

It's phrased like a compliment, but feels closer to a threat. Big forces his face to remain blank, his mind already racing. 

"It's dangerous, yes, but it's the best way," Kinn continues. "They've never shown their hand this obviously before. Since they approached you first, it'll be easy. Just let them do it again."

It's a terrible idea, high risk and low reward. It just doesn't seem like Kinn.  

The thought strikes Big suddenly—Porsche must have thought of it. Kinn is presenting it, but this is pure Porsche.

"It's not going to work," Big says, hearing desperation raise his voice. Usually, he wouldn't object to Kinn like this, but he has to say it. Even if he can't quite figure out how to put something so obvious—something that should be blatantly obvious to Kinn, at least—into words. "It just won't. It's–it's bad. It's a bad idea. They're never going to let me in. You know this. And they would never, never believe I would…" betray you, he tries to say, but his voice falters, the words abruptly caught in his throat. 

Is that what Kinn thinks? That there's a world in which Big could be convinced to betray him?

Everything tilts slightly, sickeningly. The world around him shudders violently under this new information and settles back down a few millimeters off from where it was before. This room, that he has been in countless times in the past decade, seems suddenly unfamiliar.

"You don't seem very happy," Porsche says, in an unusually soft tone that sets Big's nerves on edge. He glances at Kinn. "We thought, with the recent changes here, that Gun would probably think—"

Big whips his gaze to Porsche, his response cutting out of his mouth before he can think. "Shut the fuck up! Shut up!"

His heartbeat spikes, blood suddenly roaring in his ears as he glares at Porsche, trying to think of a response that doesn't involve his fists and Porsche's stupid face. 

You don't seem very happy. We thought, with the recent changes…  

They talked about this. Talked about Big. 

They talked about him and decided it was plausible he would betray Kinn for so petty and personal a slight as choosing Porsche over him. It's a mortifying assessment. 

Humiliation burns like a black flame at the center of Big's chest, drawing all the air from his lungs. 

Never once has Big said anything to Kinn about his feelings, never has he burdened him with that choice, and it doesn't matter, in the end. Kinn knows, and this is his response. 

Big's feelings are a tool to be used, and nothing more. 

It shouldn't surprise him, but it does. He's never expected anything from Kinn, never asked for anything, but it still stings.

"Big," Kinn cuts in, drawing Big's gaze back to him. "This is my decision, and it's final."

Big grits his teeth, forcing himself to remain in place. He doesn't call out the lie. It was Kinn and Porsche who made this decision. Regardless, it's clear from the way Kinn talks that he has already made up his mind about this. 

Big won't be able to sway him, even if he tells him the obvious: this plan will cost Big his life. 

There's no other outcome. Even if the minor family doesn't kill him outright when he loses his usefulness, someone from the main family will, if they think he's the real mole. 

Does Kinn know he's signing Big's death warrant with this stupid plan? Does he care?

Big has known for years that he would give up his life for Kinn, but he always thought he would be the one to decide, the one to offer his sacrifice. He thought he would be able to choose to step in front of a bullet meant for Kinn. To have it mean something, at least. Not this.

Not to walk straight into death at Kinn's behest, for little more than the scant possibility of information. 

The unease turns cold, tightening over him. He wants to demand an answer—make Kinn say it, at least—but Chan's training tightens its noose around his neck, rendering him silent. 

Obedience. A bodyguard's ultimate virtue, beyond even his willingness to give up his life. This is a test, and he can't fail now. He can't, not after all this time. 

"Good," Kinn says, when Big remains silent. "One more thing. No one else can know about this. It has to just be us three."

Porsche nods in agreement, but Big feels frozen, the ground going liquid below him. 

"What about Khun Korn?" Big asks, forcing his voice to remain even, even as his bones turn to ice. "And Chan? Shouldn't they be aware of the plan?"

Kinn's stare is hard, brooking no argument. "No one. To find the mole, this must be completely secret."

It can't be Korn, but surely Kinn doesn’t think Chan is the mole. There is no one more dedicated, more loyal than Chan. No one who has done this for longer, no one who has proven their loyalty to the family more times than Chan. It's not him. It would never be him. He, like Big, would rather die than betray the family.

Big feels anger rising up his throat on Chan's behalf. 

"Why not? Couldn't they help us?" he asks. 

Can't you at least let Chan help me? Can't you give me this?

To keep this from from Chan, this secret that he knows will lead to his death—it feels like a real betrayal. A face that Big will be compelled to put on that he will not be able to take off, never, not even in front of Chan. 

He's going to die for Porsche's stupid plan and he can't even tell Chan. Frustration boils under his skin. 

Kinn and Porsche have each other, that's obvious. But Big? The only person who might understand, who might even care that Big dies—someone that Kinn should trust—is Chan, and Big can't tell him.

And if Chan is the one to find out, if he thinks for a minute that Big is—Big's breath freezes in his lungs. He can't let himself finish the thought. 

Kinn and Porsche exchange a brief, wordless glance, before Kinn turns to Big again. They know something—something they won't share with Big. 

The thought strikes him. There's something going on between Kinn and his father that he won't tell Big. That's why they can't tell Korn, or Chan. 

But Porsche knows. 

Because Kinn loves him. This doesn't hurt, at least not in the way it once would have. 

"Why can't we tell them?" Big repeats, all but begging. 

All he wants is an answer from Kinn. A reason. Something that proves he is a person worthy of explanation, at least, to Kinn. He'd take a lie. He'd take anything, at this point. 

But Kinn doesn't have to explain anything, especially to Big. 

Kinn tilts his head, brows lowering over his eyes, as if he is staring down an opponent. "No one else. You report directly to me. Those are my orders," he says shortly, his voice hard. He doesn't answer Big's question. "Don't ask again."

Big swallows down his objections, the hurt in his throat. He will obey. Kinn knows this. 

Big will always obey, in the end. Because he is a good bodyguard. Because he is not family.

Because Kinn does not love him, and never has.

Korn is dead. 

Big takes the news like a punch to the stomach, a deep unsettling at the core of him. It doesn't make sense. Korn dead, not in some spate of violence, but peacefully, a heart attack in bed. A death granted to few others, in their world. A privilege.

The first thing he thinks of is not Kinn, or the brothers. It's Chan. 

Big didn't understand at first what Korn could possibly have done to engender the loyalty of like someone like Chan, someone with impossibly high standards, steel at his core, who holds himself apart from everyone else until he commits himself fully, almost all at once. Someone like Korn, who almost never shows his true face, who slips from your grip the moment you seem to know him—Big didn't understand him for a long time. He still doesn't. Didn't.

And then Chan told him about his sister, how Korn had helped her get out of a tight spot, dealt with an ex-husband who tried to steal their child away in the middle of the night. How Korn had put Chan's father up in the best hospital, so even as he wasted away, his last few years were far easier than the rest of his life. 

It's not easy to earn Chan's loyalty, but once earned, it's hard to break.

He goes to Chan's room that night, not sure what he's doing there. Not even sure Chan will let him in. 

But Chan answers the door just as he always does, although he looks surprised to see Big, if only for a moment. He steps aside immediately, inviting him inside. 

Chan's expression is impossible to read. Big can't tell if he's hurt or anything else.

After Chan closes the door, they stand in the entryway to Chan's room, both unmoving for a moment.

"I'm sorry about Khun Korn," Big says, the words coming out slightly wooden. He rarely has to say things like this. No one mourns anymore, in their line of work. At least not publicly. 

Chan gives him a short nod of acknowledgment, his jaw flexing visibly as he swallows. Neither of them seem to know what they're doing in this situation.

Big doesn't know what he's doing, is awkward and unsure when it comes to offering comfort. When he steps forward to embrace Chan, at first Chan is stiff, his whole body tense. 

Big nearly pulls away, but then—Chan breathes out and his arms slide up Big's back to hold him in return. 

A heartbeat, and Chan pulls them closer, until they're fully pressed together, and Big can feel the rise and fall of Chan's breath under his chest. He tucks his face in the crook of Chan's throat, hand reaching up to grasp the nape of his neck.

The scent of his skin settles something in Big that he didn't know was unsteady.

Chan relaxes under his hands, slowly, incrementally. After a moment, a fine, slight shudder runs through him and his arms tighten around Big. 

Emotion weighs down Big's chest. He doesn't feel bad about Korn—he feels almost relieved—but Chan has been working with him for a long time, now. They've spent long hours playing chess together, talking quietly over drinks. He's never gotten the impression Chan particularly enjoyed their games, but it doesn't really matter, in the end. It's impossible to come away unaffected, after all that time together.

And it's important that Chan relaxes into Big's arms, molding their bodies together. It means something, even though Big wishes it didn't. 

But he can't make himself pull away. Not when Chan is the one holding him like this, embracing him like Big is the only thing keeping him upright. Like he needs comfort, from Big. 

Like he needs Big.

The thought turns something in Big, untwisting a hard, painful knot in his chest that he hadn't realized had been there for years. The relief is so sweet and sudden it's almost painful. His fingers tighten, digging into Chan's skin like he's afraid Chan will suddenly disappear.

Then Chan pulls back, his hands cupping Big's face. There's no trace of tears on his cheeks, but there's a strange sorrow there anyway, obvious to read. 

Big is about to ask, when Chan leans in and kisses him. The question falls from his mind as Chan runs his hands up into Big's hair, fingers twisting in the strands as he opens up the kiss quickly, mouth hot on Big's, tongue sliding against Big's in a way that sends desire straight down his spine like lightning. It's always like this, with Chan. Overwhelming.

He moans into Chan's mouth, hand fisting in the back of Chan's shirt, returning the fierce kiss like it's the only thing he can do. Chan spins him around bodily and presses him up against the wall, caging him there with his body. Big doesn't want to move, being kissed until he's breathless, heat pooling in his belly, arousal making his legs weak. It's strange, because Chan is always so self-controlled but right now that control seems to be splintering, his hands hot over Big's body, mouth demanding against Big's.

Big gasps into the kiss, hands tight on Chan's arms, sliding down to grasp his ass and pull him tighter to him, and Chan moans in a way that sends a thrill all over Big's body. A moment later, Chan slides to his knees in front of Big.

Big can barely catch his breath before Chan is unbuttoning his trousers, hand stroking over Big's hardening cock through the thin fabric of his briefs. His hand feels large and hot as he squeezes, thumb rubbing along the edge of the shaft. Big arches up into the touch, hands cupping Chan's head, fingers tightening in his hair, swept away by the suddenness, the desire. Chan has never done this for Big before and he doesn't know why he wants to do it now, but as Chan nips at the sensitive skin above the waistband of his briefs, he can't bring himself to care. 

If this is what Chan needs, Big will give it to him. Whatever he needs, he'll give. He always will.

They fuck, but it's different this time. Big gets the sense that Chan is holding back, although he can't pin down why. 

Afterwards, he holds onto Chan, curled up against his back, trying to discern Chan's thoughts from the back of his head. He can't ask. He can tell Chan doesn't want to talk.

His hands stroke slowly through the soft hair at Chan's temples, eyes tracing over the fine strands of grey threaded through the black. Chan has been here for a long time, working for Korn. No one would fault him if he wanted to leave, his work well and truly done, perfect up to the last. 

If Chan leaves…

At the thought, Big's heart abruptly falls, and then slowly restarts. He realizes, for the first time, he's not sure what he would do.

Big swallows down the question that rises to his lips. He will never have time to ask it.

Will you stay? For Kinn?

For me?

No one has approached him in weeks. Gun has hunkered down in his house with all of his people since the news broke about Korn, in self-imposed isolation like a king fearful the next knock on his door will be the hand of death. 

Big hopes, in some way, that the plan will fail before it even begins. 

Instead, Kinn demotes him to Kim's detail. The looks he gets from the other guards when they hear are pitying, vindictive, or worse. It doesn't matter what the official reason is, everyone knows it's because of Porsche, because Big is jealous, possessive over a love that isn't his.

Now that Big is no longer Kinn's head guard, they think he's weak. On the fall from grace. He's wounded in a pit of wolves, sharp teeth at his throat from every angle, and he takes it all without a word. There's nothing else he can do. Resentment burns under his skin, radiates off him like heat from a fire. He doesn't even pretend to hide it. 

Ken, in a rare moment of empathy, asks if Big is okay. That's when Big knows it's bad. That's when he knows it's working, if even Ken is fooled.

Chan doesn't say anything at all, which is almost worse. He's been quiet and nearly distracted since Korn's death. After their last night together, he hasn't asked for Big to come over, and Big hasn't gone to see him. 

It's too risky right now, Big thinks, but maybe that's just an excuse. He finds himself dreaming about Chan asking him to leave with him, but he can never visualize his answer. 

Big feels adrift. He reminds himself this is how it has to be. He can't let anything distract him from the plan.

He spends mind-numbing hours outside of Kim's room, listening to disconnected chords as Kim sings softly to himself. It's the beginning of a love song, full of yearning and desire. Even unfinished, it makes Big's heart ache. 

Kim watches him. He always has. Big sometimes feels like a bug pinned under glass when Kim's eyes follow him across the room. 

Despite the soft song, Kim's words are sharp, mocking, when he speaks to Big. 

Big reacts despite himself when Kim mentions Kinn, feels himself flinch at the low blow that doesn't land quite right. It hurts, but not for the reason Kim thinks. Not anymore.

He is a dog, so loyal. Doesn't bite back. Even when they're mistreated, a dog comes crawling back to the hand that once pet them, fed them. Even if that hand dealt violence, it also gave love. 

And a stray dog doesn't have anywhere else to go. 

Big doesn't have anywhere else to go. He's known this for months. For years. The Theerapanyakuls are all he has. 

And obedience is his best virtue. 

He bites his tongue, and does what he's told. He will obey, in the end. Just like he always has.

They promise him the most money he's ever seen. Enough that he would almost be rich himself.

Most people would kill for the type of money they talk about. Big has killed people for less. 

Money they will never allow him to keep, at least not for long. 

It's just a front. They gave him time to think, to reconsider. And now, this is the last offer they'll make. If he refuses, they'll try to kill him. It doesn't even matter how important he is to their plans. The less loyal soldiers there are, the easier it'll be to get to Kinn. If he can't be bought, he has to be gotten rid of.

Big looks at them. He knows who they are. Minor family, although they don't say it. Exactly as planned. 

One leans in, looking at him. "Why don't you take the money? You want to fuck Kinn so bad you'll turn this much down? Buy yourself a fuck buddy. Or two. Or twenty. It'll feel so much better."

Big doesn't react. 

It's an easy point to twist the knife. But he's heard it so many times by now, whispered behind his back, caught in the glances of the other bodyguards at him, and his blank expression is well-practiced. 

So, the plan worked. Everyone thinks he's still in love with Kinn. Big swallows down hard at the assessment this makes of him.

They would never believe I would betray you.

An ugly laugh rises up his throat, burns like acid at the back of his tongue. So much for that.

"Isn't he already fucking one of you?" the guard says. "What's his name—Porsche? Hasn't he already passed you over a million times already? And now for another bodyguard? He doesn't give a fuck about you. You're nothing to him. C'mon."

Big allows his gaze to turn murderous, but they don't flinch. They've been trained better than their predecessors, at least. He takes a sip of his drink, letting the alcohol wash over the tight ball of fear in his stomach. 

They sit in silence as he thinks. He traces one finger, wet with condensation, around the rim of his glass until the fine crystal sings under his touch. Tension curls around them, tightening under the sharp pitch of the sound. Everything else fades away. 

After a long minute, Big lifts his hand from the glass and puts it over the envelope. With light fingers, he slides it toward himself. His ears ring with the echo of the sound. 

"I have one demand," he says. His lips feel numb after the burn of the whisky, but his voice is smooth, low. The envelope is stiff under his fingers, stuffed full. A taste, with more to come. "Non-negotiable." 

One of the guards looks at him, a smile curling his lips. "What is it?"

Big returns the look with an edge of malice. He allows just the slightest bit of acid to coat his words. "Kill Porsche in front of Khun Kinn."

The men stare at him. Undoubtedly, they were expecting demands for money, power, freedom. Not this.

That's not what Big needs. No one would believe he would do this for empty things like that. He has everything else that he needs. There's only one thing Big would want, in this version of the world. 

The real world.

"Kill Porsche for me, in front of Khun Kinn," Big repeats, "and I'll give you whatever you want."

Chan is asleep when Big slips into his room, but wakes up immediately at his footsteps.  

"Big?" His voice is soft with sleep. 

Silent, Big peels off his suit, leaving it in a pile near the door. His fingernails drag across his scalp as he pulls his hair tie out, dropping it on the ground. He walks across the room completely naked, unselfconscious in his numbness, and crawls into bed next to Chan. They haven't done this in weeks, haven't slept next to each other since Korn died. Everything between them has turned fragile and strange, maybe, but he can't feel enough to be embarrassed, or hesitant.

As he lies down, the comforting scent of Chan's skin and the warmth of his body envelop Big so quickly that strange tears burn at the corners of his eyes. The numb feeling begins to ebb away, leaving his heart in his throat.

He can tell Chan is watching him closely, with those eyes that see everything. Even in the soft dark, it takes everything he has left to meet them. 

If Chan asks, he won't be able to speak. His words feel stuck inside him, trapped in the web of sinew in his chest. 

Maybe Chan will just see it, so Big doesn't have to try to say it, so he won't have to break his promise. Then Chan can help them. They can fix this. They can stop the inevitable, the bullet with Big's name on it. 

But Chan doesn't ask, and that's worse. Big knows it's because Chan trusts him. 

He shouldn't. He should order Big to leave. He should tell him that it's over. 

Chan slides his arms around Big's shoulders, pulling him in until their legs tangle together under the sheet. He is only in his boxers, and Big can feel the weight of his cock as his thigh slides in between Big's, the scratch of leg hair against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, but Chan doesn't press for anything. 

There's no urge. Not tonight. It'd be easier if there were. Maybe then he could forget.

Big tucks his head under Chan's chin, burying his face at the base of his throat. One arm wraps around Chan's waist, the other pressed flat against Chan's chest. Under his palm, he can feel the rise and fall of Chan's breath, the steady beat of his heart. 

Chan cradles him closer, his hand carding through Big's loose hair. 

Big bites his tongue, tries to hold back the tears that rise. His throat feels impassable as he swallows. It's painful to be here. He feels too vulnerable, rubbed raw. 

He should have gone to his room. He should have done this alone. It'll just make it harder, in the end. 

The tears fall down his cheeks in silence, hot and sharp from his eyes. He holds in the sob that threatens, twists it tightly in his chest like it's the last thing holding him together. Maybe it is. 

For long minutes, he feels tears roll down his cheeks and soak into Chan's shoulder and pillow. 

There's no way that Chan doesn't realize. But he doesn't move, doesn't ask or demand or let go. His hand holds the back of Big's neck, palm hot against the nape in a way that's comforting, as his other hand soothes down Big's back. 

Big hates it when people see him cry. Normally, when he does, he has to be alone. 

But in the silence, the dark, the warmth and embrace of Chan's arms, something shifts. He doesn't want to be anywhere else. This is where he should be. 

Slowly, the tears stop. He can feel the tension leave his body in stages, breath after breath. It's not a solution, but it's a salve on his heart, wounded and weak in his chest. 

Sleep rises over him, sweeps him away. 

When he wakes in the morning, Chan is still there. Still holding him, even in sleep. So close, Chan's eyelashes are unfathomably straight and dark, like fine ink strokes across his skin. He's unguarded in sleep, human and strangely fragile in the soft rise and fall of his breath. 

No one else sees him like this. No one else has been allowed, except Big. 

Big doesn't know what to do with the overwhelming feeling that catches his breath in his chest, that makes his skin feel too tight as he realizes. 

It can't be like this. It can't. Not now. 

Not when they don't have any time left. 

But, still, he wakes Chan with a kiss that turns into a second, a third—then Big loses count. He lets himself fall into the heat and movement of their bodies together, Chan on top of him, all around, his hands on Big's body making him forget everything else.

He swallows down the words, buries them somewhere deep inside his chest. They nestle in with the other secrets he's keeping from Chan, cold and heavy against his heart.

Gun takes the bait. 

There's no turning back, now. There's never been any turning back.

Kinn and Porsche need answers only Gun knows. They don't tell Big what information they need, and he doesn't ask. It doesn't matter. This far in, there's nothing to do but follow orders.

So, Kinn will let Gun launch his coup. It's the only way, he says, to draw Gun out and get him to the main compound. Big disagrees, but at this point, he doesn't think Kinn will listen. 

"Help him get inside. We'll make it a challenge, but not impossible. Don't let anyone else get him. Stay close to him," Kinn says. "And unless he's about to kill one of us—" Big understands, implicitly, that this means any of the main family and Porsche, and does not include anyone else, "—keep Gun alive at any cost. We need to get him alone. He's the only one who has the answers we need."

Big thinks of all the other bodyguards that will have to put up a fight and get killed, just to fool Gun. Just to get answers. 

He thinks of himself, a bullet in his chest. There's nothing else he can say. 

He bows his head. "Yes, Khun Kinn."

Figuring out who the actual mole is—it's surprisingly, disturbingly easy. It's almost like they want him to know. Like they're giving him a gift.

Because the details Gun let slip… they couldn't have come from anyone else. 

Big has told him so many things over the years. So many secrets. He knew about Kinn. Had offered his slight, awkward sympathy about Porsche. 

Big had almost told him about Chan, but something had made him hesitate. He didn't know what it was, but now he's glad of it. Not just because of how it might've ruined the plan, but thinking of the face he might've made when Big told him, joking that's why Big loved training so much, 'because you get to see your boyfriend '; and the next moment, turning around and telling Gun everything, all the soft, secret things inside of Big.

The name tastes like ash when he says it to Kinn. His heart is leaden in his chest, heavy as an anchor on the bottom of the sea.

The only other person who Big has let in. His only friend. 

Ken.

Time reels in faster, faster, every moment shorter than the last. 

Within twenty-four hours, Ken is dead, his head served up on a silver platter to Kinn. 

Big can barely keep the bile down at the sight, the stench of blood that fills the air with an iron tint. Someone he knew, their body now worthless, nothing more than a prize to be shared between Theerapanyakul family leaders. This is how it has always been.

Gun is happy to offer up a sacrifice to hide his true face. 

Here, your bodyguard tried to betray you to us. See how loyal we are. 

A gift, to Kinn. Easy to give, because now Gun has someone else. Kinn didn't even have to ask. 

And a message, to Big.

See what will happen to you if you step out of line, or lose your usefulness.

Big thinks about sharing a room with Ken, his familiar form asleep on the next bed, his socks always scattered around the hamper in a way that irritated Big but now he misses. He thinks of Ken reporting to Gun with all of their secrets, betraying his trust, planning the death of the person he thought Big still loved. 

He thinks of his own head, on that platter, his blood on the table. Everyone thinking Big had played the longest game of all, and lost. Thinking that he deserved it. 

And Chan looking at it with that steady gaze, wishing he had killed Big himself. 

The best way to spring a trap is to let the prey lead themselves into it. Gun wants, more than anything, to deliver a final humiliation to Korn, and usurp his son as the head of the Theerapanyakul family. The dead don't care, but Gun does. 

Big tells Gun that the guard shifts the next day will allow him a window of opportunity to storm into the compound with minimal resistance, and deal with Kinn easily. Although Big doesn't say it, since Gun has far fewer men than the main family, it's clear that this is the only way he will even have a chance of making it past the front door.

At his request, Big sends him Chan's maps of the compound, the schedule he has laid out of the guard shifts. Only Chan, Big, and the Theerapanyakul family members have access to this information. He tells him where Kinn and Porsche will be, promises to get him there alive. Everything Gun needs to know, he gives. 

Gun chuckles lowly on the other end of the call when Big speaks to him that night, his voice smooth and cool. "I thought I might have lost you," he says, "scared you off with my little show."

Big's heart feels frozen in his chest. "You don't scare me," he bites out, voice coming from far outside himself.

Gun laughs. "Of course not. That's why you're still alive."

Big goes back to his room. Just his room, now. When he walks in, he's not surprised to see that all of Ken's things are already gone. Cleaners must have come in immediately to gather them, to make sure there was nothing left that could be used against them, and to see if there were any secrets there that they could use. 

Chan. 

Big bites his tongue, focuses in on the sharp cut of his teeth against the soft flesh. He shouldn't feel hurt by this, by this standard response when Ken is the one who betrayed them all. It's not even a judgment, but a logical response to this type of subterfuge. They have to check. But it hurts, in a strange, uncertain way. 

His feelings aren't sure which way to go, wavering between pain and anger and a familiar, choking helplessness that he wants to tear at with his teeth until it disappears into nothing and he can finally, finally rest. 

Most of all: it's an ugly vision of his future that he's walking straight into, step by step. 

He's trapped. Here. In the jaws of the Theerapanyakul family. And yet to turn away now would make it all worthless.

Big walks through the rooms, gaze categorizing what they've taken and what they've left behind. They're meticulous. Everything left behind is Big's, little though he has. 

When his betrayal is discovered, this room will be completely empty. Ready for another new recruit to fill in. 

The thought twists the ground underneath Big, making him stumble. He has to take several long, steadying breaths before he can continue. 

Big strips off in the bathroom, dropping the clothes to the ground with little care. He wishes he could burn them, or throw them into the sea. It doesn't matter what they do to clean them. They're always going to smell like blood, to him. 

When he steps into the spray of the shower, the water is so hot it feels cold, at first. He gasps, reflexively reaching for the handle, but when his hand grips the warm metal, he doesn't turn it. 

Water continues to pour over him, so hot it feels like it's burning his skin. Maybe it is. Maybe it should. 

He lets go of the dial, turning fully into the spray. He can't hold in his whimper when the water hits his face, pain slicing at his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, and it feels like a failure when he ducks his head. Water spills over the crown of his head and down his cheeks like a river of fire. 

It hurts, each droplet stinging his skin, that false sense of cold disappearing under the constant deluge of heat. All other thoughts disappear from his mind, until all he can focus on is the pain. There's nothing else. Nothing beyond him. 

He turns, letting the water hit his back and flow down his shoulders. His muscles clench under the onslaught of heat, until he forces them to relax, breathing in and out as deep as he can. 

They've been trained in resisting torture, in holding onto their minds through inflicted pain, but this feels different. It feels right. 

He did this. He told Kinn. He didn't even hesitate. 

Big closes his eyes, lets the water run over him. Pain sparks under his skin, drawing sharp claws down his back and his legs, cutting at the backs of his knees like knives. His whole body burns, blood the same temperature as the water, and when the tears come down his face, the salt-sharp pain they draw from his eyes feels no different than the rest. 

It should be like this. 

For long moments, there's no Kinn, no Theerapanyakul family, no feud, nothing. No death. Big is alone, here. Just his body, and the pain. 

Then something knocks in on his consciousness, making him open his eyes. Footsteps, muffled through the water, approach. He tenses but his mind is fuzzy. He has no weapons here, nothing to defend himself with. 

The door to the bathroom opens, and the footsteps come closer. Surprise is the only thing he has, but Big's muscles feel strange and unresponsive. Unable to come up with another plan so quickly, he dives recklessly at the shadow rounding the corner. 

Chan grabs Big around the wrists easily and Big nearly loses his footing on the slick floor. As he slips, Chan's grip tightens, twisting painfully into his sensitive skin as he holds Big in place, arresting his fall. 

A breath, in and out. 

Chan frowns at him. "What are you doing?" 

Big can't reply. 

He regains his footing and stands, surprised to find his legs shaking under him. His breath is strangely hard to catch. 

Once he's on his feet, Chan reaches over and turns the water off. 

When Chan turns back to him, there's concern on his face. 

"Big," he says, voice softer than before. "What are you doing?"

Big doesn't know how to reply. His skin smarts with the memory of the water, prickling all over him. His mind can't quite form thoughts, or words. What can he say?

Chan reaches up and puts his hand on Big's shoulder. Though his touch is light, his body heat burns into Big's skin like a brand. 

Big can't help the flinch, his swallowed gasp. 

Immediately, Chan lifts his hand away, his expression tightening. His eyes trace up and down Big's front, which Big knows is flushed an angry red. "Turn around."

Big obeys. 

He can guess what Chan will see. His back hurts the most, sending stinging pain through him every time he moves, like lightning cascading down his skin. But he can feel the whole spread of it, down the backs of his knees, over his neck and up into his hair like the outline of a fire. 

It looks bad. Foolish.

Chan doesn't touch him. "Face me." 

When Big faces Chan again, he can barely meet his eyes. As the heat begins to ebb away, so do his reasons. The pain left behind grates on his nerves, too much for him to concentrate but too little to distract him. 

He feels like he needs to give Chan a reason, something. 

"It's my fault," Big says. The words fall from his lips, almost against his will. "My fault."

"What is?" Chan asks. His face is neutral, but his voice is real. The one Big recognizes from the nights they've spent together, the one that follows him into dreams. If nothing else, he can trust Chan. 

"Ken," Big says, as if this will explain it. "I should have…" 

Should have done what? Prevented it? Recognized his betrayal? Seen through him? 

Told him to run?

Big doesn't even know if he would have tried to save him, after everything Ken had done. Would he?

He didn't. Instead, he went straight to Kinn. He didn't even consider any other options. 

That should be answer enough, but it isn't. 

Chan doesn't say it's not his fault, doesn't contradict him on that. He can't know the truth, but he seems to know that's not what Big needs to hear, right now. 

"It was his choice, Big. He hid it from all of us," Chan says. "I failed to see it, too. So did Khun Kinn. It's not just you." 

Big shakes his head, unable to explain. Guilt steals his words. He should tell Chan everything, now, but he can't even think of where to begin. And it's not over, not yet. It's only beginning. 

"If you..." Big begins, words slipping out of him uncertainly. His head isn't on right. He can't figure out how to say it. How to get the answer he needs. 

Chan watches him carefully, listening. That gaze, unerringly faithful in a way Big can only aspire to. 

"If it was me," Big tries again, "would you have told me to run?"

Chan's jaw flexes, his only tell of unease. His eyes burn into Big, as if he's trying to see through him. Silence presses between them, stealing the oxygen from the room as it expands, moment after moment. 

Finally Chan replies. 

"No," he says softly. Pain cuts deeply into his expression, but there's no waver in his voice. "I would have killed you."

Relief slices through Big, straight through the complicated mass of pain right at the heart of him. He wasn't wrong. He wasn't. He doesn't even need to ask—he knows Chan is telling him the truth. The guilt loosens its hand on him, allowing him to pull in a full breath. 

He reaches out for Chan and buries his face in the fine wool of his jacket. The wool prickles unpleasantly against his sensitive skin, but it draws him back into himself. 

"Thank you," he murmurs, even as tears begin to slip free and soak into the fabric. A sob catches his throat, curling him further into Chan's shoulder. His words are almost unintelligible. "Thank you."

Chan runs a light hand over Big's hair, sweeping it back from his face. His heart beats steadily under Big's ear, his chest rising and falling in a patient rhythm. Slowly, Big matches his breathing to it and everything in him settles back into place. 

Big isn't sure how long they stand there before Chan pulls him back with a gentle hand. 

When Chan kisses him, it's so soft he almost can't feel it. 

Chan's voice is thick with emotion that catches at Big's heart. "Let's go."

Big nods, all words gone. 

Chan helps him get dressed in a soft shirt and tracksuit, light touches so careful of his sensitive skin. Big keeps his eyes on Chan, allowing the rest of the room to fall away. Maybe there's nothing else, but he'll take this, while he can. 

They walk together to Chan's room. There, Chan makes him strip off again and puts him in a cool shower, the water soothing over his overheated skin. By the time Chan helps him dry off, Big is almost asleep on his feet, a bone-deep exhaustion grabbing at all of his limbs. 

He passes out on the bed with Chan's hands still rubbing cooling lotion onto his skin. 

When he wakes, sometime late into the night, Chan is gone. Big's back still stings slightly, but most of the pain has been soothed by the cool water and the lotion Chan applied.

Without the numbing cover of pain, the future pushes in toward him with a hungry face. 

Gun. Vegas. The coup. It's going to happen, today.

He rolls over in Chan's bed—their bed, he's come to think of it, though he's never quite had the courage to say it—and buries his face in Chan's pillow. The familiar scent of Chan's shampoo soothes over the razor-sharp edges of Big where he feels so fragile, although it's not enough without Chan himself. He wonders where Chan could have gone. 

There are some things about Chan that remain a mystery. Big had hoped he would have time to figure them out, but that's clearly no longer a possibility.

Time tightens around him, narrowing in like a tunnel growing smaller and smaller as he descends further into the earth. 

Later this morning, Gun will attack, and everything around them will change. He wants to warn Chan, to finally, finally tell him everything, but the success of the plan still balances, precarious, on the tip of a knife. 

If he sees Chan, he might say it anyway, words spilling out of him like blood from a wound that he can no longer staunch. 

Big waits in their bed, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep, but Chan never returns. When the pale light of morning cuts in through the curtains, he forces himself to get up. Gun's attack will start soon, and he needs to be ready. 

There's a set of Big's clothes sitting on top of Chan's dresser. Sometime in the night, Chan went and got these for him, gathering them from that dark room with careful hands, and brought them back here. A pair of boots will undoubtedly be waiting at the door for Big, too. 

The thought that he might not see Chan again, to thank him, to say goodbye—Big's heart squeezes tightly in his chest, like a hand has slipped inside his ribcage and is trying to crush it in its grip. 

He can't think about that right now. He can't. If he does, he won't be able to go on. 

He puts the clothes on, hoping they will make him feel more like himself, instead of a million disparate parts. The freshly-laundered clothes carry the scent of the detergent the Theerapanyakul family cleaners have always used; the suit, like the in-house dry cleaners. 

Big stands in front of the mirror as he adjusts the black silk tie around his neck. When he's done, he doesn't recognize the person staring back at him. Just a Theerapanyakul bodyguard in his standard uniform, nothing more. Nothing else.

He turns away.  

Numb dread weighs down his bones. He sits down on the bed and pulls out the notepad and pen in the bedside drawer, but the right words feel stuck somewhere deep below the impending terror. 

It's too risky; there's no way for him to explain well enough on a tiny slip of paper like this; in the heart of him is the fear that this will be what ruins it; his momentary weakness is what gets Chan killed and all their work turns into nothing more than smoke dissipating into the night. 

He rips off the page, on which he's only gotten far enough to write Chan's name, and crumples it in his fist. 

With nowhere else to put it, he shoves it into his pocket and forgets about it. Forgets about Chan. It's the only thing he can do, now.

Big has work to do, and doesn't have time for goodbyes, it seems.

They don't offer Big any money. 

Kinn doesn't have to. He has something more valuable than money: loyalty. 

Earned over years and years, it rests, heavy like a hand on Big's shoulder, the Theerapanyakul family ring searing its brand into his skin. 

Big watches from behind the door as Gun's fleet of shining black cars pulls up to the side entrance of the compound. The surveillance cameras are on a loop that will reset in five minutes, enough time to get Gun inside and halfway to Kinn, if the plan goes right. The guards normally stationed at the doors are mysteriously absent, ordered away by Kinn himself before he headed back inside to await Gun's arrival. 

This, and the bulletproof vest underneath Big's shirt, are the only concessions Kinn allowed with regard to the attack. Everything else has to be as usual.

All the other guards are still at their stations, unaware of the impending danger. Big pictures Chan's schedule, the names of guards both familiar and unfamiliar on the long sheet of shift rotations. Sam and Last on the ground floor, Jet at the elevator… 

He wonders if any of them will survive.

Big opens the door for Gun, his face blank even as Gun smiles. The adrenaline already kicking up makes his face feel frozen, strangely cold. 

Vegas gives him a look that can only be described as disdainful, although it falters as Big continues to stare at him, unmoved.

What does he have to be afraid of now, from Vegas? They'll probably both be dead before the end of the day.

"Are you ready?" Gun asks. Bewilderingly, he's dressed like he's going out on a yacht after this. Polo shirt, cravat, white shorts. It's a strange contrast to the black gun in his hand, the semi-automatic rifles his men carry. 

There's only one answer to his question. 

"Of course," Big replies. 

Gun smiles, though there's no warmth to it. His hand reaches out, ticks up Big's chin like a child's in a bizarre facsimile of affection. "Good."

And then everything descends into chaos. 

Crouched behind the lobby desk, Big learns two things, nigh simultaneously. The first is that Korn is not dead. The second is that no one has seen Chan.

Immediately, Big knows where Chan is. The ground floor at the back of the family mansion, where only a few guards are ever stationed. Big remembers the schedule, how Chan's name has appeared  on that route almost constantly for the past month. He had thought Chan was just picking up slack, or maybe even just needed a less stressful assignment after Korn's death, but that's obviously not it. 

If he isn't in the thick of the fighting, that's the only place he could be. That must be where Korn is, and Gun knows it.

He must have known from the beginning that Korn was still alive.

Kinn and Porsche are still on the other side of the compound, too far to help. Their plan to isolate Gun and draw him in alone to confront him obviously won't work. Suddenly, Big is on his own.

This is the worst case scenario. Somehow Big knew it would come down to this. 

There's only one way to ensure it goes down correctly: Big will have to do it himself. His mouth tastes bitter with fear, but his voice is strong, confident.

"I'll go ahead and take care of Chan. He'll be guarding Korn alone."

Gun looks at him, long and hard. Gunshots half-mask his voice. "Are you sure?"

Big knows what he's really asking is: can you do it?

"He trusts me," Big says. He fights to keep his voice steady. "I'm the only one who can do it, now. No one else will even get close. He'll shoot you on sight."

Gun gives him an assessing look, one that makes Big's skin feel clammy as Gun's eyes rake over him. Big doesn't let any of the queasy feeling in his gut show on his face. If Gun doesn't agree, Big doesn't know what he'll do. It'll be a choice between following Kinn's orders and watching Chan and Gun kill each other, or signing his own death warrant by killing Gun himself.

Finally, Gun gives him a short nod. 

Relief washes, icy cold, over his skin. 

Big ducks away and runs like he never has before.

Big rounds the last corner, quiet on his feet. There is Chan, standing guard outside a large oak door. Undoubtedly, Korn is behind it, along with all of his secrets that are worth killing and dying for. 

Chan's head whips around and his hand is lifting his gun before he recognizes Big. He pauses. 

"Big?"

Big raises his gun, aims it at Chan. Safety off, finger on the trigger.

Pain cracks through Chan's expression, a sliver of betrayal clear on his face for a moment. Chan, the hardened leader of the Theerapanyakul bodyguards, who never shows his true face to anyone, who never wavers under fire—and for a second, he is nothing but human. 

Heartbroken. Betrayed. 

And then it's gone. Big can see him swallow, throat working for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is calm as ever. 

"Big, what are you doing?"

Big smiles, a dangerous thing, edges cutting at the crease in his lips sharp enough to draw blood, if he would let them. He can allow nothing else on his face but this. Adrenaline makes his heartbeat rush in his ears. His knees feel ready to collapse under him.

He can't fail, here. The only way to go is forward. 

"What do you think?" Big asks instead, tilting his head. He's dropped the honorifics, the respect in his voice. The words feel like shards of glass over his tongue. 

There's a split second as Chan reorganizes everything in his mind. He always was fast. Big knows he's taking everything that happened between them and reassessing, taking apart all their moments and fitting them back together with this new information in mind. 

Big played him. Big was using him. Big saw a flaw in his armor, an opening in his heart, caught him in that slight slip Chan had always promised himself he would never make. Everything Big had said was a lie. Everything was in service to Gun. 

Chan raises his gun, points it at Big. A mirror image, both a study in perfectly-trained stillness. The only reason Big is not dead immediately is—Chan must want answers. No other reason.

"You would do this to Khun Kinn?" Chan asks. 

Chan discards himself so easily, pain slices straight through Big's heart. 

Chan was always a means to an end—but Big's love for Kinn, perhaps that's still real. Big knows what he's thinking: that couldn't have been a lie, not for that long. Not like it was for Chan.

Big doesn't allow anything to show on his face. Too many people waste time on useless repartée, posturing and peacocking and explaining. 

They're running out of time. 

Big starts to reply, voice acidic, "You don't know what I—"

Halfway through the sentence, when Chan least expects it, he pulls the trigger.

The shot hits Chan's right shoulder, blood spraying out, and his arm drops. The sound he makes is pained enough to make bile burn at the back of Big's throat. 

He recovers fast enough to get a shot off at Big that just barely grazes his ear, and another that clips the edge of the bulletproof vest, but Big is already moving.

Big kicks the gun out of Chan's hand. A risky move that they've been trained never to use, but it's effective. As he brings his leg back down, Chan barrels forward to grab the lapels of his jacket and drags him off balance. They stumble back a couple of steps, grappling for the advantage, but Big can't get a good grip with the gun in one hand and Chan's right arm is bleeding heavily. 

Big can smell the edge of iron in the air.

Chan's hand, familiar and warm, grasps Big's, trying to twist the gun from his grip. 

Their fingers slip past the trigger—he can feel the slight click of the metal under his finger, not quite enough pressure to release it but close, so close—desperate, Big ducks his head and bites at Chan's hand, hard, teeth digging into flesh. Chan's grip lessens enough for Big to yank the gun free. 

And then Big's legs are swept from under him and he's falling, pulling Chan with him. He twists, managing to land on his side instead of his back, although his breath is still knocked from him. 

Chan lands on his injured shoulder, releasing a sharp sound of pain. 

Big recovers first, dives at him. They wrestle across the cool marble floor, so like their practice sessions but cut with agonizing desperation this time. They've done this a hundred times, a thousand times. But not like this.

Fear sharpens Big's breath. He can't lose. Not this time. 

On one roll, Chan's fist slams into Big's jaw, sending sharp, white pain through his head. The next punch is to his eye, strong enough to crack his cheekbone. His vision shatters under flashes of a sun he cannot see. Bile and blood burn his tongue. 

Gritting his teeth, Big digs his fingers into Chan's wound, until blood, hot and sticky, coats his hand and drips down his wrist; Chan jerks back and Big presses his advantage and straddles him, pinning his good arm to the ground with his knee. Chan grips his hair with his injured hand, yanking it from the ponytail, but his fingers are weakening. His chest heaves under Big. He's losing blood, more than he should. Much more.

Big needs to end this. 

The gun is right above Chan's heart. His eyes burn into Big's. He doesn't beg for his life. He doesn't ask why. 

Big breathes out.

In a last gasp of energy, Chan bucks under Big, almost throwing him off. Big hits him across the face with the back of the hand holding the gun and Chan drops again, head lolling across the floor. His teeth are stained red when he smiles meanly up at Big. 

Big presses his hand across his throat and leans down to hiss in his ear. "Give up."

Of course, he won't listen. 

Chan's grip tightens in his hair, sending pain arcing across his scalp. Big holds in his sound of pain. This close, the scent of Chan's skin brings him viscerally back to those few mornings they had to sleep in together, Big sprawled half across Chan on the bed. He always seemed to wake with his face tucked into Chan's neck, his lips on Chan's skin. 

Big wants to lean in and press his lips to the spot under Chan's jaw that never fails to make him melt under Big's touch. Tears drip from his face, mixed with red. There, they were safe.

And now?

"I'll kill you," Chan says, his voice weak. His eyes have gone unfocused and his face is dangerously pale. 

Big presses harder on Chan's throat.

Not ten seconds later, Chan's eyes roll back in his head and his arms drop lifelessly from Big's body. 

Big breathes in, again and again, but it doesn't feel like air. It feels like acid. 

Chan's blood pools across the pale marble floor. 

He has just climbed off Chan's body and stood when he hears footsteps approach. 

Gun rounds the corner. He takes one look at Chan's limp, bloody form and gives Big an impressed look. "I didn't believe you could do it."

Big keeps himself between Gun and Chan's body. The right side of his face throbs with his racing heartbeat and tears leak from his wounded eye. The world is leaning into uneasy shadow. 

He doesn't know what expression he has on. He can only hope it doesn't show Gun the numb anger filling in under his skin.

His hands are sticky with blood when he points at the oak door. "He was guarding this door." 

"Good job," Gun says, a smile spreading across his face. "Maybe I'll even have use for you, later."

Big only has a split second to guess what that means before Gun shoots him. 

The first shot hits the bulletproof vest like a lead pipe straight to the chest, knocking his breath from him. Big stumbles back a step, stunned despite himself. 

He raises his gun, gets one, two shots off. But his vision is filling with strange flashes of light and darkness that make it impossible to aim. He knows he's missed. Each heartbeat sends sharp flames racing along his veins. 

Gun steps toward him. 

The next shot gets Big's collarbone, an agonizing, shattering pain that reverberates all through his body and whites out his mind. 

He falls backward. Chan's body is the only thing that stops him from hitting the floor. His arm has gone numb below the shoulder. The gun is gone.

Where is Kinn? Where is everyone else? Why is it only Big?

Chan's body is still under his as Big rolls over and crawls up over his chest. Blood is pouring over his neck and down his front, staining Chan's skin. So much. It's impossible to catch his breath. Big's whole body feels like it's on fire with pain. 

Fear narrows down the world to a pinprick, time to one heartbeat and the next. He doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not now. 

The sharp toe of a shoe digs into his lower back, stopping him up short. 

Big can just barely look over his shoulder to see Gun standing there, his foot on Big's back. His white shorts are still spotless, even after all this. 

Gun meets his eyes. "Or maybe I won't," he continues. He aims the gun lazily at Big. "Loyalty is important, after all."

Big raises his arm over his head just as he hears the gunshot. 

That's the last thing he hears. 

The world swims in toward him through the darkness. He can't feel any pain, which is good—or very bad.

Next to him is a familiar form, looming over him. Big tries to focus.

Chan watches him, serious expression unbroken. He's uninjured. Whole and perfect.

Big can barely whimper, voice lost. He wants to explain—explain what , though, he's not sure—but he can't speak. 

Chan raises his hand toward Big's face, and Big flinches. Tries to flinch. His body won't listen to him. Won't move.

Surely he wouldn't be kept alive just so they could kill him. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he's dead. 

Chan's fingers brush across his forehead, pushing the hair back from his face. The touch is so light Big can barely feel it. But he wants to cry, anyway. 

It must be a dream.

Chan says something, his deep voice curling around Big's head. Big wants to fall into it, follow it wherever it goes. But he's stuck, body locked in around him.

Then the dream flickers and begins to disintegrate around them. The walls of the room peel apart and slough off in streams of white to reveal nothing behind them, just an impossible emptiness that holds its breath—and then rushes in toward him.

An abrupt terror seizes Big's heart, the terrible feeling like he's begun to fall from a great height and there's nothing beneath him. Above him, Chan's features begin to melt and distort into the encroaching darkness. 

A hand tightens around Big's throat; it's Chan, and Big is the one pinned to the ground, body writhing helplessly as Chan kneels over him, choking him. Blood soaks through his shirt; his skin is slippery with it and his shoes skid through it as they fail to gain purchase on the smooth stone floor. He can taste iron on his tongue. Pain echoes like a memory through his mind, arcing across his face, his arms, his chest. Chan leans in close, pressing harder, fingers like a vise. 

He can't breathe, he can't, he can't…

Big's heartbeat rises in his ears, beating futilely in his chest as his body goes cold. He's going to die, now. He's going to die at Chan's hand. 

But it should be quick, efficient—Chan isn't cruel. 

It's taking too long.

Just kill me. Do it. Please killme pleasepleaseChan justkillmepleaseiloveyou…

Chan frowns at him, brows pressing together. He's saying something, yelling it, but Big can't hear it, can't hear anything. The dark steals across his features, extinguishing the light and submerging Big under a black wave once more.

Big emerges from sleep slowly, only half-aware he's awake at all. Dreaming and waking melt together, until he can't tell where one ends and the other begins. He closes his eyes, drifting in and out of awareness.

When he opens his eyes again, it's quiet in the room, the lights low. He's alone but for the blinking machines next to him and several chairs lined up neatly along the wall next to his bed. 

Did no one come? 

His stomach falls. Was that Chan a dream?

A moment later, he hears the click of a door opening. The steady beeps of the heartbeat monitor quicken, and for a split second Big thinks he recognizes the footsteps—but the person who rounds the corner is Arm.

He looks surprised to see Big awake, but then his expression spreads into a smile.

Big frowns. Arm, smiling at him? 

"You're awake," Arm says. He seems genuinely happy about it. "How are you feeling?"

Big must be under some kind of medication, because the answer slips out as a mumble. "Can't feel anything."

Arm touches his glasses, pushing them up his face. He looks down at the tablet in his hands, a nervous tic Big recognizes. "Well, that's good. Better than pain."

Big frowns, although his facial muscles don't seem to want to listen to him. "Is it?" he mutters.

He doesn't mean to say it aloud, but he seems unable to stop himself.

Arm looks surprised. "Well, yes. You were shot several times. You also lost a lot of blood. And, well—" he makes a strange motion at his neck with one hand that Big can't comprehend at first. 

With a jolt, he realizes Arm means he was strangled. 

"—which I think is painful," Arm continues. "But you're doing well. The doctor will be able to tell you more."

Arm hesitates, like he's waiting for Big to ask questions, but Big is still processing. Who strangled him? Chan? 

It wasn't a dream? 

Arm motions to the door. "I'm going to let the doctors and Khun Kinn know you're awake. Do you need anything?"

Big's throat feels impassable, and he needs some water, but he shakes his head minutely. Even that small motion sends a strange sparking feeling up his neck and into his ear. It's not painful, but it feels bad.

Arm disappears.

Big looks down and wishes he hadn't. His right shoulder and torso are wrapped in bandages, with his arm held immobile in a cast at his chest. His face still feels swollen, one eye more blurry than the other.

He tries to remember what exactly happened before he passed out, but the memories are slippery, odd. Running. Chan. They fought, but it was Gun who shot him, wasn't it? 

Abruptly, he remembers the shot to Chan's shoulder, the blood. The sound Chan made. His hands on Chan's neck. Big tried not to inflict anything fatal, but there's no guarantee when choking someone. 

Surely, Arm would have mentioned it if Chan had died. Surely. But then again, he only talked about Kinn.

Big isn't sure how long it's been by the time the door opens again. His heart jumps at the footsteps, but again it's only Arm, this time accompanied by Kinn and Porsche. 

While he is relieved that Kinn is alive, they're not who Big wants to see.

"What happened?"

Big's voice comes out more as a croak than anything intelligible, and Kinn motions to Arm to give Big some water.

Big takes several slow sips, glad of it, but it still feels a bit demeaning to be fed like a baby by his colleague. When his throat is clear, he asks again, "What happened?"

He doesn't ask the other question waiting on his lips, the one that matters more. 

Where is Chan?

Kinn smiles awkwardly at him, and launches into a long explanation that has to do with Porsche and Porsche's mother and that, frankly, Big doesn't care about. He does care when Kinn says, "And so, Porsche is now the head of the minor family." 

Big can't hold in his sound of disdain. Porsche, in charge of the minor family? Running a business, giving commands? That'll be interesting.

Kinn raises an eyebrow, but Big can't find it within himself to be chastened. At least, not right now.

"What about Khun Gun? Or Khun Vegas?" Big asks. 

"Vegas is… recovering, although he's not awake yet. My uncle is dead. As is my father," Kinn says. He tries to remain emotionless, but there's pain clear in his expression. "They killed each other."

Porsche puts a hand on Kinn's shoulder in support. 

"I'm sorry," Big says, although he can't quite dredge up more sympathy than that. It seems a fitting end to the brothers' decades-long feud. Without them, there might be a chance at peace between the families. Maybe.

Kinn nods. "We lost a lot of people, on both sides, but it's over. So thank you for what you did. I know it wasn't easy, what I asked of you, but you did well."

Big swallows down on the guilt that rises, tries to choke him. He wants to ask, but he can't. He can't. If he doesn't ask then he doesn't have to know. 

The door clicks open again and then finally, finally, Chan rounds the corner into the room. The relief is so immediate Big feels like he can't breathe for a moment. 

A red light on the heartbeat monitor flashes rapidly, beeping a warning, but Big doesn't care because Chan is alive. He's alive . 

His eyes trace over Chan. 

A black eye darkens the skin under Chan's right eye and his arm is in a sling, but otherwise he looks fine, looks like Chan. Not whole or uninjured as he had appeared in Big's dream, but so like himself, it's undeniable.

Chan stares at Big for a long moment, not exactly meeting his eyes, and then slides his gaze away. He stops at the end of the bed, and puts his uninjured hand in his pocket in his usual stance. His words are clearly for Kinn. "I'm sorry for the delay. Reports came in about the Thursday shipment that I needed to see to."

Kinn nods, although there's a frown on his face. He turns back to Big. "I explained to Chan that you were following my orders during the coup, and had been working with Gun under my command. I hope this clears things up." 

Big turns to Chan, but Chan won't look at him. 

He's sure Kinn says something more, talks about the future or the family or something else, but Big isn't really listening. It doesn't matter what he does, how long or intensely he stares at him, Chan won't look at him again. 

Finally, Kinn says something about leaving, and Big spares him a glance. He doesn't even know if Kinn realizes he hasn't heard a word he's said. 

It doesn't matter. 

Big is alive—and for once, that's enough. 

Kinn and Porsche finally leave, trailed by Arm, but Chan gives Kinn a nod and remains. It's the closest thing to hope Big has had this entire time. 

Even when the door clicks shut behind Kinn, though, Chan doesn't move. With one hand in his pocket, the other in a sling at his chest, he is a study in stillness. And he won't look at Big. 

Silence draws long between them, as Big tries to dig out the right words to pull Chan closer. 

Finally, he lifts his uninjured arm, his fingers extending uncertainly. "Chan?" 

Chan shifts, and pulls close to him. His hand slips into Big's, warm and calloused and so familiar, Big wishes he could pull it into his body, bury it in his heart. Instead, he entwines their fingers and lifts them toward his chest. It's awkward, with his injured arm across his stomach, but there, at least, the weight and heat of their hands presses through the bandages to his skin. Something. 

Chan finally draws his gaze up. His expression is impossible to read. 

"I'm sorry," Big whispers, unable to pull out anything else more intelligible. His voice is raw. He doesn't even know where to start, how to explain how everything started, how everything ended. 

The words seem to cut at Chan and his rigid stance crumbles. His head tilts down, obscuring his face. His hand flexes in Big's, fingers drawing tight. He shakes his head. 

"No. No, Big." 

Big's heart falls. It can't be like this. It can't. Not after all this. He just needs to explain.

He tightens his grip, pulls Chan toward him with all the strength he has, which isn't much. He's surprised when Chan comes so willingly, until he's standing nearly at Big's shoulder.  

Chan looks at him then, and Big is surprised to see his gaze is full of sorrow. 

"Chan," Big starts, but there's nowhere to go from there. He doesn't know what Chan needs to hear. "Please." 

It's the wrong thing to say, Big realizes almost immediately. Chan's expression squeezes tight, like he's in pain. 

"I'm sorry I lied," Big continues, trying to come up with the right words through the mess in his head. "And for shooting you. There was probably a better way, but everything went wrong so quickly, I didn't know—it's all I could come up with that might've—might've left you alive."

"Big, no—" Chan says, and it's strange to see him grappling for words. "I'm sorry."

The words draw Big up short. "For what?" 

Chan meets his gaze then, disbelief pressing into his brow. "Big, I almost killed you."

The words make Big's heart jolt, with the seriousness they're presented with, but his frown only deepens with confusion. "I know." 

"No, Big. I almost killed you. You were completely helpless, there. When we fought, after I woke up, I almost—I almost didn't think and…" Chan swallows, his voice faltering for the first time. "I tried to kill you."

"I know." 

Chan shakes his head and starts to pull away. "No, you don't. You can't."

Big tightens his grip as much as he can, jerks Chan toward him with all the strength he has left. Chan resists, his intense stare almost a glare. 

"I know, Chan. And it's because I lied to you. I'm sorry."

"No, you aren't understanding me." Chan leans in toward him, his voice low and secret. His dark eyes narrow. "My hands were on your throat, Big, before I could even think. If I hadn't figured it out at that exact moment, you would be dead—"

"—which was my fault, because I lied—"

"—Stop! Stop. I wasn't thinking. I was so angry, Big, it wasn't really about what was right. I would have just killed you. And you would be dead, for nothing. Do you understand what I'm saying now?" 

Big doesn't know what else he can do, what else he can say to Chan to make him understand that he gets it, that he would have understood even if Chan had killed him. Big shot him, strangled him, betrayed them all. Everything he had done, at the end, was to make Chan believe he was a traitor, because it was the only way Chan might live. 

And so, Chan made the same decision that Big had made, in the end. He had done what he had said he would, when Big had asked. 

Big wishes his other arm wasn't covered in bandages and held immobile because he can't do anything but pull, with his one good arm, Chan's hand up to his neck.

Chan jerks back when he realizes, but Big holds fast to his wrist. He meets Chan's eyes with as much determination as he can muster as he fits Chan's hand around his throat. 

"Are you going to kill me now?" Big asks. The heat and weight of Chan's hand presses into his windpipe, his carotid arteries. Big can feel his own heartbeat, quick and high, under the slight pressure. 

Chan stares at him, like he's trying to understand what he's asking. 

Big closes his eyes, aware of the pull of Chan's hand on his throat every time he takes a breath. His heart is beating fast, but he's not afraid. He's never been afraid, with Chan. "I trust you."

He lets go of Chan's wrist.  

Immediately, Chan lifts his hand, but not fully. His fingertips rest lightly on Big's neck. For a long moment, he doesn't move. 

Big can hear Chan shift closer, just the quiet, familiar shirr of his clothes cutting through the sounds of the hospital room. Chan's fingers slip up his neck to gently cup his jaw, warmth tracing over his skin. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch, spreading all over Big's skin like the ripples over a pond's smooth surface. But Big doesn't open his eyes.

Then Chan's hand moves up, and his fingertips brush the hair away from Big's forehead in a way that's achingly familiar. 

Chan did come while he was asleep. Hope blooms in Big's chest. 

"I almost lost you," Chan murmurs, so quietly Big isn't even sure he's meant to hear. But the pain in Chan's voice makes his heart ache. 

Big wants to say "But you didn't "—only he knows it's not for him to say. He can't insist Chan let this go. He can only stay, and prove that he trusts Chan, still. Always. 

Chan lifts his hand away, but doesn't say anything for a long moment. 

Finally, in a quiet voice he says, "Big, look at me."

Big opens his eyes, and his heart catches. Though he's wiped most of them away, there are still faint traces of tears on Chan's face. Big resists the urge to grab Chan's hand. Instead, he waits.

"And is this something you want, now?" Chan asks. "With me? Or was that part of it?"

"That was never part of it," Big replies immediately. The rest of his reply is harder to push out over the hot flush of embarrassment that always seems to come when he has to speak about himself. But he has to do it, now. For Chan. "And I want this. With you."

Chan's hand slips into his, familiar and comforting. 

"I want to go home with you," Big says. It's awkward and blunt, but he doesn't know how else to say it. Not yet. The other words are still buried deep in his chest, next to his heart.

That slight smile that Big has come to know so well presses into the corner of Chan's lips, like a secret just for him. 

"Okay, Big," Chan says. "We will."

The water is cool against his skin when Big dives into the pool, slipping over his shoulders and dragging slightly against his fingers as he swims. A rhythm is easy to slip into now, with the late-night quiet of the pool area, the silence the water presses over his ears, his fingers dragging against the surface before he slips his hands in, propelling himself forward. 

At the end of the pool he rolls, kicking off the edge and sending himself back for another lap. As he extends his arm for the next stroke, a painful twinge right where his shoulder meets his neck makes him jerk awkwardly to a stop. 

Before, Big would have tried to push through the pain, but he knows better now. He rolls over to float on his back, arms extended by his sides. The water rocks him gently, holding him afloat, until the pain from his shoulder begins to subside. 

The doctor said he'd likely never regain full range of motion in his arm and shoulder after two gunshots and multiple surgeries, even if everything went well. It's been nine months, and Big is beginning to think that might be true. That, coupled with blurry vision in his right eye from a detached retina that had to be repaired means his return to the position of Kinn's head bodyguard seems unlikely.

The prospect doesn't bother Big as much as he thought it would. Or as much as it might have, a year or two ago. 

He wanted to be Kinn's bodyguard for so long that he thought that was all he could do. But during recovery, he has been doing more recon, more mission planning and training of new recruits as the Theerapanyakul families realign themselves after the coup, and he has to admit he likes the challenge. The work requires different skills than being Kinn's bodyguard—skills that Big apparently has. It's a surprise, but a good one, this time.

(The fact that he gets to work with Chan more often these days is just an added bonus.)

The sound of a splash draws Big's attention. He rolls over and, seeing no one on the surface, dips his head down into the water. 

Chan sits on the bottom of the pool, eyes closed. The slightest trail of bubbles comes from his nose, but otherwise he is completely still. 

Chan's recovery was much faster than Big's. With Korn gone—for real this time—and everything in disarray, he moved to assisting Kinn (and Porsche. Mostly Porsche.) with the family businesses, and handling lower-level deals with their partners. They still need his expertise in organizing missions and supervising training, but he spends more time on the business side of the mafia than before. From the way he talks about it with Big, he enjoys the change.

Chan doesn't always join him in his late-night swims, and Big doesn't always want him to, but tonight Big is happy for the company. 

Taking a deep breath, Big dives toward Chan. When he draws close, Chan slides open one eye for a moment, before closing it again. A small smile spreads across his lips, but he doesn’t move.

Big settles down across from him, releasing his breath slowly and allowing himself to relax. 

The quiet calms him, holding him weightless in the water. He can hear his heartbeat, slow and steady in his ears, but nothing else. As the seconds pass, his thoughts drift away from him into the soft blue light. 

Big has gotten better at holding his breath, but somehow, he can still never beat Chan. Even tonight, he holds out until his lungs are aching in his chest, but eventually he has to give up. Chan is still sitting at the bottom of the pool, looking unbothered.

Before Big kicks off the bottom, he wraps a hand around Chan's wrist and pulls. 

Chan resists for just a moment before he allows himself to be pulled to the surface. 

They break through the water at the same moment, both gasping for air. Before Chan can retaliate, Big dives toward the edge of the pool. As he pulls himself up on the grate, though, a hand grabs the waistband of his swimsuit and yanks him backward. 

Big falls into the pool in a mess of bubbles and laughter. He has to slap a hand over his face to stop his laugh as he nearly inhales more water, chlorine already going up his nose. He crawls back up to the surface, swallowing down a laugh. 

No one would believe Big if he said Chan was a little shit sometimes, and gave as good as he got. It's only ever in private. Only with Big. 

By the time Big makes it back to the edge of the pool, Chan is already there, looking calm and unbothered. 

"Thanks for that," Big gasps, holding onto the grate with one hand as he wipes at his face. 

Chan's smile is knowing, but his words are calm. "For what?" 

Big tilts his head, eyebrows raising in surprise at Chan's gall. He has to hold in a laugh. "Well…" 

Before he can continue, though, Chan just shakes his head and goes to get out of the pool. Big can't deny that he appreciates the view of water pouring over his boyfriend's shoulders, water droplets tracing down his waist and into the waistband of his swimsuit in a way that Big would very much like to follow with his tongue. But he can't let it distract him. 

"Hey!" Big reaches up and pulls Chan back in with a splash. 

This time, when Chan resurfaces, it's right in front of Big, as he surges up and cages him up against the side of the pool. Big can't quite mask his gasp as his heartbeat leaps in his chest. He really shouldn't be getting turned on by the way Chan looks at him, dark eyes tracing over his face and settling hungrily on his lips. But it doesn't stop him from wrapping his arms around Chan's shoulders as his legs lock around Chan's waist. The water laps around them, holding them in place. 

They're so close, Big would barely have to move to kiss Chan. But he waits. 

Chan leans in, tracing his nose over Big's cheek to his ear. His breath is warm. "Are you happy now?" 

Everything in Big's body pulls taut in anticipation. His legs tighten around Chan's waist. "Almost." 

Chan pulls back, just enough to catch Big's eye, before he leans in again, this time with a kiss that leaves Big breathless. A small, warm thrill goes through Big, the same as it does every time, before heat sweeps over him and he forgets everything else. 

When Chan pulls back, his gaze is full of promise. "Home?" he asks, voice rough. 

Big smiles. Small and private, just for Chan. "Let's go."