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“...and I’ll need him under 24/7 surveillance until this issue gets resolved. Pete, Pol, this is your responsibility. Set up the operation and report to me or Porsche as needed.”
“Yes, sir,” Pete says, exchanging an awkward look with Pol as their voices overlap. Kinn waves them away with a dismissive motion, the topic evidently closed for the day. He seems entirely absorbed in what he’s reading on his tablet. He doesn’t look at Pete. He hasn’t looked at him ever since…well, everything.
He and Pol shuffle out of the room, quietly walking in sync until they’re out of hearing range of the new bodyguards stationed in front of Kinn’s door. Pete is sure that Porsche did his best to choose the best their country could offer but that doesn’t mean he trusts them. It’s strange, being surrounded by unfamiliar faces on the job. It can’t be helped - there are new graves in the Theerapanyakul private cemetery and new hires are a must.
In the past, when tasked with something like this, Pete might have run the plan by Chan, relying on his experience and seemingly endless wealth of knowledge to pull off an operation successfully. That’s not an option now. All he’s got is Pol, who still gets twitchy if Pete startles him, and Arm, who’s overworked as it is, with running the whole bodyguard team and wrangling Tankhun, who still refuses to be handled by anyone else.
He supposes there’s also Porsche, but he hasn’t seriously spoken to him in months. He just can’t think of anything to say.
Pol looks at him when they duck into the relative privacy of a conference room, and his mouth twitches into a smile that tries to pull off cheery but looks mostly like a grimace.
“I don’t suppose you know how to set up a restaurant?” he asks.
Pete takes a deep breath. A mishmash of voices, laughter, and the clinking of cutlery. The ding of the register, his shoes sticking to the floor, the heat of the fire. The smell - grease oil and scallions, and his grandfather calling out the order of another regular.
“I worked in one for a couple of years,” he offers.
“That’ll have to do, I guess,” Pol says, shrugging
A few hours later, they’re standing in front of a run-down storefront. Next to it, decorated with bright letters and brighter lights, is a karaoke bar. Even in the middle of the day, loud music spills out on the street.
Pete would think nothing of it, if he didn’t know this particular bar was owned by a Chinese triad boss, the latest competitor to enter Thailand’s criminal underworld, aiming to capitalize on the recent holes in the Theerapanyakul authority. The difference between them and every petty criminal with delusions of grandeur is that the individual known on the streets only as Dragon could actually do some damage. With a direct line to the supply chain in China and ties to the government in Thailand, they were rapidly demolishing the Theerapanyakul hold on the amphetamine business.
Kinn’s instructions had been clear - figure out Dragon’s identity, demolish his supply chain and make sure he’s not Kinn’s problem anymore. The fundamental thing they’re lacking is information, hence the brilliant plan - revive the rundown restaurant next to the karaoke bar and use it as a cover for their surveillance operation.
There’s only one problem.
“Can you cook?” Pol asks him, and it remains unspoken that he can’t because Pete vividly remembers having to evacuate the mansion in the middle of the night the last time Pol tried to reheat some rice.
“I can’t,” Pete says, and because he’s distracted, he keeps talking. “Vegas always says that my ramen broth is too watery, even though I always follow the instructions on the packet.”
Pol freezes next to him like he always does whenever Vegas’s name is mentioned. Pete bites his tongue on something sharp. It’s not like Vegas is a threat to anyone - he’s on house arrest in the apartment he shares with Pete and Macau. He hasn’t been outside, not even to go shopping or to the park, in months.
“...right,” Pol says, after a moment of increasingly awkward silence. “We’ll just have to ask around the mansion then.”
*
They hit a snag immediately - none of the bodyguards can cook. Either they’ve been raised on cafeteria food since their teens, or have been on a protein shake-only diet before entering the mansion. A lot of the new recruits are women, sharp-eyed and dangerous, and resentful of the implication that they should be good in the kitchen just because of their gender. More than one offers to show her dicing skills on Pol’s onion.
Exhausted and terrified, Pol collapses on one of the couches in the break room. Pete goes to pat his shoulder but aborts the motion into nudging a bottle of water in his direction. Pol’s firearm is a distinct shape underneath his suit jacket.
“This is hopeless,” Pol sighs, “we’re never going to find a cook at this rate. What are we going to do?”
Pete takes a discreet look at his watch. It’s getting late and he’d like to be home for dinner. Vegas is making curry on rice and Pete can practically taste it - melt-in-your-mouth meat in a creamy sauce with crunchy vegetables and perfectly fluffy rice. He almost moans out loud.
Like a bolt of lightning, the idea hits him. It’s awful. It’s terrible. Kinn will never approve of it.
“I have an idea,” Pete says slowly, and Pol looks up at him. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“I’ll take anything at this point,” Pol tells him. “Tell me.”
Pete tells him. Pol doesn’t like it.
*
“Well, it won’t pass sanitation standards, I’ll tell you that much,” Vegas says, critically inspecting the dirty and greasy kitchen counter. “How come it got this bad? Aunty Proud used to run this place with an iron fist, it was one of the best joints in the area. What happened to her?”
Pol leafs through the file in his hands. Pete gets the impression he’s doing it mostly to avoid looking at Vegas, who’s climbed halfway under the sink and is inspecting the pipework.
“Heart attack six months ago,” Pol says, and Pete can read the minutiae change in Vegas’s expression only because he knows him so well. “The place got vandalized in the meantime.”
Vegas is too well-trained to show emotion but Pete can tell that he’s upset beneath his mask of disdain.
“It needs a good clean up,” Vegas says and scrapes the grease off one of the filters with an immaculately manicured nail, “have you contacted Dee yet?”
Pol raises an eyebrow. “Dee usually does body clean up,” he says neutrally.
Vegas shrugs. “If he can deal with piss and blood and brain matter, he can handle a bit of grease,” he says.
Pol grimaces, visibly uncomfortable. Pete doesn’t blame him. Nobody quite knows what to do with Dee and his crew. They get called in after a gunfight to make a body disappear. Pete knows very little about his methods and he’s content for it to stay that way. There’s a moment of silence, and the bodyguards assigned to Vegas shift nervously in their posts at the door. Pete resists the urge to snap at them. Chan would have never tolerated the lack of discipline.
“I’ll call Dee,” Pol says, and disappears behind the door of what is ostensibly the supply closet but is actually shaping up to be their surveillance room. Pete breathes a sigh of relief. He looks at Vegas and finds him staring at the range cooker with an unfathomable expression.
“Vegas?” Pete calls, softly. The line of Vegas’s body is gorgeous even in the harsh neon lights of the shop’s kitchen. If they were home, he’d be tempted to walk over to him, slip underneath his arm and bask in his closeness. As it is, there are two people watching their every move with something that’s not outright hostility but could turn into it with the smallest provocation. Pete’s only got one gun, and Vegas has nothing but his bare hands. If he shoots one of the bodyguards, the other can still train his gun on Vegas, and the sound will attract Pol back from the cupboard before they get anywhere. He can’t risk it.
“I’m thinking pad krapao for the main, with pork and chicken options,” Vegas says, breaking the silence, “and mango sticky rice as a dessert. How does that sound?”
His expression is still neutral but Pete can hear the smile in his voice, a hint of genuine excitement, and it makes him smile. “It sounds incredible,” he says sincerely. An idea occurs to him. “And can we have fresh soy milk? Either get a machine or a good supplier. I think it’ll go well with everything.”
Vegas actually smiles.
*
Pol visibly flinches when Vegas starts setting out the knives he’s brought. The kitchen is now spotlessly clean, and the range almost looks new. There’s a spark in Vegas that Pete hasn’t seen in a while. His dark eyes are focused as he takes stock of the ingredients, and sets out the pots and pans with easy motions. Pete gets stuck staring at the flex of his shoulder, at the stark blue of his veins where he’s rolled up his sleeves.
Vegas is always attractive but like this, effortlessly competent, he’s even more devastating. Pete is so distracted that he doesn’t even notice when Pol gets visibly agitated next to him until his voice breaks him out of his thoughts.
“Pete?” Pol asks. “Can I talk to you for a moment in the dining room?”
Pete, startled from a daydream about Vegas bending him over one of the kitchen counters, flushes and stammers out an affirmative reply.
Once they’re out of Vegas’s range of hearing (or what Pol assumes is his range - Vegas is actually partly deaf in his left ear from a grenade blast going off too close to his ear some years prior - but no one knows that except Pete), Pol turns to Pete with a frown.
“Are you sure he’s safe to be around other people like this?” he asks, and Pete bristles. He does his best to cover it up and he doesn’t think Pol notices. “He could make a break of it any time.”
“He won’t,” Pete says calmly. “There’s nowhere for him to go.”
If Vegas decides to run, the Theerapanyakul family has Pete as a hostage, and they won’t hesitate to go for Macau once Pete has gone cold. If he grabs both of them and goes on the run, there’s nowhere they could hide that would be safe for all of them. Besides, Macau has a great position at a prestigious university and a bright future in music composition in front of him. Vegas won’t jeopardize his future, even at the cost of his own freedom.
“He could be dangerous,” Pol repeats before his frown twists into a concerned expression. “I’ve seen the bruises you come to work with.”
Pete’s body goes hot, and then ice cold. There are at least three points on Pol’s body where he could strike with his bare hands and have him dead before he hits the ground. He lets the barest hint of that sentiment show, the ice in his veins bleeding into his tone.
“My relationship with Vegas is none of your business,” he tells Pol, watching with satisfaction as he flinches away, even as the two bodyguards at the door twitch reflexively towards their guns, sensing the danger in the air. “I love him.”
I’d kill for him, Pete doesn’t say. I’d bleed your body dry and present your wide-eyed staring eyeballs to him on a plate just to see him smile. Pol must sense at least some of his thinking because he nods, sweats, and mutters something about getting some of the missing ingredients and disappearing out the doors. Pete smiles brightly at the other two bodyguards. They shift uncomfortably. He tries to reduce the number of teeth. They don’t seem comforted.
Vegas calls him from the kitchen. He’s done with his first batch and he needs someone to taste test.
*
Opening night is quiet.
Pol disappears into the surveillance room shortly after Pete flips the open sign, but not before he throws one last suspicious look at Vegas.
In the kitchen, Vegas bangs on the pots and pans. He’s wearing one of Pete’s old shirts - washed-out black and a faded band logo. All of his clothes are too expensive to ruin with grease stains. Pete knows that Vegas doesn’t care about running his suits but the two of them are living off Pete’s bodyguard salary. He can’t afford to keep them in the luxury Vegas is accustomed to.
There are stashes across the city, across the world, of cash and jewels and smuggled weapons but they have no way of knowing how many are being watched. There are dozens of people just waiting for either of them to make a misstep. Pete refuses to give them the satisfaction.
The deed to the apartment is in Vegas’s name but Pete pays all the living costs and buys all the groceries, and once in a while, he’ll dip into his savings to buy Vegas a box of chocolates, or a bottle of imported wine. If Vegas was still the boss of the minor family, Pete has no doubt that he would have swaddled him in luxury, draped him in expensive fabrics and jewelry, and the part of him that thrills whenever Vegas makes sure it’s obvious that Pete is owned likes that thought. But it’s nice like this too. Pete can’t deny that he likes taking care of Vegas, that there’s a primal part of him that’s soothed when Vegas is fed and warm and happily fastening a ball gag onto Pete’s mouth.
The few customers that stagger through the door are thankfully either patient or too drunk to notice that Pete is distracted, thinking about the way Vegas looks in his clothes, the fabric stretched across his torso where he’s broader than Pete. It’s probably a good thing that he and Vegas never had many missions together. Pete would have had to endure a lot of Chan’s inventive punishments, that is if he didn’t get shot for his inattentiveness.
Their customers for the evening include a few drunks that stagger in from the bars in the neighborhood but that’s about it. There’s a promising conversation between two of them, about the karaoke bar which Pete shamelessly eavesdrops on and catches something about a curtained-off hallway before he’s called away by another patron.
By the end of the night, they’ve barely made any money.
“I suppose it’s good that we’re not doing this for the money,” Pete says from where he’s counting the bills at the register. Pol hasn’t discovered much through the surveillance equipment. Just a lot of people singing Blackpink on karaoke machines. Pete is a Twice man himself, but Lisa is a natural treasure, so Pol should be grateful.
It’s late. Pete doesn’t know where Vegas’s guards were during the evening but they’re here now, standing at the doorway, half-alert and yawning. Pete bites down on a sharp reprimand. They’re easier to kill if they’re distracted.
“What are we going to do with the leftovers?” Pol asks, eyeing the takeout boxes meticulously stacked in a box on one of the counters. Pete can feel Vegas coming up behind him a moment before Pol notices him and stiffens.
“Take them down to the girls on the docks,” Vegas says, close enough that Pete can feel his warmth. He relaxes. It’d felt weird to be sharing space with Vegas and not have him in his line of sight constantly. “They’ll appreciate the warm meal.”
It’s the first time Pete can remember him addressing Pol directly. There’s a moment of silence, Pol’s expression closed off and sullen before he abruptly nods, takes the box, and leaves with it and a casual goodbye.
Pete always found it interesting how someone like Pol, who’d get so awkward and stammer through any interactions with the women and men hitting on him, was so comfortable with Bangkok’s many sex workers. Some years ago there was a rumor flying around that Pol was the bastard son of the head of one of the vassal families with his favorite prostitute. That same week, Pol outshot everyone at the range, put three guys on their backs in hand-to-hand training, and beat up a fellow bodyguard trainee so badly that the guy had to drop out of the program entirely. There hadn’t been any more rumors after that.
Pete tidies up the front while Vegas finishes cleaning up in the kitchen. The guards drive them back to the apartment. Pete holds Vegas’s hand in the backseat and ignores the judgemental looks that get shot his way in the rearview mirror.
“I have to tweak the sauce recipe,” Vegas tells him softly apropos of nothing, after a few minutes of staring out into Bangkok’s streetlights, Pete tracing a small burn mark on his forearm with his thumb.
“It’s delicious as it is,” Pete tells him sincerely. Vegas shrugs, but Pete can tell he’s pleased by the compliment. “Everything you feed me is delicious.”
Vegas raises an eyebrow. “Is it?” he asks, and heat rushes to Pete’s cheeks despite the casual tone. Sue him, he’s been thinking about sucking Vegas’s dick for at least half of his shift, and with the way Vegas’s eyes go dark, he knows it.
“Especially your…uh… corndog,” at this point Pete’s face must be fire engine red but the corny line does what he intends it to - it makes Vegas laugh. The worry lines around his mouth disappear and his frame relaxes for a moment. It’s brief but it makes joy bubble through Pete’s veins like a freshly opened bottle of champagne.
“I’ll make them for you tomorrow for lunch,” Vegas promises, smiling softly, the way he only smiles at Pete. And then his eyes sharpen, making it clear that Pete is gonna be fed something else when they get home too.
*
It’s still early when the old man comes in.
They’ve been in operation for two weeks and traffic has been slow, picking up some later in the evening. They’re not breaking even, not even close, so it’s good that Kinn Theerapanyakul is financing the whole operation. They’re not making much progress on the surveillance though, Pol creeping out of the cupboard to grab some choco pies once in a while before sullenly returning to his post.
Pete is mostly just killing time until night, twisting a pair of chopsticks in his fingers. He’s sitting in his favorite booth, the one that gives him a clear glimpse into the kitchen through the mirror so he can stare at Vegas as he bustles around the range, straightens his cooking utensils, or washes dishes. The bell startles him enough that he’s tensed and holding his chopsticks ready to stab before he reasserts himself in his surroundings.
He hurriedly drops his stance, quietly scolding himself for his distraction. It’s the kind of thing that could get him killed if it keeps happening. Worse yet, it could get Vegas hurt.
Luckily, the visitor doesn’t seem to notice his misstep. It’s an old man, hunched over with age, heaving himself into one of the booths near the window with a relieved sigh. The few hairs on his head are pure white and meticulously combed, and the eyes that fasten on the view outside the window are mismatched, one of them threaded over with a cataract.
Pete picks up a glass of cold tea and bustles over with the menu, cheeks still a little hot with his earlier embarrassment.
“Hello sir,” he calls, slightly louder because the man might have some hearing problems as well. “It’s hot outside today, isn’t it?”
The old man turns, and Pete gets a good look at his face, tanned brown and wrinkled. He must be nearing eighty. The man squints at Pete for a moment, and then his face breaks out in a wide smile that’s missing a few teeth. It’s sweet though, and it makes him look much younger.
“Oh, Mes,” the old man says. “Mes, is it really you? I haven’t seen you in so long.”
And then, he reaches out to grasp Pete’s hand in his, pressing his fingers with his gnarled ones, his skin dry and paper-thin, pocket-marked with age. Pete is so surprised that he forgets to protest immediately, alarmed further to see tears gathering in the old man’s eyes.
“You still look so handsome,” the old man says in a reverent tone, watching him with wide-open eyes and an awed expression. “Still the most beautiful man I’ve ever met. ”
There’s a clatter from the kitchen. Pete turns around in time to see Vegas bursting through the doorway from the kitchen, holding his biggest knife and murder in his eyes.
Pete shakes his head frantically at him, trying to communicate the fact that he’s not in any trouble and that Vegas shouldn’t be jealous, because he cannot imagine anything worse than spending the rest of the evening cleaning old man parts off the upholstery because Vegas couldn’t contain his fit of jealousy.
Vegas takes in the scene - Pete’s awkward expression and the old man’s visible awe - and his furious expression fades into something more neutral. Pete is still careful to extract his hand from the man’s grip and back away, just in case. The old man’s reverent expression softens into something smaller, tinged with sadness.
“I’ll get you your food,” Pete tells him as gently as he’s able, and rushes away. Vegas is easily placated with a soft touch to his forearm now that he’s gotten a grasp of the situation, and the knife is lowered away and out of sight.
He places a plate in front of the old man, and the serving room is still empty, so he sits gingerly in the booth across from him, half-worried that he’ll choke on something in the meal. The man doesn’t seem interested in eating though, his gaze stuck on Pete, filled with admiration and almost palpable sadness.
In the next few minutes, he’s given a glimpse into the old man’s youth. He doesn’t seem to need Pete’s input on the conversation, and Pete gets the impression that he’s used to talking with ghosts. He recounts stories of summers spent by the beach, picking through the sand for crabs and colorful glass, and nights bartending in beach bars to get by. Even though the gentle looks he sends in Pete’s direction are telling enough, the old man is still careful not to allude to anything untoward, except for the few times he tells Pete how handsome he’s stayed and how beautiful his eyes are.
It speaks to a deeper kind of fear, and Pete finds it leaves him with a heaviness in his chest, thinking about it. He and Vegas sometimes still get strange looks when they stand on the curb together holding hands. He can’t imagine what it must have been like for this man and his handsome Mes, the fear of discovery palpable in every careful omission in the anecdotes of their lives together.
Pete only ducks away for a moment to serve another patron. By the time he comes back, the light in the old man’s gaze has faded. He squints at Pete suspiciously when he puts the bowl of mango sticky rice in front of him and then proceeds to shovel it into his mouth mechanically. Pete doesn’t have time to think over the implications of this because a woman is bursting through the door, a frantic expression on her face. Her hair has slipped out of its ponytail and her sneakers are only halfway on, but her face lights up with relief when she sees the old man.
“So this is where you are, pa,” she says, voice twisted up in a mix of fear and fondness, “I was so worried.”
The man looks at her with no recognition and her face falls further. There’s something almost resigned about her sadness.
“Thank you for looking after him,” she says to Pete sometime later, when he’s fetching her a chilled cup of soy milk. Her name is Milk and her wayward father is called Time. He doesn’t look up once during their conversation, during which Pete learns more about the neighborhood than he has through all of the bodyguards' walkthroughs of the street.
Milk is a seamstress and she seems to know practically everyone. She doesn’t have a high opinion of the karaoke bar next door. “Especially that woman,” she says with a sniff while brushing invisible lint off her father's shirt, “she dresses up in all the designer clothes but if she has that much money the least she could do is spare some for local businesses. I could make her something just as nice. I’d even use more fabric. Though then again, I’d hate to make anything for someone so rotten.”
It’s not the first time Pete has heard about the woman but something about the way Milk talks about her sharpens his attention. “What has she done?” he asks.
Milk sniffs. “You probably didn’t know Auntie Proud, the nice old lady who had this restaurant before you,” she says. “Though you could be a dead ringer for her son. You’re sure you’re not related?”
Pete shakes his head and she continues. “That woman used to come over and harass Auntie all the time, trying to get her to sign over the deed to the restaurant. Rumor has it she offered her a lot of money but Auntie would never sell. She’d already bought out the grocer on the other side of the bar, what more could she possibly want? Some people are so greedy, honestly.”
Trying to buy out the neighboring business to not be overheard, or for something else? In any case, it’s unforgivable to harass people on Theerapanyakul turf, and a testament to the chaos the family has been in that something like this has slipped through the cracks. There are probably things like this happening all over the city, rival businesses springing up deep in their territory like cancerous growths. Pete chances a look at the kitchen. It used to be the minor family’s job to sweep the streets and ruthlessly suppress anyone encroaching on their turf. A frequently dirty job that involved bribery and violence, and a knowledge of the deepest darkest parts of the human psyche.
Vegas used to be good at it.
Milk folds her father’s arm under her elbow and he goes without struggle. His demeanor has the air of a resigned prisoner returning to his cell for the day. It’s not altogether unfamiliar.
“Honestly, you know better than to run off like this,” Milk scolds her father quietly. “Where were you even going, huh?”
“The beach,” the old man croaks out. His daughter’s face clouds over with sadness.
“The beach is still far from here,” she says softly. “But we can go on the weekend maybe, gather up the kids and make a trip out of it. Oh, I have to work this weekend, but the next one for sure…”
“How much do I owe you for the meal,” she turns to Pete. “It really did look delicious!”
She doesn’t have her wallet on her, Pete can tell. Rather than embarrass her, he tells her it’s on the house.
“Your father was pleasant company,” he says, smiling at the old man. “Please come back often!”
“He does have his lucid moments,” Milk says, smiling back. “We’ll make sure to come back.”
They’re almost out the door before Pete gathers up his courage. “Auntie Milk?” he says, waiting for her to turn around. “Who was Mes?”
Milk’s expression twists into something complicated. She gives her father a sideways glance. “Mes was Auntie Proud’s son,” she says. “He died some years back. Car accident. He and my father were childhood friends. Did he mention him?”
“Just in passing,” Pete demurs and she nods to herself. Her father doesn’t react, staring blankly out in the street. Milk hums under her breath.
“You really do look remarkably like him,” she says. “Are you certain there’s no familial connection?”
Pete’s family lives across the country, in a small town that’s as far from a big city like Bangkok as you can get. To his knowledge, no one else in his family has ever passed the bounds of its province. “I’m certain,” he says before he waves her goodbye.
The sun is just sinking beyond the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and oranges, the clouds making fantastical shapes against the backdrop. There’s a moment, just before they cross the street when old man Time turns around. The interplay of light and shadow across his face briefly erases the traces of years from his face, making him look like a much younger man. The moment passes and he’s a hunched old man again, leaning on his daughter to cross the busy street among the whizzing scooters.
How often must he have chanced a backward look like this for it to become a habit that lingers?
Pete is distracted for the rest of the evening, completing most of his tasks on autopilot. It means he’s done cleaning up by the time Vegas even starts on the dishes. Pol has ducked out some time ago and the bodyguards assigned to Vegas for the night are idling in the car, waiting for them to finish. They're alone.
Pete walks into the kitchen and up behind Vegas to wrap his arms around his torso. He's just tall enough to prop his chin on Vegas's shoulder, angling his cheek for the kiss Vegas presses to it. They sway in place for a moment, Pete's arms around Vegas, Vegas's hands wrist deep in soapy water.
"We can hire one of the bodyguards to do the dishes, you know," Pete murmurs into Vegas's shoulder. "Or force Pol to do it."
Vegas hums. "And how would you do that?" he asks. He’s angling for a bloodier description but Pete isn’t comfortable disclosing the depth of his psyche within the full range of futuristic surveillance equipment.
“I’ll threaten to tell everyone about the stash of hand grenades under his bed in the dorms,” Pete says, pleased when Vegas’s body vibrates with quiet laughter.
“You should probably do that anyway,” Vegas points out wryly. “Just to get him back for leaving you to deal with all the customers alone while he hides in the closet.”
“They’re not that bad,” Pete says, laying his head on Vegas’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you got jealous.”
He’s toeing the line. Baiting Vegas on the best of days is a lottery of if Pete will be able to walk the next day. They’re not at home but that doesn’t mean Vegas isn’t capable of bending him over one of the counters. He exhales, breath stirring the tiny hairs at the back of Vegas’s neck, catching the twitch of his mouth before he closes his eyes.
“You finally have a suitor with the same amount of teeth as you, how could I not be jealous?” Vegas says, and Pete has to contain a laugh.
During his boxing days, half of the teeth in his lower jaw got knocked out or crushed, leaving him with a crooked face. The orthodontic surgery to repair it was the first big expense the Theerapanyakul family dropped on him. It’s a very Vegas thing to do, needling him when Pete points out something he feels vulnerable about. It feels kind of brilliant, kind of insane, that Pete knows him enough to realize he’s doing it.
“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Pete says quietly. “Ever.”
Vegas settles, and Pete feels it in the movement of his body - his loosening shoulders, his spine pressing back into Pete’s torso. Vegas doesn’t need reassurance. But sometimes it helps.
When they get in the car, the guards seem confused by the soapy wet marks all over Pete’s shirt.
*
Pete never used to think about growing old.
He came down to Bangkok at 17, with meager savings and the bone-deep certainty that he wasn’t going to live past 20. Those weren’t very good years. Then, somehow, suddenly, he was 21, his gut sliced open and bleeding all over a dirty linoleum floor, and a sharp-eyed man was offering him a job. A purpose.
He never thanked Chan for that.
Now, at nearly 28, Pete wakes up every day next to one of the most dangerous men in the city, Vegas’s form curled catlike around him, hand placed possessively over the ugly scars on his chest. A year in, there are more wrinkles in Pete’s reflection in the mirror. Maybe most of them are in his head. It’s a comfort at least that they’re the result of true smiles, not faked ones.
Pete never used to think about growing old but now he gets to watch Vegas’s expressions as he reads the newspaper in the morning, sipping on a mug of tea, his foot hooked warmly around Pete’s ankle under the table. In the evening, Pete washes the dishes and wipes down the kitchen, while Vegas sweeps through the apartment, checking the security of the windows and doors, and cursing the robot vacuum when it trips him.
At night, Vegas tips him into bed, something dark and deliciously wicked in his eyes. He never used to think he was beautiful before Vegas but now Vegas has branded beauty in every centimeter of his body with his tongue and his fingers and his teeth.
Now, Pete looks at Vegas and thinks, ‘an eternity of this wouldn’t be enough’. He imagines him with gray hair and wrinkles, and still finds him the most handsome man he’s ever met. He could go to sleep with the backdrop of the even beat of his heart a thousand times and still find it as lovely as the first time.
Pete finds himself thinking about Uncle Time, and how he forgot everyone and everything, except for one person.
If Pete’s whole world could be just Vegas, he thinks he’d be okay with that too.
*
There’s a palpable shift in the clientele of the restaurant after the day with old man Time. It starts getting busy around lunchtime when they open, and in the evening, in time for dinner. The clientele shifts, from coked-out and boozed-up bar hoppers to workers and families. Slowly, Pete gets familiar with the locals - the grocer and the butcher, and the seamstresses. On market days, farmers make a stop for dinner before heading home for the day. Old people mingle with kids, conversation louder than the radio playing in the back.
They stop ordering groceries from whatever delivery company that Kinn has set up and go down to the market before the restaurant opens, the guards semi-discreetly trailing them. Vegas quietly chooses the produce, while Pete barters for the price and gossips with the aunties. He learns more about the women in designer clothing and the company she keeps, but mostly about sons and daughters, off to university or away for business or infirm parents that weigh heavily on their working children.
It’s the same stories from dozens of different mouths but Pete is surprised to find he doesn’t mind, carrying those little burdens for people in the neighborhood. It makes him feel included. It reminds him of his grandmother.
It’s a little embarrassing when the aunties start offering him their daughters but all it takes is for Vegas to loom over his shoulder while holding a pumpkin bigger than his head for them to turn away to giggle at each other.
After university finishes for the day, Macau comes over to the restaurant on his scooter and does homework in one of the booths closest to the cash register, always with a dish of snacks at his elbow that Vegas makes especially for him. Pete would have thought he’d be bothered by the noise, but Macau seems to thrive in a bustling environment. He gets along with the customers too, especially with the aunties, blooming under their praise. If only Pete could convince him to stop calling Pete, ‘my brother-in-law’ in public. It makes the aunties giggle louder.
It’s rare that Macau brings friends over (he hasn’t caught on to the fact that Vegas always does his best to menace them from the kitchen), until one afternoon when Pete bustles over to the register and is surprised to find a familiar face in his restaurant.
“Oh,” Pete says, as Porchay blinks at him, wide-eyed, “hello.”
“Hi, P’Pete!” Macau chirps cheerfully and throws his hands around Pete’s waist in a quick hug. It’d taken some time for Pete to get used to how physically affectionate he was until he’d realized that it was just the way the siblings expressed affection to each other. “This is Porchay, we have Musical Theory together. He’s so talented at playing guitar.”
Macau is gushing, his eyes practically sparkling with admiration in Porchay’s direction. Porchay looks between him and Pete, seemingly at a loss.
“Oh, Porchay, it’s so nice to meet you for the first time,” Pete makes sure to emphasize the last few words, and Porchay’s eyes widen in recognition. “Thank you for looking after Macau. He’s smart but Musical Theory isn’t his strongest class.”
It’s true. Macau can improvise on the piano like a dream, filling their shared apartment with sweet liting music, but put some sheet music in front of him and he’s digging his heels in.
“It’s just boring,” Macau pouts, even as he’s pouring Porchay a glass of water. Porchay takes a deep gulp of it, sweat gathering in the hollow of his throat. “But Porchay jams with me after class if I pay attention! He’s so good at it, we sound amazing, right?”
Porchay looks a little winded. Pete can sympathize. A happy Macau is a sort of force of nature, not unlike his brother but at the same time entirely different. “I’m really not as good as Macau says,” Porchay demurs, which is the exact wrong thing to say because it’s a surefire way to make Macau double down on his praise. “I’ve only been playing the guitar for a year.”
“See!” Macau beams and Pete suddenly gets a bad feeling. “He’s a genius.”
Pete pinpoints the source of his feelings. There’s Vegas, standing at the entrance to the kitchen, and the expression on his face has Pete making his excuses. Not that Macau notices, too busy gushing about an increasingly embarrassed Porchay.
Once Pete reaches Vegas, he puts his hands on his shoulders, pushing until Vegas starts backing up into the kitchen and his back hits the kitchen counter.
“Vegas!” Pete says, embarrassed by how his voice breaks. “Breathe!”
Vegas takes a breath. His face is white as a sheet, and his jaw is clenched so hard it makes Pete wince in sympathy. “That’s Porchay Kittisawasd ,” Vegas grits out, “with Macau.”
“They’re friends from school,” Pete says soothingly. “I think Macau likes him-”
Vegas makes a wounded noise under his breath. His hands are shaking and he’s reaching out to grip Pete’s shirt. “Look, I know he’s Porsche’s brother, and he and Macau got off on the wrong foot, but Porsche isn’t unreasonable-” Pete says, only to be cut off.
“I don’t care about Porsche,” Vegas almost screeches. It’s the most rattled Pete has ever seen him, and he doesn’t know what to do. “That’s Kim Theerapanyakul’s boyfriend!”
Oh, fuck.
“Porchay? Sweet, polite, and had half the bodyguards wrapped around his little finger in ten minutes? That Porchay?” Pete asks, gesturing to the dining area. “What is he doing with Khun Kim?”
“Kim tried to use him for information but I think it backfired on him,” Vegas says. “I sent a whole squad to kidnap Porchay to use him for leverage. Kim slaughtered all of them.”
Pete takes a deep breath. There’s something just a little bit sideways in the youngest Theerapanyakul sibling. Khun Korn used to send Kim out on some of the worst assignments, the ones Kinn couldn’t stomach, Tankhun couldn’t even know about, and the minor family couldn’t be trusted with. He’s not a person Pete can imagine ever falling in love. But then again, he’s the one currently talking Vegas Theerapanyakul down from the verge of a panic attack, so he can’t really judge.
“Okay, fuck,” Pete says. Vegas is finally getting some color back in his face, his breathing falling into a more normal rhythm. “Are they still together?”
“I don’t know,” Vegas grimaces. “Kim found the wiretap I had on his phone.”
Pete decides he’s just going to ignore that. “I don’t see Khun Kim ever letting someone he likes out of his sight,” he points out. He’s been at the mansion long enough to remember an incident where an assassin tried to tamper with an unsuspecting Tankhun’s evening meal. Kim gutted him with a butter knife. And then he slept in his brother’s room for a month, or until Tankhun could sleep through the night without waking up to a panic attack.
“So maybe they aren’t together anymore,” Vegas says, running his hands over his face in a nervous motion. It messes up his hair, and Pete reaches up to push it out of his face. Vegas leans into the touch like a cat. “Macau could still be in danger.”
“I’ll talk to Porchay,” Pete says firmly. “Somehow. Don’t do anything drastic!”
Vegas looks unconvinced. “But what if I-” he starts. Pete cuts him off.
“No heavy weaponry in my restaurant,” he says. Vegas grumbles under his breath. Pete pats his cheek once, which will hopefully be enough to keep him at least settled for a while.
It’s almost cursed that the restaurant is so busy today of all days. Pete is so besieged by patrons that he can barely look at Macau’s table, much less find an opportunity to talk to Porchay. Finally, Macau goes off to the bathroom, and Pete calmly ignores a businessman calling for another portion in order to plant himself next to Porchay’s seat.
He thinks he’s going to have to initiate the conversation but Porchay beats him to the punch, pinning him in place with a surprisingly penetrating expression, his brows furrowed.
“P’Pete,” he says, softly, seriously, “please be honest with me. Is Macau involved with all of your…business?”
He looks so serious, so worried, that Pete can’t help but sympathize with him. Porchay didn’t ask to be involved in any of this. “Macau is Khun Kinn’s youngest cousin,” unless Khun Gun has another child stashed somewhere, “and beyond knowing the barest bones of what his family does, he’s been kept completely in the dark. He’s a good guy.”
Porchay’s expression softens into a small smile. “He’s really nice to me,” he says, a little wistful, a little awed. Pete’s heart aches.
“It’s because he’s such a sweet kid and I happen to care about him a lot, that I have to ask you something,” Pete says, taking a deep breath before he continues. “Are you still seeing Khun Kim?”
Porchay’s face flushes, something like anger flashing in his eyes. “That’s none of your business,” he says, firm and ice-cold.
“Is he going to try to hurt Macau?” Pete insists. “For hanging out with you?”
From Porchay’s shocked expression, Pete can tell that he hasn’t even considered the possibility. It takes barely a second for Porchay to recompose himself though. The expression on his face is one Pete has seen only once before, on Porsche’s face when he’d been staring down the barrel of a gun. Like this, the sibling resemblance is uncanny.
“I’ll make sure P’Kim knows that Macau is off-limits,” Porchay says, and Pete finds that he believes him. More than that, he trusts him.
“I’ll leave Macau in your care then,” Pete says, allowing his smile to turn playful as he gives Porchay a wai. Porchay flushes red, which is interesting.
It’s at this moment that Macau finally returns from the bathroom. “What are you two talking about?” he says, looking between them curiously.
“We were gossiping about you,” Pete interjects smoothly because Porchay is already starting to look a little panicked, “I’ve been telling Porchay all about how you always stick your brother with the dishes.”
“But P’Pete, I hate doing the dishes,” Macau grimaces. He bumps his shoulder into Pete’s, seeking affection like a cat. “Besides, you and P’Vegas always get handsy over the kitchen sink, it’s gross!”
Pete flushes and elbows him in the side. Macau elbows him back, grinning. The interplay seems to startle a laugh out of Porchay, and it rings out, low and sweet, even in the din of the restaurant. Macau sparkles with joy.
“You two seem really close,” Porchay observes and it makes Macau smile wider.
“Pete is my brother-in-law!” he says, and Pete snorts, embarrassed and endeared.
“Don’t start with this again,” he says. Looking at Macau like this, practically glowing with happiness under Porchay’s gentle attention, Pete thinks he might be feeling a fraction of the deep well of love Vegas feels for his little brother. He can’t blame Vegas for his reaction. He’d break out the heavy weaponry too if it meant keeping Macau safe.
*
“A table for twenty, please.”
Pete looks up from his papers incredulously. It’s late and he’s just about finished with closing the register, and he really doesn’t want to deal with any more-
“Oh,” Pete says, “it’s you.”
The man does a polite wai. His shirt is speckled with blood at the collar. Just outside the window, Pete can see a group of men peering through the glass.
“I’m Tan,” the man says, smiling slightly at Pete. “We met at the -”
“The dinner,” Pete says, hurriedly, “I remember.”
At the long table, surrounded by food he’d never seen before and by men he didn’t trust, Pete found Tan’s staring disconcerting. It wasn’t until months later that Vegas explained it was caused by a particularly severe form of astigmatism and Tan’s staunch refusal to wear glasses.
That’s not the point though. To Pete’s knowledge, Tan is still a part of the minor family. And so are all the men standing in front of his restaurant.
“We don’t mean any trouble, Khun Pete,” Tan says softly. “We were just hoping for a hot meal.”
Pete notes the more polite form of address but his brain is too full to question it. “Of course,” he says, finally. “Come on in.”
Tan waves at the window with a smile, and then almost twenty men are descending through the door, greeting Pete with bows and cheerful cries of “Khun Pete!”. Pete distinctly remembers shooting one of them in the foot at last year’s shootout. It’s a surreal moment.
The minor family members arrange the tables into one long one, descending into excited conversation. Several of them have blood on various pieces of clothing or are showing off split knuckles and fists. One of them is nursing a rapidly swelling wrist.
“Uh, do you want some ice for that?” Pete asks him. The man beams at him.
“Wow, Khun Pete is so kind!” he says, eyes practically sparkling. Pete is just about at his limit.
“Alright, I know a few of you called me a bastard to my face before, so why are you addressing me so politely now?” he asks, frustrated.
“That was before we knew you were shacking up with the Boss!” the man says, waving around his hands for emphasis. His wrist is the size of a baseball. It’s kind of unsettling how he doesn’t even seem phased. Tan elbows him in the side and he yelps, settling down in his chair.
“Don’t be vulgar in Khun Pete’s presence,” he says to murmurs of agreement. Pete can feel himself flushing. He’s about to say something else, but a sudden hush falls over the room as the curtain to the kitchen swishes open.
“I was wondering who was causing all of this racket,” Vegas says lowly. His expression is unreadable as he looks over all of the expectant faces turned in his direction. “You don’t need to take orders, Pete. I know what they want. I hope they’ve at least brought their own beer.”
The group has in fact brought their own beer.
Bewildered, Pete fetches ice and brings glasses, and just generally tries to stay out of the way of the mayhem. In the meantime, Vegas cooks. He hands each dish to Pete with gentle instructions.
“This is for Tan,” he says. “This is for Socket,” and “this is for Knee. Give him a spoon, he doesn’t have enough dexterity in his hand to use chopsticks.”
Once everyone at the table has their plate in front of them, they lapse into concentrated silence, broken up occasionally by exclamations of delight and praises of the food. A few of the men are crying openly, not even bothering to wipe their eyes. Vegas leans in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed over his torso, the smallest of smiles playing along his mouth.
Under Tan’s direction, all the plates are stacked and the table is cleaned, and somehow Pete is convinced to give up his broom, so the whole restaurant is swept clean. Socket’s wrist is stabilized with two pairs of chopsticks and some linen napkins. It doesn’t look particularly sanitary but he doesn’t seem to be complaining.
The men line up. None of them try to talk to Vegas, but they meet his gaze openly, with wide smiles. Once every one of them has passed him, he turns around and disappears into the kitchen.
“Khun Vegas looks much healthier now,” Tan says to Pete, smiling brightly. “He seems much happier now that he’s with you.”
“I don’t know about that-” Pete starts, stuttering over his sentences. He doesn’t know why but confronted with the approval of the men Vegas used to lead, he suddenly feels very shy.
“We leave him in your care!” Tan says, sharply enough that Pete startles, and then twenty men are bowing to him in a deep wai, and he doesn’t have words beyond incoherent hand gestures.
The men file out, disappearing into the darkness. Some of them disperse in groups, talking and laughing, while others pair up, arms around each other with excuses about all the beer they’ve drunk. Not one of them goes off alone.
The restaurant is much quieter in their wake.
Vegas is waiting for him when he turns around. He’s abandoned his apron. In the harsh lights of the dining room, he looks a little tired. Washed out. Almost sad.
“I’m sorry, they can be a little rowdy,” Vegas says, and the tone of his voice is uncharacteristically nervous, almost babbling. “I didn’t know they were coming tonight, or I would have warned you, and stocked up on more food. Wek likes sprouts in his papaya salad and we were all out of those-”
“Vegas,” Pete says, cold with realization, “I was glad to meet the rest of your family.”
Vegas’s face does something complicated. “They aren’t mine anymore,” he says. Pete crosses the floor to pull him into a hug.
*
It’s late, the customers have long since cleared out. There’s been an issue with the cash register that Pete’s had to figure out, and now he’s tired and annoyed, and he still has all the cleanup in the dining hall waiting for him. Vegas has been cranky all day from a burn on his forearm that’s nasty enough that it might scar. It’s not a big deal but it’s hurting him and he still insists on cooking, and the worry makes Pete irritable and miserable in turn.
The very last thing he wants to see when he comes from the bathroom is Porsche sitting at one of his tables.
Pete’s body goes cold, stomach dropping. Porsche has two bodyguards with him, unfamiliar faces, which means new hires. Their poker faces are immaculate and it puts Pete on high alert. He can count three guns in the room and that’s just the ones they’re wearing to make it obvious. All he’s got is a broom, his hands turning white-knuckled around the handle.
Porsche looks up from where he’s perusing the menu. He smiles when he sees Pete, and for a moment this could be a year ago, Pete messing around in his underwear and Porsche a fresh-faced recruit with no idea what he was getting into. Then Porsche’s smile fades and reality reasserts itself.
“Hi, Pete,” Porsche says, casually. “I’ve been told the restaurant is getting popular these days, so I came to check it out.”
“The kitchen is closed,” Pete says blandly. He hasn’t seen Porsche except in passing for the last few months. He looks good, in his olive tailored three-piece. His face has filled out some and has lost the harried look of someone who’s spent too long struggling to make ends meet. Kinn is good for him, which isn’t something Pete thought he’d ever say about anyone.
“Well, I hope you at least have some booze,” Porsche says with a grin that is supposed to be reassuring but Pete just finds agitating. “Otherwise, I’ll be tempted to call this place boring.”
“No alcohol,” Pete faux-grimaces, pointing to the corresponding sign. “We haven’t got the license. Just cold tea and soy milk if you want it.”
Porsche clicks his tongue in disappointment. “It’s a good thing I came prepared then,” he says, and Pete has to work to keep his body relaxed as he reaches into the paper bag next to him and pulls out a bottle. “Herbal spirits, straight from Uncle Herb. He’s still not over his monster crush on P’Yok, so he sells them to her for a discounted rate. You got glasses at least?”
Pete does. He makes his way to the utility cupboards mechanically, careful to keep his hands visible. He only takes out two glasses. Porsche notices.
“Isn’t Vegas going to drink with us?” he asks, his curiosity ringing false. Pete bites down on a sharp retort and shrugs, setting the glasses down.
“He’s busy cleaning up,” he says. Porsche takes the bottle, twisting open the cap in a practiced motion, pouring them both a generous serving.
“He’s still cleaning?” Porsche asks, whistling under his breath. “You’ve got him on a tight leash, don’t you?”
Pete frowns at him. He’s not sure he understands the question - he and Vegas own several leashes, but Pete’s usually the one wearing them. He thinks about mentioning that fact to Porsche, just for the shock value. He’s stood outside of Khun Kinn’s door often enough to know that some light spanking is the kinkiest he’ll go for. Maybe that’s changed with Porsche, but he doubts it.
“You still smoke at least?” Porsche asks. Pete nods. He does smoke, just less these days because he doesn’t have the time to duck out when the restaurant is crowded. Porsche takes out a carton from his inner pocket and Pete smiles reflexively. Porsche still smokes the red Malboros.
“I haven’t had one of these in a while,” Pete says, taking the stick that Porsche is offering. “Vegas only smokes menthols, so I usually bum off him or roll my own when I have time.”
Porsche does him the decency of not trying to light his cigarette for him. He just hands him the lighter. Their fingers don’t brush. Pete is careful to deposit it on the table between them after the first mouthful of smoke.
“You still roll your own cigarettes?” Porsche asks, and it could be an echo of another conversation, mundane. Two friends catching up without a chasm between them.
“Sure,” Pete says. He’s got a few pre-rolled ones on him but he doesn’t want to reach into his pocket for them. The bodyguards might get twitchy. “There’s less tar in them that way, and other nasty stuff. Chan used to say so.”
“And then he’d chain smoke two packs of Marlboro Golds behind the gym,” Porsche says, grinning. Pete grins back in shared remembrance. He does miss Chan, in the way you miss the first person who broke you and put you back together. It’s bittersweet though - if Chan were still alive, he’s got no doubt that both he and Vegas would be dead, no matter what anyone in the main family had to say. Chan was just like that - he never left anything up to chance.
“I thought Chan moved to electronic cigarettes years ago,” Vegas says from where he’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Porsche looks up and Pete reflexively moves so he’s shielding Vegas from his gaze.
There’s a small bitter part of him that still remembers the sight of Porsche and Vegas driving away on that motorcycle. He’s secure in his relationship but once upon a time Vegas looked at Porsche like he could be his whole world and Pete didn’t know him well enough then to judge if it was sincere or not.
“He did, until the miniature explosive device he got Erica to put in accidentally went off. Took out a thug that was giving us some trouble,” Pete says.
“Chan had explosives in his electronic cigarette?” Porsche asks incredulously. Pete snorts.
“Chan had explosives almost everywhere,” Vegas says, almost fondly. Porsche’s eyes narrow, the mood abruptly twisting.
“You must have known where to aim then,” he says, tone flat and expression settling into something that could have been stone if it weren’t for the anger.
Vegas slowly comes up to stand behind Pete, leaning on the backrest of Pete’s chair, his knuckles warm against his back through the thin T-shirt. The bodyguards stir at his approach, their hands twitching toward their guns.
Paradoxically, Pete finds himself relaxing now that Vegas is in his range of motion. The bodyguards could be a quick shot but there’s a good chance that he can get up and into the trajectory of the bullet in time. Depending on the model and the caliber, the bullet might be strong enough to go through both him and Vegas, which would be ideal. That way neither one of them gets left behind for more than a second.
“Maybe I did,” Vegas says flatly. Pete leans back, pressing himself into his knuckles, settled by the way they dig into the skin of his back. “But you didn’t come to talk to us about Chan, did you?”
“I came to talk about the minor family,” Porsche says, matching his tone. Sprawled out in the booth, seemingly relaxed but with every centimeter of him vibrating with tension, he radiates danger. Vegas doesn’t seem to give a shit, which makes it Pete’s problem.
“They just came for a meal,” Pete interjects, knowing he’s not nearly good enough of a liar to really sell it. “None of them spoke to Vegas, just to me.”
And you know I’m loyal, he doesn’t say. You know I’m loyal because you’ve got the most important person in my life as your hostage and if you killed him and didn’t allow me to follow, it’d break me.
“He knows that already,” Vegas says, and he’s almost radiating smugness as Porsche’s frown deepens. “He knows everything they said and did, just like he knows he’ll never have their loyalty like I do.”
“And if I shoot you right now? Where will their loyalty go then?” Porsche’s tone is iron. The bodyguards are shifting, reaching for their pockets. Pete prepares himself to move.
“To my gravestone,” Vegas practically crows, and Pete can imagine the delight on his face without even looking at him. “To my ashes scattered in the wind. Never to you. Not unless you start doing your job properly.”
“I’m doing it!” Porsche hisses out, pure fury flashing in his eyes. Pete presses himself back further into Vegas, close enough to hurt, a warning. Vegas moves one of his knuckles against his skin, a reassurance. “I’ve done everything-”
“You’ve done everything the main family told you to do,” Vegas cuts him off smoothly. “You’ve done what they think the minor family does. They don’t have a fucking clue.”
Porsche opens his mouth, indignant, but Vegas just talks over him. “The main family thinks that the minor family is there to clean up their messes, and fuck knows we do, and we do it well. But there’s more to it than that,” he says, and even the sound of his voice holds Pete spellbound. “The minor family belongs in the streets, not in mansions and high-rises. Do you know who frequents your gambling dens? Who won big at mahjong today and who lost at cards? Do you know who’s pushing your amphetamines in Sukhumvit Road? Do you know why you need to go to Patpong and talk to the sex workers even though the Theerapanyakul family hasn’t dabbled in prostitution for decades? Do you even have a clue about what I’m talking about?”
“No,” Porsche says quietly.
“Of course you don’t,” Vegas says, cloyingly patronizing. “The girls in Nana Plaza have been working under increasingly worsening conditions because you don’t know that you’re supposed to send a patrol there every night to make sure they don’t get harassed by upstart pimps.”
Vegas stops, breathing hard. Pete can feel his breath against his neck, hot and damp. His hands are shaking.
“Teach me,” Porsche says quietly, slashing through the tension. Vegas laughs. Pete can understand the sentiment.
“Teach you?” Vegas asks incredulously. “Why? What in the world could you offer me ?”
Porsche laughs, something defiant flashing across his face. “I seem to remember a time when you thought I had plenty to offer you,” he says.
Pete’s whole body goes ice cold. He makes an involuntary sound, and Porsche’s eyes snap to his face. In the same moment, Vegas’s hand comes to press on Pete’s shoulder, pushing him back down into the chair. He hadn’t even been aware of standing up. The bodyguards have their guns out and pointed at him but Pete couldn’t give a shit.
“I’m sorry, Pete,” Porsche says, voice gone apologetic and his expression genuinely contrite. He waves the bodyguards’ guns away. They comply only reluctantly, eying Pete with some trepidation. He wonders what his expression must be like. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. That was stupid.”
“It really was,” Pete grounds out. “If you ever do it again-”
“You’ll scratch my eyes out,” Porsche says, holding his hands aloft. “I got it.”
There’s a moment of tense silence between them. Vegas is the one to break it.
“You were about to give me an offer,” he says slowly. “It wasn’t the right one, but I’m willing to keep listening. What can you offer me in return for my knowledge?”
“Freedom,” Porsche says simply.
Vegas laughs. “You don’t have that kind of influence,” he says, “my cousin thinks with his dick but he’s not entirely blind.”
“Let me worry about your cousin’s dick,” Porsche says blithely. “I’ll make it happen. I wouldn’t recommend leaving the country or the city but you’ll be free to go wherever you want. No security detail.”
It’s a good offer. It’s an excellent offer if Porsche can come through, and Pete thinks he will. Vegas taps his back once, a question. Pete nods, barely perceptibly.
“What about Macau?” Vegas asks. Porsche looks puzzled.
“What about him?” he asks, leaning back in his seat. He seems almost relaxed now, the tension having drained out of his body. Pete envies him. He’s still wound up like a coiled spring.
“He’s been hanging out with your brother,” Vegas says evenly. “I don’t want him to get hurt.”
“Oh, that,” Porsche says, almost dismissively. “Well, I happen to think you’ve spoiled him rotten, but Macau is a decent kid otherwise, and I trust Porchay to handle himself. There won’t be any trouble from me if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“What about Kim Theerapanyakul?” Vegas asks. Porsche’s lackadaisical expression twists into something sharper, something closer to the glimpse of fury he’s shown earlier.
“As surprising as it sounds, I think Porchay has that one mostly handled,” he says. “And trust me, I would have already interceded if that wasn’t the case.”
“Porchay told you not to meddle, didn’t he?” Pete asks. He’s only met Porchay a few times but it was enough to know there was a spine of steel underneath all that wide-eyed innocence.
“That too,” Porsche sighs deeply. “If anything else, your boy is a crack shot, isn’t he? I can approve a firearm request for him. He’d be doing me a favor. Porchay won’t allow me to do my brotherly duty of fucking Kim’s shit up.”
Vegas seems to think about it. “Make it something from the new shipment,” he says, “light and easy to hide. He’s always been good with the smaller calibers.”
“Should I ask how you know about that?” Porsche asks dryly. He looks at Pete, who can only shrug. He hadn’t known there was a new shipment of firearms coming in.
“If you’re a good enough student, you’ll learn soon enough,” Vegas says, and relief runs down Pete’s spine like hot water. The grin on Porsche’s face is almost blinding.
“I’m in your care, Teacher Vegas,” he says. “Bring yourself a glass. This bottle won’t drink itself and I can’t exactly bring it back to Kinn’s room without a very good explanation.”
*
The rain drums heavily on the window pane, the city outside reduced to grays and blues as the skies open. Pete takes an absentminded sip from his mug, watching the paths the water draws in the condensation on the glass. The curtain that separates the kitchen from the dining area makes a low swishing sound. The light from the kitchen spills across the floor. The restaurant is empty and Pete hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights.
A moment later, Vegas’s arms come up to wrap around him snugly, trapping him against his body. Pete sags into it with a sigh, even as his sluggish mind starts to form a protest. “We’re still at work,” he says, even as Vegas buries his face into his neck, pressing his mouth to the pulse point.
“Only technically,” Vegas says, and his voice is like a spell, lulling Pete’s anxieties, “it’s raining. No one is coming in. The surveillance equipment is too sensitive to pick up anything else in this weather.”
“That doesn’t mean you can defile me in public like this,” Pete says but it’s a token protest and both he and Vegas know it. Vegas is already halfway done with unbuttoning his shirt, warm palms slipping beneath to touch Pete’s skin, lingering on the starburst scar just underneath Pete’s belly button. It’s one of his favorites. Vegas put it there.
“You’ve been distracted all day,” Vegas murmurs, “irritable. I wouldn’t be a good boyfriend if I didn’t try to fix it, would I?”
“And what’s your plan exactly?” Pete asks wryly. He doesn’t bother to deny it. He’s been in a bad mood all day and had even snapped back at an annoying patron, which he almost never does. The distraction of Vegas’s hands is welcome, melting the tension out of his bones.
Vegas hums against his shoulder. “I’m going to ask you some leading questions,” he says, “and you’re going to tell me what’s wrong.”
“Okay, let me hear the question,” Pete says.
“So, what’s wrong?” Vegas asks. Pete can feel his grin against his bare skin and he can’t help smiling in exasperation.
“Remind me again how you got to be the family’s best interrogator?” Pete asks dryly, and this time Vegas outright laughs, rich and full-bodied.
“Sorry, I left my interrogation kit under our bed,” he says. His hands are just fully underneath Pete’s shirt at this point, stroking across his skin, warmth creeping through his body slowly like smoldering coal.
“Oh, no, actually, I moved it to the closet,” Pete says, tilting his head to the side to give Vegas better access to his neck. “The robot kept hitting it and getting stuck.”
“I hate that thing,” Vegas grumbles.
“You hate vacuuming more,” Pete reminds him. They lapse into silence. The rain gets louder. Vegas stills, stroking over Pete’s hip bones. Waiting. “I just…you were meant for so much more than this.”
Vegas is quiet. Pete sighs deeply. “The things you’re teaching Porsche…you were a good leader,” he says.
“Yeah, I was so good I led two-thirds of the minor family’s people straight into slaughter,” Vegas says, voice filled with deep bitterness. “I pushed for more and I almost died for it. Maybe I should have known better.”
Pete shakes his head. Up close like this, he can smell Vegas. His scent has changed. Where before it had been expensive cologne and clean linen and the barest hint of iron, it’s now scallions and hot oil, and dish soap. It’s not that Pete dislikes it, it’s just that he hates realizing he’s missed when it became normal.
“So, what? You’re just going to settle for this?” Pete asks, suddenly indignant. “It can’t possibly make you happy.”
“You make me happy,” Vegas says, drawing all the tension from Pete’s body. “You make me happy when you kick me awake in the morning at 8 am sharp. Or when you drink my coffee and insist we’ll save water if we shower together. You get so excited when a customer tells you he likes my dish, and you rush all the way to the kitchen to tell me all about it. You always look so proud.”
“I am proud,” Pete says softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Vegas says, and at this point, he’s said it dozens of times but Pete never gets tired of it.
“You like the restaurant?” Pete asks, seized by a weird impulse to know. “You don’t hate that I’m making you do this?”
“I like the restaurant,” Vegas confirms.
“Maybe we could…” Pete starts and trails off. Porsche has made a lot of promises but freedom feels like a distant dream. And even then there’s a part of him that still, despite everything, thinks that once the shackles fall off Vegas's wrists, he’ll up and disappear.
He swallows down the rest of his words and grasps Vegas’s hands instead, cradling them for a moment, then pushes them downward. He’s willing to let himself be distracted.
*
Pete only ducks out for twenty minutes. They're out of scallions and coconut milk, and he runs out to the convenience store to get some. He's back at the restaurant and halfway to the register before he realizes something is off.
All the patrons are unfamiliar. This isn't in itself unusual, especially considering the late hour, when they're serving bar hoppers rather than locals. But almost everyone in the room is dressed in long coats, their clothing indistinguishable, and they've hardly touched their food.
One of the men sitting close to where he's standing shifts in place, briefly revealing a bulky shape under his clothes. Pete takes a breath.
Time slows down, seconds moving by thick like molasses. The guy closest to him shifts again. Sweat pools in the hollow of his throat, and his breathing is heavy. Pete's vision sharpens and then he's ducking to avoid a blow coming from his blind side, instinctively swinging the bag of groceries up to catch his attacker in the head. The man goes down with a low groan, blood and coconut milk falling in thick drops across the linoleum.
The sweaty man tries to hit him with a rod, and Pete has just enough time to realize the tip is sparkling before he manages to twist in place, making it hit another approaching attacker.
Pete falls into a boxing stance. He's cornered by the far wall but at least his back is covered. He takes another man down with a brutal kick to his shin, the snap of breaking bone echoing in the tense silence. He steps on the body to get the momentum he needs to punch another in the face. His body, honed through years in illegal boxing rings, falls back on instinct. He twists and turns in the fray, delivering debilitating blows. His knuckles split over bone and cartilage, and adrenaline glosses over the pain of the blows he can't evade.
A lucky strike has him flying into one of the tables, a sharp edge digging into his gut. The floor under him is so slippery he can barely get his legs to work. He evades a blow at his head through more luck than skill and sends someone flying through the window, the sound of breaking glass muted under the roaring in his ears.
He sees the rod coming from the corner of his eye but with knuckles deep in a man's eye sockets, he can't turn away quickly enough. A thousand chirping birds peck his nervous system all at once, leaving him howling with agony. A follow-up punch has his swaying body flying into a table. Everything goes dark.
Pete startles awake into pain so debilitating he almost passes out again. After a second, the pain settles down from blinding into tolerable agony. He swallows a few times against rolling nausea and tries to take stock of where he is. His eyes are bruised shut and all he can hear is the sound of his heart in his ears and…kpop? He's sitting up, slumped in an awkward position, his hands tied behind his back. He feels like he's been out through a meat grinder.
There's something touching his hand, warm. He twitches his fingers closer. Gun calluses and a missing pinky finger. Vegas is holding his hand. Pete forces his fingers to move, his thumb stroking along Vegas's palm.
"Pete?" Vegas says, and his voice is muffled but filled with worry. "Pete, are you awake?"
"It'd be more merciful if he stayed asleep,” Pol says quietly. He must be somewhere nearby but Pete can’t pinpoint the direction. Up and down, left and right, they’re all getting mixed up in his head.
Vegas ignores him. “Pete?” he whispers. “Pete?” There’s a note in his voice that Pete has only heard once, shaded in the muted lighting of Yok’s bar, Vegas begging him not to leave, not to turn away. He keeps squeezing Vegas’s hand.
There’s the sudden sound of a door slamming open and Vegas gets cut off. Pete drifts off for a second and returns to the sound of Vegas’s voice.
“...it was you,” he’s saying. “I thought you were an assassin, not a drug dealer.”
“I like to consider myself an all-rounder,” comes an unfamiliar woman’s voice. “Did you honestly think I’d spend all my life waiting to be contracted by the likes of you? I’m the kind of person who likes to be a bit more proactive than that.”
“It’s very bold of you to take on someone like Kinn Theerapanyakul,” Vegas says, and Pete is too muddled to read his tone of voice. “Have you thought this through, Miss Dragon?”
“Just Dragon is fine,” the Dragon says in a saccharine sweet voice. The sound of her heels on the concrete floor is loud enough to penetrate the cotton surrounding Pete’s brain. “Kinn Theerapanyakul is just a man. He thinks with his dick like a man. He bleeds like a man. I’ve proven that.”
“You couldn’t kill him,” Vegas says. “You failed once already, what makes you think the next time will turn out any different?”
“I don’t think someone like you, Vegas, is in any position to lecture me about failures,” the Dragon says. Pete squeezes Vegas’s fingers. Vegas squeezes back. “You used to be the terror of Bangkok’s backstreets, and look at you now - a washed-up line cook panting after Theerapanyakul’s guard bitch. I bet you dream about knocking him up with a bunch of brats and moving somewhere to the countryside. Pathetic.”
Pete thinks about pointing out that he doesn’t really want to get pregnant, ever. He’s been on T since he was 17, and going off it now, not that he’d want to, even for Vegas, would throw both his body and his brain completely out of whack.
“You won’t get away with what you’re doing,” Pol speaks up, probably in an attempt to divert the Dragon’s attention from Vegas. “Khun Kinn knows everything, I’ve already transferred all the files to the family’s computers. They’ll be coming from you.”
“Oh, how cute, the loyal dog speaks,” the Dragon coos. “Tell me, what did you hear with those big droopy ears of yours? I bet it was a lot of Blackpink. Do you honestly think I’m dumb enough to conduct my business where your backwater tech could pick up anything useful? Honestly, it’s like you all think this criminal business is some TV show that you’re all paid to act useless in.”
“I heard all about your shipment routes,” Pol says, “and the big shipment you’re expecting coming out from Malaysia, and the sabotage you’ve been doing on our dealers. Khun Kinn is going to stop you.”
The Dragon laughs. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never had any interrogation training at all,” she says.
“W-what do you mean?” Pol stammers out.
“You’ve just told me everything you know,” the Dragon says, “and there’s not a single thing I need to worry about. Your Khun Kinn doesn’t know anything that’s really important, and you’ve just proved yourself worthless.”
The sound of the gunshot is so intensely loud that it echoes and reverberates in Pete’s skull. As a result, he misses a few chunks of the ongoing conversation.
“He's got nothing to do with this,” Vegas is saying when Pete finally makes his ear work again. He sounds desperate in a way that Pete has never heard of him.
“Nothing?” the Dragon snorts. “He crippled ten of my best men. Two of them might never walk again and one is permanently blind. Do you know how hard it is to find good candidates in this job market? Everyone wants a cushy office job. If you don't offer them a raise after six months, they quit and start working in a coffee shop.”
Cool slim fingers grab Pete’s cheek harshly, long sharp nails digging into his skin. The Dragon tips up his head and the movement is agony, the light bright enough to sear through the slits of his eyelids like miniature spikes. Pete breathes out. It makes a wet sound. He squeezes Vegas’s fingers.
"Please, leave him,” Vegas is begging. Even with everything that’s happened the past couple of months, Pete has never heard him sound like that. “Take me instead, I know things about the Theerapanyakuls, about their trading routes and their arms shipments. I could help you."
"You, help me?” the Dragon laughs. “You can't even help your lover."
The muzzle of the gun is hot where it presses to Pete’s forehead, burning harshly enough that he wants to flinch away from it, but there’s nowhere to go. Behind him, Vegas is clutching at his fingers, hard enough to bruise, but Pete is in so much agony he barely registers the pain.
The sound of the safety disengaging is familiar. Pete offers up a silent apology to Vegas, for being one of the people who loved him and left him behind.
"Who would have thought it'd be something like this that finally makes Vegas Theerapanyakul cry," the Dragon says, almost gently.
The gunshot slices through the tense silence.
*
“...then Bas took her out with his sniper rifle. And that’s why you don’t put your interrogation room on the top floor of your building, you never know when a neighbor is setting up to kill you,” Porsche recounts cheerfully. He’s reclined on Pete’s mustard yellow sofa, waving around a beer bottle, his legs in Kinn’s lap.
“How is Pol recovering from the whole thing?” Pete asks. He’s still half-convinced this whole thing is a concoction of his concussed brain - Kinn and Porsche in his living room, Vegas perched on the handle of the armchair Pete is sitting in, his hand thrown possessively around his shoulder. He can’t believe Kinn and Vegas are in the same room at all.
“Oh, he’s fine,” Porsche says dismissively, “for some reason she shot him in the chest, and he was wearing one of the new prototype bulletproof vests. It’s not particularly fashionable but at least it works. He’s out of the hospital now and back at the mansion for a week now, the only thing that’s still bothering him is the broken arm from when they took him.”
Pete nods thoughtfully and then has to sit very still because the motion sets off his nausea. There’s a beat of awkward silence.
“How’s your head, Pete?” Kinn says quietly, surprising him. He hasn’t talked much since he and Porsche showed up at the door, sans bodyguards.
“It’s fine,” Pete says automatically.
Vegas’s fingers dig into his elbow. “Tell the truth,” he says. Pete sighs.
“I still get…dizzy,” he says, “and nauseous sometimes. And I get headaches. Pretty bad. I’m not supposed to have much outside stimulation.” So he just lays on the couch a lot, staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he can lie down in Vegas’s lap, and have his hair stroked. It’s not terrible.
“Doctor Top said it was a pretty bad concussion,” Kinn says, and something about the way he’s looking at him compels Pete to meet his gaze. “That you could be out for a while longer.”
“I’ve had concussions before,” Pete says quietly. “I recovered fine.”
Kinn is quiet for a moment, completely still, before he suddenly turns his gaze on Vegas. Where before he was a benevolent boss, maybe even a concerned friend, he’s now every inch the prince of Bangkok’s underworld. His eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.
“You’ve been teaching Porsche about the minor family business,” he says.
“I have,” Vegas says flatly.
“I made sure they were never alone and that there was always a table between them,” Pete interjects. Both Vegas and Porsche sigh, while Kinn is visibly pleased.
“Good man,” he says, nodding with approval. Once he turns to Vegas, his expression abruptly sobers. “Porsche has asked me to lighten your guard.”
Pete bites his tongue. Porsche promised there wouldn’t be a guard at all. Vegas seems to be thinking the same thing, his expression twisting into something ugly, and gearing up to say something uglier. Kinn talks right over him.
“If you ask me, you’re not fit to be out among people,” Kinn says, “and I’d personally lock you up in some cave no one could find you in. Better yet, I still think that I should be putting a bullet in your brain because the moment you smell even the slightest hint of weakness in me or the family, your ego is going to be telling you that it’s your time to shine.”
Total silence. Vegas next to him is a statue, every muscle tense, eyes locked in a staring contest with Kinn. “So why don’t you?” he says finally. Pete feels nauseous, and it’s not just from the concussion. Next to Kinn, Porsche seems entirely unbothered by the proceedings, almost amused. Pete hates him then, just a little.
“Pete,” Kinn barks suddenly, making Pete jump in his seat.
“Yes, sir?” Pete asks. Vegas’s hand comes to rest on his knee, squeezing tight, eyes still locked on Kinn. Pete looks between them, confused.
“Don’t ask him to,” Vegas says quietly. “Don’t make him do it, Kinn.”
His hand is shaking, so Pete covers it with his own, still feeling like there’s a whole conversation happening that he’s not privy to.
“I can’t allow you to keep working as a bodyguard for the family, Pete,” Kinn says quietly. Pete nods, feeling cold. He finds himself thinking about Chan and how he used to say that the only way to leave the Theerapanyakul family is in a body bag. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Pete says softly. His voice is shaking. He looks at Vegas and finds him looking back, eyes wide, dark, and desperate. “Yes, I understand.”
There are no guns in the apartment except the ones on Kinn and Porsche, and the bodyguard stationed outside the front door. Pete can take Porsche in a fight but only on his best of days, not concussed and sick. Kinn won’t bother engaging Vegas in hand-to-hand combat. He’ll just shoot him outright. Macau is at school and will be for a while yet, enough time for Dee and his team to come in and clean up the mess.
“Good,” Kinn says, looking satisfied, “because frankly the restaurant is bringing in more revenue than some of the gambling dens I own and our relationship with the surrounding neighborhoods is at an all-time high. I’d hate to lose it.”
“You…” Pete manages, his brain wrapping slowly around the concept. “The restaurant?”
Kinn waves his hand, and Porsche hands him a bag, grinning broadly and flashing Pete a thumbs up. Pete’s too shocked to take the stack of papers from Kinn’s hand, so Vegas does it instead. There’s a brief standoff, Vegas tugging on the papers and Kinn not letting go.
“You love him?” Kinn says quietly, seriously. Pete feels his face flush.
“I do,” Vegas rasps out.
“Take care of him,” Kinn says and lets go of the papers. Vegas sits down and puts them into Pete’s lap. For a moment, the numbers dance in nauseous patterns and then they reassert themselves. There’s Pete’s name and Kinn’s listed on the contract. Pete can’t focus on the details but by the time he can make himself look up, there are tears in his eyes.
“We can keep the restaurant?” he asks, voice breaking. Kinn’s expression softens. It’s the kindest he’s ever looked at Pete openly.
“As long as you keep making me money,” he says, “and occasionally feed my men a meal that doesn’t taste like soylent.”
Pete turns to Vegas, and finds him already watching, a smile in his eyes. “Are you okay with this?” he asks.
“Anything,” Vegas replies, unhesitating. “As long as it’s with you.”
“Wooow, sappy,” Porsche comments under his breath. As if he has any room to talk. Pete has heard what he and Kinn pass for dirty talk, unfortunately. It’s dialogue straight out of a high-fantasy romance novel.
“Anyway,” Kinn says, sitting back on the sofa and throwing his arm around Porsche, “I’ve been promised lunch. Get to it, cousin.”
"Hope you’ve brought a poison tester,” Vegas says under his breath. Pete elbows him in the side. “Ow. I guess I can make some curry. It’ll definitely be better than the grovel they serve at the main family cafeteria.”
“Excellent!” Kinn says jovially. He’s somehow already wrapped himself like a koala around Porsche’s form. One of his hands is on his ass. “And make sure to make it mild, I can’t-”
“You have the taste buds of a sixty-year-old white man,” Vegas interjects. “I remember, cousin.”
He disappears into the kitchen. Pete reverently touches the edge of a paper. “I took the arsenic out of the kitchen cupboards,” he calls out. “I was worried Macau might eat it accidentally.”
“Rats,” Vegas says dryly. “Thwarted again.”
*
“...yeah, and the restaurant is doing really well,” Pete says, squeezing the phone with his shoulder as he tries to juggle the box in his hands while opening the door handle. “Vegas makes this incredible papaya salad, people go crazy over it. It might be better than yours!”
His grandmother laughs, a low rich sound even through the phone static. “We’ll have to taste that out when you get here,” she says. “When are you bringing your boy over to finally meet us?”
Pete finally manages to open the door, nearly falling through it. “I think we might be able to make it by the end of this month,” he says, grinning at Vegas, who looks up from the book he’s reading. “We’ll take a week off and drive over.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you,” his grandmother says, warmth in her voice. “Both me and your grandpa.”
“Has grandpa gotten used to calling me Pete?” Pete asks, a little wryly. Vegas has gotten up, taking the box from his hands. He presses a kiss to Pete’s cheek that leaves him smiling.
“We’ve been practicing,” his grandmother says softly. “You’re our only grandson. We really missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” Pete says, equally softly, smiling so much it hurts. Vegas is looking at him inquisitively, backlit by the sunset, practically radiating warmth. “I’ll see you soon!”
After a few more goodbyes, he hangs up, stepping into Vegas’s widespread greeting arms. “How is your grandmother?” Vegas asks, muffled into Pete’s shoulder.
“Really excited to meet you,” Pete says, nuzzling into Vegas’s neck. “She wants to hear all about you.”
“I hope you didn’t tell her everything,” Vegas says carefully.
“Just the parts that won’t make her want to threaten your life,” Pete says cheerfully. Vegas shudders.
“What can I do to win her over?” he asks. Pete muffles a laugh into the thin skin of his neck, satisfied when he can feel his pulse jump.
“Just make sure your papaya salad isn’t as good as hers, and we’ll be just fine,” he says.
Vegas hums under his breath. His hands come to rest on Pete’s waist, their bodies swaying to some inaudible beat. He’s warm, and his heartbeat is steady under Pete’s ear. He smells like their laundry detergent and a little like scallions and cooking oil.
It’s quiet now, in their apartment. A few hours later, there’ll be a mishmash of voices, laughter, and the clinking of cutlery. The ding of the register and the heat of the fire. Pete’s shoes sticking to the floor as he calls out the order of another regular. He’s surprised to realize he wouldn’t have it any other way.