Chapter Text
Big stabs at his omelette angrily, fist clenched tightly around his spoon. He can hear them talking behind him, their voices obnoxiously loud. It’s the new recruits this time, and the very fact that they’ve managed to find out about the rumour so damn quickly has Big grinding his teeth. Mustering up all of his self control, Big narrowly stops himself from turning right around and teaching them a thing or two about respect, and about not believing every damn thing they hear. Not that it would help – just about everyone who works for this godforsaken family has taken this – this rumour; this lie as absolute truth, no matter what Big has to say about it. No matter how many times Big denies it.
Big is not in love with Kinn.
And it’s true, which is the most frustrating part of all – he’s not. His unwavering dedication to protecting Kinn comes from a combination of the fact that him and Kinn have known each other since they were teenagers and his absolute sense of loyalty to the main family (which is literally in the fucking job description, Big thinks angrily, because how on earth him complying with what is demanded of him to complete his job ended up with these baseless rumours he has no idea). Not to mention his deep-seated need for validation from strong authority figures, although Big tries very, very hard not to acknowledge that.
Alas – no amount of red-faced denying from Big seems to get through to any of his cursed colleagues; if anything, it seems to encourage them further. Big’s hands clench tighter around his spoon as he imagines the infuriatingly knowing look Arm gets every time Big protests against their teasing of his ‘crush’ – the insufferable wink Pol sends his way whenever he denies having ‘heart eyes’ – I was literally just looking at him, for fuck’s sake – for Kinn; the rueful smile and sympathetic pat on the shoulder from Pete back when Kinn used to have boys slipping quietly from his room at late hours of the night. The entire goddamn compound seems utterly convinced that Big is in love with Kinn, even the bigmouthed, unable-to-keep-their-damn-voices-down new recruits sitting behind him who apparently have already got wind of Big’s ‘secret.’ Big honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Tankhun’s new fish somehow started gossiping about it next.
Someone behind him laughs, and Big catches a few clear snippets of the group’s conversation – “can you believe he actually –” “Khun Kinn, really –” “well, it’s not like he actually has a chance –”
Big slams his spoon down onto the table. The voices behind him go silent. Leaving his almost-untouched omelette where it is, he storms silently from the room, not even glancing at the group of new recruits behind him. Not worth your time, he thinks to himself. Not worth your anger.
He wishes he could believe it.
Late evening finds Big in the gym, gloves on as he throws punch after punch at the punching bag unfortunate enough to be the first one he saw. Sweat drips down his temples; his arms scream at him to take a break. He’s been going for a long time – too long, Big knows. All bodyguards must be at peak physical performance in order to serve the main family, but training too hard for too long means risking both exhaustion and injury, both things Big can’t afford. Still, he stays, as the room becomes dark and his panting turns to gasping; as his punches weaken and his hair tumbles over his eyes, loose. He stays, because every time he feels like stopping, Arm’s or Pol’s or Pete’s or those fucking new recruits’ faces swim across his mind, infuriating and insufferable and rueful and sympathetic, and he punches harder, anger and embarrassment bubbling through his veins. He stays, and he punches, and he weakens and –
He gasps, whirling around. Something cold had pressed against the back of his neck, startling him, and he raises his hands, poised to fend off the intruder – only to stumble backwards, thrown off balance by his own sudden movement. All at once, the room blurs, and he blinks rapidly, hands still thrown up haphazardly in a feeble attempt at a fighting stance. He hears a sigh, footsteps – and then there is an arm around his waist, catching him right before he trips over his own feet and falls backwards onto the gym mat.
“Steady.”
Big manages to focus his eyes long enough to make out Chan’s face, significantly closer to his own than usual. Slowly, he begins to register everything he’s feeling – bone-deep exhaustion; worrying light-headedness; aching muscles – and, Big realises as his eyes widen and his breath catches – Chan’s arm, wrapped strong and firm around his waist.
“I’ll give you a one out of ten for effort, but I’m afraid your form was absolutely abysmal, Big,” Chan says, raising an eyebrow at him, and, god, why does a shiver pass through Big when Chan says his name? Big shakes his head, attempting to clear it – it’s the exhaustion, it must be – before wincing as the movement causes a sharp pain to lance through his skull. When was the last time he drank some water?
“Here,” comes Chan’s voice again, and something cold is pressed against the palm of his hand. Automatically, Big’s fingers curl around it, and he opens his eyes to find a bottle of water there. Suddenly, all Big can think about is the dryness in his throat and he fumbles with the cap of the bottle, finally getting it open and tipping his throat back to gulp down the cool liquid. He thinks he hears an exasperated huff beside him, but all he can focus on is the feeling of finally being hydrated after hours of neglecting his thirst.
He’s brought back to reality as the steady weight around his waist begins to slide away – Big stumbles; he had been subconsciously leaning into its warmth, he realises as his ears turn red and he hastily rights himself.
“Sorry,” he mutters, unable to meet Chan’s eyes. For a moment, Chan says nothing, hands now resting comfortably in his pockets. It seems almost wrong that he is the picture of ease while Big is shuffling his feet, cheeks hot, embarrassment resting heavily at the base of his throat. Then, Chan sighs. He steps closer.
“Big,” he says, and his voice is – it’s low, a shade quieter than usual, and if Big didn’t absolutely know better, he’d say it sounds almost soft. “That’s enough for today.”
Big’s eyes finally find their way to Chan’s. His brow is furrowed, and he looks worried, but that must be wrong; Big must be seeing things, delirious from exhaustion, because there’s no way that Chan, his superior, the person who mercilessly pushes all the bodyguards to their limit in the name of training them for their full potential, would be worried about him. Big swallows, opening his mouth to protest – he’s not done; he’s fine; he’s worked out for longer than this before – but Chan speaks again before he even has a chance to.
“No, Big,” he says, and it’s all low quiet soft but also a command, clear as day, and Big’s mouth closes immediately. “That’s enough.”
And then he’s gone, turning and walking swiftly back through the door of the gym, leaving Big standing there, breathless – from his workout or something else, who could say – with a mostly-empty bottle of water in his hand. He’s gone, no looking back, no staying to check whether or not Big follows his order.
No need to check. He knows he will.
Big makes his way back to his room not a minute after, showers, changes into pyjamas, and falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, dreaming of strong arms and soft voices.
“His name is Big?”
”Yes, that’s the one –”
“Is he seriously –?”
“I told you, he is, everyone knows –”
The eager voices of the new recruits halt abruptly as Big shoulders through their little group, causing more than one of them to stumble over their feet. He scowls. Not only are they nosy little shits, but they’re incompetent, too – none of them even noticed his footsteps approaching from behind, too focussed on gossiping. Big pushes open the door to the training room none-too-gently, not bothering to hide the sour look on his face even as he sees the eyebrows of other bodyguards raise at his loud entrance. Shaking off stares from what seems like every direction, he strides to the front of the group, not sparing anyone a glance as he waits for Chan to brief them on their circuits for the day.
Before long, he’s going through the tiring yet oddly comforting motions of shuttle runs across the room; Arm and one of the new recruits run alongside him, but this time it’s easy to ignore them. Turns out, they’re far more bearable when they’re not in a group.
He works up a sweat, muscles comfortably warm, before moving onto the punching bags at Chan’s command. Unwittingly, memories of the previous night rise behind his eyes; Big shakes his head, a feeble attempt at shaking off the phantom warmth of Chan’s arm around his waist. It was just the exhaustion – his head wasn’t in the right place – there’s no other explanation for the way his breath caught and he froze like a deer in the headlights, ears burning red, when Chan touched him. He huffs frustratedly, aiming another hard punch at the bag in front of him. He can’t afford any other distractions. It’s bad enough that he has to deal with people accusing him of being in love with his boss every day, he doesn’t need –
“– just can’t believe he gets away with it. Shouldn’t he have been fired years ago?”
Big breathes in a long, long breath, hands clenching.
“– exactly what I thought! I know I would feel weird about it if one of my bodyguards had a huge crush on me.”
Punch. Punch. Punch. Big speeds up, breathing hard. Arm shoots him a concerned and slightly alarmed look, no doubt overhearing the same thing as Big. It only makes him angrier: he knows that the concern is at least partly aimed at the fictional poor, lovesick Big, who has to deal with people constantly reminding him of his huge crush on his boss, never mind the million times he has insisted that he is not in love with his fucking boss –
“– uncomfortable, at this point. Do you think that’s why he hates Porsche? Must be, he must be so jealous –”
“Ah – fuck!”
Heads turn in Big’s direction as he exclaims loudly, face scrunched in pain. Arm takes a step towards him but stops when Big flinches back minutely; involuntarily. With a muttered “shit” under his breath, Big inspects his hand, and – fuck, it’s already swelling. The pain, aside from the initial sharp jolt when the bone had undoubtedly broken, is bearable compared to the searing agony of getting shot, but – Big swears in frustration. A broken finger should be easily avoidable with proper technique, but now Big will have to spend three weeks minimum in a finger splint as it heals. It's his right hand, too – the one he usually shoots with.
“What’s the issue?”
Big’s head snaps up. Chan’s disapproving stare meets his. He averts his eyes, shame causing his ears to flare red. Shame that his form was so poor he got himself hurt; shame for letting himself get so wound up by the should-be meaningless words of the new recruits behind him that he fucked up something that should be second nature to him.
Big clears his throat. “Broken, I think,” he mutters, forcing himself to meet Chan’s eyes once more. He won’t be impolite, even as his ears burn with embarrassment.
Chan steps closer, and, in one swift movement, reaches out to take Big’s injured hand in a surprisingly gentle grip. Big shifts his feet awkwardly as Chan inspects the swollen knuckle, feeling the stares of the other bodyguards around the room. After what seems like an eternity, Chan lets go of his hand, and Big ignores the way it feels strangely cold afterwards.
“Have I not trained you properly?” Chan says, eyes hard, and Big feels the same sharp jab at his ribs that occurs whenever he’s found lacking in some way. Whenever somebody is disappointed in him.
“You have, sir.” He says quietly, making sure to look Chan in the eye as he says it. “I was careless. I’m sorry.”
Chan says nothing. Then, he sighs, eyes shifting to somewhere behind Big.
”If you have matters to discuss which do not pertain to your training, please have the courtesy to discuss them outside of training hours. Especially when you end up distracting your colleagues.”
Big’s eyes widen. He hears awkward shuffling of feet behind him, and some mumbled “yes, sir”s as the new recruits attempt not to shit their pants in the face of Chan’s disapproving gaze. He’d had no idea that Chan had even been near when the group was talking behind him, but it turns out he’d been near enough to overhear their conversation, at least. Big tries to sort out how he feels about that, and fails – he’s embarrassed, of course – god, he’s embarrassed – that Chan clearly knows about the rumours just the same as everyone else. But there’s also another feeling bubbling up in his gut, something that turns his ears red for a reason other than shame. Something small and warm and pleased.
“Also,” Chan continues, and Big wrenches himself out of his thoughts. “I would appreciate it if you stop gossiping about other people’s love lives. Especially as the person you’re talking about is in a relationship with me.”
Big freezes. He knows his mouth has dropped open and he’s staring up at Chan, eyes comically wide. The other man is still looking at the group behind him – the group that is now completely silent, and oh, god, the entire room is silent, they all heard – but as Big stares, Chan’s eyes slide back to his, softening noticeably as they do. He raises an eyebrow, a small, barely-there movement, but Big somehow recognises it for what it is: a question. Is this okay? Do you want to play along?
Big hesitates.
Slowly – very slowly – he closes his mouth, and nods. The corner of Chan’s mouth quirks upwards just slightly, before smoothing out so fast that Big wonders if he had imagined it. As everybody watches, Chan steps towards Big, just a touch closer than usual, and slides a hand onto his shoulder, just a hair too slow to be friendly.
“You’ll need to visit the infirmary to get that in a splint as soon as possible,” Chan says in a low voice, which – Big already knows this, has broken multiple fingers before, and would ordinarily snap at anybody who tries to explain things to him that he already knows. But now, he just nods, offering a small, grateful smile at Chan’s concern – concern? Is he concerned? Is he just acting? – before swallowing back a gasp as Chan’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, giving it a brief, undoubtedly affectionate squeeze before stepping back once more.
“Go on,” Chan says, giving him an unreadable look, as if Big had behaved in a way that he can’t quite figure out. “Come back when you’re done. You can still train with one hand.”
And so, with the disbelieving stares of the other bodyguards following him, Big quickly exits the training room, head reeling, hand smarting, ears burning.