Chapter Text
Porsche folds the note onto their coffee table, willing the waiting rideshare driver not to honk. Will Chay be too suspicious that he didn’t take his bike? Well, it’s not like he’ll need it, not where he’s going.
He decides he’s pushed his luck far enough. He’s not sure what he should take to do this. To sell himself. Is underwear provided?
Who the fuck knows. All Porsche knows that the initial sign-up was enough to keep the house, and pay for Chay’s college. The account he drained three years ago is finally full again.
I did it, Mom, he thinks, not a little bitterly, and slips out into the early morning light.
Indentured service isn’t something that’s really mentioned, not in polite society, anyway. People “study abroad” or “move to America.” Not everyone who does it comes back.
Porsche is hoping he will. “Is it as bad as all that, nong?” the rideshare driver asks, when Porsche has given him the address. “If this is about a girl…”
“Trust me, it’s worse,” Porsche says, and the guy goes quiet for the ride to a main auction terminal.
He tries to hand him some cash, but the guy waves him off. “You need it more than me, kid,” he says, and takes off back into the night.
The check-in is busier than he’d expected it to be, at 3am. He queues behind a man and a woman in the middle of a fight over their daughter's medication and a blank young woman, alone. Is he allowed to ask what they’re doing here? Is he allowed…
“Name?” the clerk asks, and Porsche hands over his national ID. “You preregistered online. Are you… sure?”
“I am,” Porsche says, bouncing on his heels. He’s chosen to be auctioned with ‘full availability,’ the most dangerous kind of contract. There’s still a chance that someone will pick him up to work in a factory or push a broom but… it’s not likely.
But the term gets him out in time to see Chay graduate college and pays for the house. He has to take it. He has to get back to Chay.
Porsche has been lucky before. Sometimes.
The clerk gives him a sympathetic look. “I can downgrade you,” she offers. “For seven years, I could get you…”
“Five,” Porsche says, and flashes her a grin. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
In the holding area, he calculates the number of hours until he’s worked his time off. Five years is 43,800 hours, give or take. And he passes four of them sitting up against a wall, not sleeping.
The other people in the room are old, or… (Porsche hesitates to think it) damaged. If there was no indentured service, they’d be begging, probably. But now they’re hoping to do something, for a bed and the state-mandated three meals a day, until… what?
“You again, Chai?” one of the guards says. “What’ll you get this time?”
“Soup, I hope,” Chai says, grinning toothlessly.
See, Porsche tells himself. It’s not that bad. It’s not like the old stories.
He manages to nod off and startles awake when someone kicks his sneaker. “Kittisawat, Pachara?” a young-looking guard asks. “We need to inspect you before we can list you. Come with me.”
“Uh, sure,” Porsche says, not sure how professional he needs to appear in what is essentially a prison. “Lead the way.”
Indentured servitude inspection is a big porn trope, but Porsche has never wanted to watch those. So he’s surprised when he’s brought to a small office with two women instead of, y’know.
“I’m Dr. White, and this is Jet,” the one one the left explains. “I’ll conduct a physical, and she’ll be interviewing you and getting a sense of your skills to build a profile for the catalogue. Anything we need to know before we begin?”
“No, uh,” Porsche says, thinking about his various taekwondo and street-fighting injuries. Shit, is that going to be a problem? “Whatever you need. That’s fine.”
“Hmm,” Jet says, and makes a note on her clipboard. “Interesting.”
Porsche wasn’t expecting the physical to be so… intimate. “Get myself um, what?” he asks, his voice cracking.
“Hard,” Dr. White instructs. “For measurements.”
“You’re still able to void your contract and return the money,” Jet reminds him. “There will be a 90-day waiting period before you can relist, but if you didn’t read the terms and conditions for ‘full availability,’ then I suggest that would be a good option for you.”
“No,” Porsche says, because the money’s fucking gone. They can offer him all the options in the world, but he’s already trapped himself. “I was just surprised. Uh. No problem.”
He knows what full availability means. He’s joked about it with Yok, when he’s tired and his feet are sore. “I’ll list myself as full availability, and some rich old lady can pay me to sleep,” he’s laughed.
“Good luck with that,” Yok responded, and flicked him in the ear. “But until you sign that contract, I need those cases of beer moved, honey!”
Well. Porsche just thought he was signing up to be a fighter. But hey, if he has to fuck some gay politician’s wife for five years, he’s ready and willing.
He closes his eyes and strokes himself to hardness. And then he awaits further instructions. “Hmm,” Jet says, but doesn’t sound displeased.
Porsche doesn’t know what that’s about.
The physical feels like more of a separation than entering the holding pen had been. His clothes are bagged up and taken to storage, and he’s given a pair of scrub pants. “Won’t I get cold?” he asks, crossing his arms over his nipples.
“Honey, it’s Thailand,” Dr. White tells him, and laughs. “But we can give you a blanket to wear until your lot comes up, if that would be more comfortable. We pride ourselves on our service to indenturees. A lot of people come here to relist their contracts, you know.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Porsche says, and wonders if Chay is awake yet, if he’s up in time for school, if he’s found the note yet. If he believes it, or if he knows what Porsche is doing. That little fucker always knows, somehow.
---
Not too far away, Kinn Theerapanyakun is facing a very uncomfortable breakfast with his father and his father’s head bodyguard.
P’Chan isn’t eating, of course. He’s just glaring at Kinn from behind Papa’s shoulder. Usually P’Chan is his ally when Papa’s being uh, a little unreasonable, so this feels especially like a betrayal.
“And where did you find him, Chan?” Papa asks.
“Trying to breach your residence, Khun Korn,” Chan answers, still glowering at Kinn. “Thankfully Big was able to subdue the young gentleman in question and ensure your safety.”
“I thought Ken was waiting in the hall,” Kinn protests, weakly. “He was on the list, I think.”
“He was not,” Chan says, his eyes shooting lasers into the depths of Kinn’s soul.
“Yes, Chan and Arm both confirm that he was not background checked,” Korn answers. “Really, my boy. Your libido will bring us to ruin.”
That’s probably true, but Kinn is hardly going to admit it. “I have needs, Papa,” he protests, flushing. “It helps me sleep.”
“Well, I understand that a man has needs,” Papa says, only a touch sarcastically. “But -” He slides the catalogue for the next indenturee auction across the late Qing breakfast table. “I really must insist.”
Well, fuck. “I still want to see Marsh sometimes,” Kinn bargains, and Papa rolls his eyes slightly and waves his hand yes. Marsh can be annoying, but he isn’t fucking stupid. It’s just that he’s not indentured and he’s told Kinn there’s no fucking way he’s accomodating Kinn’s uh, girth, every fucking night.
Well, maybe Kinn can get by with every second (or, heaven help him, third) night of companionship until Papa (... P’Chan) is less salty over this incident. Where the fuck was Ken, honestly? He can’t imagine confining himself to just one…
Fucking Jom is staring up at him from the catalogue. Porsche Pachara K., the listing reads. Full availability.
Kinn almost drops a grape right out of his mouth. “I knew if you’d just look you’d find someone you’d like,” Papa says, smugly. “It’s not marriage, Kinn, it’s evening companionship. How long do indenture terms run nowadays, a couple of years? You’re hardly a penguin, mating with one of these boys for life.”
---
Porsche is not great at waiting. After he’s done with his intake physical, he’s taken to his own private cell, out of the general holding area. He doesn’t know what that means. Is he valuable, maybe? Do they think he needs protection?
He doesn’t fucking know. He just keeps thinking about Chay. Did Chay bring lunch? he wonders. Is Chay home from school, or is he at Ohm’s? He left his phone, and it would have been taken from him anyway, but he wishes he hadn’t. He wishes he could know if Chay bought the lie, if he’s figured out Porsche next stupid plan and is beating down the doors of Indenture Centres, demanding that Porsche be released.
Porsche made sure to pick one really far from their house, just in case. The money is gone. He’s not sure what Chay might say to break his contract, but the kid is creative.
“Pachara?” another female guard asks. Why is everyone here a woman? Does that mean something? “We’re ready to take you to auction. You can bring the blanket, but you’ll need to leave it in the van.”
“Uh, sure,” Porsche says. Hopefully that’s so people can get a glimpse at his ripped physique and choose him for some kind of specialized labour? And not for… other things? “Coming.”
Everyone in the van with him is a beautiful woman or a small, beautiful young man. Porsche starts to feel sick to his stomach. What did I do? he asks himself. What did I do?
“What are you hoping for?” the guy next to him asks, a bit bored. “My last contract gave me all the blow I could put in my nose. Someone like that would be good.”
“Uh,” Porsche says, but luckily his companion wasn’t really waiting for an answer. He wants Chay to be safe. He wants to finish the five years, come home, and watch his brother graduate. Whatever he has to do between then and now is just details. All his life has ever been is details.
He’s not up until near the end (what does that mean) and he can’t help it, he gets more and more nervous. People go on stage and they don’t come back. What the fuck has Porsche gotten himself into? He’s supposed to be a fucking prizefighter or a bodyguard to some rich asshole, not…
“You’re next,” one of the assistants says, and comes at him with a bottle of body oil. Porsche is too surprised to fight her off.
They push him out on stage, and someone hisses at him to turn, to flex, to walk, and so he does it. He doesn’t want to lose this money for Chay.
The emcee is talking about him like a piece of meat, but that’s what Porsche signed up for. It’s fine, Porsche tells himself, trying to look pleasant, like some lost boy an old woman wants to take home. It’s not worse than Hum Bar, and there will only be one of her. It’s fine. You knew this would happen when you signed up.
There are shouts off the stage. The numbers are gratifyingly high, until Porsche compares them to the size of his payout. He should have asked for more. Chay could have had pizza money every night all five years. Fuck, they could have a second house.
And then he hears it, a voice he recognizes from that night a few weeks back. Mr. Fucking Wristwatch.
“One hundred million baht.”
… fuck.