Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tay finds the bar because he’s pissed, heart-broken, and sick of people recognising him when he’s trying to forget who he is.

It’s a far cry from his usual haunts. It sits on a grimy, neon alleyway that made Tay feel like he was going to get mugged as he walked through it. The interior lighting is dim, but the décor is just a few shades too trashy to make it atmospheric, and the music choices are alternately dull and grating.

Tay’s not here for any of that, though.

Come for the drinks, stay for the bartender, read one of the reviews Tay found on Wongnai. It was a common enough refrain, in amongst chatter about the prices, the ambiance, the apparently friendly and caring owner.

Bartender made me a personalised drink and kissed my hand. I’m a lesbian and it still made me melt.

Yok needs to stop hiring hotties, my wallet can’t help but tip them for their smiles TT_TT

The bartender’s so hot you don’t even care what he’s making you.

Ordered a sex on the beach just to hear the bartender say it. I DON’T EVEN DRINK GUYS.

It’s not—Tay’s not looking to cheat on Time. There’s a part of him that wishes he were capable of that, to hurt Time the way he’s hurt him, but Tay knows himself. He knows he’s loyal, to the point of stupidity. He knows it’d only hurt him, in the end.

But it’s been a shit day, and Tay wants to sit at a bar, watch a cute boy make him drinks, and daydream about a world where he’s capable of the kind of spite it would take to make Time regret taking him for granted.

It’s not the worst way Tay’s ever spent an evening. He picks drinks at random off the cocktail menu – and tries not to think too hard about the symbolism involved when he finds himself ordering another Painkiller, surprised by how nice it tastes – and watches the hot bartender mentioned by reviewers long enough to figure out his name is Porsche, and he’s almost certainly straight.

It's perfect, really. Straight guys have their place in Tay’s sexuality – the hot, unattainable crushes Tay can safely yearn after without ever having to worry about them liking him back. Sometimes you don’t want to entertain realities. Sometimes you just want to look, and know that’s all you’re going to do.

Tay watches Porsche kiss a young woman’s hand. She’s gorgeous: tall, skinny, wearing a scrap of fabric only a fool would think wasn’t designer, balanced on four-inch heels. He whispers something to her, and she smiles at him.

Tay sips his drink, and imagines himself in her place. It must feel so—heady, to find yourself the centre of attention of a guy like Porsche. He’s attentive with her. He looks directly at her. He smiles like he doesn’t care about anyone else.

Tay doesn’t remember when Time last smiled at him like that.

Oh. Now that’s—that’s not so fun. Maybe this was a bad idea.

There’s an audible clink as a drink is placed in front of him. Tay looks up, and then blinks a few times at what he’s seeing.

It’s a glass of water. Or—it seems to be. No-one puts that much vodka in a glass on its own. But the rim of the glass is crusted with pink sugar crystals, and there’s an umbrella sticking out the top.

He looks further up, and comes face to face with the bar’s owner, an older woman whose sense of style seems to begin and end with the word glitter. The reviews called her Yok. She raises her eyebrows at him.

“Porsche asked me to give that to you, before he went on his break.”

Tay glances around the bar, and realises that he somehow missed Porsche’s exit – and, if his eyes are to be believed, the young woman’s too. On break, huh. Now there’s a euphemism for you.

“It’s just water. Porsche thought you’d be more likely to drink it if he made it a little fruity for you.”

His eyes drag back to the drink.

Behind the bar, Yok sighs. “If you don’t want to drink it, I can take it back,” she says. “But you’ve been putting away a lot of liquor-heavy cocktails all night. Your head will thank you tomorrow if you take a break.”

Tay hadn’t realised Porsche had taken that much note of him, truthfully. His attention seemed to be mostly occupied with other patrons – pretty girls, waving around cash tips in exchange for feats of skill, or feats of alcoholism as the case may be. Tay doesn’t carry cash, and he’s not interested in pulling focus. He’s happy to sit on the side-lines, nursing drinks, watching the chaos.

When he closes his tab, he’ll stick 20,000 baht on top of it as a tip, and then he’ll bow out with whatever grace his drunken state has left him with. He’s a generous tipper, as a rule. But he doesn’t believe in baiting people with it.

It’s trashy.

Yok sighs again. “I’ll take it back.” She reaches for the glass, but Tay reaches out and pulls it towards him before she can.

“I want it,” he says. Anything else sticks in his throat.

Tay hasn’t flashed his money around once, since he got here. He gave Yok his card to open a tab, but she clearly didn’t clock the significance of the name printed on it. He isn’t even dressed all that nicely.

As far as Porsche knows, there’s no tip in it for him, if he’s nice to Tay. He just—got him some water, anyway. He dressed it up like all the other cocktails Tay’s been ordering tonight. He had his boss deliver it, before he went on break.

Fuck.

Tay looks at his glass of water, with its pink sugar crusting, and little paper umbrella, and he tells himself he’s not going to cry. He can’t quite bring himself to drink it, even though he knows he really should. He just—doesn’t want to ruin this moment, this gesture of kindness. If he had his phone with him, he’d photograph it.

If he had his phone with him, he probably would have forgiven Time three text messages ago.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.”

It takes Tay more time that he’d like to realise who’s speaking to him. He jerks his head up and sees that Porsche is back from his break, which means he’s probably managed to spend something close to twenty minutes staring at a slowly melting glass of ice water.

Tay’s mouth is dry.

“Yok says you didn’t appreciate my joke with the glass dressing,” Porsche says. “Let me make you something to apologise for it – on the house.”

Tay needs to say something. “I liked it.”

Porsche’s smile is—inviting. Like he’s telling a joke, and you’re in on it. “You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better,” he says. “You’re the most fun I’ve had making drinks for a customer all year. Half the shit you ordered I forgot we even had on the menu.”

Tay wonders what Porsche thinks of him, this sad, tired drunk with bleached hair taking up space at his bar. He wonders if he seems—fun. If he seems adventurous. Or if he comes across exactly as he feels—out of touch, too jaded to have fun, a lonely fool looking for oblivion.

He feels he needs to offer an explanation, at least, for his drink choices. “I don’t usually—do this kind of thing,” he says. “My boyfriend—”

He cuts himself off.

It’s not that he’s closeted, or ashamed, or even passingly interested in trying to hide his sexuality. It’s just—he usually doesn’t have to come out to people. What they can’t read from his dress sense, they tend to pick up from the fact that he’s usually all over another man. All over Time.

But here, he’s dressed down. Time’s at home. Or—at someone else’s home.

It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Tay’s sexuality isn’t always something that’s safe to admit.

“Your boyfriend?” Porsche prompts.

Tay looks up. There’s no disgust on Porsche’s face. No reaction other than curiosity. He’s waiting for Tay to finish his thought.

Tay swallows thickly. “My boyfriend usually orders for me.”

“Let me guess,” Porsche says dryly. “An Old Fashioned?”

There’s a joke there, that Tay’s not getting. Some sort of bartender humour. “That or whisky, neat.”

Time laughed at him, when they started dating, for drinking whisky on ice. He said it was the mark of a rich boy, to have expensive taste and no follow-through. Tay wanted to impress him, so he learned to stomach the burn. He never quite got to liking it.

Porsche hums. “I think I want to make you an Aviation,” he says. “Going off your drinks tonight, you’ll either love it or hate it.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s pretty much a gin sour,” Porsche says. “Gin, lemon juice, maraschino liquor, but with a dash of crème de violette.”

Tay’s only ever had crème de violette once before – back when he and Time decided to go drinking in France. It tasted like someone had infused cough syrup with bathwater.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Porsche laughs. “It’s good, I swear,” he says. “Yok had it once when she was in New York and made us add it to the menu the moment she got back. Plus, it’s pretty.” He smiles crookedly. “A guy like you, with hands like that – you should always be holding pretty things.”

Tay feels himself flush. That’s—he shouldn’t be this easy to charm. He’s 27. He has a master’s in business. He negotiates multi-million baht contracts on a weekly basis. But— you should always be holding pretty things.

“I’ll take it,” Tay finds himself saying.

Porsche grins. “You won’t regret it.”

Tay even sort of believes him.

Watching Porsche work is—captivating. There’s really no other word to describe it. Tay finds his eyes following Porsche’s hands, tracing the movements of his nimble fingers as he measures out ingredients and ice. He meets Tay’s eyes as he shakes the cocktail together, and smiles at him when he finally slides the glass across the bar top.

The drink is pale purple, garnished with a fresh cherry and a twist of lemon peel. Porsche is right. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t feel juvenile. It feels like the kind of thing a rich divorcee might drink, dressed to the nines, as she surveys the bar for some hot young thing to bed.

A touch feminine, but all the more powerful for it.

Tay brings the glass to his lips.

It’s—truthfully, not at all what he’s expecting. The floral undertone is present, but not overpowering – it sits in the background of the drink, behind the sweetness of the liquor, the sharpness of the lemon, and the herbal, alcoholic tang of the gin. It’s—refreshing.

Drinks like this – flavour profiles as delicate as this – they’re hard to make well. Tay’s family is in the hospitality business. He knows better than most that shit like this is the mark of a really good bartender.

A really good, really attractive bartender who’s currently watching him, waiting for his verdict on his craft. Tay feels something swoop in his gut at his regard – some combination of Porsche’s attention, his easy confidence, and his demonstrable talent getting to him. This is—

This is a little more than looking, in truth.

Tay lowers the glass from his lips. “It’s—good. I like it.”

Porsche’s lips split into a bright smile. “I’m glad you like it,” he says. “It looks good in your hands.”

Time used to say that Tay had young master’s hands – delicate and soft. Dainty. Hands like that aren’t made to wash dishes, he’d say, with just enough humour in his voice to communicate that he thought it was just a little ridiculous that Tay didn’t know how. Tay didn’t mind at the time. But now it’s just another memory that’s soured by the realisation that Time doesn’t respect him.

Maybe he never did.

Tay puts the glass back down on the bar.

Above him, Porsche watches.

“So.”

Tay looks up.

“The pushy boyfriend,” Porsche says, picking up the empty cocktail shaker from his workstation and moving it to the sink, “the one that orders all your drinks – he have something to do with why you’re drinking alone in a bar?”

Tay’s fingers still on the stem of his cocktail glass. “He’s not pushy.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No,” Tay admits. “It’s not.”

There’s a beat of silence. Porsche doesn’t push.

The truth is, Tay doesn’t want to talk about it. He likes who he is in this moment, to Porsche, to the other customers, to Yok. He likes being the anonymous, pretty patron, who sits in the corner and quietly orders weird drinks. He likes being the guy Porsche flirts with out of nothing more than habit, because a guy like Porsche probably doesn’t know how to turn it off. He likes the idea that when this night is done, he’ll be reduced down to nothing more than a few key attributes, when Porsche thinks of him – dainty fingers wrapped around the stem of a cocktail glass, an Aviation in elegant hands, and maybe if he’s lucky his smile, or his eyes.

He doesn’t want to rip open his chest and ruin that with everything he’s hiding from.

But—this is the only chance he’ll get.

Because Tay’s parents, his sister, even Kinn – Tay can’t talk to them about Time. He’s spent so long hiding every shred of his struggles from them; to confess any of it means confessing all of it. And it’s—humiliating. He already knows what they’ll say. He already knows they won’t understand why he’s never told them the truth.

Tay’s invested so much in building an image of his life where he’s young and pretty and successful – where he has the boyfriend, the apartment, the expensive hobbies, and everything is perfect. He’s not ready to lose that.

He’s not ready to endure the shame that’ll come with admitting it’s a lie.

And Tay has to talk about it. He has to get it out of his head, out of his chest, before it tears him to pieces.

So he has to. He has to talk to Porsche. He has to find some way to put it all into words, because he’s not going to get another chance like this, to be anonymous, to tell the truth, without losing much more than the warm regard of a back-alley bartender he’ll never see again.

Tay runs a finger down the stem of his cocktail glass. “Do you ever realise that you’ve spent your entire life accepting less than you’re worth – but you’re so used to it that you don’t know how to start demanding more?”

Porsche pauses, hands stilling where he’s wiping down his workstation behind the bar. Tay fidgets a little, hyperaware that he’s just responded to a casual inquiry into his wellbeing with a deeply personal look into his psyche.

This is a little beyond what can reasonably be expected for a good tip.

Maybe he’s a little drunker than he’s given himself credit for.

“Sorry,” Tay says. “I know that’s—a little more than you bargained for.”

Porsche jolts, as if he’s just remembered how to move. “No,” he says. “No, I asked. I just—I’ve never heard it put like that before.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think it actually has all that much to do with what we’re worth. There are always reasons people accept the things they accept – sometimes they’re good, and sometimes—they’re not good enough.”

Not good enough, huh.

Tay inhales. “My boyfriend cheats on me.” It sounds so pathetic like that. Cheats – because Time’s never once stopped. “All the time,” Tay adds. “And it’s not—I’ve known for years. I’ve always known. Sometimes he even—in front of me—and I just smile. I smile, and I take it. No matter how many times, I just—smile, and let him.”

Porsche watches him closely. “You haven’t left him.”

It’s neutral. Non-judgemental. But Tay feels the implicit judgement in the words anyway.

Any rational person would have left Time years ago.

Tay hasn’t. “I don’t know why,” he says.

There are—strings attached to Tay’s relationship with Time. No-one dates someone for eight years without getting a little tangled in their life. They’re cosignatories on the lease for their apartment. Time works at Tay’s parents’ business. They have flights booked, for two months’ time – they’re going to spend their anniversary in Venice.

But with the kind of money Tay was born into – those strings really don’t mean much at all.

“There’s nothing tying us together that I couldn’t—” Tay swallows. “I don’t need him for money. We don’t work together. If I walked away, I could—I could easily never see him again. I don’t need him. But I just—”

“You just keep staying,” Porsche says.

Tay falls silent. It’s—that much more damning, put like that. You just keep staying. Phrased like an active choice that he makes, every time some new infidelity is revealed. Like it’s something more deliberate than passivity.

Porsche leans back against the back counter of the bar. He exhales. “Relationships are complicated.”

An understatement, if anything. “Speaking from experience?”

“Not really.” Porsche’s smile has a touch of self-deprecation to it. “I’ve never managed anything longer than a few hours. But I don’t need to have had a girlfriend to know that it’s complicated, when you care about someone, and they consistently prove themself unworthy of that affection.”

That—has the ring of truth to it. A hard-learned lesson. Tay wonders who it was that disappointed Porsche so frequently to teach him that kind of cynical truth.

Parents, probably. Porsche doesn’t really look old enough for anything else.

“I will say this, though,” Porsche goes on. “Saying you don’t know why you stay – that’s a cop-out. You know why you stay with him. And if you really want to leave, you’re going to have to admit it to yourself – because you’re never going to be able to change it if you don’t.”

He’s right. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

“Did the psychology degree come free with the cocktail shaker?”

“I wish,” Porsche says, smiling with an easy kind of humour. “University’s kicking my ass.”

Tay tries to smile, but can’t make the expression stay on his face. He curls his fingers around the stem of his cocktail glass. “The drink’s really good,” he says, looking up.

Porsche smiles. “Thanks.” He stays there, leaning against the back of the bar, watching Tay, for several long moments. “He’s really made you miserable, huh?” he asks. He sighs. “Yok usually has last call in about an hour or so. If you want, you can finish up your drink and I can get you a fresh glass of water, call you a cab – get you back home to your boyfriend.”

The thought of seeing Time so soon after talking about everything makes Tay uneasy.

“Or,” Porsche says, “I pull out Yok’s cheapest rum, the shit that makes you go blind if you drink too much of it, and we see how many shots it takes for you to admit whatever it is you don’t want to say.”

Oblivion and alcohol poisoning – Tay can’t overstate how appealing they sound. But—

He flicks a glance behind him, where a gaggle of pretty girls are laughing loudly about something. The girl that left with Porsche for his break is there, holding court.

Tay looks back to Porsche. “Don’t you have—” he searches for the right word, “—customers to entertain?”

There’s a strange quality to Porsche’s smile. “I think they already got what they wanted out of me tonight,” he says. “I wouldn’t be welcome right now.”

That feels—sad, in a way that Tay wasn’t prepared for. “Oh.”

“So?” Porsche asks, straightening. “Shots, or cab?”

This is the easiest decision Tay’s had to make in a long time. “Shots.”

Porsche grins. “I hoped you’d say that.”

--

“So, why are you still with him?” Porsche asks.

Tay stares at the empty shot glass in front of him. “I…”

Porsche pulls the shot glass towards him and fills it with amber liquid. He slides it back.

Tay picks it up and throws it back. It burns on the way down.

“Ready to answer the question?” Porsche asks.

Tay places the empty shot glass back down on the bar top. “It’s complicamen—complime—” Fuck. “There’s a lot of—stuff in my head.”

“So pick the simplest thing and start with that.”

None of it is simple. It’s all just—tangled, and unpleasant. “I don’t—” He breaks off. If he refuses, Porsche is just going to give him more to drink – and then he really will have no control over what comes out of his mouth.

Tay swallows thickly and tries to find somewhere to start. “I wanted him so much,” he says. “So much. He was—back, before—” The words die in his throat.

Porsche leans forward, arms resting on the bar. “Before he cheated on you?”

“No. No.” Tay can still taste the spices of the rum on his tongue. “I just—he’d never—I went after him. Before we dated. He was—handsome. Hot. Illegible.”

“Illegi—oh.” Porsche smiles. “Eligible. Like, he was hot shit?”

Time had been. He was tennis champion, effortlessly masculine and even more effortlessly attractive. He did crazy shit, all the time – he responded to a classmate’s homophobic bully by seducing her ex-boyfriend. He put a pen-knife through their dick-bag professor’s car tyre, and told the guy to bill him. He wasn’t just hot. He was—daring, and audacious, and fun.

“He could have had—” Tay feels a swell of melancholic nostalgia in his chest, “he could have had anyone. I wanted him so much. So I—I really went for him. He was—he’d never—he didn’t know what hit him. Hit on him.”

Sometimes Tay misses the person he’d been at eighteen. He was less comfortable with himself, back then, less at ease with his sexuality and presentation thereof. But he was singularly privileged and sheltered in a way that meant he didn’t really understand hardship. It never occurred to eighteen-year-old Tay that he might not get what he wanted – who he wanted. It never occurred to him that someone might not want him back.

Confidence born out of ignorance. Pitiable, really.

“Ah,” Porsche says. “So you seduced him?”

“I was his first,” Tay says. “He was—versional.” That’s not right. “Version? Aversion?”

Porsche visibly quashes a smile. “Virginal?” he offers.

Tay points at him. “Yes. Virginial.”

“Close enough.”

“He’d never had—anyone,” Tay says. “Except blowjobs. But blowjobs don’t count. They’re like—who hasn’t had a blowjob?”

“Sure.” Porsche sounds amused. “Everyone’s had a blowjob.”

“I think—I think I forced him.”

Porsche pauses. “To… have sex with you?”

Tay doesn’t think anyone’s ever had to force Time to have sex in his entire life. “To be exclusive,” he says. “It’s—” He pauses. “You’re straight.”

Porsche blinks. “Thanks for noticing.”

It’s not like he was hiding it. On break, yeah right. But that’s not the point. “You won’t get it,” he says.

“Try me.”

Tay looks at him critically. “You’re straight,” he says again. “You don’t—you’re default. The—clicky thing, on the form, it starts off correct for you. Straight. Het-e-ro-sex-u-al. Heterosexual. But I’m not. I’m gay. So I know—I know it’s not—default. It’s—hard. So I know I should have let him—exprem—expleri—”

Fuck, why does this word have so many syllables?

Porsche’s face clears with understanding. “You think you should have let him experiment.”

“Yeah.”

Porsche exhales. “And if you’d just let him stick his dick in a few other people, he wouldn’t be cheating on you right now?”

Tay stares at the bottle of rum still on the counter. “Yeah.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Tay’s gaze snaps up at Porsche.

“Seriously?” Porsche says. “No, don’t make that face. It’s bullshit, and you know it. How long have you been together?”

“Since college,” Tay says, and then realises that means nothing to Porsche. “Eight years.”

“Experimenting is about figuring out who you are and who you like,” Porsche says. “It’s been nearly a decade. He knows who he is and who he likes. Cheating on someone isn’t something you just get out of your system in college – take it from a bartender who hears a lot of drunken confessions of infidelity. It’s not about whatever you think you stole from him – it’s about him making an active choice to repeatedly break your trust. He made a commitment to you, and he’s not honouring it.”

He makes it sound so—transactional. Like eight years of their lives can be boiled down to—what, breach of contract?

Tay wishes he could view it with that kind of objective clarity. Like the relevant damages could be—quantified, and counted, and measured against each other to easily determine who the injured party truly was. But even if it really is just—a legal case, a business deal gone south—

Even if Tay entertains the metaphor, he would share liability. Because he’s known about Time’s indiscretions for years, and he hasn’t done anything.

The proverbial statute of limitations on sticking your dick in someone else.

“I only understood about half of that,” Porsche says.

Tay looks up at him abruptly. Oh. So he—

“You were speaking aloud,” Porsche says. “And I’ll admit, the business shit is beyond me, but you still haven’t answered my original question. Why don’t you leave him?”

Tay knows the answer. Tay’s always known the answer. He forces himself to start talking, as if the words will flow easier if he just opens his fucking mouth. “I just—”

It chokes him.

Porsche waits.

“I know I’m not—” Fuck.

Porsche’s tone is gentle. “You’re not what?”

There are brambles in his chest, growing between his ribs, spearing his lungs. He focuses on the shot glass, empty on the counter, and pretends that he isn’t talking about himself. That this isn’t real. “People look at me,” he says, “and they just—know. They know I’m gay.”

There’s a beat of silence. Tay hears a sharp laugh from somewhere behind him – one of the girls that Porsche entertained earlier.

When Porsche speaks, it’s soft. “I wouldn’t have clocked it.”

It’s not the reassurance he thinks it is. People like Porsche – straight guys with girls falling over themselves to get into their jeans – aren’t generally gifted with the kind of self-awareness to realise that their experiences aren’t universal. He’s living his life as the default – and he doesn’t have to think too hard about what it means to not be the same.

He probably wouldn’t even clock one of Kinn’s twinks. Or Kinn, either, for that matter, and he goes out of his way not to hide it.

“You’re so—” Tay says. “You’re—you’re straight. Very straight. Girls, girls, girls, and girls. No men allowed. So you can just be—obvious.”

“Obvious? Oh—oblivious.”

“Yeah.” Tay fixes his eyes on the small residue of rum pooling at the bottom of his shot glass. “Most people—they know. And that’s—that’s not what a lot of people want.”

“Like your boyfriend.” Porsche says it flatly, like it’s a statement of a fact.

“It’s—none of the guys he sleeps with look like me,” Tay says. “So I—I know.”

“You know?”

“That this is as good as it gets for me.”

The moment it leaves him, he wishes he’d never let the words out. But it’s just hanging there, in the air between him and Porsche, and suddenly, Tay has to explain himself. He has to make it less-damning, somehow.

“I’m not—trying to make you tell me nice things about myself,” Tay says. “It’s not—I know I have things to offer. But I don’t think—those things don’t matter, when no-one wants them. I could—I get hit on, when I go out. People want to fuck me. I’m this—gender-fuck fantasy. Someone you play around with for fun. But no-one wants—no-one wants to keep me.”

Porsche has gone silent. Tay can’t handle looking at him.

“So that’s why. That’s why I don’t leave him, because this is—this is all I can get. And I—I’d rather swallow all the—injustices, all the— humiliation, than leave him and realise that—”

There’s a hollow quality to Porsche’s voice. “That no-one else wants you.”

Tay looks at the empty shot glass on the bar, and at the half-empty bottle of rum, and then at Porsche, who looks—stricken. Like Tay’s wrecked him as much as he’s wrecked Tay.

“Yeah,” Tay says.

Porsche exhales roughly. “Fuck.” He places a fresh shot glass on the counter, fills it with rum, and then throws it back.

Tay watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. It’s—well, Porsche is fucking hot, is what it is. And he swallows like a pro.

It feels—wrong, a little, to be entertaining these kinds of thoughts after spilling all his most private, most fucked-up needy shit.

Tay looks away. “I thought—don’t you have to drive?”

Porsche wipes his mouth. “I’ll get a cab.” He places the shot glass directly into a sink behind the bar. He exhales. “For the record,” he says, after a beat, “I think you’re wrong. You’re good looking. You’re well-spoken. You’re—clean. You wash. I don’t know anything about—gay guys, and being—” He gestures loosely at Tay.

“Girly,” Tay says.

“Pretty,” Porsche corrects. His face looks a little—flushed, probably from the alcohol. “I don’t know what it’s like, but—personally, if it were me, I’d lock you down hard, if we were dating.”

Tay wants to kiss him.

The strength of the desire takes him off-guard. He’s used to seeing attractive people, to feeling that flare in his gut, and ignoring it. He’s monogamous to a fault. When he’s in a relationship, he doesn’t want other people. Maybe he has fun looking, but he doesn’t—

It’s never anything more than that.

But he wants Porsche. He wants Porsche bad.

Fuck.

Porsche meets his eye. There’s a charged moment, suspended between them. For a second, Tay thinks that’s all it’s going to be – another potentiality left hanging, another road not taken – but then Porsche leans in.

His fingers are gentle on Tay’s cheek. “Eyelash.”

When he goes to move back, Tay catches him. It’s not forceful, but it doesn’t have to be. Porsche turns back into him like he was waiting for it, waiting for an excuse, any excuse, and then their lips touch, and they’re kissing.

Porsche doesn’t kiss like a straight boy.

It’s tender and filthy all at once. Porsche kisses like he’s trying to make your toes curl, like he’s trying to make you melt, like he wants to ruin you for all other men. He kisses like he’s relishing every second. He kisses like he never wants it to end.

And then it does.

Porsche jerks back, away from Tay. His eyes are wide, pupils blown. He looks—like he’s just made a terrible mistake.

“I—” He stares. “This is a bad idea.”

And then he’s gone.

Tay sits there in silence for a long time. And then he reaches for the bottle of rum still on the counter, and pours himself another shot.

He’s not drunk enough for this.

--

“—one of yours?”

“—think I ever caught his name. Phi? Phi, are you awake?”

Tay groans, swatting at the hand that’s trying to shake him awake.

“—no way he can close his tab right now. Why—”

“—cut him off—”

“—turned my back for five minutes, I swear—”

There’s a loud voice near his face. “Phi? Phi, is there someone we can call?”

“—really out of it—”

Hands in his pockets. “He doesn’t have a phone on him.”

“—don’t tell Yok. She’s got—”

“—stay here—”

“—your brother?”

“Sleepover. But I’m not—”

“—name’s Tay.”

“P’Tay? Sir? P’Tay, can you hear me? P’Tay, we want to call you a cab. Can you tell us your address? P’Tay? P’Tay—”

The voices slip away from him.

--

Tay opens his eyes to a throbbing headache, a crick in his neck, and the sensation of sunlight on his face. He squints into the bright light – daylight, because he’s somehow lost at least an entire four hours – and tries to figure out where he is.

He’s still dressed, and he’s not lying on a bed, which rules out any kind of one-night-stand, but his fragmented memories of the night prior very quickly strip him of any illusions he may have as to Drunk Tay’s good judgement. He kissed a straight boy. He kissed a straight boy who was on shift.

And then instead of apologising for his entitled display of shockingly poor manners – because you don’t hit on service staff, not when they can’t escape you, not when they can’t say no – Drunk Tay took Porsche’s entirely valid rejection of him personally, and decided to drown out the remainder of his consciousness with an entire bottle of spiced rum.

Tay wants to crawl into a hole and never speak to anyone again.

He still might – once he figures out where the hell he is.

Tay scrubs a hand down his face, staring up at the ceiling above him. It’s smooth plaster and painted a pale cream – unmoulded and unembellished. He stares at it until the light no longer makes his eyes feel like they’re going to burn out of his skull, and then turns his head to take in the rest of the room.

He’s in a living room. The décor is the kind of minimalist Tay associates with Ikea catalogues and budget hotel rooms – sparse, tasteful, and cheap. Lots of neutrals – greys, creams, wood-tones. Not so much a colour palette as a dedication to causing the least offense possible.

No-one Tay knows has a room like this. No-one would. The intersection of good taste and poverty is fairly narrow, in the circles he runs in.

There’s a clatter of movement from the doorway to Tay’s left. He turns his head, and locks gazes with the largest pair of eyes he’s ever seen. They’re peeking out from behind a heavy fringe of dark hair, set in a face still rounded out by youth and baby fat.

Cute. Like a small animal.

And then Tay catalogues the rest of the interloper’s appearance – the immaculately pressed short-sleeved shirt, the beige chinos, the embroidered crest on the shirt pocket. A school uniform. This is a child. A schoolboy. Someone at least ten years younger than him.

What happened last night?

The boy’s eyes go wide. He opens his mouth. “Hia!”

Tay winces. Loud. Too loud for his pounding head and aching neck.

Another, more familiar voice shouts back. “What!”

Porsche. Oh. Okay. This makes a little more sense.

“Your guest’s awake!” yells Porsche’s—brother? Brother would probably fit best. Porsche doesn’t seem old enough to have a child of his own.

“He is?”

There’s a storm of heavy footsteps – someone thudding down a set of stairs – and then Porsche’s head appears in the doorway behind the schoolkid. Porsche ruffles the kid’s hair, an easy, automatic gesture of affection as he steps past him into the room.

The kid hesitates in the doorway, just a bit, staring at Tay.

“Chay,” Porsche says. “Homework. Printer. Go.”

The kid – Chay, apparently – shoots one last look at Tay, before he disappears down the corridor. Tay hears his footsteps clambering up the stairs shortly afterwards.

“Your brother?” Tay asks. His voice comes out hoarse.

“Yeah,” Porsche says. “Sorry. Hope we didn’t wake you – I wanted to let you sleep as long as possible. You were really putting it away last night.”

From what Tay remembers, that might even be an understatement.

He went home with Porsche. Drunk Tay kissed a straight boy and then followed him home. That’s—an entirely new low for Tay, actually. A level of obsessive neediness he would have previously thought unreachable.

Fuck.

Tay swallows. His saliva tastes awful. “How did I get here?”

Porsche winces. “Ah. You were pretty much black-out by closing time,” he says. “I should have cut you off before that, but I was—” He hesitates.

Right. He was away from his station, because Tay put his tongue down his throat, and he had to leave to go—breathe into a paper bag, or whatever it is straight boys do when they realise they’ve made a guy’s toes curl. Tay’s not exactly an expert on private, heterosexual freak-outs.

Porsche visibly rallies. “I had to deal with something in the back. By the time I got back, you were passed out on Yok’s bar top, the bottle of rum I left behind completely empty. We tried to find your phone to call someone to get you, but…”

Ah. Yeah. That would have done it. “I didn’t take it with me.”

“I figured,” Porsche says. “Usually, Yok has us call the police to pick people like you up, but—” he smiles softly, “I knew you were having a shitty night. I didn’t want you to wake up in a jail cell.”

Tay’s chest feels tight. “Thank you.”

Porsche shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says easily. “I have a couple of things to do here before Chay heads off to school, but once that’s sorted, I can give you a ride back to the bar and you can close out your tab. Yok’s still got your card.”

His tab. Tay’s sure it’s probably significantly higher than any of the other patrons’ at the bar last night – and significantly lower than a night out for Tay would usually run. He’ll make up some of that difference with his tip, at least. Porsche has more than earned it.

“In the meantime,” Porsche says, “Chay and I were just about to sit down for breakfast. Nothing fancy, just congee and eggs – but there’s more than enough for you, if you’re hungry.”

Tay usually prefers a more western fare for breakfast, but he’s not about to turn his nose up at his host’s hospitality. He has manners, last night’s indiscretions notwithstanding.

“Congee sounds great,” he says.

--

It really is unfair, Tay reflects from his seat at the kitchen table, that Porsche doesn’t have the decency to be less attractive in the morning light. Out of the dim lighting of the bar, the blur of alcohol removed from Tay’s perception, Porsche should be—less. Less charming, less handsome, less kind.

Tay’s trying to pack up his feelings from last night into something he can live with. Some—blank, soulless box in his head labelled ‘professional courtesy’. A justification for the way that Porsche pulled out his truths and paid him in simple, easy understanding that begins and ends with a service smile. But as Tay sits here, in Porsche’s kitchen, and watches him work, he’s faced with the uneasy realisation that not all of it can be explained so easily.

Not all of it was just a minimum wage bartender making nice to the drunk, lonely rich boy for a good tip.

Maybe barely any of it was, actually.

Chay enters the kitchen a few minutes after Porsche has started cooking, eyes wide and curious as he watches Tay. Tay smiles at him.

Chay doesn’t smile back. He keeps watching Tay, quietly taking the seat furthest from him. It places him between Tay and his brother, his back to Porsche.

Porsche glances over his shoulder from where he’s stirring a pot on the stove. “Did you get your assignment printed?” he asks.

Chay’s eyes flick off Tay momentarily. “It’s in my bag.”

“Are you okay to walk to school today? I have to drop Tay at Yok’s.”

“P’Tay?”

“My guest.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah, I can walk.”

“Text me when you get there safely.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not trying to be a nag, Chay, it’s just with Uncle Thee out—”

“I said okay, hia.”

This is—this is the worst thing to happen to Tay in a long time. It’s—domestic, and sweet, and comfortable, and doing absolutely nothing to help Tay move past his building attraction to Porsche.

Because, what—Porsche worked a shift at a bar until closing time, wrestled a drunk man onto his couch, caught a few hours’ sleep, and then hauled his body out of bed to help his little brother print his homework and make him breakfast before school?

Tay never thought the barefoot-in-the-kitchen thing would do it for him until this very moment, when he’s realising it’s doing everything for him.

Something is placed on the table in front of him, jolting Tay out of his thoughts. It’s a steaming bowl of congee, with two poached eggs and a heaping of scallions sprinkled over the top. It smells delicious.

Tay looks up at Porsche, who’s already dropping into the chair next to his brother, bowls of congee in front of them.

Tay dips his spoon in, and mechanically raises it to his mouth. It scalds his tongue, but he swallows it nonetheless.

“Good?”

Tay makes himself smile. “Good.”

He’s not doing this. He can’t. He is not getting his feelings bent out of shape by a straight boy. It doesn’t matter if he’s a good brother. It doesn’t matter if he cooks. Tay is not going to pine after the bartender he spilled his most humiliating secrets to. He is not doing this when he knows damn well he’s going to have to turn around and go right back to Time.

It’s—already far too messy, to be sat here with Porsche, eating breakfast. Porsche was meant to be a contained fantasy – a momentary wondering, geographically confined to a bar Tay was never going to go back to. Something he could attribute to his own drunken stupidity.

Tay doesn’t want to have to live with Porsche in his head, a potentiality lost, and spend the next decade of his life trying to make Time come out on top.

It makes the congee turn to sludge in his mouth. Tay lowers his spoon, and tries not to let his feelings show on his face.

“—to my parent-teacher evening?” Chay’s asking. Tay’s missed the beginning of the conversation.

Porsche frowns. “I thought we agreed Uncle Thee would go to that.”

“Teacher Ot isn’t going to be there, this time. His wife just had a baby.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble for you at school,” Porsche says. “Your teachers prefer to deal with Uncle. A lot of them still remember teaching me. They get weird about it.”

Chay looks down at his bowl, spoon hovering above it. “It’s—it’s okay if you can’t come,” he says. “Or if you don’t want to. It’s just—do we even know if Uncle Thee’s going to show up?”

“I’ll talk to him. He’s just—busy, with work, and things.”

“Sure.”

“Chay.”

Chay looks up from his bowl, and meets eyes with Tay. He looks away. “Sorry,” he says. “Let’s talk about this later.”

Porsche’s eyes flick over to Tay as well. “Okay,” he agrees easily. “Later.”

Conversation stalls.

Tay looks down at his congee and forces himself to concentrate on eating.

Eventually, Chay pushes his chair back. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

Tay watches him leave. “I’m sorry,” he says to Porsche, once Chay is gone. “I didn’t want to disrupt your morning.”

Porsche starts gathering up the crockery from breakfast. “It’s fine,” he says. “Chay’s just a bit shy. I don’t usually bring people home he doesn’t know.” He carries the saucepan, and their bowls to the sink. “He was meant to be sleeping over at a friend’s last night, but he came back early to work on an essay. No offence, but I probably wouldn’t have brought you home if I’d known he was here.”

“None taken.”

“Once he’s left, we can head off to Yok’s,” Porsche says. “You’re fine if we take my motorcycle, right?”

Tay very carefully does not think about Porsche on a motorcycle, and even more carefully does not consider himself behind him, curled around him. “Sure.”

Porsche pauses, hesitating. “Tay,” he says. “About last night—”

But the ending of that sentence is cut off by a loud buzzing sound.

Tay frowns. “Is that—”

“Doorbell,” Porsche says. He shifts around Tay’s frame to peer out the kitchen window. Whatever he sees on the driveway outside the house makes him frown. “Shit.”

Tay turns to look, but Porsche catches his wrist.

“Do me a favour?” Porsche asks, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Could you go upstairs to Chay’s room, and tell him Uncle Thee’s friends have come by for a visit? He’ll know what to do.”

Something’s wrong. Tay goes to turn once more, but Porsche tugs him back.

“Please?” Porsche presses.

Tay takes one look at his face and then crumbles. He goes.

--

Tay finds Porsche’s brother in the upstairs bathroom, mouth full of toothpaste. When he sees Tay in the doorway, he pauses, one hand still wrapped around his toothbrush, and then slowly resumess brushing.

Chay spits out a mouthful of foam. “I’m nearly done, phi.”

“Oh,” Tay says. “I’m not here for—” He shakes his head. “Porsche sent me up to you. Your uncle’s friends are here.”

Chay straightens up abruptly. There’s toothpaste on the corners of his mouth. “Hia said that? Uncle’s friends?”

Something is wrong , Tay thinks again. “He said you’d know what to do.”

Something flashes across Chay’s face. Tay doesn’t know him well enough to interpret it.

“My room has a lock on the door.”

That’s—

“Are we in danger?” Tay asks.

He doesn’t get to hear Chay’s answer to that question. The silence between them is cut by the sound of something shattering, and Tay’s attention snaps towards whatever he can hear from downstairs. There’s a raised voice, too rough to be Porsche’s, and then an awful, sharp crack of flesh against flesh.

Tay’s moving before he’s even fully processed it. He doesn’t make it one step towards the stairs before Chay’s hand closes around his wrist, and yanks him back into the bathroom with a fierce jolt.

“We can’t,” Chay says, voice quiet and forceful.

Tay looks at Chay. Chay with his face set, features hardened. Chay, unmoved. Chay, Porsche’s kid brother.

This is a schoolboy. He’s seventeen, at the most. Maybe younger. At that age, Tay had been pining uselessly after his best friend and threatening his father with the possibility of a career as a classical musician. He was young and naïve and soft. Privileged, and ignorant to it.

At seventeen, there’s no way Tay could have listened to the sound of someone being beaten the floor below without flinching.

The sound of his brother being beaten. Porsche. Fuck.

Tay tests the strength of the grip around his wrist. Chay doesn’t budge.

“Let me go,” Tay says, voice low. “I can help.”

Chay shakes his head. “There’s no helping.”

Chay will know what to do. That’s what Porsche told Tay, when he spotted the people on his driveway.

Chay will know what to do. He’ll know to hide. He’ll know to keep quiet. He’ll know to stop you from coming downstairs, and getting involved. Getting hurt.

There’s no helping.

How often has this happened? How often has Porsche sent Chay away, to lock himself in his bedroom whilst he stays downstairs and endures—

Another awful smack resounds through the house. More things shatter.

“They don’t usually come upstairs,” Chay says, “but we should lock the door anyway.”

He doesn’t let go of Tay’s wrist as he moves towards the bathroom door and silently pulls it closed. Tay hears a click as the lock engages.

Safe. For a given value of safe.

Tay stares at the closed door. He thinks about Porsche at the bar last night, about the drunken conversation that seemed to cut them both somewhere tender. It’s complicated, when you care about someone, and they consistently prove themselves unworthy of that affection. He thinks about breakfast, about Porsche cooking for his little brother, and words that he maybe wasn’t meant to hear.

Text me when you get there safely.

Okay.

I’m not trying to be a nag, Chay, it’s just with Uncle Thee out—

Tay’s mouth feels dry. “Is your uncle abusive?”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence. Something breaks downstairs. Then—“No.”

Tay’s not sure he likes the amount of hesitation in Chay’s answer.

“He’s sent his friends round to beat up your brother.”

Chay’s hand tightens around his wrist, tight enough to cut off his circulation, and then deliberately loosens. Tay recognises the pattern easily: control slipping, and then being forcibly reined back in.

“They’re not his friends.” It’s quiet. Quieter than Chay’s hushed words have been, up until now. It sounds like it’s been scraped out of him. “They’re his creditors.”

Creditors. A deadbeat uncle. Porsche’s impossible schedule. And—

There are always reasons people accept the things they accept – sometimes they’re good, and sometimes—they’re not good enough.

Tay experiences an awful moment of vertigo as everything slots into place in his head. Porsche’s uncle is in debt to loan sharks. Porsche’s uncle is in debt to loan sharks and he’s skipped town.

Tay doesn’t realise he’s clenching his fists until he feels the sting of his nails digging into his palm. His blood is ice in his veins. His mind is sharpened to a point. He identifies the emotion building in his chest with a detached sense of calm.

Rage.

Tay’s father and sister are loud in their anger. Tay’s never been capable of that same depth of emotion. He’s never understood what it means to see red – what it means to be overcome with your own fury, to have no outlet other than to shout, to break things, to hit something until it bleeds.

Tay doesn’t feel rage the way his father and sister do. He feels it like his mother: coldly, keenly, and enduringly.

It’s frost in his lungs. It’s a sharpened knife, in his hands. It’s a demon, in the back of his head, measured and unforgiving.

It’s the easy realisation of exactly what you’re going to do.

Tay relaxes his hands. He looks at Porsche’s kid brother. “Let me go,” he says, “and give me your phone.”

--

There are five of them in the lounge.

Tay knows their type immediately. Cheap trousers, gaudy shirts, ugly tattoos: people like this don’t so much hide their criminal activities as they do exaggerate them. Tay holds Chay’s phone steady as he takes a slow panning shot of them – first of the two thugs merrily going through Porsche’s record collection, snapping disks over their knees and stomping on the pieces, and then of the two holding Porsche down, one hand fisted in Porsche’s hair, pulling his face up off the carpet, before finally focusing on the ringleader.

Tay holds the camera on him for several long moments, capturing every inch of his greasy appearance: the tacky moustache, the flat cap, even the blazer that Tay can only conclude he’s wearing out of some delusion of professionalism. Tay carves his features into his memory.

He won’t forget this.

Tay stops the recording, pockets the phone, and then steps into the room.

He can tell the moment they notice him, because the two thugs committing unspeakable crimes against the sanctity of music pause, halfway through pulling a record out of its sleeve.

Tay gives his most bratty, spoilt-young-master smile. “Oh, no,” he says. “By all means. Break more of Porsche’s things. Whatever makes you feel most secure in your masculinity.”

The boss flicks a look at Tay, and then looks back to Porsche. “No-one’s home, huh?” he asks. He kicks at Porsche’s ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain. “Just you in the house, huh? You lying little shit.”

“He’s no-one,” Porsche says through gritted teeth. He sounds like every breath is painful. “Just a—just a one-night stand.”

Tay very carefully doesn’t react to Porsche’s pain.

“A one-night stand.” The weight of the boss’s eyes on Tay feels—slimy. “Really. Since when do you fuck men, Porsche?”

Porsche doesn’t say anything, but an angry flush appears on his cheeks.

“You know what I think? I think I should beat up your little boyfriend until you remember where my money is.”

“I already—” Porsche’s voice breaks with an awful, wet inhale. He swallows. “I already told you, Chai. I don’t have it.”

Chai kicks him again. Porsche wheezes as the air is knocked out of his lungs.

Enough, Tay thinks.

“I’m not his boyfriend,” Tay says. “And I’d think twice before you put hands on me. My family’s not especially forgiving.”

Chai looks back at him. There’s an appraising quality to his gaze, with an unpleasant, slimy undercurrent. Tay can see him tallying it all up: the quality of his clothes, the easy grace of his posture, the quiet threat of his family name. With loan sharks, it’s always about the money. Chai’s trying to figure out how much of it Tay has, and how much he can squeeze out of him.

The answer to both of those questions would be very easily answered by a single word. Apichart. His mother’s maiden name.

Even a low-class street thug like Chai would recognise it. Would know what it means.

But Tay’s not especially inclined towards helpfulness right now.

“How much does Porsche owe you?” Tay asks.

“You offering to cover his debts?”

Tay sticks his hands in his pockets, and leans back against the wall. “I’m asking how much he owes you.”

Chai’s still giving him that same assessing look. “50,000,” he says eventually.

“Wow,” Tay says, tone sliding into dryness. “Tough work being a loan shark these days. You brought the full goon squad to smash up a nice suburban house for a measly 50,000 baht. I guess I’ve got to respect the grind, though. That’s some real zeal you got there. A real drive to succeed.”

Chai’s jaw tightens. “You’ve got a big mouth, kid.”

“Strange.” Tay smiles unkindly. “That’s not usually how people describe my mouth.”

“50,000’s just the interest,” Chai says. “The full loan—”

“No, don’t tell me,” Tay says. “I know how this shit goes. 10% per week, right? I think that’s the going rate for a predatory loan these days. So the full loan’s something like 500,000, right?”

“532,000,” Chai says. “I let the 3,200 slide. I’m generous like that.”

Sure he is. “You have a choice,” Tay tells him. “Either way you’ll get your money. The only question is what else you get along with it.”

“Is that a threat?” Chai asks.

Tay looks at Porsche on the floor, beat to shit and staring back at Tay like he’s trying to tell him to run. “Why?” he asks, looking back at Chai. “Are you threatened?”

Chai watches him. “You’re lucky I’m in a patient mood,” he says. “How are you going to get me my money?”

“Well,” Tay pushes off the wall. “My preferred option would be for you and your little troupe of lowlife street thugs to tidy up the mess you’ve made of my friend’s house, go on your merry way, and I’ll have my people settle Porsche’s debt in full later today. In this future, you cross your mercenary little heart, hope to die, and promise never to bother him again – and if you’re a very good boy, I let you leave it at that.”

“Cute,” Chai says.

Tay certainly likes to think so. “Option two involves this.” He holds up his wrist, shirt cuff falling down just enough to show off the timepiece fastened there. “This is Patek Philippe.” Tay undoes the clasp and slides it off his wrist. “Swiss. I’ll save you the trouble of calling an appraiser and tell you that Patek Philippe’s prices start at 700,000 baht. This particular piece was a gift from my father for graduating university – and he would have been ashamed to spend anything less than a million for his only son. It’s valued at 1.2 million baht, but in the right auction it could go for maybe double that. If you pick option two, I’ll give it to you right now, in payment for Porsche’s debt.

“But if you take this watch,” Tay says, eyes fixed straight on Chai’s face, “I won’t just leave it at this. I won’t forget what you’ve done to Porsche. I won’t forget the possessions of his you’ve ruined. I won’t forget the fear you’ve instilled in my friend. And one day, down the road, when we finally cross paths again – I’ll take the weight of every indignity you’ve inflicted on him out of your flesh. I have a very long memory, Khun Chai.” He gives him a smile full of teeth. “And I’m very patient.”

Chai looks at him. Tay knows what he’s seeing. He’s seeing the dyed hair, the earrings, the choker peeking out from beneath his shirt collar. He’s seeing the easy slouch to Tay’s shoulders. He might even be smelling the stench of stale alcohol on his clothes.

Tay looks like second generation wealth. He looks feckless. A party boy kept afloat by his parents’ money and power.

He doesn’t look dangerous. He doesn’t look vengeful. He looks like a rich boy with an inflated sense of self-worth.

Tay sees the exact moment that Chai decides he’ll take his chances. “The watch,” he says.

Tay tosses it to him with a careless flick of his wrist. Chai catches it deftly, running a rough finger over the face, as if he’ll be able to discern its true value from the quality of the crystal face.

He looks up from the watch. “If you’ve cheated me,” he says. “I’ll be back for my money.”

Tay raises an indolent eyebrow, already leaning back against the wall. “Sure,” he says. “Now why don’t you fuck off?”

--

Tay waits until Chai and his goons are well and truly out of sight before he rushes to Porsche’s side.

“Hey, hey, easy,” Tay says as Porsche tries to push himself up. “Broken ribs are no joke, okay?”

Porsche hisses. “Not broken,” he grits out, levering himself into a sitting position. “Just bruised. Shit.”

Tay helps him lean back against the sofa, mindful of the bruises on his torso. Porsche isn’t looking at him, though, eyes stuck on something behind Tay’s head.

Tay follows his gaze to the broken shards of vinyl strewn across the living room floor.

“Chay’s gonna kill me,” Porsche exhales. “It took him ages to find some of those.”

If Porsche thinks the record collection is what Chay’s going to most mad about, he’s severely misled as to his brother’s priorities. “Don’t worry about that now,” Tay says. “Hey, no, don’t strain yourself. The mess will keep, Porsche. Just take it easy, okay? You’re hurt.”

Porsche closes his eyes, head tilted back like he’s trying to breathe through his pain. “You shouldn’t have—” Another awful wet inhale. “You shouldn’t have come downstairs. They’d have left eventually.”

“I wasn’t in any danger,” Tay says. “Loan sharks are bottom feeders. They’re scum, but they never go after anyone who has enough money to fight back.”

Porsche opens his eyes. “Bottom feeders.”

“No offence to the proverbial bottom,” Tay adds.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

Tay feels a touch of heat creep onto his cheeks. “No,” he says. “I—no.”

Porsche lets out an amused exhale, only to sober again almost immediately. “Your watch,” he says. “Was it really worth that much money?”

“Probably.” It’s how much his father paid for it, and Patek Philippe’s the type of brand that holds its value. “I’m not really in the habit of inviting appraisers into my closet, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

Tay smiles gently at him. “Don’t be. I always thought it was ugly. Couldn’t get rid of it, though. Present from Dad, and all.”

Porsche doesn’t laugh. “I’ll pay you back,” he says. “No matter how long it takes me. I promise.”

Tay looks at him, in all his bruised, beat-up glory. “I don’t want your money, Porsche.”

“Then what?”

Porsche’s gaze on him is intent. Tay looks away.

The truth is, there isn’t anything Porsche has that Tay wants. Or—there isn’t anything that Porsche would be willing to give, that Tay is willing to take.

1.2 million baht. To Porsche it probably seems like an astronomical sum of money to drop on a stranger. It even sort of is to Tay. But Tay didn’t spend it, expecting it to be repaid. He never spends money on friends, expecting a rebate further down the line.

And—that’s what Porsche has been to him, since he made him an elegant cocktail and listened to his woes. A friend.

“The debt,” Tay says. “How much of it comes from your uncle?”

Porsche’s expression shutters. “Chay told you.”

“I guessed.”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, before Porsche sighs. “I took out the loan,” he says. “My parents—there was money, left for us, when they died, but it only lasted a couple of years, and then Uncle Thee’s business went under, so—” He shrugs. “We had to eat.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen,” Porsche says. “Uncle got me a fake ID so I could work, but—it just wasn’t enough.”

Thirteen. A fake ID. Tay carefully does not allow himself to react to that.

“I didn’t keep a lot of records, back then,” Porsche says. “It wasn’t just one loan, I know that much, but I don’t know if some of the debt is Uncle’s. Chay thinks it is. I don’t know. I just—I really don’t know.”

I don’t know. Tay can’t count the number of times he told himself that about Time. It’s suspicious. He smells like someone else. He’s smiling at his phone. But I don’t know. I really don’t know.

The uncertainty was its own answer.

“Can I ask you something awful?” Tay says at length.

Porsche smiles without warmth. “I think you can ask me whatever the hell you want.”

“Why do you stay?” Tay asks. “Because—I don’t know. That’s what you say when you do know, but you’re set on staying anyway, and it’s the only way you can make it bearable.”

Porsche is quiet for several long moments. “Is this—what you want for the watch?”

No, Tay thinks. He doesn’t want to take from Porsche against his will, even if it’s something as simple as the truth. But—Porsche has lived his entire adult life with the weight of debt hanging around his neck.

The merciful thing, here, is to let him settle this last one.

“Yes,” Tay says.

Porsche looks away from him. “Uncle Thee’s done a lot for us. I know, from where you’re standing, that doesn’t seem evident, but—he really has. Chay’s too young to really remember it, but after our parents died, there was no-one else there. Even after I had to start work, Uncle helped out. At one point, I was going to be expelled from school for unauthorised absences, but he went in and smoothed everything over. He proofread my homework. He taught me how to drive. He’s not some—cartoonish villain, who shamelessly took advantage of me. I took out the first loan. I’m the one who started the mess, so—” He exhales. “Can I really hold it against him for making it worse?”

“You were thirteen,” Tay says.

“I was an idiot.”

“Yeah, because you were thirteen.” Tay shakes his head. “Your uncle’s an adult. Even the first loan – he should have stopped you. You were the child, and he was the adult. That’s his job.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Porsche says.

“Isn’t it?”

Porsche’s smile is bitter. “No,” he says. “Chay’s only seventeen.”

Tay doesn’t pick up on the implication immediately. When he does, he feels the weight of it drop like a stone in his gut. “Your uncle still has custody?”

“When I turned twenty, we talked about signing Chay over to my custody,” Porsche says. “It’s what my parents wanted, apparently. There was a line about it in their will. But it was a lot of paperwork, and it didn’t seem like it would change anything, so we never bothered. And now—I don’t even know if he’d say yes, if I asked. I don’t know if I want to know.”

If it went to court, Porsche would win. Even on paper, he’s the better guardian – he has a steady job, a residence to house his brother in, and he clearly does most of the parenting as it stands. But it would get ugly. The debt with the loan sharks would inevitably surface, and it wouldn’t look good. And that’s not even allowing for the resources it would take Porsche to fight his uncle on the matter.

Things like this aren’t an issue to people like Tay. Money has a way of making fairness far more accessible.

“Okay,” Tay says.

“Okay?”

Tay nods. “Payment received in full. Will you be needing a tax receipt for your records?”

Porsche pauses, staring at him. “You—” He shakes his head, a genuine smile breaking through his features. “You’re so damn weird.”

Tay smiles back at him.

“Tay,” Porsche says, meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”

Sat there, on the carpeted floor of Porsche’s living room, broken vinyl and shattered pottery all around them, Tay feels a moment of—something hang between them. Porsche’s gaze is soft, resting first on Tay’s eyes, and then falling to his lips.

He’s going to kiss me, Tay thinks.

He should move back. He should put distance between them, because Porsche is straight, because Tay just spent 1.2 million baht on him, because Tay has a boyfriend.

But he can’t. He can’t move.

“Hia? Are they gone?”

Porsche doesn’t jolt. There’s nothing guilty or self-conscious about the way he leans back from Tay, eyes sliding off Tay’s face and over towards the doorway. “Chay,” he says. “Yeah, they’re gone.”

Tay swallows.

As Porsche pushes himself to his feet and consoles his brother, Tay stays crouched on the floor, fingers scrunched hard in the fibres of the carpet.

Okay, he thinks. Okay, I really like him.

--

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you?”

Tay turns away from where he’s watching yellow flowers drift off a tree in one of the neighbouring plots of land. Porsche is barefoot at his front gate, wearing a fresh shirt, the small cut on his forehead from earlier held closed with a steri-strip.

“I’ll be fine,” Tay says. “I don’t want you to strain your ribs.”

“They’re not broken,” Porsche says. “I can ride my bike just fine.”

“Still.”

Porsche shrugs.

The silence between them is comfortable. Tay watches Porsche closely as he rocks back and forth on his heels, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. It occurs to Tay that he’s never seen Porsche truly still, not even behind the bar last night. He’s always in motion – tidying, cooking, fidgeting.

Tay wonders how much of it is Porsche’s own energy – and how much of it is the simple fact that it’s always harder to start moving again once you’ve stopped.

Tay exhales. “I’m sorry.”

Porsche blinks. “For what?”

There are far too many entries on that list for Tay to recount them all. For getting so drunk you had to take me home with you, would probably be a good start. For unloading my self-pitying rich boy problems on you, would also work.

But neither of those are the worst infraction.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you last night,” Tay says. “I was drunk, but I still should have known better. You told me you were straight, and you were on the clock. I kissed you anyway. It put you in an awkward position. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

Porsche tilts his head. “You’re sorry you kissed me when I was at work?”

“Yes.”

Porsche shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I mean, if you feel you need to say something, apology accepted, but, like—it’s not the first time a patron’s gotten a little handsy with me, or even the worst someone’s tried.”

Tay’s not going to be jealous about this. “People kiss you all the time?”

Porsche shrugs. “When I first started as a waiter, there was this older lady who tipped extra if I was the one to bring her drinks. She used to slap my ass if she was more than three drinks in. It doesn’t happen so much now I’m a bartender. Harder for people to reach, with the bar between us.”

“It’s different,” Tay says.

“How? Because they’re women? And I’m straight?”

“Yes.”

“That’s—” Porsche cuts himself off. “I don’t know if I am, actually.”

Tay’s not proud of how long it takes him to parse that statement. “You—you’re not?”

Porsche’s eyes flick over him, before settling on a point across the street. “Probably not,” he says. “I don’t know how much you remember from last night, but you told me I was default. It kind of stuck with me, I guess. I’d never thought about it like that before. I dunno—I like girls just fine, but I guess—yeah. I guess I’m whatever it is when a pretty boy kisses you and you lose your mind a little. And I’m not an expert, but I’m going to guess—not straight.”

“Oh,” Tay says. And then his brain kicks back in and he realises that someone has just come out to him, and he tries to remember the right things to say. “Thank you for telling me. I know it takes a lot of courage.”

Porsche lets out an amused exhale. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “I already came out to my local loan shark. This was fairly low stakes by comparison.”

He—did, didn’t he? That’s—a little insane, in the best kind of way. Who was the first person you told? Oh, just the guy smashing up my living room for 50,000 baht.

“Tay,” Porsche says, and then stops. “Before you go.”

Tay waits.

“Look, last night was—I know you remember the kiss, but before that, there was a lot of stuff you told me. About your boyfriend.”

Oh. They’ve reached this part. “His name’s Time,” Tay says. “My boyfriend.”

Porsche rubs the back of his neck. “Time, right,” he says. “I—look, obviously I can’t really comment on your relationship in its entirety. I mean, eight years is a lot, so there’s probably stuff I don’t know. But—”

Tay feels hollow. “I should dump him,” he says, eyes fixed on the tarmac beneath his feet.

“Yeah.”

“Let me save you some trouble,” Tay says. “I should dump him because he cheats on me. I should dump him because I can do better. I should dump him because he doesn’t deserve me. I—I know all the reasons. It’s nothing I haven’t told myself a thousand times before.”

“No,” Porsche says.

Tay turns towards him.

“That’s not—none of those things matter,” Porsche says. “Who cares who deserves what, or if you can do better—you don’t believe those things, even if I think they’re true. Dump him because he makes you miserable.”

Tay feels pinned in place. “Oh.”

“I know you’re worried about ending up alone,” Porsche says. “I know you’re worried that no-one will want you, but—even if those things are true, even if you do end up without anybody—I don’t think it’s possible that it would make you more unhappy than you are now.”

Tay hears the sound of a car pulling up behind him. A horn sounds. His taxi’s here, but he can’t move, can’t look away from Porsche’s face.

Porsche smiles at him, a small, warm thing. “Stop by the bar sometime,” he says. “I’d love to explore the depths of Yok’s drink menu with you again.”

--

Mama

beloved son industries would like to contract mama consulting llp for some work

What would be the nature of the work?

tracking someone down, negotiable lead times

details of the person in question will be provided upon acceptance of the contract

Hm. And what is Beloved Son Industries offering in payment?

I should warn you: Mama Consulting LLP typically begins payment negotiations with undying love and affection as a bare minimum.

i’ll break up with time

I’m coming over.

--

Lawan Chirawan Lerttravinont is not the kind of woman who is easily dissuaded.

Tay does his best. He manages to delay his impending interrogation by thirty minutes, alternately deploying social niceties and shamelessly falling back on the mores of hosting etiquette to distract her. Mama submits to it all calmly, answering his questions about her work (she’s considering firing her CFO, but not before catching him in the act of something truly humiliating), his inquiries after her health (generally excellent – she’s been making Dad go to Pilates with her, a testament not only to his deep abiding love for her, but also her exceptional negotiation skills), and a general query after his sister, who is notoriously hard to get on the phone for longer than a minute (Nin’s fine, but probably won’t be back in Thailand for another month).

She doesn’t push back. She doesn’t get upset. But after he’s exhausted himself of small talk, and run out of refreshments to fetch her, she lowers her cup of tea and looks straight at him.

“Tay,” she says. “Darling. We’re going to have to talk about it sometime.”

Gently damning. His mother’s trademark, in a way.

Tay swallows. “I know.”

“You wouldn’t have sent me that message if you didn’t want to talk about it,” Mama says, which is true, but no less uncomfortable to hear. “Would you like me to choose somewhere for us to start?”

Tay fiddles with the delicate china of his teacup. A hand closes around his fingers before he can make much progress picking off the gold embellishments on the rim. Tay looks up at his mother.

“Darling,” she says. “I’m not going to laugh at you.”

No. She wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine it will make her proud, either.

“Well, I suppose I’ll start, then,” she says, when he doesn’t say anything. “In the spirit of honesty, if you had sent me that text message eight years ago, I would have accepted your deal in a heartbeat.”

I’ll break up with Time. “I never would have sent it, eight years ago.”

“Precisely,” Mama says. “So what’s changed?”

Everything. Nothing.

Tay’s eyes catch on a detail behind his mother. When he got back in after settling his tab at Hum Bar today, he found a bouquet of red roses waiting for him on the counter. The card was handwritten in Time’s elegant scrawl.

I’m sorry. Call me when you get in. Yours eternally –Time.

Tay had spent a long time staring at that card, wishing with all his heart he had the balls just to throw it out. In the end he left it on the worktop, and found a vase for the flowers.

Yours eternally. It ricochets around his head as he looks at the flowers behind his mother. Yours eternally. It’s not a lie. Yours eternally, because Time always comes back. The affairs come and go, but Tay’s a constant – he outlasts them.

Maybe that would be enough for someone else. But Tay doesn’t want Time to be his eternally. He wants him exclusively.

Unbidden, Porsche’s words play across Tay’s mind. He makes you miserable.

Maybe it really is that simple. Time used to make Tay happy. He doesn’t anymore. He hasn’t for a long time.

“Why didn’t you like him?” Tay asks, instead of trying to put any of that into words. “You and Dad never hid it from me, but you never told me why. I know it’s not that he’s a guy. Nin’s dated all kinds of people and you never had an issue with them.”

Mama raises her eyebrows. “I did have an issue with one of Nin’s dates, if you recall.”

How could Tay forget. When Nin was still in university, she’d gotten involved with one of her professors. He was twenty years older than her and fresh off a divorce. Mama had been surprisingly non-judgemental about the entire affair, right up until Nin abruptly broke it off. Tay was only ten at the time – too young to know the full story – but given that over the next six months the guy lost his job, his house, and his visitation rights, Tay can make a fairly decent guess as to what happened.

“That was retaliation,” Tay says. “Time never did anything to you, but you took against him anyway.”

“You are not your sister, Tay,” Mama says. “You look for different things in a partner than she does.”

“So I’m just less discerning?”

“Tay, darling, you’re plenty discerning,” Mama says. “No-one could accuse you of having poor taste. But you and your sister have fundamentally different criteria when you look for romantic partners. Your sister’s just so happens to more closely align with what I want my children to have, but that doesn’t mean anything. More than my opinions on your entanglements and choices – I want you to have what you want.”

It's a bold sentiment from the woman who spent three years steadfastly refusing to refer to Time by name, whenever she issued him invites. Tay Taechin Lerttravinont and guest. It was only after Tay started refusing to show up if Time wasn’t specifically invited too that she seemed to finally learn how to spell his name.

“You’re dodging the question,” Tay says.

“I know.” Mama tilts her head at him. “Darling, do you really want me to answer it?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t respect you.”

Tay feels himself go still. This isn’t—

“Nin has fought every day of her life for people to respect her, and to respect her choices,” Mama says. “For all their issues, she has never dated anyone who did not at least pay lip service to her accomplishments and talents. When you brought home Time, I could tell he was someone that made you have fun, but I could also tell that he saw you as lesser to himself. I did not approve. I could not approve. You are my child. You are exceptional. You will never be less than someone’s equal. Time did not see you that way.”

Mama exhales. “But it’s been eight years,” she says. “As time went on, I came to realise that maybe this wasn’t as important to you as it was to me. And fundamentally, I have to practice what I preach. Part of respecting you includes respecting your choices. Even if Time is not what I wanted for you, you’re in charge of your own life. I have long since resigned myself to his presence in your life.”

He doesn’t respect you. He doesn’t respect you. He doesn’t respect you.

Tay can’t think. “You gave him a job,” he says.

“In exchange for you agreeing to return to business school, yes,” Mama says.

Time likes her. He says she’s a good boss. That he can tell she values his input. That it speaks to his talents, that she hired him even when she didn’t seem to like him all that much.

Tay feels something heavy sink in his gut. “You really don’t—even now, you don’t—”

“Like him?” Mama asks. “No. I tolerate him. Your father feels similarly.” She gives him a gentle look. “Darling, eight years ago that wouldn’t have mattered to you. So, Tay, my beloved son – what has changed?”

He cheats on me. The words sit at the back of his throat, caught in something sharp and solid. He cheats on me and I’ve stopped being able to pretend I don’t know. He cheats on me and I hate it. He cheats on me and he does it because you’re right, you’ve always been right. He doesn’t respect me.

He cheats on me, and it’s not worth it, anymore, to stay.

But in the end, he can’t say that. He cannot tell his mother that Time has never once been faithful. He cannot tell his mother that Time has reached the point where he no longer puts much effort into hiding his indiscretions. He cannot tell his mother that Tay has let this happen to him.

It’ll upset her. And then it’ll make her angry.

Tay doesn’t want vengeance wrought in his name. He just wants—out. He wants out.

“He doesn’t make me happy anymore,” he says. “I don’t think he has for a long time.”

“Ah,” Mama says.

“Ah?”

She raises her teacup to her lips to hide her smile. “You’ve met someone.”

“I’m not unfaithful,” Tay says, determinedly not thinking about the way Porsche’s lips felt on his. “I don’t cheat.”

“No, you’re not,” Mama agrees. She takes a small sip of her tea. “But if Time hasn’t made you happy for a long time, that’s not something that’s changed. What’s changed is you’ve realised it. You’ve met someone who does.”

It’s not an entirely fair assessment. Tay’s only known Porsche for a day – less than, really – and in that time, he’s been driven to black-out drinking and confronted a loan shark over 500,000 baht. Neither of those are things Tay especially enjoys. But—

Porsche was kind. And he made Tay feel—cared for. Valued. Seen.

Tay doesn’t know if Time has ever really seen him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Mama says. “I know that these things are delicate, in their infancy. But Tay—I am happy for you.”

Tay casts her a dubious look. “Even if he doesn’t respect me?”

“Even then,” Mama assures him. She stands. “I’ll have Pin freshen up the Jasmine Terrace apartment for you. We’ll let Time keep this place.”

Tay tries not to feel relief. It’s over. She’s leaving.

“Send me over the profile of the person you want to have found,” Mama says. “I’ll have you something in a week.” She strides across the apartment, gathering up her handbag and jacket as she goes. “Don’t dawdle on your half of the contract. These things are always easier to bear when they’re abrupt.”

I’ll leave Time. Tay swallows and nods.

“And darling?” Mama says, pausing at the front door. “Don’t forget your watch at brunch this weekend. Your father is a little sensitive about these things.”

Tay looks briefly at his bare wrist. He’s not surprised she noticed. His mother has always been detail-oriented.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” he says, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be wearing it.”

--

Tay packs light. He only throws a few shirts and trousers into his suitcase, alongside his laptop, phone, and associated chargers. It’s easier to face, when it’s just an overnight bag. Like he might still come back.

When Time comes through the door, after his day at work, he smiles at the sight of Tay.

And then he notices the suitcase.

Tay doesn’t smile back. “We need to talk.”

--

Nin

Just got a text from mama. You and time split up?

ah, i see the mama lerttravinont carrier pigeons managed to find you in the far uncharted territory of [checks notes] seoul, south korea

From the snark, Im guessing youre not that cut up about it.

relieved, mostly

idk i’m mostly just shocked by how little it’s upsetting me

Long time coming then?

yeah, I think so

Fair warning: mamas text included three champagne bottle emojis.

how many confetti

Two.

positively restrained for mama

talk more when you’re back home?

Sure. Ill bring back some soju. Get you nice and hammered.

stay safe

You too.

--

Porchay Kittisawat

Here’s the video:
[Attached: 202206030001.mp4]

Hia isn’t going to get into trouble for this, right?

P’Tay?

don’t worry, it’s not for anything bad

Okay.

--

Dad

jst heard from ur mother. writing so u kno u are LOVED. will be ready to hug u XTRA hard @ brunch.

every text i receive from you fills me with fear

please i am begging you turn on your phone’s proofing

please for your son

love u dearly, taechin. but itll b ovr my dead body.

yes it will

XD

i don’t know how but you keep finding ways to make it worse

--

Kinn

Hey, you weren’t at the range today. Time was oddly cagey about where you are. What’s going on?

oh.

sorry, i completely forgot. figured time would have told you, though.

Now I’m worried. Told me what?

we split up.

Oh

kinn?

Sorry, was thinking. When was this?

sunday.

i didn’t meant to leave you out of the loop, but i’ve been a little swamped trying to get things sorted. i moved out of the apartment, so that’s been its own ordeal.

Want to do drinks? I’ll listen to your woes.

i have surprisingly few of those, actually. but drinks sounds nice. yours or mine?

We’ll do mine. Blue 42, 9pm?

sounds good.

--

Blue 42 is an upscale cocktail bar in the financial district of Bangkok. It’s the kind of place businessmen unwind after a long day at the office, smoking cigars and trying to find a classy way to snort cocaine. It was one of Kinn’s first business ventures, gifted to him by his father during their first year of university, back when it was a sinking ship with no profits.

Tay and Kinn drank there weekly, back then. They’d order drinks off the menu and make notes about the service, or the décor, or the bartending. Sometimes they’d bring their laptops, and work through the business’s books, digitising them so they could process the data properly. Sometimes they’d just sit in their private booth and stare uselessly at the empty ashtrays around them. It took three months for the bar to take off properly, and even then it only happened because Tay was so sick of watching Kinn lose his mind to stress that he begged his mother to host a work function there.

There’s something comforting about coming back. When they were eighteen, the success of Blue 42 felt like the most important thing in their lives.

They’re different people now.

“Trying something new?” Kinn asks, sliding into the booth opposite Tay.

Tay follows his gaze to the cocktail glass in front of him, full of pale purple liquid. “Someone told me recently that I should always be holding pretty things,” he says.

Kinn’s eyebrows creep upwards. “Does that have anything to do with you leaving Time?”

Tay shrugs. “A little.”

Kinn watches him closely for a few moments. “You’re remarkably sanguine for a man that just ended an eight year relationship.”

Is he? Tay mostly just feels tired. “I don’t know,” Tay says. “The writing’s been on the wall for a while. I think—I think I’ve maybe been grieving my relationship with Time for a long time, now.”

Kinn leans back into the leather of the booth’s seating. “Time seemed to think this was just a temporary roadblock, when I spoke to him.”

A hand on his wrist. “If you need—space, that’s fine, Tay. I can get a hotel for a few nights. You don’t have to leave – this is your home too. Stay.”

“It’s not,” Tay says. “I’m not going back to him.”

“Did he do something?”

“Nothing new,” Tay says.

“That’s not a no,” Kinn says. His eyes are dark.

“It’s not a yes, either,” Tay says. “Kinn, I’m not trying to make you choose sides. Even if things get messy, I’m not—I know that friends are hard to come by, in your line of work. I won’t take that away from you.”

Kinn is quiet for several long moments. “Friends are hard to come by,” he says, eventually. “But you were my friend long before he was.”

“It’s not that simple,” Tay says.

“Isn’t it?”

No, it isn’t. There isn’t some—hidden value, in the fact that Tay knew Kinn before he grew into his limbs. There isn’t some extra depth of loyalty earned from the hours they spent playing in their school orchestra together. There’s nothing special about the years Tay spent awkwardly hiding his crush on Kinn, trying to ignore the uncomfortable weight of his feelings as it hung between them.

“You’re my friend,” Kinn says. “You’ve always been my friend. Every other line in the sand is drawn from that data point.”

Tay clenches his hands beneath the table. “I don’t think it has to come down to that, just yet, Kinn.”

“If that changes,” Kinn says simply, “you know where I stand.”

Tay looks away. He feels—guilty, almost. Like he’s somehow tricked Kinn into a declaration of loyalty that he hasn’t earned. He doesn’t want to be the reason people around him go to war.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Tay says. “How’s business?”

The look on Kinn’s face says that he’s not especially happy with the change of subject, but he doesn’t fight it. “Business is good,” he says. “The bread start-up is doing well. We’re in the final phases of development for the new product.”

“When’s the launch party, again?”

Kinn hesitates. “August,” he says eventually.

“When in—” Tay pauses. “Oh,” he says. “The thirteenth, right?”

Kinn’s watching him. “Yes.”

Thirteenth of August, 2022. Tay and Time’s eight year anniversary. They were meant to be out of the country, sipping champagne on a gondola. Venice. Tay still hasn’t cancelled their flights.

Tay forces his hands to relax under the table. “Would it be too late to swing an invite?”

Kinn doesn’t smile at him. Kinn doesn’t smile at anyone, anymore. But the look on his face is gentle, nonetheless. “Of course not,” he says.

“Is your marketing executive still stuck on the idea of bread canapés?”

“I managed to talk her into allowing other ingredients, but for the most part, yes.”

Tay leans back in his seat, curling his fingers around the stem of his cocktail glass. He raises the drink to his lips and takes a sip. The Aviation doesn’t taste quite like the one Porsche made him, all those nights ago, but it’s not badly mixed, at all. Kinn wouldn’t abide incompetence in his bartending staff.

Tay still prefers Porsche’s.

He looks at Kinn. “Tell me about it?”

Kinn’s eyes stick, slightly, on the glass in Tay’s hand. Then he looks up and away, gaze settling on Tay’s face. “Of course,” he says.

--

It hits him fully at brunch.

He gets to the restaurant late, after failing to account for the longer journey time from his new apartment. He’d chosen to drive himself, if only so he’d have an excuse not to drink, because he knows his mother, and he knows she’s probably pulled a bottle of something bubbly and expensive out of her wine cellar, and he’s not really in the mood to toast to his new life as a single man, just yet.

As always, his mother has booked a private room. The maître d’ leads him through the main dining area of the restaurant, before she slides open the door, and Tay’s greeted with the sight of his parents, already seated at the table.

“Tay, you made it!” Dad greets exuberantly. He crosses the small space in three long strides, and sweeps Tay into a hug.

“Hey, Dad,” Tay manages to get out, as his father attempts to squeeze the life out of him.

“Maybe leave a few of our son’s ribs unbroken,” Mama says, standing as well.

Dad releases him. “He was warned.”

Tay guesses he was.

Mama steps close to him, eyes flicking up and down his form. Her eyes catch on his wrist – his watch once more securely wrapped around it. A small smile tugs at her lips. “Darling, you look well.”

“As well as I can, I guess,” Tay says.

“We were just about to open the champagne,” Dad says. “You want a glass?”

Tay doesn’t smile. He really does know his mother. “I’m driving.”

“What a shame,” Dad says. “It’s a good bottle. Tattinger, 2008.”

Tay shakes his head. “Just water today.”

He looks past his father, to the table, seeking out his seat. And then—his thoughts stumble.

There are only three places at the table.

It isn’t the first time Tay’s come face to face with evidence of the hole that Time has left in his life. He sees it, every morning, when he wakes up in bed alone, when he showers in a bathroom that has half as many products as he’s used to, when he orders one person portions of take-out. Tay shouldn’t be thrown by this.

He left Time.

But it’s the first time he’s seen that hole, and he’s seen stitches over it.

This isn’t an empty place setting. Mama and Dad never had one put out for Time in the first place. And—

This is how it’s going to be, from now on.

“Tay?” There’s a gentle hand on his shoulder. Dad.

Tay blinks. His eyes are wet. “I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Oh, darling,” Mama says. “It’s okay. You can cry.”

Tay doesn’t want to. He does, anyway.

--

Time’s gone.

Time’s gone, and Tay’s not ever welcoming him back.

It takes another week for that fact to really sink into his brain. He doesn’t know why it takes so long for him to accept it, when he was the one who did the leaving. It was his choice.

He was unhappy. But he was—comfortable, with that, in a way.

As awful as it is to consider, now, Time’s infidelity, and the quiet misery it inflicted on Tay, were—familiar, in a way. He never felt like he was taken off-guard by them. They were expected. Consistent.

But now that’s gone. Part of Tay feels light. Most of him feels—untethered.

One night, he goes out clubbing. He dresses a little more slutty than he usually aims for – trousers that look painted-on, an artfully cut-up shirt that edges just left of masculine, a choker, and eyeliner – and goes home with the first barely-acceptable guy to buy him a drink.

He doesn’t know what he’s hoping for. Maybe some evidence that he’s still desirable, still sexy, still capable of seduction. But as he’s making out with a stranger on a ratty couch, it hits him that it just—means nothing.

He ends up making his excuses and going home early.

As he’s wiping off that night’s make-up, he thinks about his mother’s words, the day he broke up with Time. I want you to have what you want.

For years, that’s been Time. Or—Tay believed it was.

What do I want? Tay thinks.

A warm smile. Sunlight, on a face that looked just as good painted in harsh neon. A filthy kiss. Porsche.

Tay wanted him. Part of him still does.

Tay meets his gaze in his bathroom mirror. Half his make-up is smudged down his face, the other half completely gone, revealing reddened skin and visible bags beneath his eyes. He doesn’t feel sexy. He didn’t even feel sexy earlier tonight, when he had a tongue down his throat, and hands on his ass.

A fact of the universe: static friction is greater than dynamic friction. It’s always harder to start moving than it is to continue. For years, dating Time felt like moving. Now Tay’s beginning to suspect he’d just been standing still.

Tay just has to start moving again.

I want to see Porsche again, Tay thinks. And then, I’m going to see Porsche again.

He looks at himself in the mirror. I’m going to make him want me back.

Okay. Okay. He can do this.