Chapter Text
4.5 years. 54 months. 1642 days.
The last time Kinn had spoken aloud.
He'd placed the gun and his ring on the table, said "I'm sorry" to his brothers and left behind the cooling corpse of his father — and Bangkok — forever, driving north to Chiang Mai. He'd stayed long enough to sell his phone and car, then joined a series of tours to the far flung parts of his country he'd never had time to see. His restless, fearful legs hadn't stopped moving for nearly a year — the temptation to cross the border always there — but he couldn't stand the idea of leaving the country.
In case his brothers need him.
On their birthdays, he finds a city and calls Tankhun from a grimy, graffitied payphone booth. The sound is terrible, but he doesn't need to talk.
Kinn? Kinn is that you? his brother's voice, distorted by the aged technology. Two taps on the speaker is all Kinn can muster in the affirmative. His voice is shackled inside.
He's tried to speak a dozen or so times since leaving; each time the words get jammed up in his throat until he vomits from the effort of trying to force them out. It doesn't seem worth it, so he doesn't try anymore.
Tankhun updates him on how things are going. They've divested the major family's holdings of any shady associations. Uncle Gun runs the underground of Bangkok now. Tankhun manages the legitimate businesses they've retained. Kim does whatever Kim was doing before — he still hasn't come home to stay.
I miss you, Kinn. Come home, little brother.
His heart longs for home.
The ache in his chest as tears stream silently down his face keeps him away.
His brothers don't need him around to destroy the lives they've rebuilt without him. It's enough to know that they're alive and safe.
It's not hard to communicate his needs in Surat Thani, where he's lived for the last couple of seasons. The locals accept him as just a quirky guy, and he's generous with his smiles and tips. He hasn't learned to sign; his fingers cramp up in the same way his stomach does. Something in his psyche simply doesn't want to participate in anything that could be construed as more than a fleeting connection.
When he'd decided to remove his father from their lives, he'd transferred a significant sum of money to a new account, burying its trail so thoroughly Korn himself couldn't have traced it, then given the accountant who'd managed it for him a merciful release from his terminal cancer -- 6 months in the arms of the prettiest entertainers money could buy, and a surprise overdose on high quality cocaine. Kinn had been assured he'd left the world with a smile on his face.
Now he works a little, just enough to avoid boredom. He'd been fired from job after job for not being able to talk to clients or other staff; gradually he'd worked his way down the ladder from administration to delivery boy. Now it's just him and his vespa, delivering meals to people who are too busy for conversation, phones tucked between their shoulder and their ear as they grab bags out of his hands and shut the door in his face, or eager ot get back to the rising chatter of their friends, spilling from dorm rooms into the hallway.
His daytimes are otherwise quiet — drifting through the public parks, reading, wandering the markets. Praying for his family's safety. Smiling and charming and silent.
An order pings on his phone. It's a matter of minutes to put in his earbuds, swing himself onto his vespa and trundle away. It's a regular customer; he tips well and is quick to buzz Kinn up to his office. No wasting time. An easy job.
He's three-quarters of the way up the elevator when a alert comes up for WIK.
Rising Star WIK admitted to hospital with gunshot wounds
His heart stutters, icy fear spreading through his veins. The elevator doors open. On autopilot, Kinn's feet take him to the office door. Like he's watching a film, he sees his hand knock. He can't bring himself to smile as he hands the bags over; beneath the sound of rushing blood in his ears, he thinks the guy asks him if he's okay, but he's already turned away.
Nine hours to Bangkok. Twenty-two if he takes public transport. No. He has enough money to buy a car if he can't hire one.
Nine hours in which Kim could die without both his brothers at his side.
Kinn refuses to contemplate the possibility. He couldn't stand to hear the news.
* * *
It starts as a ringing in his ears, one hour into his frantic drive up the peninsula towards Bangkok. By the fourth hour, the screaming whine has given way to a muffled feeling of fullness.
At Ratchaburi Province, he stops by the side of the road to piss. It's not until he's zipping his trousers that he realises he can't hear the car running over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Alarmed, he turns around, only to see the car parked where he left it. Climbing back up to the road, he can see the keys are still in the ignition where he left them. In the on position.
Confused, Kinn lays his hand on the body of the car. The comforting vibrations of the motor reverberate against his hand.
Fuck, he thinks to himself.
How can he be of use in his current condition? Unable to speak, unable to hear. He should stay away... but he's already driven most of the way. He'll stay long enough to see Kim, make sure he's okay, then slip away again.
Dawn breaks over the skyline of Bangkok, just as it comes into view. The sight fills him with a peculiar sense of fear and longing. Will he even remember how to navigate around the City?
His fears are allayed swiftly; little enough has changed that he can follow the signs to the most familiar parts of the city, and then, the comforting blanket of home sweeps over him. He stops only long enough to get a children's whiteboard and marker set; asking after his brother is not the simple task of ordering food with a gesture and a smile, compounded by his inability to hear.
He lost the sound of his heart as he passed Wat Bang Na Koi. Perhaps he should have stopped in and prayed for his brother.
The hospital where Kim will have been taken is not in question. If he'd been with bodyguards, they would have brought him home to their personal clinic; for it to have made the papers, he must have been caught in public somehow. Bumrungrad International Hospital is the only option. Barely a twenty minute drive from home, renowned for its international accreditations and specialists. Kim will be there.
Kim has to be there.
The smell of Bangkok hits his nostrils like a physical sensation when he steps out of the car. 10 million people packed into one place, and all of the fumes and odours that come with them.
It smells like home.
It reminds him of how much he's changed.
Kinn takes a moment to step into a bathroom before he goes to reception. His face feels grimy after nearly twenty-four hour awake, and his hair is a birds nest from where he's been running his fingers through it. He tugs it free of its hairband, letting it fall loose between his shoulderblades and gives it a rough comb with his fingers. The trousers and shirt are more casual than he used to wear, and crumpled from travel, but once he straightens into the posture of Kinn Theerapanyakun, it doesn't matter. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he flinches. The man standing arrogantly in the bathroom is a man he hasn't been for some time. It takes another five minutes before he can leave the bathroom, fighting for control of his face.
I'm here to see my brother. Khimhant Theerapanyakun.
He shows the board to the receptionist, who takes his messy writing in stride. He'd had to push through the cramps in his fingers to write even that much. Please let him be here, he prays.
The nurse taps him on the arm, bringing him back to the present. She says something and points, but her face is turned away, so he can't guess at what she's said. He smiles at her, a painful stretch of his lips, and taps his ears, shaking his head. Her face makes a little o of surprise, but she rallies quickly, taking the whiteboard marker from him and writing a room number on it.
Kinn wishes he could ask her if Kim was alone.
The bodyguards.
He'd forgotten about them. Ever-present before he'd left, somehow he'd shaken the memory of them from his mind. He'd grown used to not having to watch his back.
Pulling up short, he's contemplating his choices, when a tall, lean man passes by him, walking up to a door with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Kim's door. Ken moves to pat him down, and the stranger groans. "Again, dude? I was away for like, an hour."
"You leave, you get frisked. I don't make the rules."
Kinn smiles, despite himself. The broad irritation of Ken's English shouldn't be so soothing.
"Satisfied?"
Ken considers it for a long moment. It's easy to imagine the glint in his eyes. "Show me what's in your bag, and maybe I will be."
An inaudible curse, some rustling noises and Kinn watches him walk into Kim's room.
He can feel his pulse rabbiting in his neck. Kim. His brother. A strange man. The urge to protect rises like a tide, and he prepares to stride down the hallway, when he realises. I just heard every word of that conversation.
The shock sends him reeling back against the wall. He's still scrambling to his feet when he finds a gun pointed at his face, Big's familiar features behind the looming muzzle. Big's mouth shapes, "Khun Kinn?" Panting harshly, he nods.
Slowly, Big lowers the gun, holstering it before dropping into a low bow. He can't hear what Big is saying, but Kinn knows what is expected of him. Drawing himself up to his full height, he stalks smoothly down the hallway, nodding at the bowing bodyguards.
His emotions always close to the surface, Ken's eyes well with tears.
Kinn opens the door, whiteboard tucked across his chest like a shield.
* * *
".. and Chay's made some mumbling noises, so I'm confident he'll wake up soon."
The stranger straightens up from where he's smoothing Kim's hair away from his forehead. Up close, he looks dangerous. "Who are you?" he asks. "I've never seen you before, how did you get — oh. Big let you in." He relaxes, the smallest of movements, leaving him suddenly loose-limbed and unconcerned.
Kinn raises a hand in dismissal, sensing rather than seeing Big leave the room. He doesn't hear the door close. Moving to Kim's bed, he takes his first proper look at his brother in over four years.
He's changed; no longer a weedy teenager, but a solid young man, round cheeks smoothed out to angled manhood. Kinn smooths a hand over Kim's arm, noting the muscle underneath. Built for aesthetics, not for danger. A little knot in his chest loosens. A worry he'd carried so long he'd become used to its presence.
I got Kim out.
Kinn drags a chair to the bedside and sits, running his thumb over Kim's fingers. They're smaller than he remembers.
The stranger coughs. The sound is startling in Kinn's silent world; he flinches upwards, grabbing for a gun he hasn't carried since he... Thinking it is like speaking it; he chokes on nothing, gasping until he can pack the thought away into a small box.
"Shit dude, are you okay?" He sounds genuinely concerned. Kinn looks him over as he regains control of his breathing.
They're of a height; Kinn is bulky where the stranger is lean. He reminds Kinn of several of the tomcats that lounged on the roofs around his flat in Surat Thani, all tilted eyes and confident swagger. Golden skin, warm brown hair, well-worn clothes. His right sneaker has a hole forming in the toe. Dragging his eyes back up, Kinn finds himself being perused in return. He forces his arm away from his chest to free the whiteboard. The text from before is slightly smudged, but mostly legible, so he turns it around to show the stranger.
"Brother? I didn't realise Kim had another brother."
Of course Kim had never mentioned him. Logically, Kinn knows it's the only sensible thing to do with a brother that has killed your father; disown him and never speak of him again, but pain sears through him anyway, his vision flickering dark at the edges.
The stranger carries on, cheerfully oblivious, "But I guess that makes sense. He barely says two words to anyone who isn't Chay."
Chay. This guy had been talking about a Chay when Kinn walked in.
He must show his confusion in some way, because the stranger strides around the bed, holding out his hand. "Doesn't tell you anything either? Close-mouthed little shit. I'm Porsche. Porchay is my younger brother, and this guy's boyfriend. They were together when the shooting happened. Some kind of turf war they got caught in the middle of."
Kinn's hand trembles as he exchanges a handshake with Porsche.
Kinn. The letters flow smoothly from his marker, not a single cramp threatening to disrupt the flow of his handwriting.
An alarm sounds from the depths of the messenger bag. "Ah shit, I gotta go to work. Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Kinn."
Porsche saunters out, leaving Kinn alone in the deafening silence.