Chapter Text
Chay wears the chain to the ceremony.
It makes his look even better. Save the chain, his whole ensemble is black: black jacket, cuffed and hemmed in lace and inlaid with thousands of tiny glass beads that shimmer in the light and black trousers that have a slight, subtle sheen, all of this over black, patent leather Italian combat boots. And the jacket is designed to be worn without a shirt, leaving the chain fully visible and prominent against his chest and slender waist.
Kim, meanwhile, has gone for an elevated nod to their scene: black motorcycle jeans, black boots, and a black Balmain blazer over a white cowled top that shows the top half of his gryphon tattoo, all tied together with a lot of chain jewelry and a leather aviator watch.
But Chay is the star between them. He’s glowing as he makes his way down the red carpet, even stopping to answer the ridiculous who are you wearing? prompt from the fashion vlogger who thrusts a microphone in his face a hundred feet from the door. He faces Kim as he answers, his face a little incredulous, as though he doesn’t deserve to be clothed head to toe in diamonds rather than Louis Vuitton.
Kim has been following a couple of paces behind him, on edge himself. He’s already snapped at a couple of photographers who put cameras in his face. At the door, though, one of the event photographers catches Chay’s attention, and Chay glances at Kim before turning back, closing the distance between them and kissing Kim soundly, turning Kim’s face to his with his left hand so his ring is visible in the shot.
Kim slides a hand into his jacket on instinct, taking hold of his waist. He hears the shutter snap.
“I want that photo,” he says into Chay’s ear as they part again.
“Maybe Tankhun can get it.”
Chay’s mood sobers a bit when they see Ken in the door, looking a bit lost as the statuesque blonde woman on his arm leads them further inside. But he reanimates almost instantly when he sees Macau and Porsche very nearly running up to them, and he breaks off from Kim barely a second before Macau about plows him over in a hug.
“Congratulations, man!! God, I cannot believe my best friend is a Grammy nominee. What a world.”
This takes Kim a second. Sometimes he forgets how close Chay and Macau really are, even though their friendship has also meant Kim has seen more of his cousin in the last year and a half than the entire rest of his life combined.
Before he can think too hard on it, though, Porsche is elbowing Macau out of the way and sweeping Chay into a hug that has his feet off the ground.
“Hia, put me down, you’ll cut yourself on my jacket,” Chay says through a laugh.
“I don’t care.” But he does put Chay down, holding him by the arms as he just looks at Chay for several seconds and smiles. “I am so proud of you.”
Chay blushes a little at this. “Thank you. I don’t know what I did, but…”
He trails off. Macau answers.
“Just produced the biggest viral hit of the year, no big deal. Oh, speaking of Zanna—did you hear me and Porsche are booked for her next music video?”
Kim’s phone buzzes. He pulls it out—there’s a message from Vegas.
—Korn is here. I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but if you want to avoid him, stay near cameras.
Kim huffs a laugh at this. A beat later, he feels his brother’s eyes on him as Porsche and Macau surround Chay.
The look Kinn is giving him is an order: get off your phone. Kim arcs a brow in response, and there’s a response in that too—a question.
What the fuck are you doing?
Kinn breaks eye contact first, stepping up behind Porsche with a proprietary hand around his waist, and Kim sees the moment Porsche’s attention is subconsciously pulled toward Kinn in the way he angles his body instinctively toward him, following his lead.
Chay looks at Kim behind Macau’s back, his expression warm. He’s done his eye makeup in the same shades of teal and violet as the stones on his chain, and the cool colors draw out the warm tones in his eyes in a way that sends a burst of actual heat through Kim’s body, pulling him toward Chay as they start making their way inside.
Macau seems to know where to go. Whether or not that’s actually true, the four of them are following him, and Chay hangs back a couple of steps to thread his arm through Kim’s as they make their way through the assembly of the music world’s elite. Chay doesn’t seem to recognize any of the faces they pass, though as they move into the auditorium, Porsche breaks off from Kinn.
“Want to go meet my old boss?” When Chay turns to Porsche in confusion, Porsche elaborates: “Bambi Jackson. Want to go meet them?”
“Maybe later. I’m starting to get nervous.”
Kim looks at Chay at this. But Porsche’s attention is on Chay, not him, and he doesn’t seem to have picked up on the lie.
“Aw! What, scared of bumbling your acceptance speech?”
Porsche hugs Chay around the shoulders, pulling him closer to himself. Chay allows this for a couple of beats, then detaches, blushing slightly.
“Hia. I’m not going to win, I’m just here for the experience.”
Porsche arcs a brow in an expression that’s enough of a dead ringer for Kinn that it nearly makes Kim flinch. He bites his lip, slow-clapping Chay over the shoulder. “You say that now, little bro. Just you wait.”
They all sit together in the TMR delegation. The auditorium is only about half full, filling quickly, but they’re among the last to arrive in their section and can’t all sit together. Macau plops down in a vacant end seat, yanking Chay down next to him, and Kim quickly takes the seat on Chay’s other side over a dirty look from Porsche, though he and Kinn end up right behind them.
And when Kim feels someone watching him, he glances back to find his father sitting a few rows back from him and Chay, one arm stretched out over the back of the empty seat next to him as though waiting for someone to take it.
His father is watching him. Openly.
Kim turns forward and lets him.
The remaining time before the ceremony passes in an indeterminate haze. Kim is sitting on Chay’s left, and while Chay chats with Macau, Kinn, and Porsche, he traces a finger over the veins on the back of Chay’s hand as they wait for the ceremony to start, passing occasionally over his engagement ring.
Kinn doesn’t miss this. This is not the first Kinn is hearing about his and Chay’s engagement, but he’s beaten Kinn to this, and it only takes one look from Kim back at his brother before Kinn’s look makes the jump from scrutiny to begrudging respect.
Then the lights go down in the auditorium as the show starts. There’s an opening musical number from an artist Kim vaguely recognizes but couldn’t name, the whole thing big-budget and theatrical and so staged it almost annoys Kim just to watch. He’s so glad he and Chay have left this scene behind.
Kim vaguely recognizes the emcee from some late-night television program. She goes on for a few minutes, sometimes making the audience laugh, before the first category of awards is called.
Kim is drifting at this point. Daydreaming. Still running his thumb over the back of Chay’s engagement ring, Eventually, he feels Chay glance at him and run his pinky finger against the side of Kim’s hand.
And then they move into Producer.
This surprises Kim at first. He already knew Producer of the Year is not one of the prestige categories, and thus that it falls earlier in the program—but as the graphic announcement appears on the two huge screens at either side of the stage, Kim snatches open the little program book they’d been given when they walked in the room and scans down the presentation list.
Sure enough.
As the emcee announces the category, Chay turns his hand over beneath Kim’s and threads their fingers together. Kim squeezes his hand in reassurance—neither of them actually expect Chay to be called for this, but Chay’s pulse is still racing beneath the thumb Kim has pressed to his wrist.
Except.
“…And the Grammy goes to…”
All sound is absorbed into a vortex. Chay’s hand flies to his mouth, and the next second, Chay’s hand is pulled out of his and Chay is on his feet as Porsche yanks him up and hugs him.
For a long second, Kim can’t breathe. Now it’s his heart that’s racing.
“I am so proud of you,” Kim hears Porsche say through the applause.
And a beat later, everyone else around them has followed the two of them to their feet.
The next few seconds take an entire lifetime. Kim brings a hand to Chay’s lower back as Porsche holds his brother over the back of the row of seats between them, kissing Chay on the temple before letting him go so Macau can hug him. Even Kinn gets a brief hug in before Chay manages to turn all the way toward him—
Out of the corner of his eye, Kim spots a camera arm hovering in the air near them. He already had a hand on Chay, but when he spots the rig, he steps instantly into the space Kinn vacates and kisses Chay soundly, one hand at his cheek, the other squeezing his hand before Chay turns and makes his way down the aisle to the stage.
By the time he gets there, though, he seems to have left his nerves at the bottom of the stairs. He briefly hugs one of the presenters who offers it—Kim has no idea who they are—then steps up to the mic, ducking his head only long enough to make sure he isn’t stepping on any cords before tipping the mic up.
“I didn’t practice anything. Honestly, I don’t have anything prepared,” he says, looking out across the sea of musical titans in front of him. “The truth is, you all are probably never going to see me again unless you’re progressive metal fans. But I’m thankful to TMR for this opportunity, to Zanna for playing this small part in your journey, to the Academy for this honor. More than anything, though, I’m thankful to my brother and to my best friend, without whose meddling I would never have found my way to TMR at all, and to my fiancé,” he turns pointedly to where their group is sitting, then, and Macau reaches over Chay’s vacated seat and claps Kim on the shoulder, “who originally hated me for that very reason until he got stuck with me on tour for seven weeks and decided to keep me.”
Then he clasps his hands around the golden gramophone as he gives a wai, then walks back offstage amidst the applause.
× × × × ×
The ceremony is over three hours long. There’s one intermission, and a total of just over two hours between the first award Chay was up for and the second.
Kim barely registers. Chay seems to know this, and he doesn’t let go of Kim’s hand even as Macau and Porsche chat at him the entire rest of the show. At one point early on, though, Kim had felt someone looking at him and had turned to find Tankhun sitting near their father in a gold jacquard military jacket and looking down at him and Chay over crossed arms, his smile somewhere between a smirk and conspiratorial.
Kim has no idea what to make of that look. And by the time they get to the afterparty, Kim is stewing.
Chay is in a good mood, buoyed by Porsche and Macau. He has two statutes now, the second of which he had picked up after the show, since he hadn’t had to go onstage when Zanna accepted the Record of the Year award, and one of Kinn’s staff had taken them for safekeeping while the six of them—now with Tankhun among their number—had made their way out of the auditorium and to the reception area.
As they’re walking in, while the rest of the group is distracted, Kim texts Vegas. He sees Tankhun register him on his phone, but he’s facing forward again by the time Vegas responds.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kim looks up through the crowd in the room and sees Vegas looking at him from where he’s talking with a few people his father’s age who look important. But Korn is not among them. Kim nods once, even though Vegas probably can’t tell from this distance.
At this point, having had very little else to think about for the last three hours, Kim’s understanding is this: his father rigged the vote. He paid off the Academy. But he also can’t say this publicly, or even let it slip, without throwing the Theerapanyakul name—really, all of TMR—in the gutter. Even the insinuation that TMR could buy Grammy awards would ruin the label’s reputation irreparably, and they simply have too much to lose.
There’s also no reason why his father would want to make an example of Kim. Kim doesn’t care about his reputation in the mainstream music world, and neither his father’s money nor his influence has any sway in the sectors of the music world where Arch Revival operates. In fact, were his father to launch some open attack on Kim’s reputation, Kim’s popularity, and Arch Revival’s by association, would likely only increase. There are very few things in this world the staunchly anti-establishment heavy music scene likes more than someone who pisses off the man.
And that’s not what this was about. Kim might not be the heir to his father’s empire, but he is the heir to his father’s mind. And his father’s mind has reasoned, based on the caliber of the producers who have been approaching Chay since the ceremony ended, that a key objective of this gambit has been to get Chay out of their scene by attracting the attention of bigger fish.
In other words, it boils down to this: to show Kim that he will never be outside his father’s range, this whole thing has been, and continues to be, about reminding Kim that everything good that he has comes from his father—including Chay—and can just as easily be taken away.
His father has made one crucial error in his calculations, however.
“He’s not interested,” Kim says once they’re alone. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it isn’t going to work. Chay doesn’t care about fame or popularity or money, Chay is an artist.”
“Much like yourself,” Korn answers.
Instantly, Kim’s temper cracks like a whip. Among his brothers, the only one who inherited their father’s capacity for complete detachment is Tankhun, and right now Kim would like nothing more than to slap his father in full view of the most important people in the industry.
“You couldn’t just talk to me? You had to rig an entire award show just to have this conversation? Or were you just reminding me of your own power?”
Korn has one hand around a Waterford crystal glass of what is undoubtedly some obscenely expensive single malt. He takes a sip from it, his heavy family crest ring glinting in the low overhead light.
“Mr. Godfrey was quite surprised to see you again,” his father says.
And just like that, it’s like Kim has been thrown into a pool of ice.
Instantly, Kim’s mind reels. And his father knows this, if the smirk Kim would relish the chance to shoot off his face tells him anything. Because this was Kim’s error: the jeweler where he got his watch serviced, where he bought the chain Chay is currently wearing, and who made Chay’s engagement ring is the same jeweler their whole family goes to.
Korn isn’t done, though, because of course he isn’t.
“I find it interesting that my son would not feel the need to tell me he is engaged.”
“Because I don’t care about your blessing,” Kim snaps back immediately.
“Ah. But you do care about re-living the mistakes of your early twenties by getting involved with this boy.”
“Involved,” Kim snarls. He rounds on his father, now, stopping just outside arm’s length, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re patronizing him. And me. Leave Chay out of this, this is between you and me.”
Korn smiles. “Is it? I think the person you marry is absolutely my concern, Kimhant. Does he know about Isabel?”
Kim feels his world slow to a crawl as his father shows his hand.
Whatever Kim had expected his father to have gone to all this trouble for, this isn’t it. And when he realizes what’s truly happening here, he almost wants to laugh.
All this time. All this time, the allowance, the permissive distance—
“You were never going to let me get away, were you?”
His father doesn’t say anything, just stares Kim down like a hawk with its prey as he takes another sip from his glass.
The answer is yes. Yes, Chay knows. Some months ago, not long after Chay had moved in with him, he’d woken up one morning to Chay curled over his arm tracing his Dark Star tattoo. He’d been in a pensive mood, though he hadn’t said why.
But when Chay asked him about the song, Kim reached for his phone and played it for him.
Dark Star isn’t like most of Arch Revival’s music. It’s slow, haunting, and atmospheric, the sonic expression of how Kim had felt when he’d lived the events the song describes. And he’d tracked the whole thing himself. To this day it’s the only song Kim has ever produced himself.
He’d met Isabel at a show a very long time ago. Kim was 20, Isabel was 22. She wasn’t in their scene—she’d been dragged to a show by a friend of hers who was, Kim doesn’t know who. He’d met Isabel in passing afterward when Isabel was waiting for her friend to come out of the bathroom.
He’d been drawn to her instantly. One of his family’s—blessings, curses, depending on one’s view of attachment—is that Theerapanyakuls fall quickly, decisively, and very, very hard.
She was beautiful, for one thing. But that wasn’t it. She also had a presence about her that was almost ethereal. She’d been a ballet dancer for a long time until she had an injury that cost her that career, and when they met she was a couple of years deep into a career in fashion as a model and designer.
They got involved quickly. It was a whirlwind romance. Kim couldn’t stop talking with her the rest of the tour, much to the annoyance of his bandmates. And when they got home, Kim was constantly missing in action because he was always with Isabel—blowing off practice, missing deadlines.
Not answering his phone.
It had gotten to a point that had Game and Tate not stepped in and started getting the band back on track without him, Arch Revival would have broken up. But even then, Kim still married Isabel over the advice of his bandmates, especially Game, who were telling him it was a bad idea.
And it was good for the first year. They were happy. By then, she had friends whispering in her ear that Kim needed to stop with this band nonsense and do something real—and she had defended Kim against them at first.
Until he had to tour.
Their next tour was very successful. Arch Revival, only about three years into their life as a band at that point, had been second support for Sinestria, one of the biggest CR Records bands and a titan of their scene. It was their big break. And when it became clear to Isabel that this was the beginning, not the end, of the touring, she started to agree with her friends.
Isabel never sabotaged the band. But she made Kim feel very, very bad for taking it seriously. Even when Arch Revival became legitimately successful.
A few months after the tour, Kim got a cover feature with Guitar Planet about the story of his and Arch Revival’s rapid ascendancy to the elite strata of progressive metal. What his bandmates later teased him for as the “father of djent” interview. Isabel didn’t care. She wouldn’t acknowledge it, wouldn’t celebrate his wins even though he always celebrated hers. Worse, before long, Isabel made Kim feel bad for celebrating her wins—like he was only doing it out of obligation.
And it got worse. Over time, nothing he did for her was ever enough. Nice Italian vacation? Wrong city. Going to the resort house in Thailand with the family? Too hot, and she didn’t like the food. Gorgeous designer dress for one of her events? Wrong label, even though Kim had researched it and knew it wasn’t one of her house’s competitors.
Eventually, she was straight up gaslighting him. He hadn’t been able to believe it himself until Game and Tate had laid out the truth for him. But that was the right word for it when nothing he ever did was ever taken at face value. Everything was a manipulation, if Isabel were to be believed. No matter what he did, no matter what he said, no matter how many of her requests he went along with, all of it was a ruse.
One day, about three years in—two after they were married—they’d had a fight. They’d been fighting a lot by then.
“All of this?” She’d said. “Your money, your favors? You’re just like your father. It’s not real. I can’t trust you.”
And that was when Kim knew it was unfixable.
They’d divorced. Given that he came from money, one of her particularly nasty friends had told her she should go for 75% of his assets. But she came from money, too, and she said she’d settle for half, though she wanted $1 million per year in alimony for a decade.
Kim gave her what she wanted. He has about three years left.
And Chay knows all of this. He knows all of this because Kim told him when they’d listened to Dark Star—and he doesn’t care. At least, not beyond how he cares about Kim’s past because he loves Kim.
Kim is not sure how long he’s been silent when he sees movement in his peripheral vision and turns to see Chay making his way out of the reception hall, a half-finished flute of champagne in his hand. He glances between Kim and his father, then steps up to Kim.
He faces Kim. His back is mostly to Korn, his hand on Kim’s chest.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you, Tankhun wants photos.”
When Kim doesn’t answer right away, Chay turns to Korn and gives a wai, addressing him when he stands.
“I am Pichaya Kittisawat. I will be marrying your son, it’s good to meet you.”
Kim’s heart races. Chay isn’t touching him anymore, but his skin feels like it’s burning where Chay’s fingers had touched him above the neckline of his shirt.
“I know who you are. My nephew spoke very highly of you when you were at TMR. Congratulations on your awards.”
Nothing about the engagement.
Chay threads his arm through Kim’s as they leave. He’s holding his glass with his left hand as he steers them both back toward the reception hall.
Kim looks at him once they’re out of earshot, speaking quietly to him in Thai. “Did you know my father rigged the vote?”
Chay lets out a soft breath before responding, also in Thai.
“I didn’t, but I suspected that might be the case. There’s no reason I should have won this.”
He’s talking about Producer of the Year, and instantly Kim is defensive. He feels his brows draw down over his face.
“Except there is.”
Chay smiles, switching back to English. “I’m not Academy material, Kim. And I have no desire to be. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
And then, because things can always get worse, as they walk back into the reception hall, both he and Chay look up at the same time as they find a woman standing against the doorway in their path, forcing them to stop.
Isabel has changed. Her long, espresso-brown hair is much shorter now, cut into an angular bob that’s half-up and secured by a small, elegant pin threaded diagonally through the knot. But she’s still every inch the statuesque model she was seven years ago, her bronze Los Arcos tan deepened by the emerald green of her dress.
“I thought that was you. I see I should have asked for more in alimony,” she says, looking at Chay’s chain.
Once again, Kim’s temper flares. But Chay seems to know this, because he squeezes Kim’s arm with the hand that’s threaded through his as he looks at Kim’s ex-wife, tipping his head just slightly as he smiles.
“Don’t get greedy, Isabel. Last I checked you were married to Gabe Corbett.”
And then, as easily as she’d stopped them, Chay steers them past and into the reception room, already cutting a path toward where Tankhun is gathering his generation of the family together like a sheepdog.
Gabe Corbett is a popular country singer. He’d won an award tonight. Kim has no idea what for. And Kim turns to Chay again, unable to keep the shock off his face.
“How did you know that—?”
Chay is smiling, though, clearly pleased with himself. “I didn’t. When he gave his acceptance speech, he said his wife’s name was Isabel, so I looked it up. And sure enough—”
Chay removes his arm from Kim’s elbow and pulls out his phone, unlocking it a little awkwardly with one hand. He pulls up his internet browser and turns the face toward Kim, revealing Gabe Corbett’s internet encyclopedia page.
Spouse: Isabel Fletcher-Hemingway (m. 2019)
“I figured we might run into her, so I’ve been mentally preparing for that too.”
For a long beat, Kim just looks at the screen. And even when Chay dims his phone and slides it back into his pocket, Kim is still watching him like he can’t quite believe he’s real.
Then an overwhelming tide of affection floods through him. Before he knows it, Kim’s body is moving without the consent of his brain, and he takes Chay’s glass, sets it on a nearby table, then closes the distance between them in a few quick strides and kisses him.
It’s not a gentle kiss. He reaches into Chay’s jacket, taking hold of his waist above the shortest of the chains and pulling him close even as Chay flinches—his hands must be cold, Chay’s skin is scorching—but then relaxes into his touch, smiling into the kiss and pressing an arm to Kim’s chest that he slides up over his shirt, then around the back of his neck.
When they break, Chay glances behind them for a beat before turning back to Kim, leaning in close, his words just for Kim.
“You’re not the only one who’s territorial.”
Kim turns Chay’s face back to his and kisses him again.
× × × × ×
Chay has two Grammys. Neither of them knows what to do with them.
“Do we…display them somewhere…?” Chay asks as they walk upstairs.
“I think that’s up to you. It’s not like we don’t have room for them.”
Chay shrugs, the gesture a little awkward due to the fact the two gold gramophones are balancing on one forearm. They’re bigger than Kim expected.
“It’s just weird, I guess. I still don’t really feel like I’ve earned them.”
Kim looks at him. “You’ve earned at least one of them.”
Vegas had called when they were on the way home.
“I hear you publicly accused your father of rigging the vote,” he’d said when the call connected.
He hadn’t sounded upset, only amused. “Word travels fast,” Kim had answered.
“Not that it matters, but for what it’s worth, it’s not actually possible to buy off the Academy.”
Both of them had paused at that. They were at a red light, and he and Chay had looked at each other with twin confusion.
“Think about it,” Vegas continued when neither of them spoke immediately. “The Grammys are the biggest musical award show in the world. If it were possible to buy off the Academy, wouldn’t Skyler Fast have won Album of the Year?”
“I don’t think she’s that type of person,” Chay had answered, amused himself.
A relative unknown had won Album of the Year in a major upset, a queer blues band called Hurricane Mane. There were already think pieces circulating about it on social media. Zanna’s win for Record of the Year was considered less of an upset, considering how viral it had gone, but still a bit surprising with how deep the field had been.
“Wait, are you a Fastie?”
“I’m not, but Macau is.”
There was another long pause. It was Kim who had spoken next.
“Are you defending the label right now?”
Vegas answered immediately. “No. I’m saying, maybe don’t throw them out like I know you’re thinking.”
Kim put the back of his hand to his mouth and leaned into Chay to whisper to him.
“He is defending the label.”
“I heard that.”
In the end, the truth of whether Chay’s win for Producer was the result of a rigged vote or not may never be known. Kim is already planning to spin it that way if Chay starts taking heat for it in their scene—it’s not as though anyone in heavy music will have a hard time believing that a major label executive was up to funny business at the Grammys.
Chay sets the two awards on the counter. He doesn’t linger to look at them, though, his jacket already halfway off down his arms and bare back as he makes for their bedroom.
He looks over his shoulder at Kim. “Coming?”
What Kim wouldn’t give to be able to snap a picture with his eyes. In addition to the natal chart piece down the center of his back, Chay has added some brilliant fine linework across both of his shoulderblades that’s interwoven with ghostly watercolor grey. The effect is like fog rolling into a city skyline, the perfect compliment to the brushwork naga down his sides. The low light deepens the tones of the piece while the hardware in his ears and the beads on his jacket both catch its reflection.
He looks like a star. Like a whole galaxy. Like a siren, too, where his iridescent eye makeup glimmers when he turns his face.
Kim catches up to him, taking his jacket before it slides to the floor and setting it over the back of the couch. Chay smiles with amusement before holding a hand out for Kim that Kim takes as Chay leads him through the house.
They don’t make it all the way. They pass through the hall by Chay’s studio, one wall of which is a floor-to-ceiling window. It’s a clear night, the moon nearly full, and Kim cracks at the sight of Chay in the moonlight that glints off the chain and makes his skin glow.
Kim darts out and catches him by the hips, turning him around and backing him into the wall. And then he’s on Chay, unable to stop touching him, lips and tongue and hands insistent and greedy for skin, for tongue, for Chay’s lips, for his perfect ass that Kim can’t quite get to under the tight waistband of his slacks—
“You too,” Chay says, teasing.
His hands are on Kim’s lapels, and Kim looks at him as he relaxes enough to let Chay slide his jacket off.
“Should I go hang this up—?”
In response, Kim throws his $4,000 jacket down the hall the way they’d come. Chay laughs under his breath, but Kim is on him again, quickly unfastening his slacks and pushing them down past his hips.
Chay slides his hands under Kim’s shirt. Kim takes his hands off Chay only long enough for Chay to pull it off, toss it away, and run his hands up Kim’s abs and chest, slowing once he reaches Kim’s nipples.
“God I will never get tired of looking at you. There are days I still can’t believe you’re mine.”
The possessive animal in Kim hums in satisfaction. “Believe it, baby. As long as you want me, I’m yours.”
Chay draws him closer. “Forever sounds good to me.”
Kim catches his mouth in a kiss, grabbing at Chay’s waist and sides before trailing his fingers up the length of the chain all the way to his neck, back down over his sternum, then up again. Over his neck with both hands, running his thumbs up the center, over his Adam’s apple, angling Chay’s face how he wants it and then meeting his lips again as he finishes the job of undoing Chay’s slacks and pulling them down over his ass. Chay steps out of them and kicks them free.
Kim steps back enough to look. Really look, though his hands drop to Chay’s hips and don’t leave.
Chay hadn’t let Kim watch him get dressed. And he hadn’t said why, either, other than that it was a surprise. Which is why Kim has been quietly lost to his fantasies about what Chay could possibly be wearing under his slacks every time he has recalled this evening that he doesn’t know, a catalogue that’s probably two or three dozen ideas deep at this point.
This is better than all of them.
“Oh, baby.”
Chay looks very pleased with himself. As he should. Still, his affect is coy.
“What do you think?”
Kim only manages a couple of seconds of eye contact before his gaze is pulled down again.
He runs his fingers over the chain at Chay’s hips rung for rung. The delicate metal is warm where it’s been resting against Chay’s skin, and there are two small clasps near the panel of translucent black fabric currently covering Chay’s cock.
As delectable as that is—and it’s very delectable, especially as Chay’s hardening cock fills out in Kim’s hand when Kim cups him and strokes him outside the fabric, making Chay sigh and roll his hips into Kim’s hand—that isn’t what’s drawn his eye.
“I don’t suppose those are black opals, are they?”
They’re not small, either. There’s a stone inlaid every few links in the chain all the way around to the back, further than Kim expects when he traces the length of it all the way around Chay’s hips and across his lower back.
He wants to see the back, but he makes himself wait, meeting Chay’s eyes as he waits for his answer.
“They are.”
Kim’s birthstone. The opals catch the moonlight in shades of green, teal, and violet, in addition to the obsidian black those shades are set in.
Chay’s eyes are at half mast, hooded and dark and a siren song in themselves. There’s the slightest blush on his cheeks, now, no doubt the result of Kim’s intense look.
“Turn around.”
Chay holds Kim’s eyes a second more before he does as he’s told.
Kim draws a sharp breath.
There’s a huge stone in the center of the chains, maybe three fingers’ breadth above the cleft of his ass. There’s a length of that same translucent black fabric barely the breadth of Kim’s thumb extending down from it off a ring that all but disappears between his cheeks.
And he’s wearing garters. They only connect in the front, but the black bands in the same lace as the cuffs and hem of his jacket sans the beadwork band around his thighs. No tights this time, but the effect isn’t diminished without them.
Kim palms at Chay’s ass between the garters and the band, grabbing handfuls and squeezing. Chay looks back over his shoulder.
“Verdict?”
“What deity did I please in a past life to bring you to me,” Kim answers.
It comes out a statement. Chay huffs a laugh.
“If I were to ask you to amend your fantasy and fuck me in front of the mirror wearing what I’m wearing now, what would you say?”
Kim drops to his knees, his hands immediately on Chay’s ass again as he moves the thin band of fabric aside and bares his hole.
“I’d say I can’t wait that long.”
Before Chay can respond, Kim licks up the seam of his ass to just below the largest opal, then again, about half the distance the second time, but he meets Chay’s eyes where he’s still looking over his shoulder at Kim, and that thing in his gut circles around itself in contentment when Chay’s eyes flutter and his cheeks flush and he has to brace a forearm against the wall for balance, possibly not even aware he’s hitched his hips back.
Kim doesn’t waste any time. He holds Chay’s cheeks apart with his thumbs and wraps his hands around Chay’s ass as far as his hands will go, pressing in as he goes right for the muscle this time, licking across his hole several times before circling his rim and dipping the very tip of his tongue inside him.
The first time they’d done this—out on the terrace, the evening after the very first night they’d spent together—Chay had been so tense and embarrassed that Kim had needed to finger him open first, letting him relax into that more familiar intrusion before Kim could even get his tongue inside him. That shyness is long gone, now, and they’ve learned together that Chay loves being eaten out. He even has a bit of a thing for being eaten out where other people can see him.
The terrace. The pool deck downstairs. The rooftop lounge of the RV Kim had gotten for their last tour, which they’ve now taken on a couple of trips up and down Highway 1 along the Pacific coast during the dry season.
He sighs now when Kim breaches him, tipping his hips back when Kim angles his ass toward himself for better access, and it’s not long at all before his breaths are shaky and his legs are threatening to give out and he’s whimpering and moaning as Kim fucks him open on his tongue.
He’s so easy now. Truly, truly one of Kim’s favorite things about him—how pliant he goes in Kim’s hands, in his mouth, on his tongue, on his cock—anything and everything Kim wants to give him or take from him, he goes so willingly. And he demands, too, and those times are just as good. He is so sexy when he gets bossy and takes over, and Kim would find a way to give him the moon and stars if he asked for them.
Kim’s tongue is long enough to just barely graze the underside of Chay’s prostate. He can’t do it for long, it makes his jaw hurt if he does, but it’s enough to give Chay a preview of what’s to come, and Kim hears his voice in the whine that escapes him when Kim circles the lower edge of his prostate before pulling back a little, licking in and out of him a few times before he pulls out completely. Chay is already falling apart, his breaths ragged, bracing on both forearms now, and Kim is fairly sure he’d fall against the wall if he were to let go of Chay’s hips.
He runs his thumb over Chay’s hole, wiping most of the wetness away before putting the band of the thong back in place.
“Can you stand, sweetheart, or do I need to carry you?”
Kim’s tone is teasing, and Chay glares over his shoulder before standing upright, a little shaky, though he steadies when Kim stands and wraps an arm around his waist and leads him to the bedroom.
There, Kim leans against the wall opposite the mirror, pulling Chay back toward him. Chay smiles.
“Ah, so you do still want to fuck me in front of the mirror.”
“I sure do,” he says, lips against the back of Chay’s neck just below his ear. Chay shivers with Kim’s breath against his skin. “I want you to see how beautiful you are.”
“I already know what I look like when you fuck me,” Chay answers, squeezing Kim’s hand around him, leaving him only long enough to get the lube out of their nightstand drawer.
It’s true. Once, a few months ago, Chay had posed the idea of filming them in bed. Chay has a motion-tracking camera arm for his sessions with his accidental groove metal band, Kairosis, and they’d set it up on the terrace while they alternated between Kim taking him apart and Chay blowing Kim and riding him and even stimulating his prostate the way Kim so enjoys doing to Chay, which had actually been his first time doing that.
That’s Kim’s favorite part of the video. Chay had made this face of wonder and excitement when he’d drawn a prostate orgasm out of Kim after Kim had already come once with Chay riding him—a face Kim had barely been able to notice in the moment, he’d been so overtaken. Now, he has it forever.
“Yes, but you’ve never seen yourself while I’m fucking you. And as you know, there’s no substitute for seeing it live.”
Chay reaches behind himself and pinches Kim above his hipbone. The mirror is both doors of a sliding hall cabinet near the door of their bedroom, not visible from the bed. Kim flinches against him and huffs a laugh, tightening his arm around Chay, but he doesn’t let go.
And anyway, when Kim maneuvers Chay so he’s straddling one of his thighs, Chay hands him the lube and he douses his fingers before capping the bottle and letting it drop to the floor, then reaches between Chay’s legs.
Kim gives him two fingers immediately, and all at once Chay gasps, rolls his hips, and keens at the intrusion. Kim smiles into his skin and breathes him in, holding his other arm tight across his lower abdomen so he doesn’t slip.
“Open your eyes, baby,” Kim says.
Chay’s eyes have fluttered closed under this treatment. With obvious effort, he opens them, gasping a little, open-mouthed, his face flushing dark pink in the moonlight through their window when he sees himself.
The hand that’s still barely holding onto Kim’s leg flies up to the line of stones down his sternum. Kim doesn’t know what he’s seeing right now, but he is so far beyond sexy Kim doesn’t even have a word strong enough to describe him.
“You are gorgeous, Chay. You’re captivating.”
Kim turns his hand around and pulls his fingers slowly across Chay’s prostate. Chay whines and gasps, his breaths ragged and his eyes fighting to stay open as Kim continues to stroke him.
Within a couple of minutes, once Kim gives him a third finger, Chay comes on Kim’s hand with a long, high moan, his spend trickling down his cock inside the fabric of the thong.
Kim is so hard with how Chay has been grinding on him in his pleasure that his jeans feel like a cage. When Kim pulls his hand free, he holds Chay up with one hand and unfastens his jeans with the other, and Chay steps off of Kim and turns around and pulls Kim’s jeans off the rest of the way.
Kim steps out of them and kicks them aside. Chay turns around again, his lips turned up in a cute, smug grin, then settles back against Kim, only to startle as Kim tightens his grip and lines up at Chay’s entrance and pushes in with no further warning.
Again, Chay’s eyes flutter. His head falls back against Kim’s shoulder and he brings a hand around the back of Kim’s thigh for balance. But his eyes have closed again, and that means he’s missing the best part.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” Kim orders.
When, after a beat, Chay complies, lifting his head enough to see himself, Kim buries himself inside Chay on a sharp inhale, and Chay watches in wonder as Kim disappears inside him only to bulge ever so slightly on his front when Kim sinks in as far as he can go.
Kim rolls his hips as he rocks into Chay, extending the arc, then fucks him deeply, holding Chay’s body against him. And he breathes Chay in, letting himself swim in Chay’s unique smell, which is finally breaking through the scent of his hair products—cinnamon and spice, the slightest hint of vanilla, even a little bit like rain.
“Kim—”
Kim slides a hand between Chay’s legs again, collecting some of the lube that’s slicking his thighs before moving the fabric over Chay’s cock aside enough to stroke him in time with his thrusts.
“That’s it, baby. Let go,” Kim says close to Chay’s ear.
Kim holds him still, helping him stay upright as he starts to fuck Kim’s hand, losing himself to his pleasure. Between the sight of him in the mirror, his scent, increasingly shot through with sex, and the combined sound of their lovemaking and the slap of the body chain against his skin, Kim about loses it right there, barely stopping himself from coming before Chay can fall apart on his cock.
But he’s not going to last much longer. Neither is Chay, Kim can already feel Chay’s body winding up.
“Come for me, Angel.”
A couple of beats later, he does, and his eyes fall closed as he locks up when it overtakes him, coming all over Kim’s hand. And Kim strokes him through it until he twitches with oversensitivity, then brings the hand on Chay to his leg and snaps his hips forward, chasing his own pleasure now.
By this point, Chay is completely pliant around him. Were Kim not holding him up, he probably wouldn’t be standing. Still, when Kim starts to spill inside him, Chay’s hole quivers around Kim, almost like he wants more, and he reaches back around himself, cupping the back of Kim’s head as Kim lets himself go, practically crushing Chay against him with the force of his own release.
When Kim is spent, he drops his forehead to the back of Chay’s neck. He’s breathing hard, the hand around Chay’s lower abdomen already tracking all across his skin, idly circling his dermal piercings, running his thumb up his matching navel piercing, dragging the backs of his nails up over the chain to Chay’s nipple piercings—which makes him twitch, probably with oversensitivity, so Kim doesn’t linger—then up to his throat.
“I love you,” Kim says, his voice half-whisper.
“And I love you,” Chay answers, running his fingernails against Kim’s scalp as he cards through his hair. He seems to get an idea, then, because his brows draw down for a second before he smiles, a little conspiratorial. “What do you think of me wearing this chain to the ceremony?”
Chay doesn’t have to specify which one he means. Kim ducks his head and kisses him just below his ear.
“Yes.”
[ fin ]