Chapter Text
One day, Kim gets home to find an invitation on the kitchen counter.
It’s the first letter on top of a pile of mail. Chay’s keys are next to it, as is his phone. His love must have just barely beaten him home.
Sure enough, Kim hears the sound of running water down the hall, then Chay appears in the kitchen, making right for where Kim is scrutinizing the gold-rimmed envelope like it’s a particularly annoying stain. When he slides an arm around Kim’s waist, though, Kim’s reaction is instinctual, and he sets the envelope down on the pile and folds Chay into him, drawing him in for a kiss.
It's not quick, either. Chay makes a pleased sound against his lips and throws his arms over Kim’s shoulders, and Kim responds immediately, his hands finding Chay’s waist under one of his own shirts—a simple white v-neck, but one that so beautifully frames the brushwork tattoo on his collarbone and the two platinum chains around his neck.
When he breaks off, it’s with a lot of reluctance.
“What’s this, Angel?”
Kim nods down at the envelope. Chay doesn’t move his hands from around Kim’s neck when he glances down at it. “Hm? Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t opened it yet. I got home maybe two minutes before you did.”
Kim can see that. Letters from the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences don’t just appear, though. Especially not when they’re addressed to Chay.
The Academy writing him, he gets. Kim is a Theerapanyakul, after all, and because of his family of origin, Kim has had the Academy darkening his doorstep like this from time to time asking for money for as long as he can remember. But this isn’t a donor letter—it’s very obviously an invitation.
“Do you mind if I…?”
Kim trails off. Chay shakes his head. “No, not at all. Go for it.”
Chay changes his hold to around Kim’s waist so Kim can use his hands, letting his head drop down to rest against Kim’s collarbone. And despite his souring mood, Kim’s heart swells as Chay nuzzles his face into Kim’s neck for a couple of beats.
Kim opens the invitation and pulls it out. It’s printed on heavy cardstock with a stylized soundwave embossed in gold gradient, the line broken by the image of a gold gramophone in the center, and there’s no text on the front. He opens the card.
It’s Chay who reads it aloud.
“The Recording Academy cordially invites you to the—what the fuck?!” Chay brings his hand under Kim’s, raising the invitation closer, apparently unable to believe what he’s looking at. Kim can’t either, honestly. “Why am I being invited to the Grammys?”
The invitation doesn’t say. All that’s there is a schedule: a premiere ceremony around lunchtime, the award ceremony in the evening, and an official after-party, and a note that the event is black tie.
There’s a second letter, though. This one isn’t in the invitation, but it’s also from the Academy, this one in a long envelope designed to keep the paper from being bent—also addressed to Chay.
Kim picks it up and hands it to him. Chay practically rips it open.
“Dear Mr. Kittisawat, it is our pleasure to congratulate you for your nomination—oh my god,” Chay reads. “The recognition of your peers within the music industry is a significant and meaningful honor that entitles you to proudly wear the title of Grammy nominee—?!”
As Chay reads the letter, Kim slides the second paper out of the envelope. Or—not just one paper, Kim quickly realizes. There are two, and they’re both mostly identical.
Chay lowers the letter, and Kim hears the sound of it in the air a beat before Chay’s hand comes around the back of his holding the nomination certificates.
“What the fuck, why am I being nominated for a Grammy—”
Kim has no answer to this. His thoughts are swirling too fast for him to get a read on them. Chay’s live reactions are his only grounding clue.
“Slow Crush—OH, oh my god. This is one of the songs I produced at TMR. I’d forgotten about this.”
Chay has taken the certificates now, and Kim had let him.
He’s been nominated in two categories. The song is up for Record of the Year, which Chay is looped into as its producer. But he’s also up for Non-Classical Producer of the Year independently, and it’s the latter certificate that Chay can’t stop looking at.
Chay’s face is completely disbelieving, and that fact alone is the only reason Kim is not alight right now with incandescent rage.
It’s not Chay. Kim can count on one hand the number of times he’s been upset with Chay in the year and a half they’ve been together. And even if he were upset with Chay, Chay’s reaction right now is enough to tell Kim that this has blindsided him as much, if not more, than it has blindsided Kim.
Still, the persistent seed of doubt that’s been in the back of Kim’s mind constantly for the last nine years can’t help but feel betrayed by this, and not even the look of panic and astonishment in Chay’s eyes is fully killing it.
Chay puts the papers from the Academy down on the counter and turns in Kim’s arms, facing him.
“I had no idea. I promise you.”
His voice is half-whisper. He looks almost scared, and it’s that which extinguishes the doubt the lingering voice in the back of Kim’s brain is trying to poison him with.
“I know, sweetheart,” he says, cupping the side of Chay’s face and running his thumb across Chay’s cheekbone. “How did we both miss this?”
Chay’s brows cross heavily as he looks away, obviously racking his brain. “I never had a TMR email, but they—oh. Oh shit. I was interning for course credit—I wonder if it went to my UCLA email.”
Chay splits off from Kim and darts into the bedroom the two of them have repurposed as his production studio, returning half a minute later with his laptop. He sets it on the counter and opens his school email in a browser window.
“I might not even have access to this anymore, I haven’t even checked it in over a year—”
He does still have access, it turns out. There are thousands of unread emails, and Chay only scrolls for about three seconds before he’s popping back to the top of the page and entering a search query, standing a little aside so Kim can see.
The search returns half a dozen hits, which Chay opens in reverse chronological order. The first two are more or less the same as the nomination letter beside him.
The third makes them both pause.
“Dear Mr. Kittisawat, thank you for accepting your nomination to—what? I didn’t accept this, I never saw it—”
Kim exhales a loud breath through his nose. Chay looks over his shoulder at him, his look questioning.
He suspects he knows what’s going on. Really, it was just a matter of time before he pulled something like this.
“It’s my father,” Kim answers.
It has to be. This makes no sense otherwise. Because it’s not that Chay isn’t good, it’s that Producer of the Year usually goes to someone with a large body of work—
Which he has, Kim reminds himself. But aside from the handful of songs he produced at TMR, Chay’s body of work is entirely in their scene, and the Academy has long been allergic to heavy music. The only bands that ever get nominated from their scene are the ones that are the most digestible to mainstream audiences.
The least innovative, in other words. And even outside of his own biases, Chay is one of the most innovative producers he’s ever met.
Chay’s questioning look has only grown, but Kim doesn’t have an answer for him right now. He pulls out his phone and sets it on the counter on speaker, already calling Big.
“Hello?”
“Why has Chay been nominated for two Grammys?”
“What?!” There’s a sound of an office chair moving across a hard surface, then keys typing. “I heard about the nomination as a possibility but didn’t realize it had happened. What for?”
“Slow Crush,” Chay answers. “I had honestly forgotten about it.”
“You and no one else,” Big says, once again typing. “That song has been all over social media for the last, like. Six months.”
“Which I wouldn’t know, I’m basically never on social media.”
“Clearly.” There’s the sound of scrolling, then Big speaks again. “…Huh. There it is. Well—congratulations, Chay, this is a big deal.”
“A big deal that makes absolutely no sense,” Kim answers.
“What, are you jealous that Arch Revival has never gotten a nod?”
Kim glares at the phone as though Big could see him. Chay responds before Kim can.
“What do I…do…?”
“Look. Both of you. I don’t know. I’m a booking agent, this is pretty far from my domain. But if you want my advice, I’d say to go and enjoy the experience. Even if nothing comes of it—especially for you, Chay, this will always be something you can look back on and say you did.”
“I guess,” Chay answers.
“Kim, I can practically see your hackles raised from here. Talk to Vegas. Production is in his silo, he’s far more likely to know what’s going on than anyone else.”
They hang up not long after, but not without one last congratulations from Big that leaves a bitter taste in Kim’s mouth.
Chay turns, leaning against the counter on his hands. “Do you want me to turn it down?”
Kim lets out a breath.
The honest truth is yes. Yes, he does want Chay to turn it down, if that’s even still possible. And it’s not because he’s jealous—it’s because something is very obviously rotten under this gold plating and Kim doesn’t know what it is. But it can’t be good, not when it smells this much like his father.
He meets Chay’s eyes. “Yes, Angel. Part of me does. But another part of me is over the moon that you’re getting the recognition you deserve.”
“But?”
“But,” Kim concedes, moving so he’s in front of Chay. He brings a hand around Chay’s lower back. “Why are we just finding out now? It went to your old email, sure—but if it were that important, this shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“What do you want to do, then? I have no idea what to do right now.”
He looks into Chay’s eyes, tilting his face up where he’d been looking down at his hands.
“Will you let me look into this more?”
They both know what that means. Chay nods, though. “Please.”
× × × × ×
Kim is a bloodhound on this scent.
And it goes quickly at first. While Chay never met the artist he produced the song for, a ten-second search was enough to tell them that the artist, Zanna, is also up in multiple categories—among those, the prestigious nods of Best New Artist and Album of the Year—in addition to the Record of the Year nod she’s sharing with Chay for Slow Crush.
Chay had been agitated and troubled after the call with Big, though. Enough that Kim is worried about him. He’d left about 20 minutes ago to go for a run and hadn’t even put his computer away first.
There’s not much else that’s easily found on search engines, at least not that’s useful to Kim. He looks through Zanna’s Mediagram page and a couple of other social media platforms, then through TMR’s Artists pages. He works backward until he finds her agency, then her agent, all in less than five minutes, making a list on his phone of people he needs to contact.
At the top of that list is Vegas. And not long after Kim texts him letting him know they need to talk, his phone rings—Vegas’s cell.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Kim asks as soon as the call connects.
Something Kim appreciates about Vegas is that there’s never a need for pleasantries. Vegas has a particular mix of patience and talent for navigating the relational minefield of peacocks, brownnosers, and sharks that occupy the waters of the major-label music business that Kim has never had, but he also values efficiency.
“To be honest, I thought you knew. You know he’s good. If he weren’t so committed to your scene, I’d have outbid CR Records myself by a factor of four or five at minimum.”
Kim flinches at this, brows crossing in confusion. He’s grateful Vegas can’t see.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I value our relationship, even though you want nothing to do with the family.”
That’s not actually a dig. Vegas doesn’t begrudge Kim his distance. In many ways, Vegas envies it, though they also both know he’s never going to leave TMR.
“What do you know?” Kim asks, pivoting.
“About Zanna?”
“Start there. I know she’s up for Best New Artist and Album of the Year.”
“She’s not likely to win Album of the Year, not against Bambi Jackson or Skyler Fast. But she’s a strong contender for Best New Artist. Slow Crush is her biggest hit, that one spent twelve weeks at #1, but she’s had two others chart sub-ten in the last four months and we haven’t even formally announced her debut album yet.”
If Kim were basically anyone else, he might find that impressive.
“What about Record?”
Vegas doesn’t miss a beat.
“Toss-up. Howl and Eclipse are complete albums but don’t have any viral hits yet at the level of Slow Crush. Her strongest competition for Record is probably G.A.S. by Faramorn.”
Kim has the list of nominees in every category up in front of him, now, and is writing this down.
“I have no idea who that is.”
“Audiotap rapper. Late bloomer. Annihilated last year’s festival circuit. He’s on Glowtown now.”
Glowtown is a legacy label that’s now under the banner of TMR’s biggest major label competitor. Kim smiles at this.
“Good for him.”
“Not going to ask about Producer?”
Kim falls silent. There’s a joking grin in Vegas’s tone right now, and as soon as he notices it starts to piss him off.
“You and I both know that’s the entire reason I’m calling.”
“Not because you miss me? Breaking my heart, Kim.”
“You have no heart.”
Vegas laughs at this. “None of us do. They skipped our family the day they were giving them out. And I have no idea, Producer isn’t the kind of prestige category that generates a lot of industry buzz.”
Kim knew that already, but hearing Vegas say it is frustrating. On paper, Vegas is the Executive Vice President of Digital Media and Strategy, which is major-label bullshit for being in charge of where TMR’s music gets used. In practice, though, Vegas is TMR’s creative director, wrangling its artists and executing the label’s vision—and if anyone at TMR were to know who was likely to win Producer of the Year, it would be Vegas.
Vegas is speaking again before Kim can get his thoughts in order.
“Before you look for an out, something you should know.”
Of course there’s more.
“Worse than this?”
“Don’t let Chay hear you so excited about his success,” Vegas teases. “Yes, worse than this. It’s too late to pull his name. Ken already accepted the nomination on his behalf.”
Of course he did, Kim thinks. That’s not even hard to understand, if it’s true that the Academy has been trying to contact him.
“And Kim?”
“Hm.”
“Prepare for this now. Whether he wins or not, your father is going to be expecting Chay at the reception after the ceremony.”
Kim was already expecting that, too, but hearing the words still makes him want to punch something. Vegas still isn’t done, though.
“We won’t send him in alone.”
“Of course not, I’ll be with him,” Kim snaps.
There’s a long beat. “Will you? There’s a surprise.”
“Of course I will, he’s my—”
Kim cuts himself off.
He hasn’t actually told anyone in his family about Chay. Their relationship isn’t a secret—Kinn and Porsche obviously know, as does Macau, and Kim would be astonished if Vegas doesn’t know just by proximity alone. Tankhun, too, for that matter. But they’ve never actually talked about Chay like this.
“He’s mine,” Kim finishes.
“You say that like I haven’t known that for a year.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“You’re asking me for advice? Incredible.”
Kim sits back on the barstool and crosses his arms. Against his own greater judgment, though, Kim has actually begun to relax, and he feels a smile wanting to break out in one corner of his mouth.
If there’s anyone in his family he can absolutely count on to defend Kim against his father, Vegas is that person. No one has Korn’s ear like Vegas does, not even Kinn—and like himself, Vegas is viciously loyal to the people he considers his. At the end of the day, Kim is grateful to be among that number.
He probably should reach out to Vegas more than he does.
“Don’t get used to it,” Kim quips back.
“I would never. I do have a suggestion, though, and you can take it or leave it—”
× × × × ×
So they go.
Or, well. They prepare to go. The ceremony is in a month, which isn’t a lot of time to get Chay’s clothes made. Theerapanyakul money is good for something, though, and Kim isn’t about to let Chay go to his first—and hopefully only—red carpet appearance looking like anything less than the star he is. So once Chay is back from his run, Kim turns the barstool he’s sitting on toward Chay very deliberately until they’re facing each other.
“I have a question for you,” Kim says.
Chay’s skin is flushed. He’s sweating a little bit and his curls are rioting with the late winter humidity, and his eyes are wide open. Kim wants to eat him.
First things first, though.
“Yeah?”
He’s still a little out of breath as he pulls off his shoes and sets them by the door. Kim waits until he’s standing again.
“Do you have a favorite fashion house?”
You could hear a feather hit the carpet in the silence.
“Do I have a what?”
Kim is smiling, now. “Do you have a favorite fashion house,” he repeats.
“I heard you, I just have no idea what that means.”
Kim suspected as much, and he’d be lying if he said he weren’t toying with Chay a little bit right now. “Favorite designer? A particular label you like?”
Chay looks at Kim for a long beat, his face completely unreadable. Long enough that Kim starts to feel concerned.
And then Chay laughs. “Congratulations, you’ve now overtaken Macau in the category of most rich kid question I have ever been asked.”
Kim rolls his eyes, but he’s in a much better mood now. Especially once Chay peels his shirt off, wiping himself down with it a bit before tossing it to the end of the counter, then comes to sit by Kim.
“I don’t even know how to begin answering that question. I’m assuming you mean for the Grammys.” Kim nods. “So, wait. Hang on. You’re not talking, like. Red carpet-level, are you?”
Kim rests his face in his hand, leaning against the counter where he sits. He arcs a brow.
“Am I?”
He’s teasing Chay now, and Chay knows it. He runs a hand over his face before he answers. “Of course you’re not, why do I even ask. I don’t even know what my options are.”
He’s so cute when he’s flustered. “Prada, Gucci, Balmain—”
“Okay! Okay, I get it—”
Kim catches the hand Chay tries to slap over his mouth. For a long beat, he holds it between them, looking into Chay’s eyes, then brings Chay’s hand to his lips and kisses the back.
When he lets go, Chay is blushing scarlet. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”
Kim nods slowly. “Yes, it is.”
If they’re going to walk into the dragon’s lair, then they’re doing it together. And they’re going to look damn good when they do.
Chay lets his head fall back heavily. This bears his neck, which is long, elegant, and suspiciously clear of marks. That needs to change. “Fuck, this is insane. What is my life. Come shower with me, I need to get out of my head.”
Then Chay stands, tugging Kim by the hand he’s still holding.
He follows as Chay leads them to the bedroom, then their ensuite, and Kim closes the door behind them as Chay turns on the water.
Kim is on him as soon as he faces forward again. He drops his hands to Chay’s waist, tugging him forward, then cups the side of his face.
Chay closes his eyes, leaning into this touch. Kim suspects he knows what Chay needs but wants to hear him say it.
“What do you need, my love?”
“Make me stop thinking. I’m freaking out.”
Kim dips his face to Chay’s neck, his voice low in Chay’s ear. “With pleasure.”
Kim tugs Chay’s shorts off, then his own shirt and jeans, leaving them where they fall. He passes by Chay only to check the water.
It’s warm now. It heats quickly. And when he takes hold of Chay’s waist again and pulls him in for a kiss, Chay melts into him, running a hand up his front that he slides behind Kim’s neck and stepping into him even more.
He’s needy today. Kim really, really loves it when Chay is needy. When he drops his hands lower, slotting their hips together, Chay makes a little gasp into their kiss, and Kim breaks off only long enough to tug him into the shower. Then he pulls him right back, kissing him with more intent, and Chay barely needs any encouragement at all before he’s parting his lips, running his tongue along Kim’s when Kim licks into his mouth.
He throws his arms over Kim’s shoulders, grinding forward, and Kim isn’t the least bit surprised to find he’s already half-hard. And when Kim takes him in hand, the little ah he makes against Kim’s lips goes right to Kim’s dick.
He pauses there, feeling Chay filling out in his hand, then steps behind him, stroking him almost all the way to full hardness.
Then he stops, reaching for Chay’s shampoo.
“Use yours,” Chay says. “Wanna smell like you.”
The possessive animal in Kim purrs in contentment. He puts Chay’s shampoo back, switching to his, and Chay makes another sound of pleasure as Kim runs his thumbs in slow circles over his head while he works it in.
“God I love your magic hands.”
Kim smiles at this, though Chay can’t see. He probably knows. “Tip your head back, sweetheart.”
Chay does, and Kim keeps massaging his head, then his neck as he rinses Chay’s hair, pausing a couple of beats only to get his conditioner.
It’s not long at all before Chay starts to go boneless in his arms. As Kim turns this treatment to his body, Chay goes where he’s led. And Kim takes his time, running his hands all along Chay’s wet body until the washcloth is in his way, and then he’s wringing it out and tossing it onto the bench at one end of the shower so he can use both hands.
When he starts kissing down the back of Chay’s neck and shoulder, Chay bares his neck, and once again the possessive animal in him hums in satisfaction as he holds Chay’s head gently in place with one hand and brings the other to Chay’s cock, now all the way hard. Chay makes an impatient mm sound, then, and Kim smiles into his skin, stroking him off a few times as his head tips back and Kim licks over his neck, then bites, sucking a mark that should be as blue as the accents in the inkbrush naga down his sides within a couple of hours.
When Chay gasps, it’s almost like a sigh. Kim soothes the mark with his tongue and takes hold of his waist, then dips down again to leave another.
This time, Chay’s breath hitches and he lets out another ah sound as Kim bites down, this time harder, drawing the skin he’s abusing over the thick tendon on the side of Chay’s neck into his mouth, making Chay moan, releasing him when Chay whimpers in a way that’s more pain than pleasure. But he relaxes again into Kim’s arms when he soothes this mark, too, then licks up the back edge of Chay’s ear and pulls the two rings in his lobe carefully through his teeth.
“Step forward, baby. Hands against the wall.”
Chay complies, and Kim reaches for the lube they’ve started to keep on one of the shelves in the corner, coating his hand liberally and angling his body out of the spray. He spreads it between his hands, then steps into Chay again.
Chay makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh as Kim takes his cock in one hand, sliding a finger all the way in to the third knuckle with the other, stroking both hands in tandem. And it’s less than a minute before Chay is keening back into him looking for more.
Kim gives it to him. He slides his second finger in slowly, immediately working Chay’s prostate, sighing in satisfaction himself when he hears Chay’s voice when he whines under Kim’s hand.
“P’Kim.”
“Good boy. Relax for me, I’ve got you.”
When Chay does, Kim drags his fingers slowly down Chay’s prostate, pushing in until he keens with it, then gives a couple of pumps to Chay’s cock.
He’s actually not sure which orgasm will overtake him first. But Kim knows which one he prefers, and after a few minutes of working Chay’s prostate, running his fingers up and down and in circles until Chay is almost crying with the stimulation, he gives Chay a third finger, flicks his wrist down Chay’s cock like he’s palm muting, then hooks all three fingers around Chay’s prostate, pressing in and working him there until he comes with a shout that’s nearly a scream, his spend covering Kim’s hand and dripping down his cock and even a bit onto the wall in front of him and he’s sagging back into Kim, unable to hold himself up.
Kim pulls his fingers out, lines himself up, then brings that hand to Chay’s inner thigh as he sinks into Chay’s heat to the hilt, unable to stop a moan from tearing itself from his lips.
It’s so much. It’s always so much. He’s so perfect, keening back into Kim, bearing down looking for more even as he shakes with the remnants of his last orgasm. Kim locks an arm around his waist and tucks his face into the crook of Chay’s neck.
He will never, ever get used to this. And he allows himself a few seconds to try and recover some of his head before he starts stroking Chay off again, now in time with his thrusts.
“Ah—”
Chay’s head falls back against Kim’s shoulder.
“That’s it, baby. Let go.”
Chay brings a hand around Kim’s back as Kim fucks him, alternating between slow, sensual rolls of his hips in time with his strokes and taking hold of Chay roughly, grabbing him by the hips and giving it to him, the sound of their lovemaking echoing off the shower titles, amplified by their wet bodies. And when Chay comes again on Kim’s hand with almost no warning, Kim fucks him through that, too, until he’s clawing at Kim with oversensitivity and Kim is spilling into him with a long moan, then gathering him close and kissing all down his skin, riding out his own pleasure.
When he starts to come down, when the buzz of aftershocks fade to a manageable static, Kim’s hands are all over Chay again as he cleans both of them off, then shuts off the water and bundles Chay in a towel. And when he faces Chay again, Chay is flushed and glowing and smiling softly, his eyes closed as he holds Kim’s shoulder for balance.
“Better?” Kim asks, bringing a hand around Chay’s back that he wraps around Chay’s waist, leaving them both out of the shower.
“Mmm. Yeah. Except now I’m feeling cuddly and needy and I might hold you hostage.”
Chay has already moved half in front of Kim before Kim can open the door. Kim huffs a laugh. “Well then, it’s a good thing both of us are done for the day. Where to now?”
“Hmmmm, sunroom. But turn the heater on, it’s kind of cold out today.”
So that’s where they go. Kim turns the heater on and grabs a throw blanket from the living room, then the two of them curl up on the chaise by the window wall, looking out over a grey, mostly-empty beach while Kim educates Chay on what his options are for his red carpet look. He holds Chay against his chest, both of them looking at his phone.
“Do you have any ideas?”
Chay shakes his head. “Literally none. The only red carpet looks I’ve ever really paid attention to are what’s on checkout-aisle magazines when I’m at the grocery store.”
Kim laughs at this. “That’s entirely fair.”
Chay tips his head up to look at Kim.
“Do you have a favorite fashion house?”
Kim bites his lip, knowing where this is going. “…Yes,” he admits.
“Ah, so you haven’t totally abandoned rich kid life—hey!!—”
Chay yelps as Kim tickles his sides, flinching as he nearly drops Kim’s phone. But he’s laughing again and in good spirits, which means Kim did his job.
× × × × ×
In the end, there isn’t much else he can do. Short of contacting someone at the Academy—which, even if he did have those names, is unwise due to the repercussions it might have on Chay—when Kim exhausts his leads in search of proof for his theory behind Chay’s nomination, the only thing left to do is wait to confront his father.
Which means waiting until the day of the event itself. The first rule of dragon taming is you spend only as much time in the dragon’s lair as necessary, and Kim has now had three decades of being Korn Theerapanyakul’s son in which to learn how to play his games.
But there is still something missing. Kim had picked it up while Chay was at his final fitting for the suit he would be wearing to the ceremony, returning just in time to find Chay in very good spirits as he chats with the store attendant with two black satin garment bags over his arm. Chay had waved and met him curbside, then laid the bags flat on his back seat with the reverence of a scholar handling ancient manuscripts before climbing into the passenger seat and side-eyeing Kim’s raised eyebrow.
“What? Sky wouldn’t tell me how much the suit cost, he said he wasn’t allowed, but something tells me it could pay for at least a semester of in-state tuition at UCLA—”
“Sky?”
Now it’s Chay who arcs a brow.
“The front-of-house person. I don’t know what they’re called in fashion world. Did you tell him not to tell me—?”
Kim is already driving before Chay is strapped in.
He’s barely aware of their drive home. The trip from the luxury strip of Saddleback Drive to their house in Verona Beach is about 45 minutes, during which time Chay regales him with stories of things the attendant had said during his fitting that Kim wouldn’t be able to recount at gunpoint. And if Chay has noticed that Kim isn’t really listening, he’s being gracious about it, for which Kim is very, very thankful.
Chay hops out when they pull into the garage, extricating his suit from the back with every bit of the care he’d set it down with.
“Where should I put it? Should I hang it up or keep it flat, do you think?”
“In our closet. Or in your office, if you’re worried about jostling it.”
Chay tips his head a bit, his smile somewhere between indulgent and concerned.
“That was a trick question, Kim. Are you okay? You seem off.”
Kim couldn’t answer that question at gunpoint either.
“It’s not you, baby.”
“I never said it was.” Chay closes most of the distance between them, carefully holding his suit over one arm. He brushes Kim’s hair back from his face as he studies him. “I want to ask, but something tells me you don’t want to talk about it yet.”
What Kim would give to know what Chay sees in his face right now. Kim has no clue what his face is doing. He laces his fingers through Chay’s over the back of his hand.
“Let’s put that up first.”
“What, don’t want to see how it looks?” Chay teases, pulling back as he heads inside.
Kim catches him and wraps an arm around his waist, leaning into his ear a bit.
“I want it to last until the ceremony.”
Then he squeezes Chay’s ass and winks at his yelp and holds the door for him, following him into their room as he makes for their closet.
Kim sits on the bed as he waits, one hand in the pocket of his black leather motorcycle jacket, rolling the fabric inside it between his fingers. Chay is in there longer than it should take to hang up his suit—and sure enough, when he comes out again, he’s wearing a pair of black palazzo pants and nothing else save the necklace Kim had gotten him for his birthday, which he wears most days now.
There’s something almost feline in the way he comes back into the room. His eyes are locked on Kim’s, his steps silent. He’s taken to wearing just the slightest bit of makeup—a touch of eyeliner, sometimes something on his lips—and when he shuts the closet light off and closes the door, his eyes look enormous and black in the fading winter light. Between that, his tattoos, and the slightest sweep of fabric across the carpet of their bedroom, like sand through an hourglass, he looks like a spirit. Like a god. Like he can’t possibly be real.
He stops right in front of Kim. He cups the underside of Kim’s jaw, runs his finger along the back of his orbital piercing, studies his face with a seriousness and focus that takes Kim’s breath away.
Then he dips down and kisses Kim.
Just once. Chaste, for them, a long press of his lips against Kim’s, then he’s finding the hand not tucked in his pocket and pulling Kim to his feet.
This snaps Kim out of his daze. He returns Chay’s kiss, though with a little bit of tongue, mostly because he can’t help himself. This, too, is grounding—Chay’s taste, his smell.
He breaks off before he can get too lost. Chay’s hand is on the back of his neck, his eyes hooded, even blacker now under the shade of his thick eyelashes.
“I have something for you,” Kim says.
“Oh?” Chay’s voice is soft but amused. “You haven’t spoiled me enough today?”
Not even close, Kim thinks.
“Close your eyes for me.”
He does. Kim pulls his hand out from his pocket, carefully unwinding the piece from the satin cloth his jeweler had wrapped it in.
He picks up Chay’s pendant and fits the magnetic clasp into the slot, twisting it closed. Then he sets it carefully against Chay’s skin, threading his fingers through the three chain strands that branch off either side before clasping them around Chay’s back.
Chay’s fingers immediately fly to the long line of stones against his sternum, his fingers passing over each. But he doesn’t open his eyes. There are stones inlaid in the chains, too, but those are much smaller and he probably can’t tell they’re there without seeing them.
“Kim.”
His voice is quiet, now. Almost a whisper. He’s starting to drift somewhere, Kim can tell, and his own heart races again. “Keep your eyes closed. Just a few more seconds.”
Chay nods.
Kim leads him to the mirror. He steps up behind Chay as he faces it, unable to keep his hands off him anymore.
“Open your eyes, baby.”
Chay opens his eyes and gasps.
His hand flies immediately back to the line of gems down his sternum, a long strand of teardrop-shaped alexandrite that gets progressively smaller further down, meant to symbolize falling water. His birthstone. The top stone is nearly three carats and cost more than Kim’s car.
“These stones change color in the light. They’ll be green in daylight.”
They’re technically violet now, but in the low light of the bedroom, they look deep blue. Like the accents of Chay’s tattoos.
Chay’s skin is hot under his hands. His hands must be freezing. But Chay isn’t pushing him off. The opposite, actually, Chay is covering one of Kim’s hands with his own, threading their fingers together—
He squeezes, a gentle, solid pressure.
Kim opens his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. When he looks in the mirror, Chay’s smile is soft and bright and his eyes are misting, but he doesn’t look sad or upset.
Chay turns back, speaking over his shoulder.
“I remember once you told me you wanted to fuck me in front of the mirror wearing nothing but gold chains, have you one-upped your own fantasy to platinum?”
The joke doesn’t really land. Not with how nervous Kim is right now. And it takes Chay a beat or two to notice, but when he does, he tries to turn fully around.
Kim stops him.
“Love, you’re shaking,” Chay says. There’s no condescension in it as he curls his hand all the way around Kim’s. “Did you think I wouldn’t like it?”
Kim moves their joined hands to the left side of Chay’s chest, feeling the steady pulse of Chay’s heartbeat.
He can’t say what this is. There aren’t words for this. And even if there were, the way he’s choking on his words, he wouldn’t be able to get them out.
But he needs to try. This has to be said. Though he does allow himself one moment of weakness as he reaches into his pocket again, tucking his face into the crook of Chay’s neck and breathing him in.
“You are my whole heart, Chay,” he says. His hands have not stopped shaking, but he makes himself look up at Chay in the mirror, even though the sight of how beautiful he is about takes his breath away. “I love you more than I have words to tell you.”
Kim’s heart is galloping in his chest now. This is it. If he doesn’t say this now, he’s going to lose his resolve.
He turns the ring over in his palm. This one is much simpler, bright, hammered platinum, the band made from several rings that had belonged to his mother. The subtle texture of the band, its smooth, rounded edges ground Kim now as he takes a breath and steps in front of Chay, not pulling his hand from his heart until the last second when he cups Chay’s hand, holding it still as he runs his thumb over his palm, then moves it to his own chest.
Chay’s eyes widen. “Kim—?”
Carefully, Kim reaches for Chay’s left hand and slides the band onto his fourth finger.
Chay draws a sharp breath.
“Chay, I’ve known for a long time now that I want you. That becomes truer and truer every day. Everything you are—you are my north star. I can pick out your voice in a crowded room immediately. You accept me, you complete me, and you are, in every way I could ever imagine, my mate. My partner. The person I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
He looks down at Chay’s hand, the pale ring like moonlight against his golden skin.
Tears are threatening. He’s not going to try to stop them. Still, the sight makes him smile and he looks up at Chay again, thumbing once at the ring where it rests against his skin. “Will you stay?”
Chay is crying now. Silent tears that run down his face and neck and onto his chest. He’s frozen in place, his eyes as wide as dinner plates.
“Porchay, will you marry me?”
Chay surges forward and kisses him. He throws his arms over Kim’s neck, and in the next blink Kim’s hands find his sides as Chay kisses him fiercely, thoroughly, his tears mixing into their kiss as he smiles against Kim’s mouth until he pulls back enough to speak.
“Yes.” He moves one hand to the back of Kim’s head, burying his fingers in Kim’s hair. “Yes.”
Kim rests his forehead against Chay’s. His own tears have spilled over, now, and he takes a breath that’s half sob, half laugh as a thousand emotions flood him all at once.
This is not how he originally wanted to propose. But he’s not about to face his father with Chay feeling any doubt whatsoever about Kim’s commitment to him. And he’s not about to face his father without making it clear to him that he’s absolutely serious about Chay.
His father hasn’t stolen this from him. He’s delivered this to him.
If this needs to be their battle armor, then so be it.