Chapter Text
Kim is backstage in the university recital hall when the stage door opens. It’s quiet, just a click of the latch and a shift in the air behind him. Whoever it is, they’re obviously trying to be stealthy.
They might have had a chance with anyone else. Kim knows where the exits are and how long it would take to reach them, where the fire alarms are if he needs to make noise, and every object in his vicinity that can be used as a weapon, ranked by effectiveness.
Kim shifts just enough to catch sight of the intruder out of the corner of his eye without making it obvious that he’s noticed them. Then he turns around properly and pastes on a practiced smile, like he hasn’t just been considering the best way of eliminating a threat without alerting the audience he can hear murmuring in the house.
Nok waves with the hand that isn’t holding a music stand (third on Kim’s list of weapons). “Do you mind if I take this? You don’t need it, right?”
Kim shakes his head. He’s playing piano today, not guitar, and either way he has the music memorized. “Go ahead.”
Nok gives him the squinting look of someone remembering that Kim generally doesn’t belong backstage in the recital hall. “Are you playing today? I thought you composers didn’t have to do master classes.”
“We do when they’re sponsored by the composition faculty,” Kim says. It’s the right note to hit, dry enough to set her at ease and deflect questions away from himself. “We just call them seminars instead.”
“Well, good luck.” Nok salutes him with the music stand, already on the way back out to her rehearsal. “Sounds like a good crowd.”
Kim would be surprised if it weren’t. He’s playing this seminar partly as a favor to the marketing department, who want to drum up interest in the undergrad program ahead of admissions season. Getting Kim’s local fan base in attendance is a trade off for Kim skipping the scholarship reception that’s scheduled for next month.
Older, wealthy, socially-connected philanthropists don’t care about Kim’s social media following, and there are frequently people in that category that he’d prefer to avoid, for reasons that have nothing to do with music. Today’s event is a deal that works out well for both Kim and the university.
He’s called onstage a few minutes later and introduced to the guest artist. Kim bows politely to avoid a handshake, then seats himself at the piano. He sets his fingers over the keys and takes a few seconds before he starts to play.
There are less than a hundred people in the audience, which is still a high number for a master class. No one that immediately looks like they don’t belong there, and no one acting suspiciously.
No one apart from the man in the dark suit positioned near the main entrance, who’s standing in obvious parade rest, with his hands clasped in front of him and feet braced in a wide stance. Kim resists the urge to roll his eyes. He knows that his father has people tracking Kim’s public appearances and university events, but they could send someone more subtle. Big should be with Kinn.
The only other person to flag his attention is sitting alone near the back of the hall, clutching a backpack and squirming in his seat. He’s young, either a freshman or one of the admissions applicants the university is fishing for today, with messy hair and eyes that are glued to Kim.
Kim plays the first two chords, then intentionally fumbles the first run and stops, ducking his head and apologizing to the guest artist. He’s given an indulgent, understanding smile for his show of nerves, but Kim’s focus is on the squirming boy in the audience, who’d sat up straight and attentive when Kim had begun to play.
Kim’s false start and abrupt stop doesn’t have any effect on him, so he’s probably not the kid of one of his father’s enemies, here to do something brave and stupid. When he sees Kim looking, the kid even gives him a smile and encouraging nod, like he thinks Kim might need a confidence boost.
Kim dismisses the audience and sinks into his performance. The guest artist gives him good feedback afterward, and walks him through one of the more intricate sections to make a few notes on counterpoint and harmony. Kim can see Big straightening to attention every time the guest artist comes over to lean behind Kim and demonstrate something on the piano, but thankfully he’s not stupid enough to reach for a gun.
It’s unnecessary, anyway. Kim would have the guy disabled before Big could even draw on him.
There’s a round of applause after Kim’s final run-through, and then the guest artist takes questions from the audience. The first few are general questions about where composers find inspiration, and how they write music, which Kim answers as well. Then the squirming kid with the backpack speaks up, stumbling a little over his words and rambling about how great and talented they are.
Kim has nearly tuned him out by the time he gets to his actual question. Then he’s suddenly paying attention, because it’s on a technical theory point and references three different songs Kim has written and released online. It’s a smart question, and while he obviously doesn’t know the musical terminology, there’s nothing wrong with the kid’s ear.
Kim stares for at least two seconds before he snaps himself out of it and demonstrates the chord progressions in all three songs, adapting one on the spot for piano rather than guitar. After he and the guest artist have both given their answers, the kid blushes, bobs his head, and thanks them several times with a happy grin.
Kim misses the next question.
—
Big has stationed himself in the lobby when Kim leaves the recital hall. His gaze is alert, scanning the patrons as they leave.
“Go back to Kinn,” Kim says as he passes.
He ignores the way Big bows his head and murmurs a respectful, “Khun Kim.”
At least it’s Big. He isn’t subtle, but he won’t make his connection to Kim too obvious, and he follows orders. Kim isn’t worried that he’ll stick around and try to tail Kim out of the building.
It could be worse. It could be Pete.
Pete and Kim have seen just enough to form their own opinions of each other, neither of which is especially positive. Pete had seen Kim beat a man to death with nothing more than his fists and a paperweight, and Kim had seen Pete hesitate for a single second when that man had been staring at Kinn with one hand straying toward the inside of his jacket. Pete thinks Kim is an artistic psychopath, and Kim thinks Pete is a bleeding-heart liability that could get his brothers killed.
Khun swears by Pete these days, though, so maybe one of them has changed.
There’s a crowd of music students in the lobby who pay no attention to Kim whatsoever, busy discussing their lunch plans and course loads, a few older arts patrons looking for the toilet before they leave, and the unmistakable knot of Wik fans who start vibrating at a higher pitch the moment they catch sight of him.
The music theory kid is hanging around them on the outskirts of the group, clutching the straps of his backpack. He looks like he wants to join the other fans, but is either too shy or too awkward to manage it.
Kim signs autographs and offers camera-ready smiles for selfies until the admirers have thinned out, and he’s left with just the kid. He’s not in uniform, so Kim guesses he’s not a student here, but he could be wrong about that. Kim’s not in uniform either, dressed instead in concert black. It wasn’t required, but Kim will take nearly any excuse not to wear the slim-cut, open-collared university uniform shirt. He’s more comfortable in clothes that are a little loose, and that don’t put quite as much skin on display.
The kid’s shirt is worn-in, soft and faded. It looks comfortable. It also looks inexpensive, which fits with the battered trainers that have dulled from white to pale gray, and the tiny hole at the corner of his left front jeans pocket.
“Oh,” says the kid, suddenly seeming to realize that he’s the only one left. He looks around and then back at Kim, flushing at the attention. “I just wanted to say…you did really well. It was good. I liked the bridge. I didn’t think you should change the left hand part to harmony, like Khun Marin suggested. Right now it sounds like it belongs after ‘Only Way’ because the notes are the same going up. Is that what you wanted?”
Kim blinks at him. “Yeah,” he says finally. “It’s…”
He pauses, looking expectant. It takes the kid a moment to realize what he’s waiting for, and he blushes again, yanking on his backpack straps and biting his lip. “Oh. Porchay. I’m Porchay.”
“Porchay,” Kim echoes, watching the color darken in Porchay’s cheeks in response. “It’s about the same situation, from the other person’s point of view. There’s a line in the melody, too, but it’s harder to hear because it’s inverted.”
Porchay brightens instantly. “Is that the part where it goes…” He hums the line, not entirely in tune but close enough to be recognizable.
Kim blinks again. He hadn’t really expected anyone to notice that; he’d included it as a sort of easter egg just for himself.
Porchay’s hopeful smile dims at his lack of response. “Oh…I thought that was it, but it’s probably wrong. I’m studying to come here next year, but there’s still a lot I’m learning about music. I don’t know about…inversions, and what Khun Marin was talking about with the tones.”
“That’s it,” Kim says, when Porchay pauses long enough for him to get a word in.
Porchay stops fidgeting, waiting for Kim to say more, and then brightens anyway even when he doesn’t. “It’s cool, I like it. I like you. I like your music,” he amends quickly, too-loud, but there’s no one around them to notice. Kim’s lips twitch as he suppresses a smile. “It’s really good. I’ve seen all your videos.”
“Thanks,” Kim says.
There’s another pause while they both wait for the other to speak again, and then Porchay twists a little, elbows swinging on his backpack strap as he works up his courage again. “Well. That was all I wanted to say. It was really nice to meet you. You were really good in the class.”
“Thanks,” Kim says again. He’s less successful this time at suppressing the smile, but that’s okay. Wik smiles.
“Okay,” Porchay says, nodding. “Well. Bye!”
Kim holds up one hand in farewell as Porchay backs away from him, tripping over the loose rubber toe of his trainer and laughing at himself before he turns and hurries off. He looks back over his shoulder three times before he’s out of sight. Kim catches him at it every time.
He rolls out his neck to ease the tension from being surrounded by a close press of people without cover, then heads to his locker to pick up the guitar he’d left there. He thinks he’ll end up songwriting tonight.
—
There are two guys hanging around in front of the music school who visibly don’t belong here. One of them has on the white, open-collared university uniform shirt, but he’s wearing shredded jeans and dark blue sneakers that aren’t even close to the dress code. Kim knows every student in the music school, and he doesn’t recognize this guy.
The other one is older by two or three decades. His shirt hangs off his stooped shoulders, and he shuffles a few steps closer to the first guy with his head hanging low.
Kim drifts casually to the side of the walkway, assessing his options. He could pretend to have forgotten something and head back inside, but if these guys spook and start shooting, there’s too much collateral damage. He’s way too exposed out here in the open, but at least he won’t get a bullet in the back.
The guy in the white shirt looks away, then rolls his head around to look up at the sky. When he looks back at the older guy, it’s clear they’re having some kind of argument. There’s more shuffling from the older guy, and the younger one keeps looking away and back again, visibly frustrated. Kim gets clear of the students around him so they’re out of the line of fire, and gauges the distance to the nearest cover.
He’s just passing them when the younger guy reaches behind him, toward the waistband of his jeans. Kim’s muscles tense. He’s too close to run; it makes more sense to ram into them and take them by surprise.
The guy in the white shirt unfolds a wallet he’s taken from the back pocket of his jeans, takes out some money, and slaps it into the older guy’s outstretched hand. He looks frustrated but no longer aggressive, the tension gone when he flaps his arm for the older guy to leave. Kim slowly, deliberately relaxes, and keeps walking.
Then the older guy turns away to leave. He sees Kim, and his eyes go wide.
Kim is used to people recognizing him. They generally fall into two categories. There are the people who recognize Wik, social media music star; and the people who recognize him because he’s his father’s son.
This is the latter. The man’s whole body flinches, and he even takes a step back, putting distance between himself and Kim. The younger guy doesn’t seem to notice, busy pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. When he sees a moment later that he’s not alone, he pulls the unlit cigarette from between his lips.
“That’s all the money I have on me.”
The older guy turns and hurries off, giving Kim another furtive look on his way past. Kim slows down to watch him, and then gives the guy in the white shirt another once-over.
He’s leaning back against a red motorbike, which doesn’t put Kim’s mind at ease. A lot of mafia gangs favor motorbikes; they’re easier to maneuver in back alleys and city streets. He blows smoke up at the sky, and Kim is about to move on when the guy’s expression changes completely. A wide grin breaks over his face, and he calls out, “Hey, Chay!”
Porchay from the master class accepts a hug and a hair-ruffle, his own face bright with a matching smile. “Hia. Was that Uncle Thee?” He submits to his brother smoothing down his hair again and fussing over his shirt, which is twisted out of shape by his backpack straps.
Kim slows to a complete stop, his mind whirring.
“Yeah, he just came by, he couldn’t stay.” Grooming ritual completed, Porchay’s brother picks up one of the helmets dangling from the bike’s handlebars and offers it to Porchay. “How was the show?”
“Oh,” Porchay begins, looking eager, and then he catches sight of Kim. He freezes, lips parted and eyes round. That expression isn’t a reaction to Kim Theerapanyakul, mafia family scion. This one is all for Wik.
Kim makes a split-second decision and starts walking in a new direction. Khun always says he’s too nosy for his own good.
“He asked a lot of good questions,” Kim says, taking advantage of Porchay’s stunned silence. He jerks his chin in a friendly, what’s-up-bro sort of greeting.
It takes a moment for Porchay’s brother to recognize him. When he does, it’s the sly, delighted expression of someone who’s aware of his younger brother’s musical idols, rather than the guarded wariness Kim had just seen from their uncle.
“Ohhh. I didn’t know you’d be here. Now it makes sense. Wik, right? Were you playing?” Porchay’s brother nods in greeting. He’s still grinning, probably at the mortified expression on Porchay’s face. “I’m Porsche. I’ve heard a lot of your songs.”
“Hia,” Porchay hisses in an embarrassed whine.
“There’s no reason not to be friendly,” Porsche says, clearly milking the encounter now for all it’s worth. “You weren’t going to introduce me?”
Kim’s lips twitch again, and he fights to get his expression under control, playing it cool and casual. “Actually, I forgot to tell Porchay earlier—my senior recital is at the end of the month. It’s here in the recital hall.” He tilts his head back toward the music building. “You should come.”
“Really?” Porchay blurts out.
“There’s a reception afterward.” Kim makes sure to include Porsche in the invitation when he adds, “What are your full names? I’ll put you on the guest list.”
He doesn’t know what the connection is between Wik-fan Porchay, his rough-looking uncle, and Kim’s family.
This way he can give himself another opportunity to find out.