Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Rain slammed against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the main family’s penthouse, but inside, the only sound was the quiet, deliberate pour of amber whiskey into a crystal glass. Porsche swirled the liquid, watching his reflection catch in the dark glass.

Even with all the noise outside, a sense of silence settled within him—it felt as if the raging fire that had been burning inside him had finally cooled down. For the first time, it felt as though he could take a break from life and just rest. Suddenly, he felt a hand sneak around his waist as a broad body wrapped around him from behind.

Porsche looked back and saw Kinn, who had just walked out of the shower in his bathrobe. Kinn placed his chin on Porsche's shoulder and buried his face into the crook of his neck. No words were spoken between them, but the silence wasn't suffocating; instead, it felt like home. Porsche closed his eyes and leaned back into Kinn's arms. In return, Kinn pecked Porsche's cheek and tightened his hold around his waist. For the first time in years, Porsche felt at peace—as if life might actually be beautiful again. But it hadn't always been this way. If you asked Porsche when his world first fell apart, he might tell you it was the day his parents died. But what truly robbed him of his hope and sanity was a single day ten years ago—the day all of this first began to take shape.

Ten Years Ago


The day started like any other for Porsche: waking up early, getting ready, and hitting the Taekwondo mat, before coming back home to whip up breakfast for himself and Chay. Afterward, he would drop Chay off at school on his bicycle before heading to his own. This had been Porsche’s routine ever since their parents passed away—when he was just eight years old and Chay was only two.

Even though their uncle Thee was supposed to be their legal guardian, he was absent for most of their upbringing. At first, his job kept him away; later, after losing his job, he became even more unbearable, spending his days lazing around or gambling away his savings. This forced Porsche to become the sole caregiver for Chay, despite being only six years older. Still, Porsche did a remarkable job raising his younger brother, even while he was just a child himself.

Throughout those eight years, he never complained—neither about his uncle’s neglect nor about the sacrifice of his own childhood to care for his brother. He had always been diligent in life, taking up odd jobs in his neighbourhood to make money to take care of daily necessities. Even though all his schooling costs were covered by a trust fund his parents had set up alongside the insurance money that was deposited after his parents' death.

"Chay, today Hia has a football match in the evening. So I might not be able to pick up from school, can you go back home with Ohm and his mother after school ends?. I have informed Aunt Prim about it." Porsche asked. "Okay Hia" Chay nodded in reply

"Okay then, I will bring you favorite cake after the match" Porsche added by ruffling Chay's hair, which made Chay's face to lit up. "Bye Hia" Chay said making his way through the school gates while Porsche's gaze lingered by the gates for a moment until his's brother's bright yellow backpack disappeared down the hallway.

Once Chay was out of his sight, Porsche made his way to his middle school which was a few blocks away.

His legs burned slightly from the morning Taekwondo drills, but the physical ache was nothing compared to the mental exhaustion constantly humming beneath his skin.

He didn't hate his life—he couldn't afford to. Every odd job, every extra shift at the local garage, and every quiet sacrifice was dedicated to keeping Chay’s world light and untouched by the reality of their situation. Chay believed they were just an ordinary family going through a rough patch. He didn't know about Uncle Thee’s rising debts, the shady men who occasionally lingered near the alleyway by their house, or the way Porsche spent his nights calculating every single baht just to ensure the trust fund money stayed untouched for Chay's future education.

By the time Porsche pulled into the school bike rack, the morning bell was already ringing. He locked his cycle and headed toward his classroom, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

"Late again, Kittisawat," the teacher grumbled without looking up as Porsche slipped through the door.

"Sorry, sir. Chain came off the bike," Porsche lied smoothly, flashing a carefree, goofy grin that he had perfected over the years.

As the teacher started the roll call Porsche slid into his seat silently beside Tem and Jom his best friends since Junior school. "Man, you are up for today's match right?"  Jom nudged him as he took his seat.

"All up to kick the opponent team's asses" Porsche smirked earning a fist bump on his shoulder by Tem. "Don't get into any fight today at the match or the coach is going to remove you from the team." 

"Relax, Tem. I'm on my best behavior," Porsche whispered back, winking as the teacher finally looked up from the attendance register to glare in their direction.

A few hours later, the afternoon heat was beating down relentlessly on the high school sports field. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, sweat, and the electric roar of the spectating students. It was a crucial match—the quarterfinals—and tensions between Porsche's school and their rival team had been simmering since the very first whistle.

Porsche was in his element on the field. Every pass was sharp, every sprint calculated. Playing sports was one of the few times his mind wasn't weighed down by utility bills, loan sharks, or Uncle Thee's latest gambling disaster. Here, everything was simple: ball, goal, victory.

With ten minutes left on the clock and the score tied at 1-1, Tem took possession of the ball, driving hard down the left flank. He was winding up for a cross into the box when defender number 8 from the opposing team lunged in.

It wasn't a clean tackle. The defender arrived late, swinging his leg wildly and taking Tem down hard from behind.

A sickening smack echoed over the grass, followed immediately by Tem’s cry of pain as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his ankle.

The referee blew the whistle, but Porsche was already moving. Red hot anger surged through his veins, instantly shattering his self-control. Tem had been his brother in all but blood since middle school; seeing him writhe on the turf triggered every defensive instinct Porsche possessed.

Before Jom could grab his jersey to hold him back, Porsche sprinted across the field and shoved number 8 hard in the chest, sending the taller guy stumbling backward.

"What the hell was that, man?!" Porsche snarled, stepping right into his space, his posture dangerous and rigid.

The defender sneered, shoving Porsche right back. "Get out of my face! He went down like a wet paper towel."

That was the spark. Porsche’s hand balled into a tight fist, and in a flash of pure muscle memory from years of martial arts, he threw a sharp, vicious hook straight into the defender's jaw. The guy stumbled sideways, catching his lip on his teeth, before retaliating with an strong swing that grazed Porsche’s cheekbone.

Players from both sides rushed in—some trying to pull them apart, others egging them on. The referee blew his whistle repeatedly, sharp and frantic, pushing through the wall of shouting teenagers.

"Enough! THAT IS ENOUGH!"

The referee shoved his way into the middle of the scuffle, grabbing Porsche by the shoulders and pulling him back. Breathing heavily, Porsche glared at the defender, wiping a tiny smear of blood from the corner of his own lip.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the referee reached into his pocket and pulled out two bright red cards, thrusting them high into the air—one at the opposing defender, and one straight at Porsche.

"Both of you—OFF THE FIELD! NOW!"

A collective gasp swept through the bleachers, followed by frustrated groans from Porsche's teammates.

"Porsche, man, no..." Jom groaned, running over to support a limping Tem while looking back at Porsche in dismay.

Porsche stared at the red card, the adrenaline slowly draining from his blood and leaving behind a cold, heavy lump of regret. He looked at the scoreboard, then over at the coach on the sidelines, who was staring back at him with absolute disappointment, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He had lost his temper, just like Tem had warned him. He had gotten himself thrown out, leaving his team short-handed when they needed him most. With his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own rashness, Porsche pulled off his captain's armband, tossed it to Jom, and silently began the long, humiliating walk off the pitch.

Instead of heading straight for the locker room, Porsche stopped at the team bench, refusing to hide away. He grabbed a towel from the bench, wrapping it around his neck, and took a seat on the spectator steps a few yards back.

Just a few seats down sat the defender he had collided with.

Porsche’s eyes locked onto him, burning with quiet fury. Up close, the guy didn't look like the average high school player. There was an unsettling, sharp edge to him—dark, calculating eyes that showed no remorse, a sharp jawline, and a faint smear of blood on his bottom lip that he casually wiped away with the back of his hand. He looked composed, almost amused by the chaos he had just caused. Porsche burned every detail of the guy's face into his memory, a silent promise to never forget that dangerous, arrogant mug.

From his seat, Porsche watched helplessly as the remaining ten minutes of the match played out. Down a player and rattled by Tem's injury, his team struggled to hold their ground. In the final minute of stoppage time, the opposing team seized an opening and drove a sharp shot right into the back of the net.

The referee's final whistle blew: 2-1. They had lost.

The opposing team erupted into wild cheers, rushing the field to celebrate their victory. As the defender stood up from the bench to join his teammates, he turned back to look straight at Porsche. Their eyes met across the short distance. Slowly, a sharp, mocking smirk spread across the defender's face—a deliberate, silent taunt that made Porsche’s hands ball into tight fists at his sides.

"Kittisawat."

The coach’s voice cut through the noise, cold and heavy. Porsche stood up, stepping toward the bench where the coach and the rest of the team were gathering.

"Coach, I—"

"Save it," the coach interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer frustration. "You let your temper get the better of you, Porsche. You're one of our best players, but a captain can't abandon his team over a moment of rash anger. You left them out there defenseless."

Porsche bit the inside of his cheek, unable to argue. The weight of his mistake pressed heavily on his chest as he looked at Jom and the rest of his dejected teammates.

"Until further notice, you're stripped of the captain's role," the coach declared firmly. He turned to Jom. "Jom, you're taking over as captain."

Jom looked at the band in his hand, then up at Porsche with a mix of apology and reluctance. Porsche simply gave him a faint, weary nod, letting his friend know it was okay, even as the sting of losing both the match and his leadership role settled deep in his gut.

The sting of losing the captain's band stayed with Porsche as he packed his gear, but he forced himself to swallow the disappointment. Right now, he couldn't afford to dwell on it. He had promised Chay a treat, and keeping his brother happy was the one thing that always pulled him out of his own head.

On the way back, Porsche stopped by the small bakery two blocks away, spending a chunk of his daily earnings to buy a fresh slice of sweet mango cake. He carefully carried the small box on his handlebars, riding toward their street.

As he turned onto his street, his stomach immediately plummeted.

A crowd of neighbors stood whispering at the edge of his front yard, peeking nervously through the open door. Indistinct shouting and the sound of wood splintering echoed from inside his house.

"Porsche! Don't go in there!" an elderly neighbor hissed, reaching out to grab his sleeve, but Porsche barely registered her voice. His blood ran cold.

He threw his bicycle to the ground and barged through the gathered crowd, shoving his way past the front doorway.

The living room was a scene of utter destruction. Drawers had been ripped from their cabinets, cushions torn open, and family photos shattered across the floor. Three burly men in leather jackets were violently tearing through their belongings, tossing furniture aside in a frantic search.

Porsche's eyes scanned the wreckage in absolute panic, searching for only one person. "Chay... where is Chay?"

Then he saw him.

In the center of the living room, a heavy-set man sat casually on their battered sofa. In his thick fist, he held a firm, agonizing grip on Chay's hair, forcing the boy's head back. Chay was curled up on the floor by the man's knees, tears streaming down his flushed cheeks as he sobbed in terror, trembling violently.

"H-Hia..." Chay sobbed out, his voice cracked with pain.

The world stopped. The bakery box slipped from Porsche’s limp fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud as the cake inside flattened against the cardboard.

Without a single word, Porsche lunged forward, throwing a violent jab straight at the man holding Chay. But before his fist could land, two of the thugs caught him from behind, pinning his arms awkwardly behind his back. Porsche thrashing violently against their hold, kicking out and managing to slam his knee into one man's ribs, but he was heavily outnumbered. A third man delivered a heavy blow to Porsche’s gut, forcing the breath out of his lungs and bringing him down onto his knees on the cold tile floor.

"Hia!" Chay screamed, his voice raw as tears overflowed.

"Stay back, Chay!" Porsche gasped out, his teeth coated with blood, glaring daggers at the man on the sofa.

The heavy-set man casually stood up, rubbing his wrist where Porsche had aimed his swing. He straightened his leather jacket and took a slow, deliberate step toward Porsche, tapping the tip of his shoe against Porsche’s knee.

"A feisty one, aren't you?" the man rasped, a cruel grin twisting his face as he gestured casually around the trashed living room. "You think we came here to mess up your nice little house for fun?"

Before Porsche could spring back up, the man flicked open a pocket knife. The metallic click echoed sharply in the quiet room. He reached over and pressed the glinting tip of the blade on Chay’s tear-streaked cheek.

Chay flinched violently, locking his jaw to suppress a sob, his knuckles white as he gripped the sofa cushion.

"Stay still if you want your little brother to keep his face," the man warned coldly, his dark eyes shifting back to Porsche. He tapped the flat side of the blade against Chay's cheek. "Where is that bastard uncle of yours? Where is Thee?"

Porsche’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct begged him to lunging forward, but the steel resting against Chay's skin pinned him in place.

"I don't know!" Porsche spat out, his voice raw, hands raised defensively in front of him. "I swear I don't know! He hasn't come home in days!"

The man hummed, looking unimpressed as he finally pulled the knife away from Chay, though he kept it held firmly in his hand.

"Your good-for-nothing uncle owes us five hundred thousand baht," he declared, his voice heavy with menace. "And right now, that coward has vanished into thin air."

He leaned down until he was eye-level with Porsche, his free hand suddenly snatching Porsche by the jaw, fingers digging deep into his skin to force him to look up.

"Since Thee isn't here, guess who gets to settle his debt?" The man sneered, flicking Porsche's cheek hard with his knuckles.

"I don't have that kind of money!" Porsche spat back, his jaw clenching as he tried to pull away from the heavy grip pinning him down. "I'm not responsible for Thee's debts! He's a grown man, go find him!"

The man’s expression darkened into a cold, merciless sneer. Without a word, he turned back toward Chay. In one swift, brutal movement, he tangled his thick fingers into Chay’s hair, yanking the crying boy across the floor by his scalp until Chay’s tear-streaked face was shoved directly next to Porsche’s.

Chay let out a piercing scream of pain, his small hands clutching desperately at the man’s wrist to relieve the pressure.

"Let him go!" Porsche roared, thrashing wildly against the men holding his arms, but his struggles only made the grip on his shoulders tighten painfully.

"Listen to me carefully, kid," the thug hissed, tightening his fist in Chay's hair so hard that Chay gasped for air. "I don't care who's responsible. If you don't pay up, I'm taking your little brother. A young, pretty boy like this? I can get a damn good price if I sell him off."

Porsche’s breath caught in his throat. A sickening wave of nausea hit him.

"And don't even think about running to the police," the man added, leaning in closer, his voice dripping with malice. "The cops are in our pockets. You call them, and they’ll deliver the kid right to our front door."

The stark, dangerous reality of his helplessness shattered Porsche's remaining defense. Every ounce of pride vanished. Hot tears spilled over his eyelashes, burning down his flushed cheeks as he looked at his terrified, sobbing younger brother.

"Please... please don't take Chay," Porsche sobbed out, his voice breaking in utter desperation. He was on his knees, completely powerless, reduced to begging the very monster terrorizing his family. "Please, just leave him alone! Don't touch him! I'll get the money—I swear I'll get the money! Just leave Chay out of this!"

The thug stared down at Porsche’s wrecked, tear-stained face for a long moment before casually releasing his grip on Chay's hair. Chay collapsed onto the floor beside Porsche, gasping for air.

"You have three days," the man said, shoving Porsche’s head back with a foot before turning toward the door. "Three days to get us half a million baht. If you don't have every single coin by then... we come back for him."

With a harsh burst of laughter, the thug waved his men off. They tossed the rest of the loose furniture to the ground and sauntered out of the house, leaving behind a ruined living room and a heavy, suffocating silence.

Slowly, the frantic gasps against Porsche’s chest began to even out into heavy, quiet breaths. Overwhelmed by the sheer terror and physical pain, Chay’s body finally gave out, falling into an exhausted sleep in his brother's arms.

Porsche waited until Chay's hands loosened from his uniform shirt before he gently shifted his weight. Slipping his arms under Chay's knees and shoulders, Porsche lifted him as effortlessly as he could, stepping carefully around the splintered wood and shattered glass strewn across the floor. He carried Chay up to his own room—the only space that hadn't been completely ransacked—and laid him gently onto the mattress.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Porsche stayed motionless for a long time, watching Chay’s chest rise and fall. He pulled the blanket up to Chay's chin, carefully tucking the edges around his shoulders to keep him warm. He smoothed back a lock of hair from his brother's forehead, his heart aching at the dark bruises blooming on Chay's young skin.

Silently, Porsche stood up, stepped out, and clicked the bedroom door shut behind him.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the full sight of their wrecked living room hit him again in the quiet darkness. Furniture turned upside down, drawers dumped onto the floor, cushions ripped apart. Without a word, Porsche began to move, cleaning up the disarray with quiet, mechanical efficiency. He set the chairs upright, swept away the stray wood splinters, and stacked the scattered papers.

As he reached near the sofa, his hand brushed against a silver frame lying face down in a pile of torn books.

Porsche picked it up. It was their only family photo—the four of them taken years ago. His mother’s soft smile, his father’s steady presence, a six-year-old Porsche grinning widely, and a tiny Chay held in his mother's arms. The glass over their faces was shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.

Carefully, using his thumb, Porsche peeled away the broken shards of glass, letting them drop into his palm until only the bare photograph remained. Sharp edges sliced through his fingers with every piece he removed, leaving raw, stinging cuts that slowly began to bleed. Droplets of crimson smeared across his skin, but Porsche barely felt the pain—the burning ache inside his chest drowned out everything else. He pulled the glassless frame tight against his chest, sliding down the side of the wall until he was curled up on the cold floor, his blood faintly staining the edges of the worn family photo.

He buried his face against his knees, trying to regulate his ragged, heavy breaths. The suffocating weight of guilt crushed his lungs.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the empty room, his voice shaking with silent agonizing grief. "I failed you. I couldn't protect him... I let them hurt him."

The room remained cold and silent.

Slowly, Porsche uncurled himself, leaning his back flat against the wall. Sitting in the middle of the quiet living room, he held the photo up, his thumb tenderly caressing the smooth paper over his parents' faces.

The grief in his chest slowly hardened into something heavy, cold, and permanent. His eyes grew dark, staring straight ahead as he spoke aloud to the quiet room—a final, absolute vow.

"This is the last time," Porsche whispered, his voice dangerously low and steady. "This is the very last time Chay will ever cry because of me."

He tightened his grip on the frame, his jaw clenching tightly.

"And I won't let a single person who brought tears to his eyes walk away from this."