The Overture (KimChayMacau, KimChay, KimMacau, MacauChay) 18+

Major Keys

Kim drives slow as fuck, for some godforsaken reason.

Well, more like he goes no more than a few kilometers per hour over the speed limit the entire time, and even though it feels good to have an excuse to hold Kim close, even though riding behind Kim on his motorcycle is literally on Macau's list of top ten things he desperately wants but doesn't deserve, the slow pace is ramping his anxiety up to the level right below crawling out of his skin.

The thing is, his stomach still feels sour and his head still aches. The bike is doing nothing for his equally aching butt, and his neck is still, still throbbing.

All of that just reminds him of last night, of every touch and breath against his skin, every bite and bruise along his jaw, his neck, his thighs.

When he was getting dressed, he looked at himself in the mirror and thought, 'Oh, fuck. If Hia sees me he's gonna go on a rampage.'

And if Hia knows that Kim is the one behind it all? Macau's not sure even Pete could stop him.

It's not like murdering your family is taboo amongst the Theerapanyakuls anyway.

Literally fucking your family might still be though.

Macau makes some kind of inhuman squeaking noise, closes his eyes, and the ever-hovering anxiety turns to a riptide, pulling him under yet again. God, he's so fucking embarrassed. He was so... messy last night, a sopping wet heap of pathetic, crying every two seconds and then setting the world record for fastest orgasm with barely a suck to his dick, and just... Ugh. Ugh!

But that's not even really it. There's so much about the way he acted that he felt embarrassment over, but... the overwhelming part of it is the shame.

The shame is so heavy.

It holds the weight of every mark on his body as it sinks deep, deep into his skin, into his muscles, into the pores of his bones. They are marks of possession and belonging, and they will leave precious scars in the shape of hands he loves, and the teeth that come with them..

The bite mark, carefully tended to by a very smug Kim before they left, pulses with every beat of his racing heart; his blood feels thick in his body, and the wound is proof that last night isn't something that can be written off, isn't something that he can let go of or ever move on from.

Not only is he selfish enough to want to have and keep Kim, Kim has quietly laid claim to Macau. Not that Macau can really understand why anyone would feel possessive over him as he truly is, prickly and depressing at the surface just beneath his mask, and at his core broken and twisted by his family's name, just as they all are.

Or maybe that's the reason right there. Macau can settle into Kim's hold because he is just the same, already inherently fucked up.

Because when the mask of arrogant, handsome, rich-and-scary mafia spare falls away, what's left is someone empty who carries anger and despair together at his chest, someone who walks into a room with a knife in the waist of his pants and a gun strapped to his ankle or thigh, ready to injure or maim or kill, unable to ascribe humanity to a threat.

He hates that.

And really, at the end of the day, Macau hates everything about himself.

He crumples forward into Kim's back and wishes he could be that dense ball of mass in space he thought about earlier, unassuming and chilling in the darkness, unnoticed and forgotten.

Macau is good at going unnoticed, at blending and fading into the background, unassuming and innocuous if he needs to. He's acquired a lot of information that way, by being unassuming and appearing preoccupied with the hors d'oeuvres table and then stuffing his face conveniently close to someone he knows Vegas is currently working with.