Tides

You can't run from your responsibility....

The air smells like salt, citrus and espresso. Kit darts between the stalls, navigating the cobble stoned streets like he’s done a thousand times before. Small-town markets always looked a bit the same—but instead of grease smoke and neon signs, the atmosphere was one of sun bleached stone and linen canopies. Vendors call out in lilting Italian rather than Thai. The clang of spoons on moka pots replaces the hiss of woks. Stalls are filled with ceramics, pasta and limoncello. The laughter was almost the same, too. Like home, but louder. It’s slower here, dreamier.
“I forgot how good the air smells.” Silo’s voice is slightly muffled by the sea wind and conversations mingling around them. “Like—”
“—five different kinds of sunscreen?” Light from the morning sun catches on Kit’s teeth when he smiles. “Maybe eau de bug spray?”
“Lemongrass.” But Silo is smiling, too. “And pesto and tomatoes. Maybe a little bit of that creamy cheese they put in those cannolis you like so much.”
“Ricotta?”
“Is that what it’s called?” Silo hefts his bag higher onto his shoulder. “Get your stuff. I’m not carrying more than one bag unless it’s mine.”
The last several months had nearly killed both of them, what with Silo’s work at the National Intelligence Agency of Thailand, and Kit’s assignments from Interpol. Balancing personal and professional lives was harder than either of them had anticipated. Not that either of them had been expecting adulthood to be easier than university, but they hadn’t thought it would be quite so draining either. But they were trying. Trying to exist outside their jobs. To be people again. People who go on a normal vacation without a care in the world.
“That’s fair.” Kit buries his nose in the blood orange he’s chosen as breakfast while he picks up his bag. “So long as the cranky naga who replaced my boyfriend will disappear before we get to the hotel.”
“I just spent seventeen hours in the air and two hours on a train,” Silo points out. “You’re lucky I didn't bite your head off for making me walk the rest of the way.”
“I thought you wanted to stretch your legs.” Kit tosses another blood orange at Silo’s head. Silo catches it without looking up. “At least all that sitting didn’t ruin your reflexes.”
“Oh good. Something to be grateful for.” Silo deadpans. “Nothing screams ‘tourist’ like two guys hauling big ass bags around a market on the way to their hotel.”
“You’re just upset we didn’t get private transport from the airport.” Kit slings an arm around Silo, nearly knocking them both into a nearby stall. “I thought you wanted to be normal this time around. No special treatment.”
Silo snorts. “You first.”
“I’m incredibly well adjusted.” Kit’s eyebrow shoots toward his hairline. “Considering what I do for a living.”
“Last week you chased a guy across three rooftops in your stocking feet.” Silo’s hand brushes against Kit’s—quick, casual, public.
“And caught him.” Kit starts to peel his orange. The sharp scent of the fruit makes his mouth tingle in anticipation. “You ever wonder if we missed something?”
“Like what?” Silo plucks a lemon from the stall they nearly toppled, paying the vendor with a slightly apologetic smile.
“I don’t know.” Kit adjusts his bag, gaze drifting toward a little boy begging his mother for one small scoop of gelato. “A life where he didn’t have to lie for a living.”
“You’d be bored in a week,” Silo chuckles. “And it’s not lying. It’s…adjusting facts. Withholding information on a need to know basis.”
Kit rolls his eyes. “That’s the very definition of lying.”
Silo doesn’t argue, just tucks the lemon into his bag. They weave between sun-hatted tourists and locals with armfulls of bread and fresh produce toward the hotel nestled at the edge of a cliff. Kit used to come here as a kid, with his parents and younger brothers. Growing up, it had felt like one of the few places he could breathe. He didn’t have to see the deep lines around Dad’s eyes that he didn’t understand, or watch Mami’s mouth curl into a knot of worry in a way that he did. Both Mami and Kit knew what Dad did for a living, but Kam and Zone had initially been too young to understand. And when they got older, it just seemed easier not to say anything. If Dad wanted to tell his younger sons that he worked for Interpol, that was Dad’s business. Kit was going to force him. He didn't have a right to anyway.
“I get it, though.” Silo’s voice breaks into Kit’s thoughts. “Sometimes, I just want to throw my phone into the ocean, make ravioli and gelato all day, and not worry about anything except high tide.”
Kit snorts. “You know how to make ravioli?”
“I would if my Thai-Italian boyfriend would teach me,” Silo counters. “I’m very good at following directions under duress.”
“No, you’re not.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Silo’s mouth. “It’s one of the reasons you love me.”
The market hums around them—carefree, golden and alive. A breeze from the beach stirs Kit’s dark hair before tangling in Silo’s. He’d bleached it earlier this year—whether for a job or just for fun, Kit wasn’t sure—but it was growing out now. It looks a little like the cliffs behind them, mahogany bleeding through the blonde.
“You look like a seaside villain in a cheap movie.” Kit runs his fingers through Silo’s hair like he’s trying to smooth it back, rather than what it really is—another excuse to touch him. “All you're missing is the mustache and the cigar. Maybe a vendetta.”
Now it’s Silo’s turn to snort. “I can’t grow a mustache, and you’re the one with the smoking problem.”
“Only when stressed,” Kit corrects him. “What about the vendetta?”
“Still pending.” Silo’s lips twitch.
The hotel isn’t far now—a pale stone building wrapped in ivy, sun-worn and half-asleep in the late morning haze. Kit’s shoulder is screaming for relief from his bag, but Silo isn’t even panting. Kit sets his teeth. He’s not about to let his boyfriend show him up.
“So how did you manage to book a room, anyway?” Silo’s arm brushes against Kit’s when he trips over a loose cobblestone. “It’s peak tourist season.”
“Called in a favor.” Kit shifts his bag to the opposite shoulder, pausing to let a Vespa cut across the street before approaching the hotel.
“Meaning your mom took care of everything.” Silo makes it a statement, not an accusation. He’s smiling.
Kit smiles back. Mami is one of the most visible fashion designers in Europe, something Kit usually hates to spin to his advantage. But Mami hadn’t asked or offered, just volun-told Kit to take his boyfriend to the Italian coast for a much needed vacation. Kit had known better than to argue.
“Yeah, and she probably got us the best room the place had to offer, so don’t go complaining about a free vacation.”
“I’m not complaining,” Silo mutters. “Jet lag is real.”
Kit chuckles as they crest the last hill to the hotel. Shadows from the stone archway casts lilac shadows across their faces. Kit pauses, glancing up at the building in front of them. “You think they’ll have one of those weird fish murals on the wall? The ones with the eyes that never stop following you?”
“Oh absolutely.” Silo sounds amused. “Places like this never redecorate. They just…age into themselves.”
Kit glances at him. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”
“It’s true.” Silo shrugs.
The sounds of tourists chatting over cappuccinos and old women haggling over olives fades as Silo and Kit enter the lobby, where they are greeted by the concierge standing in front of a giant fish mural.
Silo turns his snigger into a cough.
Kit barely stops himself giving Silo the finger.
~~~~~~~~~
The hotel room is small, but boasts a minibar, queen size bed, and a balcony view to die for. Kit pauses long enough to dump his bags on the bed and peel off layers of travel. He throws on his swim trunks, then tosses Silo his before his boyfriend has a chance to protest.
Silo collapses on the bed. “You’re not even going to give me five minutes?”
“So you can fall asleep and then blame me cause we missed the sun?” Kit snorts. “Nice try.”
Silo groans, but pulls on his swim trunks anyway. “Don’t forget sunscreen. I don’t want my boyfriend looking like he’s been boiled alive.”
“I don’t get sunburn.” Kit ducks into the bathroom in search of towels. “I tan.”
Silo chuckles. “You’re going to burn if you’re not careful, Kit. And not just your skin.”
Kit throws a towel at him.
The path down to the beach is steep enough to make Kit’s calves ache. But the silver ribbon of the ocean through the pine trees dotting the panna cotta sand makes the downward hike worth it. The tide is low, water clear enough to see the rocks and shells glittering beneath the surface. A few families have staked out umbrellas, but the far end of the beach is quiet.
Silo strips off his shirt as soon as they hit the sand. Reflections from the water dance across his lean frame, highlighting his old scars—and one new tattoo on his left rib cage: a hawk in mid-flight with wings arched over a running wolf.
Kit lifts his eyebrows. “When did you get that?”
“Few weeks ago.” Silo glances down. “Work trip.”
“What, you got bored between intel drops?”
“Something like that.” Silo flashes a grin before heading to the water.
Kit dives in first. Salt stings his eyes and fills his nose while the air is pushed from his lungs. When he resurfaces, dark hair plastered to his skull, Silo is still wading cautiously toward him.
“Wow.” Kit’s voice is bright with challenge. “Don’t tell me the big, bad hawk of an NIA agent is scared of a little chill.”
Silo gives him a look. “Not all of us embrace hypothermia like it’s a dare. Besides, wolves are better swimmers.”
Kit floats out a little further, kicking water into Silo’s face. “You used to be more fun.”
“I used to be more reckless.” Silo submerges in one clean, practiced stroke. He reappears next to Kit, pushing sopping hair out of his eyes. “You ruined that.”
“Not my fault you fell in love with an Interpol agent,” Kit counters.
Silo splashes water at him. “You weren’t an Interpol agent when I fell in love with you, jackass.”
“True.” Kit spits out a mouthful of salty water. “But we both know how much you like complicated.”
“I’m not the only one,” Silo reminds him.
They float there for a little while, suspended in sun and salt, letting the water do the work of holding them up. Gulls shriek and dive around them while a nearby radio plays an old Italian love song. A child on the beach screams with delight as the waves wash over his feet.
“You know what I miss most about swimming in the sea?” Kit leans even further back, letting his arms spread wide.
Silo glances over at him. “What?”
“It’s the one place no one expects you to carry anything. Not a phone, not a weapon, not a cover story. Just...you.”
“Yeah.” Silo’s voice is quiet. “I get that.”
They let the steady, soft rhythm of the waves carry them toward shore. Their fingers brush. Not by accident. Kit doesn’t pull away.
“I’m glad we came.” Silo hooks his pinky through Kit’s under the water.
“Yeah.” Kit closes his eyes for just a second, savoring Silo’s touch and the continual lapping of the water around them. “Me too.”
The sun drags shadows across the beach by the time they head back, towels draped over their shoulders and salt drying in their hair. Kit’s arms and shoulders are tinged a faint pink. Silo mutters something about sunscreen and “I told you so.” Kit ignores him. True, his skin feels just a little tight, but it’s not any worse than the mild cases of sunburn he gets when he visits the Italian coast. Not for the first time, though, he does wonder why he never burns when he’s in Bangkok.
Silo showers first once they get back to the room, while Kit pours over the room service menu.
“They spelled ‘mozzarella’ with three ‘Z’s.” Kit calls over the sounds of pouring water. “And I don’t want anything that ends in ‘surprise’.”
Silo pokes his head out of the bathroom. “Are you going to make me go out?”
“I’m going to ask if you want to.” Kit grins.
“And pretend I don’t want to collapse and sleep for fourteen hours?”
“You don’t have to pretend anything.” Kit gets up and digs around in Silo’s bags. “You just have to put on pants. Public nudity is frowned on in Italy.”
Silo snorts. “Yeah, I’m not really interested in paying a decency law fine.”
Dinner finds them on a terrace carved into the cliffside, with tiny lanterns swinging overhead and a bottle of Ornellaia Masseto between them. The tablecloth is stiff with starch, and the sunset over the ocean looks like someone set the water on fire just to make the tourists cry.
Kit swirls his Masseto around in his glass. “Why do we need expensive wine?”
“Because vacation means we get to indulge in our expensive tastes.” Silo pours himself another glass. “And don't pretend this isn’t what you need.”
Kit arches a brow, but doesn’t argue. He lifts his glass instead, clinking it against Silo’s. “To expensive tastes.”
“And learning how to breathe.” Silo leans back, stretching his legs under the table so they rush against Kit’s. Kit opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks away, pretending to study the menu, but Silo sees the way his fingers tighten briefly on the napkin in his lap. “What?”
A waitperson stops by their table, asking if they need more time. Silo shakes his head and orders for both of them. The waitperson leaves, his polished shoes crunching on the gravel lined terrace. Silo stays silent, eyes returning to Kit. Not pushing, just waiting for Kit to speak if he wants to. It’s what he’s always done.
Kit finally looks up from his menu. “Zone’s starting university in the fall.”
“In Bangkok?” The question’s rhetorical, but Silo asks anyway. Gentle pushes are usually what got Kit to talk.
Kit nods. “And Kam just signed a new customization deal with some automotive mogul in Spain, because apparently the Spanish customization companies are sub par. It’s Fashion Week, so Mami’s busy with shows, and Dad…well, Dad’s working on what he’s always worked on.”
“That passion project we aren’t supposed to talk about outside Certain Circles.” Silo’s smile is as understanding as it is grim.
“Yeah.” Kit’s fingers brush almost absently across the black ouroboros tattoo encircling his wrist. “I don’t understand why it’s not official. It works, just like Dad said it would.”
“It’s not official because the network’s still in the pilot program stage.” Silo keeps his voice level, knowing that Kit’s heard this explanation many times before. “So we just need to be patient.”
“Play the damn Waiting Game,” Kit translates. “That’s the one damn staple in our lives, you know that?”
Silo is quiet for a minute, making sure he understands what Kit isn’t saying. “You don’t need to feel guilty about taking a break, KitKat.”
Kit smiles at the familiar nickname. “I don't feel guilty…exactly. I’m the oldest—the one who’s supposed to be responsible for everyone’s well being. And instead of helping Zone get ready for uni, or showing Kam how to go over final sale paperwork, I’m—”
“You’re taking a much needed vacation.” Silo finishes for him. “And your family understands that.”
Kit keeps his eyes on the menu. “Then why does it feel like I’m running away?”
“Because you Manirats love wallowing in your guilt.” Silo’s voice is gentle. “You’re allowed to take a break every once in a while, Kit. You’re not a robot .”
Kit swallows, finally meeting Silo’s gaze. “Do you think we’ll ever get tired of this? Not the NIA and Interpol. I mean…this. Us.”
Before Silo can answer, the waitperson comes back with plates of linguini tossed in oil and clams, and sun-warmed tomato salad. Kit toys with his fork, swirling the noodles around the tines.
“Kit,” Silo leans his elbows on the table, studying Kit’s face. “You’re the one who always told me love is a choice, not a miracle. Every time, I’ll choose you.”
Kit’s fingers tighten around his fork. “Even when I’m behaving like a jackass?”
Silo’s free hand hovers over Kit’s. “Especially then. I’ll always be here for you, Kit. I hope you know that.”
“I do.” Kit laces his fingers with Silo’s. “We could stay longer.”
“Is that what you really want?” Silo knows the answer, but asks the question anyway.
Kit grins.
~~~~~~
Kit drops the keycard on the dresser, letting the door click shut behind them. Silo toes off his shoes, watching with a familiar kind of heat as Kit shrugs out of his shirt. The skin of his shoulders is definitely pink.
“I told you to wear sunscreen,” Silo murmurs.
Kit smirks. “You going to kiss it better?”
His hands find Silo’s waist, then his jaw. A scrape of stubble, the soft catch of breath. Silo’s lips brush against Kit’s, teasing them apart. Heat pools deep in his core, rising with each stroke of Silo’s fingers. They fall into it easily, already familiar with every curve of each others’ bodies. Silo backs Kit toward the bed, then presses him against the edge. Kit lets him, hands curling into Silo’s shirt. Clothing is discarded piece by piece. Kit’s fingers trace the wolf and hawk tattoo along Silo’s ribcage. Silo shudders, skin pebbling under Kit’s finger tips. Kit tilts his head, allowing their tongues to tangle, leaning back until Silo is straddling him. Silo pins Kit’s hands gently above his head, teeth scraping along Kit’s neck, then soothing each bite with his tongue. Kit sucks in a breath that’s quickly swallowed by Silo’s mouth. The bed dips under their weight.
Kit rolls them over. “Sure you aren’t jet lagged?”
“Don’t push your luck.” Silo’s breath is hot against Kit’s skin.
Kit’s smug retort is cut off by a low buzzing sound. Not an insect. His phone. They both freeze.
Kit flops back onto the bed. “Ignore it.”
Silo doesn’t move. “Could be important.”
The buzzing stops, then starts again—louder, more insistent. Kit curses and rolls out of bed, digging through his bag until he finds it. Kam’s name lights up the screen.”
“One sec.” Kit gives Silo an apologetic look, then swipes to answer halfway through the third set of buzzing. “Kam—”
“Kit.” His younger brother’s voice is ragged. No jab, no smart-ass drawl. Just broken syllables. “He’s dead. Kit, he’s—Dad’s dead.”
Kit’s stomach turns cold. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I heard it.” Kam’s breath hitches, the sound wet, like he’s trying not to throw up or scream. “He called me. Said he thought someone was following him, and then—I heard it. Shots. Screaming. They—Kit, they stabbed him too—”
Kit can’t breathe. His chest tightens like it’s wrapped in steel bands. Silo puts a hand on his back, grounding, but Kit doesn’t even register the warmth. “Kam, where are you?”
“I’m home. They—they dumped him on our lawn. Just left him there, like garbage. He’s covered in blood. His face is—Kit, I think he tried to crawl. There’s a trail from the gate.”
Kit is already moving. Grabbing jeans, tossing on his shirt backwards. He doesn’t even notice. “Where’s Zone?”
“Still with Mami in Milan.” Kam swallows hard. “I’m calling her next. The police are here, and they’re asking questions I don’t know the answer to. Dad’s just—he’s just there, and there’s blood everywhere and—Kit, I can’t do this—”
“I’m coming.” Kit’s voice is steady now, but his hands shake as he zips up his jeans. “Kam. Listen to me. I’m coming home.”
“Don’t hang up,” Kam’s voice is a tremor. “Please don’t hang up.”
“I need to book a flight.” Kit breathes, already swinging his legs out of bed. “I promise you I’m coming home.”
Silo’s out of bed now too, laptop open, scanning airline sites. “No flights.”
“You’re shitting me.” Kit has the phone to Silo. “Talk to Kam. Dad’s dead, and he’s losing it.”
Silo barely flinches when he takes the phone, but his eyes are full of sympathy. Kit barely hears the steady murmur of his boyfriend’s voice calming his little brother down. He check airline after airline, jaw tightening as the words flash across the screen.
Grounded.
Delayed.
Canceled.
Canceled.
Canceled.
“There has to be something.” Kit clicks the refresh button repeatedly, willing those red letters to disappear. “Dammit, there has to be something.”
~~~~
The airline rep doesn’t even flinch when Kit slams his palm against the counter.
“No flights out of Naples, Rome, or Florence,” Her Italian is clipped and apologetic. “The storm in the Adriatic has grounded everything heading east.”
“How long?” Silo’s voice is calmer, quieter.
“Could be twelve hours. Maybe forty-eight.” The woman’s shrug is helpless.
Kit turns away before he says something cruel, letting Silo steer him back to the hotel. His phone keeps buzzing with relentless, panicked texts:
KAM: They let me see him. Someone tried to carve him open. They took his watch. The one I gave him. Kit, why would they take that? Why would they leave him like that?
ZONE: Kam called. Dad’s dead. Why would anyone do that?
MAMI: Tesero, call your brothers. They need you. I need you.
KAM: Kit, where the hell are you?
By the time they get back to the hotel, Kit has turned off his phone. Kit fumbles the keycard twice before it works. The door swings open, and the room is too bright, too clean, too wrong. The bed still smells like salt and sun and skin.
Silo’s voice is soft behind him. “Kit…”
But Kit doesn’t listen. He’s already moving. His hands are shaking again as he rips open the minibar fridge, bottles clinking as he pulls out the bourbon. He doesn’t care that it’s overpriced. He doesn’t care about anything right now.
The first pour is rough, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides of the glass. Kit brings it to his lips without hesitation, and it burns as it slides down his throat, settling heavy in his chest. He coughs, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Silo stands, silent, behind him. Kit doesn’t look at him, doesn’t need to. He can feel the heat of Silo’s gaze on his back, but he doesn’t know how to explain this. He doesn’t know how to explain the sudden, overwhelming need to numb himself. He’s on his fifth drink before he stops using the glass altogether.
“Kit.” Silo stands just inside the doorway, like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to come in. “This isn’t helping.”
“You know what else isn’t helping?” Kit’s voice is sharp, fraying at the edges. “Being stuck in a damn postcard while my little brother listens to our father die.”
Silo shuts the door. Quietly. “You can’t control the weather.”
“No,” Kit spits. “But I can control this. I can control something. Or I should be able to. But instead, I’m here, drinking overpriced wine and wasting time with—”
He stops.
Silo’s expression doesn’t change. “Say it.”
“This was a mistake.” Kit’s words are slurred, his vision starting to blur, but the pain—the need—never fades. Not even as the alcohol sinks deeper, faster. “You don’t understand. Kam’s my brother. He’s alone. He’s fucking alone, and I don’t know what to do. And all you can do is stand there, looking at me like I’m the one who’s broken.”
Silo takes a step toward him, his hand outstretched, like he’s going to grab Kit’s arm or pull him into a hug. But Kit jerks away, knocking over the chair beside him, the sound of it scraping against the floor a harsh, ugly thing.
“You’re drunk, Kit.” Silo’s face hardens, jaw tightening, but his eyes—his eyes are soft. Too damn soft. “This isn’t you. You’re not the kind of person who drinks himself into a mess like this. This isn’t how you deal with things.”
Kit hurls the empty bottle at the wall. It shatters, the contents trailing down the plaster like blood. “I think you should go.”
Silo flinches. “You don’t mean that.”
“I said get the hell out!”
It takes Silo a full ten seconds to respond. Then he grabs his bag. Doesn’t even bother to zip it shut. “I love you, Kit.”
He closes the door behind him.
The hours bleed together like the wine on the wall.
Kit drinks what’s left in the minibar—tiny glass bottles lined up like soldiers, each one disappearing into his bloodstream with less resistance than the last. The storm outside finally hits sometime after midnight. Wind claws at the shutters. Rain lashes sideways against the glass. The sea is no longer blue or silver. It’s black.
Kit sits on the floor, back against the bed, legs sprawled out at an angle that would hurt if he could still feel anything.
He keeps glancing at the door.
Then his phone.
At the minibar.
Then the door again.
He tells himself Silo is cooling off. Walking it off. Finding a breath of air in a world where the atmosphere is trying to drown them both. Silo always comes back. He always—
The clock ticks. Minutes, then an hour. Then two.
Kit can barely feel his fingers around the bottle anymore, the world slipping out of focus, each movement sluggish and heavy. He knows he should stop—knows he should put the bottle down, find his balance, make himself stop before it’s too late.
But the numbness feels too good. Feels like the only thing that makes sense anymore. The burn in his throat, the warmth spreading through his chest—it’s the only thing stopping the thoughts from tearing him apart.
His tongue feels thick, like he’s trying to speak underwater, but the words don’t come. His fingers are clumsy, numb, fumbling with the bottle, but he keeps drinking, because it’s the only thing that drowns out the noise in his head.
He takes another drink, choking on it, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Not Kam, not the dead father on the lawn, not Silo walking out—none of it. He can’t keep track of anything, and right now, that feels like the only victory he’s had in hours. With his fingers too numb to hold the bottle anymore, he lets it drop, hearing it hit the floor with a dull thud, but it barely registers.
Silo didn’t come back.
Not because of the storm. Not because of duty. Not because of time.
But because Kit told him to leave.
And this time—this last time—Silo listened.
He lost Silo.
And it’s his fault.
Slowly, he drags himself up, gripping the edge of the bed. The sheets are cold against his hand, and he uses it as leverage, hoisting himself up with all the strength he can muster—if only to collapse face-first into the comfort of the mattress.
It feels like sinking into a void, like the weight of the world has finally given him a small, fleeting release. The warmth of the sheets wraps around him, and he’s vaguely aware of the way his body feels—heavy and disconnected, like it’s no longer entirely his.
But it doesn’t matter.
He’s numb.
He’s finally numb.
~~~~

Kit wakes up in stages.
First, to the throb in his skull—deep and insistent, like someone swinging a hammer behind his eyes. Then, the sour taste in his throat. Finally, the burn along his shoulders, peeling skin catching against the fabric of his clothes. He’s sprawled halfway on the floor, one arm tangled in the hotel curtains, the other curled protectively around the empty whiskey bottle like it’s a lifeline. Sunburned and hungover. The perfect damn combination.
The sea is still angry outside. Morning light filters through storm clouds and thin linen drapes, dull and gray. His phone is vibrating near his head, a low, persistent hum against the tile. Kam’s name glares at him from the screen.
He fumbles to answer, thumb swiping wrong twice before he gets it. “Yeah.”
“You didn’t come.” Kam’s voice is taut. Tired. Grieving, but with a thread of disbelief woven through. “Zone’s still in Milan with Mami. I’m here, Kit. Alone. And you didn’t come.”
““Storm—flights were grounded.” Kit’s stomach turns. Not just from the alcohol, but from the weight in his brother’s voice. “Kam, I—”
“You could have got on a train. Or—anything. You didn’t even try.”
Kit presses his palm to his forehead. “Kam. I—Silo left.”
Silence stretches on the line. Not long. But long enough to twist the knife.
“Okay,” Kam says flatly. “So your boyfriend left and you… what? Got drunk? And didn’t show up when Dad was—when I—I called you. All night. And you didn’t pick up. You didn’t pick up.”
“I know.” Kit’s voice is small. “I’m sorry.”
“Not to me,” Kam hangs up.
Kit stares at the phone.
The room reeks of liquor and regret. The kind that doesn’t wash off. He drags himself into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face. His reflection is a stranger—eyes bloodshot, lips chapped, stubble rough along his jaw. He braces himself against the sink, fingers shaking.
Zone is in Milan.
Kam is alone in Bangkok.
Silo is gone.
And Dad is dead.
Kit swallows the bile rising in his throat. The storm hadn’t stopped him. He had chosen to give up. To hide. And now he’s too late for everything.
~~~~~~
Kit is granted bereavement leave from both Interpol and his own company. But he doesn’t book a flight to Bangkok. He doesn’t check the news. He leaves his phone off for days at a time, or sometimes just turns the screen face-down and pretends it isn’t there. Zone sends him videos of the funeral that he doesn’t watch. Kam sends him texts he doesn’t reply to. He drinks things he can’t pronounce and wakes up with headaches he doesn’t deserve relief from. The ocean becomes his confessional, his punishment, his escape—endless and unbothered by his grief.
Winter is different in the Adriatic. The water is colder, but Kit dives into it every day anyway, letting the waves beat him into near submission before dragging himself back to the sand, lying there until his breath steadies
He never stops missing Silo. But he does stop expecting him to come back. Time loses its shape. In alcohol. In salt. In silence. He sends money to Kam, sometimes. Not often. Just enough to know he still remembers how.
Then, on a Tuesday, sometime near sunset, when the sky is streaked with peach and the surf is kissing the shore like it might apologize for everything it can’t undo, Kit wakes to the taste of metal in his mouth and something foul and sour crawling up the back of his throat. His skull pulses with a steady, punishing rhythm, like someone’s hammering nails into the inside of his temples. He groans, rolling onto his back, one arm flung across his eyes to block out the sharp, Mediterranean light slicing through the slats of the curtains.
His phone buzzes near his head. Again.
He fumbles for it with numb fingers, staring blearily at the screen.
Mami.
His mother never calls.
And if he doesn’t answer, she’ll keep coming. Or show up in person, and see the mess he’s made of himself.
Kit exhales through his nose, taps to answer, and croaks, “Ciao, Mami…”
“Kittisak.” Mami’s voice is warm, familiar. “You sound like a sewer drain. Are you hungover, carino?”
Kit makes a noise that could be a laugh or a groan. “You calling to scold me?”
“I’m calling because your brother called me,” Her voice sharp now, the Milanese accent more pronounced. “Kam. Have you spoken to him?”
“We text. Service gets spotty sometimes.” It’s a shit excuse, but Kit makes it anyway.
Mami sighs. “You’ve grieved enough, Kit. It’s time to go home. You are the oldest. You do not get to hide. Zone will stay with me. You will go to Bangkok and help your brother.”
“I—” His throat works. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can, and you will.” Mami goes quiet for a moment. “I wish I could go with you. You know that.”
“I know.” Kit doesn’t blame her. Milan is her work, her studio, her life’s empire. As one of the most visible Thai-Italian designers in Europe, Mami can’t disappear now—not even for this. It’s not neglect. It’s survival. The balance they’ve always lived between countries, between lives, between danger and beauty.
“Listen to me, caro.” Mami’s voice is softer, laced with grief. “You are my son. You are your father’s son. And you are Kit. You need to go home.”
Kit’s hands tremble slightly as he presses the phone closer to his ear. “I want to talk to Zone.”
There’s a shuffle on the line, faint voices in the background.
“Kit?”Zone’s voice is young and raw and already strained with worry. “Are you coming to Milan?”
“Hi, Z.” Kit presses the phone harder against his ear. “I’m going home. To Bangkok.”
Silence.
“You should stay in Milan with Mami. Finish the school year. Come back when you start uni in the fall.”
“But—” Zone’s voice breaks a little. “I want to be there. Kam’s there. You’ll be there.”
“I know.” Kit leans his head back against the wall. “But I need you safe. Not…in the middle of all this.”
“I’m twenty-one,” Zone protests. “I’m not a kid.”
“I know, Z.” Kit’s lips curve up just a little bit. “Which is why you need to stay with Mami. Just for now. She’s alone, too. She needs you. I’m counting on you to take care of her. Can you do that?”
A pause. Then a sigh, tired and tangled with emotion. “Fine. But I’m coming back in the fall. And you’re picking me up at the airport.”
Kit exhales. “Yeah. Ok. Deal.”
Zone is quiet again. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too. But I’ll see you in the fall. And I’ll call every day. I promise.”
“Ok.” The word drags reluctantly from Zone’s mouth. “Just… tell Kam I love him.”
“Yeah.” Kit’s chest feels like it’s caving in. “I will.”
Mami’s voice returns. “Be strong, Kittisak. For Kam. For Zone. For you father.”
Kit closes his eyes. “Yeah. I will.”
“Ti voglio bene, caro.” Her words wash over Kit like a balm. I love you, darling.
“Ti voglio bene anch’io, Mami.” I love you too, Mami.
When the call ends, Kit stares out the window for a long time, watching the tide roll in again. He folds clothes he hasn’t worn in months, tucks away half-empty bottles, brushes sand out of his shoes. He doesn’t cry. Not this time. He’s cried enough for a dozen versions of himself—ones that never left Bangkok, ones that never joined Interpol, ones that didn’t fall in love with someone like Silo, or lose a father to silence and steel. Then he turns off the coffee machine, scribbles a note for the cleaning lady, and locks the door behind him.
At the airport, the storm is finally gone. Planes are taking off again. Kit boards without looking back.
He’ll go to Bangkok.
Be Kam’s anchor, just like Kam has always been his.
Sort out whatever deals his family company has made in his absence.
Prepare for Zone to come and start university in the fall.
Maybe accept an assignment from Interpol if they offer one.
He’ll figure out the rest as it comes.
For now, Kit Manirat is going home.