Chapter Text
Five temporary adversaries with dark visors and color-coded weaponry stand atop a pentagon of platforms while the countdown in the center of the arena ticks down from ten. The steel walls and ground have been reset to a uniform gray shade after Tul, the last round’s victor, received his virtual medal with an undignified yell and a mocking dance that involved showing far more of his backside than his front.
Win’s determined to ruin his day.
He taps down his visor and shoulders his blue rotary cannon as the holographic countdown number switches from eight to seven.
On the platform across from him, Tul points two fingers from his own visor to Win’s, the barrel of his orange blaster lazily clutched under his arm. “No ganging up on us this time,” he shouts.
Team says, “Strategy isn’t against the rules, phi.” He gives Tul an upward nod from the platform beside Win’s, the wicked curve of his grin plainly visible beneath the bottom of his visor. He complained at length about the red bow in his hand when they all chose weapons earlier, but he’s getting the hang of it. It only took a few rounds of practice while Win protected his back, and now he’s easily the most dangerous of the five.
Wan and Tul may not appreciate it, but Win’s always been happy to lose to a worthy competitor.
“Strategy my ass,” Wan says. He twirls his purple shotgun umbrella lazily as the countdown reaches four. “Flirt on your own time.”
Win huffs a laugh through his nose. “It’s all I do, hia.”
“Ugh, if that isn’t the truth,” says Suede. “Try living with them.” He’s made himself a little larger than usual, about the size of a well-fed house cat, hovering in midair on his stomach with his chin resting on one hand while he idly swings a turquoise three-headed flail back and forth with the other hand. Paint matching the color of his weapon splatters on the ground and evaporates on impact; nothing will stick until the countdown reaches zero.
As the final round begins, Tul yells, “I hate playing with them together!” and kicks off his platform, spraying a wide orange streak on the floor, the wall behind it, and then the ceiling in quick succession. It won’t stay orange for long, but it’s a flashy start.
Team’s grin widens as he aims a shot down the slope of his platform and slides down the red wave of paint, whooping with both arms up, holding his bow overhead. Win smiles as the arena’s red and black rental jacket rides up Team’s stomach and he’s gifted with a sighting of the Nirvana T-shirt Team stole from Win’s closet this morning.
A purple splat plasters Win’s visor, followed by a, “Pretend you care!” from Wan shouting up at him from the ground.
Win smears the virtual paint off his visor with a good-natured hum and takes aim at Tul where he’s hiding behind Wan’s platform to track Team. Win’s blue cannon blast covers Tul and the platform, and Win rolls to the side just as Suede swoops by for his own attack, the three heads of his weapon projecting a wild spiral of turquoise paint across the area of the platform where Win was standing.
“Protect yourself, Phawin!” Suede calls, giggling. He redirects in midair and flies after Wan, who’s working on painting the ceiling, which they’ve been forgetting to claim for most rounds until the last ten seconds.
Win checks his cannon and finds it still charging at eighty-three percent. When Team shouts, “Hia!” from below, Win automatically ducks to the right, and an orange blob flies past his head and coats the wall behind him.
Tul hollers, “Fuck off, Team! There’re no sides!”
“Thanks, baby,” Win calls. He returns the favor by firing his newly recharged cannon at Tul, who squawks and staggers away from the wall he was painting orange.
A moment later, it’s red, and Team sprints up Win’s platform with his bow slung over his shoulder. When he’s eye-to-eye with Win, Team tips up both their visors and kisses him, wildly smiling and panting with exertion. “Love you,” he whispers. Then he smacks his own visor down and slides back down the slope, dodging a barrage of orange from Tul.
Win beams and touches his lips, fascinated as always by the sparkling warmth spreading through him.
Tul fires four rapid shots at Win’s unprotected face with a furious, “Stop! Doing! Foreplay! In front of your brother!”
Win ducks most of them, and when Wan shouts, “Please never say anything like that again, thank you,” Win snorts out a laugh.
Wan’s managed to coat the entire ceiling in purple while the others were focused on attacking each other. Suede notices this at the same time Win does and swoops up to swing around his flail in a last-ditch effort to take back some ground.
Win’s the only one who hasn’t moved off his platform yet, and he’s already taken two of his three hits, but Team’s still clean, so he decides to stay where he can keep an eye on him and whoever’s targeting him.
Tul squawks as Suede dive-bombs him with a cackle, a trail of twinkling stars shimmering in his wake. The special effect would probably be against the virtual arena’s rules, but very few facilities have updated their policies to include player requirements that are specific to AI players that weren’t created by each individual arena. It’s made for some amusing arguments post-game, like the time Suede distracted Manaow by turning into a lavender Pomeranian and distracted her while Team merrily painted over her green-painted ground.
As Win lines up another lazy shot at Tul (“attack someone else, you thick-faced creep!”), the timer in the center of the room pulses and doubles in size to alert them all that they’re down to their last ten seconds. By now, the walls and ground are mainly an array of orange and red with spatters of turquoise, and the entire ceiling is mostly purple with dashes of turquoise and red mixed in.
For fun, Win waits until the last second to shoot Tul in the face.
Team snickers, Wan rolls his eyes expansively, and Suede cackles.
“You’re not allowed to bring your boyfriend next time,” Tul tells Team, swiping his visor clean.
“You’re the one who invited Win,” Suede points out. Already back to his default smaller size, he plucks his white magician’s top hat from nowhere and pops it back on his head, shifting out of his turquoise paintball uniform into his latest favorite outfit of white vest, black dress shirt, and burgundy trousers. He’s become a sharp little dresser recently, his growing fixation on fashion leading to a lot of unnecessary commentary on what Win and Team like to wear.
Five circular gauges pop up in the center of the room as everyone returns to their platform, and the percentages of each color tally up as anticipatory music blares from hidden speakers in the ceiling. Team catches Win’s eye and winks, twirling his bow in a circle on his wrist.
Wan’s and Tul’s arms are folded, their mouths in matching unimpressed slants.
Unfazed, Win winks back.
As expected, the fifth gauge explodes into a starburst of red and golden rays, virtual confetti pouring down from the ceiling onto Team and his platform. Team laughs and does his most obnoxious victory dance, ignoring Wan’s complaints and Tul’s shouted speech about poor gamer etiquette.
Suede just sighs, “Annoying,” and petulantly blinks out of existence. There’s a decent chance he’s gone home to lock them out of the house.
As Team accepts his virtual medal—his third of the afternoon—Win claps politely.
“Thank you, thank you,” Team says, glowing with pride. He has real, tangible medals at home, but he accepts the virtual paintball kind with the same degree of delight.
“Every time,” Tul grumbles.
The arena’s AI, a pink lion cub with large sapphire cartoon eyes, jumps from nowhere into the center of the room, sitting on top of Team’s flashing red gauge and holding up a paw. “Thank you for visiting Splattergate!” she says. “Congratulations again, Team! You’re today’s winner!”
Team gives her a polite wai. “Thank you again, P’Rangi.”
She finishes her usual end-of-game spiel and invites them to exit the arena and deposit their rented uniforms into the crates in the changing room to their left. With a sweet little roar, she leaps back into nothingness. The gauges disappear with her along with every trace of paint. The gray room’s harsh spotlights fade down to a warm amber glow, the changing room door slides open, and the music changes to a mellow jingle.
As Team makes a show of counting the three virtual medals on his uniform jacket, Win’s smile twitches higher. “Still mad about getting the bow?” he asks.
Team shoulders it and poses with his hands on his waist and his chin tilted up. “I think it kinda suits me, actually.”
Tul flaps a dismissive hand at both of them and turns to Wan’s platform. “P’Wan,” he says, smiling. “Do you want to go to one of the other arenas? Without them?”
Wan pushes his visor up and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Can’t,” he says. “I have to get back to work. I’ve had the door locked for the past hour, but people have been knocking.”
Tul says, “Ah,” and telegraphs disappointment from the droop of his shoulders.
Win says, “If I can—”
Before he can conjure up an offer, Wan quirks a tired smile at him. “Nothing you can help with today. Just a lot of busy work.” Listless, he nods at Team. “Good job, cheater.”
Team smiles. “Sorry, phi,” he says, cloyingly sweet. “Love conquers all. You know how it is.”
Win scratches the shell of his ear with a tamped-down smile.
Toneless, Wan says, “Gross,” and disappears.
The light, buoying feeling Win’s enjoyed all afternoon flickers. Seeing Wan at all during a workday is rare, especially for something as fun and trivial as virtual paintball. In retrospect, he didn’t see Wan smile once, and his voice seemed worryingly blank even in the middle of the mêlée. Skirting around a flare of guilt, Win climbs down from his platform and reaches for Team’s hand, gripping on tight and inviting that sparkling warmth from earlier to return.
The three players of their party who were physically present file into the changing room together, two of them still tangling their fingers and swinging their arms in idle contentment. Tul and Team’s medals disappeared when they exited the arena, but Team strides with lingering pride that has Tul transitioning smoothly from poor loser to unabashed gremlin as he strips off his jacket and tosses it into the crate near his locker.
“I’m bringing consent forms next time,” he says.
“You sound jealous,” Win says. He releases Team’s hand after a fond squeeze, then peels his jacket off. He smirks as he catches Team next to him watching out of the corner of his eye for a hint of Win’s hip tattoo.
“Of course I am,” Tul says. He unbuttons the rental uniform pants and shimmies out of them, gracelessly kicking them off and into the crate. “I don’t want either of you, but what you have is nauseatingly sweet, and even someone dedicated to independence can occasionally fantasize about having a partner. Y’know, for tax purposes.”
Team says, “Maybe you’ll get lucky with a regular at MUSE like Hia Win did.” He links his fingers behind his back and stretches his arms out with a languid sigh, plastering the fabric of his black T-shirt across his lean, muscled chest.
All else flees Win’s brain, smoothly substituted by the memory of Team arching against his mouth in the shower last night.
“You weren’t a regular,” Tul says. “I heard you only saw Win twice.”
“Three times,” Win says absently. The memories of which are even less helpful; he may be the first in history to pass out from a violently southern redirection of blood flow.
A knowing smile hitches Team’s lips upward as he lowers his arms, and Win’s mouth dries as he appreciates the muscles in Team’s shoulders, honed lean and strong by hours upon hours of swimming.
“They don’t have regulars anymore, anyway,” Tul says. “They stopped the whole system, like, two years ago.”
“Oh yeah,” Team says. He’s still locked onto Win, stretching his arm over his chest for no apparent reason.
Win leans a shoulder on the locker and watches him with profound appreciation.
“Five years,” Tul says, passing between them. “And neither of you has found a scrap of shame?”
“Six,” Win says. Without warning, he hooks an arm around Team’s neck and kisses his cheek, lingering to touch his nose to the sweat-warm hair behind Team’s ear. “And two months,” he adds in a stage whisper.
Team preens and Win smiles into his hair until Tul leaves the room with an eloquent noise of revulsion. Team dissolves into nearly silent laughter, and Win smirks, landing a kiss just under Team’s ear to hear his breath catch. They’re capable of behaving themselves, of course, but with an audience so interactive, what’s the point?
•
Tul wasn’t entirely wrong about calling it foreplay, either.
Team kicks the door closed behind them and catches Win’s elbows, yanking him close as Win frames Team’s face and latches onto his mouth in a half-starved kiss. With practiced clumsiness, they abandon their shoes at the door and fumble toward the staircase, wet kisses and heavy breaths traded between them.
Team asks, “How long do we have?” and runs his hands under Win’s shirt along his chest, skimming off his shirt and flinging it without looking to see where it lands. There’s an air of animosity in how impersonally he treats it, so much so that Win files it away to tease him about it later.
“We have to leave in fifty minutes,” Win says. Forty-five, really, but what’s five minutes?
He told Axl to meet them at the front of the house at a quarter past five, and the drive to MUSING should only take about thirty minutes. There’s plenty of time to work off the tension they’ve been building all day ever since Win woke up this morning to Team idly tracing the outline of Win’s hip tattoo with the tip of his tongue.
Team whines and bites at Win’s lip. “Can’t we skip it?” He moves backward up onto the first step, using the artificial height gap to enhance the effect of a truly impressive pout.
Win allows his hands to slide down to Team’s ass as he hums. He gives his favorite curves an apologetic squeeze. The urge to say, “Yes, absolutely,” is there, but on the way to vocalization, it somehow becomes, “Sorry, baby. You don’t have to be there, but—”
“Of course I do,” Team says. He thumbs open the button of Win’s jeans without looking, a tiny grin subtly transforming his face. “I’m their favorite.”
Win laughs and doesn’t deny it. Team has always been an instant favorite everywhere Win’s introduced him. As it should be. But the residents of MUSING are especially fond of Win’s chosen partner, asking after him with doe-eyed warmth whenever Win visits the facility on his own or with anyone who isn’t Team.
“Is he sleeping well?”
“I saw his latest competition!”
“Make sure he’s eating enough!”
Win fully understands the effect. To him, Team is a sunbeam made mortal, smiling and laughing and forever trying to share the food Pharm makes him with everyone he meets. He even gives guitar lessons at MUSING on occasion, but mostly he just sits with them. He talks and he listens, and his natural charisma and exuberance brighten every room he’s in.
Unintelligibly fond, Win presses on Team’s hips and eases him up another few steps, grinning when Team stumbles but refuses to turn around out of pure stubbornness.
“Hia,” Team says, vaguely chiding. The spiral staircase was Win’s idea, a quirky installation that no one else appreciates. Team liked it aesthetically at first until he realized that he’d have to pay close attention to avoiding the curved metal handrail every time they tried navigating the stairs together up to their bedroom like this. He’s gotten quite good at it over the months since they moved in, but he still enjoys complaining.
Win says, “Would you like a lift?” and when he scoops his hands behind Team’s knees, Team laughs and grabs onto Win’s shoulder with one hand and the handrail with the other.
“Don’t you dare drop me,” Team tells him.
“Have I ever?”
Instead of answering, Team leans in for a kiss, keeping it light while Win focuses on carrying him up the staircase without incident.
“Forty-one minutes!” Suede’s voice booms from the house’s sound system. To Win’s unending torment, Team’s tablet AI—currently enjoying a three-day vacation to count various things in other parts of the world—has gotten Suede into the habit of counting. “And if you leave later than that, I’ll tell them what you’re doing!”
“That’d be more threatening if they weren’t all retired sex workers!” Win calls back.
•
Seventy-three years ago, the general public learned that a significant chunk of government money had gone missing over the span of several years, and the ensuing investigations turned over a number of rocks that hid various acts of corruption and bribery. One of those acts had led to the creation of an artificial hill in the north of Bangkok, on top of which luxury homes with an enviable view of the city were built and subsequently sold to a small number of people with deep pockets. They called it Aristocracy Ridge on official documents, but almost no one remembers it by that name anymore. Even the current residents just call it Old Town.
Win’s great aunt, a resident of Old Town, founded MUSING in the complex next door to hers on behalf of Win when he was twenty-two. She rarely ever visits, partial to roaming the planet on luxury boats with an ever-changing tribe of Shiba Inu companions, but she’s proud of investing in a retirement center for sex workers, and last year one of the residents did her the honor of painting twelve portraits of her and all her dogs, past and present. They hang in the entry hall with tiny gallery spotlights underneath each one.
They’re visible from the front garden as Axl parks in his usual space, the bright white complex as a whole gleaming like a beacon. Every single light must be on, and Win rubs his nose thinking about the energy bill. Judging by the number of cars around them, most of the guests have already arrived, but Win can see King and Sam through the windows handling the crowd with practiced ease.
He turns to pull on a selection of Team’s fringe until Team answers him with an ornery whine. He snuggles closer to Win while simultaneously dropping his head behind Win’s shoulder and hiding it behind his back.
“Why are you so tired?” Win asks. “I did all the work.”
Team punches him in the side with all the rage of a teddy bear attacking a tuft of cotton candy. “I had practice this morning, hia,” he says. “And twice is a lot if you’re being a jerk about it.”
Win hides a smile and enjoys the mingled scent of the hair products they share. Team didn’t seem to mind the edging all that much when Win let him come into his mouth the second time. Choosing a smarter tactic than pointing that out, Win whispers, “They have food inside.”
“I know,” Team whines. “I can smell it.”
“The windows and doors are closed,” Axl points out. He’s repeatedly turned down Win’s offers to have Arthit design him a hologram form, and Win thinks it’s because he enjoys jumping into conversations when they least expect him to.
“It was an expression,” Team says. He burrows his face against Win’s back with an additional, drawn-out moan of misery. “Go get me food and bring it back.”
It’s bad enough that they’re late and that Suede definitely told everyone why, so Win commits to an irredeemable act and slides his hand between Team’s thighs.
“Hia—”
Win digs his fingers into the soft skin of Team’s inner thigh and watches with delight as Team screeches out an involuntary laugh and catapults himself to the other side of the car, Axl helpfully moving his seatbelt along the back of the seat with him. Team’s wild-eyed shock swiftly morphs into betrayal.
“Hia!”
Win snickers, notches a finger under Team’s chin, and says, “Sorry, darling,” with total insincerity.
Predictably, Team bites him, which is understandable.
As they leave the car, Win notices Kao and Pete on the car next to them, sprawled side-by-side across the hood while Pete passes a bag of dried seaweed to Kao.
“Evening, Phawin,” Pete says mid-crunch. “Team.”
Kao sits up with a wry smile so he can see them over Pete. “We want to watch some of the eclipse before we go in.”
Win cranes his neck to investigate the sky. “That’s tonight?”
Team offers Kao and Pete a proper wai as he walks around the car to stand beside Win. He also tries to step on the bare toes of Win’s nearest sandaled foot without any sincere effort, then joins the other three in staring upward.
“It’s supposed to start in the next ten minutes,” Pete says. He turns his head where he’s let it rest on the pillow of his forearm, meeting Win’s eyes with curiosity. “You talk to King yet?”
Win glances at Kao and reads a subtle ominous undertone there. “No, why?”
Kao winces. “There was another security attack,” he says. “The Portal was unlocked for over an hour this time.”
“Shit.”
“MUSE got it under control,” Kao says, “and we don’t think it was publicly accessible, but we’re pretty sure the group had access to all the archived scenarios, too.”
Shit.
Hacks into the systems of sex parlors aren’t a new phenomenon. MUSE has dealt with and thwarted daily attempts since their foundation. But sometimes there are serious breaches, like the year Win met Team when one of Win’s own regulars was exposed publicly. To this day, Maprang has had to accept and live with the reality of her scenarios remaining available to an audience beyond the MUSE-exclusive one she consented to.
These latest hacks are different. To Win, the perpetrators seem almost curious more than malicious. They break in and leave with the door still open behind them, so to speak. So far, MUSE has been able to shut those doors before the general public can figure out where they are, but every successful breach reminds Win of Maprang and how those early months of exposure unnerved her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Win says.
“King tried,” Pete says, raising one eyebrow. “Your voice channel was closed, and then Suede told him you were occupied. It’s not like you’re part of MUSE’s internal security squad anyway, so we just decided to tell you once you got here.”
“We think they’re just flexing,” Kao says.
“Again,” Team says, scowling.
Win presses his hand to Team’s lower back and runs his thumb up and down the arch of his spine.
“Why can’t anyone figure out who they are?” Despite the sharpness of his voice, Team leans against Win’s side and digs a hand into Win’s back pocket. “It’s been weeks, and they always go after Hia Win’s profile. Every time!”
Kao says, “The S.W.A. is putting pressure on MUSE to track them down,” just as equally to Win as to Team. “So far, though, all this group is doing is cracking into the system and leaving. Like they’re proving they can.”
“Some bored kids, probably,” Win says. He grips Team’s hip and then gives it a soothing stroke.
Team doesn’t seem soothed. “MUSE should erase Hia Win’s profile at least,” he says. “They don’t need it anymore, and they erased P’Kao’s.”
Shit, shit, shit.
Win opens his mouth to derail the conversation, but nothing comes to mind. He saw this possibility in the distance months ago, and yet he’s been reckless enough to think he’d have more time to tell Team the pastime he’s been hiding.
“They agreed to that because Kao doesn’t work there anymore,” Pete says.
“But neither does Hia Win,” Team says, frowning.
“Maybe we should go inside,” Win says. “It’s rude to stay out here and leave Sam and King on their own.”
Team focuses on him, and then something in his expression visibly clicks.
“The eclipse is starting!” Kao says.
It actually is. Win cranes his neck to find where the sun has cast the Earth’s shadow onto the full, yellow moon.
“He’s right, look,” Win says. He slings an arm around Team’s neck and gives Pete a dead-eyed, murderous scowl behind Team’s head.
Pete mouths, “Oops,” and shows Win his tongue coated in seaweed fragments.
Menace.
“Hia,” Team whines. He jerks his head out of Win’s grip and levels him with a wide-eyed pout. “You’re still working at MUSE?”
“We can probably see the moon from the veranda,” Kao tells Pete.
“Nah, I’m good here,” Pete says.
“Pete.”
“Kao.”
Wordless, Kao slides off the car hood and then yanks on Pete’s ankle, swinging him onto the grass. To everyone’s surprise, the paper bag of seaweed remains upright with all its salty treats intact. Win stifles a laugh, and with a cheerful smile, Kao promises Win he’ll tell everyone inside they’ve arrived. Then he laughs and runs toward the main house, away from Pete and the bits of seaweed Pete is throwing at his head.
Team’s expression becomes decidedly more hurt once they’re out of earshot. “Why were you hiding it?” he asks.
Win makes a low, apologetic noise in the base of his throat. “It’s just part-time work,” he says. “I’m trying to get MUSE to reinstate their school visits. None of their current specialists are trained in education, so I’ve been putting together a program for them.”
Team nods, but he folds his arms over his stomach and studies Win with suspicion. “That’s good,” he says. “So why didn’t you tell me?”
Win takes a deep breath. “It’s not…exactly…paid work.”
Team’s mouth parts in a soundless noise of shock. “They’re letting you do free labor? After everything you’ve done for them? Hia!”
A shape over Team’s shoulder distracts Win long enough that he recognizes King approaching from the main house, working his way through a winding maze of parked cars. When Win stops him in his tracks with a look of warning, Team glances over his shoulder, offers a wai, and says, “Sorry, P’King, I have to yell at him for stuff.”
King says, “Ah, he found out?” to Win. When Team’s shoulders stiffen, King adds, “Now found out what, that’s the question. See you both inside!” Without waiting to get sucked into the argument, he turns on his heel and jogs back toward the celebratory lights.
Team turns on Win with fire in his eyes, and Win is only a simple allosexual in the presence of the single most attractive person he’s ever met—how is he meant to stay focused?
“Did everyone but me know?”
Guilt, it turns out.
“King’s just been helping with the program,” Win says. “And P’Pete finds out anything P’Kao knows.”
Team nods over his shoulder. “Is P’King getting paid?”
Win reaches out, and when Team allows him to clasp his arms, Win offers a small smile. “No,” he says. “We volunteered.”
“They can afford to pay you,” Team says. After another tight breath, he lifts one hand to cover Win’s, his touch as gentle as his expression is belligerent.
“They know we have more than enough money,” Win says.
“So does MUSE,” Team argues.
“Not as much as you think. MUSE has been losing money since they stopped the regular system, so they weren’t willing to use their own money to reinstate sex ed training, and none of the specialists have been there long enough to demand it, so—”
Team exhales in a huff through his nose. “That’s fine. I just mostly don’t like that you hid it from me,” he says. “We don’t do that to each other, hia.”
Win makes another noise in his throat, this one remorse-riven. “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I should have told you.”
Team holds eye contact for an excruciatingly long beat, then he juts his lip out in a sulking tableau and swats the hand Win has on his arm. “You knew I’d be mad that they’re not paying you and taking advantage of you,” he says.
“Can they really be taking advantage of me if I volunteered?” Win tries. It’s how he convinced himself to do it in the first place, after all.
“Yes! They can, hia! They have!”
Win says, “Okay, you’re right,” and further concedes the point by folding Team into his arms and swaying with him back and forth until the tight muscles holding Team frozen in a stone cast slowly, gradually relax. As a reward, Win kisses Team’s ear. “I should have told you,” he repeats.
“And you should have fought for yourself, hia,” Team says against his shoulder. “I hate how people treat you when you don’t.”
Win answers him with a soft hum and nuzzles the hair behind Team’s ear. He’s never had a defender quite like Team, a tiger ready to take the throat out of anyone who so much as looks at Win disparagingly. He’s friends with Win’s brothers, he’s the adopted son of Win’s parents, he’s adored by all of Win’s friends, and he knows Win better than anyone. In Win’s final years at MUSE, Team was so impatient with the cold minutiae of MUSE’s inner bureaucratic workings that when Win quit, he was almost euphoric on Win’s behalf.
It doesn’t help that Team met Win at the darkest point of his time with MUSE.
As they cross the garden to the house, arms wound securely around each other’s backs, Win says, “I’ll finish this project, and then I’ll move on. Maybe help Hia Wan and View with the resorts.”
Team pauses one step above Win and turns to face him, taking both of Win’s hands in his. “You don’t have to do anything for anyone,” he says.
Win can feel his own smile go lopsided as he squeezes Team’s hands. “Baby,” he croons, “this is a fight you always lose.”
Team sighs with theatrical frustration and shakes Win’s hands away. “I’m going to get food,” he says. Upon entering the front hallway, he’s immediately kidnapped by two MUSING residents who Win is convinced were waiting in the wings until Team finished his conversation with Win. They each have plates of food, and Team lights up and follows them (and their plates) into the dining room like a month-old street kitten.
On cue, Sam materializes at his side, her smile small and smug. “I told you to tell him,” she says. “Was he angry?”
Win doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a “yes”. He peers into the music room instead and watches Pete struggle to dance with an eighty-year-old man who’s determined to teach him the tango, while Kao gleefully records everything with his wrist camera.
“From everything you’ve told me about him,” Sam says, “he’s only going to be upset with you if you keep him in the dark. Maybe, in the future, you should consider telling him things so he won’t be upset.”
Win inhales through his mouth and exhales a controlled breath through his nose. He meets her eyes and reflexively laughs when he sees how playful she looks. She’s had a rough month at her Sex Worker Advocacy chapter, trying to help a group of seven whose parlor was unceremoniously shut down due to a number of unaddressed health violations.
“Have you spoken with King yet?” she asks.
Win tilts his head. “That’s the second time someone’s asked me that tonight, but I think you’re talking about something unrelated.”
She thins her lips and gives the space around them a casual sweep with a stare of studied indifference. They’re still close to the door of the house, and the party is largely contained to the music room on their left and the dining room to their right. The noise of chatter and laughter will undoubtedly drown out whatever she wants to share with him. Still, Win obligingly leans closer when she lowers her voice.
“MUSE is shutting down,” she says.