Caught in Possession

A Boxing Ring

Warning: Brief use of homophobic language.

The sting of long-open, mutual septic wounds hung heavy as the senior Jongcheveevat man's cigar smoke, in the air of the South West London apartment.

Much like his words:

"Care to explain yourself, Suppasit?"

Mew strode forwards, defiantly, to retrieve the images his father had slammed down in accusation: candid shots of he and Gulf checking their luggage in together at the airport desk hours earlier. The two waiting in the first class lounge - Mew's hand in Gulf's rear trouser pocket, the younger's head resting against his broad shoulder. Lines not blurred but obliterated, relations of some sort clear for any eye to see.

Yet...

"What would you like me to explain, Sir?", Mew addressed his father formally, distance gaping.

"The precise nature of your relationship with this footballer", the response was spat out as if unpalatable. Said footballer fidgeting awkwardly with his finger nails, uninvited audience to a familial melodrama unfolding between father, son and watchful cousin.

"His name - as you well know since it was your pen that signed the cheque to bring him to Chelsea, the so-called prized asset, remember Phor? - is Gulf Kanawut"

"He's the Lang's boy"

Gulf felt the elder tense at his side, then - red fury of the burning memory of lipstick stains of his name across the now-concealed body, across that mark of a dragon: 'Mew' instead.

And as the name holder bristled, Gulf's hand reaching behind, unseen, to massage his shoulder blades, conveying, wordlessly, 'It's ok...'

So, "What business is it of yours?", Mew redirected after the prolonged pause, opting to veer around the pothole as the hand on his back guided.

Kittichat clicking his tongue with impatience, frustration rising: "We discussed it months back, that day you turned up unannounced for a supposed 'dad and lad' visit to my office to ask about...him"

"I don't see how my private life is any-"

"-so he's your boy toy? A whore for the rainy days of London?"

Tul's lager bottle shattering as it was dropped to the tiles, the cousin surging from his position on the sofa arm to halt Mew as he thundered forwards - outspread palm against his chest.

"Hoy Cuz, easy, don't rise to it", his muttered words were low, eyes flashing a louder warning.

Jongcheveevat son's shoulders rising and falling with the violence of his breaths and intentions - an overwhelming urge to wring his father's neck until his eyes bulged and he gasped for mercy from Gulf at his side - pushed to teeter precariously along that slippery, ramshackle, barbed wire wall of morality.

...The sting of long-open, mutual septic wounds hung heavy as the senior Jongcheveevat man's cigar smoke, in the air of the apartment...

...The sting of long-open, mutual septic wounds hung heavy as the senior Jongcheveevat man's cigar smoke, in the air of the apartment...

Until, at last:

"Not that, no" - it was a barely-controlled growl that left Mew as he swiped Tul's hand away.

"Then what exactly?", the drawl of his father.

Deep breaths, readying for the onslaught that honesty would surely invite, before...

"He..." - Mew pulling Gulf closer and locking together the fingers of clammy, sure hands - "...Is not a toy, but my boyfriend"

"Your...boyfriend?", Kittichat's laugh was mirthless, scathing, "So you've retired from being a playboy and want to pretend at happy families now? I should never have allowed you to live those years abroad with Min as your uncle persuaded me to-"