Work Text:
chay had lived most of his short life knowing one critical fact: he wasn’t porsche.
porsche was so many things chay wanted to be: strong, sociable, clever (in porsche’s own way, at least). hia had scrapped with men twice his size just to keep chay safe, could find a new friend in any situation, and picked up new skills at speeds that were, quite frankly, alarming.
(when he was interested, at least).
chay was none of those things. hia ’s attempts to teach chay self-defense had resulted in a grand total of several bruises, two broken cups, a torn book, and absolutely no usable fighting skills. he wasn’t charming, like porsche – he mostly rambled at a new person until they decided to leave – and anything he learned took hours upon hours of careful practice.
(chay had his own strengths, he knew. he was the level head between them, the one who could focus for more than five minutes. he knew he had his own strengths, but still – )
(knowing his own strength didn’t make it any easier to watch porsche come home with a bruise blooming on his jaw. it didn’t make it easier to watch from the window as his hia , still not even fully grown himself, stitched together a careless-seeming smile before stepping in. he had his strengths, but he wasn’t strong in any way that could protect hia .)
he still wanted to help. he still needed to help.
but chay, with his hands only roughened by guitar callouses, who couldn’t fight back against the loan sharks ( in the cupboard, porchay, it’ll be okay ) or work under the table ( chay, you aren’t even thirteen yet ) or hustle a crowd in a street fight ( who the fuck told you about the phoenix – forget I said fuck – I mean ) could only really learn to help in one way.
porsche, with his paper-thin patience and his neverending need to movemovemove barely ever paid attention to how he was healing. his cuts reopened over and over, leaving thin, lightning-white scars over his body.
so chay dove into book after website on first aid, on cpr, on stitches, threw out the long-expired rubbing alcohol and replaced it, practiced, practiced, practiced until he could somehow help hia .
“ hia .”
“chay? what are you – why are you still awake?”
“you’re hurt.”
“what? it’s nothing. nong . it’ll be fine soon.”
“i can help though! I learned!”
chay brought out the kit he had reassembled.
“chay, it’ll be okay; you should go to bed.”
but chay was already reaching for the rubbing alcohol.
“sit down.”
and porsche recognized that face and that tone. it was the one he saw in the mirror whenever he had decided that something was going to happen, damn the consequences.
“alright, alright. I hope you know what you’re doing.”