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Damn them all, she thinks. Every single one of them. They’re nothing but gluttonous old men with money spilling out of their pockets and cowardice written all over their faces. None of them know anything about strategy, combat, defense, protection. She doesn’t understand how her father could have cornered her for an entire day in a meeting about the future of the agency as if a bunch of gray-haired men in suits on the board had any part in what they were doing.
And to make matters worse, the truth is, Tawan never wanted to take over the business, just the action.
But then – from the past, from the dream, perhaps from her hidden prayers – she appeared.
Ira.
Magnanimously beautiful, impossibly mischievous, disarmingly sweet, incredibly brave, unnervingly stubborn, Ira.
Ira came and suddenly Tawan wants so much more than she ever thought she would. She wants less risk and more stability. She wants less weapons and more safety. She wants less fighting and more caresses. She wants to build something, something meaningful, something solid, something she can keep running smoothly while all the other wonders experienced with Ira travel through time and space and overflow from her like liquid gold.
For to love and be loved is to accept to be changed.
In her younger years, Tawan wanted to defy the expected, defeat the bad guys, do her duty, and return home on her motorcycle with at least three packages of delicious street food to enjoy alone in her apartment, leaving it to her father to deal with the customers and the thanks.
Now, as she drives through the dark empty streets of Bangkok, Tawan yearns for nothing more than to return to where she feels she belongs, to the gaze of a woman who is the idol of an entire nation and beyond, known for being vivacious, sarcastic, and seductive, but who holds for Tawan, and Tawan alone, all the love that persists in existing.
This whole hellish day will be torn apart from her when she is in her arms, and that is all that matters in the end of all things.
Parking in the corner of the garage, Ira's mansion is dark and silent. Tawan leaves her boots in the foyer almost with abandon, crossing to the living room and letting out a light chuckle when she finds Agent Kriang half asleep on the couch and how he straightens up blushing at the sight of her, always trying to prove himself worthy of being her apprentice. She forgives him for not being so alert, then, considering that Agent Prayut is monitoring the mansion's cameras from the security room.
“As you were, soldier.” Tawan nods. “You can sleep now. Tell Agent Prayut that I’ll take care of Ira. She shouldn’t be waking up early tomorrow, since there’s nothing on her schedule in the morning.”
“You got it, boss.” Kriang smiles sleepily, his red hair a mess. “But Khun Ira isn’t sleeping, boss...”
Tawan immediately stiffens, frowning. “Where is she?”
“She...” The poor young man yawns, trying to get his bearings. “She went up to her private studio a few hours ago, I figured she was working and I didn’t want to disturb her, but I swear I left food at her door. Healthy food! And a bottle of water. And… A Gatorade.”
Tawan calms down and can't help but smile, folding her arms. It's almost funny how agents Kriang and Prayut have gone above and beyond the call of duty to take care of Ira, and she knows it's because of her. Kriang always asks if Ira has eaten and always brings an extra snack to share with her. Prayut keeps water bottles in coolers and neck pillows in the car, just in case. Kriang plays video games with Ira to pass the time, and Prayut has an interest in an actress who is a close friend of Ira's, which gives them plenty of time to gossip about.
“Thank you, Agent Kriang. Sincerely.”
Is all she says before heading upstairs, leaving the young man in a puddle of pride and happiness.
Quietly on the steps, Tawan sinks into thought, because she’s always thinking too much. Ira isn’t one for the most regimented sleep cycle, but she doesn’t usually stay up until two in the morning, especially not in her studio, and the bodyguard wonders what’s keeping the musician awake, preparing to immediately take her, peacefully or over her protesting tantrums, straight to bed, as soon as she finds her.
She should know by now, though, that nothing is that obvious with her Ira.
When she finds her, her world unravels in a daze, a fall, and then to settle on a soft, pulsing texture, perhaps her own beating heart. For Ira is there, in her studio, through the thick acoustic door, with no lights on, in the corner of the room, near the vast windows of clear glass, in the pale light of tonight's full moon, covered in nothing but a thin, almost transparent satin nightgown...
And playing the piano.
Tawan froze barefoot in the doorway, eyes wide, chest tight, head dizzy.
The piano has always been there, discreet but imposing in the corner of the studio, but Ira has never played it in Tawan’s presence. She didn’t even know she could play it. But right now, like a gift in time, the notes float through the space in soft yet strong melodic cadences, keys and pedals pressed by Ira’s long fingers, her body absorbed in precise, flowing movements, from one end of the scales to the other, bending, straightening, curving and stretching in a graceful, fearless motion.
She is the most stunning sight and Tawan is mesmerized.
Her legs walk at a slow pace, moving without command. The crushing weight of the day is being left behind, it seems to fall from her like debris turning to dust, like some sort of forgiveness, everything disappearing to the ground, freeing.
From the reflection of the wide windows shining with moonlight, Ira looks almost ethereal, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, breathing as evenly as her music. She was always irresistible then and she is irresistible now, and Tawan reaches out to her, floating like the sound, her hand rising to touch the gray-gold waves of Ira’s hair, letting her fingers curl into the soft texture, touching beneath the strands, the curve of Ira’s neck, the warm skin, sometimes too delicate to dare touch.
And Ira doesn't even flinch.
As if she knew. She knows, because all she does, watched intently through the windows by Tawan’s intense gaze, is smile, tilting her head back, indulgent under the touch, her eyes never revealing themselves as her music lingers, echoing off the walls, and Tawan assumes to herself that Ira wants her to find out something more about everything she does. And then she wonders, with a lump in her throat, one more of longing than of anguish, what other wonderful secrets her Ira holds, willing to uncover and protect and cherish each one of them.
This one in particular, sounds like salvation.
It's not the song itself, not especially. Tawan recognizes it; she's heard it countless times through radio and movies and even commercials, and most notably, she's heard it many mornings as Ira's gentle alarm clock, a sound that never actually wakes her, ringing only as the soundtrack to Ira's soft, sly curling up against the bodyguard's body beneath the bed sheets.
It is Ira, only Ira, always Ira.
Deliberately slow, with crystal care and eruptive eagerness, Tawan sits down behind her in the small stool. She lets the leather jacket slide from her shoulders to the floor, never wanting to irritate or scratches on Ira's skin, aligning herself so completely with Ira's back, hips, and thighs that she can feel the entire pulsing of her breath, a second of sigh before Ira rests against her front, the music going on and on.
Sweet explorations then follow the melody, a map drawn lightly. Tawan buries her nose in Ira’s hair, closing her eyes in numbness as her hands travel to her waist, her back, her stomach, her lips peppering kisses from the nape of her neck to her shoulders and scapula. Ira presses herself against her, sighing audibly, the musical notes echoing beneath her fingers. They fall together into the borrowed delight of the predawn, Tawan pulling her close, stroking her inner thighs, never lingering long enough for Ira to come undone entirely.
It feels, Tawan realizes, overwhelming and sublime in the same breath. Throughout a lifetime she has thrown so many punches and pulled so many triggers, but tonight her palms are reverent yet ambitious, gentle yet strong, searching, warming, feeling Ira’s delicate movements as if she were beneath her skin, the muscles tensing and loosening and blood coursing through her veins as she plays the piano, part of her, inherently, shaping.
She can feel every inch of skin crawling under her hands, and though she wonders, hesitating for a moment, if her touch is rough and hard against Ira's sweetness, the softest surrendered whimper hisses from Ira's lips and her body leans closer against Tawan's, and the bodyguard knows that despite their different textures, Ira craves for it just as much as she does.
A single musical note quivers its melody beneath Ira's fingers.
It's a slip, an accident, but it sounds beautiful in its fragility.
Tawan breathes deeply into the crook of her neck, where it's warm and pulsing.
Her hands then become reckless, blindly devoted. She finds the drawstring of the robe on Ira's torso and unties it, sliding it up and slowly pulling it down over her shoulders, exposing her pale under the moonlight piercing the darkness of the room. Ira allows it, arching up to facilitate the unraveling, letting out a gasp as Tawan's hands touch her so immediately and tightly, her lips feverish in their traces.
One more musical note trembles beautifully.
She takes time as if it belongs to her, a foundation of is for this sacred refuge she longs to return to, the warmth, the surrender, the intimacy, the never-diminishing longing between them. It is the sound, the whimper, the sigh and the groan of Ira reverberating through her piano music, every time Tawan plays too soft or too loud or too strong, everywhere.
When she bites Ira's shoulder as if to taste the sweetness of triumphant reality, the third movement of the Bergamasque Suite finally falls silent and Ira breathes shakily, leaning forward for a moment as if she might collapse on the piano. But her eyes find Tawan's and she turns to climb her knees between Tawan's legs, straddling her thighs and cradling Tawan's face, who suddenly pouts at her, wanting to continue in the frenzy of Ira's music, knowing that she is the one to blame for distracting her.
Ira is leaning in to finally touch their lips, but then her eyes meet hers first, bright and deep, and the excited mischief that seemed ready to devour the bodyguard suddenly softens, as if she can sense everything Tawan would never willingly say, always reserved, always composed, yet always trying not to be distant and reticent when it comes to Ira. The musician smiles tenderly and wraps her arms around Tawan, bringing her closer to lean against her pale, bare chest, right above her heart, stroking her hair.
“You’re tired,” Ira practically whispers, pressing her chin to her head. “Is your father giving you a hard time?”
“Always.” Tawan chuckles at her skin, tightening her arms around Ira’s back beneath the open robe, lost in the softness of her. “It seems so trivial now...”
She doesn’t miss how Ira’s heart skips a beat.
“Really?” But Ira tries to play it cool, pretending not to understand. “And why is that?”
And Tawan concedes the victory to her, she always does.
“You.” She simply whispers. “It always comes back to you.”
The reward is how Ira's amber eyes glow with euphoria in the darkness, her face now hidden from the moon, glowing with its own light, her trembling hands reaching for Tawan to slowly lean in for a strong, grounding kiss, one of Tawan's hands gripping her neck, taking in the air and space, melody and silence, exhaustion and desire, confession and atonement.
Sun & Moon.
Ira pulls away lightly, her nose brushing Tawan's flushed cheek, caressing it gently.
“Welcome back home to me, my bodyguard.”
Home?
What an absent, suddenly grand thought.
Tawan looks at her from the glimpse, Ira's long neck stretched, red marks, Tawan's fingers feeling her racing pulse, and the words hang welcomingly, for Ira implies what Tawan has been thinking since she stormed out of that meeting but couldn't quite express, she says quietly that this is what they are to each other.
Home.
And it is once again a kind of unimagined life. It was the metamorphosis of existence, she understands. There was a world before Ira and there is a new one now that Ira is here, soft and fragrant and warm, safe in her arms. There was a shape to each of the days before her, now everyday life has been dyed with new colors, built with new paths, and against everything Tawan has ever dared to dream, it goes beyond and forward.
Tawan then smiles tenderly, all she can do.
“I know you’re tired too.” She strokes Ira’s folded body on her lap, the wily creature starting to show signs. “Why are you up so late?”
The answer comes muffled as a shy Ira buries her face in Tawan's neck, murmuring unintelligible words and leaving a warm impression of her lips on the bodyguard's skin, who flutters her eyes before letting out a soft chuckle.
“Come again?” Tawan leans over her and kisses her cheek, softly laughing endlessly. “I think I missed that one.”
Ira looks at her pouting, not quite leaving her hiding place, curled up in Tawan's lap so that the moonlight spills over her features again, dazzling Tawan once more.
“I tried to sleep early, but I was missing you. I knew you were going to have a rough day, so I came to the studio and the piano kept me company while I was waiting for you to come back to me.”
Tawan breathes in the delight of being loved by this woman.
Sometimes it still seems like just the matter dreams are made of.
The moonlight upon her, the glow within her eyes, the sweetness of holding her so close.
“You play so beautifully...” She finally wakes up, bringing Ira closer in her arms.
“You like it?” Ira tilts her head mischievously, eyebrows arched, as if Tawan’s impetuous hands roaming all over her body hadn’t made her devotion clear enough.
“I do.” Tawan then has the same mischievous expression, winking charmingly. “The song’s not bad either.”
Ira's eyes widen as she understands the silly joke and she laughs wholeheartedly, wrapping her arms around Tawan's neck to tip her head back in careless laughter. When she recovers, tears of joy welling in her eyelids, all under Tawan's intense, gentle gaze, she leans closer to whisper.
“There’s a poem, you know. Clair de Lune. Would you like to hear it?”
Eagerly, Tawan nods silently, tenderness veiling her eyes like a warm cloak, her hands clasped around Ira's waist as the younger woman keeps her tone low, a cadence beginning to declaim, tuned to melodic, as if to carry Tawan back to the dream.
“Your soul is a chosen landscape
On which masks and Bergamasques
Cast enchantment as they go,
Playing the lute, and dancing, and all but
Sad beneath their fantasy-disguises…”
It's Ira's turn to map Tawan's body with her hands, her fingers delicately dotting her collarbone, lovingly brushing old scars, light as a feather's touch as she seems to lean closer and closer, her voice growing sweeter.
“Singing all the while, in the minor mode,
Of all-conquering love and life so kind to them
They do not seem to believe in their good fortune,
And their song mingles with the moonlight…”
She comes closer to declaim into Tawan's ear, the bodyguard's eyes closing in wonder, her arms tightening around Ira, the words in distant reveries, her presence overpowering everything else, as if nothing else exists but the piano, the moonlight, the poetry and Ira's voice and warm breath clouding her senses.
“With the calm moonlight, sad and lovely,
Which makes the birds dream in the trees,
And the plumes of the fountains weep in ecstasy,
The tall, slender plumes of the fountains among the marble sculptures.”
Ira cradles Tawan’s face in both her hands and finishes slowly and breathily, punctuating it with a chaste kiss on her lips, smiling contentedly at the bodyguard’s half-lidded, dazed gaze, trailing more lightly pressed kisses down her jaw. She nestles back into her place at Tawan’s neck, and there is no more light or music or words, just the bravery of their shared silence, their bodies entwined and Tawan’s heart pounding quietly.
As if overwhelmed with delight, Tawan chuckles again tenderly, pulling her gaze to Ira. “Debussy nailed it.”
“Baby...” Ira laughs with her, shaking her head no, caressing the edges of the wide smile Tawan keeps just for her. “Debussy is the composer. The poet is Paul Verlaine.”
“Paul...” Tawan stutters over the pronunciation, grimacing. “This guy nailed it.”
“Verlaine.” Ira sits upright on her lap again, smiling and captivated, her hands pressing beneath Tawan’s cheeks to form an exaggerated pout. “You try it.”
Tawan foolishly complies, bringing more unbridled laughter, a sound she would ruin empires to hear, marveling at the shape and sound and everything about Ira’s genuine amusement and happiness, a gift bestowed upon her. In the aftermath of endless teasing and caresses, when the musician finally lowers her eyes and lies comfortably on Tawan’s chest, as exhausted as she is, the bodyguard realizes her mind is finally at peace.
Always because of Ira.
She takes Ira in her arms and carries her bridal style, leaving the piano silent in the moonlight, echoes of their laughter and touches behind. She walks calmly across the pavement to Ira's room, in the darkness of the quiet mansion at night, the remnants of the day fading one by one as if ceasing to exist when she holds Ira so close to her heart.
In the room, knowing her way, Tawan lowers Ira onto the bed and smiles captivatedly as she realizes she has already fallen asleep, her body curling up on the sheets like a child. And Tawan needs to change and get ready to join her, but before she can think of pulling away, she feels an unexpected grip, Ira's fingers closing around two of hers, not letting her go, even in her sleep.
Tawan sits beside her in the stillness, brushing stray strands of hair from her face, watching her with a tender smile. She is exhausted from duty, overwhelmed with affection, and eager to find other dreams that will surely be filled with Ira all over again, but for a moment, one that is brief, one that is almost fragile, she remains, steady and devoted, dwelling silently as the guardian of the woman she has grown to love so preciously.
She then, without even realizing it, hums to herself the melody of the song Ira was playing on the piano, Clair de Lune, reminiscing, holding dearly, allowing to be pacified, forward into the dream state, slowly falling onto Ira's body to gently and profoundly fall asleep.
For she is, finally, at home.