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Clear.
First has always been clear about it.
He doesn’t know why Khaotung finds it weird.
Clear, to First, has never meant saying things out loud. It’s never meant explanations or labels or sitting someone down for a serious talk. Clear is action. Clear is habit. Clear is doing something so many times it stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like the only sensible option.
From early on in their career, First has been clear. Clear when their days stretched too long and everyone was running on caffeine and borrowed energy, and he still waited until Khaotung was done. Clear when schedules shifted without warning and he adjusted around them without complaint. Clear when success came in waves and the noise got louder, and somehow Khaotung was still the constant in all of it.
The roses had been clear, too. Khaotung’s birthday, nothing extravagant—just a bouquet handed over through both of their tears, like it hadn’t crossed First’s mind that this might be read as anything other than obvious. Roses were nice. It was his birthday. Of course First would get them. Khaotung had asked the night before, jokingly (or was it?), and who was First to deny him that? Nothing makes him happier than seeing the big smile on Khaotung's face after he receives it.
The food, too. Studio nights that ran late, Khaotung forgetting to eat because he was too focused, too absorbed. First showing up with bags in his hands, setting them down without interrupting, already knowing what Khaotung would want. Clear doesn’t need permission. Clear just knows.
And Chiang Mai—their most recent trip. When they had tied their red strings for each other. That was clear as day. Well, to First maybe.
Khaotung had to leave earlier because of his event. It would have been easier to let Khaotung head back first, to follow the neat lines their calendars drew. Instead, First went back with him anyway. Sat beside him on the way back, tired and quiet, like it was the most natural thing in the world. When Khaotung asked why, half-joking, half-curious, First had frowned. Why wouldn’t he?
These moments stack up over the years, solid and unremarkable in the way the most important things often are. First has never kept count. He’s never felt the need to. To him, it’s all been very simple.
“What did you mean by very clear? Elaborate "very clear" a bit more.”
First reads the comment out loud from the live, eyes skimming the screen as hearts and laughing emojis float past. He grins, the kind that comes easily, like he’s been asked something mildly amusing rather than remotely complicated.
“It’s already clear,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “He always says I’m strange. But I’ve been clear about this for a long time.” He shrugs, casual, like the explanation ends there because, well, it does.
The chat immediately explodes. Caps lock. Crying emojis. People insisting they understand, people insisting they don’t, people insisting that someone really should by now.
Khaotung should be getting it by now, right?
First scrolls, amused but unbothered. Fans have always been like this—reading between lines, drawing shapes where First only sees straight ones. Clear ones. If he thought about it too hard, maybe he’d get tired. So he doesn’t.
A few minutes later, his phone chimes and he sees the notification he's been waiting for.
First glances at it, then back up at the camera, his smile widening without him noticing. “Uiii,” he says, lifting the phone slightly into view. “Khaotung’s calling. Byebye!”
The live ends abruptly, the screen cutting out mid-laughter. The call connects almost immediately.
Khaotung doesn’t even say hello first. He just looks at First through the screen, eyebrows raised, mouth already tilting into that familiar half-smile. “You’re being weird again,” he says.
First blinks. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Khaotung replies, very sure of himself. “I was watching the live. What was that about being very clear?” He leans closer to the camera. “You always say that. I still don't get it."
First shrugs, unbothered, phone balanced loosely in his hand. He doesn’t answer right away. In his head, the thought comes easily, without edges or urgency: I was just telling the truth. It hadn’t felt like a statement that needed defending.
“I didn’t say anything strange,” he says finally. “You're overthinking it, friend.”
Khaotung laughs, soft and fond despite himself. “You’re impossible.” He pauses, then sighs, letting it go the way he usually does. “Anyway. Tomorrow. New Year’s Eve.”
First’s attention perks up immediately. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered silly,” Khaotung says. “I'm coming over in the afternoon. Should I bring something else?”
First tilts his head, thinking. “Dessert’s enough,” he says. “Unless you want to bring yourself.”
Khaotung snorts. “I was already planning on that.”
“Good,” First replies, like the matter’s settled. He shifts on the couch, stretching his legs out. On screen, Khaotung’s background changes as he moves too—probably in bed.
They keep talking. It’s not deliberate at first. No one says let’s stay on the call. It just… happens. Minutes blur into an hour, then stretch longer, the conversation looping and wandering the way it always does when neither of them is in a hurry to leave.
They talk about nothing important. About a movie Khaotung watched and didn’t like. About how First still hasn’t figured out which switch controls the warm light. About an old inside joke neither of them remembers the origin of anymore, only that it still makes them laugh.
First listens more than he talks. He always does. He likes hearing Khaotung fill the quiet—likes the rhythm of his voice, the way it shifts when he’s animated, the way it softens when he gets tired. Every now and then First hums in response, or offers a short comment, just enough to keep things going.
At some point, Khaotung yawns and doesn’t bother hiding it.
“Tired?” First asks.
“A little,” Khaotung admits. “But it’s fine.”
First considers him through the screen—the way his eyes are heavier now, how he’s curled slightly onto his side. The thought forms before he filters it, simple and instinctive. “Sing for me.”
Khaotung blinks. “What?”
“Sing,” First repeats, like it’s the most natural request in the world.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Khaotung laughs, embarrassed but not really resisting. “You're so spoiled,” he says again, softer this time. “What do you want me to sing?”
“Anything,” First replies. He adjusts his grip on the phone, settling in. “I’ll listen.”
I love listening to your voice, he means to say.
Khaotung hesitates, then exhales, giving in. He starts quietly, almost under his breath at first, voice a little rough from the late hour. It smooths out as he goes, finding its shape, filling the space between them.
Chaup maung sai dtah tur dtaun mai roo
I like looking at your eyes when you don’t know
Wah dtua chun chaup maung mun mahk tao rai
How much I like looking at them
First doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t move. He just listens.
Chaup fung siang nai dtaun tee tur chai
I like listening to your voice when you use it
Bauk gup chun wah chun bpen peuan tur kon neung
To tell me that I’m your friend
There’s something grounding about it—about knowing exactly where Khaotung is, about letting his voice wash over the room. First’s expression softens without him realizing. This, too, feels clear. This, too, feels familiar.
Aht mai mee hon tahng hai bpen yahng wung
There might not be any way things will be like I hope
Dtae yahk noy gor mai tum hai pit wung
But at least I won’t be disappointed
Hahk mun tum hai jur nah tur took wun gor por ja rup wai
If it gets me to see your face every day, that’s enough for me
First lets his eyes fall shut.
He doesn’t do it consciously. It just happens, like some instinctive easing, like his body understands before he does that there’s nothing he needs to watch for right now. Khaotung’s voice carries on through the speaker, steady and warm, each note settling into the quiet of the room.
Minutes pass. First isn’t counting.
He listens to the small details—the way Khaotung breathes between lines, the faint rustle of fabric when he shifts, the way his voice dips when he’s half-tired and no longer thinking about being heard. First’s mouth curves into a soft, almost-smile.
Eventually, the singing trails off.
Not abruptly, just gently, like someone setting something down and forgetting to pick it back up again. The sound fades into slow, even breathing.
First waits a beat longer, eyes still closed, just in case.
Then he opens them.
On the screen, Khaotung is still, head tilted slightly toward the pillow, lashes resting against his cheeks. His phone is angled badly now, catching more blanket than face, but it doesn’t matter. He’s unmistakably asleep.
First doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t say his name.
He just watches.
There’s a fondness that settles in his chest, quiet and steady. He takes in the sight like it’s something ordinary and precious at the same time—the softened features, the calm that only comes when Khaotung lets himself rest. First stays exactly where he is, careful not to move too much, as if even the smallest shift might disturb this moment.
Slowly, he reaches out, hand hovering over the screen, and slowly, as if memorizing a map he’s always known, traces the lines of Khaotung’s face. The curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft arch of his brow. Every detail is familiar, yet it strikes him again—how utterly he wants to remember it all.
He swallows, breath catching, heart tight with a message he doesn’t need to voice. “Sleep well,” he murmurs softly, almost a prayer.
Khaotung doesn’t hear it.
First doesn’t move his hand. He stays there, fingertips ghosting across the screen, feeling the impossibility of closeness and yet the undeniable pull of it. The warmth of the phone seeps into his palm, but it’s not enough—it will never be enough. And still, he remains, watching Khaotung sleep, memorizing every shadow and line, every small, perfect detail.
Tomorrow will come soon enough. For now, this quiet, this nearness, this ache—is enough. It is clear. It has always been clear.