Chapter Text
Khaotung crossed his arms and stared at his traitor of a best friend. “You’re going to be gone for a whole week? You said a few days!”
“It’s a different country,” First replied absently. “And my family is coming.”
Khaotung knew all this. It didn’t stop the sharp tug in his chest, the urge to grab First by the arms and shake him and say how could you leave me alone? But that was childish, and Khaotung was an adult, and First was just a friend.
A best friend.
A work partner.
But still, just a friend.
“Come on, we need to plan this.” First tapped the paper in front of them on Khaotung’s kitchen table. It was currently blank.
“Can’t we just text?”
“You were just complaining about how the fans will be sad.”
The fans. Khaotung’s regular excuse to harass First via flirting on social media. Not that First didn’t stay in contact when they were apart. That was a Khaotung move—a diminishing-returns attempt to regain some kind of control over his own neediness.
“It’ll be an entire week with no content!”
“Which is why,” First tapped the paper again with consummate patience, “we need to plan this.”
Khaotung sighed. “Fine.”
He always felt fake posting fan service over social media. If he actually had something to say, he would just text First on their private chat. It was different—better—to post photos of their hangouts or TikTok challenges together. Then at least their time together could be spontaneous. Real.
“But I get to be the clingy one this time—since you’re leaving me.” Khaotung shoved down the blush heating his cheeks by sheer force of will and fluttered his eyelashes crazily enough to earn a laugh.
First rolled his eyes. “You’d think I was going off to war.”
“Says the person who came to Korea for all of three days rather than let me go alone.”
Pink dusted the tops of First’s ears. Khaotung had a sudden, visceral memory of feeling the burn of a bright-red earlobe against his neck as Aye cradled Akk’s head to one shoulder.
Back when physical intimacy still caused First to squirm. So long ago, and yet Khaotung felt that blush against his skin like it was yesterday. He almost reached out a hand to trace First’s ear for residual warmth.
“That’s—” First sputtered. “We were filming.”
“And right now, our show is airing. Even more important to appear clingy, right?” Khaotung dug his fingernails into the undersides of his still-crossed arms.
Appear. Yeah.
First blinked rapidly. “Sure. Let’s just get through this. I need to leave.”
Khaotung sighed and dragged his chair closer. “You start by posting a photo, and then I can whine under it.” Despite his protests, he began to write notes with quick assurance. This was far from their first time planning out social media flirting.
First nodded. “You should call me phi in some of the comments. The fans like that.”
“Fans?” Khaotung flicked a furtive glance at his best friend, but found First staring at the paper, all business. “Seems like you’re the one who’s been bringing it up. Ever since your birthday.” He elbowed First gently in the side, but First refused to rise to the bait.
“You started it, now live with the consequences.” He grabbed the pen out of Khaotung’s hand and wrote phi under the first bullet point about photos.
“Fine. How’s this?” Khaotung dictated in a cute voice, “Na, Phi, how could you leave me, Phi, I’ll miss you, Phi, don’t go, Phi.”
First cleared his throat. “Can you take this seriously?” His voice went up at the end, scratching like the pen as he dug a black hole into the paper. “You’ve been playing too many characters like Ray and Bison. I miss Aye, sometimes.”
“I’ll have you know this is all genuine.” Khaotung perched his chin on First’s shoulder. Ignored the hard thump of his heart in his throat. “And you’re the one who suggested it!”
“Something I’m beginning to regret deeply.”
Khaotung huffed, jerking back.
First caught him with a large hand around his neck. “Ah, don’t cry, you’re still my best friend.” He put a weird emphasis on the word friend. But that was nothing new. Nothing to excuse the way Khaotung’s heart beat insistently up his throat, trying to leap out and pluck the word from First’s mouth.
“Yeah, no shit,” Khaotung muttered. If that was no longer true, it was time to quit, pack up, and go home. From, like, literally everything.
First’s uncalloused fingers slid down to rub gently at the tense line of tendons, while his thumb soothed at the side of Khaotung’s neck, sweeping up to the sensitive spot behind his ear. That happened a lot lately—Kant liked to do the same.
Khaotung followed the pull and rested his head on First’s shoulder for a moment. He smelled of vanilla and faint leather, even though he was headed to the airport. Breathing in, Khaotung tried to store up the wash of comfort it gave him for the coming week. Difficult, given the way First’s fingers crept under the collar of his shirt.
Involuntarily, he held his breath as that warm touch slid forward off his shoulder to his chest. Each fingerpad burned with potential as it swept along his collarbone, nestled into the hollow of his throat.
Khaotung’s aching lungs heaved.
“Okay,” First said. He twitched as if waking from a dream. “We really are running out of time.”
Khaotung lifted his head with a desultory hum to cover the galloping thunder of his pulse. It was depressingly easy, after all these years, to suppress his reaction to First’s friendly proximity. He stood and began pulling out some of First’s favorite snacks from his cabinet, adding them to a bag on the table for First to take to the airport. The shake of his hands was unnoticeable, he was sure. But it was always better to be safe. Always better to stay busy and not think about how close he might have come to crossing that unspoken line.
“What else?” First asked.
“Jealousy?”
First, who had picked up the pen to doodle at the edge of the paper, paused and blinked at him. “I’ll be with my family, though.”
“I meant me.” Khaotung laughed, tossing his head to enhance the illusion of nonchalance. “You know, like—I’ll invite someone to hang out when I’m pouting about you being gone and take some pictures.” He frowned at First’s continued look of incomprehension. “You can whine about that if you want. The fans love it.”
“The fans? Or you?”
Khaotung ignored him. Surely he was allowed some illusions. “C’mon, we need something else.” There were only three lines on the page. “You’ll be gone for six days.” He tried not to whine again, he really did.
First sobered, his gaze floating over Khaotung’s shoulder. “Who were you thinking of?”
“Maybe Joong? Does it matter?”
“Oh.” First relaxed and his smile reappeared, though it was vague and insubstantial. “Just—Joong is fine since we have the show, but…” He shook his head. “Lately, actors have been accused of breaking up pairings for stuff like that. I don’t want you to get any of our friends in trouble.”
“And Joong’s not a friend?”
“No.” First’s ears flushed bright red. “Just, he can take care of himself. He’s better at this social media stuff than either of us, so if he agrees, then it’s fine.”
Khaotung laughed as he turned back to grab more snacks. “That’s true. Well, I’ll let him know the plan before I post the pics.”
“Fine. So I post a photo of myself in Japan. You whine. Then you post photos with Joong. I whine. Then what? I can post some song lyrics. That one you sent me recently, maybe.”
“You’ve been listening to it?” Khaotung bit his lip as he looked down at the bag of snacks without seeing it. It was both sad and convenient how he could send First song after song about friends wishing they could be more, and First would just trot them out for fanservice like there was no ulterior meaning there at all.
For him, there wasn’t, Khaotung supposed.
“Of course. It’s a good song.”
A good song. Yeah. “I can post a selfie or something.”
“Like in China?” First’s smile was infectious despite the teasing note.
“Yeah,” Khaotung jutted his chin out defiantly. “Like in China.” He left the bag of food on the table and sank back into the chair at First’s side.
“When we were separated for all of twenty hours before you snuck over to my hotel room?”
“‘Cause you refused to come to mine.”
“I’d had my fan meet already! I was tired.”
“Uh-huh. So tired from all the flirting you did. I had a long flight that day!”
“I wasn’t the one sending thirst traps!”
“Then how come I’m the one who got trapped?”
In the ringing silence of Khaotung’s outraged question, they both blinked at each other. For a moment, panic thickened the air as fine hairs rose on the back of Khaotung’s neck and blood rushed to his face. He’d finally gone and fucking done it. Crossed the line, burned the bridge, there was no way First could take that as anything but—
First burst out laughing. “Thirst trapped yourself—” he could barely speak and the words were incomprehensible anyway “—you’re so—”
Khaotung’s chest split in half. Torn into two sides—relief, yes—and—
Well, it was better not to think about the other side, the dark half which held the whole of his heart and crumpled just a little further into a bitter fist of how can he be so blind?
He chuckled weakly. Forced his face into a grin until he felt it. Until he laughed truly now, along with First. Until he fell into the chair at his best friend’s side and collapsed against his greatest source of comfort—his greatest source of pain.
“I fucking had to, you were over there talking about me for the whole three-hour event. If I didn’t respond—”
“Yeah, yeah.” First wrinkled his nose cutely. “Blame the fan event. I know you just missed me.”
Nothing but guileless warmth in those eyes. Khaotung looked away for a second. “I did. And I will.” It was stupid, how much. That big goofy smile. The constant stream of chatter, which was somehow no longer annoying.
First sobered and reached again for the back of his neck. Khaotung’s skin was already warm there, as if his body knew what to expect now. As if every autonomic function was trained to First’s habits.
These small, careless—but never casual—touches. He would miss that, most of all.
“I’ll miss you, too,” First said, his thumb brushing the tender spot under Khaotung’s ear.
Khaotung sighed heavily, with just the hint of a whine in his throat as First stood and gathered his things.
One side of First’s mouth tugged up into a smile. “Just come with me next time.”
“Sure.” Khaotung looked away and stayed sitting.
“I mean it. My family loves you, they wouldn’t mind.”
“That…seems unlikely. It’s a family trip.”
“‘Tung.” First waited until Khaotung raised his eyes, all unwilling, to his face. “You are family.”
Khaotung smiled back, but it cost him dearly. “I know.” Another brother added to First’s already overfull lineup of siblings.
He watched First move around the apartment, gathering his bag and the snacks. He sat, and pressed down hard on the swelling ache in his chest. He sat, and bounced his leg up and down, and got out his phone and pretended to care about the latest posts on Twitter.
“Well, I’m off, then.” First headed toward the entryway and his shoes.
Khaotung sat, laden with too many feelings, charged with too many desires. One shoe. Then the other. Still, Khaotung sat and watched and didn’t say any of the words that bubbled up in his lungs, pressing outward until he was full to bursting with a fizzing, ineffable need.
First stood up from lacing his second shoe. Grabbed his suitcase.
“Fir.” Khaotung sprang up from the chair. Stumbled across the kitchen floor. Caught his hand. “I—”
First cocked his head, waiting.
”Have a good flight.”
First smiled, big and generous on his beautiful face. “I’ll call you when I get in, okay?”
He squeezed Khaotung’s hand. They stood in silence, just staring, First smiling and Khaotung pressing his lips against the stupid words swelling up his throat which would ruin everything—and yet increasingly felt like the only, ever-narrowing path forward.
Surely it wasn’t just he who felt the tension. Felt the way the air stilled, sound fell flat, the way his heart thudded in his ears, breath drawing too fast and deep, preparing for a moment that would never, never be realized—
“Bye, then,” First said, and punctuated it by detaching his hand for a little wave. Khaotung felt the pop in his heart as he sagged. Deflated back into his given role of best friend.
“Bye,” he echoed to First’s back. I’ll miss you.
First waited only one day into his trip to begin the plan. Khaotung laughed when he saw the pictures, with a caption directed at the fans. He was sitting in his gaming chair, refreshing his feed between game rounds. Neo, who didn’t usually bother with online games, had agreed to play Valorant with him the past few evenings. He had only teased Khaotung twelve times about needing to be entertained constantly while his preferred friend was away. Which, for Neo, was circumspect in the extreme.
“Checking in, my ass.”
Khaotung sent a quick, public reply, asking First what to eat after skiing all day. Using phi, because First had requested it.
It wasn’t common for First to dictate social media fan service so explicitly. But he paid more attention to their fandom engagement than Khaotung—maybe he really had noticed a positive trend when Khaotung messed around with calling him phi after his birthday. Maybe he wanted to take advantage of that.
Phi, came the reply. On Twitter, for everyone to see.
Khaotung’s jaw dropped open. He glanced around his living room, as if seeking support for his outrage from the shadows.
> escalation huh? he sent on their private Line chat.
> just according to plan
Plan? What plan? It was just supposed to be some fun interactions for the fans. Not First suggesting—suggesting—
Ugh. His face had to be bright red. Good thing First wasn’t around to see it. Good thing First couldn’t see inside his head, see the thoughts that swirled up at that idea of First staring at him with big, brown eyes and saying, oh-so-innocently, why don’t you eat me?
Khaotung licked his lips. On his monitor, the loading screen counted down to the next round, but Khaotung’s hand spasmed tighter around his phone.
Stupid. It was just fan service. Just flirting—except fan service flirting was meant to be directed at the fans. Meant to make them giggle and squeal and imagine First saying those things to them. So why was Khaotung the one getting flustered?
He shook his head and locked his phone screen. That was enough for today. He would follow the plan tomorrow, too, and First would react normally. He must be tired from skiing and just typing out whatever answer came up first in his mind.
Though why that would be—
“Ugh!” He threw the phone onto the couch nearby and returned his hands to the keyboard just as the next round faded in. He could be normal about this. He had learned that skill from six years of being best friends with First, and he had no idea why it was dissolving through his fingers now of all times.
Plenty of time to read too much into fan service tweets later. Right now, he needed to focus on playing his best friend’s favorite game without him.
Yeah, he could hear Neo’s sardonic voice, even though his headset was silent for the moment: You’re definitely not pining.
The one positive about First’s bold move was that it kept the fans in an uproar.
Khaotung didn’t have to worry about any fan service for the next few days, as he went about his normal, introverted life without a show to shoot or events to worry about. The Heart Killers was still airing—the new episode dropped today—but with First on vacation, surely Khaotung wouldn’t be expected to do much. They had already filmed the group commentary for Episode 9 in advance of First’s departure.
He did worry, though.
Partly about the show, because this was the critical episode where Bison and Kant finally reconciled on the island, and Khaotung would have liked to watch it with First. Would have liked to follow their usual ritual of sitting shoulder to shoulder in front of his couch, alternately squealing and cheering as they worked through the always-unbearable ordeal of seeing themselves on screen. Because he knew First was anxious about fans’ feelings on Kant’s redemption and because patterns comforted him. Because being with First comforted Khaotung.
Mostly, though, he worried about his best friend, who had barely responded to any of his private messages. Usually, if they were in different places—even just their own homes—they would call or at least text before bed every night. Just a check in, especially if they’d had little time to talk during the day.
But First’s responses to Khaotung’s attempts at touching base were terse at best. He never outright ignored a message, but he wasn’t his usual, effusive self. Khaotung almost called—but he never called. He was the one who kept his phone on Do Not Disturb mode, for fuck’s sake. And First was the busy one. He was supposed to call when he was done skiing—Khaotung was just sitting at home, waiting, and if he called, First would probably be busy anyway.
It was a mess. One Khaotung really did not want to think about this hard. First would be back in a few days, and they were best friends, and he was just busy with his family. That was the only reason the answer Khaotung got to how’s skiing was good. The reason his did you have a good day? was met with it was fine.
But when even yesterday’s what next for the fan service plan, got only a whatever you want, in response—well, Khaotung could only take so much diffidence before he had to retaliate.
Granted, it was nearly twenty-four hours later that he got up the courage.
“Whatever I want, hmm?” He swiped through his photos from various trips and landed on one he had taken in the mirror of the hotel in Brazil. They had joked before about thirst traps—this photo made the ones he took in China look like professional headshots.
First responded almost immediately—via Twitter. Cute. But someone needs to eat more.
“Fucking hell.”
Khaotung opened their Line chat. Typed out, do you have to go so fucking hard? Then he looked at the timestamp of his previous, innocuous message. Five hours ago, he had sent a picture of Montow with the caption, he tried to eat the new rug again, the little shit. And First still hadn’t responded. Despite his almost immediate reply on Twitter.
Khaotung closed the app and locked his phone. Got ready for bed and tried not to wonder what the hell his best friend was doing.
He woke up two days later, to another post on Twitter. This time, First had tagged him explicitly in the photo of himself staring out at the falling snow. Khaotung was tagged as the snow, of course. First had paired the image with a song—just as they had discussed. Except instead of something Khaotung had sent, it was Khaotung’s song Never Too Late. And the lyrics he had excerpted—hear what your heart says, listen and follow the way—were followed by the caption, it’s not too late, is it?
“Fucking hell,” Khaotung muttered.
Seriously, First, do you have to go so hard?
Neither he nor the fans were liable to survive First’s new heights of fan service—and obliviousness.
The fan reaction, needless to say, was explosive. First had posted it early this morning, and Khaotung, waking up past noon, had already been tagged over and over and over, with fans begging him to respond.
“As if I’m the one who’s been pushing you away.” The words flew out of Khaotung’s mouth in sharp retort—and then he frowned, and scrubbed a hand over his face.
They had sat in his kitchen just a few days ago, with First’s thumb on his pulse. He could still feel it. Still smell the faint trace of honeysuckle. Khaotung shook his head. No one was pushing anyone away—it just, wasn’t meant to be. If it were, they would have figured it out by now. The way Khaotung read too much into First’s every gesture—if First felt the same, one of them would have crossed the line.
This was no time to start acting like a jilted boyfriend. He would never have that right.
Khaotung hauled himself from bed and texted Joong to remind him of their planned hang.
> already on my way over, puen, came the reply.
“Shit.” Well, whatever, it wasn’t as if Joong hadn’t seen his messy apartment before. Or his unshaven face. He focused back on his phone and pondered his response to First’s challenge.
He settled on, it’s definitely too late to join your trip, freind, with the mispelled freind to soften the blow to the fans’ delusional hearts.
First responded before he finished showering with I invited you along, so whose fault is that?
“Seriously?” Again, the fans responded with blistering demands of why Khaotung hadn’t accepted the offer. Khaotung opened their Line chat and sent why are you so bent on getting me in trouble?
By the time Joong walked in the door, First still hadn’t responded.
Khaotung set his phone face down on his kitchen table as he fetched some water for Joong. No need for breakfast—he had only barely woken up in time for his two p.m. lunch plans. Joong’s eyes fastened on his mouth as he moved around the kitchen, a smile lurking behind warm brown eyes.
“What?” Khaotung finally snapped. He wasn’t in the mood for games today.
Joong tapped his upper lip, expression crumbling into laughter. Khaotung mirrored his gesture and realized—
“Ah, fuck. I forgot to shave after showering.”
“Something on your mind?”
Khaotung sighed. It wasn’t as if he would last the whole hangout without talking about First anyway—that was nigh impossible. Might as well complain now, so Dunk wouldn’t have to hear it, too. “It’s First.”
“Because he’s gone?” Khaotung could hear the strain in Joong’s voice as he tried to keep it to a sympathetic register.
Fine, I’m too fucking obsessed with my costar. Whatever.
“No—well, yes. Because his idea of appropriate fan service,” Khaotung slammed his plate of eggs and fruit down on the table, “is suddenly ridiculous. And,” he added, when Joong simply raised his eyebrows, “it’s not what we planned. I get to be the clingy one this time!”
Joong spat out his mouthful of water. “You what?”
“Don’t you plan fan service with Dunk?”
“We don’t fight over who gets to be clingy.”
“Well.” Khaotung fished for something useful to say as he wiped Joong’s spray from his table. Settled on, “we do. And—” the much more important part, “he’s not supposed to be doing this much at all! Let alone acting like it’s my fault we’re separated. He’s the one who left!”
“According to him, you could have gone along.” Joong’s tone was eminently reasonable. Khaotung still punched him in the shoulder.
“Me? Skiing?”
“Fair.”
“And it’s a family trip. I knew he didn’t mean it.” Khaotung squashed a piece of melon with the back of his spoon until it smushed out like bug guts. “Which is why it’s so unfair that he’s throwing me under the bus right now.” With his other hand, he gripped his phone and stared balefully at the icon for Line—which still showed zero new notifications.
“I’m going to call him. That okay?”
Joong shrugged. “We’re waiting for Dunk anyway. Don’t forget you need to shave—you’re not going to talk for hours, right?”
That earned him another punch in the shoulder, harder than before. But his teasing grin didn’t dim one bit.
“That was one fucking time.”
“Yeah. On set. After he’d dared to leave early once.”
“He left me.”
Joong just shook his head and shoved the hand holding Khaotung’s phone toward his face. “Call your boyfriend and complain that he’s flirting too much.”
“Not my boyfriend,” Khaotung muttered. His palm hurt with how hard he gripped the phone. He only realized as he shifted to press the call button. Why was his hand so sweaty? He flexed stiff fingers as he waited and tried not to focus on the way his breath was sipping and shallow.
As soon as the call picked up, Khaotung began, “Fir, what are you doing? This isn’t what we—”
“Sorry, busy!”
The line went dead. Khaotung frowned at his phone. Then raised his head slowly to meet Joong’s amused gaze. “He…hung up on me?”
Joong snorted. “That’s not all he did.” He held his phone out with Twitter pulled up.
There was a fresh new Instagram story. A photo of First, stripped of his outer snow layers, muscle definition visible even through his long-sleeved base layer, and a caption saying, I know who’s hungry.
Khaotung’s mouth watered like a fucking Pavlovian dog. He smashed open the Line chat.
> busy my ass
> aren’t you supposed to be skiing?
Thank god for text chats, where he could pretend like that was the issue at hand. And not the chant of me, me, how fucking dare you, me screaming through his head.
> I’m at the lodge, came the reply. Casual, as if there weren’t three unanswered messages above it. As if First hadn’t just hung up on him.
> you can tweet but you can’t answer the phone??
> said I was busy. didn’t say with what
“He’s still going. On Twitter now.” Joong murmured, pulling his thumb down on the screen of his phone to refresh his feed. He sounded impressed.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Khaotung muttered. He passed his phone over for Joong to look, and took Joong’s instead to look at the new photos. The way First had swiped his damp hair back from his forehead—Khaotung had to sit down hard in a kitchen chair.
“If I had to guess…” Joong looked up with a mischievous grin. “I’d say he’s flirting.”
“Yeah, we planned the posts.” Although he was nearly positive they had never discussed First posting thirst traps. “I meant that.” He waved at his phone, still in Joong’s hands.
Joong passed it back. “Yeah, I also meant that.”
It took a few moments of staring at Joong’s widening grin before Khaotung took his meaning. And then another few minutes of viciously shoving down his rampaging heartbeat to speak.
“How can you call ignoring me for five days—and then hanging up on me—flirting?”
Joong tilted his head with a thoughtful look. “He’s been ignoring your private, friendly texts, and responding only to your public flirtations.”
Khaotung barely heard him. Two to three interactions. That’s what they had planned. Not this barrage. His thoughts clung to the strangeness of it, the misstep in their always-synched choreography. First never did this to him, never fucked with their working rhythm. He was Khaotung’s harbor, the person who rescued him from the churning sea of anxiety. Now, it was his hand shoving Khaotung off the cliff into the ocean.
Something had changed—and it wasn’t for the better.
“He’s treating me like a coworker. Someone he has to flirt with but doesn’t want to hang out with otherwise.”
Khaotung said the words with an exaggerated tone of disgruntlement—but his heart clenched hard. He raised a hand to the back of his neck. Imagined First’s hand there, cupping around both sides with his long fingers. Thumb brushing under his ear. How could they go from that to one-word replies in less than a week?
“Or,” Joong said, taking the joke much too seriously, “he’s treating you like someone who doesn’t want to be drawn back into a friendly pattern. Who’s trying to make a change.”
Khaotung waved the insane words away as he thought the situation through. There was just no way First could go from six years of best friends, texting each other constantly, calling every night before bed, to terse one-word answers in just a few days.
Not without some external reason.
Khaotung’s stomach twisted. “Do you think he’s busy?” When Joong only gave him a blank look, he shunted his gaze to the side and clarified, forcing the words past his dry mouth: “Like. With someone. Someone he met in Japan.”
Silence.
Khaotung didn’t look up. Couldn’t witness the dawning understanding, the pity that must be welling up on Joong’s face.
“Or—he’s busy flirting with you.”
Khaotung’s chest trembled, threatening once more to rip in two. A sudden flush of anger burned up his esophagus. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“The guy is glued to his phone and focused on you—he’s just not doing it in a way you expected. Teasing can be flirting, you know.”
Khaotung stared down unseeing at his feed. How dare Joong feed that bitter, crushing fist around his heart. How dare he pull at the loose thread of Khaotung’s eternal resignation.
“Seriously, phi.” Joong’s tone turned serious—and somehow that was worse. “Don’t you think he might like you?”
The next breath hitched in his lungs. “I—”
It wasn’t that he didn’t know that he and First said and did some ridiculous things. They were even worse in private—all of his thoughts about First’s smell and the heat of his hand on Khaotung’s neck—fuck, it was ridiculous when he looked at it rationally. But that was the problem. He never could look at it rationally.
“I don’t know,” he hedged, against the precarious spike of revelation that threatened the uneasy balance in his chest.
Joong rolled his eyes. “You mean you don’t want to make a move in case it’s all fan service on his end. Or friendliness.”
“You know that’s a very real possibility.”
Joong visibly revised what he had been about to say. “True. Even without the pairing shit, it’s hard to take the first step. Even when you’re like, ninety-nine percent sure the other person is on the same page.”
“See? I’m not crazy.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Joong winked at him.
Khaotung stuck his tongue out and marveled, as he always did, at Joong’s ability to get him to talk. He was never this comfortable around anyone—except First, of course, but that had taken months at least. Joong had slid into his life as if he really were Khaotung’s annoying younger brother who somehow knew way more than him about relationships.
But in this case—this case about First, who Khaotung knew better than anyone on the planet—he was wrong.
“He would have done something if he had feelings.”
Joong tilted his head. “Why do you get a pass and he doesn’t?”
“First is so kind and so—physical—with literally everyone.” And I’m not. For Khaotung, there was only First—in so many ways that it terrified him.
Joong only rolled his eyes. “Not like he is with you. It’s different, believe me.”
Even if that had been true, it wasn’t anymore. Even if Khaotung had merited special treatment at the start of their friendship and partnership—something even he couldn’t really debate—things had changed. Case in point, his absolutely blunt responses to Khaotung’s messages over the last few days, compared to his usually effusive texting style. And even before this week, the distance between them seemed now, in retrospect, to have been growing for a while.
“We used to—” Khaotung flushed hot and shut up.
“What?”
It was such a stupid thing to be upset about. But Khaotung stared at his phone, at the phone call that had lasted less than thirty seconds—maybe the shortest call he’d ever had with First, when usually they spoke for hours—and felt a dark belt of pressure cinch tight around his chest.
“We would fall asleep all the time. You know, together.” He sounded like a fucking teenager, upset about shit like this. “Just—touching. Holding hands.”
Joong’s face split in a shit-eating grin. Khaotung hated him for a moment. “It was no big deal! It was normal. Just—friends.”
“Was?” Joong made a visible effort to sober his glee.
“We just—don’t. Now. We never share a bed unless we have to. And if we do, we stay on opposite sides. We don’t touch.“
“Who’s making that decision?”
“I don’t know. It feels mutual.”
Not that he wasn’t relieved to put some space between himself and a clingy First. It was bad enough on set or at fan meets, or even alone in one of their apartments. At least while conscious, he could control or suppress his response. What would he do if he had one of his recent dreams, but with First wrapped around him like the old days?
Joong opened his mouth, but Khaotung headed him off. “Do not say I should suggest sharing a bed again. Do you even hear how that sounds? I might as well fucking propose in the middle of the Rama VII Bridge.”
“Okay,” Joong said calmly, “then why don’t you just propose in the middle of the Rama VII Bridge?”
“You—”
“Hellooo my lovelies.” Dunk threw the door open with a bang. “I hope you’re ready to finally have some fun!”
“Finally?” Joong sounded hurt, but he still bounced over to Dunk’s side for a hug.
Khaotung trailed after. “What’s the plan?”
“We were just talking about how First—”
Joong bent over as Khaotung elbowed him sharply in the side. Dunk looked between the two of them, mild curiosity in his eyes. “First’s away, right? That’s why we’re hanging out? Cause phi is lonely?” He grinned and ruffled Khaotung’s hair.
Khaotung tolerated it easily. Anything to shift the conversation away from why don’t you just propose, then?
Insane.
Joong was just insane and that’s all there was to it.
“Yes, so lonely,” he said with an exaggerated pout. “First is ignoring my calls.”
“He did pick up,” Joong pointed out.
Khaotung snapped his mouth shut on an indignant reply of, that absolutely does not count. Because he knew what Joong was doing. He knew Joong just wanted him to admit how co-dependent, how flirtatious they were. And he didn’t know what to do with that information. Especially now that it seemed First had shifted them into a different mode that Khaotung had no idea how to process. If First wanted to flirt, then why couldn’t he just answer the damn phone?
“Go shave,” Dunk said, and pushed him toward the bathroom. “I’m starving.”
“Wait.” Joong grabbed Khaotung’s arm as he passed. When Khaotung turned, Joong snapped a photo.
“You—that’s—” Khaotung sputtered. “You had better not post that anywhere.”
Joong didn’t even look up. “Just sending it to someone who loves you.”
“If he loved me,” Khaotung ground out, striving to ignore the furious heat burning up his face, “he’d answer my fucking texts.”
They headed out as soon as he was ready, and Khaotung tried his best not to check his phone every three seconds. Finally, Dunk snatched it out of his hands as they walked up to the restaurant. “Stop fiddling.”
“Both of you, stop,” Joong said, overriding Khaotung’s protest. “This wall is great.”
Khaotung glanced behind him to see a brick wall. He couldn’t see exactly what was great about it, but Joong was already mustering his camera and urging them to line up against it. Khaotung knew better than to argue—and besides, this was part of the fan service plan—so he allowed it for fifteen minutes before Dunk chivvied them all into the restaurant.
As they sat in their private room at the back of the restaurant, Joong busied himself touching up and filtering the photos. The waiter came by once to get their drinks, then two, three more times and each time Joong hadn’t even looked at the menu.
Finally, Dunk and Khaotung simply ordered for him—it was a kbbq restaurant anyway, so Khaotung ordered a ton of fatty pork and let Dunk add a few types of beef for variety. Joong only set his phone down when the first appetizers arrived—and then immediately picked it up again as notifications flared across the screen.
“He already replied.” Joong’s grin was mischievous. He turned his phone around for Khaotung’s perusal.
> cute.
> leave something for the one who’s missing
“Okay, enough with the stupid fan service.” Khaotung’s entire body was hot. He reached instinctively for his phone, still tucked in Dunk’s pocket, and then let his hand drop. First probably hadn’t replied to any of his texts, anyway. No point in being disappointed again. “Can we please just fucking eat?”
Dinner was loud and fun and easy—as it always was with Joong and Dunk. Khaotung mostly remembered not to pine about First and his still-kidnapped phone. He mostly remembered to just enjoy the food and the fun of eating out with a comedic duo of class clowns. It was nice of them to keep him company while he was lonely. He should appreciate it.
At the end of the night, Joong took another round of photos, again making them stop at various locations he found appropriate. Usually, Khaotung loved a photoshoot with Joong—his camera was high quality, and he was both skilled enough and particular enough to get shots that Khaotung actually liked. And even First, with his rampant self-deprecation, tended to approve of Joong’s photos.
But that was the issue, wasn’t it?
Dunk went home, but Joong followed Khaotung back to his house to play video games. As they settled in, Joong took up his camera again to edit. When Khaotung saw him pull up Instagram to post, he interrupted with a hand on Joong’s arm.
“I don’t want your fans to get upset.”
Joong rolled his eyes. “My fans love my friendship with you. And your fans love any content anyone gives them, you silly introvert.”
“But they prefer it if we’re together.”
That we was not Khaotung and Joong, and they both knew it.
Joong didn’t even bother saying the obvious response, just shot Khaotung a look that held the words as plain as could be.
Khaotung flushed and looked away. So, he hated being separated from his best friend. Joong had already guessed his feelings—he refused to apologize for his crush, even if it went unrequited. Plenty of people fell in love with their co-stars.
“Just keep your mouth shut when he gets back, okay?”
Joong mimed zipping his lips, and returned to his post.
Khaotung threw his phone—retrieved from Dunk only after dinner—on the bed and settled into the gaming chair. At least Valorant could provide some real distraction from the ache of unanswered text messages.
After posting, Joong watched him play for a while, and then they switched positions so Joong could try it out. Khaotung enjoyed being better at a game than his nong—though he was no match for First, he had put tons of hours into this game and Joong had only started playing recently.
During a long lobby wait, he glanced over to see his phone light up. It was past midnight. “Shit, it’s late.”
Joong shrugged. “I don’t have anything tomorrow.”
“Same. You can stay overnight if—” Khaotung forgot the rest of his sentence when he saw who the text was from. “Shit.”
> you okay? I didn’t mean to sound mad
Khaotung blinked. Tried to parse what First meant. Before he could find the correct clarifying question, First sent another message.
> on the photos. I know you didn’t want to do the jealousy thing.
He lifted his head to address Joong, who was coming back with more water. “Did you post a second round of photos?”
“Yeah. Problem?”
Khaotung shrugged. “First is apologizing.”
“And you think he doesn’t care.”
“I know he cares. I just wish he wanted to text like normal, or fucking chat on the phone. Why is everything about fan service?” How could First ignore him all evening and then just pick up the conversation like it was nothing?
Joong laughed, a stupid little you’re so in love, laugh that Khaotung summarily ignored. Fuming, he typed out a short message to his best friend.
> yeah. fine.
When First didn’t answer, Khaotung sighed and added,
> Joong and I are gaming. sorry I didn’t check twitter
> where’s Dunk?
> he had something. what are you up to?
Seen.
And then—
No reply.
First’s status went idle.
Khaotung groaned. What the fuck was up with his best friend? He navigated over to Joong’s second post of photos to find whatever comment First thought sounded mad.
Time for nongs to go to bed.
Despite his irritation, Khaotung laughed. Clever First, because Dunk and Joong were his nongs. The caption could be read in all sorts of ways—but Khaotung knew how he would respond. How he could ameliorate the lump of guilt sitting hard in his stomach. He should have checked Twitter and not left First hanging for so long.
He hit reply and posted Yes, phi. Sweet dreams.
Then opened the chat with First again.
> sorry. really. I replied. I think we’re good now, right? I’m tired of fan service
> yeah, sounds good
Not even a sweet dreams in return. All of his irritation swamped back, the heat of it a mediocre cover for the icy prick of unease at the back of his throat.
“What the fuck is wrong with him?”
Joong shrugged as he turned back to the screen for his next round. “I already told you what I think.”
Khaotung kept his eyes on the chat until First’s status went idle again. “That can’t possibly be it.”
“Maybe not,” Joong admitted. “But don’t you want to find out?”
Two days before First was due to come back, Khaotung was idling in bed, wondering what First would act like when they met up in person again. They didn’t have any plans until the next fan event, a few days out—but they had never needed concrete plans before. Somehow, he had assumed they would get dinner or meet up, or at least play online together, the evening after First got home.
Now though, with a still-dead text thread and not even a public post from First in the last twenty-four hours, he had no idea.
Just as he sat up to distract himself with games, his phone lit with a message from Joong.
> did you see this?
And a screenshot from Twitter. The first post was Joong’s. It was a photo of Khaotung from their hangout—but not posed, and not one Khaotung had known about.
“Fucking hell, Joong.” When Joong asked don’t you want to find out, Khaotung hadn’t realized he meant to antagonize both fandoms into ghostships and anxiety.
In the photo, he was laughing. Joong’s arm emerged from off-frame, holding chopsticks and offering him meat. It looked like a date photo, as if the two of them were at dinner, alone, and Joong was feeding Khaotung the best piece of food. In reality, Khaotung had burned the meat, and Joong was trying to force him to eat it. He hadn’t even seen the camera because he was distracted by Dunk, who was valiantly attempting to swallow his previous disaster.
Joong had captioned it, I’m taking good care of him ;)
He scrolled down to reply, you’re going to get me in so much trouble, and as he typed, he realized someone else’s reply was captured in the screenshot.
First’s.
I take care of what’s mine, khub.
Khaotung blinked. Pressed a hand to his flushing cheeks.
Stupid. So stupid to get flustered by fan service. He, of all people, should know how silly and canned these things got. But it wasn’t in the script. Not Joong’s photo, not First’s response. First was the one who said they should be careful of including Joong. That he could face backlash. And yet here First was, inciting conflict.
Khaotung navigated to Twitter on his phone and found the thread. The fan replies were a riotous mix of excitement, adoration, and scolding. Joong was catching heat for “splitting them up”. Of course there were many more replies thrilled with Joong’s instigation of First’s jealousy. But Joong got enough shit, he didn’t deserve any more.
And yet. And yet First had done it anyway.
Don’t you want to know? Joong’s voice, thick with mischief, rang through his mind. He opened his private Line chat with First.
> what are you doing?
> I cleared it with Joong, came the short reply.
“That’s not what I meant,” Khaotung muttered.
> it wasn’t in our plan, though
And Joong was going to have every som in existence tearing down his door if he wasn’t careful.
> some things don’t need a plan
“We always have a plan. You’re the one who insists on it!”
> which things?
First typed. Stopped. Typed. Stopped.
> some things are just true
“But which things?” Khaotung stared at the chat for a long moment. First’s status stayed online, but he didn’t type again. Khaotung navigated to the photo, the caption, the response again, and felt that icy shard of disquiet explode into frustration with the hiss of flash-boiled water.
> what kind of best friend barely responds all week?
> you don’t take care of shit
It was angrier than he meant it to be. The hurt leaked through—fucking idiotic and he should have deleted the words before he hit send. But even over text, Khaotung had always found it impossible to lie about his feelings where First was concerned.
> maybe I don’t want to take care of you as a best friend anymore
Heart-crushing pain seized Khaotung’s chest. The words swam in front of his eyes.
How could so much change in a week, a week where First wasn’t even here? Had First really found someone else he wanted to devote his time to, outside of fan service and their work partnership? Or—
Don’t you think he might like you?
It wasn’t unbelievable. First took care of him constantly, and he had never once seemed to mind. He chivvied Khaotung out of bed when they had shared schedules, bought him food, took him shopping. Helped him furnish his house and spoiled him with presents. Went to Korea for Khaotung’s awards ceremony, even though he had to fly economy class, just because Khaotung was nervous and wanted company.
The flirting, the photos—it could all just be fan service.
But it felt—different, the way First had commented on Joong’s photo. As if he didn’t care who saw it, didn’t care about their script.
Don’t you want to know?
Fingers shaking, mistyping and deleting and retyping the words correctly, Khaotung composed a response.
> prove it then
> phi
He had only a second to worry before First sent back two rapid-fire messages.
> anything for you khub
> I’ll be home tomorrow