Chapter Text
First Kanaphan Puitrakul wakes before his alarm.
He lies tossing and turning for a full hour before finally giving up. Still in his pyjamas, he drags himself out of bed and through to the kitchen where he makes his first coffee of the day—black with two sugars. He drinks in silence, the heat of the mug burning his palms as the morning sun creeps through the blinds, beating down on his back like a reminder of everything he wants to forget.
Draining the dregs in one swallow, he drops the empty mug in the sink with a clatter, the hollow sound bouncing off the walls as he turns on impulse, fuelled by something stronger than caffeine.
"What?" he snaps.
The sun doesn’t answer.
"Don’t look at me like that." He strides to the window, yanking on the blind strings. The glare hits him full in the face, squinting through his fingers at the unyielding, cloudless sky. "Who the hell are you to judge me? Huh?"
He bangs a fist against the glass, but the sun simply continues shining.
His chest constricts, temples pricking with sweat as the fire in his stomach blazes hot enough to rival that of the star he's beholding. Tilting his face towards beams of strong orange light, he incites a duel, daring the sun to do more than just blind him. Defiance, all that keeps him from blinking when his vision blurs to black, determined to out-stare the ancient timekeeper born long before him, whose neutrality he detests.
Time drags, each second longer than the last. His tear ducts run dry, body trembling in silence. He fights for control, a few more moments, eyes searing like meatballs on a griddle before his willpower deserts him. His lids force shut quickly and all at once, the world behind them burning lobster red. Sinking to his knees, his resolve unravels in the quiet space between breaths. A weak giggle escapes him, soon spiralling into hysterics as he collapses against the cold tiles, clutching his sides.
But the sun, wise and less easily fooled, soon unpicks the lie, having held her place in the sky long enough to know the difference between joy and grief, and laughter and tears.
*
There is comfort to be found in closure.
Or at least, First suspects there could be.
From a different window, he watches the man who won't leave him alone. It's typical of Khaotung, whose stubbornness has unlocked an alter-ego committed to playing the part of 'remorseful ex' as effortlessly as 'no strings attached fuckbuddy'. For the past week, he's kept a constant vigil over him, retiring briefly once a day to change his clothes and grab a bite to eat, always returning with a coffee for them both. First never collects his. He wonders, half-wishing, half-resentful, what keeps Khaotung from bringing them to his door.
Tonight, like all those previous, he considers confronting him but lacks conviction. Seventeen floors between them, and still his heart races as though they're standing face to face.
The moon hangs low, heavy and almost full, guarding the stars like Khaotung is guarding him, draped in a red polo and beige corduroys. Except his stakeout skills could use some refining—leant against the hood of his car, lost in his phone, and yet to notice him at the window. First's fingertips trace the cool glass, losing himself for a moment in the fantasy taking hold in his mind.
But a moment's all Khaotung needs.
Opening his eyes, First's heart stops. Not only seeing, but being seen. He jerks his hand away in panic. Too late. Khaotung stands straight, tilting his head in that familiar, too-beautiful way—curious and tempted—as First's cheeks flush with longing under the weight of his gaze. The distance obscures the details of his face, his expression hard to read, but First knows them all by heart. The sweep of black lashes, the soft line of his jaw, the faint stubble across his upper lip. Khaotung raises a hand to wave, mouth pulling into a warm, wistful smile.
Are you ready yet? First can almost hear him ask.
He isn't. And he's not sure he ever will be.
Torn between retreating into the shadows of his apartment and holding his ground, First watches Khaotung light a cigarette. With each long drag, the tip glows a warm amber between his lips, sending a thin plume of smoke into the night air. Khaotung never used to smoke, but First doesn't feel guilty for passing on the bad habit—born of one too many lonely nights cleaning up during what should have been their afterglow. No, for as frowned upon as it is, smoking looks sexy on him.
First rests his forehead against the glass, breathing deeply. He can still taste their nicotine kisses—the soft, wet slide of Khaotung's tongue against his. Bitter smoke mixed with an aged whiskey. The many nights he'd pushed past his door and into his jeans, warm-blooded and open-mouthed, how First silently wills him to come again.
Focusing on his blurry reflection, First observes a man on the edge of something, moving neither forward nor backward. Caught in a limbo of his own creation with Khaotung just outside, a mirror of his indecision, waiting as if to say. Do something. Anything.
First gulps as Khaotung takes another drag. A quiet man stood still in a city that moves too fast. He's always had this way of stretching time, of slowing the world down. There's no need to rush, he'd always say. Enjoy the moment. Make it a memory, so we don't forget. Except they weren't then what they are now—two ex-lovers, unable to let go, unwilling to come together.
It's not fucking fair.
Why were the hardest habits to break the most likely to kill him?
*
It is only when Khaotung crushes the cigarette end beneath his shoe that First's head triumphs over his heart. Dragging himself away, he stumbles to the kitchen, footsteps echoing in the sterile quiet. The glass he grabs from the drainer feels weightless in his hand, filling it to the brim with ice cold water. He rushes a large gulp, willing himself to calm, but even without Khaotung in his line of sight, the searing intensity of his stare pierces through the concrete walls, through layers of skin and bone, rewriting history as it goes. The same magnetic pull that had drawn them together as teenagers—impossible to resist.
The ache in First's chest grows, the pressure mounting until it hurts, but tempting as it is to join him outside, stepping over the threshold of their shared past, he can't. Not after what he'd said. Placing the glass down on the counter, he runs a hand through his hair. Frustration and longing twist inside him like a knot, tight and unyielding. The love he'd so impulsively confessed, still there, lurking dark and dangerous in the depths of his soul.
He paces, frantic, when suddenly it grips him completely, filling his throat. Doubling over the sink, he throws up what is mainly water before rushing back to the living room. To the window where Khaotung hasn't moved an inch, phone still in hand. This time, he holds it up as though to show him something, and First doesn't understand until his own vibrates in his back pocket.
Can we talk?
First stares at the tiny font, reading and re-reading until his vision blurs. The bitter taste in his mouth turns his stomach again, thumbs trembling over the screen.
I can't.
Khaotung deflates, slumping against his car.
What are you even still doing here, Tung?
His reply comes in fits, clambering for an answer.
I don't know. I can't leave it like this. I'll stay for as long as you need me to, if it'll make up for all the times I left.
First's heart pangs, but he knows it won't. He taps out words to that effect, thumb hovering over the send button, but before he can muster the courage, three dots appear on his screen, swiftly followed by a question.
Did you mean what you said?
First is glad Khaotung can't see the way his body betrays him, drawing in a deep breath that almost splits him in two. His phone buzzes again, insistent. He can hardly bring himself to look, distracted by his handsomeness until an impatient Khaotung waggles the phone at him. Sighing, he reluctantly glances at the chain of new messages.
Because I know you, Fir, and all the many things that you are. And you've never been a liar. So I'll fight for you, for us, until you can forgive me.
That's what love is, isn't it?
First’s hands shake as he types, bile rising in his throat with each keystroke. The voices in his head scream at him to stop, but he ignores them, hitting send before he can change his mind.
The heartbreak doesn't translate. Placing a palm to the glass, First has never wished harder for a normal life as Khaotung crumbles to the curb. Of quiet evenings together watching bad movies, limbs entwined, bickering over what takeout to order. Of future Valentine’s dinners that might one day lead to an engagement, a wedding, a home with white garden fences. More cats. Maybe even kids. A family.
But as he watches through the window, tears dripping down his cheeks, the fairytale slips away, gone like the wisps of smoke from Khaotung's cigarette.
If you have any love for me, if you care about me at all, please just leave me alone.
*
The next fortnight is harder, without Khaotung watching.
For the most part, First misses him quietly. In the smallest, most mundane moments—kicking off his shoes after a long day, boiling the kettle, and whilst waiting for the toast to burn. He carries his absence around like a phantom limb, invisible and alien, thinking constantly of the last aching look between them before Khaotung had driven off for good. The look that had left him empty, which he'd take over the louder kind of heartache any day—the kind where every thought makes him want to scream.
In his car, he grips the steering wheel with a bandaged hand. The photographs had smashed easily during a drunken breakdown, but any satisfaction he'd derived from it had been fleeting. Gone by the following morning when, once sober, he'd spent the best part of an entire day picking glass shards from the living room carpet. The cuts were superficial, yet they'd bled and bled until, sick of changing stained bedsheets, he'd tended the wounds the way his mother had taught him as a clumsy, accident-prone child.
They've not long scabbed over, itching as he pulls into the parking lot of an outdoor sports centre. A bout of unseasonably heavy rain has not long stopped, the thick smell of petrichor seeping in through the open windows, cleansing the air, and First can't remember the last time breathing came so easily. He finds a parking spot which requires minimal effort, waving to Neo and Mix at the entrance. Grabbing his bag from the backseat, he locks the car and jogs over, placing a series of familiar voices on the other side of the building—a training ground typically used by amateur league teams and local schools.
"Well, fuck me." Neo grins widely, tucking a ball under his arm. "You're alive!"
First rolls his eyes on a smile, pulling him in for a hug. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Where the hell have you been, bro?" Neo pats his back, drawing away to look him up and down. "Feels like I haven't seen you in months."
"Ah, you know. Here and there." First shrugs. He greets Mix with an equally warm embrace. "Hey man, you good?"
"Glad you could make it," Mix squeezes his shoulders. "Been worried about you. You've been ghosting your phone, dude."
"Sorry," First rubs an eyebrow. "You know how it is sometimes."
"Yeah," Mix nods, his tone flat and unreadable. First wonders how much he really knows, wishing he and Khaotung had agreed what they would tell people in the aftermath of their separation—which he can't quite bring himself to call a breakup. Nowadays, he lives in perpetual fear of the inevitable string of 'I told you so's'.
"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a killer." First claps his hands, changing the subject. "Am I the last?"
"Just waiting on one more." Neo pulls out his phone. "Louis bailed at the last minute, a family thing, so we've had to make up the numbers. I'll chase him now."
"Okay," First nods, turning to Mix. "Who?"
"That's what I wanted to tell you," Mix says, biting his lower lip. Grabbing his arm, he pulls him aside, speaking quickly in hushed tones. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what to say when they asked me. I assumed he'd say no—this not being his thing—but he called yesterday saying he was up for it. I tried texting, but you didn't reply."
First gulps. "Tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying."
A cheerful shout from Neo cuts Mix off.
"Khaotung!"
First's eyes widen, a wave of dread making his head spin, the freshly cleansed air suddenly poison to his lungs. "You've gotta be kidding. Is this a joke?"
"You don't have to talk to him," Mix whispers hastily.
Turning, First's heart sinks. Khaotung swoops into a free parking space and hops out of his car, dressed in a faded blue jersey and shorts. A flashback of borrowing his usual gym clothes ties First's stomach in knots. He's not forgotten why he'd needed them in the first place, nor why he'd later cut them to shreds in a fit of rage. The sickness hits him like a truck, amplified by the lazy, carefree smile on Khaotung's face. He raises his eyebrows at Mix, pleading. "I'm gonna throw up."
"You're gonna be fine," Mix says, tightening his grip on his arm. "It's no big deal. You were gonna have to see each other at some point, right?"
"Skiving already, are we?" Khaotung wisecracks, catching the ball Neo tosses in his direction. "Or just waiting to welcome your MVP?"
"Ah, yes. Our undiscovered prodigy," Mix scoffs, greeting him with a hug. First glares hotly over Khaotung's shoulder. The traitor. "Try not to fall on your ass this time, bro."
"Oi!" Khaotung chuckles. "Just be grateful I could step in at short notice."
"We are," Neo interrupts, the two friends slapping palms. "But catching up will have to wait. We're already behind schedule. Kick-off was due at one, and it’s nearly half past."
"Alright, alright. I'm here, aren't I? All kitted out and raring to go." Khaotung finally looks at him. He nods, eyes steely and cold. "Hi."
"Hey," First mutters. He expects a hug if only for appearances’ sake, but Khaotung just stands there awkwardly. First hikes his bag higher over his shoulder, suspecting a blind man capable of sensing the elephant in the room. His grip tightens on the strap, knuckles whitening.
"First," Neo mercifully breaks the silence. "Why don't you go change? The others are already warming up. Khaotung, you can head straight through."
"Sure thing," Khaotung nods, brushing First's shoulder as he sidles past, ball in hand. First glances at Mix, his arm burning as though held to a naked flame.
He braces himself for a long ninety minutes.
*
The ground is still wet from the rain.
Black clouds loom ominously overhead, moisture clinging to the air as First's boots sink into the grass. He assumes his position in midfield, acting as a marker for both Earth and Neo, eyes trained on Khaotung playing in left back for the opposing team. Less than two hundred metres away, yet the space between them feels miles wide. First observes the shift in his posture, the tension in his shoulders. Braced for this moment—the one where they pretend they're fine—and First senses there is much more than a match at stake. He takes a deep breath.
The whistle blows. The game begins.
First doesn’t hold back. Pushing forward, he intercepts a long ball meant for Neo and races into the penalty area. His strike is solid, but an inch too high as it rebounds off the crossbar. There isn’t time to mourn the missed opportunity, bolting to the other end of the pitch with a speed he hasn't possessed in months. His body moves like it used to as a teenager, when five-a-side with his friends was a weekly occurrence. He focuses on the ball, each glance at Khaotung like a punch in the gut that slows him down.
Cutting across the grass at pace, he retrieves a wayward header from Off and advances towards the goal. Usually an advocate for self-preservation, he doesn't expect Khaotung to run at him full force, anticipating and blocking all of his passes like a pesky shadow. There’s no space between them, no room to breathe. Their eyes lock, and for a moment, everything disappears. It's just Khaotung, close enough for First to feel the heat radiating off his body. He stops dead, giving up the ball. Khaotung kicks it back upfield, holding his stony gaze.
"Coward," he mutters under his breath.
There's something about the way he says it—rougher than usual, as though genuinely disappointed in him. First doesn’t react, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of pushing his buttons. Not here, in his territory. Don’t do this, he tells himself. Don’t let him get to you.
Forced to re-centre himself when Earth slots the ball straight past Jimmy and into the net, First soon prevents a two-nil deficit with a perfectly timed tackle, toeing the ball through Neo's legs and earning a pat on the back from Mix. He has Tay to thank for the equaliser minutes later, his free kick sailing past a wall of defending bodies and the gloved fingertips of Mark.
The match grows cagey after that, neither side willing to concede a lead before half time. As the clock counts down, the ball lands like a gift at First's feet with seconds to spare. He runs hard, a clear shot at goal in his sights, but as he shapes to take it on the edge of the box, a blur of motion cuts through his eyeline.
The impact is sharp and sudden. The sole of a boot colliding with his right leg, just below the knee, and in an instant, the entire world tilts. He lurches sideways, his lower half buckling in an unnatural direction as he hits the ground with a thud. The shock rings in his limbs, the taste of dirt and grass filling his mouth. The referee's whistle sounds over his ragged breaths as he lays still, tentatively flexing the injured leg. An intense jolt of pain shoots through his calf. Groaning, he pushes up on his arms, assessing the damage. He's bleeding, layers of skin scraped away by the offending boot studs. Looking around, he discovers a grimacing Khaotung on his left, flat on his back and clutching his ankle.
Seeing red, First clambers to his feet, the sting of his bruised pride dulling the pain. Hauling his co-star up by his muddied shirt, he shakes him with all the strength he can muster. "What the fuck was that for?!"
"My bad," Khaotung mumbles, jerking out of his grip. "Misjudged it."
"Oh, you think?!" First points to his leg in disbelief when the referee produces a yellow card from his pocket. "Surely that's a red? He was nowhere near the ball!"
"First," Neo jogs up with Mix in tow, both wincing at the blood still trickling down his leg. "You alright? That looks nasty, man."
"That's cause' it fucking was."
Mix frowns, assuming his usual role as peacemaker. "Perhaps you should sit out the second half. You're limping. One of the trainers can sub-in whilst you get that leg checked over."
"Why doesn't he sit out the second half?" First scowls at Khaotung, his voice strained with fury. "He's a total liability."
"Mind your mouth," Khaotung steps forward, squaring up to him. His eyes tell a different story now, a fire blazing where there was once ice. "I'm getting pretty sick of you calling me that. I told you it was an accident, but if you wanna play dirty, then we will."
First stares back wordlessly, momentarily distracted by the sweat shining upon the high points of his face. He resists the urge to taste it. "Looks like you've already started."
"Is everything alright between—"
First silences Neo with a raised palm, his attention on the man in front of him. Everyone is watching, but it doesn’t matter. Bristling with adrenaline, all First can hear is the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears, the weight of the unresolved hurt between them rooting him to the spot.
"Everything's fine," he forces a smile. "Isn't it... friend?"
Khaotung's jaw clenches before his eyes flicker, almost imperceptibly, to something softer, before it just as quickly vanishes.
"Yeah," he nods, clearing his throat. "All good."
*
Storming to the changing rooms isn't easy with a limp.
No one follows. No one dares. Grabbing a first aid kit from on top of the lockers, First slumps onto the nearest bench, the worn wood creaking beneath him as he yanks his jersey over his head, using it to wipe away the worst of the blood, sweat and dirt. He curses under his breath. Numb all over, save for the throbbing pulse in his leg. He draws in some deep, slow breaths, still cooling off when the door cracks open.
"Give me a minute!" he yells, eyes closed.
"You okay?"
First's head snaps towards Khaotung's voice, timid and quiet. He stands solemnly at the doorway, palms pressed together in what appears to be his feeble attempt at an apology.
"Do I look okay?" First raises his eyebrows, the words laced with venom.
For a split second, Khaotung's eyes flick to his bare chest before he tentatively steps forward, holding out a large bag of ice. "Here. The canteen had a freezer full."
First snatches the bag and sets it on the bench beside him, the cubes clinking loudly in the silence. Khaotung doesn't take the hint, kneeling to rummage through the square box balanced on his thighs. First grabs his wrists, holding them still.
"Listen to me," he breathes, each word punctuated with the sharp edge of his frustration. "I don't need your help."
"I know," Khaotung murmurs, brushing a thumb over the backs of his knuckles. The warmth of his touch, enough to make First shiver, infuriated by how much he's missed it. "But I want to. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Where have I heard that before?"
Khaotung doesn't flinch when First pushes him away, lightly resting a palm over his aching knee. "Please."
First exhales on a ragged sigh. "Fine. As you did the damage."
"Always a one-way street with you, isn't it?" Khaotung muses, carefully peeling his blood-stained sock down to his ankle.
"Because nothing's ever just your fault, is it Khaotung?" First's body tenses as a hand slides behind his calf, lifting his leg for better access. The motion sends rolling waves of discomfort through him, but he doesn't pull away.
"I never said that," he replies, murmuring something about the swelling before opening a pack of alcohol-free wipes. First grips the edge of the bench, hissing whilst he cleans the scratches, still oozing scarlet. "I hate it when you use my full name."
"Huh?" First breathes.
"It doesn't sound right coming from you."
"There are worse things I could call you, believe me."
Khaotung smiles wryly but doesn't look up, dabbing the deepest wound with a gauze until the bleeding stops. "So you're still angry, then?"
"I wasn't until you blindsided me in front of all our friends."
"It was an accident," Khaotung insists, handing him the ice. His fingers brush First's, lingering too long.
"Liar," First presses the bag to his swollen knee. "You threw your whole weight at me."
"Not for the first time." Their eyes meet, Khaotung's fingertips stilling against his calf muscle. He tilts his head, lips parted, and for a long, drawn out moment, First's heart skips several beats. "Fir."
"Don't." First gulps.
"I've missed you."
"I said don't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't wanna hear it." First forces out, his throat dry and raw. "Please. Just this once, do as I ask and quit embarrassing me, yeah?"
"I'm not trying to embarrass you. I just wanna talk."
"What else is there to say?" First squirms on the bench, avoiding his gaze. "We are where we are and it is what it is. I get it, and I'm getting over it. Just give me some time."
Khaotung's throat bobs on a hard swallow. He takes a second to refocus, digging a clean dressing from the stash of medical supplies. "What did you do to your hand?"
"Cut it on some glass."
"On purpose?"
"Obviously not." First arches an eyebrow.
Khaotung nods slowly, winding the dressing around his leg with steady hands—a master in the art of patching him up. "Did any of our photographs survive the attack?"
"What? How did you—"
"Educated guess," Khaotung shrugs. "You've made it pretty clear you're trying to write me out of your life. Didn't seem like that far of a leap."
"What else do you expect me to do?"
"I don't know," Khaotung trails off, securing the dressing in place with delicate fingers. "Our memories are precious. The thought of destroying them... well, hurts."
"Except you beat me to it." First snaps. "You used me, again and again. And I let you. We're both responsible for this mess. So don't act like you're better than me because you're not. You're worse. Way worse. I might've broken some dusty old photo frames, but guess what, Khaotung? You broke me."
"Don't say that." Khaotung croaks, brow wrinkled in pain. "Let me fix it. Please."
First looks at him, all floppy bangs and puppy-dog eyes, fighting the temptation to kiss him hard until they both pass out. "You can't."
"Yes, I can. We can." Khaotung takes First's non-bandaged hand in both of his. "At least let me try. We're worth fighting for, aren't we?"
"But you don't feel the same."
"You’re not inside my head, Fir." Khaotung reminds him. “You don’t know what I feel.”
"Because you never tell me."
"Well, what if I told you I feel the same way? That you're not the only one broken? Would you believe me?"
"No," First pulls his hand away. "I'm not the one who got bored and made out with a stranger to fill the fucking loneliness."
"I didn't get bored, I got drunk," Khaotung admits quietly. "It was shitty of me, but I wanted you and you... you weren't there. I always fucking want you. Do you know I can remember every single place we've fucked?"
First hears himself groan.
"I can list them all in order. The backseat of my car. That tiny hostel downtown with the yellow walls and fully stocked drinks fridge. In the shower of that art déco villa in Manila with the goose feather pillows. The floor of the beach hut in Pattaya City that smelled like the sea and in the linen cupboard of the boutique hotel in Tokyo where we couldn't figure out how to turn off the lights. D'you want me to carry on?"
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" First's voice cracks, mourning the now tainted memories. "Don't you get it? I want more than just sex."
"You're not listening." Khaotung rakes his fingers through his hair, prising First's knees apart and shuffling between them. First hisses in pain, dropping the ice, but he doesn't have time to process before Khaotung's hands land on his bare skin. His shoulder and his neck, burning beneath his touch. "There's nothing I wouldn't trade, you know? I'd give anything."
"For what?" First gulps.
"To hide from the world with you. One more time."
First stares into affectionate eyes, warm and dark and sweet, weary from the countless times they've been here before. He places his hands over Khaotung's. All out of faith, maybe even forgiveness. But not love. That still rages inside him, overflowing with it. Turning blue from the noose around his neck, he chokes a reply. "We could have hidden forever."
"No," Khaotung replies with quiet certainty. "We couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because someone so bright deserves more than the shadows. I wasn't sure I could give you that. Not until I lost you. Come back to me. Please. I'm begging you. It'll be different. I want it to be different."
First's eyes fill rapidly. The raw emotion in Khaotung voice strikes deep, demolishing the fragile wall around his heart brick by brick. He shakes his head, pulling away and tugging his bloody shirt back on. "I have to go."
"No, don't. Please, Fir. Not again."
First doesn't hear the rest, on his feet and on the move before he can snap under pressure like the lead tip of a pencil.
*
He yanks open the door in a rush, freezing just as quickly.
In the hallway stand three tense figures, caught in the act. Mix, Earth, and Neo glance between each other in panic, and First doesn't need to ask how much they've heard, their expressions telling. Enough. Silence floods the space, thick and suffocating as he scrambles for an explanation, but there's only the truth. And somewhere deep inside, First is tired of pretending.
He pushes past them, head down, eyes on the floor.
"First," Mix calls, grabbing his wrist.
The lump in First's throat solidifies, glancing over his shoulder at his friend. Swallowing his shame, he meets his gaze, communicating without words. And Mix seems to understand. He nods once, letting him go. First gives a shaky half smile. Thank you, what he means to say, before he turns and keeps walking.
He heads for the nearest fire exit. This, a justifiable emergency as voices swirl behind him, his fingers resting on the cold metal bar. Come on, man. Someone says. Leave him be. First doesn't look back, certain that not even Khaotung, in all of his stubbornness, has it in him to overpower three grown men. Shutting them out, he shoves open the steel door and flees, leaving a struggle in his wake.
Outside, the heavens have re-opened, a torrent of cold, sharp rain pelting his burning cheeks. The chill seeps through his clothes, drenched almost instantly as he dashes through the parking lot. The air smells of wet earth, the sky a mottled blackish purple reminiscent of the painful bruise already forming up his leg. Some drains are already overflowing, water pooling at his feet. He squints around, searching for his car, but the storm has drowned out all colour—the world little more than a blur of identical metal.
He shivers, treading carefully in what he hopes is the right direction, when a flash of lightning rips through the clouds like a dagger. He braces himself for thunder—except it is a voice that makes him jump, ringing out behind him.
"So you lied then?!"
First turns towards the wind, rain slapping him across the face like a wall of needles. Khaotung advances with the storm, eyes blazing with a fury to match. The downpour batters him with equal indifference, clothes sticking to his skin, wet bangs plastered to his forehead. He splashes through the puddles, determination in every step, stopping less than twenty yards away.
"Go back inside!" he yells. "You're getting soaked!"
"Tell me the truth!" Khaotung persists, his voice a thunderclap of its own.
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
Khaotung's face hardens. "The last time I saw you. Really saw you. We sat in that damn restaurant, which you still haven't transferred me for by the way, and you looked me dead in the eye and told me you loved me."
First's mouth drops open, winded by the low blow.
"You weren't drunk." Khaotung steps forward, combing back his wet hair. He's practiced this speech, First can tell, the words tumbling from his mouth. "You weren't joking or being sarcastic. You weren't under pressure. So if none of that's the case, yet you're just gonna let me go—no fight, no questions asked—then you must have been fucking lying."
"Fuck you!" First finds his voice, the accusation stinging like the rain in his eyes. "You're so selfish. Do you really not know me at all?!"
"Yeah, I know you." Khaotung breathes, voice quiet and raw. "I know us."
"Then how can you even ask me that?"
"All I know is that if we're not together, then what's the point?" Khaotung laughs bitterly, arms out to his sides. "What's it all been for? Some stupid fling that was fun whilst it lasted?"
"This isn't fair, Khaotung. You don't get to say this to me."
"But I have to, see? Because if I don't say it, then what happens to us? We spend the rest of our lives like this? Walking on eggshells around each other at work? Avoiding each other until we can be civil? Dating other people eventually, knowing that we were fucking made for each other? Maybe that works for you," Khaotung finally stops for breath, chest heaving. "But not for me."
First's mouth opens and closes, silenced by the chemistry crackling between them, immune to the storm's wrath. The ache in his chest surges upward, clogging his throat. He shakes his head desperately, the only question he cares about on the tip of his tongue. "It was real, wasn't it?"
His voice comes out as a croak, barely audible above the rain, but Khaotung hears.
He always hears.
"Of course it fucking was."
And in the moment, First hasn't the heart to stop him as Khaotung closes the distance, pulling him into a fierce kiss. The press of his mouth, slippery with rain, wrenching a groan from his throat. First's hands tremble, one gripping the back of his neck, the other fisting his wet shirt, bandages soggy and slick as he holds him in place.
"It still is," Khaotung breathes between his lips. "For me, at least."
And it's not the wild, wired look in his eyes, nor the way the rain drips from his dark lashes, streaming down his cheeks. It's not even the way his voice cracks around the words. It's the way Khaotung's heart thumps fiercely beneath his palm, beating out his name the way it had the first time.
He was a different person then. Six years ago, when he'd decided that Khaotung's heart was all he wanted for a lifetime. Naïve, a little scared, but the invincibility of youth had made him brave. And in the end, it had been easy to pluck his own out of his chest, bloody and warm, and hand it to the man it was made for.
He's no regrets, for the pain on Khaotung's lips still tastes like him. And maybe it's toxic. Wicked, twisted and destined for ashes, but he's never known a serotonin rush like it. First leans in again, addicted, swallowing his little whimper of surprise. He steals a glance at the slanted bridge of his nose, his furrowed brow. The way Khaotung responds, melts in his arms—like he's someone he can't lose.
Like it's their first and last kiss all at once.
And there, awash with power, in the driving rain with the part of him he never got to choose, First sets about piecing them back together.