Archive of Our Own ^beta

First walks onto set with a pit in his stomach. His skin prickles, goosebumps pebbling his arms while cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck.

“Are you alright?” P’Som asks when she sees him.

First nods, “I’m fine, mae. Just a little tired.”

“First,” P’Som stops him with a hand on his arm, “you can talk to me. Or talk to someone.”

“It’s nothing,” First says.

P’Som tuts, “Whatever is going on between you two-”

First cuts her off, suddenly terrified. “Did Khaotung say something?”

“No,” P’Som responds, “you know how he is.”

“Yeah,” First says, eyes burning with unruly tears. He clears his throat. “I’m really okay.”

P’Som hardly looks convinced. She holds his gaze for a long moment before letting him go.

The makeup artist takes one look at him and brings out the full coverage foundation. “Long night?” they ask and First manages a shaky smile.

Dropping down to the makeup chair, he takes a good look at himself for the first time since the night before. Dark circles bloom beneath his sunken eyes, face pallid while his lips are cracked from a long night of nervous biting.

First sighs. There’s nothing he can do about it now.

It takes him a minute to work up the courage. He is facing the mirror when he asks the question plaguing him since he got here.

“Where’s Khaotung?”

The words seem to scrape his throat raw, drawing blood in their wake.

“Oh he’s been through here already. He came early.” The makeup artist doesn’t even look up from where they’re sorting their tools. First mumbles his thanks.

He came early.

They always go through hair and makeup together. The process is too long and boring without any company. Besides, Khaotung is never early.

First tries to blink away the moisture in his eyes. When a stubborn few tears spill over, the makeup artist—a consummate professional—simply dabs at them with a tissue and carries on.

The crowd pulsates on the dance floor like a single celled organism. First watches from the VIP section upstairs, glass of scotch in hand.

It would be a lie to say he is watching the crowd. His real focus is narrowed down to a single person—well, two people.

Khaotung stands at the edge of the dancefloor, arms around a girl a head shorter than him. Her long hair swishes as they sway in time with the music.

First takes a sip of his drink, the premium alcohol too bitter on his tongue.

Downstairs Khaotung leans forward to say something to the girl. She throws her head back in laughter. First scoffs. Whatever his best friend said could not have been that funny.

The girl’s arms snake around Khaotung’s shoulders. And Khaotung, normally so averse to strangers touching him, lets it happen with a dopey smile.

Someone snaps their fingers in front of his face. First startles.

“Hey!”

Ciize has slid into the seat next to him. She sets her beer down on the table with a loud thud, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the lip of the tumbler.

“You’re doing it again,” she says.

“Doing what?” First tries not to look too guilty.

Ciize rolls her eyes, thoroughly unimpressed. “Staring at Khaotung like you’re in a music video for a sad love song.”

First frowns. “Who says I was looking at him?”

“That look on your face,” Ciize responds without missing a beat. She pauses for a moment. “Is it getting bad again?”

“I’m fine, Ciize,” First insists when he sees the concern shining in her eyes. “Everything is fine.”

“Sure,” Ciize says, turning back to her beer. “I believe you.”

First is sweating under the too-bright lights of the studio. He twists his body into an unnatural position, relaxing his face and letting his mouth fall slightly open.

“Hold it,” the photographer instructs.

They’ve been at it for nearly an hour but they just can’t seem to get the right shot. First is exhausted. He wants to go home. He wants to cry.

Ultimately it’s P’Som who saves the day. Whatever she sees on his face has her stopping the shoot. “I think we’ve got it,” she says, her tone brooking no argument.

They look through the raws, picking some of the most passable ones before First is finally free to go change.

One more set and then they’re done.

But the last set left is for their couple photos. Which means First will have to not only be near Khaotung, but also touch him while they’re directed into awkward poses that require copious amounts of physical contact.

Anxiety thrums under his skin as he slowly changes into the outfit they picked for him. It takes him much longer than it should as his hands refuse to stop shaking.

When he leaves the dressing room, he is shocked to see Khaotung leaning next to the door.

“You took your sweet time,” Khaotung says—complains, really.

“Not my fault,” First says and means it. It’s not his fault he is like this; Khaotung did this to him.

Khaotung exhales through his nose. “Snap out of it.”

First scoffs. His best friend can be such a patronising piece of shit when he wants to.

Trying not to sound too defensive, First replies, “Easy for you to say. Everything comes naturally to you. Acting, modeling, singing…fucking with people’s feelings.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Khaotung scowls, taking a step too close. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle it like an adult.”

First shoves Khaotung away, creating some much needed space between them. “Why can’t you just-”

“What? Say it,” Khaotung demands, voice low and dangerous.

First shakes his head. “Forget it.” He pushes past Khaotung to walk back onto set, jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt.

Khaotung follows at a safe distance.

First should not have had that last round of shots. But he did. And now he is stumbling to the dancefloor, perfectly aware that he is doing something he shouldn’t but completely powerless to stop.

It’s like he is having an out of body experience—watching himself stagger up to Khaotung and his date.

Khaotung, as always, immediately reaches out to steady him. Sometimes First wishes Khaotung didn’t love him so much, so openly; maybe then he’d have a chance against these feelings clogging his throat.

“Whoa, buddy, you okay?” Khaotung wraps an arm around his waist.

“Amazing!” First responds, far louder than necessary. “And how are you two doing this fine evening?”

First cringes at his own words. He can hear how he is digging himself into a hole but he cannot stop.

“Someone’s had a bit too much to drink,” Khaotung says. He is smiling but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

With his arm around Khaotung’s shoulders, First leans towards him and peers into his eyes, squinting against the glow of the strobe lights overhead.

“What are you doing?” Khaotung whispers, too quiet in the cacophony of the room but First hears him anyway. He always does.

In lieu of an answer, First asks another question. “Why are you sad?”

“I’m not!” Khaotung protests, brows furrowed.

First points at Khaotung’s face, index finger dangerously close to poking an eye out and pouts. “Yes, you are. I can see it.”

For one perfect, brief moment it is as if they are alone on the dancefloor. The rest of the room blurs out of focus, the music fading as First watches a storm rage in the depths of Khaotung’s charcoal eyes.

Then Khaotung jerks away and the moment shatters.

“I’m sorry, my friend is too drunk,” Khaotung tells his date. “Let me take him back upstairs.”

First doesn’t bother to hear what she says, giddy that Khaotung chose him over her.

They walk back to the VIP section together—a clumsy unit of four limbs bumping into tables and people on the way. First can’t bring himself to care. The warmth of Khaotung pressed against him lulls him into a pleasant haze.

“Fir, what the fuck? I’m trying to get some action, man.”

The words cut through the haze.

First blinks up at Khaotung, ears burning in shame. “Sorry. I just-”

“You’re drunk. It’s fine.”

“Yeah,” First nods along, “I’m just drunk.”

But when he tugs on Khaotung’s arm, Khaotung doesn’t resist. He lets himself tumble into First’s side with a throaty giggle. The lights make him look ethereal—like a vision manifested out of First’s dreams.

They are alone in the booth, First realises. It sends his heart into overdrive. He swallows thickly as Khaotung watches him with a soft smile.

Khaotung brushes his thumb over First’s cheekbone. “You’re so fucking beautiful it’s unfair.”

First feels as if he is floating; high on the intoxicating scent of Khaotung. When Khaotung’s breath, laden with the sweetness of alcohol, fans over his lips there’s only one thing First can think to do.

“Take five!” The photographer shouts, handing her camera off to her assistant.

First and Khaotung instantly leap apart. The photographer shakes her head in disapproval.

“Whatever that was, fix it,” she says, gesturing at the chasm of space yawning between them, “because this is not working.”

P’Som walks onto set, fussing over them. “Boys,” she mutters under her breath, “what is going on with you today?”

First looks away, guilty.

Khaotung shrugs. “We argued.”

Yeah, right, understatement of the year.

P’Som sighs. “Arguments are bound to happen. But you can’t let it affect your work like this. You’re supposed to be professionals.”

To First’s utter surprise, Khaotung grabs his wrist.

“Give us ten,” he calls over his shoulder as he drags First to an empty dressing room. Dumbfounded, First lets it happen.

“What the hell are you doing?” Khaotung asks the moment the door locks after them.

First crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on, blame me. Like you’re so innocent in this.”

Khaotung fists his hands in his hair, ruining all the careful styling. “I don’t know what you want from me. You know we can’t.”

“No, I don’t know,” First counters. “You keep making these decisions by yourself. I have feelings too, in case you forgot.”

“Yeah far too many of them,” Khaotung throws out and First sees red.

He shoves Khaotung back towards the long dressing table, using every inch he has on him to his advantage until Khaotung is forced to look up at him, his hands braced on the surface behind him.

“What did you just say?” First challenges.

Not one to back down, Khaotung scowls, “You have way too many feelings for one kiss. It was just one kiss.”

Khaotung is so angry his face is flushed red even under his foundation. With dewy makeup and hair sticking out every which way, he is breathtaking. The sticky sheen of pink gloss on Khaotung’s lips calls to First like a siren song.

Possessed by a need so strong it overwhelms him, First cups Khaotung’s face and drags him into a kiss. For half an agonising second Khaotung stays still.

Then he kisses back, hard.

His hands slide into First’s hair, grabbing the strands so tightly it’s deliciously painful. With his legs around First’s hips, Khaotung traps him, pushing their groins together as they devour each other.

First bucks up against Khaotung, a whine building in his throat. He lets the noises loose in the heat of Khaotung’s mouth, distantly aware of their compromising location. Khaotung groans as they move against each other, both of them driven mad by their desperate need for release.

A slender hand sneaks under the waistband of First’s trousers and cups his bulge.

“So good,” Khaotung slurs against his cheek, “you feel so good, Fir Fir.”

“You too,” First murmurs, “you’re perfect, Tung.”

First mouths at Khaotung’s neck, the bitter taste of makeup on his tongue but he cannot bring himself to care. Not when Khaotung is making those sweet little noises. Not when he throws his head back so First can kiss more of that gorgeous neck.

Someone knocks on the door.

Khaotung shoves at First as if burned, eyes wide and panic stricken.

“It’s okay,” First pants between heaving breaths.

“Are you insane?” Khaotung glares at him. “Do you want us to lose our jobs?”

“You kissed me back,” First points out, feeling a petulant toddler. “If I’m insane, so are you.”

Busy fixing himself up, Khaotung throws him a strange look in the mirror. “This cannot keep happening. You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“I’m doing this to you?” First asks, incredulous. “You’re the who- you say things and do things and…why do you keep making me hope if you don’t mean it?”

The expression on Khaotung’s face shifts but First can’t read him—in fact, he isn’t sure he could ever read him.

“Fir.” Khaotung says his name with so much anguish First wants to scream.

“Tell me you don’t mean it,” he begs, holding Khaotung’s piercing gaze. “Please. Tell me you don’t feel the same.”

The silence between them stretches taut. First waits.

“That’s what I thought,” First spits out when it’s clear Khaotung won’t answer.

He turns and walks out the door.

He thinks he hears Khaotung call his name again but he doesn’t stop. He cannot stop. Because if he goes back, he fears once Khaotung is done with him there will be absolutely nothing left to save.