Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s been over a month since First’s birthday. Over a month since Khaotung said he missed their soft kisses, and First decided to test the truth of that statement. 

They’ve kissed. They’ve done more than kiss. But they haven’t really talked.

It’s been a whirlwind, what with the end of the Heart Killers tour and the start of filming. They’ve been so tired, their schedules so packed, that those first few days of exploration petered out into whispered good nights as they dropped each other off at separate houses. This thing between them is too new for quick goodbye kisses and easy affection. The shift is stark between the cadence of their old, familiar, public dynamic and this unexplored territory—and crossing that boundary still breathes terror through First’s bones.

 First is fairly certain that Khaotung wants him. But he doesn’t know how much. How often. What he is allowed to ask for, or assume. They haven’t talked through any implications, set any boundaries, and so First is hesitant to push any further than he already has.

He initiated that first kiss. And the second. Khaotung gets anxious sometimes, with people, and First never wants him to be anxious. Not around him.

At First’s official birthday celebration, Khaotung shook through his message. So badly that even the host called it out and First understood why. It meant more, this time. It was more real. Khaotung’s words were—on the surface—far from effusive. But First felt the heft of them, sensed Khaotung finding the balance to say what would please the fans—but also what was true. 

First called Khaotung his boyfriend multiple times during the birthday celebration. Knowing Khaotung was choosing his words carefully, First did the opposite and declared his love to the world. Prayed Khaotung took it seriously. 

But it seems he hadn’t.

Now, they are on a live before their Hong Kong fan meet tomorrow, at which they will celebrate Khaotung’s birthday, and First feels the trap of normalcy, platonic familiarity, that alluring cadence, closing around them. 

He cannot let this shift fade away into a brief spark of memory that he holds close to keep warm on the long nights ahead. He will not. But he needs an in. A present, an outing, an excuse to get Khaotung alone for more than the few hours between public events. 

“Is it nice when someone buys you roses?” First asks, testing the waters. 

Khaotung stares at him for a long moment. “Never happened.” First’s shoulders relax—a mistake. “Buy them for me?”

“What?” 

Khaotung is laughing and cringing, and First has to cringe along, but still—he sighs internally. Now, he’ll have to make a big deal out of it. Now, if he gets flowers, they will be firmly on the public, fan service side of this line they are teetering along. 

His own fault for asking during the live—but what other time have they had to talk?

“First is so handsome,” Khaotung leans forward to read from the phone.

It takes a moment for the words to register. “Is that a comment?” First has to ask. Damn Khaotung for making him ask. “Or are you just complimenting me?”

“A compliment,” Khaotung says. Casually. Even worse: “I like you.”

First blinks rapidly as his heart leaps to strangle his tongue. 

Doesn’t he realize that First might take it as truth? That he could spike First’s blood pressure to untenable levels, ruin both their careers with such careless declarations in front of hundreds of fans? Live?

Happy birthday, a fan says in the comments, and First bristles at the suggestion. “You won’t be first,” he tells the fan, desperate to keep his tone light. He glances at Khaotung, but there’s nothing except that mysterious smile. When did First lose the ability to tell when his best friend is joking? “I’ll be there.”

If he has to let himself into Khaotung’s home while he’s still asleep—he has the code, he’s done it before. If he has to be the one to shake Khaotung awake himself, he will be first to wish him happy birthday. 

First makes that promise to himself, with Khaotung’s wind-chime laughter in his ears and black eyes smushed to crescents sparkling against his skin. 

When they are done signing and end the live, their manager leaves them alone in their shared hotel room with a stern, get some sleep. As soon as the door swings shut, Khaotung trots obediently to the bathroom for his nightly skin care routine. 

First watches for a moment through the open door. Is it a bad sign? Why can’t they talk about this new feeling between them? Why does it feel so strange, the idea of treating Khaotung with the casual affection he craves? The lingering charge of electricity between them forbids him from taking any of it lightly.

He doesn’t want to take it lightly, but he wants—

He needs more. 

First gets up with a sigh and wrangles his pajamas from their shared suitcase. Tonight, he resolves not to mention Khaotung’s extended routine or his running, because he knows he sounds like a nag. Even though what he means is: you’re perfect, why bother? 

Khaotung puts a face mask on, and First laughs. He wants to kiss Khaotung’s lips through the wet tissue, wants to know what it’s like to smear his own face with product while Khaotung sits in his lap and—no doubt—whines about the waste. He can imagine it so clearly, Khaotung’s waterfall giggles when First flicks up the little nose flap to kiss underneath. 

Why can’t he just do it? Why does everything have to be grave and weighty and terrifying?

But he knows the answer—because it is. Because it’s them. Because he cannot mess this up, and even more, he needs it to be serious, before it can be easy. 

It has to mean something. Everything. And Khaotung has to know it.

Fucking hell, where did his courage go?

He crowds into the tiny bathroom, where Khaotung is brushing his teeth with the mask on. Multitasking. He must really want to get to bed, and First’s hope sinks through his feet.

“We’ll spend your birthday together.” He can’t make it a question. They always have—why would it change? But it matters more this year, everything does. 

Khaotung flicks a glance at him, as if he can’t bear to look for too long. Spits out the toothpaste. “Yeah. If you want.”

If you want. First tries not to take that personally. He knows—he knows—that Khaotung needs alone time to recharge. That he can’t be stuck together every moment of every day, like First craves. He pushed hard against those limits on his own birthday, following Khaotung home. He’s so lucky Khaotung indulged him. 

“Did you mean that?”

Khaotung quirks an eyebrow. Hums an inquiry as he searches through his toiletry bag. 

“That you don’t want any gifts.” He’s fishing to hear it again, that line:

Just you fulfills my heart. 

A flowery phrase; something pretty that Khaotung would usually leave to First. While they discussed the new fan service strategy and First knew Khaotung planned to be bolder, he still wasn’t prepared. The thing between them is all fresh agony, like the green smell of sap leaking from cut grass. Every word carries too much weight, even though he knows it’s fan service ninety percent of the time. 

Khaotung shrugs a little. He looks tired, even as he removes the face mask, and First hates to hound him when they have a busy day tomorrow. But he needs to know. 

“You gave me what I wanted.” First can see the rampant blush climbing his neck in the mirror, but he presses through. Baiting Khaotung with his own boldness worked the last two times. 

Khaotung half-smiles. “You want to play a song for me?”

“Definitely not.” First swallows on the stumbling sink of his heart.

Khaotung turns away from the mirror, from First’s clumsy attempt at pulling something besides deflection out of him. “Let’s go to bed. I’m so tired.”

“You’re always tired.” He’s trying hard not to make it an accusation. Their schedule is packed. He’s tired. He really isn’t resentful—it’s just that lately, Khaotung is so damn hard to read.

But when he stumbles out of the bathroom, dark eyes watch him from one of the double beds. And when he sits on the other one, Khaotung frowns. Licks his bottom lip until it shines in the low lamplight and presses out in a little moue of disappointment. 

“Are you sleeping over there?”

First leaps to his feet. “No.” Feels like an idiot when Khaotung huffs a laugh, but he’s not going to hesitate. 

He slides into the bed, close. Greatly daring, he offers his arm for Khaotung to pillow his head on. Khaotung slides into his chest, but keeps his arms between their bodies, his legs chastely straight. Nothing like the cuddling of their early days. Or the night of First’s birthday, after they tried more.

First closes his eyes against the memory—it’s not appropriate right now. Then Khaotung shifts a little closer, and he squeezes them shut even harder against the rush of heat and fizzing electricity that thunders down his spine. 

Khaotung is right there. If he opens his eyes, he will see the face he knows so well, has pined after for so many years—thick eyelashes, rounded cheeks, plush pink lips.

First wants to kiss him wants to kiss him wants to kiss him. But he shouldn’t. Early day tomorrow. And he’s always making the first move, always presuming—

Soft lips brush his. 

First makes an embarrassing noise of want, and Khaotung smiles against his mouth. He deepens the kiss for just a moment, honey-sweet tongue lingering, pressing deep into the aching core where First needs him, wants to devour him whole. 

“I missed you, Fir,” he says when he pulls back.

First does not say, I’ve been right here, we film together every day. He holds the words to his heart for a long moment while his eyes burn and his throat fills and his jaw aches heavy with tears. 

“I missed you, too,” he says, when he can manage it. 

Khaotung’s arm creeps around his waist, and his face presses warmth to the crook of First’s neck. “Is this okay?”

“Yes. Of course.”

They breathe for a long moment in the dark. First’s pulse hammers in his ears. He tries to keep the rise and fall of his chest steady, tries to match Khaotung’s deep rhythm against his bones. He longs to suck in air, to babble, to yell his bursting joy through the paper-thin hotel walls. 

“You can be the first to wish me happy birthday.”

It takes First a moment to process the sentence. “You mean…” 

“At midnight. Stay over when we get back from the fan meet.”

First shivers in whole-body delight, and not just because Khaotung’s lips brush that sensitive spot below his ear with every word. You’re sure? he doesn’t ask. But we have filming the next day, he doesn’t say. He just pulls Khaotung closer and inhales the mix of jasmine-scented shampoo and pomegranate face mask. He smells so clean that First drags his nose lower, to the spot behind Khaotung’s ear, until he finds the comforting scent he has sought since their Eclipse days. 

“And I did mean it,” Khaotung adds, just when First thinks he might calm down. “What I said about presents.”

“You—”

Khaotung presses one last kiss to his lips. “Sleep, now, teng. We can talk later.”

I want to talk now. 

He wants to do more than talk, with Khaotung now wrapped around him like a koala and their faces centimeters apart. But it’s an early day tomorrow. And Khaotung has already given him so much. 

“Good night, faen,” he whispers, greatly daring. 

Hoping it could soon be true.