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First, for as much grief as he gives Khaotung about staying up too late, has always been the one who can’t settle.
While Khaotung starts to blink sleepily on the ride home, leaning back against the headrest as he’s rocked by the motion of the car, First’s mind works as if the sun is only just coming up. But it’s the moon’s time, when they finally strip themselves of their characters – or, at least, their clothes and makeup and anger – and begin the journey home.
It’s a crescent tonight, winking at them as he steers the car toward it. It seems to know First will be keeping it company tonight.
The car is quiet. It always is.
Khaotung had asked, once, days ago or years ago, if First wouldn’t mind switching the radio off, if he could have a moment where the world was quiet. And First, of course, never needed the explanation anyway. He’s always known, in the way Khaotung goes silent after a long day of people, how he curls in on himself until he’s wrapped in his own arms, always bringing himself his own comfort.
First envies that, sometimes. Never maliciously, but – he just, wonders what it might be like to be still. Khaotung, half asleep, mind far away from the memory of cameras pointed at them as they – Sand and Ray – devoured each other, shirts long gone in favor of skin against skin. Of Ray’s jeans against his –
His breath is shaky as he exhales, silently willing his erection away, even though it’s no use. His resolve is no match for ethereal, tender, real Khaotung. Beside him, each even breath reminding First of Khaotung’s, Ray’s, harsh puffs of smoke and lust directly into First’s lungs. The itch to reach out for his hands, to feel each curve of his knuckles, to venture below the rough denim of his, of First’s waistband – it’s selfish, he knows.
To want Khaotung like Sand wants Ray, while Khaotung is trying to let it go for the brief amount of time he has.
The tiniest blossom of relief grows in his chest as he turns into the parking garage of Khaotung’s apartment building.
“Here?” Khaotung’s voice from beside him, far more coherent than he was expecting. Sometimes, First has to go around to the passenger side and rouse him from sleep. When First looks, Khaotung’s eyes are still closed, but he inhales and rubs them with his palms, squinting them open to confirm their arrival before First can answer.
First hums belatedly, climbing out of the car with too much eagerness, forced to wait while Khaotung takes his time. They’re quiet again as they take the elevator to Khaotung’s floor – only the soft mechanic buzz and First’s overwhelming anxiety that Khaotung has noticed the bulge in his pants.
But if he does, he says nothing. Maybe he understands, the way the feelings linger. Maybe he won’t anymore, if he finds out just how long they do, for First. If he discovers how deeply First recognizes Khaotung’s desire for peace from Ray and Sand, but how recklessly he’d shatter it.
Khaotung enters the apartment first, flicking on a lamp – the overhead lights are too bright for this time of night – and slipping his shoes off. First locks the door behind them, feeling almost dirty for the entirely ordinary thing.
He should – he should leave, probably. Promise to pick Khaotung up in the morning. But he follows him further inside, certain that he’ll deposit the half-asleep Khaotung to his bedroom, and then finally take the full force of his guilt trip in the guest room. Maybe he’ll fall asleep, maybe not.
But Khaotung detours to the sofa, leaving First standing awkwardly mid-step as he sits down. A rush of heat dips into First’s core as he thinks about Khaotung on the couch before, legs parted and inviting, daring, First to come closer – finally making the move himself when he got too impatient. The herbal cigarette smoke and faux whiskey and hot breath in his mouth. Sand pushing Ray onto his back, knowing exactly what to do.
First bites the inside of his cheek, desperate to distract himself from his arousal. “You’re not going to bed?”
Khaotung shrugs. “I’m not tired yet. An episode or two, that’s all.” And then his eyes widen softly in a plea, “Watch with me?”
He can’t. The car was – it was fine, because First had to focus on the road, and Khaotung wasn’t looking at him, and the console kept them at just enough distance for First to remain sane. But he knows, if he sits down, Khaotung will rest his head against his shoulder, all body heat and a tenderness that doesn’t mean what First wants it to mean. He’ll hold his hand or play with the hair at the nape of his neck, and First will die a lonely death when his time comes.
Khaotung is looking at him, though, and First feels naked from it.
A release, he knows, will make the intimacy bearable. Shifting uncomfortably, his cock dragging against the front of his jeans, First nods. “Okay, just give me a minute to—”
First can barely turn toward the bathroom before Khaotung says, “First.”
His pulse quickens. “I need to—”
“Kanaphan,” Khaotung punctuates.
First freezes.
His body, at the whim of little more than a gently commanding voice calling his first name. Albeit rarely, it’s not as if nobody ever uses it, so why – why does Khaotung make him feel like he can’t breathe?
He forces himself to look, which was a mistake, unforgiving and fatal, because Khaotung’s gaze is halfway down his stomach, trailing lower and lower until it stops at his crotch. First burns, something like humiliation and self-reproach scorching him – punishing him from the inside out before Khaotung gets the chance. Maybe it’s better that way.
There’s a pause, before Khaotung finally says, “Are you always horny after we shoot?”
First wishes he knew how to lie to him. His voice cracks as he says, “Not always. Sometimes. I – it’s a lot, pretending to have sex, and then…”
“And then?”
“Don’t make me,” First whispers, begs, bottom lip quivering.
“Is it – me? Because of me?” Khaotung prods on, like a scalpel-happy surgeon on a quest for the deepest, most vulnerable parts of him. There isn’t much he hasn’t seen, anyway.
First can’t say it, and he can’t not say it. Slowly, he nods.
Khaotung is quiet again, eyes on First’s clothed cock, still hard in its confines, and then flicking up to his face. He’s always liked Khaotung’s eyes, his attention, on him, and maybe it’s horrible, but even now, he still does. He wants Khaotung to know what he does to First – and to like it.
But as he ventures his own look, reality – the difference between him and Sand – crashes into him. They’ve been friends long enough, seen each other nearly naked, seen the awkward boners; Khaotung isn’t hard. Not from filming, not from seeing First like this. He swallows his mortification, but it must be burning a hole at the hollow of his throat, seeping out of him and leaving him empty and exposed.
“Come here.”
First parts his lips to protest, but Khaotung shakes his head. “When did you stop letting me take care of you?”
It hurts, and maybe Khaotung knows that. That First would never do anything but give himself up to Khaotung, every single piece. He’s devoted his life to it, said it so many times, his tongue tastes like the words. And that he feels selfish for taking pleasure in it.
He should take offense to the manipulation, but he steps cautiously forward on shaky legs, like a wary animal that knows its walking into a trap, but has no other choice. Khaotung watches him all the while, patient, one hand reaching out to take First’s wrist when he gets close enough. The contact makes his breath catch in his throat.
“Taking care of me doesn’t mean you have to—” First’s throat clicks as he exhales.
“That’s what you think?” Khaotung asks, a gentle accusation. He rubs his thumb over First’s knuckles, and First can’t help but think about how that means something when it’s Ray who does it. “That I feel obligated?”
“You asked,” First reminds him, fighting the resentment that grows in his chest. “If this was because of you. Isn’t that why?”
“Come here,” Khaotung says again, and First doesn’t understand until there are warm, insistent hands on his hips, bringing him forward and down as Khaotung spreads his legs. First loses his balance, lurches forward until he’s straddling Khaotung’s thigh, and holding his shoulders to keep himself steady.
“What the fuck,” First hisses, eyes anywhere but Khaotung’s, despite knowing that the flush on his cheeks is on full display no matter how low the lighting. And even then, even if Khaotung looked away or closed his eyes, blind to the raw honesty painted on his face, he would certainly feel First’s cock pressed against his thigh.
Maybe not how First feels it – the swirl of shame, and friction, and arousal pulsing low in his belly. But enough to know.
For a moment, a beat, he wants to scream. Like tearing his throat to shreds, adding to the wreckage already there, will make the rest of it hurt less. Or maybe finally letting out what’s inside of him will get them to the end faster. But then one of Khaotung’s hands finds the back of First’s neck, forcing him to meet his eyes again and – oh.
There’s something new, now. Not entirely new – First has seen these wide eyes, the crinkle of his brow and the small circle of his lips, sometimes on Khaotung, sometimes on Ray. Nerves, the anxiety of being left.
“It’s because of me, right?” He asks, like he’s the one who’s been wanting this entire time. And just in case First has somehow forgotten what this is about, Khaotung slowly lifts his leg to press firmer into his cock.
First braces himself, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his hold on Khaotung’s shoulders. He nods.
“I asked because – move your hips again, baby.” And First does, without thinking, about what it means or that Khaotung called him baby. Just grinds his erection into Khaotung’s thigh, slow as he drowns in the heat of it. Looking down, mesmerized by their bodies curved together – almost surprised to see denim where he feels so naked. Khaotung helps him create a rhythm out of the movement of his thigh and First’s thrusts. “There you go.”
“Because,” Khaotung continues. “For me, it’s – the morning. I’m too tired at night, but when I wake up, all I can think about is you. Waking me up with your fingers and your lips, trying to act fucking normal about it when you’re actually staying over.”
First stutters, head whipping up to meet Khaotung’s eyes, and he finds an earnest gaze staring back at him already. And it feels more honest and warm than anything First has ever been able to give, because of course it is – Khaotung is far more aware of himself between the two of them. He isn't like First, affected by Sand and Ray after loving and fighting and touching as them for so long. Khaotung knows First, sees him so clearly, and—
“Kiss me,” First says with only half of the urgency he feels. “Kiss me."
His mouth still tastes like smoke and imitation alcohol, but First presses into it, finds the spearmint that’s lingering from his toothpaste and steals the fruity lip gloss that he reapplies too much with a swipe of his tongue. Khaotung is so easy to find under it all, since he let go of Ray in the car, and First revels in it.
Khaotung has always known who they are, but First is learning. At least he can give him that.
With a squeeze to his hip, Khaotung prompts First to move again, faster this time. His erection leaks in its confines, he can feel it, but he’s too enamored with Khaotung’s lips to do anything other than ride his thigh.
As he thrusts, he breathes needy moans into Khaotung’s mouth, and Khaotung swallows them down, claims ownership over them. They break apart only once they’re desperate for breath – First is sure his lungs are only ever sustained Khaotung’s air, but alas – and then the friction is rushing to his head, making him drop his forehead on Khaotung’s shoulder.
He doesn’t stop to gather himself, though, as much as he’d like this to last forever – spurred on by watching himself get off on Khaotung’s thigh, by Khaotung pressing his lips to the shell of his ear and whispering, “Ride my thigh, First. You’re doing so good – almost there.”
And Khaotung is right – must be able to reach so deep in First’s core and feel the last of his control slipping, must know his body so well that he doesn’t stop as First comes, but helps him ride it out until it’s too much.
First takes a shaky breath, then lifts his head, and Khaotung is already there to meet him – his hands cradling First’s face. “Are you okay?”
He nods. He thought he wouldn’t be sure, but he is, desperately so. Because he has Khaotung, and that’s all he’s ever needed to be okay. He tips his head forward, resting their foreheads together. “Do you want me?”
Khaotung doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. I’ve – it’s always you, First.”
“Always you, Khaotung.”