Chapter 1: Chapter 1
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2015-
First jerks awake, heart pounding, as the sharp crack of a door slamming echoes far too close. Darkness hangs in the room, thick and suffocating, but his eyes adjust quickly, too quickly. He’s still here.
The wall behind him is cold and damp, pressing into his spine like a reminder that escape is not an option. He breathes in slowly, trying to keep the rising panic away. Footsteps. Laughter. They’re coming.
A tremor runs down his arms as he stares at his hands—filthy, trembling, useless. He prays they’re going to pump him with enough of whatever drug they use to keep him numb, dull, forgetful. But his body’s too used to it now. It’s not enough anymore. His mind is still too loud, too clear. The memories of last night crawl back in, slick and rotting. He flinches. The disgust makes him want to tear off his own skin.
The door across from him crashes open, and he’s swallowed in blinding white. He flinches, throwing an arm over his eyes as if that could shield him from any of it. From them.
“Looks like our little pet’s awake,” one of the voices sneers. The other laughs, sharp and joyless, before a boot connects with his thigh. Pain blossoms down his leg like fire and he doesn’t even cry out. What would be the point?
In the unforgiving light, the damage becomes clearer. His legs are rusted with bruises, some fresh, some older, turning yellow at the edges. Blood crusts over cuts that never seem to heal. A thick cuff bites into his ankle, heavy with the chain attached. His eyes flick to the IV needle buried in his hand, a silent reminder that even his own bloodstream isn’t his anymore.
He dares to look up. The one in charge today looks different. Clean. Polished. His hair is slicked back, his face shaved, dressed in something too pristine for a place like this. First doesn’t have time to wonder why before the man crouches down in front of him, lips curled in disgust.
Then he spits. Right in First’s face.
First doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn't move at all. He’s learned. Any twitch, any spark of defiance, only fuels their rage. He swallows the bitter taste of humiliation and drops his gaze, trying to disappear into himself.
“You’re in luck, Pet” the man says, his voice a mockery of kindness. “You’re going home.”
The words barely register before a fist swings down like a hammer, and everything goes black again.
· · ·
“First.”
The voice is soft—barely above a whisper—but it pierces through the remnants of sleep. A gentle hand pats his back, featherlight. He flinches at the contact, instinctively jerking away with a low, mumbled, “Go away,” his voice raw and cracked from disuse.
“First, sweetie, it’s time to get up. You have to be at the airport in an hour.”
Her voice remains calm, careful. Too careful.
He lets out a groan, dragging himself closer to the edge of consciousness. His eyes crack open, lids heavy and stinging from the light flooding through the windows. The sun cuts across his room in sharp, golden angles, illuminating dust floating lazily in the air. His mother’s silhouette moves steadily across the room, purposeful as she hums a soothing song. He squints, barely making out her shape.
Fumbling across the sheets, he searches for his glasses, his fingers grazing the nightstand before closing around the familiar frame. The moment he slides them on, the room sharpens into view.
Three large suitcases sit open across the floor, already packed to the brim with neatly folded clothes, toiletries, and the kind of "essentials" only a mother would believe he’ll need. First doesn’t ask what's in them. It doesn’t matter. None of it feels real yet.
He pushes himself upright, the blanket slipping off his shoulders. His mom is already tugging one suitcase toward the door, her voice still hushed but upbeat.
“I made breakfast. We’ve been waiting for you to eat before we leave. Hurry up and get ready, okay?”
She keeps her voice in that same soft register, the one she’s adopted in the weeks since he came home. No sudden movements. No raised tones. Always gentle, always measured. She’s learned what sets him off, what pulls him under. She’s lived through his silent breakdowns, his gasping fits in the middle of the night, the times he curled into the corner of his bed as if the walls might collapse on top of him.
She’s still trying to keep the walls from shaking.
First shifts his legs off the bed and pauses, staring down. His breath catches.
His legs are bare, vulnerable. The wounds are mostly closed now, some faded into thin, silvery scars, others still raw and pink around the edges. A few scabs cling stubbornly to the deeper ones. His ankles are the worst—angry red rings where the cuffs used to bite into him, the skin cracked and sore. They throb faintly, a slow reminder of everything his body still remembers even if his mind tries not to.
They probably need to be cleaned again. Wrapped. He knows that, but his hands start to tremble just thinking about it.
He presses them into the mattress to steady himself and breathes in.
The shower is already running, steam curling around the edges of the bathroom, but First still stands at the threshold, unmoving. The scalding spray hits the far wall, the rhythm constant, predictable. It hisses and hums, louder than the thoughts clawing at the back of his skull. That’s why he always sets it too hot. It burns, especially over the wounds still stubbornly refusing to heal—but the pain is something clean. Something real. Something he can control.
He steps under the stream.
The water hits him like a slap and he exhales sharply, his entire body jolting, then easing, sinking. The tension in his shoulders bleeds away as the water runs over his skin. He tilts his head back and lets the water tangle through his hair, lets it cling to his cheeks, his forehead, his neck. It's only when he slides slowly down to the ground that he realizes how tightly he’s been holding himself.
The tiles are icy beneath him. A violent contrast to the heat above, but it helps. It makes him feel like he's still here, in his body, not floating somewhere far away. Knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them, he lets himself go still. The pressure of his limbs wrapped tightly together feels like the closest thing to safety.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. He doesn't care. He tells himself he needs to move, he has a plane to catch, but the thought feels foreign. Like someone else’s life he’s meant to step into.
Eventually, the water shuts off with a squeak of the knob. First’s eyes flick automatically to the blank space above the sink. The pale, clean square on the wall where the mirror used to hang, before he tore it down in a panic days after coming home. Flashes of the reflection that was staring back at him pounding in his head. A memory he refuses to let himself forget.
He grips the counter, knuckles white. The flight ahead is long, longer than any he’s taken, but Tay will be with him, and that’s the only thing stopping him from falling apart entirely. England is waiting. A new place. A clean slate. He can be a stranger there. A blank face in a crowd.
Here, he’s still First. Or at least, the ruined version of whoever that boy used to be.
He stares at the empty wall and feels hollow.
Piece by piece, the old First was scraped away by hours alone in that tiny locked room, by the motel, by everything in between. The motel especially. He doesn’t let himself go there. If he even thinks about it too long, his chest tightens, his lungs shrink. The images burn at the edge of his mind—blurred, fragmented, stained in red—and he shuts it all out.
He doesn’t have time to break down right now.
But the anger starts anyway. A slow boil in his gut, heavy and bitter. He clenches his jaw, tries to shove it down, bury it under reason, under movement. But it pulses, growing warmer, spreading. Anger at himself—for remembering. For slipping. For letting those images in, even for a second. He promised he’d try. But his brain won’t listen. It never listens anymore.
The drugs helped. They numbed the world, made the memories quiet.
But his mom flushed his stash three days ago. Said she loved him. Said it softly. As if softness could fix what’s already shattered. He’d screamed. Grabbed at her wrists, her clothes. But she never raised her voice. Just stood there in her pathetic calm, while he came undone.
By the time he makes it to the kitchen table, every inch of him is strung tight. His skin feels wrong. His stomach churns at the sight of food, and the smell only worsens it. He sits out of obligation, not hunger.
His father clears his throat, opening his mouth to say something. First’s head snaps toward him, eyes burning, jaw tight. The look is enough. His dad shuts up.
“I’m not hungry.”
The words slice through the silence.
No one argues. Not this time.
But when his eyes meet Tay’s across the table, something in him twists.
Tay’s expression is calm. Too calm. And behind that stillness is the one thing First can’t stomach.
Pity.
As if that’s going to help him.
· · ·
-England 2017-
“Now, First,” the psychiatrist says, her voice even and practiced, the kind of voice trained to hold weight without ever seeming to press. “We’ve spent a lot of time discussing the pain you endured. The drugs forced into your system, the people you encountered, the trauma that surrounded you. But today, I want to shift our focus slightly.”
She leans forward just a bit, the clipboard in her lap untouched, as if she already knows this moment is too delicate for notes.
“We’ve looked backward for so long. But I want to ask, gently, if there’s anything from that time, anything at all, that we might use to help you move forward. Something small. Something that helped you survive, even if just for a moment. Was there anything, or anyone, that brought you even the smallest sense of peace?”
First stares at her, bewildered. As if she’s speaking another language.
Peace?
In that place?
He almost laughs, almost. But the sound dies in his throat. All he feels now is the same rage that never leaves him, not even in sleep. It’s not hot anymore, not the kind that explodes. It’s worse than that. It’s steady. Deep. Always there, curling under his ribs like a second spine. Rage that his parents let this happen. Rage that they had known. That they had helped.
He had pieced it together slowly, during the first months of therapy, the sessions that left him numb and shaking. At first the memories came like static—conversations barely audible through the thick fog of drugs—but over time, they grew clearer. More precise. Sharpened to a point.
His parents knew who had taken him.
They knew why.
And they had let him rot for eight long months.
His jaw tightens. His fingers dig into the armrest of the chair.
But just as the rage swells again, something else stirs beneath it. Something small. Something that doesn’t belong.
A flicker.
A warmth.
Soft fur against his face, damp with tears. A sandpapery tongue against the back of his hand. The tiniest weight curled against his ribs while his body shook from cold and fever. A quiet purr, low and rhythmic, that filled the silence when nothing else could.
His shoulders begin to ease. His throat tightens, but not from anger this time.
“There were… cats,” he says quietly. His voice cracks like old wood.
The psychiatrist doesn’t speak. She waits.
His eyes lower, unfocused now, as the memory plays out, shaky and worn but real.
“They came through a hole in the wall. At first they just… stole my food. Not that there was much. But I let them. And eventually… they stayed. One of them, an orange one, used to sleep against my hip. Sometimes two or three at a time. They’d press close, and I’d… I’d pet them. They’d purr, and it helped. I didn’t feel so alone. They didn’t want anything from me. They just… stayed.”
He exhales slowly, as if the words have taken something out of him but also left something behind.
Stillness.
“That's good First. A really good start”
Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Notes:
I'm really on a roll right now with all the ideas and thoughts I have for this. The present is mainly going to be in Khaotungs point of view and I'll be diving deeper into First's past through his point of view until we get a bit father in then there will be more of him in the present timeline. It may seem a little crazy, since their tones are so different. I've just been non-stop writing and Khaotung just gets more chaotic as I go and I'm loving it.
I do want to mention that I've changed some of their ages to fit the plot that I want so I'll list those here:
First(26)
Khaotung(22)
Off(26)
Gun(24)Anyway I'm thinking I'm going to switch off between present and past every other chapter for now. So hope you enjoy :)
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand April 2025-
Khaotung showed up to the match like he was strutting down a pastel runway.
He wore a cropped Team Eclipse bomber jacket, custom-made with P’Gun’s name embroidered across the back in soft silver thread and a glittery “#1 Fan” patch stitched right over his heart. Beneath it, a sheer baby pink mesh top peeked through, tucked neatly into high-waisted black cargo pants that swished when he moved.
Even his nails were on theme—matte black with delicate lavender stripes—and he fidgeted with a silver Eclipse-logo ring on his thumb whenever the nerves crept in. On his feet: chunky platform sneakers laced with custom lavender ribbons and tiny white stars doodled on the toes, like stardust just for him.
His hair was half-pinned back with a glittery crescent moon clip, revealing a dangling earring shaped like a cat.
He looked cute. Ridiculously cute.
And he knew it.
Khaotung was practically glowing.
He’d barely set foot on the event floor when two fans rushed over—one asked for a selfie, the other handed him a handmade sticker of his Twitch logo. He slipped it into the back of his phone case like a lucky charm, smiling so hard his cheeks ached.
But this wasn’t just another day spent cheering on P’Gun from the sidelines.
This was a step toward something bigger.
Thanks to his recent Twitch surge, Khaotung had caught the attention of a growing esports media channel. They’d invited him. Him! To do a guest interview with a member of Team Eclipse. Sure, it wasn’t a major network or official team press. But in Khaotung’s world, it might as well have been the Oscars.
Now he stood backstage, mic clipped to his jacket, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he tried to steady his breathing.
It wasn’t quite the dream, not yet.
He still wanted to play for Eclipse more than anything, to sit beside P’Gun onstage during a high-stakes match and be part of it. But with the team’s lineup locked in tight, he’d started looking for other ways in.
Maybe this interview was one of them.
His Twitch fame had blown up fast after a late-night ranked match where he’d randomly ended up squadded with a pro from another team. After the game, the player had said:
“You’ve got solid instincts. Reminds me of Gun, actually.”
The internet lost its mind.
And so did the media channel.
Within a week, they’d DMed him: “Wanna do a guest interview?”
He’d replied yes before he even finished reading the message.
And now, here he was, mic in hand, stomach flipping, trying not to sweat through his perfectly styled outfit.
The producer Fah was halfway through explaining where he should stand when a headset buzzed and someone muttered hurried instructions on the other end. Khaotung tried not to eavesdrop, but he caught a few words:
“Gun’s tied up... emergency call... send First instead.”
He blinked.
First?
As in First Kanaphan, Team Eclipse’s elusive second-in-command?
The one who barely did interviews, barely spoke on stage, and was known for shutting down entire press appearances with one flat stare?
Khaotung’s heart skipped and then immediately took off at a sprint.
He was still trying to decide if this was a disaster or a miracle when the hallway door cracked open and in walked First, tall, silent, dressed in Eclipse black-on-black, and looking like he regretted every life choice that led him to this moment.
Their eyes met.
Khaotung smiled first. Bright, flustered, charming.
First did not smile back.
The silence between them stretched a little too long. Khaotung awkwardly fiddled with his mic, voice a bit too high when he said,
“Uh—hi! I wasn’t expecting… I mean—thank you for being here. I’m really excited to meet you.”
First’s expression didn’t change. “Gun’s busy,” he said simply, voice quiet but flat, as if that explained everything. His posture was rigid. Guarded. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Khaotung swallowed, his usual confidence faltering just a bit under the weight of that cool, unreadable gaze.
Still, he squared his shoulders and tried to get back on track.
“I’ve got some great questions lined up. Super easy stuff,” he offered, voice warm and teasing like he always did with stream guests. “Promise I won’t bite.”
First just nodded. No smile. Not even eye contact. He stood beside Khaotung like he was preparing for interrogation rather than a five-minute media segment.
The camera guy gave them a countdown: “In three… two…”
Khaotung faced forward, smile flickering a little but still in place.
The red light blinked on.
“Hey everyone!” Khaotung’s voice was bright, practiced. “I’m Khaotung, and today I’m here with the one and only P’First from Team Eclipse!”
A beat. First nodded again. His expression didn’t change.
Khaotung gave a nervous laugh and pressed on. “You guys are absolutely killing it this season. I know fans are dying to hear what the vibe is like behind the scenes. Are you feeling confident heading into playoffs?”
First’s eyes flicked to him, then to the floor. His voice was steady but monotone. “We’re prepared. We’ve practiced enough to know our roles.”
Not exactly riveting content.
Khaotung chuckled awkwardly. “Love that. Efficiency. Classic Eclipse.” He cleared his throat. “Any pre-game rituals? Lucky charms? I know P’Gun used to carry a tiny plushie in his bag—do you have anything like that?”
First blinked slowly, as if the question didn’t quite make sense to him.
“No.”
Silence. One of the cameramen coughed. The red recording light stared back at them like an unblinking eye.
Khaotung tried again, softening his tone. “What about you, personally? What keeps you grounded during high-stress matches?”
There was a flicker. Something subtle in First’s jaw, the smallest shift in his brow.
“I just… focus on the objective,” he said finally. “Everything else is noise.”
Khaotung hesitated. That didn’t sound like a rehearsed answer. That sounded real. Not flashy, not friendly. Just bare.
And even though it wasn’t what he expected, it made Khaotung slow down.
His next question came softer, almost hesitant.
“Do you ever miss it? The noise, I mean. Fans. Lights. Everything before the match starts?”
For a moment, there was no answer. Just silence and the low hum of equipment around them.
Then First looked at him.
Not at the camera. Not past him.
At him.
And suddenly the rest of the room blurred. The weight of the lights, the mic in his hand, the pulse of the livestream. They all faded under the quiet pull of First’s gaze.
There was something in those tired eyes. Not cold, not guarded like before, but heavy. Like he’d been carrying something alone for so long, he didn’t know how to put it down.
Grief, maybe. Or a kind of loneliness that had settled deep, too quiet to name.
“I’m still figuring that out,” First said, voice barely above a whisper.
And for the first time, Khaotung didn’t see the pro gamer. He didn’t see the mystery or the myth.
He just saw a boy trying to hold himself together.
And it felt dangerously close to beautiful.
Khaotung straightened, cleared his throat, and glanced at the crew.
The moment dissolved. Just like that.
Then back in full glitter-mode he turned toward the lens with a practiced smile.
“Team Eclipse fans,” he said, voice dipping just enough to flirt with sincerity, “something tells me you’re going to want more of P’First this season.”
His eyes flicked to First again. A beat. A smile that knew exactly what it was doing.
“Stay tuned.”
The camera light blinked off.
Khaotung opened his mouth, unsure of what to say next, but First was already stepping back. “That’s enough, right?” he asked the producer.
“Yeah, we’ve got what we need,” P’Fah muttered, clearly relieved.
Khaotung watched First turn away without another word, walking back toward the private corridors of the stadium like a ghost slipping out of frame.
He didn’t know what he was expecting from the interview, but it wasn’t this.
Khaotung lets out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, wiping his clammy palms on the sides of his pants.
“Do you think we got enough? He… didn’t exactly say a lot,” he asks quietly, glancing over at Fah.
To his surprise, Fah smiles. “Actually, that went better than expected, Nong. His fans will eat this up. Don’t take his attitude personally. He’s famous for being like that.”
Khaotung nods, trying not to look too relieved.
“I’ll get this edited and posted,” Fah continues, already pulling out his phone. “And I’ll talk to the higher-ups about your contract. I’ll let you know what they say.”
Khaotung quickly bows with a polite wai as P’Fah walks off, phone pressed to his ear.
As he heads out of the venue, the tension in his shoulders starts to ease—just a little. He even runs into a few more fans, smiling for selfies, their enthusiasm helping to ground him again.
On the way home, Khaotung leans against the window of the car, phone in hand, refreshing his feed every few minutes as he keeps an eye out for the interview post. The city lights blur past him outside, but his focus is entirely on his screen—Twitter, Instagram, notifications lighting up one after another.
He uploads a few carefully chosen photos from earlier: one of him in the crowd, another with fans, and a mirror selfie he took backstage that shows off his outfit in full pastel glory. His Stories fill up quickly—snippets of the arena, his excited pre-show jitters, a boomerang of him spinning his Eclipse ring on his thumb.
As he scrolls through tagged posts, he starts retweeting fan edits and blurry photos of himself mid-cheer, some with captions like “Khaotung is even cuter in person” or “Did y’all see our Twitch prince at the Eclipse match???”
His heart swells at every notification.
Despite the nerves, despite how quiet and intense First had been during the interview, Khaotung can’t stop smiling. The fans—his fans—had seen him. Not just as a streamer behind a screen, but as someone who belonged there too.
Someone worth noticing.
He saves a few particularly sweet comments to his camera roll without even thinking, tucking them away like little affirmations.
Tonight had been a win, even if it didn’t feel like it the entire time. And that warmth in his chest? It stayed with him the whole ride home.
Once the interview goes live, Khaotung doesn’t waste a second. He copies the link and fires it off to the family group chat, adding a string of sparkle and heart emojis like a proud little digital bouquet:
“✨💜 LOOK WHO I MET 💜✨”
Seconds later, he tweets the link with a giddy caption—“I still can’t believe I got to meet P’First?? Like THE First Kanaphan???”—then tosses it onto his Instagram story with a selfie from the event and a caption that reads:
“screaming crying throwing up (in a good way)”
As he flops back onto the couch, his cat Montow hops up beside him, tail flicking with sleepy contentment. The soft purrs vibrate against Khaotung’s hip like a little motor.
“Guess who got to meet First Kanaphan today?” he croons, scratching gently behind Montow’s ear.
The cat just blinks at him with supreme indifference, his tail swishing lazily over Khaotung’s thigh.
Khaotung giggles anyway, grinning to himself as he snaps a quick photo. Montow and him both in frame, soft evening light glowing across his pastel sweatshirt and uploads it to his story with a caption:
“my emotional support animal says i was cringe but he still loves me”
His phone buzzes.
Mae Lin has already replied with six heart emojis and a proud,
“You looked so handsome! So professional! My baby!”
Auntie Jo follows up with,
“You didn’t even stutter! I’m calling Channel 3 and telling them to book you.”
Khaotung chuckles and hearts both messages. Predictably, no word from Pim, she’s probably out dancing on a rooftop somewhere, or lost in a karaoke bar. Grandma likely won’t see it until morning either. She doesn’t believe in screens after sunset (“they mess with my auras,” she always says).
Still, Khaotung feels full. Warm. Like he’s just stepped out of a sunbeam.
He leans back, letting Montow curl up fully in his lap, and whispers,
“Today was a good day, huh?”
The cat purrs louder, and Khaotung smiles like he’s won something. Sure, he didn’t make the team. But he did make an impression. He figured not everyone could say they’d made First Kanaphan look like he wanted to bolt mid-interview. Iconic behavior, honestly.
· · ·
The next morning First lay sprawled out on his bed, bare chest against the sheets, the mid-morning light creeping through the Eclipse dorm curtains in hazy gold strips across his skin. His hair was still damp from a quick shower, and the room smelled faintly of citrus shampoo and laundry soap.
He should’ve been doing something productive like meal-prepping, or reviewing match VODs, or at the very least pretending to stretch. But no.
He was on Twitter.
And worse, he was actively searching his own name.
A thing he never did. A rule he never broke.
But curiosity, sharp and annoying as a gnat, had wormed its way into his mind.
He wanted to know how the interview was going over.
He scrolled past the usual stuff at first:
“FIRST IS SO MYSTERIOUS I CAN’T BREATHE”
“HE BARELY BLINKED. KING.”
“THE SILENCE? THE EYE CONTACT? THE POWER???”
He rolled his eyes. They always made too much out of nothing. But… he kept scrolling.
Eventually, the tone of the tweets shifted.
They weren’t about him.
They were about them.
“someone tell me why this felt like the start of a BL”
“THE WAY THEY LOOKED AT EACH OTHER. i’m in pain.”
“khaotung finally cracked the stoic boy and i fear i will never recover.”
“khaotung smiling like a glitter fairy and first looking at him like he’s an unsolvable riddle??? peak BL energy.”
“he never looks at people like that. he NEVER”
“he stared for 3.2 seconds. someone do the math. that's love.”
He paused.
Then saw it. The clip. The one everyone was frothing over.
The last thirty seconds of the interview.
They were just… looking at each other.
And then Khaotung had made some closing comment, something about Team Eclipse fans being excited to see more of First. It was light, harmless, his voice all soft sugar and faux-sincerity, that flirty edge that seemed baked into everything he said.
And for some reason, First had looked right at him. Not past him.
Not at the camera.
At him. Again.
A few seconds of stillness. No expression. Just... eyes.
The internet had pounced like rabid wolves.
“i’d legally change my last name to eclipse rn”
“gun’s gonna ship this i know it in my BONES”
“this is BL coded i don’t care i don’t CARE”
“first: i don't do emotions. also first: stares at khaotung like he invented air”
First closed the app with a grimace.
Why had he even looked at him like that? It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t anything. But now, thanks to Khaotung’s very online fanbase and their compulsive need to turn everything into a slow-burn romance plot, he was officially part of some imaginary storyline he never asked to be in.
His jaw tightened.
Not only was it annoying, it was risky. Attention like that stuck. It turned into rumors. Into distractions. Into complications. Especially if Khaotung’s fans kept spiraling the way they were.
He could already feel Gun teasing him over this.
Or worse, not teasing him.
Just giving him that smug, knowing look that said “I told you this would happen.”
First exhaled sharply through his nose, thumb hovering over his phone like it was personally responsible.
He didn’t dislike Khaotung, but if he was smart—and he usually was—he needed to stay away. The guy was glitter and drama wrapped in a streamer’s smile, and First didn’t have room for either.
He tossed his phone across the bed, face-down, then grabbed the corner of his blanket and shoved it over his head.
“…Great. Now I’m the straight man in someone’s fanfiction.”
And buried himself deeper, as if he could block out the algorithm with cotton and sheer willpower.
Chapter 3: Chapter 3
Notes:
I've been spending all hours on writing and planning and I think its gonna be really long. I have about 40 chapters laid out already with plans and its probably only about half of what I want to happen, just gotta get to actually writing them but the ideas wont stop coming.
The tag slow burn is too true here and will be a slooooooooow burn for sure.
I'm going to try and update every 3-4 days if possible. This is really all I'm spending my time on, way too many late nights but I can't help it.
Hope you enjoy this chapter :)-J
Chapter Text
Chapter 3
-England 2017-
“First, are you still living with your brother?”
The question is gentle, curious, delivered like all the others before it—soft enough not to feel like a demand, but heavy enough to expect an answer.
First doesn’t look up. “Yes. I split my time between him and school.”
His tone is flat, uninterested. Like he’s reading from a script he's already tired of repeating.
The psychiatrist jots something down on her pad. He can’t see what, but he knows the rhythm by now. It’s probably another note about social avoidance, disinterest, isolation patterns.
“Still haven’t made any friends?”
He gives the faintest shake of his head.
“I’m not interested. Everyone talks too much.”
It’s not even said with malice, just weariness. Like he’s already exhausted by the idea of conversation before it’s even begun.
There’s a pause, followed by a quiet sigh.
“There’s not a single person you think you could get closer to?”
First picks at a loose thread on the cuff of his oversized sweater. The heat outside has been suffocating lately, but the sleeves stay on. Always. He can deal with the sweat, the discomfort—he has to. The scars on his forearms aren’t for public consumption. He’s used to stares thanks to his height, his frame, the way he holds himself like he’s braced for impact. But questions, questions are different. People only ask so they can talk about it later.
They don’t want to understand. They just want something to whisper about.
He shakes his head again, slower this time.
“They’re all too noisy. They want to drink, party, stay out until the sun comes up.” He shrugs, voice quiet. “I’m not trying to go back to that scene. You know what happens if I do.”
The psychiatrist doesn’t argue, she knows. He’s made it clear in previous sessions. The temptation. The easy spiral. The way it feels to lose control, to forget what happened to him, even if just for a few hours.
But she doesn’t let the silence last too long.
“First, you really need to let someone in. Even just one person. It doesn’t have to be in person—you said you play games with your brother, right? There are forums, Discord servers, interest groups. You can connect with people online. You could still stay in your space, your routine, and only share what you want.”
He scoffs under his breath, dragging his nail across the hem of his sleeve.
“Why? So they can ask about what I’m studying, if I’m seeing anyone, if I’ve ‘moved on’?” His lip curls. “They don’t care. People never care. They’re just bored and want something sad to talk about over lunch.”
His psychiatrist doesn’t flinch. She’s used to this version of him. The sharp one. The brittle one who wraps his vulnerability in sarcasm like barbed wire.
“It’s not about them. It’s about you.”
She leans forward slightly, folding her hands in her lap.
“I want you to try. Just once. Join a forum or a gaming group. Message someone. One person. You don’t have to build a life-changing friendship—just connect. No pressure, no details you don’t want to share. But something. Because this kind of isolation… it’s not sustainable.”
First’s stomach churns. The idea of putting himself out there, even behind a screen, feels like trying to walk barefoot across broken glass. He wants to say no. Wants to argue. But instead, he just nods.
Because deep down, he knows she’s right.
And he’s not paying all this money to sit on her couch and stay the same.
“I want to see proof by the end of the month, okay? A screenshot. A username. Something. I know you can find someone who gets you. Someone quiet. Someone safe.”
His fingers press into his sleeves, knuckles white beneath the fabric.
He nods again, slower this time.
“Okay.”
But his voice is so soft, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth.
· · ·
First’s heart is pounding, so hard it feels like it might rattle right out of his chest. His fingers hover over his laptop’s trackpad, the glowing Discord invite link staring back at him from a quiet corner of Reddit. It’s for a fan server of the cozy cat simulation game he plays obsessively but never talks about. Especially not to Tay.
He’s not sure why he keeps it a secret. Tay wouldn’t mock him, probably wouldn’t even bat an eye. But something about it feels… private. Like it lives in a small, untouched corner of his mind. One of the only places that still feels like his.
A world with no questions. No expectations. Just pixelated cats and soft colors and slow, predictable rhythm.
And that space matters.
Just like the other secret. The box tucked into the back corner of his closet, carefully wrapped in an old sweatshirt he hasn’t worn in years. Inside: rolls of developed film, creased photos, curled prints. Cats. Dozens of them. Mostly strays. Some blurry. Some perfectly in focus, tails mid-flick or blinking into sunlight.
Ever since the memories came back—those memories, from the dark place he doesn’t let himself think about too often—he’s been collecting them.
Each photo is a breath. A heartbeat. A reminder.
Because when everything else in his life feels loud, sharp, or hollow, cats have never asked him for more than he could give. They just sit. They just exist.
He presses the join button.
The server icon pops up, full of pastel emotes and usernames like “whiskerwitch” and “mewmewpls.”
He minimizes the window almost instantly, chest tight. Too much. Too fast.
He’ll explore it later. When it’s dark. When no one’s watching.
· · ·
The next morning, long before the sun begins to rise, First slips quietly out of the house. No creaking floors, no turned-on lights, no messages left behind. Tay won’t ask, he’s stopped asking a while ago, trusting First’s patterns like tide and moonlight.
He walks the familiar route with his hoodie pulled low over his face, sneakers brushing against the uneven stones of the cobbled street. It’s still and quiet out here, his favorite kind of morning, when the world hasn’t woken up yet and he can pretend, for a little while, that it’s all his.
The plant nursery is tucked between two old buildings, the familiar ivy creeping up the back gate like it’s guarding something sacred. First slips inside through a loose panel in the fence, careful not to make noise. The air smells like wet earth and lemongrass, sweet with the night’s dew.
And then… they come.
His cats.
Not his, not really, but they show up for him. Like clockwork. Like they know he needs them.
One hops down from a bench and immediately starts rubbing against his shin. Another yawns from a crate turned into a makeshift bed. A kitten bats at the drawstring of his hoodie while another tries to claw into the plastic bag of food he brought.
He smiles—barely, but truly—and crouches, reaching into the bag.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’ll all get some. Promise.”
They purr, they climb into his lap, they curl around his legs like he’s a tree in a safe forest. Some days he talks to them. Tells them things he can’t say out loud to a human. Some days he just watches them sleep.
Today, he pulls out his camera and lifts it carefully to his eye. The soft click of the shutter is the only sound, aside from gentle purring and the distant rustle of leaves.
This is peace.
Here, in the quiet.
Here, where nothing is expected of him except to be still. To be kind. To be gentle.
He breathes.
And for the first time all week, it doesn’t hurt.
· · ·
By the time First returns home, the sun is just beginning to peek over the skyline, casting the faintest streaks of gold across the windows. He slips through the front door like a shadow, careful not to make a sound. Tay’s still asleep, he can hear the soft hum of music leaking through the cracked door of his brother’s room.
He toes off his shoes, places the used food containers into the sink, and disappears into his bedroom without turning on the lights.
Everything is still. The hush of a house not quite awake.
First sits at the edge of his bed, hoodie still on, the faint scent of the nursery clinging to him—earthy, green, with a hint of fur and old wood. He reaches for his camera and removes the memory card, slipping it into his laptop with muscle memory precision.
One photo catches his attention right away: a calico kitten curled inside a terracotta flowerpot, blinking up at the lens with one paw flopped over the rim like royalty. The light hits just right, soft and warm, painting gold over the kitten’s ears.
He stares at it for a long time.
Then, without letting himself think too hard, he opens the cozy cat game server he joined the night before. His hands hover over the keyboard for a full minute before he finally clicks into the #cat-share channel.
The chat is full of memes, blurry pictures of sleepy pets, little pixel art gifs, and someone posting about their orange cat that “screams like a man.”
He swallows.
And then types.
[whispurr]
not sure if this belongs here
found her this morning
He attaches the photo of the calico in the flowerpot. Doesn’t say anything else.
Then he hits send.
And immediately exits the app, shuts the laptop, and flops backward onto the bed like he’s just done something dangerously intimate.
His heart’s pounding again. But not the kind that hurts.
The kind that feels like… maybe this wasn’t a mistake.
The laptop stays shut. For hours.
First tries not to think about it. He showers. He eats something. Lies on the couch and half-watches whatever show Tay left playing on the TV. But his thoughts keep drifting back to that post—the picture, the quiet click of send, the rush of unease that followed.
Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him.
It’s past 11 p.m. when he opens the laptop again. Just for a second. Just to see.
He clicks the Discord icon and opens the server.
#cat-share has a red dot next to it. New message.
His post is still there. Same photo. But now… there’s a reply.
[meowgicmissile]
excuse me this is the most PERFECT potcat i’ve ever seen??
she looks like she’s about to cast a spell and then nap for 3 hours
10/10 would trust her with my secrets and my credit card
First blinks. Then rereads the message.
There’s a small icon next to the username—just a cartoon cat with heart eyes—and a sparkle emoji next to their nickname. He has no idea who this person is. But something about the tone… it’s warm. Playful, even. Not performative. Not invasive. Just…
Nice.
Below the message, a few others have reacted with emojis. He sees hearts, paw prints, even one person who added a “🌱🐱” combo. Someone else simply commented:
[softgothcatdad]
this is so peaceful i’m crying. potcat is the only therapy i need.
A breath escapes First before he even realizes he’d been holding one.
He doesn’t respond. Not yet. But he reads the message from meowgicmissile again, and something loosens in his chest. Just a little.
The potcat photo got seen.
And no one asked him questions. No one pushed.
They just… liked it.
He closes the laptop. But this time, he’s still smiling when he does.
· · ·
The office is quiet, as usual. Soft lighting, neutral tones, a small water feature bubbling faintly in the corner like it’s trying too hard to be calming. First sits curled into the far end of the couch, legs crossed, sleeves tugged over his hands even though it’s warm out.
He’s not sure why this part of the session always feels the longest. The beginning. The “so how’ve you been” part.
His psychiatrist looks up from her notes and folds her hands in her lap. “It’s the end of the month, First.”
He nods once. Doesn’t say anything.
“You remember what we talked about.”
Another nod.
She waits a second, and then, gently: “Did you find someone?”
There’s a pause, long enough to be awkward before First finally exhales through his nose.
“Yes.”
Her eyebrows lift, surprised but not pushing. “Really? Tell me about it.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it kind of is. “I joined a server. For a game.”
“A forum?”
“Discord.”
She gives him a smile, warm but not patronizing. “And?”
First glances at the window, then down at the fraying hem of his sweater. “It’s for this cozy cat game. You, like… decorate rooms and adopt cats. It’s dumb.”
“It doesn’t sound dumb,” she says gently.
He doesn’t respond to that. Instead, after a moment, he says, “There’s a channel where people share real cat pictures. I posted one. Of a calico I feed. Didn’t think anyone would care.”
She stays quiet, letting him continue on his own.
“But someone replied. Called her ‘potcat.’ Said she looked like she could cast a spell and then nap for three hours.” His lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “It was stupid. But it made me laugh.”
She writes something down, nodding slowly. “Do you still talk to them?”
“Not directly.” He fiddles with the string of his hoodie. “But I send pictures. Every week. Usually Sunday mornings. The strays I see at the nursery.”
“And they respond?”
He nods. “Sometimes. Heart emojis. Comments. Mostly just that same person. ‘Meowgicmissile.’ They’re annoying. But funny.”
His psychiatrist watches him for a second, studying the way his shoulders have dropped just slightly, how his voice—still quiet—has lost that hard edge he always wears like armor.
“That’s wonderful, First,” she says finally. “It sounds like you’re connecting. In a way that feels safe to you.”
He huffs softly. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“I won’t.” She smiles again. “But you can, if you want to.”
He doesn’t say anything more. But when she moves on to the next question, First is still thinking about that comment.
Potcat could absolutely cast a spell.
Chapter 4
Notes:
I've got about 3/4 of the storyline planned out now and I'm over 50 chapters, so buckle up.
There are some chapters I am expecting to take longer to write, especially as we get deeper into First's past but the plan is still to upload every 3-4 days unless something happens.Khaotungs pov is the easiest for me to write so heres the next chapter
Enjoy :)
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand April 2025-
[STREAM TITLE: ✨Unhinged and on FIRE: Literally?Maybe? We’re Baking?]
“Alright, guys, today we are manifesting Eclipse’s win in the playoffs with the highly requested baking stream,” Khaotung says, grinning into the camera as the chat explodes immediately. Lines of cupcake emojis, excited caps-lock cheers, and someone spamming “BAKE 4 GUN BAKE 4 GUN BAKE 4 GUN.”
“Okay, okay—relax, you unhinged little gremlins. I love it.” He giggled, cheeks already pink. “As most of you know, my moms run a bakery, which I help out at… occasionally. When I’m not, y’know, saving the leaderboard or emotionally spiraling over pro players.”
He wiggles his eyebrows at the camera, then continues with mock seriousness.
“Luckily for everyone watching, no one has to eat what I’m about to make because—full disclosure—it’s been a hot minute since I’ve baked anything. And even when I did, my cupcakes were more like... personality pieces than actual food.”
The chat explodes with laughing emotes.
“BUT. Today is not about taste—it’s about art. About vibes. About showing off my super adorbs new apron, and my god-tier drawing skills. Because guess what?” He leans in, lowering his voice dramatically. “I’m gonna try to draw P’First on one of the cupcakes.”
Screaming emojis. “OMG NOT FIRST 💀” scrolls past in rapid succession.
“And no,” Khaotung warns, holding up a finger, “you guys are not allowed to laugh. I mean it. Zero judgment. This is a safe, chaotic space.”
With a dramatic flourish, he pulls out the apron from under the table and holds it up to the camera. It’s custom-made: a soft baby pink canvas with ruffled white trim, his Twitch logo printed across the chest in a swirly pastel font that looks like it belongs on a macaron box. Tiny embroidered cats nap near the hem, one wearing a headset.
He ties it on with flair, spinning once to show it off. “Look at her,” he beams. “Isn’t she serving? Like, I could bake and steal your boyfriend in this apron.”
The chat loses it.
“Now,” he says, adjusting the webcam down to the mixing bowls, “let’s get started. And by ‘get started,’ I mean ‘try not to summon a kitchen fire while drawing a mysterious, emotionally distant esports player in frosting.’”
As he measured flour, with highly questionable accuracy. The chat buzzed with “✨chef energy✨” and “protect this man at all costs.” Khaotung kept up his usual back-and-forth, answering questions and occasionally calling out usernames like a sleepover host on a sugar high.
“Make sure to get your screenshots ready, folks. It’s P’First cupcake time. He deserves frosting fan art too.”
The chat imploded.
“NOOOO”
“P’FIRST DON’T WATCH THIS”
“this man is fearless 😭”
“he’s gonna look like a potato”
Khaotung stuck out his tongue. “You guys are so rude. I’m an artiste. Respect the process.”
He got to work, carefully icing cupcakes and chatting in between, humming to himself and swaying to the lofi music playing softly in the background.
When it came time to decorate the “First Cupcake,” he leaned in close, tongue between his teeth as he dabbed black frosting onto the face.
Ten minutes later, he held it up.
It was… bad.
The frosting “eyes” were crooked, the mouth slightly smudged, and the hair looked more like flames. Khaotung burst into laughter the second he saw it in the camera preview.
“Okay—yes—I see it now, it looks cursed. But like, cute cursed. He’s a mysterious esports cryptid who lives in the shadows and my frosting, and I think that’s beautiful.”
Still giggling, he cradled the cupcake and added, “Hope you’re watching, P’First. This one’s for you.”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if First would ever actually see it.
And if he did… would he hate it?
Or maybe just smile, for real?
Khaotung glanced at the chat. Thousands of people watching. Dozens of screenshots being posted live.
He blushed a little and took a bite of a different cupcake—definitely not the cursed one—and declared, “Anyway, if this gets me kicked off Twitch, I regret nothing.”
· · ·
Elsewhere in Team Eclipse’s lounge, Gun lounged across a beanbag, one leg flung over the side and a protein bar forgotten in his lap. His phone was propped against a water bottle, the volume just low enough not to attract attention.
On-screen, Khaotung, in a pastel pink apron and absolute chaos mode, was piping frosting onto a wobbly cupcake.
“Okay, but like, if this ends up cursed-looking, we never speak of it again,” Khaotung declared, brows furrowed dramatically. “This is me risking my rep for art and trauma bonding.”
Gun snorted. Loudly.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, looking around to make sure no one was listening. His eyes twinkled. “Oh my god, this boy is ridiculous.”
Ridiculous. And so relatable.
Gun had been watching Khaotung’s streams for a few months now—initially out of curiosity (someone had tagged him in a clip where Khaotung did a dramatic monologue about Gun being his “esports bias”), but he’d stayed because… well, Khaotung was funny. Loud. A little unhinged in the best way. But also kind. Authentic.
They had the same energy, soft femme chaos mixed with an absolute refusal to tone it down.
And now? Now he was watching this cupcake stream while grinning like a teenager.
“Hope you’re watching, P’First. This one’s for you,” Khaotung said, holding up a lumpy but lovingly-decorated cupcake.
Gun burst out laughing, nearly choking on his own air. “Oh my god—he’s flirting on main! This little menace!”
He reached for his phone, screenshotting the frame mid-pose. He had a whole folder now—“Khaotung being iconic.”
Not that he was obsessed or anything.
But like… if they ever ended up on the same team?
The internet would implode.
· · ·
Once Khaotung ended his stream, cleaned up the kitchen disaster zone, and scrubbed frosting out of his hair (don’t ask), he finally collapsed onto his bed with a dramatic sigh. He landed stomach-down, legs kicking lazily behind him, still wearing his now slightly flour-dusted pink apron.
Phone in hand, he dove straight into Twitter.
The giggles started almost immediately.
His notifications were a storm of chaos and love. Clips of him trying to ice a lopsided heart, blurry screenshots of the cursed First cupcake, and someone had already made fanart of him in the apron, holding a spatula like a sword.
“ABSOLUTE WIFE MATERIAL”
“protect him at all costs 😭💘”
“first seeing this is gonna send him into early retirement”
Khaotung retweeted a few with over-the-top captions like “i tried my best ok 😭” and “this is art do not critique me.” He replied to others with hearts, crying emojis, and a few unhinged voice notes.
Then, out of habit, he pulled up his hashtag analytics.
#Bake4Eclipse was trending in a small corner of the internet. His numbers were spiking. That warm, fizzy feeling bloomed in his chest, like all the effort, the chaos, the glittery apron, meant something.
But then his scrolling slowed.
He started seeing tweets with a different tone. Ones mentioning Team Eclipse, ones that didn’t match the fluffy cupcake vibe of his timeline. A few even tagged him directly, mixed in with words like “roster shake-up” and “duelist spot open?”
His brows furrowed. “Wait… what?”
A quick search, a refresh, another scroll and there it was:
Off is retiring.
Official announcement. Confirmed.
Khaotung stared at the headline for a second, blinking.
He liked Off. He really did. Talented. Intense. The kind of player you watched in awe. And he shouldn’t be happy about someone leaving the team.
But…
His heart was already racing.
A duelist.
And their current stand-ins were mostly flex players.
He sat up, apron slightly askew, hair still sticking up in places from the stream.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “This could be it.”
He had no idea how. He wasn’t even on Eclipse’s radar, probably, but the idea had rooted itself in his chest like a firework waiting to go off.
He needed to find out everything.
Who was handling tryouts? Was there even a tryout? Would they post it? Would they keep it quiet? Could he DM someone? Did Gun—?
Oh. Gun.
His eyes narrowed, but not with strategy this time.
The buzz of excitement in his chest dimmed just a little.
Gun and Off had been together for years. Just married. Rare in the scene, rare in the industry. They were the kind of couple that made Khaotung believe love could exist even under the pressure of cameras, sponsors, and brutal competitive schedules.
He’d once hoped for something like that—something proud, public, and loud. But his last relationship had cracked under that very weight. His ex never wanted to be seen, never wanted to be named, especially not on stream. Said it was “too much,” that Khaotung’s online life was too loud, too open, too gay.
So yeah, watching Off and Gun move through the world side by side, rings on their fingers and no shame in sight—it meant something.
He quickly scrolled back through the announcement. There was nothing personal listed. No mention of why Off was leaving, no mention of Gun at all. Just a clean, professional statement and a thank-you.
His heart pinched.
Gun was bright and sassy on screen, but Khaotung had followed him long enough to see the subtle cracks sometimes, when he’d go quiet mid-interview, or when he’d avoid talking about his personal life during streams. And if Off was stepping away...
Khaotung swallowed hard.
Whatever was happening behind the scenes, it wasn’t just about a team roster.
Gun must be hurting.
And suddenly, all the excitement humming through him felt… a little too loud.
He pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, heart still racing but now for more than one reason.
· · ·
Khaotung woke from a much-needed nap with a groggy sigh, face still half-smushed into a throw pillow, his frilly pink apron somehow still tied around his waist. He reached blindly for his phone on the nightstand, knocking over a half-eaten macaron in the process.
The screen lit up, still open to the article.
Off. Gone.
Khaotung blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up slowly, rereading the headline like it might suddenly change if he stared hard enough.
He scrolled down again, jaw tight.
“Team Eclipse thanks Off for his dedication and wishes him the best in his next chapter.”
His stomach flipped.
“Okay,” he whispered, “so there’s a spot. A duelist spot.”
His fingers twitched against the phone, adrenaline buzzing through his veins like liquid sugar. There wasn’t any official announcement about a replacement, no flashy recruitment post, no public tryout. But Khaotung knew how this scene worked. If they were going to fill that role, they’d already be scouting. Quietly. Watching tape. Asking around.
If he wanted a shot—any shot—he needed to move now.
But he couldn’t do it alone.
Not as a streamer. Not as a fanboy. Not even with all the love in the world for Gun.
He needed help. Real help. Coaching. Someone to push him, to sharpen him, to train him like he belonged in scrims not just highlight reels.
And there was one person he could ask.
Sun.
The pro player he’d accidentally matched with two months ago. The same one who’d casually said “You’ve got solid instincts. Remind me of P’Gun, actually,” before logging off like it wasn’t the most life-altering compliment Khaotung had ever received.
He jumped to his old DMs. The last message was him thanking Sun over and over with far too many heart emojis. Sun had just replied with a laughing face and a chill little: “you’re fast. clean aim. keep it up.”
Khaotung stared at the thread for a moment, thumb hovering, brain spinning.
Then he started typing.
[@khaotungLIVE]
hey p’ sun!! sorry to message out of nowhere
just saw the eclipse announcement 👀
and i know this is super random but…
do you know anyone who’s doing private coaching right now?
His heartbeat stuttered. He swallowed.
i really wanna try for the spot if there’s even a chance
and i trust your opinion
if you know anyone. Anyone pls lmk 🙏🙏🙏
He hit send before he could talk himself out of it.
Then promptly launched the phone across the bed like it was about to explode, buried his face in his blanket, and screamed.
His phone buzzed sooner than expected.
Khaotung scrambled off his bed, accidentally kneeing Montow off the blanket (the cat meowed indignantly and sauntered away with maximum attitude). He snatched up his phone and opened the message.
[@sun_wirachai]
lol you're serious huh
that was fast 💀
Another message popped up a second later.
okay
not gonna lie, i was wondering if you’d go for it
your instincts are nuts
just gotta clean up your movement and decision-making
Khaotung’s heart started sprinting. He typed a “YES I’M SO SERIOUS I’LL DO ANYTHING” but held off sending it, waiting to see what else came through.
if you're looking for a coach
there’s someone
the real deal
Eclipse-tier level, honestly
His fingers tightened around the phone.
name’s Tay
you won’t find him on coaching sites
bit of a ghost
but he still trains a few players now and then
if you’re serious, i can pass your name to him
Khaotung gasped out loud and nearly rolled off the bed.
Tay. That name rang a bell. It took a second, but he remembered—there were old highlight clips from years ago. A super sharp duelist with legendary crosshair placement and the calmest comms he’d ever heard. Tay-something. His game sense had been freakishly good. And then he just… disappeared.
[@khaotungLIVE]
YES pls omg
i’m free anytime
i’ll pay, i’ll bake him cupcakes, i’ll literally do chores idc
whatever he wants 🙇♂️
also THANK YOU P’SUN ILY
i’m buying you a coffee if i ever get on a team fr fr
Sun’s reply came quickly:
chill lmao
he might say no
or ghost you
or say yes and make you cry
he's intense
but i’ll send him your info
Khaotung’s grin was uncontrollable. He collapsed back onto his bed, eyes wide at the ceiling.
This was happening.
He might actually get a coach. A real one. A legendary one.
· · ·
Gun lay sprawled on his gaming chair, legs hooked over one armrest, head tilted upside down as his phone lit up with yet another ping ping ping of chaos.
He finally gave in and opened Twitter.
#TeamEclipse was trending. Again.
So was #OffRetires.
He winced. “Too fast,” he muttered, sipping on his grape soda. “You guys couldn’t wait, huh?”
Of course, the internet was already speculating, a full meltdown. Eclipse breaking apart. Secret beef. Gun and P’Off breaking up. One dramatic tweet had even said: “Gun’s probably heartbroken. What’s a duo without the other half?”
Gun scoffed and liked that one too, just to mess with them.
If only they knew.
Off wasn’t leaving. He was becoming their coach. It wasn’t the end—it was the next evolution. A planned one. A smart one.
But it was fun to let them spiral.
His thumb hovered over his feed when something familiar caught his eye.
Khaotung.
He clicked through to the profile. Just as unhinged as always. A new post—full of capital letters, crying emojis, and a slightly blurry photo of cupcakes with questionable designs.
Gun had already watched the stream. Twice.
He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but the apron? The sparkly commentary? The attempt to draw his face on a cupcake with pink frosting and sprinkles? It had him grinning like a fool.
Gun didn’t even like cupcakes.
But Khaotung…? He liked him.
Bright. Playful. Sassy in the way Gun had only seen in mirrors.
And underneath it all, he could tell: the guy had heart. Talent. Passion that didn’t feel like a performance.
Gun scrolled down and saw the newest tweet.
@khaotungLIVE:
DO NOT ask me how to get on Team Eclipse unless u are willing to bake ugly cupcakes and cry at midnight 😭💜✨
Gun snorted into his sleeve and retweeted it with one word:
@gunthegreat:
noted.
Then immediately tossed his phone aside like he hadn’t just made things worse for the poor guy.
Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Notes:
I updated this to say up to 70 chapters but honestly it may still be more.
I don't have much to say. Hope you enjoy this chapter
-J :)
Chapter Text
-England 2018-
First was pacing the living room like a trapped animal, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of his hoodie, fingers twitching at the frayed seams. His bare feet padded softly against the floor, the only sound in the room besides the dull thrum of his own breathing—too fast, too shallow.
Tay, by contrast, sat perfectly at ease on the couch like he’d just won a game. Legs stretched out, one arm tossed over the backrest, the other crossed smugly over his chest. His expression said, I’ve already thought of everything, so don’t even try it.
“P’, I can’t do that,” First said, voice cracking under the pressure. “Why can’t you just stay here? Mom’s not gonna let you just leave me alone—”
“I already talked to her,” Tay cut in, waving a hand like it was no big deal.
First froze mid-step, staring at him. “You what?”
Tay sighed, like he was dealing with a particularly dramatic house cat. “I said—I already talked to her. She agreed. Months ago. I wouldn’t do this without making sure you’d be okay.”
“But I’m not okay,” First snapped, his voice high and tight, eyes shining in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge. “I—I can’t live with strangers. I don’t do well with new people. You know this.”
Tay’s expression softened just slightly. “I know. That’s why I picked this place very carefully. It’s a dorm apartment near your school—four other guys, all vetted, all chill. Two of them are Thai, and one’s literally in your program. They’re not randoms. I asked around. They’re solid.”
First shook his head, like he could shake off the rising wave of panic pressing into his ribs. “And you’re just gonna leave? Fly off to Germany and coach like I’m—like I’m ready?”
“You are ready.”
First gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not, Tay. I still get jumpy when the microwave beeps. I still keep my shoes by the bed. I haven’t even unpacked half my stuff because I can’t stand seeing it all out. I’m not some independent adult—”
Tay stood then, finally, but not angrily. Calm. Grounded.
He walked up to First and placed both hands on his shoulders, steadying him. “Look. I’m not doing this because I think you’re magically healed. I’m doing it because I believe in you. Because I’ve seen the progress you don’t give yourself credit for.”
First’s lip trembled. He looked away, jaw clenching hard.
“I hired a mover,” Tay continued. “You won’t have to pack. I hired a cook to drop off meals three times a week so you actually eat. I even talked to your psychiatrist. And Mom. Everyone thinks you can do this.”
“But what if I can’t?” First whispered.
“Then you call me,” Tay said, simply. “And I’ll get on a flight home. Just like that.”
That part… wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t a plan either. Tay’s eyes were already full of the distance he was preparing for, the time zones, the training schedules. He was proud of his new opportunity—and First wanted to be proud for him.
But all he could feel was the sick knot tightening in his chest.
Tay saw it. Gently bumped his forehead against First’s.
“You’re not being abandoned. I promise. I just… I need this, too.”
And for the first time, First didn’t fight the tears that stung at the corners of his eyes. He nodded once, barely.
“…Okay.”
· · ·
He didn’t remember much of his last week with Tay. Just the heavy quiet of goodbye, and the echo it left behind.
First was staring at the front door of his new “home”. The dorm apartment hallway had that faint, chaotic scent of college life—instant noodles, fabric softener, and someone's very strong cologne. First stood stiffly outside the front door, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie sleeves tugged low despite the summer heat.
The movers had already dropped off his things. His room was… fine. Blank walls. A bed made by someone else. Still, it felt like stepping onto a stage he didn’t ask to be part of.
He raised a fist and knocked.
The door creaked open slowly, not the dramatic swing he expected. A tall guy with disheveled black hair and a sleepy, skeptical expression looked him up and down like he was trying to decide whether or not to let him in.
“You First?” he asked, voice dry.
First nodded once.
The guy stepped aside. “I’m Win. Come in. I think JD’s in the kitchen pretending he can cook.”
First stepped into the apartment carefully. The living room was a mild disaster—blankets thrown on the couch, tangled controller cords, and a half-built LEGO set on the coffee table. It wasn’t dirty. Just… lived in.
Win flopped back onto the couch and pointed vaguely down the hallway. “Your room’s the one on the left. Off’s your actual roommate. He’s chill.”
Before First could ask anything, a door down the hall opened, and another figure stepped out. Slightly shorter than Win, wearing an oversized black T-shirt, joggers, and a silver chain that caught the light.
He had this casual, unbothered air about him. Like someone who never tried too hard, because he didn’t need to.
He gave First a once-over, then raised his brows. “You the new kid?”
There was something in the way he said it—easy, unbothered—that didn’t make First want to run. “…Yeah.”
“Cool,” the guy said, walking over and holding out a hand. “I’m Off.”
First took it, feeling how warm and grounded Off’s grip was. Confident, but not performative.
“I think we’re in the same program, right? Game design?”
“Yeah,” First said, quieter now.
Off gave a nod, then jerked his chin toward the kitchen. “We usually do groceries together on Sundays. Unless Win forgets. JD’s chaos, so don’t leave food near him. Arthur works late, but he’s normal. Ish.”
First blinked. “Right…”
“Oh, and one rule,” Off added, already turning back toward his room. “If the orange cat shows up on the balcony, you feed him. That’s not a request.”
“…Cat?”
Off glanced back with a faint smirk. “You’ll see.”
He disappeared behind the door, and First just stood there for a beat.
It was weird. He didn’t feel welcome, exactly.
But he didn’t feel unsafe either.
· · ·
The living room was a riot of sound—controllers clicking, someone shouting “HEADSHOT!” like it was a spiritual victory, and JD dramatically narrating his killstreak like he had a Twitch chat to impress.
First didn’t mind. The others had been welcoming in their own weird, rowdy way. But it was still noise, and First had never really known how to be in that kind of noise. Not yet.
So instead, he took his textbook and retreated to the balcony.
The air outside was cooler, just on the edge of dusk. The buzz of traffic was distant, like white noise layered beneath the faraway echo of laughter from a nearby park. A soft breeze ruffled the pages of his notes. It smelled faintly of dust and jasmine and someone’s dinner being reheated downstairs.
He sat cross-legged on the small bench by the balcony wall, highlighter cap in his mouth, trying to memorize game engine terminology that refused to stick.
Then, he heard it.
A soft thump.
He blinked, looking toward the edge of the balcony.
There, as if summoned by a memory, was an orange tabby.
Chubby. Slightly scruffy. Ears twitching. Tail flicking lazily like he owned the whole city.
First’s heart stalled in his chest.
It was him. Or one so close it didn’t matter. The same kind of dusty orange fur. The same squinting eyes, curious but unbothered. He moved like he didn’t need permission to be anywhere.
The cat looked at him. Judged him a moment.
Then padded over like he had a reservation.
First didn’t breathe. Just slowly lowered the textbook and sat up straighter, heart thudding.
The cat nudged his shin with his head, then curled right up next to his folded legs like it was the most natural thing in the world.
First's hand hovered mid-air for a moment, then—tentatively—he reached out.
Soft fur. Warm. Real.
The sound of purring started low and steady, vibrating through the quiet like a lullaby. And for a second, First could feel something deep in his chest relax, just a little. Like maybe this was a kind of sign. Or a promise kept.
He didn’t even realize he was crying until the breeze cooled a tear on his cheek.
Inside, the living room erupted in shouts, someone had just clutched a match. Win was swearing in Thai, JD was howling.
The orange cat didn’t flinch.
First smiled.
“...You're late,” he whispered.
The cat just blinked at him, unimpressed.
First let his hand rest on its back and turned his gaze back to his notes, this time feeling just the tiniest bit steadier.
· · ·
“How are things going with your new housing?” his psychiatrist asked gently, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook.
First slumped lower into the chair, arms folded tight, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway over his hands. He rolled his eyes in response, but not cruelly—just with the kind of long-suffering sigh that said this is a dumb question and you know it.
“…Noisy,” he muttered. “Too many guys. Too much yelling.”
“But?” she prompted, catching the faintest flicker of something behind his eyes.
“…There’s a cat.”
Her pen paused mid-sentence. That was new.
They were nearly two months into this new dorm setup, and not once had he mentioned a cat—which, frankly, was odd. Cats were the one subject First could talk about without flinching. His expression always shifted when he mentioned them—brightened, softened, made him look just a little bit like the boy he might’ve been before.
“You have a cat?” she asked, voice light with curiosity. “Or the house has one?”
He shook his head. “Stray. The others feed it sometimes.”
She nodded and jotted that down, though she was already watching him more closely.
“And you just met it recently?”
First’s gaze dropped to his lap. His hands fidgeted with a loose thread on his sleeve. “No. It showed up a few days after I moved in.”
“You didn’t mention it before.”
“I forgot,” he said, too quickly.
She didn’t press. But she didn’t look away, either. Her silence stretched the space between them until First, growing increasingly aware of it, glanced back up with a defensive shrug.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“I think it is,” she said quietly.
He blinked at her, uncertain.
She smiled, not unkind. “You get very still when you talk about cats. It’s one of the only times you do. But this time you kept it to yourself. Which tells me it is a big deal.”
He hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods. “It was the first one I’d seen since…”
He paused. Looked at his lap. Swallowed.
“Since the ones from before.”
There it was. The unspoken. The past.
He didn’t say the word captivity, didn’t have to. The image was already in the room: a small, broken boy in a dark place with only a few orange strays and their soft purrs for comfort.
She stayed quiet, allowing the pause.
He swallowed. “It’s orange. Just like… the first one that used to sneak in.” His voice was quieter now, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Back then, it was the first warm thing that ever touched me. I didn’t even know if I’d made it up until this one showed up. Same color. Same look in his eyes like he already knows everything but won’t tell.”
His hand moved unconsciously to his lap, fingers twitching slightly.
“It felt like… maybe that part of me didn’t get left behind after all.”
His therapist said nothing for a moment, just nodded, gently, as she wrote a single word down on her notepad.
Connection.
“And how is this one?” she asked softly.
A hint of a smile crept across his lips before he could stop it. “It sleeps in my lap now.”
She smiled, heart swelling. “That’s sweet. You must be very patient.”
First shrugged. “Or just quiet.”
“Have you shared it with your Discord group?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I posted a photo last week. It got a bunch of cute comments. Someone said he looked like a ‘grumpy loaf of sunshine.’”
“Did that make you happy?”
“…Yeah.”
And it had. More than he’d expected.
They hadn’t asked questions. They hadn’t pressed. They’d just sent cat emojis and soft words and drawn him a little fanart of the orange tabby sitting on his lap, complete with tiny sleepy Z’s above its head.
It wasn’t much.
But he smiled anyway.
· · ·
-England 2019-
It had been six months since First moved into the dorm.
He still wasn’t exactly close with any of the guys. JD was loud and affectionate in ways that made First flinch without meaning to. Win was always slightly sarcastic and permanently glued to his headset. Arthur was polite but rarely around. But Off… Off was different.
There was a rhythm to them now.
They walked to class together, not every day, but often enough that it felt like part of the routine. First never had to ask. Off would just be at the door, already slipping his keys into his hoodie pocket, waiting.
They sometimes grabbed dinner after lectures, trays set between them in the corner of the dining hall. Off talked a little about professors, coding quirks, that weird bug in Unity that crashed his project at 3 a.m. First listened. Sometimes he nodded. Sometimes he actually replied.
It wasn’t exciting. But it was comfortable.
They studied in the living room occasionally, side by side. Not talking much. Occasionally copying each other’s homework when motivation dipped low enough. Neither of them commented on it.
And today, for once, they had nothing to do.
No assignments. No classes. No errands.
The dorm was oddly quiet. JD was out on a “situationship” date. Arthur was working. Win had gone home for the weekend. Off had just come out of the shower in his usual post-class loungewear, baggy shirt, cloud-print boxers, and a messy bun tied too high to be taken seriously.
He dropped onto the couch next to First with a loud flump, sighing dramatically.
“I’m bored.”
First, curled up on the far end of the couch with his knees pulled to his chest and a book open, gave him a look.
“Wanna play something?” Off asked, already pulling open the cabinet where they kept the consoles.
First shrugged. “What game?”
Off grinned. “The new one. The one you waited in line with me for.”
First gave him a dry look over the edge of his book. “You made me wait in line with you. For two hours.”
“You stood there willingly.”
“I had headphones in.”
“You took a picture of me with the cardboard cutout.”
“That was to make fun of you.”
Off snorted. “Still counts. Anyway, I haven’t started it yet. Wanted to play co-op first.”
First hesitated. He hadn’t actually played a game with someone in a long time, not like this. Not in-person, controllers side by side, no ranked stress or pressure. Just… playing. For fun.
Off looked at him, not pushing, not expecting. Just offering.
After a beat, First shut his book and shifted forward. “Fine. But I’m not carrying you.”
Off chuckled, grabbing two controllers. “Sure. You’ll be the support character and like it.”
As he booted up the game, First remembered the day they stood in line—him quietly zoning out to his playlist while Off laughed on the phone with someone named Gun. He hadn’t paid attention then, but he remembered how relaxed Off had looked, how warm his voice was when he said “Nong” and told stories that made him laugh with his whole chest.
First didn’t have anyone he called like that.
But right now, Off was sitting next to him on a couch full of mismatched pillows, handing him a controller and grinning like they did this every weekend.
And maybe that meant something, too.
Chapter 6: Chapter 6
Notes:
uhhhh so I thought I posted this chapter earlier this week but I guess not. Anyway since I fucked that up I have another chapter incoming in a couple of hours, just have some last minute editing and adjustments and then it'll be good to go :)
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand April 2025-
Khaotung thinks he might actually lay a golden egg right there on his apartment floor.
He’d woken up like any other morning—groggy, hair flattened into an unfortunate sidewave, cats already screaming for breakfast. He barely had one eye open when he flicked through his notifications… and stopped dead at the blue checkmark.
Gun had replied to his tweet.
One word.
Noted.
That was it. Just noted. No emoji. No context. Just three letters and a period, as if it wasn't the most important moment of Khaotung’s entire week.
He screamed.
Not internally. Not quietly. Full-volume, blood-curdling shriek as he launched himself into the middle of the room, startling both his cats and possibly a few neighbors.
“HE SAW IT. HE SAW MY POST. HE REPLIED.”
He spun in a circle, grabbed a hoodie off the floor, and did a little victory dance with it over his head like a championship belt. Then because that wasn’t enough he started belting out a K-pop song at full volume, dramatically mouthing the lyrics into a remote like it was a mic on stage.
Montow blinked up at him from the couch. Vaanjoy looked mildly traumatized.
“I KNOW, I KNOW,” Khaotung said, breathless. “He literally hit me with a ‘noted’ like I was a line item in his grocery list. But do you know what this means?”
His cats blinked again. Khaotung took it as encouragement.
“It means he saw me. It means he acknowledged my existence. It means I’m in his brain, even if it’s just for a second!”
Was it maybe a little dramatic? Yes. Did he care? Absolutely not.
He flopped face-first onto the couch, still wrapped in his hoodie like a cape, feet kicking behind him as he opened his Notes app. There needed to be a celebration. A tweet wasn’t enough. A moment like this deserved glitter and frosting and at least a live stream.
“Maybe I’ll paint him on a cake,” he mumbled. “Or do a ‘Playing Like P’Gun’ ranked challenge. Outfit included. Sunglasses indoors. Trash talk every five seconds.”
He sat up suddenly, eyes sparkling.
“Wait. Yes. Gun-core stream. Title: ‘HE Noted Me 💅✨’ all caps, obviously’”
He fired off a reply to the tweet—something unhinged and reverent like “thank you for acknowledging my existence, sir 😭🙏 I will now dedicate every kill to you.” Then immediately slapped it on his Instagram story, pinged the group chat, and screamed into a pillow for good measure.
Somewhere in the background, Vaanjoy knocked over an empty cup.
Khaotung took that as a sign of spiritual approval. He’s got some work to do.
· · ·
[STREAM TITLE: “HE NOTED ME 💅✨ | Ranked But Gun-Themed”]
Khaotung was glowing, literally and metaphorically. His ring light was set to soft blush, the background was decked out in purple LED lights, and he'd even thrown a shiny Eclipse poster on the wall behind him.
He sat center-frame in a black-and-purple hoodie, oversized sunglasses halfway down his nose, and an acrylic nameplate necklace that read “#Noted.” A pair of cat ears perched on his head.
“Okayyyyy hello everyone, welcome to today’s stream…..Gun-core edition!” he chirped, spinning in his gaming chair before striking a pose. “That’s right. We are playing ranked like we are the queen herself: P’Gun. Which means sass, chaos, and zero mercy.”
The chat exploded.
@Altacc4ace: HE’S UNHINGED
@mrrpmeow: GUN-CORE I’M SCREAMING
@chatgaslighter: The sunglasses. The ATTITUDE. He’s channeling him
“Rules are simple,” Khaotung continued. “Every time I get a kill, I dedicate it to P’Gun. Every time I die, we blame my teammates. Because P’Gun would never do anything wrong, obviously.”
He cracked his knuckles like a pro boxer entering the ring, then launched into his first match trash talking with flair, calling out plays with exaggerated confidence, and throwing in occasional “PERIOD.” after each successful kill.
· · ·
Gun sat at his desk, laptop open, earbuds in. He told himself he was just “checking in” to see what the fuss was about. That’s all.
And yet… here he was, twenty minutes into Khaotung’s unhinged Gun-themed ranked stream, watching with his chin in his hand, biting back a grin that refused to leave.
The little bastard had made a custom nameplate necklace.
Gun shook his head, trying not to laugh when Khaotung pulled a tiny pink notebook out mid-stream and wrote “Kill #3 – For P’Gun ” in loopy handwriting.
“Gun, if you’re watching this—I hope you’re proud,” Khaotung said dramatically to the camera. “And if you’re not watching this… you’re missing out, sir.”
Gun exhaled a laugh through his nose.
God, he’s ridiculous.
Ridiculous. Loud. Glittery.
And also… talented.
Gun watched the way Khaotung played—his reactions, his map awareness, his fluid coordination even while running a whole performance for his chat. The guy wasn’t just funny. He was sharp.
Underneath all the chaos, there was someone who clearly loved the game.
“He’s got it,” Gun murmured, almost without meaning to.
· · ·
Khaotung finished the match with a final headshot, then leaned back in his chair with a smug little smirk.
“That win was for you, P’Gun,” he said, pointing at the screen. “You better note that too.”
And somewhere, miles away, Gun actually typed into the anonymous alt account he used to lurk in Khaotung’s chat sometimes:
@gunfan1989: that’s #noted, actually 😎
Khaotung paused mid-sip of his bubble tea.
His eyes locked on the comment.
“WAIT—WAIT A DAMN MINUTE.”
He squinted. “Gunfan1989??? That’s either the most cursed fan account ever… or—”
The chat was chaos. People screaming, spamming eyeball emojis and conspiracy theories.
Khaotung leaned dramatically toward the screen. “P’Gun is that you? Blink twice if yes. Actually no, don’t blink. Type another emoji. WAIT I’M SWEATING.”
Gun, at home, just leaned back in his chair and grinned.
Maybe he’d keep watching for a while.
· · ·
The apartment was dark, lit only by the dim lavender glow of his LED light strips and the white-blue glare of his laptop screen.
Khaotung sat cross-legged in his gaming chair, hair mussed, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. His bubble tea had long since gone warm on his desk. His notebook—Gunspiracy Notes—was open in front of him, scribbled with a growing web of doodles, usernames, and highlighter-streaked accusations.
It had been hours since the Twitch stream ended.
Since the moment that shook his soul.
It hadn’t been a tweet.
No, no, this was worse.
It was a Twitch comment. Anonymous. Casual. Buried in the chaos of his chat at the height of stream madness. But he’d seen it. Read it out loud. Felt it in his bones.
And then it was gone.
No way to verify the user.
No VOD replay of the chat unless someone clipped it.
The mystery was now ephemeral. Untraceable. Ghost-level trolling.
His cats stared at him from the bed as he muttered to himself like a man possessed.
“There’s no way it wasn’t him. I know it was him. That emoji? That perfect timing?!” he cried, flipping to the next page of his notebook, which now had a table labeled Gun-Like Behavior.
Sus Behavior
Rating
Evidence
Untraceable chat entry
10/10
Classic Gun
😎 emoji usage
9/10
Gun is fluent in sass
#noted reference
11/10
Same word as Twitter. SAME. WORD.
Immediately vanished
100/10
Hit and run. Iconic. Chaos King.
“I swear on Vaanjoy’s life,” he muttered, pointing dramatically at his cat, “that was P’Gun. I feel it in my gamer bones.”
Vaanjoy blinked, deeply unimpressed.
Montow yawned, rolled over, and fell asleep mid-judgment.
Khaotung leaned back and stared at the ceiling, already planning tomorrow’s chaos. “Okay, fine. You wanna play mysterious stranger? Fine. I’ll play. But you better be ready. Because I’m about to turn this whole stream into a full-on Gunspiracy Investigation™.”
He sat back up, cracked his knuckles, and opened OBS.
First things first: add a red string conspiracy board overlay. Second: design a Twitch “Alert” sound that goes off any time gunfan1989 enters chat again. Third: draft a dramatic intro speech in his Notes app, starting with “What is truth?” and ending with “Gun, if you’re watching this—blink twice. Or send another emoji. Preferably 😼.”
Tomorrow, the world would know.
Or at least his stream would.
And if Gun was watching again?
He was gonna give him a show.
· · ·
[Stream Title: “Operation: #GetNoted Day 2 🔍🕶️💅”]
The stream fades into dramatic piano music.
Khaotung appears on screen in full conspiracy-core cosplay: sunglasses, cat-ear headset, a trench coat over his pajama shorts, and a very serious expression… ruined slightly by the pink glitter stickers on his face.
He taps the mic twice. Then leans in slowly.
“Okay. So. Yesterday... something happened.”
The dramatic piano swells. The chat is already going wild.
He holds up his notebook like a sacred text.
“During my Gun-core ranked stream—yes, the one where I looked incredible and played like a sugar high demon fairy—someone dropped into chat with the username @gunfan1989 and said, and I quote: ‘that’s #noted, actually ’.”
He pauses. Rips off his sunglasses.
“WHO. WAS. THAT.”
@chatgaslighter: not this again 💀
@fragmeharddaddy: detective khao returns
@feralforesight: GUN FAN ONE NINE EIGHT NINE I’M CRYING
Khaotung nods solemnly. “Chat, I haven’t slept. My cats are judging me. I saw a bag of Cheetos and cried because they reminded me of P’Gun’s orange jersey from 2022. This is serious.”
He slaps a sticky note to the corner of his screen:
#GunspiracyBoard: Day 2
Underneath it, a single line is written in pink gel pen:
WHO IS GUNFAN1989?
He points at it like he’s announcing the next elimination on Drag Race.
“Now listen. I’m not saying it was P’Gun. But I’m also not saying it wasn’t.”
The chat explodes again.
@iliveinrankedhell: THE LOGIC IS FLAWLESS
@keyboardcrybaby: this man is feral
@purring4khao: i need what he’s drinking
Khaotung smirks.
“Phi, if you’re watching this—and I know you might be, you mysterious emoji-loving sass god—you better drop another sign. I’m not asking for a full confession. Just… send a cat emoji. Or, I don’t know, use a different cryptic username and tell me my hair looks nice today. That works too.”
He pauses, then grins wider.
“Until then... I will be watching. Always watching. Like a sparkly, unhinged owl.”
He sips his bubble tea, shrugs off his trench coat to reveal a T-shirt that says “#NotedByGun” in pink puffy paint, and dives into a ranked game like nothing just happened
· · ·
Gun’s apartment is quiet except for the soft tapping of his thumbs against his phone screen. He’s curled up on his couch, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, still trying to convince himself he’s not obsessed.
He told himself he was just going to peek.
Just a quick look at Khaotung’s latest stream VOD.
Five minutes max.
That was an hour ago.
Now he’s deep in a TikTok rabbit hole, scrolling through clips fans already edited and reposted with filters, sound effects, and cursed subtitles.
One particular clip loops again on his screen:
A fan edit titled:
“Gun watching Khao: POV he’s secretly in love 💘”
It’s an edit of a moment from stream—Khaotung being dramatic, waving a piping bag like a sword, giggling as he accidentally drops frosting on his apron and mutters, “Gun would be so proud right now… or horrified. Who knows. He seems like the mysterious judgey type.”
The clip ends on a slow-zoom of Khaotung’s smiling face, with sparkles and romantic lo-fi music layered under the chaos.
Gun smiles before he can stop himself.
And that’s when it happens.
He double-taps.
One moment, the heart is empty.
The next, it’s red.
His thumb freezes midair.
His eyes widen in horror.
“…Shit.”
He stares at the screen. The name at the top is unmistakable:
@GunTheGreat
Official. Verified. Very much him.
He just liked a fan edit titled “POV he’s secretly in love.💘”
He liked it. From. His. Main.
Gun’s heart punches his ribs. He unlikes it immediately—immediately—but the damage is done. His finger hovers over the screen like maybe, maybe it didn’t register.
Spoiler: it did.
He groans, throws his phone to the other end of the couch like it burned him, and covers his face with both hands.
“Shit, shit, shit—”
He tugs the hoodie down over his eyes and flops backward in defeat, muttering into the fabric:
“Why am I like this.”
· · ·
Khaotung’s brushing his teeth when he gets the notification.
@GunTheGreat liked a post you’re tagged in.
He spits his toothpaste directly into the sink and stares at the screen like it just handed him a marriage certificate.
“WHAT.”
The phone thuds against the mirror as he bolts out of the bathroom, still foaming at the mouth like a feral Pomeranian.
“MONTOW!! VAANJOY!!! GET UP—YOUR OTHER MOTHER JUST NOTICED ME!!”
He skids into his room, grabs his phone again, and double-checks. It’s real. It’s real real.
The clip? A fan edit titled “Gun watching Khao: POV he’s secretly in love ”
The like? From @GunTheGreat.
He screams.
No, actually—he howls. He throws himself face-first onto the bed, kicks his feet like a toddler on sugar, and yells into his pillow.
When he lifts his head again, the like is gone.
“YOU SNEAKY, EMO, SASSTASTIC LEGEND—YOU UNLIKED IT!!!”
He pauses.
Then smiles.
Too late, baby.
He saw it.
@KhaotungLIVE
🕵️♀️ THE EAGLE HAS LANDED. AND THEN IMMEDIATELY FLEW AWAY.
not to be dramatic but if i die tonight just know it was because THE P’GUN liked a video calling him secretly in love with me and then UNLIKED IT like a coward.
sir. you left evidence. i saw it. WE ALL SAW IT.
🧍♂️✨🐾💘
#Gunspiracy #GetNoted #HeKnows #HELIKEDIT
Within minutes, the replies are pure chaos:
@vibingwithghosts: NOT THE EAGLE METAPHOR 😭
@babygirlofvalor: oh he liked it. oh he KNOWS.
@bubblewrath: this is history
@cupcakethighs69: screen recorded. archived. printed and laminated.
@mrrpmeow: i’m crying he got caught in 4k and vanished like a disney villain
And trending quietly at the bottom of Eclipse Twitter:
#GunspiracyConfirmed
Khaotung is curled up on the couch, wrapped in a plush lavender throw blanket like it’s a royal robe. His face is freshly sheet-masked, Montow is curled at his feet, and Vaanjoy is slowly blinking at him from the armrest like the judgmental sidekick he never asked for.
In one hand: a phone.
In the other: bubble tea.
On the TV: paused at the title screen of some random rom-com he swore he’d start an hour ago.
Instead? He’s been doomscrolling his own chaos for the past forty-five minutes and giggling like a man possessed.
He scrolls Twitter first.
The replies are pure gold.
@khxzarmy: gun said ✨ whoops ✨ and vanished into the void
@streamingfortae: they’re in a situationship and only one of them knows it and it’s Khao
@matchameow_: the fact that he unliked it like 3 minutes later means he watched it at least twice
Khaotung cackles so hard he nearly spills his drink. “THEY GET IT,” he yells.
Vaanjoy flicks her tail, unimpressed.
Montow meows in agreement.
Chapter 7: Chapter 7
Notes:
so this one is—long, I didn't really mean for that to happen and when I reread it over and over while making adjustments I just couldn't find a spot where I would want to start his next chapter.
There's honestly a lot that's going on here and I'm super chill about it.
I love writing Khaotungs chapters so far but I really put my heart and soul in First's, honestly I feel like I've put just a little bit of me in him.
Anyway please enjoy.
-J
Chapter Text
-England 2020-
He knew he should’ve said no.
First knows it. Every muscle in his body knows it. And yet here he is sweaty, overstimulated, and cornered in the back of some overpriced bar Off swears is “actually chill, promise.” The music is too loud, the crowd too much, and the smell of cheap liquor and fried food clings to his hoodie like a bad decision.
He’s internally beating himself up, jaw locked tight as he stares down into his untouched soda.
How the hell did I let myself get talked into this?
Oh, right.
Nong Gun.
Gun, Off’s boyfriend. The sparkling, chaotic plus one who arrived five days ago with a pink suitcase, two phone chargers, and enough energy to power the entire dorm.
“It’ll be fun!” Gun had insisted, practically bouncing up and down as he clung to Off’s arm. First had grumbled an automatic no, barely looking up from his book, but Gun had only pouted harder.
“It’ll be my last night here,” he whined, sliding dramatically onto the couch beside First. “You have to come out with us, P’First! It’s a requirement. Boyfriend’s roommate initiation.”
He’d said it in that half-teasing, half-earnest tone that made First's skin crawl—not because it was annoying, but because it was… effective. First could barely deal with the people he did know, and here was Gun, a complete stranger, already trying to claim him like some social project.
And yet First caved. Not because he wanted to. Not even because he liked Gun (he didn’t, not yet).
Because it was easier.
Easier than being the guy who ruined the vibe. Easier than dealing with Gun’s fake tears and Off’s teasing nudges. That and he still had a day or two to make up some excuse not to go. He’d agreed, muttered “just for an hour,” and immediately regretted it. Gun booked the VIP section giggling and First glared at Off.
Gun had only grown more attached after that.
If Off was in class, Gun was glued to First’s side, rattling on about anime, makeup trends, fashion week, or the literal cutest food stall in Bangkok, “P’First, I swear I’ll cry if you don’t try the fried banana”. He tried bonding over food—until he realized First didn’t really eat much. Then it was TikToks. Then cats. Then, inexplicably, Gun trying to show him how to pose cutely in mirror selfies.
Gun was exactly the kind of person First avoided. Loud. Emotional. Dramatic.
But Off was solid. Reliable. Quiet when needed. And more importantly, one of the only familiar faces First has. So First tolerated the glitter storm out of respect.
Just one more day.
He repeats it like a spell, knuckles whitening around his cup.
But now? Now he’s standing in a room full of strangers, surrounded by the sound of clinking bottles and laughter that feels too sharp. The light’s too bright, the energy too much, and something in his chest is already beginning to fray.
He hasn’t been in a place like this since before rehab. Since the last time he let his guard down and ended up clawing his way back to sobriety with bloody fingers.
He swallows hard.
This was a mistake.
Gun and Off are already halfway to the bar, giggling over some ridiculous cocktail order. One of the other roommates is dancing with a girl in glitter heels. First turns away, breath catching as a whiff of rum and coke hits his nose.
His feet are already moving toward the door.
He doesn’t care if Gun notices. Or if Off gives him that “you okay?” look later.
He just needs air. He needs space. He needs to get the hell out before something in him breaks.
The door slammed shut behind him with a thud that echoed a little too loudly in his chest.
The music was still thudding in his chest, even outside.
Even now.
He’d walked out of the bar five minutes ago. Maybe ten. He couldn’t tell.
The streetlamp flickered overhead. The air smelled like spilled beer and fried oil and something that wasn’t quite smoke.
He didn’t know where he was going until the alley opened up in front of him.
Quiet.
Empty.
Still too loud.
His palms were sweating. His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. His throat was dry but everything else felt like drowning.
You’re fine. You’re fine.
He leaned against the wall.
Blinked.
And something—something—slipped loose in his brain.
· · ·
Rug.
Pink and beige. Floral. Stained.
The couch was brown. Or green. Or maybe both.
Just rest, someone had said.
He had.
His heart wouldn’t slow down.
His chest hurt. Not metaphorically. Actually.
He couldn’t feel his legs.
He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. The ceiling swam. The fan clicked. The corners of the room started pulling away.
He thought: This is it.
· · ·
A hand on his shoulder.
A nurse’s voice.
A tube in his nose.
The smell of bleach and plastic and too much light.
Do you know your name?
He didn’t answer.
Do you know what day it is?
I don’t know where I am.
He didn’t say it out loud.
· · ·
First pressed his fingers to the wall and counted the bricks.
He wasn’t crying.
He couldn’t cry.
He just stood there—floaty and hollow, like he’d been cracked open and there was nothing inside.
That night had been over three years ago.
He’d never told anyone what really happened.
Not Tay. Not his therapist. Not even himself, not completely.
It had just… vanished. Like something swallowed by a locked drawer in the back of his head.
Until now.
Now it was here.
Now it was loud.
He squeezed his eyes shut and slid down the wall, waiting for the noise to stop.
It didn’t.
It felt stupid. Childish. Like he was seventeen again and hiding in the back stairwell at school because someone said the wrong thing at the wrong time and it triggered everything he’d been burying.
And tonight?
Gun hadn’t done anything wrong.
Neither had Off.
But the smell of alcohol. The music. The crowd.
The noise.
It lit something up inside him, a warning flare. A memory he didn’t want. A door creaking open somewhere deep in his chest that he’d spent years nailing shut.
He curled tighter into himself.
It’s been years, he reminded himself. I’m clean. I’m okay. I’m safe.
But the panic didn’t listen. It never did.
His breath hitched once—twice—then steadied, barely. Just enough to hold him in place.
His eyes burned, but no tears came. Just the cold weight in his stomach and the guilt clawing up the back of his throat.
You should’ve said no.
A stray cat padded by at some point, pausing a few feet away. Orange. Small. Its eyes caught the streetlight and glowed faintly.
First stared at it.
It stared back.
Then, slowly, it wandered over and brushed against his shin before curling up beside him, purring faintly like it belonged there.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“…You again?” he whispered.
His fingers barely moved, just a gentle touch between the ears, featherlight and hesitant. But the cat leaned into it like it knew he needed the contact more than he’d admit.
So he sat there. In a back alley in a city that still didn’t feel like home, with a cat pressed against his side and the remnants of a panic attack sinking back into his skin.
Tomorrow, he’d face Off.
Maybe even Gun.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he let himself sit in the quiet.
And breathe.
· · ·
Gun was crying.
Big, messy, dramatic tears. Clinging to First’s arm like a koala, sniffling so hard it made his shoulders jump. His eyes were wide and wet, his mouth wobbling like he was about to burst into song about heartbreak and fried bananas.
“P’First,” he sniffled, “I’m going to miss you so much. You have to come visit me, okay? Promise me you’ll try the fried bananas by my house. They’re the best. Promise.”
First stood still, expression unreadable, like he was trying to dissociate from his own limbs. The week had already drained him. He hadn’t realized someone could talk so much—about cats, snacks, Off’s high school fashion choices, anime he hadn’t asked about, sending him memes over LINE even when they were in the same room and a rotating list of things Gun had decided were definitely his and First’s “inside jokes.”
It had been a very long week.
Now, Gun was sobbing into his arm.
Off leaned against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the entire scene unfold with a smug little smirk. He didn’t say anything, just raised one eyebrow when First briefly glanced his way, as if to say, you let this happen.
Gun sniffled again, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie like a five-year-old. “We’re besties now, you can’t take it back.”
Besties.
First almost let out a sound, but he caught it at the last second. A dry scoff, maybe. A breath of disbelief. Instead, he simply stared down at Gun—silent, rigid, unimpressed—but he didn’t shake him off either.
It hit First then, not just the words, but the sincerity behind them. Gun meant it. He wasn’t just being dramatic. He was being honest. And that might’ve been worse.
Off’s smirk deepened in the corner of his vision.
First shifted uncomfortably, eyes flicking to the hallway. JD was probably eavesdropping. Win had definitely made a bet about how long it would take Gun to cry when he left. Arthur probably had a recording going somewhere.
Still, Gun clung.
So First raised a hand slowly, reluctant and patted him on the head. Twice. No affection in the motion, no softness in his expression. Just… a concession.
And Gun beamed. Melted into it like First had just gifted him a crown. His tear-streaked face lit up, his arms loosening just slightly.
“I’ll text you,” he whispered, voice still wobbling. “Even if you don’t answer. That’s okay. Just... maybe send a thumbs-up so I know you’re alive?”
First didn’t answer. He didn’t nod. But he didn’t say no either.
Gun sniffed again, let go, then pulled his bag onto his shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds. He turned and began heading toward Off, waving back toward First.
“Don’t throw away the snacks I left you!” Gun called out. “That’s friendship food! You better eat it!”
Then he disappeared out the door, still babbling to Off about all the things First better not do or forget.
And finally—finally—the apartment was quiet again.
First stood there for a beat longer, staring at the space where Gun had been. The silence felt strangely sharp. Not unfamiliar. But… different.
Then, with no one watching, he let out a breath.
Maybe not fondness. But maybe not annoyance either.
He turned, finally, and headed to his room without a word.
· · ·
“So what I’m understanding here,” his psychiatrist said slowly, her pen pausing mid-note, “is that even though Gun is exactly the kind of person you normally avoid… you’ve been sending him cat photos.”
She looked up at him, blinking. “In addition to your Discord group?”
First stared at the ceiling. The fluorescent light above buzzed faintly, an annoying background hum to his growing discomfort.
“I didn’t send them,” he muttered, arms crossed tight. “I just forwarded a few.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not buying it.
He shifted in his seat. His knee bounced. “They were good photos. It’s not like I was trying to talk to him.”
“I see. So these cat photos—were they just part of your usual uploads? Or… selected?”
First hesitated.
Too long.
Her eyebrows lifted, patient and knowing.
“I thought he’d like them,” he mumbled eventually. “Okay? He’s… annoying. But he likes cute stuff. Sparkles. Stickers. Cats. Whatever.”
A beat passed.
“He said one looked like me,” First added under his breath. “So I sent another. It wasn’t a conversation. It was just a thing.”
She leaned back, brows drawing in thoughtfully. “That is a conversation, First. A small one. A start.”
He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t tell him anything. We’re not—” his voice dipped in annoyance, “—friends or whatever.”
“But you thought about what would make him happy.”
“Next thing you know, I’m writing love letters to people who like cat photos.”
That earned a short laugh from her. “No one’s asking for emotional attachment. I’m just pointing out—you made a choice to connect, even if it was indirect.”
First looked away. “I didn’t want to. He just wouldn’t stop talking.”
Her tone softened. “And sending him photos was…?”
“A distraction,” he snapped. “I thought if I gave him something to look at, he’d leave me alone.”
“And did he?”
“No,” First said flatly. “Now he sends photos back. And cat emojis. And memes. And voice notes. And one time a glittery sticker of a cartoon fish in a top hat.”
He scowled like the sticker still haunted him.
Her lips twitched. “How does that make you feel?”
First was silent.
Then, begrudgingly, almost inaudibly:
“…The fish was kind of funny.”
She didn’t say anything after that.
And for a second, neither did he.
His psychiatrist tapped her pen against her notebook, thoughtful.
“You know,” she said slowly, “a lot of people build relationships that way. Quietly. Through shared images, memes, silly things that don’t ask too much—but still say something.”
First didn’t look up.
She smiled gently. “Have you ever considered replying to one of Gun’s messages? With actual words, I mean?”
His eyes flicked toward her, unimpressed. “Why would I do that?”
“Because it might help him understand you better.”
“He doesn’t need to understand me,” First replied, folding his arms tighter. “He doesn’t even stop talking long enough to try.”
“But he keeps showing up,” she said softly. “Even when you’re silent.”
“That’s his problem.”
She chuckled, but not unkindly. “So you’re just going to keep sending cat photos and nothing else?”
He hesitated. Then, with the flatness of someone stating a simple, irrefutable fact, said, “Yes.”
“Not even a caption?”
“No.”
“Not even a ‘this one reminded me of you’?”
First looked like he might crawl into the couch cushions and disappear. “Absolutely not.”
She nodded slowly, writing something down, but didn’t press further. Not directly.
“I just think,” she said, voice light and breezy, “if someone keeps showing up for you… it’s okay to show up a little, too. Even if it’s just in your own way.”
He didn’t respond. He never did when she got too close to something true.
But later that night, he forwarded a photo of a calico kitten in a cardboard ramen box to Gun’s DMs.
No words. No emoji.
Just the image.
Two minutes later, Gun replied with:
“STOP THIS IS ME AFTER RANKED😭😭😭 can i be its godfather pls”
First didn’t answer. He didn’t even smile.
But he stared at the screen for a long time before closing the app.
And the next morning, when he passed a tiny alley cat curled beneath a flower cart, he pulled out his phone again.
Just in case.
· · ·
The microwave beeped, sharp in the still dorm kitchen. First pulled out his bowl of reheated rice, steam curling up into his face. He set it down on the counter, grabbed his chopsticks, and settled into the stool across from Off without a word.
He was in an oversized hoodie, patterned socks, hair still damp from a recent shower. Tired, unreadable. Classic First.
Off didn’t even glance up from his mug of tea. “You sent him the calico in the ramen box, didn’t you?”
First paused for exactly half a second. “No.”
Off snorted. “You’re such a bad liar.”
First stabbed at the rice. “It wasn’t even a good photo.”
“He doesn’t care,” Off said cheerfully. “He spent two hours on the phone telling me how the little curl of its tail reminded him of the way your foot curls when you sit weird.”
First blinked. “I don’t sit weird.”
“He says it with awe in his voice, First. Like you’re this mythical being who occasionally gifts him crumbs of cat content from Olympus.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Off took another sip, eyes glinting. “And yet. Here we are.”
“It’s just a photo,” First said, tone clipped. “I send them to the group, too.”
“Sure, but do you send the group curated, captioned shots directly? With timing that suspiciously lines up with when he streams late and says he’s feeling down?”
First didn’t answer. Just chewed, slowly.
Off grinned. “He tried to screen-print the last one onto a hoodie.”
First sighed like the weight of the entire planet had settled on his shoulders. “Why are you telling me this.”
“Because I find it adorable,” Off said. “And also because it’s funny watching you pretend you don’t care when you obviously do.”
“I don’t.”
Off leaned on the counter. “He’s not even trying to make you talk anymore, you know. He just yells on the timeline about how mysterious you are, then replies to your cat pics like they’re holy relics.”
“He’s exhausting.”
“He is,” Off agreed fondly. “But you haven’t blocked him.”
“I block people who matter less.”
Off whistled low. “That’s basically a love confession in First-speak.”
First glared. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re defensive. Which is also suspicious.”
“I will throw this bowl at your head.”
Off raised his hands, laughing. “Relax. I’m not going to tell him you almost smiled.”
“I didn’t smile.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Off said. He was already unlocking his phone. “Which is why I’m texting him right now to let him know you’re asking about his hoodie.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Too late.”
First reached across the counter—Off dodged, cackling as he sent the message.
Somewhere else, Gun was probably screaming into a pillow.
And unfortunately for First, Off was loving every second of it.
· · ·
Gun lay dramatically star-fished across his bed, one hand over his heart, the other scrolling on his phone while one of his cats (Mimi) gnawed gently on a sock beside him.
The moment Off’s text came through, he let out a strangled squeal.
[Papii 🐢💥]:
First asked about the hoodie 😌
Gun shot upright like he’d been electrocuted. “MIMI. DID YOU SEE THAT?! HE CARES.”
Mimi blinked, unimpressed.
Gun grabbed his phone and immediately hit the call button.
Off’s phone buzzed violently on the counter. Off answered without a word and put it on speaker.
“PAPII!! PUT HIM ON!! I HEARD EVERYTHING!! P’FIRST!! I—DID YOU WANT THE HOODIE?? DO YOU WANT TWO?? I CAN ADD EMBROIDERY—SOMETHING CUTE—A LITTLE PATCH THAT SAYS ‘PROPERTY OF MYSTERY CAT BOY’—I’M JUST SPITBALLING—"
First scowled at the phone. “You are unwell.”
Gun kept going like a freight train of glitter and energy. “OR I COULD MAKE YOU ONE THAT MATCHES! LIKE TWINS BUT COOL!! THE CATS CAN HIGH-FIVE—OR MAYBE FIST BUMP—AND THE HOODIES SAY 'SOUL MEOWTES'!
First looked to Off like he was asking for divine intervention.
“I barely even acknowledged that hoodie,” he muttered.
“He’s sketching it now. On an iPad. With sound effects.” Off said cheerfully.
“Do not enable this.”
“I’m not enabling anything,” Off said, barely holding back laughter. “I’m documenting history.”
Gun’s voice crackled from the phone again. “P’FIRST, IF YOU WANT THE HOODIE. SEND A CAT PHOTO. ACTUALLY, JUST BREATHING NEAR OFF WILL COUNT. OKAY BYE LOVE YOU—!”
Click. Call ended.
First sat in stunned silence.
Off, still smirking, sipped his tea. “So. Matching hoodies?”
“I will throw mine in a fire.”
“Uh-huh.”
First shoveled a large spoonful of rice into his mouth, aggressively chewing.
Off’s smile widened. “You’re going to wear it, aren’t you?”
“No,” First said, through gritted teeth.
But he was already thinking about which cat photo would actually look best printed on black cotton.
· · ·
The package arrived while First was on his way back from class.
He found it on the dorm’s front table—bright pink mailing bag, obnoxiously glittery sticker sealing it shut. His name written in bubble letters across the front in permanent marker, complete with two uneven hearts.
He stared at it like it might explode.
Off walked by, glanced at it, and said, “Oh no.”
First didn’t respond. Just picked it up like it weighed ten pounds and carried it into the dorm kitchen with the air of a man going to war.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the table, head in his hands, the opened bag in front of him. Inside: the hoodie.
Bright. Pink. Hoodie.
Not pastel. Not muted.
Blinding.
On the back was a cartoon calico cat, mid-pounce, wearing a little crown. Beneath it, embroidered in sparkly white thread:
"Property of the Mysterious Cat Whisperer"
The sleeves had paw prints on them. One side had a little sewn tag that read #GunApproved.
Taped to the folded hoodie was a sticky note.
P’First, BESTIE!!
I saw this color and IMMEDIATELY thought of you.
You will look STUNNING. Radiant.
Please wear it and send me a photo so I can die happy.
With love and glitter,
—Gun
First dragged his hand down his face. Then again. Then again, slower.
Off appeared in the doorway, holding a mug of tea and immediately bursting into laughter.
“Oh my god. He actually did it.”
“I’m not wearing this,” First muttered.
Off sat down across from him. “You kind of have to.”
“I will burn it.”
“You won’t.”
“I’ll donate it.”
“To who? A child with no sense of self-preservation?”
First glared at him. “Why does he think I’d wear this?”
“Because he lives in a world where you’re secretly soft and full of whimsy,” Off said, sipping his tea. “Also, because you never told him no.”
First leaned back in his chair, hoodie clutched in both hands like it had personally ruined his week. “I am going to lose my mind.”
“You already did. When you sent him that cat picture holding the flower. That’s when this started.”
“It was a good photo,” First snapped. Then added, under his breath, “Not pink hoodie good.”
Off was wheezing into his tea.
First held the hoodie up and stared at it like it might disappear if he hated it hard enough.
It didn’t.
He sighed, long and slow and full of existential dread. Then stood up, hoodie draped over his arm, and headed toward his room.
“You’re gonna try it on,” Off called after him.
“No I’m not.”
“You’re already planning which pants won’t clash with it!”
“Shut up.”
The door closed.
A moment later, muffled from behind it:
“…Why is it actually soft.”
Chapter 8: Chapter 8
Notes:
Good news guys, I've fully finished my story board and I'm 99.99999% certain this will be 80 chapters and no longer.
Anyway enjoy some training with Khaotung :)
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand May 2025-
Days later, the chaos with Gun had finally started to settle. The Twitter storms had died down to a drizzle of memes and edits, and Gun was too busy being Gun. Flamboyant and beloved to stir up much more drama. Khaotung had slipped comfortably back into his streaming routine, his face lit by the glow of LED lights and his chat filled with affectionate chaos. He was still his usual self: glittering with charisma, throwing out playful winks, teasing his viewers, laughing too loudly at his own jokes. On screen, everything looked fine.
But off camera, he was spiraling quietly, desperately, in the way only silence makes loud.
Sun had told him—assured him—that he’d already reached out to Tay. That Tay was aware of who Khaotung was and what he wanted, and that he’d be hearing from him within the week. But it had been days. Long, agonizing, refresh-your-email-every-fifteen-minutes days. And still, nothing.
No DM. No email. No cryptic friend request. No reply. Just the hollow quiet of waiting.
Khaotung was trying to play it cool, but the anticipation was starting to itch beneath his skin. He knew better than to pester. Sun had already gone out on a limb for him, but the what-ifs kept whispering in the back of his mind. What if P'Tay wasn’t interested? What if he didn’t think Khaotung was worth the time? What if he was watching his VODs and already making a list of all the reasons he’d fail the tryout?
He shook the thoughts away for the thousandth time and leaned closer to his screen, dazzling his chat with another grin. But even with his camera on and his chat racing, he couldn’t stop glancing at his phone.
Waiting.
· · ·
It happened on a Thursday afternoon, just as Khaotung was debating whether to take a nap or re-dye his roots for the third time that month. He was mid-scroll through a glitter eyeliner tutorial when his phone buzzed.
[Instagram DM from: Taytawan_]
Sun passed along your info. You free to hop on a call later today?
Khaotung dropped his phone. Actually dropped it. Right onto the floor. Montow, startled and bolted off the desk.
He dove for the phone like it was a bomb about to detonate.
Tay Tawan.
The coach. The esports coach. The man behind some of the most legendary strats in Southeast Asia and Europe. A consulting genius. The human spreadsheet with cheekbones.
He screamed into a pillow and then scrambled to reply.
[khaotungLIVE]:
YES! hi!! oh my god yes. thank you so much. i’m absolutely free. i have nothing going on. i canceled plans with my bubble tea for this.
He stared at that last sentence, wondering if he should delete it.
Too late.
[Taytawan_]:
Cool. 20 minutes. Be ready.
Khaotung threw himself into emergency chaos mode. He spritzed setting spray even though he wasn’t wearing makeup. Changed shirts twice. Wiped cat hair off his camera lens. Repositioned his background so his pastel wall of plushies looked more “quirky streamer” and less “unhinged child.”
By the time the call connected, he looked composed—mostly. His eyes were still sparkling with nerves and caffeine, and he might’ve been bouncing his knee hard enough to shake the desk.
Tay appeared on screen, expression neutral. Hoodie. Headset. No small talk.
“You’re N’Khaotung,” he said.
“Yes! Hi! Thank you again—I really appreciate this. I’ve followed your work for a while. Like, not in a weird way, just in a normal respectful-admiration-and-strategy-breakdown kind of way. Um. Sorry. I’m talking a lot.”
A brief pause.
“You are,” Tay said.
Khaotung winced. “Right. Noted. Less sparkle, more substance.”
That got the faintest twitch of Tay’s eyebrow.
“I hear you’re going for the Eclipse duelist tryout,” P'Tay said. “Sun says you’ve got potential. Also says you’re loud.”
Khaotung gasped. “LOUD?? I would say vibrant. And possibly iconic.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Fair enough,” Khaotung said brightly. “I’m just saying if you need someone to flash entry and do post-game interviews while wearing sequins, I’m right here.”
Tay blinked. “You’re aiming for a duelist slot, not a mascot.”
Khaotung sat up a little straighter. “I know. And I’m serious about it. I’ve been grinding aim trainers, ranked queues, replay reviews—I’ve got my weaknesses, but I’m not just a flashy streamer. I want to be on Eclipse because of what it means. Because of P’Gun. Because he made me believe someone like me had a place in this scene. And now I want to earn it.”
For the first time, Tay didn’t answer right away.
Finally: “You’re ambitious. That’s good. But Eclipse doesn’t care how charming you are. They want results.”
“Then let’s get to work,” Khaotung said, the smile still there, but steadier now. “Just, don’t make me uninstall my pink crosshair. It’s part of my soul.”
Tay exhaled slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was being trolled.
“I want to see your duelist instincts. We’ll start with a 1v1 custom tonight. Then review some of your ranked matches. If I think there’s something worth refining, I’ll say so. If I don’t…”
“You’ll tell me to go back to streaming with cat ears,” Khaotung finished with a grin.
Tay’s lips curved. Barely. “Something like that.”
“Great!” Khaotung said, already bouncing up. “Let me know what map. I’ll prep snacks. I mean strats. Sorry. Strats and snacks. We can do both.”
· · ·
By the time 9:00 PM rolled around, Khaotung was ready.
His room was lit in soft pinks and blues, Montow was asleep in her designated observation box, and his desk was stocked with exactly three mochi donuts (for morale). He’d tied his hair back, swapped to his noise-canceling headset, and even dimmed the ring light for a more serious gamer aesthetic.
[Taytawan] invited you to a custom match.
Map: Ascent. Mode: 1v1.
Khaotung clicked accept.
Tay was already waiting in a discord video call. “No agents, no abilities. Rifles only. First to 10.”
“Got it,” Khaotung said, cracking his knuckles. “Just you, me, and good old-fashioned click heads.”
“Exactly,” Tay replied. “Let’s see if you can.”
They loaded in.
At first, Khaotung played like he thought Tay expected—tight corners, rigid peeks, textbook control. He lost the first two rounds fast. Tay’s crosshair discipline was brutal, and he never missed a punish.
Khaotung narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Boring Khaotung isn’t cutting it.”
Tay didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
So Khaotung let loose.
Round three, he shifted. Still smart, still clean, but now with flair. A fake rotate, an off-angle crouch peek, a baited sound cue followed by a headshot through the pizza window on Mid.
“Nice shot,” Tay muttered.
Khaotung grinned. “You just got sparkled.”
By round six, it was tied 3–3. Tay began pushing harder, more aggressively, testing his reactions. Khaotung adapted fast. He wasn’t just fast on the trigger—he read rhythm. He baited patterns, broke them with weird tempo shifts, used movement like a feint. One round he jiggle peeked twice, ducked, and jumped the third time—hit a crisp one-tap on the way down.
“…You always play like this?” Tay asked.
“Like what?” Khaotung said, breathless and beaming.
“Like you’re dancing.”
Khaotung laughed bright and breathless. “That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever called me chaotic.”
And maybe the first time it felt like a compliment.
Round nine, Tay pushed from Market. Khaotung was already waiting. He didn’t take the shot right away. He waited, held the angle half a second longer than anyone else would, then flicked up the second Tay peeked with just the tiniest shoulder reveal.
Clack. Headshot.
“Match point,” Khaotung said, sing-song. “Feeling the pressure yet, Phi?”
“No,” Tay said, but there was the faintest edge to it now. He switched to Operator.
Khaotung blinked. “Wait—no abilities, but sniper is allowed?”
“I said ‘rifles only.’ Op’s a rifle.”
“You’re evil.”
“Prove me wrong.”
Final round. Khaotung didn’t rush. He crouch-walked through Mid, listening. Tay wasn’t A. He wasn’t on B stairs either. That meant—
Bang.
The shot missed. Just barely. It sang past Khaotung’s shoulder.
He ran.
Tay pushed. Khaotung planted himself just outside Pizza again. No bait this time. No movement trick. Just crosshair discipline.
Tay turned the corner.
Khaotung clicked first.
10–9. Victory.
Silence on voice for a second.
Then Tay exhaled. “Okay.”
Khaotung bit back a giggle. “Okay?”
“You’re flashy. But you commit with purpose. You know how to pressure, and you don’t panic when someone pushes you.”
“I panic a little,” Khaotung admitted. “But it looks good.”
There was a pause, then Tay said, “You’re not ready for Eclipse.”
Khaotung’s heart dropped.
“…Yet,” Tay finished.
“Oh my GOD—Phi!” Khaotung gasped, hands flying up to his face. “You can’t pause like that! I died and came back just now!”
“Good,” Tay said coolly. “You’ll need multiple lives if you want to make it through tryouts.”
And this time Khaotung swore he heard the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.
They stayed on a video call after the match.
Khaotung had slumped sideways in his chair, sipping boba triumphantly while Vaanjoy perched on his shoulder like a tiny judgmental coach. Tay, meanwhile, was scribbling something in a notebook—actual paper, which felt so intensely Tay it made Khaotung sit up straighter just looking at it.
“So,” Tay said, still not looking up, “you want in on Eclipse.”
“Yes,” Khaotung said, firm now. The glitter was still there in his voice, but it sparkled with steel underneath. “I want to prove I can be what they need—not just what fans want.”
Tay finally looked at him. “Then we do this right.”
He flipped to a new page in the notebook.
“Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Khaotung blinked. “Wait—is this… an actual training plan? Are you making me a training plan right now??”
“Would you rather I wing it with stickers and vibes?”
“Low-key? That’s how I’ve survived most of my adult life.”
Tay didn’t laugh, but his mouth twitched like it wanted to.
“You’ve got three weaknesses we’re addressing first,” Tay said. “One: inconsistency under long-game pressure. You spark in bursts—no pun intended—but you dip in focus if things go quiet.”
“I like to make things interesting,” Khaotung mumbled.
“Two: overuse of mechanical flourish. You waste movement where clean crosshair placement would do. Style doesn’t matter if you’re dead.”
“Rude but accurate.”
“And three: solo tunnel vision. You don’t always track the team’s tempo. If you want to play on Eclipse, you have to match First’s midlane calls in tempo and trust.”
Khaotung went still at that name. “You coach P’First?”
Tay’s pen paused for half a beat. “I know him well enough.”
Khaotung tilted his head, suspicious, but let it go. “Okay. So… what does fixing all that look like?”
Tay turned the notebook to the camera. A full schedule. Breakdown by day. VOD review blocks. Custom matches with training objectives. Targeted ranked soloQ challenges. Crosshair drills. Ego checks. Tactical replay study. A little section labeled “Mental endurance + tilt control.”
“Oh my god,” Khaotung whispered. “You made me a glitter bootcamp.”
“You want the slot, or not?”
Khaotung beamed. “I want it. I want it so bad.”
Tay nodded. “Then starting tomorrow, you do what I say. No excuses. No skipping drills. And when I say turn off the stream, you turn off the stream.”
Khaotung saluted. “Yes, Coach.”
“And Khaotung?”
“Mm?”
“No catchphrases during training matches.”
Khaotung gasped like he’d been stabbed. “You just got sparkled is part of my process!”
“Not anymore,” Tay said, standing to end the call. “Save it for the real stage.”
The screen went black.
And for once, Khaotung just sat there, quiet.
Focused.
· · ·
Two weeks into training, Khaotung had learned three things.
One: Coach was relentless.
Two: Vaanjoy could, in fact, lay directly on his keyboard and cause catastrophic crosshair placement.
And three: he was capable of more than he ever gave himself credit for.
It wasn’t even lunchtime, and he’d already run three soloQ games with absurdly specific goals—entry frags only on site B, two rounds minimum without using dash, “no ult until I say so” drills that made him scream into his hands. Tay hadn’t said a word during any of the games, just sat silently in the Discord channel like a hoodie-wearing reaper, pen scratching in the background.
Now they were deep into VOD review. Montow was curled in his lap like a loaf of judgment. Wires snaked beneath his desk. A can of sparkling lychee water sat unopened on his coaster.
“You held angle here for too long,” Tay said, circling the frozen frame on the screen. “Your Jett instincts want to dash, but you hesitated. If that was a scrim and First was mid-calling, you’d have gotten flamed in Thai and English.”
“I was waiting for the Viper wall,” Khaotung groaned.
“You did wait. And then you got wall-banged by a Silver smurf named BabyBoss420.”
Khaotung let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a scream. “Not him again…”
“Focus,” Tay snapped. “You’re improving. But you still autopilot when you get tired. You pace like a streamer, not a duelist.”
“I am a streamer,” Khaotung muttered into his sleeve.
“No,” Tay said sharply. “Not right now you’re not.”
Khaotung exhaled and reached down to stroke Montow, who flicked his tail like finally.
“Okay. What’s next? Let me guess—five-stack customs with no comms so I can practice my sixth sense?”
“No,” Tay said flatly. “That’s tomorrow.”
Khaotung blinked.
“…Wait. Really?”
“No. But thanks for the idea.”
Khaotung barked a laugh and shook his head. “Coach, you’re evil.”
“I’m effective.”
Tay finally closed the VOD and leaned back, folding his arms. For a moment, he just watched Khaotung. No notes, no feedback, just watching.
“You’re sharper than you were two weeks ago,” he said at last. “Cleaner spacing. Faster on-site reads. You’re not swinging like a content creator anymore.”
Khaotung lit up. “Is that your way of saying I’ve leveled up?”
“It’s my way of saying you’re almost ready.”
Khaotung’s heart skipped. “Almost?”
“There’s one more test I want to run.”
Tay’s tone changed, just enough to make Khaotung sit upright again.
“I reached out to someone,” he said. “To see if he’d be willing to hop into a game with you. I want to see if you can follow his tempo. Trust his reads. Play off his lead without second-guessing.”
“Who?” Khaotung asked, cautious but intrigued.
Tay just said, “You’ll know when he joins.”
Khaotung opened his mouth to protest and stopped. Because deep down, he knew. His stomach flipped.
He stared at Tay through the monitor, voice barely above a whisper.
“You didn’t—”
“I did.”
“Coach!!”
Tay smirked. “He said maybe.”
“Maybe?! I’ve been sweating through my pink mousepad for two weeks and you allowed P’First a maybe?!”
“Let’s see how tomorrow goes,” Tay said, already standing to end the call.
“Wait—do I look okay? Should I wash my hair? Should I rewatch his VODs? What if he thinks I’m too loud? What if he—”
Tay paused. “You should sleep. You’re twitching.”
“I’M NOT TWITCHING I’M—”
Call disconnected.
Khaotung stared at the empty screen.
Then looked down at Montow and Vaanjoy, both blinking at him with the slow, ancient patience of beings who have watched many mortals spiral before.
“…Okay,” he whispered. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I might play with First Kanaphan.”
Vaanjoy yawned.
Khaotung clapped his hands together, then face-planted dramatically into his desk.
· · ·
It was 2:13 a.m.
The room was dark except for the soft hum of his monitor, a galaxy screensaver drifting slowly across the screen.
Khaotung sat cross-legged on his desk chair in a pair of pink pajama shorts, oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. His makeup was long wiped away, and his hair was tied up in a lopsided bun that was slowly giving up the fight. Montow was curled in a loaf on his keyboard. Vaanjoy, ever the contrarian, had taken over the top shelf and was watching the room like a silent, judgmental god.
Khaotung stared at nothing.
Tomorrow, he might play with First.
First Kanaphan.
The player he’d studied obsessively over the last two weeks, whose movement he tried to read frame-by-frame, whose icy, effortless playstyle had always felt like watching a glacier carve through steel. Eclipse’s midlane star. The silent backbone of the entire team.
And Khaotung might be dropping into a match with him.
Not watching. Not analyzing. Playing.
He pressed his palms together in his lap, fingers twitching with nervous energy.
“I’m not ready,” he whispered into the dark.
Montow flicked an ear.
“I mean, I’m kind of ready. I’ve been training. I’ve been listening to coach. I’ve been not saying ‘you just got sparkled’ every single time I clutch—which, by the way, is physically painful.”
No response, of course. Just the whir of the fan and Vaanjoy shifting her weight with a low creak of wood.
“I just. What if I mess up? What if I choke and P’First thinks I’m just a glittery gimmick? What if I can’t keep up?”
His voice cracked at the end. Not a sob. Not quite. Just the edge of it.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead on Montow’s side, eyes squeezed shut.
“I really want this,” he whispered. “Not for the followers. Not even for the spotlight. I want this because it’s mine. Because I worked for it. Because I’ve never wanted anything this badly that wasn’t already out of reach.”
A long, quiet pause.
Then:
“I want to be the kind of player he trusts.”
That was the truth of it. The dream he’d never said out loud—not to Tay, not even to himself until now. It wasn’t fame he wanted.
It wasn’t praise.
He didn’t want to be noticed by First.
He wanted to be trusted by him. And the team.
The kind of teammate who didn’t need praise or spotlight. Just a nod. A glance. A “push now” in a quiet comms channel. Someone the team could rely on.
He stayed like that for a while. Still, quiet, breathing in the scent of cat fur and his lavender linen spray.
Then, slowly, he stood. He moved around the room, unplugged the strip light, pulled on a soft pink sleep mask. Set his alarm. Whispered, “Goodnight, Montow. Goodnight, Vaanjoy.”
And as he climbed into bed, curling beneath the covers with his heart still fluttering.
He thought: Tomorrow, I sparkle. But only if he lets me.
Chapter 9: Chapter 9
Notes:
This is pretty much just a filler chapter but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
—J
Chapter Text
-England 2021-
The dorm was louder than usual. JD and Arthur bickering over takeout, Win half-shouting into a headset about someone stealing his kill, and Off, sprawled across the carpet with a bowl of cereal, arguing with his laptop about ping. First sat tucked into his usual spot on the couch, one leg folded under him, eyes narrowed at his monitor.
The hum of their chaotic apartment faded into the background as soon as the match loaded.
Valorant.
He wasn’t supposed to care this much. It started out as something to do with Off—a casual distraction, something competitive they could both sink time into. Off had pulled him into it during midterms, claiming “a ten-minute game break is self-care,” which of course turned into hours of shouting, swearing, and eventually rank grinding. First hadn’t expected to like it. He didn’t expect to be good at it either.
But now?
Now he was in deep.
Not just deep into the game, but into everything around it. He was watching old tournament footage in his free time. Studying strategies. Noting when top-level players rotated, how they baited corners, how they used utilities to trap and flush and overwhelm. He’d started recording his own matches, replaying them in the dead of night when the dorm had quieted, analyzing every mistake, every near-win.
His aim was already sharp, years of muscle memory from childhood games. But it was his discipline that set him apart. He didn’t play to have fun. He played to win. And it showed. He was climbing the ranks faster than any of them, even Off.
And then, of course, Gun joined.
Off invited him casually, saying, “You know, my boyfriend’s been playing too. He’s not terrible. Super annoying, though. You’ll love it.”
First didn’t love it.
Gun was loud. Distracting. Talked too much.
But he was good. Smart. The kind of player who brought a team to life with fast calls and sharper instincts. And he clearly adored playing with First, even if First only ever gave him monosyllabic replies.
Still, they played well together. Annoyingly well. Their playstyles synced in a way First hadn’t anticipated. Gun was chaotic, yes, but flexible. And when he followed First’s lead, their matches turned into something sleek and nearly effortless.
First didn’t say it aloud, but something inside him clicked when they played. Not because of Gun. He refused to give Off the satisfaction of knowing that but because the game gave him structure, a rhythm, a goal he could control.
He started spending more and more time on it. Sneaking in games between lectures. Studying maps during lunch. Falling asleep with tournament replays playing from his phone, VODs still running when he woke up.
He wouldn’t have called it passion. That sounded too soft. Too emotional.
But maybe it was something close.
And it was starting to show.
Even Off had noticed.
“You know you’re starting to look like Gun when he talks about you, right?” Off teased one night, glancing over as First jotted down something in a worn-out notebook full of map callouts.
First didn’t respond.
He didn’t need to.
His rank was rising. His timing was improving. And for the first time in a long while, First felt like he was building something that was his.
Not for therapy. Not for recovery. Not for school.
Just for himself.
And he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.
· · ·
The silence between them stretched long after his psychiatrist finished speaking.
She had leaned forward in her chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, hands folded in her lap—not in a scolding way, but serious. Intent. The way someone looks when they’re about to give you medicine that tastes awful but might save your life.
“It sounds like you and Gun and Off are friends now, First,” she said again, her tone steady but firmer than usual. “Whether you want to admit it or not.”
First didn’t move. His hoodie sleeves were pushed over his knuckles, and he was methodically tugging at a loose thread in the cuff, pulling it out bit by bit like it might unravel his nerves before they burst.
She continued. “Over the years, I’ve tried not to push too much. That was intentional. You needed space. Trust. Control.”
He swallowed hard.
“But that’s changing,” she said. “You’re graduating. You’ll be moving back to Thailand soon. And I don’t want you to leave without the momentum you’ve earned. So I’m going to start pushing more. Intentionally.”
That fluttering sensation in his chest returned, wild and unwelcome. A familiar panic—like something was closing in. Like he was about to be cornered in a room with no door.
“Pushing how?” he asked, voice thin.
Her expression softened just a little, but not her resolve. “You’ve made progress, First. Real progress. But we’ve barely scratched the surface. There are pieces you avoid—parts of your past, your trauma, the motel nights you’ve referenced but won’t explain. We haven’t touched what it means to be touched.”
He flinched.
Not visibly. But enough for her to notice.
“And I know why,” she said gently. “Because naming those things makes them real. And for years, it’s felt safer to keep them locked away. But now you have anchors. People. Habits. Places where you feel safer. That means you’re stronger.”
He didn’t feel stronger.
He felt sick.
She noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers were now fisted in his hoodie like he could burrow into it. But still, she pressed on—softly, but clearly.
“I’m not trying to hurt you. But I’m not going to let you stay in the shallows when you’re ready to swim.”
First looked at her, and for a moment, he hated her for it. For the way she was right. For seeing through him so easily.
“But what if I’m not ready?” he whispered.
She tilted her head. “Then we’ll slow down. But we keep going. You’ve built walls high enough to keep the whole world out. I’m just asking you to crack a window.”
He stared at the floor, throat tight. He wanted to tell her he wasn’t scared. That he didn’t care. That the past was just that—past.
But he couldn’t lie to her. Not anymore.
So he nodded.
Barely.
And when he spoke again, it was like forcing air through a closed door.
“Okay.”
She smiled, not triumphant, but proud. The kind of pride that came from watching someone choose themselves, even when it hurt.
“Okay,” she echoed. “We’ll start next week. For now—thank you, First. For letting me see a little more.”
He didn’t respond. Just kept pulling at the thread in his hoodie, unraveling.
But maybe—, just maybe that was the start of something, too.
· · ·
The match lobby loaded in with a familiar mechanical chime, and First leaned back in his chair, one hand adjusting the mic on his headset. His screen flickered with the Valorant splash screen while the gentle hum of city noise floated in through his cracked window.
"Don’t instalock Duelist,” Tay’s voice crackled through the headset with the smug confidence of someone who had coached pro-level players on three continents. “You’re not that guy.”
“I am that guy,” First replied flatly, clicking his agent before Tay could protest. “You just don’t want to get carried.”
Tay chuckled. “Carried? Bold of you, considering you still peak your angles like you’ve never seen a flash in your life.”
First rolled his eyes. “And yet, I still have the higher rank.”
“Oof,” Tay said. “Wounding me in my professional heart. And here I was thinking of bringing you to Spain with me as my star player-slash-little brother mascot.”
“Not a chance,” First muttered, already buying armor. “I like countries where I don’t have to speak.”
“Spain has cats. You’d fit right in.”
First didn’t reply, but his silence wasn’t his usual clipped kind—it had just a thread of warmth braided into it. A subtle hum of gratitude, maybe, at the comfort of knowing Tay always showed up just when he needed a distraction the most.
They dropped into the round. The chaos began—flashbangs, callouts, Tay barking semi-helpful strategy and commentary like he couldn’t help himself.
“You can’t just dry peek that corner—”
“I did dry peek. And I got the kill.”
“Okay, yes, but that’s not the point—”
“You sound like one of those guys on YouTube who do the analysis videos with red circles and arrows. Except louder.”
Tay cackled. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t muted you.”
They played two full matches, bickering the whole way, but in the easy way that came from years of being tethered to each other through hell and back. Tay teased relentlessly—about First’s muted wardrobe, about the fact he had a literal folder of cat pictures on his desktop titled “confidential,” about how he still refused to talk to strangers even when he was top fragging.
But First took it all, parried every jab with a deadpan comeback, and even let out a soft huff of laughter once, which Tay pretended not to notice—but definitely did.
By the time they hit the end screen on the second game, First’s shoulders had loosened slightly. The dread about tomorrow hadn’t gone away—but it had quieted.
Just a bit.
Tay let the post-match screen idle and said, in a way that wasn’t teasing at all, “I’m proud of you, you know.”
First didn’t answer right away.
Then: “I know.”
A beat.
Then: “You’re still annoying.”
Tay smiled into his mic. “Love you too, my grumpy housecat.”
“Muted.”
And they queued for one more game.
· · ·
The game had ended hours ago.
First’s room was dim now, lit only by the glow of his monitor and the muted blue light from the router in the corner. His headset hung from the side of his chair, the mic still angled like he might speak into it again.
But the room was silent.
He’d minimized the Valorant client. Then Discord. Then Chrome.
Now he just stared at the desktop. Folder icons were scattered in his usual methodical chaos—notes from class, VOD reviews, match replays. The “confidential” folder sat innocently near the recycle bin, right next to another labeled “For Vet,” filled with blurry snapshots of the strays back home.
He didn’t click anything. Just sat there.
He could still hear Tay’s voice in the back of his head. That annoying, teasing warmth. The way it always filled the cracks before he realized they were even there. Tay had always been good at that—offering comfort without demanding anything in return.
But comfort only lasted so long.
His gaze shifted to the tiny clock in the top-right corner of his screen.
His session was tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.
First leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest like a shield. His knee bounced with restless energy he couldn’t place.
The session would be different. His psychiatrist had made that clear last week. She was done letting him live in surface-level safety. The word sexual trauma hadn’t been spoken yet, but it hung between them now like an invisible pressure. And he knew it was coming.
He also knew it would hurt.
He swallowed hard. Tilted his head back. Counted the slow spin of the ceiling fan. Tried to think of anything else.
The orange cat at the dorm.
The way its paws twitched when it dreamed.
The way Gun had once sent a sticker of a sparkly eggplant and said it looked like his aura (whatever that meant).
The way Tay used to hum old Thai rock songs while washing dishes, off-key but happy.
He clung to those scraps of comfort like a raft.
But still, the dread crept in—like water seeping under a locked door. The memories he kept buried weren’t just old. They were carved into him. They clung to his skin. And he wasn’t ready to peel them back, even if someone gentle was helping him do it.
His breathing picked up. Shallow. His fingers gripped the armrest.
What if I can’t say it out loud? What if I say too much? What if it changes how she looks at me?
He forced himself up. Walked to the window. Cracked it open.
Cold air met his skin. He let it bite.
And then, after a long moment, he grabbed his film camera off the shelf.
He didn’t know what time it was. Didn’t care.
He needed to see the cats.
The street was still asleep.
First moved like a shadow through the early morning hush, camera bag slung across his shoulder, hoodie zipped up tight. The sunrise hadn’t broken yet, but the world was soft with that pre-dawn gray, a kind of silence that felt less like emptiness and more like permission to breathe.
His shoes barely made a sound on the cobblestone path. He knew every crack by now, every uneven dip. This had become ritual: walking the quiet streets, keeping his eyes down, hands tucked into sleeves. No noise. No questions. Just the steady rhythm of moving forward.
The plant nursery came into view, tucked between two old brick buildings like a secret someone forgot to hide properly. Fences low, ivy creeping along the stone, and beyond the gate, his real reason for coming.
They were waiting for him.
Three of them, this time. The old black tom with the torn ear, curled on a broken flowerpot like he owned the place. The skittish gray kitten who bolted at the first sound, only to circle back when she recognized his scent. And the orange one—his favorite—already trotting toward him with a chirp that barely counted as a meow.
First crouched low, letting the cold seep through his knees.
The orange cat bumped its head against his hand.
“…Morning,” he muttered.
It sat, curled its tail around his ankle, and started purring like it had nothing better to do than be his anchor.
He set his camera down beside him and pulled out a crumpled paper bag. Tuna bits, warmed in his pocket, and a small bottle of water. As the cats gathered around, First relaxed. Just a little.
He watched them eat. Listened to the crunch of kibble and rustling leaves. Took slow, careful breaths.
This wasn’t escape.
It was control. A place where he got to choose the pace. Where nothing expected more than what he gave. Where silence didn’t mean discomfort. It meant safety.
He lifted his camera.
The shutter clicked softly.
First took photos not for beauty, but for memory. For proof. That they existed. That he could still feel something gentle in his chest. That softness didn’t have to hurt.
The orange cat, full now, climbed into his lap without asking.
He let it.
Ran a hand over its back, fingers slipping into fur the color of firelight.
His chest ached, but it was bearable.
“I have to go to therapy today.”
He stroked the cat again, slower this time.
“She wants to talk about things I don’t want to say.”
Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Notes:
Theres a possibility I finish the next chapter tonight and post as well but we'll see
Hope you enjoy this one :)
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand May 2025-
10:04 a.m.
Khaotung had been awake since 7.
Not from an alarm, his anxiety had jolted him awake like a divine notification. Good morning, bestie! Today might change your life!
Now he was multitasking at Olympic levels.
The kitchen smelled like garlic and soy sauce. He was standing in bunny slippers and an oversized “I Sparkle Under Pressure” hoodie, flipping tofu in a pan with one hand while his tablet played a First VOD on the counter beside him.
“I swear he breathes at a different tempo than everyone else,” Khaotung muttered to Montow, who was stalking a piece of lettuce on the floor. “Like, look at this—he clears this corner, hears one phantom footstep, and immediately pushes heaven without a single comm. It’s like he knows. Like he feels the game in his bones.”
The tofu popped. Khaotung yelped and flung a piece across the stove. “Rude!”
He snatched the tablet off the counter and carried it into the living room, plating his food with one hand while wiping crumbs from his desk with a pink microfiber cloth in the other. He was in full nervous sparkle mode organizing his cables, brushing cat fur from his mic, lighting a vanilla candle, and playing First’s voice lines over and over like affirmations.
“‘Mid’s slow, don’t peek yet.’ Ugh. Sexy. Calm. Terrifying,” he said, dramatically flopping into his chair.
His phone started buzzing on the desk.
[PIM💋 CALLING]
“Yesss?” he sang, answering on speaker while spearing a bite of tofu.
“Khaotung. Did you sleep?” came Pim’s voice, raspy with too much Red Bull and not enough water.
“Define ‘sleep.’”
“Oh my god,” she groaned. “You didn’t, did you? You’re going to be cracked-out and delusional and you’ll say something cursed in front of First Kanaphan. I know you.”
“I am composed. I am prepared. I am centered in my duelist era,” he said, chewing aggressively. “And it’s P’First, thank you.”
“Oh, so we’re using honorifics now?”
“Girl, I’m not trying to haunt my own career. I have manners.”
Pim cackled. “You sound deranged. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m watching his Haven VOD from that scrim last month,” Khaotung said, switching the call to his earbuds. “I think he anchors his comms more than people realize. It’s not just about timing—it’s about trust. If he says wait, people wait. I want to be someone he says go to. You know?”
There was a pause on the line.
“Damn,” Pim said. “That’s hot. In, like, an emotionally mature way.”
“I’m so serious right now.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m calling. You’re going to be great, okay? You’ve been training your little gay heart out. You sparkle and you shoot. That’s the whole package.”
Khaotung smiled, softening. “Thanks, Pim.”
“You’re welcome. And when you make the team, please remember to get me Eclipse merch and a selfie with Gun. Preferably shirtless.”
He snorted. “Literally never happening.”
“I believe in you. Now go drink water, or I swear to god—”
“I’m drinking lychee water.”
“That’s soda, you maniac.”
“Bye, Pim,” he said, grinning.
“SPARKLE WITH VIOLENCE, BITCH—”
Click.
Khaotung set his phone down and stared at the screen in front of him. The VOD was still playing. First had just clutched a 1v3 in A site like it was nothing.
Khaotung exhaled, straightened his spine, and whispered:
“Okay. I’m ready. Let’s dance.”
· · ·
“Again.”
“Coach, I literally can’t feel my wrist—”
“Again.”
Khaotung let out a high-pitched wail and slammed his forehead dramatically against his desk. “I’m too pretty to aim like this!”
Tay didn’t even blink. “Beauty fades. Aim tracking lasts forever.”
They were deep into Aim Lab customs, Khaotung’s third hour of coaching drills that morning. He was currently running “strafe-react-flick” and talking through his movement patterns while Tay watched his screen via Discord, arms crossed like a hoodie-wearing judgment deity.
“Look,” Khaotung said between bursts, “you’re a good coach like, emotionally damaging in a formative way, but this exercise? This is just bullying.”
“It’s not bullying,” Tay replied calmly. “It’s accountability.”
“IT’S CRUELTY.”
“Hit 70% accuracy and I’ll let you take a hydration break.”
Khaotung gasped. “You’re holding water hostage?! What kind of dystopian sparkle bootcamp is this?!”
“You’re not sparkling,” Tay said. “You’re flailing.”
“OH MY GOD—”
“Eyes up. Reset your crosshair. Shoulders down. Breathe.”
Despite everything, Khaotung followed the instructions. Shoulders dropped. Hands steadied. Flicks tightened. The next five rounds were better. Not perfect but cleaner. Calmer. Controlled.
“Okay,” Tay said eventually. “Not terrible.”
“Please,” Khaotung croaked. “Say something nice before I wither into glitter dust.”
Tay raised an eyebrow. “Your reaction time is slightly less tragic than it was yesterday.”
Khaotung beamed. “That’s the meanest compliment I’ve ever loved.”
“I can take it back.”
“No, please. I’ll frame it.”
Tay finally leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You know, most of my students burn out by week one.”
“I thrive on chaos, Coach. And boba. And fear.”
There was a ping on Tay’s end, subtle, but enough to shift his expression. He checked something offscreen, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Wait,” Khaotung said, narrowing his eyes. “Was that a notification face?”
“It was nothing,” Tay said, clearly lying.
Khaotung shot upright in his chair. “Was that him? Is P’First typing? Is he—”
“I said it was nothing.”
“Oh my god, P’First is typing right now. He’s looking at his calendar, wondering if he has time to emotionally devastate a little duelist hopeful—”
“Khaotung.”
“I need to put on mascara—”
“You need to breathe.”
Khaotung flopped back into his chair and grabbed Vaanjoy for moral support. “This is torture. This is actually the plot of a very specific genre of fanfiction.”
“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what that means.”
“I just think if I die from nerves today, I want you to avenge me. And also delete my drafts folder.”
Tay pinched the bridge of his nose again. “We’re doing post-plant retakes after this.”
“COACH—”
“Emotionally prepare yourself.”
“You’re a monster and I respect you.”
“And you’re late on your reload timing,” Tay said with a shrug. “Now go drink actual water before your brain short-circuits.”
Khaotung slumped offscreen, whining all the way to the kitchen.
Tay watched the shared screen for a moment longer, then turned back to his messages.
[First 🐈]
what time is the scrim with your glitter boy?
[taytawan_]
2 p.m.
you in?
[First 🐈]
maybe.
depends if he’s annoying. 😐
Tay smirked.
“Oh, he absolutely is.”
The custom scrim lobby loaded in with a soft mechanical chime and a waiting screen of muted greys and oranges. Khaotung adjusted his headset, cracked his knuckles, and spun once in his chair just to shake the nerves out of his limbs.
Vaanjoy batted at his elbow. Montow yawned from the corner of the desk.
Tay's voice came through Discord. “Mic check.”
“Loud and fabulous, Coach,” Khaotung chirped. “Also since we don’t know if P’First is actually showing, can I stream this one?”
Tay paused. “To the public?”
“Yeah. I’ve been MIA for a couple days and my followers are starting to think I ran away to become a monk or got kidnapped by a cult. I promised someone a cat-cam mukbang and everything.”
“This isn’t a casual warmup. It’s a test lobby.”
“I know,” Khaotung said, already fiddling with his overlay. “But my overlay’s clean, and I’ll set chat to slow-mode. Plus, if P’First does show up, I’ll pretend not to recognize him and cry off-camera. See? Professional.”
A beat of silence.
“…Fine,” Tay muttered. “Keep it lowkey. And if you say ‘you just got sparkled’ before the post-match screen, I’m cutting the internet to your building.”
Khaotung gave a mock salute. “Sir, yes sir. Glitter ghost mode: engaged.”
He went live with a soft animation of sparkles and a “Welcome back, my legends ✨” jingle. His chat immediately exploded with hearts and emojis and:
@knees4khao: “MISS U SPARKLE KING”
@eclipsedagain: “WHO’S THAT VOICE IN VC 👀”
@offsnosefanacc: “WHY R U SO SWEATY ALREADY”
@princessdefender88: “OMG HE’S BACK WITH THE CATS”
@deaglewithheels: “TOURNAMENT ARC??”
“Hi hi,” Khaotung said sweetly into the mic. “Yes, I’ve been training. No, I haven’t died. And yes, Montow is supervising.”
Tay was loading in the other players now, two mid-ranked duelists for pressure testing, a controller from Eclipse’s feeder team, and a support Tay had pulled from his coaching server. Everyone joined voice, and Khaotung flipped quickly into game mode, his voice going a little lower, a little more grounded.
Ten minutes in, they were still running custom warm-up rounds.
Khaotung had just dashed onto A site and called for an early rotate when Tay’s camera flickered slightly. On Tay’s end, his phone buzzed once against the desk. He looked down.
[First 🐈]
got 45 mins.
send me the invite.
let’s see the glitter boy.
Tay smiled, just a little.
He opened the player slot and typed quietly into Discord:
[TayTawan_]
Don’t scream.
First is joining.
here was a half-second delay, and then:
[GlitterShot]:
COACH
COACH
COACH YOU’RE JOKING
I’M NOT WEARING MASCARA
His stream chat noticed the sudden shift.
@princessdefender88: “WHY IS HE TYPING LIKE THAT”
@streamsnacc69: “WHO’S JOINING??”
@bombplantedbtches: “DON’T PLAY W US LIKE THIS”
@eclipsedagain: “IS IT GUN”
@firstwatchmods: “IS IT FIRST???”
@clawmebaby: “SOMEONE GET THE DEFIBRILLATOR”
Khaotung yanked his hoodie over his head and screamed silently into it.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself, reemerging. “Okay. Sparkle with dignity. Sparkle with dignity. Be normal.”
Then the player slot blinked.
[F1RSTBLOOD has joined the lobby]
There was no fanfare. No intro. Just the sound of someone joining the discord call.
Then a quiet mic check:
“…Yo.”
Khaotung froze.
That voice.
Low. Even. Precise. Exactly like his replays. Exactly like the comms he’d memorized. Exactly like the voice that had guided Eclipse through their last LAN clutch like a stormcaller with a mouse.
“…Hi,” Khaotung squeaked.
Tay’s voice came through next, perfectly dry.
“Everyone ready?”
They queued a match on Haven.
Khaotung flexed his fingers over his keys, heart hammering. His stream overlay flickered briefly as the game loaded in. Cat-cam in the bottom right, Montow already asleep in frame, Vaanjoy lurking judgmentally in the background like a fluffy sniper.
“Okay, my sparkly demons,” Khaotung whispered to his chat, barely keeping still. “This is not a drill. Coach let me stream this scrim. And yes—I might be playing with P’First Kanaphan. I am very normal about it. Completely calm.”
@montowmains: “NORMAL = LIE”
@catcamnow: “he’s gonna implode live”
@offsnosefanacc: “P’FIRST???? 👀👀👀”
@purring4khao: “GLITTER BOY GET UR HEAD IN THE GAME”
@glittermafia: “streaming this is BRAVE”
@cryingincornerAA: “DO NOT CRY”
His voice rang out over the comms. Low. Steady.
[FIRST 🐈]
“Jett, take Garage first. Hold until I call rotate.”
The chat exploded.
@offsnosefanacc: “THAT’S HIM”
@guniversecore: “OMG HE’S ACTUALLY HERE”
@bombplantedbtches:“HIS VOICE HIS VOICE HIS VOICE”
@montowmains: “you better not embarrass us 😭”
@firstwatchmods: “CALL HIM P’FIRST U RAISED RIGHT”
“Yes, P’First,” Khaotung said brightly, before dashing into Garage like a man possessed by glitter and tactical discipline.
Round one: entry pick.
Round two: traded early, but nailed the rotate timing.
Round three: 1v2 clutch with 6 HP and no updrafts. He hit the last headshot, leaned back in his chair, and whispered:
“You just got sparkled.”
@pillowbiter420: “HE SAID THE LINE”
@glittermafia: “SPARKLED 😭😭😭😭😭”
@princessdefender88: “I’M SOBBING”
@iliveinrankedhell: “THIS IS HISTORY”
“Mic discipline,” Tay barked.
“I whiffed the mute button, I’m sorry, muscle memory!”
[FIRST 🐈]
“…Did he say ‘sparkled’?”
“Confirmed,” Tay said dryly. “He’s brand safe. Barely.”
“I’m very sparkly,” Khaotung replied. “But I’m also very serious, P’First. I contain multitudes.”
Round four. C push.
[FIRST 🐈]
“Wait. Let Skye throw dog, then peek.”
“I am the dog,” Khaotung whispered to stream.
@knees4khao: “💀💀💀💀💀💀”
@chatplsbehave: “pls you’re on comms with a legend”
@iliveinrankedhell: “YOU CANNOT BE BARKING RN”
@feralforesight: “U BETTER HIT THIS SHOT”
He peeked at the perfect timing and hit a clean double kill mirroring the exact angle from one of First’s old VODs.
The round ended. Clean plant. Team save.
[TayTawan_]
“Midway check-in. Khaotung, good tracking. Don’t autopilot. Let First lead.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Also,” Tay added, “stop humming after you get a headshot.”
“I’m manifesting rhythm—”
“You sound like a Lo-Fi playlist with trauma.”
@emotionalsupportult: “LO-FI PLAYLIST WITH TRAUMA 💀”
@chatplsbehave: “Coach needs to write a memoir”
@pastelpanicmode: “I AM WHEEZING”
@glittermafia: “manifesting rhythm is my new coping mechanism”
[FIRST 🐈]
“Let him hum.”
Chat froze.
So did Khaotung.
“…What?” he squeaked.
“I can hear the rhythm in it,” First said. “It’s weird, but it works.”
Khaotung pressed a hand over his mouth.
“P’First, I need you to understand that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me and I might cry.”
“You cry mid-game, I’m muting you,” Tay replied flatly.
“You’ll have to pry the glitter from my cold, top-fragging hands.”
@stimulantgremlin: “WE’RE WITNESSING HISTORY”
@teabags4hope: “FIRST LIKES THE HUMMING”
@pastelpanicmode: “SOMEONE CHECK ON HIM”
@knees4khao: “SPARKLE KING AND ICE PRINCE DUO???”
Round five loaded in.
And this time, Khaotung wasn’t playing to prove anything.
He was playing to connect.
With First.
And somehow… he was keeping up.
Round Seven – Haven, Mid Push
Khaotung’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears. They were down 3–3, and the team had rotated heavy to B for the last few rounds. Tonight, he scrapped the script.
He whispered into comms. “P’First, I’m thinking split-mid. I can smoke Garage, dash Mid doors, flash for entry. If you push from Short, we pinch.”
His pulse pounded. No textbook angle, no pre-approved strat. Just instinct mixed with glitter and hope.
@stimulantgremlin: “WHAT DID HE JUST SAY”
@cryingincornerAA: “SPRINTING INTO DANGER”
@clawmebaby “DON’T DO IT”
@glittermafia: “GLITTER RISK = HIGH REWARD”
Silence from Tay. Silence from the other teammates, who were probably screaming internally.
Then…
[FIRST 🐈]
“Go. I’m holding Short.”
Just four words. But everything changed in them.
Khaotung swallowed and clicked in.
He tossed the smoke, then flashed overhead and stepped through the doors, darting across Mid like liquid neon. Sure enough, an Operator crackled from Garage, they traded, he dodged, got tagged by a second shot—but he landed on Platform.
He peeked left, right and spotted an enemy CT by Window.
He whispered: “On me.”
[FIRST 🐈]
“Push through. Go.”
They hit together like a coordinated wave. First cleared Short, Khaotung cleared Mid. Triple kill.
The round ended in a plant, squeaky-clear post-plant setup.
Khaotung’s hands shook but he looked at the feed. No cringe in First’s voice, no “I told you not to” just calm.
[FIRST 🐈]
“Nice read.”
Even Tay was silent.
@nametoochaotic: “ARE THEY TELEPATHIC”
@princessdefender88: “BEST DUO IN SA???”
@litterboxlurker: “P’FIRST TRUSTED HIM!!!!!!!!”
@glittermafia: “KHAOTUNG YOU ABSOLUTE UNIT”
Khaotung exhaled, chest tight with something fierce and sparkling.
“…Thank you, P’First.”
[FIRST 🐈]
“No sparkles—just plays.”
Khaotung’s smile was pure pride—and relief that his chaos had been seen as strength, not showmanship.
· · ·
Match Over.
Victory: 13–7.
Khaotung stayed frozen in place, blinking at the scoreboard.
He had survived.
He had sparkled.
He had not burst into tears on camera. (Barely.)
Chat was going wild.
@kdaenjoyer: “SPARKLE KING WIN”
@kneadtoheal: “I NEED A COMPILATION OF THAT GAME YESTERDAY”
@pillowbiter420:“TOP FRAG DUELIST ERAA!!!”
@feralforesight: “WE SAW THE SHIFT. HE’S NOT JUST CUTE, HE’S COMPETENT”
@glittermafia: “HE GOT TRUSTED BY THE ICE PRINCE 😭”
Comms clicked on one by one.
[Skye]
“Yo, that pinch mid was actually nasty. Who called that?”
Khaotung raised a tired hand. “Guilty.”
[Breach]
“Damn. I was ready to flame your entry pathing but you actually baited the Op perfectly.”
[FIRST 🐈]
“...It was fine.”
Khaotung’s heart did a little flop.
He glanced at his chat with a faint, sheepish grin.
@glittermafia: “FINE???”
@emotionalsupportult:“HELLO? KING I NEED MORE THAN THAT”
@pastelpanicmode: “ICE PRINCE BACK AT IT AGAIN”
@babygirlofvalor: “HE SAID ‘it was fine’ AND YOU’RE MELTING ANYWAY”
@kneadtoheal: “BEGGING FOR HIM TO CALL YOU MID AT THIS POINT”
“Thank you, P’First,” Khaotung said lightly. “I’ll treasure that lukewarm praise in my scrapbook.”
There was no reply.
First had already disconnected.
The lobby dropped to just him, Tay, and the team fill-ins. Khaotung saw it, felt it, clocked it—First didn’t stick around for post-match banter. He came, he led, he left.
Cold. But not unkind.
It wasn’t personal. It was… professional. And maybe, just maybe, that was a good sign.
He turned back to his stream.
“Alright, my sparkles,” he said, flashing a peace sign. “Today was… a lot. I can’t say anything official yet, so don’t go making fan edits, yet. But just know that your boy is fighting for this. For real. For me.”
He held up Montow like a trophy. “Say bye, my little glitter goblin.”
Montow meowed once and tried to climb up his face.
“Okay—okay—stream’s over, I love you, hydrate and scream responsibly.”
He hit the button.
Stream offline.
The silence was instant. Sharp. Real.
Khaotung exhaled, rolling his neck.
“Coach?” he said, softly.
Tay hadn’t spoken since the scoreboard came up. He’d stayed on the call, silent. Watching. Probably writing five paragraphs of internal notes.
Now he spoke calm and even.
“You held up.”
“That’s not a final verdict,” Khaotung said carefully.
“No. It’s not.” Tay paused. “Because I don’t want to hype you up. Not until it’s earned. But—”
Another pause.
“You did well.”
Khaotung’s chest tightened. Not because it was so warm, but because it was real. Tay didn’t hand out praise. He made people earn it. That made it worth something.
“Thank you, Coach.”
Tay didn’t say anything else right away. But there was a weight to the silence that didn’t feel like judgment. Just… reflection.
“Take the rest of the night off,” Tay said eventually. “I’ll message you in the morning. And Khaotung?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let your stream distract you from what you’re actually building here.”
“I won’t.”
Tay logged off.
Khaotung stayed seated, staring at the now-empty call. Then leaned back slowly, arms behind his head, gaze flicking up to the ceiling.
Outside, his chat was gone.
First was gone.
Tay was gone.
But inside? He’d never felt more seen.
It wasn’t just that First played with him. It was that he listened. Trusted. And that trust meant more than any praise.
Chapter 11: Chapter 11
Notes:
*Trigger warning this chapter mentions sexual assault.
This is the longest chapter I have written, I edited and rewrote it so many times and still couldn't bear to make it any shorter. I still feel like it's missing something or maybe I should have gone deeper into First's trauma instead of moving onto the drama with Off and Gun, but I had to stop myself so I can move onto editing and finishing the next one. I'm about 4 chapters ahead right now, they still need alot of editing and adjustments so I'm forcing myself to just move on.
Anyway I hope you guys like this one, I'll be back in 3-4 days :)
-J
Chapter Text
-England 2021-
First’s hands were practically drenched, sweat slicking his palms, soaked through the sleeves of the navy sweater he kept pulling over them like a shield. His fists were clenched tight in the fabric, knuckles pale from the pressure. His chest rose and fell too quickly. Breath after breath, shallow and uneven.
“First,” his psychiatrist said softly, “you need to take a deep breath.”
He nodded, barely, as if anything bigger might break him. He inhaled through his nose, counting to ten like she’d taught him. His shoulders shook a little with the effort, but he exhaled slowly, matching the count.
“Good,” she murmured. “That’s good.”
His eyes stayed fixed on the corner of the room. A safe spot. Clean. Unmoving. He couldn’t look at her, not yet.
“We don’t have to dig too deep today,” she said. Her voice was calm, almost matter-of-fact, but there was warmth in it too. “Just the surface. Whatever comes first. We’re not going to stay long.”
First nodded again, tighter this time, like it hurt. His mouth opened before he realized it.
“The motel,” he rasped.
A silence fell between them. Not uncomfortable. Just… waiting.
“Start there,” she said gently. “Anything. Whatever rises first.”
He didn’t have to think. The memory came on its own—like a cold wave over his skin.
His body went stiff.
“The hands,” he choked out, voice barely more than a whisper. “It was the hands.”
His psychiatrist didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just waited.
Letting him name it.
Letting him carry it to the surface without interruption.
“They were—” His jaw clenched. His eyes shut tight. Like the act of remembering might blind him.
“Too many,” he finally said.
His breathing hitched.
One hand came up to his throat—hesitant, shaking—fingers pressing into the skin like he could force the feeling down. Like he could scrape the memory off from the inside.
“I didn’t even know who they belonged to,” he whispered. “Just… hands. And breathing. And the lights—”
His voice faltered.
He folded in, shoulders curling forward like the weight had returned all at once.
“The lights were always on,” he said, smaller now. “Always.”
A long silence.
Then, broken:
“And I never—” His voice cracked. “I never wanted it.”
He needed her to hear that. To believe it. Even if he still didn’t.
His arms wrapped tighter around his knees.
“They laughed,” he said. “They laughed at me. Said they could tell I actually wanted it. That I was just playing hard to get.”
A shudder went through him.
“They told me my body couldn’t lie. That how I reacted was the truth. That I couldn’t hide it, no matter what I said.”
He dug his nails into the hem of his sleeve.
“And I hated them for it,” he whispered. “But I hated myself more.”
The silence after that was heavy. But not punishing.
His psychiatrist didn’t rush in. Didn’t drown his pain in reassurances.
Her pen didn’t move.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady.
“First…”
He didn’t look up.
“I want to remind you that you’re safe here,” she said. “You’re not back there. You’re not trapped. And you’re not alone.”
He nodded again. Smaller this time. The tears hadn’t fallen, but his eyes were glassy.
“We’re here so you can start learning how to live after it. That’s all.”
He swallowed thickly. His voice barely carried across the space.
“I hate when people touch me now.”
“I know,” she said, and the words weren’t pitying. They were steady. Acknowledging. “And that makes sense. That’s your body trying to protect you.”
“I don’t want it to,” he whispered. “Not all the time.”
“I understand,” she said. “And I think we can work toward helping you feel safe again. Slowly. On your terms.”
He shifted slightly, curling tighter into himself, but nodded.
She gave him space to breathe.
Then, after a long silence, she said, “Can I say something difficult?”
His eyes flicked up briefly.
“I think it matters,” she said carefully, “that your body did react. That it tried to survive the only way it could.”
He looked away again.
“That doesn’t mean you wanted it, First. That doesn’t mean they were right. It means your nervous system didn’t get a choice. And it did what it had to do to keep you alive.”
His breath hitched.
“And you did stay alive,” she said. “You’re here. Talking to me. Naming things that were never your fault.”
His chest stung.
“I hated that part of me,” he whispered. “The one that didn’t fight.”
She didn’t look away.
“I know,” she said. “But that part deserves gentleness. It fought in its own way. And it got you home.”
He covered his face again.
And this time, he cried.
Not the explosive kind. Not sobs.
Just soft, silent tears that ran down his cheeks and soaked into the hem of his hoodie sleeve.
His psychiatrist let him have the silence.
Let him cry without interruption, without shame.
And when his breathing finally steadied, when the tremble in his shoulders eased just slightly, she said:
“I want you to remember something.”
He blinked at her.
“You didn’t survive because you were weak. You survived because you’re still here. And that’s not something to hate.”
Then, after a pause: “I didn’t think I’d ever talk about it.”
She smiled softly. “You just did.”
The silence held between them for a while after. Not heavy, just quiet. Necessary.
First had folded his arms tightly around himself again but he wasn’t shaking anymore. Just still. Like the ache in his chest had nowhere else to go now that it had a name.
His psychiatrist leaned forward slightly, her tone even and gentle. “Can I ask you something, First?”
He didn’t look up, but he gave a nod. Permission.
“Has there ever been a time, since your captivity ended… where someone touched you—affectionately, I mean—and you didn’t feel unsafe? Or disgusted?”
Her words hung in the air like smoke. He didn’t answer right away.
She didn’t rush him.
His fingers twitched, like the thought itself made his skin uncertain. But eventually, he nodded again. Just once.
“Yes.”
Her eyes stayed soft, but she sat a little straighter, more alert now. “Can you tell me about it?”
He hesitated. The memory floated in uninvited. It wasn’t vivid, not like the motel. Just a blur of sound and light. A moment tucked into the margins.
“…Off,” he said finally.
She waited.
“He… hugged me. Once. After a match.” His voice was flat, but not cold. “I got MVP. First time. He just. He was excited. Grabbed me and lifted me off the ground for a second.”
He let out a breath like he still didn’t know how to feel about it. “I didn’t like it. But I didn’t feel… bad.”
“Not panicked?” she asked gently.
He shook his head. “No. Just… awkward. But not in the way that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.”
“Uncomfortable, but tolerable?”
He thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s good, First. That’s really good.”
He blinked at her, skeptical. “Why?”
“Because it means your body is learning to distinguish,” she said. “Between threat and affection. Between then and now.”
He didn’t respond, but his hands unclenched slightly in his sleeves.
“It doesn’t have to be joy,” she added. “You don’t have to love it. But feeling not scared is a start. And if Off is someone you feel that around, maybe that’s a place we can build from.”
“I’m not hugging him again,” First muttered.
She smiled, not pushing further. “I didn’t say you had to. I just think it’s important that you noticed the difference.”
First shifted in his seat, looking down. “He said I flinched, but not as much as he expected.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
He was quiet. Then: “…Like he sees me more than I thought.”
His psychiatrist nodded slowly, scribbling something in her notes. “That’s progress too.”
First didn’t respond, but for the first time since he walked in, he wasn’t dreading the next session quite as much.
· · ·
If anyone had told First he was about to say something like this—even just a month ago—he would’ve laughed, then left the room. Or slapped them. Probably both. He didn’t say things like this. Not aloud. Not seriously.
But the words were leaving his mouth anyway, like they’d been waiting too long.
“Off,” he said, not looking away from the TV, thumbs flying over the controller. “You’re… my best friend.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Off’s in-game character ran directly off the platform and plummeted to their death.
First’s eyes flicked sideways. Off was staring at him, mouth dropped open like someone had just smacked him with a rolled-up diploma.
“Wait,” Off gasped. “Wait, wait. You’re joking.”
First didn’t blink. “No.”
“You’re serious?!”
“Don’t make it weird,” First muttered.
Off dropped his controller into his lap like it was no longer worthy of attention. “Did someone record this? Is there a camera? JD! WIN! SOMEONE COME WITNESS THIS HISTORICAL EMOTIONAL MOMENT FIRST CALLED ME HIS BEST FRIEND.”
First sighed heavily. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t!” Off crowed, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to his chest like he was physically overwhelmed. “You love me. You chose me.”
“It’s a functional title,” First said dryly. “You’re the only person I talk to more than once a week.”
“That’s not how friendship works, you emotionally constipated turnip!”
First paused the game. “Did you just call me a turnip?”
“Yes! A sentimental turnip! I knew all that cat content was eroding your icy exterior. First Kanaphan: cold-hearted gamer boy turned mushy emotional bestie—film at eleven.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” First muttered, but his voice was too flat to be truly annoyed.
Off leaned dramatically against the couch, still holding the pillow like it was his award. “Gun is going to sob when he finds out. He’s been begging for crumbs of affection, and I got the whole cake. I win. Me.”
“He won’t find out,” First said darkly.
“I’m telling him.”
“You’re not.”
“He’s going to write a song about it, First.”
“I will delete you from my life.”
“Too late! You said it.”
First picked up his controller again and resumed the game, voice cool as ever. “Say anything to Gun and I will change my number and move to the woods.”
“You’d miss me in two days.”
“…Three,” First muttered.
Off smiled so wide his face almost cracked. “I’m putting that on a t-shirt.”
· · ·
The next morning, First was attempting peace.
He was curled up on the couch, tea in hand, wearing the hoodie Gun sent him—inside out, thank you very much—when Off strolled in like a man with a secret. He had that grin again. The dangerous one.
“You look rested,” Off said casually, sitting next to him.
“I’m trying to be,” First replied without looking up.
Off slid his phone across the table like he was placing an offering at a shrine.
“You’re gonna want to see this.”
First narrowed his eyes, sipped his tea, and tapped play.
And then—
Gun’s blotchy, tear-streaked face filled the screen, framed by chaos and what looked like a crushed Hello Kitty sleep mask in the background. The video panned as Gun flung himself onto the floor mid-rant.
“P’FIRST I GAVE YOU A HOODIE—”
It only got louder. More dramatic. At one point, Gun threw a glittery notebook against the wall and shouted something about fan art of his own betrayal.
First stared.
Then blinked.
Then slowly turned to Off. “Why.”
“He said he’s gonna make a diss track,” Off offered, biting back a laugh.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“I thought you might care.”
“I don’t.”
Off raised an eyebrow. “You wore the hoodie.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“It’s bright pink.”
“It was dark when I got dressed.”
Off leaned back, triumphant. “He said he’s going to start replying to your cat photos with a thumbs up emoji. That’s how serious this is.”
First sipped his tea again. “Good.”
“That’s emotional warfare.”
“Then he’ll lose.”
Off grinned. “You like him.”
“No.”
“You do. You’re just mad he got attached faster.”
“I am mad because I said one stupid sentence and now you’re showing me a grown man crying over it in Hello Kitty pajamas.”
“He also texted me ‘he’s yours now.’”
First gave him a long, slow look. “I will actually block both of you.”
“You won’t.”
“I have before.”
“But not him.”
First went silent.
Off’s grin widened.
“Tell N’Gun,” First said at last, monotone, “if he tries to embroider my face on anything again, I’m filing a cease and desist.”
Off was already typing.
· · ·
@GunTheGreat
First sent me another cat.
I’m replying with 👍 only from now on.
That’s all he deserves.
No sparkles. No 🐾.
Just corporate coldness.
Just.
Like.
Him.
#StayStrongGun #ColdLikeHisVibe #BestFriendDrama
[First 🐈]:
📸: [image: orange tabby curled under a patch of sun on a windowsill, paws tucked]
[Gun 💘]:
👍
[First 🐈]:
?
[Gun 💘]:
👍
[First 🐈]:
Stop.
[Gun 💘]:
👍
Gun dramatically flopped back onto his bed, limbs sprawled like a medieval maiden awaiting rescue. He let out a long, mournful sigh that made his cat Mimi bolt off the duvet.
His phone buzzed.
[Call: Papii 🐢💥]
Gun answered it upside-down, voice already warbling: “I just want my best friend to care about me a little bit, is that too much to ask?”
Off, patient as ever, chuckled softly. “I thought he sent you a cat photo.”
“Exactly! I told him I liked the last one and he didn’t even respond! I’ve been reduced to an emoji in his life, Papii. Do you know what that does to my soul?”
“He did send you the ramen-box calico.”
“Out of obligation.”
“Out of affection,” Off corrected. “He sent it to you, not the group.”
Gun let out a betrayed whimper. “I thought we were best friends. I thought we were past the thumbs up stage. I gave him stickers. I offered to embroider a hoodie with his favorite stray’s face.”
“I remember,” Off said gently, already smiling.
“I poured love into that hoodie. And he wears it inside out.”
“Gun,” Off said, fondness thick in his voice. “He wears it.”
Gun stopped. “Oh my god.”
Off laughed. “You okay now?”
“No.”
“Want to be okay?”
“…Maybe.”
Gun twisted upright and burrowed under his blanket. “I just—he’s like this grumpy housecat I’ve been trying to coax out with treats. And every time he bats me with his little metaphorical paw I feel like I’ve achieved something real.”
“And that’s why you love him.”
“Like a son!!” Gun yelped. “Like the silent third member of this relationship who doesn’t know he’s been adopted yet!!”
“I know, baby. I know,” Off said, smiling so hard it cracked through his sleepy voice.
Off chuckled again, then lowered his voice. “Hey.”
“What.”
“You’re a really good friend.”
Gun’s voice cracked. “You’re saying that because you’re my boyfriend and you have to.”
“I’m saying that because it’s true,” Off said. “Even he knows it. He just can’t say it out loud yet.”
Gun sniffled. “When he does, I’m going to ugly cry.”
“I’ll hold your hand.”
“You’ll film it.”
“Absolutely.”
They laughed together quietly, and Gun finally relaxed, warm and soft under the weight of a friendship that meant the world, even if it came with monosyllables and grumpy cat photos.
· · ·
First was stretched out on the floor of his dorm room, hoodie sleeves shoved up, laptop glowing beside him as he clicked through VOD footage from a ranked match. His notebook lay open with half-scribbled timings and strategies. The tea beside him had long gone cold.
He was trying, really trying to focus.
Then his phone buzzed.
And kept buzzing.
He glanced down.
[Gun 💘]:
🎤 Audio Message (0:17)
📎 2 Images Attached
First stared at it like it had personally offended him. He hadn’t opened the last four glitter sticker messages Gun had sent that week, and yet here they were again—emojis, chaos, and the desperate energy of someone trying way too hard.
With the sigh of someone carrying the emotional weight of an entire cat café, he tapped play.
Gun’s voice exploded from the speaker, dramatic and warbling with exaggerated grief:
“P’FIRST. I just want you to know I’m speaking to you from beyond the emotional grave. I’ve been CRYING into Mimi’s fur for twelve minutes straight. Papii says I’m being overly sensitive and unhinged, but I told him this is what true platonic grief looks like. If you open this and DON’T REPLY I will simply fade into the void like a Victorian orphan. That is all.”
In the background, there was a faint meow, followed by Gun muttering:
“YES I’M CRYING BUT IT’S AESTHETICALLY PLEASING.”
First blinked, then tapped the first image.
It was a blurry photo of himself photoshopped onto the body of a marble statue cradling a sparkly-eyed calico cat. In rainbow Comic Sans, it screamed:
“MY BEST FRIEND (he won’t admit it) 💘🐾✨”
He grimaced.
Then opened the second image.
It was Mimi the cat, wearing a black lace Barbie doll veil, sitting solemnly in a pink plush chair. A candle emoji had been edited into the corner. The caption read:
“mourning my rightful best friend status 🕯️💔”
First let out the kind of sigh usually reserved for getting a bill in the mail.
He set his phone face-down on the floor.
And then, slowly, picked it up again.
[First 🐈 → Gun 💘]:
📸 [Image: the same calico from earlier, now curled up inside one of First’s socks.]
No caption.
· · ·
“Before we start, it looks like there’s something on your mind.”
His psychiatrist’s voice was calm, expectant. She had barely looked up from her notes when she said it, but First smirked anyway. Of course she noticed. She always did.
He leaned back against the couch, arms folded tight.
“I told Off he’s my best friend.”
That made her glance up sharply.
For a full second, she just blinked at him—no quippy therapist follow-up, no immediate note-taking. Just surprise.
“I wasn’t… fishing for a reaction,” he added, monotone.
“Clearly not,” she said, her voice gentler now. “That’s the first time you’ve used those words, isn’t it?”
First didn’t answer. But the way his gaze flicked to the window and stayed there said everything.
He sat with it for a moment. Then, quieter, less forced, “I’ve been thinking about what you asked last time. About, if anyone’s touched me after… everything. If it ever felt okay.”
She nodded, silently encouraging.
“I didn’t have an answer then,” he continued. “But later that week, Off won a bet and got excited. He grabbed me—like, full-on celebration hug. Usually I’d hate that. I’d freeze. Push someone off.”
His hands tightened slightly around his sleeves.
“But I didn’t.” He paused. “It felt… safe. Familiar.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I still flinched,” he admitted. “Just a little. Not because I didn’t trust him. Just... habit. But I didn’t feel trapped. And after that session, I kept thinking about it. About him. About how he’s just… there.”
His psychiatrist said nothing. She just listened.
“He teases me nonstop. He’s loud. He calls me his ‘grumpy housecat’ like it’s cute. He drinks tea with too much sugar and watches those dumb survival shows while narrating them out loud.”
Despite himself, First’s lips twitched, just slightly. Then flattened again.
“But he makes space. Even when he’s annoying, he never pushes me out of my comfort zone unless I let him. He notices when I’m overwhelmed and shuts up without me asking. He remembers what I eat when I forget.”
He shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like it was just an incidental fact about weather patterns.
“I told him during a game. He froze like I proposed. It was stupid.”
“And yet you told me about it,” she said, her tone soft and amused.
He ignored that.
“And Gun—he’s too much. But… I get why Off loves him. He’s genuine. Relentless in this over-the-top, sticker-covered, glitter-bomb way. But he’s also careful. I told myself the only reason I send him cat photos is because he shuts up after. But that’s not the whole truth.”
He stared at the floor now, jaw tense.
“I think…” He stopped, choosing his words with painful precision. “I think you were right. I have friends. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. But they’re here anyway. And I haven’t run away from them.”
There was silence in the room again. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.
His psychiatrist finally smiled. “That’s not nothing, First.”
He exhaled sharply. “It doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to turn into one of them.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He looked at her then, eyes a little sharper. “If you make me write a gratitude list, I will walk out.”
She laughed. “No gratitude lists.”
“Good.”
A beat passed.
Then, quietly: “Off said Gun’s gonna cry for a week when he finds out I said it to him first.”
“And what did you say?”
“…I told him to shut up.”
“But you didn’t deny it.”
He scowled. ‘Doesn’t mean anything.’”
“Of course not.”
But she was smiling again. And this time, so was he.
Almost.
First glanced sideways, like he was about to change the subject, but instead, he sighed through his nose, long and slow.
“…Gun did find out.”
His psychiatrist raised a brow. “About you calling Off your best friend?”
He nodded once.
“And how did he react?”
First let out a breath that was half an exhausted groan. “Like a cartoon character having a nervous breakdown.”
She blinked, amused. “Do tell.”
“He screamed. Called Off. Said he was mourning. Claimed he was lighting a memorial candle for the bestie status he almost had. Sent me a seventeen-second voice note where he sobbed dramatically into his cat.”
She blinked again. “Into his cat?”
“He said it was grief therapy.” First rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest, faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “He attached a picture of Mimi wearing a veil. A veil.”
Her lips twitched. “That sounds… intense.”
“It was completely unhinged.” First hesitated. Then, almost grudgingly, “But kind of funny.”
She smiled at that. “And kind of sweet?”
He didn’t answer immediately. But after a pause, he admitted very softly, like the words had to sneak past his pride, “It made me feel... seen. Like he actually meant it. That all the chaos isn’t just a bit. He really… gives a shit.”
Her pen paused against her notes.
“And does he know that you care too?”
First went still.
He looked away.
“That’s complicated.”
“Why?”
He exhaled, mouth flattening into that guarded, half-defensive expression he wore like armor. “Because he doesn’t need it. He already has Off. And like you said—he’s not trying to get anything from me. He just… shows up.”
She tilted her head. “That’s exactly why he deserves to know.”
First didn’t answer.
She let the silence hang for a moment, then tried again. “You’ve told Off. You’ve admitted it here. So what’s stopping you from telling him?”
Still, no reply.
So she leaned in slightly, her voice quiet but firm, “Is it because if you say it out loud, it makes it real?”
His throat bobbed.
“Or,” she added gently, “because if he knew how much he mattered, you’re afraid he might expect something more from you?”
He looked down at his hands, now clenched tight in his sleeves. Then after a long pause:
“…I’m afraid I’ll disappoint him.”
That landed heavy in the room.
“I don’t know how to be a friend the way he is. Or how to give back what he gives me. I don’t want him to think I’m capable of more than I am.”
“And what do you think you’re capable of?” she asked softly.
“I forward him cat pictures,” First said dryly. “That’s my love language.”
She smiled, just a little. “That counts, First. That absolutely counts.”
He huffed.
Then, almost inaudibly, like it didn’t want to be heard:
“…I kept the veil photo.”
She nodded, eyes soft. “Then maybe next time, instead of saying it, just show him. Again. And again. Like you’ve been doing.”
First didn’t reply.
But he didn’t argue either.
Chapter 12: Chapter 12
Notes:
hiiiii I'm back earlier than expected, I've been in the fic hole... I may be updating faster for a while. I'm trying not to expect perfection so everything is going faster and also I don't have other shit to do for a while. I may even have another coming later today hehehheeh
As always hope you enjoy :)
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand May 2025 -
Khaotung might be dreaming.
He had pinched himself once, lightly. Then again, a little harder. And then again. And again. By the time he hit twelve, Montow had abandoned his lap in protest and Vaanjoy had taken refuge behind the couch.
His phone was still glowing in his hand. The notification sat there like a bomb.
[CoachT 😑]:
I put your name in to some higher ups for Team Eclipse, gave them a breakdown of your play style and the VOD of you playing with First. They liked it.
You’ll have a week-long trial run with the team after the playoffs at the end of the month.
We’ll keep going with our training schedule to get you in the best shape before then.
It didn’t feel real.
He hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
It felt like his whole body was holding still so the moment wouldn’t escape.
A trial.
With Team Eclipse.
His legs gave out and he slid to the floor in slow motion, hoodie bunched around his knees, phone still clutched to his chest like a prayer. He let his head tip back against the couch and let out a noise somewhere between a scream and a squeal.
“I’m not okay,” he whispered. “I’m not okay I’m not okay I’m not okay.”
Vaanjoy peeked out from behind a bookshelf. Khaotung waved his phone at her like it could explain the situation.
“He sent my VOD to Eclipse. He sent my sparkle gameplay to real professionals and they liked it. They watched me scream, hum, and panic-reload-sidestep my way into chaos and still said yes.”
He looked at the phone again. The message hadn’t disappeared.
Not a prank. Not a dream. Just... happening.
Suddenly he scrambled to his feet and ran to his desk, opening Discord like a man on fire. His camera was off, but he was muttering under his breath as he clicked around.
“Okay. Okay. Calendar. That’s—two weeks. That’s fourteen days. I can train for fourteen days. I can improve my comms. Fix my ego peeks. Learn how to not flash my own team. I can learn Thai callouts if I have to.”
He spun around in his chair twice, then stopped himself with a dramatic hand braced against the desk
He went still.
And then, quietly:
“I’m going to play on Eclipse.”
The words hung in the air. He didn’t shout them. Didn’t rush them. Just let them exist.
Because they were true.
He was going to trial with the team, that changed everything for him.
He thought of Guns clutch plays. Of First’s god-tier map control. Of all those nights he’d stayed up watching tournaments, wondering what it would feel like to be on a team like that—to be trusted, not just watched.
And now? He had a shot.
His phone buzzed again.
[CoachT 😑]:
Also, stop pinching yourself. Go drink water.
Khaotung let out a breathless laugh and clutched his phone to his chest again.
“Coach is psychic,” he mumbled. “I’m in hell. I’m in heaven. I’m in... sparkly limbo.”
Montow jumped onto the desk and stepped on his mouse.
“Fine,” Khaotung said, standing shakily. “Water. And then we train.”
He was dizzy, overwhelmed, and vibrating with twenty-one different emotions—but one thing was clear:
The dream was real.
And he was going to fight for it.
· · ·
Khaotung didn’t even text her first.
He just sent a voice memo.
His voice was high-pitched. Breathless. Like someone just told him he’d won a glittering knife fight in zero gravity..
“PIM. I—okay, I’m sending this before I explode. Coach submitted my VOD to the actual Team Eclipse higher-ups. The actual ones. Like, the people who wear jackets with logos and look scary in press photos. And they liked it. THEY. LIKED. IT. I HAVE A TRIAL. A TRIAL, PIM. I’M GONNA PLAY WITH P’GUN AND P’FIRST FOR REAL. I’M NOT OKAY. PLEASE SCREAM AT ME I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS.”
He hit send and collapsed backward onto his bed, arms spread like a murder victim on a candy-colored crime scene. He stared at the ceiling, counting his heartbeats.
Thirty seconds later, his phone exploded.
[PIM💋]:
EXCUSE ME YOU HAVE A WHAT????
A second message came in immediately.
Then another.
Then seven more in a row.
YOU’RE GOING TO BE A REAL PLAYER
LIKE A REAL ONE
WITH SPONSORS AND JERSEYS AND A TAG NEXT TO YOUR NAME
I’M ALREADY MAKING FAN MERCH
WHAT’S YOUR SHIRT SIZE
I’M SCREAMING INTO MY PILLOW AND I’M AT A BAR HELP ME
I’M GOING TO START A FAN PAGE
WAIT IS THIS UNDER NDA
IF IT IS I’LL START A SECRET ONE
Khaotung laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
[khaotungg🧁✨]:
Pim. I haven’t even started yet.
[PIM💋]:
YOU STARTED THE SECOND YOU PICKED UP A MOUSE WITH NAIL POLISH ON.
You were born for this. I’ve known since your Cupcake Aim Challenge era.
Also I’m printing shirts that say SPARKLE. KILL. REPEAT.
I love you. I’m so proud of you I’m going to cry and fight someone at the same time.
He blinked at that last message. And then smiled—full, wide, and aching.
[khaotungg🧁✨]:
I love you too. I’ll call you after practice.
You can pick the glitter for my jersey if I make it.
[PIM💋]:
Say less. I already have six samples.
He laughed again and rolled onto his stomach, heart pounding in that weird, sparkly way that meant this was real.
Pim believed in him. Coach believed in him.
He was starting to believe it too.
· · ·
The following afternoon, the coaching call started like usual—but everything about Khaotung was different.
He was still bouncing in his seat. Still had pastel stickers on his mouse. Still wore a hoodie with cartoon cats wielding swords.
But this time?
He was glowing.
Sharp. Ready. And a little dangerous in the best way.
“Okay, Coach,” he said, already stretching out his fingers. “I did my warm-ups, reviewed my crosshair placement, and didn’t put on mascara in case I cry again. See? Growth.”
Tay chuckled, barely audible. “Impressive. You haven’t even called me evil yet.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Khaotung said, winking at his webcam. “The day’s still young and you haven’t made me do back-to-back deathmatches yet.”
“You’re getting one after this scrim block.”
“See? There it is. Villain era unlocked.”
Tay was already uploading the session playlist and screen share.
“Before we jump into retake drills, I’m sending you two VODs,” he said. “Neo on Bind and JJ on Haven. Controller and initiator, respectively. They’ll be in your trial block, so I want you familiar with their habits—where they hold, how they tempo site takes, and their comm pacing.”
“Ooooh, am I being scouted for team chemistry?” Khaotung teased. “Should I start planning a cute little intro dance routine?”
“They’ll be assessing whether you follow direction and don’t grief their lineups.”
“I can sparkle responsibly, Coach.”
“Debatable.”
“Rude. Accurate. But rude.”
The Discord screen was quiet except for the sound of Khaotung’s mouse and Tay’s typing. Their dynamic had settled into something easy—a strange mix of chaos and calm. Khaotung knew how to joke now and when to shut up. Knew when to push and when to listen. Knew how to learn.
He launched into a practice lobby and began a warmup pass through Bind. Smooth peeks. Better resets. No humming.
“Look at me go,” he sang. “A sharp, focused, mature little duelist. You’re so proud of me you’re crying, I can feel it.”
“I’m adjusting your recoil patterns.”
“You’re adjusting your emotional walls to let me in.”
“I’m muting you.”
“You’re smiling. Secretly.”
“Muted now.”
“No you’re n—”
[FIRST 🐈 has joined the call]
Khaotung screeched.
Like, actual hands-in-the-air, startled-by-a-ghost screech.
“WHO SUMMONED HIM,” he cried. “WHY DID THE ICE PRINCE APPEAR—I WAS FLIRTING WITH POWER—”
Tay sighed, clearly not surprised. “First, I assume that was accidental?”
There was a pause.
Then:
“…You didn’t say you had company.”
“Company?! I’m the talent, thank you,” Khaotung said, already hiding his face behind Montow like a blushing debutante. “And also—hi, P’First. Good afternoon. You look tall.”
Silence. Then the sound of First’s mic shifting slightly.
“I thought we were queuing,” he said, more to Tay than to Khaotung.
“I’m doing a session with Khaotung,” Tay replied. “Review and prep.”
Another pause. Then:
“Didn’t realize he was that loud outside of streams.”
“I contain multitudes,” Khaotung said with exaggerated drama. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to say hi. Just know that I’m thriving in your accidental presence.”
Tay pinched the bridge of his nose.
“First, feel free to stay. But please ignore the chaos.”
“I’m chaos with aim, thank you,” Khaotung said proudly.
Another beat of silence.
Then—so quietly it barely registered:
“…He did clutch that post-plant.”
Khaotung went statue-still. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” First said.
“No, no, say it again. Say it slowly. Say it with a hug.”
“Still loud,” First muttered.
Tay sighed again. “Both of you. Back to focus.”
“Right, right. Retake drills. No flirting with team captains. Copy.”
“I’m not—” First started, then gave up and muted himself.
Khaotung beamed.
And somewhere, deep in the sparkle and static of his overloaded heart, he thought:
I can do this. I can belong here. Even with him watching.
· · ·
Two hours later, Khaotung had washed his face, braided his hair even though it’s barely long enough for that, and made a cup of chamomile tea that he immediately forgot about.
Montow was loafed across his forearms. Vaanjoy had taken over the spare headset and was somehow snoring.
On his second monitor, Neo’s VOD was playing.
Bind. Defense side.
“Okay, P’Neo,” Khaotung murmured, balancing a notebook on one knee. “Give me the goods.”
Neo played like someone who had already mapped the enemy’s soul. His smokes weren’t reactionary—they were predictive. He cut off lines of sight two seconds before the enemy tried to use them. Rotated mid-fight without waiting for a call. Anchored like a sand trap you didn’t see until your face was in it.
But what really caught Khaotung off guard were the comms.
[Neo]:
“Three Long. Might be a fake. Or they’re just lost. I'm dropping a smoke either way—blessings from the smoke gods.”
“Shut up, you’re so weird,” a teammate laughed.
“Don’t disrespect the smoke gods. They giveth and they taketh,” Neo replied calmly, then one-tapped a Phoenix from CT and added, “They took.”
Khaotung blinked, then snorted.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, writing quickly. “P’Neo’s not quiet—he’s a stealth joke dropper with tactical timing. He sounds like someone who would sabotage you in Uno and then give you half his fries.”
Neo wasn’t loud—but his energy was warm, dry, and weirdly calming. Like someone who’d been through six ranked collapses and come out spiritually detached but hilarious.
Khaotung clicks his glitter pen twice and then writes, “Neo reads rotations early. Humor keeps team loose. Trust his timing.”
He paused the VOD and leaned back. His gaze drifted to the corner of the screen, where a familiar name had hovered on the scoreboard all match long.
Gun.
Sentinel. Cool as a cat with a laser pointer. His playstyle was quiet, efficient—never wasted movement, never overplayed his utility—but still managed to deliver everything with a flash of sass.
Gun didn’t announce clutches. He vibed through them.
One of Khaotung’s favorite clips played in his head: Gun setting up on Split, placing his turret mid and holding a pixel angle. One enemy down. Second tries to flank. Gun swings left, deletes them, and then, over team comms, deadpans:
“That was cute. Try again.”
The team had howled. Gun just popped a reload and repositioned like it was Tuesday.
“P’Gun plays like he’s doing a fashion walk and setting traps,” Khaotung said with admiration. “Low-key savage. Beautiful aim. Cold wrist. Gay disaster.”
He smiles and then scribbles in his notebook again, “Gun = glitter-dipped danger. Sparkle with a license to kill. Follow his flanks, don’t overtake. Let his traps guide retake timing.”
Then he opened the next file. JJ. Haven.
And immediately got punched in the face by the vibe shift.
“LET’S GOOOOO BABY. ONE HOOKA ONE SHOWERS. I GOT YOUR FLASH—WAIT, WAIT—POP IT—BOOM!!”
“Jesus Christ,”Khaotung whispered. “Did I log into P’JJ’s solo album?”
JJ was a firestorm. He was everywhere—flashing for duels, breaking into sites, tagging callouts, and somehow still top fragging while cackling the whole time.
Where Neo moved like water, JJ moved like caffeine.
But it wasn’t chaos. Not really. There was structure to it—pre-planned utility usage, call-and-response flash timings, perfect initiator spacing. His comms weren’t loud for attention. They were loud for clarity.
“P’JJ’s not leading a team, he’s conducting a chaotic orchestra with flashbangs for violins.” Khaotung muttered. “And I’m going to be the sparkly trumpet who doesn’t miss a beat.”
He took more notes:
“Mirror his tempo on entry. Don’t overtalk. Sync. Let him lead first wave.”
“FLASH TIMING = COMM TIMING. DON’T DASH EARLY.”
After the VOD ended, Khaotung leaned back again, slowly setting down his pen.
Gun. Neo. JJ. First.
They weren’t just good—they were weird. Specific. Beautifully synced in a way most teams only pretended to be.
And now… maybe him.
He could see where he fit. The energy. The pacing. The patterns.
He didn’t have to dull himself down. He just had to meet their standard. Adapt. Sparkle with purpose.
“They’re crazy. I want in,” he whispered.
· · ·
Seven days until the trial.
Khaotung was sitting upright at his desk, hoodie hood pulled over his hair, Montow tucked under one arm like a stress plushie. His notes were spread across his bed, his desk, and—somehow—the floor. Vaanjoy was parked on top of his JJ section like a living highlighter.
Tay’s camera flickered on. Clean desk. Hoodie. Calm chaos in human form.
“Let’s see what stuck,” Tay said, no greeting, already flipping pages in his notebook.
“Yes, Coach,” Khaotung replied, mock-formal. “Let the quiz begin. Please note that if I pass, I want a little sticker. Or at least verbal praise with a gentle tone.”
“You’ll get a new set of VODs and a day off caffeine if you score above 90.”
Khaotung gasped. “Cruel. You know that’s how I live, laugh, and love.”
Tay raised an eyebrow. “JJ’s comm style?”
Khaotung sat up straighter. “Aggressive tempo leader. Flash callouts are fast but clear, loud for clarity, not attention. He pre-times his pushes and expects first-wave sync. If I talk over him, I die. If I dash early, I get judged publicly.”
Tay nodded. “Good. Gun’s post-plant habits?”
Khaotung’s eyes gleamed. “Doesn’t overpeak. Never wastes util unless he’s baiting a crosshair. He likes to reposition with minimal noise and delivers sass in microdoses. Trust his trap placements and follow his rhythm, don’t challenge his angles unless I want to be ghosted mid-round.”
“Neo’s comms?”
Khaotung grinned. “Dry. Funny. Creeps up on you like existential dread in a cute jacket. Doesn’t overtalk, but everything he says is tactically relevant and spiritually confusing. Also believes in smoke gods.”
Tay blinked once, then scribbled something.
“You remembered more than I thought.”
“I’m telling you, Coach, I’m a sponge. A stylish, sparkly sponge.”
Tay rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
They settled into a comfortable rhythm, Tay throwing out questions, Khaotung firing back with a surprisingly well-organized system of chaos-coded notes.
Then, toward the end of the session, Khaotung tilted his head, pretending to stretch.
“Hey, Coach…”
“Yes?”
“So like, just wondering, no reason, super chill and casual and definitely not a weird little fangirl question—”
Tay gave him the flattest look imaginable.
“...How did you, um. Get P’First to join that scrim? Like. Is he—do you two have, like—a thing?”
Tay blinked. “A thing?”
“Like a relationship thing?” Khaotung winced. “Not like a thing thing, unless it is a thing, in which case I respect that. Or like, is it like a platonic league of scary esports geniuses who can summon each other at will kind of thing?”
“You’re terrible at subtlety.”
“I think I’m nailing it,” Khaotung said proudly. “Like, for real, he muted me mid-game but also complimented my tempo and that was basically the most romantic interaction of my life. But you got him to show up with like—one message. Which is, no offense, terrifying.”
Tay stared at him for a long moment.
Then said, flatly, “He’s my brother.”
Khaotung’s entire brain rebooted.
“WHAT.”
“Yes.”
“YOUR BROTHER??”
“Yes.”
“Like, related brother??”
“Do you have another kind?”
“WHAT KIND OF ELITE-LEVEL NEPOTISM UNLOCK CODE DID I STUMBLE INTO—”
“Breathe,” Tay said calmly.
Khaotung clutched Montow to his chest like a defibrillator. “Coach. Coach. This changes everything. This is so embarrassing. I said I wanted matching keychains. I offered him a hug.”
“You also called him tall and screamed when he joined voice.”
“Right. Okay. I’m deleting my whole memory.”
Tay looked like he might be enjoying this a little too much.
“I didn’t tell you earlier because it wasn’t relevant,” he said. “You’re here because of your gameplay, not your glitter.”
“I’m a glitter gameplay hybrid, thank you.”
“And you still have seven days to sharpen your map reads and lineups, before you embarrass yourself in front of my brother again.”
Khaotung narrowed his eyes. “I take that personally. But also I’m very scared. And also—P’First is really your brother??”
“You’re still stuck on that?”
“I’M STUCK ON EVERYTHING.”
Tay closed his notebook. “Go drink water. Review those fracture setups I sent. And don’t DM him.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
Tay raised an eyebrow.
“…Okay, I might’ve been, but only to thank him for the tempo compliment. That was a big moment for me, Coach.”
“You’re done.”
“Wait. Can I still get a sticker?”
Call disconnected.
Khaotung stared at the blank screen, then slowly fell backward off his chair in defeat.
From somewhere on the bed, Vaanjoy let out a meow that sounded like judgment.
· · ·
7-days until trial.
Khaotung had meant to watch just one VOD before bed. That was three hours ago.
Now it was nearly 2 a.m., and he was hunched over his desk in a hoodie shaped more like a cocoon, eyes glued to a paused frame of First executing a mid-round rotate on Haven.
"Okay, pause," he said to no one. "Pause. What just happened?"
He clicked backward five seconds.
Then again.
Then frame-by-frame, tracking the exact moment First delayed a comm.
"He faked hesitation. He faked it. So the lurker would overcommit. I—" he wheezed. "I’m not watching a VOD. I’m watching a heist."
Montow, from his bed perch, let out a meow that sounded suspiciously unimpressed.
"No, Montow. This is next-level. This is...this is cinema."
He scribbled in his notebook: "First = brain demon. Studies your trauma and then uses it to win rounds."
Then underlined it three times.
· · ·
6-days until trial.
"Alright, chat," Khaotung said brightly, eyes glittering as he warmed up in Aim Lab. "Today we’re doing pure click therapy. No commentary. Just the sounds of confidence and clean headshots."
He cracked his knuckles and launched into a precision routine. Flick, flick, flick, triple tap.
"See that? That was hot, that was headshot couture.. That was the kind of aim that gets you a sponsorship. That was the—"
Vaanjoy, with the grace of a deity and the timing of a menace, leapt directly onto his keyboard.
"NOPE—VAA—VAANJOY, NOT NOW—"
The game registered three consecutive movement inputs and one unfortunate click. His agent flew off-screen and into an imaginary pit.
"OH MY GOD. SABOTAGE. SABOTAGE FROM WITHIN."
Chat was losing it.
@princessdefender88: "cat diff"
@deaglewithheels: "Vaanjoy 1v1 when"
@meowgicmissile: "he’s the new duelist now"
Khaotung picked him up like a princess and held him to the cam.
"This is the face of betrayal," he said. "But like, in a really cute way."
· · ·
5-days until trial.
VOD review day. No stream. No banter.
Tay had a clip paused. Bind, round 9. Khaotung was holding elbow but had hesitated on a push. Seconds later, he got flanked.
"You panicked here," Tay said, voice even. "Your setup was good. But your confidence broke. You stopped trusting the call."
Khaotung nodded slowly.
"So it wasn’t the crosshair... it was my brain."
"Exactly. You let doubt lead. You need to stay committed, even when it feels wrong. The team doesn’t need perfect aim. They need someone who finishes the plan."
For a moment, Khaotung was quiet.
Then: "Do I get points for the call being almost cool?"
Tay exhaled. "No."
"Okay. But, like...half a sticker in spirit?"
Tay smirked. "You’ll earn it tomorrow."
· · ·
4-days until trial.
"Alright chat, buckle up. JJ on Fracture is like watching a rave set with bullet points," Khaotung said, eyes already glittering.
He hit play.
JJ's comms immediately came through: "I STUNNED DISH. DON'T ASK ME WHY. TRUST THE VIBES. SMOKE DROP ME IN, I WANNA SURF IT!!"
Khaotung burst out laughing. "Oh my god, this man is unhinged."
He rewound and played it again, this time watching the screen instead of the minimap. JJ had literally launched himself into an un-smoked site entry with nothing but Breach utility and blind confidence and it worked.
"He plays like he's got plot armor," Khaotung muttered. "He doesn't need perfect info. He summons info by existing."
He paused and jotted: "Stun/flash synchronicity = instinct. Match his entry rhythm." "Don't try to outthink JJ. Just become part of the wave."
Chat chimed in:
@meowgicmissile: "he’s an improv show with a KD ratio"
@kneecapcollector: "jj: breach but make it burning man"
@iliveinrankedhell: "sparkle trumpet joining the brass section!!"
· · ·
3-days until trial.
1:42 a.m. The lights were off except for the glow of his monitor. A playlist of lo-fi game soundtracks looped in the background.
Khaotung was pacing in circles, toothbrush in hand, while replaying Tay’s custom deathmatch mod for the fifth time.
"I know someone is flanking here. I feel it. Why do I still swing like a Victorian child seeing snow for the first time?!"
He spun around to the mirror, foam in his mouth, and pointed at himself.
"You are the smoke. You are the shadow. BE THE GHOST."
Then he tripped over Montow and died in-game.
· · ·
2-days until trial.
Everything was going great. Good ping. Clean shots. Great chat engagement.
Then a single message appeared:
@gunthegreat: "ur crosshair is a little high btw"
Khaotung froze.
His soul left his body.
He slowly turned to face his webcam like he was in a horror film.
"Chat... was that P’Gun?"
@donate2derail: "YUP"
@bubblewrath: "blessed and roasted in one message"
@chatplsbehave: "do u need a moment king"
He dropped face-first onto his desk.
"WHY WOULD HE DO THAT LIVE. WHY WOULD HE—I'M NEVER RECOVERING."
A beat of silence.
Then: "I’m going to get that tattooed on my wrist. ‘a little high.’ That’s my legacy now."
· · ·
1-day until trial.
Khaotung was steady.
Not perfect. Not flawless. But steady.
His shots landed. His peeks were cleaner. His rotations tighter.
Tay watched the custom map run and nodded.
"You’ve improved," he said.
Khaotung sat back and let out a long breath.
"I can feel it," he whispered. "I’m not scared like I was before. I still sparkle. But
now I’m...sparkling on purpose."
"You still hum when you land a headshot."
"I’m working on it."
Tay smirked. "I didn’t say stop. Just don’t let it mess with your rhythm."
Khaotung blinked. Then smiled.
"Coach... are you saying my sparkle is valid?"
"I’m logging off."
The trial started tomorrow. And for the first time ever, Khaotung couldn’t be more ready.
Chapter 13: Chaper 13
Chapter Text
-England 2021 -
The university courtyard was buzzing with the sound of laughter, camera shutters, and the occasional pop of champagne. Graduates milled about in sleek robes and heavy caps, hugging parents, waving to professors, and taking hundreds of selfies under the rare English sun.
First stood stiffly beneath a tree just off to the side, cap crooked and expression unreadable as usual. Off was beside him, one arm slung casually over his shoulder, beaming like he was personally responsible for the good weather. Gun hovered just a step in front of them, phone in hand, bouncing with energy.
“Okay, now a silly one! Papii, lean into P’First like you’re sobbing with pride. No, more dramatic—yes, like that!! P’First, can you just, I don’t know, exist with less intimidation in your face?!”
First stared flatly into the camera.
Click.
Gun squealed anyway. “That’s perfect. You look like you’re gonna punch someone at a wedding. Iconic.”
“Wonderful,” First muttered, deadpan. “Exactly the aesthetic I was going for.”
Off snorted and squeezed his shoulder. “Smile a little. It won’t kill you.”
Gun, still snapping photos, danced around them like a very enthusiastic butterfly. He’d already complimented their robes five times, forced them into three separate group selfies, and dramatically clung to First’s arm more than once while declaring, “This is the proudest day of my life and I didn’t even graduate!”
First had been on the verge of telling him to go back to Thailand at least twice. But he didn’t.
Now, with the sun dipping lower and his family texting about dinner plans, First stepped back and smoothed out the sleeves of his gown.
“I should go,” he said.
Off gave him a side glance. “Your mom?”
He nodded. “And P’Tay.”
Gun looked up from his camera, expression softening.
“Wait. Wait before you go,” he said, jogging forward until he stood directly in front of First. “Can I just get one more photo? Just you and me. Graduation bestie pic.”
First didn’t roll his eyes. Barely.
But he didn’t move away.
Gun sidled up beside him, holding the camera out for a selfie. “Okay… okay ready…”
Before the shutter clicked, First spoke, quiet and almost toneless.
“You’re my best friend too.”
Gun’s finger froze above the screen. He blinked.
First looked away, jaw tight. “Thanks. For being around.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Gun’s mouth opened like he wanted to say something. Then closed. Then opened again.
And then he tackled First in a hug that nearly knocked both of them off balance.
“OH MY GOD,” Gun wailed. “You SAID it! I WIN! P’Off owes me thirty pounds—”
“I didn’t agree to that bet,” Off called from behind the camera.
“HE SAID IT,” Gun kept shrieking, squeezing the life out of First. “I’m gonna get this framed. No—tattooed. Right here—” He pointed dramatically to his heart. “Right over the artery. BEST. FRIEND.”
First stood stiff, arms frozen mid-air, like he didn’t know what to do with them. But he didn’t pull away. His hands hovered awkwardly, like he was deciding whether to pat Gun on the head.
He didn’t. But his expression, just for a second, softened.
And Gun, to his credit, caught it.
“P’First,” he whispered as they pulled apart. “I’m proud of you.”
First just nodded and muttered, “Don’t get sentimental. It’s disgusting.”
Gun beamed. “You love it.”
“I really don’t.”
But his voice was too quiet to sound convincing.
· · ·
The restaurant was quiet. Upscale. All soft lighting and linen napkins and wine glasses none of them were actually using. A quiet hum of piano music drifted from the speakers near the bar, just loud enough to feel performative.
First sat across from his parents, posture rigid, one leg crossed over the other and arms folded. His dress shirt was still neatly tucked under his graduation gown, but he hadn’t taken the cap with him. Tay sat beside him, jacket tossed over his chair, already halfway through his meal like he’d been starving for days.
“So,” Tay said, voice bright, “they actually handed you a degree. You didn’t even set the building on fire. Miracles do happen.”
First stabbed a piece of grilled asparagus with unnecessary precision. “I considered it.”
Their mother gave a small, strained laugh. She’d aged, but not drastically. Hair perfectly styled. Makeup subtle but precise. A pearl necklace First remembered from his childhood. His father—quiet, as always—offered a polite smile and nodded toward his plate.
“You’ve barely eaten,” he said.
“I’m not hungry,” First replied, not looking up.
Silence settled over the table like a layer of fog.
Their mother smoothed a wrinkle from the corner of the tablecloth. “We’re very proud of you.”
First didn’t answer.
Tay glanced between them and offered a small shrug, like he’d warned them this would happen. He reached for his drink, letting the quiet stretch until their mother spoke again.
“We know this dinner must be… uncomfortable,” she said carefully. “But we wanted to see you. Properly. In person. It’s been—”
“Years,” First finished, cool and even.
Another pause. Tay’s chewing slowed.
“I know we can’t fix everything at once,” their mother continued. “But we want to try.”
First set down his fork, face unreadable. “Trying now doesn’t undo what happened.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “But if there’s anything we can do to support you moving forward, we’d like to. Your father and I… we weren’t there when we should’ve been.”
First’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond.
“So,” Tay jumped in, tone deliberately casual, “First is probably coming back to Thailand soon. He’s thinking about going pro.”
Both parents looked at him with interest, but it was their mother who leaned in slightly. “Esports?”
“Yes,” First said shortly. “Valorant.”
There was a flicker of something behind her eyes, surprise, maybe. Concern. Then, quick as breath, she composed herself. “That’s… exciting. Competitive gaming is quite the industry these days.”
First blinked slowly. “You don’t need to pretend to know anything about it.”
“I don’t,” she admitted. “But I could learn.”
He said nothing, but Tay watched him closely. That twitch in his brow. The stillness in his shoulders.
“And if this is something you want,” she added, “we could help. Sponsor a team. Or a facility. If that would… make things easier.”
That caught his attention.
He finally looked up, meeting her gaze directly for the first time that evening. His face didn’t shift, but there was something different in his eyes. Something sharper. Calculating. Curious.
“…Why?” he asked.
“Because I want to be part of your life again,” she said. “Even if it’s just from the sidelines. Even if it takes years.”
Another long pause.
First glanced at Tay, who offered a small nod, like: up to you.
Then First leaned back in his chair, arms crossing again. “It wouldn’t change anything.”
“I understand.”
“But it might be useful.”
Tay smiled faintly behind his glass.
Their mother didn’t smile, not exactly. But her shoulders dropped, and her voice came a touch steadier. “Then it’s yours if you want it.”
First gave a small nod, the closest thing to appreciation he was willing to show.
They returned to eating in relative silence after that. The piano music swelled faintly in the background. Outside, the sun had almost set.
And though nothing had been fixed, something small had shifted.
Just a little.
· · ·
The office was quiet except for the steady ticking of the clock and the occasional shuffling of First’s fingers against the fabric of his sweater. He sat curled into the corner of the couch, ankles crossed tightly, his tea untouched on the side table. His psychiatrist waited patiently, legs crossed, notepad in her lap.
“You mentioned last week that your return to Thailand is in about two months,” she began gently. “Have you thought more about what that will look like?”
First nodded, slow and stiff. “I have… a general idea. I’ll need time to adjust. And I’ll keep doing sessions. Video calls, like we talked about.”
“That’s good. And the rest of your plans?”
A pause. Then, quieter: “I want to go pro.”
She looked up from her notes. “In esports?”
He nodded again.
Her smile was small but sincere. “That’s a big step.”
“I know.” He took a breath. “I’ve been talking about it with Off. He thinks I should go for it.”
“I think you should too,” she said. “If it’s something you love, something you’ve put this much work into—it’s worth exploring.”
A beat.
“...My mother offered to sponsor a team.”
Now she blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“She said if I wanted to go pro, she’d fund a team—resources, connections, everything.”
“That’s… generous.”
First looked away. “It is.”
“But?” she prompted, gently.
He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “I’m grateful. For the option. But I’m still angry with them.”
The room went still.
“They helped him,” First said quietly, eyes fixed on a spot on the rug. “My captor.”
His voice was flat, but there was a tremor underneath it, like a fault line threatening to split.
“My parents are lawyers. Back then, he… he used me. He knew who they were. What they could do.” He swallowed. “I remember hearing them. On the phone. My mom crying. My dad yelling. And then they did it. They helped get one of them out. The one who’d already been in prison.”
His jaw clenched. “Fraud. Murder. Sex trafficking. They helped him. Gave my captors money so they could leave Thailand. Because it was part of the deal.”
His psychiatrist was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You’ve never told me the full story before.”
First didn’t respond.
“I’m so sorry, First. That must’ve felt like betrayal in its worst form.”
“I know they did it for me. That they were scared. That they didn’t have a choice. I still hate it. They let monsters go free. Because of me.”
“You were a child,” she said gently. “None of this is your fault.”
“I still remember the way they talked about them,” he whispered. “My captors. One of them used to brag about how much they gave him. How easy it was to manipulate them. Like he owned them. Like he owned me.”
She nodded slowly. “You’ve been holding onto this alone for a long time.”
“I didn’t want to remember it,” he said, almost defensively. “And I didn’t want to forgive them.”
“That makes sense,” she said. “What they did, even if it came from love, it had consequences. You’re allowed to carry anger. That’s part of what we’ll keep working through.”
First didn’t move, but his throat bobbed.
She waited. Then continued, voice calm but direct.
“But I also want you to consider this: they were terrified. They were desperate to get you back. They did the unthinkable because it was the only way they knew they could see you again.”
First’s lips pressed into a tight line.
“You don’t have to trust them completely,” she added. “But maybe you can let them try. Offering to help you now, to sponsor your career. That might be their way of making amends. Of saying: we’re still here. And we want to support your future, even if we failed you in the past.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, First whispered, “I don’t know if I can trust them.”
“You don’t have to know right now,” she said. “But we can work on that. Together.”
His fingers loosened slightly from the hem of his sleeve.
“And in the meantime,” she said, gently, “you can decide how much of their help you want. On your terms. Not theirs. You’re the one in control.”
He nodded, just once.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
For First, that was something close to hope.
· · ·
The late afternoon sun poured in through the sliding glass doors of their apartment, casting long gold streaks across the floor. Off was lying upside down on the couch, legs slung over the backrest, one hand dangling off the edge with his phone barely held between two fingers. First sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, laptop open, a half-empty iced coffee beside it.
He was staring at the screen, but he wasn’t typing.
Off glanced over. “You’ve been looking at that tab for like ten minutes. Either confess you’re stalking a team’s scrim footage or admit you’re planning something weird again.”
First didn’t even look up. “I’m thinking.”
“Oh, no,” Off said immediately, flipping over like a seal. “That means something dangerous is brewing. Last time you said that we ended up eating nothing but meal prepped chicken for three months.”
“I’m serious.”
“Exactly my point.”
First stared at the screen for another moment. Then finally turned to face him. “I’m going to make a team.”
Off blinked. “Like… a team team?”
“Yeah.”
“You mean like—”
“Yes.”
Off scrambled into a sitting position, phone forgotten. “Are you forming a squad because you finally realized I’m the best partner you’ve ever had and can’t bear to game without me?”
“No,” First said instantly. “I just don’t want to deal with new people.”
“Awww, you do love me,” Off grinned. “What’s the name gonna be? Wait, wait—Team Grumpy Housecat. It’s thematic. It’s perfect. Grumpy Housecat—it’s you in a jersey.”
“I’m not naming the team after your terrible nickname.”
“My perfect, affectionate nickname,” Off corrected. “Gun agrees with me, by the way.”
First groaned.
Off leaned forward on the couch, watching him closely now. “You’re really serious about this.”
First nodded slowly. “My mom offered to sponsor a team. Equipment. Staff. Everything. I don’t trust her, but… I think she’s trying. And I want this. I’ve already written a shortlist of roles I’d need.”
Off’s eyes softened slightly at that. “And you want me on it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it.”
“I tolerate you,” First said dryly. “You’d make a decent flex. If you don’t slack off.”
Off beamed like he’d just been proposed to. “First, is this your way of saying I’m your number one draft pick?”
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“Too late, bestie,” Off said, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to his chest. “This is a historical day. You’re starting a team. I’m on the roster. Where’s Gun? He needs to know immediately.”
“Do not call him,” First said, already pulling his hoodie hood over his head in defeat.
“Too late,” Off said gleefully, typing away on his phone. “He’s going to scream. I can’t wait.”
First let out a sigh that could flatten cities, but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly as he glanced back at the screen.
“Don’t tell him yet,” he said quietly. “Wait until I figure out the rest.”
Off nodded, a bit more serious now. “You got it. But just so you know—this is going to be amazing. You’re gonna build something incredible.”
First didn’t reply, but he didn’t deny it either.
· · ·
Two weeks later after First finally confirmed details on getting his team started he reluctantly gives the okay for Off to tell Gun.
Off lounged against the headboard of his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, phone balanced casually in his other hand. Calm. Amused. A faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Across the room, First was at his desk, trying (and failing) to ignore him.
“Yeah,” Off said, lazily swirling his tea with a spoon. “He’s doing it. Starting a team.”
There was a moment of silence. Then—
“HE’S WHAT?!”
Gun’s shriek nearly blew out the speaker.
“HE’S STARTING A TEAM?? LIKE. A REAL ONE???”
Off gave a small, knowing smile. “That’s what I said.”
“OH MY GOD.” Rustling. Something crashed in the background. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME EARLIER? I NEED TO START PLANNING FAN MERCH. TEAM COLORS. MASCOTS. OH MY GOD—DO YOU THINK HE’LL LET ME DESIGN THE LOGO???”
Across the room, First gave Off a look that screamed don’t you dare.
Off raised an eyebrow. “He’s… considering options.”
“I HAVE OPTIONS. I HAVE SO MANY OPTIONS.”
“Gun,” First said without looking up, “if you send me anything pink, I will block you.”
“WHAT ABOUT MAUVE?”
“No.”
“NEON CAT CAMO?”
Off chuckled under his breath. “He’s not even pretending to be okay right now.”
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND, OFF!! THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT MOMENT OF OUR BEST FRIENDSHIP!! I’M GONNA THROW YOU A PRESS CONFERENCE!!”
First rolled his eyes. “You’re not on the team.”
“I DON’T HAVE TO BE ON THE TEAM TO BE THE EMOTIONAL CENTER.”
Off finally spoke again, voice cool and even. “He’s serious, First. He’s already planning a support fan chant and a pre-match hype reel. I wouldn’t be surprised if he calls your mom for your baby photos.”
First muttered, “I’m changing my number.”
“TOO LATE,” Gun cried. “YOU’RE STUCK WITH ME FOREVER.”
First’s sigh could’ve powered a wind turbine.
“You’re all insufferable.”
“And yet,” Off said smoothly, “you still haven’t told him to stop.”
Gun’s voice immediately perked up. “WAIT. Does this mean I get the official best friend title now?”
First paused.
Then, begrudgingly: “You already took it. Without asking.”
Gun squealed.
Off, watching him with amused fondness in his voice, said, “Don’t worry. I’m still your number one. He just tolerates you more now.”
“I’LL TAKE IT,” Gun yelled. “I’LL GET THAT PRINTED ON A MUG.”
First stood abruptly. “I’m leaving the room.”
Gun wailed, “WAIT—CONGRATULATIONS P’FIRST I LOVE YOUUU—”
Off leaned back as the call disconnected and First slammed the door behind him.
He took a sip of tea, still smirking. “He’s gonna open his phone to forty logo drafts by morning.”
· · ·
First woke up to twelve missed notifications.
He hadn’t even opened his eyes fully before his phone buzzed again.
[Gun 💘]:
📎 Image Attachment
✨FIRSTSTRIKE: the logo features a cat mid-leap, holding a Valorant gun. The gun has glitter.✨
First groaned.
Another buzz.
[Gun 💘]:
📎 Image Attachment
Second option: Eclipse-style moon with your face in it. Dramatic. Gothic. You’re the mystery, First. You are the moon.
He opened one eye and reached for his phone like it owed him money.
There were fifteen logo mockups in total.
Some hand-drawn. Some Photoshop disasters. Some just random mascots he’d clearly pulled from Google Images and stamped with stickers.
[Gun 💘]:
This one is just a cat in a hoodie with sad eyes. I call it: ‘P’First, but make it branding’ 🐾🖤
[Gun 💘]:
ALTERNATE NAMES FOR THE TEAM:
– THE STRAY GODS
– TEAM MEOUCH
– PHI TACTICS
– THE GRUMPY ECLIPSE
First set the phone on his chest and stared at the ceiling.
Silence.
Then, another message.
[Gun 💘]:
Also, unrelated but… if you ever were making a team and like, needed a flex initiator who has ✨personality✨ and a 67% win rate—no pressure—just saying—I’m very available and I bring my own memes.
First didn't respond right away.
But his thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He knew Gun was being ridiculous. As always. Loud, sparkly, and catastrophically online. But underneath all the chaos… First could feel the sincerity. The loyalty. The real desire to be there—for him.
He stared at the screen a moment longer.
Then typed:
[First]:
…You free next week?
The reply came back in 0.2 seconds.
[Gun 💘]:
I’VE NEVER BEEN MORE FREE IN MY LIFE.
Chapter 14: Chapter 14
Notes:
hiiiiii, I have a double update coming just finishing up the next chapter but here's some Khao chaos for you :)
As always I hope you enjoy
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand June 2025 -
Khaotung stood in front of his closet in nothing but pajama shorts and panic.
"Okay. Okay, I need to look... like I game and moisturize. Like I could drop 20 kills and be somebody's daydream."
He flung a jacket across the room. "Too masc." A crop top. "Too party." A pink silk blouse. "Too Pride Parade Vogue Battle."
He dramatically flopped onto his bed. Montow hopped up and sat on his chest like a judgmental rock.
"I'm spiraling," Khaotung said to the ceiling. "If I run into P’Gun or P'First and I look like a gremlin, I will combust."
Desperate, he FaceTimed Pim.
"Why do you look like you’re auditioning for a perfume ad gone wrong?" she asked immediately.
"I have aesthetic anxiety! I need to serve cute and sexy and respectful and future brand ambassador in one outfit!"
Pim blinked. "You need to calm down and wear the sweater."
"Which sweater?"
She pointed. At the soft dove-gray sweater, slightly oversized, with a draping neckline that formed a deep V and subtly hugged his waist. Elegant. Subtly femme. Very collarbone-forward.
Khaotung grabbed it. “This??”
Pim grinned. “Trust me. It says ‘fragile forest nymph’ and ‘could ruin your ranked win streak.’”
Khaotung bolted upright. "Pim you’re a genius. I love you. I’ll name a clutch after you."
"You already did. Last week."
He scrambled into the sweater, tucked just slightly in the front of his cutest pair of light-wash, high-waisted jeans—the ones with tiny pearl studs tracing the side seams and a star-shaped charm on the back belt loop. He added soft pink socks and off-white platform sneakers.
Then came the accessories: A dainty silver chain around his neck with a little moon pendant. A few stacked rings. His signature pale gloss with shimmer. And for good measure, sparkly star clips in his hair to pull back the front pieces.
He struck a pose in the mirror.
"Okay," he whispered. "Let’s ruin hearts and enter voice comms."
Trial week had begun.
· · ·
Khaotung arrived five minutes early, standing outside the tall glass doors of the Eclipse team headquarters like he was about to enter the final round of a fashion-forward boss battle.
He took a deep breath and checked his reflection in the building’s window.
Fluffy hair with sparkly star clips: on point. Shimmer gloss: perfect. Collarbones: popping. Jeans with pearl seams and a star charm: iconic. Aura: unbothered, moisturized, and prepared to emotionally devastate.
Then Tay arrived.
Khaotung twirled on the spot.
"Coach," he greeted with exaggerated elegance, arms raised. "Tell me I don’t look like the most clutch-ready duelist this country has ever seen."
Tay blinked once. "You look like you’re about to livestream a heist."
"Perfect. That’s exactly the look I was going for."
They stepped inside together.
The reception area gleamed with soft lighting and Eclipse memorabilia: player jerseys in shadow boxes, framed championship photos, an actual replica of a Valorant spike centerpiece on a table.
Tay led him through to a smaller conference room where a trio of professionals were waiting.
"Khaotung, this is Khun Jarin, who handles team organization. Khun Lita is PR and external relations, and Khun Thom will be managing your contract if things go well."
Khaotung gave a perfect, glittering wai. "It’s an honor, truly. I promise to only bring the right kind of chaos."
Lita laughed. "We’ve seen your stream. You’re very charming."
Jarin nodded. "Let’s see if it translates in the scrims."
Thom smiled politely. "Before that, let’s go over what the trial will look like."
They all took seats, Tay shifting into silent observer mode beside him. Khaotung folded his hands, poised but sparkling with curiosity.
"You’ll be with us for one full week of evaluations," Jarin began. "That includes participation in scheduled scrims, VOD reviews, and team meetings. You’ll also spend some time with our performance coach."
"Mental health and team synergy is a big deal here," Lita added. "We want to see not just how you play, but how you communicate and adjust in a high-pressure team setting."
"Understood," Khaotung said brightly. "And I promise to keep my glitter on the comms metaphorical. Mostly."
Thom chuckled. "If you pass, we begin contract talks immediately. You'll be a sub-in for the rest of this split, with a full roster spot once Off finalizes his plans."
"I see. So all I have to do is be fabulous, deadly, and team-friendly for seven days straight?"
Jarin smirked. "In so many words."
"Challenge accepted."
Then the door swung open again, and in walked two players, casually chatting.
Khaotung blinked. Wait… he knew those faces. Neo and AJ or…. JJ?
Neo grinned when he saw him. "You must be the sparkle trumpet."
Khaotung gasped. "YOU WATCHED THE CLIP?!"
Neo laughed. "JJ made us. He’s obsessed."
As if summoned by name, another AJ or JJ popped his head in right after.
"YO, FASHION ICON! You look like you just walked off the set of a drama about a boy who learns to love again through esports!" That one is definitely JJ, Khaotung confirms to himself.
Khaotung immediately launched into a pose. "That is the vibe, thank you. I want to frag and emotionally heal people."
JJ fist-bumped him like they were already teammates.
Neo offered him a seat and plopped down beside him. "So. First time at Eclipse. How are you feeling?"
"So sparkly I might explode," Khaotung replied cheerfully.
The conversation flowed easily, chaotic in the best way. JJ kept yelling about snacks, Neo was teasing Tay for not warning them about Khaotung’s fashion, and Khaotung was basking in it.
Gun and First hadn’t shown up yet.
But the storm had started to swirl.
· · ·
The PCs in the Eclipse scrim room hummed quietly, sleek and glowing. Khaotung settled into a station, flanked by Neo and JJ, who were already bickering about who got to play which agent. AJ, JJ’s twin, had joined them as the sub—a quiet shadow to JJ’s constant firecracker presence.
"You good?" Neo asked, nudging Khaotung with an elbow.
Khaotung nodded, adjusting his headset. "Yup. Ready to sparkle professionally."
AJ gave him a small smirk. "You frag, I anchor. Don’t overpeak."
"Oh my god," Khaotung muttered, starry-eyed. "A man who gives direction without yelling. Be still, my heart."
The match began.
It was a closed-door scrim against a solid mid-tier team, not a stomp, but not unwinnable either. Khaotung played Jett and was determined to stick to his drills: trust the first peek, play off flashes, don’t ego swing unless JJ yelled "YOLO."
The team comms were tight. Neo anchored, AJ called utility, and JJ was JJ—cackling, flashing, fragging.
Halfway through the match, the scrim room door opened.
Gun entered first, sunglasses on indoors, his shirt a glitter-threaded mesh crop top, layered jewelry clinking with every step. He wore wide-leg designer pants and boots that thudded like drumbeats.
"HELLO! DON’T MIND ME! I’M JUST HERE TO OBSERVE AND POSSIBLY BLESS YOU WITH MY PRESENCE!"
JJ: "You look like a backup dancer for a disco T-pop heist."
Gun: "That’s the point."
Khaotung managed to keep playing. Barely.
Then First walked in.
Black T-shirt, black joggers, a hoodie hanging from his hand. Quiet. Sharp. Observing.
He didn’t speak to anyone. He just walked to the back of Khaotung’s chair and stood there.
Khaotung felt it immediately. The gravity shift.
"Nice entry," First said. His voice was low, dry, close.
Khaotung nearly missed the shot.
"But your peek angle was greedy."
"Thank you for the emotional damage, P'First," Khaotung whispered.
"Focus on the flank. They’re rotating early."
Khaotung did. And he caught two.
"Nice correction," First said, sounding like it barely mattered.
Khaotung’s hands were sweating. His heart felt like it was fluttering inside a jar of glitter and nerves.
Gun flopped into a beanbag near Lita. "Oh he likes you. He only critiques people he respects."
"P’Gun," Khaotung squeaked.
"You’re fine, babe. Don’t forget to breathe."
He didn’t. Barely. And still managed to clutch a final round with a headshot that made JJ whoop.
First said nothing.
But he lingered a little longer behind Khaotung’s chair before walking away.
Khaotung blinked at the screen, stunned. Khaotung exhaled—didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. That man was a walking boss battle.
Romantic butterflies were for books and dramas.
But apparently, also for tall quiet men with god-tier aim and the ability to ruin you softly with a sentence.
He was doomed.
And kind of thrilled about it.
“Okay,” JJ said, stretching his arms behind his head, “now that our guest star has delivered main character energy, it’s time for the real event—Gun and N’Khaotung in the same room.”
Khaotung ripped off his headset with the flair of someone announcing a performance, nearly tangling himself in the cord in the process. He stood dramatically, fluffed his hair, adjusted his sweater, and turned.
There he was. Gun. In all his glittery, chaotic glory.
Gun lowered his sunglasses just enough to smirk. “So. You’re the sparkle trumpet.”
Khaotung slapped both hands over his face. “OH MY GOD you watched that?”
Gun snorted. “Watched it? Babe, I’ve had to mute the phrase ‘sparkle trumpet’ on Twitter. You’re everywhere.”
Neo blinked. “Wait—what is happening?”
JJ spun in his chair. “Gun retweeted one of his cupcake meltdown tweets. With commentary.”
Gun nodded, mock serious. “‘Noted.’ A classic.”
“You liked a fan edit of me!” Khaotung accused, pointing at Gun like a prosecutor in a courtroom drama.
Gun grinned wider. “Accidentally.”
“‘You LIKED it on your MAIN,” Khaotung shouted, utterly scandalized.
“And I unliked it within thirty seconds! What do you want from me?”
“A formal apology!”
“You got a retweet, be grateful!”
Neo was dying. “Wait. This is real?”
“I had to scrub cupcake icing off my webcam,” Khaotung wailed. “And now I have to stand here, live, in the presence of the very man whose face I tried to replicate with pink frosting and edible glitter!”
JJ threw his head back laughing. “This is the best day of my life.”
“Also,” Gun added, holding up a finger, “you called me the ‘fashion phoenix of Ascent.’”
Khaotung lifted his chin proudly. “And I stand by it.”
Gun gave an exaggerated bow. “Then I accept your chaos with open arms.”
Khaotung clasped his hands dramatically. “Pim was right. We are cosmic twins.”
Tay leaned toward First and murmured, “They’re going to get matching nails by next week.”
First didn’t respond, but his mouth twitched—just barely.
AJ offered deadpan, “Gun, you’re enabling this.”
Gun winked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
JJ pointed between them. “I give it three days before they’ve hijacked the team TikTok account.”
Khaotung raised a hand. “Coach, do we have a social media clause in my trial contract?”
Tay sighed. “I’ll draft one tonight.”
“Please include emergency glitter provisions,” Gun added.
First finally chimed in, voice dry. “Just don’t miss your duels.”
Khaotung startled like a deer. “P'First!”
Gun leaned in and stage-whispered, “He watched most of the match from behind your chair. Like a hawk. Or a hot librarian.”
“PHI—”
“Don’t worry. He only critiques people he thinks are worth it.”
Tay patted First on the arm. “Your face said nothing, but your presence screamed judgment.”
First just looked at Khaotung and said, “You corrected fast.”
Khaotung beamed. “I live to be coached!”
Gun threw an arm around his shoulder. “Then welcome to chaos, sparkle trumpet. Let’s go ruin people together.”
Khaotung looked at the room—at Gun, Neo grinning, AJ sighing like a tired dad, Tay smirking, First watching him with unreadable calm—and of course, JJ, still laughing like he was watching a comedy special made just for him.
JJ pointed at them both and declared, “If I don’t get tagged in your first bestie selfie, I’m deleting the team Discord.”
Khaotung grinned so hard it hurt.
· · ·
It wasn’t official, not yet. But when Khaotung opened his Discord that afternoon and saw the new server notification—[Team Eclipse Official 💫]—he let out a sound that could only be described as sparkly and possibly illegal in six countries.
Ten seconds later, he’d friended every single member. Gun accepted instantly, replying with, “About time 💅.” JJ sent him a gif of fireworks and a rat in a party hat. Neo just wrote, “hello chaos.” AJ didn’t respond, but his status switched to ‘Do Not Disturb.’ First… did not accept right away.
Khaotung stared at the grey “pending” icon and whispered, “Please don’t block me, P’First. I’m just a delicate flower in high-waisted jeans.”
A few hours later, he was at a cozy cafe with Tay, their drinks half-finished and Khaotung’s laptop open to a color-coded Google calendar full of practice blocks, VOD review, and “mental resets” (read: bubble tea runs).
“So,” Tay said, tapping his cup. “Day one, you’ve got morning drills solo. Midday scrims with AJ and Neo. Then you and First run duelist maps after dinner.”
Khaotung nodded. “Right. Because our comms and tempo need to align the most. Duelists have to be in sync, or we’ll just end up team-flashing each other into failure.”
Tay gave a small smile. “Also because First is the hardest to get along with. If you can click with him, the rest will be easy.”
“I already got him to say one (1) encouraging thing,” Khaotung said proudly, holding up a finger. “So we’re basically best friends now.”
Tay snorted. “He said, ‘You corrected fast.’”
“And I treasure it.”
They clinked iced coffees like it was champagne.
Khaotung leaned back in his chair, eyes on the screen. “You really think I’ve got a shot, Coach?”
Tay didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t have submitted your name if I didn’t.”
Khaotung nodded, quiet for once. Then his Discord pinged.
[First Kanaphan ✅ accepted your friend request.]
Khaotung slapped a hand to his chest. “HE LIVES.”
Tay sipped his drink. “God help us all.”
· · ·
Later that night, Khaotung was mid-stream, curled in his gamer chair with Montow sprawled across his lap and Vaanjoy curled behind his neck like a judgmental scarf. He was halfway through a deathmatch, dramatically narrating every headshot with, “YOU JUST GOT SPARKLED,” when his phone lit up beside him.
[Khun Jarin Team Eclipse Staff]:
Please bring a suitcase tomorrow morning. You’ll be staying in the team dorm for the week.
Khaotung stared at the message. Then at the camera. Then back at the message.
“Oh no.”
Chat:
@khaotungsleftpillow: “???”
@reportkhaotung: “what just happened”
@screamingatacat: “did montow fart again”
@femmephantom: “drop the lore”
Khaotung slapped a hand over his mouth and started giggling nervously. “Um. So. Uh. I have to—go. Not suspiciously. For reasons that are totally normal and definitely don’t involve any sparkly chaos.”
Chat:
@teabags4hope: “KHAO?”
@whyamilikethis_: “HELLO?”
@kneecapcollector: “don’t leave us like this!!”
“I’M FINE I’M JUST—PANIC PACKING. GOODNIGHT. GOODBYE.”
He frantically clicked the end stream button.
He launched himself out of frame, nearly tripped over Montow, and vanished in a blur of socks and sparkles.
· · ·
Thirty minutes later, Pim received a FaceTime request labeled: “URGENT: I HAVE TO MOVE IN WITH THE LEGENDS AND I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR.”
“Are you dying or just dramatic?” Pim asked when she picked up, face glowing in the neon light of whatever party she was definitely sneaking out of.
“Both!!” Khaotung cried, flipping the camera to show his bed covered in clothes, cosmetics, his pink gaming headset, and at least two open suitcases. “I have to live with Team Eclipse for a week. A WEEK, PIM. WITH P’GUN. AND P’FIRST. AND THE REST OF THE LEGENDS. I NEED TO PACK. I NEED TO BE CHIC. I NEED TO BE UNFORGETTABLE.”
Pim blinked. “Okay, so why is your toothbrush next to a pair of thigh-high socks and a glitter palette?”
“Pim!” Khaotung wailed. “I panicked!”
“Step one,” Pim said calmly, “put the socks in the bag. You might need those for emotional support.”
“I do feel braver when my thighs are hugged.”
“Exactly.”
They spent the next forty-five minutes organizing clothes into three piles: “actual training clothes,” “casual slay,” and “emergency serve.” Montow tried to nap in all three. Vaanjoy chewed on the zipper of a hoodie.
Pim made him model three different sweater combos until they both agreed on the one that screamed ‘I play Valorant but make it fashion.’
When they finally got the suitcase zipped, Khaotung collapsed face-first onto his bed.
“I can’t believe this is real,” he mumbled into his pillow.
“You’re gonna sparkle so hard they’ll need sunglasses,” Pim said.
He smiled.
“I love you,” he said.
“Tell P’Gun and P’First I said hey. And don’t forget lip balm.”
He ended the call, looked around his chaotic room, then whispered “Okay. Let’s sparkle responsibly.”
Chapter 15: Chapter 15
Summary:
Trigger warning: First does mention his past sexual trauma, not in too much detail but still.
This may be my favorite chapter so far, I hope you guys "enjoy" it just as much.
-J
Chapter Text
-England 2021 -
The room feels smaller today.
Not physically, nothing has changed but First can feel the pressure behind his ribs like he’s been shrinking into himself all week. He sits curled in the far corner of the couch again, sleeves tugged over his knuckles, face unreadable.
But his psychiatrist knows him too well to be fooled by stillness.
“You’ve been quiet even for you,” she says gently. “Would you like to start, or should I?”
He exhales through his nose. “I’ve been remembering more.”
She nods, patient.
“Not nightmares,” he clarifies. “Just… flashes. When I’m walking to the station. When I’m in the shower. Sounds. Feelings.”
He looks down. His fingers are tangled in the fabric of his hoodie.
“There was one man. He liked talking to me. Pretending it was a date. Like we were just… two people in love.” His voice tightens. “He brought food. Called me his pet. Told me I should smile more.” He blinks hard. “He smelled like mint and beer.”
His psychiatrist doesn’t flinch. She’s still, steady.
“He used to tell me I was lucky. That he was being gentle. That others would be worse.” First’s jaw clenches. “Sometimes he was right.”
Silence settles in.
When she finally speaks, it’s soft. “You’ve come a long way to be able to say that out loud.”
“I hate that I can remember any of it.”
“I know,” she says. “But remembering means it’s not holding you in the dark anymore. You’re dragging it into the light.”
First swallows, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor.
“I’m still jumpy with Off,” he admits. “But I’ve let him get closer. Once, he looped his arm around me when we were watching something. I didn’t move away.”
Her voice is gentle. “How did it feel?”
“Weird,” he says honestly. “But not dangerous.”
He shifts a little, arms loosening across his chest. “He makes it easier. He doesn’t expect anything. He just… makes room.”
“That’s beautiful, First. It means your nervous system is slowly learning that touch doesn’t always equal harm.”
He says nothing, but his shoulders lower just a fraction.
Then, she leans forward slightly. Not aggressively, just enough to signal a shift.
“I think you’re ready for a new challenge.”
His head snaps toward her, skeptical. “What now.”
“Go on a date.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“With Off?” he deadpans.
She smiles faintly. “That’s up to you. But no—someone you choose. Someone you’re curious about.”
“I don’t do dates.”
“I’m not talking about falling in love. I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about letting someone see you for an hour. Maybe over tea. Or at a bookstore. Low pressure. Just… contact. With boundaries.”
He stares at her like she’s grown a second head.
“You’ve said yourself you don’t want to feel like you’re made of glass forever.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to flirt with strangers.”
“Then don’t. Just talk. See what happens.”
“I’m not charming,” he snaps.
“You’re honest,” she replies. “And that’s more rare than charm.”
He looks away. “What if I freeze? What if I ruin it?”
“Then you’ll have tried. That’s more than you could’ve imagined doing a year ago. And I’ll be here to talk it through after.”
He’s quiet for a long time.
“If I even think about it, Off is going to lose his mind.”
“Then maybe tell him. Let him support you.”
First groans, dragging his sleeve over his face. “He’s going to call it ‘Operation Date My Housecat.’”
She laughs. “Then you’d better prove him wrong and be the one who takes the lead.”
He mutters something under his breath, but doesn’t say no.
And that, for First, might as well be a yes.
· · ·
The restaurant is dimly lit, warm and stylish in a way that’s clearly curated to feel casual. There are woven pendant lamps overhead, trailing plants, a wood-paneled wall with rows of mismatched teacups on floating shelves. It's the kind of place people go to be seen looking effortless.
First is not here to be seen.
He’s here because JD said it would be low-pressure.
“She’s a friend of mine,” JD had said. “She’s sweet. Into games. Doesn’t take herself too seriously.”
And she is. Kind, thoughtful, pretty in a soft, symmetrical way. Her lipstick matches the petals on the little ceramic plate between them.
But First is two sips into his iced tea and already feels like he’s sinking.
She talked a lot. About games, mostly, how she’d just started Valorant, how she liked cozy builders more, how JD told her First was into tactics and cats and had a really “chill vibe.”
First raised an eyebrow at that but didn’t correct her.
About fifteen minutes in, she laughed softly and tilted her head. “You’re quieter than I expected,” she said, smiling.
He blinked. “Oh.”
“I mean, JD said you were intense, but—” She caught herself, eyes widening. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“It’s fine.”
She giggled. “Well, at least you’re way more attractive than the photo JD sent me. Seriously, I almost canceled when I saw it.”
He managed a tight smile. “Guess I got lucky then.”
She’s talking—something about a Twitch scandal, maybe, or her favorite Valorant skin—but he’s struggling to follow. His eyes are on her hands. They keep brushing his arm, fluttering over the edge of the table, then landing gently on his knee. Just a second too long. Just enough to make his skin pull tight.
He tries.
He answers a question. Says something about Neon’s speed meta. She laughs.
“God, you’re serious,” she says, smiling like it’s endearing. “You really love this stuff.”
He blinks. “It’s not love. It’s survival.”
She frowns a little, like she doesn’t get it. He doesn’t explain.
She reaches for his wrist when the waiter drops off their food. Her nails are pale blue.
He pulls back.
She doesn’t seem to notice.
The food smells good. He doesn’t touch it.
She’s still talking, light and warm, but he can’t stop hearing his own blood rush behind his ears. Her voice stretches and thins, like it’s coming from another room. His leg is bouncing. He didn’t even realize.
And then her fingers were on his knee again.
Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just soft. Familiar.
Like it meant nothing.
Like he was supposed to be fine with it.
And suddenly, the room was too hot.
His food smelled like something sweet rotting in his throat. Her voice was a drone he couldn’t follow.
Mint.
Sticky heat.
A damp couch and the sound of a belt.
Smile for me, pet. You're lucky it’s me.
He stood too fast. The table bumped, rattling the cutlery. Her eyes widened.
“Are you okay?”
“I have to go,” he said.
His voice sounded wrong in his own ears. Too flat. Too distant.
“Did something—”
“It’s not you,” he said quickly. “It’s just… too loud in here.”
She looked around the café. Quiet music. Barely ten people.
He didn’t wait for her to respond. Just walked out.
The night air outside feels sharp. Not cold, but clarifying.
By the time he’s back in his flat, he’s shaking. He gets in the shower fully clothed and sits on the floor, water pouring down until his shirt clings to him like a second skin.
When the nightmare came, it wasn’t even surprising.
Mint. Beer. A hand that held him down. A voice that called him special.
He wakes up choking on a scream he doesn’t let out. Cold sweat down his spine. The blanket strangling his legs.
He didn’t turn on the light.
Just sat in the dark.
And felt it crawl back under his skin like it had never left.
· · ·
First didn’t wait for her to ask. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he dropped into his usual seat, crossed his arms, and muttered:
“I went on the date.”
His psychiatrist blinked, caught off guard. “Oh?”
“With a girl,” he added. “JD introduced us. Said she was sweet. Chill. Into games.”
A pause.
“She was. Nice, I mean. She was nice.” He scowled down at the floor like it had personally offended him. “But I didn’t like her.”
“That’s okay,” she said calmly. “You weren’t expected to.”
“No, I mean—” He made a vague, frustrated gesture with one hand. “I didn’t like her touching me. She kept putting her hand on my arm. Then my thigh. I don’t even think she meant anything by it, but it made my skin crawl. I couldn’t focus on anything she was saying. It was like being back in that fucking motel room.”
His voice cracked, but just barely.
His psychiatrist didn’t speak for a moment. Then, gently, “Did you tell her to stop?”
“No,” he admitted, jaw clenched. “I panicked. Said I had to go and left early.”
She nodded, quiet. “That’s a normal response. Your nervous system remembered danger. That’s not weakness. It’s conditioning.”
“I had a nightmare that night.” He said it flat, almost like a dare. “Haven’t had one in months. But after that—full-on motel flashback. Couldn’t breathe. Woke up sweating through my sheets.”
Her voice was soft. “I’m sorry, First.”
“I don’t want to do it again.”
“I hear you.”
She waited, watching him pull his sleeves over his hands, fidgeting with the hem like he was trying to disappear into the fabric.
“Maybe,” she said carefully, “starting with a stranger wasn’t the right choice.”
First rolled his eyes. “You think?”
“It wasn’t a failure,” she continued. “It was data. You learned something important.”
He exhaled through his nose. “That I hate being touched?”
“That you’re not ready for physical contact with new people,” she corrected. “That your boundaries are still firm—and that’s okay. The goal was never to force change. It was to test the water.”
“Well,” he muttered, “consider it tested. It’s boiling acid.”
That made her smile gently. “So maybe next time, we start smaller. Something lower stakes. Casual. A conversation. No contact. You choose the terms.”
He shook his head. “I’m not doing it again.”
“Not yet,” she said easily. “But one day. When it feels more like curiosity than survival. When it feels like your choice, not a challenge.”
He didn’t answer.
She closed her notebook and leaned back, tone warm but even.
“You didn’t fail, First. You learned something. You honored your instincts. You left when it got too much. That’s progress. Even if it felt like hell.”
He sat with that. Didn’t speak. But his fists loosened.
“I still feel gross,” he muttered after a moment. “She didn’t do anything wrong. But I feel like I did.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “You’re just not ready. And that’s allowed.”
Another silence. But not a bad one.
“I’m never doing that again,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied. “Not until you want to.”
And even though he didn’t say it, some small part of First felt heard. Not pushed. Not punished. Just seen.
· · ·
The office is just as it’s always been—same warm lighting, same faint hum of the water feature in the corner, same soft chair he’s been curling into for four years. But today, it feels different.
First sits straighter than usual. Not rigid, but alert. His sleeves are pushed over his hands, as always, but they aren’t clenched. His tea sits beside him, untouched, cooling in silence.
“This is our last in-person session,” she says quietly, not a question. Her notepad rests closed in her lap. “How are you feeling about that?”
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
But his voice doesn’t match the word. It’s too flat. Too careful.
She nods once. “It’s okay if it’s not fine.”
He doesn’t reply.
Instead, he stares at the framed print behind her desk—a field of tall grass under a gray sky. He’s looked at it a hundred times, always with quiet disdain.
Today it makes his chest ache.
“I don’t really like… change,” he says after a long moment.
“I know.”
“I have routines now. A rhythm. And this—” he gestures around the room, vague and stiff, “—was part of that.”
“It still can be,” she says gently. “We’ll meet weekly over video. You’ll be in Thailand, but I’ll still be here. Just one call away.”
He swallows hard. “It’s not the same.”
“No. But it’s still real.”
He nods. Once. Then goes quiet again.
She gives him space.
Eventually he says, quieter, “I didn’t think I’d make it this far.”
She meets his gaze. “I did.”
That pulls a faint exhale from him. Almost a laugh, but not quite.
“I’ve never told anyone half the things I’ve told you,” he says. “I’ve never trusted anyone this much.”
“I’m honored,” she replies, sincerely. “And I hope you know that this trust—you built it. You earned it.”
His fingers twist around the edge of his sleeve.
“I’m not good at saying things.”
“I know.”
“But you helped.” His voice is rough now, uneven. “You didn’t push me too hard. Not until you had to. You let me stay quiet. And still. And angry. And here..”
“I saw you,” she says softly. “And I still do.”
He blinks hard, jaw tight.
“I keep thinking I’m going to forget how to do this,” he admits. “Like once I’m back, I’ll slip. Go back to how I was.”
“You won’t,” she says. “Because now, you notice. You reach out. You stay when things get hard.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do if I need—” He stops. Tries again. “If something happens and you’re not—”
“I’ll be here,” she says firmly. “Always. Whether it’s for scheduled sessions, a message, an emergency call—you’re not alone.”
He nods, but it’s shaky. His eyes burn.
He looks away quickly, biting the inside of his cheek.
She doesn’t say anything. Just lets him sit in it.
After a long pause, he speaks again, so quietly it barely crosses the room.
“I don’t know how to say thank you.”
“You just did.”
He lets out a breath, sharp and full of everything he’s trying not to feel.
She reaches for her notepad one last time, not to write anything, but to offer it to him.
Inside the front cover is a small, neat card. Her contact information. A schedule grid for virtual sessions.
And a sticky note with two words in soft handwriting:
You’re ready.
He reads it, swallows.
Then tucks it into his pocket like it might dissolve if he holds it too long.
When he leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye.
But he lingers at the door for half a second too long.
And when it closes behind him, she stays seated, watching the space where he used to sit, knowing they both just crossed a threshold neither of them will ever fully put into words.
· · ·
- Thailand 2022 -
The screen flickers once before settling into the familiar frame of his psychiatrist’s office. She’s wearing the same calm, focused expression that’s grounded him for years. First, seated in his new room in Thailand, looks a little more rigid than usual, but alert. Present.
“Hi, First,” she says softly. “You’ve settled in?”
He nods once. “Mostly.”
There’s a beat before she continues. “And the team?”
He shifts in his seat. “It’s good. We’re calling it Team Eclipse.”
“That sounds strong.”
“It fits.” A pause. “We’re still building synergy, but it’s working. They trust me. Mostly.”
She smiles. “Let’s talk about that. You said before you’d scouted five players?”
“Yeah.” He rests his chin in his hand. “It’s me and Off on Duelist. We duo.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “That must feel familiar.”
“It does.” He’s quieter now. “He’s still loud. Still calls me his grumpy housecat like it’s some inside joke, but… we work. On the field, I mean.”
“You rely on each other?”
“Every round. I clear space, he covers. He flanks, I stall. It’s second nature now.”
“And emotionally?”
First exhales through his nose. “He gets it. Not everything, but enough. He doesn’t ask questions, but he always knows when something’s off. In scrims, he can tell if I’m in my head. If I hesitate. He just says, ‘I’ve got it, First,’ and I believe him.”
His psychiatrist smiles faintly. “That kind of trust is rare.”
“Yeah.” A beat.
“And the others?”
“N’Gun’s still a mess. Glittery, dramatic, emotional. But he’s good. He’s so good.” First frowns like he’s annoyed to be impressed. “He holds site like it’s a performance, but nothing gets past him.”
“You trust him?”
“I’m learning to.”
“And Neo?”
“Smart. Quiet. He doesn’t talk to fill space—just when it matters. I like that.”
She nods. “What about JJ?”
“JJ’s a loudmouth. Total chaos. He thinks he’s hilarious.”
“Is he?”
“…Sometimes.”
“And AJ?”
“AJ’s the quietest. Doesn’t say much at all, but he sees everything. Kind of like you.”
She laughs softly. “Is that a compliment?”
He shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.”
She lets the silence stretch a moment, then shifts gears.
“And your family?”
He stiffens.
“I moved back in with them. For now.”
“How has that been?”
He hesitates. “Tense. My mother keeps trying. Tea. Food. Random shoulder touches. I let her hug me once.”
“And how did that feel?”
“Wrong.” He swallows. “But not… unsafe.”
“That’s progress.”
“It feels like betrayal.”
“Because you’re still angry.”
“I let her touch me and she looked like I gave her the world. Like we’re okay now.” His voice sharpens. “We’re not.”
“I know. And letting her in doesn’t mean pretending it never happened. It just means you get to choose the terms.”
He’s silent. Then, with effort: “I don’t want to be cruel. But I don’t want to give her the comfort she didn’t give me.”
“You’re not obligated to heal on her schedule. But you are allowed to feel more than one thing at once.”
“She made eggs with ketchup. Like when I was a kid.”
He swirled the memory like it tasted different now.
“Did you eat them?”
He sighs. “Yeah.”
“And what did it mean?”
“I don’t know.” A beat. “Maybe I wanted to remember a version of her that wasn’t a stranger.”
Her voice is gentle now. “You’re still allowed to want a mother.”
His eyes drop. “Even if I don’t trust her?”
“Especially then.”
There’s a long pause.
“I miss your office,” he says quietly.
“I miss having you here.”
“The water feature still sucks.”
She smiles. “It hasn’t changed.”
“Neither have you,” he says.
“Neither have you,” she echoes. “Except you have. In all the best ways.”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look away.
· · ·
The alley smelled like oil and basil.
Not in a bad way—just… rich. Saturated. Familiar. The kind of scent that clung to the back of your throat and reminded you this was home, even if you didn’t know what that meant anymore.
First shifted the plastic bag higher in his hand. He’d walked three blocks past where he was supposed to turn, crossed the street twice just to avoid a group of teenagers sharing boba on the curb, and ducked under a too-low awning that nearly took his hat off.
But it was here.
This tiny gravel path behind a bookstore with sun-faded signage and a cracked tile stoop. No sign of tourists. No one hurrying. Just a rusted AC unit purring above his head and the distant clatter of someone washing dishes.
He crouched slowly, knees twinging a little.
The gravel poked through his jeans. The alley wasn’t as nice as the nursery in England, no rows of lavender or fresh herbs, no clever ceramic pots with kittens sleeping in them. No early morning fog hugging the hedges.
But it was warm.
And it was quiet.
He reached into the bag and pulled out the tin. Same brand he’d used before. Same soft click when he peeled it open.
The sound must’ve carried.
Two cats darted off immediately, barely more than blurs—one grey, one striped. Gone before he could even see where they’d come from.
But the other two didn’t run.
They stayed.
Both black, both small. One with a torn ear. The other with a tail that flicked like it was still deciding if he was worth the risk.
First didn’t move.
He set the tin down, then slid a second one beside it.
The cats didn’t come closer, but they didn’t leave either. That was enough.
He sat there, crouched and still, the smell of garlic and diesel oil seeping into his sleeves, and tried not to think.
Tried not to notice the way his heartbeat slowed for the first time that day.
Tried not to wonder if these cats had ever trusted anyone else. If they'd been fed regularly. If they'd survived storms, or fights, or the kind of cruelty that didn’t leave visible wounds.
He knew what that felt like.
He understood.
“Not pretty,” he murmured to no one, eyes on the smaller one as it took a slow, cautious step forward. “But it’s quiet.”
The cat didn’t answer. Just crept another inch toward the food.
That was okay.
He wasn’t expecting conversation.
Just… space.
A sliver of calm.
The tin clinked softly as the first bite was taken.
And in that moment—so small it might’ve gone unnoticed—something in First’s chest eased. Just a little. Just enough to remind him that he was still here. Still breathing. Still capable of choosing to be gentle, even when everything inside him still felt jagged.
Another bite. Then another.
The second cat didn’t approach, but it sat. Watching.
First exhaled.
He would come back next week.
And the week after.
And again, until they stayed. Until they trusted.
Until they knew what he already suspected. That this might be a new place, a new rhythm, a new city and version of himself but some things hadn’t changed.
He still loved things that didn’t speak.
He still found comfort in careful steps and waiting eyes.
And he still believed, even now, that being soft wasn’t the same as being weak.
He reached into the bag again. Pulled out a napkin-wrapped wedge of fish he’d saved from lunch.
Quietly, carefully, he placed it closer.
And waited.
Like he always had.
Like he always would.
Chapter 16: Chapter 16
Notes:
so I totally meant to upload yesterday..... but it was my birthday and got busy so here's a double to make up for it :)
enjoy!
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand June 2025 -
The sun had barely crested the horizon when Khaotung rolled one of his suitcases up to the sleek glass doors of the Team Eclipse dorm.
He had opted for maximum cuteness: soft pink hoodie with oversized sleeves, pleated white shorts, fuzzy socks in his platform sneakers, and a sparkly cat-shaped crossbody bag. His lip gloss shimmered like he had secrets, and Montow’s face was embroidered on his hoodie’s front pocket like a little guardian gremlin.
Behind him were two more suitcases, a duffel bag, and—most importantly—a plush cat carrier with mesh panels, through which Vaanjoy’s judgmental eyes blinked sleepily at the world.
He took one step into the building and gasped.
The dorm lobby looked like it belonged in a minimalist design magazine. Cream stone walls, black metal accents, subtle LED lighting that hummed softly along the baseboards. There was even a sleek espresso machine tucked into the corner, next to a vase of fresh lilies.
“Am I in a Valorant team house or a Bond villain’s weekend retreat,” Khaotung whispered.
“I warned you,” Neo said from the hallway, toweling off his damp hair. He was dressed in a sleeveless workout tee and joggers, clearly fresh from a sunrise gym session.
Khaotung grinned. “You didn’t warn me enough. There’s like...mood lighting. And orchids.”
Neo came over and took the handle of the main suitcase without asking, eyeing the luggage pile behind him. “Did you bring your entire closet?”
“I brought essentials,” Khaotung said. “Two cats, fifteen outfits, three moisturizers, and emotional support lashes.”
Neo blinked, once. “Right. Essentials.”
Neo looked down at the cat carrier. “Which one is this?”
“Vaanjoy. Montow’s sulking in the other bag. He hates mornings.”
Neo nodded like this was completely reasonable. “Let’s get you settled before the chaos wakes up.”
· · ·
The tour was fast but thorough. Neo pointed out the shared kitchen—immaculate, with labeled shelves and a fridge that looked too futuristic to actually open. There was a communal living space with couches, monitors, and a digital whiteboard where someone (probably JJ) had written “NO BUNKER RUSHING ON BIND”.
Neo walked him through the gym, the meditation room, the streaming pods, and finally back to the main hallway
“Yours is here,” he said, pushing open the door. “Mine is around the corner. WiFi’s strong, desk is adjustable, blackout curtains are motion-sensitive. Tay had them put a fan in there since he said you like white noise?”
Khaotung clutched one of his bags to his chest. “Oh my god, I’m living in a sci-fi BL crossover.”
Neo chuckled and leaned against the doorframe. “It gets loud when everyone’s here. But the vibe’s good. We’re a weird bunch, but solid. Gun’ll probably try to bedazzle your mousepad. First won’t speak to you unless you frag well. JJ talks constantly. AJ’s JJ but way quieter. Thom does surprise snack checks.”
Khaotung laughed. “I’m obsessed already.”
“You’ll fit in fine,” Neo said with a faint smile.
There was a beat of comfortable silence.
“Thanks for being cool,” Khaotung said, voice softer now.
Neo gave him a look that wasn’t pity, wasn’t fluff. Just steady. “You earned your spot. Trial or not.”
Khaotung inhaled slowly and looked around the room again.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s sparkle responsibly.”
Neo raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing!” Khaotung said brightly, already placing Montow’s portable bed by the desk and digging through one suitcase for Vaanjoy’s favorite chew toy.
Neo glanced back at the hallway, then nodded. “Go ahead and unpack. I’ll bring in the rest of your stuff.”
Khaotung’s eyes widened. “You’re a hero. A muscled angel.”
Neo just shook his head and turned. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“You won’t! Probably!”
Neo was still smiling when he walked away.
· · ·
The clock struck noon, and chaos logged in.
Khaotung adjusted his headset, blew a kiss to his webcam—even though he wasn’t streaming—and chirped, “Time to sparkle, boys!” into comms like he was announcing the start of a concert.
“Please never say that again,” Neo said immediately.
“Too late,” JJ added. “I have merch ideas already.”
They were queued into a scrim lobby. Khaotung on Jett, JJ on Skye, Neo on Omen. It was part of his scheduled trial rotation: a midday warm-up focused on duelist-init-controller synergy. Otherwise known as: JJ’s World and Everyone Else is Just Screaming In It.
“Neo, smoke B main. I’m peeking wide with flash,” JJ rattled off.
“Copy,” Neo said calmly.
“Sparkle trumpet, you ready?”
“I was born ready,” Khaotung purred, cracking his knuckles. “LET’S GO, BABY!”
In an instant: JJ flashed, Khaotung dashed, Neo smoked. The three of them cleared site B like a well-oiled machine, if that machine ran on caffeine and glitter.
“YOU JUST GOT SPARKLED,” Khaotung yelled after a perfect entry frag.
“Someone take his voice lines away,” Neo muttered, but he was grinning in his own cam feed.
“Let him,” JJ said, almost fond. “It’s working.”
They won the round with clean comms and even cleaner retakes, JJ yelling callouts with the passion of a festival MC, Khaotung following his tempo down to the half-second.
“Good tempo, Nong,” Neo said in between rounds. “You didn’t overpeek.”
“I didn’t dash off a cliff either,” Khaotung beamed.
“Growth,” JJ said dramatically.
It continued like that for four more rounds. Aggressive A hits, mid holds, retakes from hell. JJ never stopped talking. Khaotung matched his fire with his own sparkle-infused comms. Neo acted as their grounding anchor, always in the right place, always calm.
Then came the 2v3 clutch.
Neo was down. JJ had just used his last flash. Khaotung had knives.
“Okay, sparkle trumpet,” JJ whispered. “Your solo. Play it loud.”
Khaotung grinned and popped his ult.
He soared through the site, picking two heads clean with mid-air throws, then dropped behind cover just as the third peeked wide.
“YOU—”
“—JUST—”
“— GOT SPARKLED!!”
Match point.
Neo leaned back in his chair and deadpanned, “We’re never going to hear the end of that, are we.”
“Nope,” JJ said proudly.
Khaotung dropped his mic, metaphorically and literally. “If I die tonight, bury me in my thigh-highs and let this VOD be my funeral video.”
JJ wheezed. Neo muted himself to laugh. And the chaos kept rolling.
· · ·
By 7:00 PM, the kitchen smelled like takeout and ambition.
Khaotung sat cross-legged on the floor, plastic bento in his lap. JJ was on the couch with AJ, their matching hair in slight disarray from post-scrim cooldown showers. Neo sat nearby, already halfway through his grilled chicken and rice, while Tay leaned against the counter sipping sparkling water like the world’s most judgmental dad.
Gun arrived last, dressed like he just walked off a runway—oversized sweater, chain necklace, hair artfully mussed. He flopped dramatically into the beanbag with a container of noodles and said, “I’m only here to judge.”
“That’s literally the point,” JJ said. “Welcome to VOD review.”
First, silent as always, was already booting up the footage on the big living room monitor.
Khaotung took a bite of tofu and beamed. “Let’s relive the glory.”
The first clip rolled: site B push, flash from JJ, perfect smoke from Neo, and Khaotung’s clean double entry with knives.
“You just got sparkled,” his voice echoed from the VOD.
Neo groaned. “That’s his catchphrase now.”
“Now? It’s trademarked,” Khaotung chirped.
Gun snorted into his noodles. “You’re lucky it’s funny.”
First rewound the play. “Dash timing was tight,” he said finally. “But you waited for the flash. Clean entry.”
Khaotung blinked. “Was that… praise?”
First didn’t respond. JJ leaned in and stage-whispered, “That’s a yes.”
Next up: the 2v3 clutch.
They watched in silence as Khaotung knifed the first two, then spun and nailed the third.
JJ slammed a hand on the table. “ICONIC.”
Gun threw a pillow at him. “Sit down.”
“Let him have it,” Neo said mildly. “It was clean.”
Tay replayed the clip. “You’re still pacing a little fast after fights, Khao. But you’re syncing better with JJ.”
Khaotung looked up at First. “Tempo feel good to you?”
First glanced at him. “Decent. Better than I expected.”
JJ nearly dropped his chopsticks. “Someone write that down.”
Gun grinned. “We are literally watching it on tape.”
Khaotung tried not to look too smug.
They spent the next thirty minutes dissecting pushes, rotates, post-plants and comms. Gun offered sass with surprising precision, Tay scribbled notes on a tablet, and First… First watched everything. Said little. But Khaotung was starting to understand: the less he spoke, the more he saw.
And by the end of the review, as they cleaned up their containers and someone cranked open a window for fresh air, Tay clapped a hand on Khaotung’s shoulder.
“You’re not perfect,” he said. “But you’re loud, fearless, and improving fast.”
“Like JJ but pinker,” Gun added.
“I’ll take it,” Khaotung declared. “Now someone remind me to lock my door tonight so my cats don’t throw a rave.”
· · ·
The dorm had quieted, the sound of crinkling takeout wrappers replaced by soft footsteps and the distant hum of running water. Most of the team had drifted off—to their rooms, to the gym, or to wind down in the lounge. But Khaotung lingered.
He adjusted his headset and pulled on the sleeves of his oversized pink hoodie. He was back in the training room, hands just slightly shaky, waiting.
First entered without ceremony, dressed in black joggers and a simple tee, hair still damp from a post-dinner rinse. He paused for half a second when he saw Khaotung already seated, backlit by soft RGB glow.
His eyes swept down, once.
Khaotung didn’t notice, too busy trying to act normal, like he wasn’t about to scrim 1v1 with the player he’d been studying for weeks.
“You ready?” First asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” Khaotung replied, straightening in his chair. “Let’s sparkle responsibly.”
First didn’t comment on that.
They loaded into the map.
The goal: run mirrored duelist drills—First on Raze, Khaotung on Jett. Same entry routes, same situations. Take turns leading the push. Read each other’s tempo. Adjust.
At first, it was tense. Khaotung moved fast, erratic. First held back, surgical.
“Slow your dash,” First said at one point. “Your movement’s loud. Predictable.”
“Your face is predictable,” Khaotung muttered automatically, then winced. “Sorry. That was reflex.”
First blinked at him. “It’s fine. Just… quieter next time.”
“Noted.”
They tried again. Rounds passed. Bit by bit, the nerves eased. Khaotung started to fall into rhythm, not copying First, but complementing him. Where First cut corners clean, Khaotung swooped wide and theatrical. Where Khaotung pushed fast, First countered with controlled bursts. They covered each other’s gaps instinctively.
And somewhere around round nine, First caught a glimpse of Khaotung on his second monitor—hood bunched around his chin, lips glossed, talking to himself in a whisper as he adjusted a crosshair.
He didn’t mean to pause.
He didn’t mean to stare.
But he did.
Just long enough to get clipped by Khaotung in a fast peek.
“Gotcha!” Khaotung chirped.
First raised a brow. “You baited me.”
“You were distracted,” Khaotung said with a smug little shrug.
First didn’t reply right away. He just looked at him again, for a breath too long.
“…Your hoodie’s ridiculous.”
Khaotung preened. “Ridiculously cute, thank you.”
First doesn’t respond.
They reset.
Round after round, Khaotung got bolder. First started adjusting faster. They moved like two halves of a chaotic whole, Jett and Raze pinging around the map, comms clipped but increasingly in sync.
“Nice crossfire,” First said once.
“Coming from you, I’m framing that,” Khaotung grinned.
By the time they wrapped, Khaotung was breathless and flushed.
“That was… fun,” he admitted, half-laughing as he pushed back from the desk.
First nodded. “You’re not bad.”
“Is that your version of ‘good game’?”
“I said what I said.”
Khaotung leaned sideways to peek at him. “Do you always sound like you’re about to ghost someone in a novel?”
First cracked, just barely. A soft huff of a laugh.
“See?” Khaotung said. “I’m growing on you.”
First stood. “Nine a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“You didn’t say no.”
First left the room.
Khaotung collapsed forward onto his keyboard, hoodie sleeves flopping over his face.
“He definitely thinks I’m cute,” he whispered to himself.
Then, after a beat: “I knew the hoodie was a good choice.”
· · ·
It was nearly 11 p.m. when Khaotung heard a soft knock on his dorm door.
He was curled up in bed, laptop propped on his knees, Montow snuggled against his stomach and Vaanjoy perched dramatically on the windowsill like a gargoyle.
The knock came again. Three quick taps and a final, almost apologetic pause.
Khaotung padded over in his socks and cracked the door open.
Gun stood there, hoodie zipped halfway up, a bag of fruit jellies in one hand.
“Got bored,” he said. “Wanted to meet your chaos children.”
“You’re risking Montow’s judgment at this hour?” Khaotung whispered, eyes wide in mock horror. “Brave.”
Gun smirked. “He can’t be scarier than First.”
Khaotung let him in.
Montow sniffed Gun suspiciously before flopping dramatically back down on the bed. Vaanjoy blinked at him once and returned to staring out the window like he was communing with the stars.
Gun offered the bag of jellies like a peace offering. “I brought bribes.”
Khaotung accepted it with a grin. “Approved. Vaanjoy only likes purple, though.”
They settled in on opposite ends of the bed, the laptop still playing some cozy cat video compilation in the background.
For a while, they just sat, sharing candy, trading soft commentary on Montow’s dramatic tail flicks and which cat probably ran the dorm.
Then, quietly, Gun said, “You’re holding up better than I thought.”
Khaotung looked over at him. “Is that code for ‘you haven’t melted down on main yet’?”
Gun laughed. “Kind of. Tay’s pushing you hard. First isn’t exactly easy to vibe with.”
Khaotung tugged the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands. “He’s... intense. I knew that from his playstyle. But in person?” He sighed. “He sees everything. It’s terrifying.”
Gun nodded. “He’s like that. Always has been. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it means something.”
There was a long pause.
Then Khaotung said, barely above a whisper, “I think I have a little crush on him.”
Gun didn’t flinch. Just looked over, eyes soft. “Yeah?”
Khaotung groaned and flopped onto the pillow. “I’ve been thinking about it since the interview day. That moment when he really looked at me, like—not through me, not past me. Just… at me. And then scrimming with him? Training? That one moment where he said my humming helped with rhythm—I thought I hallucinated it.”
Gun raised an eyebrow. “Oh, he said that? Damn. That’s practically poetry for him.”
“And then during that mid-pinch play,” Khaotung added, eyes wide with the memory. “I called it, and he trusted me. No hesitation. Just… trusted me.”
He exhaled and pressed a hand over his heart. “Like, who gave him the right? The man looks like he hasn’t smiled for years and suddenly he’s validating my instincts mid-match? Criminal.”
Gun grinned. “You’re doomed.”
“I know,” Khaotung whispered dramatically. “And don’t even get me started on him joining that queue mid-convo. Or that time he accidentally complimented my clutch and then pretended he didn’t.”
Vaanjoy leapt down and trotted over to curl beside Gun like he’d passed some unspoken test.
Khaotung sat up and grinned. “Oh. He likes you. You’re officially cool.”
Gun gave a small mock bow. “An honor.”
They talked a little longer—about comms, fans, JJ’s obsession with instant noodles—until the dorm quieted into a gentle stillness.
Eventually, Gun stood, stretching. “Alright. I should crash before Thom does a lights-out check.”
Khaotung walked him to the door, still smiling. “Thanks for coming by.”
Gun glanced back once before he left. “Don’t overthink it. Just play your game. First’ll come around.”
And then he was gone.
Khaotung shut the door, leaned against it, and whispered to no one in particular:
“I’m definitely doomed.”
Chapter 17: Chapter 17
Notes:
I'm not entirely happy with this chapter but it is what it is I guess.
I hope you enjoy it anyway
-J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2022 -
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the sky still hung low, clouded and heavy with that particular weight only humid silence could hold. First sat in the sunroom of the family house, laptop closed on his knees, watching water drip from the edge of the roof in rhythmic beats. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, and his mother’s hands had only just left him—not long ago she’d been toweling it dry, her fingers gentle, practiced.
Her footsteps returned long before she spoke.
“I heard from Tay,” she said lightly, too lightly. “He mentioned something about a team house?”
First didn’t turn his head. “It’s not a house. It’s a dorm.”
She stepped further into the room, hands folded. “And you’re building it? Quietly?”
“I didn’t think I needed your permission.”
There was a pause. A beat of tension in the air.
“You live here,” she said gently. “Of course it affects us.”
“No,” he said, finally looking at her. “It doesn’t. It’s temporary. I’m moving out.”
Her smile faltered. “But why now? Things have been… better, haven’t they?”
He stood slowly, letting the laptop slide off his lap onto the couch cushion. “Better.”
“Yes,” she said, stepping forward like she could close the space between them. “You’ve been eating with us. Letting me touch your shoulder. You hold my hand sometimes. You let me dry your hair today.” Her voice softened. “You even rest your head near me when you’re tired. I thought—” She hesitated. “I thought maybe we were healing.”
First’s jaw clenched. “Healing?”
“I know we can’t undo the past,” she continued, voice trembling now, “but I really believed we were—slowly—getting closer. That you were letting me back in.”
His laugh was sharp and humorless. “You thought this was about you?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “I—”
“You thought,” he said, voice rising like a tide, “that me eating your eggs, or sitting beside you, or not flinching when you stroke my hair was some kind of forgiveness?”
She took a step back.
First’s expression didn’t change. Cold. Clipped. Controlled.
“I let you touch me because I’m working through my trauma. My trauma.”
A breath.
“I’ve let you hold my hand because I needed to see if I could survive touch again. I let you brush my hair because I didn’t dissociate when you reached for me.”
His voice sharpened, every word carved from something long-restrained.
“That was for me. Not for you.”
She looked stunned, mouth parting like she might speak, but he cut her off.
“You don’t get to rewrite what happened. You don’t get to reframe my recovery as some kind of mother-son reconciliation arc. You helped them. You made deals with the people who took me. You got monsters released. And now you want to feel close to me because I’ve stopped screaming when you’re in the room?”
Her hands were shaking now. “First, please—”
“You don’t get comfort,” he snapped. “You don’t get ease. I’m trying to live in my body again. To let someone close without panicking. To touch and be touched without vomiting up every memory I spent years burying.
And none of that is about you.”
Silence roared in the room.
“I’m moving out because I need air. I need space. Not guilt. Not your trembling smiles. Not your hands in my hair like I’m five and nothing happened. I need to be somewhere where the walls don’t whisper things I can’t unhear.”
Her eyes were glassy now, red-rimmed. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You did,” he said flatly. “You just thought it was worth it.”
His father had appeared in the hallway at some point, half-shadowed by the doorway. He didn’t speak.
First looked between them—his mother’s shaking hands, his father’s silence—and something in him went still.
“I’m not doing this for revenge,” he said, voice quiet now, brittle at the edges. “I’m doing it because I want to live. And I can’t do that here.”
Then he picked up his laptop, tucked it under his arm, and walked past them without another word. His fingers tightened around the laptop’s spine, not in anger, but in control. In finality.
Upstairs, his packed duffel bag was already by the door.
· · ·
The alley wasn’t warm tonight.
Rain had come through a few hours earlier—fast and loud, then gone like it had somewhere else to be. The bricks beneath First’s shoes were still slick with it, puddles settled between the dips in the concrete. There was a faint scent of wet earth, old books, and frying oil drifting in from the restaurant two storefronts down.
It was the first time he’d been back here in weeks.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it until he turned the corner, stepped over the loose drainpipe, and saw the same plastic crate tipped sideways near the wall, the same old poster for a book sale peeling above the alley’s bend. The alley was quiet now—late enough that the bookstore was shut and the traffic had thinned—but familiar in the way he needed.
After the confrontation with his mother, nothing else had felt that way.
The words had hung between them like an unraveling thread—“I’m moving into the dorm. I need to do this.” Her face unreadable. Her silence louder than anything else. And when he walked out, keys in hand, he didn’t feel victorious.
He just felt tired. Not the kind that sleep could fix. The kind that lived behind his eyes, in the corners of his breath.
He exhaled through his nose now, long and even, and crouched near the same stack of milk crates he’d sat on the last time he’d visited. His hoodie sleeves were damp from the walk. The backs of his legs were probably going to get soaked from the ground, but it didn’t matter.
Two of the cats had already run off at the sound of his footsteps—skittish little ghosts who never stayed long. But the black ones stayed. They always did.
One watched him from the top of a crate, tail curled around its feet. The other crouched near the wall, half in shadow, eyes reflecting a glint of the orange streetlamp glow.
First didn’t speak.
Just reached into the side pocket of his canvas bag and pulled out a small container—chicken, jasmine rice, a little broth to soften it. It was still faintly warm, and he slid it onto the dry corner of a flattened cardboard box someone had left behind.
The cats didn’t move.
Not at first.
But as First leaned back and settled onto the crate, camera strap slung over his shoulder, the bolder of the two slunk forward. Not close enough to touch. Just near enough to eat.
He watched them for a while.
Didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the lens. Just let the sound of the city fade around him. The buzz of neon signs. The distant hum of a motorbike. The quiet hush of water dripping from the gutter above.
When he finally lifted the camera, he did it slowly.
One of the cats was framed perfectly—ears perked, head tilted just slightly, as if it could hear his thoughts.
Click.
The shutter sound broke the stillness for a breath. Then quiet again.
Click.
The other one twitched its ears but didn’t flee.
First let the camera rest in his lap. Closed his eyes for a second. Then another.
The wall behind him was cold from the rain. The alley still smelled like fried garlic and soggy concrete. His shoulders were tight from everything he hadn’t said during the argument, everything he wouldn’t say even now.
But he was breathing.
And the cats were still here.
He reached into his pocket and unwrapped a second container. Tuna this time.
They were used to him now. The black cats. His quiet companions in the night.
He didn’t name them.
But they felt like the only ones who saw him clearly.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call connects on the second ring.
His psychiatrist’s face fills the screen, lit by a desk lamp, hair tied back, reading glasses on. Her voice is calm but alert.
“First?”
He’s already on the floor. The call is coming from the dorm—bare mattress, duffel bag behind him, laptop propped haphazardly on a desk chair. His face is pale. Damp hair. Red-rimmed eyes that haven’t quite cried yet.
“I didn’t know who else to call,” he says.
“You did the right thing,” she replies instantly. “What happened?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
“I told them. Everything I never wanted to say.”
She waits.
“I told her it wasn’t forgiveness. That everything I let her do—hugging me, brushing my hair—was for me. To test if I could survive it. That she didn’t get to take it as closeness.”
His voice cracks. He swallows hard. Keeps going.
“I told her she doesn’t get comfort. Not for what she did. Not for who she helped. I told her she hurt me.”
“And how did she respond?”
“She cried. She said she thought we were healing. I told her—” His jaw clenches. “I told her it was never about her.”
He looks away.
“I think I broke something.”
“No,” she says gently. “You named something. And that’s different.”
He laughs—sharp, brittle. “She looked like I stabbed her.”
“You gave her truth. It’s not your job to soften it.”
“She wanted to believe we were getting close again.” His voice drops. “And I wanted to believe I could let her. That if I practiced enough, maybe touch would stop feeling like it was burning my skin. That maybe if I let her act like a mom, she’d become one.”
A beat. Then softer, “But I don’t think she wants me. I think she wants the idea of me—the son who’s recovered enough to make her feel better.”
“That’s not love, First. That’s need.”
His eyes drop to the floor. “I moved out.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“I feel like I can’t breathe.”
She leans forward slightly on her side of the screen. “That’s the body recognizing rupture. But you’re okay. You’re safe. You told the truth, and you protected yourself.”
“I wanted her to fight back,” he admits. “To scream. To hit something. But she just cried.”
“You expected the mother who let you down before. But this is the version who wants to rewrite the story without owning the damage.”
He says nothing. Just presses a hand to his chest, like it might stop the tightness there.
“I didn’t mean to be cruel.”
“You weren’t. You were honest. And sometimes truth feels like cruelty when it cuts into delusion.”
He stares at the screen.
“I feel empty.”
“You will, for a little while. That was a wound opening. But you didn’t bleed out—you walked away. That’s strength.”
His lip trembles, and he presses it shut fast.
“I miss it,” he says suddenly. “The office. The chair. The sound of your pen.”
“I’m still here,” she says, voice soft but firm. “This is still our space. You’re not alone.”
He nods, slow.
“I thought letting her touch me meant I was healing,” he whispers. “But maybe I was just proving I could take the pain again.”
“And now?”
“I want something different.”
She smiles, just a little. “Good.”
The silence between them is heavy, but it holds.
Finally, “I don’t want to go numb again.”
“You won’t,” she says. “You’ve built too much to go back. Let yourself feel this. All of it. We’ll work through the rest, one breath at a time.”
He nods. Doesn’t thank her. Doesn’t need to.
He just stays on the call a little longer.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The screen in front of him played a VOD he’d already seen twice. First didn’t really need to watch it again, he just needed something to keep his hands busy while the phone rang.
It picked up on the third buzz.
“Eh?” Tay’s voice was slightly muffled, probably from the headset he used while reviewing clients. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” First said. “I need to ask you something.”
There was a pause. A suspicious one.
“I’m not sending you any more cat-themed gun skins. Those things are cursed.”
“Not about that.”
Tay snorted. “Then this must be serious. What’s up?”
First hesitated, eyes flicking back to the paused VOD. Off’s voice echoed faintly from the clip. A round breakdown. Calm. Focused.
“I think I want to tell him,” First said finally.
“...Tell who what?”
“Off,” he clarified. “About what happened. Back then.”
Silence.
Then Tay’s chair creaked. “Wait—that Off? TurtleBoss Off? Trash-talks in three languages but cries at Studio Ghibli endings?”
“Yeah.”
A longer silence. Then: “Wow.”
First rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to make it weird.”
“I’m not! I’m just—you want to tell someone. That’s rarer than seeing you willingly hug a person. Or, God forbid, smile.”
“Do you want me to hang up?”
“No, no. I’m honored. I’m serious. I didn’t think you’d talk about it with anyone besides me.”
“We barely talk about it,” First said flatly.
Tay laughed. “Exactly. So you trusting someone else? Kind of a big deal, even if you pretend it’s not.”
First leaned back in his chair, voice steady. “I just think he should know. That’s all.”
“I get it.” Tay’s tone softened just a touch, then quickly turned smug again. “So. You like the guy, huh?”
“Not like that.”
“Sure, sure. Just enough to share your darkest trauma. Purely platonic bonding.”
“Tay.”
“I’m joking! No need to glare through the phone.” A pause. “I’m proud of you, though. You don’t owe anyone that story. But if you’re choosing to tell him… I think that’s good.”
“Thanks.”
“Do it your way,” Tay added. “No pressure. But maybe don’t open with the whole ‘hey, I was kidnapped’ thing while you’re mid-round.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Never said you were.” Tay paused again. “Just emotionally constipated.”
First hung up.
But his lips twitched, just barely.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The screen flickers, then settles. First sits with his hoodie pulled half over his head, the strings uneven. His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed, not tired exactly, but wary.
His psychiatrist’s voice is calm as ever. “You look like something’s on your mind.”
First hesitates, then nods once. “I told Off.”
She waits.
“About the kidnapping,” he clarifies, quiet but steady. “Not the details. Just… that it happened. That I was sixteen. That I disappeared.”
Her expression softens. “That’s a big step.”
“We were watching something stupid—one of those shows where people try to survive on an island with a rock and a string. He asked me why I always sit with my back to a wall. I didn’t lie.”
She nods. “How did it feel, saying it out loud to someone outside this space?”
“I thought I’d panic. I didn’t. I just said it. And then he said, ‘Thanks for trusting me,’ and turned the volume back up.”
“No questions?”
“Nope.” A pause. “He doesn’t look at me like I’m a tragedy. Just like I’m his duo partner who sometimes needs space.”
There’s a quiet beat between them.
Then First exhales slowly. “But I think Gun knows more than he’s saying.”
She raises a brow. “More than what?”
“I think he knows something happened. He’s watching me.”
She’s quiet.
“Not in a bad way,” First adds quickly. “Just… noticing things. When I freeze. When I pull away. He always redirects. Changes the subject. Sends a sticker. Sometimes I think he knows I’m about to dissociate before I do.”
“And what do you think that means?”
“It means he’s not just loud and sparkly and annoying.” His tone is flat, but there’s no real heat in it. “He’s paying attention.”
“Do you think Off told him?”
“No.” First shakes his head immediately. “Off wouldn’t. I didn’t even tell him that much.”
“Then Gun’s watching you closely enough to recognize the signs.”
He doesn’t reply for a moment. Then: “It’s unsettling.”
“Because you didn’t think anyone saw?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone to see.”
“And now?”
He looks away. “Now I don’t know.”
She’s quiet. Waiting.
First says, voice low. “He looks at me lik…. Like he’s trying to fill in all the blanks I won’t talk about.”
“Does that feel intrusive?”
“No,” First mutters. “It feels dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because if he knows… and still treats me the same… I might start trusting him.”
“And that scares you.”
“I don’t want to need him.”
“But you already do,” she says gently. “Just like you need Off. That’s not a failure, First. That’s human.”
His hands are clenched under the desk. She can’t see them, but she knows they are.
“Gun’s careful,” he says after a moment. “He pretends he’s not, but he is. Sometimes I think he knows my breathing patterns.”
“That’s a skill he wouldn’t have unless he’s really been watching.”
“Yeah.”
“Does it help?”
“…Yeah.”
They fall into silence for a while. It’s not tense.
Then First says, almost inaudibly: “He makes it easier. To stay present.”
Her voice is soft now. “That’s important. You don’t have to tell him more unless you want to. But noticing this—acknowledging it—is a sign you’re not hiding anymore.”
“I’m not ready to talk to him.”
“You don’t have to be. You’ve already started letting him in. And you did it without saying a word.”
He exhales again, this time less tightly.
“I hate that he sees me.”
“You love that he sees you.”
He doesn’t respond.
But he doesn’t argue either.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First is already in the call when it opens—hood down, hair slightly messy, an unopened can of soda on the desk beside him. His jaw is tight, and there’s a sharpness in his posture he hasn’t worn in weeks.
“You seem tense,” his psychiatrist says gently.
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t elaborate at first. His fingers tap once against the soda tab, then stop. Silence stretches.
Then, finally:
“I’m starting to hate the way people talk about me.”
Her head tilts, just slightly. “Online?”
He nods. “Streams. Interviews. Clips. Reddit threads. They call me the Ice Prince like I’m not real. Like I’m this cold, untouchable thing.”
“You’ve brought up that nickname before,” she says. “But something about it is hitting differently now.”
He shifts in his chair. Doesn’t look at the camera.
“Gun posted a picture of me,” he mutters. “Just me. From behind. I was looking out the window at a venue. Hood up. You could barely even see my face.”
She stays quiet. Listening.
“It got thousands of likes,” he says. “People started calling me ‘mysterious.’ Saying I probably don’t talk unless it’s to issue commands.”
Her voice is calm. “They’re building a persona.”
“They’re building a lie,” he snaps. Then lowers his voice. “It’s not even inaccurate. But it’s not me.”
“Not all of you,” she says gently.
He exhales, frustrated. “I talk. I laugh. I drink sweet tea and complain about Off’s playlists. I send Gun the dumbest memes I can find at 3 a.m. I yell at JJ for leaving crumbs in the couch.”
She smiles softly. “That’s the you your team knows.”
He nods. “And that’s what’s messing with me. The gap between what’s true and what people see—it’s getting bigger.”
“You used to say that persona felt like armor,” she says, her tone careful but knowing. “Useful. Safe.”
“I thought it was,” he murmurs. “But now it feels like I’m vanishing behind it.”
Silence.
Then she adds, almost thoughtfully, “Gun sees through it. He’s loud, but he’s observant. You’ve said he notices when you spiral. When you stop eating. When your eyes go to the exits too often.”
First’s throat tightens. But he nods.
“And Off,” she says, “has a habit of teasing you when you retreat. Of calling you his housecat. But he never pushes.”
A long pause.
“He stays close without crowding you,” she finishes. “Like someone who’s used to waiting.”
First doesn’t speak at first. Just picks up the soda can, turns it in his hands, then sets it back down.
“They don’t buy the Ice Prince thing,” he says quietly. “Not even a little.”
“No,” she agrees. “Because they know you.”
His jaw flexes.
She watches him carefully. “But you don’t feel seen.”
“No.”
A beat.
“They’re engaged, you know,” he says suddenly. “Off and Gun.”
Her expression softens. “How does that feel for you?”
“Good,” he says immediately. “They’re good for each other. They’re the only ones who can handle each other’s chaos.”
“And it doesn’t complicate your closeness with them?”
He shakes his head. “No. There’s nothing romantic there. Not from them. Not from me.”
“Then what is it?”
He exhales. “It’s just… they see me. The real version. And they’re not scared. They’re not disappointed.”
“That’s a kind of connection you need.”
“I think that’s what’s bothering me,” he says, voice low. “They see all the pieces of me. The anger. The quiet. The trauma. They stay. But then the internet—these strangers—only want the version that glares and wins and never speaks.”
“And what do you want?”
“I want to be allowed to exist without performance.”
“Even in a world that thrives on it?”
His jaw clenches. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“Maybe not completely. But it’s possible in small spaces. And you’ve already built some.”
“Gun and Off.”
“And?”
He doesn’t answer.
But then, “Neo. He’s calm and understanding. JJ’s loud, but he listens when it counts. AJ doesn’t speak much, but he always looks out for me. They know I’m not just the Ice Prince.”
“And that helps?”
“It makes everything else feel… survivable.”
She nods. “Then hold onto that. Let the outside think what it wants, but keep choosing spaces where you don’t have to disappear.”
He breathes in slowly.
“I’m trying,” he says.
“I can see that.”
When she smiles, he doesn’t look away.
Chapter 18: Chapter 18
Notes:
Hope you enjoy
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
Khaotung’s alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. sharp. His body protested. Something about bedtime being four hours ago and Vaanjoy still snoring like a mini engine on his chest, but he was up anyway. Today was important. Day two of training with First. And if yesterday’s emotional cardio hadn’t killed him, he owed it to himself to at least look presentable.
He padded quietly into the dorm bathroom with a fresh towel and his morning playlist low. Shower, exfoliate, tone, moisturize. He even used the good under-eye cream. Then, still half-damp and humming along to an upbeat remix of a bubblegum pop song, he rifled through his suitcase for something appropriate.
Cute, but subtle. Professional sparkle.
He chose a sleeveless, loose-weave linen top the color of seafoam, cropped just enough to flirt with the line of his waist. Over that, he threw on a long, soft cream cardigan that pooled at his wrists and made him feel like a walking latte. His pants were wide-legged ivory linen with a subtle drawstring tie and a breezy silhouette that swayed when he moved. A pair of small gold hoops, a soft beaded anklet, and a dab of dewy highlighter completed the look.
He looked in the mirror, turned side to side, and gave himself a v-sign. “Crush-able but not trying too hard. We win before the match, baby.”
It was just past 7 a.m. when he crept into the shared dorm kitchen, hoping to make breakfast before the rest of the house woke up.
Instead, he walked in and saw First.
Standing by the stove.
Wearing grey sweatpants and a fitted black tank top that hugged his chest and shoulders in a way that made Khaotung’s brain misfire. His hair was damp, clinging softly to his forehead. He looked unfairly beautiful and completely unfazed.
Khaotung made a squeaking noise that may or may not have been his soul leaving his body.
First glanced over. “You’re loud in the morning too?”
“I—yes—hi—good morning—sorry—didn’t know anyone would be—shirtless? I mean—not shirtless, tank-toppy. Tanked? You’re tanked.” Khaotung waved vaguely, eyes averted, heart committing arson in his chest. “Not that I’m judging. Or staring. Or judging the staring. This is fine.”
First arched a brow and turned back to flip an egg in the pan. “You’re flailing.”
Khaotung covered his face with both hands. “I am not flailing. I am simply… appreciating the aesthetic. Quietly. Like a respectful citizen.”
“You’re narrating.”
Khaotung peeked through his fingers. “Do you want me to stop?”
First didn’t look at him, but there was a ghost of something in his tone. “Didn’t say that.”
Khaotung, fueled by 90% caffeine and 10% chaos, floated toward the other counter to prep his own breakfast. He stepped a little too close while reaching for a bowl and accidentally brushed First’s arm. Solid. Warm. His brain short-circuited.
First flinched—just a fraction—but enough to make Khaotung freeze mid-reach.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, cheeks warming. “Your muscles are… present.”
But now that he was this close, Khaotung noticed something else—faint, pale lines along the skin of First’s upper arms. Scars. Not fresh, but not forgotten. And just above the curve of his shoulder, where the black tank top had shifted slightly, a darker red scar peeked out—older, but deeper than the rest. Jagged, almost like it had been carved by something cruel. He blinked, heart squeezing a little. Said nothing. Just reached for the bowl and stepped back, quieter than before.
First didn’t reply, but his ears tinged faintly pink as he turned slightly to give Khaotung more space.
“Well, P’First, if this is what mornings look like around here, I’m going to need to start wearing sunglasses at sunrise. Because wow.”
“You’re worse than Gun.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”
They cooked in companionable quiet for a few minutes, eggs, toast, a sprinkle of pepper and awkward glances. Occasionally their shoulders bumped as they moved around each other, and each time Khaotung brushed First even lightly, he felt a small, involuntary flinch in return. Nothing dramatic—just a slight recoil, like a reflex First hadn’t trained out yet.
It made Khaotung soften. Flirtation slipping into awareness.
Eventually, First slid his plate onto the table and sat, glancing at Khaotung with that unreadable gaze. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” Khaotung said, more quietly now, softening into honesty. “I wanted a calm start.”
First’s gaze lingered a second longer before he replied, “Good. You’ll need it.”
Khaotung’s stomach flipped—half nerves, half butterflies.
And just like that, they ate. Quiet. Almost peaceful. A spark of connection flickering in the silence between them.
Khaotung pretended not to notice that First had stolen the pepper shaker off his side of the counter.
He let him keep it.
After breakfast, First and Khaotung were the first to arrive in the Eclipse viewing room. The screen was already queued up with a recent pro match on Lotus, but instead of pulling up notes or spreadsheets, Khaotung made a beeline for the couch.
First claimed the far side with his usual slouch. Khaotung hovered for a second, then plopped down beside him. Not close enough to touch, but definitely within reach. First didn’t move away.
The match started playing, commentary soft in the background. First murmured a few observations. Timing issues, bad post-plant, but otherwise stayed quiet. Khaotung didn’t speak either, too busy sneaking glances like it was part of his warm-up routine.
Five minutes in, the door creaked open.
Neo padded in, towel around his neck and hair still damp from his morning workout. “Ohhhh,” he said, spotting the couch situation. “Didn’t know we were doing designated seating today.”
“I think it’s alphabetical,” AJ added, trailing behind him with a banana and a half-eaten protein bar. “First, then Flirt.”
Khaotung gasped. “Excuse you—”
“Confirmed,” Neo said, nodding sagely as he flopped onto the other end of the couch. “Our duelist duo is alphabetically compatible.”
“Also spatially compatible,” AJ added, dropping into the beanbag on the floor. “I’ve never seen P’First voluntarily share his cushion space.”
“I’m very compact,” Khaotung sniffed, sipping his coffee. “Like a stylish support pillow.”
First didn’t comment, just blinked slowly, adjusted the remote, and turned the volume down like none of them existed.
“See?” Neo whispered. “No protest. This is serious.”
Khaotung glanced sideways. First’s expression was unreadable, but his posture had shifted slightly—one shoulder tilted in Khaotung’s direction, a subtle lean.
“So,” Khaotung said brightly, “are we actually watching this, or is this a gossip hour disguised as a review?”
Neo stretched. “It’s called bonding. Vital team chemistry. Let’s pretend to analyze while we emotionally destabilize each other.”
“Already emotionally destabilized,” AJ muttered.
“Speak for yourself,” Khaotung said, twirling a strand of his hair. “I thrive in chaos. Besides, I’ve been taking mental notes.”
“On the game?”
“On how cute you all are when you’re pretending to be focused.”
First spoke at last: “You talk more than Gun.”
“That’s a compliment,” Khaotung replied instantly.
“It’s not.”
Neo grinned. “He’s warmed up to you. That’s the ‘not’ version of affection.”
Khaotung laughed with ease.
The match footage continued to play—flashes, rotations, bad retakes—but no one was really watching. They were too busy bantering and play-arguing about who had the best aim. The room buzzed with easy camaraderie.
Half an hour in, the door opened again.
Tay stepped inside, clapping once. “Scrim time. Let’s go, chaos kids.”
Gun followed, in full fabulous mode with cropped mesh shirt and rhinestone earrings. “Am I late to the glitter party?”
“You’re right on time,” Khaotung said, beaming.
First stood, stretching as he did—and his arm brushed against Khaotung’s on the way up. A small, lingering contact, gone in a blink but not unnoticed.
Neo nudged AJ. “Told you. Alphabetical destiny.”
AJ rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
Khaotung didn’t respond. He was too busy smiling like he already knew something the rest of the world hadn’t figured out yet.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After hours of training, Khaotung flopped dramatically onto his bed, Montow crawling up to claim his lap while Vaanjoy is missing again. His hair was still tousled from their scrim earlier, and a faint shimmer of highlighter clung to his cheekbones from that morning’s skincare.
He’d earned this.
Khaotung propped up his phone on a mini tripod, adjusted the pink LED lights glowing behind him, and fired up his stream.
The second his "Starting Soon" screen disappeared, chat erupted.
Chat:
@uokprettyboy: “HE’S ALIVE”
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “we missed u glitterbug 😭”
@mrrpmeow: “did u get kidnapped or are u just hiding from Gun again”
@cupcakethighs: “where ARE you??? your room looks different 👀”
He smiled sweetly at the screen, head tilted. “Hello, sparkle demons. I missed you too. And no—I wasn’t kidnapped. I’m just… staying somewhere new for a little bit. Secret glitter mission. Very top secret.”
Chat:
@glitchbabe.exe: “you’re not subtle”
@khaotungscursedorb: “is it a boy”
@laggedduringbirth: “BLINK TWICE IF YOU’RE WITH FIRST”
“Absolutely not,” Khaotung said, giggling. “Also, don’t drag P’First into this—he’s too busy pretending not to like my hoodie collection.”
He leaned closer to the camera and tapped a makeup palette into frame.
“Anyway! Tonight, we’re doing something I haven’t done in a while—sparkle therapy. That’s right. Makeup. Gossip. Comfort vibes only.”
He started with primer, humming softly under his breath.
Chat kept up a steady stream:
Chat:
@feralforesight: “give us your fav lip tint rn”
@cupcakethighs: “who’s your style inspo??”
@glitchbabe.exe: “how’s the new hoodie smell?”
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “have u met anyone cute recently 👀”
“I’m currently obsessed with the Rom&nd Glasting Melting Balm,” he said, holding it up like a QVC host. “And my style inspo is a mix between fairy prince and chaotic barista.”
He dodged the “cute people” question with a coy smile. “Some of y’all want to know too much. This is a safe space for mystery and blush.”
A few minutes passed with him gently blending peach-toned eyeshadow. Then came the next wave of questions.
Chat:
@pillowbiter420: “What got you into streaming?”
@fragmeharddaddy: “What’s your dream collab?”
@feralforesight: “Were you always this fabulous?”
Khaotung giggled at that last one. “Obviously. I was born covered in glitter. Nurses cried. It was a moment.”
Then he quieted just a little.
“I started streaming ‘cause I wanted to find people who felt like me. Loud and soft at the same time. A little too much, in a good way.” He dabbed shimmer into the corners of his eyes. “And I think… I’ve found you. You chaos gremlins.”
Chat:
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “😭😭😭”
@pillowbiter420: “ur our fav too”
@uokprettyboy: “group hug”
He blew a kiss at the screen. “Now. Let’s finish this look with something dramatic.”
He drew a star at the edge of his eyeliner, then fluffed up his hair.
“Final look: sparkled and slightly sleep-deprived. Rate me.”
Chat:
@khaoticneutral: “12/10”
@iliveinrankedhell: “starboy supreme”
@whyamilikethis_: “I WANNA EAT UR HIGHLIGHT”
“Thank you, thank you. My face is a national treasure,” he said, posing like a beauty queen. “That’s it for tonight, sparkle bugs. I’ll be back soon—sooner than you think.”
He winked, blew one last kiss, and ended the stream with a soft smile that lingered even after the screen faded to black.
The moment Khaotung ended his stream, the internet exploded.
Clips of his glittery commentary, absurd makeup metaphors (“blend like you’re trying to impress your ex’s mom”), and impromptu song breaks spread like wildfire across TikTok. One particularly chaotic moment where he accidentally brushed pink shimmer across his nose, gasped, and declared, “I’m a magical unicorn and no one can stop me,” was already trending with over 50k likes under the hashtag #UnicornKhao.
His Twitter mentions weren’t faring much better.
@FeralKpopFan: can someone pls explain how khaotung manages to slay eyeliner, dodge personal questions, AND emotionally damage me in one stream??
@SparkleScouter: if khaotung ISN'T secretly on Team Eclipse why does his aim with that blush brush remind me of P'First's pistol flicks????? #KhaotungLive #Gunspiracy
@guniverse:He really said "natural look" and pulled out a glitter bomb. Respect.
Khaotung, still in his fluffy robe and surrounded by open palettes and chaos, scrolled through the notifications with a hand over his mouth.
And then a tweet from an account that made his soul temporarily exit his body.
@GunTheGreat.
stream highlight: when he said "do NOT trust boys who wear cargo shorts" and looked directly into the camera like he knew my secrets.
Khaotung dropped his phone.
Then dove to grab it.
Then screamed into his pillow.
He tweeted back five minutes later, heart still pounding:
@KhaotungLIVE
if the glitter fits wear it. u been warned.
Chat screenshots were already being stitched into edits. Fan artists had begun drawing unicorn!Khaotung by the dozens. And someone had uploaded a 10-minute compilation titled “The Sparkle Prince Unfiltered.”
Somewhere in the dorm, Gun smirked to himself, then bookmarked the tweet.
Just for future ammo.
Maybe.
Maybe for no reason at all.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It had been four days since Khaotung moved into the Eclipse dorms, and three of those days had been filled with nonstop scrims, drills, VOD reviews, and just enough sleep to qualify as legal survival. He had been shamelessly flirting with First every chance he got—with little to no reaction, unless you counted the one time First actually smirked (Khaotung had to sit down for ten minutes after that). Gun and JJ had become his designated chaos co-conspirators, while AJ and Neo took it upon themselves to roast him lovingly any time he dared look too proud of a play.
Now, he was in a private meeting room with Tay, post-scrim, and sweating in his oversized hoodie.
“Relax,” Tay said, not looking up from his tablet. “I’m only here to crush your soul a little.”
Khaotung made a noise like a kicked Roomba.
Tay finally looked up. “Four days of feedback. Want the good news first or the roast?”
“Is that rhetorical?”
“Great, here’s both.”
He flipped the tablet around. “Top marks for mechanics, comm timing, and adaptability. Also, the higher-ups think your synergy with Gun and Neo is natural. JJ said, and I quote, ‘he’s like a sparkly barnacle, but useful.’”
“I’m framing that.”
“They also said you keep morale high, even during loss rounds, which is rare and valuable. The chaos is working in your favor. Just—” Tay gave him a pointed look. “Tone down the mid-scrim musical numbers.”
“But I hit that note—”
“You hit it and lost bomb control.”
Khaotung groaned dramatically. “Fine. No more spontaneous Hamilton performances.”
Tay leaned forward, expression softening a little. “Listen. You’ve been doing well. Really well. But the decision isn’t just mine. The full team is meeting with Khun Jarin and Thom tomorrow to talk through their thoughts.”
Khaotung nodded, trying to hide the nerves pressing into his ribs.
“Off’s flying back to finish out the tournament,” Tay continued. “He’ll be playing the final matches before retirement. But we need a final decision right after. The trial ends in two days.”
“And then I get sent back to the Sparkle Dimension if they say no?”
Tay didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
Khaotung swallowed hard.
“…Got it.”
Tay leaned back in his chair. “Don’t spiral yet. You’ve done everything we asked. Now just focus on tomorrow. Play clean. Be honest in the meeting. And please—try not to quote RuPaul at the executive producer again.”
“She said ‘bring charisma,’ I was just clarifying!”
“Clarify quietly. Please.”
Khaotung gave him a two-finger salute, still smiling but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.
Two days left.
And one chance to prove he belonged.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The following morning, the full Eclipse team assembled in the larger conference room, eight chairs around the oval table, a pitcher of water, and two tired but attentive staff members: Khun Jarin and Thom. Tay stood near the back, arms crossed, staying quiet unless prompted. He'd already given his report privately.
“Let’s begin,” Thom said, glancing around the table. “We want your honest impressions. Team dynamics, scrim performance, synergy. Don’t hold back.”
Gun started without hesitation. He kicked one leg over the other and leaned forward, eyes bright with mischief. “I think we should keep him. He sparkled his way into the team and my heart.”
Neo groaned. “Please. Serious answers.”
“I am serious. The vibes are great with him. Scrims are snappier. He makes people laugh, and he actually listens. Like, really listens. That mid-pinch call he made with First on Haven? He adapted to our pacing without losing his own.”
First didn’t speak, but he nodded. Once. Small but noticeable.
JJ jumped in next, spinning slightly in his chair. “He’s funny as hell. Keeps comms alive without being annoying. And he’s fast, like reaction-speed fast. We’ve run three different map comps with him and he’s adjusted each time. Still top fragged twice.”
AJ gave a little shrug. “Yeah. He’s loud, but in a way that helps. And he takes feedback. Even when he gets roasted, he just takes it and applies it. Tay told him to stop autopiloting on Breeze and next scrim he’s calling rotations like a coach.”
Neo chimed in again, voice more measured. “His energy’s good for the team. Gun and JJ are already bonded to him. First hasn’t murdered him, which is saying something.”
“I’m sitting right here,” First said flatly.
Neo smiled. “Exactly.”
Gun leaned back, tossing a glance toward Thom. “I think you’d be making a mistake if you didn’t lock him in. He brings in viewership, he’s marketable as hell, and he’s good.”
Tay finally spoke from the back. “He still needs polish. But the foundation is strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve coached this early.”
Khun Jarin scribbled something in a notebook, nodding slowly. “We’ll finish final evaluations tomorrow. But thank you. This was very helpful.”
As the meeting ended and the team started to trickle out, Thom turned to Tay with a small, knowing smile. “He’s got them wrapped around his finger already.”
Tay exhaled. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I just hope he doesn’t break his own heart doing it.”
After the team had filtered out and the door clicked shut behind First, only four remained in the room: Khun Jarin, Thom, Tay, and Lita—Eclipse’s razor-sharp PR lead. She was seated near the end of the table in a crisp blazer, tablet in hand, already pulling up stats.
“He’s good,” Thom said quietly, breaking the silence. “Really good.”
“That’s not the question anymore,” Jarin added, flipping through a few notes. “The gameplay speaks for itself. What we’re looking at now is fit.”
“Chemistry?” Tay asked, arms crossed.
Lita was the one to answer. “More than that. Narrative. He’s not just a potential teammate, he’s a storyline waiting to happen. If we move forward, we’re not just adding a player. We’re adding a face. A voice. A whole new layer to our brand.”
Tay raised an eyebrow. “So what? You want him to start doing interviews already?”
“No,” Lita said with a small smile. “Not interviews. Something softer. More authentic. Let the fans see him with the team. Laughing. Teasing. Fitting in.”
Thom leaned forward and slid a folder across the table. A rough video outline sat on top with a familiar header: ECLIPSE HOUSE: Chaos Uncut.
“We float this out tonight,” he explained. “Label it something non-committal. ‘Special Guest at the Dorm’ or ‘Late Night Laughs’—whatever feels casual.”
Lita added, “We’ll cut it to focus on the group dynamic. Keep it short, maybe twenty minutes max. No talking points. No official framing. Just... a vibe. He’s great on camera. Let him steer the energy.”
“And then?” Tay asked.
“Then we watch,” Jarin said. “Engagement. Sentiment. Shares. We’ll know within twelve hours if the public sees what the team sees.”
Tay sighed, glancing at the table. “He’s already running hot. This week’s been nonstop. He’s trying to be perfect in scrims and charming in the kitchen at the same time.”
“We’re not trying to burn him,” Lita said gently. “We’re trying to give him a chance to be seen as he really is. That’s how fans fall in love. Not with the stats, but with the spark.”
“And if it goes well?” Tay asked.
Thom smiled. “Then the announcement writes itself.”
Lita’s tone shifted slightly, more serious. “But if it goes poorly, he’s protected. No names, no confirmations. Just a fun video with a guest. We frame it right, and there’s no risk.”
Tay stared at the folder for a long second. Then finally, he exhaled.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’ll talk to him.”
He turned to go, but paused as Lita called after him with a sly grin:
“Tell him to wear something cute. No pressure, but the camera loves him.”
Tay didn’t look back, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward.
Chapter 19: Chapter 19
Notes:
im actually trying to go to sleep at a reasonable time but I wanted to post this first :)
hehehe hope you enjoy
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2023-
First’s camera is angled a little higher than usual, showing more of the dorm wall behind him, now peppered with posters, scrim schedules, and what looks like a cat-shaped whiteboard. He’s in a dark oversized shirt, hair a little messy, but there’s an ease in the way he leans into the chair.
“You look more comfortable,” his psychiatrist says with a warm smile.
“I am,” he replies simply.
“Tell me what’s changed.”
He shrugs, but it’s not the usual deflective one. It’s loose. “The team’s doing well. Really well. We’ve climbed a lot higher than people expected.”
“You’ve made a name for yourselves.”
“Yeah. ‘Team Eclipse’ is trending after every qualifier. AJ had to make a second Discord because fans kept finding the first one.”
She smiles. “And how are you handling the attention?”
He pauses, then says—almost surprised by his own answer—“I like it.”
“Really?”
“I thought I’d hate it. I did hate it, at first. The Ice Prince stuff. The mystique. All the dumb tweets about my glare.”
“And now?”
“I lean into it,” he says, eyes glinting. “Turns out, being untouchable works when you own it.”
“You’ve reclaimed the image.”
“It’s not armor anymore,” he explains. “It’s… style. Performance. I still get to be me underneath.”
She nods. “And do you feel like your fans see that version?”
“More and more,” he says. “They clip the jokes now. When I tell JJ to shut up with a smile. When I raise an eyebrow at Gun. When Neo makes me laugh. They’re noticing.”
“And how does that feel?”
“Safe,” he says. “Like I don’t have to explain myself.”
She tilts her head. “Speaking of Neo—how’s your bond with the rest of the team been lately?”
“It’s stronger,” he says without hesitation. “Neo’s weirdly grounding. He acts like he doesn’t care but he always checks in. He’s smarter than most people realize.”
“And JJ?”
First lets out a small huff that might be a laugh. “Still loud. Still chaos. But he’s not careless. He plays like he’s reckless, but he always pulls back before it gets too much. We’ve been VOD reviewing together lately. He’s better at it than I expected.”
“And AJ?”
“AJ’s quiet,” he says, softer now. “But he watches everything. We’ve been syncing up on site holds more. He doesn’t need words. I just feel… safer when he’s anchoring.”
She nods, scribbling briefly in her notes. “That’s a strong core.”
“It is.” A pause. “And Thom helps too.”
“Your new manager?”
He nods. “Thom’s blunt. Organized. He doesn’t waste time. But he respects my space. He got us blackout curtains for the dorms without me even asking.”
“That kind of sensitivity goes a long way.”
“He makes the chaos feel manageable. Even when JJ’s trying to build a hot sauce pyramid on stream.”
She chuckles. “It sounds like you’ve found your rhythm.”
“I have,” First says. “And I don’t feel like I’m behind anymore.”
“Behind?”
“Like I missed something. Because of… everything.” He lifts one hand briefly. “But now I’m leading. Not just in-game. Thom says people look to me. Even when I don’t speak.”
“And how does that feel?”
His answer comes easily.
“Good.”
Then, softer: “Earned.”
“That’s a big shift from last year.”
“I know.”
She pauses. “Do you still think about the Ice Prince label?”
“Yeah. But I get to define it now.” A faint smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. “They think I’m cold because I’m precise. Focused. Sharp. And that’s true. But they also see when I fist bump JJ. When I pass Neo water without looking. When I lean against AJ between maps.”
“They’re seeing the quiet warmth.”
“I think that’s always been there,” he says. “They just had to stop looking for noise.”
She watches him carefully. “And you’re okay with being seen now?”
He thinks for a long moment.
Then: “Not always. But more than I used to be.”
And that, for First, is a revolution.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call starts with less hesitation than usual. First leans back in his chair, hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms, a glass of water beside him, untouched. He looks composed—but there's a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
His psychiatrist smiles softly. “You seem like you’re holding something in.”
He stares at the screen for a moment, then says, flatly: “I met someone.”
Her brows lift. “Oh?”
“She works at the café near the dorm. The one JJ won’t shut up about.”
“And?”
“She’s nice,” he says, as if the word costs him. “Keeps her distance. Doesn’t try too hard. But she flirts. A little. It’s not overwhelming.”
She nods, watching him carefully. “And how does that make you feel?”
He pauses. “Good. Mostly. It’s… attention. But not loud. I like that.”
There’s a beat.
“I asked for her number,” he adds. “We’ve been talking.”
“That’s a big step, First.”
“I figured I’d try. You said I didn’t have to be ready for everything…..just open.”
“And you are?”
“I’m trying.” His voice stays neutral, but the tension in his shoulders suggests otherwise.
“Are you flirting back?”
He grimaces. “Not well.”
She laughs gently. “What does that mean?”
“I say things. Direct. No emoji. She says I sound like a detective interviewing a suspect.”
“Maybe that’s your flirting style.”
He snorts, but doesn’t deny it.
“She’s cute,” he says, too quickly. Then adds, “Not that I’ve said that to anyone.”
“You just did.”
“That doesn’t count.”
She smiles. “Do you trust her?”
“I don’t distrust her,” he replies carefully. “It’s still new. But she’s easy to talk to. She’s not nosy. She asks about my day and doesn’t flinch when I say I’ve been quiet.”
“And your team?”
“Off teases me. Says I’m growing up.” He rolls his eyes. “He’ll die of smugness if this goes anywhere.”
“And Gun?”
First goes quiet.
Then: “He’s… not a fan.”
“Oh?”
“He knows her. They all do—everyone uses that café. He says she’s different with him. Loud. Flirty in a fake way.”
“And with you?”
“She’s quieter. Less performative.”
His psychiatrist tilts her head. “Do you think Gun’s concerned about you, or projecting his own discomfort?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I think… she sees me different. I don’t know if it’s real, but it feels different.”
“Do you want it to be real?”
“…Maybe.”
A pause.
“I don’t want to need anything from her. I don’t want to give her that power.”
“But you’re letting her in.”
“A little.” He pulls at his sleeve. “I’m testing it. Seeing if it hurts.”
“And so far?”
“No pain.” A beat. “But I haven’t let her touch me.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t think she would unless I asked.”
“That sounds like respect.”
He nods, almost to himself.
“You’re allowed to enjoy being liked,” she says gently. “Even if it’s imperfect. Even if it doesn’t last.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“You’re better than you think.”
He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t disagree.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The kitchen is dim when First walks in, footsteps too sharp against the tile. He opens the fridge, stares blankly, then grabs a bottle of water and shuts it harder than necessary.
Gun’s voice cuts through the dark.
“You know she’s using you, right?”
First doesn’t startle. He just stills.
Gun’s sitting at the counter, hoodie wrinkled, hair messy like he hasn’t even tried to sleep. His expression is flat. Tired. But there’s a tension behind his eyes—coiled and ready to snap.
“Were you just sitting here waiting for me to show up?” First mutters.
“No,” Gun says. “I was sitting here because I live here. But I heard enough.”
First scoffs. “You were eavesdropping.”
“I was breathing,” Gun snaps. “The walls aren’t thick, First.”
“Then maybe mind your business next time.”
Gun stands, slowly. “It is my business when someone I care about is being turned into fucking clickbait.”
“Jesus,” First hisses. “You barely even know her.”
“I know she asked if she could post pictures of you after already posting pictures of you.” Gun steps closer. “I know she’s got brand tags and follower boosts and captions that make you look like a trophy. She’s a parasite! I know she doesn’t give a shit about what you want, just what you’ll let her get away with.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“I know you haven’t smiled once after being with her. That counts for something.”
“I’m not you,” First snaps. “I don’t parade my relationships around like a pride flag.”
Gun’s jaw twitches. “No, you hide them until they rot.”
First glares. “Fuck off.”
“You kissed her on the cheek and had to breathe through a panic attack afterward,” Gun says, voice rising now. “You’re not okay, First. And instead of ending it, you’re letting her keep pushing because you think it’s your job to be normal.”
“I am normal!”
“You’re not,” Gun says sharply. “You’re you. And that’s enough. But not for her. And you know it.”
First’s hands curl into fists. “I’m trying.”
“No. You’re performing.”
“Oh, like you’ve never pretended for love?” First fires back. “Remind me, how long did you smile through your breakup with Jet before you ran straight to Off and rewrote the narrative?”
Gun flinches. “That’s low.”
“So’s watching my screen and acting like you’re a fucking saint.”
“I didn’t need to snoop,” Gun says. “You opened your phone and looked miserable. You looked scared. That’s not what love looks like.”
“Don’t talk to me about love like you invented it.”
“I’m talking to you like someone who knows you!” Gun yells. “Who sees when you’re slipping, and actually gives a damn!”
“Then stop trying to control me!” First shouts back. “Stop acting like you know what’s best for me all the fucking time!”
“I do know what’s best for you.”
“You’re not my keeper, Gun!”
“No,” Gun says, breathing hard. “I’m the idiot who thought I was your friend.”
The silence is brutal.
First’s voice breaks. “If you were my friend, you’d support me.”
“If I were your friend, I wouldn’t be watching you lie to yourself every night because you’re afraid of being alone!”
First freezes.
Gun exhales, shoving his hands through his hair. “You’re not ready for this. For her. For any of it. You still flinch when someone touches your shoulder, and you think the problem is you.”
“I am the problem,” First says, quiet and dangerous. “That’s the whole fucking point.”
Gun flinches, but his voice stays steady. “She’s using you, First. And you know it.”
“I don’t know it,” First snaps, stepping forward. “And even if she was, what gives you the right to say anything?”
“I give a shit about you. That’s why.”
“Well maybe don’t,” First spits. “Maybe worry about your own perfect life with Off and the goddamn engagement ring instead of projecting your savior complex onto mine.”
Gun goes very still.
The silence stretches.
First doesn’t take it back. Just breathes hard. Jaw clenched.
And Gun—he doesn’t yell. Doesn’t flinch.
He just steps back. Quiet. Eyes dimming in a way that makes First’s stomach turn, even if he won’t admit it.
Then he turns. Walks out without slamming the door.
It clicks shut so softly it might as well be final.
First doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stands there in the kitchen, breathing like he lost a round that never even started.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The video is a little blurry today. First hasn’t adjusted the camera. He’s sitting lower in the frame than usual, shoulders hunched in a dark hoodie, hood pulled halfway up. He doesn’t speak right away.
His psychiatrist waits.
Finally, he says, voice low: “Gun and I had a fight.”
Her face softens. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
He nods, slowly. “It was about Rina.”
He presses a thumb against the side of his jaw, like it’s helping him hold something in place. “Gun thinks she’s using me.”
“And what do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t think so. Not at first.”
“But now?”
His jaw tightens. “She’s been asking if she can post pictures. From our dates. Stuff she took without me knowing. Said it would help boost both of us.”
“That’s a red flag.”
“Gun saw the messages. I didn’t show him—he just... saw my screen when I opened them. Then he started looking at her account. Said she’s got followers. That she’s trying to turn this into content.”
His eyes flick to the side. “He heard us fighting. I didn’t know he was still awake. It was after midnight.”
“And what were you fighting about?”
“She wants more physical affection. Says we’ve been seeing each other for months and I still won’t kiss her. Like, really kiss her.” He swallows. “I’ve been trying. I hold her hand sometimes. I’ve put my arm around her. I kissed her cheek last week and thought I was gonna throw up.”
“And did you tell her that?”
“I told her I don’t like touch. That it takes work. That I’ve been trying. But she just said she felt rejected. Like I didn’t care.”
“Do you?”
His silence answers for him.
“I care,” he says eventually. “But not like she wants. Or maybe not in the way she needs.”
“And you’ve been forcing yourself?”
He nods. “Little things. Over and over. Every time she touches my mouth, I flinch. Every time she pulls my hand up, I freeze.”
“Have you told her it’s not something you can give her?”
“I tried. But it feels like I’m failing. Like I’m broken in some way she’ll never stop noticing.”
She watches him closely. “And what about Gun?”
“I yelled at him,” First admits. “He said she was using me, and I told him to worry about Off and his engagement instead of projecting his savior complex.”
Her eyes flicker. “That sounds like it cut deep.”
“He didn’t yell back. Just left the room.” His voice drops. “We haven’t talked since.”
“How long?”
“Three days.” A beat. “It feels longer.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I hate it.” His hands are clenched out of frame. “He annoys me constantly. But he knows me. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t flinch.”
She waits.
“He saw I was struggling and said something. And I made it ugly.”
“Do you think he was wrong?”
“I think he was right,” he says quietly. “And I didn’t want him to be.”
There’s a long silence.
“I didn’t want to be wrong about her,” he says. “I thought maybe I could... be normal. I thought if I tried hard enough, I could just—snap out of it. That the right person would make it easier.”
“And she didn’t.”
“No.”
She’s quiet. Then: “You’re not broken, First.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“You’re someone with needs. Boundaries. History. And the right person won’t ask you to betray that.”
“I feel like I lied to her.”
“You were trying to hope. That’s not a lie. That’s being human.”
He lets out a long, exhausted breath.
“Gun thinks I should break up with her.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I should’ve done it weeks ago.”
Her voice is soft. “Then what’s stopping you?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, “I don’t want to feel alone again.”
“You’re not. You still have your team. You still have Off. And you still have Gun—if
you’re willing to take a step toward him again.”
He nods, slowly.
“I think I want to talk to him.”
“That’s a good place to start.”
Another pause.
“I’m so tired,” he admits. “Of pretending touch is easy. Of trying to perform something I don’t understand.”
“Then stop performing,” she says gently. “Let someone meet you where you are.”
He doesn’t say anything.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The café is quiet when First arrives. It’s early enough that there are only a few customers, most tucked behind laptops or sipping their morning brews. Rina spots him immediately and offers a bright smile, stepping out from behind the counter and slipping off her apron.
“Hey,” she says, walking toward him. “I was just thinking about you.”
First doesn’t return the smile.
He gestures to a corner table. “Can we talk?”
Her expression shifts—cautious, but still playing at warmth. “Sure.”
They sit. Rina crosses her legs, hands folded in her lap. “You’re not smiling.”
“I don’t usually smile.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “True.”
First folds his hands on the table. He doesn’t fidget. He never does when he’s made up his mind.
“I’m not good at this,” he starts. “Relationships. Affection. Letting people in.”
She tilts her head. “I know that. I’ve been patient—”
“It’s not about patience,” he cuts in, gently but firmly. “It’s about honesty. I’m not someone who can give what you want. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
Her brows draw together. “You said you were trying.”
“I was. I did.” He exhales. “But forcing myself doesn’t make it real. It just makes me feel sick.”
She opens her mouth, but he continues.
“I don’t want to be a project. Or a challenge. Or something you think will get easier if you keep waiting. It’s not fair to you. Or to me.”
“You really believe I’m using you?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” he says, honest and flat. “But I know I don’t want this anymore.”
She stares at him. Her face goes through a series of expressions—hurt, defensiveness, calculation—but she says nothing more.
“I hope you find someone who can meet you the way you want to be met,” he says, rising.
She doesn’t respond. And that’s fine.
He walks out.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gun is sprawled dramatically across the couch, legs tangled in a pink fleece blanket, Mimi curled in his lap. The living room smells faintly of Neo’s air freshener and JJ’s energy drink. The vibe is domestic chaos—but quieter than usual.
First walks in. Gun looks up.
Silence.
First doesn’t drop his bag, doesn’t sit. Just stands by the armrest and stares at him.
“I broke up with her,” he says.
Gun blinks. “You what.”
“I broke up with Rina.”
A beat.
“Okay wait,” Gun says, sitting up like he’s preparing for an emotional earthquake. “Is this a trick?”
“No.”
Another beat.
“Are you possessed.”
“No.”
“Was this because of me?”
First sighs. “It was because she wasn’t right for me. And I was trying to prove something that wasn’t real.”
Gun stares.
First finally sits down, slow, like it costs him something. “You were right.”
Gun’s hand flies to his chest. “I’m sorry, could you say that again? Into the mic?”
“You were right.”
“Oh my god,” Gun breathes. “He said it. He said it.”
“I’m not saying it again.”
“I don’t need you to. I’ll treasure this moment forever.” Gun wipes a fake tear. “You’re forgiven.”
First rolls his eyes.
Gun leans forward, expression shifting. “I missed you.”
“I was here.”
“You were sulking in silence. I thought I lost my bestie forever. I lit a candle. I almost composed a ballad.”
“You didn’t.”
“I drafted a haiku.”
“You didn’t.”
Gun sniffles dramatically. “I just—how could you say something so mean to me? That thing about Off and the ring? I bled, First. I bled.”
First’s eyes narrow. “You called my girlfriend a parasite.”
“I was correct. But I could’ve been nicer about it.”
“You weren’t wrong,” First mutters. “You’re rarely wrong. That’s the problem.”
Gun perks up. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Still taking it.”
They fall into a silence that isn’t tense this time. It’s familiar. Warm. Gun shifts closer on the couch, not quite touching, just within reach.
“Next time I lose my mind over someone,” First says, “tell me again.”
“I always will.”
First nods once.
Gun bumps his knee, grinning. “Welcome back, Ice Prince.”
First doesn’t respond.
But a few seconds later, he leans back just enough for their shoulders to almost touch.
And Gun doesn’t say anything—just grins wider and presses play on the show they never finished last week.
Chapter 20: Chapter 20
Notes:
I'm currently working on Khao's next chapter and I have a feeling its going to be a LONG one, I hope you enjoy the chaos that is this chapter in the meantime :)
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
Khaotung was sprawled across his bed in the team dorm, wrapped in a soft blanket that looked suspiciously like it had ears. Montow was curled at his feet. Vaanjoy, meanwhile, was perched on the windowsill, tail twitching, watching the world like he had secrets to keep.
The knock came soft at first.
“Who dares disturb me in my fluff lair,” Khaotung called lazily.
“It’s Tay.”
“Oh, shit. Hang on, hang on!”
He scrambled up, tossing aside the blanket and nearly stepping on Montow. He opened the door with a dramatic flourish, shirt slightly askew, a jelly star-shaped face mask half hanging off his cheek.
Tay blinked. “I… don’t even want to ask.”
“Spa break,” Khaotung said. “For morale.”
Tay sighed. “Ten minutes. Get dressed. We need to talk.”
Khaotung's eyes widened. “Am I getting kicked out? I swear I only stole one of Neo’s protein bars and it was an emergency.”
Tay just turned and walked.
Ten minutes later, they were seated on the dorm’s back patio with iced tea and zero context. Tay got to the point.
“Management and PR want you in a video with the team.”
Khaotung blinked. “...Like, a real one?”
“Unofficial. Casual. It’ll go up tonight. Just a short dorm segment. No interviews, no questions about your status. They just want to see how the public reacts to you in the mix.”
Khaotung froze, halfway through sipping his tea. “So they want... chaos.”
“They want you.”
He set the cup down carefully. “I thought I had another couple days before I had to think about all this.”
“The trial ends tomorrow. This video isn’t an announcement. It’s a test balloon. Best case? Fans love it, they scream, we ride the wave. Worst case? It’s just a cute dorm vlog.”
Khaotung stared at the table. “Do I have to be… like, chill? Professional?”
“No. Be yourself. That’s what they’re betting on. The team already likes you. The fans will too, if they get to meet you properly.”
Khaotung was quiet for a beat, biting the edge of his straw.
“What if I mess it up?”
Tay gave him a look. “You survived six days of First ignoring your flirtation, many VOD reviews with Neo’s sarcasm, and JJ setting off the fire alarm trying to flambé a protein bar. You’re ready.”
Khaotung groaned, slumping dramatically. “Fine. But I might wear the Hello Kitty slippers.”
“As long as you don’t wear that face mask on camera.”
“I make no promises.”
Tay stood, clapping him on the shoulder. “Filming’s after dinner. Be ready.”
Khaotung called after him, “Should I wear pink? Or sparkly pink?!”
Without turning around, Tay replied, “Lita said cute. So use your best judgment.”
Khaotung blinked at the doorway.
“That’s dangerous, Coach.”
Khaotung grinned.
“Well,” he said, “time to serve.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Khaotung spun in front of the dorm’s hallway mirror, tugging lightly on the hem of his tight-fitted cherry crop top and fluffing his bangs one last time. His hair was styled fluffy and tousled—soft, voluminous, with just the right amount of intentional mess. The cut framed his cheekbones and brought attention to his expressive eyes, lashes curled to perfection. He looked cute. Effortlessly fashionable. And slightly dangerous, if you asked Gun.
“Okay, scale of one to boyfriend bait?” Khaotung asked, barging into Gun’s room without knocking. He did a little twirl for emphasis, the high-waisted flowy white pants swishing dramatically with the motion. “Be honest, P’Gun.”
Gun barely looked up from his phone. “You’re radioactive.”
“Perfect.”
He snatched his phone and trotted down the hall toward the lounge, where the Eclipse team had gathered for a lowkey vlog segment. Lita had already set up a couple of cameras with Tay’s help. She waved as Khaotung entered.
“You’re late.”
“I’m cute,” Khaotung countered, posing dramatically in the doorway. “That buys me at least five minutes.”
The dorm living room had been rearranged to look casual but intentional—beanbags, two couches, Eclipse banners in the background, and snack bowls artfully placed. Neo was already half asleep against one of the cushions, JJ and AJ fighting over a blanket on the couch, and First sitting neatly at the edge of the frame in his usual black hoodie.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Lita said, clapping her hands. “Keep it casual. This is a slice-of-life dorm vibe. Think chaos, charm, and character bonding.”
Gun flopped onto the other couch with a dramatic sigh. “So just a normal Friday night.”
Lita hit record.
The next twenty minutes were a blur of laughter and teasing. Khaotung introduced himself dramatically: “You may know me from my award-winning debut as GlitterShot King of Deathmatch. Or from my previous role as ‘guy who screamed when First joined voice chat.’”
JJ leaned over and stage-whispered, “He also cries at cat videos.”
“AND YOU LOVE IT,” Khaotung shot back.
Neo offered a deadpan, “I saw him floss for a killcam once. It wasn’t even ironic.”
Gun chimed in with an exaggerated groan. “You’re all giving the wrong impression. Khaotung is a professional. He’s very serious. He studies VODs in eyeliner.”
“I’m versatile,” Khaotung said proudly.
They answered questions from a bowl Lita handed them—“Who’s the loudest in the dorm?” “What’s the weirdest food combo someone’s made?” “If you had to pick a team theme song?”—with Khaotung doing dramatic host commentary after each.
When it was First’s turn to answer who he thought had improved the most during scrims, he paused for a beat.
“Khaotung,” he said plainly.
The room fell quiet for a second. Khaotung blinked.
“…Wait. Really?”
First nodded. “You came in with energy. You stayed adaptable. That’s not easy.”
Khaotung’s heart did something stupid. Loud. He blinked like he’d misheard.
“I’m going to cry,” he mouthed and buried his face in Gun’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” JJ said. “We’ll autotune that into a TikTok sound.”
The video ended with everyone waving exaggeratedly and Khaotung signing off with a flourish: “That’s it for today’s Eclipse Chaos Log! Subscribe for more screaming, sparkle, and emotionally repressed team captains!”
First reached off screen to throw a pillow at him.
Lita grinned. “Perfect. Upload goes up tonight.”
The video went live at 8:01 PM.
By 8:07 PM, “Eclipse Dorm Vlog” was trending in four countries.
By 8:13 PM, someone had already made a slowed-down lo-fi edit of First saying “You stayed adaptable” layered over rain sounds and Khaotung mouthing “I’m going to cry.”
By 8:16 PM, TikTok was flooded with reactions.
@sparklesquad.mp4
POV: you just got complimented by the man of your enemies-to-lovers fanfic dreams 😭✨
🎶: emotional damage piano ver.
[Caption]: “he blinked. he clutched his pearls. he DIED.”
@ajthebackup
[video clip]
JJ in the background saying “autotune that into a TikTok” followed by 500 remixes in the comments
🎶 JJ AUTOTUNE REMIX CHALLENGE STARTED 🔥🔥
@glitterkhaos
“khaotung walking into frame in the cherry crop top and flowy pants like he owns the entire franchise was life-changing”
[photo of his outfit with zooms and sparkle edits]
#fashionicon #teamwife
Gun tweeted at 8:22 PM:
[@Gunthegreat]
“He studies VODs in eyeliner” was a genuine compliment btw. #SupportMainSupportive
💅✨🎯
At 8:26 PM, Khaotung quote-tweeted him:
[@KhaotungLIVE]
so ur saying u want me to do your eyeliner next match? noted.
💘💄🖤 #GunspiracyReturns
Fan replies flooded in immediately:
“THE POWER DUO IS BACK”
“gun literally said 'you up?' in tweet form”
“someone get first a stress ball i know he’s seeing this”
Meanwhile, screenshots of First’s straight-faced “Khaotung” and “That’s not easy” comments were circulating with captions like:
“Emotionally repressed man learns how to compliment. It’s super effective.”
“First: compliments softly
Khaotung: ascends to heaven”
“Top fragging? Yes. Top tearing up? Also yes.”
And a new meme format was born:
📸 Freeze-frame of First throwing the pillow at Khaotung
Caption: “When your crush gets too powerful”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Eclipse kitchen was already half full when Khaotung wandered in, still sleepy in his pastel blue pajama shorts covered in tiny stars and an oversized cream hoodie that said “I’m baby and I frag”. He made it three steps toward the coffee pot before Neo, AJ, and JJ all turned to stare at him like they’d seen a ghost.
“…What?” he said, blinking blearily.
Neo just slid his phone across the counter without a word.
Khaotung picked it up and immediately choked.
[@FIRST_ECLIPSE ]
"it was the cherries."
[📸: attached image — a cropped still from the dorm vlog of Khaotung grinning in his cherry crop top]
There was silence. Then screaming.
From Khaotung.
“WHAT IS THIS. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, IT WAS THE CHERRIES??”
He slammed the phone onto the counter like it betrayed him and whipped around toward Gun, who was calmly munching toast with peanut butter like none of this was happening.
“You KNEW about this?!”
Gun nodded serenely. “Saw it when I woke up. Thought I hallucinated. Double-checked. Still real.”
“HE TWEETED THAT AT SIX AM,” JJ said. “BEFORE ANY OF US WERE UP.”
“HE POSTED ME. WITH THE CHERRY CROP TOP.”
“HE SAID IT WAS THE CHERRIES,” JJ repeated, eyes wide with delight. “I’m gonna put that on a banner at your wedding.”
“WE ARE NOT GETTING MARRIED,” Khaotung screeched, now pacing.
Tay entered just in time for the spiral. “What did I miss?”
“P’First tweeted thirst,” AJ said helpfully, biting into toast.
Tay froze mid-step, brow furrowed. “He what?”
Neo handed him the phone wordlessly.
Tay read. Then blinked. “…Huh.”
“Exactly,” said Gun. “We’re all confused.”
Khaotung covered his face with his hands. “I’m not even allowed to look at him too long in practice and now he’s soft-launching me to the nation???”
Tay sat down with his coffee, watching Khaotung implode. “You’re being dramatic.”
“YOU GREW UP WITH HIM. YOU KNOW HE DOESN’T TWEET.”
“I’m aware,” Tay said, taking a sip. “Which is why this is particularly entertaining.”
Khaotung peeked through his fingers. “What if he regrets it? What if it was a 6am impulse tweet and now he hates me and my cherries and—”
“Okay, enough,” Gun cut in, tossing him a banana. “Eat something before you pass out. You’ve got scrims in an hour.”
“I don’t need potassium, I need answers!”
“Too bad,” JJ said cheerfully. “All you’re getting today is potassium and pain.”
“I hate all of you.”
But he was smiling now, faint and flustered. Because whether it meant anything or not—First had posted about him.
He stared at the tweet one more time, like it might vanish.
It didn’t.
“Scroll down,” JJ said.
Khaotung did. And froze.
“...Why is there a slow-mo video of me walking into the vlog in my crop top set to Lana Del Rey?”
“Because you are now a fashion icon,” AJ said with a salute. “Congratulations.”
Tay looked up. “Is that the edit that says ‘this outfit cured my seasonal depression’?”
“Yes,” Neo confirmed. “And also ‘cherry crop top supremacy’ is trending.”
“STOP.” Khaotung covered his face. “I was just being cute! I didn’t mean to cause national fashion discourse!!”
“You exist and it causes national fashion discourse,” Gun said flatly.
Neo passed him his plate. “Pancake?”
“I don’t deserve pancakes,” Khaotung moaned. “People are calling First emotionally repressed and calling me the team wife.”
“They’re not wrong,” JJ said, mouth full.
“Also,” AJ added helpfully, “someone made a meme of First throwing the pillow at you with the caption ‘when your crush gets too powerful.’ It’s already at 40k reposts.”
“Where is First,” Khaotung cried, burying his face into Montow’s fur. “I need to apologize for existing.”
“Went back to sleep,” Gun replied. “Or meditating. Or plotting our deaths. Hard to say.”
Tay finally closed his laptop. “Alright, team. Internet chaos aside, Lita just messaged. That vlog did numbers. Jarin’s already saying we might want to film another one if the trial ends in your favor.”
Khaotung looked up from his dramatic despair. “Wait. Really?”
Tay nodded. “It’s good PR. People love you. More importantly—” he glanced around the table— “they love the dynamic. Gun, JJ, Neo, AJ, your energy as a group? Authentic. Engaging. First saying anything at all? Bonus points.”
“What about me?” Khaotung asked.
“You screamed into Gun’s shoulder and said ‘subscribe for emotionally repressed team captains,’” Tay said. “That might go on merch.”
Khaotung gasped. “It was an artistic choice.”
Neo nodded solemnly. “Your art changed lives.”
By the time they moved from the kitchen to the lounge, the Eclipse team had fully accepted their fate. The dorm vlog, barely uploaded for twelve hours, had exploded across social media.
JJ flopped dramatically onto the couch, scrolling through TikTok.
“I saw a YouTube edit titled ‘Cherry Crop Duo: The Rise of Khaotung and His Emotionally Repressed Captain,’” said Neo, eyes deadpan as he skimmed Twitter.
AJ held up his phone, laughing. “Someone did a side-by-side comparison of First saying ‘Khaotung’ during the video and when he called Gun by name last year and said ‘Spot the difference.’ The comments are unhinged.”
Khaotung, who had taken refuge under a blanket and was sipping iced coffee with a straw, groaned. “I knew this would happen. I knew you couldn’t put me in a video with that man and expect normalcy.”
“You were normal,” said Gun, flipping through the replies on his own tweet. “‘Very cute. Well-behaved. Marketable.’ Like a sparkly house pet.”
“I’m going to throw my coffee at you.”
“Also someone made a mashup of all the times First looked at you and set it to ‘Enchanted’ by Taylor Swift,” Neo added.
“NO,” Khaotung squeaked.
“Yes,” Neo confirmed. “It’s titled ‘he didn’t blink once.’”
Tay walked in from the kitchen, holding another coffee and a smirk. “You brought this on yourself. You wore that shirt.”
“I wanted to be cute, not go viral for tension.”
Gun snorted. “Too late. The public has spoken.”
“Don’t even get me started on the shipping hashtags,” said JJ, eyes wide. “#CherrySparkle. #IcePop. #FirstKhaotung My favorite is just ‘#GodHelpThem.’”
Khaotung groaned. “I’m responsible for my own downfall.”
Neo turned his screen so everyone could see a viral quote tweet:
@swordsandsparkles
“Gun and Khaotung are the same brand of chaos. First is the buffer. Neo is the straight man. JJ is the chaos catalyst. AJ is the cool twin. This is a sitcom and I would die for it.”
150K likes.
“I mean,” said AJ, “where’s the lie.”
Gun tossed an arm over Khaotung’s shoulder. “You survived the first wave of fame, princess.”
“I’m not a princess,” Khaotung mumbled into his straw.
“You’re the dorm darling now,” AJ teased. “Can’t wait to see your next vlog. Or your wedding.”
Khaotung shrieked and threw a pillow at him.
But even with all the teasing, Khaotung couldn’t stop smiling. Because under all the chaos, there was something undeniable forming around him.
Team.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The living room had been cleared out again, this time of snacks and stray hoodies, and replaced with a small coffee table and four chairs. Tay sat next to Khaotung, legs crossed, sipping a drink he insisted was “for professionalism.” Khaotung, meanwhile, sat with his hands folded tightly in his lap, cherry crop top replaced by a much more muted sweater, though the anxiety in his eyes was still very much sequined.
The dorm door buzzed once. Tay stood to open it.
In stepped Khun Jarin, Thom, and Lita, each dressed casually but sharp, like they meant business even on a Saturday.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Jarin greeted. “Hope we’re not interrupting anything too chaotic.”
“Only my pulse,” Khaotung muttered.
Tay elbowed him gently and gestured for everyone to sit.
Jarin settled in first, with Thom beside him and Lita propping a slim tablet on her lap. There was a beat of quiet as she flicked through files, then passed the tablet to Khaotung.
“This,” she said, “is your official offer.”
Khaotung blinked. “Wait. Really?”
Thom smiled. “The video helped, but it was your gameplay that sealed it. You’ve impressed every single member of the team, and the coaching staff believes you’d be a perfect fit long-term. Pending your signature, we’d like to move forward with onboarding.”
Khaotung reached for the tablet like it was made of glass. His eyes darted over the terms—standard contract, one-year term with review option, same benefits as the other full-time members. Nothing flashy. Everything real.
“So I—” He swallowed. “I’m really in?”
Jarin nodded. “You’re in.”
A sharp breath left Khaotung’s lungs before he could stop it. Tay gave him a brief smile, steady and proud.
“We’d like you to officially move into the dorm full-time,” Lita added. “As soon as possible. You’re already acclimating well with the team, and having you here will make content, scrims, and travel coordination much easier.”
“We’ve also scheduled the public announcement for three days from now,” Thom said. “Press, socials, a small welcome video. We’ll be filming that on Monday.”
Khaotung blinked hard. “Oh my god. Wait, three days?”
“Gives us time to prepare,” Lita replied. “Also… there’s one more update.”
She glanced at Tay.
Jarin continued, “Coach Tay was never intended to be your permanent mentor. He stepped in during the trial to help guide you through our system, which he did excellently.” He gave Tay a nod, and Tay responded with a quiet smile.
“However, as of this week,” Thom added, “we’ll be transitioning you under the full leadership of the team’s new permanent coach—Off.”
Khaotung’s head snapped up. “P’Off?”
Jarin nodded. “We’ll announce his return at the same time as yours. You’ll be rejoining the team with him.”
Khaotung’s mouth fell open for a second, then he grinned wide. “Oh. That’s so dramatic. I love it.”
Tay laughed. “Of course you do.”
“You’re not mad?” Khaotung asked, glancing at him.
Tay shook his head. “You don’t need me anymore. And I’ll still be around, just in a different capacity. I’m proud of you.”
Khaotung tried not to cry. He failed a little. Just a shimmer in his lashes.
“So,” Jarin said, tone warm but expectant. “Are you ready to make it official?”
Khaotung looked at the tablet one more time.
Then he nodded.
He held out his hand, still smiling, just a little shaky now.
“Give me the pen.”
Chapter 21: Chapter 21
Notes:
The next one is going to take a couple of days. There's a lot I'm trying to fit into one chapter because I can't bear to split it up and once I finish it, it's gonna take a while to edit too so I will be back in 2-3 days :)
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2023-
The clatter of chopsticks and low hum of conversation filled the kitchen, but First barely registered it.
Neo was stirring noodles over the stove, hair damp from a shower. JJ and AJ were bickering over hot sauce. Gun was scrolling through his phone, curled up at the edge of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket.
It looked normal. Comfortable.
First felt like he was watching it from underwater.
He took a sip of his tea. It had gone cold fifteen minutes ago.
“Off’s not back yet,” Gun had said earlier when Neo asked about him. “Some long meeting with Lita and Jarin.”
First hadn’t asked. But he noticed.
The room always felt one degree colder when Off wasn’t in it.
He tried to insert himself, mumbled something about JJ’s spice tolerance, nudged AJ’s knee under the table but everything slid off the surface like oil on water. No one was ignoring him. They laughed when he spoke. Responded. Included him.
But First couldn’t feel it land.
Gun shot him a look at one point, quiet, curious, but didn’t say anything.
Later, when the plates were mostly cleared and the couch was full again, First stood.
“I’m gonna review some clips,” he said, already halfway out of the room.
Neo nodded. “Let me know if you want someone to run them with.”
First didn’t answer.
He retreated to his room, door clicking shut behind him. The silence was immediate. Weighty.
He didn’t open a single file. Just sat on the edge of the bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, staring at the faint crack in the paint near his desk.
It wasn’t pain. Not really. Just. Nothing. A hollow kind of quiet.
He didn’t want to feel like this. Disconnected. Like a placeholder version of himself.
But right now, he didn’t know how to be anything else.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The screen flickers once before stabilizing. First is seated at his desk, hoodie pulled up even though it's clearly warm—there’s a fan spinning lazily in the corner behind him. His face is paler than usual, expression unreadable. When his psychiatrist appears on-screen, she offers a gentle smile.
“Hi, First.”
He nods once. “Hi.”
A pause. He doesn’t offer more.
She waits a beat, then speaks. “You messaged earlier. Said you had something to talk about.”
Another pause.
Then, bluntly, “I broke up with Rina.”
Her gaze softens. “How are you feeling about that?”
He exhales slowly, eyes flicking to the side. “Relieved. I think.”
“You think?”
“It felt clean. Like cutting a rope that had been slowly strangling me. But after… nothing. Just blank..”
She nods, taking that in.
“She was upset,” he adds, voice flat. “But not surprised.”
“Because she knew?”
“She wanted something I couldn’t give her. I thought maybe I could. I wanted to try. But I was pretending and that made me angry. At her. At myself.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Gun was right,” he says, quieter now. “He warned me.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I apologized.”
“And how did he take it?”
First’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Like I’d risen from the dead. He cried. Told me he missed his bestie. That he lit a candle in mourning.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “That sounds... theatrical.”
“It was.”
“But you made up?”
He nods. “Yeah. We’re fine.”
She tilts her head slightly, reading his posture. “You’re not.”
He hesitates.
“I’ve been pulling away again.”
Her voice softens. “From Gun?”
“From all of them.”
She waits.
“It’s not on purpose,” he says. “I just… after everything with Rina, it’s like I snapped shut. Like something locked. And now it’s hard to open again.”
“Emotionally?”
He nods. “I keep things surface-level. Even with Off. Even with JJ, Neo, AJ. They joke, they talk to me, they invite me to hang out after scrims, and I go. But it’s like—I’m watching it all from the outside. I don’t feel in it.”
“Does it remind you of how things used to feel before?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Like I’m a ghost of myself. Functional. Fine. But cold. Detached. I don’t want them to notice.”
“Why not?”
“Because if they ask questions, I’ll have to make something up. And if they don’t ask, I’ll take it as proof that none of it mattered anyway.”
His psychiatrist lets that sit for a moment.
“That sounds lonely, First.”
He doesn’t respond.
Then she tries another angle. “What do you think triggered the shutdown? Was it just the breakup?”
“No.” His answer is immediate. “It was what came after. Realizing how close I’d let someone in. Someone who didn’t deserve it. And how easy it was to start questioning myself again. Like maybe I’m not capable of knowing what’s safe. What’s real.”
He rubs at the edge of his sleeve. “I told myself I was getting better. That I was ready for more. But the second it got messy, I wanted to run. And I did.”
“First,” she says gently, “taking space after being hurt isn’t failure. It’s self-protection. You’ve come a long way. That doesn’t mean you won’t have setbacks. But they’re not erasures. They’re pauses.”
He closes his eyes for a second.
“I want to feel connected to them again,” he says. “But I’m afraid if I lower the walls, someone else like Rina will get in.”
“Then let’s build gates, not walls,” she says softly. “You don’t have to open everything at once. But you can choose who gets let in. Slowly. Deliberately.”
He thinks about that.
“I still trust Gun,” he says eventually. “Off too. And I’ve started to trust AJ. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s always there. JJ’s loud, but he notices things. Neo too.”
“That sounds like a solid foundation.”
“I just don’t want to lose it,” he says quietly. “But I’m not sure how to keep it.”
“You don’t have to keep it like a prize,” she says. “You nurture it. Water it. Let it be uneven sometimes. Real connection isn’t performance, it’s consistency.”
She pauses, then adds: “You showed them care before. You can do it again. Even in small ways.”
He looks down. “Even if I’m cold?”
She smiles. “Especially then. That’s still part of who you are. But cold doesn’t mean empty. It doesn’t mean incapable. You’re still here. That counts.”
First doesn’t speak.
But he nods.
And this time, it’s not reluctant. It’s something like agreement.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed instead of resting. First stepped into the kitchen on bare feet, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, hair mussed like he hadn’t stopped fidgeting since the call ended.
Off was seated at the table, legs stretched out, glasses slipping down his nose as he scrolled through something on his tablet. Gun was curled in his lap, knees pulled up, eating mango slices straight from the container with a tiny fork.
Neither of them said anything as First crossed the room and filled a glass from the filtered pitcher.
“You missed JJ’s dramatic monologue about his kill-death ratio,” Gun said after a beat, not looking up. “He tried to compare himself to a phoenix.”
“Neo said he’d rather be dead than listen to it again,” Off added, still scrolling.
First took a long sip. “Sounds like I dodged a bullet.”
Gun nudged Off’s leg with his heel. “See? He’s still in there.”
“Somewhere,” Off murmured.
They were quiet again for a moment. First didn’t move to leave. Just stood, leaning slightly against the counter.
“You okay?” Gun asked. His tone was light, but his eyes flicked up, sharp with that particular kind of knowing he didn’t always let on.
“I had a session,” First said simply.
Gun tilted his head. “Didn’t slam any doors after. That’s promising.”
“Didn’t feel like throwing anything.” He stared into his water. “That’s… something.”
Off set the tablet down. “Progress is progress.”
Gun poked a mango slice with his fork. “You’ve been doing the ghost routine again lately.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“Yeah, but this was Victorian-child-in-a-wall quiet,” Gun said. “A whole new level.”
First shrugged, glancing toward the floor. “I was… resetting.”
Off gave a short, approving nod.
Gun looked at him for a beat longer, then turned his attention back to the fruit. “Want the last piece?”
“No.”
“Wasn’t offering,” Gun said cheerfully, and popped it into his mouth.
First snorted, barely audible, but real.
Off glanced up at him. “You don’t need to say anything.”
“I’m not going to,” First replied, dry as ever.
Gun held up the now-empty fruit container like it was a trophy. “Then sit and judge my snack choices. JJ made cookies earlier. They’re criminal.”
“I saw him put protein powder in the dough,” Off said.
“I think they count as war crimes now,” Gun added.
First set his glass down. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t leave either.
Instead, he pulled out a chair, dropped into it, and rested his forearms on the table.
Gun grinned. “He’s staying.”
“Miracles happen,” Off murmured, reaching to pluck a piece of mango fiber off Gun’s cheek.
They didn’t talk about the session. Or Rina. Or how hard it had been lately to feel anything at all.
But they passed around the failed cookies, traded insults like currency, and let the silence stretch warm instead of cold.
And First stayed.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First appears on-screen a minute before the hour, settled on the team dorm’s couch with a hoodie half-zipped and a thick blanket over his legs. The light is soft behind him—some ambient gaming LED glow muted to a dull violet. It’s quiet on his end, and he’s not fidgeting as much as usual.
His psychiatrist greets him with a warm, familiar smile. “Evening, First.”
“Hi,” he says, voice low but steady.
She studies his face for a moment. “You look… a little more at ease today.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Things are okay.”
“That’s not something you usually say.”
“I know,” he replies. But he doesn’t take it back.
After a small pause, she continues. “Last time we spoke about your team, you mentioned starting to feel distant again, putting up walls after the breakup, after the fight with Gun. Do you feel like that’s still true?”
First considers. “It was, for a while. I think I needed it. To reset.”
“Understandable,” she says.
“I didn’t shut down completely,” he adds, almost like it surprises even him. “Just... stepped back. Gave myself breathing room. And they gave it to me. No pushing. Just small things.”
“Small things like…?”
He glances off-screen. “Neo started making me breakfast before scrims. Doesn’t say anything, just sets it on the counter. JJ stops by my room when he gets late-night snacks—says he needs me to approve his choices. AJ leaves my favorite soda in the fridge. Thom checks in after meetings to ask if I need a minute alone, even if I say no.”
He rubs his thumb over the edge of the blanket, thoughtful. “They’re not loud about it. But it’s there.”
“That kind of consistency means something,” she says.
First nods. “I noticed it more after the fight with Gun. After Rina. I think I expected them to pull away. Or treat me like I was fragile. But they didn’t.”
A breath, long and steady.
“And lately,” he says, “I’ve been trying to meet them halfway.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Tell me about that.”
“I let JJ drag me into a movie night,” he says. “He picked something loud and ridiculous. I didn’t like it, but… I stayed. Didn’t leave early.”
“Progress,” she notes.
“And I thanked Neo. Properly. For the breakfast thing. That was hard.” His expression is almost wry. “He just nodded and said ‘took you long enough.’ I didn’t punch him, so that’s also progress.”
She laughs softly. “Definitely.”
“I also told AJ he’s... good at knowing when to back off,” he says after a pause. “I didn’t say thank you. But I said I noticed.”
“That matters.”
“Yeah.” First leans back a little, exhaling slowly. “I’m still not great at... soft things. But I’ve stopped pretending I don’t need them.”
Her eyes soften. “That’s huge, First. Really.”
He shrugs again, but his posture is more relaxed than it’s been in weeks.
“They don’t just feel like a team anymore,” he adds. “They feel like—like people I want to see every day. Even if they’re annoying. Even if I want to murder JJ once a week.”
“You’re allowing yourself to care again,” she says gently.
“I think I never stopped,” he murmurs. “I just… shut the door.”
“And now it’s open?”
He hesitates. “Cracked.”
“Still,” she says, “that’s a different First than the one who first joined Team Eclipse.”
He nods. “It is.”
They sit in the quiet of that truth for a few moments before she speaks again.
“Tell me about Tay. You mentioned last session that he’s coming to visit.”
“Yeah.” First runs a hand through his hair. “He finally has a break. It’s rare, so I’m… weirdly excited.”
“That’s not weird at all.”
“I told the others,” he says. “They’re planning to take him out. Make him feel welcome.”
“That sounds nice.”
“I’ve also been thinking about inviting my parents.”
Her head tilts slightly. “That’s a big step.”
“I know,” he says. “I don’t know if I want to say anything to them. Not deep things. But I want to see how it feels. Them being in this space. The one I built.”
He pauses, choosing his words carefully.
“I’m still angry. But I think I’ve been less afraid of being angry lately. I’m learning that I can be both—furious and open.”
She smiles at that. “That’s emotional maturity.”
“I hate that phrase,” he mutters.
She laughs. “Fair enough. Still, you’re growing, First. I can see it.”
He doesn’t argue. Just lifts the blanket a little higher over his lap and says, almost to himself:
“I don’t hate being part of something anymore.”
Then, quietly, “I think I like being seen.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was unusually quiet. Most of the team had scattered for the day. Off and Gun were out filming content, Neo had gone to visit his sister, JJ and AJ had taken the car to a late lunch. Only First remained, sitting at the long dining table with a mug of tea gone cold and his phone glowing beside him.
The message he’d drafted still hovered unsent.
Tay’s visit was locked in. He’d arrive the next day, full of jokes and advice and whatever snacks First had mentioned liking six months ago. The thought made something loosen in his chest.
But today’s decision had nothing to do with Tay. Not really.
He glanced at the door to the hallway, then at the open sun filtering in through the kitchen window. The dorm had been his refuge for over a year now—painted, restructured, rebuilt with his hands and the quiet help of others. His team. His space.
He wasn’t sure why he wanted them to see it.
Maybe he wanted them to know he was surviving.
Maybe he wanted proof that everything they hadn’t said—the quiet shares of Eclipse posts on Facebook, the connections they’d pulled behind the scenes, the careful silence—meant something.
Maybe he was tired of every movement forward feeling like a war.
He tapped the screen. Deleted one line. Rewrote it.
Then, finally, sent it.
If you’re free tomorrow afternoon Tay’s coming by the dorm you can come too if you want
No salutation. No punctuation. But it was more than they’d ever gotten before.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He just stood, rinsed his mug, and set it carefully in the drying rack.
And later that night, when he passed his phone on the counter and saw a quiet notification glowing back—his mother’s name, and just one word: We’d love to—he didn’t open it.
But he didn’t delete it either.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The doorbell rang twice—quick, clipped—before First even reached the entryway. He adjusted the hem of his shirt, tossed the towel from his shoulder to the hook, and tried not to look like he’d been pacing for ten minutes.
He was halfway down the hall, sleeves tugged straight, when he paused to glance at the entry mat. Still clean. Of course it was.
He opened the door.
Tay grinned instantly, sunglasses sliding down his nose like he’d choreographed the whole thing. “There he is. My grumpy housecat, alive and upright.”
“I’m not a housecat.”
“Tell that to your entire team.” Tay pulled him into a hug before First could dodge it. “Admit you missed me.”
“I tolerated your absence,” First muttered, voice muffled into Tay’s shoulder.
Behind Tay stood their parents. Hesitant but present. His mother wore soft pastels, a pale pink pastry box held with both hands. His father held a small gift bag, clearly something Tay had shoved at him in the car. Neither moved until First gave a stiff nod.
“You can come in.”
They slipped off their shoes without being told. Progress.
Tay waltzed in like he owned the place, dropping his bag onto the bench with a thud. Their parents followed more slowly, taking in the space: open, bright, a little chaotic. Gear bags tucked under benches, scrim notes taped half-crooked on the walls. Someone was yelling from the living room. Something metallic clanged in the kitchen.
“Gun will scream if you track dirt on the rug,” First warned.
“Oh, I will,” came a voice from the kitchen, far too gleeful. “And he’s not exaggerating. I literally vacuumed like thirty minutes ago.”
Gun appeared a moment later wearing pink slippers and stirring tea with a ridiculous flourish. “Hi!! You must be the parental units. I’m Gun. Sentinel. Interior designer. Emotional support teammate.”
“Stop,” First said flatly.
“I will not.” Gun offered First’s mother a dramatic bow, then gently took her hand before she could react. “He never talks about you. We had to Google-stalk his family to get any lore. You’re prettier than his baby photos, by the way.”
“I do not have baby photos in this house,” First hissed.
“You don’t. JJ printed them out.”
There was a crash from the living room.
“I REGRET NOTHING,” JJ yelled.
First’s father flinched slightly. Tay burst out laughing.
“You’re so screwed,” Tay whispered, patting First’s shoulder.
“Why are you here,” First muttered.
“To witness your emotional growth,” Tay said sweetly.
Gun swooned dramatically in the background.
First shoved his hands into his pockets and led them inside.
JJ was sprawled across the floor, half on a rug, half on a pile of clean laundry. AJ sat beside him with cards spread across the table. Neo was curled up in the armchair with a laptop open and ignored.
JJ looked up and grinned wickedly. “Hi, Mom and Dad Eclipse. I’m the team’s problem child. Please don’t sue.”
“Ignore him,” AJ said. “He had sugar.”
“Gun gave me a cookie!”
“I gave you half a cookie.”
Neo stood and gave First’s parents a respectful wai. “Welcome. It’s good to meet you.”
His mother smiled politely. Even his father gave a small nod back, eyes tracking over the details—the whiteboard filled with chaotic notes, the scuffed floorboards, the tangled string lights taped above the couch.
Gun drifted back over and without hesitation rose up slightly on his toes to peer at First’s bangs with theatrical concern.
“You didn’t style your hair. Bold choice,” he said, reaching up to almost fix it, then gave up and patted the side of First’s head instead.
First didn’t move.
Gun’s hand lingered briefly on his shoulder, fingers tapping twice against the collar of his shirt. A casual touch. Too familiar. And First… let it happen.
His parents noticed.
His mother’s smile twitched. His father looked quickly away.
“Do you want me to give them the full tour?” Gun asked, too innocent. “Or should I dramatically lie and say you sleep in a gamer coffin?”
“I will remove you.”
“JJ believed that for a week,” Gun said brightly.
“Still do,” JJ called from the floor.
Gun leaned closer, voice exaggerated. “He’s very mysterious at night. Like a bat. But a pretty bat.”
“I’m begging you,” First muttered.
Gun grinned and bumped their shoulders together before wandering off.
Tay leaned in. “You’re letting him touch your hair now?”
First shot him a glare.
Tay just grinned wider.
JJ was halfway into a story.
“And then First whiffed a Sheriff shot from ten feet—”
“JJ,” First warned.
“BUT it was okay! Off clutched with two health, Gun threw a smoke, and we all screamed. A cinematic moment.”
Their mother looked overwhelmed but amused. Their father actually seemed interested.
Gun returned with tea for everyone, balancing it on a ridiculous rainbow tray like a one-man cabaret act. “Welcome to the dorm,” he said, with a wink. “Population: barely functional.”
First watched as his parents accepted the cups, hesitant, but not uncomfortable. Neo had already taken up post beside them to explain how they broke down VODs. AJ gave Tay a casual nod from the corner. JJ was showing First’s father how to use the custom keybinds on their spare mouse.
First didn’t say much.
But he didn’t leave the room, either.
And later, when Tay dragged him down the hall toward the practice room, First glanced back. Just once.
His mother was laughing at something Gun had said. His father was still standing beside JJ, holding the mouse like it might bite him. The dorm glowed with the late sun, all warm surfaces and soft voices overlapping.
They were watching him.
For once, it didn’t feel like a performance.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call opens with First already in frame, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands and his hair slightly tousled, like he hadn’t run his fingers through it in a while. He doesn’t speak first—but he doesn’t look away either.
His psychiatrist smiles softly. “You look like you’ve had a long week.”
He nods. “Yeah.”
She waits. As always, she doesn’t push.
Eventually, he sighs. “They came to the dorm.”
Her brow lifts slightly. “Your parents?”
“Yeah. I invited them.” A pause. “Tay was visiting. I don’t know why I did it. It just felt like—if I was ever going to try, it should be then.”
“Was it hard?” she asks gently.
He huffs, not quite a laugh. “Not as much as I thought. Not easy either.”
She watches him for a moment. “Tell me about it.”
“I cleaned,” he says. “I paced. I drafted the message like five times. Then I sent it. They said yes.”
“Did you expect them to?”
He thinks. “Maybe not. But I wasn’t hoping they’d say no either.”
“And when they arrived?”
“It was awkward. At first.” He scratches at the inside of his wrist. “They didn’t… try anything. Just stood there.”
“Did you feel safe?”
“I didn’t feel like I was drowning. So yeah. Safe enough.”
He shifts. “Tay was loud. Gun was worse. JJ tried to give my dad a mouse tutorial like it was sacred scripture. Neo explained our VOD system. AJ didn’t say much, but he hovered near my mom. Offered her a drink.”
“And you?”
“I stayed in the room.” He looks at her, mouth a straight line. “That counts.”
“It does,” she says. “That counts a lot.”
He nods, slow. “Gun touched my shoulder. My hair.”
Her expression softens. “Did that feel okay?”
“I didn’t stop him.”
“But did it feel okay?” she repeats, more gently.
A pause. “It felt… normal.”
That earns a small smile from her. “Do you think they noticed?”
“My parents?” He shrugs. “Probably.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know.” He exhales. “It’s weird. I think they were happy to see me like that. Talking. Laughing. Even if it wasn’t with them.”
“That must’ve been overwhelming.”
“It was. But also… kind of good.”
She watches him for a long moment, then says, “Do you think that’s why you invited them?”
First doesn’t answer right away. Then, carefully: “I think I wanted them to see I’m surviving. That I built something. That I’m not broken.”
“You never were broken, First.”
His jaw clenches. “I know. But I felt like it for years.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know if I’ve forgiven them,” he says. “But I’ve noticed things. Quiet support. My mom still shares Team Eclipse posts. My dad’s probably the one who helped organize our partnership deal with one of the sponsors. They’ve kept their distance. But I see the breadcrumbs.”
“That recognition matters.”
“I think I needed to give them a chance to exist in this part of my life.” He swallows. “Even if I’m still angry.”
She nods. “You’re allowed to be both. Angry, and willing to try.”
His voice is quieter now. “It didn’t feel like a test. It felt like… a moment.”
“A moment where you let yourself be seen?”
He nods.
“Did they stay long?”
“Just a few hours. Long enough to meet everyone. Long enough to see the chaos.”
“And you stayed in the room.”
He gives her a tired half-smile. “I stayed in the room.”
She returns it. “That’s huge, First. Truly.”
He nods, then glances to the side like he’s already thinking about something else. “They asked if they could come again. Just to drop something off. I said I’d think about it.”
“And have you?”
He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah. I think I will.”
“You’re moving forward,” she says softly. “Even if it doesn’t always feel like it.”
“I’m just… trying to live.”
“And you are.”
He doesn’t smile, not really. But his posture loosens slightly, and he nods again.
“Let’s keep working with that,” she says. “The part of you that wants to live.”
He nodded. Quiet, but sure.
Chapter 22: Chapter 22
Notes:
There's a lot going on here and I LOVE every second and I hope you do too!!
Thank you to everyone leaving me comments!!! It makes my heart so happy which in turn gets me to typing away even quicker. (Burnsun, I SEE YOU AND APPRECIATE YOU SM <3 )
Anyway I hope you enjoy
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
He had officially signed a professional esports contract with Team Eclipse.
Which meant he was now living his dream.
Which also meant…
He was currently buried under a mountain of pastel sweaters, glittery phone cases, cat-shaped mugs, and about three shoeboxes worth of lip tints.
“I’m going to die here,” Khaotung moaned, sprawled across his bed in defeat. “They’ll find my body in a pile of aesthetic nonsense.”
“They’ll say you were fabulous to the end,” Pim called from the closet. “And I’ll make sure your tombstone is shaped like a frosted cupcake.”
“You’re so disrespectful.”
“You’re so unprepared,” she countered, emerging from the closet holding a bundle of hangers. “You knew this was happening. Why do you have twelve nearly identical pink jackets?”
“They all have different vibes.”
Pim raised a single, judgmental eyebrow. “One of them literally has your name bedazzled across the back.”
“Yeah,” Khaotung said, sitting up proudly. “It’s the Khaotung Collection: Heartbreak Edition.”
“You are so annoying.”
“And yet you love me.”
She sighed dramatically, tossing the jackets onto the bed. “We’re never going to fit all of this. And we haven’t even touched your bathroom. Or your desk. Or your drawer of emergency cute snacks.”
“I need those snacks.”
“You also need to narrow this down,” she said, waving vaguely at the chaos. “You know the dorm isn’t your Barbie Dreamhouse, right?”
He gasped. “That’s hate speech.”
Pim flopped next to him on the bed. “Real talk though. Are you freaking out?”
Khaotung stared at the ceiling. “Yes. Obviously. I just signed a real contract with real people who play real tournaments. My name is going to be on a roster. I have to, like… be serious. And not cry on stream.”
“Oh no,” Pim said. “You’ll cry on stream.”
“Absolutely.”
They lay there for a second, surrounded by pink fluff and half-packed boxes and a cat-shaped humidifier that blinked gently in the corner.
Then Pim sat up. “Alright. Priorities. Which gay little goblin are we packing first? Your PC or your cat chair?”
Khaotung made a noise of anguish. “Both. At once. I can’t live without either.”
He flung open the curtain to his desk setup with the dramatic flair of a game show prize reveal.
The all-pink PC tower glittered like it was born from a magical girl transformation sequence pastel RGB glow, custom fan grills shaped like hearts, and a clear acrylic side panel with a decal of Montow in sunglasses. His cat-ear headphones sat atop a crystal headset stand. His custom mechanical keyboard was bubblegum pink with jelly keycaps, and his stream deck was covered in little iridescent stickers.
And then, of course, the gamer chair, baby pink with white accents, stitched paw print on the headrest, detachable fuzzy tail on the back.
Pim blinked. “Okay yeah. No. You cannot be expected to use the sad black setup they gave you.”
“I would rather perish.”
“I’ll call a Grab truck.”
Khaotung grinned. “You’re the best.”
“Say it louder while lifting that PC tower.”
He winced, already crouching beside it. “Okay but this thing weighs like thirty Montows.”
“Work those arms, Princess Sparkle.”
An hour later, they were sweaty, exhausted, and victorious—boxes labeled with things like ‘essentials (eyelash curlers)’ and ‘gamer throne’ stacked in haphazard towers.
Khaotung collapsed on the couch next to Pim. “Do you think they’re ready for this level of fabulous?”
She smirked. “No. But that’s the fun part.”
He grinned at the mess around them, heart pounding in that terrified, thrilled, “this is real” kind of way.
Tomorrow, he’d be moving into the dorm.
And tonight?
He had to bubble wrap his pastel resin Sailor Moon figures.
God, he loved his life.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning arrived with sun, sweat, and approximately twenty-seven boxes too many.
Khaotung’s arms were killing him. His shirt was sticking to his back. And somehow, somehow, they were still not done unloading.
“Just three more trips!” Pim chirped, slapping a sticker that said FRAGILE: DO NOT SHAKE OR JUDGE ME onto a box overflowing with rhinestone-studded accessories. “You know, I thought we overpacked but I think we might actually need more glitter tape.”
“I literally said no glitter tape!” Khaotung shouted from behind a stack of pastel shoe boxes. “The last time you glitter-taped my PC cables, it fried the entire rig!”
“That was a bonding moment.”
“That was a trauma moment!”
The dorm door slammed open before he could recover.
JJ stood in the entryway like he’d been summoned by pure chaos energy. “WHAT is happening here.”
Pim waved. “Hi! I’m Pim. Cousin, stylist, emotional support menace.”
JJ blinked at the tower of labeled boxes threatening to collapse onto Khaotung’s limited dignity. “You brought your entire wardrobe?”
“I’m a brand,” Khaotung said, stepping over a box labeled Bunny Ears and Other Essentials. “I need options.”
Gun popped his head around the corner next. “Why does it look like a fashion expo exploded in our foyer?”
“Because it did,” JJ whispered.
Pim had already taken off her shoes and wandered inside like she owned the place. “Ooooh, is this the famous dorm kitchen? Kinda sterile. Could use a curtain. And some pink. And a spice rack.”
“We have salt,” Gun offered.
“Tragic,” Pim muttered.
Neo wandered in, took one look at the scene, and turned around without a word.
“NEO, HELP ME,” Khaotung screamed.
“Absolutely not,” came the answer, already halfway down the hall.
Pim had discovered the living room couch and flopped onto it dramatically. “So this is where the magic happens, huh? Where the boys bond. Where the dreams are built. Where the forbidden glances across the kitchen counter turn into—”
“Stop talking,” Khaotung hissed.
Gun screamed. “OH MY GOD, IS THIS THE CHAIR?”
Khaotung looked up to see Gun running at his gamer chair like it was a long-lost lover.
Gun spun once and moaned. “I need one. I need one. First is going to LOSE it when he sees this in the room.”
“Which is why we’re assembling it before he gets home,” Khaotung said, hoisting another box labeled Cables and Chaos into his arms. “We are installing the pink revolution while he is vulnerable.”
“He’s never vulnerable,” Gun said, perched regally on the chair.
Pim grinned from the couch. “Oh, you haven’t seen how he looks at my cousin?”
JJ shrieked.
Khaotung dropped the box.
From down the hall, Montow meowed once.
Pim clapped her hands. “Okay! Box brigade, let’s go. We’re unpacking the lip gloss archive next.”
“There’s an archive?” JJ whispered.
Pim gasped. “Wait until they see the custom drawer organizers.”
Khaotung just sighed, smiling as he hoisted another box toward the hallway. This dorm wasn’t just chaos. It was his chaos now.
And by the time First got back?
He would open the door and walk straight into Khaotung’s pink-plush glitterbomb of a life.
Welcome home, baby.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Khaotung didn’t mean to create a glitter-soaked war zone.
But that’s what moving into a new dorm meant when your entire life consisted of pastel cookware, couture-level accessories, and a PC setup that belonged in an anime palace.
The chaos had begun an hour ago. Now, the hallway echoed with the sound of boxes dragging across tile, something heavy thudding to the ground, and his own voice rising several octaves.
“PIM, THAT IS A DELICATE FEATHERED COAT!”
Her reply shot back, dry as ever: “YOU PACKED IT NEXT TO A CERAMIC CHESS SET!”
Khaotung rolled his eyes and hoisted another glittery storage bin onto the tower beside him. Montow, ever the judgy supervisor, was perched atop a suitcase like a tiny prince surveying the fall of civilization.
And then—
A pause in the air.
He turned toward the front door just in time to see him.
First stood motionless for a beat. Hoodie still up. Face unreadable. The kind of blank expression that could mean anything from mild disapproval to planning your funeral.
Khaotung smiled like the chaos didn’t exist. “Oh. You’re back!”
First blinked at the pile of boxes, the sequins, the cookware and was that his cat-shaped measuring spoon set poking out of a bag?
“I live here,” First said flatly.
“You’ll regret that soon,” Pim chirped with way too much joy, dragging a pink pot set behind her.
“I already do,” First muttered.
They made it to Khaotung’s room with minimal casualties: one scraped elbow, three doorframe collisions, and the tragic collapse of a carefully balanced mug tower. Montow was now overseeing operations from the desk, swishing his tail with disdain. The door wouldn’t shut. There were too many boxes in the way.
Khaotung got to work. He tugged open the closet doors and crammed in his fifth pair of sequined boots. His elbow nudged the hinge. It creaked ominously.
“You’re going to snap the hinge,” came First’s clipped voice from the doorway.
Khaotung didn’t miss a beat. “I’m optimizing vertical space,” he said, shoving in a stack of hangers like a pro. “Which I would not have to do if this room had even the bare minimum closet capacity for someone with fashion standards.”
“You’ve been here a week.”
“And in that week I have suffered.”
He turned to face First and dramatically fanned his face like he was seconds from fainting. “Please tell me there’s a renovation budget. Or a secret room I can convert into a walk-in?”
“No.”
“A partial renovation? One extra rod?”
“No.”
“An allowance for an emergency shoe wall?”
The sigh that came from First was long-suffering. Olympic-level.
Khaotung leaned on a box labeled Looks That Could Kill and smiled sweetly. “I can build it myself. No glitter involved. Probably.”
Pim snorted. “He’s lying. Glitter is always involved.”
First raised an eyebrow. “Is this how you bribed Tay into letting you train?”
“Bribe is such an ugly word,” Khaotung said. “I prefer… strategic dazzling.”
He could see the judgment brewing in First’s eyes as they swept across the room. The scattered boxes. The frying pan shaped like a cat. The explosion of pink, sequins, and faux fur.
Then, miracle of miracles, First said, “Do whatever you want. Just don’t drag me into it.”
Khaotung blinked. “Wait. Really?”
“I don’t care what your room looks like. Just don’t set anything on fire. Or explode.”
“No promises on the glitter.”
First turned to go, but then—
He looked back.
Khaotung was kneeling on the bed now, gently pulling the lid off his custom PC case. The pink shell shimmered. Glitter lined the interior. It was a masterpiece. His masterpiece. The team-issued black rig sat untouched in the corner like a boring old fossil.
He caught First staring.
“What?” Khaotung said with a shrug. “I’m a brand.”
No response. Just the faintest twitch of First’s lips.
Then, right before the door closed, a muttered, “You better clean up the hallway.”
“On it!” Pim called from somewhere down the hall. “Eventually!”
Khaotung grinned to himself.
This dorm didn’t know what hit it.
But it would. Soon.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It started with Neo walking past the kitchen and stopping dead in his tracks.
There, sitting prettily on the stove, was a glittery pink kettle shaped like a cat’s head. Next to it, a set of pastel pots stacked with military precision, each handle wrapped in silicone bows. The drawer had been overtaken by matching glitter-dusted utensils, and on the counter stood a glass jar labeled “Chaos Spoons” in calligraphy so delicate it made Neo deeply nervous.
He stared. Blinked.
Then turned, slow and cautious, toward the living room, where a box labeled “Pillow Arsenal” sat beneath a handwritten note that read:
“FOR DORM UNITY AESTHETIC: pink IS a neutral.”
Neo made a noise in the back of his throat. Then called out, “JJ? You seeing this?”
“Seeing what?” JJ yelled from the hall. “Why does the air smell like, wait. Is that strawberry-frosted ambition?!”
Moments later, the whole team was gathered at the threshold of Khaotung’s room.
And it wasn’t a room anymore.
It was a personal brand headquarters.
One half of the space had been converted—fully and without mercy—into a closet. The original closet? Gone. The wall? Knocked out. The replacement? Gleaming chrome racks, leveled by hand, neatly spaced and organized by color. There were cascading shelves of coordinated outfits, a full shoe wall lined with everything from rhinestone-studded combat boots to fuzzy pastel slides, and an accessories board mounted like a tactical operation center, rings, chokers, hair clips, sunglasses, all perfectly aligned.
The other half of the room was no less dramatic. His vanity was glowing with adjustable lighting, makeup drawers labeled and alphabetized. His PC setup sparkled, literally, tucked beside the vanity like a throne. A pink gaming chair with cat ears swiveled invitingly beneath it.
JJ’s jaw dropped. “Did he—did he build a boutique in here?”
Gun was filming already. “This is not a room. This is a lifestyle.”
Neo stepped inside, looking mildly haunted. “Is it… scented?”
“It smells like lavender and criminal intent,” JJ said reverently. “I love it here.”
Khaotung strolled in behind them, perfectly casual in bunny slippers and a cropped tee that said “I Bite.” He sipped from his glitter mug.
“So?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
Gun gasped, dramatic. “You manifested an empire!”
“It’s not done,” Khaotung said, gesturing toward the far wall. “I’m still waiting on the extra LED strips.”
“You knocked a wall down,” Neo muttered. “That was a structural wall.”
“Was it?” Khaotung asked sweetly. “Or was it limiting my potential?”
JJ flung an arm around him. “I want to live here.”
“No,” Khaotung said instantly. “But you can visit if you bring good gossip.”
First appeared in the doorway then, and the room quieted.
His eyes swept the space slowly. Over the organized chaos, the shimmer and the softness, the unapologetic brightness.
He didn’t speak for a moment.
Then, deadpan: “You moved your entire personality in.”
Khaotung grinned. “You’re welcome.”
First’s gaze flicked toward the bathroom, where pink and lavender towels hung in exact symmetry, and built-in shelves now held skincare arranged by category, finish, and crisis level.
“…That shelf is labeled ‘Emergency Glow-Up.’”
Khaotung nodded proudly. “Tiered by severity.”
First didn’t smile.
He also didn’t leave.
Instead, he stepped just inside. Just enough to make Montow, seated like a furry emperor atop the bed’s corner blink in royal approval.
Khaotung nudged First’s shoulder lightly with his own. “So, can I keep the closet wall down?”
First side-eyed him. “Can you put it back if it starts collapsing the hallway?”
“No,” Khaotung said, bright. “But I’ll buy structural glitter glue.”
Gun clapped his hands. “The dorm has been beautified.”
Neo sighed like a man mourning the last moment of peace he’d ever know. “I’m moving into a hotel.”
JJ started trying on sunglasses from the wall display.
And Khaotung?
He beamed. Because chaos, after all, was just another form of home.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First stood at the kitchen counter, phone pressed to his ear, staring into the middle distance like a man trying not to combust before breakfast.
Vaanjoy blinked up at him from a patch of sunlight on the floor.
The voice on the other end of the line chirped, “Good morning, thank you for calling BeamPro Renovations! How can I help?”
First inhaled slowly. “Hi. I need a structural beam installed in a residential interior. One of the walls was removed.”
“Okay! Can I ask if that was done by a licensed contractor?”
He closed his eyes. “No.”
A pause. “...Was it done safely?”
“No.”
Vaanjoy meowed, possibly in judgment.
“Right, okay,” the woman said brightly. “And how urgent is the beam installation?”
First glanced toward the hallway, where the sounds of chaotic morning energy were building like a tsunami of glitter and doom.
“Extremely,” he said.
“Can I ask what prompted the wall removal?”
First pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fashion.”
A longer pause.
Then, very cautiously: “Sir… are you calling about an influencer closet renovation?”
His jaw flexed. “Yes.”
“Was the phrase ‘structural oppression’ used?”
“Yes.”
“Is there glitter tape involved?”
“Yes.”
“Sir… are you calling about Khaotung Thanawat?”
First froze. “...How do you know that?”
“We’ve worked with him before. He has a very specific vision and zero fear of destruction. We’ll bump you up the list.”
First blinked.
Vaanjoy purred.
“Thank you,” he said slowly.
“We can send a tech out this afternoon. We’ll bring a support beam, some framing tools, and possibly a fire extinguisher depending on how many candles are in the vicinity.”
“That’s… wise.”
“Anything else we should know before arriving?”
First glanced at the coffee machine, where Khaotung had already labeled the mug cabinet “Magic Chalices ONLY.”
Then he said, “No physical contact. Bring boot covers. And maybe… brace emotionally.”
The woman laughed. “Understood. We’ll see you at three.”
The call ended.
First exhaled and reached for his mug—his own mug, still mercifully untouched by rhinestones.
From the hallway came JJ’s delighted yell of “KHAAAAAO DID YOU BEDAZZLE THE MINI FRIDGE?!”
First sighed.
Then took a long sip of coffee and muttered, “Structural beam. Emotional beam.”
A beat.
“Same thing, at this point.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning Khaotung is walking into a studio for his PR recordings. The studio wasn’t far from the dorm, but Khaotung still arrived early, dressed in full glam and nerves. Lita had told him to “keep it clean and punchy,” so he’d gone for a cropped Eclipse jersey showing off a sliver of his waist above his high-waisted black trousers, a silver chain dangling just under his collarbone, and his hair fluffed to maximum sparkle-boy perfection.
“You look like an idol lost on an esports stage,” Gun said approvingly as he walked in, iced coffee in one hand, his own outfit impossibly fabulous: Eclipse bomber jacket cinched tight over a black mesh top and trousers that shimmered when he moved.
“I still feel like I’m tricking people,” Khaotung muttered, poking at the corner of his phone. “What if they find out I’m just a glitter gremlin in nice pants?”
“You gained thirty thousand followers in three days,” Gun said dryly. “The internet already loves you.”
Khaotung groaned. “That makes it worse!”
“You survived First. You can survive TikTok thirst comments.”
“Honestly? Same energy.”
Inside, the main shoot area had been transformed into a sleek press zone: Eclipse banners on the back wall, lighting soft but professional, two cameras rolling already. Thom stood with Lita near the monitors, giving direction to the production crew. Jarin offered him a tight, approving smile.
“Mic check, hair check, light check,” Lita said as she walked up and fixed a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Okay. We’re running three things today: the team interview segment, some intro B-roll for socials, and a mini welcome message you’ll record solo.”
Khaotung nodded, hands pressed together like he was about to pray.
“Don’t overthink it,” she added. “You’re already a hit with the internal team. Now we just let the fans see what they’ve been missing.”
First arrived a moment later, dressed in full uniform, black Eclipse jacket zipped high, hands in his pockets. He gave Khaotung a faint nod in greeting, eyes flicking over the outfit once, unreadable.
Gun leaned over to whisper, “He saw the cherry shirt clip. We are in dangerous territory.”
“Shut up.”
They gathered on set for the main segment: Khaotung seated between Neo and Gun, with First and JJ on either end. Lita raised a cue card.
“Let’s keep it natural. Banter is good. Gun, try not to hijack every answer.”
“No promises,” he was already posing.
The camera rolled.
“Welcome to the Eclipse family!” Gun beamed, pulling Khaotung into frame like he’d been there all along. “This is N’Khaotung, he sparkles, he screams, and sometimes he top-frags.”
“He also hums when he clutches,” Neo deadpanned.
“P’First says it’s rhythm,” JJ added. “I think it’s witchcraft.”
First, quiet as ever, finally spoke: “He keeps up.”
Khaotung beamed. “Translation: ‘I’m his favorite now.’”
JJ leaned into the mic. “He’s delusional, but fun.”
Gun cackled.
They ran through team chemistry questions, favorite inside jokes (“We can’t explain Sparkle With Dignity™ or the trauma lo-fi playlist thing—it’s classified”), and ended on Gun placing a party hat on Khaotung’s head while JJ threw confetti at him from offscreen.
Then came the solo shoot.
“Say something to the fans,” Lita said. “Be you.”
The camera rolled.
Khaotung looked into the lens, heart pounding.
“Hi! I’m Khaotung—sometimes known as Glitter Boy, Princess Khao, Sparkle Trumpet or that menace in the cherry crop top. I’m honored and very excited to officially join Team Eclipse. They said I was too sparkly. I said, ‘perfect, I’ll blind the competition.’ Let’s have some fun.”
He winked. The camera cut.
“Perfect,” Lita said. “We go live tonight.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sunset spilled across the patio in soft ribbons of gold and rose. The lake behind them glittered like scattered coins, and the secluded restaurant had brought out a long outdoor table dressed in soft ivory linen and floating candles in jars. Everything smelled like jasmine rice, grilled lemongrass, and slow-cooked celebration.
Gun raised his glass dramatically as the main course arrived. “To our princess, who sparkled his way into a contract and somehow made every single one of us fall in love with him in under a week.”
“Speak for yourself,” First muttered, though his chopsticks had paused midair.
Neo leaned over to AJ and whispered, “He’s been watching Khaotung all evening.”
“Yeah,” AJ whispered back. “And he only flinched once.”
Khaotung, oblivious or pretending to be, lifted his water glass and struck a pose. “Thank you, thank you. I’d like to thank my cats, my cherry crop top, and the fan who said I looked like a gay Studio Ghibli protagonist.”
JJ snorted mango juice. “You do look like one tonight. Especially with the slicked-back hair. It’s giving whimsical prince who curses people into frogs.”
Khaotung beamed, clearly pleased.
His outfit was a soft cream palette, flowy pants that moved like water and a sleeveless top that framed his collarbones just enough to be flirty. With his hair styled neatly back and a trace of subtle eyeliner highlighting his round, shimmering eyes, he looked…well. He looked like the kind of dream that lingered after you woke up.
Gun nudged First with his foot under the table. “You okay over there?”
“I’m eating,” First replied.
“You’re staring,” Gun said, mouth hidden behind his glass.
“I’m eating.”
A few moments later, the group fell into easier conversation, leaning back as dessert was brought out. JJ was telling an embarrassing story about Gun’s first Eclipse shoot when Khaotung wandered over to the quieter end of the table where First sat.
Khaotung perched on the edge of the bench, not quite touching, but close. “Hey.”
First glanced at him. His voice stayed low. “Hm?”
“Your tweet,” Khaotung said. “You posted it before anyone else woke up.”
“Timing’s a PR thing, right?”
“You’re not in PR.”
First was silent for a moment. “I meant it.”
Khaotung’s eyes searched his face. “I know.”
Their knees brushed under the table. Barely. Just once. First flinched but didn’t pull away.
Khaotung leaned slightly closer, the edge of his smile softening. “You’re bad at compliments, P’First.”
“You’re loud about everything.”
“And yet here we are.”
Another tiny silence.
First stared ahead at the lake, watching the light shift over the water. “You… did well. In the video.”
Khaotung blinked. “That sounded physically painful for you to say.”
First shifted, just slightly.
First still wouldn’t look at him. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t relaxed. Not with Khaotung this close. Not with the scent of him, soft lavender with a hint of sweetness, like sugar-dusted petals warmed by sunlight lingering in the space between them. It wasn’t overpowering, just... present. Gentle. Comforting.
“Why do they look like they’re about to kiss?” JJ said loudly.
Neo deadpanned, “I think that’s just their default proximity now.”
“I give it one more week,” AJ added.
“Give what a week?” Gun grinned.
“Nothing,” First said flatly.
Khaotung leaned back, finally, but the smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “You’re fun to tease.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, though.”
First finally looked at him. Khaotung blinked, a little dazed under the weight of that gaze.
But then First turned away again.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The lake shimmered gold, then dusky pink as the sun dipped lower, casting long reflections across the water. A gentle breeze stirred the surface, and cicadas hummed lazily in the trees nearby. Laughter from the dinner table drifted faintly down the hill, but it felt distant now, muted by the hush of the lake and the heavy quiet between breaths.
Khaotung stepped softly down the path, sandals brushing against worn wooden planks as he reached the narrow dock where First stood, one hand resting on the railing, gaze fixed out toward the water.
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move away.
So Khaotung came to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, the silence between them drawn tight like a thread pulled taut.
For a long moment, they just stood there.
Then Khaotung looked down at his hands, gave a tiny, wry smile, and murmured, “I’m not exactly subtle, you know.”
First blinked, glancing over. “…What?”
Khaotung smiled without teeth, soft and a little self-conscious. “About the flirting,” he said, voice light, but there was something steadier under it now. “I’ve been laying it on pretty thick. Sparkle puns. Hair flips. Questionable wink attempts.”
First’s lips twitched, almost a smile.
Khaotung’s voice dropped just a bit. “You haven’t exactly stopped me.”
First went still.
For a moment, the only answer was the sound of the wind skimming over the lake.
Then, slowly, First spoke. “You’re… hard to ignore.”
Khaotung looked at him, really looked. “That’s not a no.”
First finally met his gaze. There was something raw in his expression, quiet but burning underneath. “It’s not a yes either.”
Khaotung nodded, taking that in without flinching.
“I’m not in a rush,” he said softly. “I just. Didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t there.”
First turned away for a second, staring out at the lake again. The fading light caught in his lashes, in the sharp line of his jaw.
“I don’t… really know how to do this,” he admitted.
Khaotung leaned just slightly closer. Not enough to crowd, but enough to feel.
“You don’t have to,” he said gently. “We’re teammates now. Friends, I hope. Everything else? Just sparkles.”
First gave a low breath, almost a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
Khaotung grinned. “And yet you’re still standing here.”
Another beat of silence. Then First’s voice, barely audible:
“…You look really pretty tonight.”
It was so quiet Khaotung almost missed it.
But he didn’t.
He turned slowly, eyes wide, heart in his throat.
“…P’First?”
First was already looking back at the lake. But his ears were pink.
Khaotung smiled to himself.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The team dinner had gradually melted into full-out chaos. JJ and AJ were arguing about who could eat more dumplings in one bite, Neo had relocated to a lounge chair with a glass of juice and a look of eternal judgment, and Lita was trying (and failing) to get a group photo where at least half the team wasn’t mid-blink or mid-bite.
Gun was sprawled in a wicker chair with his phone tucked in one hand, half-watching the antics and half-staring out toward the lake, where two silhouettes were lit by the soft gleam of sunset.
First and Khaotung.
Still talking.
Still very close.
Gun took a slow sip of his drink and opened his messages.
[Gun 💘] → [Papii 🐢💥]
update from your nosy husband:
they’re still by the lake.
STILL.
it’s been 30 minutes. no bloodshed. no awkward retreat.
very suspicious.
A few seconds passed before Off’s reply pinged in.
[Papii 🐢💥]
they’re FLIRTING???
Or is Khao just being Khao and First’s touch alarms haven’t gone off yet
[Gun 💘]
they are less than a foot apart.
khaotung is leaning. leaning.
first is not dead.
i repeat: FIRST IS NOT DEAD.
He glanced up again, eyes narrowing like a birdwatcher observing a rare mating ritual.
JJ plopped down next to him with his fifth plate. “Are they still—?”
“Shh,” Gun whispered, holding up a finger. “The gays are speaking in subtext.”
Neo, two chairs over, didn’t even look up from his phone. “There’s no subtext. Khao is two seconds from asking First if he wants to split a lease.”
AJ glanced between the two culprits, deadpan. “Do we have to third-wheel and babysit?”
“I think it’s romantic,” JJ offered, beaming like an idiot.
Gun gave a dramatic sigh and started typing again
[Gun 💘]
Off. He just smiled.
like… voluntarily.
like he found something khaotung said genuinely funny.
what is this era. It took me YEARS to get him to smile.
[Papii 🐢💥]
pull him aside after and ask if he’s been body-snatched.
or if he needs to be debriefed on basic gay panic symptoms.
also make sure khaotung doesn’t faint.
Gun snorted into his sleeve.
Lita finally snapped a photo of the group with decent lighting and wandered over. “What are you grinning at?”
Gun turned the phone so she could see.
The most recent message:
[Gun 💘]
Papii i’m scared.
what if they fall in love
what if i have to plan a glitter-themed wedding
what if first wears color
we’re entering uncharted territory
Lita laughed so hard she nearly dropped her drink.
Behind them, JJ dramatically gasped. “OH MY GOD! HE TOUCHED HIS ARM.”
Gun whipped around. “HE WHAT—”
“Touched. His. Arm.” Neo repeated, stone-faced. “Casual. Brief. But it happened.”
AJ leaned in closer. “Do you think he flinched?”
“Didn’t look like it,” JJ said. Then, lower: “Might’ve leaned.”
Gun stared into the middle distance like he was witnessing an eclipse. “He’s doomed.”
“First?” Neo asked.
“No,” Gun muttered. “All of us. We’re about to live through a First Khaotung crush arc in real time. There’s going to be fan edits. And matching charms. And, god help us. TikTok dances.”
AJ cracked open a soda. “I, for one, welcome the chaos.”
“Me too,” JJ added brightly.
Gun just kept typing.
[Gun 💘]
He’s done for.
he’s gonna kiss him by episode 10.
mark my words.
Off’s reply was instant.
[P’Off 🐢💥]
call me when they hold hands.
i wanna hear the scream in surround sound.
Gun looked up one last time.
And out by the water, where the light had gone soft and golden—
First still hadn’t moved away.
Chapter 23: Chapter 23
Notes:
*Trigger Warning
I apologize in advance, last chapter was so cute but this one..... is not.
First is healing slowly and consistently but he's still got a lot to work through. He's always going to have ups and downs and I really tried to embody that in this chapter.I hope you like it
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2024-
The video call connected with a soft chime. First adjusted the angle slightly, keeping the glare of the new dorm windows out of frame. His psychiatrist appeared, serene as ever, her backdrop a familiar bookshelf and that same potted fern she’d somehow never killed.
“You look... awake,” she said with a small smile.
“I’m busy,” First replied, deadpan.
She chuckled. “So I’ve heard. Tournament champions. New sponsors. Nonstop media. Should I be calling your assistant?”
“I don’t have one,” he muttered.
“Yet.”
He sighed, but didn’t argue.
The psychiatrist leaned forward slightly. “Why don’t you tell me what it’s been like? Since the win.”
First was quiet for a moment. “It’s been chaos.”
A pause.
“But not the bad kind. Not... out of control. Just full.”
She nodded. “You’ve been dreaming about this for years.”
“And now it’s real.”
There was a weight in those words. Something distant, but also full of wonder.
“They’re building us a new dorm. It’s all glass and light and space. Nothing like the old one, but... good. Polished. I helped choose the layout.”
She smiled. “Sounds like you’re proud.”
“I am.” He blinked like the words surprised him. “I didn’t think I’d like the attention. But… I do.. Not all the time. Not everyone. But the fans get it now. The persona. The nickname.”
“Ice Prince.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t roll his eyes this time. “It used to feel like a joke. Like they were making me something cold to make it easier to understand me. But now... I like it. It’s real. It’s me.”
She nodded slowly. “So you’re saying... you’re okay with who you are?”
His mouth twitched. “I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re close.”
Another pause. Then he said, “I think I am. I don’t need to be open with everyone. I don’t need to be warm. I can be distant and still be part of something.”
“And still be cared for.”
His gaze drifted for a second.
“They hired new people, right?”
“Lita. PR. She’s terrifying. And efficient. Thinks she can make us all superstars.”
“Does she respect your boundaries?”
“She hasn’t forced me into a glitter photoshoot with Gun. Yet. So yes.”
“And who else?”
“Jarin. Manager. Contracts, scouting, all of it. Smart guy. Doesn’t talk much unless it matters.”
His psychiatrist smiled. “You sound like you’re surrounded by capable people. Supportive people.”
“I am.”
“And?”
He looked straight at the screen, expression even.
“I’m not scared of that anymore.”
There was silence.
Not the heavy kind that used to choke him. But a quiet moment of clarity.
“I’m still not soft,” he added.
“I would never accuse you of that.”
“But I can breathe. I can build. I can lead. I can let people see parts of me. Not everything. But enough.”
She smiled, proud.
“Your dream is coming true.”
He nodded.
“And the best part?” she asked gently.
He took a breath.
“That you don’t have to be anyone else to live it.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The new dorm was quiet, for once.
No JJ shrieking about damage stats, no Lita crash-landing in heels with a garment rack, no AJ warning Neo not to throw his jacket on the floor again. Just the soft hum of a desk lamp and the muted clicks of First’s keyboard as he rewound the same 30 seconds of VOD footage over and over again.
They’d won the match. Clean retakes, solid comms, perfect post-plants. But something about his own crosshair movement kept bugging him. He couldn’t focus.
He sat curled in his desk chair, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, one knee up against his chest. The new dorm was beautiful—glass panels, sleek fixtures, a soundproof room with his name on the door—but right now, it felt too still. Too hollow.
It had been over a month since his last session.
He hadn’t meant for the time to stretch. First it was media, then two tournaments back-to-back, then the PR campaign with Lita’s “New Era of Eclipse” tagline slapped on every schedule. He told himself he’d reschedule after the last scrim.
But then he didn’t.
His fingers hovered over the play button again. His chest felt tight.
A soft meow broke the silence.
Then, a second later, a quiet knock which was unusual, because Gun almost never knocked.
First didn’t move. “It’s open.”
Gun pushed the door with his hip, a blanket-wrapped Mimi balanced in one arm and a smoothie in the other. He looked unfairly comfortable in oversized sweatpants and an orange tank top.
“I made you a thing,” Gun said simply, holding out the smoothie. “It’s mango. With—like—protein powder or whatever.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know,” Gun said, pushing it into First’s hand anyway. “But your aura is sour and I’m bored.”
He dropped onto the edge of First’s bed without asking, pulling Mimi into his lap. She immediately began purring.
“She likes it here,” Gun added, stroking behind her ears. “So do I.”
First didn’t reply, but the faintest flicker of something softened behind his eyes.
The silence stretched again. Then, without turning away from his screen, First muttered, “I haven’t had a session in weeks.”
Gun glanced up.
“It’s fine,” First added quickly. “I’m not falling apart. I just... feel like I’m floating.”
“Yeah,” Gun said, quieter this time. “I noticed.”
That surprised him. First turned slightly in his chair, just enough to glance at Gun out of the corner of his eye.
“You’ve been retreating. A little more than usual. Not in a bad way. Just... in a ‘don’t touch me or I’ll vaporize you’ way.”
First huffed. “That’s just my baseline.”
Gun snorted. “Maybe. But your baseline usually still includes muttering insults during lunch.”
There was a beat.
“I miss that,” Gun said softly. “When you mutter mean things with love.”
“I’ll try harder,” First deadpanned.
Gun smiled at him, genuinely, openly. Then his expression shifted slightly, a new thought curling across his face.
“I was gonna wait,” he said, stroking Mimi’s back. “But since we’re in this rare mood...”
First arched a brow.
“You know the rumors, right? About Parliament maybe passing the marriage law.”
“Yeah,” First said quietly.
Gun smiled a little, still soft. “So Off and I are thinking... early next year. If it passes. If it’s official. We’ll finally do it.”
First looked away. “You didn’t already?”
“Not yet. We had the engagement party. Ceremony was always gonna be a someday thing. But now…” Gun’s voice went airy, hopeful. “Someday might be real.”
Something moved behind First’s eyes. A flicker of understanding. Envy, maybe, but not in a bitter way. Just the quiet ache of someone who didn’t know what that kind of hope looked like on themselves.
“I’m happy for you,” he said. And meant it.
Gun smiled, but he didn’t tease.
Instead, he set Mimi down gently on the rug and stood.
He crossed to First’s chair and leaned down, arms draped loosely around the top of it—not quite touching First, but hovering close.
“You’re doing really well,” he said. “Even if you feel like you’re not. The new dorm? The fans? The team? You’re killing it. But that doesn’t mean you don’t still need support.”
First didn’t respond, but his shoulders eased just slightly under the weight of those words.
Gun nudged his shoulder with the edge of his knuckle. “Schedule your session.”
First grunted.
“I’m serious,” Gun said. “I can tell Lita to block off time. Say it’s a ‘mystery ice prince ritual’ or something.”
“Don’t call it that.”
Gun smirked. “Then don’t make me worry.”
First finally looked at him. Really looked.
And nodded.
“Okay.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The lights had been hot all afternoon. Not warm—hot. Stage-light bright, reflectors everywhere, powder reapplied every thirty minutes. First had worn three outfits. Smiled in two. Said exactly seven pre-approved phrases into the camera. Gun had made it a game to count.
Now the set was being torn down. A rolling rack of branded bomber jackets was being wheeled out of the living room. JJ was still half in his, mugging for Lita’s camera phone. Neo had disappeared to the kitchen. AJ was helping a staffer unplug the overhead mics.
First stood beside the sliding glass door, half-shadowed by the curtain. He’d stripped off the logo hoodie twenty minutes ago, down to a plain fitted tee. His arms were crossed, jaw clenched tight.
“Okay,” Lita clapped, clearly pleased. “That’s a wrap, everyone! JJ, please stop pretending the mic is a lollipop—”
“I’m branding my tongue!” JJ yelled. “Commitment to the brand, Lita!”
Gun cackled. “Print his dental records on a poster.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
First didn’t move.
His head ached. His skin prickled. He could still feel the foundation powder on his cheeks, tight and cloying. Someone’s touch still lingered on his shoulder, maybe the stylist, maybe the PR assistant adjusting the mic.
He hated not knowing.
Someone called his name. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink.
Gun’s voice cut through the noise next: “P’First?”
He turned then. Sharp, just a little too fast.
Gun stopped mid-step, catching something in his eyes. “Hey. You good?”
“I’m fine,” First said automatically, the words tasting like battery acid.
Gun didn’t believe him. But he didn’t push.
Lita had moved on to discussing photo selects. Off had joined the conversation too, casual and smiling, probably already planning dinner orders. JJ shouted something about bubble tea.
First turned toward the hallway instead.
His footsteps echoed too loudly. The walls felt narrower.
He passed AJ and Neo on the way, both talking quietly by the sink. JJ yelled goodbye to someone. Lita’s laugh echoed off the kitchen tiles.
Then the sound dimmed. The door to his room closed behind him.
He sat on the floor beside the bed.
He always sat there, not on it. Beds were too soft, too kind. This corner was earned.
His fingers found the hem of his shirt and tugged. Once. Twice. Again.
His breathing was too shallow.
You’re okay, he told himself. You're fine. You're safe.
But the tremble had already started—quiet, insistent, deep in his fingers.
Because he hadn’t slept properly in days. Because the nightmares kept coming. Because the man’s face kept rising from the dark like a wave First couldn’t outrun.
The motel. The stench. The choked, metallic taste in his mouth.
The look in the man’s eyes when he—
First bent forward, forehead nearly to his knees.
The room was too bright. The world too loud. His skin too tight.
He’d been holding it together for weeks. He had filmed ads. Shaken hands. Let a stranger fix his collar while he dissociated with a smile.
He had pretended.
Pretended he wasn’t drowning.
And now—
Now it was unraveling, finally, completely.
He made no sound. No sobbing. Just sat there, trembling, breath catching hard in his throat as panic clawed its way up.
Minutes passed. He wasn’t sure how many.
The air felt heavy. His spine ached. His throat burned.
He closed his eyes.
And then, with a shaking hand, he reached for his phone.
The screen flickered once, then steadied. His psychiatrist’s face came into view—calm, familiar, lit by the soft glow of her office.
“Hi, First.”
He didn’t speak.
His face was pale, hollowed, eyes red-rimmed like he hadn’t slept. Because he hadn’t.
The silence stretched.
Finally, she said gently, “You called me. I’m here. Take your time.”
He closed his eyes. His voice, when it came, was rough. Cracked at the edges.
“I can’t sleep.”
She didn’t answer. Just waited.
“I try,” he said, slowly, as if every word cost him. “I do everything I’m supposed to. Tea. No screens. Breathing exercises. I wait until the house is quiet. But every time I lie down...”
He trailed off.
She prompted, “The nightmares?”
His jaw clenched. Then a sharp nod.
She softened her voice. “Is it the same one?”
A slight head shake. This time, his shoulders shook slightly.
“Can you tell me about it?”
He hesitated but something in him broke open. His voice was low, trembling.
“I’m in that room again. The motel. Cracked yellow walls. The fucking stained carpet. The smell is always there first, sweat and blood and cheap detergent. And then I hear the door open. His boots.”
He swallowed.
“I try to hide. Sometimes under the bed, sometimes in the bathroom. Sometimes I’m just on the floor, and I can’t move. Like I’m stuck in cement.”
His hands gripped his sleeves, knuckles white.
“And he comes in. And he looks at me like I’m nothing. Like I’m just… inventory. A thing.” His voice cracked. “He smiles when I flinch. He waits for it.”
His psychiatrist didn’t speak. Let him go on.
“I never know what version of him I’m gonna get. Sometimes he just yells. Sometimes he’s quiet. Sometimes he brings friends. That’s worse. But always—he touches me. My shoulders. My thighs. My neck.”
His voice dropped, raw and shaking.
“And I know what’s coming. I know. But I can’t stop it. I’m always too slow, too scared. I try to scream, but my throat doesn’t work.”
His breath hitched.
Tears now. Silent, sliding down his face.
“Then I wake up. Every time. Heart racing. Can’t breathe. Sometimes I throw up. Sometimes I just sit there for hours. I’ve been sleeping on the fucking floor again.”
He buried his face in his hands.
“I’m so tired,” he whispered.
His psychiatrist spoke at last. Gentle. Clear. Grounding.
“First, what happened to you was horrifying. You are remembering it now because your mind is trying to make sense of it. Because you are trying to heal. But that healing doesn’t mean reliving it alone.”
He didn’t lift his head.
“I know,” he rasped. “But it won’t stop.”
“It will,” she said. “Not overnight. But it will. And we’ll work through it. Together. Just like before.”
He shook his head, hopeless. “I thought I was past this. I thought—I thought I was fine.”
“You are not broken for struggling again. This isn’t failure. It’s fatigue. You’ve been overextended for weeks. Pushing through photoshoots, team schedules, media circuits, with no time to pause. Your body and your mind are finally demanding rest.”
“I can’t,” he said. “If I stop now, I’ll fall apart.”
“You’re already falling apart,” she said softly. “And that’s okay. You’ve been strong for too long without reprieve.”
First let out a sound then—a short, choked noise that might have been a sob if it had the energy.
“I want them gone,” he said. “The clients. Out of my head. I want to stop hearing them breathe.”
She nodded. “We’ll work on it. Not just managing the symptoms, but reshaping the memories. Taking back control. You are not helpless. Not anymore.”
He nodded, barely.
“And First,” she added, gentler now, “you’re not alone in this dorm. You don’t have to explain everything to them, but you can let them help carry some of this weight.”
“I can’t tell them this.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you not to isolate. Let Off annoy you. Let Gun sit beside you. Let someone hand you tea, even if you don’t want to drink it. You don’t have to speak the pain to be seen in it.”
Another pause. First wiped his face with the edge of his sleeve.
“You need rest,” she said. “I want you to try to sleep tonight. Just a few hours. I’ll text you a breathing prompt to listen to. No caffeine tomorrow. And we’ll meet again tomorrow evening. Okay?”
He nodded. Not convinced, but willing to try.
“And First?”
He looked up.
“You survived once. You will survive again. You don’t have to do it alone.”
His lip trembled but he nodded once, firmly.
Then, without saying goodbye, he clicked off the call.
And in the silence that followed, he finally exhaled.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was too quiet.
Everyone had gone to bed hours ago, JJ finally worn out, AJ with his door shut tight, Neo’s soft music trailing off around midnight. Gun had knocked earlier, gentle and warm-eyed, asking if First needed anything. First had said no. Gun had waited anyway. And First had said it again, colder this time.
Now it was nearly 3 a.m.
The air in First’s room felt thick. He sat on the floor beside his bed, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves bunched around his fists. The light from his laptop flickered across his face paused on a round he couldn’t remember watching.
He hadn't touched his tea.
The shadows in the corners of the room pressed in tighter the longer he stayed awake. Not moving. Not speaking. Just trying to breathe without shattering.
His back was to the wall. His body knew better than to sleep in the middle of the room.
A memory curled behind his eyes, uninvited.
That motel room.
Yellow walls. A peeling floral bedspread. Cigarette smoke and rot.
That man’s hands. Always rough. Always rehearsed.
It had been a Tuesday. He remembered because the window was cracked open and someone outside had been watching a soap opera. The voices on the screen had sounded gentle. Lovers, maybe.
That was the night the man broke a rib. Hit him with the back of his hand hard enough to send him to the floor, then kicked him until he couldn't scream anymore.
That was the night he was nearly strangled.
His neck had been bruised for days.
And then—just like that—the man had disappeared. Never came back.
He hadn’t known if he was relieved or abandoned.
Even now, he didn’t know.
First exhaled sharply through his nose. His chest ached. His hands were clammy. Every time he blinked, the yellow walls came back. The sound of breathing too close. A voice murmuring awful things in a tone that sounded almost kind.
He pressed his palm to the floor to ground himself.
But the rug felt too soft.
He needed concrete. Cold. Harsh. Real.
He stood abruptly, pacing once, twice, then lowered himself back down. Not the bed. Not tonight.
The breathing exercise played on his phone, volume low. It was supposed to help. A calm voice telling him to visualize safety. Peace.
He tried.
But the only image his brain conjured was blood in the motel sink. The way his own hands had trembled too much to rinse it away.
A knock in the hallway made him jerk.
Just a door. Just Neo, maybe. Just Gun shifting in bed.
But his body didn’t believe it.
He sat frozen for several minutes, heart pounding.
Eventually, the sounds faded. The dorm settled again.
He lay down on the rug, one hand still gripping the corner of his hoodie like it might keep him from unraveling. His breath was shallow. His chest hurt.
He’d spent years learning how to talk about it.
But no one—not even his therapist—knew every detail. Not yet.
Some things still lived behind locked doors in his chest.
Tonight, they’d broken out.
Sleep didn’t come easily. When it did, it was jagged. A blur of half-conscious flinches, sweat-soaked panic, and something that might’ve been a scream muffled into his pillow before it could become real.
But he didn’t get up.
He didn’t run.
And when the first light began to shift into the window, First was still on the floor.
Not healed.
Not okay.
But here.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The screen loaded slowly.
First sat hunched over on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled far past his wrists, hood up despite the warmth of the room. His skin was pale, eyes rimmed in red, and his breath was uneven from the start.
His psychiatrist’s face came into view, calm and focused. She leaned forward slightly.
“First,” she said softly. “You’re safe. I’m here. Take your time.”
He nodded—jerky, automatic. The silence stretched. She didn’t rush him.
“I need to talk about something,” he said, his voice raw. “I need to say it out loud.”
“All right,” she said, gentle as always. “Whatever you’re ready for.”
He stared off-screen, jaw clenched, trying to hold himself together.
“It was one man,” he said finally. “Not every time. But when it was him—I thought I might die.”
The words fell like stones.
His psychiatrist’s face didn’t change, but her voice was quiet. “You’ve mentioned multiple men before. But never this one.”
He nodded again. His throat worked hard around the next words.
“I called him ‘the smoker.’ I never knew his name. He always had a cigarette in his mouth. Even when he was—” First’s breath hitched. “Even when he was hurting me.”
His hands curled tightly around the edge of his blanket, as if anchoring himself.
“He didn’t just touch me. He hit me,” he whispered. “He beat me. That was his thing. That was what got him off.”
His psychiatrist didn’t move.
“I don’t remember the first time he did it. I think I blacked out. But there was one night…” He swallowed hard. “He brought me food. He always brought food when he wanted something. I didn’t eat it. I—I was learning. If I ate, it got worse.”
He closed his eyes.
“I tried to say no that night. I think I told him to fuck off. I don’t remember exactly. I just remember the way he looked at me. Like I was nothing. Like I was a toy he could break.”
A pause. Shallow breath.
“He backhanded me so hard I hit the wall. Then he laughed. He—he said something about how I was getting too bold. How I needed to be reminded of my place.”
His voice faltered.
“He kicked me. In the ribs. Over and over. I couldn’t breathe. I was choking on it. He said—I remember this—he said, ‘If you die, you die. I’ll just get another one.’”
First flinched even now, repeating it. Like the words had scarred deeper than the bruises.
His psychiatrist’s expression cracked, just slightly. But she stayed still.
“He grabbed my throat,” First said, voice barely audible now. “I don’t know how long. I thought I was going to pass out. I saw spots. My ears were ringing. And then he just. Stopped.”
He touched his neck reflexively. “My throat hurt for days. I couldn’t swallow. None of the other clients cared. No one asked. They just acted like it was normal.”
He looked up at her now, finally, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I was sixteen,” he whispered. “And he almost killed me.”
Her voice shook ever so slightly. “Thank you for telling me, First.”
He stared at the screen like he couldn’t quite believe he’d said it. His whole body was trembling now.
“Why is it coming back now?” he asked. “I forgot for years. I thought—I thought I’d buried it deep enough.”
“Because your body remembers,” she said. “Because you’re safe now. Safer than you’ve ever been. And your brain finally has enough space to release what it couldn’t before.”
“But I’m tired,” he choked. “I don’t want to remember him. I don’t want his face in my head. I don’t want to wake up choking again. Feeling his hands on me, hearing him laugh, like I’m still there.”
“I know,” she said, voice gentle but sure. “And I promise you, First, you’re not there. You’re here. In your room. In your home. With people who love you. With me. And we will get through this.”
He covered his face with one sleeve. “It hurts.”
“I know,” she repeated. “But you survived. You’ve built a life. A team. A future. And even if it feels like he’s in the room with you sometimes. He’s not. He’s gone.”
There was a long silence.
Then First whispered: “Why didn’t anyone stop him?”
The pain in that question—simple, brutal—hung heavy.
“I wish someone had,” she said, eyes shining now. “You deserved protection. You deserved rescue. And I am so sorry you didn’t get it.”
His chest crumpled inward. A single sob slipped out—silent, strangled—but it broke the dam. Another followed. And another.
He didn’t wail. He didn’t scream.
But he wept. Quiet, collapsed, gasping for air between shudders.
And she didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
She just stayed with him, eyes steady through the screen, until the storm passed.
Until he could breathe again.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was dark. A hush had settled over it, muffled fan hum, low creaks of wood adjusting to the night.
First lay curled beneath his blanket, hoodie sleeves bunched around his wrists. His breath was steady, for once. Deep.
The session had left him drained, like something vital had been carved out of him and gently stitched back together. But he’d said it. All of it. And when Gun peeked in later with quiet eyes and a glass of water, he hadn’t chased him away. Just accepted it, drank slowly, and let the door click shut again behind his best friend.
Now, for the first time in weeks, sleep took him.
And the nightmare came.
But this time, it was different.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He’s in the motel again.
That room. The mildew-soaked carpet, the flickering light, the smell of cigarettes burned into the sheets.
The man is there too. The smoker. Taller than he remembered. Meaner. His grin flashes like a knife.
“You think you’ve grown?” he sneers. “You’re still mine. Just a little more polished.”
In the past, this is when First would freeze. Go silent. Brace for pain.
But not tonight.
Because tonight, he’s not a boy.
He’s First Kanaphan. Duelist of Eclipse. Ice in his veins. Precision in every shot. He’s twenty-six years old, he’s got a team behind him, a family who finally sees him, and a life he built from ash.
And suddenly, he’s standing taller.
When the man steps forward, First steps in too—no flinch, no retreat. His foot lands hard. Controlled.
He grabs the man’s arm before it can rise.
Twists.
Slams.
The man shouts, but First doesn’t stop.
“Do you think I need saving?” he spits, voice low, shaking. “You think I’ve been waiting for someone to show up?”
He pins the man to the wall with nothing but fury and bone-deep strength. Not just muscle, will.
“I saved myself every day I survived you.”
The man tries to wriggle free. He can’t. First is stronger now. Bigger. Real.
“You’re nothing,” First says, and the words crack like a whip. “You’re just a memory. And I’m not scared of you anymore.”
He lets go.
The man stumbles, scowling. But he’s fading like fog in morning sun.
And First… doesn’t chase.
He stands tall. Still.
The room flickers. Brightens.
Then fades.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He woke with a sharp inhale—heart racing, yes, but not in panic. His fingers weren’t clenched. His hoodie wasn’t soaked in sweat.
It was still dark out.
First sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. He could still feel it. The dream. The moment he grabbed that man’s wrist and took it all back.
He stared at his hands.
They were steady.
And for the first time in years.
He didn’t feel helpless.
He felt free.
Chapter 24: Chapter 24
Notes:
So it may be waaaaay later here than I expected to be still up finishing this, but my brain wouldn't let me stop. So here I am at 5am posting this, it's so fun I couldn't help myself.
I hope you enjoy (read note at the end pls)
—J
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
The Eclipse dorm was bathed in soft morning light, golden beams slanting through the kitchen windows and bouncing off half-empty mugs and cereal bowls. Gun was perched on the counter in a hoodie three sizes too big, legs swinging as he scrolled through Twitter on his phone, eyes wide with delight.
“He’s trending in three languages,” Gun crowed, waving the phone over his head. “Three! Do you know how iconic that is?! We’ve never trended in Thai and Portuguese at the same time!”
JJ, sitting at the table with a piece of toast half-burned and slathered in peanut butter, mumbled, “Bet half of it is just gifs of him in that cherry shirt.”
“Wrong,” Neo said, sipping black coffee beside him. “It’s also the eyeliner. The boba eyes are doing numbers.”
Across the room, Khaotung tried very hard not to combust into glitter. He was curled up in one of the armchairs, Montow asleep across his lap like a smug, judgmental pancake. His phone buzzed non-stop on the armrest, notifications stacked high.
First was standing a little off to the side, hands tucked into the sleeves of his sweater, pretending to check something on the wall display—but his eyes kept flicking to the sitting area. Specifically, to Khaotung. Specifically, to Khaotung in his soft cream sweater and loose waves and sleepy smile like he hadn’t just set the internet ablaze.
AJ wandered in with a yawn and a protein bar, squinting at the living room TV. “Are we watching reactions or just having a group breakdown?”
“Yes,” said Neo.
Khaotung tried to play it cool, tugging Montow a little higher on his chest. “I mean, it’s not that crazy.”
Gun snorted. “You gained one hundred thousand followers in eight hours. There are fan edits. You have a STAN ACCOUNT in Finnish. This is exactly that crazy.”
“Someone commented that he and First are the ‘visual tension axis of South Asia,’” JJ said, deadpan.
“Which is wild,” AJ added, “because First didn’t even look at him in the video.”
“I looked,” First muttered from behind his coffee.
Everyone froze.
Khaotung blinked.
Gun gasped, cartoonishly loud. “Oh my GOD.”
Neo dropped his spoon.
JJ spat toast.
AJ whispered, “Did he just admit awareness of Khaotung?”
Khaotung, cheeks already tinged pink, turned to First. “You looked?”
First, calm as ever but now definitely hiding behind his coffee mug, muttered again. “It was for continuity.”
Gun practically flailed. “Someone call the press”
A loud ding from the front hallway interrupted the chaos.
“Is that—” Neo started.
The front door swung open.
“HELLO, CHILDREN,” Off’s voice rang out, unmistakable and smug. “Did you miss me?”
“PAPII!!” Gun shrieked and launched off the counter like a missile.
He practically tackled Off in the hallway, both of them stumbling backward as Off laughed and placed a soft kiss on Guns lips.
“I’m gone for a week ” Off said. “And now we’ve got a pretty streamer boy breaking the algorithm and stealing First’s attention span.”
“Not stealing,” Khaotung said from his chair. “I prefer the term sharing.”
Off squinted toward the living room. “You’re brighter in person.”
“Thank you, I try,” Khaotung replied with a small bow from the chair, Montow still dead asleep.
Gun was vibrating. “Papii, you’re just in time—we have a PR meeting in like twenty minutes and everyone’s feral. First admitted looking at Khao on camera and now we’re spiraling.”
“I did not spiral,” First said. “You spiraled.”
“You started the spiral,” Neo added.
Khaotung just grinned into his cat.
Off looked around at the chaos, the subtle tension, the laughter laced with caffeine and nerves and smiled.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Off had barely opened his suitcase when Gun flung himself onto the bed like a drama queen in the final act.
“I missed you,” Gun declared, sprawled across the rumpled sheets. “I missed you so much I almost kissed Neo. And not in the joking way. In the actual emotional damage way.”
Off laughed, dragging his suitcase toward the dresser. “You lasted one week.”
“That’s seven business days, Papii. Seven.”
“Neo doesn’t work on weekends.”
“He does when I’m grieving.”
Gun rolled onto his stomach, chin propped in his hands, watching as Off started pulling out clothes.
“Let me,” Gun said, hopping up and nudging Off aside. “You’ve had enough responsibility. Time to be pampered.”
“Gun—”
But Off was already being kissed.
Cheek, neck, jawline, then lips—peppered with smacks and hums and whispered “mine”s in between folded shirts and travel socks.
Off stood there, motionless, letting it happen.
“You're unpacking and attacking me,” he said finally.
“It’s called multi-tasking,” Gun murmured into his collarbone. “Try to keep up.”
Off chuckled, hands finding Gun’s waist automatically. “Alright. What’d I miss while I was playing heir to the game development throne?”
“Oh, Papii,” Gun sighed theatrically, stepping back just long enough to fling a bundle of shirts into the laundry bin. “So much. First has been in a mood all week. You can feel it in the hallway. Like a haunted cat.”
“And Khaotung?”
Gun spun dramatically toward him. “A DREAM. A literal dream. He’s sunshine and glitter and sass and he walked in like he’s always belonged here, and I am officially adopting him as our second son.”
Off raised an eyebrow. “Second?”
Gun grabbed a pair of socks, threw them into a drawer, and said, “First is the angry eldest. Distant. Cold. Frequently judgmental. Khaotung is the baby gay. Sparkly. Loud. Collects strays.”
Off smirked. “He collects you.”
“I offered myself!” Gun protested. “As a mentor. A guide. A co-cat-parent. Do you know he brought two cats with him? Two.”
Off blinked. “Wait—he brought them?”
“His,” Gun said, dead serious. “Their names are Montow and Vaanjoy. They’re perfect. They sleep on my sweaters. We are building a cat-based dynasty.”
Off just stared, half-laughing. “You’ve lived with him for a week and you’re already planning joint custody?”
“Okay, technically I’ve known him longer,” Gun said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart, “but this week? This week confirmed it. He helped me organize my lipstick drawer. He complimented my gaming glasses. And Papii—he giggled when First yelled at JJ. Giggled. Like he was delighted by the chaos. He’s one of us.”
Off pulled Gun back in, arms circling his waist. “You’re obsessed.”
Gun kissed his jaw. “Obviously. But wait until you see them together.”
“First and Khaotung?”
Gun nodded eagerly. “It’s like watching a storm get flustered by a disco ball. They pretend to ignore each other, but First listens to every word Khao says. He rerouted a push mid-scrim just to follow up on a read Khao made. Didn’t even question it.”
“Mm.”
“And Khao knows. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He does the little voice thing, like ‘P’First, you want me to peek this?’ with that tone. You know the tone.”
Off grinned. “Dangerously polite?”
“Exactly. I nearly combusted. JJ did combust. Neo walked out.”
Off pressed a kiss to Gun’s temple. “I’m glad you like him.”
Gun looked up, softened. “You will too.”
“I already do.”
“Not like this.” Gun leaned in again, voice low and dramatic. “You haven’t seen him smile when First says his name. You haven’t heard him hum when he wins a 1v1. You haven’t watched him tuck Montow into a blanket like a tiny gay prince of chaos.”
Off pulled him in tighter. “Okay. I believe you.”
Gun exhaled. “Good. Because I’m keeping him.”
Off nuzzled into his hair. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m in love, Off. With you. With our angry duelist. With our sparkly new son. And our growing cat army.”
Off laughed. “God help me, I missed you.”
Gun smiled. “Took you long enough.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The press conference hall wasn’t huge, but it was sleek and impossibly polished. The room glowed with neutral lighting and matte black walls trimmed in gold, with a clean podium set before a long table lined with chairs, each outfitted with a sleek mic and nameplate. A pair of oversized team logos flanked the backdrop behind them: the signature Eclipse symbol, illuminated just enough to gleam.
Khaotung stood off to the side in the wings, dressed head-to-toe in Eclipse colors reimagined his way: a high-waisted black trouser with a slight flare, cropped sleeveless turtleneck with a velvet finish, and silver accessories that caught every glint of the spotlight. His hair was styled soft and fluffy, slightly parted with a natural curl brushing just above his brows. He looked effortlessly editorial.
But his stomach? Absolutely doing backflips.
Gun leaned in and whispered, “Deep breaths. You’ve survived worse. Like First ignoring you for three straight days.”
Khaotung snorted quietly, nerves easing just slightly. “He still ignores me. Now he just does it in closer proximity.”
“Character development,” Gun grinned.
Across the room, First stood with Neo, AJ, and JJ, each in branded jackets, looking like the world’s most intimidating visual lineup. JJ was the only one visibly bouncing in place. AJ looked vaguely amused. Neo had his arms crossed, hiding a small smile. First had his poker face on, but his gaze drifted to Khaotung more than once.
Then Off appeared beside them in his tailored Eclipse jacket, sleeves rolled up slightly, ID badge clipped neatly to his collar. He looked sharp. Confident. Ready.
The host of the event, a well-known esports MC, stepped up to the podium and tapped the mic. “Good morning, everyone, and thank you for joining us for a very special Team Eclipse announcement.”
The cameras snapped. Livestream chat flew by on the big screen. Hashtags scrolled along the side feed: #NewEraEclipse #WelcomeKhaotung #OffIsBack
“Today, we officially welcome a new era for Team Eclipse—one that blends legacy and innovation, heart and strategy. We are thrilled to confirm that long-time pro and fan favorite Off will be stepping into the role of head coach—”
Applause broke out, loud and genuine.
Off stepped forward to the table with a warm smile and gave a small bow before signing the mockup contract displayed on a silver tray. It was ceremonial and symbolic but the cameras ate it up.
“—and alongside him, we are pleased to officially welcome their newest player, a rising talent with charm, precision, and one of the fastest-growing followings in the scene.”
The crowd stirred.
“Khaotung, welcome to Team Eclipse.”
The applause doubled.
Khaotung stepped into the spotlight.
The flashbulbs were blinding. The cameras didn’t stop. But he smiled through it all graceful, poised, and just a little sparkly.
He took his seat beside Off at the table, blinking wide as the mock contract was placed in front of him. He signed with an elegant flourish and passed it back, then leaned into the mic just a bit.
“I’m honored,” he said, voice smooth but sincere. “And very ready to sparkle responsibly.”
Laughter rippled across the room. Gun whooped somewhere in the back. JJ whispered something excitedly to AJ, who just shook his head fondly.
The MC chuckled. “We’ll now take a few questions.”
Reporters sprang up instantly.
“P’Off—what’s your vision for the team moving forward?”
“Same fundamentals. Better communication. Smarter aggression. And honestly? I’m just happy to babysit them all full-time now.”
“N’Khaotung—how does it feel stepping into the shoes of a full-time pro?”
Khaotung grinned. “Surreal. I still don’t fully believe I’m here. But I’ve got an incredible team behind me—and if I pass out mid-game, I trust them to carry me.”
JJ yelled out “You’re light, but not that light,” and AJ nodded like this was a scientific fact.
Another laugh. More flashes. The mood was buoyant, electric.
From the sidelines, First watched quietly. He didn’t smile for the cameras, but when Khaotung looked his way, there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
Warmth.
Pride.
Something soft.
The rest of the conference went smoothly, questions, applause, a group photo with the team standing behind Off and Khaotung, hands on their shoulders like a protective wall.
As they began filtering offstage, Gun leaned close again. “How does it feel being the main character?”
“I’m not,” Khaotung murmured.
Gun winked. “No. You’re the heart.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The car ride back from the press conference had barely left the venue before Lita opened her notes app like it was a holy text.
Khaotung, still radiant in his turtleneck and flowy black pants, had barely clicked his seatbelt before she launched in, her tone somewhere between CEO and very excited girl group manager.
“Okay,” Lita said, already scrolling. “First things first. Your follower count spiked another 20k in the last three hours—your eyeliner is trending, by the way—and we’ve already gotten three requests from brands who want to send you PR. I said yes. Obviously.”
Khaotung blinked. “I—wait. What brands?”
“Skincare, accessories, possibly a line of embroidered gaming sleeves—which I didn’t know was a thing, but they want to make a ‘sparkle edition’ and I said we’d consider it if we can get your cats in the shoot.”
Khaotung opened his mouth, closed it, then smiled helplessly. “You are both terrifying and powerful.”
“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Lita said, grinning. “I’ve got stream ideas, TikToks, PR content, and some truly unhinged Gun collabs you’re going to love.”
“Unhinged how?”
“‘Gun teaches you how to aim while applying lip tint’ unhinged. Or maybe you guys do a ‘don’t laugh while trying to play’ challenge. Or a cooking show where you both have to decorate cupcakes again but with JJ screaming in the background for no reason.”
Khaotung wheezed. “Is that what PR is now? Controlled chaos?”
“With your brand? Yes. Chaos, cats, charm, and cheekbones.” She tapped her notes again. “Speaking of cats—yes, I have a Montow and Vaanjoy content rollout plan. Do not look at me like that. You’re legally required to post at least one cat video a week. That’s my new clause.”
Khaotung laughed, head falling back against the seat. “You’re unreal.”
“Oh, and you and First,” she added casually, like it wasn’t a verbal grenade. “Duelist chemistry. People are eating it up. We want a photoshoot—subtle matching outfits, mirrored poses, some behind-the-scenes footage of you two reviewing VODs or warming up together.”
Khaotung choked. “He barely lets me sit next to him. How are we supposed to—”
“Let me worry about that,” Lita said, already writing “First + Khao = Frostfire aesthetic?” in her app. “Anyway, we also got interview requests. A lot. You and Gun especially—they want to talk about your dynamic, how you went from chaos on stream to teammates. There’s a rumor that you two are already besties and I am absolutely going to lean into that.”
Khaotung groaned dramatically and slid down in the seat. “I just wanted to sparkle. I didn’t realize I was adopting a whole franchise.”
“Welcome to the major leagues, baby,” Lita beamed, patting his knee. “You’re not just a player. You’re a brand now. And I’m going to make sure the whole world sees it.”
“…You terrify me.”
“Good. That means it’s working.”
They turned into the dorm drive just as her phone buzzed again.
“Oop. JJ says he’s locking his door if you prank him. So we definitely need to prank him now.”
Khaotung grinned, heart still pounding from the press madness but excitement fizzing under the nerves like soda.
“Let’s make chaos,” he said.
Lita cackled. “That’s my boy.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Weeks later a pounding knock jolted Khaotung from the depths of a dream involving matcha croissants and winning a Valorant MVP award while dressed as Sailor Moon.
He cracked one eye open, groaned at the blinding numbers on his phone, 7:00 a.m., what kind of sick joke, and dragged the covers over his head.
Another knock. Louder this time. Followed by the unmistakable sound of a door creaking open without permission.
“Don’t kill me,” a singsong voice chirped, “I come bearing fashion.”
Khaotung peeked out from under his blankets just in time to see Lita waltz into his room like she owned it. Her sunglasses were on despite the early hour, and she was pushing a rack of clothing so massive it barely cleared the doorway.
“Oh my god,” Khaotung groaned, flopping back dramatically. “It’s Saturday. Lita. Please. The sun’s not even awake.”
“It’s photoshoot planning day, Princess,” she sang. “And I finalized the concept last night. You and First. Duelist duo. High drama. Possibly a wind machine.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at the wardrobe rack now parked beside his vanity. His hair was a rumpled halo of curls, sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes, and his robe—cream-colored, soft, luxurious—was hanging dangerously loose over one shoulder.
“Wait, me and P’First?” he asked, blinking slowly. “As in, together together?”
“I need chemistry,” Lita said, already flipping through hangers. “You two ooze it. I want knives-out eye contact and magazine spreads that make fangirls cry. Also, Vogue Thailand might be watching, so. No pressure.”
He rubbed his face. “God, you’re terrifying.”
Then—
A shift in the doorway.
His eyes flicked up and froze.
Standing there, arms crossed, dressed in low-slung sweatpants and a black hoodie half-zipped over a white tee, was First. Silent. Still. And very clearly not prepared for the absolute disaster that was Khaotung’s barely-covered morning self.
“Oh my god,” Khaotung blurted and immediately scrambled to clutch the gaping front of his robe shut. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?”
First didn’t blink. His eyes cool and unreadable, but fixed, definitely fixed, on Khaotung.
“I invited him,” Lita said sweetly. “He has to approve the outfits too. You’re a pair now, remember?”
Khaotung hissed and pulled the covers over his head again. “You’re evil. I hope your coffee machine breaks.”
From beneath the blanket he could hear the sound of hangers clinking and Lita muttering something about jewel tones and French tuck potential. Also—unfairly—First’s low voice, quiet and dry:
“You sleep in just that?”
“Don’t comment on my vulnerability,” Khaotung wailed.
Lita cackled.
“Get dressed, sparkles. We’ve got a day morning of eyeliner, leather gloves, and gender envy to create.”
And with that, she flounced out.
First lingered for one more second, expression unreadable before he turned and followed.
Khaotung threw his blanket off, stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, then turned and muttered into his pillow:
“God, I hate being perceived.”
Montow meowed from his cat tower, completely unsympathetic.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Khaotung now stood in front of the mobile wardrobe rack with one hand on his hip, his silk robe now replaced with an oversized cropped tee and high-waisted lounge pants covered in tiny lavender moons. A jade roller sat forgotten on his vanity. His hair was fluffy from a rushed blow-dry, and his expression was deadly serious.
Lita had three clipboards, five mood boards open on her tablet, and a visible migraine blooming at her temple.
“This one’s cute,” Khaotung said, pulling out a tailored wine-red blazer with gold accents. “But it’s not for me. P’First should wear it.”
First, who was sitting on Khaotung’s bed like an immovable statue of judgment, glanced up slowly. “You want me in red velvet?”
“It’s not velvet,” Khaotung said. “It’s power. Trust me. You’d look—” He paused, then added in what he thought was a casual tone, “—tall. And dangerous. Good for branding.”
Lita narrowed her eyes. “Khaotung, I assigned that look to you.”
“Yes,” Khaotung said, spinning the hanger dramatically, “but consider: duelists in contrast. Soft elegance versus deadly allure. Yin and yang. Sparkle and stab.”
First raised an eyebrow. “Which one are you?”
Khaotung beamed. “Both.”
Lita groaned and scribbled something on her clipboard like she was preparing a restraining order against creativity.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But then First’s second look is the sheer black top with the leather harness.”
Khaotung immediately choked on air. “Yes. I mean. If he’s comfortable. Obviously. No pressure. Just, you know, visual tension is good for viewer engagement—”
“You’re not subtle,” First said.
“I am subtle!” Khaotung squeaked. “I’m the picture of professionalism.”
“You just tried to assign me a collar,” First replied, holding up one of the accessories.
“It was fashion,” Khaotung whined.
“You circled it three times and wrote ‘hot’ in glitter pen.”
Lita snorted. “He did.”
Khaotung yanked a different outfit off the rack, an ethereal ivory shirt with billowy sleeves and pearl buttons. “Okay, new plan. I wear this. First wears the black turtleneck and that long coat. We do enemies-to-lovers, but like, make it haute couture.”
First leaned back on the bed, legs stretched out, one arm draped over the backboard. He didn’t say anything for a long beat. Then, “You’re really into this, huh?”
Khaotung turned, cheeks slightly pink. “It’s not every day I get to dress up with a living legend. Let me have my moment.”
Something about that seemed to soften First’s gaze. Just barely. He looked away again, fingers absently tapping the side of the bed.
Lita eyed them both, then pulled out her phone.
“I’m starting a group chat for styling approvals,” she said. “I’m calling it Princess Sparkle and the Ice Prince.”
Khaotung gasped. “I accept.”
First exhaled like he was regretting all his life choices.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Group Chat: “👑 Princess Sparkle and the Ice Prince ❄️”
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
ok hear me out
black silk button-up
ALL unbuttoned
just vibes and chest
[FIRST 🐈]
no
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
but imagine the engagement
also imagine the gasp when he walks on set
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
EXACTLY
they’d faint
I’d faint
we’re talking fashion revolution
[FIRST 🐈]
absolutely not
next
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
ok ok what about
fitted black tank top
leather harness
silver chains
artsy bruised eyeliner look
[FIRST 🐈]
what is “artsy bruised eyeliner”
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
it’s a look
Moody. Edgy. Smoldering. Dangerous in an emotionally repressed way.
a little "he could destroy me and I'd say thank you"
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
I’d personally like to thank him 🧎♂️
[FIRST 🐈]
still no
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
ok ok NEW compromise
black mesh mock-neck (just a little sheer 👀)
tailored blazer with sharp shoulders
sleek silver chain (subtle sparkle!!)
black slacks that fit like a problem
one glove. for drama.
[FIRST 🐈]
…define “a problem”
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
he means “perfectly tailored to make people stare”
I approve. Fully.
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
I’d like to personally thank the trousers for their service 🙏
also the mesh. we need the mesh. he has collarbones.
[FIRST 🐈]
no glove
no mesh
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
mesh lite? tasteful mesh?
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
first please 🙏
the lighting will hit just right
we’ll all ascend
even Gun said “damn” and he hasn’t even SEEN IT
[FIRST 🐈]
…fine.
but the blazer stays on.
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
BLAZER STAYS ON DURING PHOTOSHOOT 😭💘
WE WON
PRINCESS GLITTER STRIKES AGAIN
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
logging this moment in PR history
[FIRST 🐈]
I regret this chat already
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
wait I have another one 🥺
white open dress shirt
low-slung black trousers
moonlight, betrayal, revenge arc
[FIRST 🐈]
this isn’t an anime OP
no
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
…okay but what if it was
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
I can cry on command. I’m ready.
Give me wind and angst.
[FIRST 🐈]
removing myself from this chat
immediately
Notes:
SO I leave for a week long vacation soon so I may not get much done before then, but I am staying at this gorgeous lake house for a whole week where I expect to be spending most of my time writing instead of just editing what I already have.
ALSO we are getting really close to where the timelines are going to match up, I have all of First's POV since Khaotung has entered the picture planned out and partially written but I'm not sure if you guys even want that (since a lot of would be repeated just in his POV which I find insightful but would you guys rather just have new stuff?), and if I do upload them I'm unsure if I want to do it all in one part (which would be ridiculously long) or if I do multiple parts. IDK LET ME KNOW PLS.
ALSO ALSO once we get fully caught up on the timelines merging I wont be doing chapters in mainly separate POV's and things may start to speed up a bit....
Chapter 25: Chapter 25
Notes:
So I think I'll be able to swing ONE more update before I leave for my vacation, which I am excited about because I'll be doing a special OffGun chapter for their wedding!!!
My plan is to fully finish all of First's POV to catch up the current timeline while I'm on vacation along with 3 or 4 more chapters but we'll see how much freetime I have (not like I sleep anyway so I'm optimistic).
Anyway I hope you enjoy this one :)
—J
Chapter Text
Chapter 25
-Thailand 2024-
Gun’s the first to catch the shift, subtle at first, but undeniable.
It’s during a press shoot. A long day, rotating outfits, endless smiles. First hates these. Always has. He keeps to himself between takes, phone in hand, hood pulled over his head, eyes flicking up only when it’s his turn.
But today, when JJ starts complaining about the collar of his shirt being too tight, First doesn’t roll his eyes or disappear.
He reaches forward, cool, methodical, and undoes the top button for him, fingers deft and impersonal.
JJ pauses. Blinks. “You tryna dress me now?”
“You were going to stretch the seam,” First mutters. “It’s tailored.”
Gun’s watching from the makeup chair. He tilts his head with a small smile.
JJ beams like he’s been handed a trophy. “He cares,” he declares to the room.
First just walks off, but Gun sees the corner of his mouth twitch. Almost a smile.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s 1 a.m. and they’re all still in the VOD room, caffeine running thin. Off’s at the whiteboard mid-rant about a failed post-plant round. Everyone’s tired. AJ’s silently scribbling notes. Neo’s chewing the same pencil he’s had for three hours.
JJ drops his head to the table dramatically. “If Off yells one more time I’m gonna fake a sprained wrist.”
First, from across the table, nudges a cold can of soda in his direction.
JJ squints up. “For me?”
First doesn’t even look up from the play he’s reviewing. “Shut up and drink it.”
Off pauses at the board. His marker hovers. He looks at Gun.
Gun raises both brows.
Neither say anything. But they both feel it.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They’re walking through the sponsor building, late to a shoot. The PR team is ahead, chattering. JJ is elbowing Neo. Gun’s showing Off a meme on his phone.
First is trailing behind, as usual. But when AJ’s sleeve catches on the stair rail, First reaches out without hesitation, uncurls the snag with one flick of his fingers and keeps walking.
AJ pauses. Eyes him. Doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t need to.
First adjusts the strap on his gear bag like nothing happened. But Gun sees it.
So does Off.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning light in the dorm glows golden across the table. It’s quiet. Just Off and First, both nursing mugs of coffee, reviewing draft schedules.
Off watches him in the silence.
Something’s different.
Not louder. Not warmer. Just settled.
“You good?” Off asks, tapping his mug.
First shrugs. “Tired.”
“Yeah, but like, less haunted than usual.”
First looks up slowly. Flat. “That’s your compliment?”
Off grins. “You’re tolerating Gun’s hugs. You gave Neo your charger. You passed AJ the last dumpling. That’s practically a marriage proposal coming from you.”
First stirs his coffee. “You’re annoying.”
“Uh-huh. But you’re doing better.”
First doesn’t reply. He doesn’t deny it, either.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gun corners him after scrims. “You’re different lately.”
First lifts a brow. “Worse?”
“No.” Gun grins, looping an arm around First’s waist before he can dodge it. “Cooler. I mean, emotionally. Like… sharp but solid. Still a winter prince, but less icicle, more—like—expensive marble sculpture that secretly gives warm hugs when no one’s looking.”
First groans. “I’m going to leave this conversation.”
“No you won’t,” Gun says smugly, tightening the arm. “You like me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Progress,” Gun says brightly. Then more softly:
“But seriously… I’m proud of you.”
First says nothing. Just lets Gun’s arm stay there a few more seconds than usual.
Then shrugs it off and walks away.
But Gun doesn’t miss the ease in his steps.
The way he holds his head a little higher now.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room was warm, mid-afternoon light pouring in from the window behind First. He sat slouched on the couch in his usual hoodie, sleeves twisted between his fingers, hair tucked behind his ears. There were more shadows under his eyes than usual, but his posture—quietly folded in, still—held something else today. A strength, maybe. Or the faint echo of one.
His psychiatrist didn’t speak at first. She waited, pen poised but motionless. First had reached out for this session himself.
It had been five weeks since that night. Five weeks since his body collapsed under the pressure of months of media appearances, fan events, brand campaigns, and the growing noise of public attention. Five weeks since his memories had clawed their way back to the surface.
They had spoken every week since. Some sessions had been hard. Others, quiet. But today, First had arrived with something different in his eyes.
“I had another one,” he said without preamble.
She nodded gently. “A nightmare?”
He gave a short, sharp nod. Then: “It wasn’t the same man. Not the one from last time.”
She waited.
“This one was older. Not the ringleader. I didn’t see him as often. But he was always worse. Always…” His voice dipped low. “Always crueler. Always worse.”
She stayed still, watching his breathing, the shape of his words.
“He had this necklace,” First said slowly. “Thick chain. Gold, I think. Always wore it over his shirt. And he smiled like—like he enjoyed showing off his teeth. Some of them were missing. The rest were… wrong. Crooked. Rotted. One was black. He had a scar across his jaw, like someone had tried to shut him up and failed.”
He was somewhere else now. Not in the room.
“In the dream, he grabbed me. Like before. I was back in the motel. Same peeling walls. Same flickering light. And he was smiling, because I was small again. I was weak. And I knew what came next.”
His hands had balled into fists in his sleeves.
“But this time,” he said, voice harder now, “I wasn’t sixteen. I was me. Now. And I didn’t freeze.”
She didn’t speak. She just listened.
“I grabbed the lamp. The cheap one by the bed. I smashed it into his face.” His throat tightened. “He laughed. He always laughed. Even when I fought. But I didn’t stop. I used the broken glass. I went for his neck. I didn’t even flinch.”
His jaw clenched.
“I woke up shaking. Sweating. But not scared. Not like before.”
She finally spoke, gently. “How did you feel?”
He hesitated. “Like I survived. Like I finally…” His voice cracked, just barely. “Like I wasn’t a victim in my own head anymore.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then she said, “That’s a powerful shift, First.”
“I know.” He looked down. “It scares me. How good it felt.”
“Why does that scare you?”
“Because it makes me wonder if I’m still me. Or if I’ve just become something harder.”
“You didn’t enjoy what he did to you. Taking that power back, even in a dream, doesn’t make you cruel. It makes you human.”
He stayed silent. But his shoulders lowered a fraction
They moved on to other topics. The team’s packed schedule. His ongoing efforts to sleep. The brief, flickering moments of calm that sometimes surfaced during scrims, in the rare hour when the dorm was quiet.
She made a note. Then looked back up.
“You mentioned the others have noticed something different.”
First gave a grudging nod. “Off keeps saying I’m ‘scarily confident’ now. Gun accused me of becoming smug.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think…” He paused. “I think I’m not waiting to break anymore.”
“That’s a big thing to say.”
He nodded. “It’s not always true. But more often than not, I believe it.”
Her smile was soft. “Then we’re getting somewhere.”
“I’m still cold,” he added. “Still quiet. I still hate interviews and sometimes I want to punch JJ when he won’t shut up.”
“That’s allowed.”
“But I’m showing it now,” he said. “The affection. When I care. I don’t pretend. I don’t hide it.”
She tilted her head. “And how does that feel?”
He looked up at her for the first time in a while.
“Like I’m the version of myself I never thought I could be.”
She didn’t say anything.
She just smiled.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-Thailand January 2025-
JJ had put rainbow streamers on Gun’s cat. AJ was desperately trying to remove them. Neo was mixing cocktails in a shaker that he swore he stole from Lita. Gun had painted his nails in pride flag colors and was walking around in a silk robe shouting, "I'M A WIFE!!!" while Off pretended to be unaffected and stoic, but kept sneakily recording Gun’s every dramatic proclamation.
First sat on the armrest of the couch, sipping a sparkling water and watching it all like a dignified anthropologist observing a very flamboyant wildlife documentary.
JJ lunged across the room with a glitter cannon. "TEN SECONDS UNTIL CONFETTI TIME!"
"JJ, I swear to god," Neo warned.
"He’s gonna do it anyway," AJ muttered.
And then, of course, JJ did it anyway, and Gun screamed with delight.
"This is our pre-bachelorette, pre-bachelor, pre-rehearsal, pre-everything party," Gun announced, arms wide, robe trailing dramatically behind him. "The wedding is in two months and I’m starting now."
"We noticed," Off deadpanned, but he was smiling. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
First set down his drink. "You’ve said ‘I’m a wife’ twenty-three times."
"Twenty-four," Neo corrected.
Gun beamed. "You’re all jealous."
"Of the robe? Absolutely," JJ said, sprawled on the floor now with the cat, who was still wearing a streamer like a cursed necklace.
Lita walked in mid-chaos with a giant cake box and zero hesitation. “Alright, bridesmaids, groomsmen, and chaotic bystanders, who wants sugar?”
JJ flung himself at her.
The cake was pink and ridiculous and perfect. There were plastic toppers of Off and Gun holding guns and defusing a spike together. Gun cried, openly. Off looked away, but didn’t stop smiling.
Later, when the music had faded a little and everyone had sugar crashes in progress, First sat quietly beside AJ and watched as Gun curled against Off on the couch, one leg thrown over his fiancé like a blanket.
"I didn’t think I’d ever see this," First said quietly.
AJ tilted his head. "Gun in a robe?"
First gave him a look. "No. A wedding. A legal one. For them."
AJ nodded slowly. “They deserve it.”
First hummed in agreement. Then, softer, “They do.”
Gun caught his eye across the room. He winked.
First rolled his eyes.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Eclipse dorm’s meeting room wasn’t flashy—just a long matte black table, ergonomic chairs, and whiteboards filled with scribbled strats and JJ’s chaotic diagrams, but it was private. Safe. First preferred it to the sterile professionalism of headquarters, especially for moments like this.
He sat at his usual spot, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands, legs crossed loosely at the ankle. The blinds were drawn against the morning sun, and the only sound was the low hum of the air filter tucked in the corner.
Across from him, Off looked relaxed but alert. His posture leaned casual, but there was weight in the moment. Jarin, seated at the head of the table, was his usual crisp self—tablet balanced in one hand, the other spinning a stylus slowly between his fingers.
“We’ve received full approval from upper management,” Jarin was saying. “Off’s request to transition into head coach after the spring tournament is official.”
First didn’t move. “Good.”
Off glanced at him, reading the quiet beneath the word. He didn’t need reassurance, he already had it. They’d talked about this more than once in the quiet hours after scrims, when the team had gone to bed and the kitchen lights were still on. First had known. But it felt different hearing it aloud.
Jarin looked between them. “I know this isn’t a shock, but I wanted to make sure the timing and next steps were aligned,especially with the tournament kicking off end of April and, of course—”
“The wedding,” Off said, lips quirking.
First rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah, we’ve all heard about it.”
“Early to Mid April is a blackout,” Off said. “Between the ceremony, travel, and pretending I’m not a workaholic for Gun’s sake.”
“You’re a workaholic with boundaries now,” First muttered.
Off grinned. “Growth.”
Jarin made a soft noise of amusement and tapped something on the tablet. “This gives us a clear window. You’ll finish out the tournament as a player, Off. We’ll hold trials for your replacement after you’re back from your honeymoon.” Jarin let a soft breath of amusement pass before continuing. “Now that it’s official, I’ll begin assembling a list of candidates to replace you on the roster.”
First’s gaze sharpened. “I want everything.”
“You’ll get it,” Jarin said. “Not just names. Full scouting decks, playstyle summaries, comms behavior, past team dynamics, VOD clips, attitude in high-pressure rounds. I’m not sending anyone near this team unless we know exactly what we’re working with.”
“Good,” First said. “I don’t care how good they look on paper. I want instincts. Communication. Someone who can adapt. Not just another ranked-star who chokes on stage.”
Off added, “And someone who fits us. That matters more than prestige. We’ve already learned everything we could from the industry’s best. This is about the next era now.”
Jarin nodded. “Understood. I’ll start building the scouting pool this month. Once I’ve filtered out the obvious mismatches, I’ll begin sending you both profiles to review. First, your feedback will carry the most weight.”
“That’s the idea,” First said.
There was a short silence. Not tense, just full. Like the room itself understood this was a shift, the start of a new arc.
Then Off tilted his head. “You okay with all of this?”
First shrugged. “You asked me weeks ago.”
“Still worth checking. You hate change.”
“I hate bad change,” First muttered. “This isn’t that.”
Off smiled faintly.
“You’ve already been coaching us for months,” First added, almost too quiet. “Just without the title.”
Off didn’t respond right away. But the look he gave First was steady, grounded.
“I’ll do right by you,” he said.
First nodded once, the way he always did when words felt too soft in his mouth. Then, after a moment, he stood.
“Just don’t expect me to be nice to the shortlist,” he warned, grabbing his water bottle off the table. “I’ll gut it if I have to.”
Jarin looked amused. “I expect nothing less.”
As First turned to leave, Off called after him, tone casual but warm. “If any of them cry during review, I’m blaming you.”
“Means they’re not ready.” First said without looking back.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bridal shop was quiet, all soft lighting and artfully arranged chaos. Swatches of silk and sequins hung from a nearby pinboard, and a pair of pink heels lay abandoned on a velvety stool. First stood stiffly near the back mirror, arms crossed, watching Gun twirl in front of a rack of custom suits like he was auditioning for his own drama.
"This one makes me look too trustworthy," Gun declared, turning sideways. "I need drama, mystery. Something that says, 'Yes, I will love you forever, but also I might vanish into a cloud of glitter.'"
First arched an eyebrow. "You’re getting married, not filming a music video."
"Why not both?" Gun gasped. Then he turned to the stylist. "Add that gold-threaded one to the maybe pile, please."
The stylist, already buried under six hangers and a clipboard, nodded dutifully.
First sighed and checked his phone again. Still no new messages.
"Off’s still in meetings?" Gun asked, glancing at him in the mirror.
"Mm. He said they’re talking about the transition."
Gun turned fully toward him, unusually calm. “Do you ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t joined the team?”
First didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know. Probably something with cats.”
“Like a cat café owner?”
“Too much talking.”
“Famous cat photographer?”
“Too much travel.”
Gun grinned. “So… emotionally closed-off cat influencer who never posts selfies and only speaks in one-word captions?”
First arched a brow. “Sounds about right.”
Gun tilted his head, watching him. “You’d be good at it. You take care of things when no one’s looking.”
First looked away, uncomfortable. “That’s not a job.”
Gun shrugged, softening. “Doesn’t mean it’s not important.”
There was a quiet pause.
Then First muttered, “You’d be a disaster without me.”
Gun gasped. “So you do care.”
“Unfortunately.”
Gun beamed like he’d won something. “I’m putting that in my vows.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Gun went back to rifling through jackets, quieter now.
First wandered over and sat heavily on the low bench beside the dressing area. "You really want me here for this?"
"Of course," Gun said instantly. "You’re the only one whose taste Off trusts besides me. And Neo, but he’s busy with the sponsorship deck, and AJ would just pick the suit that hides bloodstains the best."
"What about JJ?"
"Do you want Off to wear leather to our wedding?"
First didn’t answer.
Gun peeked over a hanger, smile softening. “Also? I missed you.”
First rolled his eyes.
A few minutes passed in relative quiet, broken only by the rustle of fabric and the occasional dramatic sigh from Gun.
Eventually, Gun emerged from the fitting room in a sharp ivory suit with subtle pearl detailing. He spun, arms out. "Finalist?"
First studied him. "You look like a man who’s going to be adored for the rest of his life."
Gun blinked. Then smiled wide and genuine.
"Okay," he said quietly. "We’ll put it in the yes pile."
He started back toward the racks, voice already picking up speed. “Now, what if we did a marigold boutonnière? Or no, wait, orange orchids. With gold foil trim. Maybe a feather shoulder piece?”
First blinked. “You’re designing a wedding suit, not molting.”
“Exactly,” Gun said, plucking another jacket off the rack. “It should say: bold. Dramatic. Feathered. Like a phoenix in love.”
First sighed and sank lower into the bench. “You’re going to set the aisle on fire.”
Gun held the jacket up to the light. “Good. Love should leave scorch marks.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The bakery was warm and bright, tucked on a quiet Bangkok street, all blush-pink walls and polished brass handles. The scent of sugar hung heavy in the air.
First barely got one foot inside before he spotted Gun already mid-rant at the pastry counter.
“I told you he was coming,” Gun huffed, turning to Off, who stood beside him like a smug statue. “You didn’t believe me. But look who showed up!”
“I’m not here for you,” First said flatly, glancing past Gun like he didn’t exist.
Gun, undeterred, leaned toward the baker and loudly proclaimed, “He can’t say no to me.”
Off grinned and leaned against the display case, arms crossed. “You bribed him with steamed buns from JJ’s favorite stall. That’s coercion.”
Gun pouted and turned back to First. “Semantics.”
“Cake,” Off cut in, bouncing slightly on his heels. “Let’s do this.”
If Gun was the flustered storm of the afternoon, Off was the sun, gleaming, easy, unapologetically in his element as the cake samples were brought out.
First watched in amusement as Off lit up like a child on his birthday, eagerly tasting slice after slice. “This one’s divine. Baby, try this. It tastes like a hug in sponge form.”
Gun grimaced. “I don’t like cake.”
“You don’t like sweet cake,” Off corrected, holding out a fork. “This one’s hojicha and not too sugary.”
Gun took the bite, reluctantly, and then blinked. “…Okay. Not disgusting.”
“I’ll take that as a rave review,” Off said, grinning.
First quietly chewed through his own sample, unimpressed by the blueberry earl grey. “Gun made a spreadsheet. Why are we ignoring it?”
“Because it doesn’t include Off’s heart,” Gun said with mock sincerity. “And he has so much heart when it comes to desserts.”
Off leaned in and kissed Gun’s cheek, grinning as Gun rolled his eyes but tilted toward the touch anyway. “He’s just mad because I stole his thunder.”
“I’m not mad,” Gun said, wrapping an arm loosely around Off’s waist. “I’m just reevaluating my life choices.”
“Marrying me?”
“Letting you pick the menu.”
First snorted. “I’m leaving.”
“Nope!” Gun clung to his sleeve. “You’re part of this now. You voted for the chocolate hojicha earlier, which puts you squarely on Team Taste.”
“I didn’t vote,” First muttered, but he sat back down anyway, trying not to smile.
Later, back at the dorm, the chaos turned domestic.
Gun and Off sprawled on the floor with First between them, flipping through printed photos from years of team life. Gun, despite claiming to be exhausted, kept rearranging everything every five minutes. Off watched him with lazy fondness, his hand tracing slow circles on Gun’s back as he moved.
First picked up a photo, one from their first tournament win. He, Off, and Gun were at the front; JJ mid-yell, Neo lifting his hands in triumph. First’s expression was small, restrained, but not unhappy.
“I like this one,” he said, more to himself than them.
Gun reached for it, eyes softening. “Yeah?”
“It's… true.”
Off glanced over and gently bumped shoulders with him. “It’s a good memory.”
Gun rested his head on Off’s shoulder, sliding the photo to the "yes" pile. “We’ll frame it. Maybe by the guestbook.”
As the evening wore on, Gun draped himself across Off’s lap, pretending to be too tired to choose between candids of their engagement shoot. Off combed fingers through his hair, smiling like it physically hurt to contain how much he loved him.
First didn’t say much, but he stayed.
And when Off pulled him into a hug before heading to bed and Gun kissed his cheek on impulse and called him “our wedding gremlin,” he didn’t shove them away.
He just muttered, “I’m not picking table linens,” and let them smile anyway.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was still.
Not silent, JJ was streaming in the other room, and someone had left the washer running again but still enough that First could finally hear his own thoughts over the roar of scheduling chaos that had been his life for the last two months.
He was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling of his room, his blanket a mess around his knees. He hadn’t even bothered to change out of his hoodie. His hair was damp at the edges. His shoulders ached. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually reviewed a VOD without someone calling his name halfway through. He didn’t even have the energy to close the Discord tab still glowing on his laptop.
Two days.
Two days until the wedding.
Two days until Gun turned into something maybe worse than his current form, if that was even possible. First wasn’t sure he’d survive it.
He’d survived a lot, obviously.
But not… this.
Gun had become unbearable. Not in a mean way. Just in the way only Gun could be—sassy, pampered, thrilled beyond reason about every single glittering detail of his upcoming ceremony and absolutely determined to bring First along for the ride. Especially now that Off was busy finalizing his official transition to head coach of Team Eclipse.
Which meant every time Gun needed an opinion on flower arrangements, or venue lighting, or which playlist they should use for the afterparty, he grabbed First by the wrist and said, “Come, my son. We plan.”
It was awful.
It was non-stop.
It was… kind of funny, if he were being honest.
He wouldn’t be, of course. Not out loud. But it lived somewhere under the weariness in his chest now, pressed down like a soft thing he didn’t know what to do with.
The past month had been even worse. He’d spent more time in meetings than he had gaming. The PR team had doubled up their press content for the tournament and the wedding. Lita was in full-on glamor war mode. Jarin was coordinating backup duelist scouting with a whiteboard that looked like a conspiracy theory wall. First had done four VOD reviews in a single day. Gun had cried over a shipment of late venue decorations. And Off—poor Off—had quietly stepped back from scrims while doubling his efforts behind the scenes to make sure the transition went smoothly for the team.
First had taken on more than he realized. Not because anyone asked. But because he wanted to.
And that was the part that really got him now.
He’d wanted to.
It hit him, quiet and steady, like it always did at night.
He liked being part of this.
Of course he was exhausted. He could barely feel his spine. But he was… content. He was happy, in that strange way where the world felt too big and too fast, but at least it was full of people who knew how to pull him back to earth.
Gun, who insisted First’s skin “deserved luxury” and dragged him into facials like they were tactical retreats. Off, who clapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’re a better strategist than me, admit it,” with that stupid glint in his eyes. JJ, who made a whole graphic for the wedding countdown with the tagline “Our dads are tying the knot and we’re all emotionally unstable.” Neo and AJ, who kept the dorm from collapsing every time Gun started sobbing about centerpiece height.
They were a mess.
His mess.
And Off and Gun—those idiots—loved him like he’d been theirs forever.
They’d started calling him their adopted son sometime after Gun kissed his forehead when First handed in the revised wedding seating chart with color-coded dietary restrictions. He’d pretended to hate it. Gun just smirked and ruffled his hair. Off said “Too late, we signed the birth certificate,” and went right back to reviewing team comps for the tournament.
First groaned now and rolled onto his side, burying his face in the pillow. He wasn’t sure how he ended up the wedding planner. Or the backup coach. Or the silent emotional glue holding together the shakiest moments of the last eight weeks.
But he had. Somehow.
He could feel the weight of it in his bones and it wasn’t all bad.
He hadn’t had a proper therapy session in over a month. Scheduling kept getting moved around. His psychiatrist had sent a check-in message two days ago. He hadn’t responded yet. But he would. Soon. Probably. Maybe.
He wasn’t ignoring her. He just… didn’t have the words.
How do you explain this kind of joy?
Not the loud kind. Not even the healing kind.
Just… existing.
Functioning.
Laughing sometimes.
Being part of something stupid and bright and too loud and too much and loving it anyway.
He shifted again, dragging his blanket over his shoulder as he sighed. His feet were cold. His brain buzzed with to-do lists and discord pings and the sound of Gun yelling at someone over venue linens.
But his chest… his chest felt full.
Not heavy.
Full.
Like for once, even in the exhaustion, there was nothing he had to run from.
First stared at the ceiling a while longer.
Then, finally, he closed his eyes and whispered under his breath, “I’m happy.”
Just once. Just for himself.
And in the quiet of his room, with the laughter of his team muffled by walls and distance, First fell asleep.
He didn’t dream of the past.
Only of flowers, and chaos, and Off’s dumb happy grin when Gun walks down the aisle.
Chapter 26: Special Chapter: OffGun Wedding
Notes:
Next chapter is it, we finally are going to deep dive into all the moments of FirstKhao that have happened so far in Firsts POV but before that we’re getting some offgun truly for real with the team too of course but I need a real offgun chapter and what better way to do it than with their wedding.
I'm not 100% pleased with this chapter but I'm posting this before heading to the airport, so I'll be back in a week with an update.... maybe more than one :)
Enjoy hopefully, also note the change in rating lol
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand April 2025-
The wedding venue was technically a cliffside estate by the sea, but Gun had referred to it so consistently, so seriously, and so often as “the palace” that even the decorators had started calling it that in their emails.
“Florals for The Palace – Revised Fire & Florals Theme,” one subject line read.
“Golden Butterfly Delivery ETA – Gun’s Special Request,” said another.
From above, the estate looked like something from a fairy tale: sprawling stone terraces layered in levels toward the glittering sea, every surface draped in burnt orange silk and deep gold embroidery.. There were crystal chandeliers suspended from temporary arches above the main courtyard—yes, even outside—and each arch was wrapped in vines and peach wisteria blooms that Gun personally approved in a twelve-slide mood board.
Soft peach rose petals carpeted the walkways. Every column was wound with shimmering ribbon. A quartet of harps had been flown in just for the cocktail hour.
But the pièce de résistance, Gun’s pride and joy, was the glass butterfly atrium beside the ceremony aisle. Suspended like a dome of magic at the edge of the garden, it housed hundreds of golden butterflies, fluttering under the filtered sunlight, meant to be released at the first kiss.
Only… they weren’t fluttering.
Gun stood in the middle of the atrium, hands on his hips, brow furrowed with majestic fury as he watched one particularly chubby butterfly take an alarmingly slow glide to a nearby leaf and… stay there.
“’Papii!” he called, voice rising in despair. “The butterflies are sluggish. They look tired. Are they depressed? Do butterflies get sad?!”
Off didn’t even glance up. He was across the courtyard in the groom’s suite, currently a converted lounge with open French doors and a mirror taller than him, seated like royalty in a silk robe, legs crossed while the stylist fussed with the back of his hair.
“They probably just heard how long your vow section is,” Off replied calmly, inspecting his reflection.
Gun gasped so hard the stylist doing his nails jumped.
“You said you loved the vow preview!”
“I said I loved your handwriting,” Off said smoothly, then raised a brow in the mirror. “Not the entire musical number attached to it.”
“It’s not a musical number, it’s a spoken word segment with live string accompaniment!”
“Gun, you commissioned a harpist to underscore your emotions.”
“It’s called ambience,” Gun said, marching toward him now, robes flaring like a royal in distress. “And don’t pretend you didn’t like it, you literally clapped after I finished the last stanza!”
“I clapped because you said ‘cue the crescendo’ out loud, and the harpist looked scared.”
Gun stopped in front of him, hands on hips. “You are so lucky I’m madly in love with you.”
Off turned slowly in the chair, lifted one eyebrow, and stood to his full height. “And yet,” he said, voice a warm, smug purr, “you’re still marrying me.”
Before Gun could find a comeback, Off stepped closer and slid a hand to the small of his back, tugging him gently forward. Gun’s breath hitched.
Their noses brushed. The scent of sea salt and coconut clung to the air between them.
Off leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, just once.
Gun blinked. Then tried to scowl. Failed. Melted entirely instead.
“Shut up,” he murmured, nose scrunching adorably. “You’re lucky you look like that.”
Off chuckled, thumb brushing his jaw. “I know.”
“And also that your ass looks insane in that suit,” Gun added, eyes narrowing as he leaned back remembering their try on appointment. “I’ll allow one butterfly misfire if it distracts the guests.”
“We’ve got backup butterflies,” Off assured him.
Gun gasped again. “Are you telling me there’s a reserve squad of insects?!”
“Gun,” Off said gently, tilting his chin. “Everything about this wedding is backup-planned. I even had the stylists pack three extra hair gels in case you decide to dramatically weep again before photos.”
Gun blinked.
“Wait, really?”
“I know you,” Off said, and leaned in to kiss his forehead. “And I love you. Meltdowns and all.”
Gun didn’t melt this time.
He ignited.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The music swelled, violins first, then harps, then a delicate chime that no one could identify but Gun had insisted was “a celestial tone only audible to people in love.” Petals began to fall from somewhere far above, slow and weightless, glowing faintly in the warm light.
No one knew how.
There were no visible mechanisms, no drones, no flower girls up high. But they drifted down like snowflakes from heaven itself and everyone just accepted it, because of course Gun had found a way.
And then he appeared.
The doors at the end of the marble aisle opened slowly—dramatically, theatrically,—revealing Gun standing alone in full splendor. He wore a custom-fitted ivory suit that shimmered faintly when he moved, sun-gold embroidery curling up the cuffs like flames. A soft tulle overlay in amber, hand-beaded and adorned with gold sequins. The entire thing glimmered like sunset and champagne.
His hair was styled to impossible perfection. His skin looked lit from within.
And his eyes were locked on the other end of the aisle, even though Off wasn’t there yet.
Gun took one slow, precise step forward. Then another.
He moved like royalty. Like drama incarnate. Like a vision that had emerged fully formed from a fever dream and demanded perfection from the world around it. Every movement was curated. Every sigh was deliberate. The music behind him soared, and the petals kept falling.
Halfway down the aisle, Gun stopped.
The guests collectively held their breath.
He turned, slowly, to face the crowd, thousands of eyes on him and said, loudly, hand to his heart,
“This is my moment. Do not interrupt the vibes.”
In the second row, Neo turned to First with a look. First just shook his head once, expression unreadable except for the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
A few rows behind them, JJ whispered, “Ten bucks says he stops again.”
AJ calmly handed him a crisp bill.
At the altar, the officiant blinked, unsure if he was allowed to move. Off, standing offstage and watching the love of his life radiate literal gay sunlight down the aisle, just covered his face with one gloved hand. And smiled.
The second Gun reached the front, he stood poised and still, hands folded, chin slightly lifted, like he’d just won an award and knew it.
Then the music shifted.
The violins dropped out. A softer melody swelled in—a piano, delicate and low.
And Off appeared.
Cool. Composed. Devastating.
He wore a deep gold suit with an amber rose boutonnière pinned just below his collarbone, perfectly matching the tone of Gun’s sash. The suit was tailored within an inch of its life—sleek, sharp, minimal. No need for embellishments. Off carried presence the way Gun carried drama.
He didn’t walk like a groom. He walked like a man who already had the thing everyone else was trying to find. Like he’d known, for years, that this was exactly how the story ended.
Gun saw him, and immediately lost it.
Full body-wracking sob.
No restraint.
First flinched. JJ screamed into a silk napkin. Neo tilted his head like a curious cat. AJ passed another guest a tissue from five rows away. Somehow.
The photographer, who’d been silently weeping since Gun first appeared, got the whole thing in 4K.
Off reached the front and didn’t say anything. He just looked at Gun, tears and all, and smiled. Small. Soft. Like there you are.
They didn’t wait for the officiant to prompt them.
Beneath the golden arch, with the sea glittering behind them and a breeze curling through the petals at their feet, Gun took Off’s hands and breathed in like it might hold him together.
Their vows weren’t read. They were spoken.
Gun’s voice cracked three times. He completely forgot his rehearsed speech. He didn’t care.
“I used to think I had to fight for everything—attention, love, space to be who I am. But with you… I don’t have to fight. You just give it. You see me, and you love me, and I—” his voice broke again—“I will spend every day being so grateful for that.”
Off didn’t cry. He didn’t crack. But when it was his turn, he had to stop after his first sentence.
“You make every day feel like home.”
The wind tugged at his suit jacket. Lavender petals caught in Gun’s hair.
Off pressed their foreheads together as he slid the ring onto Gun’s finger. His hand lingered.
Gun was shaking from trying not to sob again. But he managed a whisper.
“Forever.”
Off nodded, voice low and steady.
“And a day.”
They kissed. The arch above them burst into golden sparkles, not fireworks, not fire, just soft light that shimmered like magic and the butterflies, finally released, swirled up into the open sky.
And somewhere in the crowd, JJ yelled, “OH MY GOD, THEY DID IT, I’M GOING TO PASS OUT—”
AJ shushed him gently with a second tissue.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The reception took place in a sprawling marble courtyard lit with hanging golden lanterns and floating candlelight. By the time the sun had set, the whole venue looked like something out of a dream—amber smoke curling from incense burners, violinists weaving between tables, a soft breeze carrying the scent of neroli and spiced smoke.
And in the very center, like a throne gifted from the dessert gods: the cake.
It was a caramelized orange blossom masterpiece. Seven tiers. Sparkling sugar-frosted petals draped down the sides like cascading wisteria. There were hand-painted edible gold accents, sugar pearls, and a tiny OffGun figurine on top—designed by an artist in Italy who Gun personally Zoom-called for three hours to “explain the vibe.”
It was taller than Neo. JJ took a photo of him standing next to it for scale, captioned it “Neo, but make it moist”, and nearly got kicked out on the spot.
Gun, regal and commanding, had declared in no uncertain terms:
“No one touches this cake. No slicing, no serving, no even breathing on it, until every single guest gets a photo beside it. With flattering lighting. Approved angles only.”
Off, behind him with a flute of champagne, just gave a long-suffering smile and muttered, “Yes, your highness.”
Gun heard. Blew him a kiss. “You married this, babe. Own it.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later, the lights dimmed. A hush fell across the garden. And the music shifted—
A single violin note. Then a piano.
All heads turned to the dance floor as Gun and Off stepped forward hand in hand. Gun had changed into his second look, an ivory silk ensemble with a structured corset top, flared trousers, and a sheer amber tulle cape that shimmered like firelight every time he moved. Off’s gold jacket had been swapped for one in soft cream with gold accents. They looked like they’d walked out of a dream.
They began with a waltz. Classic. Graceful. The kind of thing you see in historical dramas.
But halfway through, Gun threw a wink at Off, snapped his fingers, and the music dropped into a dramatic, uptempo remix of their favorite pop ballad.
The guests gasped.
Suddenly, Gun was twirling. Off dipped him. Then Gun leapt into a spin and pointed a finger toward the crowd cueing the flashlights of half the guests’ phones flicking on like paparazzi.
Then, summoned by divine chaos, JJ skidded onto the floor in a deep burgundy vest, yelling, “IT’S MY TIME!!” before launching into a completely different choreography with wild jazz hands and what looked suspiciously like a moonwalk.
No one knew if it was planned. Not even Off.
JJ swore it was.
Gun, never one to surrender the spotlight, laughed so hard he nearly tripped. Off caught him, dipped him again, and Gun yelled mid-air, “SOMEONE GIFT THIS TO BROADWAY!”
The performance ended in a messy, glorious group spin where Gun kissed Off breathless and JJ accidentally slid into a floral arrangement. The applause was deafening.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later, the toasts began.
Neo stood first—calm, poised, a glass of whiskey in one hand. “When Gun first told me he was marrying Off,” he said, “I assumed he meant emotionally. Not legally. I support both.” Pause. “That said, I have seen them argue over whether to keep a candle or throw it away for two hours. This is true love.”
Gun was already dabbing his eyes before Neo finished.
Then AJ raised his glass. “I was going to write something serious,” he began in his signature quiet voice. “But then Gun threatened to show my high school ID photo during the slideshow. So I’ll just say: you two are disgusting. I hope to someday have something half as beautiful and unbearable.”
Gun laughed so hard he snorted champagne and had to be rescued by Off and a napkin.
And then, just as everyone turned to look at First, expecting something, he stood. Calmly. Walked over.
No speech. No microphone.
He placed a gift-wrapped frame on the table in front of Gun, leaned in, and said only two words:
“For you.”
Gun opened it.
Inside was a candid photo from their university graduation in England—First in his robes, expression somewhere between scowling and constipated, while Gun reached up to yank the cap off his head with both hands. Off was doubled over laughing beside them, halfway to the ground, one hand braced on First’s arm like he might collapse from how hard he was wheezing.
There was a sticky note on the glass that read:
“Your most exhausting child. Congratulations.”
Gun didn’t cry this time.
He clutched it to his chest like it was sacred, then stood, marched over to First, and flung his arms around him in the biggest, silliest hug of the night.
First stood there stiffly for a beat. Then patted Gun’s back once. Twice.
“…Don’t wrinkle your cape,” he murmured.
Gun only hugged tighter.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finally, after hours of photos, dancing, toasts, dramatic entrances, and at least three near wardrobe malfunctions, Gun sat down.
Not with his usual grace. Not like a prince descending to his velvet throne.
He flopped onto a curved velvet loveseat like a man who had singlehandedly planned a royal wedding with sheer personality and seventeen Google Drive folders. He exhaled like it was his first breath of the day.
Off was already there, having been ushered into the seat moments earlier by Neo (“You’ve looked like you want to sit down for thirty minutes. Go.”). He opened his arm immediately, and Gun melted into the space like he belonged there, which, of course, he did.
Off’s arm wrapped around his waist. Gun tucked his head beneath Off’s chin. Their limbs fit together with the quiet ease of a story already written.
The rest of the courtyard glowed with laughter and warmth. The dance floor was mostly empty now, except for AJ carefully balancing dessert plates like a waiter with a second job, and JJ lying flat on his back near the fountain surrounded by empty tart wrappers, muttering something about love being “a legal performance art piece.”
Neo had wandered off somewhere with the leftover champagne bottle and First’s second custard. First was in deep negotiation with a staff member about whether the espresso machine was now “public access.” (It wasn’t. He won anyway.)
Gun let the hum of it all wash over him, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he turned his face into Off’s neck.
“…Can you believe we did it?” he whispered.
Off didn’t speak right away. He just squeezed Gun’s waist and kissed the side of his head, warm and firm and steady.
“I never doubted it.”
Gun gave a tiny snort. “Even with the butterfly situation?”
Off chuckled into his hair. “Especially because of the butterfly situation.”
Gun pulled back just enough to glare at him, but it was weak. Sleepy. Adoring. “I had it handled.”
“You sobbed into the florist’s lap and yelled, ‘Tell them I raised them better than this.’”
“They weren’t fluttering, Off! They were disappointed in themselves!” Gun said, gesturing vaguely to the air. “I had to motivate them emotionally.”
Off grinned and leaned in, brushing their noses together. “You’re unbelievable.”
Gun tilted his chin up, eyes gleaming in the golden light. “I’m your husband.”
Off's gaze softened. “You’re my everything.”
Gun's face broke into that blinding, gummy smile, the one that made Off fall in love a thousand times over and he leaned in to kiss him.
It wasn’t a public kiss. It wasn’t a performance. It was private and sure, a silent we made it pressed into each other’s lips beneath the stars.
And then,
SPLAT.
A mini cupcake hit the ground two inches from their feet.
Gun broke the kiss, turned, and blinked.
JJ was standing six feet away, glass of champagne in one hand, frosting on his cheek, wild-eyed.
“OKAY I’M CRYING AGAIN—SOMEONE SEDATE ME!!” he yelled. “THEY’RE TOO CUTE! I CAN’T DO THIS!! I’VE HAD TWELVE TARTS, I’M EMOTIONALLY UNSTABLE!!”
Gun raised an eyebrow. “Did you just throw a cupcake at my married face?”
“It was near you!!” JJ wailed. “It was a gesture of love!”
Neo reappeared behind him, deadpan. “It was a war crime. You’re being exiled to the gelato table.”
JJ screamed dramatically as Neo dragged him away. “IF I DON’T FIND A HUSBAND IN THE NEXT SIX MONTHS, I’M CRASHING YOUR ANNIVERSARY PARTY!!”
AJ followed them both with a plate stacked six desserts high and the slow, patient pace of a man unfazed by all human behavior.
Gun leaned back into Off, laughing, cheeks pink and heart glowing.
Off kissed his temple again. “Our family’s insane.”
Gun sighed, smiling against his chest. “They’re perfect.”
They stayed like that long after the lanterns burned low, surrounded by the laughter of their team, their chaos, their love. And for the first time all day, Gun didn’t worry about the lighting, or the butterflies, or whether the napkins matched the tablecloths.
He just stayed in Off’s arms.
Exactly where he wanted to be.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The suite was absurd.
A wedding gift from one of their skincare sponsors, complete with oceanview terrace, a sunken tub, and a bottle of champagne already chilling beside the bed. The whole thing looked like the inside of a luxury fantasy novel. Sheer canopy bed. Pillows in piles. Candlelight flickering like stars.
And right now, in the center of it all, stood Gun.
Barefoot. Corseted. Drenched in amber glow and still wearing that gauzy tulle cape like he was accepting an award for Most Dramatic Performance in a Lifetime Role.
The door clicked shut.
Gun didn’t turn.
He just smiled.
"Did you say goodnight to Neo?" he asked sweetly. "Promise him you’d behave?"
Off’s voice, low and full of grit: "Not a chance."
Footsteps padded closer. Gun bit his lip.
Off came up behind him, hands sliding around his waist, thumbs brushing the edge of the corset. "You wore this just to ruin me, didn’t you?"
"Baby," Gun sighed, leaning back into him, "I wore this to remind you who you married."
Off kissed the back of his neck, slow and reverent. "Oh, I know."
Gun turned in his arms, pressed a quick kiss to Off's lips, and then smirked. "Strip."
Off raised a brow. "You first."
Gun laughed, soft, smug, devastating. "You’ll get there eventually. But right now? I want to see you."
Off didn’t argue. He never did when Gun used that tone.
The jacket hit the floor first. Then his shirt, buttons undone slowly under Gun’s watching eyes. Gun reached out and slid his hands up Off’s chest, nails lightly dragging over warm skin.
"God, you’re hot," he muttered.
"So are you."
Gun grinned. "I know."
Off leaned in to kiss him again, but Gun shoved him gently. Instead, he stepped backward toward the bed, hands tugging at the laces of his corset, loosening it just enough to tease. “Now sit back and watch what’s yours.”
Off’s breath caught. His hands dropped to his sides. “Gun—”
“Uh-uh.” Gun shook his head, smiling slow. “Tonight, I’m in charge.”
Off sat onto the bed without argument, wide-eyed and reverent.
Gun climbed into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, cape cascading around them like firelight. “You looked good tonight,” he said, dragging a finger down Off’s chest. “All soft and smug and mine.”
“I am yours,” Off said, already wrecked.
“You’re so mine,” Gun purred, rolling his hips once, slowly, just enough to make Off gasp. “Every inch of you. Every look. Every breath.”
Off’s hands landed on his waist, gripping tight. “Baby—fuck—”
“Lie back.”
Off obeyed instantly, lying flat across the bed, breath shallow.
Gun shifted, hair falling forward, eyes sharp. “No touching unless I say so.”
Off nodded. “Yes, baby.”
“Say it better.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gun’s grin turned lethal. He kissed him then, slow, like honey, like promise. Their mouths fit like they were made to, years of love anchoring every press and slide of lips.
"I love you," Off breathed.
Gun kissed him again, rougher this time. "You better."
Off chuckled, breath hitching as Gun rolled his hips once, deliberately.
"You’re such a brat."
"And you married me."
Gun leaned down to kiss his throat, biting lightly, smirking when Off moaned. "I’m going to ride you until you forget your name."
"It’s yours anyway."
Gun giggled, biting his lip as he reached between them to undo Off’s belt. "Stop saying cute shit. I’m trying to be threatening."
"You can be both."
Gun finally freed him, fingers wrapping around Off with a pleased hum. Off let out a noise that made Gun’s thighs clench.
"Needy already?" Gun teased, stroking him slow.
"You’ve been teasing me all day, baby. That corset. The lip biting. The way you hugged First like you weren’t driving me insane—"
"Jealousy looks good on you."
Off growled and tried to sit up.
Gun pushed him back down, straddling him firmly. "Stay."
He reached over for the lube already waiting on the nightstand. Prepped. Perfect. Like him.
He slicked his fingers without breaking eye contact. He worked himself open with practiced ease, moaning softly, just for show. Just to drive Off insane.
“Look at me,” he said when Off’s eyes fluttered.
“I’m trying,” Off whispered. “You’re too—fuck—you’re too much.”
"Touch yourself," Gun whispered. "But don’t come."
Off obeyed, hand wrapping around his cock, moving in slow rhythm with Gun’s fingers.
"Good boy," Gun praised.
"Yours," Off rasped.
"Say it again."
"I’m yours. Always."
When Gun finally sank down onto him, slow and firm, Off let out a noise—raw, reverent, completely gone.
Gun threw his head back with a gasp, the cape slipping off one shoulder, golden fabric catching the candlelight like flame. “That’s right,” he whispered. “That’s mine.”
Off’s hands twitched.
“Did I say you could touch?”
“No, sir.”
“Then watch.”
Gun started to move. Hips rolling in a deep, devastating grind, pace deliberate. Every bounce sent sparks through his thighs, pleasure curling up his spine. He kept his hands on Off’s chest for balance, nails dragging across skin, leaving faint pink lines.
“You’ve been staring at me in this corset all night,” Gun gasped, riding harder now. “Bet you were thinking about this every time I smiled.”
“I was,” Off admitted, voice wrecked. “I couldn’t stop.”
“You don’t get to come until I say.”
“Anything you want, baby.”
Gun bent forward, lips brushing Off’s ear. “You’re so good when you listen.”
Off let out a helpless whimper.
Gun kept going, his pace unforgiving, grinding deeper, fucking himself on his husband like he had something to prove. He did.
“That’s it,” he moaned. “Let me see it, let me feel how much you want me.”
Off’s hips jerked. Gun slapped his chest lightly. “No. I said wait.”
“Baby—Gun—please—”
“Say it again.”
“You’re mine.”
Gun leaned in closer, pressed a kiss just below his jaw. “No,” he whispered, breath hot. “You’re mine.”
That broke Off. His whole body trembled. Gun rode him through it, refusing to let up, claiming every second of pleasure like it was his right.
"Fuck," he whispered. "You feel so good."
Off's hands slid up his thighs. "Let me touch you. Please."
Gun leaned down, kissed him slow. "You can beg prettier than that."
Off grinned against his mouth. "Please, baby. Let me touch you. Let me make you feel good."
"You are," Gun whispered, hips slowing, circling, riding him deep. "You’re mine, and you’re so fucking good."
Off’s hands grabbed his hips. Gun let him. He liked being held when he took what he wanted.
He moved faster. Harder. Riding like a man on a mission, every shift of his hips designed to drive Off mad. Their mouths met again and again, kissing through groans and gasps.
"I love you," Gun said between kisses. "I love you so much, you ridiculous, stupid, perfect man."
Off was gone. Hands trembling, breath ragged, wrecked.
It didn’t take long after that.
Gun shattered first. Crying out, thighs shaking, head thrown back like he was being worshipped.
Off came seconds later, with a broken gasp of, “Baby—fuck—” and arms wrapping tight around Gun’s back, holding him there, trembling.
Silence followed.
Then, laughter. Gun’s, giddy, breathless, satisfied.
Off tightened his arms around him. "You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."
Gun kissed him. Long and slow.
They stayed like that, tangled together in candlelight and silk.
Eventually, Off shifted just enough to kiss the top of his head. "You’re still wearing your cape."
"Obviously," Gun muttered. "I’m not a barbarian."
Off laughed.
Gun smiled.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room smelled like ocean breeze and skin-warmed linen.
A faint amber hue hung in the air, spilled from the curtains still swaying in the open breeze from the terrace doors. Somewhere in the villa, birds chirped over the low sound of waves brushing the cliffside. The world had started to wake.
But Gun hadn’t.
Not really.
He stirred only faintly, face pressed into Off’s bare chest, limbs tangled around him like seaweed at high tide. His leg was draped over Off’s hip. His hand, ring glinting in the early light, was splayed across his husband’s heart.
Off was already awake.
He had been for a while.
He hadn’t wanted to move. Not with Gun sleeping like that. Not with that peaceful look on his face, the one he didn’t even wear during naps. This was deeper. Softer. A kind of stillness Off had only seen in fragments, and never this long.
So he stayed there.
Tracing slow circles along the curve of Gun’s back with his fingertips. Watching the morning light spill across the bed. Letting himself feel everything he hadn’t said aloud the night before.
Eventually, Gun made a sleepy sound, something between a hum and a whine, and burrowed closer, leg sliding a little higher, lips brushing Off’s collarbone.
“Too bright,” he mumbled.
Off smiled. “Do you want me to close the curtains?”
Gun let out a sleepy sigh, eyes still closed. “No. Wanna see you in the light.”
That made Off’s heart squeeze.
Gun blinked one eye open, then the other, gaze blurry and brown and soft. His voice was raspy when he spoke again, playful despite the sleep clinging to it.
“If you don’t kiss me in the next five seconds, I’m divorcing you and taking the cake.”
Off leaned in immediately and kissed him, slow and deep and familiar. Like breathing. Like gratitude. Like everything that had ever felt like home wrapped in one gesture.
Gun melted into it, fingers curling against Off’s chest.
“Okay,” he whispered when they parted, “you’re safe. For now.”
They stayed quiet for a while after that, lazily shifting against each other. The silk sheets were halfway on the floor. Gun’s hair was a riotous mess. Off had pillow marks on his cheek. Neither cared.
Gun rested his chin on Off’s chest. “You look smug.”
“I feel smug.”
“Husband looks good on you,” Gun murmured, eyes crinkling.
“You looked better in that corset.”
“I looked like a royal. A royal who got absolutely—”
Off kissed him before he could finish. “Careful.”
Gun grinned, pleased. “What, are you going to threaten me with another round?”
“Is that a complaint?”
Gun pretended to think, then nuzzled closer. “Nope.”
They lay there until the sun rose fully—until the birds were louder and the sea grew bolder and someone knocked gently to remind them that breakfast was prepared. Off called out a thank-you without moving. Gun whined like they’d been cursed.
“I can’t walk,” he declared. “My legs are ruined. I’m a withered husk of a man.”
“You were already dramatic,” Off muttered.
“You married this.”
“Willingly.”
Gun looked up at him, smile fading into something gentler. Something quieter. “You really did.”
Off ran a hand through his hair, combing it back. “Every version of you. Always.”
Gun didn’t cry. But he kissed Off like he could have.
And when they finally crawled out of bed, limbs stiff, hair a mess, matching rings glinting in the sunlight, they did it hand in hand, laughing, half-naked, fully in love.
Chapter 27: Chapter 27
Notes:
Hiiii guys, firstly this is so long I don't even know what to say for myself because this is only Part 1 out of 4. Secondly, I wasn't expecting to be able to post anything before I got back home but the signal is better here than I assumed it would be. Thirdly, the views are insane, I wish I could show you what it looks like as I'm sitting here posting this. I wish I could stay here forever and just write away, my brain is being heavily fed.
Lastly, I'm pretty happy with the way this chapter came out so I hope you enjoy it.
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
“Please stop smiling,” First said flatly, not looking up from the tablet in front of him.
Across the table, Off only grinned wider. “Sorry, it’s just, did you know being married is amazing?”
Jarin, seated at the head of the table again, gave a small, restrained chuckle.
First groaned. “You’ve said that three times in the last five minutes.”
“I’m just saying,” Off drawled, kicking back in his chair with the relaxed glow of someone who’d spent the last two weeks drinking cocktails and absolutely not thinking about esports, “I highly recommend falling in love with your best friend and escaping to the Maldives.”
“Disgusting,” First muttered.
“You cried at the wedding,” Off said without missing a beat.
“I had allergies.”
“Neo has video evidence.”
“I will end him.”
Jarin smiled faintly behind his tablet, pausing only to tuck his stylus into the spine. He was used to this—had long since learned when to let them bicker and when to steer them back to focus. Today, though, he gave them a few seconds longer than usual. He remembered First, silent and still at the reception, eyes softer than usual as Gun pulled Off into another spin on the dance floor. He remembered the quiet pride beneath First’s usual scowl.
But now wasn’t the time for sentiment.
“We ready to get started?” Jarin asked mildly.
Off straightened a little in his seat. “Hit us.”
Jarin tapped the tablet and synced it to the small monitor mounted on the wall. The first slide flashed up: RECRUITMENT: POST-OFF ERA: FINAL SHORTLIST, ROUND ONE.
“I sent the file last night,” Jarin said. “You both should have full access—stats, behavior patterns, VODs, comms samples, scrim histories, even past coach notes where available. There are sixteen names here. I’ve done a full vetting for professionalism, adaptability, and existing synergy with at least one Eclipse member.”
First, already halfway through his copy on his own screen, snorted. “This one streams in full cosplay and doesn’t push site when their duelist dies.”
Off leaned over to peek. “Which one?”
“Slide four.”
“Aw, I liked her hair.”
“Tell her to play the objective and I’ll consider the braids.”
Jarin sighed. “Slide four, noted.”
They moved on.
“Slide five?” First clicked open the VOD and watched twenty seconds before scoffing. “Nope. Overpeeks everything. Dies round one. Team has to recover.”
“That was one round—” Off tried.
“Same mistake three times. No.”
Slide six? “Too cocky.”
Seven? “Doesn’t check corners.”
Eight? “Talks too much in comms. Won’t shut up even mid-retake.”
Off raised his brows. “You don’t even talk in comms.”
“Exactly.”
By the time they hit slide ten, Jarin had stopped trying to keep a straight face.
“I’m down to two people,” First muttered. “Maybe.”
Off squinted at his own screen. “You’re really going to pass on this guy? Slide twelve has clean crosshair placement.”
“He hesitates in post-plants and doesn’t rotate unless someone yells at him.”
“…so he’s JJ?”
“I already have JJ.”
Off gave a quiet laugh and sat back. “Okay, fine. What about this one?”
First paused.
Slide fourteen.
He watched the VOD again—brows pinched, eyes narrowing.
“…they’re fine,” he admitted. “Instincts are decent. Doesn’t panic. Listens well in comms.”
“Wow,” Off murmured. “A rare First approval.”
“Don’t push it.”
Jarin tapped a note on his screen. “I’ll schedule trial matches with the ones you flagged as ‘potential.’ And I’ll quietly remove the cosplay streamer before you break something.”
First was already deleting the VOD from his tablet.
Off stretched again, satisfied. “So. Out of sixteen, we’re down to…?”
“Two,” Jarin confirmed.
“And one of them is only ‘fine,’” First added.
Off sighed, but there was no real frustration in it. Just the familiar rhythm of how they worked—sharp eyes, high standards, and no tolerance for fluff.
“Back to the drawing board then,” Jarin said, already composing notes.
“I told you this was going to be hell,” Off murmured to him, mock-apologetic.
“You told me it would be fun,” Jarin replied.
“Same thing.”
First rolled his eyes again, but when he looked up, Off was still smiling, that stupid post-honeymoon smile that hadn’t dimmed and for some reason, First didn’t feel like snapping at him this time.
He just said, “Next time, bring snacks. I’m not surviving another cosplay VOD on an empty stomach.”
Off grinned. “I’ll ask Gun to bake cookies.”
And despite himself, First didn’t argue.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The day was already too full.
First had a match to prep for, a comms sheet to update, and Gun had promised—promised—he would handle the fluff piece interview this time. First had made it explicitly clear he didn’t want to do press today. Not with playoffs looming. Not when every second mattered.
So of course, with perfect cosmic timing, Gun got “double-booked.” Whatever that meant.
First didn’t even get a full sentence from P’Fah, just a clipped, “You’re up. Gun can’t make it.”
And now here he was, walking down a too-bright corridor, mic pack shoved into his hand, every muscle in his neck already tight with irritation. He didn’t even know who the host was. Some influencer kid, probably.
Then he saw him.
And immediately wished he hadn’t.
The boy standing in front of the backdrop looked like he’d stepped out of a dream someone had spray-painted pastel and bedazzled.
First took in the crescent moon hair clip. The cat earring. The sheer pink shirt under the cropped Eclipse jacket with Gun’s name stitched like a love letter across the back. The nails. The ribbons. The smile.
God.
The boy lit up like he was born for this exact kind of stage, soaking in fan attention like it was oxygen. He looked ridiculous. Ridiculously… beautiful.
Which only made it worse.
First schooled his face into something impassive. Let the boy beam. Let him bounce on his heels and fidget with his mic and look like a sentient glitter bomb. First just needed to get through five minutes of questions without losing his mind.
Their eyes met. Khaotung smiled.
First didn’t.
“Uh—hi! I wasn’t expecting… I mean—thank you for being here. I’m really excited to meet you,” the boy said, voice too bright, too breathy.
“Gun’s busy,” First replied flatly. That should be enough explanation. No need for pleasantries. He’d learned the hard way that being polite only encouraged more conversation.
He stood stiffly beside him as the producer gave them their cues. The boy kept trying to make small talk, chirping something about “easy questions” and “not biting.”
First didn’t respond.
They counted down.
And then the red light blinked on.
Khaotung slipped instantly into host mode, voice clear, posture flawless. First didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes just off-center, giving brief, clipped answers: “We’re prepared.” “No.” “I focus on the objective.”
He knew he was being difficult. He didn’t care. The faster this ended, the better.
But then—
“Do you ever miss it?”
Khaotung’s voice had softened.
“The noise, I mean. Fans. Lights. Everything before the match starts?”
It caught him off guard.
For a second, First didn’t answer.
He looked at Khaotung fully for the first time, really looked.
The boy’s lashes were long. His lip gloss shimmered under the studio lights. His eyes were too wide, too soft, like he actually cared what the answer would be.
First blinked.
His throat felt dry.
“I’m still figuring that out,” he said quietly. It wasn’t the kind of thing he usually admitted. But the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
Something shifted then. Khaotung wasn’t performing anymore. Neither of them were. For one strange moment, it felt like standing inside a pocket of silence where nothing hurt, where nothing was required of him.
Just like that, the bubble burst.
Khaotung turned toward the lens with a smile so smooth it nearly irritated First. Nearly.
“Team Eclipse fans,” he said, tone low and saccharine, “something tells me you’re going to want more of P’First this season.”
First’s jaw tightened. Just a little.
Because Khaotung wasn’t looking at the camera anymore.
He was looking at him.
Eyes gleaming. A tilt to his lips like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like every syllable was a dare.
“Stay tuned.”
And then the camera light blinked off.
First exhaled, already stepping back, the strange tension crawling across his spine like static.
Khaotung opened his mouth, probably to say something else, to add some ridiculous quip but First beat him to it. Cold. Efficient.
“That’s enough, right?” he asked the producer.
He didn’t look at Khaotung again. He didn’t ask what that look had been. He didn’t care.
Or at least, that’s what he told himself the entire walk back to the prep room.
And when he passed a monitor playing the clip on mute, he didn’t pause to look.
But if he had…
He might’ve noticed the way he’d looked at Khaotung in that moment.
And it wasn’t for the camera.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The video call connected with a quiet chime.
First was already settled in his chair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder, hair sleep-mussed from the nap he’d barely woken up from. He looked tired—but not just tired. There was a kind of quiet restlessness behind his eyes, like he hadn’t quite come back into his body yet.
“Afternoon,” came the familiar voice through his headphones, warm, grounded, just a little amused. “You look like you lost a fight with your blanket.”
“I did,” First muttered. “It won.”
Her smile was audible. “Should I lower my expectations for today’s session?”
He shrugged. “Up to you.”
She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Let the air settle.
Then First sighed. “Gun ditched a press interview yesterday. Said he double-booked. Left me to deal with it.”
“And you did,” she said gently.
“Didn’t want to.”
“But you did.”
“Didn’t have a choice.”
“Maybe not,” she agreed. “How was it?”
He stared off-screen. “Weird.”
“Weird how?”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “It wasn’t some reporter. It was... this kid. Glittery. Streamer or something. Whole aesthetic was like—pink shirt, dangly earring, moon hair clip. Bright.”
A beat.
“Glittery?” she repeated, smile tugging at the edge of her voice.
“I’m serious,” he said, almost defensively. “He had cat nails.”
She let him sit with that for a moment.
“Was that what threw you off?” she asked finally.
“Yeah. No. Not really. He was just... so much. All light and excitement. He smiled at me before we started. Like, really smiled. Like he was glad I was there.”
“That’s not something you’re used to.”
“No. Especially not before the camera’s even on.”
She hummed, prompting.
First exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t know what to do with it. I ignored him.”
“Of course you did.”
That got the ghost of a smile from him.
She leaned in a little, still soft. “And yet?”
“And yet,” he echoed, quieter now, “I answered one of his real questions. Not the game ones. One he didn’t have to ask.”
“What was it?”
“He asked if I missed it. The lights. The noise.”
She tilted her head. “What did you say?”
“I told him I didn’t know. That I’m still figuring it out.”
“Mm.” She smiled gently. “That’s a vulnerable answer. Especially for you.”
“I know.” He paused. “I didn’t plan to say it. But he looked at me like... like he wanted the real answer.”
She nodded. “And how did that feel?”
He fidgeted with the cord of his headphones. “Uncomfortable.”
“Because?”
“Because I felt... seen. Not in the way fans or sponsors look at me. Not like I’m a product. Just, like a person.”
A longer pause.
“And I think I let him,” he admitted, voice low.
There was no fanfare to her response, just a softening of tone. “That’s big.”
He shifted again. “I don’t want it to be.”
“Because you don’t know what it means yet?”
He nodded.
“That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to know yet. But it mattered.”
Another long beat passed.
And when he didn’t speak again, she offered a soft close to the moment, “We’ll come back to it when you’re ready.”
He gave a slight nod. His shoulders had dropped, just a little.
“Did I lose the blanket fight and emotional ground today?” he asked after a pause.
“Looks like it,” she said, smiling. “But I’ll call that a win.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First didn’t slam the tablet on the table.
He wanted to.
Instead, he set it down with deliberate sharpness, just enough force to make it clear. His jaw was tight, the corner of his mouth barely moving as he muttered, “This list is worse than the last one.”
Across from him, Off didn’t even flinch. He scrolled through his own tablet, one leg crossed over the other, brow raised like he was waiting for First to finish his inevitable tirade.
Jarin, seated at the head of the table, didn’t bother pretending to be surprised. “That’s the second time this week you’ve said that.”
“Because it’s still true,” First snapped. “Look at slide six. Can’t clear a site without backup. Slide eight dies to utility three rounds in a row. And slide eleven,” First shakes his head before continuing, “I watched them peek long with no intel, twice. In ranked, fine. On a team? A disaster.”
“I thought you’d like eleven,” Off said mildly.
“He has a fan edit of himself set to ‘Paint the Town Red.’ I refuse.”
“Now that’s valid,” Off murmured.
Jarin pinched the bridge of his nose but didn’t comment. “So is that a no to everyone on the list, or are you going to surprise me today?”
First crossed his arms. “There’s one maybe. Slide fourteen.”
Off looked over. “The quiet one?”
“Instincts are decent. Doesn’t panic. Listens.”
“But?”
“They still play like they’re waiting to be told what to do.”
“So,” Off said, “we’re back to zero.”
First didn’t answer.
They all knew the answer.
Jarin tapped his stylus against the side of the tablet. “We’ve burned through two live trials in two weeks. The first one screamed at you.”
“I wasn’t even yelling,” First said, exasperated. “I was giving feedback.”
“You called his crosshair ‘a crime against mechanics.’”
“I was right.”
Jarin didn’t argue. “And the second one cried.”
“Neo hugged them.”
Off grimaced. “Yeah. That was a warning sign.”
Jarin let out a low breath, then swiped the current list off the screen entirely. “Well, we’re out of time to keep playing it safe. The article announcing Off’s retirement goes in two days. Once it’s live, people are going to start watching our roster like hawks.”
First stared at the table for a moment, then said, “Maybe we need to stop pulling from the usual places.”
Jarin looked up, curious. “Go on.”
“These guys all look the same on paper,” First muttered. “High rank, tournament history, polished stats. And they all show up thinking they’re the star. They’re not adaptable. They don’t want to learn, they want to perform.”
Off tilted his head. “So you want someone raw. Someone who hasn’t been molded yet.”
“Someone who’ll grow with us,” First said. “Not try to reshape us.”
Jarin nodded, already tapping notes. “We’ve focused on top-end players. Maybe it’s time we expand the filter. Look at lesser-known streamers, unsigned talent, mid-rank players with strong instincts.”
First hesitated. Then added, “We could ask P’Tay.”
That made both men pause.
“P’Tay?” Off repeated.
“He’s been coaching scrims across EU and Asia,” First said, tone even. “Rotating duelist lines, small tournament teams, newer rosters. He knows what I look for, and he’s already scouting people that aren’t on anyone else’s radar. He might have someone.”
Jarin straightened slightly. “That’s actually a great idea.”
He opened a new window on his tablet. “I’ll reach out today. Ask if there’s anyone he thinks would be a good fit. He’s got a sharp eye.”
Off grinned. “Plus, P’Tay’s terrifying enough that if he does recommend someone, they’ll probably be too scared to suck.”
First snorted, the faintest hint of amusement. “Exactly.”
Jarin smiled to himself. “Alright then. I’ll get in touch with Tay, expand the net, and prep a new round of profiles. Hopefully next time, you won’t threaten to delete them.”
“I make no promises,” First said.
Off stretched in his chair, humming. “Here’s to finding someone that doesn’t scream, cry, or meme themselves into the reject pile.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First didn’t plan to open Twitter.
He’d meant to shower. Or sleep. Or at least catch up on VOD analysis while his teammates shouted over takeout in the common room.
Instead, he sat slouched on the edge of his bed, hoodie pulled over his head, thumb lazily swiping through his feed like he was trying to hypnotize himself into rest.
The first few posts were routine—match highlights, scrim leaks, one of Neo’s retweets about mouse grip. He paused for a second on a blurry fan cam from today’s warm-up, just long enough to see the tag #iceprince before scrolling again.
And then, he saw it.
A cupcake.
No.
A cupcake version of him.
Badly frosted, vaguely smudged, and being held up by none other than Khaotung, who was grinning like he’d just invented sugar.
First blinked.
Paused.
Scrolled up.
Found the original tweet.
“Hope you’re watching, P’First. This one’s for you 🖤🎂✨ #Bake4Eclipse”
The attached clip auto-played without sound—Khaotung in a ridiculous pink apron, covered in flour, holding up what looked like a frosting cryptid and calling it “mysterious esports cryptid who lives in the shadows and my frosting.”
First exhaled through his nose. Slowly.
He clicked into the stream highlights thread before he could stop himself.
There was chaos. Unedited, pastel-coated chaos.
Khaotung laughing mid-icing. Dramatically threatening the chat. Telling them he could “bake and steal your boyfriend.” Spinning in that apron like he was modeling for a cake-themed fashion show.
And everywhere. Everywhere, were screenshots of the cursed cupcake.
First didn’t realize he’d been staring until his screen dimmed from inactivity. He tapped it awake again, jaw tense.
Objectively speaking, the guy was annoying.
Loud. Overdramatic. The kind of streamer who did things for attention and knew exactly when to wink at the camera.
But then again—
There was something about the way he laughed at himself. The way he said this one’s for you, even when it was stupid. Even when it was icing. Even when the drawing looked like a haunted Funko Pop.
First rubbed a hand over his face.
He clicked into the quote retweets. Big mistake.
@princessdefender88: “P’First needs to see this rn I’m BEGGING”
@bombplantedbtches: “his face when he watches this is gonna be like 😐”
@catcamnow: “the duality of chaos and ice I love them so bad”
Them.
First blinked hard and hit back. A few posts later, he saw it.
Gun’s tweet.
@Gunthegreat: noted.
Just one word.
But the quote tweet underneath made it obvious what he was reacting to.
@khaotungLIVE:
DO NOT ask me how to get on Team Eclipse unless u are willing to bake ugly cupcakes and cry at midnight 😭💜✨
First stared at it.
Not because it was a joke.
Not because it wasn’t.
But because the tweet had already gone viral. Edited screenshots. Sparkle filters. Fake fan cams. Someone had even photoshopped the cursed cupcake beside a blurry photo of First mid-interview.
He kept scrolling.
More Khaotung.
A new post. A photo of him collapsed on a pillow, apron askew, hair a mess. And somehow even with frosting on his cheek and his cat walking across his back, he still looked…
Beautiful.
In a way that annoyed First. In a way that made him keep scrolling, then stop, then scroll back again.
He locked his phone.
Stared at the ceiling.
Unlocked it again.
Searched Khaotung’s tag, scrolled with half a grimace, watched another thirty-second clip, this one with him biting into a different cupcake and saying “P’First is not allowed to sue me for this, I’m delicate.”
First’s lip twitched.
It wasn’t quite a smile. It was barely anything at all.
But still.
This kid.
Too loud. Too bright. Too glittery.
Too beautiful.
First lay back on the bed and tossed the phone to his chest.
He was not thinking about cupcakes.
He was not watching it again.
(He watched it again.)
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First sat curled into the corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, feet settled across Off’s lap like it was routine. Because it was. Off didn’t seem to mind—he was half-asleep anyway, thumb lazily scrolling through tournament emails, occasionally tapping out a reply without looking.
Gun was talking to no one in particular, chattering about some skincare line he wanted Eclipse to partner with. “I mean, listen, if we’re gonna be doing post-match interviews, I refuse to show up with under-eye bags. We need sponsorship or concealer. Non-negotiable.”
“Mm,” Off hummed, not looking up.
First didn’t answer. He was too deep in the wormhole that was his Twitter feed.
It had started innocent enough, match clips, a few trending tags, fans speculating on roster shifts. Then he saw it.
@KhaotungLIVE
THE EAGLE HAS LANDED. AND THEN IMMEDIATELY FLEW AWAY… sir. you left evidence. i saw it. WE ALL SAW IT. 🧍♂️✨🐾💘
First blinked.
He read it again. Slower. Then clicked the image attached: a screenshot of a fan edit titled “Gun watching Khao: POV he’s secretly in love 💘” with Gun’s actual verified account showing a briefly visible like.
“…What the fuck,” First muttered.
Gun turned his head lazily. “Hmm?”
First angled the screen in his direction, brows raised. “You want to explain this?”
Gun squinted, then grinned instantly. “Oh. That.”
“That,” First said dryly. “Is your main account. Liking a fan edit. Of Khaotung. In love with you.”
“Only for like two seconds,” Gun said, unbothered. “I panicked. I unliked it.”
Off snorted. “You got caught in 4K, huh?”
“Shut up, Papii,” Gun said, flinging a throw pillow across the couch. “It was an accident.”
“Not the first time,” Off added, laughing.
First just stared.
Then, “You’ve been watching him?”
Gun gave him a sheepish shrug. “A few months now.”
“A few months?”
Gun raised his hands. “What? He’s funny! And talented. I saw one of his streams during off-season and couldn’t stop watching. Then he made that cursed cupcake with your face on it, and I figured, might as well stick around for the chaos.”
First stared harder. “You knew about all this. You knew he was spiraling about the ‘noted’ tweet.”
Gun grinned wider. “Of course. It’s hilarious. Have you seen his new Twitch layout? There’s a whole ‘Gunspiracy Board’ overlay now. He made a conspiracy diagram about my emoji usage.”
Off wheezed.
First didn’t laugh. He didn’t know what to do with this information.
He scrolled again past Khaotung’s tweet, past the unhinged replies, past a blurry clip of Khaotung dramatically pointing at the screen mid-stream saying “Gun, if you’re watching—blink twice or send a cat emoji.”
The chat had gone feral. The fan theories were spiraling. One user posted a slowed-down clip titled “Did Gun Smirk at the Mention of Khaotung?” with time stamps and freeze-frames.
“I can’t believe you encouraged this,” First said.
“I didn’t encourage anything!” Gun said, far too cheerful. “I just… noted it.”
Off groaned. “You’re insufferable.”
First shook his head and locked his phone.
But the image had already embedded itself into his mind:
Khaotung in sunglasses, glitter stickers on his face, holding up a notebook like it was national security.
“This is serious,” he’d said.
And First hadn’t even meant to watch the clip. It had just… started playing.
He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but couldn’t shake the feeling in his chest. That same irritating ache. The same mix of curiosity and heat and something he really didn’t want to name.
“You like him,” First said, more accusation than observation.
“I think he’s great. He’s chaos incarnate.” Gun raised an eyebrow suddenly, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Why do you even know what Khaotung’s tweet said?”
First blinked. “He’s shown up on my timeline.”
“WAIT—” Gun sat up so fast he nearly kicked Off in the shin. “WAIT. YOU KNOW KHAOTUNG??? NOT JUST BECAUSE OF THE INTERVIEW??”
Off glanced up. “This just got good.”
“I’ve seen his stream,” First muttered.
Gun gasped, hands flying to his chest like he’d just been hit with divine revelation. “You’ve SEEN his stream? Oh my GOD.. I need to sit down—no, wait, I’m already sitting. I need to lie down.”
“I don’t care about him,” First said quickly.
“Sure,” Gun said. “You don’t care. That’s why you’re reading through the quote tweets like they owe you rent.”
First shoved a pillow into Gun’s face. “Shut up.”
Gun muffled a laugh into it. “Noted.”
First bit the inside of his cheek.
He didn’t like chaos. He didn’t like being talked about. He definitely didn’t like being drawn in frosting.
But somehow, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
About him.
And that was the most annoying part of all.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Slide five has potential,” Off said, scrolling slowly through the footage on his tablet. “Not polished, but their entry timings are solid. Aggressive when it matters.”
First made a noise that was neither agreement nor interest.
Across the table, Tay rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
First didn’t look up. “I’m realistic.”
“And emotionally repressed,” Tay shot back with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Seriously, you’d hate anyone who breathes differently from you in comms.”
“They don’t breathe. They panic. And they overpeek B main every round.”
Jarin, seated beside Tay at the head of the table, was dutifully jotting notes as the screen on the wall cycled through the fifth clip.
“Alright,” Tay said, dragging a finger through his hair, “what about number seven? Great movement. Young, no bad habits yet.”
Off nodded. “I kind of liked them too.”
“They misread a fake on Bind and took their team down with them,” First said flatly.
“That was one round.”
“In playoffs.”
Tay opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked to Jarin for help.
Jarin offered none.
Off just smiled. “Welcome to scouting with First.”
They made it through ten clips before Tay sat back with a sigh. “Okay. Look, I knew you’d be picky. But you’re not just looking for a duelist. You’re looking for a ghost of yourself with better hair.”
“Not hard to beat,” Off muttered, eyeing First’s hoodie-covered head.
“Shut up,” First replied without emotion.
Tay huffed. “Fine. Look, the ones I sent aren’t perfect, but they’ve got room. That’s what you need. Someone who can grow.”
“We agree,” Jarin said. “And if there’s someone better, we’re open to seeing them.”
Tay hesitated.
For a second, something shifted in his expression, less playful, more thoughtful. He tapped the edge of the table, then said, “There is someone.”
Three heads turned toward him.
Tay held up a hand. “I’m not recommending him. Yet. I only started coaching him a week and a half ago. He’s raw, really raw, but I see something.”
Jarin perked up. “Someone local?”
“Sort of,” Tay said vaguely. “He’s been off the circuit radar, focused more on streaming than comp. But the instincts are there. Natural timing. Good mechanical base. Doesn’t crack under pressure. He’s the kind of player that learns fast if you push him the right way.”
Off raised an eyebrow. “Why wasn’t he on the list?”
“Because he’s not ready,” Tay said simply. “And I’m not going to throw someone I believe in into a shark tank before he’s had a chance to build up armor.”
Jarin made a note. “You sound more excited about him than the ten you did recommend.”
Tay smirked. “That’s because I am. But you’re not getting a name. Not yet. Let me work with him a little longer. Then I’ll let you know if he’s worth your time.”
First tilted his head, finally looking up. “Why bother bringing him up at all, then?”
“Because I know how you operate,” Tay said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re already dismissing everyone else. So I’m telling you this now, there might be someone. Someone better. You just have to wait.”
“Wait,” First echoed, deadpan.
“Yeah,” Tay said, grinning. “You remember how to do that, right?”
Off snorted. Jarin looked intrigued.
First, for once, didn’t have a comeback.
He just sat back in his chair, brows low, eyes unreadable.
And somewhere, deep in his gut, something flickered that felt dangerously like curiosity.
Chapter 28
Notes:
I fully intended to have this done sooner but uhhhh it just kept getting longer and longer and I kept switching over between all his chapters writing what came to me before finally finishing this one.
I'm really excited for the next part cause I've started on some firstkhao moments that were not shown in Khao's POV so yeah can't wait to share that one. I'm back home now and my job has gotten a bit busier (I have a habit of writing at work....but my boss is fully supportive and understands the grind so its okay) but anyway I'm not sure on how quickly I'll get it finished and ready to post with everything going on. I keep wanting to add things and that's not even including any of his therapy portions, which I just remembered I need to do still. I'm just having so much fun writing him and really showing his thoughts about what's been going on.
For now I hope you enjoy this chapter, because I had a lot of fun with it!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
First had just shut his laptop when Discord pinged on his phone. The room was quiet, his tea had gone cold, and his fingers lingered on the keyboard, reluctant to face the rest of the day. He’d been reading old patch notes for a comfort game he hadn’t touched in months, the kind of ritual he used to wind down when his brain wouldn’t settle.
[TayTawan_]
you free tomorrow afternoon?
Want you in a test lobby.
He stared at the screen.
Tay didn’t send vague invitations. Not unless it meant something.
His thumb hovered.
[First 🐈]
who is it
The reply came fast.
[TayTawan_]
remember the player I didn’t name?
the one I said needed more time?
you know the cupcake streamer?
First exhaled sharply through his nose. No way. Out of everyone, it was him?
[First 🐈]
…you’re kidding
A beat passed.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly like he could will the answer into something else. Something easier. Preferably someone quieter. He suddenly wished Off would change his mind about coaching. Or that Tay would stop trying to test his patience through glitter.
[TayTawan_]
you wish
he wants Eclipse
i think he’s closer than I thought
[First 🐈]
this has to be a joke
[TayTawan_]
it’s a scrim
watch, play, report back
and be nice
First tilted his head all the way back, staring up at the ceiling like it might crack open and offer him an escape route. It didn’t.
Instead, his brain offered a flash of memory: the wide smile from that interview. That stupid pink shirt. The cat earring. The frosting on his nose. A sigh ripped from his chest—loud, deep, resigned.
[First 🐈]
maybe
he’s annoying.
and worse, loud.
The typing dots appeared immediately.
[TayTawan_]
First. come on
he’s definitely annoying
but he’s interesting
That word again.
Tay didn’t use interesting lightly.
First didn’t reply. Not with words.
But he set a reminder before lowering his phone facedown onto the desk.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He logged in early afternoon. As planned.
[First 🐈]
what time is the scrim with your glitter boy?
[taytawan_]
2 p.m.
you in?
[First 🐈]
maybe.
depends if he’s annoying. 😐
The custom lobby hadn’t loaded yet. Tay was still pulling players.
First glanced over the Discord overlay. No sign of Khaotung yet.
Good.
He wasn’t ready for glitter emojis or breathy jokes or whatever chaos the streamer was known for.
Still… curiosity itched at the back of his mind.
He clicked over to Twitch.
Just to see.
[khaotungg — LIVE]
The title: “welcome back my sparkly demons ✨”
First rolled his eyes and muted the tab. But he didn’t click away.
He watched Khaotung’s camera overlay instead, cat ears on the mic, pink hoodie slipping off one shoulder, chat flying by like confetti. The guy was practically vibrating. He unmuted.
“Sparkle with dignity,” Khaotung was whispering to himself. “Be normal. Be cool.”
First exhaled. He almost smiled.
[First 🐈]
got 45 mins.
send me the invite.
let’s see the glitter boy.
The moment his cursor hovered over the lobby invite, his stomach twisted.
Annoyance, he told himself. He didn’t do well with streamers. Especially not ones who made cupcakes that looked like him.
He joined..
Warmup rounds were nearly done. Tay’s voice came through, crisp and calm as always, assigning roles and testing tempo. Khaotung was mid-rotate, calling timings with that signature lilt of cheer just barely reined in.
“Jett, take Garage first. Hold until I call rotate.”
And Khaotung didn't miss a beat.
“Yes, P’First,” he said brightly, like the words were a spell he’d been rehearsing all week.
First saw the stream chat implode.
@offsnosefanacc: “THAT’S HIM”
@guniversecore: “OMG HE’S ACTUALLY HERE”
@bombplantedbtches: “HIS VOICE HIS VOICE HIS VOICE”
@montowmains: “you better not embarrass us 😭”
@firstwatchmods: “CALL HIM P’FIRST U RAISED RIGHT”
First didn’t react. He never did in comms. But his eyes narrowed slightly.
Bright. Crisp. Too eager.
And yet,
Jett took Garage like he asked.
Timing was clean. Movement was sharper than he expected. Not just sparkly for show. No wasted motion.
And despite himself First started paying attention.
More than that,
He started planning around him.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Early-game – Round Three
First was trying not to be annoyed.
But Khaotung kept pulling his attention.
It wasn’t the aim, though that was clean. It wasn’t the comms, 980though they were shockingly sharp. It was the rhythm.
The way he peeked wide, then tucked. The hesitation in his early rounds, slowly tightening into confidence. The tiny hums he let out after each kill, like his own personal kill confirm.
Tay snapped at him: “Stop humming.”
First said nothing for a second. Then—
“Let him hum.”
Khaotung’s voice cracked through the comms.
“P’First, I need you to understand that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me and I might cry.”
First rubbed his temple.
Definitely annoying.
But… effective.
Round Seven — Mid Split
Khaotung called a rotate. Not flashy. Just deliberate.
“P’First—I’m thinking split-mid. I can smoke Garage, dash Mid doors, flash for entry—if you push from Short, we pinch.”
It was a good call.
Unexpected. Ballsy.
First said, “Go. I’m holding Short.”
And Khaotung went.
Not just fast, fearless. He moved like someone who wanted to prove he belonged, but wasn’t afraid to do it loud.
They cleared the site together. Clean.
“Nice read,” First said, before he could stop himself.
Khaotung’s voice came back small.
“…Thank you, P’First.”
The round ended. They reset. Tay said nothing. First didn’t need him to.
The whole match, he kept expecting the streamer side of Khaotung to break through and do something stupid, flashy, pointless.
But it never came.
Every decision was chaotic, yes. But never careless.
And that was the difference.
Post-match – 13–7 Victory
The scoreboard blinked onto his screen. Khaotung top-fragged..
First blinked at it.
He hadn’t even realized.
A quiet, begrudging pull stirred in his chest—surprise, then something like reluctant respect. He let out a soft breath, fingers pausing on his mouse. Damn it.
The comms lit up with post-game chatter. Praise. Laughter.
Someone asked who called the Mid split.
First said nothing.
He clicked out of the lobby.
Didn’t wait for the recap.
Didn’t explain.
But he left the tab open.
And twenty minutes later, while scrolling through his for-you page, a clip surfaced:
Khaotung laughing, saying “No sparkles—just plays” to the camera, right after the match ended.
First watched it twice.
Then opened Discord.
[TayTawan_]
well?
He typed slowly.
he’s not just glitter.
Pause.
you were right.
Then,
don’t tell him i said that
Tay reacted with a thumbs up.
First leaned back in his chair.
Told himself it meant nothing.
Told himself the weird tightness in his chest was stress.
But in the back of his mind, quiet and persistent, he kept hearing the hum. The rhythm. The voice saying “thank you, P’First.”
And he didn’t hate the way it sounded.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So,” Off said, glancing between them as he leaned back in his chair. “You’re both just gonna sit there and sulk?”
Tay smiled faintly, arms crossed like he’d already won the argument and was just waiting for the trophy. “I’m not sulking.”
First didn’t respond.
He was sitting deeper in his chair than usual, hoodie sleeves stretched over his hands, jaw tight and unreadable. He hadn’t said more than three words since sitting down. Jarin had clocked it immediately, something was ticking behind his eyes. Something thoughtful. Or stubborn.
Or both.
Jarin cleared his throat, tapping the edge of his tablet. “Scrim went better than expected.”
“Better than you expected,” Tay said smoothly.
Off snorted. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think ‘cupcake streamer’ would top-frag.”
First’s eye twitched.
Tay leaned forward slightly. “I told you, he’s raw, but he’s fearless. Reads the map like it’s alive. Doesn’t get flustered when he’s being watched. And you can push him. He doesn’t break.”
“You told me not to emotionally scar him,” First added, finally looking up. “Why?”
“Because I knew you’d try,” Tay shot back. “And I didn’t want you tanking his confidence before I got a real read.”
Off was watching First carefully now. “But you didn’t, right?”
First was silent.
Jarin glanced at his notes. “You called a successful split-mid together. You let him hum.”
First glared at the table. “It was tactical.”
Tay raised both brows. “Letting him hum was tactical?”
“It kept him calm.”
Off tried to hold back a smile and failed.
Jarin stepped in gently. “Look, it was a strong showing. But I know you’re still not sold.”
“I’m not,” First said. “One match doesn’t prove anything.”
Tay leaned back again, giving him space. “Good. Because I’m not recommending him yet.”
That got First’s attention.
Tay continued, steady now. “He’s promising. But I meant what I said before, he needs more time. I’ve only been coaching him a couple weeks. There’s still gaps. Still habits to unlearn. He’s fast, but not fully ready.”
Jarin nodded. “So we keep him on the board, but not in trials yet.”
Tay agreed.
Off tilted his head. “Anyone else from your roster we should look at now?”
Tay pulled out a drive and slid it across the table toward Jarin. “One. Not as flashy. A little more rigid in comms, but smart. Good aim. Respectful. Reminds me a little of AJ, if AJ mained Duelist and didn’t hate people.”
Jarin plugged it in, files loading onto his screen. “What’s the name?”
Tay answered, and the rest of the conversation settled into familiar rhythm, reviewing stats, opening VODs, debating team fit.
First watched quietly, jaw still tight. Not because the new player looked bad. They didn’t. They were fine. Good, even.
But in the back of his mind, that voice still echoed, “Thank you, P’First.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Annoying. Effective. Chaotic. Clean.
Tay noticed the shift in his posture but said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just offered, too casually,
“I can schedule the other player for a trial next week. Give you space before the next Khaotung check-in.”
“I didn’t say there needed to be another check-in,” First muttered.
“You didn’t say there shouldn’t be,” Tay replied.
Jarin hid a smile. “Let’s focus on the trial for now. I’ll coordinate with Thom to make sure the scrim slot’s clear.”
Off stood, stretching. “And I’ll prep Gun for the meltdown if this one cries.”
First rolled his eyes. “If anyone else cries I’m uninstalling the game.”
Tay snorted. “Khaotung didn’t cry.”
“Yet.”
But his voice was softer this time.
And no one missed it.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The monitors buzzed low with anticipation. Scrim room lights dimmed to tournament standard, calm, focused, no distractions.
The trialist sat in AJ’s usual chair, posture straight, mouse grip textbook. His name was Than, a clean duelist with sharp VODs and excellent mechanics. On paper. He looked cool under pressure, careful with team comms, even pulled off a few 1v3s in past match footage.
But ten minutes into warmups, First already knew something was off.
He shifted back slightly in his chair, arms crossed, watching as Than hovered on-site, tentative, second-guessing every peek. His aim wasn’t bad. But the tempo was wrong. Comms came half a second too late. He asked before rotating. Twice.
Behind him, Tay leaned down to murmur, “He’s not usually this slow.”
First didn’t look up. “You sure?”
Jarin spoke low from Tay’s side. “He ran drills clean. Aggressive. Confident.”
“Then where is that guy now?” First muttered eyes narrowing.
Neither answered.
Scrim 1 – Round 4
First called a default. JJ and Gun pushed entry. Than was supposed to hold flank, a basic assignment.
But when the push started, Than lingered behind cover. Too long. Didn’t trade. Didn’t peek. Just… waited.
JJ died.
Neo swore under his breath. Gun was already typing feedback.
“Flank was free,” First said flatly. “Why didn’t you peek?”
Than hesitated. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to swing yet.”
Behind First, Off grimaced quietly.
First said nothing. Just moved to the next round.
Scrim 1 – Round 7
Gun gave Than a backup duel role, paired for double entry with JJ. Offstream, it made sense.
In practice?
JJ sprinted in like usual. Than stutter-stepped.
JJ got clapped.
Than whiffed the trade. Again.
Behind him, Tay shifted his weight and said low, “This isn’t nerves. He’s fading.”
First’s knuckles tapped against his desk. Once. Twice.
Scrim 2 – Round 3
Jarin leaned in slightly from where he stood behind First’s chair. His voice was low, meant only for them. “You okay?”
First didn’t look away from his screen. “He plays like he’s waiting for permission.”
Beside him, Tay rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. “He didn’t used to.”
First’s tone stayed quiet, but sharper now. “And he’s not learning. He’s retreating.”
Scrim 2 – Round 6
Than over-rotated. Didn’t call it. Left site wide open.
Gun got flanked and wiped holding with Neo.
Gun’s comm came through, clipped and tired. “Need cleaner anchor call. Can’t solo A hold blind.”
Than replied nervously, “Right, sorry, I wasn’t sure if—”
First stood up.
The room stilled. Chairs creaked. Keyboards paused mid-press. Every head turned. Even the lights seemed to buzz quieter.
No one moved. No one breathed.
And First didn’t waver.
Behind him, Tay and Jarin both straightened.
“Jarin,” First said without raising his voice.
Jarin looked up from his tablet. “Yes?”
“He’s not the one.”
Than blinked from across the room, startled. “Wait—sorry, I can adjust. I think I just need to—”
“No,” First said, firm but not cruel. “That’s enough.”
Off stepped in, voice calm. “We appreciate you coming in. Really. But it’s not a match.”
Than opened his mouth. Closed it.
Jarin nodded, stepping forward. “We’ll send a formal release and travel stipend. Thank you for your time.”
It was over.
Later, in the kitchen, First leaned against the counter while Off and Jarin debriefed quietly. Tay was uncharacteristically quiet, arms folded, lips pressed into a flat line.
“I thought he’d handle it better,” Tay admitted finally.
“He wasn’t ready,” First said.
Jarin nodded. “Too much structure, not enough instinct. Froze under pressure.”
First didn’t say what he was really thinking.
That this wasn’t just about skill, it was about rhythm. About presence. Than had none. No spark, no bite, no tension.
No hums. No chaos.
No pull.
Tay broke the silence. “I’ll keep looking.”
Off arched a brow at First. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
But he wasn’t.
Because he couldn’t stop thinking about someone else.
Someone annoying. Loud. Eager.
Someone who called a split-mid on round seven and pulled it off.
Someone who hadn’t frozen.
Someone who hadn’t asked for permission.
First didn’t say it out loud.
But Tay didn’t need him to.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The monitor glowed with another round of scouting profiles.
The newest prospect was mid-VOD review, good aim, decent tempo, clunky post-plants. Off was quietly sipping his coffee. Jarin was swiping between clips. Tay sat back in his chair, arms folded, saying nothing.
First hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
The silence stretched too long.
Then, suddenly,
“Stop the clip.”
Everyone looked up.
Jarin clicked pause. “Something wrong?”
First didn’t answer right away. He turned his head toward Tay. Steady. Unblinking.
“Is he ready yet?” he asked.
He didn’t say the name.
He didn’t need to.
Tay held his gaze. Then gave a slow, noncommittal shrug.
But everyone in the room knew what that meant.
As ready as he’s going to be.
First leaned back. Calm. Final.
“Schedule the trial.”
No hesitation. No drama. Just fact.
Jarin blinked. “You’re sure?”
Off glanced at him, then at Tay. “You really want to?”
First’s jaw ticked. “I’m not looking for another Than. I want someone who plays to win.”
A beat of silence.
Then, surprisingly, Off nodded. “Alright.”
Jarin tapped a note on his tablet. “We’ll slot him in after finals.”
Tay smiled but it wasn’t smug. Just quietly satisfied.
“Good,” he said. “He’s been waiting.”
First stood.
Didn’t say anything else.
He just turned and walked out of the room, hoodie sleeves brushing against his palms, the door clicking shut behind him.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting long streaks of gold across First’s desk. Too bright. Too warm. Too distracting.
He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.
Mouse untouched. Phone face-down. Headset resting around his neck like a weight.
The custom scrim schedule blinked on his screen. In two weeks, it would have a new name slotted in. Seven-day trial. Confirmed.
He’d asked for it. Said the words himself.
But saying it was easier than sitting with it.
He scrolled through Discord half-heartedly, ignoring unread DMs, half-skimming clip notifications. Every now and then, a thought floated through his mind like static:
He’s going to be in our comms.
He’s going to call me P’First again.
And this time, it won’t be a one-off.
Eventually, his phone buzzed.
Ping. Discord. Tay.
[TayTawan_]
trial contract is processing
I sent you the trial block calendar
First didn’t type anything for a long moment. Just sat with the pressure building under his ribcage.
It wasn’t doubt. It was something worse.
Expectation.
Finally:
[First 🐈]
we still queuing today?
No reply.
He tabbed into the coaching server. Tay was live in a private session, muted, screen-share active.
First hovered for a second.
Then joined.
[FIRST 🐈 has joined the call]
The scream was immediate.
“WHO SUMMONED HIM,” he cried. “WHY DID THE ICE PRINCE APPEAR—I WAS FLIRTING WITH POWER—”
Khaotung. Loud. Always.
Tay sighed, clearly not surprised. “First, I assume that was accidental?” There was a pause.
First blinked slowly. “You didn’t say you had company.”
“Company?” Khaotung gasped. “I’m the talent, thank you. And also—hi, P’First. Good afternoon. You look tall.”
First’s mic clicked as he adjusted it.
“I thought we were queuing,” he said, more to Tay than to Khaotung.
“I’m doing a session with Khaotung,” Tay replied. “Review and prep.”
He stared at the screen. Cartoon cat hoodie. Bright mousepad. A cat peeking out from a corner of the frame.
Too much.
He said, “Didn’t realize he was that loud outside of streams.”
“I contain multitudes,” Khaotung shot back, grinning. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to say hi. Just know that I’m thriving in your accidental presence.”
“First, feel free to stay. But please ignore the chaos.”
“I’m chaos with aim, thank you,” Khaotung said proudly.
First didn’t respond.
Or, he almost didn’t.
But then the image flickered across his mind again. Bind, post-plant, Khaotung moving with instinct and trust. The rhythm of it. Like he’d been listening.
And the words came out before he meant them to:
“…He did clutch that post-plant.”
Khaotung went still. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, no—say it again. Say it slowly. Say it with a hug.”
“Still loud,” First muttered.
Tay sighed. “Both of you. Back to focus.”
“Right. Retake drills. No flirting with team captains. Copy.”
“I’m not—” First started. But his voice stuck.
He muted himself.
It was easier than figuring out what to say next.
Easier than admitting that maybe he was listening too closely.
That maybe… two weeks wasn’t going to be nearly enough time to figure out what the hell to do about Khaotung.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The scrim room was dark except for the glow of his monitor and the desk lamp he’d dragged over weeks ago. It wasn’t officially his desk, but no one argued anymore. Not about the line of pens he never put back, the water bottles from late nights, the files stacked by subject then alphabetically, or the old chargers coiled in the corner with their labels worn off.
One of his notebooks lay open. Half the pages were already filled with tight handwriting, underlines, arrows crossing until it looked more like a battlefield than notes.
Too many. He knew that. Didn’t stop him.
He flipped back a page. JJ. Tempo volatile. Needs anchor. GlitterShot can match early aggression but must learn to trade instead of chase. Clean. Simple. Easy to dissect.
Next page, Neo. Comfortable following pace. Adjusts naturally. Minor desync on retakes. Manageable.
But last night he’d started noticing something strange. Something he hadn’t expected.
He clicked through another VOD, fast-forwarding until he found the moment again. Khaotung breaking through mid, sharp as a knife—instant burst of movement, too fast, too reckless. First switched windows, pulled up Gun’s old footage. Same map. Same angle. Gun was there, half a beat behind, holding space with that deliberate patience only he could get away with.
The spacing. The timing. Almost identical.
First leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening until it ached.
It wasn’t just the role. That was the problem. Khaotung wasn’t adjusting for a controller. He was adjusting for Gun. Every shift in tempo, every micro-rotation. The same decision points, the same pauses that didn’t belong to instinct alone.
Like he’d been watching Gun for years.
Like it came out of him without even realizing it anymore.
First knew within minutes of watching him just how far his loyalty went. He could’ve guessed it even before, back at that first meeting. The bedazzled “Gun” stitched onto the back of his jacket still flashing across his mind.
The pen tapped against his notebook, sharp and steady, marking time with his pulse. He let the VOD run again. Same round, same moves. He hadn’t been able to make it past this point yet.
It worried him.
That kind of idolization always carried a risk. There were only ever two ways it went: either the player cracked under the pressure, too overwhelmed to function, or they clung to the fantasy of proximity, chasing recognition until it soured into disappointment.
He’d seen it before. Too many times.
Not one of them had lasted long enough to matter. Not as teammates. Not as friends.
Not that he went looking for new ones. He could barely handle the ones he already had. And it was enough—Gun and Off, Neo and JJ, AJ when he felt like surfacing from the background. The others all had their old ties, their family friends, school connections they met up with when the schedule allowed. But newcomers? Strangers? No one outside the circle had stuck. Not past a few months.
Schedules too weird. Priorities too skewed. And sooner or later, every outsider wanted the same thing: their own little slice of fame.
He narrowed his eyes at the screen.
And what about Khaotung? Streamer. Showboat. Surely that was what this was too.
But if that were the case, wouldn’t he be seeing the signs by now? The attention-seeking. The spotlight hunger. Instead… all that chaos, all that over-the-top energy—it wasn’t aimed at himself. It was always in support. For the team. For entertainment.
In that weird, fannish way that sometimes slipped through, even in professionals.
First dragged the pen down the margin of his notes, a single black line. He didn’t want to admit it, but he saw the difference.
Khaotung put in the work.
Not that he’d ever say it out loud.
First exhaled, quiet, sharp, and shut the notebook before he could add anything else.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First’s desk was buried under pages of tempo charts, half-legible shorthand, notebooks stacked like he was preparing for trial instead of scrims. He barely looked up when the knock came.
“Come in.”
The door opened, clicked shut, and Off strolled in like he owned the place. He did that sometimes, acted like everyone’s older brother, even when he was about to drop bad news.
“I have to head to Korea,” he said.
First’s pen froze. “…What.”
“Family business. Sudden opportunity. Dad can’t cover it. I’ll be gone at least five days after finals. Maybe two weeks.”
The pen dug straight through the paper. First set it down with careful precision, staring at the ruined page. “And you’re telling me this now.”
Off smirked. “Would you prefer I reschedule international contracts around your sulky face?”
First shot him a glare. “That means I’ll have to deal with him alone.”
“There it is,” Off said, moving across the room to sit on the bed. “The truth.”
“For how long?” First asked, voice flat.
“I just told you.” Off leaned back on his hands, studying him. “You’ll survive.”
First exhaled, the sound sharp. Calm, controlled, and annoyingly moody. He didn’t raise his voice, but the irritation came off him in waves.
Off’s grin softened into something wickedly fond. “Aw. Look at you.” He pitched his voice up in a coo. “My grumpy little housecat doesn’t want to be left alone.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“But it fits,” Off teased, leaning forward. “All pouty. You’re going to sulk the whole week, aren’t you?”
First’s scowl only deepened, which made Off laugh outright.
Before First could stop him, Off reached over and ruffled his hair, deliberately mussing it. “Aww, don’t be like that.”
“Stop.” First jerked away, pushing his hand off.
Off only chuckled, poking his cheek next. “So serious. You’ll wrinkle early if you keep this up.”
First swatted at his hand, muttering under his breath, but Off just leaned in, pulling him into a brief side hug before he could wriggle free.
“Off,” First warned, voice muffled against his shoulder.
“Shh. You’ll live,” Off said, grinning. He let him go but kept one arm slung loosely around him for another beat, just to annoy him. “I’ve seen your notebook, you know.”
First stiffened. “…What.”
“Relax. I didn’t tell anyone.” Off’s smile softened, warmer now. “But it’s obvious how seriously you’re taking this. You’re ready. You’re more prepared than you want to admit.”
First looked away, jaw tight, heat crawling up his neck.
“You’ve got Neo too,” Off added. “If chaos gets too much, he’ll keep things even. You don’t have to carry it alone.”
First crossed his arms, sulking harder. “You’re still leaving me with a headache.”
Off laughed, low and fond, and reached over to ruffle his hair again, ignoring the glare he got in return. “Mm. You’ll manage. You always do.” His voice dropped softer, enough to cut through the irritation. “I trust you, First.”
That landed heavier than all the notes spread across the desk.
First muttered, “…Just get back fast.”
Off grinned, tugging lightly at his cheek this time, the way an older brother might. “See? You will miss me.”
First shoved his hand away, but Off just laughed, eyes warm.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The monitors glowed across the darkened scrim room, two screens tuned into the same VOD. Their finals opponent had run the same post-plant twice on Fracture, and Neo was pausing the playback again, voice low and calm.
“If we’re on B hold,” he said, “Gun you anchor. Don’t rotate off even if JJ yells.”
“Rude,” JJ muttered, sipping from his energy drink.
Gun leaned against the back of AJ’s chair, lip gloss smudged from where he’d half-wiped it off. “I only rotate when necessary and dramatic.”
AJ sighed.
First stood near the wall, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, watching the screen. He wasn’t taking notes—he didn’t need to. Everything they’d reviewed tonight was already playing frame-by-frame in his head.
“Pause,” Off said from the doorway.
Everyone turned.
Even Neo looked up.
Off stepped in with a cup of tea in hand, the expression on his face giving nothing away. “Before we wrap for the night, there’s something we need to talk about.”
First didn’t move.
Off looked at him. “You want to do it?”
First exhaled, then turned toward the team.
“We have a trial coming up,” he said. “Starts mid-week. Seven days. He’ll be joining us at headquarters.”
JJ gasped. “Is it the Jett from that Thai clip montage?! The one with the blue keyboard—?”
“No,” First said.
“Oh,” Gun whispered. “Is it the cupcake boy?”
JJ screamed.
First’s eye twitched. “Don’t call him that.”
Neo frowned. “We weren’t supposed to be pulling anyone until after finals.”
“We weren’t,” Off said smoothly. “Then First told us to schedule him.”
Dead silence.
JJ dropped his pen. “You scheduled him?”
“You told them to?” Gun squeaked, voice breaking. “Without being asked?”
First leveled a flat look at Off. “Really?”
“What?” Off smiled innocently. “Just providing context.”
Neo raised a brow. “So you’ve known about this for how long? And you didn’t tell us?”
“We’ve been prepping for the tournament,” First said. “It wasn’t relevant.”
JJ was already spiraling. “No, but like, cupcake boy?! He’s gonna be in our comms?!”
“He has a name,” AJ said.
“Which we’re not going to say,” First snapped. “In this room or any other.”
Gun folded into Neo’s side dramatically. “He’s gonna call you P’First again, I know it.”
Neo smirked. “At least he top-fragged last time.”
“That was a scrim,” First muttered.
Off took another sip of tea, pleased. “You could’ve said no.”
“I might still,” First said, then added under his breath, “if anyone keeps calling him cupcake boy.”
JJ whispered, “Cupcake man?”
“Stop talking.”
AJ, quiet as ever, said, “If he’s getting a trial, I’m assuming he earned it.”
That shut them up, for about half a second.
Gun perked back up. “Wait. Is he coming here?!”
“No,” Jarin said, walking by the door at the exact wrong time. “He’s meeting us at headquarters. You’ll all be polite.”
JJ groaned. “Ugh. I have to pick a hoodie that doesn’t smell like I live in it.”
“You do live in it,” Neo said.
Gun gasped. “We have to be normal.”
“We are never normal,” Off muttered.
First ran a hand down his face.
“I’m going to bed,” he said. “If anyone mentions this conversation ever again, I’m benching you.”
Gun raised a hand. “What if I mention it but in, like, a supportive tone?”
“Benched.”
He walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence lingered for a moment.
Then JJ whispered, “So… cupcake boy confirmed?”
And Neo, traitorous and calm, just nodded.
—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was silent, that bone-deep kind of quiet that only came after a tournament. Finals were behind them, victory in their pocket. Everyone else had collapsed into sleep hours ago.
First couldn’t.
The scrim room was lit only by his monitor and the narrow cone of his desk lamp. His notebook lay open, spine already strained from the pages he’d filled the last few nights.
This one was different. Blank except for a single name pressed hard at the top: Khaotung.
He clicked through the folder Tay had sent him. Screen recordings, all neatly labeled. Some from weeks ago, some from the past few days. First started at the earliest.
The difference was obvious.
The first clips were all impulse, dashing headlong into angles, flashy kills, movement fast enough to impress an audience but sloppy at the edges. The kind of thing that burned bright and fizzled out under pressure.
First wrote it down.
Raw talent. Reckless. Flair-driven.
But then he opened the next file, more recent.
This time, Khaotung darted forward, but paused just long enough to read the map, to check spacing, to adjust off the other duelist before committing. Still fast. Still sharp. But contained.
First scribbled again.
Impulse controlled. Decisions anchored. Still maintains natural rhythm.
He leaned back, jaw tight, then clicked into another recording. Post-plant scenario. Khaotung didn’t swing wide like before. He waited, crosshair steady, timing his move off the rotation First himself would have called.
The pen scratched harder.
Tempo reshaped. Instincts now align with mine. Patience learned. Still keeps his own flair.
He flicked between tabs, old VOD to new, watching the adjustments in real time. Recklessness stripped down into precision. Chaos tuned into pressure and release.
And there it was, the signature of it. Tay’s training.
The same patience First had been drilled on. The same map reads. The same tempo.
First pressed his lips thin, irritation buzzing low in his chest. Of course Tay would do this. Shape Khaotung to mirror him. Fit him to his rhythm. It worked but it felt uncomfortably close, like watching someone else put on his skin.
The pen moved again.
Obvious coaching influence. Now mirrors my playstyle and tempo. Chemistry potential: high.
He stopped, staring at the words.
The instinct to underline it surged before he could stop himself. Twice.
First shoved the notebook aside, leaned back in his chair, arms crossing tight. It was just analysis. Just preparation. Nothing more.
But when he finally shut the monitor off and climbed into bed, the images replayed behind his eyelids. The way Khaotung’s chaos had sharpened into something controlled. The rhythm that echoed his own. The trust in those split-second pauses before the push.
And through all of it, one word kept flashing back at him like an accusation.
Chemistry.
Chapter 29: Chapter 29
Notes:
Hiiiii I'm finally back. This took way longer than I wanted, things have been super busy for me and I got hit with some writers block. But anyway here it is, I'm not super proud of this chapter but it is what it is. I also added a couple of FirstKhao moments that were NOT in Khao's chapters.
During my writers block I made some mood boards to hopefully inspire me and it worked. Wish I could share those with you guys, thought about dropping my twitter (X) handle but idk.
Also to everyone commenting, thank you so much I love you all, every single one of you make me smile endlessly.
As always I hope you enjoy
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
First’s badge clicked him through the side door, the one most of the players used, and he took the stairs instead of the elevator. Habit. Quieter. By the time he reached the second floor, the lobby stretched out below, glass doors bright against the morning sun.
That’s when he saw him.
Khaotung.
Standing just outside, early, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to make an entrance. He checked his reflection in the glass—fluffy hair clipped with glittering stars, shimmer gloss catching the light, jeans lined with pearls and a little charm swinging like punctuation at his hip.
Even from here, the performance was obvious. Hands sweeping, chin tilted, every motion intentional.
First lingered at the railing, hoodie looped over one hand, watching through the glass. Too long. Too still. He should’ve kept moving, gone straight to the scrim room, but his eyes tracked the way Khaotung adjusted his stance, tapped his collarbones like he knew what he was doing.
Then Tay appeared at the edge of the frame.
Khaotung twirled, actually twirled and lifted his arms in greeting, bright, dramatic. First couldn’t hear the words, but Tay’s expression was enough: unimpressed, long-suffering, the same look he’d seen for years. Khaotung laughed anyway, head tipped back, star charm glinting as the doors swung open.
They disappeared inside together.
First exhaled slowly, pulling his gaze back from the glass. His hand clenched tighter on the hoodie before he forced it to loosen. Then he turned down the hall, steady steps echoing soft against the floor.
First had no reason to check the main conference room.
He wasn’t expected to attend the onboarding meeting, Lita had confirmed that the staff would handle it.
And yet.
He lingered in the hallway longer than he meant to, pretending to scroll on his phone while half-listening through the wall.
Laughter. Familiar voices. Tay’s calm cadence, Neo’s easy teasing, JJ already yelling about something. Khaotung’s voice threaded through all of it, unmistakable.
Glittering. Bright. Too bright.
First frowned and turned away.
The scrim room was already occupied when he arrived.
Neo was on the left setup. AJ was across from him. JJ had spilled half a bag of gummy bears onto the desk, no surprise there.
First didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The second the door clicked shut behind him, the mood fractured.
Gun burst in ahead of him, a walking rave. Sequins, glitter, neon—too much of everything. He bellowed something theatrical. JJ heckled him immediately. Gun fired back with twice the volume.
First tuned them out. His eyes had already locked on someone else.
Khaotung.
Still playing, still mid-round, headset slipping slightly down his temple. And yet, First saw the shift. The fractional tilt of his head, the way his spine straightened, the minute pause in his crosshair placement.
He felt him.
Good.
First didn’t move to a seat. Instead, he crossed the room silently, stopping just behind Khaotung’s chair. Close enough to see every flicker of his screen. Close enough to catch the moment his timing stuttered.
Leaning down, he murmured, “Nice entry.” A beat, then lower, sharper: “But your peek angle was greedy.”
Khaotung missed his next shot.
“Thank you for the emotional damage, P’First,” he muttered, the words tight, not playful.
First’s lips twitched—almost. He smothered it. His gaze stayed on the monitor, on the quick recalibration: the way Khaotung held instead of swung, how he shifted half a step back, recalculated his position.
Small changes. Precise ones.
“Focus on the flank,” First said, tone clipped. “They’re rotating early.”
Khaotung obeyed instantly. Two clean kills. Round salvaged.
First let silence stretch, then said flatly, “Nice correction.”
His chest tightened, annoyingly. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—that Khaotung had adapted that quickly… or that watching him do it lit a spark of reluctant pride beneath his ribs.
He told himself he’d leave after that. No reason to linger.
And yet, his hands slipped into his pockets, his weight shifted against the back of Khaotung’s chair, and he stayed. One round. Then another.
Khaotung never turned around. Never looked at him.
But First could feel it, the awareness threading between them like static.
He knew he was there.
And he played sharper for it.
Gun eventually flopped into a beanbag near Lita and said, not quietly:
“Oh, he likes you. He only critiques people he respects.”
First didn’t respond. Not to that. He walked off before anyone else noticed the way his ears were turning red.
Later, in the post-match chaos, Gun and Khaotung went full disaster mode.
JJ was egging them on. Tay looked exhausted. Neo was filming half of it like he was documenting a live zoo enclosure.
First stayed quiet.
He didn’t say a word when Gun called Khaotung “sparkle trumpet.” Didn’t comment when JJ accused them of hijacking the team TikTok before they’d even shared a bench. He didn’t even react when Tay leaned over and murmured, “They’re going to get matching nails.”
First just stood with his arms crossed.
Gun and Khaotung were at it again.
JJ had declared it “the best day of his life,” Neo was filming, and First was seriously considering muting the entire room.
Khaotung, in particular, was glowing like a stage light on full beam—bouncing between Tay, Gun, and JJ with the chaotic grace of someone who had absolutely no idea how loud he was.
Then he raised a hand, all wide eyes and mischief.
“Coach, do we have a social media clause in my trial contract?”
Tay sighed. “I’ll draft one tonight.”
Gun, of course, added without missing a beat, “please include emergency glitter provisions.”
First didn’t even look up from where he was scrolling through practice VODs. His voice came out flat, practiced, controlled:
“Just don’t miss your duels.”
There was a beat.
Then a tiny gasp, sharp and startled, like a deer hearing the crack of a branch.
“P’First!” Khaotung squeaked.
First glanced at him, briefly.
That ridiculous expression. Half horror, half flustered delight. Like First had just complimented his haircut instead of told him to focus.
Gun leaned in, conspiratorial as ever.
“He watched most of the match from behind your chair. Like a hawk. Or a hot librarian.”
“GUN—”
“Don’t worry,” Gun said, smirking. “He only critiques people he thinks are worth it.”
Tay reached out, gave First a small, familiar pat on the arm.
“Your face said nothing, but your presence screamed judgment.”
First didn’t flinch. He just met Khaotung’s eyes—finally—and said, quiet but clear:
“You corrected fast.”
There it was again. That look. The way Khaotung lit up like he’d just been handed a signed jersey and a hug. Like one line from First meant something.
It didn’t. It shouldn’t.
First looked away before anyone could catch the faint twitch of his mouth.
He wasn’t smiling.
Not really.
Just… acknowledging effort. That was all.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First wasn’t eavesdropping.
He just happened to walk into the kitchen for his usual morning coffee and overheard Neo’s voice from the hall.
“…get you settled before the chaos wakes up.”
Another voice followed, unmistakably bright. “You didn’t warn me enough. There’s like… mood lighting. And orchids.”
First froze mid-step.
Neo’s voice again. “Let’s get you unpacked. I’ll grab the rest of your stuff.”
And then laughter. Soft, sparkling. Way too awake for this early.
First blinked once. Then again.
They moved him in?
No one had mentioned it to him. Not Gun. Not Off. Not even Thom, which was ridiculous considering Thom told him every time they restocked oat milk. But here they were. Khaotung. In the dorm. With bags. And glitter.
He poured his coffee in silence, grip tight on the mug.
It didn’t bother him. Obviously.
He just didn’t like surprises. Or noise. Or the way Neo, who barely tolerated JJ’s loudest moods sounded… fond.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First found them in the strategy room, hunched over two monitors and a mess of digital whiteboards. Thom was typing something that looked far too complicated for this early in the day, and Off was lazily swirling a mug of coffee like it might summon divine clarity.
“Hey,” First said, deadpan, arms crossed.
Thom looked up. “Oh—hey. What’s up?”
Off squinted over the rim of his mug. “You look like someone just stepped on your cat.”
“No one told me Khaotung was moving into the dorm.”
Both of them froze.
Thom blinked. “Wait. I thought Off told you.”
Off pointed at Thom with his mug. “I thought you told him.”
First stared. Slowly. Blinking once, with the exact expression of a man counting backwards from ten to avoid committing a crime.
“So… neither of you told me,” he said flatly. “Meaning I could’ve slept in instead of dragging myself out of bed to go to headquarters like an idiot.”
Thom winced. “Technically, yes?”
Off perked up. “But look on the bright side.”
First raised a brow, unamused. “There’s no bright side.”
“No, listen,” Off said cheerfully, setting down his mug. “We put him in the room closest to every other room you use. The kitchen, the scrim room, the game lounge, even the laundry drop-off. So you’ll get to bond even faster.”
First’s eye twitched.
“Great,” he muttered. “Exactly what I wanted. Forced proximity with the human embodiment of a glitter bomb.”
Off grinned, completely unapologetic.
First flipped him off without breaking stride and walked out.
Off called after him, “You’re welcome!”
From the hallway, a muffled, “I hope you trip on your fucking flip-flops.”
Thom sipped his coffee slowly, glancing at Off. “You really didn’t tell him?”
Off shrugged. “I thought you did.”
Thom sighed. “We’re so bad at HR.”
Off just smiled. “But so good at chaos.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dinner was loud.
They were reviewing the VODs on the big monitor, takeout in hand, Gun slung over the beanbag like royalty, JJ yelling every time someone said "sparkled."
First barely touched his food.
He was too focused on the clips. Watching the rhythm between JJ and Khaotung. The sharp callouts, the synergy that wasn’t supposed to exist yet. It annoyed him. Not because it was bad. But because it was good.
Too good.
Tay pointed out spacing issues. Neo offered brief comments. And then Gun, who’s annoyingly insightful when he wants to be, pointed at the screen and said, “Let him have it. It was clean.”
First rewound a clip.
Dash timing was tight. Clean entry. Flash followed perfectly. Khaotung had actually listened.
He spoke before he meant to.
“Decent. Better than I expected.”
Khaotung blinked like he’d just been knighted.
JJ fake-fainted. Gun smirked.
First said nothing else.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First had just stepped out of the shower, skin still flushed pink from the near-scalding water, towel slung low on his hips and steam curling around his shoulders. He ran a hand through his damp hair, the strands sticking up in unruly angles. Everything in him ached, his shoulders tight from days of scrims, jaw sore from holding back half-formed thoughts. The heat had helped. A little.
He opened his bathroom door expecting silence and familiarity.
Instead, he stopped dead in the doorway.
Something was off. Not alarmingly so, just enough to prick at the edge of his awareness like a wrong note in a song he knew too well.
The lights were low. His desk was exactly as he’d left it, gaming chair rotated slightly from last night’s match. His hoodie still hung from the closet knob. The faint scent of lavender cleaner lingered in the air, mingling with his linen laundry and the crisp scent of rain on concrete from the open window.
And yet.
His gaze shifted to the bed.
There, nestled in the middle of his neatly flattened pillow, was a small lump of living fluff. Grey and cream fur, faint tabby stripes, and two round, curious eyes blinking at him like he was the intruder.
First stared. He didn’t move.
The cat—plush, compact, with an aura of utterly unbothered royalty—yawned slowly, teeth tiny and pink against her pale muzzle. Then she flopped onto her side like she owned the place, tail twitching once.
For a second, First wondered if the steam had gone to his head.
“…What.”
He blinked again. Still there. Not a hallucination.
He stepped in slowly, towel held tighter now around his waist, like the cat might judge him for indecency. “Where did you come from?” he whispered. Not quite to the cat. Not quite to himself. Just out into the still air.
The cat tilted it’s head. Then, with deliberate slowness, she stood and stretched, long body arching, claws flexing against the cotton pillowcase. Her collar jingled, a soft metallic sound. A tiny tag clinked once before falling still.
Then, as if this was routine, as if he hadn’t just appeared out of thin air in a stranger’s bedroom, the cat padded forward. Sniffed once at First’s outstretched fingers. And nudged his hand, gentle but firm, like a command.
First froze.
Then, cautiously, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped, but the cat didn’t flinch. Instead, he rubbed along First’s arm once, anointing him with fur and faint static, then settled into his lap like he’d done this a hundred times.
First let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“…Right,” he murmured, voice softening. “Of course you belong here.”
He reached out, tentative fingers brushing along the silky curve of the cat’s back. The little creature purred, the sound low and steady, vibrating through the quiet room like a lullaby.
First glanced around again, but he already knew.
Only one person in this dorm would smuggle a cat into the building on his first day like it was perfectly acceptable behavior. Only one person would think the living room wasn’t cozy enough, and that obviously his room was the natural choice.
He sighed again, but this time it came with a flicker of amusement. He shook his head, lips twitching.
“Khaotung.”
The cat blinked at him like he approved of the name.
First leaned back slightly on his hands, letting the weight of the day melt just a little under the steady warmth of the purring fluff in his lap. He scratched gently behind one ear, and the cat leaned into it like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact touch.
“Guess I don’t get a choice, huh?”
Vaanjoy’s only answer was to curl tighter and fall asleep.
And First—barefoot, towel-clad, hair still dripping, with a strange cat asleep on his lap—realized, against all logic, that his room felt less quiet now.
Not in a bad way.
In a different way.
In a way that might grow on him.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He didn’t have to wonder why he was there.
The scrim was scheduled. The time was set. There was no reason to question it.
And yet, as he stepped into the training room that night, something about it still felt…off-script.
Not in a bad way. Just different.
The lights were low, monitors humming in soft chorus, and the air was laced with the faint scent of Khaotung’s lavender hand cream—he must’ve already warmed up.
There he was.
Headphones askew, one knee tucked into his chest as he adjusted settings with sharp, efficient clicks. Focused. Mouth slightly parted in concentration.
First let the door shut behind him with a quiet click.
Maybe he was here because it was scheduled.
Maybe he was here because he was team lead now.
Or maybe—
Maybe he just wanted to see if Khaotung could do it again.
Whatever it was.
He stepped forward.
First didn’t mean to notice how the lighting curved along Khaotung’s cheek. Didn’t mean to look at his lips—glossed, of course, shimmering like they were announcing a challenge.
“You ready?” First asked.
““As I’ll ever be. Let’s sparkle responsibly,” Khaotung chirped.
First didn’t reply.
They loaded into mirrored drills. Raze versus Jett.
The first rounds were messy. Khaotung was overeager, movement loud. First picked him apart twice.
“Slow your dash,” he said, annoyed. “Your movement’s loud. Predictable.”
“Your face is predictable,” Khaotung muttered—and immediately winced. “Sorry. That was reflex.”
First blinked. “…It’s fine. Just… quieter next time.”
The next rounds were better. Slowly, the timing began to align. Khaotung learned fast but now First felt it in-game. The way their entries overlapped without stepping. The way he adapted mid-round, mirrored movement, trusted First’s cover.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was close.
Round nine, First caught sight of him on the second monitor. Hoodie bunched under his chin. Talking to himself. Adjusting crosshairs like he was fine-tuning a secret weapon.
First stared too long.
Got clipped.
“Gotcha!”
“…You baited me.”
“You were distracted.”
First said nothing.
Then, finally:
“…Your hoodie’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously cute, thank you.”
First should have said something back. Should’ve focused. But his mind was still stuck on the peek. The timing. The way it felt right.
They kept going.
More rounds. Cleaner sync. By the time it ended, Khaotung looked flushed. Happy.
“That was… fun,” he said, laughing.
“You’re not bad,” First replied.
“Is that your version of ‘good game’?”
“I said what I said.”
“Do you always sound like you’re about to ghost someone in a novel?”
He huffed a laugh before he could stop himself.
Khaotung beamed like it was a prize.
“See? I’m growing on you.”
First stood.
“Nine a.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
“You didn’t say no.”
He left without answering.
Because he wasn’t smiling.
Not really.
And his heart wasn’t doing anything strange.
Not at all.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First woke before his alarm, which was already early. Muscle memory, probably. Or maybe just the nagging awareness that his morning routine wouldn’t be as quiet anymore.
He threw on a tank top and sweats, lightly towel-dried his hair, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. The sky outside was still tinted blue-grey. Peaceful. He liked mornings like this—dim light, no voices, no questions.
The egg sizzled in the pan, yolk intact, steam curling around his wrist.
Then the door creaked.
And chaos entered.
Or rather, Khaotung, dressed like the embodiment of a cozy aesthetic video, floating into the kitchen on socked feet and an ungodly amount of seafoam-colored fabric.
First didn’t fully turn, just a glance, but he registered everything in the space of a breath: the way Khaotung’s cardigan sleeves fell past his fingers, the shimmer of gloss on his mouth, the morning light catching on gold hoops and dewy skin.
Too early to be that luminous.
Too close.
A squeak came from the entryway. Khaotung, predictably startled. Predictably loud.
“I—yes—hi—good morning—sorry—didn’t know anyone would be—shirtless? I mean—not shirtless, tank-toppy. Tanked? You’re tanked. Not that I’m judging. Or staring. Or judging the staring. This is fine.””
First arched a brow, flipping the egg. “You’re flailing.”
“I am not flailing. I am simply… appreciating the aesthetic. Quietly. Like a respectful citizen.”
“You’re narrating.”
Khaotung peeked through his fingers. “Do you want me to stop?”
First didn’t look at him, but there was a ghost of something in his tone. “Didn’t say that.”
Khaotung drifted to the other counter, fingers grazing past the bowls and then brushed his arm.
Just the briefest contact. Skin to skin.
First flinched before he could stop himself. Barely a jerk, more like a breath sucked between ribs, but his body reacted on instinct. His mind scrambled to catch up.
He hated that. Hated that he still did that. Even now.
“Sorry,” Khaotung said quickly, already backing up, eyes wide. “Your muscles are… present.”
First gave him space. Tilted just slightly away.
It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t even discomfort. Just reflex. A habit burned in deep, hard to silence.
Except, his heart wouldn’t slow down.
Khaotung, for his part, wasn’t pushing. He moved around him gently now. Made eggs. Talked less.
Still sparkled, though.
Like light trying to sneak under a closed door.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
They were the first in the viewing room. A pro match was already queued, Lotus defense side.
First sank into the couch automatically, taking the far cushion like he always did. When Khaotung followed and sat beside him. Close, but not quite touching. He didn’t move.
That surprised him too.
Normally he’d shift, reestablish space. But he didn’t. He just watched the screen and tried to ignore the faint scent of lavender and something sweet.
Khaotung smelled like… calm, if calm wore lip gloss.
The commentary started, but First barely registered it. His eyes flicked occasionally to the side. Wide-legged linen pants. Seafoam top. A blanket bunched around his waist.
Ridiculous. Beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful.
Stop it.
He said nothing.
But then the door opened, and Neo’s voice shattered the illusion.
“Didn’t know we were doing designated seating today.”
“Alphabetical,” AJ added. “First, then Flirt.”
Khaotung gasped. “Excuse you—”
First didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Even when Neo added, “Our duelist duo is alphabetically compatible.”
Even when AJ said, “I’ve never seen P’First voluntarily share his cushion space.”
Even when Khaotung called himself a “stylish support pillow.”
First just turned down the volume.
First didn’t deny any of it.
Didn’t snap or push back.
He could feel it, the attention. The unspoken question in everyone’s amused glances. The way his heartbeat felt too loud, too fast, like it was broadcasting something he didn’t have the words for yet.
He hated being read. Hated how easily they noticed even the smallest deviation from his normal routine.
But he didn’t move away.
Didn’t correct them.
Didn’t ask Khaotung to shift.
Which he knew said more than anything he could say.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call connects with a soft chime.
First is already seated, hoodie loose over his shoulders, damp hair pushed back from a recent shower. His posture is relaxed, but there’s something guarded in his face. Like he’s sorting through thoughts he hasn’t decided whether to share.
In his lap, curled like a comma, is a small cat. One paw twitches slightly as she sleeps.
His psychiatrist greets him gently. “Hi, First.”
He nods once. “Hey.”
A moment of silence follows, comfortable and expectant.
Then, softly:
“He’s here now.”
She tilts her head. “Who is?”
He shifts slightly, adjusting the sleeve cuff on one arm without jostling the cat.
“The one from the interview. The host.”
A pause.
“Khaotung.”
Recognition flickers in her expression. “He’s part of the team now?”
“He’s on trial,” First says. “Joined the dorm two days ago.”
She nods. “That must’ve been a change.”
First adds quietly. “I didn’t know he’d be living with us. No one told me.”
A pause.
“I found out in the kitchen. Heard his voice before I saw him.”
She waits.
“It just… caught me off guard.”
“And how has it been, having him there?”
Another pause. Then a small exhale.
“…Different.”
She doesn’t speak. Just lets the space open.
“He talks a lot. Always has something to say. He hums in the kitchen. He said good morning and then complimented my tank top in the same breath like that’s a normal greeting.”
Her eyes warm. “Did that bother you?”
“No,” he admits. Then quieter: “It startled me.”
“But not in a bad way?”
“…No.”
His fingers still, then drift briefly to stroke the curve of fur in his lap. The cat flicks an ear but doesn’t stir.
“He brushed my arm later. Just in passing. I flinched.”
A beat.
“But only a little. He noticed, and he didn’t say anything. Just gave me space.”
“How did that make you feel?”
He considers. “Like he already understood.”
Her gaze holds steady. “You’ve let very few people that close.”
“I know.”
“And yet?”
“He feels…”
He stops. Starts again.
“It feels safe. Which is annoying. Because he’s loud and impulsive and wears gloss with glitter in it.”
She smiles faintly. “Safety can come from unexpected places.”
First doesn’t reply, but the silence feels more thoughtful than tense.
“I told him he corrected fast during scrims,” he says. “Said it in front of the others. I didn’t mean to. It just came out.”
“And how did he react?”
“Like I gave him a prize.”
A pause. “Like it mattered.”
“Did it?”
He nods. “More than I expected.”
There’s a beat of quiet before his voice shifts—more hesitant, but not unsure.
“…I found something in my room.”
Her eyebrows lift, curious.
“A cat.”
Her surprise is gentle. “A real one?”
He glances down, then shifts the camera just slightly, angling it toward the small bundle curled in his lap.
“She’s called Vaanjoy. Twitch-famous, apparently.”
The psychiatrist smiles, eyes crinkling. “She looks comfortable.”
“She is,” he says. Then, almost like he’s still surprised by it:
“She climbed onto my pillow the first night. Just made herself at home. Next thing I knew, she was asleep on my legs.”
“And you let her stay?”
“I didn’t… want to move him.”
His voice drops—not out of shame, but because the feeling still lingers.
“It felt peaceful.”
A beat.
“Like she trusted me.”
The silence that follows is soft. Not heavy. Just full.
“I didn’t do anything special,” he adds. “I just sat there. Let her sleep. But I didn’t feel… restless. Not like I usually do.”
He strokes behind her ear gently, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.
“She purrs in his sleep.”
Her voice is kind. “She must like being near you.”
“She chose my lap again,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even hesitate.”
She smiles. “Sounds like she’s made up her mind.”
First huffs, not quite a laugh, but the closest he’s come all session. “She did.”
He doesn’t overthink the quiet that follows.
He just lets it stay.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First realized too late that he was out of black hoodies.
Not just the good ones. All of them.
He stared into his closet, disbelieving. One hanger held a shape he hadn’t touched in years, hot pink, cursed with a crown-wearing cartoon cat and sparkly embroidery that still haunted him. A relic from Gun. A warning from a time when he didn’t yet know better.
He grabbed his laundry basket and left the room without a word.
He made his way through the house, footsteps quiet across the tile. Past the living room, past the kitchen, through the dining space. The hallway leading to the laundry room glowed with soft afternoon light, cut through by the thrum of machines.
The door was cracked open.
First nudged it wider and froze.
The room smelled like lemongrass and detergent. Two washers were running. Clothes hung on a line along the far wall. The folding table was overflowing with perfectly stacked piles—shirts, socks, matching sets grouped with obsessive care.
Khaotung was standing in the middle of it all, humming to himself, sleeves rolled to the elbow and a glittery clip holding his hair back.
He looked up and grinned. “Oh. P’First.”
First didn’t respond.
Khaotung continued, like he wasn’t flustered in the slightest. “Did I steal your spot?”
First stepped inside slowly. “You did… all the laundry?”
“Almost.” Khao gestured at the empty washer. “Except yours. Gun told me if I touched your hoodies, you’d call an emergency team meeting.”
Smart.
First set his basket down and crossed his arms. “Why are you doing everyone else’s?”
Khaotung’s grin dimmed just slightly. He turned back to folding, slower now.
“I needed something calm,” he said after a moment. “Something with steps. Clean in, clean out. It helps.”
His fingers moved over the fabric. “When I feel… too much.”
First didn’t answer. Just stood there, arms still folded, unreadable.
Khaotung didn’t fill the silence. He finished folding one of Neo’s hoodies and moved on to a tangle of socks, still calm, still quietly focused.
Finally, First dragged his basket toward the empty washer and opened the lid.
Khaotung peeked over, eyes warm. “Is this the sacred hoodie load?”
First didn’t dignify that with a response.
“I promise I won’t even breathe near them,” Khao teased gently. “Though I would like to file a formal complaint. Not a single thing in your wardrobe sparkles.”
First shut the lid. Deadpan: “Tragic.”
Khaotung bit back a smile. “Some might even say you’re depriving the dorm of joy.”
“Then do more laundry.”
“Oh, I will.” Khao leaned his hip against the counter. “But only if you keep showing up in a tank top while you sort it.”
First gave him a look.
Khao held up both hands, mock-innocent. “I’m just saying. You’d make folding socks look dangerously sexy.”
First didn’t blush. Didn’t smile.
But he did quietly move to add detergent.
And Khaotung, watching him out of the corner of his eye, smiled like he’d won something anyway.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The rooftop pool was quiet.
Not silent. There was the low hum of the filter, the occasional flap of a bird's wings overhead, the steady pulse of city life nearby, but quiet enough to feel like a break. First had claimed one of the loungers beneath a half-shaded umbrella, long legs stretched out. A small towel rested beneath his head like a makeshift pillow, and his usual black hoodie was draped over the armrest, forgotten in the heat.
In one hand: a copy of Understanding Feline Behavior – Expanded Edition. A reread. Familiar, steady. He liked the way it explained things without emotion, how purring could signal safety or stress, how cats made choices with their whole bodies, how sometimes choosing to stay near someone meant more than any trick or command.
His phone buzzed beside him. Discord.
[TurtleBoss]:
meetings all day. wearing the navy. dinner with the Seoul team later.
if I have to look at one more presentation slide I’m throwing someone out a window.
First replied:
please pick someone small. less paperwork.
Off’s response was immediate:
so you volunteer?
He set the phone down and exhaled. Let the heat sink into his skin. Let the world narrow to the rhythm of his own breathing.
It was supposed to be his only free hour all week.
So of course that’s when it happened.
The door to the rooftop creaked open.
Footsteps padded softly over tile. A shadow fell across his legs.
“Hi,” came the too-sweet voice of his current nemesis.
First cracked one eye open.
Khaotung stood there with a smug little smile, two drinks in hand. He was dressed in soft, butter-yellow linen shorts and a cropped white tank that tied at the sides, breezy and effortless and glowing like he hadn’t just climbed a long flight of stairs. His hair was fluffy and slightly damp, like he’d towel-dried it and let the breeze do the rest. And he was smiling like he’d just stumbled into heaven and found First reclining like a misunderstood Greek god.
“I brought peace offerings,” Khaotung said, holding up a tall plastic cup. Condensation clung to the outside.
“…What is it?” First asked, not moving.
“Thai iced lime tea,” Khao chirped. “Gun told me it’s your favorite. He also told me where to find you, which means you can’t get mad at me, get mad at him instead.”
First stared at him. Then at the drink. Then back at him.
He sighed.
Khaotung grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He set the drink down beside First’s phone and promptly kicked off his sandals, settling on the lounge chair beside him with absolutely no invitation.
First watched all of it like he was witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion.
Khaotung tucked his legs beneath him, careful not to spill his own drink, and peeked at the book in First’s hand.
“You were reading about cats?” he asked, eyes wide with delight. “That’s so on-brand I could cry.”
“Don’t.”
“Too late,” Khao said, fanning invisible tears. “My heart’s already fluttering.”
First closed the book. “This was supposed to be quiet time.”
“I can be quiet,” Khaotung said, shifting to sit cross-legged. “But I brought a cold drink and my prettiest smile, so I thought I’d cash them in for five minutes.”
First gave him a long look. “It’s been one minute.”
“Okay, so I’ll be fast,” Khaotung grinned. “Tell me your top three cat breeds, no overthinking.”
First blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly. I’ll judge you based on your answers.”
“You’re already judging me.”
Khaotung leaned closer, head tilted, voice soft and full of trouble. “Only a little. You’re kind of cute when you’re annoyed.”
First stared at him. Deadpan.
But his ears turned just the faintest shade pink.
“…Scottish Fold,” he muttered. “Then Siamese. And black cats. No breed. Just black.”
Khaotung gasped. “You like black cats best? Why am I not surprised.”
“Because you think I’m predictable.”
“No,” Khaotung said, gentler this time. “Because they’re misunderstood. But when they trust you, it feels like magic.”
First’s jaw ticked. He looked away.
Khaotung didn’t push. Just leaned back again, soaking up the sun like he belonged there.
After a long pause, First mumbled, “You can stay five more minutes.”
Khaotung beamed. “Best day ever.”
“Don’t talk.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room was quiet in that particular way only early meetings could be, thick with sleep and the unspoken weight of judgment.
First sat two seats down from Gun, posture straight but relaxed, hands folded in front of him on the table. He didn’t need the notes Thom had printed. He remembered every play, every call, every mistake—and every moment Khaotung had surprised him.
He didn’t plan to speak unless he had to.
“Let’s begin,” Thom said. “We want your honest impressions. Team dynamics, scrim performance, synergy. Don’t hold back.”
Gun didn’t hesitate. Of course.
“I think we should keep him. He sparkled his way into the team and my heart.”
First didn’t react, but internally… he sighed.
Typical Gun.
Then Gun shifted—voice still bright, but laced now with sincerity.
“Scrims are snappier. He actually listens. That mid-pinch call on Haven with First? He adapted to our pace without losing his own. That’s rare.”
That made First’s fingers twitch against his leg. Not because it was exaggerated.
Because it wasn’t.
He gave a single nod, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it.
And apparently, Gun was.
JJ jumped in next, effusive as ever, but his points were sharp beneath the theatrics. Reaction time. Versatility. Calm under pressure. AJ added the bit about feedback, and Neo spoke plainly, as always.
“Gun and JJ are already bonded to him. First hasn’t murdered him, which is saying something.”
“I’m sitting right here,” First said, deadpan.
That got a soft ripple of laughter from around the table. Neo just smiled.
But even then, he didn’t deny it.
Because it was true.
Khaotung had been relentless. In training, in scrims, in energy. He flirted with everything that moved, sparkled through breakfast like it was a livestream, and somehow still dropped thirty kills in a trial block on three hours of sleep. He was a mess.
He was a menace.
But he didn’t make excuses. He took criticism like it was candy. Every time Tay pushed him, he leveled up the next match. Every time First shifted tempo, Khaotung adjusted, not just to survive, but to hold his own. To win.
That was what stuck with First most. Not the charm. Not the cat hoodie.
The want.
The effort.
He was used to players with good aim and bad discipline. He wasn’t used to someone who could laugh through nerves and still keep his head under pressure. Khaotung talked too much, touched too easily, got under his skin without even trying.
But he never crossed the lines that mattered.
First hadn’t had to say it out loud, but his body always said it for him—flinches, recoils, the quiet language of someone not built for contact. And somehow, impossibly, Khaotung had already started to read him. Adjusted without fanfare. Noticed. Respected it.
That was harder to admit than any statline.
Gun’s final summary landed hard in the silence:
“You’d be making a mistake if you didn’t lock him in.”
And then Tay—calm, unshakable Tay—offered the line that sealed it:
“Stronger than anyone I’ve coached this early.”
First exhaled slowly. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease.
Not because he disagreed.
But because he agreed too much.
They were all falling for Khaotung in their own ways. Gun with admiration, JJ with friendship, Neo with quiet trust. Even AJ, who didn’t like anyone right away, had started sharing snacks. Khaotung made it easy. He wanted to be part of something, and it showed.
And that was the part that made First wary.
Because want like that was fragile.
Because belonging came with weight.
Because someone who sparkled that hard could burn out just as fast if they weren’t careful.
As the meeting ended, First stood without a word and left the room with the others. He didn’t look back. He already knew what the final decision would be.
And as much as he hated mess.
He was already bracing for the chaos Khaotung would bring
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First didn’t know why he agreed to this.
Lita had cornered him at breakfast with a calm pitch about “team relatability” and “low-pressure bonding.” Then Tay had muttered something about optics and cohesion. Gun just grinned and promised him there would be snacks.
So now he was here, perched on the edge of a couch, dressed down in a plain black hoodie and joggers, feeling very much like an unwilling extra in someone else’s sitcom.
He was already regretting it.
Then Khaotung walked in.
A cherry patterned crop top. White linen pants. Bare ankles and gold hoops and a fucking cardigan that swished like a daydream.
First felt his body freeze for half a second. He didn’t mean to stare, but his eyes flicked over the whole look anyway—fluffy hair, flushed cheeks, bright grin. A little too bright. Like he knew what he looked like and was aiming to kill.
First exhaled slowly through his nose. Looked away.
It meant nothing. It was just... a good outfit. A distracting outfit. That didn’t mean anything.
Khaotung spotted him and lit up like a stage light, calling out something dramatic as he twirled into the room. Gun laughed. Neo groaned. JJ shouted. It was chaos.
But First stayed still.
He didn’t know when it started, that quiet awareness he now had around Khaotung. The way his presence crackled, filled every space like a warm, obnoxious wind. He was loud and dazzling and exhausting, and First had no defense against him when he looked like that.
They started filming.
First stayed mostly quiet, answering questions when prompted, keeping his gaze down. But he felt Khaotung beside him—close enough to notice every rustle of fabric, every burst of laughter. Close enough that once or twice, when they shifted too quickly, First’s arm brushed against his. And even though he pulled back without thinking, his pulse betrayed him every time.
When the question came—“Who’s improved the most in scrims?”—he didn’t hesitate.
He glanced at Khaotung and said, simply, “Khaotung.”
The room stilled. Khaotung blinked at him like he’d misheard. First resisted the urge to look away.
“You came in with energy,” he said, voice quieter now. “You stayed adaptable. That’s not easy.”
He hadn’t planned to say that. He hadn’t planned to say anything, really.
But it was true.
And for one ridiculous second, when Khaotung buried his face into Gun’s shoulder with a muffled “I’m going to cry,” something in First’s chest tugged hard. Like someone had hooked a thread behind his ribs and yanked.
He looked down. Stayed quiet the rest of the shoot.
Afterward, in his room, he sat alone in the dark with his phone. The clip was already spreading. Fans were screaming. Gun had quote-tweeted a joke. Tay had rolled his eyes on the way out.
First scrolled past it all. Watched the still of Khaotung twirling into frame again. The grin. The sway of fabric.
He should delete Twitter and go to sleep.
Instead, at 6:01 a.m., he tapped into the compose box and typed:
“it was the cherries.”
Posted it before he could overthink. Then turned off his phone.
Let them interpret it however they wanted. Let the chaos happen.
But when the tweet reached Khaotung, when he saw the boy spiral in pastel pajama shorts and a hoodie that said “I’m baby and I frag”, First had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling.
He didn’t say much. He never did.
But sometimes, a few words were enough.
Especially when it was Khaotung.
Chapter 30: Chapter 30
Notes:
This is the last First POV chapter, we are fully caught up and updates should get back to normal since they won’t be so freaking long.
I have a chapter that’s pretty ahead of where we are now that I’ve been working on and AHHHH OMG. I CANT WAIT to share it with you guys 👀
Anyway i hope you guys enjoy this one hehehe
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand 2025-
The studio lights weren’t too bright, but they still made First’s eyes ache.
He’d been up since six, ran two practice rounds solo before most of the team had even stirred, and had been cornered by Lita twice already about brand angles and camera placement. None of that bothered him. He could play a match on no sleep and still out-frag the room. What did bother him, more than he wanted to admit, was the sound of approaching footsteps and the scent of lavender with a hint of sugar that always seemed to arrive just before Khaotung did.
He didn’t look up right away.
Gun said nearby, voice dry with amusement, “You look like an idol lost on an esports stage.”
First finally glanced over.
Khaotung was radiant. Cropped Eclipse jersey hugging his waist just enough to be unfair, silver chain glinting under the studio lights, hair fluffed to glossy, shimmering perfection. The eyeliner was subtle, but devastating. The pants made his legs look endless. The confidence was an illusion. First could see the nerves in the way he fiddled with his phone, but he wore it well.
First looked away just as quickly.
Focus. Stay still. Don’t stare.
“You survived First. You can survive TikTok thirst comments,” Gun added, clearly enjoying himself.
First suppressed a sigh and turned his attention back to the floor markers.
Lita’s voice cut through the buzz of setup. “Alright, team segment first. Everyone in place.”
They moved to the couches arranged for the team shoot, clean, casual, carefully messy in that production-polished way. First took his seat on the far end, hands in his jacket pockets, face set in his usual neutral.
Khaotung sat between Gun and Neo, practically bouncing with nervous energy masked as charisma. First didn’t watch him, but he noticed the way his hands fluttered with every joke, how his eyes kept scanning the room, always checking. Always trying.
He’s trying too hard, First thought, and then, softer: but he’s pulling it off.
Lita raised the cue card. “Let’s keep it natural. Banter is good. Gun, try not to hijack every answer.”
Gun immediately hijacked the intro.
“Welcome to the Eclipse family!” he beamed, yanking Khaotung into frame like he belonged there. “This is N’Khaotung, he sparkles, he screams, and sometimes he top-frags.”
Khaotung grinned, playing along with every tease. He was chaos incarnate—voice bright, words fast, answers unfiltered—and yet somehow, never off balance.
First didn’t say much.
“He also hums when he clutches,” Neo deadpanned.
“P’First says it’s rhythm,” JJ added. “I think it’s witchcraft.”
The camera lingered on him then, expecting something. His teammates always did.
First hesitated only a breath. “He keeps up,” he said flatly.
The words were simple, but his chest tightened the second they left his mouth. Because it was true.
And Khaotung, of course, didn’t take it quietly.
He beamed, leaning closer to the camera. “Translation: ‘I’m his favorite now.’”
First’s jaw ticked. Reckless. Infuriating. Too close to something he couldn’t laugh off.
JJ leaned in too, grinning wide. “He’s delusional, but fun.”
First said nothing more. He didn’t trust the way his thoughts were spiraling, how quickly chaos became focus, how easily annoyance blurred into something warmer.
The segment ended in a flurry of confetti, JJ tossing sparkles, Gun pretending to cry, Neo deadpan as always. Khaotung laughed like he’d never been nervous at all.
Then came the solo shoot.
First stayed near the edge of the set, watching without meaning to. Khaotung straightened under the lights, squared his shoulders, and looked into the camera like it was a person he already cared about.
“They said I was too sparkly. I said, ‘Perfect. I’ll blind the competition.’”
First exhaled, quiet, invisible to the room.
He hated this part. How easily this boy got under his skin. How something as stupid as a crop top and a wink could make his thoughts wander.
The camera cut. Applause. Lita called it perfect. Gun said something about eyeliner and revenge.
And First, still sitting quietly on the side, still tired, still unreadable, told himself it didn’t matter.
That none of it did.
But his gaze stayed on Khaotung anyway, long after the cameras stopped rolling.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By the time they got to the lakeside restaurant, First was exhausted.
Not from the filming, he could handle cameras. Not from the post-production wrap-up or the ride over in Tay’s car. It was the thinking that was getting to him. The constant awareness. The way his brain wouldn’t shut up about—
There he was again.
Khaotung stepped into the light like it was part of his costume. The late sun caught in his hair, now slicked back to reveal his full face, glowing skin, soft eyeliner, that ridiculous mouth always curled into a smile that made people let their guard down.
First gritted his teeth.
The sleeveless cream top framed his collarbones in a way that felt deliberate. Or maybe it was just Khaotung. Deliberate by nature. Designed to distract. The way the pants moved, like they were tailored from water, like they followed no rules but his, should’ve been illegal. Or at least regulated.
He didn’t say anything. He sat at the edge of the table, quiet, hands in his lap, pretending to focus on the food.
He was doing fine until Khaotung laughed. Head thrown back, eyes gleaming, his shirt shifting perfectly to reveal more of his bare shoulders, the golden light behind him catching the edges of his profile like a romantic film shot.
First stabbed a piece of chicken with more force than necessary.
Gun leaned over with a grin too knowing. “You okay over there?”
“I’m eating,” First said tightly.
“You’re staring.”
“I was eating.”
Gun smirked and didn’t push, but he knew. Everyone knew. AJ and Neo were whispering. JJ had snorted juice out of his nose twice already. Tay hadn’t said anything yet, but his sidelong glances said enough.
And still, still, First couldn’t look away.
Khaotung was too much. Not in volume, but in presence. He glowed. And not just from the light or the shimmer of his outfit. From the ease with which he navigated this chaos, the way he lit up when someone paid him attention, how he softened when no one was watching. How every single part of him felt real.
And First hated how much he noticed that.
Because now Khaotung was walking toward him, carrying that goddamn water glass like a prince in a fairytale. Of course he was.
He sat down beside him. Close, but not touching. His perfume was lavender and something sweeter, subtle but inescapable. Like sugar steeped in sun.
“Hey,” Khaotung said softly.
First hummed. A non-answer. His usual fallback.
“Your tweet,” Khaotung murmured. “You posted it before anyone else woke up.”
First didn’t blink. “Timing’s a PR thing, right?”
“You’re not in PR.”
No. He wasn’t. And he’d known exactly what he was doing when he posted it.
“I meant it,” First admitted.
Khaotung looked at him, really looked at him and didn’t fill the silence with teasing. First felt something unfamiliar twist low in his chest.
Their knees brushed. He tensed, but didn’t move.
“You’re bad at compliments, P’First,” Khaotung whispered, almost fond.
“And you’re loud about everything.”
“And yet,” Khaotung said, grinning faintly, “here we are.”
Here we are.
First glanced back toward the lake. The water shimmered, soft gold giving way to dusky pink, and he hated that the light made Khaotung’s skin look even more radiant. Hated that his brain kept saying the word radiant like he was a fucking poet.
“You…” he began, then stopped.
Khaotung turned to him, curious.
“You did well,” First said finally. “In the video.”
Khaotung’s eyes lit up again. “That sounded physically painful for you to say.”
He wasn’t wrong.
First still couldn’t look at him for long. His pulse was too loud. His thoughts too crowded. Khaotung was so close and so present, like sunlight you couldn’t escape even with your eyes closed.
The scent of him lingered and it tugged at memories First didn’t even have yet. Something about comfort. Something about trust.
God, he’s beautiful.
And the worst part? First couldn’t even pretend he didn’t know it anymore.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The air had cooled just slightly, enough that the breeze off the water tugged at his sleeves. He didn’t move.
Not when Khaotung drifted toward him, not when he perched at his side again like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not even when their shoulders brushed, barely, just once, and stayed there. First kept still. Breathing measured. Eyes on the lake.
The sun was almost gone now. The water was stained with peach and lilac, rippling softly under the light. Behind them, the others were loud. Gun was probably narrating the dumpling contest like a drama host, but it felt far away. Faded.
Khaotung’s presence never faded.
He was still glowing. Not literally, but close. His voice was quiet, but his energy was impossible to ignore. First could feel the curve of his body even where they didn’t touch. Could hear every breath. Could smell the faint lavender again and it made his stomach twist.
“I’m not exactly subtle, you know,” Khaotung said, voice soft but clear.
First blinked. His eyes finally left the lake.
“…What?”
“About the flirting.” Khaotung gave a small, self-conscious smile, but his voice didn’t waver. “I’ve been laying it on pretty thick.”
First’s chest went tight. Because yes—yes, he’d noticed. Of course he had. The sparkle puns. The soft looks. The teasing. That damned cherry crop top. But he’d told himself it was just Khaotung being Khaotung. Loud. Flamboyant. Dramatic. Friendly.
Except he hadn’t stopped.
“You haven’t exactly stopped me,” Khaotung added, even gentler now.
First went still again.
The worst part wasn’t that Khaotung was right. It was that the realization didn’t bring panic. It brought… stillness. Awareness. A sense of inevitability.
“You’re…” First hesitated. Swallowed. “You’re hard to ignore.”
The words slipped out before he could decide if he meant to say them. Khaotung turned toward him, but First didn’t look back.
“That’s not a no,” Khaotung murmured.
No, it wasn’t. And that scared him more than anything.
“It’s not a yes either,” First said quietly.
He could feel Khaotung nod, even without looking.
“I’m not in a rush,” Khaotung said. “I just—didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t there.”
First’s chest ached in a way he hadn’t expected. The honesty. The patience. The care in Khaotung’s voice like he was offering something fragile, not demanding something owed.
“I don’t really know how to do this,” First confessed.
Khaotung leaned a little closer. Not enough to overwhelm. Just enough to share warmth.
“You don’t have to,” he said gently. “We’re teammates now. Friends, I hope. Everything else? Just sparkles.”
First’s lips twitched.
It wasn’t a smile. Not yet.
“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
“And yet,” Khaotung said softly, “you’re still standing here.”
First finally turned to him. Finally looked. And it was like being hit with a wave.
The eyeliner had smudged slightly under Khaotung’s lower lashes. The soft glow of the candles from the patio caught the curve of his cheek. His eyes, those enormous, shimmering eyes, looked up at him with no hint of expectation. Only hope. Only patience.
He looked beautiful.
More than beautiful. He looked like something First would’ve never let himself want. Too soft. Too radiant. Too kind.
And somehow, still his.
“…You look really pretty tonight,” First said. Barely audible.
But Khaotung heard it.
He turned, blinking like he couldn’t believe it. “P’First?”
First didn’t answer. He looked back at the lake.
But his ears were pink.
And Khaotung didn’t push. Just stood there beside him, quiet and glowing and solid, while the wind stirred between them like a secret.
And First… let himself stay.
First could feel the space between them bending like static. Could feel the way Khaotung’s presence pressed at the edges of his calm.
He was saying something again. A soft comment, half joke, half something gentler.
“If you keep staring at the lake like that,” Khaotung murmured, voice light but quiet enough for only him, “it’s going to get the wrong idea. Tragic, really. I was hoping I had more competition than a body of water.”
It wasn’t that funny.
It wasn’t even that clever.
But it was him. Gentle. Sassy. The kind of beautiful First didn’t know what to do with.
The laugh came before he could stop it, soft, low, and then the smile followed. Real. Full.
No masks. No half-curves. Just a slow, unguarded curve of his lips, undeniable.
Khaotung froze like he’d been shot through the heart.
Eyes wide. Lips parted. Face gone soft with something that looked like awe.
And First—
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
First looked away instantly, heart hammering. His throat went dry. His stomach swooped like he’d fallen off a ledge he didn’t realize he was standing on.
Because Khaotung had looked at him like that smile meant everything. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like it was enough to knock the wind out of him.
First’s hands twitched on the railing. He didn’t know where to look. Could still feel the echo of Khaotung’s reaction in the air. It lingered, threaded between them like warmth in the aftermath of lightning.
Why had he smiled like that?
Why had he let it show?
Why did Khaotung have to look so—
So—
Breathtaking.
God. That was the only word for it.
Hair slicked back, soft tendrils framing his face. Eyes like starlight. Collarbone peeking just enough to ruin a man. And that look—like First had given him the moon by accident.
He needed to focus. To breathe. To stop looking.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t.
And then, as if he hadn’t just sent First into cardiac arrest, Khaotung smiled back.
First nearly combusted.
Then Khaotung kept talking, something about frogs and Studio Ghibli and why he should’ve been cast as the next anime prince and First let himself listen. The words weren’t important. The sound was.
Then, without warning, Khaotung leaned in just slightly and reached out.
A light touch. Fingers brushing First’s arm.
Brief. Gentle. Grounding.
Just as AJ shouted behind them, “OH MY GOD—HE TOUCHED HIS ARM—”
First froze.
Not from the touch. But from the timing.
The moment snapped like a camera shutter.Khaotung pulled his hand back like nothing had happened, blinking innocently at the lake.
Gun’s voice followed instantly, frantic: “HE WHAT—”
Neo answered, deadpan: “Touched. His. Arm. Casual. Brief. But it happened.”
First could feel every team member’s eyes boring into his back.
He kept his face neutral. Mostly.
Khaotung risked a glance sideways. His expression unreadable, but his eyes… hopeful.
And First, god help him, almost smiled again.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t run.
He didn’t move away.
Behind them, JJ shouted, “Do you think First flinched?”
“No,” AJ said. “Didn’t look like it.”
Gun sounded vaguely horrified. “He’s doomed.”
First closed his eyes for a beat and muttered under his breath, “They all need new hobbies.”
But he didn’t deny it.
Didn’t correct the record.
Didn’t look at Khaotung.
The lake glittered, the sky went soft with dusk, and First, quiet, fraying, and undone, stood there and let it happen.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call connected with a quiet flicker.
First looked like he hadn’t slept much. His hoodie was unzipped halfway, shirt rumpled underneath. His usual sleek calm had frayed at the edges—dark circles under his eyes, hands fidgeting slightly in his lap.
His psychiatrist tilted her head. “You look… distracted.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Understatement.”
She gave him space to fill the silence.
He didn’t.
Eventually: “It was dinner. A team thing. After the PR filming.”
Her expression softened. “Did something happen?”
First made a quiet, frustrated noise. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Start wherever you need.”
He hesitated. Then, almost reluctantly: “He looked good.”
A pause.
Then quieter: “Really good.”
“Who?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then: “Khaotung.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
“He was in this sleeveless cream shirt,” First said, voice tight like he was angry about it. “Hair slicked back. Gold light catching everything. Like someone posed him under a lens flare for maximum damage.”
“Damage?”
“I’m serious,” he muttered. “He sat down and the sun hit him like a highlight reel. And then he laughed.”
Her pen didn’t move, but her eyes stayed gently curious.
“I couldn’t look away,” he said flatly. “It was—annoying.”
“But you did look.”
He let out a long breath. “I stared. Okay? Like an idiot. Everyone noticed. Gun was smug. JJ almost passed out from laughter.”
“And Khaotung?”
First didn’t answer.
Then: “He sat next to me. Gave me water. Smelled like lavender and sugar. Said something about my tweet.”
“You tweeted about him?”
“I posted the cherry top photo before anyone else did,” he admitted. “It wasn’t scheduled. I just… wanted to.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“I told him it was for PR timing,” he added quickly. “Which was a lie.”
“And what was the truth?”
His shoulders sagged slightly. “…I liked the picture.”
“And?”
He glanced away. “…I liked him in it.”
The air between them settled for a moment. She said nothing.
First rubbed his hands over his knees. “He’s loud. Ridiculous. Constant. But he’s also… sharp. Kind. He remembers things. He notices stuff no one else does. And sometimes he’s quiet in a way that’s real. Like, like he’s letting you rest without saying so.”
The words spilled out faster than he meant.
“I hate how much I notice him,” he muttered. “How he always smells nice. Or wears something that fits too perfectly. Or how he does that thing with his hair when he’s focused, brushing it out of his eyes.”
A beat passed.
“And when he laughs…” First’s voice dropped. “He glows.”
His psychiatrist smiled softly. “You sound very sure of that.”
“I am sure of that,” he snapped. Then, slower: “Which is the problem.”
She watched him gently. “Why?”
First opened his mouth. Then closed it again.
Eventually: “Because he sat next to me and our shoulders touched. And I didn’t flinch. And he said he wasn’t subtle. That he’s been flirting. And I just—froze.”
“Did it scare you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It… settled something.”
He looked down at his hands.
“He said he wasn’t rushing. That we’re teammates now. Friends. That anything else is just ‘sparkles.’ And I should’ve been annoyed. But I wasn’t.”
“What did you feel instead?”
His throat worked. “Safe.”
Her gaze was soft. “That sounds… meaningful.”
“I didn’t know that was an option. Feeling safe and wanting someone. At the same time.”
He swallowed.
“And then I laughed at something he said. Just one stupid laugh. And he looked at me like—” His voice caught. “Like I gave him something important.”
“You did.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I think that’s why it mattered.”
A long silence passed.
Then First said, low and reluctant: “He’s beautiful.”
It felt like a confession.
“And I’m trying really hard not to be… swept up in that.”
“Because you’re afraid?”
He looked away. “Because it’s easier to admire him from a distance.”
Another pause.
Then, voice barely audible: “But I want to stay close.”
Her voice remained soft. “You’re allowed to want that.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” he said. “Wanting someone and letting them want me back.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”
“He doesn’t make it easy.”
She smiled. “He’s persistent?”
“He’s a gravity well,” First muttered. “He glows. He smiles. He brushes against my arm and the whole team starts shouting like we’re in a high school drama. It’s unbearable.”
“But you didn’t move away.”
First blinked.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”
“And how did that feel?”
“…Good,” he admitted. “Real. Like I wasn’t pretending.”
A pause.
“Like maybe I don’t have to pretend with him.”
She was quiet a moment. Then: “That’s what intimacy is. Letting someone see past the front.”
“I thought that would terrify me.”
“And now?”
He hesitated.
“I’m still scared,” he admitted. “But I’m… not alone. And that changes things.”
The silence that followed was full. Not heavy, just, settled. Like something had finally landed inside him.
“I don’t know where this is going,” he said. “But I want to find out.”
“That’s more than enough,” she said warmly.
He looked down again. Then up. Then let himself breathe.
“And for the record,” he added, quiet but firm, “he was the prettiest thing at that dinner.”
She smiled wider. “I believe you.”
He rolled his eyes. But the edge of his mouth twitched.
Just a little.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm was too loud for a morning this early.
Golden sunlight spilled across the Eclipse kitchen like it hadn’t gotten the memo, pooling against cereal bowls, half-full mugs, and a forgotten protein shake Gun had probably brewed just for aesthetic. The air smelled like burnt toast, laundry detergent, and impending PR doom.
First stood at the far edge of the room, arms crossed loosely over his chest, pretending to study the smart wall panel. No one bought it. Not really.
Because his eyes kept betraying him.
They flicked—just once, then again—toward the armchair tucked against the living room’s far wall.
Khaotung.
In a cream sweater.. Soft neckline, sleep-tousled hair, and a grin that looked like it hadn’t realized yet just how much power it carried. Montow, traitorous beast that he was, was draped across Khaotung’s lap like a crown jewel. His phone buzzed nonstop beside him, but he didn’t seem rushed. Didn’t seem fazed.
Just... warm. Lit up from within.
First took a sip of his coffee and pretended it didn’t taste like regret.
Gun was already at full volume.
“He’s trending in three languages,” Gun crowed, waving his phone over his head like it was a trophy. “Three! Do you know how iconic that is?! We’ve never trended in Thai and Portuguese at the same time!”
JJ, hunched over the table with toast slathered in way too much peanut butter, mumbled, “Bet half of it is just gifs of him in that cherry shirt.”
“Wrong,” Neo said calmly, sipping his black coffee. “It’s also the eyeliner. The boba eyes are doing numbers.”
First didn't say anything. Just watched. Just tried not to. But Khaotung kept shifting, kept smiling, kept looking, like gravity bent toward him on purpose.
AJ wandered in, yawning with a protein bar in hand. “Are we watching reactions or just having a group breakdown?”
“Yes,” said Neo.
Khaotung tucked Montow a little higher against his chest like a living shield. “I mean, it’s not that crazy.”
Gun snorted. “You gained two hundred thousand followers in eight hours. There are fan edits already. There’s a fancam of you closing a fridge. You have a STAN ACCOUNT in Finnish. This is exactly that crazy.”
“Someone commented that he and First are the ‘visual tension axis of South Asia,’” JJ said, completely serious.
“Which is wild,” AJ added, “because First didn’t even look at him in the video.”
First exhaled through his nose.
“I looked,” he said quietly.
The silence that followed might’ve set a world record.
Khaotung’s eyes widened.
Gun gasped like he’d been stabbed in a drama. “Oh my GOD.”
Neo dropped his spoon.
JJ choked on toast.
AJ whispered, “Did he just admit awareness of Khaotung?”
Khaotung blinked again, voice half-hushed. “You looked?”
First cleared his throat. “It was for continuity.”
Gun nearly shrieked. “Someone call the press.”
A loud ding from the hall saved First from further self-sabotage.
“Is that—” Neo began.
The door flung open.
“HELLO, CHILDREN,” Off called, sounding deeply pleased with himself. “Did you miss me?”
“PAPII!!” Gun shouted, launching off the counter like a missile.
First didn’t flinch, but he did look up in time to see Gun practically tackle Off into the hallway. Off caught him with ease, kissing him before pulling him close.
“I’m gone for two weeks ” Off said. “And now we’ve got a pretty streamer boy breaking the algorithm and stealing First’s attention span.”
“Not stealing,” Khaotung said from his chair.. “I prefer the term sharing.”
Off narrowed his eyes toward the living room. “You’re brighter in person.”
“Thank you, I try,” Khaotung replied with a half-bow, still seated, still devastating.
Gun bounced in place like a sugar-powered chaos spirit. “Papii, you’re just in time, we have a PR meeting in like twenty minutes and everyone’s feral. First admitted to looking at Khao on camera and now we’re spiraling.”
“I did not spiral,” First said, calm but clearly outnumbered.
“You spiraled,” Neo added helpfully.
Khaotung was smiling into Montow’s fur now, like he’d won a prize he hadn’t even tried to claim.
First stared into his coffee again.
He wasn’t spiraling.
He was floating.
That was somehow worse.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First had been perfectly fine staying in his room. He had tabs open on his computer, a notepad next to the keyboard, headphones within reach. Productive. Controlled. Quiet.
Except the noise outside was impossible to ignore.
Voices—plural—layered over each other, climbing higher every second. Something between gossip and a brawl. Gun’s sharp gasp, JJ’s cackle, Pim’s dramatic oh my godddd in stereo with Khaotung’s laughter.
First told himself to leave it. Whatever it was, it didn’t involve him.
Two minutes later, he was leaning against the living room doorframe, arms crossed, staring at the group huddled around a box on the coffee table.
Chaos.
They were all talking at once, hands flailing, overlapping chatter so fast not one word made sense. JJ’s knee was bouncing like he was about to sprint into orbit, Pim had both arms out like she was narrating a play, and Gun was already fanning himself.
Then Pim reached into the box and yanked out a lavender crop top, snapping it open with a flourish.
Across the chest, in enormous glittering hot pink letters:
SPARKLE. KILL. REPEAT.
First blinked. What the hell.
“Oh my GOD,” JJ shouted, nearly toppling over the couch. “Princess Glitter merch drop when?!”
Gun let out a noise that could only be described as a shriek. “This is ICONIC.”
Khaotung clapped like a seal, eyes shining. “Tell me that’s not the best thing you’ve ever seen in your life!”
Pim whipped the shirt around like a battle flag. “Limited edition, baby. My design. This is history.”
First’s mouth opened, closed again. He didn’t step closer, but his presence finally registered, because four heads turned toward him at once.
Khaotung’s grin widened immediately. “P’First. Don’t you love it?”
The shirt caught the light, shimmering obnoxiously. Cropped short, soft lavender, loud and ridiculous. And somehow, because of course, it looked like it would fit Khaotung perfectly.
First’s jaw tightened. His chest felt warm in a way he did not appreciate.
“…No.”
Silence for half a beat, then another explosion of shrieks and laughter.
JJ nearly fell off the couch. Gun slapped Pim’s arm. Pim doubled over with glee. Khaotung laughed the loudest, sparkling as bright as the damn shirt, and First had the sudden, unwelcome thought that if Khaotung actually wore it—
He shut the thought down immediately.
Definitely no.
JJ practically launched himself across the couch cushions, hands outstretched. “PUT IT ON. No excuses. Princess Glitter fashion show, LET’S GO.”
Gun gasped, clutching his chest. “Yesss, right now. Give the people what they want.”
Pim was already circling the shirt in front of Khaotung like she was presenting a sacred relic. “The people being me, obviously. But also everyone with functioning eyes.”
Khaotung, of course, basked in the attention like sunlight. He pressed his palms to his cheeks, fake-blushing. “Stoppp, you guys are too much.”
He wasn’t stopping though, he was already holding the crop top against himself, checking the fit, glitter catching in his hair clips.
First forced his arms to stay crossed, his expression flat. Not looking too long. Not noticing how the lavender hit just the right note against Khaotung’s skin. Not imagining the hem riding up even higher when—
JJ was shrieking again, derailing the thought. “LOOK at him, P’First! Imagine him on stage in this. Tell me he wouldn’t break the internet.”
Gun nodded furiously, fanning himself. “The fans would die. We’d trend in like, what? five seconds?”
Pim added, “More like three.”
Four pairs of eyes landed on First, waiting.
Khaotung tilted his head, crop top still dangling in his hands, smile sharp and daring. “What do you think, P’First? Should I try it on?”
The room held its breath.
First blinked once. Twice. “Do whatever you want.”
It came out flat, neutral. Safe.
The way Khaotung’s grin widened said he’d heard exactly what First hadn’t said.
“Say less,” JJ howled, practically tearing the shirt out of Pim’s hands. “PUT IT ON, PRINCESS.”
Before First could even blink, Khaotung had snatched it and was already shimmying out of his current shirt, dramatic as ever. Gun gasped like he’d just witnessed a miracle, Pim wolf-whistled, and JJ nearly fell backwards trying to get a better angle.
First’s jaw locked. He was not watching this.
Except he absolutely was.
The lavender crop top slid down over Khaotung’s torso, clinging snugly across his chest before ending in a sharp cutoff just above his waist. Sparkling hot-pink letters screamed their message across the front.
Khaotung adjusted it with a flourish, tossing his hair so the star clips caught the light. “How do I look?”
JJ let out a banshee wail. “ICONIC. HISTORY. THE MOMENT.”
Gun collapsed against Pim’s shoulder. “I’m actually sweating.”
Pim clapped her hands. “Strut, baby. Give us the catwalk.”
Of course, Khaotung obeyed. He spun on his heel, turned the living room into a runway, and started walking like the floor was Paris Fashion Week. Hip sway, pointed fingers, the whole thing.
JJ was screaming commentary like a sports announcer, Gun was fanning him like a diva handler, and Pim was cackling like she’d just changed the world.
First stayed in the doorway, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles ached. His face was blank. Neutral.
But his ears were burning, and his chest felt too warm, and when Khaotung threw him a wink mid-strut, he had to look away.
“P’First?” Khaotung sang, turning, hands on his hips as he posed directly in front of him. “Still think it’s a no?”
Four pairs of eyes followed. Waiting.
First forced his voice steady. “…It’s ridiculous.”
The roar of laughter that followed shook the walls.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The knock had barely registered when First stepped into the doorway.
He was still groggy, hoodie zipped halfway over a wrinkled tee, sweatpants slung low from sleep. He’d only agreed to come up because Lita had promised it would be fast, “Just some approvals,” she’d said. “Simple looks. In and out.”
She hadn’t mentioned Khaotung would be in a fucking robe.
Cream-colored. Silky. Hanging so loose off one shoulder it was barely clinging to gravity. His legs were tangled in the sheets, chest half-bared, skin flushed pink with sleep, hair in a halo of tousled curls. He looked—
No. No, First was not doing this.
His brain short-circuited like a server mid-crash.
Khaotung yelped the moment he noticed him, fumbling to clutch the front of his robe shut with both hands. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?” he shrieked, pure panic in his voice.
First’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.
He crossed his arms, defaulting to cold silence, praying no one noticed the way his pulse thundered through his ears. Or how his face suddenly felt too hot.
“I invited him,” Lita said sweetly, flipping through hangers like nothing was on fire. “You’re a pair now, remember? PR cohesion.”
Khaotung made a strangled noise and yanked the blanket over his entire body with the grace of a startled animal. Only a mop of curls remained visible at the top, like a survivor in a disaster movie.
First did not let his gaze follow the curve of Khaotung’s spine under the covers. He did not remember the brief flash of collarbone and skin and that tiny sliver of waistband before the robe had been yanked shut. He was in full denial mode.
“You sleep in just that?” he said, too dry, too quiet, his voice dragging behind the delay in his brain like an overloaded buffer.
“Don’t comment on my vulnerability!” came the muffled wail from under the blanket.
Lita cackled. First did not.
He meant to leave. Really. He tried. But his feet didn’t move. His eyes betrayed him, just once, drifting back toward the nest of blankets where Khaotung had vanished, only the twitch of a foot visible beneath the sheet.
First exhaled through his nose. Turned on his heel.
He was not flustered.
He was strategically retreating.
Before he did something irreversible, like short out the team’s entire PR campaign by having a boner at 7:04 a.m. because a boy in a robe had smiled in his general direction.
Ten minutes later, he was back in the room, regretting everything.
Khaotung had changed. He was now in a cropped t-shirt that stopped mid-ribcage, and high-waisted lavender pants patterned with tiny crescent moons. His hair was fluffier than before, clearly blow-dried in a rush, but somehow that only made it worse. Or better. Depending on how one defined “survival.”
First was not surviving.
He stood just inside the doorway for a second too long, jaw tight, trying not to stare at the way Khaotung’s skin glowed in the soft lighting or how his lips looked like they were still recovering from sleep. The faintest pink. A ridiculous detail to notice. He needed to get it together.
He took a seat on the edge of the bed, his last mistake of the morning.
Khaotung was already rifling through the wardrobe rack like a kid in a candy store. Lita, seated nearby with her tablet and three separate clipboards, looked like she was preparing to launch a precision strike on Milan.
“Okay,” she said. “Dramatic silhouettes. I want people to scream.”
Khaotung held up a wine-red blazer with gold accents, twirling it by the hanger. “P’First should wear this.”
First blinked. “You want me in red velvet?”
“It’s not velvet,” Khaotung said. “It’s power. Trust me. You’d look—” He paused, eyes flicking upward with maddening mischief. “—tall. And dangerous. Good for branding.”
It was infuriating. Not the words. The way he said them. Like he believed it. Like it was obvious.
Like First wasn’t currently fighting for his life on this mattress, pretending to breathe normally while his heart launched a full tactical retreat.
Khaotung kept going, gesturing dramatically, tossing out phrases like “contrast” and “duelists in visual tension” and “sparkle and stab” as if he were designing a runway show for Greek gods.
First barely heard a word.
All he could focus on was the way Khaotung moved when he was passionate, big and chaotic. Alive. The way he lit up under the fluorescent lighting. The faint sheen on his cheekbones that must’ve come from some skincare thing First couldn’t name.
First’s voice came out flat. “Which one are you?”
Khaotung beamed. “Both.”
Of course he was.
Lita started muttering about French tucks and dramatic eyeliner while flipping through another mood board. First might’ve been nodding, but he wasn’t hearing her. He was too busy watching Khaotung yank a sheer black top off the rack and start describing a look involving leather harnesses and “artsy bruised eyeliner,” whatever that meant.
“You’re not subtle,” First said, deadpan.
“I am subtle!” Khaotung squeaked, halfway into a passionate monologue about collarbones and chain accents.
First raised an accessory and held it up like evidence. “You circled this three times and wrote ‘hot’ in glitter pen.”
Khaotung made a noise so flustered and squeaky that First, god help him, almost smiled.
He didn’t. But it was close. Dangerously close.
Hours later, First was back in his room, regretting everything.
He’d escaped Khaotung’s half-bare morning chaos and fled to his room, but it hadn’t helped. His pulse was still racing. His hoodie was too warm. The memory of cream silk and sleepy smiles haunted him like a ghost with glitter.
He flopped onto the edge of the bed and exhaled slowly.
Then his phone buzzed.
A new group chat.
“👑 Princess Sparkle and the Ice Prince ❄️”
He stared at it for a long second before opening it. It was like stepping into a hurricane made of emojis and fashion crimes.
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
ok hear me out
black silk button-up
ALL unbuttoned
just vibes and chest
[FIRST 🐈]
no
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
but imagine the engagement
also imagine the gasp when he walks on set
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
EXACTLY
they’d faint
I’d faint
we’re talking fashion revolution
First stared at the screen in disbelief.
He was alone in his room, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his knuckles, one leg bouncing restlessly on the bed. There was a sliver of sunlight slicing across the floor and the faint hum of Lita’s playlist still filtering up from downstairs. But all of it faded beneath the swirl of one thought:
Khaotung was out of his mind.
And worse?
First kept reading.
[FIRST 🐈]
absolutely not
next
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
ok ok what about
fitted black tank top
leather harness
silver chains
artsy bruised eyeliner look
[FIRST 🐈]
what is “artsy bruised eyeliner”
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
it’s a look
moody, edgy, smoldering
a little "he could destroy me and I'd say thank you"
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
I’d personally like to thank him 🧎♂️
First let out a long, slow breath and dragged a hand down his face.
It wasn’t just the suggestions. It was the way Khaotung sent them, like he was seeing it all in his head already. Like he was imagining how they’d look together. Like this whole thing, ridiculous as it was, meant something to him.
It should’ve been annoying. Over-the-top. Laughable.
Instead, First kept scrolling.
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
ok ok NEW compromise
black mesh mock-neck (just a little sheer 👀)
tailored blazer with sharp shoulders
sleek silver chain (subtle sparkle!!)
black slacks that fit like a problem
one glove. for drama.
[FIRST 🐈]
…define “a problem”
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
he means “perfectly tailored to make people stare”
I approve. Fully.
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
I’d like to personally thank the trousers 🙏
also the mesh. we need the mesh. he has collarbones.
“He has collarbones.”
First closed his eyes.
He was going to lose it. Completely.
His ears burned, his stomach twisted, and he wasn’t even sure if it was embarrassment or something worse. Something softer. Something… warmer.
He typed slower this time.
[FIRST 🐈]
no glove
no mesh
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
mesh lite? tasteful mesh?
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
first please 🙏
the lighting will hit just right
we’ll all ascend
even Gun said “damn” and he hasn’t even SEEN IT
The fact that Gun was involved somehow made it worse.
First hesitated. Looked down at the messages. At Khaotung’s enthusiasm. His persistence. The utter lack of shame.
And the sincerity buried underneath it all.
He sighed. Typed.
[FIRST 🐈]
…fine.
but the blazer stays on.
A storm of celebration exploded in the chat.
[khaotungg 🧁💘]
BLAZER STAYS ON DURING PHOTOSHOOT 😭💘
WE WON
PRINCESS GLITTER STRIKES AGAIN
[lita_prteam 📝💄]
logging this moment in PR history
[FIRST 🐈]
I regret this chat already
And he did. He really did.
But as his phone buzzed with more ridiculous outfit pitches, moonlight betrayal, and revenge arc nonsense, he realized something else too.
He couldn’t stop responding.
Couldn’t stop wanting to respond.
Because Khaotung’s brain was a glitter bomb of chaos, but he invited First into it like it was the most natural thing in the world. No pressure. No expectations. Just a hope that maybe, for once, someone might play dress-up with him and actually mean it.
And First?
He was doomed.
Spiraling.
And still typing.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call connected.
First was already seated, hood pulled low, arms folded like he could somehow shrink the memory out of existence. He didn’t speak right away. Just stared off-screen, lips pressed in a line.
His psychiatrist waited patiently.
Then, “I need to ask something,” he said, voice low, like the words themselves might combust if spoken too loud. “Is it possible for your body to… betray you?”
She blinked once. “Betray in what way?”
He exhaled slowly, rubbed a hand down his face. “I got a boner.”
There was a beat. Not of judgment, never that. Just space. Room to breathe.
She tilted her head. “That’s not a betrayal, First. That’s a physiological response.”
He scoffed, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, well, it felt like one.”
Another pause.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
He hesitated. Then sighed. “It was early. I was still half-asleep. Lita texted. Said to come upstairs for quick fitting approvals. I wasn’t expecting…” He trailed off. “I wasn’t expecting him to be there looking like that.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. “Khaotung.”
He nodded once, reluctantly.
“He was in a robe. Half-covered. Looked like he’d just woken up. And—” He ran a hand through his hair, visibly flustered just remembering. “It wasn’t even anything. Just skin. Shoulders. And I couldn’t look away. And my body just. Reacted.”
She softened. “And that scared you.”
“Yes,” he said instantly. “Because that doesn’t happen to me. Not since—” His voice dropped. “Not since before.”
Her expression was gentle now. “So this was the first time?”
He nodded again. His hands had curled into the sleeves of his hoodie, knuckles pale.
“How did it feel?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer for a long time.
Then: “Like someone had rewired me without asking.”
She didn’t fill the silence.
“I felt out of control,” he admitted. “Like I was sixteen again. Like the moment I noticed I wanted something, my body was going to betray me and prove I wasn’t safe. Or healed. Or in control at all.”
His throat worked. “It wasn’t about Khaotung. Not really. He’s… he’s just someone who makes the air move too fast sometimes.”
“And you’re allowed to want things,” she said gently. “Even if they scare you.”
He looked away. “He doesn’t know. He thinks I’m just cold. I am cold. But—”
“But you felt something,” she finished.
He nodded.
“I didn’t act on it,” he added quickly. “I left. I made sure he didn’t see anything. I just. I hated how real it felt.”
“You’re allowed to feel real things,” she said softly. “And First… this isn’t regression. It’s growth. The fact that your body responded means you’re thawing. You’re healing enough to want again.”
“But it wasn’t safe,” he muttered. “It didn’t feel safe.”
“Of course not. You’ve trained yourself to stay locked down. But your body might be ready for more than your mind thinks.”
He looked back at her, eyes tired. “I don’t want to be ruled by it.”
“You’re not. You’re still in control. And you made the safest choice possible, stepping back. That’s not failure. That’s awareness.”
He didn’t respond, but some of the tension left his shoulders.
“Would it help,” she asked gently, “to talk more about what you felt in that moment? Not just fear. But what drew your attention.”
He hesitated again. Then, very quietly: “His collarbone. The way the robe slipped. The dip of his spine. His sleepy smile.”
She nodded once. “Thank you for sharing that.”
His face flushed. He looked like he might regret it. But he didn’t take the words back.
“First,” she said carefully, “wanting someone again is not a betrayal of your pain. It’s a sign that you’ve survived.”
His eyes dropped to his lap. “So now what?”
“You keep going. You listen to yourself. And if it happens again, you don’t shame it. You observe it. You let yourself feel whatever’s safe to feel. And we keep talking about it. Together.”
He nodded slowly.
“And you don’t have to tell him,” she added, “unless and until you want to. But you’re allowed to feel this.”
He didn’t speak.
But the way he sat, less rigid and more grounded, spoke for him.
He was still shaken. But not broken.
Chapter 31
Notes:
I'm back and sleep deprived. I'm literally posting this before I go pass out. I hurried to finish this one because I'm too excited for the upcoming chapters and want to get to them asap.
As always I hope you enjoy.
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand July 2025-
The studio buzzed with life.
Softboxes hummed overhead. Stylists scurried between racks. Lita presided from her director’s chair, clipboard in one hand and an iced oat milk in the other.
Khaotung stood near the edge of the set, the very picture of polished flirtation: cropped cream satin blouse tied delicately at the waist, wide-leg trousers that flowed like a sigh, silver jewelry catching the light with every tiny movement. His cherry-stud earring peeked out from behind carefully tousled hair, and his eyeliner winged like it had somewhere to be. He looked soft. He looked dangerous.
And yet, he was distracted.
“Where is he?” he whispered to Lita, eyes fixed on the changing room door.
“I told him he’s not allowed out until he looks like a threat,” she replied, sipping smugly.
Khaotung clutched his chest. “You what?”
Then the door opened.
First stepped out.
And Khaotung’s brain stopped functioning.
Black-on-black-on-black. Slim trousers, mesh shirt, matte harness, silk coat hanging from his shoulders like a curse. Combat boots with silver accents. One earring. A single deliberate strand of hair over his brow. He didn’t walk, he arrived, cutting through the noise like a scalpel. And his eyes found Khaotung instantly.
For a second, Khaotung just stared. No defenses. No filter. Panic scuffled with awe on his face as his mouth opened and nothing came out.
“You’re drooling,” Lita whispered.
“I am not,” he whispered back. “Am I?”
First stopped in front of him.
“Is the outfit okay?” he asked, voice low, unreadable.
Khaotung scrambled for composure. “It’s—uh—it’s very… cohesive.”
First blinked.
Lita bit her straw to stifle a laugh.
“Mesh?” Khaotung blurted, then immediately regretted it. “That’s… brave.”
“You suggested it,” First said flatly. “Five times.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually. Never mind. You look. You know. Functional.”
“Functional.”
Khaotung nodded too many times. He couldn’t stop. First was too close. Too sharp. He didn’t know how someone could look that unbothered while Khaotung was actively combusting.
Then the call, “Okay, we’re ready for the duelists on set!”
First turned toward the lights.
Khaotung followed. On autopilot.
Lita leaned back in her chair, watching the two of them step into the spotlight. The glittering cherry blossom and the ghost in black silk.
“This is gonna break the internet,” she whispered.
She was right.
The camera shutters snapped like applause.
“Closer!” the photographer called. “Push the rivalry energy!”
Khaotung scoffed, tilting toward the lens. Rivalry, huh. If only they knew. “Rivalry? He doesn’t even talk to me.”
“That’s not true,” First said immediately, calm as ever. “I said your boots were too loud this morning.”
Khaotung almost laughed. Only First could deliver an insult that flat and think it landed. “That’s not the burn you think it is. I’m stylish.”
“Loudly.”
God, the nerve. Khaotung shot him a look, grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. “You’ve been spending too much time with P’Gun. He’s corrupting you.”
“I was like this before N’Gun.”
Khaotung nearly choked. Banter. With him. It shouldn’t feel like winning, but it did.
When he tipped his chin toward him, First shifted closer too, just enough that Khaotung could feel the heat of him, sharp profile cutting into the lights. The camera snapped, but Khaotung barely registered it.
“Freeze! Perfect! N’Khaotung, chin up a little more. N’First, look at him like he just defused the spike when you told him not to.”
Khaotung braced for silence. But First’s voice came instead, quiet and certain: “I wouldn’t need to tell him. He knows the timing.”
Khaotung’s heart stuttered so hard he nearly ruined the shot. Compliment? From him? His mouth worked before his brain caught up. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s not not one.”
Khaotung blinked. The words shouldn’t have meant much. But the way First looked at him when he said them—steady, unreadable, seeing—knocked the air out of him.
Their eyes locked. The whole studio felt too small.
Something sparked, quick and hot.
Khaotung leaned in, voice softer, reckless. “You look good in this lighting.”
First didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He didn’t look away. And Khaotung’s pulse went wild.
“You’re always talking,” First murmured, voice pitched low.
“You’re always silent.”
“That’s the balance.”
It should’ve been a joke. It wasn’t. The way he said it made Khaotung’s skin buzz.
The photographer reset them. Khaotung dropped onto the block, First behind him. One hand braced on the edge, sleeve brushing his shoulder. When the lights dimmed, shadows painted First’s jaw into something obscene, sharp, perfect, unfair. Khaotung’s throat went dry.
“Turn toward him like you’re about to fight or flirt,” the photographer called.
Khaotung smirked, words spilling easy. “Why not both?”
“Careful,” First muttered behind him, low enough to curl heat through his stomach. “If you flirt any harder, they’ll make us a ship tag.”
Khaotung swallowed hard, leaned back into the warmth of him anyway. “They already did,” he whispered.
First’s hand twitched against the block. A crack in the armor. Khaotung felt drunk on it.
“You’re smiling,” he whispered again, eyes darting up to catch the faintest curve of First’s mouth.
“I’m not.”
But he was. Barely. Enough to undo Khaotung entirely. He wanted to grab his face, pull it closer, ruin the set with a kiss just to prove he could.
The final shutter clicked. The tension didn’t fade. It thickened, settling into every nerve.
As they stepped off set, Khaotung hesitated. His hand itched. His chest burned. He listened.
He reached out, tugged lightly at the edge of First’s coat. “So?” His voice was softer, lower than he meant. “Did I pass your chemistry test?”
First didn’t look at him. Didn’t move away either.
“You didn’t fail.”
Khaotung’s grin broke free, too wide, too obvious. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t care.
Because even when First smoothed his face again, Khaotung knew. He felt it. The almost-smile still echoing between them, lodged under his skin.
This wasn’t PR.
This was him falling, hard.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Days later the common room smelled like popcorn and betrayal.
Lita had gathered the entire Eclipse team in the evening under the guise of “a casual check-in,” but as soon as the projector screen blinked to life with the Instagram post of Khaotung and First’s photoshoot, the room erupted into chaos.
“Oh my god,” Gun wheezed, clutching his stomach. “#iceprinceprincessglitter is trending?!”
“Worldwide,” Lita said, entirely too smug. “Twitter and Instagram. The fan accounts are making edits. There’s an animation of you two doing a heart-shaped ult combo.”
Khaotung looked like he was trying not to implode. “That wasn’t even happenin—!”
“Yet,” JJ sang.
AJ scrolled silently beside him, mouth twitching as he read aloud, “‘Enemies to lovers real,’ ‘Eclipse knew exactly what they were doing with this duo,’ ‘I fear the slay is astronomical.’” He turned the phone around. “Khao, someone’s selling pins with your wink from the second set.”
“Unauthorized merch,” Lita said quickly. “We’ll take care of that. Our merch, however,”
She clapped her hands and flicked to the next slide of the presentation.
“Princess Glitter vs Ice Prince limited drop. Hoodie options. Glossy photo cards. Maybe a magazine-style zine with behind-the-scenes content. I’m also commissioning stickers.”
Neo raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t the photos drop, like, three hours ago?”
“Speed is strategy,” Lita replied with military precision. “I have spreadsheets.”
Gun leaned toward Off with a grin. “You seeing this, Papii? Your team’s marketable now.”
Off looked amused but tired. “We’ve turned into a T-pop group.”
“Correction,” Neo said, “we turned into a shipping phenomenon.”
First hadn’t said much, just sat curled up in the far end of the couch with a mug of tea, looking about two seconds from teleporting out of the room.
Khaotung, who was perched on the armrest beside him, whispered, “You okay?”
“I didn’t agree to a zine,” First muttered.
“You didn’t say no either,” Lita called from across the room.
“Besides,” Khaotung added with a cheeky grin, “you look good. I’d buy a print.”
First didn’t answer, but his ears turned just slightly pink.
Gun pointed at the projected Instagram post, zooming in dramatically on one photo where Khaotung’s arm was draped across First’s shoulder, both of them staring into the camera like they were about to either seduce you or shoot you.
“This one? Cinema,” Gun declared. “Poster-worthy. I’m printing it for my room.”
“Gun—” Off began.
“No, our room.”
Lita was already typing notes. “Perfect. Couple merch crossover. Gun and Off’s domestic chaos meets the icy glitter duo. Valentine’s Day drop, perhaps—”
First groaned quietly into his tea. Khaotung beamed.
And in the corner, JJ had started humming what could only be described as a fake drama OST theme song titled, “Sparkles Beneath the Ice.”
“Episode one drops next week,” he said solemnly.
“No it doesn’t,” Off said flatly.
But no one really believed him.
Not with #iceprinceprincessglitter still rising in the trends.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[ STREAM TITLE: ✨sweaty queue with cute vibes✨ ]
“Good morning, sparkles!” Khaotung chirped into the mic. “It’s 9am, I have tea in my cup and trauma in my soul, and today we’re climbing ranked like it owes me money.”
He was curled into his gaming chair, pastel sweater slipping off one shoulder, pink headphones crooked over his ears. Montow purred in his lap. Vaanjoy lounged behind him like a judgmental cloud. The room was aglow in pink and lavender lighting, his overlay sparkled like confetti, and chat was already frothing.
“I’m emotional support hot this morning,” he added, sipping from his cat-shaped mug.
Down the hall, First paused.
He’d been headed to the kitchen. That had been the plan: tea, silence, maybe a VOD if he felt productive. But now he was frozen outside Khaotung’s door, that voice curling under it like glitter smoke.
Emotional support hot. At nine in the morning.
He should’ve walked away.
Instead, he knocked once, then opened the door without waiting, like he always did now.
Soft light spilled into the hallway. The scent hit him instantly: tea, cat fur, and that specific lavender-sugar warmth that always clung to Khaotung’s skin.
First stepped in.
Khaotung was mid-sentence, mid-sparkle, mid-chaos. And when he turned—bare shoulder, glossed lips, thighs tucked under him—his eyes went wide.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, clearly forgetting he was live.
First blinked once. “Are you live?”
Chat exploded:
@knees4khao: “WHY DOES HE LOOK LIKE THAT???”
@uokprettyboy: “IS THAT P’FIRST? AGAIN???”
@khaotungsleftpillow: “WHY IS HE HOTTER IN MORNING LIGHTING I’M SCARED”
Khaotung flushed. “I told you I was going live this morning.”
“I forgot.” First glanced at the screen, then at Khaotung’s outfit. “Wanted to see if you had that VOD link from yesterday.”
“You couldn’t wait twenty minutes?”
“You weren’t quiet.”
Khaotung made a noise. Half scandal, half mortification. “You heard the part where I said I was emotional support hot?”
“Yeah.” First leaned against the wall, expression unreadable. “Sounds accurate.”
Khaotung spun back toward chat, dramatically scandalized. “He’s roasting me live. I’m being cyberbullied in my own home.”
“Technically,” First muttered, “this is my home.”
“You’re in frame, P’First. Say hi to your fans.”
“I’m not in frame.”
“You are.”
First sighed and stepped slightly less into view, just his hoodie sleeve and the edge of his hip.
Chat went feral:
@isittoohighchat: “WE SEE HIS ARM”
@sparkleduelist: “IT’S AN EASTER EGG CAMEO”
@montowmains: “WHY DOES HIS ARM HAVE MORE RIZZ THAN MOST MEN”
@knees4khao: “tell him to SIT DOWN”
“Fine,” First said like it pained him. He padded over, pulled one of Montow’s cat cushions onto the floor, and settled at the foot of the bed, just out of frame. Still too close. Still unmistakably there.
Khaotung stared like he’d seen God. “The Ice Prince is on the sparkle rug. He’s crossed into chaos territory.”
“I wanted tea.”
“Then why didn’t you go to the kitchen?”
“…You have better honey.”
Khaotung almost dropped his mouse. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m scared.”
“Noted.”
Khaotung slapped a hand over his face. “I—chat’s screaming. I’m screaming.”
“You always talk to yourself like this?”
“I’m an entertainer,” Khaotung huffed. “I contain multitudes.”
And still, he queued. Still, First stayed.
Twenty minutes in, Khaotung was fully focused, mouse steady, brows furrowed. His sweater had slipped again. Montow snored at his feet. First watched the screen, then murmured:
“You should’ve waited half a beat before swinging. They were baiting the peek.”
Khaotung squeaked. “Are you coaching me?”
“No.”
“Then stop being correct in my chat space.”
“I’m not in chat.”
“You are the chat.”
Chat:
@sparkleduelist: “SPARKLE COACHED BY ICE PRINCE CONFIRMED”
@khaotungsleftpillow: “HE’S LIVING RENT FREE IN YOUR MONITOR AND YOUR GAME SENSE”
@montowmains: “YOU’RE PLAYING BETTER. HE’S MAKING YOU SWEAT FR”
Khaotung muttered under his breath, “Sweatier than my blush can handle.”
“Focus,” First said.
“You focus,” Khaotung snapped, then winced. “Wait. No, that sounded flirty. Don’t focus.”
First didn’t reply, but the side of his mouth twitched. Maybe.
Between rounds, Khaotung peeked over. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“…Not yet.”
“I knew it. You like the chaos.”
Maybe. Or maybe First just didn’t want to go back to his quiet room that smelled like laundry and didn’t have a pink cat mug waiting.
He reached for said mug.
“Hey! That’s mine.”
“I said you had better honey.”
“You’re stealing my tea. And my peace of mind. And my ratings.”
Chat was already screaming:
@foranythingiconik: #GlitterGuestStar
@cupcakethighs: #FirstInTheRoom
@montowmains: “MONTOW HAS TO LIVE WITH THIS TENSION DAILY”
@pillowbiter420: “YOU JUST GOT TEA-THIEVED BY THE ICE PRINCE”
The door creaked again.
“Did someone order a side of slay with their ranked despair?”
“P’Gun?!” Khaotung gasped.
Gun strolled in, sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand, and a sticker on his cheek that read I ❤️ Eclipse. Naturally.
“He’s been here over an hour,” Khaotung whispered, pointing. “Look. He’s nesting.”
The camera angled. First sat calmly cross-legged on the floor, Vaanjoy now curled in his lap, a VOD open on his phone.
Gun raised a brow. “P’First… what are you doing?”
“Watching the split-mid push from last week.”
“You’ve got a whole setup in your room.”
“This one has good lighting.”
“This one is Khaotung’s room.”
“Still true.”
Gun turned to the camera. “Blink twice if you’re being emotionally held hostage.”
“He stole my tea,” Khaotung whispered.
“Did he at least compliment you after?”
“He said I peeked too early.”
Gun gasped. “Scandalous! We’ve entered the constructive criticism era.”
Chat:
@cupcakethighs: “THEY’RE SO MARRIED HELP”
@iconikprincessglitter: “GUN IS THE GROUP CHAT IN HUMAN FORM”
@whyamilikethis_: “HE’S HERE TO COLLECT THE GOSSIP AND I SUPPORT THAT”
“You’re loud,” First said flatly.
“You’re easy,” Gun shot back. “To tease.”
“Still loud.”
Khaotung was now visibly shaking with laughter.
“Why are you here, P’Gun?” he asked, breathless.
“Lita said you were live. I came for the chaos. Also to make sure Phi doesn’t silently steal your soul while pretending to watch gameplay footage.”
“It’s a good round,” First said.
Gun nodded solemnly. “Sure it is. So good you’re watching it for the third time. At 10:15am. On a rug.”
He patted First’s head. First didn’t flinch.
“You’re lucky you’re hot,” Gun muttered, then hugged Khaotung from behind. “You good, Princess?”
“I’m great,” Khaotung said, softer.
“You looked great yesterday, by the way. All those creams and pastels? Devastating. Off said you looked like a cupcake that knew everyone’s secrets.
Khaotung beamed.
“If he steals your keyboard next, I’m pressing charges,” Gun called on his way out.
“Protect your glitter,” he added. “At all costs.”
The door clicked shut.
Khaotung looked back toward First.
Still there.
Still watching.
“…You’re really not leaving?”
“The retake is coming up,” First said.
And even if it wasn’t, he’d still be there.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Gun pushed open the door to his room with a flair of the dramatic, toeing it shut behind him like he’d just returned from battle.
“Papii,” he called in a sing-song tone, “you will not believe the domestic sitcom I just walked into.”
Off looked up from his laptop where he’d been reviewing a tactical spreadsheet, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. His expression softened the moment he saw Gun.
“You’re early,” he said. “I thought you were harassing JJ.”
“I decided to harass Khao instead and found First there,” Gun replied, already crawling across the bed like a lazy cat. “Way more entertaining.”
Off made a quiet, amused sound and closed his laptop. “And?”
Gun flopped onto Off’s chest with a dramatic sigh. “They were having a whole moment. First was just… sitting there. On the floor. In Khaotung’s room. Watching VODs like he lives there now.”
Off laughed under his breath. “He probably does. He’s always been a habitual lurker.”
“But this was different,” Gun said, poking Off’s cheek. “He was watching Khao’s footage. Just. Silently. Like some emotionally repressed game-savant cryptid. On a glitter rug.”
“A glitter rug?”
“With his long legs crossed like some monk of fragging enlightenment. And Khao was screaming inside. It was delicious.”
Off hummed thoughtfully, then curled an arm around Gun’s waist, pulling him in close. “You’re such a gossip.”
“And you love it.”
“I love you.”
Gun melted a little, smiling into Off’s shoulder as he pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his jaw. “I missed you this morning.”
“Mm. You woke me up trying to climb over me like a cat.”
“I was being respectful—”
“You elbowed me in the ribs.”
“—of my need to bring drama into the world.”
Off chuckled and kissed Gun’s temple. “So. You think it’s happening?”
Gun lifted his head just enough to smirk. “It’s not not happening. Khao is definitely still in his flirting arc, but First is… folding. Slowly. He’s just too emotionally stunted to realize he likes the attention.”
Off raised a brow. “And you’re qualified to assess emotional stunting?”
Gun gasped. “I unfolded beautifully, thank you. Like a lotus in spring. With glitter. And gay panic. After years of pining.”
“Mm. Took you three confessions and one panic attack to ask me out.”
“And I’ve never recovered,” Gun said dramatically. “But it was worth it.”
Off kissed him again, this time slower, deeper. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m your ridiculous.”
They stayed like that for a while, quiet, tangled up, Gun’s fingers tracing lazy shapes across Off’s chest.
“…I think they’re going to be good together,” Gun murmured eventually. “If First lets himself be happy.”
Off's hand slid up to cradle the back of Gun’s head, grounding. “He’s trying.”
“I know. That’s why I’m rooting for them.”
Off pressed his forehead to Gun’s. “You’re a menace.”
“But a wise menace.”
“The wisest,” Off agreed softly, and kissed him one more time before pulling the blanket over them both.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A few evenings later, they’d taken over the corner table in the meeting room. No projector, no slides, just Neo’s laptop open to clips, Off’s iced coffee sweating a ring onto the wood, and a few notebooks between them.
It wasn’t a real meeting, not with JJ absent and Gun too loud for quiet review. Just the three of them, steady.
Neo clicked through another round. “Spacing’s fine. Retake timing is fine. But if Khaotung’s running duel, he’s going to want to swing earlier than me. Could pull him out of cover.”
“Then don’t let him,” First said.
Neo’s mouth twitched faintly. “Noted.”
Off scribbled something meaningless on his notepad, arrows and boxes that looked more like doodles than tactics. “So basically,” he said, “you’re saying everything’s fine and we’re wasting a perfectly good night off.”
“Efficiency,” Neo replied.
“Mm. You two are dangerous when you team up.” Off leaned back, chair tipping on two legs. “Cold-blooded, the both of you. No wonder you make the kids sweat.”
First ignored him, flipping his pen in his hand.
The lull that followed was comfortable, the kind that came after long scrims. Neo sipped his water. First tapped his notes into order. Off’s eyes flicked between them like he was waiting for a chance.
It came too soon.
“So.” Off twirled the pen once more, grin creeping in. “How are you and Khaotung?”
First’s hand stilled. “…We’re not talking about that.”
“Why not? We’re all friends here.”
“This is a strategy session.”
“Exactly.” Off’s grin widened. “Team chemistry matters. Neo agrees with me.”
Neo raised a brow but didn’t argue. Just waited, gaze steady, calm.
First flipped a page in his notebook, deliberately blank. “He’s adjusting.”
“Not what I asked.”
“Playstyle first,” First muttered.
Off chuckled. “Playstyle’s the easy part. Feelings. That’s the hard one.”
The silence stretched. Neo didn’t look away. Off leaned in, too patient.
First shifted in his chair, shoulders tight. “…It’s not—” He broke off, dragged a hand across his face. He hated how warm his ears felt.
Finally, he said it, clipped and low: “I don’t know. Just. I’m figuring it out.”
Off’s grin softened into something almost proud. Neo gave the smallest nod, like that was enough.
“Good answer,” Off said, tossing his pen into the tray. “We’ll leave it there.”
First didn’t reply. He just bent back over his notes, as if ink and paper could smother the way the admission still hung in the air.
Chapter 32: Chapter 32
Notes:
My brain is mush, too much has been going on with another fandom I'm in. Anyway I hope you guys enjoy this kind of filler chapter, cause the next one is..... going to be fun. I should have that one finished in the next day or two.
Be back soon!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand August 2025-
The morning light filters in soft and golden through the team dorm curtains, and for once, Khaotung doesn’t reach for his phone. No Twitter check. No Twitch chat. No stream countdown overlay flickering to life. His room is still and quiet, only the faint hum of the city reminding him he’s not somewhere far away.
He sits at the edge of his bed in a hoodie that’s too soft and far too big, one of Gun’s actually, stolen in a moment of chaos and never returned, and lets out a slow breath. The others are already gone, prepping strategies and reviewing VODs for the final match tomorrow. But he’s not on the roster yet. His name won’t echo in the comms. His crosshair won’t matter.
So today, Khaotung logs out of everything. No stream, no Discord, no solo queue. Just a text to the team:
[khaotungg 🧁✨]:
taking the day off.
love u losers.
don’t burn the place down
And then he's out the door.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The café is tucked into a row of sleepy shophouses, lavender vines spilling over the balcony, the scent of coffee and pandan waffles trailing out into the street like a welcome mat. A familiar bell jingles overhead when he walks in.
"Baby!" Mae Lin’s voice is immediate, sharp with excitement and warmth. She's at the counter wiping down a tray, her apron printed with little cartoon bears. "Look who decided to show up for once without a camera following him."
"Did you finally get cancelled?" Auntie Joe calls from the kitchen, peeking out with her signature streak of pink hair tied back under a net. "We can put up the 'Influencer-Free Zone' sign again."
Khaotung snorts, already relaxing, shedding his hoodie and stepping behind the counter to kiss both their cheeks. "No cameras. No streams. Just me."
Mae Lin squints at him, wiping a spot of sugar from his cheek. "You’re tired," she says quietly, and it’s not a question.
"I’m okay," he replies, just as softly. And then, after a beat, "I just wanted to be home."
They don’t push. They never do. Mae Lin hands him a chilled coconut milk drink she always makes when it’s hot out, and Auntie Joe shoves a plate of warm sticky rice and mango into his hands like it’s medicine.
He helps around the café for a while, tying on one of the frilly aprons and taking orders from the aunties who always tell him he’s gotten more handsome since the last time. There’s laughter, old music on the speakers, and at one point he ends up drawing little cat doodles in chalk on the specials board.
In the quiet morning lull, Mae Lin sits beside him at the back patio. The breeze lifts her hair as she watches the street. “You miss being a nobody sometimes?”
He sips his drink, considering. “I miss being yours. Just yours.”
Mae Lin hums, brushing his hair behind his ear. “You’ll always be ours, baby. Even if you’re famous. Even if you get weird fan edits made of you kissing that First boy.”
Khaotung chokes. “Mae!”
"What? We see things!" Auntie Joe yells from inside. "You think we don't know what shipping is?"
Khaotung covers his face, groaning so loud the vines above the patio rustle in offense.
“You’re both evil,” he mutters, muffled by his own palms. “I was trying to be professional.”
Mae Lin, seated beside him, lifts her tea with regal calm. “You were also giggling. Professionally.”
“I do not giggle,” he gasps.
“You made the sound,” she says serenely. “It was very dainty.”
Inside the kitchen, something clangs. A pot? A spoon? The sound of Auntie Joe probably reliving the stream and knocking over flour mid-reenactment.
Then, like clockwork, the back door swings open and Auntie Joe steps out with a tray of mango sticky rice and pure menace in her eyes. “Tell me one thing,” she says, setting the tray down. “What the hell is that boy made of?”
Khaotung doesn’t hesitate. “Suffering.”
Mae Lin hums. “Steroids and cheekbones.”
“YES,” he cries, pointing dramatically. “EXACTLY. Like. Why does he look like that? Why is that allowed? He just—he walks in! He exists! He sits there like some brooding art student and the whole room tilts.”
“You don’t look away,” Mae Lin points out, far too gently to be innocent.
“I forget how to move. I’m always busy trying not to drool!”
“You fail,” Auntie Joe says.
“I do not!”
Mae Lin takes a bite of sticky rice and shrugs. “Baby, I love you, but your face does the thing.”
“What thing?!”
“That thing where your eyes sparkle like someone handed you a free designer blazer and a compliment in the same sentence.”
Khaotung lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a laugh and a wail. “You don’t understand. He’s so tall. Like rude tall. Lean-over-you-and-glare tall. And his arms, his arms are criminal. Not even flexing and still looking like they could break laws.”
Auntie Joe whistles. “Quiet-core gym energy.”
“YES. And don’t even get me started on his face,” Khaotung groans, flopping back dramatically against the bench. “It’s like… elegant menace. Vogue editorial if the photographer hated you personally.”
Mae Lin nearly chokes on tea.
“I’m serious! His jawline is a war crime! His eyes? Like lasers. And when he narrows them—” He flaps both hands helplessly. “Like I’m being audited. Sexily.”
Auntie Joe wheezes. “Sexy. Tax. Energy.”
“And then when he watches gameplay,” Khaotung presses on, voice breaking with indignation, “he looks at it like it offends him. Like every misstep is a personal insult. And I swear, when he points things out—my brain cells evaporate. Gone. Poof.”
Mae Lin hides her smile. “We noticed you stopped making actual words.”
“You also bit your lip,” Auntie Joe adds mercilessly.
He screams. “Okay, that’s involuntary!”
“It’s flirty,” Mae Lin counters.
“You were sparkling at him like a soda ad.”
“You know what? Jail. I’m going to jail.”
Auntie Joe pats his shoulder with mock sympathy. “Sweetheart, you’ve been convicted since the moment you saw him lean in.”
He buries his face in his arm.
“You are extremely normal about this,” Auntie Joe says, nodding sagely.
“He makes me stupid,” Khaotung whispers. “Like—I was mid-clutch, he said one thing in that voice, and I died. I died.”
Mae Lin pats his knee gently. “You died beautifully.”
Khaotung groans, hands covering his face. “I’m ruined. I’m going to be an embarrassment. I am an embarrassment.”
“You’re in a crush coma,” Mae Lin says. “It’s fine. We’ve all been there.”
Auntie Joe grins. “It’s just extra funny when you’re in it, because you get so sparkly about it.”
“I can’t help it! He’s so, so First. That’s not just a name, it’s a threat. He’s the final boss of hot people.”
Mae Lin leans back, sipping her tea in quiet triumph. “Well. At least you’ve got good taste.”
“I’m gonna have to face him in practice tomorrow,” Khaotung moans. “He’s going to breathe near me and I’m going to drop a smoke grenade on myself.”
“You’ll be fine,” Auntie Joe says. “Just wear something slutty.”
“NO!”
“Show your collarbone.”
“I will not flash my collarbone like bait!”
Mae Lin, eyes twinkling: “Baby, you already do.”
He glares at her. She sips serenely. Auntie Joe tosses him a mango slice like a prize for good spiraling.
And Khaotung, heart pounding and cheeks hot, realizes he hasn’t stopped smiling once.
He’s so doomed.
And honestly?
He doesn’t mind.
He pops the last mango slice into his mouth, still grinning, still flushed. The sun shifts across the tiles. Somewhere inside, the coffee pot hisses. Khaotung exhales, leaning back against the bench as the chaos fades into calm.
The café hits another lull mid afternoon. Somewhere in the back, Auntie Joe is singing along to a love song from the early 2000s, very off-key, and Mae Lin is arguing with a supplier on the phone in two languages at once. Khaotung leans against the old wooden counter, the one with the scratches from years of customers and elbows and laughter, and lets the sound fade into something older.
Something quieter.
Something from before.
He remembers the rain first.
It was falling so hard the day he met them that his shirt stuck to his bones. He was ten years old and sitting on the curb outside a police station in Ubon Ratchathani, a plastic bag of clothes beside him. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Maybe nothing. Maybe just to disappear into the foster system again. He’d already done two homes and a group shelter. He didn’t cry anymore. That had been trained out of him, mostly.
Then there was a car. A clumsy umbrella. A voice saying, “Oh, no. Is this him? Look at him. He’s so small.”
He looked up.
Mae Lin had warm eyes and an even warmer coat. She knelt in front of him without hesitation, not minding the wet pavement. “Sawasdee ka, Khaotung,” she said gently. “I’m Mae Lin. And that’s Auntie Joe in the car pretending she can parallel park.”
The woman inside the car had short cropped hair dyed a streaky purple-red and was waving both hands frantically at the wheel.
Khaotung blinked.
Mae Lin reached into her coat and pulled out a plastic-wrapped steamed bun. “This one has sweet potato filling. I wasn’t sure what you liked, but… it’s warm.”
He took it. Slowly. Hands trembling.
“Would it be alright,” she asked carefully, “if we drove you to our home? You don’t have to stay forever. Just a little while, if that’s okay. Long enough to see if you like the cat, at least.”
He nodded.
He didn’t say a word until they were halfway to the city.
Then Auntie Joe, who had a wild way of driving and a voice like she should be hosting a late-night radio show, said, “You ever had roti with banana and condensed milk, kid?”
“No,” he whispered.
“Well, that’s a crime.”
They made it when they got home. Let him eat two pieces. Let him sit on the floor while their old cat Lynx rubbed against his legs and purred like a lawnmower. Let him pick a room. Let him cry that night without saying a word about it the next morning.
They didn’t push.
Didn’t pry.
Just gave him a school uniform. A tiny apron. A drawer in the kitchen marked KHAO’S STUFF – DO NOT TOUCH with stickers and misspellings.
And eventually, one evening during the slow hour between dinner and bed, while folding laundry and singing along to a dumb commercial jingle, Auntie Joe looked over at him and said, “So, if you want to stay, we’d like to make it official. You can say no, and we’ll still keep feeding you.”
Mae Lin added, “But if you say yes, you’ll be our boy. Always. No matter what.”
He had paused mid-fold. “Even if I get weird?”
“Especially if you get weird,” Auntie Joe said.
He said yes.
He said it so quietly it almost didn’t come out at all.
But Mae Lin heard it. She always did.
He blinks out of the memory as a hand touches his shoulder, Mae Lin’s. She doesn’t say anything, just smiles and hands him a fresh glass of iced butterfly pea tea.
“You thinking about something?” she asks.
“Just… remembering.”
She nods. “We do that a lot, too. Especially when you’re away. But you’re always ours, Khao.”
His throat is a little too tight to answer.
So he just leans his head against her shoulder, lets himself be still for one more minute.
Later, before he leaves, Mae Lin tucks a small woven charm into his pocket. It’s shaped like a star. “For good luck,” she says. “Tomorrow, for them. And whenever your turn comes.”
He nods, fingers closing over the charm. “I’m not sad,” he says, almost surprised by it. “I thought I’d be sad not playing.”
“Because you’re growing,” Auntie Joe says, wiping her hands and kissing his temple. “You don’t have to fight for love anymore, Khao. You just have to let yourself have it.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Khaotung pushes open the dorm door just as the last of the evening light spills in, golden and gentle. The place smells faintly like instant noodles and too many boys living in too small a space. He toes off his shoes and heads toward the living room, where some of the team is draped across the furniture in various stages of laziness and stress.
Neo’s got one leg hooked over the back of the couch, chewing gum and flicking through a replay on his phone. First sits next to him, upright, laptop open on his knees, still watching VODs with that permanent furrow between his brows. Gun is on the floor, dramatically face-down on the rug like he’s been defeated by air.
“There he is,” Neo grins. “The princess returns.”
“You’ve been gone for hours,” Gun groans. “I almost died of boredom. Neo started talking about crosshair placement.”
“It’s a good topic,” Neo argues.
Khaotung laughs, dropping his bag by the wall. “I needed the break. No internet. Just pandan waffles and emotional stability.”
He makes his way over to the couch and starts to lean into the open space next to First. But before he can settle, First shifts slightly, not quite pulling away, but making it clear: not now.
Khaotung pauses, then reroutes, dropping instead onto the floor in front of the couch and crossing his legs, back to First’s knees but not quite touching.
He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t take it personally. But he feels it. Like always.
“So?” Neo prompts. “How were the moms?”
“Auntie Joe was scamming tourists again,” Khaotung replies with a grin. “Told a whole tour group that her passionfruit scones were featured in Thailand Tatler. They weren’t. She just likes watching people pretend they’ve heard of it.”
Gun lifts his head, intrigued. “Wait. You’re telling me your family café has passionfruit scones? Why have I never been invited?”
“You don’t even like scones,” Neo says.
“I like being included.”
Khaotung smirks. “There were also pandan waffles. Mae Lin burnt the first batch because she was dancing while flipping them.”
“That’s so cute,” Gun groans. “I want to meet them. Take me next time.”
“No,” First says flatly, not even looking up from his laptop.
Gun blinks. “Huh?”
“They don’t need another chaotic idiot trying to charm them.”
Khaotung shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Wow. I missed you too, P’First.”
First doesn’t answer, eyes still glued to the screen.
Gun, undeterred, rolls closer on the rug, propping his chin on his hands. “Ignore him. He’s just mad he didn’t get any pandan waffles. I want to meet your moms. I want to eat all the scones. I want to be their favorite.”
“You’d have to fight Auntie Joe for that title,” Khaotung says, smiling now despite the tension. “She’s kind of obsessed with me.”
“Gross,” First mutters.
Neo makes a noise like he’s holding in a laugh.
Khaotung turns to glance back at First again. “You don’t have to be a dick just because I had a nice day.”
For a second, First’s fingers still on the keyboard. He looks up, just barely, meeting Khaotung’s gaze for a breath. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—apology, maybe, or regret. But it vanishes too fast.
“I’m just saying,” he mutters. “It’s loud enough here without inviting more.”
“Cool,” Khaotung says, too brightly, turning back around. “Well, P’Gun, next time I go, I’ll bring you. Neo, you too. But only if you promise not to talk about crosshair angles in front of Auntie Joe. She’ll challenge you to a knife duel.”
“Deal,” Neo says immediately.
Gun wiggles in place, victorious. “I’m going to bring flowers. And a gift basket.”
First mutters, “I’m going to bring a taser.”
Gun perks up, immediately grinning. “Wow. Not invited but already threatening violence? Peak crush behavior.”
Khaotung snorts.
Neo cackles.
First glares, but it’s the weak kind, the kind that doesn’t hold real heat.
“And yet,” Gun adds smugly, “I just know you’re gonna end up sitting next to Mae Lin like a broody cat while she makes you tea and tells you you need to eat more vegetables.”
“She will,” Khaotung says, still smiling. “And she’ll give him extra pandan waffles just to be polite.”
First doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t argue either. His laptop is still open, his hands still on the keyboard, but his posture softens a little. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Khaotung does.
And he doesn’t say it, doesn’t push it, doesn’t make it weird. He just adds casually, like it’s nothing, “You can come too, P’First.”
First doesn’t look up.
“Only if you promise not to tase anyone,” Khaotung adds with a smirk.
Neo claps once, delighted. “Team field trip!”
Gun groans dramatically and collapses back onto the rug. “This is going to be the weirdest, gayest bakery visit Thailand has ever seen.”
Khaotung just leans back onto his hands, the woven star charm still in his hoodie pocket, and lets himself feel—for just a moment—exactly how lucky he is.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The greenroom is cooler than expected. Not in temperature, but in tone. Focused. Grounded. Serious in a way Khaotung isn’t used to feeling around these boys.
He’s been here before, of course, but always in the crowd. On the event floor. Hair freshly styled, dressed in Eclipse merch he definitely over-accessorized, holding a light-up “GUN HEADSHOT ME” sign and yelling loud enough to earn himself three separate compilation videos on Twitter.
But now?
Now he’s behind the curtain. There’s a VIP pass around his neck. And Off, still in his jersey but with a clipboard in hand, is mid-strategy breakdown.
“—so remember, they’ve been double-stacking smokes on B-side in the late rounds. If I swing first, Neo refrag. JJ holds mid. Gun rotates off First’s call.” Off glances up briefly, eyebrows raised. “Khao, you’re listening, right?”
Khaotung, sitting at the edge of the bench with a bottle of electrolyte water and a heart doing somersaults, snaps upright. “Yes, Coach Off, sir. Refrag and rotate. Swing responsibly. Got it.”
Gun snorts behind him.
“Don’t listen to him,” Gun stage-whispers. “He used to think 'refrag' was a skincare brand.”
“I was new!”
“That was three months ago.”
“I’m a slow learner!”
“Focus,” Off says without looking up, but he’s smiling just a little at the corner of his mouth. “This is my last run. Don’t make me regret letting you watch the magic happen up close.”
That makes Khaotung shut up, fast. Because Off’s right. This is his last match. After this, the jersey changes hands.
It’ll be his name on the roster next time.
Khaotung swallows hard, eyes darting around the room. He sees Neo pacing near the back, muttering quietly to himself and slapping his thighs like a beatboxer. JJ is checking his mouse settings for the third time. AJ is silent, half-shadow in the corner.
And First,
First is sitting at the practice station, earbuds in, staring straight ahead.
He looks… still.
Too still.
Even for him.
Khaotung watches him for a moment, unsure what exactly he’s seeing. Not fear. Not exactly. Just… pressure. Heavy and silent, like a storm cloud stitched to his shoulders.
First’s fingers twitch against the edge of the desk. His jaw is set. His lips part slightly, as if he's about to whisper something, then thinks better of it.
He’s quieter than usual, and that’s saying something. But the quiet feels different today.
Khaotung shifts a little closer. Not enough to invade, but enough to offer. He thumbs the woven star in his pocket once, breath easing. “You okay?” he asks softly.
First doesn’t look at him. “Fine.”
It’s the default setting. The brush-off. But something in it sounds off.
Khaotung risks a tiny smile. “You’ll crush it. You always do.”
First finally glances at him, just for a beat. “Then stop talking.”
Khaotung grins. “See? You’re back already.”
Off claps once. “Alright, team. Five-minute check. Mindsets locked. One last time, yeah?”
They all form a loose circle. Even AJ steps in.
Gun extends his fist first, the way he always does. “For Papii.”
Neo adds his next. “For the bench boy.”
JJ grins, joining in. “For glory.”
AJ’s hand comes in. “For silence.”
Khaotung, blinking quickly, puts his in too. “For the scones.”
Off raises an eyebrow.
Khaotung shrugs. “Tradition. Gotta start somewhere.”
Last is First. He stares at the circle for a moment longer than the others.
Then his hand joins the pile, clean and steady.
“For the win,” he says.
They all nod. Breathe.
Off pulls them into a brief huddle, low and tight. “This team is what I’m proudest of,” he says, voice steady, not soft. “Now go out there and make them scared of what we’re about to become.”
As they start to move, Gun throws an arm around Khaotung’s shoulders. “Next time, you’re in that chair. You ready?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
Gun beams. “Perfect. That means you care.”
And just ahead of them, First glances back.
Only once.
But it’s enough to make Khaotung’s heart skip.
Not because it’s warm.
But because he was seen.
And maybe, just maybe, First wants him there, even if he doesn’t say it yet.
Chapter 33
Notes:
HIIIII, OMG I've been so excited for this one. Slow burn is about to get less slow. I just can't wait. There's so much I want to say but I don't want to spoil anything so I'll be back in a day or two with the next one but please ENJOY this one.
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand August 2025-
The stadium is a living creature.
Lights flash, music pulses, and the crowd roars like thunder beneath a storm of fog machines and LED waves. The casters are hyped, the rival team—decked out in blood-red jerseys—are already posturing like they’ve won.
And above it all, seated in the VIP section with a lanyard around his neck and butterflies going to war in his stomach, sits Khaotung.
He’s got a pair of big pink headphones on and a personalized, oversized Eclipse bomber jacket that one of the PR girls convinced him to wear for "brand synergy." He’s tucked in among staff, sponsors, and special guests, but right near his row, a pocket of Eclipse fans has gathered, holding up signs with his face on them.
Actual signs. With his face.
One says “GLITTERSHOT WHEN??” in glitter paint.
Another has “KHAOTUNG LIVE 💘 GUNLOCKED FOREVER” drawn in dangerous proximity to a heart emoji and a kissy face.
He blushes. Instantly. He waves, hiding behind his sleeves, and they cheer louder. A few of them call his name. One yells, “WE LOVE YOU, PRINCESS KHAO!”
Khaotung shushes them, laughing, but he’s glowing.
Round 1.
Back onstage, the camera catches the lineup in crisp HD. Off and First on duelists, sleek and lethal. Gun holding his sentinel role with subtle flair. Neo’s focused and still, and JJ’s already swaying to some beat only he can hear.
They start on defense. First cracks the first headshot of the game with a clean Sheriff tap, and the crowd erupts.
Off follows with a swing so aggressive it makes the caster yell, “VINTAGE COACH OFF!” before JJ swings the final kill with a flash that earns a respectful nod from the enemy’s IGL.
Khaotung jumps to his feet, then immediately realizes he’s in the VIP section and sits back down, flustered.
The fans across from him are losing it. One of them catches his eye and mouths:
“THAT’S GONNA BE YOU NEXT TIME.”
He grins. Nervously. But… proudly too.
Round 6.
The enemy team adjusts. They stack sites. They start cutting through mid with more confidence. First dies early on a misread peek, and Khaotung flinches watching the instant replay.
“He’s being too hard on himself,” someone murmurs beside him, one of the staffers.
Khaotung glances toward First’s face on the screen. Tense. Jaw tight. Brows low.
But he’s not throwing.
Just trying too hard.
Gun picks up the slack that round, landing a three-piece and using Killjoy’s Lockdown perfectly to defuse spike. The camera cuts to him blowing a kiss into the camera and winking.
Khaotung nearly chokes on his drink.
The girls across from him scream. “GUNLOCKED!!!”
Khaotung yells back, “YOU’RE TOO EASY FOR HIM!”
They scream louder.
Halftime. 6–6.
It’s neck and neck. Both teams step away for the pause, and on screen, Off is standing mid-huddle, speaking low and calm to the others. Khaotung can’t hear the words, but the body language says enough. He’s anchoring them. Re-centering. One last time.
First is nodding.
Khaotung watches him closer now.
His fingers are still tapping on his thigh.
But when Off claps him once on the shoulder and says something near his ear, he straightens. Takes a breath.
Comes back sharper.
Round 18.
They’re on attack now. First and Off push mid like wolves. JJ pings the enemy sentinel’s position. Neo drops a smoke perfect to isolate the flank. Off swings hard. Gets one. Dies on the trade.
Khaotung watches First. Sees the decision before it happens.
He doesn’t wait.
He moves.
Headshot.
Headshot.
One tap.
And suddenly, he’s standing in a 1v1.
“Come on…” Khaotung whispers, hands clenched.
The crowd is silent.
First pre-aims the right corner.
Then waits.
The enemy steps out. First fires once.
The arena explodes.
Khaotung shouts louder than anyone around him, caught between pride and awe and something else that coils a little too tightly in his chest.
The screen cuts to First, who doesn’t smile, doesn’t react. Just pulls his headset off, exhales, and looks down for a second.
But it’s there. The pride. Quiet. Searing.
Match Point. 12–11.
Eclipse goes all in.
Gun uses Killjoy’s ult to force rotation.
Neo walls off mid to deny information.
JJ flashes through B site.
Off and First push site together, the perfect entry duo one last time.
Off dies planting.
But not before he gives First the angle.
First cleans two.
Gun holds post-plant.
JJ covers the defuse.
Victory: Team Eclipse.
The crowd goes feral.
The lights explode in blue and purple. “TEAM ECLIPSE WINS!” flashes across the screen.
Khaotung is already on his feet, hands cupped around his mouth, cheering so hard he nearly trips over the VIP row. The fans near him are jumping, some of them turning just to film his reaction now. One even yells:
“HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE NEXT, PRINCESS?”
Khaotung laughs through the nerves and yells back:
“YOU BETTER SCREAM EVEN LOUDER WHEN I WIN!”
He’s flushed with adrenaline, heart pounding, chest full. Because this isn’t just about watching anymore.
It’s about becoming.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The crowd is fading. The lights are softer now. Somewhere, fans are still screaming, still waving signs, still echoing his name like it’s a spell. But back here offstage, off-camera, it’s quieter.
Finally.
First leans one hand against the wall, head tipped back, chest rising too fast. He can still hear the blood rushing in his ears. Still feel the last of the match clinging to his skin. Sweat cooling. Pulse thrumming. The sharp high of every 1v1 still tightening his lungs.
He should be calm by now.
He should be.
And then—
“P’First!!”
The hallway explodes.
Or maybe that’s just Khaotung.
He comes skidding around the corner like a sugar-powered comet, eyes wide, voice loud, body already moving too fast to stop.
“There you are!”
First doesn’t even flinch. He’s too used to it. “Why are you yelling.”
“Because I’m experiencing EMOTIONS!”
First blinks at him. It’s all he can manage.
Khaotung is flinging his arms around like he’s about to lift off. “You just ascended into a divine being on that stage and then vanished like some tragic hero in a manhwa. Are you kidding me??”
He’s glowing. Practically vibrating.
First’s body is exhausted, but his brain is suddenly, violently aware of everything. How close Khaotung’s voice feels. How good he smells. How flushed he is. How the hallway lights catch the glitter still stuck in the corner of his eye.
“You were. No, listen, listen, you were so hot out there I almost passed out,” Khaotung continues. “I thought security was gonna escort me out of the building for screaming too loud. I had tears in my eyes. Tears, P’First.”
“You’re crying over Valorant now,” First says flatly, because that’s what he’s supposed to say.
“NO,” Khaotung fires back, pointing at him like it’s personal. “I’m crying over you. You were flawless. Cold. Calculated. Beautiful. A demon. You and Off together on duelists? I think I just watched a love story.”
First exhales, slow.
He doesn’t know what the hell is happening in his chest. He doesn’t want to name it. It’s like his body wants to sit down and run away and scream all at once, which is deranged.
And then Khaotung says, “Boba eyes activate,” and does this stupid little sparkle-hand gesture near his face before clasping his hands under his chin and stepping into his space.
“Look at me, P’First. Look at what you’ve done to me.”
First looks.
He shouldn’t. But he does.
And the voice in his head—low, feral, reckless—says, kiss him.
No. No.
But the corner of his mouth twitches. He can feel it.
Khaotung gasps like someone just proposed. “Was that a SMILE?? Did I just. Did I BREAK you?! Oh my god, oh my god, I need to write this down, I need to text Coach Tay, I need to—”
And then it happens.
First laughs.
It bubbles up from nowhere. It shouldn’t exist. But it does, low, real, chest-deep. And god, it feels good.
Khaotung freezes mid-flail, eyes wide.
Then, softly, “Oh my GOD. He’s got dimples. No one told me about this. I wasn’t ready.”
First presses a hand to his forehead like that might cool him down. It doesn’t.
“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters.
“And you’re beautiful,” Khaotung says, like it’s nothing. Like it’s true.
It is, apparently.
“And terrifying. And I’m not touching you right now because I promised myself I wouldn’t unless you were okay with it, but know that emotionally I am already on your lap braiding your hair.”
First’s brain bluescreens.
He shakes his head, still grinning. “You’re loud.”
“You like it.”
He should say no.
He should.
But he doesn’t.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First woke up hard.
Too hard. Too fast. Sheets tangled around his thighs, hoodie twisted up his torso, and a flush already climbing his neck before he was even fully conscious.
He blinked into the dim light of early morning, heart pounding, skin hot, breath shallow. For a moment, he thought maybe he was sick. Maybe he was having some kind of—
No.
The image was still too vivid.
Khaotung’s mouth. Khaotung’s hands. Khaotung, all flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes and glitter smudged against First’s jaw.
First exhaled shaky, slow, like the breath had to fight its way out.
God.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, hoping the dream would dissolve with contact.
It didn’t.
The flashes stayed: the warmth of Khaotung’s breath against his skin, the sound of his voice, wrecked and low, saying First’s name like it meant something filthy.
And his body. God, his body, pressing down, silk-robe open, thighs spread in First’s lap, laughing into his mouth between kisses. “Didn’t think you could be greedy,” Dream-Khaotung had whispered. “Guess I bring it out of you.”
First let out a noise, half frustration, half disbelief and rolled onto his side like he could crush the thought with his pillow.
It didn’t help.
He was hard. Stupidly, painfully hard. And worse, he didn’t want to get rid of it. He wanted to rewind. To go back to the moment in the dream where Khaotung tugged him close by the waistband of his pants and said, “Touch me like you mean it, Fir.”
His whole body jolted.
“Goddamnit,” he hissed into the mattress.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
He was supposed to be composed. Detached. Focused.
Not dreaming about Khaotung in his silk robe, smirking as he wrapped himself around First like a prayer and whispered, “You’re mine in this dream. Say it.”
First let out a strangled sound and threw the blanket off. Pushed himself up onto unsteady legs and stalked to the sink like cold water could wash sin off his skin.
His reflection stared back at him: flushed cheeks, wild hair, lips still parted.
He looked like he’d been wrecked.
“Get a grip,” he told himself.
The faucet squeaked. He splashed water on his face. Again. Again.
It didn’t help.
Because it wasn’t just lust. That would’ve been easier.
It was the way Khaotung looked at him, even in the dream. With trust. With want. Like First had already said yes to something bigger than he could name.
It was the way First had wanted to say yes.
He gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.
This wasn’t just chemistry. It wasn’t a passing crush. It wasn’t about the mesh shirts or the flirty tweets or even the cherry crop top.
It was him.
The way he laughed too loud. The way he whispered when he meant something. The way he always knew to not push, just hovered nearby like a promise.
And now his goddamn dream self had gone and made it worse. Because now First knew exactly how Khaotung would sound when he moaned his name. How his lips would feel against his throat. How his body would move when he wanted more.
First made it halfway to his bed before stopping short.
He could still feel him. Like the heat of the dream had clung to his skin, like it had left something behind.
He collapsed onto the mattress with a groan and buried his face in the pillow.
This was war.
His brain. His hormones. His heart.
All traitors.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call connected with a soft chime.
First looked like hell.
His hair was a mess, more than usual, and his jacket was halfway zipped like he’d forgotten how clothes worked. There was a faint redness at the tips of his ears and the ghost of a crease on his cheek where he’d clearly faceplanted into a pillow sometime between 4 a.m. and now.
His psychiatrist raised her brows, but her smile was fond. “You look like someone ran you over with a blanket.”
He muttered something, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“What was that?”
“…I had a dream,” he said, voice low.
Her tone softened immediately. “Nightmare?”
He made a face. “No. The opposite.”
That piqued her interest. She folded her hands and leaned in a little, waiting the way she always did.
First exhaled sharply through his nose. “It was about Khaotung.”
Her smile faded, but her focus sharpened. “Mm.”
“I don’t. I mean it wasn’t just a dream. It was that kind of dream.” His mouth twisted like the words were painful. “The stupid steamy kind you wake up from and want to punch a wall.”
Her tone stayed calm but carried a trace of humor. “That would explain the pillow crease.”
He huffed a short laugh in spite of himself. Then his shoulders sagged.
“I haven’t had a dream like that since before…” His voice trailed off.
She let the pause breathe. Then, gently: “Since the trauma.”
His jaw tensed. “Yeah.”
No more words from her, just the kind of quiet that told him she knew exactly how heavy that admission was.
“It wasn’t just that it happened,” he muttered after a beat. “It was how it happened. How… real it felt.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened in the dream?”
He gave her a flat look. “Do I want to? No.”
“But could you?”
He groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “…Yes.”
“Then try me.”
“It wasn’t even anything extreme. Just… touch. Him touching me. My hands in his hair. The feeling of his breath on my skin. The way he said my name.”
His voice cracked faintly. He cleared his throat.
“Except it wasn’t even my name. Not the usual way. He called me Fir.”
That made her blink, then tilt her head. “That’s not common, is it?”
“No. He’s never said that. Not once. It’s always P’First. He teases sometimes, but Fir?” He rubbed his temple. “I don’t know where the hell that came from. But it hit me like a gut punch. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She didn’t interrupt. Her expression was the kind of quiet curiosity that let him keep talking.
“It was stupid,” he went on. “Just a sound. But it felt… intimate. Like something soft and secret. Like he knew a version of me that didn’t even exist until he said it.”
A long pause stretched. She finally said, softly, “That doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds like your mind let you feel something safe.”
He swallowed hard.
“I’ve had memories,” he said, quieter. “Flashbacks. Replays. But never this. Never something good.”
Her gaze warmed. “It’s new territory.”
“And how did you feel when you woke up?”
“I wanted to scream,” he admitted. “I wanted to scrub it out of my brain. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel that way. About someone. About him.”
She leaned forward, voice steady. “But you do.”
“I do,” he said quietly. “And that scares me more than anything else has in a long time.”
“Why?”
“Because it wasn’t just about sex.” His eyes dropped. “It was about wanting. And I haven’t let myself want anything like that.”
Her voice was gentle but sure. “Maybe it’s not about letting yourself. Maybe it’s that your mind finally trusts you enough to want again.”
He looked up sharply. “And if it’s not?”
Her expression didn’t waver. “Then we take it one step at a time. Like we always have. First, you survived something that took your control away. And now? Maybe this is your body telling you you’re starting to take it back.”
He sat there, jaw tight, eyes flicking away.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
He didn’t deny it either.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It started with a laugh.
Not just any laugh. That laugh. The one that always came after Khaotung said something ridiculous and knew it. The one that crinkled his nose, tilted his head back, and somehow made the whole room warmer.
First wasn’t even listening. He was staring blankly at the laptop in the scrim room, trying to focus on reviewing VODs. Trying, and failing.
Because Khaotung was leaning against the back of the couch, sipping an iced tea with two fingers curled around the straw like it was a habit. His sleeves were pushed up. His shirt hung loose off one shoulder and talking with JJ about something dumb.
And then—
“P’First,” Khaotung chirped suddenly. “You good?”
First blinked up.
Khaotung was closer now. Bent slightly forward to meet his eye line. His curls framed his face. His eyes were shining with curiosity. His lips. God, his lips, were glossy again. Raspberry-tinted. Slightly sticky.
Just like the dream.
In a blink, the room dissolved.
He was back in the dream. Khaotung pressing down, all silk and warm skin spread in First’s lap, his hands tangling in First’s hoodie like he needed it, needed him like air. First could still feel it. The warmth. The taste of his skin. The way Khaotung had gasped when their hips had pressed together, whispered “Fir, please—”.
He jerked back to the present like he’d been slapped.
The air felt too hot.
His throat burned.
“Why are you red?” Khaotung asked, peering closer. “Are you getting sick? You look—”
First’s jaw clenched. His fists curled in his lap, tight enough to shake.
“I’m fine,” he snapped too fast, too sharp.
Khaotung blinked. “Whoa. Okay.”
First shut the laptop. Didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Didn’t trust himself to.
He stood up, knocked his chair slightly off-center, and muttered something about needing air.
The door shut behind him a second later.
Out in the hallway, First leaned back against the wall and exhaled like he’d just finished sprinting.
What the fuck was that.
His heart wouldn’t slow down. His skin still buzzed. He could feel phantom hands on his waist, could hear the echo of Khaotung’s voice in his ear from the dream, low and breathy and so real.
He clenched his fists.
“Get a grip,” he muttered to himself.
But he couldn’t.
Because Khaotung’s laugh was still playing on loop in his head.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Something was off.
Like, not just “First is quiet” off. That was Tuesday. That was baseline.
But this? This was storm-clouds-in-a-hallway off. Sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, pacing like he was ready to fight God and probably win.
JJ caught it too when First left, muttering something about him being weird. Khaotung laughed it off at first. He tried to ignore it, gave it a few minutes, even fiddled with a snack bag to prove he wasn’t overthinking, but the longer First stayed gone, the heavier the itch grew.
So he followed.
And found him there. Still orbiting his own anxiety. Five steps down the hall. Five steps back. Hoodie rumpled, fingers worrying the fabric like he didn’t know he was doing it. His ears were pink. His whole posture was strung tight like wire.
Khaotung blinked.
Wait.
Wait.
Was this. Was this about him?
Did he say something stupid? Did JJ say something stupider? Had the glitter filter Khaotung slapped on his photo during stream actually broken him?
He edged closer, heart doing something reckless.
“P’First…?”
Instant stiffening. Like a trap slamming shut.
“You shouldn’t be here,” First muttered, not turning.
Khaotung blinked. “You stormed out. JJ said you looked weird. Like you were gonna puke or something. I tried to laugh it off, but then you didn’t come back. I thought you were hurt, or mad, or—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re red.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Okay, damn.” His hands lifted in surrender, voice softening. “I just—wanted to check. You scared me.”
That made First falter. Just a fraction.
Khaotung shifted awkwardly, biting his lip. He could leave. He probably should. But looking at First like this—rigid, closed off, so clearly rattled—something in him refused to.
He stepped forward. Careful. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to offer. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” came the immediate, clipped reply.
“Then what—”
“I had a dream,” First said, voice like gravel.
Khaotung blinked. “What kind of—”
“That kind of dream.”
Silence.
His stomach dropped.
His brain exploded. Confetti cannon style.
His boba eyes went full throttle.
“…Oh.”
First didn’t say anything else.
Didn’t have to.
His ears were burning. His hands had vanished deep into his sleeves like he was trying to hide from the world.
“Was it…” Khaotung’s voice had gone quiet. Ridiculously soft. “Was it about me?”
First didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Khaotung covered his mouth. “Oh my GOD.”
“Don’t—”
“I knew something was weird! You weren’t even blinking during the last round of VODs. And when I said your name. Oh my god, you were thinking about it then??”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t!” Khaotung gasped, pointing at him like an accusation. “You’re just panicking. You’re panicking and being weird and your ears are so red I want to bite them—”
“Khao.”
He stopped. Blinked.
First had finally turned just enough for Khaotung to see his face, and it was wrecked. Pink cheeks, wild eyes, pressed lips like he was trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.
“I didn’t mean to,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
“I’m not mad,” Khaotung said softly. All the teasing dropped out of him at once.
“I’m not teasing,” he added, more serious now.
First looked at him, really looked at him.
Their eyes locked.
And for once, Khaotung didn’t make a joke. Didn’t flinch. Just smiled gently. Like it was the easiest thing in the world to be seen like this. To be wanted like this. To be imagined like that.
“I’m flattered,” he said.
First looked like he was about to combust.
“But also,” Khaotung continued, head tilting just a little, “you ran away from me like I’d stabbed you in the heart.”
“I panicked.”
“I can tell.”
A silence stretched between them.
Khaotung rocked on his heels. Then, because he was Khaotung Thanawat, and subtlety was a myth he didn’t believe in:
“…Did I look good? In the dream?”
First groaned and turned back to the wall like it would save him.
Khaotung cackled. Not loud. Not evil. Just helplessly warm.
“Okay, okay,” he said, backing up. “I’ll go. I’ll leave you to spiral alone like the emotionally repressed goblin you are.”
He turned, began to walk away, then paused.
Half-glancing over his shoulder.
“But for the record?” he said, sweet and light and honest as anything.
“I’ve had dreams too.”
Then he left, skipping just a little, because he could feel the weight of First’s stare burning between his shoulder blades and—
God, it felt so good to know he wasn’t alone in this madness.
He grinned to himself all the way back to his room.
And the minute he closed the door behind him, he collapsed face-first onto his bed and screamed into his pillow.
Because OH MY GOD.
First Kanaphan had a dream.
About him.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-Weeks ago-
The sound that escaped Khaotung’s mouth at 7:03 a.m. was somewhere between a gasp, a squeal, and the startled hiccup of a cartoon princess realizing her forbidden crush was, in fact, real.
He shot upright in bed, hair sticking out in all directions, clutching his blanket like it had personally wronged him.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to no one, eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell was that?”
He slapped a hand over his mouth, heart pounding like he’d just finished a dance relay. Which, honestly, was probably less physically taxing than what Dream First had just done to him.
“Oh my God oh my God oh my God—”
He flopped back onto the bed, blanket dragged up to his nose, and squealed into it like a menace. Pillows flew. One of his plushies hit the floor. He didn’t care.
Because Dream First.
Dream First was not cold. Not distant. Not glaring at him from across a table like he’d just insulted Valorant itself.
No, Dream First had pushed him up against a desk, whispered filth in his ear, and. “Ahhhh!!” Khaotung shrieked again, kicking his legs like a child possessed.
His cat, Montow, blinked at him from the desk like he was considering disowning him.
“Sorry, Montow,” Khaotung whispered dramatically, “your father is unwell.”
He flopped onto his stomach, face burning, still giggling like an idiot.
It had started innocently enough. They’d been reviewing VODs together in the dream. Casual. Professional. First had been leaning over his shoulder, muttering something about spray patterns and crosshair alignment, and then, somewhere between tactical advice and a mouse click.
The groan had happened.
Not real, obviously.
But in the dream, it had been First. Low. Rough. Right against his ear. And suddenly, dream logic had escalated fast. Hands, breath, Khaotung melting against the desk while First said his name like a secret.
He rolled onto his back again, covering his face.
“This is so bad,” he whispered, grinning like a maniac. “I’m so down bad.”
He wanted to remember it forever. Every frame. Every sound. Every impossible, absolutely-never-gonna-happen moment of it.
Except maybe it could happen.
Maybe.
Eventually.
If he played his cards right and didn’t actually pass away from cardiac arrest the next time First so much as looked at him.
Because real First? Real First had smiled at him recently. Once. Maybe twice. And it had wrecked him. If that man ever touched him on purpose.
“Oh my God,” Khaotung said for the fiftieth time, burying his face in his pillow again.
He lay there for a moment, breathing deeply, willing his heart rate to calm down.
Then immediately rolled over and reached for his phone, opening the group chat with JJ and Neo.
GlitterShot 🌙✨:
guys
i had a DREAM
a DREAM dream
A P'FIRST DREAM
JJdoesdamage 💥🧨:
YOU WHORE
DETAILS
NeoBuff 🛡️💪:
7:12 a.m.
what fresh gay chaos is this
GlitterShot 🌙✨:
he SAID MY NAME LIKE A SIN
he was all strong and pushy and his HAIR WAS WET
and i was like oh no but also YES SIR
and then he said “look at me” and i DIED
JJdoesdamage 💥🧨:
I AM SO PROUD OF YOU
DO YOU NEED FLOWERS
NeoBuff 🛡️💪:
this is deranged
i’m going back to sleep
GlitterShot 🌙✨:
i can’t sleep i’m gonna replay it frame by frame
put it on blu-ray
archive it in 4k
He was still giggling when he dragged himself into the bathroom, still pink-faced when he brushed his teeth, and still smiling to himself while trying to tame his bedhead with one hand and pretend he wasn’t completely, hopelessly, irrevocably gone for First.
By 7:45, he was sipping tea, staring into space, and whispering, “Sir, yes sir,” to no one in particular.
Montow meowed judgmentally from across the room.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Khaotung said. “I’m in love with a fictional version of a real man. Let me live.”
Khaotung sighed happily and flopped back onto his bed one more time.
“God, he was so hot.”
And the spiraling began all over again.
Chapter 34
Notes:
hiiii, I wanted to get this posted way sooner. My relationship suddenly ended, so I may be too busy dealing with packing and moving to update as quickly as I would like.
No matter what I will try to update as soon as I can and I hope you enjoy this one :)
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand August 2025-
The sun was brutal outside, glaring off the pavement and making the short walk from the dorm feel longer than it was. By the time they ducked into the café, Khaotung’s shirt was sticking to his back and Gun was fanning himself with the menu like he was seconds from fainting.
“See?” Khaotung said, smug for once. “Good idea, right?”
The café was all glass walls and wood tables, ceiling fans whirring lazily. The air smelled like coffee grounds and chili oil, sharp enough to make his stomach growl. A stack of glass cups clinked behind the counter as someone pulled espresso shots.
Gun collapsed into a chair by the window with a sigh. “You’re saving my life. I want an award.”
Off sat beside him, unbothered, flipping through the menu like he had all the time in the world. “You said that yesterday when I bought you noodles.”
“That was different,” Gun argued. “These are iced drinks. My soul requires iced drinks.”
Khaotung bit back a laugh, ordering a lychee soda before sliding into the seat across from them. He liked this, the hum of other tables, the clatter of plates from the kitchen, the way Off and Gun bickered without ever looking truly annoyed. It felt…normal.
They skimmed the menu together, Gun making dramatic noises over the kanom pang ping spreads, Off vetoing him quietly and pointing out the moo ping skewers instead. Gun whined, Off ignored him, and somehow the order ended up being exactly what Off suggested anyway.
Khaotung leaned his chin on his hand, watching them out of the corner of his eye. He hadn’t even touched his soda yet and he already felt it. That creeping, familiar itch of being the third wheel.
The food came quick, skewers still sizzling on their sticks, a plate of krapow steaming with basil and chili, and thick slices of toast cut into neat squares with dipping spreads lined up like a sampler.
Gun clasped his hands together like he’d just been blessed. “Heaven. Actual heaven.”
Off slid the toast plate closer without looking, already nudging a skewer toward Gun’s side. “Eat before you start crying.”
“I’m not crying.” Gun’s voice was muffled around the straw he’d just stolen from Off’s iced coffee. “I’m thriving.”
Off let him. Just leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking to Gun with that calm little smirk that said you’re ridiculous but also you can do whatever you want.
Khaotung tried to focus on his own drink. He really did.
But then Gun was breaking the toast apart with careful fingers, dipping one into condensed milk, and holding it up like it was sacred. “Say ah.”
Off didn’t even argue. He leaned forward, took the bite, lips brushing Gun’s fingers, and chewed like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Gun beamed, absolutely glowing, then reached over to wipe a crumb from the corner of Off’s mouth with his thumb. “Perfect, right?”
Off hummed. “Too sweet.” He speared another piece of toast, dipped it in kaya instead, and held it out in silent retaliation. Gun leaned in, mouth open obediently, eyes fluttering shut like he was being hand-fed ambrosia.
Khaotung stabbed his spoon into the rice hard enough that a grain flew onto the table.
It didn’t stop. Off nudged half the krapow across to Gun’s plate, muttering something about how he wouldn’t touch the vegetables otherwise. Gun gasped like it was a love confession, then promptly offered Off the last skewer, holding it up until Off leaned in again and took the bite straight from the stick.
They didn’t even blink when their heads knocked together. Off just shoved Gun’s shoulder lightly, and Gun laughed, leaning right back against him as he chewed.
Khaotung coughed into his sleeve. He was starting to feel feverish, and it wasn’t the chili.
By the time Gun was tilting the iced coffee toward Off’s mouth like here, sip from the straw with me, Khaotung couldn’t take it anymore.
He let his chopsticks clatter against the plate. “You two are unbearable.”
Silence.
Gun froze mid-sip, straw still in his mouth. Off paused with his fork halfway to the plate. Both of them turned slowly toward Khaotung, twin looks of predator amusement settling in.
Khaotung instantly regretted opening his mouth.
Gun yanked the straw out, slamming his cup down with unnecessary drama. “Oh. My. God.” He pointed across the table like he’d just solved a murder. “You’re jealous!”
“I’m not—”
Gun’s eyes widened, glinting with evil delight. “Wait. Wait wait wait.” He leaned across the table, lowering his voice like it was top-secret gossip. “This is about P’First, isn’t it?”
Khaotung choked on air. “What. no.”
Off leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Knew it.”
Gun slapped the table, triumphant. “Oh my god, it is! This isn’t just a crush, this is a mega crush. Tragic. Devastating. Unfixable.”
“P’Gun!” Khaotung hissed, gripping his spoon like a weapon.
But Gun was unstoppable. “He’s suffering. He’s glowing. He’s in love!”
Off’s smirk tilted sharper, his voice low and certain. “Obvious for weeks.”
Khaotung wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. His heart was hammering so hard it rattled his ribs, not just from embarrassment but from the truth of it. Because it wasn’t just a crush. Not anymore. Not when every tiny gesture between them felt like it carved something open in his chest.
He wanted that. The easy closeness, the casual affection, the way Off and Gun touched without thinking because they didn’t have to question it. He wanted that with P’First so badly it made him ache.
Gun clasped Off’s hand across the table like he was delivering the final blow. “Our little princess is in love.”
Khaotung kicked him under the table. Hard.
Gun yelped, clutching his shin. Off chuckled into his drink, completely unbothered, while Khaotung sank lower in his seat, wishing his lychee soda would drown him.
The table had gone quiet after his outburst, toast crumbs scattered between them, Gun rubbing his shin and Off sipping his Americano like nothing had happened. The café hum was still there — spoons clinking, ice rattling in glasses, the hiss of steam — but it felt far away.
Khaotung stared at the square of toast on his plate. He hadn’t touched it. His soda glass sweating onto the table, dripping a little pool he kept tracing with his finger.
He heard himself say it before he meant to.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not gonna happen.”
Gun’s head snapped up, the playfulness gone. “Khao.”
Khaotung shrugged without looking up. “He’s P’First. He’s… him. And I’m just me.”
The words tumbled out too fast now, bitter in his throat. “I’m loud, I’m messy, I talk too much. He’s… quiet. Untouchable. Precise. I don’t even know why he puts up with me half the time. Maybe he just—” His voice cracked, and he stabbed the table with his straw to cover it. “Maybe he just tolerates me.”
Silence. Heavy.
When he finally glanced up, Gun was staring at him like he’d grown two heads. “Tolerates you?” His voice pitched high with disbelief. “Khao, he—”
Off cut in first, steady and calm. “Stop. Don’t tear yourself down like that.”
Khaotung’s throat burned. “It’s true.”
“It’s not,” Off said. No room for doubt. “You think you’re too much, but that’s what makes you you. And we like you. He likes you. That’s not tolerance. That’s value.”
Gun leaned in, softer now but still dramatic in the way he couldn’t help. “Princess, you’re glitter. You walk into a room and the whole place lights up. Do you really think P’First of all people would waste his time on someone he didn’t want around?”
Khaotung swallowed, hard. His chest was tight, his eyes stung, but he didn’t want to cry in the middle of a café. “I just… I want things. And I hate myself for it. For wanting something I probably can’t have.”
Off’s gaze didn’t waver. “Wanting isn’t weakness.”
Gun nodded quickly, expression raw in a way that startled him. “Yeah. You don’t need to apologize for wanting to be loved, Khao. That’s human. That’s not too much.”
Khaotung pressed his palm flat against the damp table, grounding himself in the sticky ring his glass had left. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
He wanted it so badly his bones ached. Not just flirting, not just sparks. He wanted closeness. To be chosen. To be held. And the thought that it might never happen, that maybe he was reaching too high clawed at him.
Gun reached across the table suddenly, covering Khaotung’s hand with his own, sticky condensation and all. “Listen to me. You deserve it. Don’t talk yourself out of something good before it even starts.”
Khaotung blinked fast, biting his lip.
Off leaned back, voice steady. “He’s not blind. And you’re not invisible. Stop assuming the worst.”
The words landed heavy, sticking to his ribs. Khaotung didn’t trust himself to answer, not without breaking. He just nodded, once, quick, eyes fixed on the crumbs on his plate.
Gun squeezed his hand before letting go. “That’s our Princess,” he said, smiling again, softer this time.
Khaotung let out a shaky breath and reached for his drink. The straw trembled between his fingers.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than them.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm kitchen was dim and quiet, filled only with the hush of early morning and the scent of cinnamon-sugar toast crisping gently in the pan.
First hadn’t meant to be here.
He’d meant to stay in bed, stay buried under blankets, try again to forget the same goddamn dream that had practically singed itself into his nervous system for days now.
But the dorm had been quiet, and his skin felt too hot. The cold shower hadn’t helped. Neither had pacing. Neither had the blanket over his head.
So now he was here. Mug in hand. Standing in the doorway like some ghost of bad decisions, staring at the shape of Khaotung’s back.
He was barefoot at the stove, sleeves shoved up, hair a mess from sleep and a little damp at the ends. He hummed off-key, swaying gently as he flipped the toast with way too much flair for someone who had clearly just rolled out of bed. His oversized shirt hung loose over bare legs. And First wanted to look away.
He didn’t.
He couldn’t.
His fingers tightened around the mug as if it could anchor him. But the images kept coming, uninvited. Khaotung in that silk robe. In his lap. Whispering into his mouth. Smiling like sin and wanting. Saying—
“Touch me like you mean it, Fir.”
First clenched his jaw. Heat flared at the base of his neck. His brain was useless. His hormones were traitors. His heart was worse.
He set the mug down. A soft clink.
And then,
He moved.
Crossed the floor in three steps, reached out before he could stop himself, and wrapped his arms tightly around Khaotung’s waist from behind.
Khaotung startled. The spatula hit the pan with a loud clatter. “Phi?”
First didn’t say anything. He just held him tighter.
His chest against Khaotung’s back. His hands splayed against Khaotung’s stomach, the heat of him undeniable. His chin lightly rested on Khaotung’s shoulder, breath stirring the fringe of his hair.
“You were in the silk robe,” he murmured, low and wrecked and real. “And nothing else.”
Khaotung froze.
“You sat in my lap and told me I was yours.” First’s voice cracked, almost imperceptibly. “You laughed into my mouth.”
Khaotung’s ears turned crimson. His breath hitched.
“You’re telling me this, now?” he managed to whisper.
“I’ve been trying to scrub the thought out of my head for four days,” First said against his neck. “You get to suffer with me.”
Khaotung let out a breathless noise half a laugh, half a whimper. “You hugged me to punish me?”
“No.” First’s voice softened, thinned. “I hugged you because I wanted to.”
They stood there in the silence that followed, shaped entirely by tension and heat, both from the pan on the stove and from the press of their bodies.
“You never do this,” Khaotung said quietly. “Like, ever.”
“I know.”
“Am I dreaming right now?”
“If you are,” First murmured, “it’s your turn to explain it to your psychiatrist.”
Khaotung snorted, breath shaking a little. “God, you’re the worst.”
“You smell like cinnamon.”
“You smell like post-dream horny regret.”
First groaned quietly against his shoulder. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
First didn’t answer.
He didn’t let go.
Khaotung slowly slid his hands over First’s where they were clasped around his waist. He laced their fingers together, soft and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“I like this,” he said.
First closed his eyes for a second. Just one.
Then opened them again, arms still around Khaotung. The dream hadn’t faded.
But this moment? This was real.
And he wasn’t letting go yet.
The smell of burning toast finally broke the silence.
Khaotung made a soft noise of panic. “Shit—”
He reached forward to rescue the sacrificial bread from the pan, still tangled in First’s arms. It was no use. The edges were charred, smoke already curling upward like a bat signal for chaos.
Too late.
From the hallway a door creaked open.
Footsteps. A yawn. A very loud, very awake voice.
“Do I smell fire?” JJ called. “Is someone trying to assassinate me via carbs?”
First froze. Khaotung started giggling.
Then Neo’s voice, “JJ, if anyone wanted to kill you, they’d just unplug your keyboard.”
“I’d haunt this house,” JJ shot back. “Forever. And you’d still lose ranked.”
And then, of course. Gun.
“WHO BURNED SOMETHING WITHOUT ME?”
First’s soul left his body.
Khaotung squeaked, twisting slightly in First’s arms to face the chaos about to descend.
Gun was the first to enter, dramatic as always in fluffy slippers and matching blue pajama set, hair still wild from sleep but eyes instantly scanning the scene like a gossip-seeking missile.
Behind him came Neo, calm and vaguely amused, followed by JJ in pineapple pajama pants and a shirt that read Trust Me I’m Fragging.
And all three of them stopped.
Dead.
Right there in the doorway.
Frozen like a live audience catching the kiss scene a few beats too early.
First didn’t let go.
Khaotung didn’t move.
JJ blinked. “...Are we interrupting?”
Neo arched a brow. “Should we come back in five?”
Gun gasped, he’d just discovered a love affair. “YOU’RE, YOU’RE HUGGING.”
JJ’s eyes were saucers. “Is this? Are we still dreaming?”
First’s jaw flexed. “Leave.”
Gun was already sprinting toward them.
“YOU’RE HUGGING HIM IN THE KITCHEN?” he shrieked, gleeful. “AT SEVEN IN THE MORNING? PHI, WHO ARE YOU?!”
“Someone possessing him,” Neo suggested. “Has to be.”
“SHOULD WE CALL P’TAY?” JJ howled. “NO WAIT—BETTER—SOMEONE LIVE TWEET THIS.”
Gun was circling them now like a wildlife photographer, hands dramatically miming a camera. “I NEED THIS IN EVERY ANGLE. THE PRINCE HAS BEEN CAPTURED.”
First let out a slow, long-suffering exhale. “If I let go, will you all shut up?”
Gun grinned. “Too late. You already touched him. That’s forever now.”
“Canon,” JJ whispered, clutching his heart. “Confirmed.”
Neo, as always, was maddeningly calm. “You know we’re going to talk about this for the rest of the month.”
“Rest of the year,” Gun corrected. “Possibly decade.”
Khaotung, still blushing but absolutely no help, was shaking with laughter. “You guys act like this is shocking.”
“Because it is!” JJ yelled. “We’ve been betting on this for weeks!”
“You what?” First snapped.
Gun held up a note on his phone titled Operation Ice Melt. “You hugged him, P’First. You touched him. And didn’t spontaneously combust.”
Neo nodded solemnly. “Growth.”
First finally stepped back, slow and mechanical, like if he moved too fast he might actually start swinging.
“Out,” he said, voice dangerously low.
Gun fluttered his lashes. “Do you mean it, or are you gonna hug us too?”
Khaotung was wheezing now, doubled over in front of the stove. “Please—please stop—he’s going to have an aneurysm.”
JJ pulled out his phone. “Caption: Local Ice Prince Caught Simping at Dawn.”
“I will end you,” First said calmly.
Gun squealed. “He’s DEFENSIVE now, he cares! I love this arc.”
Neo opened a cabinet casually. “We’re just here for cereal. Don’t mind us. Keep… embracing.”
JJ was already pouring a bowl. “P’First, you have two options. Deny and die. Or accept and suffer.”
Khaotung leaned against the counter, still giggling. “I don’t mind the suffering.”
JJ dropped his spoon. “OH MY GOD HE’S IN TOO.”
Gun started clapping. “THAT’S IT. YOU’RE MARRIED.”
First buried his face in his hands.
Neo patted his shoulder with faux sympathy. “You did this to yourself.”
Gun, whispering: “Can I be your flower girl?”
First turned slowly toward the hallway.
“I’m moving out.”
“You say that every week,” JJ said through a mouthful of cereal.
Khaotung reached for his hand before he could escape, tugging gently, eyes soft with laughter and something more tender underneath.
First paused.
Just long enough.
And then First left the room.
But not before Khaotung leaned over the counter, grinning at the rest of them and whispering, “He hugged me first.”
JJ dropped his spoon again.
Neo nodded, solemn. “The boy is doomed.”
Khaotung? Khaotung was reeling.
The hug had been real. The tension had been biblical. The cinnamon toast was definitely burnt.
Khaotung was floating.
“Princess. Yesterday you told us he only tolerates you.”
Khaotung’s stomach dropped. “P’Gun—”
“DOES THAT LOOK LIKE TOLERANCE?!” Gun shrieked, throwing his arms wide like the hug scene was still projected in the doorway.
JJ choked on his cereal. “Wait. WHAT?! He said that? Oh my god, Khao, he was holding you like a man who wanted to merge souls—”
Neo, monotone: “That was not tolerance. That was attachment.”
Khaotung hid his face in his hands. “Why are you like this.”
Gun clutched his chest, staggering back dramatically. “Our poor insecure Princess, doubting himself while P’First is out here clinging at dawn like it’s the finale of a lakorn!”
JJ slapped the table. “Caption: BREAKING ‘just tolerates me’ theory obliterated by waist grab at sunrise.”
Khaotung made a wounded noise. “I hate all of you.”
Gun leaned across the counter, grin softening. “No you don’t. You’re glowing.”
The four of them all went quiet for a beat.
Just one.
Long enough for it to sink in.
Then JJ whispered reverently: “We were here.”
Gun placed a hand over his heart. “At ground zero.”
Khaotung leaned back in the chair, eyes still wide, fingers tracing the ghost of where First had held him. He didn’t need to say the rest. Not out loud.
Because it wasn’t just a hug.
It was a shift.
And Khaotung felt it in his bones. Something had changed between them.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The camera flicked on.
First sat hunched in his desk chair, hoodie half-zipped, hair unbrushed. His eyes looked shadowed, like he hadn’t slept. Which, to be fair, he hadn’t. Not really.
Not after that morning.
Not after the hug.
Not after they all saw.
His psychiatrist greeted him calmly, though her eyes softened as they landed on him. “I’m here. Talk to me.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed. Sat there, tense and quiet, hands curled deep in his sleeves like he could squeeze the panic out.
“I did something,” he said finally, voice tight. “Stupid. No—actually it was fine, it was normal, but it feels stupid because—”
He stopped. Started again.
“I hugged someone.”
Her brows lifted a fraction. “Alright.”
“It was—” He cut off, throat working. “It wasn’t forced. Or asked. I just… did it.”
She didn’t rush him. Just tilted her head a little, waiting.
“It felt good.” That came out too fast, too sharp. “And now I’m losing my mind.”
Her tone was steady, grounding. “Okay. Let’s slow it down. Start from the top.”
So he did.
Not every detail, but enough.
Khaotung. The kitchen. The way it lingered, how his body felt like it had stored that exact sensation—that warmth, that closeness—and then acted on it without permission from his brain.
He told her how his brain went silent long enough to forget his own rules. How he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around someone who glowed, and for once, didn’t flinch when the light touched him.
“And then the whole team walked in,” he said, dragging a hand over his face. “Gun narrated it like a romance drama. JJ screamed. Neo quoted stats like it was a post-match review.”
What he didn’t say, what stuck in his throat, was how Khaotung had looked up at him. Surprised, yes. But not scared. Not annoyed. Like he’d wanted to be held.
First’s voice dropped lower.
“I didn’t regret it. Even with all of them there. I didn’t want to let go.”
The words hung heavy in the silence.
“That’s… kind of huge, isn’t it?” she said softly, pride threading through the question.
He looked away from the camera.
“I’m still not okay with being touched. Not most of the time. But with him—it’s different. Not always. But sometimes.”
Her smile was gentle. “It sounds like your body is starting to recognize safety. That’s not nothing, First.”
He let out a sharp, tired laugh. “Tell that to the panic spiral that happened ten minutes later.”
“Mm. You know as well as I do, panic doesn’t erase progress. Sometimes it just means your system noticed the change and pulled the alarm out of habit. It doesn’t cancel what you did.”
He went quiet again, eyes flicking down.
“Do you want to touch him?” she asked.
His answer slipped out before he could think. “Yes.”
His hands clenched tighter in his sleeves. “That’s the worst part.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to want anything.” He exhaled sharply. “I don’t want to need anyone. It feels… dangerous.”
Her voice was calm but not detached. “Do you think wanting him makes you weak?”
“No,” First said. “I think it’s terrifying.”
A pause.
“Because he sees me,” he added, voice quieter now. “Like—really sees. And he’s still there. Still smiling. Still… waiting.”
His throat tightened.
“I’ve never had that before. Not even with Rina.”
Her expression softened at the name, but she didn’t press. Just let the silence hold.
“You’re allowed to want that,” she said finally.
He looked back at her, eyes sharp. “But what if I mess it up?”
“You might,” she said plainly, but her voice was warm. “That’s part of being human. But I trust you to know your limits now. And I trust that you won’t run the first time it feels real.”
His hands twitched in his sleeves.
“Do you think he’s safe?” she asked.
“Yes,” First answered instantly. That, at least, didn’t scare him.
Her eyes softened further. “And do you want to keep pretending you’re not completely gone for him?”
That tugged the corner of his mouth. “I hate how obvious it is.”
“It’s only obvious to the people who love you,” she said.
“And JJ.”
She chuckled. “And JJ.”
Some of the tension bled out of him. He leaned back a little.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for more,” he said. “But I don’t want to shut it down either.”
“That sounds like clarity to me.”
“I hate clarity.”
Her laugh was quiet, but real. “First.”
He looked at her.
“You’re doing it. All of it. Not perfectly, not quickly—but honestly. And that’s what matters.”
He nodded slowly.
Then, almost like it slipped past his guard, he murmured, “He looked up at me like I gave him the moon.”
Her voice gentled to a whisper. “And how did that make you feel?”
His answer was very small.
“Like maybe I deserve one, too.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The dorm had mostly settled.
JJ and Neo had gone off to “debrief” with leftover dumplings. AJ disappeared into his room to review VODs, and Gun was, thankfully, preoccupied dragging Off into a matching face mask moment for content.
Which left the kitchen mostly quiet. Mostly.
First leaned against the counter, fingers curled around a cold glass of water, eyes trained on the tiled floor like it had committed a personal offense. His hoodie sleeves were pulled over his palms again. His expression had long since defaulted to blank.
He was fine.
Fine.
Everything was under control.
So when the soft shff of slippered footsteps entered the room, he didn’t look up. Not even when the scent of lavender and sugar floated closer. Not even when a soft, smug voice broke the silence.
“Well,” Khaotung said, drawing the word out like he was twirling it on his tongue. “If it isn’t my mysterious morning hugger.”
First closed his eyes.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“You’re not,” Khaotung replied cheerfully, slipping fully into view, shirt still slightly rumpled from earlier chaos. “Not before we talk about your hands. On me. Willingly.”
First took a slow sip of water like it might drown the urge to self-destruct.
Khaotung grinned, practically bouncing in place. “You know, I thought I was dreaming for a second. The cold, emotionally distant P’First? Hugging me? Arms wrapped tight around my waist? While I was making toast? Iconic behavior.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re flustered,” Khaotung sing-songed, stepping closer. “Which I didn’t know you could even be. I feel like I just unlocked a rare achievement.”
“I panicked,” First muttered. “It wasn’t planned.”
Khaotung beamed. “Best panic of my life. Very cinematic.”
“You sound proud.”
“I am proud.” He sat up straighter, voice dropping. “You hugged me because you wanted to. Don’t think I didn’t hear it.”
“I’m not making fun of you,” he said, voice softer now. “I know that was a big deal.”
First didn’t speak.
“I just… liked it,” Khaotung added, quieter. “Even if you don’t say anything. Even if you’re pretending it never happened. I’m not going to push. But I want you to know it meant a lot.”
That stopped First cold.
Even now, with his pulse tight and the echo of that dream still haunting the edges of his thoughts, he hadn’t run. Khaotung was here. Close. Unapologetically radiant. And First was still here.
His grip tightened slightly. Then he said, very quietly, “You looked nice this morning.”
Khaotung blinked. “What?”
“Your hair was… good,” First added stiffly. “Clean.”
Khaotung blinked, then burst out laughing. “Did you just flirt with my shampoo routine?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Oh no,” Khaotung whispered, delighted. “Too late. That was 100% flirting. Next thing you know, you’ll be buying me hair masks.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Sure you would, Hugsy.”
First shook his head but didn’t move away.
Khaotung watched him for a beat longer, then murmured, “Hey. I liked the hug.”
“I know.”
“And if you ever want to try again…” His voice dipped. “Maybe without an audience.”
First finally looked at him, really looked.
It wasn’t panic in his chest.
It was heat.
He didn’t say yes.
But he didn’t say no, either.
Khaotung’s smile softened. “Okay. I’ll let you escape now before you implode.”
First turned to go.
He made it two steps before Khaotung chirped, “Also, your hoodie’s inside out!”
“Stop talking—”
But before he could leave, Khaotung grinned and added, “Oh! I forgot to mention, wanna hear something wild?”
“No.”
“About that dream I had?”
First froze.
“Mine was VOD review. Very normal. Except it wasn’t.”
First turned halfway, suspicious. “What do you mean?”
Khaotung slid away from the counter. The soft pad of his slippers was the only sound as he crossed the gap between them, stopping just close enough that First had to tilt his head down to look at him.
“You pushed me against the desk,” Khaotung said cheerfully, though his eyes were glinting. “Said my name like it was a sin.”
First’s throat went tight. “Khaotung—”
“Called me Tung, actually,” he continued, leaning in just a little, enough for First to feel his breath. “Which—excuse you. Rude, hot, and I am still recovering.”
First short-circuited. “Tung?”
Khaotung nodded solemnly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Apparently dream you likes nicknames. Strong arms. Dirty mouth. Confidence through the roof.” His voice dipped, playful but daring. “It was… incredible.”
First swallowed hard, ears crimson. “I hate you.”
Khaotung only smiled wider, close enough now that First could catch the faint trace of lavender-sweet on his skin. “I woke up screaming. Montow judged me.”
First looked like he wanted to melt through the tile.
“You told me yours,” Khaotung said softly, grin softening into something more intimate. “Figured I should return the favor.”
First’s ears were burning. “You didn’t have to… say it like that.”
“But you’re still standing here,” Khaotung smirked, tilting his head.
“…Barely.”
“And you haven’t run.”
First glared. “I’m walking out now.”
His ears were red the entire way out.
Khaotung leaned against the counter, still grinning like a menace. Because he knew exactly how much First was spiraling.
Which, honestly, was only fair.
Chapter 35: Chapter 35
Notes:
Uhhh so instead of doing anything I'm supposed to be doing, I've been writing this instead. It's good for my soul and all that. I'm slowly moving us into the next major arc and I would be interested to see if anyone has noticed the subtle hints I've been inputting so far. Let me know what you think :))))
Enjoy as always
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand August 2025-
The ring light was already on, casting that familiar glow that made his skin look dewy and soft even before the toner hit. Khaotung adjusted the camera angle, made sure his cropped hoodie was hanging just right off one shoulder, and leaned in toward the screen with a mischievous grin.
“Okay, glitterlings,” he purred, voice a little too sweet, “today we’re doing my morning skincare and answering your extremely invasive, I mean, curious, questions.”
Chat exploded immediately:
@uokprettyboy: OMG WHY DO YOU LOOK SO GLOWY TODAY
@sparkleduelist: FirstKhao real yet?
Khaotung bit his lip to hold back a laugh. “I always glow,” he insisted, reaching for the cleanser. “That’s just good skin and unresolved feelings.”
That made the chat worse.
“Oops,” he said, barely holding back the smirk as he started massaging cleanser into his cheeks. “Did I say feelings? I meant… uh… serums. And hydration.”
He rinsed and patted his face with a pink towel, then caught his own reflection in the camera. His eyes were sparkling. This was dangerous. He should not be allowed near a livestream this caffeinated and this emotionally compromised. He wasn’t even sure if the caffeine was from tea or whatever endorphins were still ping-ponging around his brain after yesterday.
He reached for the toner.
“You guys have been asking about, like, routines and stuff,” he said, voice lighter now, teasing. “So I’m gonna walk you through mine. Step one: nearly cry when your crush gives you physical affection. Step two: pretend you’re fine. Step three: put on toner like your life depends on it.”
Chat imploded:
@donate2derail: CRUSH??
@streamsnacc69: WHO CRUSHED YOU KHAO???
@glitchbabe.exe: is it HIM?? you know WHO we mean
Khaotung covered his mouth dramatically with one hand, eyes wide. “What?! Me? Flustered by someone tall and cold and mysterious who smells like linen and angst? Never.”
He could hear First’s disapproving stare across the dorm.
Still, he couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped. It was stupid. He was being stupid. But First had been hugging him like his life depended on it, and hadn’t pulled away. Not even once.
He tapped a bit of essence into his skin, fingers delicate.
“You ever get hugged so hard you forget how to function?” he asked softly. “Like… not in a sad way. In a ‘holy crap I’ve been starved for this and now my brain’s rebooting’ way? Just me? Cool.”
Chat:
@streamingfromthevoid: ARE YOU OKAY
@tungcore.mp3: who broke our sparkle prince omg
@donate2derail: omg is he SOFT now
@feralforesight: did you break him or did he break YOU??
He leaned forward, chin on hand now, eyes dreamy.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that some people don’t hug unless it means something. So when they do, even once. It sticks. Like it presses into your skin and stays there.”
There was a long pause. He let it linger.
Then he burst out laughing and reached for concealer. “Anyway, I use this one for my under eyes, but also for hiding the emotional damage.”
Chat:
@feralforesight: TOO REAL
@chatgaslighter: he’s DOWN BAD
@nametoochaotic: soooo who's the lucky guy
@whyamilikethis_: blink twice if he's in the dorm
Khaotung just grinned.
“Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t.” He winked at the camera. “Maybe he wears inside-out hoodies and storms off dramatically when someone compliments him.”
The giggle that followed wasn’t even contained. He buried his face in his hands.
“If he sees this,” Khaotung mumbled through his fingers, “I’m dead. Please delete this stream from the internet forever. I am not strong.”
He peeked out. Chat was going feral.
He pressed his palms to his cheeks. “I’m going to finish my routine off-camera now. For… safety.”
Then, softer: “But, uh… yeah. I’m really happy lately. And I think he might be, too.”
And with one last grin he ended the stream.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First shouldn’t have opened Twitter.
He knew better. He always knew better. Social media was a minefield at the best of times, louder than scrim comms, more unfiltered than JJ mid-caffeine spike, and fully incapable of subtlety.
But the notifications had piled up. Mentions. Tags. His face. Khaotung’s stream.
He should’ve just muted the entire internet.
Instead, he sat cross-legged on his bed, hoodie sleeves curled around his fists, as the algorithm offered him his own unraveling.
@eclipsesimp69
if that hug wasn't from FIRST I’ll eat my gaming mouse. he wears inside-out hoodies? this is crazy behavior.
#SparkleSpill #PrincessKhao
His eye twitched.
The next one was worse.
@khaotungbrainrot
HE SAID “HUG SO HARD IT STAYS IN YOUR SKIN”??? BABE WHO HUGGED YOU LIKE THAT I’M NOT OKAY
#SparkleSpill #PrincessKhao
First shut his phone off.
Turned it back on again two seconds later.
Because of course he did.
A clip started auto-playing. Khaotung’s voice, syrupy-sweet and giddy, filtered through the speakers like a trap:
“I think, that some people don’t hug unless it means something. So when they do, even once. It sticks. Like it presses into your skin and stays there.”
First dragged a hand over his face.
He had hugged Khaotung like the world was ending and then left. And now half the internet was dissecting the emotional density of his possible arm placement like it was a goddamn poetry thesis.
His notifications dinged again.
@first_sighted
"tall and cold and smells like linen and angst" is NOT subtle. i am SCREAMING.
#SparkleSpill #PrincessKhao
Linen and what?
First stared blankly at the screen. Then down at his sleeve. Then back up.
He wasn’t spiraling.
He was researching.
A Discord ping broke his train of thought.
[NeoBuff]
you see the hug timestamp yet
[JJdoesdamage]
bro he’s BLUSHING like a debut kdrama lead and he knows it
[Gunlocked]
✨hug so hard it haunts your skincare routine✨
[TurtleBoss]
what’s your skincare routine First? shame and repression
First didn’t reply.
He simply closed the Discord app with all the serenity of a man actively suppressing the desire to throw his phone out a window.
And yet, he couldn’t stop reading.
Every post. Every clip. Every spiraling theory about the “hug tension,” the “casual affection from the Ice Prince.” Someone had already started shipping edits set to romantic anime scores.
It was… horrifying.
And also, just a little bit warm.
He hated that.
Hated that his stomach twisted with something that wasn’t dread this time. Something… softer. Buzzing low and strange beneath his skin.
He had hugged Khaotung.
He had called him pretty.
And Khaotung hadn’t made fun of him. Hadn’t laughed. Had just stood there, beautiful and grinning and gentle in a way First wasn’t sure he’d ever earned. A way that made all the chaos online feel like static noise around something real.
He reopened the app one more time.
Scrolled until he found it.
@glittersavedme
he’s sooooo in love it’s EMBARRASSING. my boy giggled into his toner like it was a love letter.
#SparkleSpill #PrincessKhao
First stared.
Then, very slowly, he liked the post.
And turned off his phone.
Face warm. Heart louder than any tweet.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The boutique was scrapped. Khaotung was not in the mood for sequins or sunglasses or letting Pim pile mesh on his arms while Neo judged him silently. No. Today was something worse.
Today, he was at the gym.
"This is a hate crime," he muttered, staring at the row of machines like they were medieval torture devices.
Neo, already mid-stretch on a yoga mat, didn’t even look up. "It’s twenty minutes of light cardio."
Khaotung adjusted his hat. It was cute. Pale yellow, low brim. Matched his sneakers. Matched his shorts. Matched his crop top. He looked like pastel sin. A sweating creamsicle.
"You tricked me," he accused.
Neo raised an eyebrow. "I literally asked you if you wanted to come."
"And I said no! And you said, 'There might be smoothies after.'"
"There still might be. Depending on performance."
Khaotung groaned, dramatically flopping back against the rowing machine. "This is betrayal."
"You dressed like a man ready to seduce the squat rack. You’re not a victim here."
He cracked one eye open. "You think I look good?"
Neo blinked at him, deadpan. "I think you look like you're about to record a sponsored warmup for TikTok."
Khaotung grinned. He’d take it.
They started slow. Khaotung lasted seven minutes on the treadmill before theatrically dying. Neo didn’t comment, just handed him a water bottle and adjusted the incline.
Eventually, they moved to a corner with resistance bands. Khaotung stretched one halfheartedly, legs wobbling.
"Were you always like this?" Neo asked casually.
Khaotung looked up, confused. "What, dramatic?"
"No. I mean… like this. Glittery. Confident. Bright."
Khaotung paused.
Then he shrugged, tugging the band again. "Not really. Pim used to dress me up when we were younger. I was her favorite project. She’d put butterfly clips in my hair and layer three shirts on me for no reason."
Neo made a soft noise of amusement.
"At first it was her thing. But then I started asking for it. I begged her to dye my hair blue because I saw a manga panel I liked. She and our friend Napat did it in his bathroom sink. It came out orange. Like ramen."
"Oh no."
"I cried. Pim put glitter on my eyelids to distract from it. That lasted one day. School was... not kind."
Neo glanced over, quiet now.
Khaotung rolled the band tighter around his wrist. "I got shoved into lockers for wearing eyeliner. People called me names. I’d go home with glitter in my lashes and bruises on my ribs. But I kept showing up. In glitter jeans, rainbow shoelaces, chokers."
"Why?"
Khao shrugged again. "Because it felt like me. Because Pim told me I looked like magic. And because Napat walked on my left side so I wouldn’t have to. We were a trio. Always had each other’s backs."
Neo didn’t say anything right away.
Then, finally: "Makes sense."
Khaotung looked over. "What does?"
Neo was adjusting the weights, voice low. "Why First looks at you like you’re the best part of the room."
Khaotung blinked.
And then very quickly turned away to pretend he was extremely focused on organizing resistance bands and not currently dying inside.
"Shut up," he muttered.
Neo didn’t say anything else. Just passed him a towel and moved to the next machine.
Like nothing had changed.
Even though something probably had.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The room was quiet but not silent. The kind of quiet where clicks and scrolling and low murmurs felt like background music.
First sat at his usual corner, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, one leg folded under the other. Khaotung was curled beside him on the rug, knees tucked up, chin propped on one hand, eyes laser-focused on the screen. His lips moved silently along with the in-game comms.
It was a routine now, VOD reviews together. Efficient. Comfortable.
Mostly.
The problem today was that Khaotung had decided comfort also meant touching.
Not a lot. Just enough. A thigh pressed lightly against First’s leg. A shoulder occasionally brushing his when he leaned forward. And he’d brought a blanket. His blanket. Lavender-scented and far too soft and now wrapped partially around both of them because, quote, “Aircon betrayal is real, P’First, do you want my toes to die?”
First hadn’t argued. Couldn’t. Not when Khaotung looked like that, half-wrapped, focused, faint smile on his lips when he paused the replay to rant about JJ’s positioning like it was a personal insult.
He was glowing again. Not from makeup this time, just… him. In his soft element. Eyes gleaming, curls falling in his face, oversized team hoodie slipping off one shoulder.
First looked at him for too long.
Then, without thinking, he pulled out his phone.
He didn’t say anything. Just shifted slightly, casual, quiet and snapped the photo.
Khaotung didn’t notice.
He just kept talking, pointing at the paused frame on screen, animated and unguarded.
The photo looked… domestic.
Casual, but intimate. Like Khaotung had fallen into his space and First had never minded.
It wasn’t cuddling, not really. But they were close. Closer than usual. And the way the blanket draped across their legs along with how First’s hand rested slightly behind Khaotung’s back, visible only if you looked, made it look like something more.
Something soft.
Something real.
He stared at the image for a moment.
Then, without caption, he posted it.
He set the phone down and didn’t think about it.
Until, two minutes later, Khaotung’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again.
“Hmm?” Khaotung blinked, grabbing it. Then froze. “Wait. WAIT.”
First didn’t look up.
Khaotung gasped.
“YOU POSTED ME?!” he squeaked.
First sipped his tea.
“You—what—why—you didn’t even tag me!!”
“I didn’t say it was you,” First replied calmly.
“WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE?” Khaotung flailed, pulling the blanket around himself like armor. “Everyone knows my hair! My hoodie! My aura!”
“It’s a good photo,” First said blandly.
Khaotung choked on air.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, staring at the post again. “We look like we’re dating.”
First’s silence was not denial.
Khaotung squeaked.
Then, “I’m replying.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m absolutely replying.”
The tap of furious thumbs echoed through the room.
@khaotungLIVE
EXCUSE ME???????
@khaotungLIVE
YOU POSTED THIS WITHOUT A WARNING OR CAPTION LIKE I WOULDN’T DIE IMMEDIATELY???
@khaotungLIVE
are we soft launching?? is this what a soft launch feels like?? do i need to wear matching socks now???
First tried very hard not to smirk. Failed.
The retweets were multiplying. JJ had already commented “I KNEW IT” in all caps. Gun had quote-tweeted it with a string of emojis. Lita was probably drafting an entire PR campaign. Tay had texted a single “?” followed by a gif of a cat fainting.
Khaotung was still staring at him.
“P’First.”
“Hm.”
“Is this your way of flirting?”
First didn’t respond.
But the pink creeping into his ears gave him away.
Khaotung practically vibrated. “Oh my god. You’re worse than me.”
First glanced at him now, calm as ever. “You started it.”
“I’m going to scream,” Khaotung muttered, cheeks flushed. “Like literally combust.”
He flopped sideways into the blanket again, hiding his face.
First reached out quietly, carefully and tugged the blanket back up over Khaotung’s shoulder.
Then turned back to the VOD.
“Play or pout,” he said dryly.
Khaotung groaned dramatically but didn’t move away.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-Thailand September 2025-
The restaurant was too polished.
All gleaming marble floors and soft gold light, waiters gliding past like they’d been rehearsing for a play. First hated places like this. Everything was designed to make noise disappear, to smooth over rough edges. To remind him he didn’t belong.
He still showed up.
Tay had texted the night before “Mom and Dad want to take us out for your birthday. Fancy place. Just come. Please.”
So he came. Black button-down, sleeves rolled, hair neat enough to pass. He kept his shoulders square when he walked in, even though his stomach tightened at the sight of his parents already seated.
His mother looked up first. “Happy birthday, First.”
His father followed with a nod, not unkind.
They were… careful. No probing questions, no sharp reminders of the years between them. Just comments about the menu, the weather, the traffic. It was stilted, but not hostile. For them, it was progress.
First sat. He ordered tea. He cut into the too-perfect slice of salmon and chewed, even though his appetite was thin.
The silence stretched. Tay stepped in the way he always did, keeping the rhythm from dying. He mentioned the café his friend had shown him last week, then glanced at First. “Khaotung says you’d like it. He took Off and Gun.”
First’s jaw ticked. He didn’t answer, but the name settled into the air like a dropped coin. His mother smiled faintly. His father only nodded. The conversation shifted again.
Then First’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
KhaotungLIVE: Operation Sparkle Oven Disaster 🍰✨🔥
He frowned at the screen. Oven? Disaster?
He locked the phone quickly, sliding it away before anyone could notice, but the words stuck like static under his skin.
Dinner pressed on. His parents asked about the traffic on his side of town. Tay cracked a joke about how even expensive restaurants couldn’t improve First’s permanent scowl. It was civil. It was exhausting.
And then Tay pulled a slim package from his bag and slid it across the table.
“Here,” Tay said. “Don’t make a face. Just open it.”
First hesitated, then peeled back the paper.
It was a notebook.
Dark leather, smooth to the touch, with his initials embossed on the cover. Inside, the first page had been carefully stamped with his birthdate in gold ink.
His throat tightened.
“Thought you could use a new one,” Tay said, casual, but his eyes were steady. “Since you fill the old ones so fast.”
First flipped the cover shut, thumb brushing over the letters. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t trust his voice.
The conversation stumbled back into small talk. His parents smiled politely. His mother asked once about his neighborhood, his father hummed at the weather. It wasn’t hostile. But by the time dessert menus appeared, First’s chest felt tight with the effort of holding it all in.
When he finally stood to leave, notebook tucked under his arm, exhaustion weighed down every step.
And still, in the back of his mind, the words oven disaster buzzed like a timer he hadn’t set.
The night air outside the restaurant was cooler than inside, but it didn’t ease the heaviness in his chest. First walked with the notebook tucked under his arm, each step measured, polite farewells still clinging like static. He should’ve felt lighter. His parents hadn’t pried, hadn’t fought, hadn’t done anything but try to be pleasant.
But his stomach was tight with the old familiar ache. Exhaustion disguised as composure.
At the crosswalk, his phone buzzed again.
A clip was trending.
Khaotung, covered in flour, holding up a mixing bowl like it was radioactive. His voice filtered through tinny speakers, high-pitched and chaotic: “Okay so if this collapses we’re just gonna call it abstract art, alright chat? A cake is a cake even if it looks like modern sculpture!”
The title above the video still mocked him.
First stopped at the curb, thumb frozen over the screen.
Another clip auto-played. Khaotung laughing so hard he nearly dropped the whisk, chat spamming emojis across the screen. “No no no, it’s fine, the cats just look… interpretive, okay?! Picasso cats!”
First blinked. Cats?
He scrolled, against his better judgment. Photos already flooded Twitter: a misshapen blob of frosting, Khaotung grinning with batter smeared across his cheek, the beginnings of a cake that might or might not survive the oven.
People were losing their minds.
#OperationSparkle was trending.
First locked his phone and shoved it back into his pocket, pulse quickening.
By the time he reached the dorm steps, he’d convinced himself it was fine. Chaotic stream content, nothing more. Khaotung being dramatic, feeding his audience like always.
And then he opened the door.
The lights were on. The chatter was loud. The smell of sugar and frosting hit him before anything else.
And everyone was waiting.
The moment he stepped inside, the noise hit.
“—SHHH HE’S HERE—”
It was too late for shushing. Gun was already bouncing in his socks, JJ half-hiding behind the couch like a six-year-old waiting to jump out at a birthday party. Neo leaned against the wall, pretending he wasn’t part of this circus, but the faint twitch of his mouth gave him away. Off and AJ sat at the table, Off with a glass of wine he’d clearly poured for himself, AJ watching the chaos with quiet amusement.
And right in the middle stood Khaotung.
There was frosting on his wrist, flour streaked faintly across his cheek, and his curls were frizzing from the heat of the oven. The cake on the table was… something. Lopsided, uneven, covered in what were definitely supposed to be cats. Their eyes drooped in opposite directions, one ear sliding slowly toward the frosting abyss. But in the center, a single candle flickered stubbornly, holding court like it was the proud heart of the mess.
“Surprise,” Khaotung said, voice pitched somewhere between shy and triumphant.
JJ whooped. Gun clapped like it was the grand finale of a concert. Neo lifted his energy drink in a toast without breaking his lean. Off smirked and said nothing, which was somehow louder than all of them. AJ nodded once, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
First froze in the doorway.
It wasn’t the noise or the chaos. It was the way they were all waiting. For him.
Khaotung waved a frosting-covered spatula. “You have to come closer! The cats will be offended if you don’t.”
Somehow, his legs moved before his brain caught up.
The cake looked worse up close. The “cats” were closer to ghosts, or maybe cartoon potatoes, but the effort sat heavy in his chest. Khaotung had done this. Streamed this. For him.
“Happy birthday to youuuu—” JJ launched in immediately, off-key and dramatic, Gun joining two octaves too high. Neo didn’t sing, but he drummed his fingers against the wall like a slow clap. Off hummed a note here and there, sarcastic but steady. AJ didn’t sing either, but his smile widened as the others carried on.
Khaotung didn’t sing. He didn’t even pretend. He just watched, candlelight catching in his eyes, steady and unblinking. The others were loud, clapping off-beat, voices tripping over each other. But Khaotung stayed silent, like the moment wasn’t about noise at all—it was about him. About First.
It felt like being singled out in a room full of people, like Khaotung’s gaze itself was a song only First could hear.
First stared at the little flame until the noise blurred into static. Then he leaned in and blew it out, quick and quiet.
Chaos erupted anyway.
JJ demanded to know his wish. Gun tried to swipe frosting and got his hand slapped by Khaotung. Neo muttered about fire hazards and poor ventilation. Off raised his glass like he was presiding over a banquet. AJ passed plates out wordlessly, already cutting slices before anyone asked.
Through it all, Khaotung stayed at his side, grinning like the disaster on the table was a masterpiece.
The first bite was too sweet. The second wasn’t any better. But it didn’t matter.
For the first time all night, First’s shoulders eased.
It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t polished.
It was better.
Family, in the only form he could stand.
Chapter 36: Chapter 36
Summary:
Prepare yourself. This is not a drill: FIRST IS TELLING KHAOTUNG IMPORTANT THINGS AND ALSO BEING CUTE
Notes:
Hehehe I'm back. Please be proud of me, I spent two whole hours packing today.
So I have this weird habit of writing in a random order most days, switching between later chapters and the one I'm supposed to be working on, until I decide I need to post THAT DAY and get it all done. Honestly I find it quite useful sometimes cause then I show up to work on the next update and half of it or more is already done. Anyway this is one of those ones where I wrote a lot of it while I was only on like I think chapter 1 or 2 honestly and I've been patiently awaiting the day I get to share it with you guys. I think I say this often (maybe not) but it's one of my favorites.
Also I love love love love LOVE every single one of you that comes back and comments if not every single update but most of them. I will say this until the day I die, it makes my heart so happy and I have the most huge smile on my face with every single one that I read. I absolutely adore to hear your guys' thoughts, sometimes its brings me inspiration, motivation or just unfiltered joy and most of the time all three.
To the readers that aren't posting comments, I still love you, I appreciate you for joining me on this journey and yeah I'm so excited for what's to come. It's really pushing me through the stress of everything else going on in my life and uh sorry for the super long note this time, it's late here, I'm emotional (in the best way) and I just love you all.
As always enjoy this one
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
It was almost 3 a.m. by the time they wrapped the VOD review.
Gun stretched like a cat, then dramatically flopped onto Khaotung’s bed. “I’m dying,” he declared. “Put that in the notes.”
“You played Jett,” Khaotung said, tossing a pillow at him. “You were having fun.”
“I was having trauma,” Gun muttered into the blanket.
There was a knock on the door soft and familiar.
Khaotung looked up to find Off leaning in the doorway, eyes crinkled in fond exasperation.
“Gun. Bed,” Off said.
Gun groaned. “But I’m learning.”
Off tilted his head. “You said you were dying.”
“I want to die smart.”
Off held out a hand. “Come die in bed.”
Gun grumbled but got up, dragging his limbs dramatically like a zombie. “Fine. But Princess, I’m proud of you. That VOD review was actually useful.”
“You’re just mad I told you to stop dry peeking.”
Gun blew him a kiss.
And then he was gone, Off’s hand slipping around his waist as they disappeared down the hallway, quiet laughter trailing behind.
Khaotung turned to find First still sitting cross-legged on the floor, one arm resting on the edge of the bed, face unreadable in the glow of the desk lamp.
“You good?” Khaotung asked softly.
First looked up. Nodded. Then hesitated. “Can I… stay?”
Khaotung blinked. “Like, here?”
“Just to sleep,” First said quickly. “I don’t want to go back to my room.”
There was something in his voice. Not fear. Not exactly. Just something quieter. Softer.
Khaotung nodded once. “Yeah. Of course.”
He turned off the light.
They lay side by side, not touching, not speaking for a while. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full of unsaid things.
The ceiling glowed faintly from the hallway light bleeding through the crack under the door.
And then, softly through the darkness.
“I was taken,” First whispered. “When I was sixteen.”
Khaotung froze, breath catching in his chest.
“I was leaving school,” First continued. “Stayed late. Thought I could handle myself.”
His voice didn’t waver, but it was flat, practiced. Like the words had been worn down to something he could force out.
“There was a man outside. Said my ride had changed. Said he was sent by my parents.”
Khaotung’s fingers curled into the blanket.
“I believed him.”
The silence that followed was heavy.
“They had me for eight months.” First’s jaw tightened. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling. “When I got back… I didn’t want anyone near me. Couldn’t stand being touched. Couldn’t stand being looked at. I kept the curtains shut. Stayed in my room. Hated the house. Hated myself. Everything felt wrong.”
His breath hitched. “I wasn’t living. Not really. Just angry all the time. At them. At me. Some days I didn’t even want to be alive. And they didn’t know what to do with me. So they sent me away.”
Khaotung’s throat ached like the words were carving into him too. His chest felt tight, too full.
“You don’t have to keep going,” he whispered gently. “Not if it hurts.”
First was silent for a long time.
He let out a soft scoff. “Off’s the only one who knows. I never thought I’d say it to anyone else. Definitely not like this.”
Khaotung blinked rapidly, vision blurring. His throat squeezed tight. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t know if you realize what that means, that you’d trust me with this. I’m… I’m honored.”
Finally, carefully, he let his hand drift onto the blanket between them. Not touching. Just there.
“I’m glad you survived,” he added softly. “I wish you hadn’t had to go through any of it, but I’m glad you’re here. With me. Right now.”
First’s lips pressed together, his whole body taut like he was holding too much in.
Khaotung breathed out slowly, steadying his voice. “You don’t have to be strong right now. You’re allowed to be weak. At least with me.”
The air shifted. First turned onto his side, inch by inch, until he was facing him. Close enough that Khaotung could feel the warmth of his breath.
His eyes were raw. Unguarded.
Khaotung offered the smallest smile, fragile but sure. “You can just be you,” he whispered. “And I’ll stay right here.”
First didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His gaze lingered, heavy, searching—and then, finally, he let it go.
His body eased, just slightly. Enough to feel like trust.
So Khaotung stayed still and steady. His heart aching but full.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
First woke slowly, somewhere just past dawn. The room was quiet, blue with morning light.
He was warm.
Too warm.
Something was pressed against his side. Soft. Rhythmic. Khaotung’s breath, gentle against his skin.
He blinked, disoriented. His shirt was gone. He must have taken it off in his sleep, hair now brushing lightly against First’s bare ribs.
Then.
A jolt.
His breath caught. The sensation sent his brain spiraling. Too familiar. Too sudden. Too much.
Memory rushed in before he could stop it.
The cold concrete. Cats curling against him in the dark, trying to purr away the pain after someone had left him bruised and broken, body sore. Warm fur against cracked ribs. A weight that meant he wasn’t alone.
Except now, that weight was Khaotung.
His chest constricted.
He couldn’t breathe.
The air around him was too thick, the light too dim, the sheets too heavy. His pulse screamed through his ears.
Not here. Not now. Not again.
His hand fisted in the blanket. He couldn’t stop shaking.
And then,
“P'First?”
The voice was soft. Sleep-rough. But real.
Khaotung shifted, blinking up at him. His eyes widened instantly. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s me. You’re safe.”
First tried to nod but couldn’t. His throat was tight. The edges of the room were curling inward.
Khaotung sat up, cupped his face gently. “Look at me, okay? Just breathe with me. In—” He inhaled slowly. “One, two, three. And out.”
First followed. Shakily.
“Again. One, two, three, good. That’s good. You’re not there. You’re with me.”
Khaotung ran his fingers through First’s hair with slow, steady strokes, whispering soft things. Nonsense, comfort, gentle reminders.
And slowly, slowly, the panic began to loosen its grip.
First collapsed against him, shaking, and Khaotung held him without hesitation.
No questions. No demands.
Just warmth. Just hands in his hair. Just quiet.
“You’re safe,” Khaotung whispered again. “You’re not that kid anymore. You’re here. You have us. You have me.”
And First clung to that. To him.
For a long time, neither of them moved.
Until finally, First whispered, voice raw, “Can I stay like this?”
Khaotung kissed his temple. “As long as you want.”
First didn’t answer. Just pressed in closer.
He needed this. Needed him.
And Khaotung never stopped running his fingers through his hair.
Not once.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The apartment had started to stir. Soft footsteps padded down the hall. A door creaked open. Someone coughed in the distance—JJ, probably. But in the kitchen, it was just the two of them.
First stood at the stove, spoon in hand, stirring congee. His hoodie was back on but the drawstrings hung uneven. His hair stuck up in the back. He looked half-asleep, but calmer. Steadier.
Khaotung was perched on the counter, legs swinging lazily, oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He was sipping something from a mismatched mug.
“You didn’t have to cook,” Khaotung murmured, voice still scratchy from sleep. “I could’ve made something.”
“You would’ve made cereal.”
“Yeah. With milk and everything. I’m very impressive.”
First didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Silence returned, gentle and warm. The kind that didn’t need filling.
Khaotung watched him. Not with teasing—well, not only that—but with something softer now. Something curious and fond.
“You doing okay?” he asked eventually.
First stirred the pot once, then again. “Yeah.”
Khaotung tilted his head. “That was a real answer or a P’First answer?”
There was a pause.
Then First looked over, met his eyes.
“A real one.”
Khaotung smiled.
“Good,” he said softly. “You scared me.”
“I scared me too,” First admitted, then added after a beat, “Thank you.”
Khaotung blinked. “For what?”
“For being there. And for not… pushing.”
Khaotung gave a small shrug. “I’ll always be there. Even if you just need to borrow my ridiculous face to yell at.”
“I wouldn’t yell.”
“You glared at the electric kettle earlier like it had personally wronged you.”
“It beeped too loud.”
“Poor thing was just doing its job.”
First rolled his eyes and turned back to the stove.
Khaotung slid off the counter and padded closer. He came to stand beside First, not crowding, just near enough to feel warm.
The congee smelled good. Soft rice, ginger, a hint of garlic. First added soy sauce and stirred gently. It was quiet again.
Then, “can I help?”
First glanced over. “You’ll make it weird.”
Khaotung grinned. “Too late. I already imagined this scene as the opening of a domestic romcom.”
“We’re not dating.”
“Yet.”
First flushed. “Don’t start.”
“Too late again,” Khaotung said, bumping his shoulder. “I’m already picturing us in aprons. Yours says ‘Grumpy but Gourmet.’ Mine says ‘I Put the Khao in Chaos.’”
“That’s terrible.”
“You like it.”
“…I really don’t.”
But his voice was soft. His expression, calmer still. Khaotung reached out slowly, tugged one of the hoodie strings straight.
“You’re warm,” he said.
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet,” Khaotung said, echoing that familiar phrase with a smug little smile, “you’re letting me stand this close.”
First didn’t push him away.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t retreat.
He just turned back to the stove and said, “I’m not burning the rice for you.”
“I wouldn’t dare let you.”
“Good.”
Khaotung leaned lightly against the counter, close but careful.
“I’m glad you stayed,” he murmured.
“Me too,” First said.
And in the kitchen, lit by soft morning light and the scent of ginger and rice, they let silence take hold again. Not the heavy kind. Not the guarded kind.
Just quiet.
Just peace.
Just them.
The congee was almost done.
First gave it one last stir, checking the texture. Khaotung, still leaning against the counter beside him, had gone quiet, watching him with that soft, sleepy grin that made First’s stomach do something unholy. His hoodie smelled faintly like lavender now.
They hadn’t said much in the last few minutes.
Just warmth. Breath. Quiet.
Until, “is this breakfast or a marriage proposal?”
JJ’s voice shot through the kitchen like a missile, followed by a crash and a wheeze and the sound of Neo muttering, “You’re going to break your teeth if you keep slamming into doorways like that.”
First didn’t turn around. His spine straightened slightly. His hand tightened just a little around the spoon.
Khaotung, unbothered, offered a saccharine wave. “Hi, boys.”
“You’re still here?” AJ asked from the hallway, sounding far too observant for someone holding a mug that said “World’s Quietest Rage.”
“He made congee,” Khaotung replied brightly, with the air of someone announcing a national holiday.
“Congee of emotional symbolism?” Neo asked, squinting into the fridge.
“Exactly,” Khaotung said.
“Also, where’s the other half of my leftover dumplings?” Neo added.
“Gone to a better place,” JJ said solemnly.
“To your stomach?”
“Correct.”
First said nothing. He kept his eyes on the pot. Calm. Unbothered.
Gun was the last to appear, still wearing a face mask and a robe that definitely belonged to Off. “Did I hear rice-based romance happening in here?”
“Confirmed,” Khaotung said sweetly.
They were all gathering now, like pigeons sensing breadcrumbs. Neo at the counter. AJ by the doorway. JJ trying to sneak a taste while pretending he wasn’t. Gun propping himself on a stool like he was the queen of the kitchen.
And then Off strolled in, took one look at the scene, and smirked. “Did you make him breakfast, First?”
“Don’t,” First said flatly.
“Oh, I’m gonna,” Off said, stretching like a cat. “Because that is the softest I’ve ever seen you. You’ve got ‘domestic bliss’ written all over your face.”
“I stirred rice.”
“With feeling,” Neo added helpfully.
“Do not start,” First warned, finally turning. His eyes narrowed.
Too late.
Neo was already pulling out his phone. JJ had somehow produced confetti (no one knew from where). AJ was snickering into his mug while Gun practically cooed from across the kitchen. Even Off had his chin propped on his hand, watching the chaos unfold like it was better than morning cartoons.
First acted on pure, unfiltered mischief.
And want.
He turned to Khaotung who was still mid-laugh, eyes wide with chaotic glee and leaned in without warning.
Then kissed his cheek.
A real kiss.
Quick, warm, a little awkward, but undeniably deliberate.
Time stopped.
Khaotung froze.
The room exploded.
“OH MY GOD—”
“HE DID WHAT—”
“FIRST KISSED HIM??”
“I need to sit down,” Gun said, fanning himself dramatically. “I’m seeing stars.”
“Bro,” JJ whispered, voice cracked with emotion. “Bro. Did you just—bro—”
And right in the center of it all, quiet, stoic, guarded First.
He laughed.
Not a huff. Not a smirk.
A real laugh.
Loud. Unrestrained. So full of joy it practically echoed off the walls. His head tipped back, his shoulders shook, and for once he didn’t hide it.
It hit like lightning.
Khaotung looked completely wrecked.
Eyes blown wide. Mouth parted. Hands hovering like he didn’t know where to put them. And his entire face was pink. From ears to neck. Radiant. Beautiful. Ruined.
Neo had gone silent. AJ blinked slowly like he couldn’t compute what just happened. Gun put a hand over his heart. JJ was dramatically sobbing into Off’s shoulder while Off himself just stood there, eyebrows high, like he’d witnessed a divine act.
“You…” Khaotung whispered, voice barely functioning. “You just—kissed me—”
First smirked. Still breathless from laughing. “You wanted a headline.”
Khaotung stared.
Then slowly, like his body had rebooted, he grinned.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m gonna die.”
First rolled his eyes and turned back to the stove.
But his shoulders were still shaking with quiet laughter.
Behind him, the chaos had begun again. Gun was planning commemorative merch. JJ was calling for a national holiday. AJ took a stealth photo while Neo updated the “First Feelings Tracker” in his notes app.
And Khaotung just stood there.
Hands on his cheek.
Glowing.
Because yes, First had kissed him.
And maybe it was out of vindication.
And maybe it was out of want.
But mostly.
It was joy.
Real. Loud. Free.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The call connects.
First has his headphones in. Damp hair, hoodie over an old team t-shirt, blanket across his knees. Vaanjoy is curled at his feet, tail twitching like a sentry.
He doesn’t speak right away.
His psychiatrist doesn’t push. Just: “Morning.”
“Hey.” His voice is low, distracted.
Silence stretches. Then,
“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Her expression doesn’t shift, but her focus sharpens.
First breathes out. “It’s like I’ve been rewired or something. I keep… talking.”
“Talking?” she echoes gently.
“Not a lot. Not like JJ or Gun. But with him.” He hesitates. “With Khaotung.”
She nods once, waiting.
“I’m saying things I wouldn’t normally say. Letting things out without thinking. And not just surface things—real things. Important things.”
He pauses. His voice turns quieter.
“I told him. About when I was taken.”
She blinks. “Last night?”
He nods. “At 3 a.m. After a VOD review. I just… said it.”
He stares at something off-screen, unfocused. “I didn’t plan to. It wasn’t like I felt pushed or cornered. I was lying there. It just came out. Like it was waiting.”
“And how did he respond?”
“He stayed. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to fix it. Just said he’s glad I survived.”
The quiet holds.
“I didn’t flinch,” First says finally. His eyes flick up. “That’s what gets me. I’ve been in therapy for years. Surrounded by people who care. And still, I don’t say it. Not like that.”
She leaned in slightly. “But with him, it just came out.”
He gave a small, frustrated laugh. “Exactly. Like my brain skipped the step where I decide if it’s safe. I’m not even sure how much I like him yet. I mean, I do like him, obviously, I kissed his face this morning in front of the entire team, which was a whole other disaster I’m not emotionally prepared to process—”
He stops. Blinks.
Then mutters, “That wasn’t supposed to come out.”
She doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften. “It sounds like something important.”
First groans and covers part of his face with one hand. “That’s what I’m saying. Everything is coming out. I asked to sleep in his room. Cooked breakfast while he sat there humming. I kissed his cheek and then laughed so hard I lost my breath.”
He drops his hand again, quieter now.
“I don’t do that. I don’t laugh like that.”
“And what did it feel like?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Then, softly: “Like I remembered something I forgot I was allowed to feel.”
She nods. “And now?”
“It’s like I opened a door and forgot to close it. Everything’s pouring out.”
His fingers twist the blanket. “I’m not scared of him. Even when he touched me during the panic attack. I let him hold me.”
There’s a shift on the other end of the call. Still calm. But attentive now.
She speaks gently. “Can you tell me more about that? About the panic attack?”
First blinks. Like he didn’t realize he’d said it out loud.
He exhales. “I woke up early. It was still dark.”
A pause.
“He was… close. Curled against my side. His breath was warm. My shirt was off. I think I took it off while sleeping.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“It felt familiar.”
She waits.
“Like the cats,” he says quickly. “After the motel. When I was too sore to move, they’d crawl next to me. Purr. Just stay.”
His voice steadies. “It felt like that. That kind of safety. Too much. Too fast. My body didn’t know what to do.”
He rubs a thumb over the edge of the blanket.
“So you panicked.”
He nods.
“But it wasn’t fear,” he says. “It was, tenderness. Too close. Too familiar.”
“And what did he do?”
“He woke up. He saw me.” His voice softens. “He just said my name. Held my face. Told me to breathe with him.”
“Did it help?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“I didn’t flinch when he touched me,” First says. “Not even once.”
Her voice is steady, warm. “That matters.”
“I know.”
He nods. Quiet, but present. “It scared me, how much I wanted to stay.”
Her eyes soften. “You’ve spent years guarding yourself. Now you’re letting someone in without checking every step. First. That’s what safety feels like.”
He swallows. Hard.
“I keep waiting to shut down,” he says. “Or to feel embarrassed. But it’s not happening. I should be spiraling. But instead, I’m cooking rice and making jokes and—”
“Laughing.”
He nods once.
“It’s not bad,” he says. “But it’s unfamiliar. And unfamiliar still feels like danger.”
“It’s okay to be scared of peace,” she says softly. “You survived torment. Of course safety feels strange.”
He sits with that.
She smiles faintly. “You said this once. That trust, for you, isn’t about being told you’re safe. It’s being allowed to just… be. He does that?”
His throat tightens. “He does.”
She nods once.
“I’m not ready for more than this,” he says after a moment. “But I also know I want him near me. And I want to keep… being like this. Even if it’s messy.”
His eyes drift off-screen again, but this time, he’s not avoiding anything.
He’s just, thinking.
His psychiatrist speaks gently. “Can I ask something?”
He nods.
“You’ve shared more in the last few weeks than you did in most of the years we’ve worked together. Not just here, but with him. And today, in front of everyone.”
A pause. “Do you know what’s changed?”
First looks down. Not avoiding, just trying to find the shape of an answer.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “That’s part of it. I don’t understand why it’s happening. It’s like I’m skipping steps I didn’t think I could skip.”
“Skipping how?”
“I didn’t think I could tell someone about what happened to me without planning every word.”
His voice tightens. “I didn’t think I could sleep next to someone and feel okay. Or touch them.”
A pause.
“And I definitely didn’t think I’d be making jokes or kissing someone in public without a panic attack.”
“Does it feel unsafe?”
“No,” he says immediately. “It feels… safe. It feels natural. Like it was always there under the surface, and he’s just—”
He exhales.
“He’s just the one it started responding to.”
Her tone is soft. “And that scares you.”
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s fast?”
He nods. “Because I don’t know what it means. I don’t know if it’s me changing, or if it’s just him. Or both.”
She waits, letting the silence open.
“I’ve spent years trying to learn how to say things,” First says. “How to let them out safely. But with him, it’s different.”
His brow furrows. “And it doesn’t feel like I’m being reckless. It feels like I’m allowed.”
He looks up.
“Is that normal?”
Her answer is immediate and calm. “It’s not just normal, First. It’s what we’ve been working toward. Expression without fear. Closeness without collapse.”
He doesn’t speak.
So she adds, quietly:
“You’ve spent so long surviving that you learned to measure everything before you say it. But healing isn’t just silence and safety. It’s knowing when it’s okay to speak freely. To laugh. To want.”
He shifts in his seat. His voice barely a whisper now.
“I think I want a lot.”
“And does that feel like too much?”
He shakes his head slowly. “It feels like I’m waking up from something.”
She smiles gently. “Then let yourself wake up.”
Chapter 37
Notes:
I am so sorry at the late update, I had a whole spiral over the last week on whether I was going to keep this chapter as is because due to a comment from last chapter it made me question whether I had enough in the upcoming chapters regarding Khaotungs feelings. I decided I didn't and its been challenging for me to figure out how I want to go about that and then I just spiraled on whether I should change a bunch of my plans/timeline. Honestly I'm still not 100% sure on what I want to do but I did decide I at least wanted this chapter to stay how I had planned.
I'm still spiraling a little bit while I'm writing this note, so please let me know your thoughts.
Also I am adjusting the format of how I want this story written out (I am working on doing physical books for myself and I like it better) so that will change starting this chapter and I'll be going back and editing all past chapters to match.
Anyway please enjoy as always.
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
The meeting room was only slightly controlled chaos.
Neo had already commandeered the corner couch, legs up and a clipboard resting against his knees. Gun sat across the table spinning a pen with lethal focus and looking like he was seconds from making a meme out of the playbook. JJ kept adjusting his chair height for no reason. First, naturally, was leaning against the far wall with arms crossed, expression unreadable. And Khaotung—newly minted roster member Khaotung—was practically bouncing in his seat, bright-eyed and deadly.
Off stood at the head of the room, tablet in hand, exuding the calm fury of someone who had already told them to settle down twice.
“All right,” he said, voice firm. “Let’s lock in. This is our last day before tournament prep officially kicks into chaos. The bracket drops Friday. First match next Wednesday. We’re scrimming five days a week.”
JJ let out a dramatic groan. “My bones, Coach.”
“Your bones play like a menace in ranked,” Off shot back. “They’ll be fine.”
Neo hummed in agreement. “We’re not here for your bones. We’re here for synergy.”
“I am synergy,” JJ argued.
“You are something,” Gun said sweetly. “Not sure if it’s synergy.”
Khaotung tried not to giggle. He really did.
Off sighed. “Lineup’s locked. First and Khaotung on duelists, JJ initiator, Gun sentinel, Neo controller. AJ subbing in, IF needed. This is the squad we’re running for the foreseeable future.”
“Let’s gooo,” JJ cheered, throwing both arms up like a man celebrating his own impending exhaustion.
Off continued. “Our scrims this week are focused on pacing and trust. First, you’re shot-calling entries until further notice.”
First nodded silently.
“Gun, I want you handling site anchoring. Don’t babysit.”
“I never babysit,” Gun said, deeply offended.
Neo snorted. “You literally called me your ‘emotional child’ last week.”
“That’s love. Not strategy.”
“Gun,” Off warned.
Gun gave a solemn two-finger salute. “Anchoring. No babysitting. Got it.”
Khaotung raised a hand like a student. “Do I get a title? Like… chaos duelist? Princess of Peeking?”
“You get to be quiet for five seconds,” Off deadpanned. “Starting now.”
Khaotung beamed.
“Scrims start tomorrow. Four blocks a day. I’ll be rotating in VOD review every other evening,” Off continued. “Our goal is fluid team play. If you see something off, say it. If you need backup, call it. No egos. Got it?”
Everyone nodded, more or less sincerely.
“Any questions?”
JJ’s hand shot up. “Can I bring a snack to scrims if it doesn’t crunch?”
“No.”
“Can I name our post-plant strats after Khaotung’s outfits?”
“No.”
Gun raised a hand. “Can I name them after my outfits?”
“No.”
Off sighed. “Meeting over. VOD review tonight at nine.”
Chairs scraped. Everyone started to stand.
And then—
“Wait.” Gun’s eyes narrowed as he looked away from the whiteboard, where Off had scribbled the lineup in neat block letters. His voice rose with dramatic clarity. “Did anyone else notice that the duelist duo is sitting next to each other?”
Khaotung paused mid-stretch.
First, somehow, had ended up in the chair beside him. He hadn’t even noticed it happen. But now he was here, elbows almost brushing, gaze flickering up from his notes.
JJ gasped. “They are.”
“Side by side,” Neo observed. “Cozy.”
“Bonding,” Gun added. “Developing that unspoken synergy.”
“Hand-holding comms,” JJ whispered reverently.
Khaotung was definitely blushing now. “We’re literally just sitting—”
“On purpose,” Gun interrupted.
“I didn’t—”
“He sat there,” Gun said, pointing directly at First. “That’s how we know it’s real.”
First, for his part, didn’t flinch. He calmly picked up his water bottle and said, “I’m not the one who called me ‘Fir’ in a dream.”
Khaotung choked on air.
JJ screamed.
Gun’s soul visibly left his body.
“NO BECAUSE,” JJ wheezed, “NOOOO.”
Neo actually dropped his pen. “Oh my god. Did he just say that? Out loud?”
“I—I—you—” Khaotung covered his face, bright red.
First leaned back in his chair, sipping his water like he hadn’t just thrown an emotional grenade across the table.
Off looked up from his tablet, completely unfazed. “If the flirting is finished, please go find something to do.”
Gun grabbed Khaotung’s arm, starry-eyed. “You’re LIVING the dream.”
“I want to DIE,” Khaotung whispered.
Neo patted his shoulder. “Better get used to it, Princess. You’re on the roster now.”
· · ·
“Okay, comms hot,” Off’s voice crackled in their headsets. “Don’t embarrass me.”
“Too late,” JJ said cheerfully.
“Speak for yourself,” Gun sniffed. “I was born to slay.”
They were ten rounds into their first official scrim with the new lineup and the voice chat was somehow still unhinged.
Neo, bless him, was calm as ever, anchoring smokes and reining in mid control like a seasoned monk. JJ was going feral, swinging corners like his mouse DPI depended on it. Gun was doing his usual slow-motion Killjoy sabotage with dramatic flair. And in the chaos of it all—
Khaotung and First were entering sites like twin hurricanes.
“You two have no chill,” Neo commented as Khaotung burst onto A site, blinded, laughing, and still managing to tap a headshot.
“Not a single chill,” Gun agreed. “I want a divorce from this playstyle.”
“Too bad,” JJ sang. “You’re married to chaos now.”
First didn’t say much. He never did. But his entries were brutal, precise, fast, lethal. Khaotung stayed close, his comms bright and sharp and maybe a little breathless.
“Clear left!” Khaotung shouted, “Nice pick, P’First—watch elbow, I’ll flash—”
“Default down,” First said, cool as ever.
“Oh my god we’re so good,” Khaotung cooed. “Teamwork? Flawless. Chemistry? Undeniable. Sexual tension?”
“Khao,” Gun warned.
“I’m kidding,” Khaotung said. “Mostly.”
Neo: “You two need supervision.”
JJ: “I am the supervision.”
Gun: “Then we’re doomed.”
Match Point.
12–11. Last round.
Khaotung had two kills already. First had one.
The two of them were the only ones left, 2v2, spike planted on B site.
They were breathing in sync. Literally. You could hear it through their mics.
“Play off me,” First said softly, holding the post-plant angle.
“I always do,” Khaotung replied.
First froze.
Just for a second.
Neo’s voice crackled in. “Enemy’s pushing elbow. You’ve got ten seconds.”
“Copy,” First said, already repositioning.
Khaotung moved too, fast, sharp, covering from the right.
And then he said it.
Too naturally. Too easily. Too real.
“Hold that, Fir—I’ll swing wide.”
Fir.
Not P’First.
Fir.
There was a single beat of silence in the comms.
Then—
“…What did you just call me?” First said.
And in that exact second, the enemy peeked.
First missed the shot.
He never missed the shot.
Gun shrieked.
JJ dropped his headset.
Khaotung gasped like he’d just realized he’d confessed on live television. “I—it slipped—I didn’t mean—”
“YOU CALLED HIM FIR,” JJ howled. “NO HONOR. NO PRIDE.”
Neo actually laughed. “That’s it. You broke him.”
Gun was cackling. “THE ICE PRINCE HAS BEEN SLAIN.”
First was silent.
Dead silent.
Khaotung stared at the screen like it had betrayed him.
“I didn’t mean to—” he started again, ears scarlet.
“You said it so casually,” Neo teased.
“You said it like he was yours,” Gun added dramatically. “Like, ‘Hold that, Fir,’ what kind of drama is that??”
“I—it’s just—he called me ‘Princess Glitter’ during warmup!”
“I do that to everyone,” First said flatly.
JJ wheezed. “So you’re special now, huh? You get private nicknames??”
Khaotung curled into himself. “Oh my god.”
“Match loss: worth it,” Gun declared.
“Write it on the chalkboard,” Neo said. “First defeat: caused by Khaotung saying Fir.”
JJ renamed the Discord scrim channel:
fir.gate.never forget
First finally unmuted. His voice was calm. Dangerously calm.
“Khaotung.”
Khaotung perked up. “Y-Yes, P’First?”
“…Say it again.”
Khaotung made a noise that may have been a squeak.
JJ was screaming again.
Gun fell out of his chair.
Neo: “So we’re done here, yeah?”
Off’s voice, long-suffering, cut in. “I’m gone for ten minutes and you people start proposing mid-post-plant.”
“Technically I flirted,” Khaotung whispered.
“And I missed my clutch,” First muttered.
“Because I was cute?” Khaotung offered weakly.
“…Yes.”
Silence.
Chaos.
“WE’RE NEVER WINNING A GAME AGAIN.”
· · ·
They’d been standing in front of the rack for a full thirty seconds, arms crossed, identical frowns plastered across their faces.
“This is weird,” Off announced finally.
“You agreed to come,” First said.
“I thought you needed, like… socks. Or a new mousepad. Not—” Off gestured vaguely at a row of neatly folded shirts. “This.”
“I need clothes,” First said.
Off gave him a look. “You own clothes. You wear the same ones every day, but still.”
“That’s why.”
A beat.
“So,” Off said slowly, “we’re… shopping.”
First nodded.
“Together.”
“Unfortunately.”
They stared at the rack again, like maybe it would tell them what to do.
The first store had been a bust. Nothing but neon and sequins that made them both recoil. Now, at the third stop, Off finally grabbed a sherpa jacket off the rack and shoved it at First.
“This one. It’s safe. You can’t mess this up.”
First raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re arming me.”
“Clothes are weapons,” Off said solemnly. “Now go.”
First disappeared into the fitting room.
When he came back out, Off blinked. “Oh, wow. You actually look like someone who leaves his apartment voluntarily.”
“Tragic.”
“Tragic for who?” Off smirked. “Glitter Boy’s gonna faint.”
First ignored him, tugging the sleeve.
Off fussed with the jacket anyway, pulling the hem straight. “There. Now you look like you didn’t crawl here from bed.”
First gave him a flat look.
“Take a photo,” Off said suddenly.
“No.”
“Yes. Otherwise you’ll wear it wrong later and I’ll cry.”
First sighed and pulled out his phone, snapping one quick shot in the mirror. Off grinned in triumph.
At the next store, Off handed him a checkered polo to layer over a black long sleeve and tailored trousers.
First eyed them. “No.”
“Yes.”
Minutes later, First stepped out, and Off actually clapped once. “Oh my god. Look at you. Professor by day, assassin by night.”
“That’s not a real thing,” First muttered, tugging at the collar.
“It is now.” Off rolled a sleeve, fixed the tuck, and stepped back with a flourish. “See? Danger.”
First looked in the mirror. Different. Intentional. He took another photo before Off could nag him.
“You like it,” Off accused.
First rolled his eyes and went back in.
By the fifth store, they’d stopped pretending to browse carefully. Off tossed things straight into First’s arms—plaid shirts, a denim set, light overshirts, sneakers. First muttered but didn’t put anything back.
“You’re serious about this,” Off said, watching him juggle the pile.
“I need them.”
“No, you want them,” Off corrected, grinning. “Which is scarier.”
When the cashier finally rang everything up, the counter looked like a laundry avalanche.
“This is absurd,” First said flatly.
“You’re absurd,” Off said, slapping his card down before First could. “You’ll thank me later when Glitter Boy combusts.”
First gave him a look sharp enough to cut steel.
Off held up both hands, mock-innocent. “Fine, fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut. Until he sees you in that check shirt. Then I’m yelling.”
They walked out side by side, each with three bags in each hand. First was back in his black hoodie and joggers, expression flat as ever. The mountain of bags swinging from their wrists made it look like they’d robbed the place.
“This feels illegal,” Off muttered.
“What does?”
“You. Buying clothes on purpose. With me. Like we’re normal.”
“We’re not normal,” First said.
“True,” Off admitted cheerfully. He shook the bags. “Also, how the hell are we hiding this from the team?”
First didn’t answer.
“They’re gonna see us walk in like this and scream,” Off went on. “Gun’s going to faint. JJ will rummage through your bags before you can blink. Neo will write a dissertation. Khao—”
“Don’t.”
“Fine,” Off said, grinning. “But we’re doomed.”
Off bumped his shoulder. “We’ll tell them a stylist kidnapped us and forced us to look decent.”
“No one will believe that.”
“They don’t believe anything we say,” Off pointed out.
First almost smiled. Almost.
And when they passed a glass storefront on the way out, he caught his reflection—black hoodie uniform, arms full of bags. For half a second, the thought flickered through his head: Khaotung seeing this. Seeing him.
His mouth twitched. A quiet smirk, gone as fast as it came.
He adjusted the bags in his hands, eyes forward.
Yeah. That reaction was going to be worth it.
· · ·
First wasn’t looking for Khaotung, not exactly. He’d just needed to walk. To move. Sitting still made his brain spiral, and he’d already replayed that moment from days before—Fir—too many times to count.
He hadn’t even realized he’d ended up in the lounge until he spotted Khaotung on the cushions, phone in hand, legs tangled like a pile of laundry. His curls were a mess, and he was biting his lip like he was deep in thought, or regret.
First sat down beside him without a word.
Khaotung startled. “Hi,” he said, cautious.
First reached for the chips.
They sat in silence.
He was the one who broke it, voice quiet but steady. “I’m not mad.”
Khaotung blinked. “What?”
“The thing. During scrims.” First took another chip. “I’m not mad.”
“Oh.” Khaotung visibly relaxed. “Cool. That’s good. Because it really was an accident. I wasn’t trying to, like, mentally destabilize you with pet names or anything.”
“You did, though,” First said without looking at him.
“I know.”
He remembered the way it had sounded. Fir. Not P’First. Not even said in a joke. Just—soft. Intimate. Like something stolen from that dream he should not have brought up in the meeting.
He’d told the whole team. Or at least, let it slip. That dream. That fucking dream.
Idiot.
Still.
He hadn’t regretted it. Not really. Not when he’d heard his name from real Khaotung’s mouth like that. Not when it made his chest twist in a way he couldn’t name.
“I didn’t hate it,” he said quietly.
Khaotung turned. “What?”
First finally looked at him.
“I don’t really let people call me that.”
Khaotung smiled, soft around the edges. “I figured.”
“But it sounded… good. Coming from you.”
Khaotung flushed, visibly. Bright red at the ears. It made something tug in First’s chest again.
“I can stop if you want,” Khaotung said, too quickly. “Or like, only say it when you’re not holding a Vandal. Safety protocol.”
First huffed a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Only for you,” Khaotung said, clutching his chest like he was in a drama.
God, he was stupidly cute.
First didn’t move away. Instead, he shifted closer. Just barely.
“...You can say it again,” he murmured.
Khaotung’s head snapped toward him. “Really?”
First nodded once.
Khaotung leaned in just slightly. “Okay. Fir.”
And just like that, First’s brain turned to static.
“Still mentally destabilizing?” Khaotung asked.
First cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Khaotung grinned. “Good.”
First couldn’t even pretend to scowl.
He’d take this over silence any day.
· · ·
The moonlight shimmered across the dorm's rooftop pool, casting ripples of silver on the surface. The usual chaos of Team Eclipse was muted tonight. Five days of nonstop scrims, reviews, and tactical drills had wrung them all dry. Now, their voices were low, laughter softer, bodies draped across lounge chairs and towels like the aftermath of a storm.
Khaotung had his legs dangling in the pool, his oversized strawberry-print button-up half-tucked into soft pink shorts. He swirled his feet lazily in the water, half-telling, half-performing a story about how his mom once chased a customer three blocks because they tried to sneak out without paying—and how Auntie Joe had calmly walked out ten seconds later and just said, "He forgot his change."
"The man was so confused," Khaotung giggled, leaning back on his palms. "He didn’t know if he was in trouble or getting a gift. And then Auntie Joe made him sit back down and gave him a free brownie because 'the world clearly humbled him enough today.'"
Neo snorted softly from his towel cocoon. "Your moms sound terrifying and iconic."
"They are," Khaotung said proudly. "Mae Lin once threw a rolling pin at a food blogger who said our croissants weren’t 'crisp enough to weep for.'"
Gun, half-asleep on Off’s shoulder, murmured, "I would like to be adopted into this cafe family immediately."
"There’s a form," Khaotung deadpanned. "A trial period. You have to survive a week of no decaf."
That got a wheezy laugh from JJ, who was curled up with his hoodie over his head like a sun-wilted raisin.
Khaotung’s heart was full. He liked nights like this. No pressure. No cameras. Just warmth. Just team.
His eyes drifted toward First.
The man sat a little apart from the group, back against a lounge chair, tank top loose over his chest, sweatpants tucked over his ankles. He wasn’t getting in the water—hadn’t even taken his socks off—but he was here. Present. Quiet, but tuned in.
Khaotung smiled.
First's expression was unreadable, but his eyes were steady. Focused.
On him.
It sent a flutter through Khaotung's chest he tried to ignore it. Instead, he leaned his cheek on his knee, voice gentler now.
"Anyway, Pim once tried to run a kissing booth at a school fair and accidentally got us banned from future events."
"That’s the most ‘you’ thing I’ve ever heard," Neo mumbled.
"Excuse me," Khaotung gasped. "I was innocent. Pim just has a very passionate entrepreneurial spirit."
"You told me you helped make the sign," JJ said.
“It was glittery!” Khaotung shot back, chin high
The laughter that followed was soft, tired, fading with the night. Gun was half-asleep, Neo cocooned, JJ wilted in his hoodie. The pool rippled with quiet silver light.
Khaotung stretched his toes back into the water, but something in his chest pinched. The kissing booth memory wasn’t just glitter and Pim’s theatrics. It was also after. The sharp words, the look he’d gotten. Like he’d done something shameful. Like leaning into the joke had been embarrassing. Like he was embarrassing.
Too much.
He swallowed. Tried to shake it off. But the thought lingered, stubborn. What if he was still too much here? Too loud. Too bright. Too quick to play along.
His gaze drifted sideways.
First sat apart, shadows and lamplight cutting across him, tank top loose, hair still damp. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t teasing. He was just watching.
Khaotung held his breath.
It wasn’t the same kind of look. Not sharp. Not critical. Not a weight pressing him small.
It was steady. Focused. Like First was listening even when he didn’t say anything. Like he could shine as loudly or as quietly as he wanted and it wouldn’t scare him off.
But the thought twisted with something else now—something rawer, heavier. What else was hiding behind that gaze? He thought of the way First’s voice had dropped when he’d admitted the truth about his past. The way his body had jolted awake in panic against him. The way Khaotung had held him, uselessly gentle, wondering if he’d ever be enough to quiet storms he couldn’t even see coming.
The memory pressed against him like a bruise. Too much. Not enough. Both at once.
His voice came out softer than he meant. “You okay, Fir?”
First blinked, surprised. Then, after a pause, nodded. “Yeah.”
That was all. But it was enough.
Khaotung smiled, fingers skimming the water, forcing the old memory—and the new ones clawing at its edges—back down. He didn’t need more tonight. He just needed this.
· · ·
The alley was quiet.
Tucked behind the bookstore and a row of dim restaurants, it smelled faintly of sesame oil, rain, and pavement. The kind of scent that stuck to his hoodie, warm and familiar. First stepped over the usual crack in the sidewalk, passed the dumpster with the broken latch, and reached the spot without thinking.
He knelt automatically, pulling open the small tote bag he'd packed earlier, his fingers already knowing which container was which. Sardines, chicken, soft pouches, clean water. It was always the same. Quiet. Steady. His.
And then came the soft sounds. Light footsteps, the shiver of a paw against cardboard, the low gravel crunch of movement.
They emerged like clockwork.
The calico brushed against his shin immediately, tail high. One of the black cats twined near his wrist, bold now, nosing at the sealed pouch. The other two lingered a step behind, not from fear, just rhythm. One of them flopped lazily on its side like it had been waiting all day for this.
“You’re spoiled,” First muttered, gently nudging the dramatic one with the back of his hand.
It purred.
He fed them in silence. Watched them eat, clean their faces, dart and settle, each with their own patterns. He didn’t need to guide it anymore. They knew him.
They trusted him.
That did something to his chest.
He leaned back against the wall, arms resting loosely over his knees, head tilted up toward the sliver of moon above the alley. It wasn’t bright tonight, but the light was just enough to outline the shapes of fur and shadow. Just enough to think.
He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, this version of here. Duelist. Team. Shot-calling scrims with JJ screaming in his ear and Gun humming in the comms and Khaotung—
He shut his eyes.
Khaotung. In the scrim. In the poolside moonlight. Saying his name like it was just a name. Like it belonged to him.
Fir.
He still didn’t know how to feel about it. Not really. Not fully.
His phone buzzed.
He glanced at it, expecting a Discord ping.
Instead:
Mae
He stared for a second. Then answered.
“Hi,” came her voice. Careful. Soft around the edges. “Are you busy?”
“…No.”
“I won’t keep you long,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to check in.”
“I’m fine,” he said, already watching the calico bat at the edge of the bowl like she was above sharing.
“I saw the bracket was announced,” she continued. “You’re playing this week?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be watching.”
A pause.
“That’s all,” she said. “I just… wanted to say hi. And that I’m proud of you.”
He said nothing. Not at first.
Then: “Okay.”
Another silence. A longer one.
And then, hesitant:
“I saw the photos. The ones with your teammate. Khaotung?”
His grip on the phone didn’t change. But the muscles in his jaw did.
“What about them.”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “He just… he seems kind.”
That was all. She didn’t press. Didn’t pry.
“I’m glad,” she added. “That you have people.”
He didn’t respond.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I just wanted you to know I’m here. If you ever want to talk.”
He let the words sit.
“…Okay.”
He ended the call.
Put the phone in his pocket. Exhaled slowly.
The calico jumped into his lap without hesitation. Turned a slow circle before settling against his leg, tail curling like punctuation.
He didn’t pet her. Just stared at the alley wall for a while.
That twist in his gut, the one he hadn’t felt during scrims, or while making congee, or even while sitting on the rooftop with Khaotung laughing in the dark, it returned now. Cold. Defensive. Sharp.
He didn’t like that his mom had brought him up.
Didn’t like hearing Khaotung’s name from her mouth. Didn’t like the implication underneath her tone, soft, observing, maybe even hopeful.
He didn’t want her hope anywhere near this.
This wasn’t for her. It wasn’t for anyone outside the team. It was his. Quiet. Fragile. Still becoming something.
He’d let the team joke. Let JJ scream. Let Gun push buttons and Neo record emotional chaos stats and even Off roll his eyes with affection.
But his mom?
No.
He didn’t want her touching it. Not yet.
Not until he knew what this was.
The calico shifted in his lap, kneading once before going still.
First exhaled again.
And let the thought go.
For now.
Chapter 38: Chapter 38
Notes:
So this is a chapter that was completely added due to my spiral over the last week. I honestly think it’s a blessing in disguise cause personally it’s one of my new favorites (although I have too many at this point). Personally I think it’s quite different than any I’ve done before but idk maybe I’m wrong, I had a lot of fun with it even mid spiral. I hope you guys like it.
ALSO if anyone remembers that first photoshoot with First and Khao and that fit I imagined First in ended up being practically the one he wore for the MMP Fan Party is actually so insane I lost my fucking mind AHHH
Anyway I hope you enjoy as always. Back soon 🥰
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
Khaotung had tossed and turned all night.
He realized how lucky he’d been lately—too busy to think. Too busy to feel. Practice, prep, shoots, streams. Noise. Movement. Enough to keep his mind from drifting back to that night.
But now? With a full rest day ahead of them? Now he couldn’t stop wanting to think about it. To sit with it. To feel it.
He’d always known First went to therapy. Everyone on the team did. It was right there on the shared calendar, color-blocked in a soft neutral that never changed. First didn’t hide it, but he didn’t talk about it either. It was just part of the rhythm of their weeks.
Khaotung had never thought much about it, figured it was about mental health, balance, whatever. Admirable. Responsible.
But now he knew the why.
And the how.
Now he saw it. The reason behind the calm and the control and the careful way First showed love to everyone on the team. Not just in training, not just in strategy, but in the quiet ways that counted. It wasn’t always obvious, but it was there. Always.
He didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.
Honestly, he was surprised Off wasn’t in therapy himself. The job looked like a nightmare. If he were in charge, he’d lose his mind trying to manage all that personality.
Well.
His personality. Obviously.
But with the match tomorrow and the day off officially announced, all Khaotung could think about was how much he wanted to think.
About the way First dropped a vulnerability bomb like it was nothing, then let Khaotung hold him while he trembled through something silent and terrifying. Something Khaotung couldn’t begin to imagine, let alone fix.
He wanted to process it, to really process it. But he couldn’t seem to find space in the dorm to think clearly. There was laughter from the kitchen, someone shouting for a charger, the sound of Montow being spoiled rotten. It was warm here. Loud. Alive.
But it wasn’t his.
He felt it building in his chest, tight and itchy, like an idea with nowhere to land.
The ache to be home pulled at him like gravity.
To see his moms. To sit in the café. To smell the sugar and tea in the walls. To fold himself back into the only place that had ever made him feel truly safe.
So he got up.
Frilly shorts. Slightly loose mint-colored baby tee. Favorite white sneakers. Nothing too much, but enough to feel like himself.
He waved to JJ and AJ on his way out. Didn’t say where he was going.
But if they’d asked, he would’ve told them the truth.
He just needed to go home.
· · ·
For once, First was the one looking for Khaotung.
He’d already walked past the kitchen five or six times. JJ and AJ watched him do it with matching expressions of passive interest, but miraculously neither of them said a word.
Suspicious. But appreciated.
Still, Khaotung was nowhere to be found.
Vaanjoy padded quietly behind him, tail flicking with mild interest. Every time they paused to check a room, the cat circled his ankles like they were on a joint mission.
Eventually, and with more reluctance than he’d ever admit, First found himself at the door of the team gym.
He scowled at it.
“…There’s no way he’s in here,” he muttered to Vaanjoy, but pushed the door open anyway. The cat followed with purpose, curling her tail around First’s leg again as if to say, Try anyway, coward.
First sighed. “Where’s your papa, hmm?” he murmured down to the cat. “Did he abandon you too?”
He was just scooping Vaanjoy into his arms when a voice came from the corner.
“You talk to her like she’s going to answer you one day,” Neo said, far too amused.
First turned, unbothered, to find him near the weight rack. Neo set down a dumbbell and leaned against the bench, towel slung over his shoulder, expression smug.
“You look more annoyed than usual,” Neo added, “which honestly feels like a medical miracle.”
First rolled his eyes. “I can’t find Khaotung.”
Neo raised an eyebrow, like that explained far more than First intended. He placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Where all did you look?”
First gave him a flat look. “This is the last place in the dorm.”
“Hmm.” Neo nodded slowly, clearly enjoying himself. “Should we call him? Or do you just miss him?”
First opened his mouth to respond. Closed it.
A blush crept up the back of his neck like a betrayal.
He turned away. Lifted Vaanjoy just above eye level and gave the cat a dramatic look.
“We shouldn’t have entertained a conversation with this idiot, little kitty,” he told her solemnly. “Clearly you’re the one looking for your papa. Not me.”
Vaanjoy blinked at him.
Neo snorted.
First gave him one more deadpan glance before walking out, the cat tucked against his chest like a shield.
· · ·
As soon as Khaotung stepped through the café door, his lungs gave out a shuddery breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
It smelled like warm tea and vanilla, the air kissed with cinnamon and lemon from whatever batch of scones Mae Lin must’ve made that morning. The light through the windows hit the polished wood floors just right, casting soft golden streaks across the tables. Someone’s order bell jingled. The soft clatter of ceramic. A familiar hum of old music on the speaker.
He barely managed a nod to a regular at the counter before slipping behind the bar and into the kitchen.
It was empty, for now.
Thank god.
He moved on autopilot. Cup. Kettle. Teabag. His hands shook a little as he opened the tin of leaves. He told himself it was just the muscle memory of being back here, just his body resetting.
But it wasn’t.
He poured the hot water too fast and spilled a few drops. Normally, he’d wipe it right up. This time, he just stared.
The panic attack.
First’s voice in the dark.
The trust that came before it.
“I was taken.”
Khaotung pressed a hand to his chest.
He’d meant to come here and process. That was the whole point of walking out the door in the first place—getting somewhere quiet, somewhere warm, somewhere safe enough to finally think.
But now that he was here, his thoughts wouldn’t slow down. They sprinted. Collided. Collapsed.
He wasn’t prepared for how much it would feel like drowning.
The steam from the kettle curled like smoke in the air. His tea was ready. His scone waited on the plate. He should sit down. Should breathe.
Instead, he gripped the edge of the counter like it might save him.
Why did First tell him?
Why did he get that trust?
And what if he did something wrong with it?
The image hit him fast and brutal. First waking up, wide-eyed and shaking, breath caught in his throat like a scream that wouldn’t come out. The way he’d pressed in, trembling like the world was slipping through his hands. The way Khaotung had held him, whispering whatever he could think of, anything to keep him grounded.
But what if it hadn’t been enough?
What if he hadn’t been enough?
What if saying the wrong thing next time ruined everything?
The guilt struck sharp and immediate. What if First only told him because he panicked? What if it was too much, too soon, and Khaotung made it worse just by being there?
The tea cooled between his hands.
He hadn’t even realized he was crying until Mae Lin’s arms wrapped around him from behind.
“Baby,” she whispered.
The word cracked something open in his chest.
He turned and buried himself in her arms.
And broke.
Not with sobs, not at first. Just with trembling—shoulders shaking, breath shuddering, tears hot and silent. She didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.
Her embrace was steady, familiar. Her chin rested gently on his hair.
He clung tighter.
“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“I know,” she said softly. “You don’t have to figure it out all at once.”
“I feel like I’m going to mess it up.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Mae Lin pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks. Her thumbs wiped the wetness from under his eyes.
“I know you,” she said gently. “And I know your heart.”
Khaotung nodded, barely.
He didn’t feel better. Not yet.
But at least he wasn’t spiraling alone.
· · ·
First had somehow ended up in Khaotung’s room.
Not because he missed him or anything.
It just had better lighting. And maybe Vaanjoy had stopped following him around the second he tried to return to his own room. That didn’t mean anything.
So now he was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Khaotung’s bed, leaning against it like a sulky housecat. Montow was sprawled across the mattress above him. Vaanjoy was curled contentedly in his lap.
He had opened LINE, then Discord, then LINE again, like maybe he’d missed a message. A simple one. Gone out, or brb, milk tea run, or thinking too much, back later. But nothing had come.
He could have asked someone. AJ or JJ had to have seen something. He could have knocked on Off and Gun’s door to check there, but he hadn’t heard any obnoxious giggles through the walls, which meant Khaotung wasn’t with Gun.
And if he wasn’t with Gun, then where the hell was he?
First sighed, letting his head drop back against the edge of the bed.
He could be doing anything right now. Reading. Watching those dumb cat compilation videos that always made him snort. Playing that cozy mobile cat game he’s been addicted to for way too long. Hell, he could be napping.
Instead he was here.
Not waiting.
Just… here.
For the cats. Obviously.
Montow shifted above him, pawing sleepily at a corner of the blanket. Vaanjoy gave a soft, satisfied purr in his lap.
First exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting closed.
He wasn’t worried. He wasn’t.
He just hadn’t realized how quiet the dorm felt without Khaotung in it.
· · ·
Mae Lin didn’t ask any questions.
She just locked the café doors, flipped the sign to closed, and took him by the hand. Her grip was firm. Steady. Khaotung didn’t realize how hard he was shaking until they stepped into the quiet of the stairwell, and she didn’t let go until they reached the door upstairs.
Their apartment smelled like lemongrass and honey. A bit of incense. A lot like home.
She guided him to the couch without a word, pulled a blanket over them both, and let him curl against her like he was ten again and hiding from thunderstorms. Her fingers carded gently through his hair, and for a long while, there was only that. Warmth. Steady breaths. The slow thump of her heart against his ear.
And then, softly—
“Do you need to talk about it?”
Khaotung swallowed hard.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you this.”
The words felt like broken glass in his mouth. He gripped the edge of the blanket tighter.
Mae Lin didn’t push. She just kissed the top of his head. “Then don’t. Not yet. Or not ever. Whatever you need.”
But the ache inside him was loud.
I want to. I want to tell you everything. But it’s not mine to give away.
He stared at the stitches on the pillowcase. One of Auntie Joe’s, the thread a little uneven where she’d rushed through the corner.
And the helplessness cracked him open.
He’d chosen to come home. To finally let himself feel it, but now that it was here, he didn’t know what to do with it.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He was supposed to be helpful. Steady. A safe place to land.
Not someone who sat here spiraling because the person he wanted had trusted him with something so unspeakably heavy. And he didn’t know how to carry it.
It hurt to know First had gone through something like that. It hurt even more that this was just the part First had been willing to say.
There was more.
Khaotung knew it. Felt it in his bones. Felt it in the way First’s hands had trembled, in the way his body had locked up the next morning like touch itself was a trigger.
And it left Khaotung gasping for air now, because if this was what trust looked like, what would it mean to ask for more?
To hope for more?
To maybe, eventually, love someone who had survived something like that?
Mae Lin’s hand found his again.
He held on like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.
· · ·
First had sat in Khaotung’s room for hours before hunger finally dragged him out.
He could’ve ordered something, but instead—God knew why—he found himself in the kitchen attempting to cook. Something complicated. Too complicated. Which was entirely Khaotung’s fault for making him watch so many cooking videos lately.
The stove hissed. A pot bubbled ominously. First cursed under his breath as he squinted at the recipe on his tablet.
What the hell did fold gently until glossy even mean?
He reached for the spatula, paused, then turned, only to find AJ sitting at the counter, staring at him with an expression of near-total disinterest.
No sound. No greeting. Just there.
Watching.
First blinked. “How long have you been sitting there?”
AJ shrugged. “Long enough to see that whatever you’re doing, it’s not going well.”
First narrowed his eyes. Then, after a beat, he asked dryly, “Do you want some or not?”
AJ tilted his head, pretending to think. “Are you planning to serve it with a side of emotional repression?”
First didn’t answer. He just held up a spoon like he might throw it.
AJ raised his brows, unbothered. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
First rolled his eyes but relented. “Don’t tell anyone.”
AJ pressed a finger to his lips in mock solemnity. “Secret’s safe with me.”
Then he held out his hand, and First passed over the tablet with the glowing recipe, watching as AJ began to scroll through it like solving a puzzle was just another Tuesday.
Maybe it was.
Either way, First didn’t mind the company.
Even if he’d never admit it out loud.
· · ·
Khaotung hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until the scent of something rich and savory pulled him awake.
His eyes fluttered open, slow and reluctant. The living room was dim, sunlight softened by gauzy curtains, the air warm with the smell of khao kha moo. He could hear the faint bubbling of a pot and the soft clink of utensils.
He blinked and sat up on the couch, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.
Across the room, in the cozy little kitchen tucked just beyond the archway, Auntie Joe was humming under her breath, swaying gently as she stirred the pot on the stove. Her hair was clipped back with a pen, her apron dusted with flour, and one foot tapped in rhythm to whatever tune was stuck in her head.
Khaotung watched her for a moment, quiet. Something eased in his chest again.
This place. This life. These people.
He hadn’t needed to say anything when Mae Lin brought him upstairs earlier. Just sat with him until the storm passed. Just let him feel. Let him fall asleep with his head on her shoulder like he was still fifteen and overwhelmed by the world.
And now, Auntie Joe was making his favorite food like nothing had happened.
Like he wasn’t carrying a thousand feelings he couldn’t name.
He rose slowly, padding toward the kitchen, and leaned against the doorframe. “You always know how to fix things.”
Auntie Joe didn’t look up. Just smiled. “I just know when someone needs pork and rice.”
He huffed a soft laugh. Not quite whole, but real.
They moved in silence for a while. He helped her set the table—two plates, not three. Mae Lin would eat later, probably tucked under a blanket with her crossword puzzles and a guilty glass of wine. Auntie Joe insisted he sit. She served him first.
It wasn’t until he was halfway through the first bite, the savory, melt-in-your-mouth richness of the pork grounding him again, that his thoughts returned to First.
Not in a spiral this time. Just… gentle.
A curiosity curling at the edges of his ribs.
He thought about what it meant to carry something like that. To say it. To choose someone to say it to.
And suddenly, he thought of his own secrets. The ones he didn’t talk about. The soft hurts. The messy truths. How long it had taken him to say anything, even to Pim. Even to himself.
Maybe First didn’t need someone to fix it. Maybe he didn’t need the perfect reaction. Maybe he just needed what Khaotung had wanted, what he still wants.
Someone to sit there and not leave.
To listen. To see him.
To stay.
If First had felt unsafe, he would’ve said so. If Khaotung had messed up, he would’ve known. First was blunt like that, frustratingly so.
But he hadn’t.
He’d let Khaotung stay.
He’d asked to stay like that, actually. In his arms.
Which meant… something. Even if it wasn’t everything yet.
Khaotung poked at his rice with the edge of his spoon.
Maybe he didn’t have to have it all figured out today.
Maybe the answer wasn’t overthinking—maybe it was just feeling.
Trusting the fact that First had trusted him. That he still did.
Khaotung took another bite. Let it settle.
He’d figure it out.
One truth at a time.
· · ·
Despite telling himself not to, First had made his way back to Khaotung’s room.
Everything felt off. The whole dorm. His own room. Even the cats had been unsettled. Or maybe that was just him projecting, but either way, he’d ended up here. Again. And stayed.
Montow blinked at him from the bed like he didn’t particularly care, but shifted over just enough to make space.
First sat.
Then settled.
Then lay back slowly beside the cat, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting lightly on Montow’s fur. The light in the room was dim now, soft with the haze of early evening. Vaanjoy had followed him earlier and now dozed on the nearby chair like a silent witness.
He hadn’t brought his phone this time. Hadn’t pretended to be looking for something. No fake messages or “just checking.”
He was waiting.
He knew it.
And when the door finally opened, First didn’t move, just tilted his head slightly, eyes tracking the shape in the doorway.
Khaotung stood there.
His curls were messy from wind or sleep, his mint-colored tee wrinkled, and his shorts looked even softer than usual, settling just above the tattoo on his thigh.
He looked tired. Not drained. Not upset. Just... heavy. Like something had been laid down and not yet picked back up.
First stared at him for a moment, his face unreadable.
Khaotung didn’t say anything right away. He just let his eyes take in the scene. The way First had made himself at home on his bed, how Montow had clearly shifted into something that looked like a waiting position. And how none of it felt strange. Not really.
Warmth bloomed in his chest, slow and quiet.
He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, soft.
“You’re in my spot.”
First blinked once. “Montow claimed it first.”
Montow let out a single meow, like he agreed.
Khaotung huffed, but it was soft around the edges. “Of course he did.”
He crossed the room slowly, every movement somehow both weightless and aching. When he reached the bed, he toed off his slippers and dropped his small sling bag near the dresser. The air felt thick in the best way. Like safety. Like he’d come back to something important.
Without asking, without ceremony, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.
Montow stretched and nestled instantly against his thigh.
Khaotung glanced down at him, then at First still lying there, head propped on his arm, eyes on the ceiling without saying anything.
So he lay back too. Close, but not touching. Montow settled between them, like a bridge.
The silence stretched, warm and full.
“I went home,” Khaotung said quietly. “To the café.”
First didn’t respond.
Khaotung kept staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t mean to think so much.”
A beat.
“But it caught up to me anyway.”
That, First understood. Too well.
“I figured,” he said simply.
There was something in his voice—not quite softness, but understanding.
Khaotung turned his head slightly. First hadn’t moved, but his gaze had shifted. No longer on the ceiling. Now it was on him.
Khaotung didn’t flinch under it.
“I don’t regret telling you,” First said.
His voice was quiet. Flat. But real.
“Just so you know.”
Khaotung blinked once. Swallowed.
Something in his chest tightened and then released.
“Okay,” he said.
And that was it.
No dramatic declarations. No “thank you” this time. Just the weight of trust, hanging between them.
Montow purred once. Loud. Then nuzzled into Khaotung’s side.
Neither of them moved.
But Khaotung’s pinky drifted slightly toward the middle of the bed. Just enough to brush the edge of First’s hand. Not a grab. Not even a reach.
Just there.
Just felt.
First hesitated only a second before shifting his own hand, hooking his pinky gently around Khaotung’s. A quiet link. A choice.
· · ·
First woke up alone. Normally, that was fine. But this morning, his chest was tight, heavy with the sense he’d made the wrong choice in leaving Khaotung’s room when he did.
He could still see it in flashes: Khaotung curled small beneath his blankets, the shine at the corners of his eyes, the quiet rasp of “I didn’t mean to think so much.”
If the tears had been about him, about what he’d said, First’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want that night to warp into something sour, didn’t want honesty to curdle into regret. He’d told him he didn’t regret speaking. He had meant it. But whether it had landed…
The doubts scratched like claws against his ribs. He couldn’t lie still anymore. He got up.
The kitchen was washed in pale morning light, soft and hazy. Khaotung sat at the counter in an oversized hoodie and loose sleep shorts, hands wrapped around a mug. The kettle clicked faintly as it cooled. Montow perched beside him on a chair like a furry sentry, tail flicking against the wood.
When First stepped in, Khaotung’s face lifted at once. The smile that broke across it was fast, easy—so bright it made First pause in the doorway.
He didn’t want to ruin it. Didn’t want to make it heavy again. But the words pressed out anyway. “Are you okay?”
Khaotung blinked, surprised at the question so early. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I just had to think yesterday. Process.” He stirred his tea absently, eyes lowered, shy in a way that eased something in First’s chest.
“Nothing has changed?” First asked. His voice was quieter than he intended.
Khaotung looked up. His head tilted in that familiar way, his mouth curving with a small, sure smile. “Nothing has changed, Fir.”
Something inside First unwound. The grip in his chest eased. He crossed to the counter. Without a word, Khaotung slid the spare mug toward him, the one he always pretended wasn’t waiting there for anyone in particular.
Their fingers brushed. A fleeting touch, but warm. Simple. Enough.
“Do you want company,” First asked softly, “or quiet company?”
“Company,” Khaotung said. His eyes held his, steady now. “Yours.”
So First stayed. He stood close while the room filled with quiet sounds—the spoon tapping ceramic, the soft huff of Montow settling, the distant hum of traffic through the window.
No fixes. No speeches. Just this: the shape of them, unchanged. Maybe even a little steadier than yesterday.
Chapter 39: Chapter 39
Notes:
HIIIII, so this is pretty much just a filler chapter to get us to the next one, I hope you enjoy it anyway!
I may have the next one ready to go tomorrow but we shall see
Be back soon :)
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
Lita met them in the lounge just after breakfast—heels clicking, tablet in hand, sunglasses still perched atop her head like a crown. "My stars," she said, surveying Khaotung and First with the air of someone about to cause trouble. "How are my favorite trending topics?"
Khaotung blinked. First, seated with his arms crossed and a protein shake in hand, made a noise that might've been a scoff.
"Don't do that, First," Lita said sweetly, flopping onto the couch across from them.
She turned the tablet around to show them analytics. Fan edits. Twitter threads. TikToks with absurdly romantic background music. "You two have the internet in a chokehold. And with the match coming up on today, I figured we should lean in a little."
First raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"Couple of short live interviews. Just you two. Light, flirty, good vibes. We'll do one for the sponsor’s channel, and one for our team’s YouTube. Nothing crazy. Just a few questions about how you’re getting along, what it’s like training together, your dynamic."
Khaotung tilted his head. "Do we have to rehearse anything?"
"Nope! I want it natural. Organic. Adorable. You know, exactly what you are."
First muttered something under his breath.
Lita ignored him. "Also, we’ll be filming a special featurette. Just the two of you. For the channel. Maybe next week. Schedule pending. I’m still working out the details."
"What’s the theme?" Khaotung asked, instantly suspicious.
She smiled, far too innocent. "That’s a surprise."
"That means it’s evil," First said flatly.
"It means it’ll be memorable," Lita corrected. Then she stood, flipping her tablet closed. "Oh, and one more thing. You’ll have coordinated outfits for the interview. We need to leave in an hour. Don’t be late."
Khaotung grinned. "Matching outfits?”
"Princess Glitter and the Ice Prince," Lita said with a wink. "The internet is ready."
First groaned into his shake.
Khaotung leaned toward him with a smirk. "I can’t wait to see what color they put you in."
First rolled his eyes. But Khaotung caught the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turned away. The twitch steadied him more than he expected; a yes in the smallest possible language.
Lita, already halfway to the hallway, called over her shoulder, "Be camera-ready, boys. Stardom waits for no man."
And just like that, the countdown to chaos began.
· · ·
The fitting room was a battlefield.
“Absolutely not,” First said flatly, arms crossed.
Lita blinked at him from behind her clipboard. “First—”
“I am not wearing cyan.”
She sighed. “It’s not even cyan. It’s light blue. Just the cardigan. It’ll pair perfectly with Khaotung’s stripes. Clean, balanced, coordinated.”
First narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like cyan’s evil cousin.”
Lita jotted something down without looking up. “You’re wearing it.”
“This is sabotage,” First muttered.
Khaotung, barefoot on the fitting bench, made the whole room tilt. His striped crop top clung in all the right places, pale skin flashing each time he shifted. The shredded denim hung low on his hips, careless and calculated all at once, exposing long lines of thigh and the smooth strip of his stomach every time he moved. His hair was mussed from changing, lips glossed, eyes bright with mischief.
He smiled at First like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You’re going to look so handsome,” Khaotung said sweetly. “Like a really pissed-off prince.”
First muttered something about wardrobe-based psychological warfare, but his brain was already betraying him, tracking the dip of Khaotung’s waist, the notch of his collarbone, the dangerous sparkle of his grin.
A stylist held out the cardigan. First scowled at it like it had personally cursed his bloodline, then reluctantly started to take it.
He hesitated.
And that’s when Khaotung stood, closing the space between them. He touched First’s arm lightly, warm, steady, enough to ground and unhinge him at the same time.
“Come on, Fir,” Khaotung coaxed, soft and playful, voice a little breathy. “Just try it on. For me?”
There was a flicker under the teasing, something almost hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d pushed too far.
The air left First’s lungs.
It wasn’t just the name. Though Fir—without the honorific, easy, familiar—was dangerous enough.
It was the way Khaotung said it. Low. Close. Like it belonged only to them.
It was also the hand on his arm, a brand against his skin.
And it was the fact that Khaotung was right there, shirt riding high, stomach bare, skin gleaming faintly under the lights. First could see the line of muscle, the glittering gloss on his mouth. He could smell the faint sweetness of his cologne, close enough to touch.
Every nerve in First’s body lit up like static.
“Are you glitching?” Khaotung whispered, amused.
First snatched the cardigan from the stylist like it had offended him personally and shoved his arms through the sleeves in one rough motion. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” Khaotung said, victorious. Relief brightened his grin, so quick and easy it almost hurt to look at.
Lita snapped a photo. “Perfect. That’s the promo shot.”
First groaned into his hands while Khaotung giggled like the devil himself.
Gun peeked in through the door. "Did he wear it? Did he cave?"
"He caved," Khaotung sang.
Gun clapped. "That’s my Fir."
"OUT," First barked.
The room erupted in laughter.
Khaotung pretended to fix a sleeve, tamping down the wild little spark in his chest. First hated it from anyone else. He hadn’t told Khaotung to stop.
· · ·
The host was talking, asking about team dynamics. Something about trust and new lineup energy and Khaotung was answering with all that bright, effortless ease. His voice carried across the livestream like honey, moving hands painting the air, every gesture shifting fabric and revealing more skin.
First blinked, forcing himself to follow along, but his eyes kept drifting. First to the smooth line of Khaotung’s back, visible when he leaned forward, the soft hollow of the dimples tracing down his spine like a secret map. Then to the pale skin visible through the large holes in the denim; a gasp of thigh so pure it made First’s breath catch.
Khaotung’s crop top rode up a bit when he moved, and First could see the subtle tone of abs and the curve of rib where the shirt pulled up, that smoothness not just on his chest but the faint sheen along his side that made First want to reach out and feel it. The fabric shifted again, and there it was, the tattooed script on Khaotung’s thigh, curving around muscle in a slender line, words First didn’t recognize but knew he'd memorize.
He blinked, once, twice, trying to focus on the host’s question instead of every flicker of skin, every sleeve of gold earring, every sliver of midriff. But Khaotung’s smile—bright and reckless—drew him back. He laughed at something the host said, head tipped back, and the sound pulled at First like a tether.
When the host finally turned to him, calling him out with that line about chemistry, he had to steel himself to answer. But inside, his chest was pinched tight, mind spinning with the image of back dimples and thigh ink, the warmth of skin and everything exposed.
“So, First,” the host said, voice warm and expectant. “Fans are noticing a little more chemistry between you and your teammate.”
Khaotung laughed, and that sound tugged at First’s nerves harder than any spotlight. Still, he answered: “Chemistry is part of the game. You play better when you trust someone.”
Even saying it, his focus snapped back to Khaotung leaning toward him, lines of exposed skin reminding him of what was between them. His heart thudded, thoughts jittering.
The host raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a compliment.”
Khaotung tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Was that a compliment, Fir?”
His gaze locked onto Khaotung’s; his breath went shallow. That line of thigh, that curve of collarbone, it all pulsed in his vision.
The moment stretched. Tense. Electric.
First’s mouth twitched in a half-smile, unguarded. Not quite a grin but close enough to feel like he’d been caught.
Then team voices filtered back: JJ drifting in, Gun's quiet comment, the host trying to pivot, but First hardly heard them.
Because he was still watching Khaotung. Still feeling the heat of every inch of skin he could see.
And Khaotung, a little breathless and pink at the ears, looked right back.
· · ·
Backstage was tense. Focused. Nearly quiet, except for Off.
“Okay,” he said, voice sharp but calm as he pointed at the clipboard. “Gun, you anchor B. JJ, initiate hard if they push garage early. Neo, you’re rotating mid on second call. First and Khaotung—duelists stay split until confirmation. Play smart, play disciplined, trust your timings.”
“Got it,” Neo said, already reviewing utility placement on his phone.
JJ was stretching, mouthing the rhythm of his pre-match warmup playlist.
First was leaning against the wall, tank top under his Eclipse jacket, headphones slung around his neck. Calm. Or pretending to be.
Khaotung sat beside him on a bench, legs crossed, braided bracelet fiddled between his fingers. He hadn’t said much—just small smiles. A few soft glances. They were both a little quieter today, and nobody had questioned it.
Not until Gun gasped like someone had stabbed him.
“TWITTER,” he hissed, nearly dropping his phone. “OH MY GOD. TWITTER.”
Off didn’t even look up. “Gun. Focus.”
“NO, NO, NO. THIS IS IMPORTANT.”
JJ whipped around. “What happened?”
Neo sighed, already bracing himself. “Did someone post a meme of you again?”
“NO,” Gun cried. “WORSE. BETTER. BOTH.”
He spun his phone to show them. “#FirWatch is TRENDING.”
First blinked. “Excuse me?”
JJ launched across the room, landing next to Gun like a hawk spotting prey. “Wait. Is that about you?”
Gun was already reading aloud, dramatic voice in full effect: “‘Did Khaotung just call him FIR?? Since WHEN is that allowed??? Who approved this level of intimacy on a livestream?? I need to sit down.’”
Khaotung choked on air.
JJ cackled. “Wait—wait—here’s another one. ‘First didn’t even blink. He just let it happen. He just LET IT HAPPEN. This is real. I’m hyperventilating.’”
First crossed his arms. “This is dumb.”
Gun kept scrolling. “OH MY GOD—‘Me watching First’s soul leave his body when Khaotung said Fir like it wasn’t illegal.’ THEY MADE A GIF. FIRST THERE’S A GIF.”
Khaotung peeked. “That’s actually kind of flattering—”
“I’m in a crisis,” First muttered.
JJ was crying with laughter. “Wait, wait! Look at this one! ‘Someone check on Off. We need a coach who can handle unhinged gay tension in interviews.’”
Off raised a single eyebrow. “If you lose this match over Twitter nonsense, I’m benching both of you.”
Neo, calm as ever, looked up from his phone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fan edits with lavender lighting filters.”
Gun nodded solemnly. “The fans are feral.”
“I’m going to kill you,” First said flatly.
“For what?” Gun chirped. “YOU let him call you Fir.”
Khaotung tried to disappear into his jacket. “It just… slipped out.”
“Didn’t sound like a slip,” Neo offered helpfully.
JJ grinned. “Sounded like yearning.”
“Sounded like someone’s been saying it off-camera,” Gun added.
First turned to the wall like it might let him walk through it.
Off clapped once. Loud.
“Phones away,” he ordered. “Match in fifteen. If you embarrass me, I’ll throw all your outfits into a volcano.”
JJ held up his hands. “Coach Off has entered the chat.”
Neo sighed. “RIP to the thread I was reading.”
Gun tucked his phone into his pocket, barely. “But let the record show, the ‘Fir’ moment was historic.”
First didn’t respond.
But Khaotung, still pink in the ears, whispered just loud enough for him to hear:
“You haven’t told me to stop.”
First didn’t turn.
But his lips twitched.
And then the team lined up.
Match time.
The moment they stepped on stage, Khaotung’s breath caught in his throat.
The lights were blinding, the crowd deafening. Screams erupted from all sides as Team Eclipse entered the arena, their matching jackets catching the flashes of cameras like they were made of starlight. Fans were pressed against the barricades, waving signs with names and glittering decals—JJ BOMB MY HEART, NEO = KING OF SMOKE, GUNLOCKED 4 LIFE—and then Khaotung saw them.
Khaotung you GOT THIS!
Team Glitter!
And—
FIRSTKHAO FOREVER with two stick figures holding hands beneath a heart.
His face flushed immediately.
“Don’t trip,” JJ whispered, nudging him as they walked in a single line toward their stations.
“I’m not gonna trip,” Khaotung hissed back.
“You’re absolutely gonna trip,” Neo said from behind them.
But he didn’t. They all made it to their gaming chairs just fine, seating themselves in a line behind their monitors while the crowd continued to roar. Khaotung adjusted his headset with trembling fingers. His heart was pounding so loud he could barely hear.
This was it. His first official tournament match.
And he was terrified.
Off stood behind them, calmly briefing them one last time as they got settled. “Play smart. Keep comms clean. Watch the economy and trust the defaults. Don’t chase stupid fights. Khaotung, you have the entry. First is second swing. Let him watch your line.”
Khaotung nodded. Too quickly.
He could feel it in his chest, the static. The nerves. The way his leg wouldn’t stop bouncing under the desk.
And then—
A hand settled gently on his knee.
Not heavy. Just present. Steadying.
He glanced sideways.
First wasn’t looking at him. Just watching the monitors in front of them like nothing unusual had happened. But his hand stayed there.
Warm. Solid. Calm.
Khaotung swallowed. Nodded again.
The match countdown started. Five minutes.
Gun leaned forward and grinned. “Smile for the camera, Princess Glitter.”
JJ made a kissing noise. “Get ready to be famous.”
Neo adjusted his mouse. “Let’s win.”
Khaotung laughed quietly, still wired. But then First finally turned to look at him.
Just a glance.
Their eyes met, side by side, close enough that Khaotung could see the faint glint in First’s gaze.
“You ready?” First asked.
Khaotung took a breath.
Then, softly, “Yeah… Fir.”
First blinked.
And when the buzzer sounded, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “Let’s show them what you can do.”
Khaotung smiled.
And the match began.
The second round barely ended and Khaotung was shaking.
Not with fear, well, maybe a little, but mostly adrenaline. Pure, blistering, heart-hammering adrenaline that refused to settle. The roar of the crowd was a living thing in his chest. Every time he peeked a corner or hit a shot, it got louder. Every time First gave him a callout—steady, calm, controlled—it made something flutter low in his stomach.
“Nice entry,” First said softly into comms, just for him.
Khaotung nearly missed the next cue.
They were up four rounds. He’d gotten two first bloods. Gun had called him a “sparkling menace.” JJ had threatened to kiss him if he clutched again. Neo told him he was doing fine, which, from Neo, meant exceptional.
But it was the quiet squeeze of First’s hand on his kne that had Khaotung breathing again.
He didn’t dare look over this time. Last time, their eyes met for half a second and his crosshair placement went to hell.
Still, he could feel him there. Could hear him. And God, he wanted to hear more.
The moment the final scoreboard locked in, chaos detonated.
JJ yelled. Gun screamed. Neo actually grinned.
Khaotung, he just blinked at the screen, chest rising like he’d broken the surface of deep water. The cheers from the arena hit a crescendo. Signs waved. One had his name with little sparkles drawn around it.
“Oh my God,” he breathed.
First leaned in behind him, subtle as ever, and murmured: “You were incredible.”
Khaotung turned, lips parted to thank him but the look on First’s face stopped him. Not a smirk. Not the cool, collected mask. Just something warm. Open. Soft.
“I—” Khaotung started, but his throat closed up.
First reached up, adjusted his headset for him like he wasn’t shaking inside. “You did good, Tung.”
Tung. Not Khaotung. Not Khao. The name landed like a hand to the back—steadying, possessive, kind.
Khaotung bit his lip. “Thanks, Fir.”
No teasing. No eye roll.
Just a very quiet, “You’re welcome.”
And then the crowd swallowed them whole.
· · ·
The door barely shut behind them before JJ launched himself onto the couch like he’d just been released from prison.
“VICTORY SNACKS OR I PERISH,” he declared, dramatically starfished across the cushions.
Gun was already halfway into a celebratory sparkling juice, hair a mess, glitter from someone’s sign inexplicably stuck to his cheek. “I want five edits of my clutches set to Beyoncé by tomorrow.”
Neo collapsed into an armchair and muttered, “You nearly whiffed that last round.”
“And yet—I didn’t,” Gun sing-songed.
Off just grinned, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “I’ve never seen a team win and fall apart this fast.”
“It’s called balance,” JJ replied. “We give drama, we take dubs.”
Amid the chaos, Khaotung hovered near the corner, helmet hair a mess, face flushed, trying not to combust from the amount of fan tweets already buzzing his phone. He kept seeing his name. His plays. His face. And—
Oh god.
#FirstKhaotungOnStage was trending.
His entire soul nearly left his body.
“You’re famous Princess,” Gun cooed, coming up behind him to peek over his shoulder. “Oh—oh. Look at this edit. You look feral in that retake.”
“Don’t look at those,” Khaotung pleaded, ears bright pink.
JJ zoomed over. “Wait, is that—‘Did Khaotung just call him Fir again???’ OH, WE’RE IN IT NOW.”
Khaotung groaned, covering his face.
Neo held up his phone calmly. “Reddit says it didn’t sound like a slip. Reddit says it sounded like a confession.”
“I—!” Khaotung was already spiraling.
Gun was thriving. “Look at this one: ‘First didn’t even mind when he said Fir.’ Ohhh my god, your situationship is trending.”
Off just shook his head, exasperated but clearly amused.
And then—
“Where is he?” JJ asked suddenly. “Where’s the other half of the ship?”
Everyone turned. The room stilled.
First was in the far corner, calm as a storm, towel draped around his neck, quietly scrolling through his phone.
Khaotung swore his heart did a somersault when First looked up and met his eyes across the room.
Their gazes locked.
Long enough for Gun to make an extremely loud kissing noise.
First didn’t break eye contact but he did say, flatly, “I will unplug all your keyboards.”
JJ cackled. “HE DIDN’T DENY IT.”
Gun looked euphoric. “This is the best post-match of my life.”
Off finally stepped in, pushing them toward the snack table. “Alright, everyone settle down. Celebration phase now. Teasing phase resumes after Khaotung stops blushing.”
“I will never stop blushing,” Khaotung muttered into his sleeves.
But when he risked another glance at First…
First was still watching him.
Still calm. Still unreadable.
Except for the tiniest curve at the corner of his mouth.
Khaotung swore he could live off that look for a week.
Maybe two.
Chapter 40: Chapter 40
Summary:
Just, prepare yourself.
Notes:
Wow, I cannot believe we are officially halfway through. I am quite nervous and excited about this chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it and also I apologize in advance. Also in case it isn't clear this picks up pretty much right after the last chapter just later on in the day as they go out to celebrate Khao's first match :)
Also I am very close to moving so I may not get the next couple of updates out as quickly as I would like as I'm so busy with packing and preparing.
I love you all and can't wait to hear what everyone thinks!!!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
Gun was practically vibrating with excitement as he helped Khaotung smooth the final seam on his pants. “Okay, okay, stand still—turn—yes. YES. I’m a genius.”
“Absolutely not,” Neo said, looking up from his protein bar. “That shirt is a safety hazard.”
“It’s fashion,” Gun corrected, spinning Khaotung by the shoulders in front of the mirror. “It’s breathable. It’s sexy. It’s bait.”
“I don’t need bait,” Khaotung protested weakly, though he didn’t stop staring at his reflection. “I’m just dressing for fun.”
Gun arched a perfect brow. “You’re dressing to entice First.”
Khaotung’s ears burned.
He looked at himself in the mirror and immediately considered hiding in a blanket forever.
The halter top was black lace—sheer, patterned, clinging to his chest like skin. It dipped low in the back, bared his shoulders, and was corseted at the sides with delicate threading. The leather trousers hugged his waist like they were tailored by gods. He looked expensive. Exposed. Insane.
“I don’t even know if he’s coming out tonight,” he mumbled, tugging at his pants like they may loosen two inches.
“Oh, he’s coming,” Gun said, positively devilish. “That man is bracing himself. And you—” He gave Khaotung a once-over. “—are going to kill him.”
Neo muttered, “He’s already halfway there.”
“I think I look stupid,” Khaotung tried, but even he didn’t sound convinced.
“You look hot,” Gun countered. “Like a walking Final Fantasy boss battle who drinks fruity cocktails and breaks hearts.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me,” Gun sang.
JJ popped his head in from the hallway. “Are we hot yet? Can I cry over your outfits now?”
“I look like a scandal,” Khaotung whispered.
“You look like a problem,” Gun corrected. “And you’re going to be First’s problem specifically.”
JJ screamed when he saw the final look. “Oh my GOD. THIS is what we’re bringing to the bar? We’re committing crimes tonight.”
And then, like a movie cue.
First walked by.
Khaotung peeked through his fingers.
First wore black jeans, a silver chain, button-down rolled to the elbows. Effortless. Sharp. Hot enough to be unfair.
Their eyes met.
And for half a second, Khaotung forgot he’d dressed to kill.
Goddamn, he thought, pulse jumping. He cleans up.
Not loud. Not flashy. Just… devastating. All lines and tension and that stupid chain.
First stopped mid-step.
Khaotung felt like someone had hit the mute button on the entire room.
First looked him over slowly, expression unreadable.
His gaze dropped. Took everything in. The halter. The lace. The leather. Khaotung’s bare shoulders. The light catching along the ridges of his exposed spine.
Gun made an unholy noise from behind them. “If you don’t kiss him by midnight I will.”
“Get in the car,” First said flatly.
JJ cheered.
Khaotung smiled. “You like the shirt, then?”
First gave him a long, loaded look.
“…It’s fine.”
Gun shrieked with laughter. “That means devastated. He is devastated.”
First turned on his heel. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re driving us,” Neo reminded him.
“I’ll leave you in the road.”
Khaotung giggled, scooping his phone and lip gloss. “Coming, Fir”
First twitched but didn’t correct him.
Which, of course, made Gun scream again.
· · ·
The club was loud.
Bass thrumming through the floor, lights moving like liquid over the crowd. Heat rolled off the dance floor, thick with perfume, cologne, and sweat. The air shimmered with it. But up in the roped-off VIP section, plush couches, velvet ropes, a view of the whole dance floor. Team Eclipse held court like it was a victory parade.
Khaotung was perched on the curved sofa. From where he sat, the lights threw gold across First’s cheekbones every time they flared, etching sharp lines of calm in the chaos.
Khaotung’s drink was neon pink and rimmed with sugar, complete with a tiny umbrella and a glittery stirrer shaped like a flamingo. It suited him far too well.
“You guys,” he giggled, “this tastes like, like, if a unicorn and a gummy bear had a baby.”
JJ was doubled over laughing. “WHY would you say that?!”
Gun wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “I want twelve of those.”
Neo sipped his own drink and muttered, “This is why we can’t go anywhere.”
Off stood off to the side near the railing, nursing a drink and keeping one eye on the group and the other on any potential threats. Coach mode. Always.
First was seated just beside Khaotung. Not touching. Not even leaning close.
But watching.
He held a water. Sipped it slowly while his gaze trailed the curve of Khaotung’s throat as he threw his head back laughing at something JJ said. The way his fingers toyed with his straw. The way his top clung and shined beneath the overhead lights.
Khaotung was enchanting.
And people were noticing.
A few fans in the general section pointed, discreet but excited. One person raised their phone like they were sneaking a photo. Another waved in Khaotung’s direction with a heart-shaped gesture.
Khaotung saw and waved back, all sparkling eyes and tipsy grin.
First’s jaw clenched. He shifted in his seat and leaned forward, resting one forearm on his knee, casual, but closer. Close enough for Khaotung to feel the heat of him now.
Khaotung turned, eyes sparkling. “Fir, do you wanna try it?” He held out his cocktail, straw bobbing.
His stomach tightened. Instinct told him to shake his head, to turn away. He didn’t drink. Not anymore. Not after—
Then his gaze slid back to Khaotung.
Bright grin, lips glossed, waiting like this was the most natural offer in the world. No judgment. Just an invitation.
First hesitated. Counted a breath. Two.
And then, carefully, he reached out. Not for the glass, but for Khaotung’s hand still holding it. His fingers wrapped over his, steadying the drink as he leaned in.
The straw brushed his mouth. He took the smallest sip.
Sweet. Too sweet. Cloying, but manageable.
He drew back, expression unreadable, though his chest felt tighter than before.
But he didn’t complain.
Khaotung blinked. “Wait, you like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” First took another sip anyway.
Gun screamed into a napkin.
JJ threw a napkin into the air like confetti. “I TOLD YOU THEY’D START SHARING DRINKS.”
“Is this flirting?” Neo asked dryly.
“No,” First said immediately.
“Yes,” Khaotung said at the same time, beaming.
First gave him a look. Khaotung gave it right back, tipsy, bold, delighted.
Someone tried to approach the roped section, clearly angling for a photo.
First moved before anyone else could. He stood, not blocking the view, exactly, but shifting so he was between Khaotung and the edge of the velvet rope. One glance. Just one, cold and unreadable, and the person awkwardly backed off.
Khaotung blinked up at him. “Phi?”
First turned just slightly toward him, still standing, still calm. “They don’t need a close-up.”
Khaotung flushed. “You’re… kind of scary.”
“Good.”
Gun practically vibrated. “He’s protective. Oh my god. He’s POSSESSIVE.”
“I am not,” First said flatly, sitting back down, closer this time. His leg brushed Khaotung’s.
Khaotung sipped his drink, lips pink and sticky with sugar, and leaned in. “You kinda are.”
First didn’t reply.
And when Khaotung laughed again—high and delighted—First looked straight at him.
· · ·
The night was edging into that golden blur. When everything felt loose, warm, a little too loud but in a good way. The VIP section was glowing, drinks were flowing, and Gun was officially on his third “one last cocktail.”
“I’m naming it,” he announced, half in Off’s lap, one heel kicked onto the low table. “This drink is called ‘Regret Tomorrow.’”
Off raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re not gonna remember naming it.”
Gun flung an arm around his neck dramatically. “I will if you dance with me.”
Off, who had just taken a sip of whiskey, paused. “Are you trying to seduce me on behalf of your liver?”
“Don’t be boring, Papii.” Gun gave him a scandalized gasp and rolled off the couch. “Let’s go.”
And with that, he tugged Off toward the stairway that led to the dance floor below—sparkling lights, crowd bouncing, bass vibrating through the floorboards.
Khaotung’s eyes followed them, wide and glittering.
He was pink-cheeked and glowing, skin dewy, curls soft and slightly disheveled. The drink in his hand was almost empty, mostly ice and melted sugar now. His earrings caught the light when he turned, and when he looked at First.
First felt something in his chest tilt.
Khaotung scooted closer. “They’re dancing.”
“Yeah,” First said, voice a little slower than usual. Buzzed. Warm. “They are.”
Khaotung blinked up at him. “I wanna dance.”
First raised an eyebrow, still sipping from his own glass. “You can go.”
“But…” Khaotung tilted his head, leaned in, eyes impossibly wide and glossy. “I wanna dance with you.”
First blinked.
Khaotung leaned closer. “Please na?”
His hand curled gently around First’s arm, thumb pressing lightly against the sleeve of his shirt. The hem of his halter had ridden up to reveal more of his waist. His cheeks flushed, lips pink and glossy from the drink, voice laced with sugar and heat and want.
“Fiiiiiir” he whined, and it wasn’t dramatic like usual. It was soft. Honest.
Dangerous.
First stared at him.
“Please come with me,” Khaotung said again, quieter this time. “Just for a song? Na?”
First exhaled through his nose. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m cute,” Khaotung corrected.
“Both can be true.”
“Then why are you resisting?” he whispered, pouting.
First looked at his drink.
Then at Khaotung.
And then at Khaotung’s hand still curled around his sleeve like a plea.
He set the glass down.
“Just one song,” he muttered.
Khaotung lit up like a sunrise. “Yay!”
“One,” First repeated.
But he was already rising.
And Khaotung had already taken his hand.
The floor moved like it was alive.
Lights spun in dizzy patterns overhead, violet strobes, gold shimmer, blue mist that made the sweat on his collarbones glow. The bass didn’t just pound through the floor, it crawled up Khaotung’s legs, rattled his ribs, and set his chest vibrating like it might split open. The air smelled of smoke and citrus and sweat, that thick electric scent of heat and bodies.
And behind him, First.
He didn’t need to look. He could feel him. Solid and quiet, just a step back. Still in that button-down, sleeves rolled high, collar open enough to tease the line of his throat. His jaw sharp in every flicker of light. He hadn’t said much on the way down. Just followed. Let Khaotung lead.
But the moment they hit the floor, something shifted.
Khaotung didn’t hesitate. He stepped back, pressed his spine into First’s chest and let the music take him.
For half a second, First went rigid.
Then, his hands found Khaotung’s hips.
Low. Steady. Firm enough to make his breath hitch and his knees soften, a command without words.
Khaotung tilted his head back until his temple brushed First’s shoulder. He could feel the slow drag of First’s breathing, the warmth of it ghosting down his neck. The fabric of First’s shirt rasped against his bare back with each pulse of bass.
He moved slow, rolling his hips to the rhythm, daring First to match him.
First did. His grip tightened, and Khaotung felt the spark like it lit him from the inside.
“You’re dancing,” he teased over his shoulder, his voice half breath, half challenge.
“You’re making it impossible not to,” First murmured, so low it curled straight into his skin.
Khaotung shivered.
God. The sound of it. That voice against his ear, dark and close, made his chest stutter. Khaotung smiled, giddy and buzzing, barely holding himself together. He risked a glance upward and caught a flash of First’s face in the lights—eyes heavy, lips parted, chain glinting where his collar had come undone. It wasn’t the calm strategist now; it was heat and want and restraint fighting for space. The club spun in violet and gold, but First’s hands were the only anchor he needed.
“Do you like impossible things?” he whispered, glancing up, lashes brushing First’s cheek.
First didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to. Khaotung felt it, the slide of his hands, deliberate, up from his hips to his waist. Thumbs brushing under the hem of the halter. Barely there. Barely visible in the dark. But enough to set every inch of exposed skin on fire.
First couldn’t stop watching him move—the glitter catching at his ribs, the lace cutting shadows across his skin, the soft curve where sweat and light met. He wanted to memorize every flicker. Every breath.
The song shifted, bass slowing to something heavier, sultrier.
Khaotung turned in his arms.
The world tilted. Too much light, too much sound, too much everything. But First’s hands didn’t move. They stayed, hot and steady at his waist, as if he belonged there.
Khaotung’s breath snagged when their eyes locked through the strobe. First looked at him like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to breathe.
“Khaotung…” Hoarse. Frayed.
His name never sounded like that before.
Without thinking, Khaotung’s fingers brushed First’s jaw. Warm skin, sharp bone. The smallest touch, but it felt like he’d thrown himself off a ledge.
First didn’t pull away.
Khaotung leaned in. Just a little. Just enough to feel the ghost of First’s breath on his mouth.
And First leaned too.
One beat.
Two.
The air thinned between them. Lips hovering, noses brushing, heat shimmering where they almost touched. Khaotung went still in his own skin, dizzy with how badly he wanted to close the gap.
First’s hand clenched at his waist like he might drag him in but instead, his forehead pressed against Khaotung’s.
Not yet. That touch said it without words. Not here. Not in front of everyone.
Khaotung swallowed the noise that rose in his throat. Exhaled against First’s mouth, a shaky whisper: “Okay.”
They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, music roaring like a storm all around them. Heartbeats wild. Heat unbearable. Not kissing. But not letting go.
From somewhere nearby, the lights turned amber, sliding over First’s face and catching on the sweat along his jaw. Khaotung thought absently, I’m never going to recover from this. First thought the same thing and didn’t dare move.
Khaotung started swaying again, sliding his hands down to rest over First’s chest, feeling the thrum of his heart against his palm.
First followed. Close. Anchored.
Didn’t let go.
· · ·
The lights of the club had dimmed to a steady pulse, the music quieter now, still thumping, still alive, but fading under the weight of late hours and spun-out energy.
Gun stumbled back to their VIP section with Off hanging onto his arm and a dazed, sated grin on his face. JJ followed, still holding a glowing drink like it was a trophy. Neo brought up the rear, casually texting Jarin something about their ETA while sidestepping Gun’s off-key humming.
And then they saw them.
Khaotung. First.
Pressed together on the low velvet couch like gravity had stopped working on everyone else. Khaotung was draped across First’s side, both arms wrapped tightly around his bicep, his cheek resting against First’s shoulder. One leg was tucked half over First’s lap. His shirt had ridden up to flash an indecent amount of his waist's shimmering skin.
And First.
First looked wrecked in a completely different way.
Slightly flushed. His hand was resting absently on Khaotung’s thigh like it had migrated there of its own will and no one had dared move it.
He looked… hypnotized.
Gun gasped and pointed. “They’re fused. We have achieved contact.”
Off raised a brow. “I leave you alone for forty minutes—”
“I love this for us,” JJ said, sipping his drink and watching like it was the season finale of a dating show. “He’s latched. Like a drunk little barnacle.”
Neo didn’t say anything. Just casually lifted his phone and angled it toward the couch, thumb tapping with the precision of a seasoned paparazzo.
Gun caught the motion. “Neo, are you—”
“Archiving,” Neo replied, deadpan. “For research.”
Off leaned in to peek. “Is that slow-mo video?”
“High-res. Stabilized. There will be a Dropbox link.”
JJ nearly dropped his drink from glee. “I want that as my screensaver.”
All the while, club-goers drifting past the VIP section had started to glance. Whisper. A few phones were out, angled just subtly enough to pretend they weren’t capturing exactly what they were. One girl with a sparkly purse clutched her friend’s arm and stage-whispered, “That’s Princess Khao, right? Oh my god. And that’s—THAT’S P’FIRST. LOOK AT THEM.”
Another fan snapped a shot and muttered, “This is going on my fan account right now. Hashtag ice prince and his prince of chaos. I knew it.”
Meanwhile, Khaotung let out a long, sleepy giggle and rubbed his cheek against First’s shoulder. “He’s warm,” he murmured, clinging tighter. “I’m not letting go.”
“You never do,” Gun stage-whispered.
First didn’t answer. Just tightened his hand slightly, gaze flicking up. Steady, intense. Possessive.
JJ wheezed. “HE’S IN GUARD DOG MODE.”
“Do we need to separate them?” Off asked mildly.
“Try it and die,” Neo said, still recording.
First finally stood, gently pulling Khaotung up with him but Khaotung just reattached like a koala, both arms wrapped around First’s, body pressed all along his side. It was shameless. Ridiculous. Devastating.
The walk to the car was no better.
Khaotung half-swayed on First’s arm, humming softly, thumb absently stroking the inside of First’s wrist. First helped him into the backseat of the car, only for Khaotung to immediately collapse sideways onto him again, head on his chest, and tangled in his shirt.
“Don’t mind me,” Khaotung mumbled. “Just livin’ my dream.”
First didn’t respond.
But he tilted his head down, letting his cheek rest lightly against Khaotung’s hair.
JJ stared from the front seat. “I think I’m pregnant.”
Gun screamed, “SOMEONE TELL TWITTER.”
Neo, calmly uploading the best clips to a private folder, just said, “Don’t worry. Twitter will tell itself.”
Off smirked from the passenger seat. “Tomorrow’s going to be fun.”
Khaotung whispered, “I’m perfect.”
First—beautiful and absolutely drowning in it—didn’t argue.
He just kept holding on.
· · ·
They made it back just after 3 a.m.
The dorm was quiet. Still. That fragile hush right before something cracks.
JJ had passed out in the car, and Neo all but carried him inside. Gun had hiccupped three times before Off ushered him upstairs with a promise of water and a massage, which Gun immediately tried to bargain into “water and a serenade.”
Khaotung was still clinging to him.
Literally.
First had expected him to let go after the ride. Maybe stumble inside, get distracted by snacks or chaos. But Khaotung had just looked at him with glassy eyes and whispered, “Come with me,” and First. Stupid, weak, beyond reason, had nodded.
So now they were in Khaotung’s room.
Alone.
The door clicked shut behind them like it had a vendetta.
Khaotung kicked off his shoes with unnecessary flair and stumbled forward, shirt half undone, skin flushed. The halter had loosened at the neck, the fabric drooping low enough now to expose more of his chest—sweat catching in the hollow of his collarbones, the small mole near his heart glinting in the low light. The lace clung damp against his skin, tracing the faint shape of muscle beneath, sheer enough to blur what it didn’t quite hide. His waist gleamed where the beads brushed against it, and his breathing was uneven, shallow from the heat, the alcohol, and him.
First couldn’t look away. Everything he’d been trying not to notice all night was suddenly, disastrously, right there in front of him.
“You okay?” First asked, voice low.
Khaotung turned around.
And smiled.
It wasn’t his usual sunshine-in-a-bottle smile. It was softer. Slower. Like something molten that had been waiting for the right time to rise.
“I had fun,” Khaotung said. “I like dancing with you.”
First swallowed. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m happy.”
Silence stretched between them.
Khaotung stepped closer. “You don’t look like you regret it.”
“I don’t.”
That came out too fast.
Khaotung’s lashes flicked upward. His smile widened just a little. “You touched my waist,” he said, teasing, voice dipping to something lazy and intimate.
First’s pulse stuttered.
“You leaned in so close,” Khaotung continued, one step closer, “I could feel your breath on my neck.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” First muttered.
Khaotung laughed softly. “I think you were.”
First didn’t move.
Khaotung did.
Another step. Then another. Until they were barely a breath apart.
“You looked at me like you wanted something,” he whispered.
First clenched his fists at his sides.
“I do,” he said, voice frayed.
Khaotung’s breath hitched. “What is it?”
First lifted a hand. Let his fingers trail up Khaotung’s arm, slow and deliberate, until they rested lightly at his shoulder.
Khaotung was watching him with parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes, raw want written plain across his face. Drunk, yes. But clear. Entirely himself.
First leaned in.
Closer.
Closer.
Their noses brushed.
And then. God, it wasn’t even a kiss yet, just the edge of one, but it felt like the air had caught fire.
Khaotung inhaled sharply. His hand slid up First’s chest, fingers curling loosely into his shirt. Their mouths were so close now First could feel the shape of his words.
“Fir,” Khaotung whispered.
First exhaled hard.
That name. That version of it, ruined him.
He closed the gap.
Their lips barely touched. Just the faintest, most delicate brush of lips. But then he pulled back.
Khaotung chased the motion slightly, eyes still closed.
When he realized First wasn’t there anymore, his eyes fluttered open, wide and uncertain. His voice came out small, trembling at the edges.
“Did I—push too much? I didn’t mean to… I just—” His throat worked around the words, shoulders curling inward like he was bracing for rejection.
First’s chest ached. He reached up, steadying him with a touch to his cheek.
“No,” he said softly, firm enough to anchor him. “You didn’t.”
He hesitated, then added, “Tung, you’re drunk. I at least want you to remember our first kiss.”
Khaotung’s mouth parted, his eyes flickering between hurt and want. He sulked, lips tipping into the faintest pout.
“I’m not even that drunk,” he muttered, though his voice was thin, still carrying an echo of insecurity.
First’s heart thundered. The sight of that fragile defiance nearly undid him.
Khaotung leaned in again, pressing their foreheads together with a quiet stubbornness.
“I would never forget,” he whispered.
And First believed him.
Not kissing him was excruciating, but as he held Khaotung there, warmth pressed to warmth, he knew waiting would make it worth it.
Chapter 41: Chapter 41
Notes:
Hiiiii, I'm finally back. Thank you to everyone who left comments on the last chapter, it made me so happy to come back to after being so utterly tired and stressed from moving. And also thank you for waiting so patiently.
I'm struggling a bit with the next couple of chapters, but I'm also excited to be getting back into it. I'm not fully happy with this chapter but I hope you guys still enjoy it!
I can't wait to see what you guys think, I'll be back soon :)
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
The call connects at 8:01 a.m.
First is already there. Hoodie. Damp hair. Blanket pooled around his waist. He looks put-together, but not rested, the kind of stillness that comes from thinking too hard for too long.
“Morning,” she says softly.
He nods. “Hey.”
There’s a pause long enough to count. She doesn’t fill it.
He exhales, eyes downcast. “Things were normal for a while. Busy. Scrims, interviews, all of it. Nothing felt different between us. He was still, him. Loud, warm, everywhere at once.”
Her expression softens, waiting.
“And then he disappeared for a day,” First says quietly. “Went home without saying anything. He probably needed to think about what I told him. But it caught me off guard.”
“How so?”
“I kept wondering if he’d start seeing me differently after that,” he admits. “Not in a bad way—just…” He hesitates. “Like maybe he’d start pulling back. Treating me like something that might break if he touched it.”
She studies him. “And did he?”
First shakes his head. “No. When he came back, he was the same. Maybe a little softer, but not distant. Still teasing. Still Khaotung.”
A small pause. “That’s what I needed most, I think. For nothing to change.”
She lets the words rest.
He looks away. “Then the club. The dancing. He was softer, but not scared. And I—” His throat moves. “I couldn’t stop watching him.”
Her tone stays even. “Tell me what stayed with you.”
He hesitates, searching for the shape of it. “…The way he looked at me. The way I let myself look back.”
“Khaotung,” she says gently.
He nods once. “We danced. He wore something impossible. Lace, backless. He pulled me in.” His voice dips. “And I wanted it.”
“We almost kissed,” he admits after a moment. “I stopped it. Not because it was bad. Because it was too much.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
He hesitates. Then, quietly: “I told him I wanted him to remember it. But I think the truth is I was just… scared.”
A beat of silence. His fingers curl in the blanket. “I want to kiss him. More than I probably should, but—” He shakes his head, like he can’t untangle it.
Her voice softens. “Because this isn’t just about trust anymore. It’s about the unknown.”
He exhales sharply, but doesn’t argue.
She lets it sit, then leans in slightly.
“First, I want to ask about something that may make you uncomfortable.”
His jaw tightens immediately.
She exhales, nods once, her tone steady. “You normally avoid clubs and bars. I assume you went to celebrate with Khaotung?”
First looks away, but nods.
“Can you tell me if anything happened there that reminded you why you avoid them?” she asks, hesitant, like she knows this is the place he usually shuts down.
His voice drops. “Yeah. I drank.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Was that planned?”
“No.”
“When was the last time?”
He shakes his head. “Not since England. Maybe once with Tay. I didn’t finish it.”
“And last night?”
“Half a drink. Maybe more.”
She studies him. “Did you feel in control?”
“I think so.”
Her gaze sharpens. “That’s not a yes.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t black out. I didn’t spiral. I was present. Careful.”
Her voice stays soft. “I’m not accusing you. I want to know how it felt. For you.”
Silence. His knuckles flex against the blanket.
“I didn’t mean to,” he admits finally. “I took a sip. Then he handed me his. And I took that too.”
A beat. His voice lowers. “It wasn’t like before. I didn’t want to disappear. I didn’t feel like I was slipping.”
Her eyes soften. “And before?”
He closes his eyes briefly. “…Before was always about erasing myself. Getting small. Getting numb.”
A pause. “Letting people put whatever they wanted in me because I didn’t care anymore.”
Her voice stays steady, grounding. “And last night?”
He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky. “…It felt intimate. Not dangerous. Like he was offering something. And I let him.”
“That’s a very different choice than the ones you’ve made before.”
He swallows. “It didn’t feel like crossing a line. It felt like saying yes.”
“To him?”
He nods, once. “…And to me.”
“You’ve built your safety around discipline,” she says gently. “Last night, you made a different choice.”
“I know.”
“And it didn’t hurt you.”
“No.”
“It connected you.”
He exhales.
“I didn’t expect that.”
She leaned in slightly. “Intimacy isn’t about who holds the reins, First. It’s about trust. Letting someone in. Even in the small ways.”
“It didn’t feel small.”
“I believe you.”
“Letting him give me something. Letting him see me take it.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t defending myself. For once.”
“Do you feel exposed now?”
“Yes,” he admits. “But not like before. I don’t feel dirty. Or weak.”
“So how do you feel?”
“…Brave.”
She smiles. “Good.”
He nods. Then, “I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
“The feeling?”
“The ability to stay open.”
“What would shutting down look like now?”
“I’ll tell myself he’s too much. I’ll avoid him. Flinch when he touches me. Start wondering if he’s faking it. If he only wants to fix me.”
“And if that happens?”
“I’ll lose him.”
“Or,” she said softly, “you let him see it. The shutdown. The mess. All of it. Don’t hide this time.”
His voice catches. “What if he gets tired?”
“Then he was never yours to begin with.”
It lands hard. But not cruel.
He swallows. Nods.
“I don’t think he’s tired yet.”
“No,” she agrees. “So let yourself keep saying yes.”
There’s another long silence.
But this one feels different.
Lighter.
Honest.
New.
First looks back at the screen and lets himself be seen.
· · ·
The door clicked softly open.
Khaotung stirred before he saw him. Just the sound of the hinge, the faint shift of air, and then the quiet weight of someone stepping inside.
First.
He didn’t say anything at first, just moved through the room. The morning light hit his hair in soft streaks; it was still damp, darker at the roots. His hoodie was gone, replaced by a loose black shirt and sweats. Barefoot. Calm. Different.
Khaotung blinked, still half tangled in the sheets. “Hey,” he mumbled, voice raspy.
“Hey,” First said back, just as low. Then, after a pause, “Can I…?”
He didn’t finish the question. He just reached for the blanket like someone testing the edges of something fragile.
Khaotung nodded, shifting over without thinking. The mattress dipped, warm and familiar, and then First was beside him, moving with the careful, deliberate quiet of someone trying not to wake a ghost.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Khaotung wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—minutes, maybe—but he could feel the difference. First wasn’t holding himself like armor. He wasn’t folded in or avoiding touch. His body was still, but not tense. Just… there.
It made something ache in Khaotung’s chest.
He wanted to ask what had happened, what he’d talked about, what words had softened him like this. But instead, he asked softly, “You okay?”
First nodded, eyes still half-closed. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
He hesitated. “For now.”
That was enough.
Khaotung smiled faintly, turning to face him. “You know, you coming in here like this is very boyfriend-coded.”
“Stop saying things like that,” First muttered, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
Khaotung grinned. “Why? You’re literally in my bed.”
“It’s warm.”
“Right,” Khaotung said, “because my bed is the only one with a blanket in this entire dorm.”
First huffed something that almost counted as a laugh. His voice was soft when it came next. “You’re not mad I left last night?”
Khaotung’s expression faltered, gentle. “No. You needed to.”
First nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the space between them. “I didn’t go far.”
“I know.”
They fell quiet again. The hum of the city bled faintly through the window. Khaotung shifted a little closer, letting his knee brush First’s under the blanket.
He felt the tension leave him instantly.
Khaotung’s voice went quieter. “You seem lighter.”
First’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Therapy.”
“That good, huh?”
“Hard,” he corrected. “But… yeah.”
Something in his tone made Khaotung’s throat tighten. He didn’t ask more. He just reached out, tracing a finger along the edge of the blanket between them.
“Can I tell you something?” Khaotung said.
First hummed.
“I didn’t sleep much. I kept thinking about last night.”
First’s breath hitched, just a little. “Yeah?”
Khaotung nodded. “How close we got. How close I felt. And how you stopped it.” His voice softened. “And I’m glad you did.”
First turned to him then, eyes searching. “You are?”
“Yeah.” Khaotung smiled faintly. “Because now I know when it happens, it’ll matter to you.”
The words landed quiet. Heavy in a good way.
First’s eyes softened. His voice came out low. “It already does.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm, humming, real.
Khaotung reached out, fingers brushing First’s wrist. First eased into it, his arm shifting closer.
Khaotung didn’t need to fill the quiet with teasing or noise.
He just let himself stay still, heart pounding, soft and full.
He’d never seen First look so human. So open. So his.
· · ·
They finally emerged around noon, looking way too suspiciously content.
The dining room was already loud.
JJ was halfway through his second plate, shoveling rice into his mouth like a man starved.
Neo was sipping coffee and typing something on his phone with the haunted calm of someone who had definitely seen Twitter.
AJ had earbuds in but paused long enough to smirk as they walked in.
And Gun?
Gun was lying across one of the benches like a Victorian ghost bride, draped in a hoodie five sizes too big, sunglasses perched on his face, and a cold compress strapped to his forehead like a tiara.
“YOU,” he said weakly, pointing at Khaotung. “AND YOU.” He pointed at First. “ARE MENACES.”
“Good morning to you too,” Khaotung said, setting his tray down.
“I saw the internet,” Neo said simply.
“I am the internet,” JJ declared, mouth full. “And the internet is SCREAMING.”
First sat down without saying a word. He picked up a spoon like he was contemplating murder.
Gun groaned theatrically and collapsed into Off’s lap. “They almost kissed and didn’t tell us. Neo has evidence. I felt it through the dance floor.”
“You were drunk,” Khaotung pointed out.
“I was correct.” Gun lifted a limp hand. “I demand to be compensated emotionally.”
“Baby,” Off said, soothing, setting down a fresh bowl of soup and tucking a bottle of electrolyte water against Gun’s side. “You’re dehydrated. Please stop yelling.”
“I can’t,” Gun whined. “They’re too powerful.”
“You’re not even mad,” Neo said. “You’re thrilled.”
“I ship them,” Gun hissed.
JJ perked up. “Wait. Are you dating now?”
“We’re not—” Khaotung started, cheeks burning.
“We are not,” First said at the same time, completely flat.
JJ blinked. “Not yet?”
Khaotung made a strangled noise and began aggressively sipping his juice.
“Gun showed me the dancing video this morning,” Off said mildly. “I thought it was tasteful. Tension. Yearning. A little sinful. Good pacing.”
Neo nodded, deadpan. “Ten out of ten. Would repost.”
“But like, First really had his hand on your waist,” JJ continued. “Like a possessive little menace. ”
Gun raised a hand. “Khaotung, be honest. On a scale from 1 to spontaneously combusting, how powerful was that hand placement?”
“Gun,” Off warned.
Khaotung considered it. “I blacked out a little.”
Gun cheered, then groaned and grabbed his head. “Too loud. I’m a flower.”
Off fed him a spoonful of soup. “You’re my flower.”
Gun beamed at him like he’d just won a trophy. “I love you more than the drama.”
Neo made a face. “Ugh. Disgusting. Can’t believe I heard that with my own ears.”
Gun only grinned wider. “Jealous?”
“Repulsed,” Neo muttered, reaching for his drink. “I came here to escape romance, not witness a live broadcast.”
Khaotung leaned toward First, voice low. “Do you regret coming to lunch?”
First took a slow sip of his tea. “Deeply.”
Khaotung giggled.
Then, a little braver, he grabbed his hand under the table.
First didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pull away.
And Khaotung smiled so hard his face hurt.
Because chaotic team or not, hangover drama or not, he’d remember this morning forever.
And he was pretty sure First would too.
· · ·
It started quietly.
They were all scattered, half the team slumped on beanbags or flopped onto Khaotung’s bed, post-club exhaustion finally catching up to them. Neo had delivered snacks earlier, muttering something about “peace offerings” and “croissant-based apologies.” No one had questioned it.
Gun was nursing a can of Coke with sunglasses still on indoors, curled up in Off’s lap like he’d been tragically wronged by the sun. First was sitting on the edge of Khaotung’s bed, hoodie on, socks mismatched, hair slightly rumpled from his post-shower flop onto the pillows.
Khaotung was cross-legged next to him, scrolling through his messages.
Then, it began.
A ping. Then another. Then five more.
JJ’s phone lit up with a string of alerts. He blinked blearily, picked it up and screamed.
“NEO. NEO WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO.”
Neo sat up from where he’d been half-dozing on a beanbag. “What?! I didn’t do anything!”
“You dropped the Drive Link,” JJ wailed. “You dropped the actual folder. WITH EVERYTHING.”
First looked up. “What folder?”
Khaotung froze. “...Neo’s photo dump from the club.”
Neo’s face drained of all color. “I—I sent it to the wrong group chat earlier but no one saw it! It was hours ago! I deleted it!”
Gun sat up like a corpse resurrecting. “Wait. Wait wait wait. That folder?”
JJ shoved his phone at him. “IT’S ON TWITTER.”
Khaotung lunged for his phone. Notifications were climbing fast. Fans were quoting it, tagging them, losing their collective minds.
One of the top tweets read:
“no bc why did khaotung look like he was in his man’s lap 😭 who approved this angle???”
Another had a video clip from the dance floor, just as the lights turned low, First’s hand unmistakably sliding across Khaotung’s waist.
Gun screamed. “THEY GOT THE ALMOST-KISS.”
Khaotung’s eyes went wide. “NO. NEO—”
“I’M SO SORRY,” Neo yelled, covering his face. “I thought I was sending it to the private channel! I didn’t mean for—”
First leaned over, snatching Khaotung’s phone. His face twitched as he scrolled through a fan thread titled “Things We Were Not Emotionally Prepared For: A Thesis on FirstKhao’s Entire Night.”
First went very, very still.
“Another person just said, ‘I thought First didn’t even like being touched, and now he’s got his hand on Khao’s lower back like it belongs there,’” Neo muttered.
First stood up. “I’m going to delete Twitter.”
Off, from his corner, rubbed his temples. “I’m calling Lita. She’s going to kill us.”
“I already texted her,” Neo groaned.
Gun was still gleefully scrolling. “There’s a video of you two getting into the car. Khaotung’s clinging to your arm and someone slowed it down and added romantic violin music.”
Khaotung groaned, hiding behind his hands. “I was tipsy and cold! It was for warmth!”
JJ snorted. “Sure it was. That’s why your head was on his shoulder like you were reenacting the last scene of a drama.”
Neo winced as his phone buzzed again. “Someone just edited the video with the caption ‘Find you someone who holds you like Khaotung holds First’s bicep.’ It has 87k likes.”
Gun gasped. “They’re calling you Prince Arm Candy.”
JJ collapsed onto the floor, laughing hysterically. “THE SHIP IS SO REAL.”
First sat back down with a long sigh, fingers pressed to his temple.
“I don’t regret the night,” he muttered.
Khaotung peeked over at him, cheeks warm. “You don’t?”
First didn’t look at him. But he said, very softly, “We looked good.”
Gun screamed into a pillow. “I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE. THEY’RE IN LOVE. IT’S HAPPENING.”
Off pulled him back down. “You're hungover. Shut up.”
Neo, still pale, passed around juice boxes. “Peace offering?”
No one accepted.
Khaotung leaned into First’s shoulder anyway. “Guess we’ve broken the internet. Again.”
First sighed, long and tired. “At this point, we should start charging rent.”
From the hallway, AJ’s phone started playing a dramatic fan edit titled “The Fall of the Ice Prince: One Lavender Boy at a Time.”
· · ·
The next morning, the team conference room smelled like breakfast and residual panic.
Lita arrived precisely at 8 a.m., slamming bedroom doors open like a woman on a mission, radiant and furious in equal measure, heels sharp, lipstick sharper, tablet in hand. Collecting players like temple cats at feeding time, muttering blessings and curses under her breath with every step.
“Okay,” she said, without preamble, “which one of you gave the internet a full-course meal and didn’t even charge admission?”
Gun raised a hand. “Define ‘meal.’”
“Define ‘survival instinct,’” she shot back. “Because if you think I’m not fielding calls from three sponsors, four podcast requests, and one variety show trying to book Team Eclipse’s resident boyfriends, you’re—Neo, stop drinking that juice box and look at me.”
Neo froze mid-sip.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she asked calmly.
“Uhh…” he tried. “Boosted engagement?”
First groaned into both hands. Khaotung was bright pink beside him, still recovering from the tweet that called him ‘a full-course twink meal in lace.’
Lita swiped to her analytics dashboard and spun it toward them. “Engagement’s up 300%. ‘FirstKhao’ is trending in ten countries. People think we choreographed your flirting like a fanfic. Congratulations, you’re everyone’s new parasocial obsession.”
JJ leaned forward. “Wait, are we in trouble?”
Lita smiled with dangerous poise. “No. You’re going viral. Which means we have to pivot.”
Gun’s hand shot up again. “Can the pivot include a merch line?”
“Gun, I love you,” she said, “but this is not the time for Princess Glitter lip gloss.”
“It should be,” he muttered.
Lita turned to First and Khaotung. “You two. First, Khaotung. Congratulations. You’ve just greenlit your own feature.”
First blinked. “What does that mean?”
Khaotung, still recovering, tilted his head. “Is this about the special episode?”
“Bingo.” Lita clicked her pen with a flourish. “You remember the couple interview? The adorable chaos? The cyan cardigan incident?”
First scowled. “It was baby blue.”
Khaotung beamed.
“Anyway,” Lita continued, “we’re filming the FirstKhao special in a few weeks. You’ll be going to an amusement park. Privately booked, don’t worry, and filming a mini-competition: five challenges to test your in-game knowledge of each other.”
Khaotung’s eyes sparkled. “Like trivia?”
“More like telepathy,” she said. “We’re considering role-matching, timing games, crosshair prediction, and” she paused dramatically, “a secret challenge I’m calling ‘Clutch or Cuddle.’”
Gun screamed.
First looked like he wanted to die.
“I’m out,” he muttered, standing.
“Sit down,” Lita said. “You’re contractually committed and you hugged him in public. That’s blood in the water now.”
JJ high-fived Neo under the table. “This is so much better than reality TV.”
Khaotung nudged First gently. “It could be fun. I mean… just you and me. Laughing. Screaming on a rollercoaster. Me trying to win a giant cat plushie with your face on it.”
First blinked at him, dazed. “…There’s a cat plushie with my face on it?”
“There could be,” Khaotung whispered like a promise.
Lita clapped once. “Great. Outfits are being prepped. Make sure to bring your best fake denial faces, this is gonna break the internet again.”
Gun was already sobbing. “I want to be the flower girl when they get married.”
Lita swept toward the door. “Try not to leak any more footage until I say so. And Khaotung?”
He sat up straighter.
“Keep calling him ‘Fir.’ The internet lives for that.”
First buried his face in his arms.
JJ patted his shoulder. “At least your suffering is profitable now.”
· · ·
The call connected on the second ring, followed by Tay’s face, half in frame, already sipping iced coffee like he’d been waiting to be dramatic.
“You’re trending again,” Tay said without preamble. “Just thought you should know.”
First didn’t look up. He was stuffing a candle into a bag.
“Also,” Tay continued, “Khaotung texted me ‘lol help’ at 2 a.m. and then radio silence. What the hell did you do to him?”
First paused. “Why do you assume it was me?”
“Because he’s the glitter demon, and you’re the one with your hand on his waist in half the clips I’ve seen.”
First groaned. “You’ve seen the edits, haven’t you.”
Tay grinned, sharp and slow. “There’s one with violin music. Another with an In the Mood for Love filter. Very tasteful. Very you.”
“I hate everyone.”
“Yeah, well, the internet’s in love with you now. Or maybe just the version of you that lets a boy in lace grind on him in public.” Tay leaned forward, tone drier now. “That was you, right? Because it kind of looked like a body double.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“You’re not, because I want to know if I should start prepping for a wedding, or a disaster.”
First finally met his eyes. “I’m not dating him.”
Tay tilted his head. “But you want to.”
Silence.
Then, quietly: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Tay just watched him for a moment, expression softer now.
“You know he still texts me?” he said. “Usually about nonsense. Memes. Food. But he’s always asks about you.”
First blinked.
“Not directly,” Tay added. “But I know.”
There was a long pause.
Then First said, low: “I don’t want to ruin it.”
“You won’t,” Tay said simply. “Unless you try to protect him by pushing him away. Which would be stupid, by the way.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“No one is. But he’s stubborn. And kind. And already halfway in, if the videos are anything to go by.” Tay narrowed his eyes. “He made you laugh on camera. Don’t think I missed that.”
First’s lips twitched despite himself.
“You like him,” Tay said. “You really like him.”
“…Maybe.”
Tay leaned back, smug again. “About time.”
First checked the clock. “I have to go.”
“Where?” Tay’s voice perked up. “Second date? Soft-launch part two?”
“I’m just, going out.”
Tay raised an eyebrow. “Are you bringing gifts?”
First sighed. “Goodbye.”
“Tell him I said hi.”
“I’m not telling him anything.”
Tay smirked. “You’re the worst. Also, you’re glowing.”
“I’m blocking your number.”
But he didn’t.
Not even when the call ended and he caught his own reflection in the mirror, tote bag in hand, sleeves rolled, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Chapter 42: Chapter 42
Notes:
Hiiii guys, I apologize for the wait. I worked really hard on this one since I wanted it to be perfect and I think it's pretty much there. The usual chaos and more softness from First :)
As always I hope you enjoy!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
First hadn’t worn it yet. The long-sleeve black shirt, the check overshirt, the black trousers. It had hung in his closet for days, untouched. Too different. Too noticeable.
But today felt like the right time.
So he pulled it on. Rolled his shoulders once in the mirror. And when he slid into the van beside Khaotung, he didn’t say a word.
Khaotung blinked at him. Then blinked again.
“Oh my god,” he said before he could stop himself. His widened eyes were locked on First. “You—uh. You look…”
First raised a brow. “…What.”
Khaotung’s mouth worked soundlessly for a second, then curved into something helpless and bright. “Different. Like… really, really good different.””
The words stuck to First’s skin like static.
He sat stiff-backed and solemn, caught somewhere between pride and panic. The outfit suddenly felt sharper, heavier, like every seam had turned into a spotlight. Not his usual armor of hoodies and sweats.. And the way Khaotung was looking at him didn’t make it easier.
Beside him, Khaotung looked like the opposite of effort: oversized black tee half-tucked into a frayed denim skirt, high socks slouched around his ankles, sneakers scuffed from too many dashes through the dorm. His hair was still damp, curls sticking out in wild shapes, earrings catching the light each time he turned his head. Effortless chaos. Bright, soft, devastating.
And together, they looked like a contradiction that made too much sense.
Meanwhile, in the back of the van?
Three gift bags clinked softly with every bump in the road.
First had found them in a rush. One held an unopened tin of tea he’d stashed months ago in the back of his cabinet. Another had candles, re-gifted from a sponsor box. The third? A Ziploc bag of JJ’s cat treats First had quietly stolen when no one was looking.
Gun had peeked in each one. “This is the gayest dowry I’ve ever seen. I love it.”
“It’s not a dowry,” First muttered.
JJ leaned over from the backseat. “Wait. Did you iron your shirt?”
“No,” First said too quickly.
“You did,” Gun grinned. “That’s dedication.”
Neo, from the passenger seat, glanced over his shoulder. “Honestly, I’m impressed you pulled together three whole gifts in under an hour.”
“I wasn’t going to show up empty-handed.”
Gun cooed. “He cares.”
“I respect the candle re-gift,” Neo said, sipping his coffee. “Bonus points for desperation.”
JJ added, “Ten out of ten for the tea. My mom loves that brand.”
Khaotung tried not to melt. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
“I wanted to,” First said quietly.
JJ made a noise like a dying cat. “HE SAID ‘WANTED TO.’ I’M GOING TO BLACK OUT.”
Khaotung reached over before he could think better of it, fingers brushing along the edge of First’s overshirt. He straightened the fabric where it had bunched at his shoulder, smoothing it down with a quick, almost careful touch.
“They’re going to adore you,” he murmured. And what he didn’t say, what pressed hot at the back of his throat, was I already do.
First gave the smallest nod. “That’s what worries me.”
The second the van rolled to a stop, First’s palms started sweating.
Not from the heat, though the midday sun filtered through the narrow alley of trees in a way that made the brick storefront glow soft and golden but from the simple fact that he was about to meet Khaotung’s moms.
Mothers. Plural.
Mothers who ran this café, the one with lavender vines spilling from the balcony rail, with little window boxes tucked beneath the panes and a little wooden sign shaped like a cupcake that read Welcome Home, Sweetheart! in Thai script.
First stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to. The “Sweetheart” part did something strange to his heartbeat.
“Ready?” Khaotung said beside him, smiling like he did this a hundred times a year and he probably did. This was his space. His place.
First nodded once.
He was not ready.
As the others piled out, laughing, stretching, Gun tried to carry JJ like a bridal offering, First grabbed the bags from the backseat with both hands. His grip was unnecessarily tight.
The smell hit him the second the door opened.
Not just coffee, but pandan steam, cinnamon and toasted rice, fresh cream, a hint of lemongrass, something sweet and floral and warm. It didn’t smell like a café, it smelled like a hug. A memory. A life someone had lovingly built and poured into the walls.
He didn’t know what he expected.
But it wasn’t this.
Inside, everything was soft pastels and warm woods. Cushions on the window seats. Handwritten menu boards in colorful chalk. A cake display that looked professionally arranged, but somehow still whimsical, like someone’s mom had made it for a school fundraiser, with too much love and zero chill.
There were framed Polaroids by the register. Photos of customers over the years. Khaotung appeared in almost every other one—baby-faced, gap-toothed, then lanky and grinning with blue hair, then bleached-blonde with a victory sign. Always laughing. Always here. A painted sign hung beneath them that read No outside food, unless it’s gossip.
This wasn’t just a business.
It was a scrapbook.
“You good?” Khaotung asked, brushing his arm as he passed.
First blinked. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. “This place is…”
Beautiful. Alive. Yours.
“Nice,” he finished.
Before Khaotung could say anything else, the kitchen door swung open.
A woman emerged—tall, graceful, with streaks of silver in her high bun and the kind of smile that could take someone apart at the seams if it turned sharp. She wore a navy apron with flour smudged across the front and earrings shaped like tiny mangoes.
“So… where’s the tall, cold cat I’ve been hearing about?”
Gun gasped.
First waied immediately. “Hello. I’m—um. First.”
The woman looked him up and down.
Then grinned. “You brought gifts.”
“Three,” Gun stage-whispered.
“Three?” the woman echoed, amused.
Another voice called from the kitchen. “Lin, stop terrorizing them! Khao, baby, get in here!”
Khaotung lit up. “Coming, Auntie Joe!”
First was pretty sure his soul left his body.
Khaotung’s hand caught his wrist for half a second before disappearing into the kitchen. “Be nice,” he whispered to Mae Lin as he passed.
“Always,” she called. Then turned back to First. “So. You’re Fir.”
First flinched. Gun made an unholy sound from the counter.
The chaos began, as all proper chaos does, with Gun ordering everything on the chalkboard menu.
“No, no, I’m serious,” he told Pim in a strawberry-patterned apron and galaxy socks. “One of everything. It’s for—research.”
“Are you paying for it with exposure again?” Neo asked from a table by the window.
“I am paying for it with love,” Gun replied solemnly, placing both hands on his heart. “And a platinum debit card.”
JJ, meanwhile, was already halfway through a purple cream bun and trying to convince Pim to let him name the café’s next special after himself. “JJ’s Jelly-Filled Joy, come on. Tell me that’s not branding genius.”
First stood awkwardly at the edge of it all, gift bags still in hand, eyes trailing after Khaotung, who had reappeared behind the counter with a half-apron on and was chatting excitedly with Pim. The light caught the edges of his cheeks as he laughed, so at home it made First’s chest ache.
He was so easy here. So full of life.
He turned. Auntie Joe had emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She was shorter than Mae Lin, with round cheeks, expressive brows, and a pink streak in her ponytail that matched her earrings. Her eyes crinkled as she gestured toward the booth.
First sat immediately. His brain had never obeyed so fast.
“You’re stiffer than the laminated menus,” she said, sliding in across from him.
“I’m just—” First coughed. “Nervous.”
“Why?” Auntie Joe tilted her head. “You’re not here to propose, are you?”
He choked. “No!”
“Pity,” she said. “Lin owes me 500 baht.”
First stared.
Then blinked.
Then stared harder.
Auntie Joe smiled brightly. “Relax. I’m just teasing.”
He didn’t know if she was. At all.
She took the gift bags from his hands like it was the most natural thing in the world, peeking inside each with a delighted hum. “Tea? And candles? And—oh my God, are these cat treats?”
“…I panicked.”
“You panic beautifully,” she said. “Khaotung says you’re very precise. I see it now.”
First felt his ears go hot.
“I’ll be honest,” she said, leaning in. “We weren’t sure about you at first. Quiet, broody, very do-not-disturb energy. But the fact that you’re here? That you dressed up? That you brought gifts? You passed level one.”
“There are levels?”
She grinned. “Baby, there’s a boss fight.”
From the counter, Khaotung looked over and caught his eye.
First’s whole body calmed, just a little.
Auntie Joe watched the exchange and leaned back, smug. “You really like him.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I’m trying,” First said softly, “to figure it out.”
Her face softened. “Then you’re doing just fine.”
She patted his hand, stood up, and winked. “Don’t forget to try the rose milk. It’s one of his comforts.”
Before he could respond, Mae Lin appeared with a tray full of drinks and way too many pastries.
“Alright,” she announced. “Who’s ready for breakfast?”
Gun whooped.
JJ had already claimed three croissants.
Neo reached over and stole a tart without flinching.
And First?
First finally let himself smile.
Because it was loud, and messy, and overflowing.
And he was part of it.
· · ·
The café was still buzzing. Gun trying to convince Pim to make latte art in the shape of Off’s face, JJ offering to “audition” for café mascot status, Neo holding court like he ran the place with a single raised eyebrow.
But First barely noticed.
Because Khaotung had tugged at his sleeve, grinned, and said quietly, “Come with me for a sec?”
And that was it.
He followed without thinking. Through the side door behind the counter, past a beaded curtain strung with tiny origami cranes, into the back hall that smelled faintly of coffee beans and old jasmine candles.
It was cooler here. Quieter. Time slowed.
“This way,” Khaotung said, voice softer now.
The kitchen wasn’t huge, just clean tile, a prep station near the window, drying racks full of pastel plates and mismatched mugs with little chips in the handles. There were cat stickers on the fridge. A magnetic poetry set on the side that read:
“you glow / sweet / like summer thunder.”
First shouldn’t have been surprised. He should have expected it, but he didn’t.
Not the softness.
Not the history in every corner.
Khaotung crouched suddenly and tapped the floor by one of the lower cabinets. “I used to sit right here,” he said. “While Auntie Joe made curry or roti with banana and condensed milk. I’d do homework or draw or cry about some boy in my class who didn’t like me back.”
First crouched too, quietly. His knee bumped Khaotung’s.
“There’s a stain here,” Khaotung said, tracing a faint ring on the tile. “From when I spilled an entire Thai tea and sobbed for twenty minutes because I failed a math test.”
First looked down at the tile, then back up at him. “Did they yell?”
Khaotung blinked. “What? No. Auntie Joe just made me a waffle. Mae Lin told me she once failed her first algebra test too. They never yelled.”
First didn’t speak, but something subtle shifted in his expression. Like the words had landed in a part of him still healing.
Khaotung stood again, pulled open a drawer with a grin. “We kept all my art here. Wanna see?”
First followed.
Inside were crumpled sketches on old receipts, birthday cards drawn with glitter pen, a comic strip labeled Me vs. Final Exams (Spoiler: I Lose).
Khaotung handed one over. It was a drawing of two cats: one round and happy, the other tall and scowly. They were sitting under a speech bubble that read, Soul mates don’t need to talk to understand.
First looked at him. “This is… us?”
Khaotung beamed. “It could be.”
First held onto the paper like it might disintegrate. His fingers brushed the corner, delicate.
“I didn’t think you’d bring me here,” he said after a moment.
Khaotung’s smile faded into something gentler. “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”
There was a beat of quiet.
Then First folded the drawing neatly, slid it into his wallet, and said, almost shyly, “you were a cute kid.”
Khaotung raised an eyebrow. “Were?”
First flushed. “Are. Shut up.”
Outside, someone shrieked—JJ, probably. Followed by Gun yelling, “You’re holding the croissant wrong!”
Khaotung stifled a laugh.
But First didn’t laugh. Not exactly.
He just looked at him. Really looked.
And whispered, “Thank you.”
Khaotung’s breath caught. “For what?”
“For sharing this,” First said, gaze soft but intense. “With me.”
There was nothing flirty about it. Nothing teasing.
Just truth. Quiet and warm.
And Khaotung felt it down to his ribs.
· · ·
It was supposed to be harmless.
Gun, naturally, had turned one too many iced coffees into a photo-op declaration.
“I want a full spread,” he announced, already standing on a café chair. “This café is serving whimsy. I am serving face. Let’s create art.”
Pim, never one to back down from chaos, snatched her phone from her apron pocket. “Say less. I’m going handheld. Candid. Raw.”
“I’m styling,” JJ added, placing a ribbon around Gun’s neck like it was couture. “You’re giving croissantcore with a hint of desperation.”
Khaotung leaned against the counter, wheezing. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because we’re not First,” Gun shouted. “Who’s sulking in the corner like a sexy loaf of pain au chocolat.”
From his post at the edge of it all, First didn’t even flinch. He was sipping a second iced tea, arms crossed, eyes on Khaotung.
Not the chaos.
Just him.
And maybe that’s why Khaotung missed the moment entirely, until suddenly everyone turned and screamed in unison:
“COUPLE SHOOT!”
“No,” Khaotung said immediately.
“Yes,” Gun and JJ hissed together.
“We are not—” Khaotung began, cheeks warming.
“…Can I get one?” First asked, low and abrupt.
Khaotung blinked. “Huh?”
“Of us.” First said it without hesitation. Just loud enough. “Just one.”
The room exploded.
JJ screamed. Pim dropped a spoon. Neo whispered, “This is happening.” Gun yelled something about manifesting too hard and opened the nearest window for dramatic air.
Khaotung didn’t even get a say.
He was herded beneath the lavender-vine arch by the window, warm sun and bad decisions pooling over the tiles.
Pim held the phone like it was blessed. “We’re going no flash, one take. Just stand there.”
Khaotung moved into place.
And then—
First stepped forward.
Too close. The kind of close that tightens breath and thins the air to a thread. His hand curved, barely there, at Khaotung’s waist.
Khaotung’s breath caught.
First wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking at him. No, at his mouth.
Not dreamy. Not sweet.
Intense. Focused. Hungry.
The space between them thrummed like tension wrapped in silk, weeks of long looks and sleepless nights drawn taut.
Pim whispered, reverent, “Holy shit.”
JJ sniffled. “It’s not even romantic. It’s worse. It’s unresolved.”
Gun sobbed quietly into a napkin. “This is sexual tension. In a café. I’m gonna need a pastry to recover.”
Khaotung didn’t hear any of them.
“Don’t smile,” First said quietly.
“Why not?” Khaotung whispered back.
“Because if you do, I’m gonna kiss you,” First said, straight-faced, devastating.
Khaotung’s pulse shattered.
Pim clicked the shutter.
The sound startled them apart.
Just a fraction.
And everyone else in the room lost their goddamn minds.
JJ collapsed into a booth. “PUT IT ON A BILLBOARD. IN SIN CITY.”
Pim was fanning herself. “That photo has carnal energy. I need to bleach my phone.”
Gun was mid-spin. “THIS IS ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS BUT MAKE IT CAFÉ CORE.”
First walked away.
Khaotung didn’t follow.
He just stood there, cheeks pink, chest buzzing, lips slightly parted and smiled.
Not for the camera.
Just for himself.
· · ·
The sun had dipped low, slanting warm gold through the front windows of the café, turning everything the color of syrup and slow Sundays. The sign flipped to Closed—Pim insisted on doing it with a dramatic flourish—and the laughter had gentled into yawns, full bellies, and scattered goodbyes.
JJ had declared he was too full to walk and was now being dragged by Neo toward the van like a dying prince. Gun was trying to steal one more cookie for the road. Off was failing to stop him.
Khaotung stood in the doorway, watching them pile out with a smile stretched too wide to be anything but sincere.
He didn’t want to go.
He always said goodbye with a grin. It was just easier that way. But this time, something tugged at the corner of his chest. A feeling he hadn’t had in years. Not since he used to sit behind the pastry case with his chin on the counter, wondering what it would be like to bring someone here who saw all of him and stayed anyway.
Now he had First, standing beside him like he was already part of the foundation.
Mae Lin came out from the back holding a pale yellow bag tied with a silver ribbon.
“This is for you,” she said, offering it to First with both hands. “For later.”
First blinked. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did,” she said, with a smile that left no room for argument. “You’ve made our boy very happy. That’s worth a lot.”
First looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He took the bag awkwardly, bowing slightly. Too polite, too stiff, too him.
“What’s in it?” Khaotung asked, leaning over.
Mae Lin just smiled. “Snacks. Tea. A few things he might need.”
Auntie Joe added, deadpan, “And exactly one shirt that matches Khaotung’s lavender set. For balance.”
First flushed scarlet.
Khaotung cackled.
“Auntie!”
“What?” she said. “I have eyes.”
Pim popped her head out from her car. “THEY’RE STALLING. YOU TWO IN LOVE OR SOMETHING?”
Khaotung shrieked. “GET OUT.”
“You wish I would!” Pim called back, her car door slamming shut behind her.
Mae Lin leaned in and gave Khaotung a hug. Warm and full, the kind that felt like home baked into the shape of a person. “Take care of your heart,” she whispered.
Khaotung squeezed her tighter. “Always.”
Auntie Joe kissed his forehead. “Don’t let them tease you too much.”
He grinned. “No promises.”
And then they turned to First—who, to Khaotung’s shock, didn’t flinch from the hug Auntie Joe pulled him into. Didn’t panic when Mae Lin brushed a hand down his arm.
He just stood there, solid and warm and real, and said, “Thank you for today.”
Mae Lin smiled. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
Auntie Joe added, “With or without our boy. But preferably with.”
And then they were gone, out into the soft orange air, Khaotung’s hand brushing First’s, the gift bag bumping gently against his side, and a thousand unspoken things sitting quietly between them.
· · ·
The dorm was dark, just barely highlighted by the moonlight drifting in from the windows.
Neo’s light was out. JJ was starfished on the couch with a blanket hanging off one foot and an empty bag of chips tucked under his arm. Off and Gun’s door was shut, thankfully quiet for once. Even Khaotung’s room, down the hall, was dark.
The silence felt rare. Earned.
First should’ve been in bed, should’ve been asleep, should’ve ignored the way his brain kept replaying that moment in the café like a stuck VOD loop.
But instead, he stood barefoot in the kitchen, back resting against the counter, phone in one hand.
The photo was open. That photo.
He hadn’t asked to see it again. Not really. But Pim had sent it anyway. Unprompted. Evil.
And he’d opened it.
Of course he had.
Because there they were—he and Khaotung—lit by warm sun and bad decisions. Everyone else had blurred in the background. It looked like they were alone.
But it was the way they were looking at each other.
Not smiling.
Not posing.
Just... looking.
Khaotung’s head was tilted slightly, curls falling forward, mouth parted. His eyes were wide, soft, something in them full of want and not subtle.
And First?
First looked caught.
Like he’d been trying not to lean closer and had lost the fight halfway through the shutter click. His fingers were curved just barely at Khaotung’s waist. His gaze locked on Khaotung’s mouth.
They were too close.
Not kissing.
But no one would believe that wasn’t the next frame.
First stared at the photo like it might bite.
He opened Instagram. Stared at the empty caption box for a long time. Then typed, deleted, and typed again.
And then, he uploaded it.
This time, with a caption.
Simple. Calm. Brutal.
Didn’t go for the coffee.
tagged: @khaotungLIVE
He locked his phone. Set it on the counter. Took a long drink of water.
And smiled.
Not softly.
No, this one was crooked. A little wicked. A little earned.
He wasn’t just letting the fire start.
He was lighting the match.
Let them wake up to that.
Let Gun scream. Let JJ cry. Let Neo comment a single “👀.”
Let the fans spiral.
Let Khaotung,
Well.
Khaotung would see it soon enough.
First slept like a man who’d done something reckless.
And didn’t regret it at all.
· · ·
The screen flickered for half a second, then settled. First’s image resolved in the upper frame—hoodie on, collar slightly rumpled, hair damp like he’d come straight from a shower. He looked tired. Not hollow the way he had sometimes in the past, but… full. Like he was carrying something too big for his chest.
He adjusted his seat. “Morning,” he said, voice low.
“Morning,” his psychiatrist replied gently. “You look a little foggy. Did you sleep?”
He hesitated. “A few hours.”
She nodded. “Want to tell me about it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared off-screen, fingers fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. Then, finally:
“I went with the team to visit Khaotung’s family.”
A soft smile tugged at her lips. “How did it go?”
First shifted. His jaw clenched, then released. “It was... nice.”
“That’s not the whole story.”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
There was a long pause. His hands disappeared into the sleeves of his hoodie.
“They run a café,” he said eventually. “It’s cozy. Kind of chaotic. But it smells like cinnamon and old tea tins. It looks like someone built it to hold love.”
She let the silence stretch, let him fill it on his own terms.
“There were drawings in a drawer,” he continued. “Little ones Khaotung made when he was a kid. Crayon stuff. Comics. Cards his moms kept. Like... like they saved every version of him.”
Something in his voice cracked. Not loudly. But enough.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She nodded. “What was that like for you?”
First looked up. “Hard.”
That word lingered in the space between them.
“Hard because...?”
He exhaled slowly. “Because it felt safe there. Normal. Warm. And it’s not mine.”
There it was. Quiet. Bleeding truth.
He folded his arms over his chest like a shield. “They touched him all the time. His aunt kissed his forehead. His mom hugged him in the middle of a sentence. No hesitation. Just reach, and connect. Like it was natural.”
“It sounds like that left a strong impression.”
He nodded. “It did. I wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... out of practice. I let them hug me when we left. It didn’t scare me. It just—felt strange. Like my body didn’t know where to put it.”
Her expression softened. “Because you’re not used to being held that way.”
“Yeah.” His voice was low. “Not used to being held, period.”
She didn’t push.
“They welcomed me,” he said eventually. “They were kind. Funny. Teased me like I was already... part of something. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’ve never had that. I don’t know what it’s like to be loved like that, out loud.”
Her voice remained soft. “That must have been painful.”
“It was.” His voice shook. “And I hated that it hurt. Because I didn’t want to ruin it. It was a good day. Khaotung was happy. I got to see where he came from. What made him. And it’s... good. Everything about that place is good.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “But I kept thinking. Why didn’t I get that?”
She didn’t fill the pause. She just let it live.
“I wanted it,” he admitted, like the words were dragged from his ribcage. “I wanted what he has. Not just the café. Not the cute mugs and the pastel menus. I wanted the feeling.”
Her voice was thoughtful. “You’ve let yourself get close to that. Just in a different form.”
He looked up, confused.
She offered a small nod. “Your parents visited the dorm. That wasn’t easy. But you invited them. You stayed present.”
His expression tightened slightly. “That was different.”
“Because it was them?”
“Because it didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like formality.” He tugged at his sleeve. “Like I was performing okay instead of being okay.”
A pause.
“They were polite. Careful. But not… open. Not warm.”
“Did that surprise you?”
He hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t think they know how to be.”
She waited a moment, then asked gently, “Do you think that kind of warmth is something you could ever have with them?”
He stilled. “No,” he said, then winced. “I don’t know.”
“Not what they deserve. Not what you owe them,” she clarified softly. “Just, do you believe it’s possible?”
He sat with that. Then said, a little bitterly, “They could’ve made it easier. Back then.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“They let me come home and fall apart in silence.”
“I know that too.”
His shoulders hunched slightly. “They called last week,” he said. “My mom. She asked about the team. Asked if I was doing okay.” A pause. “Then she asked about Khaotung.”
That name landed gently in the room, but his tone wasn’t gentle.
“She said it like she was trying to approve of him,” he said. “Like she was angling for closeness through him.”
“And how did that feel?”
His jaw clenched. “Invasive.”
“Protective of him,” she noted.
“Yeah.”
“Because you don’t want them touching something you haven’t even figured out how to hold yet.”
He swallowed. Hard.
“I don’t want them to ruin it,” he said.
“I understand.”
A beat of silence.
“But I’ll ask again,” she said, quieter now. “Do you think it’s possible, someday, that the safety you felt in that café, that warmth… could exist with your own family?”
His voice dropped. “Not like that.”
She nodded. “Maybe not. The wounds are old. The repair work… takes more than politeness.”
He didn’t reply.
“But I wonder,” she continued, “if part of what you felt at the café wasn’t just grief. It might’ve been clarity.”
He looked up.
“Sometimes,” she said, “when you see what love can look like, you finally understand what you never got. And what you might still want. Not from them. But in the life you’re building now.”
He stared at the screen. “So I don’t have to make peace with them to feel it?”
“No,” she said gently. “You just have to stop pretending you never needed it.”
That cracked something open in his expression.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
But eventually, he nodded.
“I tried,” he said, almost like a defense. “I brought gifts. I was polite. I made myself sit still. I didn’t flinch when they hugged me. I smiled when Khaotung’s aunt teased me. I even… posted a photo.”
That last part sounded almost embarrassed. Like it had slipped out without permission.
Her voice warmed assuringly. “You didn’t ruin anything. You brought gifts. You smiled. You engaged. And afterward, you posted a photo.”
His eyes flicked to the camera. Then away.
“A moment you chose to share,” she said. “On your terms.”
“I just…” He shrugged. “I liked how he looked. How we looked.”
“You liked how you felt.”
He paused. Didn’t argue.
She studied him quietly. “Do you want to talk about what that means?”
He shook his head. “Not today.”
“Alright.” She nodded. “But I’d like to stay with the feeling for a little longer. That ache in your chest. That moment where you thought, ‘This isn’t mine.’ Can you tell me where it landed? What did it remind you of?”
First bit the inside of his cheek. Then, softly:
“There was a moment when Khaotung showed me the tile in the kitchen—where he used to sit and draw. He showed me a stain. From a tea spill. Said he cried about a test and his moms made him waffles. Like that was just... normal.”
He swallowed hard.
“When I spilled something as a kid, I got hit. Or yelled at. Or made to clean it until my hands hurt.”
Silence.
“I didn’t know waffles were an option,” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t know you could cry and be comforted instead of punished.”
She didn’t speak. Just breathed with him. Waited.
“And now that I know that’s possible,” he said, “I can’t stop wanting it. Even if it’s too late.”
“It’s not too late,” she said gently.
“I don’t want to keep comparing everything to what I didn’t have.”
“Then maybe,” she offered, “we reframe. You don’t have to compare. You can name. You can grieve. You can say, ‘I didn’t have this, and it hurt.’ And you can ask yourself, ‘Can I build something new?’”
He didn’t answer right away.
But when he did, it was quiet. Steady.
“I want to try.”
She smiled. “That’s enough for today.”
He nodded, blinking fast.
Then, just before the call ended:
“I folded the drawing he gave me,” he said. “Put it in my wallet.”
She blinked. “What drawing?”
He glanced down, a faint flush blooming at the edge of his ears.
“Two cats,” he muttered. “One happy. One grumpy. Soulmates don’t need to talk to understand.”
Her smile turned knowing. “That sounds about right.”
Chapter 43: Chapter 43
Notes:
Oh my god guys, I am so sorry for the long wait. I have been so busy now that I'm not in a relationship with someone who literally manipulates me to stay home and not see anyone, I've been catching up with all my friends and family (and maybe seeing someone new) so the amount of time I have to work on this has lessened and ALSO I have been STRUGGLING through this chapter and a couple of the next upcoming ones, I'm adjusting a lot to really dive a bit deeper than originally intended so I appreciate your patience on this in hopes the updates are even better for you guys.
Also the very random support on Twitter (X) that I did not expect at all really encouraged me to finish this chapter today ❤
Anyway I love love love you all and hope you enjoy this one :)
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
Khaotung woke to the sound of screaming.
Not murder screaming—worse.
“HE DID IT AGAIN!”
That was JJ.
In the hallway.
At 8:42 a.m.
Khaotung blinked blearily at his phone.
Ten unread texts from Pim that just said “OH MY GOD.”
He yawned, stretched, unlocked his phone.
And choked.
Because there it was. On Instagram.
First’s account.
A clean square.
The photo.
The one where Khaotung had thought he imagined the look in First’s eyes. The one where they were too close—closer than anyone had ever seen them. His face tilted slightly up, lips parted like he’d just whispered something private and soft. And First.
God.
First had wanted him in that photo.
And now it was public.
This time, though, there was a caption.
Simple. Calm. Devastating.
Didn’t go for the coffee.
tagged: @khaotunggLIVE
The screams got louder.
Gun burst into his room, brandishing his phone. “HE’S DONE IT AGAIN. AT TWO A.M. LIKE A MENACE.”
Khaotung flailed upright.
Neo appeared, arms crossed. “Another cryptic thirst post. It’s practically a ritual now.”
JJ was right behind him, waving his phone. “That’s not a post, that’s a confession with filters!”
Off leaned against the doorframe, sipping coffee. “He’s gone public with the chaos. Bold move.”
Gun was pacing. “I swear he gets bolder every time. I can’t even edit this—there’s nothing to improve!”
Neo scrolled. “#FirstKhao, ‘Didn’t Go for the Coffee,’ and ‘The Photo (Again)’ are trending.”
The tweets were spiraling:
“First has never looked at a human like this. Ever. Someone hold me.”
“I don’t want a boyfriend. I want what THEY have in that photo.”
“DO NOT make me analyze the hand placement. I have a job.”
“Why is this more intimate than my last relationship.”
“They’re so close. There’s no heterosexual explanation for this.”
“First really said ‘let’s cause a nationwide emotional collapse’ and posted it like it was nothing.”
And then there was this one:
“They weren’t even kissing and I still gasped. What do you MEAN they look like that?”
Khaotung groaned and dropped the phone into his lap, hiding his face. “He’s going to kill me.”
JJ flopped onto his bed. “No, he’s going to marry you in 4K. We’re just witnesses.”
Gun cackled. “He’s not even trying to be subtle anymore! Like, sir, we get it!”
Off smirked. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Neo shrugged. “Honestly, at this point, I think he enjoys watching the internet implode.”
Khaotung peeked through his fingers, cheeks pink. “You’re all insane.”
“Maybe,” Gun said. “But tell me I’m wrong—there’s no way he posts that if he’s not down bad for you.”
JJ nodded solemnly. “The caption alone? That man’s fighting for his life.”
Khaotung buried his face in his pillow, half to scream, half to hide the grin he couldn’t stop.
Because they were probably right.
And he didn’t even want to think about what that meant.
· · ·
The practice room was already humming with tension when Khaotung strolled in, lavender top, cream sweats hanging low on his hips, tattoo peeking out, and water bottle in hand. He knew exactly what he looked like—effortlessly hot and casually dangerous—and he was leaning into it.
JJ was the first to react, dramatic as ever. “HE RETURNS. The man. The myth. The photo.”
Gun practically bounced in his chair. “Let me see your phone. Did he text you? Don’t lie, I know there was something.”
Neo, calm as usual, didn’t even look up. “We’re trending again. Thanks for that.”
Khaotung dropped into his seat and crossed one leg over the other. “I was asleep. It’s not my fault First decided to soft-launch us like a missile strike.”
JJ clutched his chest. “It was a declaration. That was not a soft anything. That was—I don’t even know. A kiss in still frame. An emotional mugshot.”
“I looked amazing,” Khaotung said sweetly. “He’s lucky.”
Gun groaned. “He’s doomed. That’s what he is.”
And then the door opened.
First walked in.
All black. Clean lines. Sleeves rolled. Hair styled like he hadn’t even tried, but absolutely had. Calm, composed, and just smug enough that Khaotung immediately felt his brain short out.
He was so smug.
Gun gasped. “Oh no. He knows.”
Off entered behind him, clipboard in hand. “Scrims today are duel-heavy. I want pressure testing, adaptive comms, and speed. Especially from our dynamic duo over there.”
JJ pointed at them. “You hear that? Dynamic. That’s code for lovers with guns.”
Khaotung refused to blush. He leaned back in his chair. “If we’re so dynamic, let’s get started.”
First slid into the seat beside him, close enough to brush arms.
“Morning,” he said, voice low.
Khaotung tilted his head and gave him a mock-sweet smile. “You posted that on purpose.”
First smirked. “You looked good.”
“You looked like you wanted to drag me behind the espresso machine.”
JJ screamed.
Neo: “Starting in 3… 2… 1…”
They launched into the first match.
It was going fine. Normal. Focused. Until—
“Princess,” First called over comms, “flash me in here?”
Khaotung short-circuited.
“Y-yeah. I mean—yes. Flashing. You. I mean—”
Neo deadpanned, “And we’re off the rails again.”
Gun was cackling. “He’s not even trying to hide it today.”
First’s voice came through again, all smooth authority. “Focus, Tung.”
Khaotung made a noise that didn’t belong in the Valorant ecosystem.
Off sighed. “I regret everything.”
Still, they won the round. And the next.
By round five, they were synced like a unit forged in chaos. Khaotung popped an entry, First cleaned up the crossfire, and Neo sighed in relief over comms. “You’re scary when you’re trying to focus.”
“Tell him to stop trying to distract me then,” Khaotung muttered, planting the spike.
“I’m not doing anything,” First replied innocently.
JJ laughed. “Oh, you’re doing everything.”
They finished the scrim strong, Khaotung grinning despite himself.
As they packed up, First leaned close, whispering: “You look amazing today.”
Khaotung arched a brow. “Are we still talking about the match?”
“Who said I was?”
JJ let out a high-pitched scream from the other end of the room.
Gun collapsed into Off’s arms, whispering, “They’re flirting and I’m dehydrated.”
Khaotung might’ve giggled.
Just once.
And made sure First heard it.
· · ·
The meeting room smelled like coffee, impending judgment, and the faintest whiff of hair oil from JJ’s tragically last-minute shower. The team filed in like misbehaving schoolchildren called to the principal’s office, with Off herding them in, Gun dragging his slippers, and Neo already regretting his entire morning.
Lita stood at the front.
In heels. A white blouse tucked into wide-legged charcoal pants. Lipstick: sharp. Nails: sharper.
Expression? Deadly calm.
Lita didn’t waste time. She set her tablet on the table, perfectly calm.
“Next week,” she said, “you two are filming a FirstKhao special at an amusement park.”
Khaotung blinked. “Like… a challenge?”
“Exactly,” Lita replied smoothly. “You’ll be tested on in-game synergy and how well you know each other. There will be a forfeit wheel.”
JJ gasped. Gun covered his mouth like he was about to scream. Neo just muttered, “God help us.”
First’s jaw tightened. “…what kind of forfeits?”
Lita smiled. “Let’s just say some of them involve… costumes.”
Khaotung clutched First’s arm. “If you love me you’ll throw the game.”
“I don’t love you,” First replied automatically.
Gun: “YET.”
Off finally stepped in, clapping once. “Alright, team. Breathe. Scrims this afternoon. PR madness paused.”
Lita nodded. “For now.” She turned on her heel, tablet tucked under her arm, heels clicking a perfect rhythm out the door.
Gun watched her go, eyes shining. “She’s perfect. She terrifies me. I want her to adopt me.”
Neo sighed. “You’re already a PR emergency.”
Khaotung leaned into First’s side, whispering, “We’re doomed, aren’t we?”
· · ·
The street hummed with neon and late-night chatter, signs from noodle shops glowing warm against the dark. Gun’s hand was looped through Khaotung’s arm as they walked, the two of them buzzing like they’d downed three iced lattes each.
“I can’t believe you’re finally meeting them,” Khao said, denim jacket slipping back on his shoulders as he bounced on his sneakers. “Ploy and May are iconic, okay? Like, literal power couple. And Bas—Bas is chaos. You’re gonna love him.”
Gun clasped his free hand to his chest dramatically. “Sweetheart, I was born to love chaos. And power couples always adore me.”
Khaotung cackled, tugging him faster down the sidewalk. His denim skirt hugged his hips snugly, the frayed hem brushing his thighs with every step. He’d paired it with his favorite white tank and the matching jacket because, well, he wanted to look good. Confident. Thriving. It wasn’t every day he introduced someone from his now life to friends from his then life.
Gun kept pace effortlessly, earrings catching the neon glow, his grin sharp and fond. “Look at you, all dressed up. Denim royalty. Do I need to call you Princess again?”
“You can call me Queen, thank you very much,” Khaotung shot back.
They both laughed, the sound bouncing between them like they were already inside the café, already mid-story.
By the time they pushed the door open, Khaotung’s cheeks hurt from smiling.
The bar was warm, filled with the clatter of plates and the low strum of an acoustic guitar from hidden speakers. Ploy spotted him first, her face lighting up, May waving right after. Bas shot out of his chair like a spring and nearly tackled him in a hug.
“Khaotung! You haven’t changed a bit!” Bas said, squeezing the air from his lungs.
“Excuse you,” Khao wheezed. “I’ve gotten hotter.”
“True,” Ploy laughed, pulling him into her own hug. “But still sparkly.”
Introductions tumbled in, Gun slipping into the mix like he’d been there a dozen times already. He charmed May in under three minutes, made Bas wheeze-laugh twice, and declared Ploy his new soulmate over their shared love of lipstick brands.
Khaotung glowed in the warmth of it all. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this kind of night—old friends, easy laughter, no cameras or brackets looming overhead. Just connection. Just belonging.
Gun had been enjoying himself, honestly.
Ploy and May had stories for days about their uni professors, Bas was halfway through a ridiculous anecdote about a failed group project, and Khaotung was sparkling. Laughing too loud, hands flying everywhere, looking like he’d been poured straight into the middle of this friend group ages ago.
It was easy to forget he was the rookie on Gun’s team and not just some glitter-coded social butterfly who belonged everywhere.
But then,
A name dropped.
Casual. Offhand. Like nothing.
“Yeah, shame he couldn’t make it,” Bas said, reaching for his drink. “Work thing. You remember, right? You two used to be inseparable, practically brothers.”
Gun didn’t think much of it at first. Just sipped his soda, waiting for Khaotung to crack another joke.
Except… he didn’t.
Oh, he smiled. He always smiled. A quick flash of teeth, a small hum of acknowledgment. But it was brittle around the edges, and Gun felt the difference.
Khaotung kept tugging absently at the hem of his skirt.
Leaning his elbow on the table like he was suddenly exhausted.
And that little crease, right between his brows, deepened every time the conversation veered close to circling back to the name again.
Gun clocked it all. He always did.
If anyone else missed it, they needed their eyes checked. This was Sparkle 101. Khaotung never sat still. He was a hummingbird, a glitter bomb, a walking fireworks show. But right now? His glow had a hairline crack in it.
Gun sipped his soda like it was champagne at a gala, eyes narrowed just slightly over the rim. Something’s off. Don’t know what, don’t like it.
So he compensated. Louder laugh, bigger gasp at Ploy’s story about May singing karaoke in a lecture hall. Tossed a wink at Bas just to keep the energy bouncing. All the while, though, he kept one eye on Khaotung.
Because whatever that name meant to him, it was heavy. It bent the air around him. And Gun wasn’t about to ignore it.
Inside, he was already making a mental note: file this under “mystery to solve later.” Right next to “why First keeps pretending he doesn’t stare at Khao’s legs during practice” and “who let JJ near the team TikTok password.”
Gun pushed his hair back, smiling wide. Let the others see the sparkle, let Khaotung keep his mask on. Fine. But he knew better. And when the time came, he’d be ready.
· · ·
AJ liked nights like this.
No scrims, no shouting, no JJ running a sugar high through the hall. Just quiet—the kind that hummed low and steady through the dorm like the sound of breathing after a long day.
His room smelled faintly of tea and laundry detergent. The monitor cast a soft blue glow over the bed, the half-eaten bag of chips on his desk, and the pile of hoodies near the chair. A rom-com played on the second screen, subtitles flickering lazily.
He wasn’t really watching. Not until the door clicked open.
“Still awake?”
First’s voice. Low, careful, like he’d tested the air before speaking.
“Barely,” AJ said without turning. “You?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
The door shut again, quietly this time. AJ heard the soft drag of socked feet on the floor, then the subtle squeak of his desk chair as First sat down.
“Movie night?” First asked.
“More like background noise,” AJ said, scrolling absently on his phone. “What’s up?”
First hesitated, then held up his phone. “Found a new recipe. Thought I’d show you.”
That earned AJ’s attention. He looked over, one brow raised. “You’re trusting me again after last time?”
“Last time, you saved the kitchen.”
“Last time,” AJ corrected, “you almost melted a spatula trying to ‘fold gently until glossy.’”
First gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh.
AJ gestured for the phone. “Let’s see it.”
First handed it over, scrolling to a photo of glossy noodles drizzled with sauce. “Ginger soy noodles. Thought it looked good.”
AJ studied it, then nodded. “Simple. Solid flavor. Smart choice for a redemption arc.”
“Redemption?”
“You tried to assassinate the concept of cooking last time. Gotta rebuild your reputation.”
First huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching.
For a while, the only sound was the faint chatter of the movie and the muted hum of the PC fan. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just quiet, like the space between two people who didn’t need to fill it.
AJ leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall. “You’ve been cooking a lot lately.”
“Helps me think,” First said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s… different. Easier than words.”
That sounded right. First had always been more action than explanation. Cooking made sense for him—measured, precise, private.
AJ turned slightly, watching him under the dim monitor light. The faint shadow beneath his eyes, the way his fingers still fidgeted with his sleeve. First wasn’t restless the way he used to be, but he still carried that hum of quiet energy, like he was learning what to do with it.
“You’ve changed a lot,” AJ said after a while.
First gave a small, knowing smile. “Maybe. Or maybe I just stopped fighting it.”
AJ nodded. “You’re still you—still quiet—but you stay longer now. You laugh sometimes. You hang around instead of disappearing. The team feels different when you’re around.”
First’s gaze flicked up. “I know you all notice.”
“Yeah,” AJ said. “We notice because we care.”
The words settled gently between them. Not heavy, just true.
They sat like that for a while, the movie flickering in and out of focus. The leads on screen finally kissed—too dramatic, too wet, too much.
AJ snorted. “That’s the worst kiss choreography I’ve ever seen.”
First smirked faintly. “You’re a romantic.”
“Guilty.”
First leaned back in the chair, shoulders finally easing. “Guess I’m trying to learn how to be one.”
AJ looked at him then, really looked. There was something softer in First’s posture lately, less like a man braced for impact, more like someone realizing he didn’t have to flinch anymore.
“You’re doing fine,” AJ said.
The movie credits rolled. Neither of them moved to turn it off.
After a minute, First stood. “I’ll try that recipe tomorrow.”
“Make extra,” AJ said. “I’ll supervise. Again.”
First paused by the door, glancing back with the faintest smile. “Deal.”
When the door clicked shut, AJ exhaled slowly and let his head fall back against the wall.
He didn’t think much of it. Just that the dorm used to sound empty when it got quiet.
Now, it sounded full.
· · ·
The rest of the week had been a blur.
VOD reviews until three in the morning.
Scrims so intense JJ actually lost his voice for half a day.
Lita dragging them to fittings and concept meetings like a goddess of fashion vengeance in heels sharper than her eyeliner.
They’d done back-to-back PR planning, practiced interview phrasing, posed in coordinated outfits, reviewed five years’ worth of rival team footage—sometimes all in the same twelve-hour stretch.
And in all of that? Somehow, the hardest part—
—was First.
Not cold, aloof, unreadable First.
No. This was different.
Flirty First. Smirky First. First with patience so deliberate it felt like temptation.
The one who leaned over during scrims, voice low against his ear: “Watch your flank, Princess.”
The one who brushed past him in the hallway and didn’t apologize.
Who let his hand rest, light and claiming, at the small of his back when they walked side by side.
Who watched him with quiet eyes that always said more than his mouth ever did.
It wasn’t normal.
None of it was normal.
And it was driving Khaotung completely out of his mind.
Which is exactly why—now, in the dressing room, finally alone, standing in their final coordinated interview looks—he was five seconds from falling apart.
His lavender silk shirt was only half-buttoned. His fingers couldn’t seem to find the holes.
Across from him, First stood in deep forest green, the color cutting against the pale of his skin, his tailored blazer framing him too well. The light caught on the silver of his cuffs, on the quiet curve of his mouth.
He was too calm. Too composed.
Watching Khaotung through the mirror like he already knew how close he was to losing composure.
“You’re not finished,” First said, voice soft but weighted.
“Huh?”
“Your buttons.”
Khaotung looked down, realizing his shirt was still undone. He fumbled one, then another. Missed both.
First didn’t move. He just watched. That stare—steady, measured—made the air go thick.
Khaotung got halfway before his hands gave up. “This is torture.”
“The shirt?”
“You.” His voice cracked on it. “You being you. We’ve been everywhere this week but never alone, and every time I start to calm down, you—” His breath caught. “You look at me like that.”
First’s brow tilted slightly. “Like what?”
“Like you want to ruin me.”
A pause. Too long.
“Maybe I do,” First said. Quiet.
Khaotung’s pulse jumped. “You—You can’t just—”
He stopped, because First moved. Not much, just one step closer. Then the distance between them shrank until he could feel the warmth radiating from him.
“You should finish your buttons,” First murmured.
Khaotung tried. Failed. His fingers slipped.
And then First reached out.
His hand caught the edge of Khaotung’s shirt, brushing the inside of his wrist. Warm. Careful. Dangerous.
Khaotung forgot how to breathe.
First fastened one button, then another, eyes never leaving his face. The sound of fabric sliding, of buttons clicking through silk, was too loud in the small room.
By the third button, Khaotung’s pulse was hammering. “You’re—way too close.”
“I know.”
He could feel First’s breath now—steady, slow, deliberate. Every second stretched thin enough to break.
“First,” he whispered, not sure if it was warning or plea.
“Hmm?”
“You’re going to make me—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”
First’s mouth curved. “You’re always dramatic.”
“I’m always right,” Khaotung muttered, trying to step back. But his heel brushed the chair, and First’s hand came up instinctively, fingers catching his waist to steady him.
Neither of them moved.
The air crackled.
First’s thumb grazed the fabric at his hip, light, thoughtless, devastating.
“Pretty,” he said under his breath, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Khaotung froze. “You did not just—”
“I did.”
He laughed, shaky. “You’re evil.”
“I’m patient.”
There was no space left to breathe. The warmth between them felt like gravity.
“Five minutes!” Lita’s voice broke through the door, cheerful and oblivious. “Don’t wrinkle each other!”
They jolted apart, both too quick.
First took a slow breath, smirk flickering back into place like armor. “Guess that’s our cue.”
Khaotung stood perfectly still, heartbeat still uneven, hands trembling slightly at his sides.
This was fine.
He adjusted the last button.
Totally fine.
He was not going to kiss First in front of the press.
He was not going to think about the way his hands had felt.
He was absolutely, definitely going to survive this—
Probably.
· · ·
The lights were hot.
The cameras were rolling.
And Khaotung was barely holding it together.
He’d survived hair and makeup. He’d survived First’s forest green blazer, the way his sleeves pulled just enough when he adjusted his earpiece.
But now they were seated—too close, thighs nearly touching—and the interviewer was already smiling like she knew something.
Which was terrifying.
Because Khaotung wasn’t sure what he was giving off anymore. Chaos? Desire? A public meltdown wrapped in silk?
Whatever it was, First was unfazed. Legs crossed. Hands folded.
Looking every bit like he hadn’t spent the dressing room encounter torching Khaotung’s restraint from the inside out.
“Okay!” the host beamed. “Let’s get started. This is the first in our Team Synergy Spotlight series—and who better to launch with than our new duo, First and Khaotung.”
Khaotung smiled, automatic. “Happy to be here.”
“Very happy,” First added, cool as hell.
Khaotung wanted to scream.
“So let’s dive in,” the host said. “We’ve got a series of questions—some about gameplay, some about each other. You’ll write your answers on the whiteboards in your lap. No peeking.”
They both nodded. First was already uncapping his marker.
Khaotung adjusted his mic, trying to seem normal.
“Question one: What’s your duo partner’s favorite Valorant map?”
Easy.
Khaotung scrawled Ascent without hesitation.
First glanced at him with a faint smirk.
They both flipped their boards.
Match.
The host clapped. “Look at that synergy!”
“Gun yells the loudest on Ascent,” Khaotung explained. “It’s sentimental.”
“You like chaos,” First said quietly. “I like anchoring it.”
Khaotung turned to look at him.
Too long.
Too soft.
Too much.
“Question two,” the host said quickly, clearly sensing danger. “What’s your partner’s favorite food?”
Khaotung wrote Khao Taen for First.
First paused. Glanced at him. Wrote toast (with cinnamon sugar).
They revealed. Match again.
“You remembered that?” Khaotung asked, surprised.
“You burned it once,” First said. “The smell hasn’t left me.”
Khaotung laughed, full and shocked.
The host swooned. “You two are unreal.”
Question three.
“Describe each other in one word.”
Khaotung hesitated. His brain offered too many options.
Beautiful.
Disaster.
Menace.
Mine.
He settled on intense.
First wrote lethal.
They flipped their boards.
“Ohhh,” the host sang. “Lethal?”
“He’s deceptively dangerous,” First said calmly. “People assume flash and sparkle. But he’s smarter than they are. Faster.”
Khaotung’s ears burned. “You’re making me sound scary.”
“You are,” First murmured. “In the best way.”
Khaotung bit the inside of his cheek.
His marker cap clicked loudly as he fidgeted with it.
The questions continued. The answers flowed. More matches. More laughter. Too many stares.
And then, as if the gods of chaos themselves intervened—
The host grinned and asked, “Okay. Last question. When did you know you trusted each other in-game?”
Khaotung froze.
First was already writing.
They both flipped their boards.
First: Scrim 3. Bind. He said ‘I got you.’
Khaotung: When he said ‘I’ve got you’ and meant it.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The host blinked. “Wow.”
Khaotung’s fingers twitched against his board. His breath had caught somewhere in his throat, and he didn’t realize he was looking at First until First was already looking back.
It wasn’t surprise in his eyes this time.
It was something else.
Something deep.
Something that knew.
And Khaotung, voice low and steady—barely more than a breath—said,
“…Fir.”
No stumble. No flirt. Just his name. Spoken like truth. Like gravity.
First didn’t look away.
His mouth parted, just slightly. His gaze locked on Khaotung’s, not blinking.
There was no teasing in it.
No performance.
Just two people on the edge of something, still pretending it wasn’t already happening.
The host’s voice broke through again, cheerful and unaware. “That’s a wrap on this spotlight. Thank you both, and we’ll see you at the match!”
Cameras powered down.
But neither of them moved.
Chapter 44: Chapter 44
Notes:
Hiiii I'm back so quick this time. I really needed to get this posted asap because I want to finally finish the next chapter and get it out asap too.
I don't have much to say I just as always hope you enjoy!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
He made it exactly three steps off the set before he heard Gun scream:
“THE EYE CONTACT, KHAOTUNG—WHAT WAS THAT? I SAW MY AFTERLIFE.”
Khaotung nearly walked into a wall.
Behind him, First was silent. Still composed. Still perfectly put together with his soul-destroying smirk. The kind of calm that came after setting fire to everything.
Gun, meanwhile, was vibrating. “You looked at him like you were about to kiss him. On public broadcast. With children watching!”
JJ sprinted over, phone in hand. “Do you guys realize how feral Twitter is right now? There’s already a thread titled ‘FirstKhao: A Study in Eye Contact.’”
Neo leaned against the wall, calm but watching. “It’s been six minutes.”
“Six minutes too long!” Gun shrieked. “The fan edits are coming! The violins are tuning!”
Khaotung tried not to combust on the spot. He could still feel it—that look. The way First had turned toward him like he was the only thing in the room, the only thing in the world.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, eyes wide. “Did I black out? I think I blacked out.”
“You blacked out and said ‘Fir’ with so much yearning I almost passed away,” JJ said helpfully.
Gun whirled toward First. “And you! You just let him?? With that look??”
First raised a single eyebrow. “He always calls me that.”
“Not like that he doesn’t!” Gun wailed. “That was soulmate-level Fir. That was put a ring on it Fir!”
“I need to sit down,” Khaotung whispered.
Neo gestured to a folding chair. “Sit fast. Lita says you’ve got ten minutes before the second interview.”
JJ gasped. “There’s a second one?!”
Khaotung groaned. “Why did I agree to this?”
“Because you’re in love,” Gun supplied cheerfully. “And you want the whole world to know it.”
“I’m not—!” Khaotung flailed. “I mean—I’m—!”
First walked past him, cool as ever, and dropped a hand lightly on his waist in passing.
Just a touch. Just a press of fingers through fabric. Barely a second.
Khaotung shut his mouth.
Everyone else went dead silent.
Gun blinked. “Did he just—?”
Neo nodded. “He did.”
JJ clapped a hand over his own mouth. “I need holy water.”
First didn’t say a word. Just kept walking down the hallway toward their next set, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just set Khaotung’s entire nervous system on fire.
Khaotung turned slowly to face the others.
“I hate him,” he whispered.
“No you don’t,” they all said in unison.
“Okay but I could.”
Gun was already tweeting.
Neo was already sighing.
JJ was already compiling fan reactions into a Google Doc titled The Spiral of Khaotung Thanawat: A Love Story.
And Khaotung?
Khaotung ran a hand through his hair, let out a strangled breath, and muttered, “I’m not gonna survive the second interview.”
From down the hall, First glanced back—just for a moment—and raised an eyebrow.
Khaotung was doomed.
· · ·
This was a trap.
A velvet-trimmed, LED-lit, pastel-accented trap.
Khaotung sat on one half of the loveseat, knees carefully not touching First’s, hands folded in his lap like he wasn’t trying to keep them from fidgeting. Across from them, the host smiled sweetly behind a cue card. A live camera light blinked red.
He was going to die here.
The host beamed. “Let’s start easy. How well do you know your teammate? We’ve got five fan-submitted questions designed to test you.”
First nodded like this was all normal. Like his thigh wasn’t a heat source radiating beside Khaotung’s. Like he hadn’t casually rested his hand on Khaotung’s lower back earlier.
Khaotung forced a smile. “Let’s do it.”
Question 1: What’s his go-to Valorant agent when he’s not on duelist?
First answered instantly. “Fade.”
Khaotung blinked. “Wait, how—”
“You hovered her once during scrims when you were zoning out. Your movement was still clean.”
Khaotung’s ears turned red.
First didn’t look smug. Just… observant. Like he was always watching. Like Khaotung was something to be studied and remembered.
Question 2: If he had to pick a different career, what would it be?
“Baking,” First said.
“Barista,” Khaotung said at the same time.
They stared at each other.
“Same vibe,” First said.
Khaotung smiled without meaning to. “You’d make a grumpy but hot barista.”
“You’d burn every cake trying to add glitter.”
“I’d make mood cakes. Lavender for calm. Raspberry for heartbreak. Mint for chaos.”
Question 3: What’s your favorite thing about your teammate’s playstyle?
Khaotung was already flushed when he said, “He always plays like he has something to prove. But never to us. Just to himself. I like that.”
First turned to look at him—slowly, silently—and Khaotung forgot how to breathe.
That look.
The one from earlier.
Except this time it was worse.
It was intimate.
First leaned in slightly, one elbow on the back of the couch, casual but all-consuming. “You don’t play like anyone’s watching,” he said softly. “I like that.”
Khaotung couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even hear the host's voice over the sound of his own pulse.
He felt First’s hand brush his knee. Just once. Barely there.
But it was enough.
The tension snapped taut like a wire between them.
Question 4: Who’s more competitive?
“Me,” they said in unison.
“Let him win,” First added, deadpan. “He gets pouty.”
“I do not!”
“You do.”
“Only because you do that smug thing—”
“Which one?” First asked, straight-faced.
Khaotung spluttered. “You know what? I do get pouty. And I look cute doing it.”
First chuckled. It was low. Quiet. Dangerous.
Question 5: When did you know Khaotung would be a perfect fit for Team Eclipse?
First’s answer was immediate, but his tone stayed calm and even. “During his trial week. He kept pace with everyone, adapted fast, and didn’t slow the team down. He fit into comms and strategy like he’d been here longer.”
The host nodded. “Efficient.”
Beside him, Khaotung grinned. “I’ve always known I was a perfect fit for Team Eclipse.”
First glanced at him, unimpressed but not disagreeing. “Confidence isn’t the same as proof.”
“And now I have both,” Khaotung said, leaning back like he’d just won something.
The host laughed. “Well, I can’t argue with that. Thank you both for joining us! We’ll see you in-game!”
The camera light went dark.
As the crew started to pack up, Khaotung glanced over, his grin lingering just a little too long.
First was already looking back. “What?”
Khaotung tilted his head, voice soft but certain. “You just told everyone I belonged here.”
First didn’t blink. “I told the truth.”
Something flickered in Khaotung’s eyes, but he didn’t push. Just sat there, still smiling.
· · ·
Neo was sitting in the corner with his head in his hands, trying to tune out the rising temperature of hell that was this team’s energy level.
To his left, Off was going over rotations and site anchors like an actual professional.
To his right, Gun was making dolphin noises.
“I SWEAR,” Gun yelled, brandishing his phone like a weapon, “if we don’t get an official FirstKhao dating announcement by the end of the season, I’m suing this organization for emotional manipulation.”
Neo didn’t even lift his head. “Gun, it’s our match day.”
“And yet,” Gun snapped, “the REAL match was in the interview room.”
JJ wheezed from behind his monitor. “Did you see the part where Khaotung forgot how to breathe? I timestamped it.”
“I have six different angles,” Gun announced proudly.
Neo lifted his head. “Did any of you read the strategy doc Off sent this morning?”
JJ blinked. “...There was a doc?”
“Send it to me,” Gun said. “I’ll skim it between memes.”
Neo sighed. Loudly.
Off kept talking through it all, unbothered. “Gun, you’re holding flank. JJ, you initiate. Neo, same control sets. First—”
First, who was currently leaning way too close to Khaotung on the bench, looked up innocently.
“Try not to make him short-circuit mid-match,” Off said flatly.
“I’m not doing anything,” First said, still not moving away.
Khaotung was clearly glitching. His hands were folded so tightly in his lap it looked like he was trying to crush his own thumbs.
Off pointed at him. “Princess. You good?”
Khaotung blinked. “Yup. Totally fine. Not at all thinking about interview tension or hands on knees or—”
Neo threw a granola bar at him.
“Eat something before you pass out.”
“I’m not gonna pass out!” Khaotung said, already tearing the wrapper open.
Gun leaned dramatically over First’s shoulder. “If you’re gonna faint, fall into his arms. Maximum drama.”
JJ was already halfway through a tweet.
“None of you are normal,” Neo muttered.
Then—
A notification hit Gun’s phone. His eyes went wide.
“Oh my GOD.”
Neo instinctively winced. “What now.”
Gun turned his screen around. “A slow-mo edit already hit 50,000 views.”
JJ started flailing to grab his phone.
Off said nothing, just crossed his arms and looked at First like a disappointed dad.
“I didn’t say anything,” First muttered.
“No,” Off said. “You just looked at him like he hung the moon.”
Neo pinched the bridge of his nose.
Gun was now lying across Khaotung and First’s laps, sobbing dramatically. “JUST KISS ALREADY I’M BEGGING.”
JJ collapsed into a beanbag chair, fake-crying.
Lita’s voice came through the hallway comms, terrifying as ever: “Ten minutes, children. Get your faces on.”
Khaotung jumped to his feet. First rose beside him like gravity itself was a suggestion. Their shoulders bumped.
Neither of them stepped away.
Gun gasped. “They’re magnetized.”
Off turned to Neo. “Bet they kiss after this match?”
Neo didn’t even blink. “Already started a spreadsheet.”
Off smirked. “Good man.”
Neo sighed again.
It was going to be a long night.
· · ·
The lights hit him like a wave.
Loud. Blinding. Hot.
The crowd screamed as Team Eclipse stepped onto the stage, their names flashing across massive LED screens behind them.
Khaotung could barely process it.
Not just the volume, but the signs. The fans. The way the stadium pulsed with noise. There were lightsticks. There were chants. There were banners that said “GO PRINCESS GLITTER” and “FIRSTKHAO 4 ENDGAME.”
One girl in the second row held up a neon sign that said “KISS HIM, FIR.”
Khaotung tripped on absolutely nothing.
JJ caught his elbow. “Match jitters?”
Khaotung wheezed. “I think I just saw my ghost.”
Neo was already settling into his station, calm as a storm waiting to break. Gun gave him a dazzling wink before tossing his hoodie to the crowd. JJ bowed like a maniac.
And First…
First didn’t do any of that.
He just walked straight to his seat with cool confidence and zero fanfare, like the chaos didn’t touch him at all.
But when Khaotung sat down next to him—hands trembling slightly as he reached for his headset—First leaned over, slow and quiet, and pressed a hand to his knee under the desk.
Just for a second.
Just enough.
Khaotung glanced at him, startled.
First’s expression didn’t shift. “You’re ready.”
Khaotung swallowed. “What if I mess it up?”
“You won’t.” A beat. Then, more softly, “I’ve got you.”
Khaotung’s heart twisted. His fingers steadied.
The countdown on the screen ticked down. 3:00. 2:59. 2:58.
Gun’s voice lit up the team comms. “Mic check, lovers.”
“Working,” Neo replied.
“Loud and clear,” JJ said.
“Ready,” First said.
Khaotung took a breath. Then another.
“GlitterShot reporting in,” he said finally, voice almost steady. “Let’s sparkle responsibly.”
MAP ONE — Haven.
The match opened fast. Team Eclipse storming through sites like lightning. Gun locking down flanks. Neo stalling pushes with chilling precision. JJ yelling gleefully every time he breached someone into oblivion.
First was a menace.
Sharp, instinctual, terrifying. He swung corners like he owned them and cleared site after site with flawless reads. He led with wordless synergy, tagging callouts before Khaotung even had to ask.
“You good, Princess?” First said once, mid-round.
“Very good,” Khaotung replied, breathless as he got a double kill and screamed.
Neo muttered, “Save it for the post-game.”
Gun cackled. “Not if they’re gonna flirt in every clutch.”
ROUND TEN.
Post-plant. 2v1.
Khaotung and First.
Khaotung darted behind cover, heart racing, headset soaked in adrenaline. First was above, watching the angle, calm like he always was in chaos.
“Khaotung,” he said over comms.
“Yeah?”
“Left peek in three, two—”
Khaotung peeked. Hit the shot clean.
“Got him!” he yelled.
JJ shrieked. Gun howled. Neo said, “Nice timing.” Off yelled from the coach box.
First didn’t yell.
He just said, low and warm, “Good job, Tung.”
Khaotung’s fingers slipped off his mouse for a second.
He missed the pistol round that followed because his brain was melting.
MAP TWO — Ascent. Final round. Match point.
They won it in a clean retake.
First baited a swing.
Gun traded.
Neo smoked off heaven.
Khaotung clutched the last two with a ghost and a miracle.
The screen went white with victory text.
The crowd exploded.
Khaotung tore his headset off, hands shaking. He turned in his seat.
And First was already looking at him.
Still calm. Still unreadable.
But he reached out and brushed his knuckles against Khaotung’s.
Small. Private. Right there in the shadow of everything.
Khaotung’s breath hitched.
They didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But he wanted to.
God, he wanted to.
The moment they got off stage, the green room exploded.
“LET’S GOOOOOOO!” JJ screamed at a pitch so high the lights threatened to flicker.
Neo fist-bumped him, hard, then collapsed onto the nearest couch with a long groan. “We just dismantled them.”
Gun didn’t walk into the room—he charged in like a victory parade, hair sticking to his forehead, jacket half off, already pulling up Twitter. “Someone find me a slow-mo of that last round—Neo’s smokes were art. JJ’s flash timing was—JJ, marry me.”
“I already proposed to your flank,” JJ said, still catching his breath. “And she said yes.”
Off followed them in looking smug as hell. “You lot actually listened to my strats today.”
“You say that like it wasn’t flawless, Papii,” Gun shot back, grinning. “You built the blueprint, and we made it fashion.”
Neo raised an eyebrow from the couch. “You threw your gun away to tea-bag a Sage.”
“I knew she didn’t have time to defuse!” Gun argued. “It was psychological warfare. It worked.”
JJ flopped beside him, half in his lap. “The killfeed said Gun (Classic) > DazedSage and I think I ascended.”
Off was checking the scoreboard on his tablet, expression deeply satisfied. “Seventeen first kills. Eight entries on split site attacks. They never adjusted to your tempo.”
JJ thumped his chest. “All gas, no brakes.”
Gun leaned into Off’s side, eyes still scanning the feed. “They really couldn’t handle us, huh?”
“Nope,” Off said, pressing a kiss to Gun’s temple. “You shredded them.”
JJ was practically vibrating. “Can we talk about my 3K on Haven? The breach flash into ult into frenzy mowdown? I need it tattooed on my spine.”
Neo finally cracked a smile. “I’ll send you the VOD. You deserve to frame it.”
“Frame it? I’m submitting it to the Louvre.”
Gun was sprawled over two chairs now, fanning himself dramatically. “Neo’s stall in round five? The way you used one smoke to trap their duelist like a rat in a maze? I almost cried.”
Neo rolled his eyes, but his smirk was clear. “Credit to First. His fake rotate baited them into my setup.”
“Speaking of,” Off said, turning toward the door, “where is—”
The door swung open.
First and Khaotung entered together, still flushed from the lights and the adrenaline but composed. Their post-match energy was a calmer kind of chaos, shoulders close, eyes sharp, mouths curved with pride.
Gun opened his mouth.
Neo chucked a protein bar at his head.
“Let them breathe for five minutes.”
But for once, they didn’t swarm. Because right now, even with all the teasing and memes still loading up online, even with all the tension that usually followed them like a cloud—
What mattered was this:
They’d won.
As a team.
Neo had anchored sites like a wall.
Gun had clutched twice like a god.
JJ had been pure destruction with a headset.
Khaotung, in his second official match, had held his own and shone.
And First had led them through it with a steadiness all of them had expected—and all of them respected.
Off looked around the room, at his team, his family, and smiled.
“Drinks on me,” he said. “Tonight, we celebrate.”
JJ threw his fists in the air. “I’M GONNA GET SO DRUNK.”
Gun leapt up. “SOMEONE HELP ME PICK AN OUTFIT.”
Neo stood up, groaning again. “If I don’t get ten minutes of quiet, I’ll stab one of you.”
“You can nap in the van,” Off said mildly.
JJ was already singing.
Gun was already planning a group selfie.
And across the room, First and Khaotung just shared a glance, quiet and charged, while chaos bloomed around them.
The real celebration hadn’t even started yet.
· · ·
The drive back to the dorm was not what First had expected.
But with the day he’d had, he should’ve known better.
The van hummed softly, half the team buzzing, half asleep. Gun and JJ were arguing over whether their match MVP tweet should use sparkles or fire emojis. Off was reviewing stats on his phone. Neo was dead to the world, hood pulled over his eyes.
Khaotung sat beside First.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
He wasn’t asleep. Wasn’t scrolling his phone. Instead, he kept fidgeting like he was holding something sharp under his skin.
Every thirty seconds—like clockwork—First could feel the weight of his stare toward him. Nervous. Heated. Restless.
And First…
…was not immune.
He knew he’d been laying it on thick lately. He knew the teasing had crossed into something softer, darker, deliberate. He knew how Khaotung reacted to every low murmur, every brush of fingers, every quiet compliment.
He knew.
And he’d done it anyway.
The memory of Khaotung’s waist under his palm—soft, warm, perfect—hit him so fast he almost groaned out loud. He clenched his jaw and stared forward instead.
Out of the corner of his eye, Khaotung’s hand twisted the hem of his sweatshirt, knuckles white.
First glanced at him.
Just a glance.
A mistake.
Their eyes collided like friction.
Something deep and instinctive pulled at First’s stomach. A low, molten tug.
He gave Khaotung a small smile before he could stop himself.
Khaotung froze.
Red spilled up his cheeks, blooming like watercolor.
Beautiful. Immediate. Devastating.
The second blush hit, First’s chest tightened. His smile grew, soft and stupid and completely out of his control.
His gaze dropped—
to Khaotung’s lips.
Glossy. Pink. Perfect.
First’s own lips parted.
He’d been thinking about kissing him for days.
Weeks.
Probably longer if he admitted it to himself.
How were they that soft-looking? That inviting? That unfair?
The want to press his mouth there, to feel that gloss smear between them, to hear Khaotung gasp into him, had been hitting him three or four times a day, minimum.
He kept telling himself the timing wasn’t right.
But maybe he was just a coward.
He forced his gaze back up, only to find Khaotung watching him again.
Eyes wide and burning, pupils blown.
Flicking down to First’s mouth.
Then up.
Then down again.
Like he was starving.
First felt the breath leave his lungs.
Oh.
Oh.
He wants me back.
The thought dropped like a stone in his chest, heavy and undeniable.
He swallowed. His fingers twitched against his thigh. He needed—
God, he didn’t even know what.
Air?
Distance?
Khaotung in his lap?
The van hit a red light. Everything lurched gently forward.
Khaotung’s thigh pressed into his.
Not on purpose.
First’s discipline cracked. Just a hairline fracture.
He turned his hand palm-up on the seat between them.
He didn’t look at him when he did it.
Didn’t move closer.
Didn’t say a word.
Just a quiet offer.
A quiet if you want me.
Khaotung went perfectly still.
First could feel, without looking, the moment he noticed.
The way his breath caught.
The way his knee jerked like he’d been shocked.
The way he leaned—just barely—toward First, gravity pulling like a thread between them.
Khaotung’s fingers inched toward his.
One inch.
Two.
Then he stopped.
Breathing too hard.
“Fir…” he whispered.
Barely a sound.
Barely a breath.
But it hit First like impact.
He closed his eyes once, slow, almost pained.
God.
He was so done for.
The van rolled to a stop outside the dorm. The doors slid open. Gun practically flew out. JJ followed with a war cry. Neo shuffled past them like a zombie. Off told everyone to grab their stuff.
First didn’t move.
Neither did Khaotung.
The team funneled out around them, still arguing about outfits for the bar, still oblivious to how the air in the backseat was thick enough to choke on.
Finally, Off leaned into the open door. “You two coming? Or planning to stay in there forever?”
Khaotung jolted upright. “Coming!” he squeaked.
First got out slowly. Controlled.
His whole body was buzzing.
They walked behind the others, up the path, under the glow of the entry lights. The night was warm, humid, heavy.
Khaotung walked close enough that their arms brushed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
First’s skin jumped like it was electrified.
Inside the lobby, Gun and JJ immediately sprinted to their rooms to change. Neo grabbed water. Off started sorting plans for drinks.
And Khaotung…
did not follow the others.
He just stood there.
Hands twisting into the sleeves of his sweatshirt again.
Chest rising too fast.
Eyes locked onto First.
Not asking.
Not running.
Waiting.
First stepped toward him before he consciously decided to.
One step.
Another.
Khaotung’s breath hitched.
First stopped in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating through his clothes.
“Khaotung,” he said quietly.
Khaotung’s gaze snapped up. “Yeah?”
Not breathy.
Not teasing.
Devastatingly open.
First exhaled—long, slow, like he was letting go of something heavy.
“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured.
Khaotung swallowed. “You… you know why.”
First did.
He absolutely did.
Khaotung’s eyes flicked to his lips again, quick, desperate, like he couldn’t stop himself.
First felt something inside him give way.
Not break.
Not crack.
Just…
yield.
He lifted one hand—slow, careful—and brushed a strand of hair back from Khaotung’s forehead.
Khaotung shivered.
First’s voice dropped. “You should go get ready.”
Khaotung blinked. “Ready? For the bar?”
“For later.”
Khaotung’s breath stuttered.
“Later?” he whispered.
First leaned in.
Enough to feel the warmth of Khaotung’s cheek.
Enough for the air to shift between them, thick and charged.
His lips hovered near Khaotung’s ear.
“Later,” he said softly, “I want you close.”
Khaotung’s knees visibly buckled.
A tiny, helpless sound left him.
First’s mouth barely curved. “Go change, Tung.”
Khaotung didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t blink.
Then—
“I’m not surviving tonight,” he whispered.
First’s smile deepened, slow, dangerous, beautiful.
“You will,” he murmured, eyes locked on him.
“Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Chapter 45
Summary:
hehehe
Notes:
Hiiiii I intended to finish this way more quickly. I worked really hard to get this as perfect as I possibly could with what I envisioned in my head. I'm not sure this is what you guys are expecting to happen but I hope you guys love it.
Oh also the song Sweet Desire by Scotty is definitely the song I had in my mind while writing the dance floor scene.
As always I hope you enjoy!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand September 2025-
“Gun, I swear to God—”
Neo snapped, trying to pry a tube of glitter gel from Gun’s hands.
“You said subtle shimmer and now you want restraint?” Gun huffed, still mid–cat-eye wing in the mirror. “That’s character assassination.”
JJ was sprawled on the floor like he’d been dropped there, half in Khaotung’s closet, half in chaos. “I need one more chain,” he groaned. “No, two. I need a chain per earring. It’s about balance.”
“You need a therapist,” Neo muttered, finally stealing the glitter and holding it out of reach.
Off sat on Khaotung’s desk chair, drinking pre-game whiskey straight from the bottle like he’d already accepted his fate. “You realize we’re going to a club, not a runway show, right?”
Gun gasped. “How dare you. We are the show.”
In the middle of it all, Khaotung was trying not to hyperventilate in front of his own reflection.
A leather red cropped jacket was completely unbuttoned, hanging open and loose, fluttering whenever he so much as breathed wrong. Underneath, a mesh corset clung obscenely to his chest, low enough that the small mole near his heart was visible if you knew where to look.
And First definitely knew where to look.
His wide-legged black trousers sat low on his hips, held up by a belt that looked like an afterthought and felt like a threat. Gold rings glittered on his fingers. A thin chain circled his throat. Gloss shone wet on his mouth.
He looked like trouble.
He also looked like he might throw up.
Gun peeked over his shoulder in the mirror, eyes bright and satisfied. “You look like a scandal.”
“Too much?” Khaotung asked, tugging at the hem of the mesh as if it might magically grow four more centimeters.
“Not even,” Gun said, at the same time JJ yelled, “WE’RE COMMITTING CRIMES TONIGHT,” from the floor.
Neo, chewing thoughtfully on a protein bar, squinted at him. “That shirt is a safety hazard.”
“It’s branding,” Gun corrected. “Princess Khao, Live Chaos Edition.”
Khaotung huffed out a shaky laugh, trying to smooth one last rebellious curl into place. His hands were shaking more than he wanted to admit.
Gun caught the motion instantly in the mirror. “Hey,” he said, voice softening. “You good?”
Khaotung nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just… you know.” He gestured at himself. “Boobs out. Feelings out. The usual.”
Neo snorted. “It’s just us and a club, not a tribunal.”
“It’s also…” Khaotung swallowed. “Our first night out since—”
Since the last club. Since the almost-kiss and the not like this and First’s hand steady on his waist while Khaotung’s head spun from vodka and want.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Off shot Gun a look.
Gun perked up. “Right, yes, the Agreement.” He pointed his lipstick in Khaotung’s direction. “You get one drink. Maximum. Cute cocktail. Glitter straw. No shots, no chugging, no ‘just one more, Gun, I swear’—”
“I never say that,” Khaotung protested.
“You think it very loudly,” Neo said.
Khaotung hesitated, then nodded. “I’m fine with one,” he admitted, quieter. “I… want to remember everything.”
Gun’s expression did a tiny, fond wobble before he covered it with drama. “You want to remember every second of P’First losing his entire mind, you mean.”
“No,” Khaotung lied.
JJ rolled onto his back. “It’s okay to say yes, babe, we’re all rooting for your slutted-out happiness.”
“JJ,” Off warned.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
The doorframe suddenly felt colder.
Khaotung looked up,
And there he was.
First stood in the open doorway like a glitch in the matrix. Black jeans. Black tank top. Simple black overshirt left undone, sleeves pushed to his forearms. No chain tonight, just the clean line of his throat, the breadth of his shoulders, the controlled stillness he wore like armor.
His hair was pushed back, still slightly damp. His eyes—
His eyes were on him.
Khaotung forgot how to inhale for a full two seconds.
First didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked, his gaze sliding slowly from the red leather to the mesh, down the line of Khaotung’s waist, then back up.
By the time their eyes met again, Khaotung’s skin felt like it was buzzing.
“Too much?” Khaotung managed, somehow sounding casual despite the fact that his pulse was in his throat.
There was a tiny beat of silence.
Then First swallowed, hard enough that Khaotung saw his jaw flex.
“No,” First said. His voice came out low, rough around the edges. “Not enough.”
Khaotung’s brain short-circuited.
“I—excuse me?” he squeaked.
First’s gaze dragged down one more time like a slow, deliberate touch. “We’re gonna be late,” he said, stepping back into the hallway, but his eyes didn’t leave Khaotung’s until the very last second.
The look left a trail of goosebumps all the way down his spine.
Behind him, Gun made an unholy noise. “He’s still flirting like he wants a kiss and a lawsuit.”
Khaotung pressed a hand over his heart. “I think I just ovulated.”
“That’s not how that works,” Neo said without looking up.
“I know,” Khaotung hissed. “But I’m still dying.”
JJ sat up abruptly. “Okay, roll call: Khaotung is a walking sin. I look like the chaotic cousin at the wedding. Gun looks like he’s about to steal someone’s husband—”
“Re-steal,” Gun corrected.
“—Off looks like security, Neo looks like our lawyer. We’re good.”
Off stood, tossing the empty juice bottle into the trash. “Last check,” he said, looking at Khaotung “You sure you’re okay with the no-shots plan?”
Khaotung exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I really am.”
First’s voice came from the hallway, even and calm. “I’m not drinking,” he added. “You don’t have to as well.”
Gun clutched his chest. “Chivalry is alive.”
Khaotung glanced toward the door, caught First’s eyes again, and felt something low and warm curl underneath his ribs.
“I’ll have one,” he said. “A baby one.”
Gun pointed dramatically. “Fine. One baby drink for Princess Glitter. Then it’s water, dancing, and emotionally devastating eye contact.”
First’s mouth twitched. “I can handle that.”
Khaotung’s knees almost gave out.
“Okay,” he breathed, snatching his lip gloss from the desk and tucking it into his pocket. “Let’s go before I combust in here.”
They poured out into the hallway together. JJ loudly narrating their exit, Gun already scheduling Insta stories in his head, Neo checking the route, Off doing a quick headcount like a dad on a field trip.
Khaotung fell into step beside First.
Their arms brushed once.
Twice.
First didn’t move away.
“Hey,” Khaotung murmured, keeping his voice low. “You sure you’re okay? Last time was…”
He trailed off, remembering vodka, noise, panic just under First’s skin.
First’s eyes stayed forward, but his hand flexed once at his side. “I remember,” he said. “That’s why I’m not drinking tonight.”
Khaotung nodded, throat tight. “Me either. Mostly.”
“Good,” First said quietly. “I want you clear.”
Khaotung’s heart did something undignified. “So you can fully appreciate how hot I am?”
First finally glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
“Exactly,” he said.
Khaotung tripped on the last step.
By the time they stepped out into the night, heat already buzzing in the Bangkok air and the promise of bass thrumming somewhere down the block, Khaotung felt like he was holding a live wire under his skin.
He was glowing.
He was going out with First.
And tonight, whatever happened—
he was going to remember all of it.
· · ·
The second the doors opened, the bass hit them in the chest—warm, heavy, threaded with violet light. Gun squealed something about “manifesting chaos,” JJ was already elbowing his way toward the bar, and Off was dragging him back by the hood before a disaster could occur.
Khaotung stayed close to First.
Not pressed against him, just close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off his arm, could sense the attention anchored to him even when they weren’t touching. The air buzzed around them, thick with sweat and perfume and neon.
Neo passed Khaotung a drink without looking. Light. Sweet. Mostly soda with a hint of lychee.
“One,” Neo said. “You don’t need more.”
Khaotung raised the glass like he was accepting a royal decree. “Fine. But if I die of thirst, it’s on your conscience.”
First’s eyes flicked to the drink. Then to him.
“You’re fine,” he murmured, voice dipping low in a way that made Khaotung’s stomach flip.
“You don’t need anything else.”
Khaotung bit the inside of his lip, fighting a smile. “You sure?”
First didn’t answer in words.
The VIP section reserved for Eclipse wasn’t tucked away; it was perched on a raised platform at the side of the main floor, open-facing, a low gold railing separating it from the crowd below.
Perfect visibility.
And nowhere to hide.
As they followed the group, First let his hand fall behind them—casual, unreadable—and when the crowd pressed close, he hooked two fingers through the back loop of Khaotung’s trousers. Just enough pressure to guide him through the bodies. Just enough to make Khaotung inhale sharply.
Not possessive.
Just… present.
Too present.
Khaotung didn’t dare look at him. He’d combust on the spot.
Gun shouted something about “VIP royalty descending,” and the staff unhooked the rope, letting them slip inside. The energy shifted to something quieter, gold-lit, cushioned benches shaped like a half-moon, drinks waiting in chilled glasses.
Khaotung felt First remove his fingers from his belt loop only when they stepped into the velvet glow.
It left a spark trailing down his spine.
He turned, ready to make some joke to hide the way his pulse was hammering—
And froze when he saw the way First was looking at him.
Steady. Slow. Like he’d forgotten how to blink.
Khaotung swallowed.
“Uh,” he said weakly, “are you going to sit, or…?”
First’s gaze lowered—once, intentionally—before dragging back up.
Then he stepped past him, calm as anything, heading toward the booth.
Khaotung stood there for a full second, brain melting into syrup.
Then Khaotung drifted.
Not far.
Just to the open edge.
The platform overlooked a shallow lip of open floor space before the true crowd began. Enough room for him to move, pose, tease, talk, and exist in full view.
And he did.
He leaned over the railing to get a better look at the crowd.
He laughed at something JJ shouted.
He tugged at his jacket, adjusting the drape.
He tilted his head back under a sweep of pink light.
And from First’s seat in the booth.
He saw everything.
Khaotung was a vision.
He moved through the space like he’d been dipped in cherry sugar and glitter sin. His jacket hung over one shoulder, catching flashes of light with every shift. The corset beneath clung to him in all the worst and most glorious ways. He smiled at someone near the bar below. Blew a kiss at a stranger leaning on the railing. Laughed with his head tilted just right.
And First watched all of it.
From where he sat, one leg crossed over the other, his eyes never left him.
“Your drink’s gonna go warm,” Neo said mildly.
“Let it,” First murmured.
Across the open platform, Khaotung caught the look.
Caught the burn of it—eyes sharp, jaw tight, hungry in a way that sent a shiver straight down his spine.
He made his way back toward their booth, soda in hand, heels of his creepers clicking lightly against the raised floor.
“Having fun?” First asked as Khaotung slid in beside him.
“Not nearly enough,” Khaotung teased.
First’s hand drifted low across the back of the booth.
His fingers just barely brushed the base of Khaotung’s spine.
Khaotung choked on his drink.
JJ popped his head up from the opposite side of the table. “What did I miss?!”
“Absolutely nothing,” Khaotung said far too fast, ears pink.
“Looks like something,” JJ sing-songed.
Khaotung leaned close to First and whispered, “You’re doing this on purpose.”
First smiled behind his glass. “What gave me away?”
“You’re evil.”
“You like it.”
And he did. God, he did.
Khaotung could feel the heat radiating off his own skin—from the music and from the way First’s gaze trailed down his neck like he was mapping territory.
This was dangerous.
This was so good.
· · ·
The music had shifted, low and liquid now. The kind that made you feel things. The kind that slunk between your ribs and pulled you to move. The booth was half-empty, JJ had disappeared somewhere with Pim’s doppelgänger energy, and Gun was currently slow-dancing with Off while aggressively singing along with the chorus.
Khaotung’s red leather jacket was draped carelessly across the back of the booth, abandoned sometime between laughter and defiance, like he’d gotten too warm or too bold or both.
Khaotung was laughing into his drink when he felt it. Fingers curling around his wrist.
He turned.
First stood there.
Expression unreadable.
But the look in his eyes?
Heavy. Anchored. Like gravity had a name and it was spelled K-H-A-O-T-U-N-G.
“…What?”
“Dance with me,” First said. Just that.
No smile.
Just heat.
Khaotung blinked. “I—really?”
First didn’t repeat himself.
He just gave Khaotung’s wrist a slight tug and turned.
And Khaotung followed.
Through the crowd. Onto the floor. Into the dark.
The lights flickered overhead—red, violet, gold—and suddenly the space around them shrank. It was loud, but it didn’t matter. The music dulled everything but him.
First stopped in the center. Turned. His hands slid to Khaotung’s hips like it was second nature.
And then he pulled him closer.
So close.
Khaotung’s breath caught as they started to move, slow and rhythmic. A sway more than a dance. His palms flattened on First’s chest instinctively, sliding up toward his shoulders.
First didn’t stop him.
Didn’t speak.
Just moved with him. Pressed against him. Let the music lead them into some shared dreamstate where only skin and breath mattered.
Khaotung could barely breathe.
This wasn’t a game.
It wasn’t teasing.
It felt like falling.
His forehead skimmed First’s jaw, close enough that he felt the faint brush of stubble. First’s thumbs pressed, light but sure, into the dips of his waist. Thoughtless. Possessive. A secret told through touch.
He was fully sober.
And still drunk off him.
“You’re staring,” Khaotung murmured, voice soft and breathy.
First’s answer was a low exhale against his cheek.
“I know.”
Khaotung wanted to melt. Or scream. Or climb him like a tree.
Instead he whispered, “Why?”
First’s hands tightened.
“You look good,” he said simply.
Not flirty.
Not teasing.
Just honest.
And devastating.
Khaotung’s laugh was breathless. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“You asked.”
Khaotung’s fingers curled tighter in the fabric of First’s tank. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
“I always answer you.”
That…
That did something catastrophic to him.
“Kiss me,” Khaotung almost said.
He didn’t.
He held it behind his teeth.
But something reckless took over anyway.
He leaned in.
Tilted his head.
And pressed a soft, lingering kiss to First’s neck. Just under the jaw.
He felt First inhale sharply. Felt him tense. But First didn’t stop him.
Didn’t pull away.
Khaotung rested his lips there for just a beat longer than necessary.
Then moved them slowly to First’s ear.
“I’ve wanted to do that all night,” he whispered.
First didn’t respond.
But the grip on his waist tightened even more.
Khaotung smiled.
First should’ve walked away.
Should’ve taken Khaotung back to the booth, let him sit down, handed him water, told him to cool off.
Instead, First stayed.
And watched him.
Watched the way Khaotung moved with the music—flushed and glowing, lashes low, chest rising and falling with every breath like the world had slowed to make space for him.
He was grinning now, bright and out of his mind, which meant First was completely gone.
Because nothing in his head made sense anymore.
Not with the way Khaotung kept brushing against him like it was instinct. Not with the way his fingers had curled in First’s shirt earlier like he wanted to be kept. Not with the way he kissed his neck like he knew exactly what he was doing.
First was breathing smoke.
He felt Khaotung turn. Slow and dreamy and look up at him again, curls sticking to his forehead, mouth just barely parted, eyes full of stars and sugar and him.
And then Khaotung leaned in and said the most dangerous thing imaginable.
“You keep looking at me like that, Fir,” he murmured, voice a breath against his ear , “and I might do something really reckless.”
It snapped.
Something inside First—already frayed and pulled too tight—just snapped.
His hand fished the edge of Khaotung’s corset.
He pushed.
Not hard. Not mean.
Just urgent.
Kept pushing. Through the crowd. His eyes flashed once to a dark corner then back to Khaotung.
Pressed Khaotung’s back against a wall, dark, shadowed, tucked between a curtain and a low pillar. The bass was still thudding. The lights were still pulsing.
But Khaotung’s breath caught.
And his eyes went wide.
“First—?”
“Tell me to stop,” First said, voice low, wrecked.
Khaotung didn’t.
Didn’t even blink.
His hands slid up First’s chest, eyes locked to his like gravity was a language between them.
“I’m not telling you anything.”
So First kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful.
It was heat. Raw and sharp and weeks of spiraling tension detonating all at once. Their mouths crashed together—messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and want.
Khaotung gasped into him, and First swallowed it like he was starving. He chased it, dragged it deeper, kissed him like the world was ending and Khaotung was the last sweet thing left in it.
One hand found Khaotung’s waist, hot through the thin fabric of his shirt, his fingers curling tight as if to keep him grounded. The other hand hit the wall beside Khaotung’s head with a thud, caging him in, tilting him up for more.
And Khaotung melted.
He arched up into the kiss, hands flying into First’s hair, hips brushing forward with a low sound that made First feel fucking feral. He bit Khaotung’s bottom lip, just a tease, a scrape of teeth and was rewarded with a moan so soft and wrecked it nearly ended him right there.
“I knew you’d kiss like this,” Khaotung whispered between kisses, voice breathless, broken. “Fucking knew it.”
“Don’t talk,” First groaned. His mouth found Khaotung’s again, rougher now. “Just kiss me.”
And he did.
God, he did.
Again and again. Wet, dizzying, drunk on each other. Tongue curling deep. Mouths sliding together with increasing desperation. Khaotung’s hands tightened in his hair, body pressed so close First could feel every tremble.
The bass pulsed. People laughed. The world moved.
But none of it mattered.
There was only this. Only him. The taste of raspberry lip gloss. The burn of need. The soft, involuntary sounds Khaotung made every time First licked into his mouth just right.
First didn’t know how long it lasted.
Minutes. Hours. He didn’t care.
Eventually, he pulled back, barely. Just far enough to breathe. Their foreheads touched, their chests heaving. Khaotung was still gripping his hair like he’d fall apart without it.
First closed his eyes.
“…Fuck,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
And when he opened them, Khaotung was grinning.
Completely flushed. Completely ruined.
And absolutely beaming.
“Yeah,” Khaotung whispered. “That.”
The world didn’t snap back all at once.
It came back in pulses—bass first, then lights, then the blurred sense of bodies moving around them. First’s hand was still wrapped around Khaotungs waist as he guided him through the crowd; Khaotung followed, breath still unsteady, lips still swollen from their kiss that had turned his bones to electricity.
By the time they reached the velvet rope, Khaotung’s legs felt like he was walking on the inside of a heartbeat.
Neo and JJ were already in the booth—JJ sprawled sideways like a fainting prince, Neo sipping soda water like he’d been witnessing crimes for decades.
Neo didn’t look up at first.
Then he did.
And froze.
JJ sat upright so fast he nearly dislocated something.
“Oh my GOD—look at them—they’re GLOWING—did you two commit a FELONY out there—”
First ignored him entirely.
He climbed into the booth.
Khaotung followed automatically.
And when First sat down… Khaotung didn’t sit beside him.
He sat on him.
Half in his lap, half in the space next to him, one thigh slotted neatly between First’s legs like he’d always belonged there. First’s arm settled along the back of the booth and then dropped, hand resting low on Khaotung’s waist like muscle memory.
Khaotung leaned into him.
Fully.
Shamelessly.
Neo blinked. “So that answers that.”
JJ was already reaching for his phone. “I need to alert the fandom.”
“You’re not alerting anyone,” First said, voice calm but dangerous enough to make JJ put his phone back down like it was a bomb.
Khaotung giggled quietly, and oh, it was devastatingly soft.
First felt the sound against his collarbone, because that was where Khaotung’s head settled.
Neo raised a brow. “He’s glued to you.”
“Strong magnets,” JJ stage-whispered.
Khaotung didn’t look at them.
He tilted his head up just enough so only First could hear him.
“Phi…” he whispered, voice sweet, lips brushing First’s jaw. “I want a drink…”
First turned his head slightly. “No.”
Khaotung pouted. “But I’m thirsty.”
“You can have water.”
“I meant a real drink.”
“No.”
Khaotung nudged his nose against First’s cheek—casual, intimate, nearly lethal.
“What if you hold it for me?”
“No.”
“You’re so mean.”
“You love it.”
JJ shrieked into a throw pillow. “THEY’RE DOING PRIVATE COUPLE WHISPERING. RIGHT NEXT TO US. I FEEL LIKE A CHAPERONE AT A FIELD TRIP.”
Neo muttered, “I’m witnessing emotional nudity.”
Khaotung hid his smile against First’s shoulder, whispering, “You’re being strict.”
“You’re being impossible.”
Khaotung’s voice softened. “Still like me though?”
First’s hand tightened at his waist, barely there. But enough to make Khaotung shiver.
“Too much,” First murmured.
Khaotung nearly slid off him.
Gun and Off returned just then. Gun with glitter on his cheek, Off looking like he’d already accepted chaos as a religion.
Gun gasped. “OH. Oh. I see what I missed.”
Off blinked. “They’re… fused.”
“This is advanced,” Gun whispered reverently. “This is final-boss flirting.”
Khaotung finally turned his head toward them, still draped across First like a very affectionate cat.
“We were dancing,” he said simply.
JJ shouted, “OH IS THAT WHAT WE’RE CALLING IT?”
Neo sipped his club soda. “Look at First. You could set a drink on his shoulder. He’s that relaxed.”
Gun clutched his heart. “He’s SMILING with his eyes. My babies are in LOVE—”
First cut him a look. “Gun.”
“Sorry, sorry—your situationship is flourishing.”
Off dropped into the booth beside Neo. “Leave them alone. They’re busy.”
And they were.
Completely in their own world now, heads close, shoulders pressed, whispers traded like secrets.
Khaotung nudged him again, breath warm. “So… still no drink?”
“No.”
“But you kissed me like—”
First shot him a look that short-circuited him instantly.
“…Right,” Khaotung whispered. “Water is great.”
“Good.”
Gun melted into Off’s shoulder. “They’re domestic. They’re whisper-arguing. I’m going to cry.”
Neo raised his glass. “To emotional ruin.”
JJ raised his. “To the slow-burn that was actually a fast-burn.”
Khaotung raised his water bottle. “To my boyfriend—sorry—MY BAD—to First.”
Khaotung froze.
First froze.
The table fell silent.
Then First leaned in, “Finish your water.”
Khaotung almost expired on the spot.
Gun screamed into a napkin.
· · ·
The night air hit them as soon as the doors swung open—cooler, but still thick with heat and music that refused to die behind them.
Khaotung was glowing.
His curls were damp at the edges, his lips kiss-bruised, and he was latched onto First’s arm like he’d found his permanent place in the universe.
One arm hooked tightly through First’s.
The other pressed against his chest, fingers curled into the fabric like instinct.
First didn’t try to pry him off.
He simply shifted enough to keep Khaotung steady—small tugs, guiding steps—that looked unconscious but weren’t.
And Khaotung stayed pressed against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They barely made it three steps before,
“Oh my god,” JJ groaned from behind them.
“I don’t have the strength,” Neo muttered.
Gun made a dramatic retching noise. “We have to watch this all the way back to the dorm, don’t we?”
“And probably inside the dorm.”
“They’re gonna hold hands in the car. Like monsters”
“Do you think if we walk slow enough, they’ll get a room before we get to the van?”
“Unlikely. Look at him. He’s fused.”
Khaotung just tightened his hold, cheek brushing First’s shoulder like a smug little cat. “Hi,” he said sweetly, like he wasn’t fully draped around the man he’d just kissed breathless.
First exhaled through his nose. “They’re being dramatic.”
“We’re being traumatized.” Neo groaned.
And then—
Khaotung tipped his head.
Lifted onto his toes.
And kissed First’s neck.
Slow. Intentional.
Soft enough to be intimate.
Bold enough to be devastating.
Right out in the open.
Gun collapsed against Off. “HE’S—HE JUST—IN PUBLIC—OFF DO SOMETHING—”
Off was laughing. Actually laughing. “What do you want me to do? Shake their hands?”
JJ wheezed. “THE NECK. THE NECK, BRO. THAT’S A CLAIMING KISS IN FANFICTION.”
Neo nodded gravely. “I’ve only seen that in edits.”
Khaotung pulled back, eyes sparkling, smug as sin.
First’s jaw tightened just slightly, but not in anger. In restraint.
He didn’t push him away.
Didn’t glance around to see who noticed.
He just angled his body closer, making it easier for Khaotung to stay pressed against him.
Which only made everyone scream louder.
“OKAY,” JJ cried. “I’M CALLING IT. THEY ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE AND I WANT TO JUMP INTO TRAFFIC.”
Gun slapped Neo’s shoulder. “Do you UNDERSTAND the implications of a sober neck kiss? DO YOU—”
“Gun,” Off said, pulling him back gently. “Breathe.”
Neo leaned in like a scientist observing a rare woodland creature. “This is post-kiss neurological imprinting.”
First glared. “You’re not a scientist.”
“I am tonight,” Neo replied.
Khaotung just hummed happily and squeezed First’s arm.
He looked blissed out. Wrecked. Perfect.
First looked… undone. Quietly. Beautifully.
Finally he murmured, “Let’s go home.”
Khaotung just tugged First toward the van. “Mhmm.”
First helped him inside, and Khaotung immediately slid right into his side. Head on his chest, fingers hooking lazily into the hem of First’s shirt.
Neo stared like he was witnessing history. “Yep. They’re fused.”
JJ sighed. “He’s actually purring—look at him—HE’S PURRING.”
Gun fanned himself. “I can’t handle this era.”
Off smirked, settling them down. “Get in. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can all pretend we didn’t see that.”
Khaotung murmured something soft against First’s chest—too quiet to catch, but First’s expression softened instantly.
He brushed a thumb over the back of Khaotung’s hand.
Just once.
Gentle.
Certain.
Gun screamed into the night.
The van door slid shut.
· · ·
The hallway was dim and still—the kind of quiet that settles after a long night, where even the air feels like it’s catching its breath.
First didn’t let go of Khaotung until they reached the dorm entrance.
He’d helped him out of the van, guided him with a hand at his elbow when he swayed, and stayed close without ever quite touching more than necessary.
Khaotung wasn’t drunk.
Not even tipsy.
Just warm. Soft in the eyes.
Still buzzing from the kiss, from him.
They walked in silence down the hall, their footsteps strangely loud against the floor.
Khaotung’s room waited at the far end.
He slowed as they approached, fingers brushing absent-mindedly against First’s arm, light, familiar, thoughtless affection that shot straight through First’s nerves like voltage.
Neither spoke.
When they reached the door, Khaotung turned to him, leaning back against the wood, curls falling softly across his forehead.
His voice came out quiet, almost shy.
“Thank you… for walking with me.”
First’s throat tightened.
He nodded once.
No words.
Khaotung searched his face in the dim light, eyes warm, hopeful, a little uncertain. “Are you—okay?”
Another pause.
First swallowed.
Looked at him.
Looked away.
He meant to say yes.
He meant to say goodnight.
Instead, nothing came out.
Just silence.
Chapter 46: Chapter 46
Notes:
Sooooo I hope this is worth the wait, I honestly had this finished about a week ago and then I got busy and then I had to format it and then I was questioning if it was good enough and yeah anyway here it is.
As always I hope you enjoy
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand October 2025-
Khaotung blinked, the smallest crease forming between his brows. “Fir…?”
First stepped back a half-step.
Not cold.
Not rejecting.
Just overwhelmed.
His heartbeat was too loud.
His thoughts were running too fast.
His body still felt the ghost of Khaotung’s mouth on his.
He couldn’t trust his voice.
So he nodded once—short, stiff, unbearably gentle—and turned.
Walked away before he could ruin anything with words he wasn’t ready to risk.
Khaotung watched him go, lips parted, something tender and confused flickering across his face.
“Goodnight…” he whispered to the empty hallway.
First didn’t hear it.
He was already down the hall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight, pulse roaring.
By the time he reached his room, he still hadn’t taken a full breath.
He didn’t turn on the light when he entered his room.
The dim glow from the street outside painted soft shapes across the floor, enough for him to move by instinct. He kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his jacket, dropped it somewhere near the foot of the bed.
His hands shook faintly.
He hated that he noticed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress first, elbows on his knees, head bowed.
Trying to breathe normally.
Trying to convince himself he wasn’t coming apart over something as simple as being wanted.
Except it hadn’t been simple.
Not the way Khaotung had looked at him on the dance floor.
Not the way he’d kissed him.
Not the way he’d whispered Fir against his skin.
First scrubbed a hand through his hair.
He’d barely said a word the entire walk back.
He knew that.
He knew Khaotung had noticed.
And still, he couldn’t have forced a goodnight out of his throat if he tried.
Not after kissing him like that.
Not with his heart still beating in the wrong places.
Not with a thousand thoughts screaming at once, none of them helpful.
He exhaled, long and shaky.
Then let himself fall onto the bed.
Face first.
Didn’t even bother shifting.
The mattress dipped under his weight, cool fabric against overheated skin, and for a moment, just a moment, the exhaustion finally hit.
A heavy pull.
A slow drag downward.
He didn’t fight it.
He slipped under too fast to brace himself.
Too fast to stop it.
Too fast to keep the night from following him into sleep.
It didn’t feel like dreaming at first.
It felt like the club again—dark, warm, red-gold lights flickering like low embers. Music slow and pulsing through the air like a heartbeat.
And Khaotung was there.
Not quite real.
Not quite memory.
Something between the two.
Still in that outfit. His shirt loose and low, sleeves rolled, collar slipping off his shoulders, no mesh shirt in sight. His skin was dewy with heat. His eyes lethal.
He stepped out of the shadow and looked at First like he already knew the ending.
“Fir.”
One word.
And First’s knees went weak.
Khaotung stepped close, deliberate and slow, like he was savoring the gravity pulling them in.
“You gonna kiss me again?” he murmured.
First didn’t answer.
He just grabbed him.
Pinned him to the wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other curling around his waist and Khaotung laughed into it, jumped, legs locking around First’s hips like he belonged there.
“Still thinking about it?” Khaotung whispered, right into his ear.
First didn’t have to.
He was feeling it.
Every breath. Every inch of him. Every heartbeat thrumming between their pressed bodies.
Khaotung leaned in closer, breath warm on his jaw. “You kiss like you’re starving.”
“Maybe I am,” First said, voice rough.
Then Khaotung kissed his neck.
Slow. Plush. Just beneath the ear.
Then lower. And lower.
First hissed in a breath.
Khaotung licked a stripe down to his collarbone. Bit softly. Sucked just enough to leave heat buzzing in his skin.
“You make that sound again,” Khaotung whispered, lips brushing his throat, “I’m never letting you wake up.”
First groaned, deep and ragged, then crushed their mouths together.
The kiss was messier than before. Tongue and teeth and silk and need. Khaotung’s hands were in his hair, tugging, his hips grinding up and up and up.
The dream darkened.
Softened.
Tilted.
“Say it,” Khaotung gasped into his mouth. “Say you want me.”
“You know I do,” First choked out.
Then Khaotung kissed his neck again, harder this time and moaned against the skin like the taste of it was his favorite sin.
“You’re mine in this dream,” Khaotung whispered. “Say it.”
And he did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until the dream swallowed him whole.
He woke like he’d been dropped back into his own body.
Air punched out of his lungs in a sharp, broken inhale.
His eyes flew open, unfocused and wild.
His hand shot out, gripping the sheets like he could keep himself from falling.
But he was already falling.
His heart hammered against his ribs—too fast, too loud, a vicious thud-thud-thud that didn’t match the quiet of the room.
For a few seconds he couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t think.
The dream clung to him like heat.
His throat tightened.
He sat up too fast, dragging a rough hand through his hair, chest heaving as if he’d run.
The room was dark.
Still.
Safe.
Not a club.
Not a wall.
Just his room. Just his bed. Just the faint hum of the AC.
But the phantom heat of Khaotung’s body was still on his skin.
“Fuck,” he whispered into his hands.
His pulse didn’t slow.
If anything, the panic dug deeper. because he didn’t know where the dream ended and the memory began.
He remembered the kiss.
The real one.
Pressed against the wall, Khaotung’s mouth on his, his hands climbing, his breath warm, his voice soft and wrecked.
And he remembered the dream.
They blurred.
Merged.
Melted together so vividly he felt dizzy.
His stomach twisted.
His mind wouldn’t quiet.
Khaotung's legs around him.
Khaotung biting his neck.
Khaotung whispering “You’re mine in this dream.”
And him—answering.
Saying it back.
Wanting it.
His breathing hitched.
“Get a grip,” he muttered, but his voice shook.
He scrubbed both palms over his face, trying to erase the leftover feeling of Khaotung’s mouth, the scrape of teeth, the heat of want pressing into him with no distance, no hesitation.
He couldn’t stop seeing it.
Couldn’t stop hearing it.
Couldn’t stop feeling what it felt like to be wanted like that.
It terrified him.
Because if a dream could do this.
If a kiss could do this.
Then he was in trouble.
Deep trouble.
He swallowed hard, throat dry, chest still tight.
He checked the clock.
Therapy in two hours.
His laugh came out humorless.
Shaky.
No way he survived that session intact.
He lay back down for a second.
Only a second.
But the pillow smelled faintly like Khaotung’s shampoo from when he’d fallen asleep here weeks ago, and that was enough to make his breath stutter all over again.
He flipped onto his back, stared at the ceiling, fists clenched in the blanket.
“I’m not ready for this,” he whispered.
Not ready for how real everything felt.
Not ready for what it meant.
Not ready for how badly he wanted to tell Khaotung—not the dream version, the real one—everything.
His chest ached.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He already knew:
He wasn’t going back to sleep.
Not after that.
· · ·
His chair felt wrong today.
Not uncomfortable, just too still. Too quiet against a mind that hadn’t stopped moving in days.
First sat slowly, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hands braced on his knees like he needed grounding. It hadn’t even been that long, a little under two weeks since the café session but it felt like months of living had been stuffed into the space between.
His psychiatrist didn’t rush him. She never did.
When the silence stretched thin, he finally said, “It’s been… a lot.”
A small nod. “Tell me.”
“It feels like everything started happening at once.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “We released scrim footage, then the interviews, both of them. The synergy spotlight, the challenge one. Khaotung started calling me Fir on camera. Everyone heard it. I didn’t—react. I flirted back, actually. Publicly. The team saw, production saw… and I didn’t care.”
A faint smile touched her mouth. “That’s different for you.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Everything is.”
He rubbed his palms against his jeans.
“Then the match happened. I put my hand on his knee before we went on stage. Told him he was ready.” His throat tightened slightly at the memory. “He looked at me like that meant something. Like I’d done something important.”
Her gaze stayed warm, steady. “And how did that feel?”
He shook his head once. “I didn’t even think about it. It just… felt right.”
“And afterward?”
“We brushed knuckles. Stupid. Small. But the way he—” First cut himself off, swallowing. “I don’t know. It just felt like a moment.”
She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the quiet. Just let him keep going.
“And then,” he said, almost exasperated, “we went out.”
Her head tilted slightly. “To the club.”
“Yeah.”
A breath.
Slow. Controlled.
“We kissed.”
Still no visible reaction, just a softening of her eyes that told him: I’m here. Keep going.
He wet his lips. “In a dark corner. Against a wall. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t slow. I—just kissed him. Really kissed him.”
Her voice was calm. “And afterward?”
“He kissed me,” First murmured. “In front of the team. On my neck.”
A moment passed.
“And?” she asked softly.
He looked down at his hands. “And it felt… good.”
He didn’t shrink from the word, didn’t hedge it. He said it like an admission long overdue.
Her voice stayed level. “That’s a lot of closeness in not very much time. Emotionally, physically, publicly.”
He huffed a small breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. It hasn’t exactly been gradual.”
“And how are you feeling about all of this?”
Another silence.
Then,
“I had a dream about him,” he said finally. “ It was—intense.”
She nodded, encouraging but not prying.
“I woke up wanting him.” His jaw clenched. “And confused. And… kind of wrecked, honestly.”
“Because?”
“Because I didn’t think I’d ever want something like that,” he said softly. “Not this much. Not like this.”
Her eyes softened further. “First… with everything you just told me, there’s a lot happening very quickly. Emotionally and physically. It sounds overwhelming.”
“It is,” he whispered. “And I haven’t had time to think about any of it.”
She waited a beat.
Then, gently, “what part of it feels the heaviest?”
He didn’t answer at first.
He just sat with it.
“…I had a plan.”
Her expression shifted—attentive, curious, patient.
“A plan for what?” she asked quietly.
“For last night,” he said, voice low. “For how it was supposed to go before everything… didn’t.”
Her voice softened. “Tell me.”
He exhaled through his nose. “I just… wanted the night to go well. Simple. Controlled. Something I could handle.”
“What did well look like for you?”
He hesitated. Then, slowly:
“I wanted to be steady,” he said. “I wanted him to see I could be there with him—in a crowd, in the noise and not fall apart. I wanted to dance with him. Really dance. Not like the first time we went out, where everything inside me was a mess even if I didn’t show it.”
She nodded. “You wanted to show up for him.”
“Yeah.” His thumb pressed hard into the seam of his jeans. “And afterward, when we got home… I was going to walk him to his door. Just like normal. Say goodnight.”
A breath.
“And kiss him.”
Her brows lifted slightly. Encouragingly.
“Just once,” he whispered. “Soft. Sober. Something that meant something. I thought… he deserves that. Not something messy or rushed or fueled by anything but choice.”
“And you wanted to give that to him.”
“Yes.”
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. Just let him sit with the truth he’d finally spoken aloud.
Then he continued.
“But that’s not what happened.”
There was no bitterness in his voice, just the quiet ache of someone who’d lost control in a way he didn’t fully understand.
“I was fine,” he said. “At the club. I was okay. And then on the dance floor he…” His throat bobbed. “He kissed my neck. And said he’d wanted to all night.”
A pause.
“And something in me just—snapped.”
Her tone remained gentle. “Snapped how?”
“I stopped thinking.”
His hands tightened in his lap. “All the restraint I had—all the planning—it was gone in a second. I pushed him into a wall. I kissed him like I’d been… hungry for weeks. It felt like it wasn’t even a choice. Like my body decided before I did.”
“And did that scare you?”
He shook his head immediately. “No. Not with him. I just—didn’t expect it. I didn’t expect to want him like that.”
A beat.
“And he wanted it too,” First added, almost defensively. “He melted into it. Pulled me in. He wasn’t confused or hurt or—anything bad. He wanted it.”
She nodded once. “So the panic didn’t come from the moment itself.”
“No,” he whispered. “Not then.”
“Then when?”
He stared at the floor for a long moment.
“…Walking inside.”
Her expression softened. “Tell me what changed.”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He pressed a hand to his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his hoodie. “We were fine outside. He was holding onto me, and I didn’t mind. I walked him to his door, but suddenly everything in my head just—cluttered. Like someone turned up the volume on every fear at once.”
She didn’t interrupt, even when he paused to steady himself.
“I wasn’t scared of him,” he said quickly. “Not of him touching me. Not of him wanting more. It was… the idea that he might expect something. That the kiss meant something bigger and I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t ready for more—not physically, not emotionally. Even if I…”
A shaky breath.
“Even if I want him.”
Her eyes warmed. “You felt a pressure. Not from him, but from the meaning.”
He nodded, jaw tight. “Like I’d just promised something without saying it. And I didn’t know how to handle it.”
“And then you had the dream.”
He flinched slightly. “Yeah.”
“A very intense dream.”
His ears flushed, but he nodded again.
“And that confused you even more.”
“Because I wanted it,” he murmured. “Because it felt good. Because it felt… right. But the real world isn’t a dream. I’m not ready for everything. I can’t give him what I gave him in that dream. Not awake. Not now.”
“Not yet,” she corrected softly.
He swallowed.
“Not yet,” he echoed.
She let the silence breathe before speaking again.
“First… it sounds like two things happened at once. One, you let yourself want him, fully. Physically, emotionally, openly. And two, the moment you realized wanting him comes with responsibility, you panicked.”
He froze.
Because that?
That hit too close.
She continued gently, “Responsibility can feel heavy for someone who’s fought so hard to have control over their body, their boundaries, their reactions.”
His throat worked. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”
“Did he say you did?”
“No.”
“Did he ask for more?”
“…No.”
“Did he pressure you?”
He shook his head.
“So who were you afraid of disappointing?”
His breath hitched.
Because the answer arrived quickly—too quickly.
“Myself,” he whispered.
She smiled sad and knowing but still kind. “You hold yourself to impossible standards when it comes to touch, affection, intimacy. You think if you can’t give one version of it, you’ve failed.”
He looked down. “I wanted gentle, not… that.”
“But he wanted you, not a plan.”
That hit him square in the chest.
She waited a beat, then asked softly, “What are you afraid he’ll think now?”
He hesitated.
First stared at his hands.
At the way his fingers curled into the denim like something small and fragile might fall through them if he loosened his grip.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
“That’s not entirely true.”
His jaw flexed.
A long silence stretched between them, not tense, but dense. Weighted with something he didn’t want to say because saying it would make it real.
Finally, she said, “You’re worried he’ll misunderstand your silence.”
First’s breath stuttered.
Just slightly.
But she saw it.
Noticing wasn’t judgment.
Noticing was her job.
She leaned forward a bit, voice gentle. “You’ve given him… a lot this week. Public touches. Private touches. Intimacy. Attention. More than you’ve given anyone in years.”
His jaw tightened again.
“And then,” she continued quietly, “you walked him to his door… and shut down.”
He winced.
“He probably didn’t notice,” he tried. “I’m quiet all the time.”
She let him sit with that for exactly three beats.
“First. You kissed him like he mattered.”
He swallowed hard.
“People feel that,” she said softly. “Especially someone like Khaotung.”
He looked up fast, his eyes sharp, almost defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s brave,” she said gently. “Open. Intuitive. He reads people well because he has had to. And he cares deeply—visibly—even when he pretends to be casual.”
First’s throat tightened.
“You think he didn’t feel the shift?” she asked. “From the wall, to the car, to the hallway?”
He didn’t answer.
“You planned to give him something gentle,” she said. “Instead, you gave him something raw. Real. Hungry. A version of yourself he’s never had access to before.”
A beat.
“And afterward… you said nothing.”
First’s fingers dug into his knee.
“I didn’t know what to say,” he muttered.
“That’s different from having nothing to say.”
He froze.
She softened her voice. “What did you want to say?”
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t move.
Then,
“…I wanted to kiss him again,” he whispered.
Her expression warmed. “But?”
“But I panicked,” he admitted. “Because what if he thought that meant I was ready for… everything? For more? For… something I don’t even have words for yet.”
“So you stayed silent.”
He nodded.
“And what do you think silence sounds like to someone who just let you kiss them like that?”
That landed.
Hard.
He inhaled sharply, the kind of inhale that wasn’t pain, but recognition.
Understanding.
Regret.
“…It might sound like I didn’t want it,” he whispered.
She nodded once.
“Or like you regretted it,” she added softly.
His chest tightened. “I didn’t.”
“I know. But does he?”
First’s breath hitched.
Because for the first time, the thought hit him clean and sharp:
Khaotung might think I’m unsure.
And something in his chest twisted.
He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been so focused on his comfort, his fear of saying too much too soon, that he hadn’t stopped to consider what it looked like from the other side. What it might feel like for someone as brave and open as Khaotung to be held at the edge. To be kissed one minute and left in uncertainty the next.
She let the realization settle in his body before speaking again.
“You’re not responsible for managing both of your emotions,” she said. “But you are responsible for clarity when you’ve crossed a line into intimacy.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. Not over his heart, but close.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he murmured.
“I know,” she said. “You weren’t careless. You were overwhelmed. And overwhelmed people protect themselves by retreating.”
He closed his eyes.
“But you’re not the same boy who survived by retreating anymore,” she said quietly. “You’re someone who wants things now. Someone who feels desire and safety at the same time. That’s new for you.”
His eyes opened.
“And now,” she continued, softer, “it’s worth asking what you’re protecting… and whether it’s needed anymore.”
His eyes opened.
And then softly she asked, “When you touched him in the interviews… when you flirted in scrims… when you let your teammates see you care… why did you do that?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know.”
She didn’t blink.
“Try again.”
A long breath.
A longer pause.
Then—very quietly—
“I want people to know,"
That startled her, just a little. Her brows lifted.
"I mean," he added quickly, "I know we’re not anything yet. Officially. I haven’t—I haven’t said it. I’m not ready for all of that. But still."
"But still?"
He looked down at his hands.
His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"I want them to know he’s mine."
She didn’t interrupt.
"I want the others to stop teasing like it’s not real. Like it’s a joke. Because it’s not. It’s—it’s him. And I’m... letting myself have that. A little. Even if I’m not ready to call it love."
Silence.
Then—
"That’s the first time you’ve used the word ‘mine,’" she said.
He let the word sit there.
Warm. Sharp.
Right.
"You never wanted to be claimed before," she said gently. "Not by your family. Not by fans. Not even by your past. But with him..."
"I don’t want to be claimed," he said. Then paused. "I want to claim him."
Her smile was faint. Not smug. Not pleased.
Just quiet. Full of understanding.
"You’re allowed to want that."
He nodded once. Then again, firmer.
"I don’t know when it started," he said. "The shift. Maybe at the café. Maybe after I kissed him in the kitchen. But something changed. He hasn’t even said he wants to be mine. But I do. I want it. So I started acting like it."
She didn’t press further. Just let him sit with it. Let the shape of the feeling bloom in the quiet.
He felt it then—settling behind his ribs. The ache of it. The hunger. The softness.
And the certainty.
He wasn’t running anymore.
He wasn’t hiding.
He wasn’t ready for everything.
But he was ready to stop pretending it didn’t matter.
"I want to keep showing it," he said softly. "In small ways. Until I’m ready for more."
She nodded.
“I didn’t expect to feel that way, wanting people to know.”
“So you wanted to show the world how you felt,” she said gently, “but not him?”
That cracked something open.
He looked down.
Jaw clenched.
“…I didn’t realize I was doing that,” he admitted. “I just… liked being near him. Touching him. Saying things. Watching him react.”
“And letting others see carried less risk,” she murmured. “Because if they misinterpreted it, it didn’t demand anything from you.”
He looked stricken.
Unsure.
“First,” she said, voice softening even more, “I’m not saying you did anything wrong. You’re navigating connection while healing from trauma. That’s complicated. But you need to recognize the pattern.”
He nodded once —small, tight.
“You’re braver in public,” she said. “You show him more when there’s noise and distraction and other people around.”
“And when we’re alone,” he whispered, “it’s harder.”
“Because alone feels real.”
His breath shook.
She continued, softer:
“You’re not afraid of touching him. You’re afraid of what touching him means.”
The silence between them was thick now, warm, heavy, vulnerable.
“You care for him,” she said. “Deeply. That’s obvious from everything you’ve said. But caring for someone means considering what they feel after the adrenaline fades.”
His throat got tight again.
“You didn’t withhold to hurt him,” she said. “But he might be confused. He might think he misread you. He might think you kissed him because of the moment, not because of him.”
First’s eyes widened.
Like the thought had punched through him.
And finally —finally— he said it, voice cracking.
“…I don’t want him to think I regret it.”
She nodded once.
Gently.
“Then you’ll need to tell him.”
First dropped his eyes.
The silence lingered.
Not uncomfortable. Just… full. Like the pause between lightning and thunder.
First sat with it. Let it settle into his chest. He could still feel her words echoing—He needs to know. And it was that last part, the simplest part, that wouldn’t leave him alone.
He needs to know. Khaotung, who flirted like it was breathing but never pushed too far. Khaotung, who clung to him outside that club and smiled like he’d been waiting for First to finally let go. Khaotung, who whispered his name like a secret.
And First had just let it happen. Had kissed him like he was already his, then turned around and gone quiet again. Because he didn’t know how to do more than that. Because he’d never done more than that. Not on his own terms. Not by choice.
“You’re frowning,” his psychiatrist said softly.
“I didn’t think about it,” he admitted. “I thought if I… showed him. That it would be enough.”
She nodded.
“Sometimes it is. But often, people need both. Words and actions.”
His mouth twisted. “I’m not good with words.”
“You’ve gotten better.” Her tone was warm. Encouraging. “You tell me things now that you wouldn’t have touched eight years ago.”
“That’s different. You’re trained to handle it.”
“And Khaotung,” she said gently, “is learning to love it.”
First blinked.
It was such a quiet sentence. So casual, like it hadn’t just sent something crackling through his chest.
“I didn’t say he was in love,” she clarified. “I said he’s learning to love it. The version of affection that only you can give. The way you offer pieces of yourself slowly. Carefully. That’s part of what makes it so meaningful when you do.”
He stared at the floor, at the soft pattern on the rug. He hated how much sense that made. Hated and wanted it, in the same breath.
“You’ve said before,” she continued, “that being in control makes you feel safe. That withholding is a way of protecting yourself.”
He nodded.
“So what would it mean if you chose not to withhold?”
The question wasn’t an attack. It was an invitation.
He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. Because his stomach had twisted, and his hands were clenched again, and something inside him was trying very hard not to unravel.
But the answer was already forming. Quiet. Raw.
“It would mean I trust him.”
“And you do.”
He let out a long, slow breath.
“Yes.”
“Then maybe,” she said gently, “it’s time you let him know that too. Not with a kiss. Not with a tweet. But with words. Simple ones.”
He didn’t reply.
Couldn’t, really.
Because the thought of it was terrifying—but not in the way it used to be. Not like barbed wire. More like standing at the edge of something vast and beautiful and real.
“You don’t have to do it today,” she said, soothing now. “But don’t wait so long that he starts to wonder. Or doubt.”
He glanced up.
The look she gave him was soft. Reassuring.
“You’ve come this far, First. You’ve let him in farther than anyone. You’ve smiled in front of him. Laughed. Kissed him.”
He swallowed.
“You’re not broken anymore,” she said.
And just like that.
His throat closed.
Because he wasn’t sure he believed it yet. But hearing it—hearing it—meant everything.
He looked away.
Wiped his eyes before anything could fall.
Then, quietly, “I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You won’t,” she said. “Not if you’re honest.”
And that was the scariest part.
Because what if honesty meant yes?
What if it meant I want you, and I’m ready.
What if it meant You’re mine.
It wasn’t often First asked for help.
Even here where he was supposed to be honest, open, emotionally present. He still defaulted to silence more than he should. But this time, he didn’t want to mess it up. Not with this.
So after a long, careful breath, he spoke.
“…Can I ask you something?”
His psychiatrist set down her pen. “Always.”
“If I were to tell him,” First said slowly, eyes fixed on the corner of the couch, “what I want—what I feel—how… how should I say it?”
Her expression softened. “You want help putting it into words?”
He nodded. “I want it to be right. I want him to understand.”
“And what do you want him to understand?”
First hesitated.
Then, because she would wait forever if he needed, he let himself lean into it.
“I want him to know it wasn’t just a kiss,” he murmured. “Or just a photo. Or… whatever people are saying online. It wasn’t a joke. I meant it.”
She didn’t interrupt.
“I want him to know that even if I’m quiet about it—even if I don’t say anything for days—I still think about him. That he’s in my head when I wake up and when I go to sleep and that I’m… trying. To be brave. For him.”
His voice cracked a little at the end. But he didn’t stop.
“I want to tell him he makes me feel safe. Even when I’m overwhelmed. Even when I’m spiraling. That he’s the only person I’ve ever let close enough to see all of me. And I don’t regret it.”
Still, she didn’t speak.
Not until his breathing had steadied. Not until he looked up.
Then she smiled—warm and proud and just a little amused.
“Would you like me to repeat all of that back to you?”
His ears flushed. “I didn’t mean to say all of it out loud.”
“But you did,” she said gently. “Because it’s true.”
He shifted slightly on the couch. “That’s too much, isn’t it? Too intense.”
“It’s you,” she replied. “And it’s honest. Which means it’s exactly enough.”
First glanced down at his hands. “But how do I start? I don’t want to scare him off.”
She tilted her head. “Do you really think that’s possible?”
“…No.”
“Then start with something small,” she said. “Something simple. A truth.”
He considered that.
“Like—‘I’ve been thinking about you’?”
“Or ‘I liked kissing you,’” she offered. “Or ‘I miss you when we’re apart.’”
His heart stuttered. “That one feels dangerous.”
She smiled. “Then that one might be true.”
He let out a breathy laugh. “You enjoy this.”
“I enjoy watching you grow,” she corrected. “Even when it terrifies you.”
He went quiet again. Not heavy, just thoughtful.
Because now that the words were there, unspooled and waiting, he could see how they might land. How Khaotung might hear them.
How he might smile.
How he might lean in.
“I don’t know if I can say all of it at once,” First admitted.
“You don’t have to. You’re not performing. You’re sharing.”
His fingers curled slightly in his lap.
“I think I want to tell him,” he said softly, “that when I’m with him… I feel like I can be someone new. Not a mask. Not a survivor. Just… someone who wants things. Who deserves to want things.”
She didn’t speak right away.
When she did, her voice was quiet.
“Then tell him that.”
He looked up.
“You don’t have to declare anything dramatic,” she said. “You don’t have to ask for a title if you’re not ready. But you can tell him what he means to you. That you see what he’s offering. That you want it. Even if it’s slow. Even if you’re scared.”
First’s throat tightened.
Because that was the part he hadn’t realized.
Not just that he wanted Khaotung—but that he wanted him slowly. Carefully. Fully.
And that meant being brave enough to say it.
To ask for it.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not tomorrow.
But soon.
Because Khaotung deserved that.
And so did he.
He didn’t mean to cry.
He hadn’t even realized it was happening—just a slow build of pressure behind his eyes, the kind that snuck in through the cracks. But when he reached up and touched his cheek, his fingers came away damp.
His psychiatrist didn’t react.
She only waited—calm, present, her expression soft on the other side of the screen. There was no flicker of alarm, no tightening of her posture, no sudden reaching for words to break the quiet.
Eventually, he breathed again.
“I think I’m scared,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “Of what?”
He looked at the far window. The pale light coming in. The dust in the air.
“That if I say it out loud,” he whispered, “it’ll become real. And if it’s real, it can break.”
She leaned forward, just a little. “But it’s already real, isn’t it?”
He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
“Khaotung’s already in your life,” she said gently. “He’s already made space for you. Already let you touch parts of him no one else gets to see. You’ve given him the same.”
“I know.”
“Then the words won’t break anything. They’ll build something.”
He let that settle.
It didn’t make the fear go away. Not fully.
But it made it smaller.
More manageable.
“I think,” he started, carefully, “I want to tell him I’m scared sometimes. But not of him. Just… scared of being known like this. Fully.”
Her eyes softened. “That’s an incredibly vulnerable thing to share.”
“I want to,” he said, almost surprised by how much he meant it. “I want to tell him I’m trying. That I’m still figuring it out, but he’s not… alone in it. That it’s not a game to me.”
“Is it love?” she asked softly.
He blinked.
Heart stuttering.
“I…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“But I know it’s… something. Big enough to keep me up at night. Big enough that I dream about him. Big enough that I kissed him without thought. Big enough that I want to kiss him again..”
He swallowed.
“Big enough that I want to be his. I just don’t know how yet.”
Her smile was kind. “Then that’s what you say.”
“Even if it sounds messy?”
“Especially if it does.”
He went still.
Then, slowly, he let himself imagine it. Khaotung’s room. The door slightly ajar. His voice soft, and ridiculous, and probably playing some kind of lo-fi playlist while a face mask dried on his cheeks.
First imagined stepping in.
Sitting beside him.
Saying, I’m still learning how to be good at this. But I want you. And I think you’ve already known that for a while.
His eyes opened again.
And the world didn’t fall apart.
“I think I can do it,” he said, half to himself.
She nodded once. “I think you already have.”
He looked at her.
At the woman who had waited years for this, waited with patience, with silence, with steady hands and quiet eyes.
“I used to think I’d never have this,” he said, voice barely more than breath. “Not even the chance at it.”
“And now?”
He didn’t smile.
But something in him lifted.
“Now I’m ready to try.”
Chapter 47: Chapter 47
Notes:
Hiiii Happy Holidays to everyone. With how busy my schedule is I am going to try getting a new chapter up once every week to week and a half. Hoping I can stick to that schedule. Sometimes I upload and then suddenly its two weeks later and IDK how that happens.
I hope you enjoy this one, its full of chaos and fluff and yeah I can't believe we are getting closer to my personal 2nd favorite chapter.
Thank you to all the comments and love and I hope you all get everything you want and need for the holiday whether you celebrate Christmas or something equivalent <3
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand October 2025-
Khaotung flopped back on his bed again, heart racing, cheeks hot, brain fully in melt mode.
From the windowsill, Montow meowed in judgment.“YOU BETTER BE CALLING TO CONFESS,” Pim answered on the first ring. No greeting. Just violence.
Khaotung choked. “How are you awake?”
“I’ve been awake since the minute that video dropped at 5 a.m. I’ve watched it seventeen times. I have PowerPoints.”
“You’re deranged. Wait. What video?”
Pim squints at the screen, then sits up straighter. “Wait. Wait. Forget the video. Why do you look like a kicked puppy in your own bed? Did you kiss him? Did something happen?”
Khaotung whines into his hoodie sleeve.
Pim gasps. “Oh my god. You did. You did.”
“I’m not talking about this with you,” Khaotung groans.
“You are talking about this with me, actually,” she says cheerfully. “I’m your emergency contact for all romantic disasters and you literally FaceTimed me, so.”
Khaotung tries to burrow deeper into his blanket. “It was a kiss.”
Pim narrows her eyes. “Kiss level. Rate it.”
“…Strong ten.”
“Tongue?”
Khaotung makes a strangled noise.
“IN THE CLUB?”
“I—yes, okay! Yes!”
Pim shrieks. “Khaotung Thanawat! You filthy little legend.”
“It wasn’t like that!”
“It was exactly like that.I can see it on your face”
Khaotung whimpers. “I’m going to die.”
“You’re going to die a legend. The gay youth are going to build shrines. Also, you looked hot last night.”
Khaotung pulls his hoodie tighter. “He hasn’t said a single word about it.”
Pim’s grin fades just a little. “Since last night?”
Khaotung nods. “He walked me to my bedroom. Didn’t even look at me when I said goodnight.”
“Okay, but he kissed you, yeah? Like, not a maybe, not a forehead kiss or a ‘haha friend hug with bonus lips.’ A real kiss.”
Khaotung nods again, slower. “He shoved me against the wall.”
Pim puts a hand to her chest. “God, I love him. Okay. So. Let’s assess.”
“There’s nothing to assess,” Khaotung mutters.
“Wrong.” Pim points at the screen. “He kissed you. He made a move. Which means he wanted it. Which means he’s now emotionally combusting somewhere in the dorm and pretending it never happened.”
Khaotung bites his lip. “He always takes his time. But this feels like… like he doesn’t know what to do next.”
“Because he probably doesn’t. He’s not built like us, baby. You’re all sparkle and chaos and glitter glue—he’s got emotional rebar. But you got through. YOU got through.”
Khaotung goes quiet. Montow bats gently at his sleeve.
“I just don’t want him to regret it,” he says finally. “I don’t want it to be this thing we never talk about.”
“And it won’t be,” Pim says, gentler now. “He’s not your ex, Khao.”
Khaotung flinches, just barely. “…I know.”
“Do you remember what he used to say when you tried to hold his hand at the café?”
Khaotung swallows. “He said we’d talk later. We never did.”
“You wanted to be known,” she says softly. “You wanted someone who’d be proud of you, who wouldn’t flinch when the world looked. That’s not too much to ask for.”
“I thought I was asking for too much back then,” Khaotung whispers.
“Well, now you’re asking the right person.”
Silence stretches between them for a moment.
Then Pim perks back up. “Also? Just for the record? Your hands were everywhere. That little neck kiss? ICONIC.”
“You saw that?”
“Of course, babe. The video of you guys leaving is all over the place. JJ is still crying. Neo hasn’t blinked. Off nearly fainted. I think Gun blacked out and woke up on the bar.”
Khaotung starts laughing, hiding his burning face in his hands. “Oh my god.”
“Kiss him for real next time. Harder. Just make sure the cameras are rolling.”
Khaotung collapses back onto the bed. “You’re evil.”
“I’m your number one fan.”
“And a menace.”
“Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” he mutters, grinning.
Pim blows him a kiss. “Love you, princess. Now go feed your cats and hydrate your feelings.”
Khaotung sighed. “Don’t look at me like that. You didn’t see how he touched me.”
Montow blinked once.
“…Okay but if he hugs me again, I’m never letting go.”
· · ·
Off had expected quiet when he wandered into the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, hair still sticking up from sleep. Instead, he found Khaotung standing in front of the open fridge, staring into it like the cartons were about to reveal the secrets of the universe.
The look on his face was unmistakable. Off almost laughed into his mug.
“Morning, Princess.”
Khaotung startled so violently he nearly dropped the fridge door. His eyes went wide before narrowing like he could bluff his way through.
“P’Off,” he said, trying for casual. “Didn’t see you.”
“You were too busy reliving your nightclub sins.”
That got him. Khaotung’s whole body went stiff. “I—what—I was not—”
Off sipped his coffee, deliberately smug. “You were making the exact face Gun made the morning after our first kiss. All flustered and floaty. I know that face.”
The flush that climbed Khaotung’s neck was pure gold.
“I wasn’t floaty,” he muttered.
“You were very floaty,” Off said. “You floated past three different juice cartons before closing the fridge.”
Khaotung groaned, dragging himself to a stool and burying his face in his arms. “Why is everyone in this house the worst?”
Off chuckled, settling onto the stool beside him. “It’s a gift.”
They sat for a moment, the only sound Montow crunching kibble like it was the soundtrack to Khaotung’s suffering.
Then Off let his voice drop. “So. You and First.”
Khaotung’s head came up, suspicion all over his face. “…Are we really having this talk?”
“I’m not here to interrogate you,” Off said, swirling his coffee lazily. Inside, though, he was paying close attention. “I just figured… you might need someone who’s seen him longer than you have. Who knows what he’s like underneath the layers.”
Khaotung fumbled immediately. “I’ve seen what he’s like underneath.” He froze, went redder. “Not like— I mean—emotionally—”
Off snorted. “Relax, I’m not P’Tay. You can keep your thirst monologues.”
Khaotung made a strangled sound into his hands. Off smiled into his coffee but didn’t miss the weight in the kid’s eyes when he looked up again.
“He’s changed since you showed up,” Off said, softer now.
Khaotung blinked, almost wary. “Is that… a good thing?”
“It’s not a bad thing,” Off said carefully. “He’s steadier now. Softer, when he lets himself be. I didn’t think he had that in him again.”
The word slipped before he could stop it: again.
Khaotung’s head tilted. “Again?”
Off hesitated, thumb rubbing the rim of his mug. He hadn’t planned to open that door. But the kid’s eyes were too open, too honest. He deserved at least part of the truth.
“P’Tay said he was like that before. Years ago. Before—” Off’s voice caught. He glanced at Khaotung, ready to backtrack.
But then he saw it. The twist in his expression, the way his shoulders sank. Not confusion. Not surprise.
“…You know,” Off said quietly.
Khaotung met his gaze and nodded. “He told me. Not everything. Just pieces.”
For a second, Off couldn’t speak. He hadn’t known First had said anything to him. That was… monumental.
“I didn’t know he’d told you,” Off admitted.
Khaotung’s voice went soft. “He asked to sleep in my room one night. And he told me. Just… dropped it in the dark like it was nothing.”
Off sighed, shaking his head. “That’s how he does it. Keeps everything sealed up until he can’t anymore. Then he lets it spill when no one’s looking.”
Khaotung stared at the counter, fingers tracing invisible shapes. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
Off leaned back, letting his tone soften. “You won’t.”
“You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” Off said. “But here’s the thing—you don’t scare him. That’s rare.”
Khaotung blinked, surprised. “I feel like I terrify him. I feel like I’ll push him too far. I’ll be too loud. Just, too much for him.”
“You shake him,” Off corrected. “But that’s different. You rattle his comfort zone, but you don’t make him want to run.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Off could see the kid chewing on it, wearing his heart plain on his sleeve. First had chosen someone dramatic, emotional, relentless, and thank god for it.
Then, predictably, Khaotung broke the mood. “Did he tell you what he said when he kissed me?”
Off raised an eyebrow. “No.”
Khaotung swallowed hard. “…He said, ‘Don’t talk. Just kiss me.’”
Off snorted into his coffee. Typical. “Sounds about right.”
Khaotung groaned. “I think I’m going to die.”
“You’ll survive. Probably.”
Montow chose that moment to hop up onto the counter, plopping down between them like a referee.
Khaotung sighed into his arms. “Can you at least pretend not to be smug?”
“I’m not smug,” Off said, lips curling. “I’m supportive. With a touch of smug.”
Khaotung cracked a reluctant smile despite himself, and Off thought—not for the first time—that First hadn’t just let the chaos in. He’d let the right chaos in.
And down the hall, First’s bedroom door creaked faintly as the therapy session wrapped up.
The apartment was quiet when First padded down the hall, mug in hand, the scent of jasmine tea rising faintly into the warm morning air.
He still felt the edges of the session clinging to him—raw, but in a good way. Like a window had been cracked open after years of stale silence.
His chest ached, but it was a new ache. One that didn’t feel like drowning.
The kitchen light was on.
He heard soft voices first. Off and Khaotung, talking in that low, companionable tone that only came when the rest of the world felt far away.
He stepped in quietly.
Khaotung was on the counter, pajama sleeves pushed up, his hair still rumpled from sleep. He was laughing at something Off had said, a soft, unguarded sound that hit First like a punch to the ribs.
God, he’d missed that laugh.
Maybe he hadn’t realized how much.
Khaotung turned first. His face lit up instantly.
Not dramatically. Just… warmly. Like seeing First made his morning better without even trying.
First didn’t say anything.
Khaotung hopped down, stepped forward without hesitation and opened his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
First didn’t hesitate either.
He went straight into the hug. Buried his face in the crook of Khaotung’s neck, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
“You smell like cinnamon,” First murmured.
“You smell like someone who just went to therapy,” Khaotung whispered back, teasing.
First huffed a soft laugh against his shoulder.
Off, to his credit, didn’t interrupt. Just watched them with a knowing look and quietly took another sip of coffee.
“You okay?” Khaotung asked after a long moment.
First nodded. “I am now.”
They stood like that for another beat, until Montow launched himself onto the counter and meowed like he was offended at being left out.
First finally stepped back, but not far.
He kept one hand on Khaotung’s waist.
Khaotung blinked up at him. “You’re being weird.”
“You missed me,” First said simply.
Khaotung flushed.
And then Gun stormed in.
“I CAN SMELL EMOTION. WHO’S BEING SOFT?”
First didn’t let go.
Gun stopped short at the sight. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses. “Okay wow. That’s a visual.”
First glanced over. “Go away.”
“I just got here!”
“Try again later.”
Gun groaned and tossed himself onto a stool. “Papii, your man is rude.”
“He’s not my man,” Off said, sipping his coffee. “He’s Khaotung’s now. I just get partial custody on match days.”
“Rude!” Gun cried again. “But accurate.”
Khaotung giggled, ducking his head.
First tugged him back in, pressed a brief kiss to the top of his head without thinking.
Silence.
Gun made a noise.
Off muttered, “God help us.”
First just kept his hand at Khaotung’s waist, fingers curled lightly there like it was their new normal.
Because maybe it was.
Khaotung leaned into his side. “I like this version of you.”
“I like being him,” First said.
Soft. Steady. Secure.
And surrounded by people who made him feel that way.
· · ·
Khaotung was still nursing his third tea of the morning when First found him again in the hallway.
He looked, unfair, honestly. Like therapy had peeled back all the layers of tension and left only something sharper and cleaner underneath. His posture relaxed, his eyes clear, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.
Khaotung stared a second too long.
“You good?” First asked.
Khaotung nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Just… collecting my brain cells.”
First stepped closer. “Can I talk to you later?”
Something in his tone made Khaotung’s stomach flutter. “Yeah, of course.”
“Not right now. Just—” First glanced past him, toward the meeting room. “After this. About us.”
Khaotung froze.
Not completely. Just a tiny internal stutter. Like a record skipping over its smooth groove. But First’s voice was calm, and the way he said us sounded so deliberate—so solid—that it anchored him instead of sending him spiraling.
“Okay,” Khaotung said, soft. “Later.”
They walked into the room together.
The team was already halfway into half-chaos: JJ arguing with Neo about cereal rankings for some reason, Gun on the floor with Montow, Off sighing like a man on the brink. AJ was nowhere to be seen—probably hiding in his sacred K-drama sanctuary.
Lita arrived moments later. Hair immaculate, heels sharp, blazer cinched with the precision of a woman who’d already rewritten two headlines before breakfast.
She didn’t say anything at first.
Just looked at Khaotung.
Then looked at First.
Then at how close they were sitting.
First had his arm draped casually along the back of the couch, fingers barely brushing Khaotung’s shoulder. Not quite possessive. Not quite relaxed. Just there—like it belonged. And Khaotung, for his part, was comfortably tucked into the corner, his knee grazing First’s thigh and his body instinctively angling toward him.
They weren’t cuddling.
But they weren’t not.
No one commented on it.
Not even Gun.
That was how Khaotung knew something had changed.
Lita cleared her throat, then tapped her tablet. “We’re not doing chaos today,” she announced.
JJ frowned. “We’re not?”
“No.” Her voice was crisp. “We are doing strategy. Coordination. Clean, attractive, romantic tension.”
Gun perked up. “Did you say romantic?”
Lita looked directly at FirstKhao. “I’ve seen the videos from the club”
Khaotung blushed.
First didn’t blink.
“You then walked into this room like it was your honeymoon suite,” Lita added, still perfectly composed. “I’m not here to shame. I’m here to monetize.”
Gun gasped. “She gets us.”
Off rubbed his temple.
“We’re filming the amusement park featurette next week,” Lita continued. “The FirstKhao Special. We are leaning in. There will be couple challenges. Game mechanics. Outfit coordination. Confessional-style footage. I want tension. I want miscommunication. I want hand-holding that makes fans scream.”
First huffed a tiny laugh beside him. Khaotung could feel the warmth of it where their shoulders touched.
Neo raised a hand. “Will there be food?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Lita didn’t even glance up. “You’ll be doing promo posts starting tomorrow. Coordinated rollout. Teasers. At least three behind-the-scenes photo each.”
JJ raised his hand. “Are we allowed to cry?”
“No.”
Gun raised his hand. “Are they allowed to kiss again?”
Lita didn’t miss a beat. “Only if I get it in 4K.”
First smirked. Khaotung bumped his knee against his.
They didn’t say much else.
The team wasn’t teasing them the way they used to. The comments were there, sure—light, playful—but something about the energy in the room had shifted.
Everyone could feel it.
This wasn’t just a flirtation anymore.
Something was real now.
And Khaotung could feel First’s arm behind him. Could feel the gentle press of his hand when they stood up at the same time, his fingers resting at the small of Khaotung’s back.
He turned toward him, heart skittering.
First just said, quiet enough that no one else heard—
“After lunch. We’ll talk.”
Khaotung nodded.
· · ·
The hallway was quiet when Khaotung stepped out of the dining room, fingers still brushing the hem of his lavender sweater.
First was already waiting.
Not fidgeting. Not pacing.
Just standing there like he’d decided not to move until Khaotung came to him.
Khaotung blinked. “You said you wanted to—”
“Yeah.” First’s voice was low. “Come on.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and started walking.
Down the hall. Past the lounge. Past the stream room.
All the way to the back patio—quiet, shaded, still warm from the afternoon sun.
No one else was around.
First stopped by the low stone wall, leaning back against it, hands tucked into the pockets of his loose black slacks. He looked—less guarded than usual. Relaxed, maybe. Or… steady.
Like something had settled inside him.
Khaotung hovered a few feet away. “So.”
First glanced at him. Then away again. “I had therapy this morning.”
“I figured.”
“You were right,” he said simply. “I needed it.”
Khaotung stayed quiet.
“I told her about the kiss,” First continued. “And how I’ve been… losing my mind a little every time you look at me like you know something I don’t.”
Khaotung flushed. “I don’t always—”
“You do,” First said, a little smile tugging at his lips. “And it’s annoying.”
Khaotung laughed, breath catching. “You said you wanted to talk about us.”
“I do.”
He looked at him fully now.
And Khaotung froze.
Because First didn’t look flustered, or distant, or afraid. He looked ready.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” First said. “But I know I want it. I know I want you.”
Khaotung’s breath hitched.
“I’m not good at this,” First went on. “I’ve never done… I’m scared honestly. But I want to try. If you do.”
The silence stretched between them for a moment.
Then, “You absolute menace,” Khaotung whispered, voice shaking. “You say things like that and expect me not to combust?”
First shrugged. “I figured I owed you one.”
“For what?”
“For kissing you like I was starving and then walking you to your room and saying nothing.”
Khaotung smiled, eyes glassy with too much emotion and not enough air. “I didn’t mind.”
“I did,” First said quietly. “I hated it.”
He stepped forward, just once. Close enough now to touch. Close enough to smell the faint sugar-sweet hint of Khaotung’s cologne.
“I don’t regret kissing you,” he said. “I regretted leaving after.”
Khaotung blinked fast. “So don’t leave this time.”
“I’m not planning to.”
He reached out, tentative, and let his fingers brush along Khaotung’s wrist.
No panic.
No flinch.
Just warmth. And want. And something deeper he wasn’t ready to name yet.
Not out loud.
But Khaotung didn’t ask for more than that.
He just stepped into the space First gave him—eyes wide, breath uneven, lips curved into the kind of smile that made First feel like he could be good at this. Like maybe he was good at this. With him.
“Okay,” Khaotung whispered. “So what now?”
First let the corners of his mouth curve up. Just a little. Just for him.
“Now,” he said, “we win the next match.”
Khaotung groaned. “You’re so romantic.”
“Tung” First leaned in.
And whispered, against the shell of his ear, “Later, I’ll kiss you again.”
Khaotung full-body shivered.
And maybe, just maybe, the world tilted on its axis.
Because this wasn’t subtle.
This wasn’t unspoken.
This wasn’t denial.
This was First—finally, fully, choosing them.
· · ·
Gun hummed to himself as he swiped highlighter across his cheekbone, then squinted at the mirror, dissatisfied.
“Do you think I should go dewy or full slay?” he asked, holding up two palettes like sacred scrolls.
From the bed, Off groaned. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“That’s not a vibe check,” Gun said sweetly. “I’m asking which flavor of intimidating I should be today.”
“Intimidating to who?”
“Lita. Twitter. First, for having the AUDACITY to be in love and not tell me.”
Off cracked one eye open. “You’ve known for weeks.”
“Yes, but I wanted a formal announcement. A team PowerPoint. A flash mob. Something.”
Gun dabbed delicately under his eyes, then pivoted on socked feet to face the bed. “Did you see them at the meeting yesterday?”
Off, face half-squished into a pillow, made a noise of vague agreement.
“They were practically cuddling in front of Lita,” Gun continued, grabbing a pair of earrings from his vanity tray. “And First was smiling. Like, real smiling. Not ‘I just clutched the match’ smiling. Like… boyfriend smiling.”
Off yawned. “They’re not boyfriends yet.”
Gun turned with scandalized precision. “Excuse me, they are emotionally dating. They’ve basically moved into each other’s personal space. Did you see the arm thing?”
“What arm thing?”
“THE ARM. First put his arm along the back of the couch. Like this—” Gun mimed it dramatically. “And then Khaotung leaned in. He tucked into it like a rom-com lead who just found safety for the first time in his tragic life.”
Off blinked slowly. “You are so annoying in the mornings.”
Gun grinned. “Because I’m right.”
He turned back to the mirror, selecting a neutral lipstick and applying it with military precision.
Off, meanwhile, rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand.
“…You think First is really ready?” he asked, softer now.
Gun paused.
“I think,” he said carefully, “that Khaotung makes him want to be.”
There was a beat of silence.
Off nodded. “Yeah. I see it too.”
“And you know First,” Gun added, glancing at Off in the mirror. “He doesn’t do anything halfway. If he’s in… he’s in.”
“He’s definitely in,” Off said.
Gun smirked. “They kissed in public. Twice.”
“Twice?”
Gun nodded sagely. “The neck kiss counts. Don’t argue.”
Off chuckled, dragging the blanket up to his chest again. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet—” Gun finished his lipstick, turned, and dove onto the bed without warning.
Off made a sound of protest as Gun curled into his side, cold toes immediately pressed to his legs.
“Gun,” Off groaned.
“I need emotional grounding.”
“You need a therapist.”
Gun ignored that. “Do you think it’ll last?”
Off didn’t answer right away.
But then he reached up, threading his fingers gently through Gun’s hair, brushing it away from his temple.
“I think if First lets himself have it… it’ll last forever.”
Gun’s voice was small. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They lay there for a few seconds, soft and quiet.
Then Gun sniffled. “You made me ruin my eyeliner.”
Off snorted. “You reap what you cuddle.”
Gun swatted him. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re clingy.”
“And you love me.”
“I do.”
Gun grinned and kissed his cheek. “Let’s go cause problems on purpose.”
“I’m still in pajamas.”
Gun pulled him by the arm. “Then glam up, Papii. FirstKhaotung are in their soft era and I need a look worthy of the chaos that’s coming.”
Off sighed. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”
Gun winked. “It’s why you married me.”
· · ·
“Team Eclipse, comms check.”
Off’s voice was crisp over the headset, calm and cool like always.
Neo: “In.”
JJ: “Locked and loaded, baby.”
Gun: “Feeling beautiful and emotionally stable.”
Khaotung: “Ready to sparkle!”
First: “Ready.”
There was a beat.
JJ added, “Can we talk about how you two are sitting, like, two inches apart today?”
“I can feel the tension through my keyboard,” Neo said mildly.
“We’re literally scrimming,” First deadpanned.
“Exactly,” Gun replied. “And you’re still making eyes like you’re at your wedding reception.”
“We’re focused,” Khaotung huffed. “We’re professionals.”
“You’re blushing,” JJ said. “Professionally.”
Off sighed into the mic. “Can we please start before I cancel love permanently?”
Match begins. Everyone locks in. The map loads.
They push A-site first round, coordination surprisingly clean. Khaotung swings wide with his usual flair, fragging two, and First cleans up the last.
“Nice,” Neo said.
“Let’s keep the tempo,” First added. “Tung, can you get ready to flash mid next round?”
Silence.
Literal, stunned silence.
JJ screamed.
“DID YOU JUST—”
“DID HE—”
“OH MY GOD,” Gun howled.
“HE SAID IT,” JJ yelled again. “HE SAID TUNG IN MATCH COMMS—”
“Shut up,” First muttered.
“Absolutely not,” Neo said, amused. “Do you understand how long we’ve waited?”
“You’ve said it before,” Khaotung pointed out, voice a little breathless, a little smug.
“Not like this,” Gun whispered. “Not after the kiss.”
JJ made a noise like a firework going off. “YOU GUYS ARE DATING.”
“We’re not,” First snapped.
“You are now,” Neo said calmly. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”
Khaotung laughed, bubbly and delighted, barely able to shoot straight for the next thirty seconds.
First groaned. “Tung, can you—”
“Oh my god he said it again,” JJ sobbed.
“He’s gone,” Gun said, fanning himself. “Our cold-blooded prince is soft. I’m never recovering.”
“I’m muting you all,” First said.
“Too late,” Off muttered, but he was smiling. “Damage is done.”
They finished the round, chaos barely held together by coordinated skill and the willpower of exhausted pros.
At the end of the match, they won.
Dominantly.
Clean entries, tight trades, two aces between Khaotung and First.
When the victory screen flashed up, no one spoke for a second.
Then,
Gun: “I want that ‘Tung’ line embroidered on a pillow.”
JJ: “I’m going to tweet it with contextless hearts.”
Neo: “I already clipped it.”
Off: “You people are monsters.”
Khaotung: “Can we do another?”
First: “…Yeah.”
And that was it.
No denial.
No deflection.
Just a quiet yeah, and the smile in his voice.
Which, of course, sent JJ into orbit again.
“YOU’RE SO GONE,” he shrieked. “YOU’RE GONE FOR HIM.”
First didn’t answer.
But his kill count that match was top of the board.
And he didn’t stop calling him Tung.
· · ·
Khaotung had barely made it three steps out of the bathroom—hair still damp, hoodie half-zipped, snack in hand—before JJ pounced.
“YOU.”
Khaotung yelped as he was dragged bodily to the couch.
“Intervention,” JJ declared, shoving him down between himself and Neo, who was already sitting cross-legged with an oat milk latte like this had been planned.
“I don’t need an intervention,” Khaotung mumbled, trying to squirm away. “I need a nap.”
Neo sipped his drink. “You need to talk.”
“About what?”
JJ gasped, scandalized. “ABOUT THE KISS. THE MATCH. THE FACT THAT HE CALLED YOU TUNG ALL SCRIM. BABE. WAKE UP.”
Khaotung groaned and flopped backwards like a dying starfish. “We’re not dating.”
“Yet,” Neo corrected, tone mild but eyes sharp.
JJ clutched a throw pillow like it was a lifeline. “We know you kissed.”
Khaotung stared at the ceiling. “I am surrounded by chaos.”
“Don’t deflect,” Neo said. “Details. We only saw blurry videos. Who started it? Where were your hands? How long did it last? Tongue?”
“YES,” JJ cried. “SCORECARD. GIVE ME A PLAY-BY-PLAY.”
Khaotung covered his face with the snack bag. “He kissed me. I nearly passed out. End of story.”
Neo raised a brow. “He kissed you.”
“Yes.”
“On the mouth?”
“Yes.”
JJ squealed. “We KNEW it.”
“Then he walked me to my bedroom,” Khaotung added softly.
“Oh my god,” JJ whispered. “He kissed you and then escorted you like a gentleman? My heart. My soul. I’m ascending.”
Neo was quiet for a beat. Then he pulled out his phone.
“What are you doing?” Khaotung asked warily.
“Reopening my betting spreadsheet.”
JJ gasped. “You still have it?”
“Obviously,” Neo replied. “New category: who says ‘I love you’ first.”
Khaotung made a noise.
“I put ten baht on Gun interrupting the moment,” JJ said.
“I’m betting on First,” Neo added. “He’s halfway there already.”
“WHAT?” Khaotung shrieked.
Neo shrugged. “He looks at you like he’s already said it. Loudly. During a thunderstorm. On his knees.”
JJ clapped like a seal. “I CAN’T BREATHE.”
Khaotung melted into the couch. “This is illegal.”
Neo smiled faintly, already filling in cells. “He also said ‘Tung’ during a clutch.”
JJ nodded sagely.
“Does that mean I get paid if they start dating before the next match?” Neo asked.
“No,” Khaotung groaned.
“Yes,” JJ and Neo said in unison.
And that was how Khaotung lost all control of his life to a spreadsheet, two nosy teammates, and one very inconvenient, all-consuming crush that was mutual.
Chapter 48: Chapter 48
Notes:
I finally did it, I'm back with another one. This one is soooooo long and took me forever to get through. I hope everyone had a great new year and has been enjoying all the cfc content (I sure have, I've died and came back to life too many times to count)
As always I hope you enjoy this one, there's a lot I still want to change about it but it's already way too long as it is so it'll have to work. Can't wait to hear everyone's thoughts 🤍
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand October 2025-
[STREAM TITLE: 🧁 Baking with Chaos feat. sugar, sass, and emotional instability]
“HELLO MY GLITTER BABIES,” Khaotung declared, dramatically flinging open the dorm kitchen cabinet like it was a confessional door on a dating show. “Today we bake. Today we conquer. Today we attempt not to set anything on fire.”
He spun toward the camera, already grinning, pink apron tied over a too-cute pastel cropped hoodie. “Yes, I’m in the dorm kitchen. Yes, everyone is home. Yes, you might hear someone scream in the background. No, I will not be taking responsibility.”
Chat was already unhinged.
@khaosparklez: “OMG HE’S SO CUTE I’M GOING TO SCREAM”
@tungbangclub: “IS THAT FIRST’S APRON??”
@khaobait:“WHO ALLOWED HIM TO WEAR THAT FIT I’M DECEASED”
@isittoohighchat: “Blink twice if you’re in love rn”
Khaotung smacked a whisk on the counter. “I see you, chat. I see the thirst. I am the thirst. But we must FOCUS. We are making vanilla cake with strawberry cream frosting. Do I know what I’m doing? Absolutely not. Do I look fabulous? Yes.”
He was halfway through explaining how to separate egg yolks when the real chaos began.
@uokprettyboy: “KHAO IS THAT A HICKEY”
@princessdefender88: “WHY IS HIS NECK RED”
@silver4sincebirth: “Are you and First dating?? confirm or deny???”
@flashmepls: “Where is your boyfriend???”
Khaotung nearly dropped the entire mixing bowl.
He turned, expression scandalized. “You people are VIOLENT.”
The comments only multiplied.
@bombplantedbitches: “Did he call you Tung again today??”
@khaosparklez: “SHIP NAME RIGHTS TO FIRSTKHAO”
@bombplantedbtches: “Do not think we didn’t see that look during the interview!!”
Khaotung groaned dramatically and buried his face in the crook of his arm. “We are not dating,” he said, muffled.
He looked up.
He was blushing.
“Yet,” he muttered under his breath.
@tungbangclub: “YET???????”
@gunthefearless: “SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP”
@khaobait: “SOMEONE SEDATE ME”
“Anyway!” Khaotung clapped his hands, eyes glittering. “Focus. Batter time. Let’s pretend you’re all normal for five minutes. I’m going to fold this in gently, like I fold my feelings into a black hole.”
He was swirling the batter with unnecessary flair when he heard the kitchen door creak open behind him.
“Who let you in my sacred space?” he called without turning.
First’s voice, low and dry: “You left the door unlocked.”
Khaotung whipped around.
First was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, dressed in a fitted black tee and jeans, hair a little messy like he’d just woken up from a nap he wouldn’t admit to.
He looked unfairly good.
Chat died instantly.
@firwatchmods: “IT’S HIM.”
@eclipsedagain: “FIRST HAS ENTERED THE CHAT”
@sparkleduelist: “WHY DOES HE LOOK SO BOYFRIEND RN”
@khaobait: “SOMEONE GET THE DEFIBRILLATOR”
Khaotung narrowed his eyes. “Don’t think you can just come in here and distract me.”
“You’re the one yelling about folding feelings,” First said, and was that a smile?
A real, actual, soft smile?
Khaotung blinked. His brain short-circuited.
First walked over, peering into the bowl. “That smells good.”
“It is good,” Khaotung said. “I made it with love.”
@flashmepls: “STOP”
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “WITH LOVE??? ON STREAM???”
@uokprettyboy: “I’M GOING TO PASS OUT”
First raised a brow. “With love?”
“Pure, unfiltered gay longing,” Khaotung added cheerfully. “It’s the secret ingredient.”
Chat was HOWLING.
@silver4sincebirth: “HE’S TOO POWERFUL”
@kneesforkhao: “SOMEONE STOP HIM”
@firforfree: “THE WAY FIRST IS LOOKING AT HIM RN—HELLO?”
First glanced at the camera. Then back at Khaotung. “Can I try it?”
Khaotung blinked again. “The batter?”
First nodded.
Khaotung, without thinking, dipped a finger into the bowl, scooped up a bit of creamy sweetness, and held it up to First’s mouth.
It was silent for one entire second.
Then First leaned in.
And sucked the batter off Khaotung’s finger.
Slowly.
@tungbangclub: “I’M DEAD”
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “DEAD.”
@gunthefearless: “THAT’S IT. THAT’S THE STREAM. WE’RE ALL GONE.”
@eclipsedagain: “HE ATE OFF HIS FINGER. WHAT THE HELL.”
@khaosparklez: “FIRSTKHAO IS NOT A DRILL.”
Khaotung forgot how to breathe.
First smirked. “Not bad.”
“I—I—” Khaotung turned to the camera. “You all saw that, right? I didn’t hallucinate? That happened??”
Chat was SCREAMING.
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “FAVE STREAM OF ALL TIME”
@flashmepls: “I’M CALLING THE POLICE”
@uokprettyboy: “MARRIAGE WHEN”
“Okay,” Khaotung said faintly. “That’s enough gay panic for one evening. This cake is going to burn and so am I.”
First leaned casually against the counter beside him. “Want help?”
“You mean help clean the bowl?”
First shrugged. “Sure. Or distract you more.”
Khaotung wheezed. “This is illegal.”
Chat was in freefall.
The stream had officially become a public hazard.
And Khaotung, face pink and eyes shining, wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Okay,” Khaotung said, voice about two octaves higher than usual as he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel. “We are still making a cake. This is a baking stream. This is not a gay fanfiction live reenactment.”
First hummed. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Khaotung choked.
@khaotungsleftpillow: “DID HE JUST SAY THAT???”
@princessdefender88: “EXCUSE ME SIR???”
@tungbangclub: “@first_eclipse FLIRTING ON STREAM WHAT ARE WE WITNESSING”
He turned to the camera, cheeks still flushed. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? He used to be a stoic mysterious ice prince. Now he’s—he’s licking things!”
First, utterly unbothered, picked up a spatula and gave it an experimental flex. “Do I fold this in now?”
“No, you fold me in to a grave,” Khaotung muttered, pulling the mixing bowl closer.
He reached for the whisk again, only for First to grab his wrist gently.
“Not like that. You’re overmixing,” First said, gaze calm but close, like he was guiding a rookie through a tense post-plant situation. “You want it to stay fluffy.”
“Oh,” Khaotung breathed. “Okay. Yeah.”
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “HE’S TEACHING HIM HOW TO WHISK I’M—”
@khaotungsleftpillow: “the DOMESTICITY. the INTIMACY. the FREAKING CAKE BATTER.”
@flashmepls: “they are NOT just friends you can’t convince me otherwise”
First stepped behind him—behind him—reaching around to gently guide the whisk in Khaotung’s hand. Their arms brushed. Their hips bumped. Khaotung’s knees genuinely considered giving out.
“Like this,” First murmured.
“I’m gonna scream,” Khaotung whispered.
“You already did,” First said, deadpan.
@uokprettyboy: “DO YOU HEAR THE WAY HE SAID THAT”
@eclipsedagain: “chat i’m shaking”
@gunthefearless: “FIRST. HAS. JOKES. NOW.”
@princessdefender88: “I feel like I shouldn’t be watching this?? this is INTIMATE???”
Once the batter was deemed perfect (read: First approved, Khaotung still trying not to melt), they poured it into a pan.
Khaotung licked a bit of batter off his finger —not even thinking about it—and First stared.
“You want more?” Khaotung teased, catching the look.
First raised a brow. “Not from the bowl.”
Khaotung shrieked.
@khaosparklez: “I’M CALLING THE PRIEST”
@silver4sincebirth: “I have to leave the premises”
They slid the cake into the oven.
There was a moment of silence.
Then First, suddenly: “You didn’t set a timer.”
“Oh shit—okay, chat! You’re now my timer!” Khaotung spun toward the camera again. “It’s thirty minutes. Don’t let me burn this gay icon cake.”
@sparkleduelist: “AYE AYE CHEF”
@kneesforkhao: “WE GOT U KING”
@tungcore.mp3: “This is the most chaotic stream in history”
While the cake baked, Khaotung began prepping the strawberry cream frosting, measuring powdered sugar with vague accuracy while First washed berries in the sink.
“You’re putting in too much sugar,” First commented mildly.
“That’s impossible,” Khaotung replied. “This is my brand.”
Chat exploded again.
Then inevitably someone asked.
@tungbangclub: “CAN FIRST DECORATE IT TOO???”
@tungsupremacy: “GET HIM TO PIPE A HEART”
Khaotung read it aloud, snorting. “Pipe a heart? He doesn’t even send emojis.”
“I do,” First said from the sink. “Just not to you.”
Khaotung spun. “Oh? So who gets them, then?”
“Lita,” First said instantly. “She earns them. You cause problems.”
Khaotung gasped. “I cause joy. I cause excitement. I am your serotonin.”
First turned to face him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe.”
Khaotung’s heart actually flipped.
@firforfree: “HE SAID MAYBE???”
@khaobait: “FIRST PLS I’M WEAK”
@bombplantedbtches: “CAN SOMEONE CLIP THAT LOOK HE JUST GAVE HIM”
Thirty minutes later, they pulled the cake out together. Khaotung piped the frosting while First placed halved strawberries in precise little rows, because of course he did.
“Look at us,” Khaotung whispered dramatically. “Domestic excellence.”
“Don’t get used to it,” First murmured, placing the last berry.
@kneesforkhao: “WE’RE GETTING USED TO IT”
@cupcakethighs: “FirstKhao bakery when?”
@silver4sincebirth: “Can i be the strawberry??”
Finally, they stepped back to admire the chaos cake which was slightly lopsided, a little too pink, but weirdly beautiful.
“Okay,” Khaotung said. “Moment of truth. Taste test.”
He cut a slice, plated it with flair, and offered the first fork to First.
First didn’t hesitate.
He took the bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
“Good,” he said simply.
Khaotung stared.
“…That’s it?”
First leaned in, low and amused. “Really good.”
@valorantbutmakeitgay: “THEY’RE GONNA KISS I FEEL IT”
@sparkleduelist: “WHO KNEW CAKE COULD BE THIS EROTIC”
@tungbangclub: “I CANNOT TAKE THIS ANYMORE I’M ASCENDING”
Khaotung blushed again. “Fine. Your turn, chat. Look upon our creation. Fear it. Love it. Make fan art.”
And then—grinning, glowing, chaos incarnate—he waved at the camera. “This has been Princess Glitter’s chaotic kitchen. We’re logging off before I combust. Fir, say bye.”
First looked straight at the camera.
“Bye,” he said softly. “Thanks for watching.”
@firwatchmods: “HIS STREAM VOICE???”
@cupcakethighs: “I’M DECEASED. AGAIN.”
@tungsupremacy: “I’M NEVER LOGGING OFF”
The stream shut off with a soft click.
Silence settled like powdered sugar in the air, still sweet and thick with everything unsaid.
Khaotung stretched his arms overhead with a dramatic groan. “We survived.”
First hummed, not looking away. “Barely.”
Khaotung’s shirt had ridden up slightly. There was a smear of frosting on his cheek. His cheeks were still pink from laughter, or maybe the way he’d been glowing all afternoon, dancing on the edge of flirty chaos. His mouth was soft and a little sticky from the strawberry glaze.
And First was still breathing him in.
He hadn’t moved much during the stream. Hadn’t wanted to. Being near him—standing at his side while the whole world watched them—had felt more grounding than any victory he’d ever earned. Like he was here for once, not thinking about the next thing or the past or anything in between. Just Khaotung. Just now.
Khaotung turned toward him, brushing flour off his sleeves. “I think I got sugar in my soul.”
First tilted his head. “Is that fatal?”
“Only to my enemies.”
“…Good.”
They stood like that a moment. The cake between them. The hum of the fridge. Vaanjoy yawning from the corner, stretched like a cat-shaped rug. The house was quiet. No one was barging in. No one was yelling. No bets being placed. No Gun live-commentating their sexual tension.
Just this.
Just them.
And the promise First had made days before.
He took a step forward.
Khaotung blinked, mouth parting like he knew.
First reached out. Slowly. Fingertips brushing Khaotung’s jaw. He tilted his face gently, thumb skimming the edge of his cheek where the frosting had left a smear. His touch lingered.
Khaotung didn’t move away. Didn’t even blink.
He whispered, “Is this—”
And First kissed him.
Soft this time.
Steady. Sure.
It wasn’t like the club—hot and wild and bursting with tension. This was slower. Deeper. A claiming without fire. A kiss that curled into his spine and poured warmth into every aching space that had longed to feel like this. Khaotung’s hands fluttered up, wrapping along First’s nape. His breath hitched.
First kissed him again. Pressed him gently back against the counter. One hand slid into the hem of Khaotung’s shirt, resting against the bare skin of his waist like a quiet anchor.
First pulled away just enough to whisper softly, warmly, “Happy Birthday Princess.”
“You remembered,” Khaotung breathed, dazed.
“Of course I did.”
“Thank you,” Khaotung sighed, voice caught somewhere between shy and awed.
First shifted until their noses brushed. “You’re mine.”
Khaotung shivered. “Say it again.”
“You’re mine.”
A beat passed.
Then Khaotung surged forward and kissed him back—messier, a little clumsy, smile breaking through the middle of it like sunshine between storm clouds.
And First laughed—laughed into his mouth. Just once.
It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
And Montow, now watching from the table, let out a huff like he was already over them.
The frosting on the counter would melt. The cake would cool. JJ would probably barge in any second.
But First didn’t care.
He felt steady.
He felt right.
He felt home.
· · ·
5 days later Lita was already waiting in the fitting studio with her tablet open, swatches tucked behind one ear, and a look that meant business. “Alright,” she said, clapping once. “We’re dressing for mischief. For memes. For mayhem. Welcome to the FirstKhao special, gentlemen.”
Khaotung beamed. “So what you’re saying is, slay time?”
Lita pointed at him without looking up. “Exactly.”
They tried on three sets. Set One was cute. Boyfriend-core with soft greens and strawberries. Sweet. Innocent. Too innocent.
Set Two brought the tension. Khaotung in a red halter top, black trousers with silver chains, boots that made a statement. First in a fitted black tee with a maroon overshirt and joggers that sat low on his hips. There had been a moment—longer than it should’ve been—where neither of them could stop looking.
Khaotung, smirking. “You’re staring.”
First, voice low. “You wore that on purpose.”
Lita, not even glancing up: “You’re not wearing that to the amusement park. People would faint on the Ferris wheel.”
That brought them to Set Three.
Khaotung came out in a cloud-print pastel tee tucked into baby blue pleated shorts, kitten socks pulled just above the ankle, and white loafers that clicked dramatically against the floor. He twirled once.
First looked like structured softness in a cream ribbed shirt, long wide leg shorts cinched at the waist and a soft blue overshirt. Cool. Clean. Kissable.
“Okay but this one?” Khaotung said, spinning again. “I feel like a pastel fever dream.”
First blinked at him. “You look like a walking filter.”
“I know.” He batted his lashes. “Don’t you wanna kiss me in this outfit?”
First looked away fast.
Lita didn’t even look up. “Set Three. That’s it. Locked in.”
“But what about the sexy one?” Khaotung whined.
“Later,” Lita said. “We’ll save it for a magazine cover.”
As they headed back to change, Khaotung lingered just a little behind. First was already shrugging off his overshirt, and his profile was soft in the dressing room mirror—focused, thoughtful, impossibly attractive.
“You know,” Khaotung said, voice light, “I think I like you in cream.”
First glanced over, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
“I like you in anything,” he said, almost too casually.
Khaotung froze.
Lita popped her head in. “Are you both decent—oh never mind. Not my business. Just be dressed by call time tomorrow.”
She vanished again.
Khaotung was still staring. First? Still smug.
They were alone in the dressing room, the faint echo of Lita’s heels clicking down the hall, the only sound beyond the hum of overhead lights.
Khaotung was halfway through changing, shirt off, loafers kicked to the side, when he glanced up and caught First watching him through the mirror.
Again.
“What?” Khaotung said, trying for casual, but his ears were already turning red.
First leaned against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Nothing.”
Khaotung narrowed his eyes. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you don’t blink and my brain stops working.”
First tilted his head, lips twitching. “That’s not on me.”
Khaotung groaned, grabbing a hanger and lightly swatting it in First’s direction. “Okay, serious question. What’s your favorite thing I’ve ever worn?”
First didn’t answer right away. He just stepped forward, slow and deliberate, stopping only when he was just a breath away. His eyes dragged over Khaotung’s bare shoulders, then up to his face, calm and steady and completely unreadable.
“You really wanna know?”
Khaotung licked his lips. “Yeah.”
First’s voice was low. “That silk robe.”
Khaotung almost fell over.
He made a choked noise and half-covered his face with one hand. “You can’t say that—”
“You asked.”
“That not a real outfit!”
“You didn’t say it had to be,” First murmured, stepping even closer. “I said it was my favorite.”
Khaotung dropped his hand and blinked up at him, flustered and wrecked and very much not dressed. “You’re evil.”
“You’re the one asking dangerous questions half-naked.”
Khaotung pointed at him accusingly. “This is entrapment.”
First finally smiled, soft but wicked. “You’re the one who walked into the trap.”
They stayed there like that. Too close, too warm, too aware of everything unsaid, until Khaotung huffed and turned away to finish getting dressed.
“…Fine,” he muttered. “But if I ever wear that robe again, I’m locking the door.”
First, still not looking away: “I’d find a way in.”
Khaotung gave up on breathing normally for the rest of the day.
· · ·
The amusement park spread out before them like a kaleidoscope dream. Soft music playing from speakers shaped like cartoon clouds, pink ticket booths trimmed with neon, and a pastel rollercoaster track twisting like a ribbon through the sky.
Khaotung practically skipped ahead, clearly in his element. When he twirled to face the camera, the fringe of his shorts flared just enough to get Twitter arrested.
Behind him, First looked like he’d walked out of a fashion campaign for “soft but intimidating.” It was understated. Intentional. Devastating.
Lita took one look at them and sighed with satisfaction. “Perfect. My muses. My masterpiece.”
Khaotung grinned. “Can’t believe you made me wear loafers to a theme park.”
“You look like a catboy on vacation,” Lita said. “I regret nothing.”
Khaotung shot a wink at the camera. “You’re welcome, internet.”
First didn’t say a word.
But he was looking.
Too long. Too obviously.
Lita smiled wider.
She held the itinerary high like a game show host about to ruin lives.
“Your challenges today are as follows: Emotional Trivia Time: Five questions each. You are handcuffed for the duration. Trust Fall Photo Op: Must be completed on a rollercoaster. The Blindfold Snack Guessing Game: Don’t ask, just survive. The Final Prize Claw Machine Face-Off: Winner gets a kiss. You’ll see.”
Khaotung stared at her like she’d just proposed public execution. “You said this was going to be light and fun.”
Lita handed him a pair of novelty heart-shaped handcuffs. “It will be. For me.”
First raised a brow. “You do know we could sue.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, smug. “I’ve got your fans on speed dial.”
“I’m scared,” Khaotung whispered, clutching the cuffs like they might bite.
“You should be,” Lita said cheerfully. “Now smile for the intro shot, the drone is watching.”
Khaotung turned to First slowly, eyes wide. “If I die, delete my drafts.”
First looked down at him—slowly, warmly—and said, “I’ll keep the good ones.”
Khaotung nearly combusted.
The intro music started to play from a speaker nearby.
Somewhere overhead, the drone whirred to life, and the day officially began.
They were doomed. And it was only 9 a.m.
Khaotung watched the cuffs settle around his wrist with a resigned kind of panic. “Okay. So we’re really doing this.”
“Of course we are,” Lita said sweetly, snapping the other cuff onto First. “Team bonding. Brand synergy. Emotional damage. It’s the full package.”
“I agreed under duress,” Khaotung muttered, eyes wide.
First didn’t flinch. “You literally said ‘handcuff me to hell and back’ in the group chat.”
“Yeah, but that was hyperbole!”
Lita smiled like a villain. “Was it?”
“Is this allowed?” Khaotung asked, already spiraling.
First glanced at the cuffs and decided to ignore any alarms that brought. Then at Khaotung, who looked like someone had just handed him a live grenade made of feelings.
“I’m not doing anything illegal,” Lita added cheerfully. “Yet.”
Behind the camera crew, JJ let out a strangled wheeze. Neo, who had been handed a boom mic for some reason, was pretending to be professional but was very clearly recording everything on his phone with his free hand.
Gun was whispering to Off like they were watching a season finale. “Oh my god it’s happening. Emotional damage AND physical proximity? She’s evil. I love her.”
“I’m going to pass out,” Khaotung said. “I can feel my soul trying to flee my body.”
First, to no one in particular, said, “You’ve survived JJ’s cooking. This isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”
Khaotung turned to him slowly, eyes wide. “You’re awfully calm about this, Fir.”
First looked at him sideways, lips twitching. “Maybe I just know all the answers.”
“You better not,” Khaotung muttered, flustered. “That would be unfair.”
Lita clapped once, merciless. “Okay, lovebirds. Here’s the deal. You’re handcuffed for the next segment. You will be given emotional trivia questions—five each. You must answer them about each other. For every wrong answer, we spin the Wheel of Mild Public Humiliation™. And yes, it is real.”
She gestured toward a giant pastel wheel propped near the cotton candy cart. It had slices labeled things like: Sing a love song, Read your last DM out loud, Say something you like about their eyes, Make heart hands. Hold them for ten seconds. With eye contact.
Khaotung whimpered.
First just tilted his head. “Only ten seconds?”
The crew screamed.
JJ choked on his own spit.
Even Neo dropped the boom mic.
Khaotung went silent. Dangerously so.
And then he whispered, “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” First said.
And he smiled.
It was going to be a long day.
And Lita couldn’t wait to watch them fall.
They were on question three and already down two punishments: Khaotung had to sing a verse of “My Heart Will Go On” in falsetto while making heart hands, and First—stoic, unbothered—had to compliment Khaotung’s eye color in five different poetic metaphors.
(It backfired. Khaotung turned so red he almost passed out. First had no regrets.)
Now they stood in front of the pastel spinning wheel, still handcuffed, still emotionally sweating.
The crew called out the next question.
“Khaotung: What brand of toothpaste does First use?”
Silence.
Khaotung’s brain short-circuited.
He stared at the camera. Then at First. Then at the heavens, as if God would whisper down the answer through one of the cartoon clouds overhead.
“...Toothpaste?” he echoed weakly.
First smirked.
“You’ve been in my bathroom,” he said, amused.
“Yeah, but I don’t stare at your toothpaste like a freak!”
Gun could be heard yelling from behind the monitor, “LIES!”
Neo muttered, “I’ve seen him organize the sink shelf like a gremlin in love.”
JJ was pounding the table. “THINK, KHAO, THINK.”
Khaotung turned to First, eyes wild. “Okay give me a hint—”
“No.”
“You monster.”
First tilted his head innocently. “Five seconds.”
Khaotung’s hands flailed uselessly—one of them yanking on the cuff linking them together. “Okay okay okay—uh—it’s—wait, it’s the one with the green stripe? The fancy one you said tastes like peppermint and power—Colgate Optic White?”
The crew froze.
First blinked.
There was a pause.
Then First said quietly and dangerously.
“...That’s correct.”
The crew erupted.
JJ screamed. Gun did a cartwheel (badly). Neo actually dropped his phone. Lita shouted, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME.”
Khaotung slumped in place, heart pounding. “I knew it,” he whispered, dazed. “I knew it was Optic White.”
The laughter was still ringing in his ears, but Khaotung felt a little like a paper lantern—too bright on the outside, a little too hollow underneath.
He’d gotten the toothpaste right. Somehow.
First just stared at him.
Not with shock. Not with suspicion.
With something quieter.
Something that made Khaotung’s breath catch in his throat.
“You pay attention,” First had said.
And Khaotung, still panting from the emotional CPR of guessing correctly, had whispered back, “I always do.”
It should’ve ended there. It almost did.
But then the next question came.
JJ, voice gleeful and weaponized, shouted:
“When did you first start really liking First?”
The world tipped.
It was said like a joke. Tossed out for chaos. A gotcha moment meant to tease, to embarrass, to drive the punishment wheel off a cliff. Everyone laughed.
Everyone except Khaotung and First.
He blinked, eyes wide, and felt his whole body freeze.
Because he knew the answer.
Not just in theory. In crystal-cut clarity.
It wasn’t the cupcake stream. Or the PR shoot. Or even the cherry shirt.
It was that night.
The lake. The lavender dusk. The warmth of grilled rice and floating candles and the way First looked at him, like maybe he didn’t mind being seen.
The compliment—You look really pretty tonight—delivered like a confession between breaths.
Khaotung had felt the moment settle in his bones. Like a tide changing direction. Like every crush he’d ever had shrank into the corner so this one could take center stage.
That was the truth.
And he could never say it.
Not on camera. Not in front of JJ and Gun and Neo. Not with First standing inches away, still handcuffed to him, still watching him with that same unreadable gaze that made it impossible to tell if he was about to smile or bolt.
So Khaotung smiled.
Too wide. Too bright. Performance-mode locked and loaded.
“Oh, uh—when he called me annoying for the third time in one stream,” he said lightly, throwing in a wink for good measure. “By the fourth time, it was basically flirting.”
Laughter erupted again. JJ clapped. Gun wheezed. The crew bought it.
But First didn’t say anything.
Khaotung didn’t look at him.
He couldn’t.
Because he felt the shift. The flicker of something—hesitation, hurt, maybe even disappointment. It passed quickly, like a cloud skimming the sun. But it was there.
The cuff between them felt heavier.
The next question was already spinning. Khaotung laughed on cue. He played the game. He teased back when Gun accused him of being love-drunk. He tossed glitter into the air and let it fall like armor.
But something inside him had gone very, very quiet.
Because he didn’t want to lie.
Not about that.
· · ·
The harness clicked into place with a loud, final snap.
First didn’t flinch.
He just stared straight ahead at the curved track of the rollercoaster spiraling upward into the fake pastel sky, its rails painted like candy ribbons and clouds. From below, JJ’s voice echoed something unintelligible about “fun trauma bonding,” and Gun was yelling instructions at the photo crew like he ran the park.
Khaotung was sitting beside him.
Still cuffed to him.
Still too close.
Still pretending like nothing happened.
First hadn’t said anything either. He hadn’t reacted when Khaotung made the joke. Hadn’t even blinked when the rest of the crew exploded into chaos.
But he’d heard it.
“When he called me annoying for the third time in one stream.”
It hadn’t been cruel. It hadn’t even been flirty. It was light, glittery, just Khaotung being Khaotung.
But it was also false.
First knew it. He knew it.
Because there was no joke in the way Khaotung had looked at him that day. Under sunset light, with their knees brushing, that soft smile curving around the words “I’m not in a rush.”
There had been something in that moment. Something steady. Gentle. Real.
This wasn’t that.
Now they were back in the spotlight, eyes on them, the world watching. Khaotung was doing what he did best—sparkling through discomfort.
First wasn’t mad.
Not exactly.
Just… unsettled.
He wasn’t used to wanting someone to say it.
The coaster jerked forward.
Khaotung gave a small yelp, then laughed like it didn’t matter. “Oh god, this is going to ruin my eyeliner.”
“You wore waterproof,” First said quietly, without looking at him.
Khaotung stilled beside him. “You noticed?”
“I always do.”
His own words—flipped back like a mirror.
He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe to be petty. Maybe to say I saw you lying and I let you.
Maybe because it was true.
Khaotung went quiet.
The car began its slow ascent up the first hill.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The chain between their wrists tugged softly with each shift. They hadn’t asked to keep it on. No one had said anything. The cuffs weren’t part of the segment, but no one had reminded them.
No one had made them stay linked.
And yet here they were.
Khaotung’s hand was resting lightly on the safety bar. First could see the subtle glitter dust on his fingers, the tiny raised ridge of a healing hangnail near his pinky. He wanted, just for a second, to touch it.
Not to tease. Not to prove anything.
Just to feel something grounded.
“Hey,” Khaotung said, voice too loud, too bright. “Did Lita say where the photo gets taken?”
First nodded. “Mid-drop. Auto-timed.”
Khaotung groaned. “God, if I look like a wet Q-tip in that photo, I’m going to sue.”
“You’ll look fine.”
“I’ll look unhinged.”
“That’s the brand.”
That earned a small laugh. It didn’t reach Khaotung’s eyes.
The coaster crested the hill.
First’s stomach flipped but not from the height.
Beside him, Khaotung’s breath caught.
And then they dropped.
The wind howled around them. Khaotung screamed. First’s hand stayed tight on the bar—but he felt the jolt when Khaotung leaned into him, not to be cute, not to flirt—
But because he trusted him.
In that split second, weightless and breathless, Khaotung’s head bumped his shoulder. His hand clenched around the bar, knuckles brushing First’s. The camera flashed.
And First knew, with quiet certainty, that this would be the photo everyone reposted.
Not the glitter. Not the jokes.
But this moment.
This trust.
When they coasted to a stop at the platform, Khaotung was still laughing breathlessly.
“That was—horrifying,” he said. “But like. Cute-horrifying. We survived.”
First undid the harness wordlessly.
He still didn’t know what to say.
He just knew that he hadn’t let go.
And neither had Khaotung.
· · ·
The blindfold itched.
First adjusted it once, just a flick of his fingers against the edge and then forced himself to stop. He could already hear Gun mocking him about sensory sensitivity. Again.
The set was smaller now. Cozier. The snack table was ridiculous: a candy-colored explosion of fruit jellies, squid chips, dried seaweed, wasabi peas, and at least three unidentifiable marshmallow horrors Khaotung had squealed over on sight.
He could hear him now, too.
Laughing.
First sat still, hands in his lap, shoulders tense.
He hated not seeing. Hated giving up control.
“Round one!” someone called.
First heard the clink of tongs. A rustle of plastic. JJ giggling ominously.
Then: “Okay, P’First. Open up.”
He did, reluctantly.
The taste was immediate, sour. Gummy. Mango? Pineapple?
He chewed once, twice, swallowed. “Jelly stick. Tamarind center.”
A pause. Khaotung’s voice, impressed: “How the hell—”
“Correct!” JJ crowed.
“Round two,” Gun sing-songed. “Khaotung, you’re next. Open that mouth, darling.”
First heard the fluttery inhale, the sound of a wrapper being ripped open, and then—
“Oh my GOD what is that—”
He smirked.
Gun was cackling. “It’s seaweed lollipop. Imported.”
“Imported from hell!”
First could picture the way Khaotung’s nose scrunched when he didn’t like something. He’d cataloged that expression weeks ago. Right alongside the sound he made when Montow jumped into his lap and the little nod he gave when he was listening too hard to think of something clever.
“Incorrect,” Lita declared.
JJ howled. “PUNISHMENT TIME.”
“Oh, come on—”
“Say something romantic to First. With sincerity.”
The air shifted.
Even blindfolded, First could feel it, the way the tension snapped back into place, thin as fishing wire.
Khaotung cleared his throat.
“…Okay. Uh.”
First didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Khaotung’s voice was soft when it came. Not joking.
“You’re… steadier than I expected. I used to think you were just cold. But you’re not. You’re sharp. You hold everything so tightly that sometimes I forget how much care is underneath.”
The silence afterward stretched.
First blinked under the blindfold.
He didn’t know what he expected.
But it wasn’t that.
He swallowed once. “That’s not romantic.”
“It is if you know me,” Khaotung said quietly.
And First did.
Far more than he’d meant to.
Gun cleared his throat. “Okay, my turn to cry.”
Lita snapped her fingers. “Round three!”
The game moved on.
More snacks. More chaos. Khaotung correctly guessed the pickled plum and failed spectacularly at durian custard. First nearly choked on a marshmallow so sour it felt like betrayal.
But through it all, the mood had changed.
Something in the air had tipped.
And when Khaotung brushed his hand accidentally while reaching for the next cup of juice—
First didn’t move away.
He let it linger.
Just for a second.
Then said quietly, “You’re hard to ignore.”
Khaotung stilled.
“…You already said that once.”
“I meant it then too.”
Neither of them spoke after that.
The game ended.
The blindfolds came off.
And First finally looked at him.
· · ·
The prize machine was rigged.
He could feel it in his bones. In the cheap plastic hum of the joystick. In the saccharine LED lights that blinked around the top in mocking shades of pink and blue.
It sat at the center of the park’s arcade section like a final boss. Inside: a mess of plushies, mini figures, Eclipse-themed keychains, and—right at the top—a small red heart capsule with a ribbon tied around it.
The label on the monitor said:
“Kiss Capsule: Winner gets the prize. No take-backs.”
JJ was losing his mind.
“Oh my GOD IT’S HAPPENING,” he shrieked, filming it like a nature documentary. “THEY’RE GONNA KISS. I’M GONNA THROW UP IN THE COTTON CANDY MACHINE.”
“Shut up,” First muttered.
But his palms were sweaty.
The camera crew had repositioned. Lita was off to the side, pretending to check lighting settings but very obviously texting Gun.
Khaotung stepped up beside him.
He was radiant. Still flushed from the snack game, eyes bright, cuff chain gone now but wrist still marked with the slight pink indentation of where it had been.
He looked at First and smiled. Careful, but not fake.
“Ready to lose?” he teased.
First raised a brow. “Do you even have claw machine experience?”
“I once got a plushie the size of Neo’s torso in Busan.”
“That’s not a real measurement.”
“It is if you’re a drama queen.”
A soft chuckle slipped out of First before he could stop it.
The machine blinked twice.
Lita’s voice came through the overhead mic. “Two attempts each. Highest prize wins. Capsule’s the goal.”
Khaotung went first.
His tongue poked out the side of his mouth in concentration, a ridiculous habit First had noted with both affection and increasing concern. He lined up the claw, hit the button, and came up with a plastic unicorn.
“TRAGIC,” JJ announced.
“Majestic,” Khaotung corrected, placing it on top of the machine like a totem of spite.
First stepped up.
One breath in. He didn’t smile. Didn’t adjust his posture for camera. Just lined up the claw, hit the button, and….clamped the damn capsule.
The machine sputtered. Whirred. Blinked red. For a moment it looked like it might drop.
But it didn’t.
The heart capsule thudded gently into the prize chute.
JJ screamed. Neo muttered something that sounded like a prayer. Someone in the crew whispered, “Holy shit.”
Khaotung stared.
“You did not just one-shot the heart capsule.”
First didn’t answer.
He bent, opened the prize door, and held the capsule in his hand. It was warm from the lights. Too light. He didn’t open it.
Just turned toward Khaotung and said, “I win.”
Khaotung’s breath hitched.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “You did.”
Another pause.
Lita clapped once. “Okay, folks. That’s a wrap on the FirstKhao Arcade Special. You know the deal—kiss capsule rules.”
Khaotung stepped closer.
Everyone held their breath.
But First didn’t move.
Not yet.
He held up the capsule between them. Let it dangle by the ribbon, slow and deliberate. His voice was low. “It doesn’t have to be a kiss.”
Khaotung blinked.
“We could open it,” First said. “See what’s inside. Call it even.”
Another beat.
Then Khaotung, lips twitching upward, said, “I kind of want to know what’s in it now.”
First handed it over without hesitation.
Khaotung cracked it open.
Inside: a slip of paper that said, in Lita’s handwriting:
“Do what feels right.”
A beat.
Khaotung looked up, eyes wide.
And First just smiled.
Not big. Not smug. Just enough.
“We’ll save it,” he said.
Khaotung nodded, voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”
They didn’t kiss.
But they didn’t move apart, either.
Not until the cameras were off.
The crowd had moved on.
Lights packed up. Staff peeling off in polite waves. Gun off somewhere loudly recapping the capsule moment to Off over the phone, with JJ yelling “WE WERE ROBBED” in the background. Neo had already left to go find snacks. Or peace.
But Khaotung stayed.
And so did First.
The park felt different without the noise. Quieter. Cooler. The sunset was beginning its slow dip behind the tallest ride, casting long shadows across the cobblestone path. Fake stars flickered to life overhead—painted lanterns shaped like constellations, twinkling soft against a purple-orange sky.
They walked side by side.
Not touching.
Not talking.
Until Khaotung said, gently, “Can I see the footage?”
First reached into his jacket pocket and handed over the small playback device the crew had given them for review. He’d already transferred a few of the highlight clips onto it, outtakes, reactions, the cursed trivia montage. The capsule moment too.
Khaotung tapped through it slowly.
No commentary. Just soft hums, little huffs of breath when something made him laugh. His face glowed faintly from the screen.
He stopped at the rollercoaster photo. The still frame.
The one where they looked like…. like something else.
First kept his eyes forward.
“Do you want them to post it?” Khaotung asked after a beat.
It wasn’t a joke.
He sounded… careful.
First thought about it. The way their bodies had curved toward each other. The trust in that single frame. The way the cuff chain gleamed like something binding, not just funny.
“I don’t mind,” he said finally.
“Even if people start guessing?”
“They already are.”
A faint smile.
Khaotung tilted the screen so First could see. “This one’s going viral either way.”
He was right. That photo. The stillness, the expression, was loud. Even in silence. It would travel.
First let out a breath.
“They’ll make it a ship thing.”
“They already have a name for it,” Khaotung said. “I saw it on Twitter.”
“…Do I want to know?”
“FirKhao.”
First winced. “Sounds like a dish.”
“A very spicy one,” Khaotung teased.
First elbowed him lightly.
Khaotung smiled, then turned the screen off. The path ahead curved under an archway of glowing stars.
They kept walking.
Soft gravel crunch. Faint music from a distant carousel. His shoulder brushed Khaotung’s once. He didn’t pull away.
“I lied,” Khaotung said suddenly.
First turned.
Khaotung wasn’t looking at him. Just down at the path. Voice quiet. Steady.
“Earlier. When they asked about the first time I liked you.”
The air caught.
“I know,” First said, equally quiet.
“I didn’t think I could say the real one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was real.”
A long pause.
They passed under the last arch.
Khaotung slowed to a stop. Looked up.
“It was the night you told me I looked pretty,” he said, almost like a secret. “By the lake. You were so quiet I almost didn’t believe it happened.”
First’s breath caught.
“I remember.”
“I don’t think I stopped thinking about it for three days,” Khaotung added, still not quite facing him. “It wasn’t just the words. It was that… you meant them. And you didn’t take them back.”
First swallowed.
The memory was vivid. Sunset. Soft water. The scent of lavender and laughter and too much warmth pressed between them. The ache of wanting and not knowing how to ask for it.
He looked at Khaotung now.
Really looked.
And said—softer than anything—
“I still mean it.”
Khaotung turned to him, startled.
Their eyes met.
There was no teasing.
No crew. No questions. No glitter armor.
Just them.
The night settled around them like permission.
And First, for the first time all day, reached out and took Khaotung’s hand.
Not because of a game.
Not because of a camera.
Just because he wanted to.
Khaotung’s fingers laced with his instantly.
He didn’t say anything.
They just kept walking.
Chapter 49: Chapter 49
Notes:
Hi guys...... I am so sorry I got such bad writers block with this chapter. I hope you enjoy it anyway :)
Next one is coming faster I promise, I've been working on mainly that one since its an important one and thats why this one took forever because I just was not very inspired. Anyway appreciate you all!!
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand October 2025-
The war room, also known as the conference table in the Eclipse team room was covered in pink folders, color-coded sticky notes, and at least three iced coffees (all Lita’s).
Gun was already seated cross-legged in one of the chairs, sunglasses on indoors. JJ and Neo flanked him like chaotic bookends. AJ leaned quietly against the wall with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. First sat near the end, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, staring down at a manila envelope he hadn’t opened yet.
Khaotung slid in late. Not very late. Just Khaotung late— with a pink straw sticking out of his cheek, sunglasses on his head, and a glitter sticker still stuck to his phone case from yesterday’s shoot.
Lita, of course, waited until he was seated before pouncing.
“Okay, sparkle demons. Let’s talk strategy.”
She clapped her hands once. The lights dimmed slightly, someone (probably Thom) had set up a very dramatic PowerPoint. The first slide read: “FIRSTKHAO: A Soft Launch in Five Acts.”
JJ immediately shrieked. “OH MY GOD SHE NAMED IT.”
“It’s branding,” Lita said, cool as glass. “And I’m a genius.”
Gun was already clapping.
Lita clicked the slide.
“Act 1. The Drop.” A high-res still of the rollercoaster photo popped up. It zoomed in on their clasped hands like a rom-com poster. “This photo will be the teaser asset. Soft launch energy. Cozy vibes. Trust. Romance.”
First blinked slowly. “I never agreed—”
“You wore matching pastel and didn’t flinch at a sparkle prince in your lap,” Lita said. “You agreed with your body language.”
Neo sipped his drink. “She’s not wrong.”
Khaotung looked like he was trying very hard not to dissolve into his chair.
Lita clicked again.
“Act 2. Countdown Hype. We’ll announce the FirstKhao Special is coming, but not what it is. You two,” she said, pointing dramatically at First and Khaotung, “will film three teaser clips for socials the morning of drop day.”
“Like TikToks?” Khaotung asked, perking up.
“And Instagram reels,” Lita confirmed. “One of you will post a still from the shoot. The other will do a chaotic behind-the-scenes clip. I’m thinking something domestic. Hoodie theft. Shared water bottle. Maybe a cat. Bonus points if someone’s barefoot.”
First made a sound that could only be described as a tired exhale of mortal dread.
“I will not be barefoot,” he said.
“Then wear fuzzy socks,” she shot back. “You’re the mysterious roommate. Lean into it.”
Gun was giggling like a menace.
“Act 3,” Lita continued, switching slides, “is the Drop Day Itself. The video goes live at noon next Friday. The full FirstKhao Arcade Challenge. Edited. Polished. Cinematic. With the softest damn background music you’ve ever heard.”
“Will there be sparkle effects?” Khaotung asked.
“I already approved four,” Lita said. “Also a slow-mo shot of the rollercoaster lean.”
JJ let out a gasp like someone had been proposed to.
“Final two acts involve the fan spiral and your follow-up content,” Lita added breezily, already snapping the clicker again. “We’ll cover those next week. Any questions?”
Gun raised his hand. “Can I wear matching friendship bracelets for aesthetic purposes?”
“You’re not in the video,” Lita said.
“I suffer emotionally.”
“Good. That’s the audience’s job.”
There was a brief moment of silence.
Then Khaotung leaned toward First, voice low. “So we’re filming couple content next week.”
First didn’t look at him.
But his ears went slightly pink.
“…Apparently.”
Khaotung grinned.
When the door opened, Off walked in like he owned the place. Which, as head coach, he basically did.
Dark joggers. Oversized hoodie. Hair pushed back like he’d barely bothered. He glanced around at the gathered team, took one look at the PowerPoint title still glowing on the screen, and sighed.
“Do I even want to know?”
Lita didn’t miss a beat. “Soft-launch strategy. Don’t worry, we saved a pink folder just for you.”
“I’m burning that,” Off said mildly, pulling out a chair.
JJ immediately lit up. “Did you see the capsule photo?”
“I saw everything. Gun sent me a play-by-play like it was a live sports broadcast.”
“I was right to do that,” Gun said proudly. “The gays were in full bloom.”
“Focus,” Off said, though his smirk gave him away. “We’re two weeks out from playoffs.”
The room sobered—just a little.
Even JJ stopped swinging his legs.
“Starting Monday,” Off continued, “everyone’s schedule is chaos. Brand deals, press, live events. I’ve got your solo blocks already loaded into the calendar. Check them tonight.”
There were immediate groans.
“Why is mine red?” Neo asked, already peeking at his phone.
“It’s red because you’re doing a campaign with an energy drink company that wants you to flip tires on livestream.”
Neo’s stare was dead. “I want a new career.”
“I want to not be famous,” AJ added.
“Too late,” Gun said cheerfully. “You’re pretty and marketable.”
Lita flipped her folder open again and added smoothly, “Khaotung, you’ve got a couple of shoots this week—nothing too heavy. We’re spacing yours out.”
Khaotung perked up. “Wait, why? Am I… not busy enough?”
Before anyone could spiral (and he was spiraling, visibly), Lita added, “You’re not being sidelined. I’m currently negotiating a large skincare contract for you and laying groundwork for a potential fashion collab.”
The room gasped.
Gun actually clutched his pearls—fake ones, strung on a choker today.
“Fashion collab?” JJ cried. “With who?”
Lita just winked. “Classified. But let’s just say you might be getting your own line of accessories.”
Khaotung was already melting. “Oh my god I’m going to cry into my sheet mask.”
“You’ll have time for that,” Off cut in, already pulling up a spreadsheet. “Because as of tomorrow, our full-team scrim blocks are limited. Everyone’s too booked.”
Groans, part two.
“However,” Off continued, unfazed, “we will be doing nightly VOD review. Every night. No excuses.”
JJ raised a hand like he was dying. “How many teams?”
“Seven,” Off said.
The silence was immediate.
“Seven?” Neo said flatly.
“Seven,” Off confirmed. “The top bracket we could be matched against. We’ll rotate each night.”
Gun groaned into the table. “I’m going to develop a caffeine dependency.”
“You already have one,” AJ muttered.
“I’m going to make it worse.”
“We’ll keep the reviews short,” Off said. “Targeted. You’ll be assigned roles to watch and note. Bring clips, bring timestamps. No more full-match rewatch unless I say so.”
Lita leaned into her iced coffee. “So to summarize: we are soft-launching a romance, preparing for war, and planning a skincare empire. Normal week.”
JJ flopped backward in his chair. “I’m going to die wearing under-eye patches and rewatching B site retakes.”
“Same,” Neo muttered.
Khaotung glanced at First, who hadn’t spoken in a while.
First looked calm. Neutral.
But when their eyes met, he offered the tiniest nod—like he was saying We’ve got this. Just keep going.
Khaotung smiled. A little steadier now.
Off glanced around the room. “Any questions?”
Gun raised his hand again. “Can I host a team bonding night where we all dress like our worst fan edits?”
“No,” Off said.
“I’m doing it anyway,” Gun said.
JJ leaned in. “Can I be the glitter version of myself from that one Tumblr post?”
“We all saw that Tumblr post,” Neo muttered.
“Team dismissed,” Off said, standing.
But as the group started to break apart—muttering, stretching, already planning snack runs—Lita caught First and Khaotung with a single glance.
“You two,” she said. “Stay.”
The room stilled.
Gun made a high-pitched noise. “OH MY GOD—”
“Leave,” Lita said, not even looking at him.
Gun, JJ, Neo, and AJ filed out with the energy of cartoon animals scrambling from a room full of dynamite.
The door shut.
Khaotung looked at First.
Then back at Lita.
“…Are we in trouble?”
Lita smiled like a shark in lip gloss.
“Oh no, boys. We’re just getting started.”
· · ·
“You know this is ridiculous,” First said, standing in the doorway of the dorm living room like someone had dragged him there against his will.
Which, to be fair, was almost true.
“Ridiculously adorable,” Khaotung replied from the floor, surrounded by props—two Eclipse mugs, a stack of blankets, three color-coordinated outfits, and Montow wearing a tiny hoodie that read Soft Launch Supervisor.
Lita’s instructions had been clear.
“Shoot two TikToks and a reel. Cute, casual, low-key flirty. Subtle like a grenade in a lace bag.”
And so here they were.
Khaotung had already picked the “Which one of us…?” couples quiz. With soft lighting. Matching sweats. Domestic chaos energy.
First had tried to refuse. Briefly.
But then Khaotung had pulled out the matching socks.
They were fluffy. Patterned with cartoon cats and tiny stars. Khaotung had already put his on, socks poking out from under baby blue sweats and a matching cropped hoodie.
First stared at his own pair like they were weapons.
“They’re just socks,” Khaotung said sweetly.
“They’re bait.”
Khaotung grinned. “You’re learning.”
First finally sighed and sat down on the couch, sliding the socks on with zero expression. “Let’s get it over with.” Then leaned back arms stretched out along the back of the couch, almost close enough to touch Khaotung.
Khaotung hit record.
The music started.
The first question echoed through the phone:
“Who’s more dramatic?”
Khaotung pointed to himself. Then, slowly, also to First.
First turned to him with a flat stare.
Khaotung shrugged, smug. “Dual custody of the drama crown.”
“Unacceptable.”
Next question:
“Who flirts more?”
Khaotung raised both hands and struck a heart pose.
First did nothing.
The comments would eat it alive.
“Who makes the other laugh more?”
They both hesitated.
Then, at the same time, they pointed at each other.
Khaotung blinked. “Wait—really?”
“You snort when you laugh,” First said.
“I do not!”
“You do. It’s loud.”
“I feel attacked.”
“You are.”
Khaotung grinned, cheeks flushing faintly. “Still worth it.”
They paused the audio after that round. Montow had jumped up onto the couch between them, fluffing himself like he’d been summoned by fame.
Khaotung petted him absently, then glanced at First. “Do you want to try one more?”
“…Sure.”
He didn’t say why. But he was already shifting closer.
Second take. Different angle. This time, Khaotung swapped out his cropped hoodie for First’s oversized matching one. Meanwhile First shuffled even closer in his white tank top.
The comments would scream.
The next question hit:
“Who caught feelings first?”
Khaotung pointed at himself immediately. Cheeky. Light.
First didn’t move.
Khaotung blinked. Looked at him.
First met his eyes. Slow. Calm.
And then—quietly, deliberately—pointed to himself too.
Khaotung froze.
The camera was still rolling.
But neither of them were joking anymore.
· · ·
The stream had started with a simple question.
“So like—what if we just reviewed our VODs on stream?” Khaotung asked, cross-legged in his gaming chair, Montow curled around his feet like a goblin loaf. “It’s content and it counts as review.”
Neo blinked. “You just want validation from chat.”
“I want justice for my game sense,” Khaotung said, already clicking to start stream.
First, seated on the rug beside him with a water bottle and the exact same flat expression he always wore in VOD review, didn’t object. Which meant yes.
Gun was first to yell “STREAM VOD NIGHT LET’S GO,” and suddenly everyone was logging in, grabbing snacks, and pulling up clips.
Within five minutes, Khaotung’s Twitch chat was full of:
@eclipsefan_91: HE’S STREAMING WITH FIRST AGAIN???
@firwatch: IS THAT P’FIRST ON THE FLOOR???
@montowsupremacy: MONTOW CAM OR RIOT
@vodreviewpolice: this is NOT a drill
@glittershotpls: khaotung smiling already oh no
“Okay,” Khaotung announced, grinning. “We’re starting with our last win against Horizon. JJ, please narrate like it’s a cooking show.”
JJ, sprawled on Gun’s beanbag, leaned into the mic. “Here we have Princess Khao entering B site like a rogue cupcake, absolutely dripping with drama—”
Neo cut in dryly: “And somehow hitting all his shots.”
“Because I’m cracked,” Khaotung said, flipping his hair.
First didn’t look up. “You whiffed the first two.”
“I faked them for tension.”
Chat was exploding.
@aimlabs_sponsor: NOT THE FAKE WHIFF
@stratdad: “for tension” is CRAZY
@firstkhaodefense: LET HIM COOK
@pfirst_apologist: he said it so calmly im shaking
They reviewed three rounds before Gun declared they needed a break “for mental health,” and Khaotung gleefully switched tabs.
“Time for streamer VOD chaos,” he said. “We’re doing fan-favorites. Starting with… AJ’s old setup stream.”
“No,” AJ said.
“Yes,” JJ countered, already sending the link.
The screen filled with a grainy clip of AJ silently building IKEA furniture while lo-fi played in the background.
“This is my Roman Empire,” Khaotung whispered.
Neo wheezed. “He doesn’t speak for twenty-two minutes.”
“He nods at the camera,” Gun added, horrified. “Why is that hotter than anything I’ve done in my life?”
AJ looked unmoved.
First snorted softly and said, “He looks like he’s planning a heist.”
Chat had lost all sense of reason.
@ajnation: WHY IS HE LIKE THAT
@furniturecore: THIS IS CINEMA
@neo_alt: he hasn’t blinked in 10 minutes???
@gunlocked: why is this doing things to me
They moved on to Gun’s ancient Just Dance stream, JJ’s chaotic cooking video (“Why were you wearing heels??”), and finally, back to Eclipse gameplay. This time, from Khaotung’s POV.
“Oh god, no,” Khaotung groaned.
“Pull it up,” First said, voice low, calm, deadly.
“You enjoyed that ace too much,” Neo said.
“It was flawless,” Khaotung said proudly.
“It was feral,” Gun corrected. “You yelled ‘GET REKT’ in three different accents.”
Chat was now fully in meltdown:
@firwatch: WAIT WAIT WAIT
@firwatch: HE SMILED
@firwatch: SOMEONE CLIP THAT
@firstkhaoarchive: THIS IS NOT A DRILL
@montowsupremacy: montow saw everything
And he had.
Just a little.
He was leaning back on one hand now, eyes on the screen, smile faint but real. Khaotung glanced down at him mid-replay and felt something in his chest tilt.
They were surrounded by chaos. Laughter. Their own clips. Dumb commentary. Montow headbutting the camera.
And still, First looked at him.
Only him.
“Okay,” Khaotung said into the mic. “Next up—worst play of the month.”
“Don’t you dare,” First said, but he didn’t stop smiling.
The stream went on for two more hours.
They broke two chairs, screamed over one clutch round, accidentally opened a folder labeled “JJ thirst traps” (Gun: “I’m suing”), and ended with Montow stepping on the keyboard and banning someone named “firbabygirl32.”
It was, by all metrics, the most chaotic and successful VOD review Eclipse had ever done.
JJ slammed his phone down on the table. “We’re trending.”
Gun choked on his juice. “How high?”
Neo, deadpan, without looking up: “#3 worldwide. #FirstKhaoVOD is top ten. Montow has his own tag.”
“Montow.”
Khaotung, sprawled on the floor with Montow on his chest like a smug baguette, made a v sign toward the ceiling. “He worked hard.”
First, sitting cross-legged at the far end of the couch, said nothing. Just reached for his water and sipped like he wasn’t also in several hundred screen recordings right now.
JJ had his phone back in hand and was reading aloud, cackling.
“‘Why does First look like he’s about to propose every time Khaotung laughs?’”
“‘Khaotung calling it a fake-whiff for tension should be studied in literature.’”
“‘This is not a VOD review. This is a soft-launch with callouts.’”
AJ, watching silently from the kitchen counter, finally said, “There’s an edit where First leans over to whisper something and someone dubbed in ‘I’d die for you.’”
“It was a timestamp call,” First muttered.
Gun rolled over and threw an arm in the air. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU SOUND LIKE ON CAMERA.”
Neo started listing trending clips:
First gently pushing Khaotung’s hair back when it got in his face mid-analysis.
Khaotung leaning fully onto First’s back during the Ace replay and First not moving.
Montow sitting perfectly between them like an officiant at a wedding.
JJ gasped. “OH GOD THE ONE WHERE HE LAUGHS.”
“Which one?” Khaotung asked, flustered.
“THE one. Mid-game. First snorts. Looks at you. And smiles.”
Gun clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “They’re calling it ‘The Smile Heard Round the World.’”
Neo didn’t even blink. “It’s got 800K views on TikTok already.”
AJ: “That’s the sound of Lita scheduling fifteen more press events.”
First finally exhaled. “It was supposed to be VOD review.”
Khaotung turned to him, soft grin already blooming. “It was. We just reviewed the Vibe of the Day.”
JJ nodded solemnly. “And the vibe… was yearning.”
Gun pointed a finger skyward. “This is our Roman Empire.”
· · ·
Khaotung hesitated outside First’s room, knuckles hovering over the door. The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that always made him overthink, until he decided to stop. He knocked lightly, then peeked his head through the crack.
First sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by tidy stacks of papers— forms, contracts, notes —the kind of clutter that somehow only he could make look organized. His hair was slightly mussed, his glasses perched low on his nose, and for once, he wasn’t wearing a hoodie. Just a black tank top that left his shoulders bare.
When he looked up, his eyes softened. Khaotung felt it like sunlight breaking through.
“Can I join you?” he asked, voice quieter than he meant.
First blinked, then nodded. He shuffled a few piles aside, creating space without saying a word.
Khaotung crossed the room and sat beside him, folding his legs the same way, their knees nearly touching.
For a moment, he just watched. The way First’s hand moved when he flipped through the papers. The subtle line of concentration in his brow. Then his gaze drifted— to the curve of his shoulder, the smooth skin there, rare and unhidden.
“May I?” he asked suddenly, jerking his chin toward it.
First looked up, brow furrowing. “May you… what?”
Khaotung smiled, soft and nervous. “You’ll see.”
When First nodded, still confused, Khaotung’s whole face brightened. He leaned in and gently rested his cheek against First’s shoulder. Warmth sank through him like gravity. The scent familiar and grounding.
First froze for half a breath, then exhaled. His muscles eased under the weight. “Everything okay?” he asked, quiet but concerned.
Khaotung nodded, the movement making his cheek brush against First’s skin. “Mhm,” he murmured.
They stayed like that, First reading, signing, stacking. Khaotung watching, calm and content in a way that felt almost impossible. His heart was pounding, not from nerves, but from how right it felt.
He never would’ve imagined this months ago. Not this real, not this close. It wasn’t a dream. It was warmth and paper and breathing and the quiet scratch of a pen.
First sighed suddenly, a soft, almost amused sound. Khaotung tilted his face up.
He found First looking down at him— close enough to count eyelashes —but he was frowning.
Panic sparked. Khaotung pulled back immediately, guilt flooding in. “Sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
First blinked. “Tung, you’re acting weird.”
“I’m not,” he said too quickly.
First tilted his head. “What’s going on?”
“I—” Khaotung swallowed, cheeks burning. “I guess I shouldn’t have invaded your space like that.”
“You didn’t.” First’s voice was quiet but firm. “Why would you think that?”
Khaotung’s eyes dropped. He hadn’t even noticed his fingers until now— tugging at the edge of his shorts, twisting the fabric like it might unravel the feeling in his chest. When he looked back up, First was watching too, his frown deepening.
“I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t want you here,” First said. “Did I do something to make you feel that way?”
Khaotung’s head snapped up, panic in his chest. “No—no, it’s not you.” He exhaled, frustrated at himself. “It’s just… me. I’m always scared I’ll be too much.”
Something in First’s face softened, the frown easing into something gentler, something that made Khaotung’s breath catch.
Then, without a word, First reached out. His fingers brushed Khaotung’s temple, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear. His hand lingered, sliding down to the back of Khaotung’s head in a slow, grounding stroke.
“Tung,” he murmured. “Never. You could never be too much.”
The warmth in his voice settled deep, sure and quiet as a promise. And before Khaotung could even think to respond, First leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead—light, certain, and devastating in its simplicity.
Khaotung froze, blinking up at him, heart hammering, forehead still tingling where First’s lips had been.
Then his mouth curved into a grin. “You’re getting bold, P’First.”
First’s brows lifted, unamused. “It was a forehead kiss.”
Khaotung gasped dramatically. “So you admit it was a kiss.”
First sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”
“Adorable,” Khaotung corrected, leaning his cheek back against First’s shoulder like the world hadn’t just tilted. “And irresistible, apparently.”
First let out a quiet huff, somewhere between exasperation and fondness. “You were just panicking five seconds ago.”
Khaotung smirked up at him. “Yeah, well, you kissed it better.”
That earned him a real laugh—low, quiet, warm. First shook his head, eyes dropping to the papers again, but his voice softened around the edges. “You never stop, do you?”
“Not when I’m winning,” Khaotung said, triumphant.
First didn’t look up, but his hand drifted over, fingers brushing lightly against Khaotung’s knee, a silent stay.
Khaotung did.
Chapter 50: Chapter 50
Notes:
Hiiiii, I am back and omg cfc is killing me in the best way possible.
Also I got into a car accident (don't worry I am fine although my car is not) so I've been more available and the amount of times I have re-written this chapter is more than two hands worth. I hope you guys don't mind the back and forth so much I really felt like this was the best way to write it out. And yeah I am excited to move onto this next arc, I have been excited for months about it, keep an eye out for any changes in the tags too.
Anyway as always enjoy 🧡
—J
Chapter Text
-Thailand October 2025-
It was a rare quiet day in the Eclipse dorm.
Gun was off doing a makeup brand shoot with JJ and Neo, who had been promised matching eyeliner palettes. AJ had a solo segment recording for a Valorant docuseries. Even First was out, early call time for his Top Duelist in Thailand cover shoot, which Khaotung would definitely be teasing him about later.
And Khaotung?
Khaotung was bored.
He’d tried playing a ranked game solo, but it wasn’t as fun without someone to yell at mid-round. He tried doing a skincare stream but ended up just cuddling Montow and reviewing lip masks. After the third round of pacing the kitchen, he’d finally texted:
[khaotungg 🧁✨]
going to the café 💋
Now he sat perched on the corner stool near the register sipping iced tea out of a flower-shaped glass.
The café was calm this time of day, all soft jazz and sunlight filtering through the window decals. Mae Lin was humming behind the counter. Auntie Joe was bustling around adjusting cake stands like the Great Dessert Inspector.
“Sweetheart, that lipstick shade is a crime,” Auntie Joe said fondly as she passed, tapping Khaotung’s chin. “In that it’s illegal to look that good in public.”
“I missed you,” Khaotung grinned.
“We missed you more,” Mae Lin called. “Now remind me again—are you famous yet or just TikTok tragic?”
“Somewhere in between.”
There were two quiet fan interactions. One young couple who shyly asked for a selfie and whispered “you and First are so cute” on their way out, and an older teen who very confidently said “slay queen” and then knocked over a napkin holder.
The lull hit around 3 p.m.
Khaotung was leaning against the counter now, scrolling lazily through his camera roll and grinning at a blurry screenshot of First mid-stream frown.
The bell above the door jingled.
He didn’t look up right away.
Not until Mae Lin went quiet.
And then.
“…Khao.”
The voice snapped something inside him like a twig.
Khaotung’s head lifted slowly.
There in the doorway— hands in jacket pockets, hair shorter now but familiar in every other way —stood his ex. Same tilt of the head. Same calm, unreadable mouth. The sight hit like déjà vu.
-Thailand 2021 -
“Khao.”
That voice. Bright, warm, a little too self-assured, cut straight through the jazz humming from the speakers. He lifted his head from the pastry case just in time to see Napat striding toward the counter with the kind of confidence only an eighteen-year-old with perfect grades and zero self-doubt could have.
He was grinning. Full teeth, eyes shining. The kind of smile that landed like sunlight whether you wanted it to or not.
Behind him, Pim followed with three iced drinks pinched between her hands, rolling her eyes so dramatically it almost counted as exercise.
“I got my acceptance letter,” Napat announced, waving a cream-colored envelope in the air like it was a royal decree. “As expected.”
He said it lightly but there was that eyebrow raise, that tiny tilt of his lips, the one that always bordered on a smirk. Cocky, effortless, familiar.
Khaotung’s stomach flipped.
“Oh my god!” he blurted, leaning over the counter. “Which university? The film program? P’Prin’s recommendation worked?”
Napat slid the envelope across the counter like he was offering treasure. “Top choice. Cinematography track. Full scholarship.” Then, softer but still smug, “Told you I’d get it.”
He looked at Khaotung while he said it— directly, intensely —like he wanted the praise from him specifically.
It worked. It always worked.
“That’s amazing,” Khaotung said, voice too bright, too breathless. He hated how obvious he sounded but couldn’t help it. “I knew you would.”
Pim thumped the drinks onto the counter. “He made me carry these like his servant while he practiced the speech he planned to give you,” she muttered.
“I did not,” Napat protested, but the pink at the tips of his ears betrayed him.
“You literally said, ‘I need it to land,’” Pim deadpanned.
Khaotung blinked. “Land…?”
Napat cut in quickly. “She’s exaggerating.”
Pim folded her arms. “Sure. That’s what I do. Exaggerate when someone won’t shut up about how he can’t wait to show his acceptance letter to Khao.”
“Pim,” Napat hissed under his breath.
“Khao,” Pim said pointedly, “you didn’t hear this from me.”
But Khaotung wasn’t listening to her anymore.
His heart shouldn’t have leapt like that.
It did anyway.
Napat cleared his throat and straightened, slipping seamlessly back into confidence. He tapped the envelope lightly on the counter. “Anyway. I thought you’d want to see it first.”
“First?” Khaotung asked, cheeks warming.
“Of course,” Napat said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
There it was.
That version of him.
The one who knew how to make people feel chosen and special, even when he said it casually.
Pim sighed under her breath, but she wasn’t smiling. She was watching them with that familiar, cautious cousin look— not intervening, but definitely clocking every beat.
Napat leaned across the counter, lowering his voice in a way he only ever did with Khao. “I want you to come with me when I tell my parents. You know, moral support.”
Khaotung blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Napat nudged his hand with a knuckle. “You’re lucky. I don’t invite just anyone to witness my glory.”
“You invite everyone to witness your glory,” Pim muttered.
Napat ignored her. He kept his eyes on Khaotung.
And Khaotung felt the flutter again. That warm, dizzy, terrifying rush that had started a few months ago and never fully went away.
Before he could think better of it, Napat added, “And after that… maybe we can celebrate? Just us?”
Pim’s head snapped toward them so fast her ponytail whipped. “Oh, we’re doing just us now? Should I leave the café? Should Mae Lin close early? Should the lights dim—?”
“Pim,” Napat groaned.
But Khaotung’s pulse was already in his ears.
“Just us?” he repeated softly.
Napat leaned his elbow on the counter, smiling lazily— practiced, charming, a little dangerous. “If you’re free.”
Khaotung swallowed. “I… yeah. I’m free.”
“Good,” Napat said. “I like when you’re free.”
Pim made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half warning.
Khaotung didn’t look at her.
He was too busy staring at Napat, who was still smiling at him like the room had narrowed to just the two of them.
-Thailand October 2025 -
The café felt quieter than before.
Khaotung sat with his hands around a lukewarm glass of butterfly pea tea, watching the late sunlight play across the windows. The table was tucked in the corner near the pastry case, but it might as well have been a stage.
Napat sat across from him, one ankle propped on his knee, posture relaxed in that confident, calculated way he always had. He wore a button-down rolled at the sleeves, a dark watch glinting under the light. His gaze didn’t wander.
It was fixed on Khaotung.
“I didn’t come here by accident,” Napat said, voice low, measured.
Khaotung raised an eyebrow, unmoved. “No?”
“I saw your name trending last week. Watched the stream. Then checked your schedule.”
“You’re tracking me?” There was no heat in it, just quiet disbelief.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” A faint curl of his lip. “You’re public now. It’s efficient to know when you’ll be visible.”
Khaotung didn’t look away. “So you came to prove something?”
“I came,” Napat said, “because I’ve had too many months to think about what I threw away.”
-Thailand 2022 -
It was one of those Bangkok nights that felt more like a soft hum than a city. Warm air drifting through the open windows, the sound of distant motorbikes, and the faint sweetness of Pim’s abandoned milk tea still clinging to the coffee table.
Khaotung sat cross-legged on the floor of Napat’s apartment, laptop open, snacks spread around them like a shrine to procrastination. His cheeks were flushed from laughing. Napat had spent the last ten minutes mimicking one of their old teachers with scary accuracy.
“Stop, stop— I can’t breathe,” Khaotung wheezed, falling back onto his hands.
Napat only grinned, pushing his hair out of his face. “You’re dramatic,” he teased, but his eyes softened in that way that always made Khaotung’s chest tighten.
The room dimmed as the screen saver flicked on. Evening had blurred into night without either of them noticing.
“This overlay is going to kill me. Why is graphic design so… mean.” Khaotung sighed, glancing at his laptop.
“You’ll survive,” Napat said easily, stretching out against the couch like he owned it. “You always do.”
Khaotung smiled at that, a small, almost shy curl of his lips he didn’t let many people see.
Silence settled. Comfortable. Full.
Napat was watching him. Not in the usual teasing, bantering way. It was quieter. Focused.
Khaotung felt it and looked down at his hands.
“What?” he murmured.
“You’re cute when you’re avoiding eye contact.”
Khaotung’s face went red instantly. “I’m not avoiding—”
But he was.
And Napat knew it.
Their friendship had recently hovered at the edge of something almost— a brush of fingers here, a glance that lingered half a second too long —but never quite tipping.
Now it felt like it was tilting.
Napat shifted, leaning closer. The air between them warmed.
“Khao.”
It came out low, almost a whisper.
Khaotung blinked at him. Heart hammering. Breath stuck somewhere in his throat.
Then Napat reached over and gently tugged on the edge of Khaotung’s hoodie, a tiny motion, but enough to pull him forward.
And before Khaotung could think or ask or breathe—
Napat kissed him.
Soft at first. Testing. Then firmer, decisive, like he’d made this choice long before tonight and was only now cashing it in.
Khaotung froze. Then melted. Every thought blew out like a candle. His fingers curled in the sleeve of his own hoodie. His whole body lit up in one bright, dizzy rush.
By the time they pulled apart, Khaotung was breathless.
“Napat,” he whispered, eyes wide.
Napat didn’t look breathless. He looked steady. Composed. Sure.
He brushed his thumb beneath Khaotung’s lower lip, casual— too casual —for someone who had just upended the universe.
“We’re together now,” he said simply.
Just that.
Not I like you.
Not I’ve wanted this.
Not I feel the same.
Just a statement. Delivered like a conclusion he’d already reached sometime off-screen.
Khaotung’s heart soared anyway.
“Together,” he repeated, smiling. Beaming.
Napat answered with a soft huff of a laugh and a hand slipping behind Khaotung’s neck, pulling him into a second kiss. Something deeper, slower, confident in a way that felt like ownership.
But for a single flicker, a heartbeat-long moment, his expression had shifted.
Not tender.
Not nervous.
Not even excited.
Just… smug. Like he’d claimed something he always assumed would be his.
Khaotung was too busy memorizing the shape of Napat’s smile, too busy feeling the warmth of his hands, too busy believing this moment was everything he’d waited for.
When they finally pulled apart again, Khaotung was almost glowing.
Napat was calm. A little too calm.
He brushed Khao’s cheek with his knuckles and said, “Don’t overthink it.”
“I’m not,” Khaotung whispered, though he absolutely was.
“Good,” Napat said, already reaching for the half-finished drink beside him. “We’re fine. You’re mine now.”
It was said lightly. Playfully.
But it stuck.
Even as Khaotung leaned into him, heart racing, head spinning, imagining futures that sparkled like city lights.
Something in that sentence settled into the room.
Something subtle.
Something cold.
-Thailand October 2025 -
Khaotung sipped his tea to fill the space. “You didn’t seem that broken up when we met in December.”
“I was respecting your line,” he replied smoothly. “You said we were done. I gave you space to realize what we had.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Have you?”
Khaotung didn’t answer immediately.
Napat leaned in, tone still quiet but hard-edged now. “We were good together. You know that. The things we shared? The way we fit? You don’t get that kind of rhythm with just anyone.”
“We were convenient,” Khaotung said softly. “That’s not the same as connection.”
Napat scoffed. “Don’t rewrite history just because you’re getting attention now.”
Khaotung stiffened. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” Napat said, voice crisp. “What’s not fair is you pretending two years of real, grown love meant nothing just because it didn’t have the sparkle of whatever you’re doing with your cold teammate on stream.”
-Thailand 2022 -
It was raining, the soft, steady kind that made the whole flat smell like wet pavement and old jasmine tea. Khaotung stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring something questionable in a pot. He’d followed a TikTok recipe, which was always a dangerous gamble.
Napat walked in, hair damp from the shower, t-shirt soft and worn.
“Smells good,” he said, sliding behind Khaotung to peer into the pot.
Khaotung beamed. “It’s supposed to be creamy tomato ramen—”
“That trend again?” Napat teased lightly, reaching over him to pick up a spoon. “You really love copying people on TikTok.”
Khaotung laughed it off. “I just wanted to make something for you. You always cook.”
Napat hummed and tasted the broth. “It’s cute that you’re trying.”
The words were gentle. His tone was kind.
But the word trying held a tiny sting. Small enough that Khaotung swallowed it down.
“You wanna eat on the couch?” Khaotung asked.
“Sure,” Napat said, brushing a hand against his waist— warm, affectionate. “Put it in those bowls I like.”
Khao smiled all over again.
Of course. The one set he bought for filming food videos.
They sat together on the couch, knees touching, Khaotung sneaking glances every few seconds until Napat noticed and smirked.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Khao said. “Just… happy.”
Napat tapped his knee in acknowledgment. “Good. I like when you’re like this.”
Like this.
Soft.
Quiet.
Tucked neatly into his side.
· · ·
The flat was warm in that lived-in way that came from two people sharing space for months. Their laundry draped over the back of a chair, an empty takeout container forgotten on the counter, Khaotung’s streaming setup still glowing faintly from the spare room. Outside, the city hummed with the soft traffic of a Sunday night.
Khaotung was curled into the far corner of the couch with his laptop balanced on his knees, typing something into his stream calendar. “So—Monday I’ll do a late Valorant night, Tuesday maybe a just-chatting stream… I was thinking of a cooking stream on Thursday, maybe make those matcha brownies everyone’s been asking about—”
From the other end of the couch, Napat made a low hum, eyes still on the phone in his hand. He was stretched out like he owned the space, one leg hooked lazily over the armrest.
“And,” Khao continued, flipping his screen toward him, “Friday could be a spontaneous late-night thing. I’ve been wanting to—”
Without looking away from his phone, Napat reached over, caught the edge of Khao’s oversized hoodie, and tugged the collar straight. “You should keep Friday free,” he said, casual, like it was already decided. “I’ve got a thing with my classmates. You can stream Saturday instead. Better for views anyway.”
Khao blinked. “Saturday’s usually slower, though—”
“You’ll be fine,” Napat said, finally glancing up with a small, practiced smile. “Trust me. You don’t want to burn out your audience. And you’re always saying you want to be consistent, right?”
“Right,” Khao said automatically, even though the stream idea had lit something excited in his chest a moment ago.
Napat nodded like that settled it, then went back to scrolling.
Khaotung closed his laptop a little too softly, as if that made it less of a concession. “So… what do you want for dinner?” he asked, shifting sideways until he could lean his head on Napat’s shoulder.
Napat let him. Didn’t move away, but didn’t lean back either, his free hand stayed where it was, his thumb still flicking over the screen.
Khaotung told himself this was fine. That Napat’s bluntness was just honesty. That comfort sometimes meant silence. That steering his schedule was just… care.
-Thailand October 2025 -
Khaotung set his tea down.
“I’m not pretending it meant nothing,” he said. “But I am realizing it meant something different than I thought.”
Napat’s jaw clenched.
“You used to be happy with me,” he said.
“I used to settle for less,” Khaotung replied. “You were safe. I could disappear for days and not miss you. You never noticed when I needed more.”
“I noticed,” Napat snapped. “You just never said it out loud.”
“I didn’t think I had to,” Khaotung said. “I thought if someone wanted you, they’d show up. Not wait until after they lost you to figure out how.”
-Thailand 2023 -
Khaotung was in front of the mirror, adjusting the small rhinestones he’d stuck along the outer corners of his eyes. The lighting in the bedroom was warm, and the glitter caught it just right.
He looked… cute.
No. He looked like himself.
Napat walked in, scrolling something on his phone.
“You’re wearing that?” he asked lightly.
Khaotung blinked. “For the stream, yeah. I like it.”
“It’s a lot,” Napat said, stepping closer. He didn’t sound cruel, just assessing, like a director adjusting a shot. “The rhinestones. The colors. People already think streamers are loud. You don’t need to feed into it.”
“Oh.” Khao looked back at his reflection. “I… guess I can take them off.”
Napat slipped an arm around his waist, chin brushing his shoulder. “It’s not that serious. I’m just saying you don’t have to be extra all the time. You’re interesting without the decorations.”
Decorations.
Khaotung nodded.
Removed one rhinestone.
Then another.
Napat kissed his cheek. “Good boy.”
It was soft. Warm. Sweet.
And Khaotung smiled at it.
Smiled genuinely.
He didn’t let himself think about how much lighter he’d felt five minutes earlier, glitter still on his face.
· · ·
The restaurant was all warm wood tones and low amber light, the kind of place that managed to feel expensive without trying too hard. Conversation bounced across the booth— three of Napat’s university friends trading stories about a group project that had gone sideways.
Khaotung sat on the inside, next to Napat, smiling when the group laughed and adding the occasional comment. He’d met them enough times to know their rhythms: the way Ploy always exaggerated for comedic effect, the way Min liked to stir the pot, the way Bank rolled his eyes at both but still laughed along.
“So,” Min said, leaning forward, “are you still single, Napat? Someone in my psych class was asking about you.”
There was a chorus of teasing ooo’s.
Napat smiled, smooth and easy. “Still single.”
Khaotung didn’t let his expression change. He reached for his glass of water, watching the condensation trail down his fingers.
“She’s cute,” Ploy said. “Tall, good smile.”
“I’m sure she is,” Napat replied, light as air, before steering the conversation back toward someone’s upcoming thesis defense.
It was only a few minutes later that Ploy’s gaze flicked to Khaotung. “Oh—hey, you popped up on my TikTok the other day. Playing that game with the colored maps? What’s it called?”
“Valorant,” Khaotung said, perking up a little. “Yeah, I’ve been streaming it more lately—”
“Hard to miss you,” Napat cut in with a small smile, hand brushing Khaotung’s arm like the words were a compliment. “Always so… full of energy on camera.”
Ploy grinned. “He’s got personality. That’s why people watch.”
“Mm,” Napat hummed, still smiling, still looking at him. “Just don’t wear yourself out. You don’t need to turn it up to eleven every time. You’re already interesting when you’re just… you.”
On the surface, it was gentle. Concern, even. But the pause before just you, the little glance he gave the table before saying it, those were familiar.
Khaotung laughed like it was nothing. “Guess I’ll save the glitter for special occasions, then.”
They all chuckled and moved on, already back to a story about one of their professors.
But under the table, Khaotung curled his fingers together in his lap, the faintest sting settling in his chest.
By the time they got back to the flat that night, he’d told himself it didn’t matter. That Napat was probably just trying to make sure he didn’t burn out.
And because bringing it up would only earn him a soft smile and a “You’re reading too much into it”.
…he let it go. Or pretended to.
-Thailand October 2025 -
A tense silence fell.
“You really think this is better?” Napat asked, lower now, his eyes narrowing. “That whatever you’re building with him is more real than us?”
Khaotung thought about it.
Khaotung thought of First’s eyes during stream; of how a single, clipped sentence could anchor him for days; of how First didn’t control. How First told him his outfit wasn’t enough when he asked if it was too much. How he told him he could NEVER be too much. He observed, learned, showed up.
“It feels different,” he said at last. “And I want that.”
Napat didn’t look away. “I’m not giving up.”
Khaotung blinked.
“I’ve been in therapy,” Napat continued. “I’m not scared of showing up now. I failed you. I won’t again.”
Khaotung stared at him.
-Thailand 2024 -
It was late, almost 1 a.m. The living room was dim except for the glow from Khaotung’s monitor in the spare room, still humming quietly from his early stream.
He padded out, holding two mugs: one for him, one for Napat.
Napat was on the couch, the flicker of his phone lighting his face. He didn’t look up.
“I made chamomile,” Khao said softly.
“Mm,” Napat replied without lifting his eyes. “I’m heading to bed soon.”
Khao set one mug on the table anyway. “Thought we could watch something together.”
Napat made a noncommittal sound. “I’m exhausted.”
Khao nodded. “Okay. Maybe tomorrow? If you’re free?”
Silence.
Then, still staring at his phone:
“I’ve got stuff all week. Don’t wait up for me. Really.”
Khao stood there a moment—hands warming around his own mug.
He used to sit beside Napat until he fell asleep.
He used to be part of his nights, his routines, his softness.
Now he was something Napat moved around.
“You’re tired,” Khao said quietly. “I get it.”
He placed the untouched second mug closer to him, a habit he hadn’t broken yet and went to switch off the spare room light.
Behind him, he heard the soft clink of ceramic.
He turned.
Napat had moved the mug further away, to the far corner of the table, out of reach.
Not on purpose.
Not to be mean.
Just… without care.
· · ·
The door opened with a soft click, followed by the muted thud of shoes against the entry mat.
Khaotung didn’t look up from the couch.
“Hey,” Napat said easily, like it hadn’t been three days. “Sorry I’ve been MIA. Lost track of time.”
Khaotung hummed. Not a question. Not an invitation to explain.
They’d texted once— Won’t be back for a while —and that had been it. Khaotung had spent the first night wondering where he was, the second wondering if he should care, and the third realizing that he didn’t. Not in the way you were supposed to miss your partner. He’d only missed the space Napat usually filled. The clink of his mug in the morning, the quiet hum of him pacing while on a call, the occasional hand on his shoulder as he walked past.
Now, Napat was here again, filling the flat with the sound of his voice.
“…and then I ran into Pond from uni, and we got talking about that cinematographer he’s obsessed with—he’s apparently shooting a new piece. You’d love it, the color palette’s insane.”
Khaotung nodded, staring at the faint scratch on the coffee table. He didn’t say that he hadn’t touched the books Napat had recommended last month. That he’d stopped bringing up his own finds— the clothes he’d ordered, the makeup drop he’d stayed up for, the playlist he’d been working on —because every time, it was met with a polite nod and a subject change.
Napat kept going. “…oh, and I finally got the new lens. 85mm. Absolute dream for portraits. Can’t wait to test it out.”
Khaotung smiled faintly. He didn’t say that he’d love to try it with him. That he’d been imagining it for weeks. Napat behind the camera, him in front, just them and the shutter click. But Napat never offered, so the thought stayed where it always did: unspoken.
Now Napat was talking about a short film he’d helped on, his voice animated. “The screening’s next Friday. Big thing, producers, critics, the works.”
Something flickered in Khaotung’s chest, small and sudden. He sat up a little, turning toward him fully for the first time all evening. “That sounds amazing,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging into a real smile. “Do you…”
He hesitated, the question catching on his tongue. But the thought of being there— seeing him proud, meeting the people he worked with —felt too warm to swallow.
“…Do you want me to come?”
The pause stretched just long enough for his pulse to quicken, for the possibility to start painting itself in his mind.
Napat’s smile was slow but charming. “Ah… it’s really more of a professional environment. You know. Networking, industry people.”
“Oh.” The syllable was small, thin. “Right.”
“It’s not that I wouldn’t want you there,” Napat added quickly, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s just… no one knows about us. And, you know how it is—people talk.”
Khaotung nodded again, gaze fixed on his hands. “Of course.”
He didn’t say that they’d been together long enough that he’d stopped counting months. That his moms and Pim asked about Napat every time they called. That he couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone out together anywhere that wasn’t tucked in the corner of a café or hidden in the back of a theater.
Napat crossed the room, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head before disappearing into the kitchen. “I’ll tell you all about it after,” he called.
“Sure,” Khaotung said.
The word hung there, weightless and hollow.
He leaned back against the couch, listening to the sound of Napat moving around, the faint clink of glass against counter. He tried to remember the last time they’d talked, really talked, about something that mattered to both of them.
The silence between them now didn’t feel sharp. It didn’t even feel cold. It just felt… permanent.
· · ·
They fought for a month about the same two things in different outfits. Napat’s refusal to acknowledge them publicly “I want privacy, Khao. I don’t need my name in Twitch chat.” and the way he dismissed Khaotung’s work “It’s content, not a career. Don’t trap yourself.”. Some nights it was sharp. Some nights it was quiet. All of it eroded.
They finally agreed on real space. Not just separate corners of a shared life, an actual pause. Khaotung packed a week’s worth of clothes and moved back in with his moms.
The days blurred— streaming and helping at the café. By the time the month was up, he wasn’t sure if he missed Napat or just the version of himself that had been willing to wait.
Their flat felt different now.
Cleaner, quieter, but not in the way Khaotung liked.
The shelves by the window looked wrong. Too bare. The tiny ceramic cat he’d bought from a night market in Chiang Mai was gone. The framed polaroid of them at the beach —where he’d been mid-laugh and Napat had been squinting into the sun— was missing from the side table. The mismatched pastel coasters he’d insisted on keeping because they “made the place less serious” had vanished. Even the throw blanket he used to drape over the arm of the couch, the one with embroidered daisies, wasn’t there anymore.
It wasn’t messy before. It had been theirs. Soft corners and color and proof that someone warm lived here.
Now it felt curated. Edited.
As if someone had gone through and quietly erased every trace of him that felt too bright. Too loud. Too much.
Khaotung swallowed.
He didn’t ask where his things were. He already knew the answer.
Packed away.
Stored neatly in a box.
Waiting to see if they were still worth displaying.
He stood in the living room with his arms crossed, watching Napat kick his shoes off like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t just spent thirty days pretending the other didn’t exist.
“You look good,” Napat said easily, glancing at him as he tossed his keys onto the counter. “Streaming’s going well?”
“It’s fine,” Khaotung said. Short. Clipped.
Napat didn’t notice or pretended not to. “I saw you did that charity thing. Raised a lot, right? Impressive.”
“Uh-huh.”
They stood there for a beat, the air already tightening.
Finally, Khaotung said, “We need to talk.”
Napat smiled faintly, like he’d been expecting it. “About us?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, dropping onto the couch. “I’ve been thinking. We just need more space. We took a month, but—”
Khaotung’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “More space? We’ve been taking space for months now.”
Napat’s brows lifted. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s exactly fair,” Khaotung shot back. “You still won’t tell anyone we’re together. You still roll your eyes when I talk about my job—my literal job, Napat. You don’t come to my events, you hardly ask about my streams unless you’re making a joke about them, and you still act like being with me is… something to hide.”
“It’s privacy,” he countered, cool. “I’m not letting strangers pick apart my life.”
“Private is one thing,” Khaotung said. “Invisible is another.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“I’m done reacting,” Khaotung snapped. “We’ve wasted enough time. I’m not doing this for another month. Or another year. If you can’t stand next to me in public and say I’m yours, then you’re not mine.”
The words hit harder than he expected. They left him shaking, but he didn’t let it show.
“…So what, you’re breaking up with me?” Napat asked.
“Yes,” Khaotung said. His voice didn’t shake, but everything in him did. “Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep being… half here for you.”
Napat’s mouth curved, indulgent, confident. “If you want to throw this away, that’s on you.”
Khaotung’s chest twisted. “It’s not what I want. I want you. I’ve always wanted you.” The words rushed out before he could stop them. “I just want you to look at me and not see something you have to hide, or tone down, or… manage. I want you to want me the way I am.”
For the first time, Napat’s smirk softened, but it wasn’t the kind of softness Khao needed. It was the calm, knowing look of someone who believed the storm would pass on its own.
Finally, Napat nodded once, almost like he was humoring him, and reached for his bag. “Guess we’ll see.”
Khaotung’s heart cracked right down the middle at the casualness of it. Even now, even here, Napat wasn’t fighting. Wasn’t asking him to stay. Wasn’t reaching.
Just waiting.
Waiting like this was another pause. Another dramatic flare-up that would settle on its own. Like Khaotung would cool down, soften, come back the way he always had.
Like he was something that could be packed away for a month and set back out when convenient.
Like a ceramic cat.
Like pastel coasters.
Like a version of him that was easier to display.
“You’ll come back,” Napat had said gently. “You always do.”
Khaotung felt something inside him harden at that.
No.
He had come back before because he thought love meant shrinking. Meant waiting. Meant proving he could be quieter, softer, less visible.
But he wasn’t a decorative piece. He wasn’t an accessory to be stored when things got inconvenient. He wasn’t something to be managed.
He was bright. Loud. Glittering. A presence. A person.
And he deserved someone who would leave him out in the open.
Khaotung’s heart ached. Somehow he was still the one feeling too much.
He didn’t walk Napat to the door. He didn’t ask him to stay.
He just stood there, listening to the sound of Napat’s footsteps fade down the hall, clinging to the smallest, most dangerous hope, that someday soon, Napat would knock again, ready to say yes to all of him.
-Thailand October 2025 -
“I’m not asking for an answer today,” Napat added, standing slowly. “But I’m not walking away either. You’re the love of my life, Khao. I’m not going to pretend I’m fine with losing you.”
And with that, he turned and walked out.
The bell jingled.
Khaotung sat frozen in the silence.
He didn’t feel triumphant. Or shaken. Just... heavy.
Because for a long time, he had wanted Napat to say all of that.
He just hadn’t realized how much he’d stopped needing it.
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