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The evening air inside the quiet studio lounge was thick with the hum of the air conditioner and the soft tap of rain against the glass panes.
Khaotung sat on the edge of the leather couch, a guitar resting loosely across his lap. His hands remained idle over the strings, his gaze fixed on First, who was sitting across from him on the floor, scrolling through his phone while leaning back against Khaotung’s knees.
"Khao," First called out without looking up, his voice easy and familiar. "Are we getting food after this shoot, or are you heading straight home?"
Khaotung’s heart did that familiar, quiet flutter—the kind he had learned to swallow down months ago. He reached out, his fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before gently brushing through First’s hair, keeping the gesture light, effortless, and casual.
"I don't know yet," Khaotung replied softly. "Why? What are you craving?"
First tilted his head back, resting his neck against Khaotung’s knee, looking up with a wide, bright grin that made Khaotung’s chest ache. "Shabu? Or maybe just grab coffee? My Saturday is completely open, and you know I always end up hanging out with you anyway."
“Sabi sa sarili ko ‘wala lang ‘to’… pero ba’t sa’yo na ‘ng aking Sabado?” (Told myself that this is nothing but why my Saturdays are yours?) the words echoed silently in Khaotung’s mind. Every single weekend, every free gap in his schedule was filled with First’s presence, until his entire calendar revolved around him.
"Yeah, sure. Shabu sounds good," Khaotung murmured, forcing a small smile.
First let out a light laugh and smacked Khaotung’s knee playfully. "Great! You’re paying though."
"In your dreams, Kanaphan," Khaotung retorted, leaning over to lightly shove First’s shoulder.
It was seamless. They teased each other, hit each other playfully, and joked like best friends always did. As if there was no weight in the room, no lingering stares, no unspoken truth suspended between them.
For First, there was truly no malice. First held his hand during fan meets because they were partners; First wrapped an arm around his waist because they were comfortable; First leaned in close because he trusted him completely. For First, it was pure innocence.
"Hey," First’s voice snapped Khaotung back to reality. First was staring at him, his eyebrows slightly drawn together in subtle concern. "You’ve been zoning out a lot today. Is something wrong?"
First reached out, his warm palm briefly pressing against Khaotung’s forehead to check his temperature, then resting gently on his cheek. The touch was so tender that Khaotung almost leaned into it, almost closing his eyes to savor the warmth.
Instead, Khaotung gently pulled back, taking First’s wrist and sliding his hand away. He offered a casual, re-assuring shrug.
"It's nothing," Khaotung lied smoothly, his tone light.
First narrowed his eyes playfully, not entirely convinced. "Are you sure? You can tell me anything, Khao. You know that, right? If you’re stressed about work or if something’s bothering you..."
"First, seriously,I’m good," Khaotung repeated, giving First’s hand a brief squeeze before letting go completely. "Just tired from rehearsals. Don't overthink it."
"Alright, if you say so," First said, throwing his arms back over Khaotung’s knees and relaxing once more. "Just make sure you tell me if anything changes, okay? I don't want secrets between us."
"Yeah. No secrets," Khaotung whispered.
He looked down at the back of First’s head, feeling the sharp pang of unspoken words pressing against his throat. He thought about how easy it would be to just say it. To tell First how his eyes searched for him in crowded rooms, how his heart skipped a beat whenever First called his name, how he hated that they were so good at pretending.
But if he spoke, everything would break. The comfortable banter, the casual touches, the quiet Saturdays together—all of it would shatter. If he confessed, First might pull away, and Khaotung couldn't bear the thought of going back to being strangers.
If he ruined this, he could never get it back. It was better to stay enslaved by his own fear, slave to the unspoken feelings and the fear of what people would say.
"Khao?" First called out softly again, looking up over his shoulder.
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for always being here with me." First smiled, a genuine, warm expression that melted Khaotung’s defenses. "I don't know what I'd do without you, friend."
The word 'friend' struck Khaotung like a subtle blow to the chest, but his mask didn't slip. He simply strummed a single, soft chord on the guitar, letting the note fade into the air.
"Me too, First," Khaotung whispered, forcing a smile as he looked away. "Me too."
He kept his feelings buried deep, repeating the familiar mantra in his head like a shield against the pain.
He would keep acting, keep laughing, and keep hitting First’s shoulder playfully—acting as if they were just friends, as if he wasn't completely in love with him.