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There are many reasons why Khaotung could be at First’s door–or, at least, there used to be. Sometimes it would be barely credible excuses–I was craving curry from that place next to your apartment; Help me practice these lines Fir, they keep slipping away from me; N'Tonkhao has some friends over for a school project and I don’t want to be in the way.
It’s endearing–in First’s opinion, Khaotung never needs a good reason to come over; but no matter how close they are, his friend is too polite to show up without offering an apology, or something in exchange, like a few bags of the snacks First is obsessed with at the moment.
Other times he’d just be honest, he’d look up at First with shiny eyes and the faintest hint of pink high on his cheeks, and he’d admit that he missed First, that he just wanted to see him. Those times were most special to First, not because Khaotung shies away from declarations of affection, but because he hardly initiates… anything. He's more of a go with the flow kind of person, and it’s hard to get a hold of him. First has learned the hard way not to expect Khaotung to reach out, back when their friendship was an uncertain, budding seedling. First believes he did most of the watering, but he tries hard not to resent Khaotung for it. It’s just how his friend is, and First loves Khaotung for his imperfections as well, not just for his many qualities.
These days, though, Khaotung’s impromptu visits are motivated by something else. Something that First can immediately read in his messy hair, in his swollen lips, in the way his eyes can’t seem to settle, in his fidgety fingers. He’s very pretty, in the way a baby bird fallen from its nest would be, ruffled and lost, stumbling on unsteady feet. It reminds First of when they first met, two bumbling teenagers who could barely hold eye contact with each other, way before Khaotung got a haircut and his body filled out and he started wearing confidence like a second skin.
First lets Khaotung in, because there is not one single scenario he can come up with where he’d shut the door in Khaotung’s face and send him away.
Khaotung has been here a lot; in fact, he was there with First for every house viewing appointment, he even excitedly offered to go to IKEA with First and kept pushing lamps and pillows and cat-themed welcome mats between First’s arms, giggling as they picked towel sets and matching house slippers. In all ways except the real, it felt like they were preparing to move in together.
And yet, his steps are hesitant now, like a stranger who isn’t entirely sure whether he’s welcome. First rolls his eyes and grabs him by the wrist, all but dragging him to the bedroom.
Khaotung is good at many things, but if there is one thing he’s terrible at, it’s asking for what he wants. With First it works because First has devoted years to learning Khaotung’s tells, and maybe he’s accidentally spoiled Khaotung a little in the process, because with him Khaotung doesn’t even need to open his mouth; First will simply know what he wants, and deliver.
It’s a different matter when it comes to his girlfriend–First almost pities Khaotung, he can’t even begin to imagine himself in his position. If he had to look someone in the eyes and ask them, “Could you please fuck me?” he’d probably die of embarrassment before getting a single word out.
But with First, Khaotung didn’t need to ask. It was all in the touches and in the gazes and in the soft, subdued tone Khaotung used while saying–anything, really, anything trivial–and First knew that what he actually meant was “take me from behind.”
First knows. Khaotung knows he knows. The rest is easy: getting Khaotung out of his clothes (a quick ordeal, he comes over in a shirt and shorts and slippers, usually commando) and spread on his bed (a matter of seconds: Khaotung has the gay power walk perfected to the T, even though he most definitely does not swing that way).
First doesn’t even need to prep Khaotung usually–he comes over with his hole open and ready, sometimes the lube soaks through his pants in wet spots between his thighs, but First never has the heart to tell him. Khaotung drives here, no one is going to witness his walks of shame in and out of First’s house anyway.
Tonight is no different: when First rubs a knuckle against Khaotung’s rim, he finds him wet and puffy. Did he finally get his girlfriend to finger him? There’s no way Khaotung asked her to. Either she’s starting to learn Khaotung’s secret language as well, or–far more likely–Khaotung locked himself in the bathroom and stretched himself on his own. First can clearly imagine the impatient, rushed movements of his wrist as he held himself with one hand flat on the shower tiles. He probably didn’t even bother making it good for himself, he just needed it done as soon as possible so he could sneak out of the house and drive to First’s.
First lets his hand fall from Khaotung’s ass and leans forward propped on his palms, one knee knocking Khaotung’s legs apart to make space for himself. Khaotung whimpers at that, his cock hard and leaking, curved against his belly. First shifts his weight to press the heel of one hand against it, and Khaotung throws his head back with a startled moan, the vein in the side of his neck bulging like it does when he’s singing.
First leans in to trace it with his tongue, barely resisting the urge to suck the skin in his mouth. Khaotung’s scent is–it’s complicated, because First can smell him, his soap and traces of his shaving cream and his night moisturizer, but he can also smell her, a sweet, floral undercurrent; and he wonders if that’s what happens when you spend so much time together with someone, that you start smelling a bit like them.
The thought makes him immediately sad, it spreads into him as if someone injected it directly in his veins; but then again, First could have shut the door in Khaotung’s face and he didn’t, so part of this is on him.
First strokes himself to hardness with a lubed hand, observing the way Khaotung’s eyes follow the movement, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his parted mouth huffing out little pants. He’s so beautiful in his desire. A part of First purrs at the thought that no one else gets to see him like this; it makes it easier to indulge in the fantasy that Khaotung could be his.
First starts pushing in and the rings of muscle seem to welcome him–there is no resistance at all, it’s like going home. Khaotung loves this, he was born for it. He’s already gone pliant on the bed, his flushed chest rising and falling to the accelerated rhythm of his breath.
It’s only when First bottoms out that Khaotung clenches around him, the unexpected tightness pushing a moan out of First’s throat this time. It’s almost as if Khaotung is trying to keep him locked inside–not that First has any intention of leaving. He’d build his dream house right here if he could, shared fences and all.
First waits until Khaotung cracks one eye open, eyebrows knitted in confusion, then he snaps his hips forward and Khaotung’s hands scramble to clutch around the bedsheets for purchase.
First is not the most coordinated person ever, everyone knows. He’s sure Khaotung could find someone better to do this to him, and yet it’s his name that Khaotung is moaning. First thrusts his hips harder, gives Khaotung his all. He grabs the back of Khaotung’s thigh and pushes it against his chest, looking for the angle that makes Khaotung cry out and hook his other leg around First’s hip to drag him even closer.
“When are you going to tell her…,” First starts. First is notably not good at silences, especially when he’s in company. It’s never been that much of a problem with Khaotung, but First has found that when they’re like this, naked and pressed against each other, the words simply tumble out of him. “That she can’t fuck you like you want it.”
This is the core of the issue, after all, and Khaotung can pretend like nothing happened, once he’s back outside, and First can let him, because he’s never been good at saying no to Khaotung; but First is also a complainer–no, a whiner at times–and there is a type of bluntness that he reserves for Khaotung, born out of their mutual trust, and out of First’s endless silent frustration at his best friend. It’s in the privacy of First’s bedroom that his bluntness finds a special outlet, and sometimes it might border on too much, but…
But Khaotung squeezes around him, and he pants, and he turns his head to the side, as if trying to escape from First’s gaze, but his foot digs into First’s tailbone, and First has to bite back a moan of his own.
“Maybe you should buy her a strap-on,” First continues, relentless. First is not a mean person, but he can become one, if that’s what Khaotung wants. “Lay it down on the bed for her. I’m sure she’ll get the hint that her boyfriend is a bottom bitch.”
Khaotung tightens again, his body twisting under First, his back tightening into a pretty arch, and First can feel his cock twitching, precum pooling between them.
“You’re so easy. She wouldn’t have to do much–you’d just lie there and take it, wouldn’t you?” He whispers it against Khaotung’s ear, closing his teeth around the red tip; but he doesn’t bite, he just sucks on it lightly.
“Firfir…,” Khaotung cries, his hands unclenching from the bedsheets to weakly slide down the plains of First’s back. He could scratch, but he doesn’t; maybe he doesn’t want to leave marks on First, doesn’t want to leave behind traces of what they’re doing, of what he makes First do to him.
First leans back again to take in the picture Khaotung paints on his bed. A small, quivering thing, pink and shivering all over under the weight of his unspeakable desire. He holds power, though–the power to make First ruin him, because at the end of the day, it will be First, still First, who will piece him back together with loving hands.
Khaotung blinks up at him, his eyes glazed over, a thick film of lust and–affection, First tells himself. Forbids himself from reading anything else in them. There is lust in the room, a physical entity wrapped around them, and there is also the thinner ghost of love, but not of the kind that people write poems and songs and books and movies about.
First closes his eyes as he comes. One thing he needs to deprive himself of, for his sanity, is the sight of Khaotung’s climax. He feels Khaotung going lax, his legs and arms dropping on the mattress, but he keeps–his hole keeps clenching, squeezing every single drop of cum out of First.
Before Khaotung can ask him to stay inside a little longer, like he usually does, First pulls out. His spent leaks obscenely out of Khaotung, and First looks away, the corner of his eyes stinging with unshed tears and a familiar lump lodging in his throat. He leaves for the bathroom to get a warm towel to wipe Khaotung with. He lingers in front of the mirror, splashing cold water in his face to center himself, hoping to wash off the brokenness that stretches the seams of his skin unpleasantly.
Khaotung is still like he left him–a heaving heap of a person on First’s bed. He lets First clean him and then he sits up. He’s still panting softly, and First averts his gaze again when he sees him bring the back of his hand to wipe under his nose, under his eyes.
There was a time, after they started doing this, where Khaotung leaned forward to kiss First after sex; but First always turned his face away, and after a while Khaotung stopped trying. Now he’s making the same face he used to make at First’s wordless rejection. There is no way to describe it other than hurt. Crestfallen.
There was a time, even earlier than when Khaotung got a girlfriend and started coming to First for sex, where they kissed. It happened a lot–drunk kisses, sloppy and uncoordinated and interspersed with silly laughter; practice kisses to kill the embarrassment before they had to do it in front of a camera and a crew (it never really worked, the jitters stayed regardless); lazy makeout sessions when they were hanging out with their limbs tangled, always touching in some way, and the safe warmth of the contact suddenly wasn’t enough, they had to breathe into each other–but it never went further than that. First was secretly convinced that he was a placeholder, that Khaotung kept him close while waiting for something better, something his.
The confirmation came when Khaotung started dating. It wasn’t as painful as First thought it would be, maybe because he’d been expecting it to happen all along. He’s aware that he has no right to claim Khaotung in any other respect than friendship.
He keeps giving himself to Khaotung in bits and pieces, and he’s worried that there won’t be much left of himself one day. That’s why he’s decided that Khaotung can have his body; but his heart and soul, he’s taking them back. So he won’t kiss Khaotung anymore.
Khaotung sighs and he leans his head on First’s shoulder, and First allows him. A shoulder is a body part, after all, isn’t it?
“I don’t deserve you,” Khaotung murmurs, voice soft in its fragility.
“You really don’t,” First says, one hand mindlessly reaching to rub Khaotung’s damp nape. “But we’re stuck with each other, so there’s that.”
Khaotung leaves, quietly as he came, and looking equally frazzled. He lingers by the door after sliding his slippers back on, and for a moment, First is tempted to ask him if he wants to stay the night. But he can’t provide Khaotung with the comfort he needs right now, and he’s too worn out to keep pretending for tonight.
He watches Khaotung leave, and a piece of himself falls back into him.