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Khaotung doesn’t know how they got here.
First’s sharp words stinging in his ear, his fingers digging unforgivingly into Khaotung’s hip but he’s careful enough to not mark. First touches him like he’ll consume him whole but Khaotung is never to be marked, never to be claimed.
The slide of First’s cock inside him burns and it blazes through the hollows of Khaotung’s body, carving out an even deeper, emptier cavern.
Khaotung remembers though.
He remembers the first time they kissed.
First anxiously biting his lips and admitting softly so that Khaotung could pretend not to hear, ‘I’m worried about kissing you. What if you hate it?’ And Khaotung wants to say that it’s not possible. It’s not possible for Khaotung to hate kissing First because it’s not possible for Khaotung to hate anything about First.
He can’t say it because doesn’t know what he means by it. He only knows that it’s true. Just like he knows it’s true that he would do just about anything to smooth the furrow between First’s brows. With his heart thundering in his chest and face as calm as he can make it, Khaotung leans over and presses his lips to First’s, ‘We have kissed. Stop worrying.’
Khaotung remembers the second and the third time they kissed, the fourth and the fifth. He remembers debating whether their kisses during filming counts and deciding that he wants to keep closest the parts of First that are just his. The messy hair and trembling fingers, the awkward laughter and the inelegant way that First sucks his lips, that would never make it past an editing room.
He remembers First’s embarrassment after the ninth time and the way he had pulled away suddenly sober than he had been just a moment ago. He remembers First’s stricken, guilty looks and the anxiety clawing in his stomach over losing First. He remembers making the decision to move on, just the way First had wanted him to do, with the girl that First said was cute and would look good with Khaotung.
Afterwards, Khaotung and First would hang out and play games like usual. On the occasions when he really couldn’t help it anymore he would flirt too and First never hesitated before flirting back, safe behind the cover of Khaotung’s girlfriend.
Khaotung remembers clearly the reprieve it briefly brought their relationship; First’s touches relaxing, no longer hesitating before reaching for a second drink around Khaotung. His laughter becomes easy and his jokes once more numerous. He remembers how empty it had all felt and how desperately he craved it; that hollowness that only First could leave behind.
He remembers their first time.
Khaotung on edge; losing his mind with no finesse, teetering on the ledge of a darkness he’s been balancing for far too long. He seeks out First because that’s what he always does, because First has seen him at his absolute worst and loved him through it.
‘Sex not good?’ First asks, cooing at him teasingly when Khaotung has mussed his hair one too many times, ‘Maybe a finger in your ass will help.’ First giggles at his own joke and Khaotung can’t help but turn towards him sharply, ‘It doesn’t.’ He admits and there’s a beast inside him that purrs happily at First’s shocked expression.
The silence stretches out like First isn’t sure what to say and Khaotung tries to school his face into something that feels normal. He hopes that First can’t see the anguish that spurts out of him despite his best efforts. He says a little prayer that First especially never finds out what causes it; never finds out that First could solve it all in three seconds using that same, stupid laughter just pressed into Khaotung’s lips, wanting him back.
‘You guys do that?’ First asks instead and Khaotung can’t help the slight disappointment with which his stomach drops because obviously First can’t see his anguish.
First never does.
‘No, it’s just me. My fingers.’
‘Not good?’
‘Not good enough.’ Khaotung says and he doesn’t want to think about how desperate he must have looked when First reaches for the buckle of his belt in response.
‘Let me help you Tungtung.’ It’s deceptively casual, like he’s offering to show Khaotung the keys to a powerful combo move in a game. But his hands have snaked inside Khaotung’s unbuttoned jeans and his voice is a low growl as he adds, ‘I can show you how to make it good.’
First holds the back of Khaotung’s head so gently as he lays him down that Khaotung doesn’t have the heart to correct him. Khaotung can’t tell him that First can go faster, that there’s no need for quite as much lube as First pours out, that he can thrust in much harder. First can claw inside and make the space for himself that he needs, that he likes. Khaotung has given it all to him already, and is waiting for First to take it.
First is careful with his movements, gentle in the way he checks Khaotung’s expression for pain and Khaotung does his best to look soft and pliant instead of how he really feels; like he’s falling apart from his need to touch and have and be had. First is satisfied with what he finds, even presses a gentle kiss to Khaotung’s lashes and chuckles when Khaotung’s neglected cock jumps between them.
Khaotung can’t help the pained sound when First finally touches his cock, three fingers already comfortably working him from inside. Khaotung needs more, he needs something bigger, maybe a fourth finger because he knows what First wants him to do, jerking Khaotung off fast like he’s already decided that Khaotung is close. Khaotung doesn’t want to disappoint him but he knows he can’t - he knows he can’t come like this on First’s fingers alone.
‘Oh Ai’Tung.’ First says and Khaotung startles at the way First sounds like his heart is breaking, ‘This is not enough for you, is it?’ Khaotung can’t say no, because it is enough; because it has to be. The comforting way that First touches the top of Khaotung’s head is more than anything Khaotung could ever dream of having.
But he can’t say yes because he owes it to himself to acknowledge the basest parts of him. Embracing the ugly desire he feels for First is the only thing that has gotten him through it.
‘Ai’Tung,’ First is so close to him that for a second Khaotung thinks that they might kiss, he arches his back when First mercilessly brushes against his prostate on every thrust, ‘Do you need my cock to come?’ First whispers it right into his ear and Khaotung immediately shudders with the thought of it, of the thought of First thinking about it and he comes with a whimper he wishes he didn’t remember.
But he does remember.
He remembers everything about First and the awed look on his face as he watched Khaotung fall apart on his fingers. He remembers with even more clarity First’s sharp, predatory look when Khaotung finally stops spilling out onto his own stomach, panting desperately in the space between their faces and tightening around First’s long fingers, suddenly dreading the emptiness inside him.
‘Oh baby. ’ First coos again, his fingers tracing the edge of Khaotung’s eyes that glisten with tears despite himself, ‘You still need it don’t you?’ Khaotung remembers how his whole body lit up at the question, asked with a voice full of pity and then the dull press of First’s cock against his rim.
He clutches at First’s back, drags him closer, mewling when the soft skin of First’s belly rubs against his spent cock. When First presses his face into the crook of Khaotung’s neck and can no longer see him, Khaotung lets himself nod with just how much he needs it; to feel First like this; to hear him like this; pushing into him with the care and tenderness that First had first captured him all those years ago; and here Khaotung remains, embroiled in it, still captive.
Khaotung feels bad about it, of course he does, near constantly. Even more so when First lectures him about it, about how he owes honesty to the people who love him. Khaotung has thought of ending his relationship many times before, every time that he comes to First distraught and needy.
But he never dwells on it because he knows he can’t give it up; not First’s jealousy, nor the greedy way he pulls in Khaotung close, nor the way that First looks at him like he hates him sometimes and especially - for the briefest second when First allows him to lose himself - the look of ecstasy on his face when he comes inside.
First has a pathological need to cheer Khaotung up, no matter the cost.
And Khaotung will always happily pay the price.
Khaotung remembers.
But he doesn’t know how they got here.
First’s fingers in Khaotung’s hair, his thumb caressing the lobe of his ear, the sting of the bruise First bit into his collarbones ringing in his ears, ‘This is the last time, Tungtung.’ It’s deceptively casual, like he’s talking about ranking up into a different gaming tier. First’s lips tremble now the same way it had when he’d found out they couldn’t team together anymore, his achievement immediately overshadowed and dampened.
At the end of the day, he’s grateful that leaving Khaotung behind will always be hard for First. His insides might not be searing and crumbling, the way Khaotung’s is. His mind might not be blanking in quite the same way, he might not be on autopilot because of how much he has thought about this day, how much he’s dreaded it coming. But at least, it’s not easy.
‘Please, Ai’Tung. Let this be the last time.’ First pushes their foreheads together so Khaotung can see up close the tears that roll down his cheeks. Khaotung closes his eyes and dreams about asking for a kiss.
In his dream, he actually asks for more.
Mostly, he closes his eyes because he can’t look at First’s face- it’s bad enough that he feels First’s shaky breath of relief - when Khaotung finally nods, their foreheads still brushing together.