Chapter Text
now
Exhaustion has been Po’s constant companion for the past year and a half, ever since he took on a double workload in his life.
He carries it everywhere now, tucked behind his eyes, woven into the tight line of his shoulders, echoing in the way his fingers ache as he gathers the components of his equipment into its case.
The photoshoot had run late—as they always did—and the lot is nearly deserted; the last of the crew trailing off as the sun slips behind the buildings.
His stomach growls, a low, irritable protest. He skipped catering again. Not out of forgetfulness, but because it’s easier that way. He doesn't need the interruption, the idle small talk. Fashion shoots pay well, and this one in particular was worth it, but it’s good to be done with it as soon as possible.
What comes next is the real reward.
The understated melody coming from his AirPods helps ease the tension in his head. A ballad from MARS’ first mini-album; Strings, piano, then Thame’s voice. Po closes his eyes, just for a moment. The tension in his shoulders begins to unravel. Everything else fades, and he can breathe.
“You okay?”
The interruption snaps him out of his trance, a misty voice breaking through the music. Po tenses up again, pulling one earbud free as he opens his eyes.
One of the models from earlier stands in front of him, all tall, blond and still glowing from the leftover haze of professional lighting. His smile is unassuming. Po thought he had already left.
“Yeah, just tired. Thanks for asking,” Po responds politely, hoping it doesn’t show that he’s already forgotten the guy’s name. He’s famous, too—model, actor, someone who might take offense at not being recognized.
“Today dragged,” the guy agrees, shifting his weight slightly. “There’s a great restaurant nearby.”
Po worries, shamefully, that the model had heard his stomach growl. “Oh. That’s great to know.”
The guy laughs, light and airy, and even though he’s not Po’s type at all, Po can acknowledge he’s objectively good-looking, in a clinical sort of way.
“I was wondering if you’d like to join me?”
Po blinks. That lands differently. He’s being asked out.
“I appreciate it,” he says carefully, going for apologetic, “But I’m really beat.”
“That’s fair,” the guy replies, unbothered. “Maybe this weekend?”
Po isn’t naïve; he knows how he looks. He’s aware he has that going for him. But outside of work, it’s been a long time since he’s socialized properly, and the awkwardness of turning someone down never gets any easier.
“Sorry, I don’t think I’ll be free.”
“Ouch,” the guy teases, pretending to be wounded. “Didn’t even check your schedule. Boyfriend?”
At that, Po lets a small smile slip out. The implication is polite but firm.
His weekend is booked solid. There’s no version of it that includes anyone else, but Po wouldn’t have accepted the invitation even if he were free.
The guy is good-looking, sure, but he’s not Po’s type—not the hair, the mannerisms, the personality. Nothing about him even resembles his ideal type, not even enough to pass the time. To pretend.
“Something like that, yes. Really sorry.”
“Damn,” the guy waves it off good-naturedly, “I figured someone as hot as you couldn`t be single. Here, give me your phone.”
With little choice, Po unlocks his screen and hands over his phone and watches the model type something in. There’s no real harm in it, and resistance might come off colder than he intends.
“I’ll follow you from my private. If things don’t work out with your not-boyfriend, you can hit me up.”
“Sure,” Po replies, vague and noncommittal, and then, finally, the guy walks away.
He pops his earbud back in, letting Thame’s solo for a Boys’ Love series soundtrack fill his ears. The soothing, ethereal sound of his voice calms Po instantly, grounds him. A lovesick smile forms on his lips, and Po is ready to head home.
There’s still time tonight to prepare. The weekend is mapped out, hour by hour, and he wants it to be perfect. It’s Thame’s weekend, after all.
–
then
It wasn’t love at first sight, as much as Po would’ve liked for it to be. Looking at Thame now, it’s hard to remember the version of him that saw him in person and thought, without further consideration, he’s pretty’ and nothing more; as if he’d been just another one of the models Po photographs for work.
Truly, the beginning had been so innocent.
-
then
Baifern calls him up two days before the event, practically vibrating through the phone. “Please, Po. You take pictures of pretty people for money all the time. Just once, as a favor.”
He groans, already half-agreeing before she even tells him who the subject is, weak to her puppy eyes. “You want me to go full fansite for you?”
“Not for me. For Pepper. My ult. He has, like, three good fansites total, and only one of them will be able to attend. The rest are grainy iPhone tragedies. You’re the only person I trust.”
Po caves, obviously, for his best friend’s sake. He can even admit it’s cute to see Baifern, a grown business woman, acting like a teenage girl. He understands it, even. He thinks if he were any less busy, he’d follow his own favorite singer around too. Billkin is pretty photogenic.
“Fine. Give me the details.”
It’s worth it to see the smile on her face, hear the squeal as she throws her arms around him. Po adores her, and she’s really the only person who’s always been there for him through his lowest. One inconvenient, slightly embarrassing favor wouldn’t hurt.
–
then
The venue is not that far from Po’s house, in the end. It’s a fan event promoting the group’s first comeback. Girls line up around the block with slogan banners, hand fans, and DSLR lenses strapped to their shoulders like they’re going to war. Po feels absurd showing up in the middle of them, towering above their heads, obviously out of place.
He’s all business after he’s let in to see the performance. He starts by taking photos of Pepper, as promised. THe boy is easy to shoot, always smiling, hair bouncing, cheeks flushed from dancing. He’s polished, friendly, aware of the camera even when he pretends not to be.
But then—there’s Thame. Po memorizes his name when they all take turns with the usual introductions. His lens are trained on Pepper, but his eyes keep drifting. The boy moves like he was born to be watched, fluid and alluring, every gesture seeming effortless.
He stands out almost too much, and when he sings, it cuts through the generic, but decent boygroup music with a little more class, rich and textured.
It makes sense, then, why the fans scream louder when he steps forward, why his name echoes longest after the event ends.
Then, Po waits for the artists outside, with a smaller group of fans this time, the few who knew exactly from which gate they’d be leaving the venue, just as Baifern predicted. Po’s camera hangs idle around his neck now, and he knows his obligation to Baifern is more than fulfilled. He has dozens of clean, high-res shots of Pepper already backed up on his memory card.
She told him he didn’t need to take pictures of them leaving, if the experience exhausted him too much.
Yet, for some reason, there he is. He’s always been meticulous, always hated half-assing things, so maybe that’s why.
When the group finally emerges through the exit gate, the flashes immediately restart, along with the calls for attention for one member or the other. MARS appears in a loose cluster, flanked by staff, their stage outfits swapped for casual clothes. Still styled, still idol-perfect, just a little more human.
Po raises his camera almost on reflex, managing two, maybe three shots. He’s aiming for Pepper—he told Baifern he would—but his eye catches someone else.
He’s walking a few steps in front of the others, head ducked slightly, hair falling stylishly over his forehead. The sun hits him just right, illuminating the line of his jaw, the glint of his eyes. Po lifts the camera again.
Click.
He barely registers that he’s done it.
Before he can take another, movement near his side catches his attention. A small girl, maybe seven or eight, is struggling to see through the wall of people. She stands on her toes, bouncing with frustration. No one's shoving her, but no one's making room, either.
Po leans down. “You want help?” he asks gently.
She nods without hesitation, still staring at the boys ahead.
“Okay, up we go.” He lifts her easily, propping her on his hips. She’s delighted, waving furiously as the boys walk towards their van.
That’s when he thinks it happens. Thame’s eyes sweep across the sea of fans as he waves his goodbyes, and for a second, they land on Po. Maybe not even that long.
Thame’s mouth twitches into something close to a smile. Then he looks away.
It could be nothing—a trick of timing. A coincidence of being in his line of sight.
Then Thame turns, stepping into the van, swallowed by shadow and tinted glass.
Po laughs, and wills to himself to not be weird about it. He lowers the little girl back onto the ground, and she beams at him like he’s her hero.
As he prepares to leave, he thinks, Thame really is so gorgeous. It’s a passing thought, comparable to the likes of common folk looking at a famous piece of art for auction—with appreciation, maybe even awe, but ready to move on with the knowledge that, for them, it’s a treasure utterly unattainable.
–
now
Po lies in bed, the ceiling above him bathed in the pale spill of city lights leaking through the blinds. The buzzing of the fan spins steadily overhead, mirroring the buzz inside his chest. He can’t bring himself to fall asleep. His phone screen dims beside him, paused on a Thame-focused fancam of a stage that happened months ago.
But their next meeting has finally come.
He knows how these things go—the table, the staff, the five-minute rotation, the security who never smiles. But still, it’s been months since the last one. MARS had been quiet as they prepared for a comeback, meaning Thame had been quiet.
Something in Po aches. He’s missed him something fierce.
Of course, he hadn’t gone almost three months without any glimpse of Thame, any news; but Thame’s solo schedules, as quickly as they were growing in frequency, were mostly private. Private magazine photoshoots, private filming of variety shows, no fans allowed.
Of course, that’s always only a technicality. That had never stopped some of the most unhinged, disrespectful fans from showing up, but Po refused to cross a line with Thame. The last thing he wants is to make him uncomfortable, to make him hate Po, because he’s just not like anyone who follows him around as if Thame owes them something.
It’s Po who owes Thame.
Because the reality is that Thame had come into his life as a distraction—and of course, he’s aware of how offensive and ridiculous that sounds now, but it just shows how good Thame is, how perfect. Forgiving.
It happened back when Earn had left, when he'd ended things with all the precision of a surgical cut. It hadn’t been a breakup so much as a severance. Po had thought they were going somewhere permanent, that they were making something ideal.
Their lives were so painfully curated together. Handmade mugs, shared project files, folded laundry. It felt like a life, a proper future. Po had felt normal.
When Earn got what he needed—Po’s eye for art, his labor—, once the brand had taken off, he became something outdated. A burden to carry. And Po hadn’t known how to be alone with that.
Then, a recommended video on a night he couldn’t sleep. A lifeline.
Just Thame in a dimly lit studio with a guitar, covering one of Billkin’s songs. Next video, Thame on a stool, the same guitar, singing what the title indicated was a solo song. Achingly mellow, nothing like the glittery sounds of MARS’s title tracks that had only been familiar to Po through Baifern at the time. It's honest.
It had cracked Po open. It had healed something in Po, and he mourned his sham of a relationship with Earn for the last time.
From there, it had spiraled. Not in the way people talk about fanaticism—ugly and harmful and delusional. It’s not mania, Po knows that.
It’s love. Patient and giving. Whole.
So because he knows his love is different, and he would never impose himself on Thame. Would never take anything away from him, like his peace of mind, or his personal space. He only ever wants to give.
However, Po is not a hypocrite, so he’d never deny that it had gotten harder as the in-between-comebacks hiatus went by and he saw less and less of Thame.
He won’t lie and say he didn’t walk by the agency’s entrance a few times, coincidentally a little after Thame had been on his way to or back from a schedule. He won’t lie that he hadn’t gone to the mall when Thame had attended a very exclusive, private opening event of a Valentino store—just to see if he looked okay, well-fed and properly rested.
But Po had never once taken his camera with him.
He hadn’t put a flash in his face, called out to him or gotten in his way. He wasn’t an entitled brat like the rest of them.
The pictures he had taken on his phone were discreet, precious, and he’d never post them. The intent had never been to get anything from Thame, but to check on him, to support him, to be there just in case. To be the one person in his vicinity who loved him the most, even if Thame had no idea.
It had helped, but of course, it never fully satiated the emptiness in his chest.
But that’s okay.
Tomorrow, he’ll see him again. Not just through a screen, not filtered or cut or hidden. Real. He’ll get to sit across from Thame for a couple of minutes, within reaching distance, and say something small but meaningful. Nothing rehearsed, just the honesty and care Thame deserves.
And then he’ll listen, and he’ll savor Thame’s smile, the untouched space between them as small as it’ll ever get—as Po would never dare to hope for that elevator situation again—and his heart will settle for a while.
Po feels his eyes getting heavier, and smiles to himself as he realizes his most effective trick to fall asleep has worked yet again—to think about Thame, let his thoughts wander, let his heart soar with the certainty that no one loves Thame better than he does.
–
then
To Po, there are no signs from the universe that betray that he’s going to fall in love with Thame the day that he does. He has no idea Thame is even going to be in his vicinity, even though that was always a possibility on the back of his mind.
He lands a gig with one of the rookie artists from Oner through Baifern, shooting promo pics for their very first single. It’s small and honestly pays lower than he expected, but he’s not in the business of choosing.
The building is as empty as one would expect so late on Thursday night after the shoot ends with little fanfare. He presses the button for the elevator, adjusting the black mask put on, and it’s not long before the elevator dings and opens.
Po steps inside, leans against the back wall, and exhales. He tugs the brim of his cap down a bit. The floor indicator lights up red. He’s got twelve floors to go.
When the doors open again on the very next floor down, a lot more people pile in. Staff with tablets and lanyards, interns whispering to each other, someone with pleasant perfume on. He shifts to make space automatically, camera bag pressed tight against his hip, body angled to make himself smaller.
Po can swear the air shifts with the force of destiny when he looks up.
It feels like an eternity before he can register it: three members of MARS, still in training clothes, sneakers scuffing against the metal floor. His breath catches when he sees him.
He looks tired. He looks good. His hair is a little untamed, and there’s a flush to his cheeks that suggests they’ve just come from practice.
Nothing could have lived up to seeing Thame so close. Po is a little starstruck, his brain failing to comprehend that the beautiful voice that’s been on loop playing in his AirPods for a few weeks now is right in front of him.
He tries not to stare. He really does.
But the elevator is suddenly too full. Bodies press in from all sides, shifting and adjusting to make room. One of the staff members bumps into Po, and in the ripple of movement, Po gets pushed forward a few inches.
So does Thame.
Which means, for a few heart-stopping seconds, they’re pressed into each other. Thame’s arm brushes Po’s side, and his body shifts to both brace himself and protect Po from impact—his hand landing gently on Po’s hip, fingers splayed for balance. Not forceful or invasive. Steadying.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs in his perfect voice, close enough that Po swears he feels it. He glances up at him briefly, eyes apologetic behind thick lashes, and gives him a small, warm smile.
Po, behind his mask, just nods.
Thame retracts his hand the moment the elevator jostles to a pause between floors, but the space between them doesn’t grow. There’s nowhere else to go, no room to shift, so they descend the remaining ten floors in thick, awkward silence. The entire time, they’re pressed too close for strangers, enough to hear each other’s breathing.
Po’s heart pounds so loud in his chest he’s afraid Thame might hear that as well.
When the elevator reaches the ground floor, people start spilling out, murmuring as they check their schedules or dig out phones. Po waits to move, still stunned, weight in his chest.
“Sorry again,” Thame smiles at him, giving him one last glance.
This time, Po knows he didn’t imagine Thame holding on eye contact for a second. It couldn’t be his imagination.
Po opens his mouth to reply, to say anything, but the moment passes and Thame gets rushed away by staff.
The weight doesn’t go away—it settles in his bones, deep in his tissue, infects his veins.
He spares a second to think about Earn as he makes his way home in a taxi, and laughs maniacally with nothing but disdain.
How stupid had he been to think that what he felt for Earn was love. How utterly ignorant to think that hiding, cowering, and holding back who he is could have been anything close to love.
–
now
The second Po steps into the fansign venue, his chest tightens. Not from nerves, but a force more reverent, akin to stepping onto holy ground. His fingers are cold around his camera, but his ears burn.
He’s one of the first ones to get there, just as he planned, and that gets him a good seat on the front row. He nods at some of the repeat offenders he’s gotten familiarized with as a fansite. Two of Nano’s fansites, one of Dylan’s, four of Jun’s.
Po doesn’t even acknowledge any of the other Thame fansites. He refuses to be blamed for the animosity, too. He’s never done anything to them, yet they despise him.
He’s long past feeling out of place in spaces like these, however. He’s carved out his space. Not for the rest of the people filling up the venue, but for Thame.
Universe’s Favorite is his clear favorite amongst his fansites. Po is pretty proud of it. Some of the fandom even joke about him on Twitter: the mysterious male fansite who’s always in black, always in a mask, and who somehow gets the most boyfriend-coded photos of Thame anyone’s ever seen.
Po is ready as soon as MARS walk in.
Through the viewfinder, he sees Thame smile politely, bowing towards the audience. Impossibly, he looks more beautiful than ever. His hair is cut a little shorter, and there’s not too much gel to style it, just like Po prefers.
He’s not in one of his usual hoodies, however, and Po feels a little hot under his collar at the way the black shirt he’s wearing almost mimics a compression shirt, tight and flattering, leaving little for the imagination, showing how much he’s been working on his body in secret.
Po’s fingers click desperately on his shutter button, and his breath gets caught in his throat as Thame’s faze falls on him. A smile of recognition. He poses for Po, specifically, and Po’s mouth goes dry at the way Thame’s muscles flex as he makes a heart with his arms above his head, uncharacteristically cute. For him.
When the autograph portion starts, Po puts his camera down with reluctance. The anticipation builds like a fever. His fingers sweat against the photobook cover, but his face stays composed even under the mask in place.
Po’s heart stumbles, racing and unsteady, as his legs carry him forward with the rest of the line, but his mind stays fixed in one place. On one person.
He’s lucky this time, because Thame is placed right in the middle, so he only has Nano and Jun to go through on autopilot, to fake small talk and interest. He doesn’t even try to pretend to himself anymore, however.
He tried to care about the rest of them, even if fleetingly. To act casual and interested in all of MARS, not just him . But it never stuck.
He doesn’t hate the others. He’s not a toxic akgae who lurks on Twitter dissecting screentime and line distributions. He’s polite at events, always kind when he interacts with the others, respectful and good natured.
But that’s all it is. Neutrality.
(Except, of course, when Pepper leans into Thame too much, when their stage chemistry starts to edge into skinship and lingering glances and forced pair dynamics. Then Po feels it—tight and ugly at the base of his spine. He doesn’t let it show, but that’s the one thing he truly loathes)
The line inches forward, and then it’s his turn. Nano is first, and Po smiles in reflex, says he liked his recent live. It’s a lie, of course. Jun is next, and he’s tricky, requiring a little more energy from Po to seem engaged.
“You know, I’m going to work extra hard on this comeback to steal you, Thame’s handsome fanboy. He won’t even see it coming.”
Po congratulates himself on his ability to chuckle instead of rolling his eyes, thanking Jun for leaving him a special post-it under his signature, with a quite long message Po has no interest in reading.
His brain comes back online when he’s finally in front of Thame. His love.
The smile that graces Thame’s face is so real, so painfully sweet and disarming that Po already feels like crying.
Everyone else might as well vanish, with the way they dim and fade, while Thame shines so brightly, steals all of the saturation to himself.
“Here you are,” Thame’s voice is silk-soft, “It’s good to see you again. Did you miss me?”
Po blinks, and it feels like an eternity folds itself into the seconds between. He exhales, slow, steadying himself, and lets himself be honest, “Yeah. I did, but I’m fine with waiting.”
Thame tilts his head, the corners of his mouth lifting a little more, and he starts signing without even looking down, not taking his eyes off of Po, attentive and professional and perfect.
“Well, I’m not,” he replies, and there’s a playful pout to his voice. “I missed you, you know?”
Po scoffs lightly, trying to ground himself in humor before his heartbeat knocks him over or the insistent flush spreading down his neck makes him combust. “I doubt that.”
Thame lets out a delightful laugh, unbothered, and throws his head back slightly. The action exposes a sinful, small bit of his unblemished neck, and Po has to focus really hard not to let his mind wander. He looks mouthwatering.
“I’m not lying,” he says, and leans in just a little, lowering his voice conspiratorially, beckoning Po closer. “Wanna know a secret?”
Po leans in without thinking, moth to flame.
“You’re my favorite,” Thame whispers, eyes bright with mischief. “But keep that between us, yeah? Let’s not make everyone else even more jealous.”
Po’s stomach flips with want as he nods, and it takes him a good second to realize Thame is offering him his pinky.
“I promise. It’s our secret.” Po manages out, hooking his own pinky around Thame’s, and savors the satisfied, cheeky smile that earns him.
“But how have you been, really?” Thame asks, pausing his signing. “You were so overworked the last time we talked.”
“I’m better now,” Po replies, touched that Thame remembers. “I’m always better when I see you. Makes me forget about whatever went wrong in my week.”
Thame makes a cute little face, a crease forming between his brows. It’s the kind of expression that makes it easy to believe he cares, even if it’s part of the job. “Nothing should be going that wrong in your week,” he says gently. “But I’m glad I can help. I’m the only one for you, right?”
“Of course,” Po answers a little too quickly, the sincerity in Thame’s voice throwing him off.
He knows it’s just fanservice—Thame always encourages fans to love all of MARS, and he’s nothing if not generous—but he wishes, then, that Thame could understand how true that is. How much Po loves only him. “I always have my eyes only on you.”
“Good,” Thame says, the angelic smile returning to him, pleased. Approving.
He places both of his hands on the table, palms open, an invitation that feels startlingly intimate. “Then I’ll make sure I’m always your safe place. That’s my promise.”
Po swallows hard. He can feel the threat of tears coming, stupid and overwhelming. He places his hands over Thame’s, gentle as he can.
And it’s fanservice, sure, but it doesn’t feel hollow when Thame laces their fingers together for a second and squeezes delicately.
But time always runs out. The staff harshly calls him to move along. Thame gives them a disapproving look, always so polite, and gives Po’s hands one last squeeze before he lets go.
“See you soon?”
Po nods, “Tomorrow, actually.”
Then he steps down from the stage and returns to his seat; everything around him feeling blurred at the edges, colors dimmed, sounds muffled. The spell begins to crack at the seams, fading like stage lights after a performance, but not all at once.
Being seen, the closeness, the vibration of Thame’s voice—it all lingers, sitting somewhere between his ribs, taking root in the space Thame carved out just for him. It’ll be enough to hold him until tomorrow.
Because tomorrow, Thame will be at a skincare brand event. A solo schedule. Just him, bathed in soft tones and showroom lighting, smiling gently at a select group of people. Those are always Po’s favorite. Top spender perks, polaroids, a few extra seconds that feel like entire lifetimes.
–
It’s only when he gets home, ready to carefully cut out Thame’s signed page for his collection, that Po realizes Jun’s post-it note is missing from his photobook.
Oh, well. It’s not like he cared, anyway.
He drops the rest of the album into the trash bin without a second thought.