Chapter Text
The documentary went live at 8 p.m.
Po hated that number.
Not for any mystical reason.
He hated it because eight o’clock meant everyone was awake enough to watch, awake enough to post, awake enough to have opinions before they had even finished the episode.
At 7:42, he was still changing a subtitle.
Meena stood behind his chair with both hands on her head.
“P’Po.”
“I know.”
“It exports in eighteen minutes.”
“I know.”
“You cannot adjust one comma in eighteen minutes.”
“I can adjust many commas in eighteen minutes.”
“That is worse.”
Po leaned closer to the screen.
The caption read:
[stage lights remain on]
Then:
THAME: No song is more important than people.
Po stared at it.
It still looked too clean.
He clicked after the period.
Meena made a sound like she had been stabbed.
Po added nothing.
Then deleted nothing.
Then sat back.
“Okay.”
Meena blinked. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Do you mean okay or are you lying?”
Po looked at her. “When did everyone become like this?”
“When you trained us in suspicion.”
“Fair.”
The export finished at 7:56.
The final upload confirmation came at 7:58.
At 7:59, Po’s phone started buzzing and did not stop.
Thame.
Mick.
Pepper.
In.
Thap, somehow.
Nano sent only one message:
DEER TIME?
Po stared at it.
Then laughed so hard Meena almost cried from relief.
At 8:00, the episode appeared.
The title card faded in.
MARS: RETURN — The Song That Skips Tomorrow
Po did not watch it in the editing room.
He had watched the cut too many times there. He knew every hum, every breath, every bad reflection in the booth glass. If he watched it there again, he would only see edits.
So he watched it in Thame’s apartment, on a television that was too expensive and had motion smoothing turned on until Po grabbed the remote and said, “Absolutely not.”
Thame, carrying two mugs from the kitchen, stopped. “What happened?”
“Your television is making my footage look like a soap opera filmed inside a refrigerator.”
Thame stared.
Po changed the setting.
“Better.”
“I did not know televisions could offend you.”
“Everything can offend me if configured badly.”
Thame placed the mugs on the coffee table. “Good to know.”
He had made tea.
Not coffee.
Po looked at it suspiciously.
Thame sat beside him. “It is not mine. In sent instructions.”
“In sent tea instructions?”
“Thap approved them.”
“Terrifying couple.”
“Yes.”
Po picked up the mug and smelled it.
Ginger.
Honey.
Something soft.
He did not hate it.
Thame watched his face too closely.
Po took a sip just to stop him.
“Fine.”
Thame smiled.
“Don’t look proud. You boiled water.”
“I followed instructions.”
“That is a major achievement for idols.”
Thame leaned back on the sofa. “I deserve praise.”
“You survived the export.”
“I did nothing.”
“You didn’t text me during export. That helped.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know.”
Thame’s smile faded a little.
Po did not like that.
He reached out and touched Thame’s knee with two fingers.
Not a big thing.
A small thing.
Thame looked down at the touch.
Then at him.
The episode started before either of them had to make it into a moment.
Good.
The opening shot was not the concert.
It was the rehearsal room before everything went wrong.
MARS arguing about whether Nano’s shoes were squeaking too much on the floor.
“Your shoes are louder than the backing track,” Dylan said onscreen.
“They have personality,” Nano answered.
Pepper, without looking up from his phone, said, “So does food poisoning.”
On the sofa, Thame laughed softly.
Po looked at him.
“What?”
“I forgot that happened.”
“You forget many useful things.”
“You remember too much.”
Po looked back at the screen.
“Occupational disease.”
The episode moved slowly at first.
On purpose.
Thame talking about pressure.
Po behind the camera, asking him to answer as himself, not leader. Thame on the sofa watched himself pause too long before speaking. His hand tightened around his mug.
Po did not look at him.
He knew watching yourself be honest could feel worse than watching yourself be hurt.
The next section introduced In.
Not as a miracle.
Not as a headline.
Not as the man who saved MARS.
Just In, sitting in the interview room, adjusting the paper cup because his fingers were nervous.
“I don’t think the song is bad,” onscreen In said. “I think something around it is trying to be.”
The caption appeared.
Clean.
Simple.
Thame exhaled.
Po looked at the tea in his hands.
His phone buzzed.
He turned it face down.
Thame saw.
“You can check.”
“No.”
“It might be important.”
“It is probably Nano.”
Thame’s phone buzzed.
He checked.
Then smiled.
“It is Nano.”
Po did not ask.
Thame showed him anyway.
Nano had sent a photo of his own television with the subtitle paused on Pepper saying So does food poisoning.
Caption: WHY THIS ONE MAKE FINAL CUT???
Pepper had replied: because it is accurate.
In had replied: i support documentary truth.
Thap had replied: food poisoning is serious.
Po stared at the group chat.
Then looked at Thame.
“Your friends are exhausting.”
“Our friends.”
Po’s mouth opened.
Closed.
Thame looked back at the screen like he had not just casually placed something on Po’s chest and walked away.
Rude.
Po drank more tea.
The documentary did not show In collapsing.
It showed the room.
The tape.
The speaker.
Thap’s statement.
Then In later, pale but steady, saying, “Don’t let him make this disappear.”
On the sofa, Po went very still.
He knew this cut.
He had made it.
It still felt different now that the world was seeing it.
Thame’s hand slid across the sofa cushion, palm up.
Po stared at it.
The screen lit the room blue-white.
Po put his hand in Thame’s.
No commentary.
No joke.
Just that.
Online, the world reacted badly and beautifully and stupidly all at once.
Pepper sent selected updates only because everyone had agreed full comment diving was a form of self-harm and Thap had made a face so scary that even Nano closed his fan app.
Some fans cried.
Some fans apologized to In even though he would never read most of it.
Some fans made edits of the safety lights and the silver star mark, which Po thought he would hate, but one of them simply captioned it ugly tape good and he had to put his phone down for a while.
Some people argued about whether the documentary made the production look negligent.
It did.
Good.
Some people said MARS should have cancelled.
Some said continuing was brave.
Po hated both easy versions.
The documentary had not said brave.
It had said conditionally proceed.
It had said emergency stop authority.
It had said secondary safety cable.
It had said no one is hurt, and then showed how close that sentence had come to being false.
There were official statements too.
Sorasit Vejjaporn was under investigation in connection with production tampering, unauthorized access coordination, and harassment through a proxy account. The runner had admitted to posting under instruction but denied knowledge of equipment sabotage. The archive asset trail was still being reviewed.
Legal words.
Careful words.
Unsatisfying words.
Po respected them anyway.
Truth, apparently, could be slow and still real.
At 9:13, In sent a message.
not a spectacle.
Then another.
thank you.
Po stared at it.
Thame leaned closer.
Po let him read.
For once, he did not hide the screen.
Po typed back:
you looked okay?
In replied:
my face was okay.
Po laughed.
Then In sent:
i cried but thap cried first. dont tell him i said that.
Thap replied in the group chat three seconds later:
I can read.
In sent:
betrayal.
Nano sent:
DOCTOR CRIED???
Pepper sent:
focus on the documentary.
Dylan sent:
Too late.
Jun sent:
I cried too.
Nano sent:
WE ARE STILL DEER.
Thap sent:
That caption error should not have become a group identity.
Po put his phone face down again.
His eyes burned.
Thame squeezed his hand once.
The episode ended with the empty stage.
Not the bow.
Not the hug.
Po had cut the hug.
That was theirs.
The final public shot was the ugly bright stage after everyone had left. Safety lights still on. Tape marks visible. Confetti stuck to the floor. The damaged left area blocked off.
Then a caption card:
The concert was completed under revised safety conditions. No audience members, staff, or performers were injured. The investigation remains ongoing.
Then another, after a beat:
Some footage was withheld to protect private medical and emotional moments.
Meena had fought to keep that card.
Po had pretended to argue for twelve seconds, then let it stay.
The screen faded to black.
Thame’s apartment went quiet.
Not silent.
The fridge hummed. A motorbike passed outside. Someone upstairs dropped something heavy and probably regretted it.
Po waited for Thame to speak.
Thame did not.
He sat with his hand still around Po’s, eyes on the blank screen.
Po gave him time.
Then more time.
Then, because Po was himself, he said, “If you hate it, say it now before I read reviews and become unbearable.”
Thame looked at him.
His eyes were wet.
Po immediately regretted talking.
Thame shook his head once.
“I don’t hate it.”
“Okay.”
“I hate watching parts of it.”
“That is allowed.”
“I hate that it happened.”
“Also allowed.”
Thame looked back at the black screen. “But I don’t hate what you made.”
Po swallowed.
The tea had gone cold.
He drank it anyway because his hands needed something to do and Thame was still holding one of them.
Thame continued, quieter, “You made us look scared.”
Po’s throat tightened.
“Too much?”
“No.” Thame’s thumb moved once against Po’s knuckle. “You let us be scared without making it shameful.”
Po looked down at their hands.
That one landed somewhere soft and inconvenient.
He said, “You are saying good things today.”
“I can stop.”
“Don’t.”
Thame smiled a little.
Po leaned back into the sofa.
His shoulder did not hurt as much anymore.
Or maybe he was used to it.
On screen, the streaming app wanted to autoplay something completely unrelated.
A cooking show.
Po grabbed the remote.
“No.”
Thame laughed.
This time, the laugh came all the way out.
Two weeks later, In attended music again.
Not a concert.
Absolutely not a concert, according to Thap.
An acoustic set.
Small venue. Forty seats. No standing crowd. No overhead rig beyond boring house lights. No hidden speakers because Thap had inspected the room so aggressively that the sound technician started sweating and offered to show him the wiring diagram.
Thap accepted.
In pretended to be embarrassed.
He was not embarrassed.
He was touched, which was worse, so he complained.
“You are terrorizing a man with a ponytail.”
Thap looked up from the small mixer. “He is fine.”
The sound technician gave a weak thumbs up.
In whispered, “Blink twice if you need help.”
The technician, poor man, blinked normally.
Thap said, “He volunteered the diagram.”
“You looked at the speakers like you wanted to arrest them.”
“They have history.”
“They personally don’t.”
“Collectively.”
In smiled despite himself.
He wore one earplug in his right ear, not because he needed it all the time now, but because it made his body less likely to start counting exits. His hearing had improved. Not perfectly. Some days the right side still muffled when he was tired. Some sounds still made his skin go cold before his brain caught up.
Thap said recovery was not a straight line.
In said if Thap used one more brochure sentence, he would hide the medical folder.
Thap said the deck was still in his custody.
In said that was emotional blackmail.
They were doing fine.
Mostly.
Po and Thame arrived late because Po had insisted on filming no one tonight and then spent twenty minutes deciding whether bringing no camera looked suspiciously like avoidance.
In told him not to bring it.
Po brought a small point-and-shoot in his pocket and looked guilty when In patted his jacket and found it.
“Contraband,” In said.
Po stared. “Did you just frisk me?”
“You looked like a man with secret equipment.”
Thame sighed. “He did.”
Po looked betrayed. “Whose side are you on?”
“Tonight? The side of small bags and honest pockets.”
“That is not a side.”
“It is now.”
In handed the point-and-shoot back. “You can take three photos.”
Po frowned. “Three?”
“Four if one is bad.”
“That is unreasonable.”
“You survived without filming your own tea last week. You can survive this.”
Po looked at Thame.
Thame looked away.
Po gasped. “You told him?”
Thame’s mouth twitched. “You filmed steam for forty seconds.”
“It looked meaningful.”
“It was tea.”
“It was post-documentary tea.”
In held up one finger. “One photo used already if you continue arguing.”
Po shut his mouth.
Thap looked deeply pleased.
The acoustic set started five minutes later.
No intro video.
No dramatic lights.
Just one singer, one guitar, one small keyboard, and a chair that squeaked every time the singer shifted.
In loved the squeaky chair.
It made the whole thing less holy.
The first song was soft enough that people breathed louder than the speakers. Someone near the back coughed, then whispered sorry. A phone buzzed once and was silenced quickly. The guitarist missed a chord and made a face at his own hand.
Human.
Very human.
In sat between Thap and the aisle.
Thap had chosen the aisle seat for exit access. In had rolled his eyes and then taken the middle without fighting.
Po and Thame sat two rows behind them.
Po did take one photo.
Not of In.
Not of the stage.
Of Thame looking down at the tiny paper program, confused because the venue had printed the set list in a font clearly designed by someone who hated eyes.
Po showed him the photo.
Thame whispered, “Delete.”
“No. This is documentary truth.”
“You were allowed three photos, not blackmail.”
“Art is flexible.”
Thame looked toward In.
In, without turning, held up two fingers.
Two photos left.
Po stared at the back of his head. “Scary.”
Thap whispered, “He senses rule violations.”
In leaned slightly against his shoulder.
Only slightly.
The second song began.
A slow one.
Not MARS.
Not the future song.
Not any song tied to rigging or cues or anonymous accounts.
Just a small melody in a small room.
In listened.
Carefully at first.
Waiting for the wrong thread under it.
His right ear hummed faintly.
Not warning.
Just body.
He breathed.
Thap noticed because Thap noticed everything.
He placed his hand palm-up on his knee.
In looked at it.
Then took it.
No emergency.
No collapse.
No message to send.
Just fingers.
The song moved through the chorus.
One.
Two.
Three.
In caught himself counting and stopped.
The guitar buzzed slightly on one string.
The singer smiled in embarrassment.
Someone in the front row whispered, “Cute.”
In smiled too.
His chest hurt a little.
Not bad.
Just full in an inconvenient way.
He leaned closer to Thap and whispered, “I don’t hear tomorrow.”
Thap turned his head.
“What?”
In repeated, softer, “I don’t hear tomorrow.”
Thap’s hand tightened around his.
He did not say good.
He did not say finally.
He did not make it large enough to scare away.
He only nodded.
And because he was Thap, he whispered, “Headache?”
In blinked.
Then started laughing silently.
Thap looked offended.
In pressed his face briefly against Thap’s shoulder, shaking with the kind of laughter that almost became crying and then chose not to.
“Two,” he whispered.
Thap’s thumb moved over his hand.
“Acceptable.”
“Romantic.”
“Accurate.”
“Boring.”
“Alive.”
In looked at him then.
Thap looked back.
The singer missed another chord.
The room laughed softly.
In did not have a line for that.
Good.
He was tired of lines.
Behind them, Po took his second photo.
In heard the tiny click and turned around slowly.
Po lowered the camera.
Thame looked like a man who had witnessed a crime.
In held up one finger.
Po mouthed, Worth it.
In shook his head, but he was smiling.
After the set, they stood outside under a streetlight that flickered once and made everyone freeze.
The four of them stared up at it.
The light stabilized.
Po said, “Ugly streetlight bad?”
In considered. “Suspicious streetlight average.”
Thame nodded. “Acceptable.”
Thap said, “It is probably maintenance.”
All three looked at him.
He sighed. “Fine. Suspicious streetlight average.”
In smiled.
Po took his last allowed photo.
The picture came out blurry.
Thame was half-cut out of frame. Thap was looking at the streetlight like it had disappointed him. In was laughing at something Po did not remember saying. The light made everyone look a little yellow.
Po loved it immediately.
He showed it to them.
In squinted. “This is terrible.”
“Good terrible.”
Thame leaned closer. “My face is not fully in it.”
“You have enough face in the world.”
Thap looked at In. “Your earplug is visible.”
In touched it. “So?”
“Nothing.”
In looked at the photo again.
His smile softened.
“Send it to me.”
Po did.
No caption.
For once.
Later, fans would talk about the documentary for weeks.
There would be think pieces. Apology posts. Bad theories. Good edits. People using ugly tape good in ways Po never expected and occasionally regretted. Legal would continue. Statements would become clearer. Sorasit’s name would lose its shine in rooms where he once smiled too easily.
MARS would return to rehearsal with more safety forms than anyone wanted.
Meena would label a hard drive DEER ARCHIVE and refuse to change it.
Nano would post the water bottle photo eventually, without the terrible caption, and Pepper would pretend not to approve.
Jun would keep old cue sheets in one folder and new ones in another, because anxiety could be organized into tabs if one tried hard enough.
Dylan would notice things and act annoyed when thanked.
Mick would say “document it” so often that Po once stared at him and said, “You’ve become me,” and Mick had looked genuinely frightened.
Thame would still wake up once with his hand reaching across the bed before his eyes opened.
Po would still count the first three beats of unfamiliar songs before relaxing.
In would still have bad hearing days when he was tired, and Thap would still ask symptom numbers at deeply unromantic times, such as while buying oranges.
None of it disappeared.
That mattered too.
Healing that erased everything sounded suspicious.
Po did not trust suspicious things.
But the night after the acoustic set, In put his deck back into his own bag.
Thap watched him do it.
Did not stop him.
In looked up. “No comment?”
“A week passed.”
“You kept count?”
“Yes.”
“Romantic.”
“Accurate.”
In smiled and zipped the bag closed.
He did not draw a card.
Not because he was afraid.
Not because he was forbidden.
He just did not need to right then.
The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator, a motorcycle outside, and Thap washing two cups in the sink even though In had told him to leave them.
In sat on the sofa with his knees tucked under him and listened.
Nothing screamed.
No hidden song.
No broken pulse.
No tomorrow forcing its way through the walls.
Just water running, a cup being placed upside down to dry, Thap muttering because one spoon had fallen behind the dish rack.
In smiled.
“What?” Thap asked.
“You are fighting kitchenware.”
“It attacked first.”
“Of course.”
Thap came back to the sofa and sat beside him.
Not too close at first.
Then close enough.
In leaned into his shoulder.
Thap’s shirt smelled like laundry soap and ginger tea.
Very ordinary.
Very good.
Across the city, Thame sent Po the blurry streetlight photo with a message.
This one is my favorite.
Po replied:
your face is barely in it.
Thame:
Exactly.
Po stared at the message for a long time.
Then saved the photo in a folder that was not evidence, not documentary, not work.
Just photos.
The final cut stayed online.
The last caption remained exactly where Po placed it.
[stage lights remain on]
No song is more important than people.
People would read it however they wanted.
That was the risk of showing anything.
But the people who had been there knew the rest.
The bad rice boxes. The ugly tape. The deer joke. The hands hovering before they touched. The wrong captions. The private footage left private. The fact that fear did not vanish just because the credits rolled.
And for once, tomorrow did not scream through the song.
It waited quietly at the end of the chorus, unfinished, and no one asked In to explain it before they were ready to hear.