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“P’Khaotung, you came with a cat today?”
“Yeah, I came with a cat today.”
First froze and glanced at Khaotung, brain screeching to a halt. The clamor of their fans around them died away as he tried to parse Khaotung’s implications.
He knew that she was here.
In fact, First could see her everytime they looked into the crowd, hovering just on the edge of his peripheral. She watched them–him–while smiling softly–so affectionately. She laughed easily and her eyes were big and sparkly and her bob cut hair swayed prettily around her round, sweet face.
And Khaotung had looked at her as he spoke but then his eyes had flicked to First and-
-and it felt like, for a second, Tung maybe meant him.
But then his eyes looked back at her and First knew.
But he still played along, tilting his head to the side and blithely asking, “Montow came today…?”
The fans liked it and, of course, Khaotung happily played along, affecting baleful innocence. In the audience, at First’s peripheral, she blushed and her eyes crinkled.
She was at the edge, however, and First was up here and First was in front of Khaotung.
First could indulge the act; it soothed the ache.
—
First had known Khaotung longer.
She had only come into the picture two years after First and Khaotung had met. She had only been a fixture in their lives for a few months before things changed. At first, Khaotung was subtle about it. It started as little things.
“Sorry Fir, she already asked me for a ride.”
“Oh, we already had lunch, First, but maybe next time?”
“I already saw that movie with her; it was pretty good!”
But little things always had a way of snowballing and before First realized it, he was somehow the third wheel, the uninvited third party, the other.
That revelation had struck him one night, huddled on Khaotung’s couch with the three of them watching a movie together. How she ended up there, he still wasn’t sure; First thought when he’d arrived, it was going to just be him and Khaotung and the flat screen. They’d take turns picking movies–First usually settled on comedies and action flicks while Khaotung seemed drawn to quieter, indie style movies. They’d made it through one of Khaotung’s movies before she arrived.
Then suddenly the decision was democratic and First found himself, more often than not, out voted and out numbered. Something was souring about the evening but First ignored it–or tried to. He still had Khaotung there and Tung was still smiling at him in that fashion that made his heart go twisty. And Tung was still seated between them, within equidistance of both of them.
This was enough for First.
He told himself it was enough, even when they followed Howl’s Moving Castle(one of Tung’s favorites) with Ponyo(one of her favorites).
He convinced himself that he was fine with the way the space between he and Khaotung grew broader, colder, emptier and the space between Khaotung and her grew smaller, warmer, and fuller.
He tried to ignore the mutinous, nasty whispers about how she was intruding, how this was supposed to be just he and Khaotung, how she wasn’t invited into their space.
It crumbled when, as the last movie of the night wound down, Khaotung carefully disentangled himself from her slumbering form and stood. She was small and dainty, easy enough for Khaotung to pick up and cradle bridal style. Her head lulled against his breast and First could hear her make a snuffly, sleepy sound.
“First, I don’t think she’s getting home anytime soon.”
And, for the first time, it was blatantly obvious that she and he were on different levels, in different places. The sourness had transitioned into bitterness so potent that First thought he could smell it. He pursed his lips from his corner of Khaotung’s couch, sealing the nastiness behind his teeth and lips.
“It’s okay,” spilled the contemptuous lies. “You should take care of her tonight. I can find my way home, Tungtung.”
He could see Khaotung thinking, maybe examining the flat way that First had said his name or the sulky set of First’s shoulders. First always imagined Tung’s brain like a record player; it went around and around, spinning out beautiful notes and melodies until the needle got off track. Then it would sit there, making ambient buzzing noises until someone came by and reset it again. He had always thought he was the person who set the needle right.
But as he stood and gathered his things, he realized at some point he’d been replaced by someone with smaller hands and a floral scent. Someone who was less clumsy and better equipped to handle something fragile.
“First.” First was almost at the door when Khaotung called out to him; perhaps Khaotung’s latest melody had finally finished. He stopped, hand on the cool metal of the door knob.
“Be careful getting home, friend.”
The bitterness smelled like fetid milk.
“I will, Tung.”
—
It was late and First was lonely.
He’d been home from Safehouse for several hours and all he’d done so far was shuffle around the empty, cramped space of his tiny apartment. It echoed and yawned and felt bigger for its hollowness. He didn’t want to fill the void with music; his neighbor worked nights and was undoubtedly asleep by this hour. The noise complaint wasn’t worth the meager comfort it would have provided. So instead, he relegated himself to pacing, working through the itch of separation anxiety until he forced himself to collapse on his bed.
He missed Khaotung.
It wasn’t a new feeling but, having spent every waking(and even sleeping) moment with him had thrown his absence now into sharp, painful relief. Particularly as he had to watch her greet Tung at his car, sweeping forward to press a sweet peck to his lips. Her hair was longer–Tung had mentioned she was growing it out–and her pink mouth glided easily and perfectly with Khaotung’s, even if the press had only been brief and chaste.
Their intimacy had been natural, easy…
Real.
That was just it, wasn’t it?
Even if Khaotung had spent the entire week blowdrying his hair, feeding him, helping him to bed… Even if Tung had done all of that, at least some of it was just for the cameras. They had their show; it was important to be selling themselves as “believable.”
“P’Khaotung, you came with a cat today?”
“Yeah, I came with a cat today.”
It was important that Khaotung didn’t reveal that his cat wasn’t his male co-star. First swallowed, feeling the persistent ache eating away at him. It didn’t make sense; he was the one who stood next to Khaotung in public. He was the one who kissed Tung on the big screen. He was the one who was always by his side…
She was always on the edge.
Why did he always feel like the outsider, then?
He grabbed his phone and woke it up. The tweet practically wrote itself until the final sentence. First froze, looking at it and feeling his eyes get hot. They’d said it before but there was something ephemeral about spoken words that held less impact than letters being spelled out plainly where they could never be taken back. Even if he deleted his tweet immediately, he knew some particularly stubborn fan would have it saved somewhere; it would circulate forever, going ‘round and ‘round like Khaotung’s record player brain.
That knowledge was what finally prompted him to finish and send it, but not before tagging the tail end with a 🐈.
“Thank you for always taking care of me and being by my side. Having an injured hand has been actually good because you do everything for me. I love you. 🐈”
He lays his phone face down on the bed and stares at it a long time, stomach in knots. It’s a little piece of realism. It’s something small and petty and his. Something that he can do that she can’t.
First can tell Khaotung that he loves him and mean it.
Hours later, when Khaotung responds, First pretends that it’s only for him and that the pointed nature of the tweet isn’t a coded conversation between them. He pretends that the “Kitty” is actually meant for him. That there is no other black cat for Khaotung’s orange.
—
Khaotung’s birthday falls on the same day as the bookfair, a fact that First finds both fortunate and unfortunate.
It means that Khaotung and he will get to spend the majority of the day together which is always a special treat, even if First wished it happened more lately because Khaotung had time for him and less because they had to work. He knows that after everything is said and done, Khaotung will slip away to spend the night with her; First resolutely doesn’t think of their activities, much like he doesn’t think of the inevitable day he might have to stand stoically as best man at their wedding or the day where he might be the godfather of their kids.
Instead he tried to live in the moment, particularly as their co-branding hung tenuously in the balance. The first few weeks of the Eclipse’s airing had been rough but as time dragged on, more and more fans crawled out of the woodwork. The show was gaining steam though it was vague if it was enough steam fast enough for the company to keep them together.
He’s seated at the autograph table, a microphone in his hand; Tung had wandered into the crowd of their fans and was talking softly to a group of them. His eyes were curled up as he smiled and, in a fashion, he reminded First of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland, even down to his mischievous nature.
“P’First?”
He dragged his sight from Khaotung and instead gave a fan his full attention, flashing her a sunny smile. She smiled from around her phone, blushing a pretty pink.
“You said you liked an orange cat; is that cat named Khaotung?”
His heart constricts and he feels his facial expression slip. Answering is a struggle, his brain trying to find something cute with enough plausible deniability that it would leave their relationship status in question. It was important for their branding and for Khaotung’s privacy. It also gave First a little thrill, a little spark to hold onto in the lonely nights where he wasn’t thinking about the future. Like, for a moment, they were secretly exactly what everyone thought instead of just an empty facade to sell merchandise and shows while also disguising Khaotung’s blatant heterosexuality.
He grinned shyly, feigning a blush, and said, “Let’s try a different question.”
Her giggly little laugh of (false) understanding made his lungs feel like they might explode. He turned away, rubbing his eye and keeping the smile up. As he does, Tung’s eyes meet his and First suddenly wishes for the day to end a bit faster.
—
“My name is Kitty.”
Khaotung introduced her for the first time when he met up with First for coffee. She’d ordered an Americano and First remembered thinking that she and Khaotung looked good together. The thought had burned as it fizzled in his brain and he’d taken a big gulp of his own blended drink to sooth it.
“Nice to meet you,” he hummed as he set his drink back down; condensation pooled off it onto the table top.
She smiled small and pretty, big eyelashes fluttering. Khaotung cleared his throat and shifted his arm–First had noticed that he’d laid it along the back of her chair and he’d even noticed the sly way his fingers twiddled a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. The taste of coffee tasted acrid.
“We met at my faculty,” Khaotung explained. “We really hit it off actually.”
The dots aligned very quickly. “I see,” First said then, donning a cheerful voice, “Congrats, Tungtung. I’m happy for you.”
Something must have given on First’s face because Khaotung felt the need to say, “Thanks, friend. We’ll still hang out, right?”
“Of course,” First scoffed. His willowy fingers clenched the fabric of his pants under the table but Khaotung seemed satisfied. Or perhaps he didn’t want to dig into First’s agony in front of company.
He can’t remember how the rest of the meeting went; the rushing in his ears had drowned out even his own hollow laughter. What he had learned was that Kitty was sweet and liked reading as much as Khaotung. That she was quiet and laid back, finding more solace in listening to music or watching movies, than being active and involved in something.
She was everything First was not.
—
“Fir, why don’t you find someone?”
They were drunk and serving as each other’s only support. Khaotung’s red face looked up at First through half lidded, liquid eyes and the heat of his arm around First’s waist was distracting but nice. These moments between sobriety and inebriation were some of First’s favorites. Khaotung became especially touchy, especially clingy. He’d lean the entire line of his body into First’s back, cheek resting against First’s shoulder blade. Sometimes Tung would grab First’s hips to keep both of them steady and he would swear he could feel the whorl of each of Tung’s fingerprints imprinting on his skin even through his shirt.
It made First feel greedy and hungry and he drank more to douse the fire.
“Are you… you still hung up on me?”
Sometimes the moments between sobriety and inebriation were also the worst.
“Ai’Tung… shut up and walk straight.”
Khaotung’s pouty mouth was really cruel and unfair, especially under current circumstances. The long stretch of hall with cheap, short carpet stretched out in front of them. The sound and smells of the outing party were a distant memory and what remained was the perilous journey back to their shared hotel room.
“Fiiiiir… don’t be so rude,” Khaotung huffed. “I just want to-to know.”
First ignored him; he was trying to fumble around in his pocket for his keycard instead. He found it but maneuvering it out was proving tricky, the round corner awkwardly caught on one of the seams of his pocket. He jerked and nearly toppled them both as Khaotung’s soft hands intervened, slipping with surprising dexterity into First’s pocket.
“Hold stiiiiill,” Khaotung chastised in a whiny, nasally tone.
Then his hand delved completely into First’s pocket and suddenly a very lucid thought pressed into First’s floaty, drunken brain. Alcohol tended to feed fire, not put it out. The flames licked his belly and up his chest, burning away the oxygen in his lungs. He clamped a strong grip around Khaotung’s wrist and was rewarded with another annoyed whinge.
“First, let me help you.”
The agonizing moment seemed to go on forever as Khaotung dug around First’s pocket like it was his own. The intimacy almost outweighed the feel of Khaotung’s fingers through the thin fabric. He tried to hold perfect still, watching the ceiling so that he didn’t see the stubborn, fuzzy look of concentration on Khaotung’s face.
Finally, Tung pulled away, successfully holding up the hotel keycard.
“You should wear less baggy pants, Fir.”
First, again, ignored him and instead rushed to get them into their room. The door swung yawned open and he clumsily disentangled himself from Khaotung’s grip, stumbling inside. Khaotung was pouting again as he was left swaying on the entrance way but tripped in after him, shutting the hotel door with a click as he went.
First busied himself with emptying out his pockets, starting with the pouch one on his grey hoodie. His phone, wallet, and keys spilled out of it onto the desk with a loud clatter and he began fumbling with the hem of pullover, dragging it over his head. The movement was distracting and cooling, a way to bury the early moment.
“Fir, I think I’m going to move in with Kitty.” Suddenly, First wished he’d waited to take his jacket off as the fire was effectively snuffed out with cold water. He turned and found Khaotung leaning against the door, watching him. Swallowing, he tried to smile, tried to seem excited, even as it felt like his world was crashing around his ears.
“Oh, that’s great, Tungtung,” he said.
His grin felt like it must look more like a grimace but he kept it up determinedly. Making a fuss now wouldn’t change anything and, really, First should have expected it. Khaotung had never entertained the idea of sharing a home or fence together as much as First had. And really, when First had said that, it had been honesty, a confession laid bare, the fragility kept antithetically safe by the cameras pointed at them.
Now it was blowing up in his face in the worst way.
“I’ll help you move when the time comes,” he said.
Khaotung watched him a long time and then nodded, smiling and pushing off the door.
“Thanks, friend,” he said. “I’m gonna take a shower first.”
“Sounds good.”
The bathroom door snicked shut.
First slumped onto their shared bed and covered his face with his hands. His fingers pressed into his eyelids and dampness collected between them. He cried quietly into the empty hotel room.