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1
The red carpet always looked glamorous in photos.
In real life, it was hot, hot from lights, hot from bodies packed too close, hot from the kind of pressure that made sweat collect in places it shouldn’t. It smelled like hair spray and expensive cologne and the sharp bite of setting powder. Cameras clicked so fast the sound became a constant static, like rain against metal.
FirstOne had been smiling for so long his cheeks ached.
Tle looked untouched by it.
He stood at the center of the chaos like he belonged there, shoulders squared, suit jacket sitting perfectly on his frame, expression calm and polished. When he smiled, it was the kind of smile that looked effortless even if First knew the truth: Tle worked for this composure. He chose it.
First didn’t choose anything. He was a creature of impulses.
It started harmlessly, because it always did.
First shifted closer, letting his shoulder brush Tle’s arm like a tiny reassurance, I’m here. And also, I’m bored. He leaned in just enough to whisper without moving his lips too much.
“How long have we been standing here?” First asked.
Tle kept his gaze forward. “Long enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“It’s a warning.”
First’s mouth twitched. “You’re so serious.”
Tle’s lips curved, small, private. “Someone has to be.”
First sighed theatrically, letting his head dip closer as if he might rest it on Tle’s shoulder. The fans screamed louder at the movement. Cameras angled. A photographer shouted, “Look this way! Together!”
Tle shifted half an inch to accommodate First without losing his posture. Like he’d been built for this.
First, fueled by attention and sugar and the itch to do something, did what he always did when he got restless, he made it Tle’s problem.
He poked Tle’s ribs lightly, once, testing. Tle didn’t flinch. First tried again, gentler, like a child tapping glass.
Nothing.
So First nudged Tle’s hip with his own, subtle enough it could be brushed off as a stance adjustment.
Tle’s jaw tightened the smallest amount.
First’s eyes brightened. There.
He leaned in as if whispering something sweet for the cameras, but the words were only for Tle.
“If you don’t blink soon, they’re going to think you’re a statue.”
Tle’s voice stayed even. “Stop.”
First grinned. “That’s two words.”
Tle didn’t answer.
The fans screamed again when First’s hand lifted, as if he might fix Tle’s lapel like a supportive partner. That was the kind of thing that played well. Soft domestic gestures. The illusion of intimacy packaged for public consumption.
First liked doing it, partly because it made the crowd happy, and partly because it was true in a thousand small ways.
He reached for the tiny tassel detail on Tle’s jacket, an unnecessary flourish, the kind of tailoring choice Tle pretended not to care about, but First knew he did. It swung slightly with every movement of Tle’s breathing.
First flicked it.
Once.
Again.
A third time, slower, like he was plucking a string and waiting for the vibration.
Tle did not look down.
He didn’t turn his head.
He didn’t even change his smile for the cameras.
He simply said, softly, like he was speaking into First’s skin.
“First.”
One word.
Low. Warm. Firm.
Not angry.
Not sharp.
Just final.
First froze like he’d been caught stealing.
His fingers dropped instantly to his side. The grin fell off his face so fast it almost felt embarrassing. Heat rushed into his cheeks, blooming outward, and then, like a delayed lightning strike, the sensation slid lower, settling hot and sharp right in his stomach.
His throat bobbed in a swallow that didn’t help.
He knew that voice.
Tle used it rarely in public. Not because he couldn’t, Tle could do anything he wanted, but because he understood what that tone did to First in a way First wished he didn’t.
First stared straight ahead, suddenly hyper-aware of the cameras, of the crowd, of how visible his reaction might be if he let it show.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
“Sorry, p’Tle,” First murmured, barely audible.
Tle’s expression didn’t change. He kept smiling for the photographers. But his eyes, when he finally glanced sideways, were soft with something that made First want to sink through the carpet.
A fondness.
A warning.
A quiet satisfaction.
Tle leaned in just enough that it could pass as a red-carpet whisper. His lips didn’t touch First’s ear, but his breath did.
“Behave,” Tle said, so quiet the cameras couldn’t catch it.
First’s stomach flipped.
He nodded once. Quick. Obedient.
The fans screamed like they’d been given something sweet.
First stood perfectly still for the rest of the carpet, hands at his sides, smile back in place, bright, polite, harmless.
Inside, he was unraveling.
And when they finally moved forward again, Tle’s hand brushed his lower back for a fraction of a second, guiding him through the crowd.
It could’ve looked like nothing.
First felt it like a promise.
—
2
A fan meeting was different.
The red carpet demanded stillness. Fan meetings demanded performance.
And FirstOne was always ready to perform.
The hall was huge, bright, packed with people holding banners, plushies, and cameras. The air vibrated with anticipation. Every time First smiled, the crowd screamed louder, like they could summon more of him through volume alone.
He fed it back to them.
He leaned into the microphone, exaggerated his reactions, and made dramatic faces at Tle whenever someone asked a question about their “chemistry.” He threw his head back laughing so hard his shoulders shook, and the audience ate it up like candy.
Tle sat beside him at the long table, composed as always, but his eyes were warm. He watched First the way you watched something you loved, like chaos could be beautiful if it was yours.
First leaned into him between questions, shoulder pressing into Tle’s arm, whispering stupid commentary.
“That fan has a sign that says you’re her husband,” First murmured.
Tle’s mouth twitched. “You’re jealous?”
First gasped. “Me? Never.”
“Liar.”
First grinned, delighted.
When someone asked them to do an impression of each other, First practically vibrated.
“Oh my god, yes,” he said into the mic, voice bright. “Okay. Okay. Watch.”
He straightened his spine exaggeratedly. Lifted his chin. Narrowed his eyes in a dramatic imitation of Tle’s calm stare.
Then he raised one eyebrow so hard it looked like it might detach from his face and popped his tounge against his cheek, replicating Tle’s iconic smirk.
The crowd shrieked.
Tle laughed, quiet, helpless for a moment, before he quickly regained control.
First’s confidence spiked. He kept going, doing a fake “Tle voice,” slow and low, repeating lines from Khemjira.
Tle’s smile grew strained.
Under the table, Tle’s hand settled on First’s knee.
A calm-down signal.
A gentle anchor.
First felt it immediately.
It sent a thrill through him, warm and sharp, because it wasn’t for the cameras. It was for him.
He grinned and kept going anyway.
Because he was FirstOne, and he could never resist pressing a button just to see what happened.
Tle’s fingers squeezed once. Not hard. Just enough to say I’m being patient.
First giggled into the mic, eyes crinkling.
Tle tried again.
His hand slid from First’s knee to the lower edge of his back, fingers scratching lightly through fabric, an intimate, familiar gesture, the kind you did absentmindedly when someone belonged to you.
First’s breath caught.
He still didn’t stop.
The crowd was too loud. The energy too sweet. His own adrenaline too high.
He launched into another impression, leaning toward the mic with dramatic seriousness, copying Tle’s posture so accurately that even staff offstage were laughing.
Tle’s patience finally ran out, not in anger, but in something steady and inevitable.
He lifted his microphone and said, warm enough for the fans, firm enough for First/
“First.”
The crowd shrieked and laughed, delighted, assuming it was playful scolding.
But First, First went still.
His spine straightened. His grin faltered. His thighs pressed together under the table as heat flared sharp and immediate, like someone had struck a match inside him.
Because that tone had been for him.
And the microphone had carried it.
First swallowed hard, suddenly aware of his own pulse, of the room, of the way Tle’s fingers still rested at his lower back, grounding him as if Tle knew exactly how hard that word landed.
First forced a laugh into the mic. “Yes, p’Tle,” he said, too sweet, too obedient.
The audience screamed again.
Tle turned his head slowly and smiled at him.
Soft.
Knowing.
Unfair.
First’s cheeks burned hotter.
He nodded once, like a chastised student.
And for the next ten minutes, he sat beautifully still, hands folded, posture perfect, an act so out of character the fans kept shrieking because they thought it was adorable.
They had no idea it wasn’t an act.
Under the table, Tle’s fingers scratched once more at First’s back.
Not a warning this time.
A reward.
First nearly short-circuited.
—
3
Sets were their own universe.
Even on break, nothing ever fully stopped. A staff member hurried past with a clipboard, someone adjusted a light stand, a stylist crossed the floor holding a garment bag like it contained something sacred.
FirstOne still had too much energy buzzing in his bones, like he ran on batteries no one else had access to.
So he wandered.
He chatted with background actors. Complimented someone’s shoes. Poked at the tape lines on the floor like they were personally fascinating. When the props team passed by with a bundle of cleaning items for the next scene, he zeroed in immediately.
“Ooh—can I?” he asked, already reaching.
Someone handed him a straw broom, bristles worn soft from use.
“It’s just for blocking,” the props guy said. “Please don’t—”
First grinned. “I would never.”
He immediately twirled it, not wildly, just enough to test the balance, then rested it against his shoulder like it was the most important object he’d ever held.
“Tle!” he called across the set. “Be honest. Does this work for me?”
Tle was still in the makeup chair, jacket draped neatly over his shoulders, posture relaxed as the makeup artist touched up beneath his eyes. He glanced over with the expression of someone deeply familiar with chaos and fond of it despite himself.
“You look like you’re about to get fired,” Tle said calmly.
First laughed. “That’s still kind of hot.”
The makeup artist snorted. “Your boyfriend is a menace.”
Tle exhaled, the sigh more affectionate than tired. “He is.”
Then, without thinking, he added, quieter, softer “But he’s my menace.”
The makeup artist smiled like she’d been handed something precious.
First heard it and lit up like he’d just won something.
He kept messing around, too buoyant, too playful, until he tried to spin the broom again and the bristles came a little too close to a nearby light stand.
Someone made a sharp sound.
Tle’s head turned instantly.
He stood.
And when Tle stood, the set seemed to notice, not because he was loud, not because he demanded attention, but because he moved with that quiet certainty that made people instinctively clear a path.
He crossed the space in long, unhurried steps. His expression was calm, but his eyes were focused in a way that made First’s grin falter just slightly.
Tle stopped close, close enough that First felt him before he fully registered him, close enough that the surrounding noise blurred at the edges.
Then Tle leaned in, mouth near First’s ear, voice low and steady.
“First.”
It landed like a hand at the base of his spine.
First’s pulse jumped so hard his thoughts stuttered. He lowered the broom immediately. No hesitation. No argument.
“Yes,” he breathed.
Tle’s hand settled briefly at First’s waist, thumb brushing the hem of his shirt, controlled, intentional, gone almost as soon as it was there. A quiet correction. A reminder.
Then Tle stepped back and returned to his chair like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just reset First’s entire nervous system with one word and a touch.
First stood there, staring after him, trying to remember how breathing was supposed to work.
A crew member passed by and said, amused, “You get in trouble?”
First laughed, a little thin. “Nope.”
He glanced down at the broom in his hands.
Then, wisely, set it aside and backed away from it.
—
4
The livestream was meant to be “relaxed.”
That was the lie.
Because fans didn’t want relaxed, they wanted glimpses. They wanted evidence. They wanted the tiny domestic moments that looked accidental but felt like confessions.
They were in the condo living room, couch cushions slightly crooked, snacks spread across the coffee table in messy abundance. FirstOne wore comfortable clothes and looked dangerously energized for the time of night. Tle sat beside him with a calmer posture, phone angled toward them, reading comments with mild amusement.
First made it chaos on purpose.
He held up chips to block the camera. He shoved a snack bag into Tle’s face like a microphone. He imitated Tle’s laugh and then laughed harder when Tle side-eyed him.
“Stop copying me,” Tle said, voice fond.
“I’m not copying you,” First lied.
The chat went insane with laughing emojis and heart spam.
First leaned forward, half climbing onto Tle’s lap to grab the phone when he saw a comment he wanted to respond to. The couch shifted. The phone wobbled. The angle went crooked and for a second the fans got a dramatic close-up of Tle’s chin.
Tle steadied the phone with one hand.
His other hand found First’s hip, firm, guiding, familiar.
Then he said it.
“First.”
Not loud.
Not angry.
Soft, firm, possessive in a way that made First’s whole body lock up mid-motion.
First froze like someone had hit pause.
His muscles tensed. His breath caught. For a split second, he couldn’t even look at the screen, couldn’t process the chat exploding with laughter because they thought it was a bit.
Tle’s hand stayed on his hip, quietly steering him back down.
First sat.
Immediately.
Perfectly.
The chat spammed:
OBEDIENT!!🐰🤭
LMAO HE LISTENED 🤣 🤣 🤣
TLE SAID “FIRSTTTT” 😵💫
🩷💚🩷💚
First blinked, cheeks heating, staring straight at the camera like he might evaporate.
Tle smirked, small, satisfied, and went back to reading comments as if he hadn’t just wrecked him in front of thousands of people.
First wanted to sink into the couch.
Or climb into Tle’s lap again for an entirely different reason.
He swallowed hard and forced a bright smile at the camera.
“Okay,” First said, too sweet, too controlled. “I’m sitting.”
Tle hummed, pleased. “Good.”
First’s stomach flipped.
The chat exploded again.
—
5
Backstage before a fan event was never quiet.
It was a controlled kind of chaos, people moving with purpose, voices overlapping, music thumping faintly from the venue outside, radios crackling with last-minute instructions. Clothing racks lined the narrow hallway like metal skeletons draped in fabric. Stylists darted between rooms, arms full, eyes sharp.
FirstOne existed in the middle of it like a loose spark.
He was half-dressed, shirt unbuttoned down the middle, hair sticking up at odd angles from a rushed styling session that hadn’t quite finished. Someone had handed him a snack ten minutes ago and he was still holding it, forgotten, while talking to three people at once.
“Yes, I know the order changed—no, I didn’t move the mic—oh wait, is this my earring?” First said rapidly, patting his pockets. “I swear I just had it—”
“First, please stop moving,” a stylist pleaded, trying to fix the collar of his shirt as First shifted again.
“I am stopping—ow—okay wait, sorry—”
The earring slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a tiny clink.
“Oh no,” First groaned, immediately crouching. As he did, the snack slipped from his hand and bounced once on the ground. At the same time, his phone slid out of his pocket, skittering a few inches away.
First stared at the mess like it had personally betrayed him.
“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. That’s—fine.”
He reached for the phone and froze.
Because Tle had just walked past the open dressing room door.
Tle took in the scene in one glance.
First crouched on the floor. Shirt half-open. Hair a disaster. A snack abandoned. Phone on the ground. Stylist hovering on the edge of despair.
Tle pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.
“First.”
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t sharp.
It was firm in a way that cut through the noise of backstage like a blade through silk.
First stopped cold.
His knees froze halfway between crouching and standing. His fingers hovered in midair, an inch above his phone. His breath punched out of his lungs as if his body had forgotten how to hold it.
That heat bloomed again, low, curling, familiar and devastating. It slid straight through his stomach and down his spine, lighting up every nerve in its path.
He swallowed hard.
“Yes,” First said automatically, voice barely there.
The stylist blinked, startled, then looked between them like she’d just witnessed a magic trick.
Tle stepped closer, movements unhurried. He stopped directly in front of First, gaze steady.
“Stand up,” Tle said.
First obeyed instantly.
He rose so fast his head nearly brushed Tle’s chin. His pulse was loud in his ears now, every sense dialed too high. He stood straight without being told, shoulders squaring on instinct.
Tle’s hands came up calmly, confidently.
He adjusted First’s shirt with precise movements, buttoning it one by one, smoothing the fabric flat against First’s chest, guiding his shoulders back with gentle pressure. His touch was professional enough for anyone watching, but First felt every second of it like a current running through him.
“Hold still,” Tle murmured.
First nodded. “Mhm.”
The stylist stepped back, impressed. “Wow. You should do this more often.”
Tle didn’t look away from First. “Only when necessary.”
His fingers brushed First’s collarbone, then slid to fix the collar. He straightened the line of the fabric, tugged lightly until it sat perfectly.
“You’re going on in two minutes,” Tle said quietly. “You need to look put together.”
First’s mouth felt dry. “Y-yeah.”
Tle lifted First’s chin with a single finger.
Just one.
First’s breath caught so sharply it almost embarrassed him.
“Good,” Tle said.
The word settled into First like a spark catching.
Tle stepped back, hands dropping to his sides, expression smoothing into neutral professionalism.
“All right,” he said evenly. “Stop being cute and get ready.”
First nearly tripped over his own shoes trying to step away.
His ears burned. His neck burned. Everything burned.
He didn’t look back, because if he did, he knew he’d see that look. The one Tle sometimes wore when he knew exactly what he’d done.
Behind him, Tle watched First retreat.
For just a moment, his expression shifted.
Amused. Sly. Very aware.
—
+1
Filming ended late.
By the time they got home, the condo was quiet , lights low, city noise muted by height and glass. The kind of quiet that felt heavier after a long day, settling into the bones.
Tle had already showered. He stood in the bedroom with a towel around his shoulders, hair damp, scrolling through something on his phone with calm focus.
First lingered in the doorway.
His heart was pounding too fast for no reason he could explain to anyone else.
“Tle,” First said.
Tle looked up. “Hmm?”
The single syllable nearly made First lose his nerve.
He swallowed, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. “Can I talk to you?”
Tle set his phone down. “Of course.”
That gentleness almost made it worse.
First stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. The click echoed too loudly in his head.
“You know when you say my name like that,” First began, then faltered, heat rushing to his face. “Like… not angry. Just—”
Tle’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“—like you’re… grounding me,” First finished weakly.
Tle was still for a long moment.
Then his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile.
“Oh,” Tle said softly. “So that’s why.”
First’s cheeks flamed. “p’… don’t tease.”
Tle crossed the room in three unhurried steps.
He stopped close enough that First could feel warmth radiating off him.
“I’m not teasing,” Tle murmured, brushing a knuckle down First’s jaw. “I’ve known for a long time.”
First’s breath hitched.
Tle leaned in, lips brushing First’s ear.
“First.”
First’s knees nearly buckled.
Tle caught him easily, hands firm at his waist, a quiet chuckle vibrating against First’s skin.
“You really like that, hm?” Tle murmured.
First nodded helplessly. “Yes.”
Tle kissed him then, slow, deep, deliberate. A kiss that didn’t rush, didn’t take, but claimed. He guided First backward until his knees hit the bed, then down.
Later, when Tle’s mouth drifted lower, he paused just long enough to make First squirm.
“P’Tle—”
Tle smiled against his skin.
He sucked gently, teeth scraping just enough to make First gasp, leaving a dark bloom just below his navel.
“Mine,” Tle murmured.
First’s hands twisted in the sheets.
—
The next morning, the internet combusted.
A vlog clip caught First stretching, shirt lifting just enough to show the mark before settling back into place.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
Screenshots circulated. Zooms intensified. Theories multiplied.
Somewhere behind him, just out of frame, Tle leaned in close.
“Behave, First,” he said quietly.
First smiled, and the comments never recovered.