Archive of Our Own

Apo doesn’t quite remember how the wish to join the entertainment industry came to be.

It has been years since he first stepped into the spotlight and flash of the cameras, but Apo does recall it having been a huge desire to do something more, to leave a trace in life, to do things that he will be remembered by even after years have passed.

His love towards the arts was there since the first time he picked up his parent’s Nikon N90 camera, the allure of snapshots of everything around him captured on 35mm film something so entrancing and beautiful, it never left him.

The idea of living in the moment and capturing it, keeping it somewhere tucked away as a safekeep, has always been the way he lived his life; the way he grew during his highschool days and later in life as he went through various stages towards adulthood.

Nothing made him more happy than to look at a photo and see the very feeling the person he was in that moment felt, to watch the way he’d changed over the years and yet remained the same at the very core.

He loved to live life in the moment, to be fully present and attentive in the place he was with the people around him, or by himself which was more the occasion, and just give himself over to the current feeling of it all. Past was past for a reason, the future was forever bound to be uncertain—don’t we all just have the present, the now, and shouldn't it matter the most? To him, it truly did and still does.

After finishing high school, things went somewhat naturally. He was barely seventeen years of age when he entered the modelling world, walking runways and later appearing in spreads of various magazines, a ‘promising new star’ in an industry so fiercely competitive and mentally draining.

And it was nice. It was the first time he—someone truly and deeply shy at his very core, someone who doesn’t like being the centre of attention—felt anything akin to greed for more, for recognition and praise, to be looked upon as a role model in a sea of many others. It was what made him start growing a backbone that was more than needed in the world where many people will simply seek the opportunity to use you for their own benefit, uncaring of the rubble it may leave you in once they’re done with you; discarded to the side like a piece of single-use plastic.

He was twenty when he went into a five-year contract with Channel 3 and when he made his debut as an actor. And acting, as it turned out, was entirely different from modelling and became something he immersed his entire being into, year after year.

Filming lakorns, investing time and money into bettering himself as an artist—to be told it’s not enough, you need to fix this; you need to stop behaving that way, people will think it’s weird. It was the first time in his twenties where he felt like he was pushing, going against his own self, guided by comments from adults he believed were right at that time.

After all, wasn’t he just a kid? A bright eyed, energetic clay at hands of others to mould into a shape that fits their own composition, he himself merely a tool in their bigger picture.

Deep down, he did know it was wrong—going against yourself and subduing your true personality in light of comments people would make to your face, brazen in their right to say what you need to fix about yourself, don’t you want to make it big?

But is it worth it in the end? Once you stand in front of a mirror, staring at your own reflection that feels like it's lagging behind the real movements you’re making and—tears are all that come to you, rushed and strong against your struggling eyelids to chase them away; you hate what you see and hating your own self feels like a death much worse than a lethal wound to the heart.

It took him a while, a long time actually, to realise being untrue to who you truly are was worse than never living your life to its fullest potential, so—he’d left.

Packed up, hugged his family and friends goodbye, and summoned brightness to his eyes as he stepped onto another continent and commenced his life in New York City. It was probably one of the hardest decisions he’d made in his life thus far, and one he was most grateful for.

It was different. And in the best way possible.

If he were to compare it to something, now that he feels himself to be a built individual where he’s currently in life, it would probably be to that of a caterpillar—attaching itself to a healthy branch, safe in its chrysalis as it awaits the metamorphosis of its very being, and then—wings, so frail yet strong against the pressures around them, gently unfurling and feeling the sun against them for the very first time.

New York was that and so much more. A place to be who he was; Apo Nattawin Wattanagitiphat, a twenty-some year old who had left Thailand seeking himself and in the process found many other things—freedom, friends, heartbreak, art. Found out that he likes to have a calm mind and wander all by himself with a camera around his neck and headphones playing the latest tune that had its grip around his heart.

A city where he made long-lasting friendships, where he broke some of them; where he started bartending and discovered a newfound love for mixology.

After his contract with the agency had finally ended, he had left and never looked back.

He thinks he would have stayed in New York had the pandemic not hit the entire world and his parents had urged him to come back home, here we can take care of each other better, it is safer—as a matter of fact, Apo knows he would have; New York was everything he’d ever dreamt of life, and why go back to the very place that despite all it’s beauty and grandeur felt like a cage?

As someone who firmly believed in Buddhist teachings, having been ordained before, Apo had always deeply felt the connection with the nature around him, finding solace in meditation and making merits and not straying from the fundamental principles of the Buddhist way of living.

And it was karma, probably. Coming back to his homeland, the city he grew up in at that exact point in time to be told of a casting for a TV series that sounded more than promising and honestly, intriguing.

For every event that occurs, there will follow another event whose existence was caused by the first, and this second event will be pleasant or unpleasant according to whether its cause was skillful or unskillful.

Thinking back on it, being casted as Porsche—the unfiltered, wild spirit who rushed through life unapologetically and true to himself—it had to have been a sign of karmic retribution. And all of it came neatly served in a package with a Romsaithong bow around it.

Mile was unlike the people who usually made their spots in his life, whether it be to stay or just follow him through it in a certain phase and leave.

Charming, charming as hell; with his long hair in a tight bun and thick eyebrows and a toothy smile that left you staring even long after his lips closed around it.

It hadn’t been that way at first. Apo had joined the casting not paying much attention to anyone else, focused on doing his best reading the lines and portraying Porsche in the way he felt the character resonated with him as a mid-point between the paper and the audience that’s to perceive it. He did notice Mile in passing, as Mile was about to enter the room and later, in the hallway, as they were being interviewed about it; after which they sat next to each other and shared a few blurry sentences about the project.

Later in the audition, however, not noticing Mile would have been a true effort on anyone’s part.

He hated that he thought of it that way, but Mile commanded the room and the staff sat at the tables in front of him even before he’d slipped into Kinn’s character and blew everyone away. The tight, too tight black dress-shirt with the top two buttons undone, tucked into grey slacks, hair slicked back in a low ponytail.

Perhaps the reason he hated it—disliked him—for a very brief point in time was the fact that, unlike others who’d gone to the casting and later those few who auditioned in front of the writers through various scenes, Mile had gone there for the kicks; experience, as he himself put it.

It felt all that worse, as someone who’s acted for years prior to the audition, solely because Mile was damn good at it. He’d tampered the thoughts as soon as they’d come, but it made the years he’d invested into acting feel less significant, when you have someone perfect for a role show up just for the fun of it, and they click with the character so well there’s no need to search further.

After the initial reading they were both fast tracked for the roles they auditioned—Apo being jittery and excited at the prospect and being showered with compliments from all sides at how well he fit the character, how he was perfect for the role.

It was the reason he’d auditioned for Porsche, in the first place. The character sheet he’d gotten for it, with Porsche’s age similar to his own; the way he talks and the rhythm of it, what he says—everything so familiar and known to the way he himself was. He hadn’t read any of the other character’s scripts before his own but even to someone in the blinds as to what the character should entail, it was obvious it felt the same for Mile.

It was probably that very same day that those ridiculous allegations of Mile being actually affiliated with the mafia (ones even claiming him a leader) came to life. From the way he’d walked in, all buffed up and fierce and acted with his eyebrows as if everyone’s life depended on it.

Gods, Apo hated how well it worked.

Seeing him snap out of his character for that very first time, watching him be interviewed after he too was fast-tracked, could account to a spiritual experience of some sort.

The gentleness that overcame his features, eyes crescents with that seemingly permanent smile on his lips as he articulated himself oh so beautifully about the casting, his thought process behind it and the outcome of it all. He was polite and charming in the way many forced themselves to be, but to him it was his nature and the thing that drew people to him like moths to a vibrant flame.

Mile was two years his senior at the university they both attended, and despite knowing of each other they never truly moved in the same circles. Apo vaguely remembered meeting him almost a decade ago at some small fashion project where they walked one after the other, too young and bright. Another meeting in a gym where he’d seen Mile lifting weights and was surprised to see the physical change of the once kid with braces he recalled from that fashion show.

It wasn’t until quite some time later, when they were talking on a break between the sets, that Mile spoke about it, smiling as he retold the way he felt when he’d met Apo all those years ago.

“You reminded me so much of him back then, Zhan Zhao. I was honestly dumbstruck at how similar you looked to him.”

Apo had laughed around his sip of coffee. “You and your obsession with that show. It's cute, but I’ll never get it.”

Mile passed him the sugar pack as he saw him reaching for it and Apo in turn mouthed a silent thank you. “Not my fault you reminded me of him, you were really handsome as a teenager. And even later, when we met that one time in the gym? The resemblance was uncanny. And I was honestly surprised you remembered me, considering the fact we haven’t spoken back during that fashion show.”

“What can I say,” Apo wiggled his eyebrows as he reclined in his chair, crossing his legs, “Your eyebrows really left an impression, hard to forget them.”

Mile was full-on grinning at that point. “What, you’re trying to say it was not my muscles as I was lifting those weights that drew your attention?” At a raise of his eyebrow, Apo scoffed; but it was true.

“You really did skip a few chapters and went into gym rat phase back then. What was it, aunties didn’t want to pitch you to their daughters, a heartbreak?” He smiled as he took another sip, the saccharin a pleasant surge on his tongue.

“No, I just wanted the attention of handsome men who reminded me of Zhan Zhao. I guess it worked?”

Apo had laughed fully, spilling some of the coffee on his shirt and Mile had just stared at him, that smile never once leaving his lips.

He doesn’t know if he would’ve done things differently, back then.

Two years later, as he wakes at half past six in the morning and stumbles through his morning skincare routine with coffee and an LP in the background—Apo wonders if he would change things if he could go back.

The moment so unlike him, to ponder over the past.

And if he were to go back, do what, exactly? Not walk into that casting room? Not visit that gym on that day? Never transfer from Thammasat to the Faculty of Communication Arts at Rangsit University? Not take that fashion gig when he was barely eighteen?

For every event that occurs, there will follow another event whose existence was caused by the first, the first sentence of the law of Karma rings in his head as he rinses his mouth and stares at himself in the mirror above the sink.

Which one, then, was the first event that caused it all? The one that said: years down the road, this will come to bite you in the ass and there is nothing you’ll be able to do to avoid it.

And it had been exactly that moment he now knows to had been Karma coming for a payback—Apo was twenty-six when he left behind his life in NYC, walked into the audition room for the role of his life and got kissed by a man two years his senior.

And Mile Phakphum Romsaithong—he indeed turned out to be something else, entirely.

—

If he’d thought at that time that filming and production of the series had been exhausting, Apo lacked to find an adjective in his vernacular for the storm that overtook his life—their lives—after the final episode of KinnPorsche had aired back in July.

Truth be told, it started way before, with the KinnPorsche press conference in November the previous year—after they've rebranded and saved the entire project from ever seeing the light of day under Filmania—and it all just crescendoed as they went into a new year.

And it was a storm even before the first episode aired.

To pinpoint the exact time would be difficult—it is in the very nature of storms to start way before you find yourself in its eye, wondering how the fuck did I not see this coming. First it’s the warm air rising up, until moisture engulfs everything and charges clash within the atoms seeking release, and all of that neatly wrapped in a dance of currents as they push against each other.

Waiting out a storm is best done standing in its eye, where damage appears to be minimal.

Apo would beg to fucking differ.

He’d be lying if he said anything else apart from the fact that all those years spent acting in lakorns were not even close to enough in preparing him for the pre-production of KinnPorsche and the storm that started in his life since, while he stood trapped within it, watching as it raged on.

Apo was a professional, had always prided himself on it. Work was work and as such it should always be taken seriously if your intention is a neat closure of it all. He’d never shied away from a scene before nor had he walked into a set unprepared for one, both mentally and physically.

But then again, never before had he partaken in a pre-production filled with so many workshops—to give credit where it’s due, Filmania had done that well enough, if one turns a blind eye to some of the things they didn’t.

Workshops with Mile could be considered as a second spiritual experience in that mental list from before.

Apo was by nature an affectionate person, someone who expressed his closeness through physical touch—grounding himself in someone's space as if to say yes, I do enjoy your company enough that I feel comfortable being this close to you. But things like that happened organically, things like that took time. And time is not exactly in a surplus when undertaking a major project such as KinnPorsche, with investors and sponsors breathing down your neck each week.

So to make up for lack of time you’d normally need to bond with another human being, you’re sat across each other and made to stare into each other’s eyes for long periods of time. Which, by its very nature, had to be awkward at first. But that was the point of it all—speed through the awkwardness phase of meeting someone new and slowly, over time, work on a connection that resonates with your characters and makes all parties involved comfortable in close physical proximity to each other.

The most important thing of it all being avoidance of scenes during the actual filming that are “not directed or scripted by any person or necessary for the purpose of the performance of the production,” and putting the actors in uncomfortable situations where if one were to improvise fully on the spot without prior talk-through of a scene.

And in hindsight, it all started with the workshops.

Apo knows, the moment he’d allowed himself to bleed into the character during the intimacy closeness sessions, he was done for and there was no turning back.

He still remembers the first of the many they did, quite vividly at that—Mile sat on the floor, legs crossed and eyelids fluttering as Apo moved slowly into his space, his nose gently brushing against Mile’s face.

From the juncture of his neck and jaw, sofly over his cheekbones and eyebrows, then gently moving down his nose bridge; their eyes closed, breathing turning laboured in the silence of the room as the intimacy coordinator and writers watched with bated breaths.

Apo had covered every inch of skin on Mile's face; the tip of his nose gentle in its exploration, feeling the way Mile exhaled harshly whenever he’d made a pass over the man’s lips or neck.

And if he’d thought that was difficult to do, it was nothing compared to when Mile took over and gave back with equal measure, making him subconsciously move backwards more than he should have; heart beating like that of a jackrabbit and screaming danger at the warmth of Mile’s breath against his trembling eyelids.

The sound of Mile swallowing harshly right in front of him as he gently nosed around his ear had Apo swallowing in turn and the warmth—the warmth of the other’s body slowly engulfing his entire being as he pushed in and pressed his lips against Apo’s with intent of his character and something else underneath.

It was difficult; not forgetting where he was and how many pairs of eyes in the room were staring at them intently, silent in their observation, as Mile pushed in further and the wetness of his lips had swallowed Apo’s own.

Apo knew what he should have been feeling, back then. The confusion in Porsche’s mind as he’s kissed by a man for the first time, the entrancing feeling of persistent yet gentle lips wet against Porsche’s own; the initial reluctance of reciprocating before Kinn’s fingers are gripping his biceps and pushing him back and every nerve ending in Apo’s body had gone aflame and misfired and—

It was futile the moment he’d felt it as himself, as Nattawin; Porsche tucked somewhere in the back of his mind.

The thing that made it all more difficult to snap out of it each time they did a workshop—Mile was great at kissing. Apo was not inexperienced himself, but something in the way Mile would approach hi—would approach Porsche—like he was something precious and fragile and something worthy of dropping down to his knees to worship endlessly; something he craved and would perish without, as if not kissing him would be a death worse than anything else.

It made him feel things, things a professional actor should not be feeling when it came to intimate scenes with their partner, and yet—Apo had never been God’s strongest soldier.

But he was good at acting, and act he had.

For the workshops, the coordination of the scenes; during lives they had under Filmania where he curled behind Porsche as his shield and flirted shamelessly with Mile, loving the split second moments where Mile’s pupils would dilate as he formed a response or simply shouted his nickname with such amusement it made Apo feel like a man high on paint fumes.

He’d acted during their interviews back then, given Porsche the reins to his heart and tongue and had danced around Mile as if to say ‘what are you going to do about it?’. Mile played along. Played along so naturally and beautifully that it made things all the more worse.

It was a cowardly thing, in retrospect. But when he said he liked living in the present, it didn’t necessarily mean Apo was smart while the said present was happening and—confusing your own feelings to that of the character you resonated with was a silly, dumb, downright fucking stupid rookie mistake.

Just, Apo had no excuses. He was no rookie—he’d been in the industry for years by that point—nor could he blame it on anyone else apart from his own self; he was the one that mixed hot and cold water in the same dish and then acted surprised when they could not be separated any more.

If he could have prophesied it back then, or if someone had told him, ‘Hey, you know this isn’t smart, detach yourself from the character or you’ll get burned’, Apo knows he would’ve laughed it off; he’s not dumb to allow something like that to happen, to attach himself in such way to his co-star.

And yet, here he was. Sipping his coffee after he’s finished his morning routine, Orville Peck’s Dead of Night vibrates softly in the heavy air streaming in through the open windows as he mentally prepares himself for the following few days.

It’s almost 8am when he checks his phone for the first time, and ignores the flurry of notifications across social media accounts to zero in on a message from Mile, the LINE badge notification bright on his display.

He wishes he could ignore it, go a bit longer into the day without the reminder of Mile’s presence in his life, bright as a pink neon sign at the very entrance to his soul; he can’t. He unlocks the phone and reads the text with a soft upwards curl to his lips.

> Wanna stay over at my place tonight?

It takes less than a minute of him reading the message for Mile’s name to flash on his screen, vibrating and loud; Apo answers on the second ring.

“Why are you awake at this hour?”

There’s a short pause before Mile’s laughter rings through the phone, voice sleepy as he clears his throat to speak.

‘Thank you, good morning to you too. A beautiful day outside, isn’t it?’

“Not really, it’s probably going to rain tonight. The sky is already overcast. Anyhow, why the early morning call, you’re barely awake. Were you—” he takes a sip of his coffee as he walks back into his room to settle down on the bed, suddenly overcome with the need to go back and sleep the day off, Mile’s voice in his ear. “—were you waiting for me to read the message?”

‘It’s 8am, it’s not early. I’ve been up for a while now and—yeah, I was waiting for the reply.’

Apo doesn’t speak for a beat. “Isn’t your place farther than mine is to the hotel? It makes no sense to go back and forth and—”

‘The other place, the one on Sathon Road. It’s a two minute drive to the Four Seasons, we won't have to rush for the gala.’

Oh. Apo bites at the dry skin of his lower lip.

“Yeah, sure. We can go there after the band practice. At what time are we gathering in the studio?”

There’s shuffling on the other end, a creak of a bed frame and Apo briefly imagines Mile in his bed, sprawled as he shifts into a more comfortable position. ‘Sometime after noon, around 3pm I think.’

“Okay.”

Silence.

‘Should I pick you up earlier, we can—’

He interrupts Mile before the other could finish his sentence. “No need, I have a few errands to run before that. I’ll just meet you guys there.”

‘Oh, okay.’

There’s disappointment in Mile’s voice and Apo fights the urge to say, yeah we can go grab lunch before it, but they’re going to be spending the next few days joined at the hip; he needs to clear his mind a bit, wander around Bangkok by himself or else he’s going to implode and he’s not in the place in life where he can afford that happening.

“I’ll bring the movie script if you’d be down tonight to read some lines. And—” he chuckles softly as he ruffles his own hair, gripping it so harshly at the nape that he feels his scalp might come off, “—and I got you something. I hope you’ll like it.”

The soft gasp and excitement rings clear in Mile’s voice as he speaks next. ‘What is it? Tell your Phi now or else he might walk into a pole or something while thinking about what it could be.’

At that, Apo laughs throatily, head thrown backwards and Mile’s own laughter is ringing against his ear.

“I think Phi is a little shit and too curious for his own good and—”

‘Wow, Khun Nattawin, is that what youngsters in the industry call their elders these days? I have never felt more respected in the entirety of my thirty years on this earth.’

And Apo can see the grin Mile must have on his face as he speaks those words, palm coming to cover the spot on his chest under which his heart resides in mock hurt, and he’s overwhelmed by the sudden urge to be there, in the man’s room, to sit next to him and just stare.

“Don’t forget to tiger-balm your joints Phi, and drink your hypertension tea, and pain-relief patches for your lower back—”

‘Po, you’re lucky you’re cute or else I would have smacked you for that.’ A chuckle. ‘See you at the studio.’

The line goes dead and Apo chugs whatever was left of his coffee, long gone cold. He lays down in bed, eyes fixated on the ceiling of his room; he faintly hears the LP scratch and start from the beginning.

Wouldn’t it be nice? To have your life on a record, moving the needle to the beginning time and time again, never allowing it to end. But what use would it be, when each dip has been predestined and there’s only one way in which the needle can go.

It’s the same reason he doesn’t like to dwell on the past. Apo knows, if he were to go back, he would have done everything exactly the same. Some things even sooner.

—

MIle always had a way with words.

It was rare, at least to Apo, to have someone constantly around him that always spoke and chose his words carefully, articulate in such a manner that to some could come off as pretentious if they didn’t know his family background and how he was raised.

And when you talked, Mile's entire focus was on you.

The first few times it had been weird. Apo, by nature, hated when someone’s attention was solely on him; it made him too self conscious and bare in a way that made him forget what he was talking about or stumble over his own words. Mile simply didn’t give a fuck.

He’d looked at him attentively each time he spoke, either at his sides or maintaining eye contact if they were sitting across from each other and each time it had been unnerving. Apo didn’t know what to do with all of that attention focused solely on him and more than once was the one to break eye contact first, turning his head to the side with some flimsy excuse.

But once he would slip into Porsche’s character, Apo basked in it.

It was a dumb thing to do, truly. Using your character as an excuse to act like you yourself wanted to around someone constantly showering you with attention, attuned to your mood and always there to make things better; catering to whatever need you might have.

And Mile was exactly like that. No matter if the cameras were still rolling or they were in private—having drinks somewhere or having a meal with just the two of them—he acted the same towards Apo; attentive, gentle and gazed at him like Apo hung the very moon in the heavens.

It was too much, suffocating, confusing. It would make something constrict in Apo’s chest, something tighten in his lower abdomen—like the inception of an anxiety attack as it slowly crawls all over your insides and comes to rest in your throat.

It’s almost noon by the time he finally decides to leave his room and place, a cream-colored shirt paired with dark-blue shorts on, both adorned with embroidery details. Phra Nakhon at noon is a beautiful sight, even as the rain threatens high in the sky, and he drives around for a while.

He doesn’t know what makes him remember that particular point in time, but his thoughts go back to early 2021, when they were doing the SHOPEE Live while still under Filmania.

Apo is not dumb. He knows that the whole period while being in their previous company they’ve engaged in so much fanservice; both at the request of the staff behind the cameras as they filmed their lives and of their own volition, egged on by the other’s reaction to something they’ve said or done.

But he remembers the way he felt during that particular Live.

The moment he was surprised by Mile for not knowing what ‘chibi’ drawings were and how he explained it to him as if to a five year old child, Mile’s cluelessness so endearing and cute. When he took that notepad to take on the challenge instead of Mile, asking him to look straight at Apo and Mile’s teasing as he took a sip of water from his bottle—You don’t remember Phi’s face Nong kha?

Honestly, fuck him. It had gotten Apo so flustered, eyes glued onto the damned notepad as he tried his best to actually draw something; Mile had let out an amused sigh at the finished drawing and Apo had thrown his head back in laughter.

The way he didn't know what to do with himself when they were about to start the next game—passing tissue paper mouth to mouth—and Apo had resorted to making light of it all by shaking his head all over the place, heart thundering and cheeks a pink hue as Mile opened his mouth to take that first sheet from Apo's pressed lips.

Gosh, it was embarrassing how nervous it made him feel, embarrassing to see the nervousness reflected on Mile's face as well.

By the fourth round all pretence was gone and their lips had touched around the tissue and then Mile had teased him by pulling back when Apo moved in, lips parted and something had snapped in Apo as he gripped the man's neck from behind and pulled him in to take the damned paper, masking his action as competitiveness to win the silly game.

Thinking back on it now, there were so many interviews back then, lives—him constantly annoying Mile and using every opportunity to be physically as close as possible to the man, being his true self under the guise of doing fanservice.

Because all of those reactions had been him. He might claim otherwise, but Apo's enjoyed being the centre of Mile's attention ever since the first time the man had called him handsome, had told him he remembered him from years ago—I remembered your sharp eyes, you have beautiful eyes—had entertained his every joke and jabb.

It was quite possibly the main reason he’d confused Mile’s affections for something more and—and 2021 had been good. Until it wasn’t.

—

He spots him as soon as he enters the studio, tuning his guitar next to the Marshall sound system; flared jeans with that tucked-in black graphic tee, moss green socks on the carpeted floor.

He greets the others briefly, already in their own conversations and rehearsing the songs for the tour as he walks up to Mile and taps him gently on the back, taking his attention away from the guitar.

“Oh, you’re here! What took you so long, it’s almost 4pm.”

There’s that gentle smile on Mile’s lips as he takes turns from looking at him and his guitar, playing with one of the strings, and Apo feels his own smile forming.

“I got distracted. The sky was extra pretty, had to take some photos.”

“Ohhh, Apovision rides again. Fans will rejoice once you post them, I always see a big buzz on social media once you update on that account.”

Apo doesn't dwell on the fact that Mile keeps tabs on how fans react when he posts.

“Have you— uh, have you eaten already? Did you guys gather just now or—”

Mile scrunches his eyebrows as he replies, eyes glued onto the guitar once again. “No, everyone got here almost an hour ago. We had some takeout. Are you hungry? I left you half of my meal, I couldn’t eat it all. Go eat before we start with the singing practice, I’ll tune my guitar by then.”

It’s hard not to feel dismissed, not when Mile just told him he was worried if he’ll have a proper meal by himself so he shared his own, but in a way it feels like a dismissal and Apo leaves to sit at one of the tables in the studio, gaze falling onto a takeout container with his name scribbled on it in a familiar handwriting.

Warmth settles low in his belly as he opens it and eats the lukewarm dish, not even paying too much attention to what it was; when they share food, Mile makes sure to order dishes he’s certain Apo loves, his own preference unimportant.

A spoonful of rice brings his thoughts back to their The Standard Pop interview, barely a few months ago.

MIle’s childhood photo on that screen, in a knitted red sweater and mouth full of larb with sticky rice as he smiles happily at the lens of the camera—Apo feels himself bubbling with laughter as he eats, drawing the attention of his colleagues. He shakes his head around a smile at Jeff’s quizzical look.

“Your habit after dinner was throwing up all you had eaten so you could eat something more delicious.” The interviewer laughed and Apo followed, unrestrained. “Why did you do that?”

The grin on Mile’s face was a fond and enthusiastic one, fingers waving through the air as he excitedly retold his early childhood habits.

The very image of young Mile, his slightly chubby cheeks and an appetite to rival two adults as he ate spicy food at the grownups table—gosh, Apo never wanted to time travel this strongly before; to sit and watch his childish glee and buy him all the food and deserts his little heart could wish for.

And that was another thing about Mile—he was never embarrassed or ashamed about things he'd done in the past, whether it be as a kid or teenager and even later in his early twenties—he always spoke so fondly of those times, so softly and protective of them, not allowing anyone to taint them.

The man's Instagram page was a live testament of it—from humble birthday presents when he was a teenager, his K-pop phase and going to 2PM and SISTAR concerts, to selfies people might see as cringy once they get older and look back at them. But not Mile, never. Everything stayed there, a reminder of the phases in his life as he grew into a person he was today.

Apo loved that about him; loved the love Mile felt for his childhood and teenage years as he discovered his hobbies and interests when Apo on the other hand safeguarded most of the photos from his life for himself only, even deleting many from his page as time went by.

Apo recalls, further in the interview, how Mile had mentioned that he used to chase his relatives with a chopping knife if they took his food and he promptly chokes around another spoon of rice, tears springing to his eyes. Mile is there in the next moment, opening a bottle of water for him and as he takes a sip and comes back to his senses he can't help the feeling of overwhelming fondness he feels for the man at that moment; Mile had always shared his food with him.

“Are you okay?” There's a warm palm rubbing circles over his back and Apo laughs around his words.

“Did you really use to chase people around with a knife if they ate your food?”

Mile watches him intently for a moment, eyes searching his face. “Is that what made you laugh so hard you choked?”

“Yeah, I imagined you doing that and I swear I would pay an indefinite amount of money to have a video of it.”

Mile laughs at him, snacking his head from the back as he takes a sip from the same bottle; Apo doesn't remark on it.

“I'll see if mom has some once I see her. The payment I'll accept is you finally trying that insect dish with me.” Mile's grin stretches around the neck of the bottle as Apo's smile disappears completely, lips curling in distaste.

“Never.”

“And if I throw in a video of me singing in a one-person competition my parents organised in our living room when I was five? One I won first place in, obviously.”

Apo's eyebrows raise at the admission, mouth opening around the urge to tease. “You didn't.”

Mile nods in affirmation.

“Oh my God, I need that video. I'll eat the damned scorpions or whatever. As long as it's just something crunchy, I swear if you take me to eat one of those bullfrogs I'll kill you.”

“Deal.” Apo tries his best not to tense when he feels Mile's fingers graze his forehead, moving the strands of hair away from his glasses, and then he's off towards the sound system again, fingers gripping the neck of the guitar; Apo gulps.

It’s not exactly the right moment to recall the feeling of those fingers encircling his neck, camera to their side as they filmed the first kissing scene under Filmania; one that made its debut in the trailer, only to never see the light of day again. The feeling of those black tiles as his back was pressed against them, cold even through the material of the navy blue jacket Porsche was wearing as Mi—Kinn cages him in.

Advancing like a true predator, taking his palm and pressing it against his heart through the red dress-shirt, his I know you feel it soft in the charged air between them as he brings his lips to the side of his throat and licks, unseen by the camera. His body catching fire as those lips trail upwards and settle against his lips, gently at first, before his fingers were gripping him by the hair on his nape and a tongue was pushing inside Apo’s mouth—wet, warm, intoxicating.

Porsche had struggled, bracing a forearm against his chest and Apo had used all his strength in the action, only to concede at the power with which Mile pushed against him further, tongue deep down his throat.

Apo had kept his eyes closed for the duration of it, ignorant in the sense of where Mile’s lips would land next, abdomen tightening as his attempts to push the other away were met with equal measure to push in, kiss deeper.

In retrospect, he must have used more force than he should have—gripping Mile’s hair as the other’s lips closed around the pulse point of his neck—and if the directors sharp ‘cut’ hadn’t broken the scene, Apo doesn’t know who would it have been that was sure to let out a moan then and there, Porsche or himself. He had to walk it off, and the feeling of Mile’s palms as he patted his chest after that burned for days.

He closes the takeout container and takes a sip of water from the bottle Mile left at the table. He finds himself unable to stop and downs the whole thing in a few seconds.

He’s been neglecting his regular meditation habits for a few weeks now, and all Apo thinks of as Mile calls his name, beckoning him to join them with two fingers, is that meditation was more than helpful in the past, it was his second-self; now, only meditating in seclusion in one of the temples on Tibet would save him from the emotional rollercoaster he’s been riding for two years already.

He wills a smile to his lips and fakes a spring to his step as he joins the crowd; the chords of a song unknown to Apo escaping the pads of Mile’s fingers, strumming the wires absentmindedly as he watches Apo approach.

—

First time, it happened innocently enough.

The news of Filmania going bankrupt reached him on a Saturday morning towards the end of May and Apo had stared at the group notification for almost half an hour before he’d gathered enough courage to open it.

His initial reaction was to check the date; going back and forth from his calendar and LINE app, hoping the news were just a tasteless April Fools joke by one of the staff. Once his phone had begun ringing, never to stop for the next few hours, he laid back in bed and stared at the ceiling, mind completely blank save one thought—this can’t be happening.

He doesn’t remember how much time had passed like that, his phone’s notifications muted; perhaps if he ignored it long enough he could will it all to change.

He was yanked from his derailing thoughts by the incessant buzz of his intercom and had jumped out of bed to reach it before his head could explode from the noise of it, stopping by his apartment door at the sight of Mile on the entrance security camera.

Taking a deep breath, Apo didn’t let him wait any longer; he turned away from the door after unlocking and leaving them slightly ajar, padding softly towards his living room and the small bar that separates it from the kitchen.

He got his fingers around the bottle of single malt scotch whiskey as he heard the lock click, shoes being put on the rack and Mile’s voice blooming from the short hallway.

“Are you okay?”

Are you okay? The whole damned project had blown up to smithereens, affecting everyone—Mile himself included—and the first thing he asked was whether or not Apo was okay. It made him grip the glencairn glass of liquid, at the same time hoping it did and didn’t shatter in his palm.

“Po?” Mile’s voice was apprehensive as it came closer behind his back, probably unnerved by the lack of reaction from Apo.

Willing a small smile to his lips, Apo had turned around, passed him the alcohol and silently moved to sit on the couch, Mile following suit.

“Is it really true? The project is done for, the series—the entire production. Is Filmania really declaring bankruptcy?”

Mile ran his fingers through his hair, face tired with sleeplessness as he drank the whiskey in one shot, grimacing softly around the bitterness. Sitting like this on his couch—soft black sweatpants and a neat dark tee loose around his torso—Apo was suddenly struck by how young he actually looked, despite turning twenty-nine barely five months ago.

“Yes, it went under. The company is a mess right now, I just got from there, everyone is just running around like headless chickens. The talk is there’s no money left, some big investors pulled out from the production.”

Apo had sighed heavily before he too downed his drink, back connecting with the couch as he threw his head back in resignation.

“Well, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!” His eyes were hurting with how hard he was pressing the heels of his palms against them, frustrated and hurt; on the precipice of tears.

“Apo, calm down, we’ll—”

He hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but the very prospect of Mile comforting him when both of them should be pissed off at the moment just had his shackles raising and he abruptly sat upright, glaring at the man.

“How the fuck can I calm down?! Do you not understand the situation, is that it? A year of our lives, Mile, a fucking year—just gone. All for nothing. Everything we’ve gone through was for nothing and you’re asking me to calm down? Fuck you.”

He shook off Mile’s fingers as they tried to close around his wrist and walked towards the bar, pouring another whiskey; Mile’s jaw tightening at the action. “You need to calm down, you’re acting as if you’re the only one affected by this when there’s almost a hundred people whose work had gone down the drain.”

Mile was at his side, taking the bottle from his hand pouring another drink for himself as well.

“Oh, that’s supposed to make me feel better? You’re one to talk, no wonder you’re so fucking calm. You can just go back to your old privileged life and live off your parents mon—”

The rest of that sentence died on his lips as Mile’s fingers gripped his jaw, squeezing enough to stop him from talking. Apo stared at the way Mile’s eyes narrowed and lips curled, frozen in his spot and a tumbler of whiskey gripped firmly in his fingers .

“Don’t say things you know you’ll regret later. Calm the fuck down, so we can talk about this as two grown adults and not children at a fucking playground.”

Mile’s face was close, too close to his own to have Apo form rational thoughts and he hated the tone with which he spoke. Before he could think through his next move, he was pushing at Mile’s hand forcefully, making him stumble backwards and it was too late to move the bottle out of the way—he stared as it crashed against the bartop, Mile’s palm connecting with the shards in a sickening crunch as he tried to steady himself so he didn’t fall backwards.

He faintly remembers hearing the glass in his own hand connect with the hardwood floor and as he reached towards Mile, trying to make a step forward but the other had stopped him with a firm palm against his chest, pale in contrast to the crimson red dripping from the other one.

“Are you an idiot?! You’ll step into glass, don’t—Apo, just don’t move.”

He felt himself swallowing thickly, throat tight around a panic attack. “Your— your hand, Mile—”

“Take a deep breath, and focus on what I’m saying.” He felt himself burning where Mile patted him on the chest to grab his attention. “I’m okay, it's barely a cut. No need to panic, just— move a step back and get something to sweep the glass on the floor. Don’t step into it, okay? I’ll grab a napkin for my hand and then we can clear the glass from the bartop, okay? Apo—” Mile snapped his fingers in front of his face twice, “—okay?”

He’d simply nodded twice, unable to speak and went behind the bar to grab the small vacuum, passing Mile a clean cotton napkin to wrap around his hand. He vacuumed the glass on the floor on auto-pilot, doing the same with the bar; stopping only for a moment at the red stains. Mile’s voice brought him out of it, gentle fingers around his wrist beckoning him to follow him back to the couch.

He followed after Mile, rushing to the bathroom to get the first aid kit and sat next to the other on the couch.

“Is it—are the cuts deep?”

His own voice felt terribly small, a contrast to how he’d been shouting barely ten minutes ago. As Mile moved to unwrap his palm, Apo took hold of it gently, scooting closer and placed it against his knee. He winced at the dried streaks of blood covering the skin and carefully dipped a cotton bud into the saline solution before gently swabbing around the two visible cuts.

“See, it’s not a huge deal. They won’t even leave a scar.”

He nodded at Mile’s words, unable to raise his head and look him in the eye. Silence stretched until he was all done, carefully bandaging his palm despite Mile’s protest; a few bandaids would have sufficed.

“I’m sorry.” Apo spoke softly once he’d finally gathered courage to look up, meeting Mile’s searching gaze—eyes ever so warm and gentle, all anger that had gone aflame in them those moments ago, now completely gone—it made him want to cry. “I’m sorry I pushed you.”

“No, I’m sorry I did that—I, I just didn’t want you to say something in anger, to—It hurt me, Apo. Your words cut deeper than that damned bottle did. Don’t say stuff like that, no matter how angry you might be. You know it’s not fair.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Truly. You know me, how I—I’m rarely this pissed off and it just makes me want to spit venom at everyone around me at that moment. I’m sorry, for saying that. It was not fair.”

Mile smiled. “Apology accepted. Have you calmed down enough to talk rationally?”

“Yeah,” He smiled back at the other softly, before his lips pulled into a tight line. “And let that be the last time you pull something like that, gripping my jaw as if you wanted to murder me.”

“What was I supposed to do to get you to stop talking?”

“I don’t know, what do people usually do?”

Apo knew the answer he was bound to get to that question the moment it left his lips, yet it still caught him by surprise.

“They either slap or kiss. And I’d sooner cut my palm on a thousand of those whiskey bottles than slap you.”

They stared at each other; Apo’s fingers gentle as they cradled Mile’s bandaged palm, pads of his fingers moving softly over the man’s digits. He was suddenly overcome by a need to be physically closer to the other, so Apo moved further in and hugged Mile, arms wrapping around his shoulders like a vine.

“I hate that I hurt you,” he managed to whisper out past the hoarseness of his own throat, lips brushing Mile’s hair; Mile’s own against the hollow of his throat. “Please forgive me. I don’t know what I would have done if your cuts were worse, if it stopped you from playing the guitar, if—”

Mile’s arms wound themselves around his waist. “Apo, stop talking.”

And it was then—Apo will never forget the shudder that rushed through his very organs at Mile’s words, at the implication behind them—it was then that he voluntarily walked into the eye of his own personal storm, pulled up a chair and raised his eyes towards the overcast sky, staring mesmerised at the whirling currents above.

“Make me.” Please.

Mile’s lips parted around a barely audible gasp, brushing against the taut skin of his throat in an open-mouthed caress and Apo’s brain had short-circuited. His arms tightened their embrace on reflex, nose burrowing into Mile’s hair as he inhaled the scent of it; heedy, intoxicating.

He barely recognised his own name spoken soundlessly as Mile’s lips moved, a choked off Apo escaping Mile’s tongue as it came to rest against the thunderous pulse of his jugular vein. Goosebumps littered his skin when Mile trailed his lips towards his jaw, feather light where Apo wanted them bruising into his skin. It was what broke his resolve and he’d pushed Mile back against the couch, Mile reading his movements so well as his uninjured palm slid down his hip and ass, hauling Apo onto his lap.

Apo had spread his legs with a soft groan, straddling Mile’s thighs as he settled against the man, eyes still firmly shut while Mile’s hair caressed his trembling eyelids.

He was the first one to make something more than just a sound; breath hitching against Mile’s ear as the other squeezed the underside of his thigh, making Apo ride up before he sat fully against Mile’s crotch.

“Mile—ahh,”

The bite caught him by surprise; Mile’s teeth sinking into the soft muscle of his neck as he sucked around the bite. Apo panicked the moment he felt Mile’s injured palm against his ass, both hands now firmly gripping his flesh through his cotton sweatpants.

“Your palm, you’ll— don’t, it will hurt.”

Mile squeezed his ass more. “I don’t care, it doesn’t matter—it would hurt more not to have both of my hands on you.”

Apo swears he’d felt his own pupils dilate at the candid confession and for a split second he’d heard Kinn, panic bubbling up inside his chest at the sheer possibility of this not being real, not happening in private but in front of ten people and half as many cameras with their viewfinders focused on their embraced bodies.

“Mile,”

Those teeth were now grazing his jaw, tongue leaving a wet trail over his chin. “Yeah?”

“Say my name,” it was only then that he’d pulled back, palms cupping Mile’s face as he stared at the man intently—searching his face for a distinction, a line that showed where Kinn stopped and Mile began.

“Apo—”

“Again.”

“Apo,” Mile brought their foreheads together, fingers tangling in Apo’s hair. “Everything is okay, we’re okay. I’m here, we’re here.”

“Fuck, we shouldn’t,” he breathed against Mile’s lips, eyes drinking in the way Mile’s eyelids fluttered at the action. “We shouldn’t, right?”

“We—” a sharp intake of breath as Mile chased his lips and Apo pulled back. When their eyes met he could see how glazed the other’s look was, probably a reflection of his very own. Apo felt a high overtaking his very being, his core on fire and heart beating at 120 beats per minute, “—we shouldn't.”

He couldn’t hold back the Mile that slipped past his lips as a whine, Mile gripping his hair harshly and bringing him forward, his tongue licking Apo’s lower lip. “But we're going to, aren’t we?”

“Stop talking,” Mile had spoken again as their lips were a breath apart.

“Make me.” Apo had said around a smile as Mile’s lips crashed against his own.

Everything after that was blurry.

Mile’s tongue was in his mouth, their teeth scraping as they deepened the kiss around moans swallowed by the other’s throat; chests heaving and hips moving in rhythm—Mile’s fingers in his hair and inside of his sweatpants, gripping his ass as he rocked Apo’s body against his own.

He remembers calling the other's name over and over again, a litany of pleas for Mile to kiss him more, hold him tighter as they rocked against each other; achingly hard in their sweatpants as they rubbed their dicks together.

Apo remembers the silent gasp that left Mile's lips as he came, Apo swallowing the moan that followed in an open mouthed kiss while Mile's fingers never stopped digging into the soft flesh of his ass, rocking his entire body.

The way Mile has smiled so brightly at him, still riding the aftershocks of his own orgasm as he begged Apo to chase his own—his fingers leaving Apo's ass only for one hand to wind itself into Apo's hair, gripping so hard it hurt as the injured one enclosed around his jaw, pinning his face in one place; the metallic tang of blood heady on Apo's lip.

"Come on, move your hips—show me—" Mile had whined against his mouth, their eyes never breaking contact, "—show me how you look when you come."

And Apo did.

He showed him then, while they were anxious about having wasted a year of their lives, pent up out of their minds and barely one week afterwards as Mile was grinding against him from behind, jeans too tight and too perfect against their leaking erections.

"Tell me you can fix it," Apo had breathed against the window panel, Mile's lips at the juncture of his throat. "Tell me you can make it happen, you'll do whatever it takes to save the project, please—"

Mile had slid his hot palm down his abdomen and into his jeans, gripping his aching dick and it was more than enough to have him shudder as an orgasm rocked his body, spilling into Mile's cupped palm at the tip.

"I will, I will."

Mile's hand at the small of his back brings him back to the studio, pulls him into the laughter around him and Apo blinks his daze away, smiling at Mile who has his eyebrows scrunched in confusion, smiling as well.

"Earth to Apo—what solar system did you wander off to? I've called your name three times."

Apo shakes his head around the embarrassment, cheeks pink; he hopes everyone credits it to the malfunctioning air conditioning in the room.

"Just—around." He doesn't blink as they stare at each other, Mile's palm not having moved an inch from where it was. "Memories."

It might've been the way he's said it, a bit breathless around the word and anticipation high in his voice; Mile's tongue does that thing where it pushes against the corners of his mouth.

"Unless you want to have dinner with others, we can—"

"Yeah, let's go." He moves to take his belongings, Mile right at his heels. "And you drive, I feel like staring at the sky and reminiscing some more."

Mile shoots him an understanding smile, nodding his head.

"Your wish is my command, Khun Nattawin."

It's later in Mile's car—as the rain patters against the sunroof and Cigarettes After Sex's Apocalypse is sofly filling the silence between them, Mile driving towards his condo—that Apo goes back to 2021 again, to the final few months of it.

Their trip to Huahin, under the guise of bonding for their characters; they've done nothing but roll around in bedsheets all day long, occasionally going to the beach.

Mile pulling in new investors, bringing in a new producer, pooling in his own money—rebranding the company as Be On Cloud. The interview in which they've announced it, the newfound excitement at it all.

Him and Mile touring Bangkok hotels together every few days or so—Apo getting fucked within an inch of his life against glass windows overlooking the Chao Praya river bathed in colourful lights of the busy Bangkok nightlife.

The end of December and the company dinner as an early celebration of New Years Eve when Mile had walked in, handsome as always and—Apo's eyes had fallen onto a set of slender fingers curled around his arm.

All he could've done was laugh, at himself mostly.

Because it took quite a fool to forget that the co-star you've been fucking around with for more than half a year was in fact not the character he was playing in your series—Kinn Anakinn Theerapanyakun, the unapologetic tornado of a person with a sole preference for men.

Because, in between the messy sheets and maintaining appearances, Apo had somehow completely forgotten about the fact that Mile had someone in his life already.

And in Apo's defence, forgetting that Mile had a wholeass girlfriend was not all that surprising with how often the man had begged in between his legs; tongue against Apo's ass as their fingers intertwined atop come-stained sheets.

—