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Chapter Text

Save and Auau, two immensely talented and competitive musicians, have always been at odds with each other. Their rivalry traces back to an awards show, where Save believes Auau stole his moment by taking the stage that should have been his. Ever since, the tension between them has simmered—Save finds Auau infuriatingly attractive, but he can’t stand the guy, while Auau, despite hating Save for the drama, finds him undeniably beautiful and utterly irresistible.

But their companies have other plans. In a move to capitalize on the popularity of both bands, the company forces them into a collaboration that promises big money. And if that wasn’t enough, they are also made to room together during the entire project. The two musicians, already volatile, now have to act like members of the same band, sharing time, space, and constantly being in each other’s faces. They’re supposed to show unity and be a “team” in front of fans, but the rivalry is still intense, and it’s hard to fake camaraderie when they can barely tolerate each other.

Their forced proximity and the need to act like they get along starts to blur the lines between hate and something else entirely. The closer they are, the more difficult it becomes to deny the raw, unspoken attraction between them. The chemistry that was once fueled by competition now begins to simmer in a different way—and neither of them knows where it might end.

Chapter Text

Save Worapong Walor

Auau Thanaphum Sestasittikul

here are the mood boards for the fanfic!!! I’ll try my best to upload the first chapter today<3

Chapter Text

The apartment was still dim when the first stirrings of morning pulled Save from sleep. A flicker of gray-blue light crept in through the curtains, catching on the sheer edge of the duvet wrapped around his legs.

Something warm and heavy shifted against his hip—Miso, ever dramatic in his need for attention, had draped himself there like royalty. Tuna was less subtle, already pacing on the windowsill, tail twitching with judgment as if Save was late to a meeting he’d never agreed to attend.

A lazy arm reached out from beneath the covers, fingers patting around until they landed on the cold edge of his phone. He squinted at the glowing screen.

[Manager]: Emergency meeting. 9 a.m. with our merger bands. Full attendance. Be sharp. Be polite. No drama.

His sigh was long, theatrical. Miso answered with a yawn. Save let the phone fall back to the sheets and collapsed deeper into the pillows.

Of course. Of course it was about him.

He eventually peeled himself out of bed, limbs slow and reluctant, padding across the polished wood floor with the feline grace that had fans screaming across continents. The thin hem of his shirt fluttered against his waist as he moved, clinging from where it had twisted during sleep. His skin, kissed warm from the blankets, glowed in soft contrast under the morning light.

By the time he emerged from his shower, the apartment smelled faintly of butter and burnt toast.

Save wandered into the kitchen without announcing himself, trailing a soft hum that caught at the back of his throat like a leftover dream. His hair was still damp, his lashes curled prettily over half-lidded eyes. Without hesitation, he slid behind Namping—who was currently stirring something over the stove—and wrapped himself around his back like he belonged there.

“Is it illegal to be up before nine?” he murmured against his shoulder, voice still sticky with sleep.

“You’re lucky I didn’t stab you,” Namping muttered, not even flinching.

“I’d sue,” Save said with a yawn, stealing a piece of buttered toast directly from the plate.

“You’d post a pouty selfie from the hospital bed and call it activism.”

“I am activism,” Save said with a flutter of his fingers and a kiss to Namping’s cheek.

The rest of the band filed in slowly—Kong looking like he hadn’t slept, Por in mismatched socks, Keng already half-scrolling through the group chat. Save made a show of dragging a mug toward himself and settling onto a barstool with all the dramatics of a celebrity in exile. He crossed one leg over the other, revealing just enough skin to be distracting without being intentional.

No one commented. They were all used to it by now.

“I’m not talking to him today,” Save declared suddenly, as if picking a fight in advance.

Por didn’t need clarification. “You don’t even know if he’s gonna be there.”

“He breathes too loud. I’ll feel it.”

The group chat pinged again.

[Manager]: Reminder: Auau will be present . Look unified. Smile. Save—try.

Save tilted his head and smiled like a fox.

“Oh, I’ll smile,” he said, sweet as sugar. “Right after I end his career.”

Save had thrown on an oversized, slouchy red sweater at the last second, the neckline slipping off one shoulder to reveal the faintest hint of collarbone and a glimpse of the black tank he wore underneath. Paired with low-slung jeans and his usual devil-may-care smirk, he looked devastatingly casual—like heartbreak wrapped in soft knit.

He hadn’t done much to his face, just a touch of gloss on his lips, lashes still heavy from sleep, but he didn’t need to try. Save had the kind of effortless magnetism that made heads turn without trying, the kind that could both comfort and destroy depending on his mood.

“Why are you dressed like you’re going to seduce the interns?” Kong groaned from the couch, shirt half-tucked, hair still wet.

“Because I am,” Save answered flatly, slipping a lollipop into his mouth with the most disinterested smirk. “Gotta make the meeting worth it somehow.”

Namping popped his head out from the kitchen, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. “We’re gonna be late because of you.”

“I’m ready,” Save said, gesturing at himself lazily, “You all just woke up ugly.”

Keng snorted while pulling on his jacket, but even he had the decency to look nervous. No one knew why the company had called an emergency morning meeting, only that it involved another group, and something about a collaboration no one had agreed to.

So naturally, Save already hated it.

They piled into the van fifteen minutes later, Save curled between Namping and Kong, his cheek resting dramatically on Kong’s shoulder like the world had betrayed him and he needed someone to document the tragedy.

The company building was all glass and sharp lines, cold under the early sun. Their manager was already pacing near the meeting room when they arrived, looking like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Play nice,” he begged them, especially Save. “Please, for once in your life.”

Save tilted his head and smiled sweetly. “You wound me.”

And then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Tall. Composed. Eyes so intense they could split steel. Dark hair perfectly parted, dressed like he’d stepped out of an editorial—chocolate suede, clean lines, and that frustratingly unreadable expression that made Save’s stomach flip violently.

Auau.

Of course it was him.

The same man who had once interrupted Save’s award speech with a “technical mistake,” only to walk away with the trophy later that night. The same man who gave smug, clipped answers in interviews and always refused to look at Save unless there was a camera present.

Now, here he was, standing in the same room, the same air, and God—he looked even more annoyingly good up close.

Save leaned back in his chair, lollipop still in mouth, eyes trailing over Auau’s face without shame.

“Oh,” he drawled, smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “So we’re playing with the enemy now.”

Auau’s jaw ticked. Just slightly. Barely enough to catch, unless you were watching.

Which Save definitely was.

“Only if you see yourself as one,” Auau said coolly, settling into the chair across the table, every inch of him screaming I’m unbothered. “I just see business.”

The manager cleared his throat. “Right. So. As of today, DUSKLINE band and SIRENIX band will begin working together on the Velvet Envy Project. Full schedule overlap, shared promo, even stage performances. We want unity, charisma, and chemistry.”

Save smiled, slow and syrupy. “Oh, you’ll get chemistry.”

Auau didn’t blink. But his knuckles curled slightly over the folder in front of him.

Game on.

The meeting room smelled like fresh coffee and expensive air freshener—probably an attempt to disguise how suffocating it actually was in there. The long oval table seated both bands and their managers, assistants scribbling in notepads as if the words coming out of the executives’ mouths were divine scripture.

The meeting wraps, but of course, it’s not over. It never is. One “quick announcement” turns into another twenty-minute delay, and now they’re being told to head upstairs to finalize paperwork.

Save is already regretting every life decision that led him to this moment.

“Don’t lose your attitude before we get to the legal part,” Kong says, clapping a hand on his shoulder as they walk down the hallway. “We need your signature to be extra pretty.”

“I’ll draw a middle finger next to it,” Save mutters, tugging at the hem of his sweater. It’s riding up again. Whatever. Let it. “Think they’ll frame it?”

Por glances over his shoulder, smirking. “Maybe Auau will.” Por knew his friend well enough to know that he doesn’t care about save, that’s what he knows atleast after being friends for more than 3 years

Save’s entire expression curdles. “If you ever say that again, I’m deleting you from my life.”

“I’m just saying,” Por shrugs. “He probably already has a dartboard with your face on it.”

“Cute,” Save snaps. “Then he should’ve thrown something at me instead of sitting there like a mannequin with tax fraud.”

Keng, walking ahead, gives a small laugh. “Mannequin with tax fraud is wild.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

They round the corner and enter a glass-walled conference room that’s way too bright and smells like expensive toner and despair. The long table already has a stack of identical NDAs, pens lined up military-precise.

“Ah, everyone’s here,” the label rep says, too chipper for this early in the morning. “Alright, let’s get these signed and sealed. You’ll each receive digital copies afterward, and then we’ll move to concept discussions later this week.”

As everyone begins to take seats, Save deliberately grabs the chair across from Auau.

Por groans under his breath. “Do you have to.”

“Yes,” Save says brightly.

Auau doesn’t even twitch.

Of course he doesn’t.

He signs the document with the kind of efficiency that’s probably inhuman. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Just precision and silence. Like a machine made of contempt and tailored suits.

Save flips open his NDA dramatically. “Wow. A whole clause about not leaking rehearsal videos. They really think we’re gonna be besties in public.”

“I’d be more worried about you leaking brain cells,” Auau says, voice cold and flat—finally, finally speaking.

The rest of the room stills for a second. Thomas lets out a low whistle. Namping sucks in a breath like he’s about to step in.

Save leans in just slightly, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek.

“Aw. Did the mannequin learn how to talk?”

Auau’s eyes flick up—sharp, bored. “I just forgot the mute button didn’t apply to roaches.”

“Boys,” the rep warns gently, half-laughing. “Cameras go on next week. Let’s try to act like professionals?”

Neither of them responds.

They go back to signing like nothing happened, even though every pen stroke feels like it’s carving tension deeper into the room.

Save’s signature ends with a flourish and a smile he doesn’t mean. He pushes the paper forward and stretches again, eyes flicking to Auau.

“Don’t worry, P’au,” he says sweetly. “I’ll carry this collab. You just stand there and sparkle or something.”

Auau doesn’t even bother answering this time.

Which, somehow, pisses Save off more than if he had.

The moment the conference room empties, Save is the first one to push back from the table with a loud, unnecessary scrape of his chair. He stands, stretches like he’s just finished pilates, and lets out a dramatic sigh—just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“God, that was boring,” he says to no one in particular. “Do all your meetings feel like tax paperwork, P’au?”

Auau doesn’t even blink. Still seated, still flipping through the contract printout like Save isn’t there. Not even a flick of an eye in acknowledgment.

That makes Save smirk. Getting ignored is worse than getting yelled at. He tilts his head to the side, all syrupy mockery. “Aw. Silent treatment already? We haven’t even recorded the first track.”

Across the room, Teetee and Ryujin exchange a glance. Namping groans softly, like he’s counting down to an explosion. Keng puts a hand on his thigh under the table to keep him grounded.

Por leans back in his chair and mutters, “Here we go again.”

Auau stands, finally. His movements are clean and composed, like someone too important to be bothered. He doesn’t speak to Save—won’t speak to Save. Just hands the papers to the coordinator, and turns to leave with zero acknowledgment.

“You forgot to say thank you,” Save calls out behind him.

Auau pauses for half a beat. His jaw works slightly, like he’s weighing whether the interaction is even worth finishing. Then, in a tone so cool it could snap bones, he replies without turning:

“Thank you for nothing, as always.”

And with that, he walks out, shoulders straight, expression blank, presence impossible to rattle.

Save watches him go, the grin never leaving his face.

“He’s obsessed with me,” he says under his breath, loud enough for Por to hear.

Por snorts. “He doesn’t even remember your full name.”

“I’m unforgettable.”

“To yourself, maybe.”

Meanwhile, Auau has already joined Thomas in the hallway. Thomas raises an eyebrow like he’s bracing himself. “You good?”

“Fine,” Auau answers. “He’s loud. It’s manageable.”

Teetee joins them with a raised brow. “You know he’s going to try harder now, right?”

“I don’t care what he does,” Auau says flatly. “He can bark all he wants. Just keep him out of my way in the booth.”

Thomas nudges him. “You really hate him that much?”

Auau’s answer is immediate: “No.”

Pause.

“I don’t think about him enough to hate him.”

The microwave beeps like it’s trying to interrupt a war speech.

Save yanks open the door, nearly burning his fingers on the glass plate, and glares at the reheated leftovers like they’re to blame for how his day went.

“He pissed me off when he looked at me..like keep your eyes to yourself bitchass” Save huffs, spinning toward the living room where Namping, Kong, Por, and Keng are all draped across various furniture like they’ve lived there forever. “Like I was worth slamming the door on. Who does that?”

“An emotionally stable adult?” Por offers from the couch, not looking up from his phone.

“Emotionally dead,” Save corrects, stomping back to the kitchen table in his one sided off the shouldered sweater and silk shorts and ridiculous slippers shaped like angry cats. “I breathe more life into a single wink than that man’s entire personality.”

Kong snorts. “You do wink a lot.”

“Because I have charisma, Kong. Look it up.”

Namping’s lying belly-down across the arm of the couch, idly scrolling. “You’re obsessed. You know that, right?”

“I’m not obsessed.” Save scoops a bite of cold rice into his mouth, then glares at nothing. “I’m haunted.”

“You were literally sitting across from him like you were trying to mind-control his facial muscles.”

“He has no facial muscles. The man is carved from corporate spite and powdered protein.”

Keng laughs from the floor, head leaning against Por’s knee. “You keep talking about him like he’s your arch-nemesis-slash-ex.”

“Don’t.” Save points his fork. “I would never date a man who files his nails with passive aggression and breathes like he’s allergic to joy.”

There’s a pause.

“…so you noticed the nails,” Por says without looking up.

“Shut up.”

The room explodes in laughter.

Save slumps back in his chair, poking moodily at his food. His cats—wind around his legs, unbothered by the drama in the air.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters, more to himself now. “Everyone loves him. He opens his mouth and it’s like someone turned on a white noise machine. And yet, somehow, he gets praised. Gets—”

“—exactly zero thoughts about you,” Kong finishes gently, tossing a pillow at him.

Save catches it, then smushes it to his chest and scowls. “I hope he never thinks about me.”

He says it like a curse. But it sounds a little too desperate. And maybe a little too loud.

Namping narrows his eyes.

“Baby,” he says. “You sure you hate him?”

Save levels him with a look. “With every fiber of my overpriced designer being.”

The living room lights are low, casting soft gold against the chaos of empty snack wrappers and a half-finished cup of iced Americano. Save’s curled up on the couch

one knee pulled up like he’s trying to physically shield himself from the disgustingly affectionate scene across the room.

Keng is lounging on the beanbag, and Namping’s half on his lap, casually running his hands through his boyfriend’s hair with one hand and scrolling through his phone with the other.

“Do you two have to act like a couple in a sitcom?” Save grumbles, eyes still glued to the screen of his phone.

Keng grins. “We are a couple.”

“Tragic.”

Namping just smirks. “You love it.”

“No. I tolerate it like I tolerate humidity and bad Wi-Fi.”

Before the couple can respond, Save’s phone buzzes again. 8:59 PM. The reminder for the weekly collab sync meeting flashes at the top.

“Ugh,” he mutters, dragging himself off the couch and onto the floor. His MacBook opens with a mechanical sigh—like even it knows tonight’s going to be a mess.

9:01. People start trickling into the call.

Ryujin’s already in, sitting shirtless with a towel over his shoulders, looking like he just walked out of a boxing ring. Thomas shows up next, mic muted but already snacking. Teetee appears last, camera too low, showing only his forehead and an unmade bed.

Then the worst square of all clicks on.

Auau.

Wearing a plain black tank, headphones slung around his neck, and a look that says he’d rather be anywhere but here. Dark strands falling over his eyes, looking soft as ever. His arms are casually crossed, jaw set like he’s already bored, and his eyes—cool, unreadable—slide across the screen before settling

On Save.

Save shifts instinctively, tugging his sweater back up over his shoulder where it had slipped down.

And then—like he’d been waiting to strike—Auau speaks. Calm. Dry. Unbothered.

“Your sweater’s falling. Pull it up.”

Save stares at his screen for half a second too long. The call’s silent. The others glance between squares, sensing a storm they’ve seen far too many times.

Save raises a brow. “You got promoted to wardrobe now?”

“Just trying to keep the visual clean,” Auau replies, adjusting his laptop.

“Oh, sorry,” Save says, voice honeyed and sharp. “Didn’t realize I was disrupting your monochrome fantasy.”

“Didn’t realize you wore sweaters to bed like a Victorian ghost,” Auau shoots back.

Thomas snorts. Teetee looks like he’s about to choke on his drink. Keng quietly mutes himself—probably to laugh without getting yelled at.

“Enough,” Por says from another window, tone placating. “We have to go through the press conference rundown and next week’s content plan. Let’s all act like we don’t secretly hate each other.”

“Some of us don’t need to act,” Save mutters, pulling his hood over his head.

The meeting proceeds in fits and bursts—Namping coordinating the outfit shoot schedule, Keng asking about sound checks, Ryujin insisting someone brings snacks to the venue. Save says nothing unless addressed. But the tension between two of the brightest faces on screen is palpable.

Every time Auau speaks, Save’s eyes flick to his window.

Every time Save moves, Auau’s gaze follows like a reflex.

The screen’s full of bandmates, but the air feels thin—like a storm’s always two seconds from cracking through the pixels.

Chapter Text

The studio lights buzz overhead, too white, too clinical for a morning like this. Save steps in last, hair still damp from a shower he barely had time for, and his cardigan slipping off one shoulder like it has no will to stay in place.

He tugs it up with a sigh and keeps walking—soft gray sweatpants hugging his hips, socks mismatched (intentionally, obviously), and the faintest sheen of lip gloss still catching the light.

Inside, the room is already loud. Keng’s playing some nonsense on the Bluetooth speaker, and Namping’s twirling in lazy circles while sipping an iced matcha. Por’s stretching with Kong near the wall, the two looking far too serious about the warmup for 9 AM.

Save drops his bag, toeing off his sneakers with exaggerated exhaustion.

“Someone’s late,” Thomas calls out from the mirror. He’s fixing his hair, smirking through the glass.

Save doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just stretches his arms above his head with a soft groan, cardigan shifting further down, revealing the gentle dip of his collarbone.

And then—

He feels it.

The distinct change in the air.

Like someone had sucked the color out of the room in one slow inhale.

Auau.

Standing near the corner with a towel around his neck, tank clinging to his chest, jaw sharp enough to cut steel. His sweatpants hang low, effortless and annoying in the way they match his nothing-bothers-me posture. He’s sipping water like it’s an Olympic sport, ignoring Save completely.

Which makes Save want to slap a wall. Or him. Maybe both.

“Okay!” The choreographer claps, breaking the buzz. “Let’s get started. First the joint track, yeah? ‘Mercy on Repeat’—positions, please.”

There’s a shuffle as bodies move into place. Save ends up stage right.

Guess who’s stage left?

Of course.

Auau joins without looking at him. Not even a glance. Not even a twitch of recognition. Like Save is just air in a sweater. Invisible.

Fine. Two can play that game.

The beat drops low—slow and sensual, the kind of tempo that forces full-body movement, control in every step. Save matches it naturally, his hips gliding in time, arms loose but precise.

Auau mirrors it, his movements clean, grounded, infuriatingly stable. The man dances like he thinks about math while doing it—sharp, logical, no emotion.

They cross paths at center beat five, the choreography forcing them close. A near-collision of two bodies mid-spin and slide. Auau’s hand grazes Save’s waist—part of the move—but it burns like a touch too real.

Save steps forward, a fraction too hard. Auau’s foot catches his.

“Watch it, P’Au,” Save hisses under his breath, smile razor-thin.

Auau lifts a brow. “You cut in too soon. As usual.”

“Funny,” Save mutters, lips barely moving. “Didn’t hear that last night when you were watching my screen like a creep.”

“Please,” Auau says, flat. “Your shoulder was one tug from a scandal. I was bracing for the fallout.”

“Too bad you couldn’t br—”

“Alright, alright,” the choreographer calls out, clearly sensing death in the air. “Let’s pause here. Reset from count four. Save, you and Auau need to sync better. Energy’s weird.”

Someone snorts in the back. Probably Teetee.

Save exhales, fists clenched at his sides.

Auau just sips his water again like he didn’t just drag Save’s entire soul through a woodchipper.

The second round starts, and this time, Save refuses to flinch. Every step is fire. Every sway is intentional. And every time their hands nearly meet in the center spin, he glares directly at Auau’s reflection in the mirror. Daring him to slip.

Auau never does.

Because of course he doesn’t.

But the mirror doesn’t lie. And even when they’re pretending not to see each other—their eyes do meet, again and again. Quiet little stares. Unreadable. Tense. A war fought entirely in glances.

And somewhere, behind the choreography and the sweat and the clashing egos…

The storm is building.

And everyone in the room knows it.

The music cut mid-beat.

“Can we not take it from the top for the fiftieth time?” Save snapped, spinning on his heel and throwing a towel over his shoulder like it personally offended him. “Some of us know how to count to eight without our brains melting.”

Auau didn’t even look up from where he was stretching against the mirrored wall. “Then maybe you should start using yours.”

Save’s head whipped around so fast the others winced. Namping widened his eyes at Kong in that silent don’t get involved way. Teetee and Thomas slowly backed off toward the water bottles like wildlife sensing danger.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Save drawled, already stalking across the studio floor, cardigan slipping halfway off one shoulder, “Is this too hard for you, P’au? You seem to struggle with anything that’s not just standing around flexing in a tank top.”

Auau pushed off the mirror, slow and deliberate. “You’re projecting again. Might want to schedule that therapy session.”

Save’s jaw clenched.

“Maybe you should schedule a personality,” he hissed, stopping right in front of him. The height difference was annoying. So annoying. He had to tilt his chin just to keep glaring. “What’s your problem with me, huh? Afraid I’ll outshine you with actual talent instead of fake charm and a jawline?”

Auau’s expression didn’t even twitch. That bored, infuriating cool settled over him like armor. “You talk a lot for someone who barely hits their steps.”

That did it.

Save’s fingers balled in the front of Auau’s tank top, yanking him down with enough force to make his necklace swing forward.

Gasps cracked through the studio.

“You think you scare me?” Save spat, eyes narrowed and voice shaking with fury. “You think I care about you enough to be intimidated?”

They were too close now—just inches of air buzzing with fury between them. Auau didn’t flinch. Didn’t push back. Just looked down at him with something unreadable in his eyes.

“No,” Auau said lowly, his voice like the echo off concrete walls. “You’re not scared of me. You’re scared of how easy it is for people to like me.”

Save’s grip tightened, cardigan sleeve falling further. He didn’t know what he was about to say next, but his chest was heaving with adrenaline, like his body wanted to fight and scream and throw things all at once.

Auau’s mouth quirked at the corner. A smirk—sharp, knowing, condescending.

“Calm down, fox,” he muttered. “You’ll wrinkle your ears.”

Save let go so fast it was like Auau had burned him. He shoved him back with a palm to the chest, not enough to hurt—just enough to say don’t touch me.

“I hate you,” Save seethed, turning on his heel.

“Glad we’re clear,” Auau replied, brushing his tank smooth like Save’s hand had left dirt behind.

Namping rushed over to drag Save away before the next explosion. The others kept their distance, heads bowed, pretending to study their phones. But the energy was wrecked—crackling, bitter, and electric.

The door slammed so hard the walls rattled.

“I cannot stand him,” Save exploded as he flung his towel against the dressing room mirror. It slid down in dramatic, defeated silence. “He talks like he invented silence. Like everyone’s beneath him. Like I’m beneath him!”

Namping, already perched on the bench with a protein bar halfway to his mouth, looked up calmly. “You done?”

“No!”

Kong, still tying his hoodie around his waist, didn’t even look surprised. “Okay, well, you’ve said that line before.”

“Because it keeps being true!” Save paced like a cat in a cage, pulling at his sleeves and muttering curses under his breath. 

“Which was uncalled for,” Kong reminded gently.

“He called me fox.”

“Oh, that’s new,” Namping said, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s kinda accurate.”

“Do not encourage this,” Save hissed, spinning around like the betrayal cut deep. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side,” Namping replied, calm as ever. “I’m also on the side of common sense, which says maybe don’t go for the throat of your duet partner three days before the live showcase.”

“He thinks I care what he thinks,” Save snapped, flopping dramatically onto the little padded bench like it personally insulted him. “I don’t! I don’t.”

“Sure,” Kong said, leaning against the vanity, arms crossed. “That’s why you physically grabbed him, stared him down like a rabid cat, and called him a plastic statue with no soul.”

“I didn’t say that out loud,” Save muttered.

“But you were thinking it, weren’t you?” Namping smirked. “Be honest.”

Save groaned, burying his face in his sleeves. “I hate him so much my teeth itch.”

Kong threw him a chilled water bottle. “Good. Channel that hate into your dancing. Pretend the floor is his smug face.”

“You’re all useless,” Save mumbled.

“You love us,” Namping chirped.

The door creaked open just then, and the room froze.

Auau walked in, unbothered, unfazed, towel around his neck, sipping from a bottle of coconut water like he hadn’t just been grabbed by the collar ten minutes ago. His eyes scanned the room—and of course, they landed square on Save.

Save immediately sat up straighter, scowled harder, and pulled his cardigan tighter.

Auau raised a single brow. “You done throwing your tantrum?”

Save stood like he was about to launch into round two.

But Kong was faster. “Break’s over in five.”

Auau didn’t look away from Save. “Looking forward to seeing your eight-count. Try not to trip this time.”

Save bared his teeth. “Try not to blink. You might miss actual talent.”

Auau gave him the most obnoxiously slow once-over, smirked again, and walked out without another word.

Namping muttered, “God, you two are exhausting.”

“He’s exhausting,” Save snapped. “I’m just surviving.”

“Barely,” Kong added.

Auau didn’t need to look to know Save was already glaring at him.

He could feel it. Like heat on the side of his neck, like a chihuahua trembling with rage at his ankles. If he turned now, he’d probably catch Save mouthing insults behind his back. Again.

But Auau didn’t turn.

Instead, he leaned against the barre, flexed his wrist out with a slow, fluid rotation, and took his time adjusting the hem of his tank top like he didn’t have a single thought in his head. Which wasn’t true, of course. He just had better things to waste his thoughts on than Save.

Or, well. He should’ve.

But the guy was hard to ignore.

Small, sharp, wound up like a spring and constantly dressed like he belonged in a cozy aesthetic Pinterest board. Save looked like he woke up every morning and chose violence, then wrapped it in a fluffy sweater. Like someone tried to package fury and caffeine addiction into five-foot-something of off-shoulder cardigans and resting scowl.

He was annoying.

So obviously, Auau had to poke at him every chance he got.

“Let’s run the lift section again,” one of the choreographers called out, clapping their hands. “Save, Auau—you’re together for this pass.”

Of course.

Auau didn’t react. Just stepped forward with that same even stride, the one that pissed Save off more than anything. No drama. No emotion. Just annoying calmness that was probably illegal in Save’s universe.

He watched Save approach, already rolling his eyes like he was being sentenced to death. His cardigan was sliding off one shoulder again. He never fixed it. Probably thought it was part of his “look.”

They met at center. Close. Closer than Save probably wanted. Auau could see the muscle in his jaw twitching. Like he was holding in a monologue.

“Try not to drop me,” Save muttered, barely moving his mouth.

Auau didn’t blink. “Try not to scratch me. I don’t have my rabies shots.”

Save stepped into position, hands cold where they touched Auau’s arms.

“Ugh. Why do you run hot,” he snapped, pulling his hand back like Auau had scorched him.

“I don’t,” Auau replied. “You’re just cold-blooded.”

The music clicked on before Save could bite back.

They moved through the steps in sync, which annoyed Auau more than he expected. Because even if he hated Save’s mouth—and his constant existence—the guy could dance. Sharp where Auau was smooth. Snappy where he was grounded. Their styles didn’t match; they clashed. Which, ironically, made the choreo pop.

Too bad it made rehearsals feel like an Olympic sport in self-control.

The lift came up. Save hesitated—of course.

“You’re supposed to jump, not hesitate like I’m gonna fling you across the room.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Save hissed.

Auau rolled his eyes. “I’ve carried more attitude in my gym bag.”

And then—jump. Save was in the air. Light. Angry. Hands braced on Auau’s shoulders like he’d rather claw his eyes out than trust him for two seconds.

They hit the pose. Nailed it. It looked perfect.

It felt like getting punched in the ribs with a smile.

“Good,” the choreographer called. “Let’s run it again. Save, be a little more fluid next time.”

Auau turned his head just enough to see Save practically seethe.

Oh, that would eat him alive.

And that was the only moment Auau let the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Not quite a smile. More like satisfaction.

He didn’t care about Save.

But making him snap?

That was easy.

And kind of addicting.

If Save rolled his eyes any harder, they’d detach and roll straight under the mirrors.

Auau didn’t even need to look to know it. Save’s moods always announced themselves—loud sighs, dramatic cardigan yanks, stompy little turns like the floor had personally insulted him.

But still, he glanced.

Because that was the thing about Save—irritating as hell, and yet impossible to ignore.

Too sharp to blur into the background. Too pretty to dismiss.

Auau wasn’t blind. Save had a dancer’s body—compact, all lines and coiled precision. Everything about him moved like it knew people were watching. Today didn’t help: the slouchy off-shoulder cardigan barely clinging to one side, cropped just high enough to flash the curve of his back whenever he twisted. Sweatpants low, hips loose, all that fire stuffed into a frame that should not be allowed that much attitude.

And yeah—

Auau’s jaw tightened.

Fine. So the guy had a good ass. Lots of foxes looked harmless right before they bit you.

“Five-minute break,” someone called.

Save didn’t walk—he flounced away with flair like his job was done. Straight toward Namping and Kong, who were already bracing for impact.

Auau stayed where he was, sipping water like he wasn’t watching Save talk with his whole body—shoulders rolling, wrist flicking, mouth too quick and eyes sharper than a switchblade.

“—and he just stands there like he’s the reincarnation of Buddha and I’m the pestilence,” Save snapped, tossing a look over his shoulder that landed straight on Auau like a challenge. “Like I’m the one derailing the choreography with whatever that”—he gestured, full of mockery—“is supposed to be.”

Kong said something. Save gasped. Slapped his arm. Continued.

Auau let his tongue press against his cheek. Counted to five.

Not worth it. Not worth it. Not—

Save looked back. Caught him staring. Smirked like he’d just hit a bullseye.

Yeah. That did it.

Auau peeled off from the wall, towel loose around his neck. His steps were slow, heavy with warning.

If Save wanted a fight, he’d get one.

Even if it meant standing close enough to notice the way that smug little waist curved just so, or how his sweatpants clung like they’d been stitched on by sin itself.

Stupid fox.

Auau took a long, deliberate sip of water.

His pulse was steady, annoyingly so. He wasn’t rattled. Not shaken. Just… mildly irritated. The way you get when someone taps their pen during a test, or breathes too loudly in your space. That’s what Save was: loud, in every possible sense.

And way too aware of himself. He moved like he wanted to be watched. Like every flick of his fingers or toss of his hair had to mean something. And it did. That was the problem. Save knew exactly how to pull attention, like it was his birthright.

Auau had never wanted to strangle someone and out-dance them in the same breath so badly.

That lean? The choreography? The part where he had to guide Save’s body back against his own like they were in sync?

He hadn’t liked it. Not even slightly.

He’d just noticed things. Strategically.

Like how Save’s back arched on instinct. Or how small his waist really was up close—narrower than his hands, and tight, taut with fury, like every breath he took was coiled to snap. His spine was sharp under Auau’s palm, every muscle buzzing like a live wire.

And that part where he’d whispered in his ear?

That wasn’t for effect.

That was strategy.

Because Save always reacted. Always bit back. You didn’t need to be psychic to know exactly which buttons to push.

Auau didn’t flinch when Por stepped beside him.

“He’s going to try to get out of the pairing,” Por muttered, watching Save rant to Namping across the studio. “Just so you know.”

Auau didn’t look away. “Let him try.”

Por exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t like making things easy, do you?”

“Not when he makes it this fun.”

Por raised a brow but didn’t comment. He left with a nod.

Auau stayed a moment longer.

Watched Save toss his head back with a scowl, gesturing wildly, probably calling him the human equivalent of a virus again. Kong looked halfway between entertained and concerned. Namping kept glancing over like he wanted to flee the situation but knew better.

Then Save glanced over.

Eyes locking with his like a challenge, sharp and scathing. That little smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth—not flirtatious. Not amused. Dangerous.

Like he was daring Auau to do it again.

And Auau just smiled.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he knew it would piss Save off more than anything else in the world.

The second choreographer said, “Okay, we’re done for today,” Save was gone.

He didn’t walk—he stormed. Sweat sticking under his cardigan, bangs damp with effort and rage, feet slamming against the hallway like they owed him money.

By the time he threw open the dressing room door, Kong and Namping were already in there. Kong was changing his shirt, Namping was wiping down with a towel and humming some old pop song.

“I hate him,” Save snapped, before either of them could say hi. “I hope he chokes on his own saliva.”

Kong blinked. “Okay. So we’re starting there.”

Save ripped his cardigan off like it had betrayed him and tossed it over a chair. “He thinks he’s so—cool,” he mocked, voice dropping to an obnoxiously flat drawl, “‘You weigh like, two granola bars and a grudge.’ What kind of line is that?! Who even talks like that?!”

Namping snorted. “He’s not wrong, though.”

“HELLO?!”

“I’m just saying, you are dramatic, and you don’t eat—”

“Don’t defend him! He was smirking while I was in the air like he was enjoying it! I swear he spun me harder just to throw me off rhythm.”

Kong zipped up his hoodie and perched on the edge of the couch. “What did he even do before that? It was just the lift, right?”

“Oh, nothing, just existing with his stupid face and his arms and that I-don’t-care-I’m-so-mysterious energy like he’s a concept album and not a human nightmare.”

There was a long silence.

Namping raised an eyebrow. “You checked out his arms?”

“I was climbing on them, Namping. I had no choice. It was occupational suffering.”

Por cracked the door open then, completely unbothered by the tension still leaking off Save in waves. “Meeting room in five,” he said. “Everyone. Save, don’t be late.”

“Are you—!” Save’s eye twitched. “Why me specifically—?”

But Por had already closed the door.

The couches were too small. Too close. Too soft , like they were supposed to be comforting.

Save sat at one end, legs crossed, arms folded tight like he was holding himself together with sheer force of will. Auau? Of course he was at the other end—but close enough their knees could brush if either of them so much as moved wrong.

Kim, the Velvet Envy’s newly recruited manager was standing beside them. “So. The photos from today’s practice went out quietly—just a few fansites caught it. That’s good. Gives us control before the press hits.”

Teetee nodded from the armrest of another couch, half-eating a protein bar. Ryujin looked half asleep already, sprawled beside Thomas. Kong and Namping sat on either side of Save like human barricades.

“And the lunch,” Kim continued, “is going to be casual. Outside, open-air, lots of visibility but no statements. Just something soft and non-verbal to say yes, we’re working together and yes, we tolerate each other. ”

Save made a noise. “What if we don’t?”

“We’ll fake it,” Por replied cheerfully. “Like grownups.”

Auau didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head slightly, like he found the question cute.

Save felt his eye twitch. Again.

“Cameras?” Ryujin asked.

“A few,” Kim said. “Some invited. Some…will be there.”

“So a setup,” Save muttered under his breath.

Auau did look at him this time. “Better than another lift.”

Save glared. “Don’t flatter yourself. I wasn’t scared of falling, I was scared of touching you.”

“Oh no,” Auau said flatly. “My feelings.”

“Can you two not ?” Namping muttered, pinching Save’s arm.

Por cleared his throat. “Right. Vans are waiting. It’s a twenty-minute drive. Try to look like you didn’t just come from a cage match.”

Lunch – Outdoor Cafe, Open Patio

The café was chic, neutral tones with splashes of soft color and far too many windows. The entire group sat at a long table, two bands intermingled like friends, like family, like they didn’t want to strangle each other during choreography less than an hour ago.

Save sat between Kong and Namping, but of course— of course —Auau was directly across from him.

The air smelled like grilled chicken and PR strategy.

Teetee was talking about something dumb, and Thomas kept laughing too hard at it. Ryujin had sunglasses on and was pretending to sleep.

And Save—Save was smiling for a camera he knew was lurking somewhere, while kicking Auau under the table for the third time.

“I swear to god,” Auau muttered without looking up from his menu.

“Say something,” Save said sweetly, “and I’ll dump this iced latte on your black-and-white aesthetic .”

Auau smiled— actually smiled, the worst kind, all wolfish amusement.

“Your aim’s probably as messy as your tempo.”

Namping reached over and stole Save’s iced latte just in time.

Kong and Namping were trying, trying , to pull Save into a safer conversation about concept styling—but his attention kept skipping.

Back. To. Him.

Auau.

Stretching one arm across the back of Teetee’s chair, cool as hell and just as cold, barely looking up as he scrolled through his phone. Save’s eyes narrowed.

Why was he always like this? Like the world didn’t touch him. Like tension bounced right off that annoyingly solid frame and stupid face.

God. His face . Save took a violent sip of his mocktail.

“Why are you glaring?” Namping whispered.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not glaring,” Save hissed back. “I’m watching the threat. ”

Kong stifled a laugh with his napkin. “You look like you’re planning an assassination.”

“Oh, am I not allowed to make visual observations of my surroundings now?” Save said, smile razor-bright as his eyes locked back on Auau. “My bad. I forgot I wasn’t the local deity.”

Right then, like clockwork, Auau finally lifted his eyes.

And smirked.

That same smug, half-lidded smirk like he knew exactly what Save had been saying. He tilted his head slightly—mocking. Like he was indulging a child.

Save could feel his heartbeat in his ears.

“Your fork’s upside down,” Auau said casually.

It wasn’t.

Save flipped it anyway, without breaking eye contact.

“Must be nice,” Save said, his voice the definition of fake sweet, “walking through life with that much audacity and no taste.”

“Must be exhausting,” Auau returned, voice low and steady, “being that loud and still that forgettable.”

Por reached across and calmly refilled Save’s water glass before the glass could be thrown. “Not here,” he muttered, like this was a routine fire drill.

The waitress brought out the mains. Plates clinked. The cameras across the street clicked. Their managers were at another table, chatting softly with stylists.

Save smiled for the flash. Crossed one leg over the other. Leaned forward on his elbows and let his voice glide out.

“You know what’s wild, P’au?” he said brightly. “Even with all your muscles, you couldn’t carry a chorus to save your life.”

A hush fell over the middle of the table.

Auau’s expression didn’t change, but he set his glass down slowly. “And yet somehow I keep ending up in your spotlight.”

“Maybe because you’re allergic to working in the shadows,” Save said sweetly.

“Maybe because you’re too busy throwing tantrums to actually shine.”

Por dropped his chopsticks. “Okay. Okay. Group photo time!”

Everyone stood up immediately, like escaping a gas leak. They shuffled into formation—Save and Auau conveniently separated by Namping and Kong—and faked smiles for the three cameras snapping from the corner of the café.

“Closer!” a voice called.

Save tilted his head. “Closer?” he echoed.

“Closer,” Auau said flatly, stepping in beside him like it was the worst idea ever. The worst part? He was still taller, still broader, and Save could feel the smirk brewing without even looking.

Save flashed his brightest, fakest smile. “Try not to ruin my shot, P’au.”

Auau leaned in a little. “Try not to look so desperate to win it.”

Click.

The flash went off. Freeze-framing the world’s most glamorous blood feud in high-res.

Somewhere in Bangkok – Blacked Out Van, 3:17 PM

Por had lived through comeback stress. He’d survived vocal blowouts, the stomach flu tour of 2022, and the time Save locked himself in a dressing room for two hours because someone called his eyeliner uneven.

But nothing— nothing —compared to being sandwiched between Save and Auau after a PR lunch.

He sat in the middle row of the black van, seatbelt digging into his chest, eyes locked on the tinted window like maybe if he stared hard enough, he could phase through it and escape. Save was on his left, arms crossed, cardigan sleeves bunched up in a silent tantrum. Auau was on his right, legs splayed like he owned the oxygen in the vehicle.

Neither of them had said a word since buckling in.

Which was worse than yelling. Way worse.

“Nice day,” Por said carefully.

No answer.

From the rear seats, Thomas and Teetee were quietly giggling at a meme. Ryujin was asleep. Namping and Kong were up front, talking with the manager about venue layouts.

Por tried again.

“Food was good?”

Still nothing.

He could feel the static between them like it was alive. Like the air molecules were picking sides.

Then, finally:

“You elbowed me during the group shot,” Save muttered without looking up.

“I was told to stand closer,” Auau replied.

“Not collapse my shoulder like you were climbing a rock wall.”

“Wasn’t my fault your bones are made of glass.”

Por inhaled deeply. Exhaled slower. He turned his face toward the window again. Counted passing motorbikes. Tried not to scream.

“You’re always looking for a reason to touch me,” Save added, voice saccharine. “I get it. You’re obsessed.”

Auau snorted. “You wish.”

“Oh, I don’t wish. I pray —every night—that one day you’ll learn to walk into a room without infecting the vibe.”

Por turned. “Save.”

“What?” he snapped.

“Take a nap or something.”

“I’m not tired.”

Auau leaned back. “Could’ve fooled me. You whine like someone who skipped their juice box and nap time.”

Por’s eyes closed. “I’m begging you.”

“I’m not whining,” Save hissed. “I’m responding to being emotionally assaulted by your presence. ”

“I’m not even talking to you,” Auau said, bored.

“You don’t have to talk. Your resting face is hostile enough.”

Por finally raised his voice—just enough.

“Both of you shut up or I’m opening the van door and launching myself into traffic.”

A beat.

Silence.

Then, under his breath, Save muttered, “He started it.”

“Unbelievable,” Por mumbled, pressing his fingers into his temple.

Auau didn’t speak again—but the smirk playing at his lips said everything. Like he’d won.

Again.

⸻

Back at the shared dorm lobby, 4:00 PM

Save stormed in first. Didn’t wait. Didn’t greet. He threw his bag down on the couch and collapsed like a dying Victorian poet.

Kong followed a second later, Namping right behind him.

“He’s insufferable,” Save snapped, not even giving them a chance to speak. “I was literally just sitting there—being normal—breathing—and he decided that was offensive.”

“Do you want water?” Namping asked gently.

“No, I want a restraining order.”

“You want juice,” Kong corrected, handing him a boxed grape drink.

Save took it.

“Did you see the way he stood behind me in that group photo? Like he was about to whisper tax evasion secrets in my ear or some shit.”

“He stood still.”

“Exactly! Like a statue of smugness. ”

Kong sat beside him, nodding like a therapist. “You want to talk about what he said in the car?”

“No. Because if I talk about it, I’ll have to kill him. And I’ve been doing so well this week.”

Namping curled up on the other couch, phone out. “You do know we have another video call tomorrow morning, right?”

Save groaned into a pillow.

Por walked past the room at that exact moment, pausing in the doorway like he was checking for landmines.

“Next time I’m sitting in the trunk,” he said, and left without waiting for a reply.

Save’s Room – 1:47 AM

The glow of his phone screen lit up Save’s already dramatic scowl.

He was curled up in bed, one leg tangled in the blanket, oversized white tee hanging off one shoulder, hair tied messily on top of his head like a disgruntled prince. The TV was on mute, playing an old variety show in the background. His MacBook sat open with five untouched schedule documents on it.

But Save was focused.

Plotting.

Not because he was mad .

No, of course not.

He just happened to be up thinking about visual strategy and branding cohesion at nearly 2 a.m.

And if those thoughts happened to circle around how irritatingly curated Auau’s Instagram was—moody black-and-white edits, grainy rehearsal shots, sleeves rolled up just so, captions that read like they were too cool to care?

Well.

That was just market research.

He tapped into his own profile, smirking as he selected the perfect photo from an old shoot. It was candid enough to look accidental—Save with his hoodie zipped halfway down, collarbone sharp and glowing in warm golden light, sipping iced coffee while glaring directly into the camera like it owed him rent.

He added a lyric from Auau’s band’s debut track, the sappiest one.

“say it again / even if you don’t mean it”

Captioned it:

“heard it playing in the café. cute or cringe? you decide.”

And hit post.

The photo went up instantly.

He refreshed once.

Twice.

And smiled.

Because within two minutes , it already had a thousand likes. Comments rolling in like “SERVING” and “accidentally matching aesthetics???”

the room with digital victory. Save basked in it, cheek pressed against his pillow, one bare leg dangling off the side of the bed as the likes rolled in. His smirk was the kind that could power a small city. Somewhere in the distance, the TV flashed muted laughter from a variety show he wasn’t watching. He was too busy being iconic .

“‘Accidentally matching aesthetics,’” he muttered under his breath, voice syrupy with mockery as he scrolled through the comments. “Please. I invented this aesthetic.”

Just as he was about to reply with a single skull emoji to a particularly unhinged stan theory—his phone lit up with a call.

Unknown Number.

He froze.

The screen vibrated in his hand.

Save narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t the type to answer unknown numbers—he had a filter , a standard —but something about the timing made his blood stir. Slowly, he thumbed to accept, holding the phone up without saying anything.

Silence for a beat.

Then—

“ Cringe, ” said a familiar voice, flat and sharp like a blade scraping tile.

Save sat bolt upright in bed. “You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” Auau said, voice crackling slightly over what was clearly a burner call. “You couldn’t even use a different verse? You picked that one?”

“It’s public domain,” Save said sweetly. “Talk to your lyricist if it makes you that insecure.”

“Keep my lyricist’s name out your captions.”

“I didn’t even tag you.”

“You didn’t need to.”

There was a pause. The kind that sat heavy and loaded on the line, like the air before a monsoon.

“I didn’t know you were this obsessed with me,” Auau said casually, but Save could hear it—the slight edge, the tightness in his words like he was gritting his teeth through indifference.

Save flopped back dramatically. “Oh, please. I didn’t even notice it was your lyric until someone pointed it out. Your songs all sound the same—sad, broody, emotionally constipated.”

“Must’ve hit a nerve. You looked good in the pic, though. I’m sure your fans appreciated it.”

Save’s jaw ticked. “Thanks. I’ll pass on the compliment to your aesthetic board. They’ve been copying me since 2022.”

A beat.

Then Auau chuckled. Low. Unamused.

“I knew it,” he muttered.

“Knew what? ”

“You’re threatened.”

Save’s laugh came out sharp and disbelieving. “By you? You think I stay up at night scared of an asshole and a two-note vocal range?”

“Funny, you’re the one posting passive-aggressive thirst traps like a sixteen-year-old with a secret Tumblr.”

“Oh, I’m sorry ,” Save snapped, sitting up again, eyes blazing. “Did you want me to post a blurry black-and-white photo of my ceiling with the caption ‘void’ ? Should I rename myself mysteryboy94 ?”

“Keep that attitude up,” Auau said, deadpan, “and I’ll trademark it before you do.”

The silence stretched again, thick with static tension.

Then—

“I hope you know this means war,” Save said, voice low, icy, full of that dangerous glitter he only got when he was truly pissed.

Auau barely paused.

“Bring it, fox.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Save stared at his phone for a second, chest rising and falling with something way too close to adrenaline. He blinked. Threw the phone onto the bed.

“Certified asshole ” he declared to no one.

His phone buzzed again.

This time—a notification.

Auau posted a story.

Save didn’t even hesitate before tapping it open.

The story loaded instantly.

Just one photo. But it hit like a weapon.

Taken on one of those clunky digital cameras Auau had been dragging around lately—grainy and flash-heavy, the kind of picture that looked like it got pulled from a 2004 magazine feature. There was no filter. No polish.

Just Auau, shirtless, damp hair sticking to his forehead like he’d just come back from a run or a particularly cinematic bout of self-reflection. The flash hit sharp—catching the slope of his collarbone, the lean stretch of muscle, the silver of a necklace glinting where it trailed against bare skin.

The lighting hit just right, casting clean shadows down his defined abdomen His expression? Blank. Not brooding, not intense. Just unbothered .

But that wasn’t what made Save’s stomach twist.

It was the song.

His song.

Save’s voice. Crooning out the start of his second verse from their band’s latest track.

“I don’t say it out loud, but I know you hear it—

the way I stay quiet, but never disappear…”

Save choked on air.

The lyrics weren’t even romantic. But now—now they sounded like something whispered under covers.

The worst part?

Mouth tilted in the faintest smirk—like he was the one who wrote it, like he was the inspiration.

The caption?

“cute or cringe? you decide.”

Followed by a fox emoji.

Save stared.

He blinked once.

Then again.

“OH YOU WANT TO DIE,” he shrieked, launching his phone across the bed, scrambling after it to unsend his own story post, to plot a response, to call Namping and scream—anything.

His phone buzzed again.

Namping: why is your voice on his story?!

Por: I  woke up and saw nipples. explain.

Save didn’t respond.

He was already opening his camera roll.

Clicking on the folder labeled “scorched earth.”

If Auau wanted a visual war?

Fine.

Save had better lighting.

Better cheekbones.

And a whole archive of photos that said, “try me again, bitch.”

It was barely 3:12 a.m. and Save’s room had officially transformed into a war bunker.

He was wrapped in a silk robe now— the one, the black one with embroidered dragons on the sleeves, because if you were going to retaliate, you did it in thematic couture. His iced coffee had been replaced with a half-finished bubble tea, and he hadn’t blinked in what felt like hours.

Auau’s story was still up.

Still smug. Still shirtless.

Still using his voice.

Fine.

Fine.

If Auau wanted to escalate, Save would take it to the moon.

He scrolled back through his camera roll, thumb pausing over a photo that made even him tilt his head.

Low lighting. Soft shadows. Taken during that one late-night shoot with the mirrors and the satin sheets—he’d only posted outtakes before. But this one?

It was nearly profile. His back arched slightly as he adjusted the collar of a shirt slipping off his shoulder, exposing a sharp shoulder blade and the entire elegant curve of his waist. Hair messy. Eyes low-lidded. Mouth just slightly open, caught mid-word. The picture hummed with tension—like someone had interrupted something they shouldn’t have seen.

Save stared at it a moment longer

Perfect.

Now for the caption.

He opened his music app. Searched Auau’s band. Clicked the collab track. Scrubbed straight to the bridge—Auau’s part. The verse with the lowest register. The one that had made the entire studio go dead quiet during the first demo.

“you don’t have to mean it / just don’t stop saying it”

That line.

Save ripped the audio. Synced it to the story. Set it to loop once—clean, soft, devastating.

Then added the caption:

“i like the sound of your voice when you lie.”

[black heart emoji]

He hit post.

And watched it go up like a flare in the middle of the night.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk.

But when his notifications exploded—he sat back, arms folded, like a king watching his enemies kneel.

The internet would eat it alive.

The fandoms would short-circuit.

And Auau?

Auau would see it.

And he would know.

Auau saw the story before anyone said anything.

He was already halfway through drying his hair, screen lighting up as the notification slid across the top.

He shouldn’t have clicked.

But of course he did.

And it hit like a slap wrapped in silk.

Save, lounging in a robe. Back arched. Skin glowing.

That stupidly photogenic collarbone half-shadowed, half-bathed in gold light like it had been staged by a cinematographer. A sulky pout on his lips, iced coffee glass perched on one thigh like the universe itself was meant to serve him.

And layered over it—

His voice.

Auau’s own verse, lifted straight from their ballad track, playing soft and slow like it belonged there.

“you don’t have to mean it / just don’t stop saying it”

Auau stared at it. Not blinking.

Not for drama. Just shock.

What the hell.

The robe. The filter. His voice.

His first instinct was violence. Not actual violence—but something petty and deeply cutting. The way he usually won fights: through restraint sharpened into knives.

He didn’t even look over when the others started losing their minds behind him. Let them talk. Let them guess.

10:00 a.m. sharp — the group video call.

Save was already in the virtual meeting room, sipping coffee from a mug that said Satan works hard, but I work harder . His hoodie was zipped all the way up to his chin like it was armor. Camera angle? Perfect. Lighting? Petty.

Ryujin and Thomas were in, Teetee snacking as usual, Por adjusting his hair and muttering something about fixing his mic.

And then—

Auau joined.

Save’s jaw twitched. Just slightly.

Por clocked it but wisely said nothing.

“Alright,” the manager began, oblivious or choosing peace, “Let’s start with the press conference rundown and the finalized promo content schedule.”

“Can we also talk about boundaries,” Thomas muttered under his breath.

Teetee coughed dramatically.

Keng turned his camera off—definitely laughing.

Auau didn’t say a word. He leaned back, arms crossed, gaze drifting lazily over his screen before settling on Save’s square.

Save looked right back. Hood still up. Mug raised like a challenge.

They didn’t speak.

But the call crackled with something silent and awful and charged.

Not attraction. Not flirtation.

War.

And everyone else?

They were just trying not to die in the crossfire.

Video Call — Press Conference Briefing

10:04 AM.

They hadn’t even made it through the second slide.

“Well, the goal is to highlight unity,” Kim was saying, clicking through a painfully bright PowerPoint filled with overlapping timelines and fonts that should’ve been illegal. “We’re showcasing how two different brands can merge into one cohesive experience—”

“Bold of you to assume we’re cohesive,” Save muttered, just loud enough.

Mic on.

A beat of silence. Then Ryujin wheezed so hard it echoed. Teetee slapped a hand over his own mouth. Keng’s camera disappeared into a black square of fear.

“Save,” kim said slowly. “Mic.”

“Oh no,” Save said, syrupy sweet, dragging his sweater off one shoulder like he was settling in for a show. “Let’s talk about it. Since we’re all here. Together. In unity.”

“Don’t start,” Por mumbled from his little square, already massaging his temples.

“I’m not starting,” Save countered, sipping iced coffee like a villain. “I’m commenting. Like a good team player.”

Auau didn’t move. One hand was propped under his cheek, elbow on the table, rings glinting. His face was unreadable—expression carved from stone—but his eyes? Sharp. Watching.

Save hated when he looked like that. Like he was calculating which part of Save’s ego to slice first.

“Moving on,” the manager said tightly. “Namping. Outfit breakdowns?”

Namping looked like he’d been resurrected against his will. “Yes. Okay. For the press conference black carpet, we’ll play to brand contrasts. SIRENIX GROUP is more tailored—dark palette, clean lines, sharp silhouettes. So he’ll be in a structured suit jacket, open collar, no tie. Sleek. Focused. Minimal.”

The slide shifted.

“And DUSKLINE will contrast that,” Namping continued, clearly speedrunning. “Especially save, he’ll be in a cutaway blazer with asymmetric detailing and a silk-wrap underlay. It plays into his shape—waist chain, minimal jewelry, exposed angles. All in summary, these will reflect the opposite but similar aesthetics of each group which will further prove the point of two opposite groups uniting together.”

Save smirked.

Por groaned quietly.

Auau didn’t blink, but his eyes shifted to the image of Save’s outfit. That blazer—cinched at the waist, flared at the hip, cropped just enough to show a sliver of skin and the glint of that damn chain.

He breathed through his nose.

Save’s voice came next. “Balance,” he echoed mockingly. “Right. Harsh and soft. Knife and satin.”

Auau tilted his head. “More like hammer and glass. I just hope you don’t shatter before the cameras roll.”

Save’s jaw ticked. “Oh, sweetie. I was born to reflect light.”

Auau exhaled a single, humorless breath. “You were born to stand there and look like a pretty ornament. Just don’t speak unless the photographer asks you to breathe.”

Ryujin dropped his phone. Keng screamed. Teetee choked on air. Por fully disconnected from the Zoom and had to be let back in by a very exhausted intern.

The manager’s voice cracked like a whip. “That is enough. This is not a street brawl. You are public figures. You will act like it.”

“But define ‘next to,’” Auau said without missing a beat.

“Define ‘enough,’” Save echoed.

Namping closed his eyes like he was begging for divine intervention. “The final photo,” he croaked. “You’re standing together. Alone. No team. Just the two of you. Center frame. You are the statement.”

Both of them went silent.

Until Save asked, “Can we at least flip sides? My profile’s better on the left.”

“Too bad,” Auau said flatly. “That’s my side.”

“I’m gonna throw hands,” Save muttered.

“You won’t. You’ll pose.”

“And you’ll glower.”

“And we’ll sell out the venue,” Auau finished coldly. “So don’t flinch when I shine. I’m used to carrying dead weight.”

Teetee clapped like it was the finale of a drama.

Ryujin added a sticker that just read: “we’re all going to die.”

And Keng? Keng sent a sticker in the chat:

“May God have mercy on us all.”

Por was motionless again.

And through it all, Kim just held up his coffee, took a slow, pained sip, and mumbled, “Tomorrow. 9 a.m. Hair and makeup. Try not to kill each other before then.”

The meeting was supposed to be winding down. Schedules reviewed. Outfits confirmed. Deadlines barely tolerated.

Most of the team looked halfway to checked out—Keng had resumed spinning a pen like his life depended on it, Teetee was typing something suspiciously unrelated in the chat (“manifesting soft lighting for the press wall”), and even Auau had settled into a tense silence, the sharp line of his jaw the only indicator that his patience was dissolving molecule by molecule.

Their manager Kim, looking far too casual for someone about to commit war crimes, cleared their throat and smiled.

“Oh, and one more thing before we log off.”

Save froze mid-eye roll.

That phrase never meant anything good.

The manager clicked to the final slide. Bold white letters on black:

VELVET ENVY PENTHOUSE INITIATIVE: OFFICIAL COHABITATION LAUNCH — 1 WEEK OUT.

Silence.

Dead. Heavy. Soul-crushing silence.

“What,” Auau said, voice flat as asphalt.

“Cohabitation,” the manager repeated brightly, as if they’d just announced a beach vacation. “The board wants synergy. Consistency. Intimacy. So both teams—Sirenix and Dusklike—will be moving into the Velvet Envy Penthouse for the duration of the collab era.”

No one reacted for a full five seconds.

Then chaos detonated.

“You want me to what—”

“Absolutely not.”

“There’s not enough sage on Earth—”

“Por, say something.”

“WHY ARE WE BEING PUNISHED?”

Ryujin went mute from laughing too hard. Teetee threw himself onto his keyboard. Keng’s screen tilted sideways as he physically slid out of frame.

Save’s voice cut through it all like broken glass. “You want me to live with him?”

The venom on that him could’ve melted concrete.

Auau didn’t even look up. Just murmured, “We’ll need separate kitchens. And rehearsal floors. And probably air.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Save snapped. “Like I want to breathe the same oxygen .”

“You’ll get over it,” the manager said, already clicking through the next points like this wasn’t the worst corporate decision since someone made a band collab out of mortal enemies. “This is the final phase of branding. The press gets the announcement tomorrow after the conference. We’ll have a live feed of move-in day. Give the fans something to scream about.”

Por finally spoke, rubbing his forehead like it owed him money. “You’re putting twelve artists, two teams, and those two in the same luxury cage and expecting peace?”

“Not peace,” the manager said. “Engagement.”

Auau’s mic crackled as he leaned in. “Try and mic me during my private life,” he said calmly, “and someone’s losing a camera.”

Save gave the fakest smile ever seen on a digital screen. “Oh no, P’au. Don’t be shy. Let them film. I want everyone to witness the meltdown when you realize my closet’s bigger than yours.”

“Good,” Auau replied. “More room for you to hide in when the public realizes you can’t cook, clean, or choreograph without whining.”

Teetee dropped another sticker in the chat: “HELL. IS. REAL.”

Keng replied with a gif of a ship sinking.

“Meeting adjourned!” the manager called quickly, clicking off with the urgency of someone fleeing a live grenade.

The call ended.

Save sat there, stunned.

Auau sat there, still.

The Velvet Envy logo pulsed faintly on-screen behind them, taunting.

From somewhere in the Dusklike group chat, Por finally texted:

“I’m not going down with this ship. I’m building a raft.”

A FEW HOURS LATER

10:07 a.m.

Dusklike’s shared apartment – mostly floor, mostly mess

The floor was a minefield of sneakers, extension cords, and half-packed bags. The apartment buzzed like a beehive, people shuffling between closets and calling dibs on outlets like it was a war strategy.

Keng stood in the middle of the living room, clutching a vintage glass figurine like it might explode. “Uh… was this expensive?”

Namping, several feet away, holding an open suitcase and trying to shove in six pairs of boots, turned slowly.

“That,” he said with the gravity of a funeral, “is a limited-edition heirloom collectible. From my grandma. Who’s dead.”

Keng’s face turned ghost white. “OH MY GOD—”

“I’m kidding,” Namping said, snatching it gently, “but if you break it, I will become her ghost and haunt you.”

Keng stared at him like he was in love. “…That’s hot.”

Namping blinked. Paused. “…No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No, it’s—”

“Okay, but imagine: You in ghost makeup. Black veil. Hovering over my bed like—”

“Babe….. pack your socks. ”

They both went silent.

And then Keng grinned. “You care about my feet.”

“I care about not being late.”

“You love me.”

“I will kill you.”

The silence that followed was laced with way too much tension for someone just holding socks.

Elsewhere — Kong’s room, sunlight streaming, soft chaos unfolding

Kong lay stretched out across his bed, phone propped against a water bottle, eyes gleaming as he grinned up at the screen. His suitcase was half-packed—if you counted stuffing three hoodies and a bag of chips as packing.

On the screen, Thomas sat cross-legged on his neatly made bed, posture straight, arms crossed like he was holding back a lecture. His tone was calm. Dangerous.

“Kong,” he said slowly, “You’ve packed nothing but snacks and sweaters.”

“They’re emotional support snacks,” Kong offered, playing with the string of his hoodie. “And the sweaters are mostly for you.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re staying in my closet?”

Kong blinked innocently. “I was hoping to stay in your bed.”

A beat.

Then Thomas sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Kong beamed. “You think I’m cute?”

“I think,” Thomas said, voice low and warm now, “if you don’t finish packing in the next thirty minutes, I’m putting you on folded-laundry duty for the entire first week.”

Kong’s laugh was high and gleeful. “Hot.”

“I will color-code your socks.”

“Okay but that’s love, actually.”

Thomas gave a slow shake of his head, but he was smiling, fond and exasperated. “I’ll call again in thirty. Be ready.”

“Only if you promise to boss me around some more,” Kong said brightly.

Thomas smirked and ended the call with military precision.

Kong sighed at the dark screen, still smiling. “God, I love being micromanaged.”

Por’s room — suitcase open, playlist on, pacing like it’s cardio

Por was walking in circles, his phone propped on a stack of books, wirelessly charging while Teetee’s face blinked into view.

“…Why are you pacing?” Teetee asked, half-laughing, head propped up in his palm. He was lying sideways on his bed, hair a mess, hoodie practically swallowing him.

“I’m not pacing,” Por said. “I’m sorting.”

“You’re sorting your stress,” Teetee grinned. “Classic Virgo behavior.”

Por paused mid-step. “I’m not a Virgo though?.”

“You act like one.”

Por opened his mouth to argue—then saw the little smirk on Teetee’s face and deflated. “You’re annoying.”

“You like that,” Teetee said sweetly, and Por absolutely hated that he was right.

The call was glitchy for a second—Teetee’s screen froze on a soft, smiling frame. Por stared at it longer than he meant to.

“You packed your vitamins yet?” Teetee asked when the call caught up.

Por blinked. “What? Why would I—? Okay, are you my mom?”

Teetee just tilted his head. “You have a bad habit of forgetting and I’m not dealing with your sleep-deprived crash by day four. You get cranky.”

Por ran a hand through his hair, turning away from the camera just enough to hide the smile tugging at his mouth. “You are my mom.”

Teetee laughed so hard he had to bury his face in a pillow. “Okay, okay—go pack. I’ll quiz you later.”

Por looked at the screen, lingering. “Yeah. Okay.”

“P’Por?”

“Yeah?”

“You look good when you’re stressed.”

Por ended the call.

And then immediately flopped face-first onto his bed with a groan and screamed into a pillow.

Ryujin sat on his bed, scrolling through the Velvet Envy group chat while sipping chamomile tea like it was tequila.

The messages were a mess:

Teetee: “SAVE BRING YOUR CAT ”

Keng: “are espresso machines allowed or will the luxury be catered

Save: “i swear to god if there’s one lavender candle in that penthouse i’m staging a walkout”

Auau: “Stage it. Please. Dramatically.”

Ryujin sighed and dropped his phone face-down.

“I’m too pretty to go through this.”

Then, with a grim sense of purpose, he added a message to the chat:

Ryujin: “Just a reminder we need to leave in 45 minutes. Please wear actual pants. That is all.”

And hit send.

Because if he was going to be stuck in a luxury soap opera with eleven over-dramatic artists, he was at least going to make sure they showed up on time.

The cameras were already rolling.

Not live—pre-recorded content. Carefully staged chaos for a future date, to be dropped the moment the company officially announced to the world that Sirenix and Dusklike were not only collaborating, but cohabitating. That announcement would come in a week, once the merger news had its moment tomorrow. For now, they were just filming the buildup.

Content, the manager had said. Just content.

A sleek black van pulled up to the curb of the building, the Velvet Envy logo shining like gold-tinted glass above the entrance.

Producers and PR staff buzzed around like caffeinated wasps. Cameramen shouldered rigs. Assistants mouthed silent prayers.

And out of the van stepped chaos.

Or, more specifically: Save.

He emerged like he was disembarking from a royal carriage, one leg swinging out dramatically before he stood to his full unimpressed height—black flowy shorts swirling around his thighs, a slouchy blue off-one-shoulder sweater slipping halfway down his arm to reveal a fitted black tank underneath. His lips were glossed, his glare was sharpened, and he did not smile for the cameras.

He just blinked slowly, raised a brow, and muttered, “They’re actually filming this.”

Behind him, Teetee whispered to Por, “He dressed like vengeance and vacation had a baby.”

“I heard that,” Save snapped, not turning around.

Auau arrived seconds later, stepping out of the second van like a reverse exorcism—calm, cool, cursed. He had a duffel over one shoulder, sunglasses tucked into his collar, and a look on his face like this was a minor inconvenience he’d already emotionally divorced himself from.

Save rolled his eyes as soon as he sensed him.

“After you,” he said stiffly, gesturing to the door with the flair of someone offering a knife.

Auau didn’t even break stride. “Glad you remember your place.”

The moment he passed him, Save whispered to the camera operator, “If I disappear in the next twenty-four hours, check the hallway footage.”

Inside the penthouse lobby, it only got worse.

The doors slid open with a soft chime and a blinding view of the luxury interior: floor-to-ceiling windows, velvet furniture, marble countertops, and way too many mirrors. There was even a double grand staircase that felt less practical and more we heard you were dramatic.

And in the center of it all? The room assignments.

Each name was typed out on sleek little placards… with arrows.

Shared Hallway A:

Save — Left Suite

Auau — Right Suite

“No. No, no, no,” Save said, already backing up. “This is illegal. I know my rights.”

“You’re not even reading your contract,” Namping said, already half-dragging Keng away from the velvet chaise he was about to jump on.

“I’m not reading it because it’s evil,” Save shot back.

Auau walked past him silently, brushing shoulders—barely a touch, but enough to make Save physically flinch.

“You did that on purpose,” he hissed.

Auau didn’t stop walking. “If I wanted to touch you, you’d know.”

“WHAT does that mean!?”

While the cameras captured every spark of that hallway standoff, the rest of the group made a mad dash for their own rooms.

Keng and Namping ended up in the double suite on the second floor, Keng immediately unpacking in the closet while Namping tried to rescue a ceramic candle holder he’d just knocked over.

Thomas and Kong were still on video call with each other despite being one floor apart, Thomas murmuring while Kong giggled like he wasn’t being streamed in 4K.

Por and Teetee, bless them, were trying to act normal—but the way Teetee looked at him when Por rolled his sleeves up said far from normal, dangerously close to drama.

Ryujin stood in the kitchen holding two mugs and no will to live.

“I just wanted a window seat,” he whispered.

Upstairs, Save stood in the doorway of his suite, glaring across the hall where Auau had just disappeared inside.

Then he turned to the camera and smiled, slow and deadly.

“Welcome to the season premiere of How Fast Can I Burn This Down Without Getting Sued .”

Cue theme music. Fade to black.

The door to Save’s suite clicked shut behind him with a satisfying thud.

He stood still for a second, letting the silence soak in, then exhaled sharply—palms on his hips, eyes scanning the room.

It was… nice.

Too nice. Velvet headboard, mood lighting, glass walls with auto-shading, a vanity with perfect lighting, and enough closet space to contain his trauma and his outfits.

But something was off.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

There. A sleek door across the bed, trimmed in the same gold as the room’s handles. Not the entry door. Not the closet.

Save stalked over and pushed it open—

And stopped dead.

“ No. ”

The bathroom was beautiful. Marble floors. Twin sinks. Rainfall shower. Backlit mirror already glowing like an Instagram filter. The kind of place that made you want to fake a skincare routine.

And on the opposite side of the bathroom?

Another door.

The exact same door.

The one that definitely opened into Auau’s suite.

There was a second of silence before—like a horror movie jump scare—the other handle turned.

Save dove for his side of the door and slammed it shut just as Auau stepped into view. He pressed both hands against the wood, muttering, “Nope. Absolutely not. We’re drawing lines. We are drawing doors.”

Save slammed the bathroom door shut with a dramatic bang, nearly dislodging the towel rack. “Absolutely the fuck not! This is a human rights violation. This—this is a hate crime in architectural design.”

From the other side, Auau’s voice drifted through, lazy and razor-sharp. “You crying because the marble tile hurt your eyes, or because you realized you’ll have to see me in the morning?”

“No, I’m crying because I know what sulfur smells like now,” Save snapped. “It’s your shampoo.”

A chuckle. Low, dark, dangerous.

“Cute,” Auau murmured. “You’re always loudest when you’re scared.”

Save yanked the door open like he was about to lunge. “Scared? Scared of you ? You wear clothes like a cartoon villain and smell like wet vinyl—”

Before he could finish, Auau stepped into the threshold, close enough that Save had to instinctively lean back.

“I could’ve touched you if I wanted to,” Auau said, voice a quiet threat, low and steady. “Could’ve fucked you, too. Multiple times. You wouldn’t even know what to do with me.”

Save’s breath hitched for half a second—just long enough to give it away.

Auau smiled, slow and cruel. “But don’t worry. You’re not my taste.”

Save blinked. “I—”

“You’re the type people dress up and photograph. Not the kind you ruin your life over.”

Save looked like he was about to throw a shampoo bottle or pass out.

Which, of course, was when the camera crew barged in again.

“Filming pick-up lines!” the producer called. “Bathroom shots are looking great!”

Auau didn’t miss a beat. He stepped back, adjusted his cuff, and said without looking at Save, “Better blur the footage. I think desperation’s contagious.”

Save’s scream echoed off the marble.

The camera swept slowly across the massive penthouse kitchen—marble counters, hanging lights, gold accents—and landed, as if magnetized, on Save.

He stood at the island like he owned it, a pan sizzling beside him, sleeves shoved up past his elbows as he tossed garlic in oil with more attitude than finesse. The back of his sweater had slipped again, revealing one sharp shoulder blade, collarbones peeking like punctuation marks in an ongoing threat.

He wasn’t smiling. He was glaring at the cutting board.

And somehow , it worked.

From across the counter, Auau watched in silence, arms crossed, pretending not to be on camera, pretending even harder not to be aware of the ridiculous flush spreading down the back of his neck.

He looks like a disaster movie protagonist, Auau thought. Messy hair, clothes slipping, acting like he’s being wronged by the egg noodles.

The way Save leaned in—eyes squinting, lips pursed, aggressively serious about garnishing a plate like it personally offended him—was so stupid. So dramatic. So irritatingly cinematic.

And his mouth— Auau caught himself.

No.

He scowled.

The most annoying thing about him is how his face is symmetrical. Like the kind of symmetrical that would be used in a propaganda poster or a perfume ad called ‘Meltdown.’ And his wrists. Why are they doing so much? He’s cooking, not conducting a string quartet.

Save glanced up just then, eyes meeting the camera. Then flicking past it. Right at Auau.

He smirked.

Auau’s jaw ticked. Smug little—

“Are you gonna help or just stand there looking constipated?” Save snapped, flicking sesame oil into the pan.

Auau didn’t blink. “You need help? Thought you were auditioning for ‘MasterChef: Delusional Edition.’”

Keng, off-camera, whispered, “Oh my God.”

Namping was desperately trying to keep the scallions from catching fire. “Please, please stop flirting with murder.”

Teetee was in charge of plating and visibly shaking from trying not to laugh. “We need to post this with zero context.”

Por, behind the camera, muttered, “This whole house is cursed.”

But Save kept moving—grabbing a spoon, stirring slowly, exaggeratedly, then sucking something off his finger like the dish had personally insulted him.

Auau had the audacity to narrate—only to himself, quiet and low inside his skull.

Ridiculous. The dramatics. The posture. The pout. I’d choke him with his own apron if I didn’t think he’d like it.

Then, out loud: “You used too much oil.”

Save didn’t look up. “And you’re using too much mouth.”

The crew wheezed behind the cameras. Keng dropped a pepper shaker. Ryujin silently walked out with a full plate and two spoons, whispering, “They’re gonna kill each other and I’m not cleaning it up.”

The pan hissed. Tension rose. But Save didn’t back down—he leaned in, eyes glittering under the studio lights.

“You don’t even know how to cook,” he said, slow and sharp.

Auau tilted his head. Smiled. “No. But I know what tastes good.”

The beat of silence that followed could’ve boiled water.

Teetee dropped the fork he was holding. “Cut. I’m begging. Cut the camera.”

Por didn’t. He zoomed in.

Ryujin was still grinning like a problem child, chopsticks twirling as he leaned a little too close to Save. “I’m just saying,” he murmured, “if you ever need someone to taste test, P’Save… I’m great with my mouth.”

“Ryujin,” Auau said from across the kitchen, voice low and flat, “don’t.”

Ryujin blinked at him, all faux innocence. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t flirt with roadkill in eyeliner.”

Save turned around, brandishing a spatula. “Excuse me!?”

Auau didn’t even blink. “I’m saving you from a tragic mistake. He’s not worth the tongue cramps.”

Teetee audibly choked on his water. “I—I’m sorry— tongue cramps ?”

Ryujin grinned wider. “You’re just mad I said it before you did.”

Por, passing behind them with a tray, muttered, “Can someone in this house be normal for five seconds?”

“No,” Teetee called sweetly from the floor, where he was re-filming a reaction clip for the fifth time. “We don’t do normal here. We do tension, chaos, and unnecessary sexual metaphors.”

Namping, from behind the camera, hissed, “You can’t say sexual when the footage is for the official channel—”

Keng walked past with a bowl of rice and zero fear. “They just said choke and apron in the same sentence. We’ve already gone to hell.”

“You heard me,” Auau said, not looking away from cutting the onions like this was just a normal Thursday. “He’s all mouth and drama. You think it’s sexy until he cries about soy sauce ratios.”

Save dropped the spatula onto the counter like he was throwing down a gauntlet. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you live in my mouth? No? Then maybe shut it, P’au, before you find yourself chewing on this pan.”

Ryujin, deeply enjoying himself, backed away with both hands up. “Wow. Okay. I’ll just go flirt with someone less… intense. Maybe Por.”

Por, from the dining table: “Don’t you dare. ”

Kong whispered to Thomas on speakerphone, “They’re going to fight again.”

Thomas: “Good. It’s the only cardio they get.”

The kitchen smelled like garlic and thinly veiled disasters.

Someone had dropped a bowl. Ryujin was humming a melody that sounded suspiciously like mockery. And Save—Save was at the stove, spatula in hand, sleeves shoved to his elbows, wrist flicking like he was choreographing the soy glaze into submission.

It shouldn’t have been interesting to watch. But Auau had been watching.

Too long.

Too close.

Save shifted his weight, leaning into the counter, one hip cocked like it was being filmed for a slow-mo scene in a teen drama. His lip caught between his teeth as he tasted the sauce.

Oh, for fuck sakes

The lighting wasn’t helping. It turned his skin gold, his hair too soft, made the kitchen look like a set and Save like something no one should be allowed to eat around without losing dignity.

Auau hated that.

Hated how every time he spoke, Save’s voice curled at the end like punctuation on a flirt. Hated how the camera gravitated to him like orbit.

Hated how when Save turned to him, smirking like he’d already won, he still looked good enough to kill.

Flipping vegetables like he’d invented sautéing. Hair falling perfectly out of his careless bun. Sweater slipping off one shoulder like it didn’t want to stay faithful. The kind of domestic aesthetic that got reposted with dreamy filters and thirst captions.

Auau watched it all with the expression of someone deciding which nerve to end first.

If the cameras weren’t on, I’d say what I really think.

If the cameras weren’t on, he’d ask Save what kind of person lip glossed before chopping garlic. He’d ask who taught him to tilt his chin like that—like he knew he was being watched, and loved it.

He’d ask why it was working .

He didn’t, of course.

Instead, when Save glanced over with that smug, aren’t-you-impressed smirk, Auau barely looked up from his untouched cutting board and said, dry and lethal:

“You look like a Pinterest board that can’t follow directions.”

That hit.

Save’s face twitched. He recovered fast, but not fast enough to stop Ryujin’s wheeze from across the kitchen.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Ryujin said, fanning himself dramatically. “Not while he’s holding a knife, P’Save. Or do—might make the episode go viral.”

Save ignored him, lips tightening, as he turned back to the stove with a flick of his wrist. “Jealousy isn’t a seasoning, P’au.”

Auau scoffed. “Please. If I wanted to season you, I’d have done it already.”

Another beat.

Teetee dropped the measuring cup this time. “I swear to GOD—cut the camera—”

“You’re insufferable,” Save hissed, stepping around the kitchen island like it personally offended him. “You walk in here, insult my cooking, deliver softcore innuendo in front of three cameras and a glass of fish sauce—”

Auau didn’t even look up from his drink. “Oh, was that innuendo? I just thought you looked under-seasoned.”

Teetee wheezed so hard he nearly face-planted into the rice steamer.

Por, with the air of someone who’d seen this movie before, leaned back in his stool and mumbled, “Ten baht says Save breaks the soy sauce.”

Save whipped around, glaring. “ You should be on my side!”

Por held his hands up. “I’m on the side of whoever lets me live to see dinner.”

Ryujin, watching this unfold with gleaming eyes, leaned in with his elbow on the counter. “P’Save, I’m just saying. If you ever get tired of discount Bond villain energy over there—” He nodded at Auau. “—I could treat you right.”

Save raised a brow, hand to his chest like a damsel in distress. “I appreciate the offer, Ryujin, really. But I don’t sleep with people who think ‘crispy garlic’ is a personality trait.”

“Fair.”

Auau, deadpan: “You don’t sleep with anyone. You perform celibacy like it’s a brand deal.”

Save gasped like he’d been physically struck. “You—you are so vile , it’s actually impressive. If I ever decided to throw hands with the devil, it’d be because you ran out of synonyms for ‘bland.’”

“You’re not bland,” Auau said with a shrug. “You’re just aggressively beige.”

That’s when Thomas, sitting at the counter with a dish in hand, went, “Hey Save, you wanna taste test this with me? It’s actually good. Kong helped.”

Save practically floated over, shooting Auau a smug look. “See? Some of your bandmates have taste.”

Thomas chuckled, bumping his shoulder. “You’re dramatic, but you’re growing on me.”

“Like mold?” Save asked sweetly.

“Exactly.”

Meanwhile, Keng had quietly slid behind Namping, using him as a human shield.

Namping groaned. “I am not dying in a kitchen full of popstar ego and shrimp paste.”

Keng whispered, “If Save throws a spoon, duck.”

Teetee was recording from the shadows like a gremlin with a gossip channel.

Por turned to him and muttered, “At this point, just live-stream the divorce.”

The cameras were still rolling, but even the crew had gone quiet—afraid to blink too loud in case it triggered another verbal war.

Save was mid-eye-roll, practically glowing with rage under the ambient lighting. Across from him, Auau had gone blank-faced, spinning a chopstick between his fingers like he was imagining stabbing something far too specific.

“So sorry the food didn’t meet your five-star expectations,” Save said sweetly, stabbing into his plate. “Next time I’ll add a side of ego to match your palate.”

Auau didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink.

Just said, voice low and disinterested: “Don’t worry. I’m already choking on your performance.”

Teetee physically flung a spring roll onto the table between them. “Snacks! Neutral zone! Think of your blood pressure!”

Keng popped up from behind the couch like a badly timed pop-up ad, holding a tray of fruit and fear. “Mango, anyone? It’s sweet! Like peace! Or pretending we’re not in hell?”

Save didn’t even glance at the tray. “If he throws another insult, I’m throwing this dumpling. And I will not miss.”

Auau finally looked up. Cool, measured. “Try it. At least then you’ll be known for delivering something with flavor.”

Keng audibly whimpered.

Teetee slammed a hand on the table. “Okay. That’s it. I am activating snacks diplomacy protocol. Everyone gets a skewer, and no one speaks unless it’s a compliment or an apology or—”

Auau stood.

Walked out.

No warning, no drama, no stomping.

Just ghosted the room like mist through velvet.

The silence he left behind was somehow louder than the fight.

Ryujin sipped from his water and muttered, “I vote we sedate both of them before breakfast.”

Kong, still on Thomas’ phone, whispered, “Is this what family dinners feel like?”

Thomas: “Only if your family hates you.”

Por just reached for the soy sauce and whispered, “I miss our old dorm.”

Save pointed a chopstick at Keng. “Tell the editors to cut me looking mad. I want the final edit to say I was glowing. ”

Keng, holding the mango tray like a hostage negotiator, nodded frantically.

INT. SHARED BATHROOM – NIGHT

Steam curled lazily from the marble sink as Save leaned into the mirror, fingers moving with delicate precision. He dabbed serum into his cheekbones with all the grace of a man preparing for war—or worse, content filming.

His matching pink silk pajama set shimmered under the soft vanity lights. Shorts barely brushing mid-thigh. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease clavicle, arrogance, and that one tiny mole just under his collarbone.

He looked good. He knew it.

He didn’t care who else did.

Except.

The bathroom door creaked open behind him.

Auau stepped in like a storm cloud—barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, eyes narrowed like the lighting offended him.

“Try not to moisturize your ego. It’s overhydrated enough.” His words held no meaning other than just to piss save off

Save stood there, pink silk pajama set looking far too soft for someone whose blood was boiling. His cheeks were flushed, not with embarrassment—with rage. The kind of rage that comes when someone pokes every nerve you’ve ever tried to keep buried.

“I’m brushing my teeth,” he snapped. “Not entering enemy territory.”

From inside, Auau’s voice slithered back, cool and lethal.

“Then hurry up and choke on the toothpaste.”

Save stormed in without thinking. “You are such a miserable—”

“—Hypocrite?” Auau cut in, voice dropping. “You walk around here like some glittery god, but all I see is an insecure, spotlight-hungry brat with a victim complex.”

Save’s jaw locked. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough ,” Auau said, stepping into the dim light—barefoot, hair messy, shirt collar loose. “I know you’d die before admitting someone else might be better than you.”

Save’s snarl was instant. “Better? Don’t flatter yourself, darling. You think being cold makes you interesting? You’re just boring in an expensive coat.”

Auau laughed—low, cruel. “No. I think being better makes me better. And guess what? If I wanted to fuck you, I would’ve. I don’t.”

A silence thick enough to choke on.

Save’s face snapped to him. “You arrogant piece of—”

And then suddenly—he was pinned.

Auau had crossed the space between them in half a second, a hand against Save’s chest, the other catching the silk waistband at his hip, shoving him up against the cool tiled wall. Breath-to-breath. Fire to fire.

Auau leaned in, voice poisonous and calm. “You are lucky I find you repulsive, Save. Because if I didn’t? You’d already know what I do to mouths that talk too much.”

Save’s mouth curled into a furious, trembling smile. “If you touch me again, you better finish the fucking threat.”

“Oh, no,” Auau murmured, eyes dark. “It’s not a threat. It’s a mercy.”

And then Save shoved him—hard—and Auau let himself be shoved. Just a step. Just enough.

“Touch me and I’ll cut your hands off,” Save snarled.

Auau licked his lips.

“Tempting.”

He turned without another word, muscles taut, dismissive.

INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE AUAU’S ROOM – NIGHT

Teetee had just come to knock—really, he had. One hand was mid-air, holding a bag of snacks he was hoping would function as a peace offering or at least a bribe for the gods of tension.

But then he froze.

Because through the door, barely muffled by the walls of the Velvet Envy penthouse, he heard:

“If I wanted to fuck you, I would’ve. I don’t.”

Teetee blinked.

And then the unmistakable sound of something hitting a wall.

Silence.

And then, Auau’s voice, low and dangerous:

“You are lucky I find you repulsive, Save. Because if I didn’t? You’d already know what I do to mouths that talk too much.”

Teetee dropped the snack bag.

Behind him, Keng turned the corner holding two mugs and paused like he’d walked into a murder scene. Teetee slowly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Don’t go in there,” Teetee whispered. “They’re doing verbal MMA. One of them just said repulsive in a tone that rearranged my spine.”

Keng opened his mouth to ask more—then heard Save’s voice, furious and ragged, spit out something about finishing the fucking threat.

“Yup,” Keng said, spinning on his heel. “Nope. I don’t need this level of adult content without a rating.”

Down the hall, Ryujin poked his head out of the kitchen.

“Was that a thud or did someone drop a pan?” he asked.

“Both,” Teetee said, deadpan. “A pan of trauma.”

They all stood there in stunned silence.

Then Ryujin muttered, “And we have to live with them.”

Teetee nodded. “Pray for the plumbing. And the cameras.”

INT. VELVET ENVY PENTHOUSE – LIVING ROOM – EARLY MORNING

The world hadn’t fully woken yet.

The penthouse windows glowed pale gold. The kind of light that made you believe in quiet beginnings. Somewhere in the distance, the city stretched and yawned. But in here, the air was still.

Save, all pink silk and sleepy limbs, lay curled up like a cat against Kong on the couch.

His hair—usually styled, perfect, war-ready—was a soft mess of brown, falling over one eye. His cheek was flushed from the pillow pressure. Eyes half-lidded, blinking slow like he was floating between dream and breakfast.

Kong reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Save’s ear.

“You’re weird like this,” he said.

“Mmh,” Save mumbled, not even denying it. “Warm.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Can’t. Your thigh’s too bony.”

“Still better than your personality.”

Save cracked the smallest smile. “Shut up. I’m fragile.”

Kong didn’t argue, just let him be.

Teetee wandered in next, stopping in the doorway like he’d stumbled upon a museum exhibit. “…What the hell is this?”

“Shh,” Save whined, not lifting his head. “You’ll scare the peace.”

“You’re literally a menace six hours of the day—”

“Yeah. But not in the morning,” Save murmured, eyes closing again. “Mornings are soft.”

He yawned like a kitten. The blanket slipped slightly, revealing a sliver of the tank top under his pajama shirt. Everything about him looked pastel and defenseless.

Auau stepped in seconds later, paused mid-step when he caught the scene.

Save. Silent. Gentle. Head tucked into someone’s lap like he belonged there.

Something curled in Auau’s chest. Annoyance. Disgust. (Not envy. Never envy.)

He scowled. “What is this? Babysitting hours?”

Teetee blinked. “He’s soft in the mornings.”

“He’s pathetic.”

“Still warmer than you’ll ever be,” Save mumbled without opening his eyes.

“Didn’t say much,” Auau muttered back, reaching for a mug.

But he glanced again. Just once.

And something about that image burned behind his eyelids longer than it should’ve.

The breakfast table was alive.

Teetee was balancing toast on a fork like a circus act. Keng and Namping were arguing over whose coffee mug was “aesthetic enough for a close-up.” Ryujin was halfway into an orange, hoodie pulled up like he hadn’t slept at all.

And then there was Save, perfectly put back together—hair soft and messy just enough to look styled, black one sided off the shouldered sweater(AGAIN) fitted sweats, lip gloss on, lashes curled and a thin chain resting in the glittering collar bones the diamond shinning under the sun as if mocking. A mug cradled in one hand, a spoon twirling with unnecessary drama in the other.

He sat at the edge of the table, legs crossed, eye-rolls frequent.

“Can someone explain to me,” he said, voice honeyed with venom, “why P’Keng gets four pancakes and I got two and a half? Am I not the face of this cursed project?”

“You screamed at the pan,” Ryujin said without looking up. “Pancakes need a safe environment.”

“I encouraged the pan.”

“By threatening to throw it off the balcony?”

“Artistic direction,” Save snapped. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Across the kitchen, Auau leaned against the counter, arms crossed, mug pressed to his lips. He hadn’t said a word. But he was watching.

No—he was studying .

Save was sharp again. Loud, petty, magnetic. A fully armored menace.

And yet…

Auau couldn’t stop seeing the earlier version of him—melted against Kong’s lap, voice soft like spun sugar, eyelids fluttering slow. It was a different kind of dangerous. A trap with silk ribbon and sleepy teeth.

He looked away, annoyed with himself.

“Something to say?” Save shot across the table, catching the glance.

“Just amazed you didn’t smudge your gloss crying over pancake distribution.”

“Oh, don’t project. Just because your personality’s dry doesn’t mean my lips are.”

“Maybe if you ate instead of performed for your reflection—”

“Maybe if you had a reflection, you’d realize no one likes a shadow.”

The whole table flinched.

Teetee whispered, “Here we go.”

Keng passed Ryujin a piece of toast like it was a war ration.

Por didn’t even look up from his phone. “I’m timing how long before one of them actually combusts.”

And yet even then—under the noise, the jabs, the clatter of cutlery—

Auau couldn’t unsee the softness.

He hated that.

The team was taking a break between scenes. Stylists were reapplying lip gloss, fixing stray strands, blotting sweat. Save, perched cross-legged on a makeup table like a pampered cat.

Save sat with the kind of elegance that could cut glass, the tailored black pants sitting high on his waist and hugging just enough to make the line of his legs feel like a challenge. The matching blazer, cropped at the ribs, left a deliberate slice of skin exposed, interrupted only by a delicate silver chain slung low across his waist like an afterthought—or a warning.

“Save,” Kong said in a soft murmur, “you want juice?”

Save looked up with sparkly eyes. “Do I look like I want juice?”

Kong nodded solemnly. “You look like you need to be hand-fed grapes.”

“Then go do your job, darling,” Save said, poking his cheek.

Keng passed by and ruffled his hair with a grin. “He’s our mascot now.”

Thomas leaned in from across the room. “He’s been our mascot since he threatened a PR staff with a curling iron and still got an apology.”

Por handed Save a pack of seaweed chips. “Eat this or you’ll crash.”

“Thank you, my strong beautiful mother,” Save said, clinging to his arm.

The whole room was glowing with affection.

And then Auau walked in.

Everything froze.

Save’s head snapped toward him like a predator clocking a rival.

Auau looked like sin in grayscale.

Every sharp line of his suit felt like a deliberate threat—black tailored jacket worn loose over a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to flash the delicate chain at his collarbone, like a secret waiting to be yanked. The glasses balanced on his nose weren’t an accessory; they were a weapon. Intellectual. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Auau didn’t look his way—just spoke something low to a stylist, fixing his cuffs.

Save’s expression changed in an instant—softness gone, replaced by a smirk that curved like a blade.

He hopped off the counter, stalked past Kong, and muttered just loud enough, “Is it hard carrying that much resentment in your jaw or does it just lock naturally?”

Auau turned, slow and sharp. “Only locks around things worth biting.”

Keng, halfway through a sip of soda, choked .

Teetee shrieked into a pillow.

Por closed his eyes like he was praying.

Ryujin casually slid out of frame with his snack, whispering, “Y’all need holy water.”

But Save just stepped closer, a smile like sin on his lips. “Careful, P’Au. People might think you’re into me.”

Auau met his eyes, voice a low purr. “If I was, you’d already be ruined.”

Silence.

Then Kong’s voice: “…Should I still get juice?”

INT. PHOTOSHOOT STUDIO – “VELVET ENVY” DUO CONCEPT – NIGHT

The concept was “Opposites Entwined.”

The assignment: “High fashion. High stakes. Touch him like you hate him. Look like you’d ruin each other.”

Unfortunately, they understood the assignment a little too well .

The stylist clapped once. “Okay, Save straddle his lap—yes, knees on either side, face him. Auau lean back, hands on his waist. Like you’re about to either kiss or kill him.”

First of all why are they posing in this way? Second of all what the fuck is the company thinking the fans are gonna misunderstand everything??? THIRD OF ALL WHO HIRED THIS PHOTOGRAPHER….Isn’t there a policy in the company of not giving fans FALSE HOPE FOR FAKE SHIPPING? If there is not, one should immediately put it into action 

Auau didn’t blink. “Why not both?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Save muttered, hiking one long leg over his thighs like it was a throne and settling onto Auau’s lap with practiced ease—ignoring the tiny hitch in the breath beneath him. His fingers braced on Auau’s chest, deceptively gentle.

He leaned in, close enough for the camera to blur the line between war and worship. “Try not to get turned on. You’d cry from the shame.”

Auau chuckled low. “You think I’d let you live long enough to finish.”

His hands slipped to Save’s hips— firm . Controlling. Like he wanted him exactly where he was.

From behind the camera, the director whispered, “God, this is gold.”

Flash. Flash. Click.

“You look like sin,” Auau said under his breath, eyes never leaving Save’s. “The kind they name storms after.”

Save’s lips curved like he could taste the electricity. “And you look like every bad decision I’d make twice just to say I survived it.”

Their mouths were inches apart.

Keng physically turned away. “Why is it hot in here.”

Teetee screamed silently into Por’s sleeve.

Kong held up a peace sign at the behind-the-scenes cam, muttering, “Hi, we’re in hell.”

Ryujin: “P’Save, blink twice if you need holy water. Blink once if you want to drown him in it.”

But Save didn’t blink.

Just smiled—slow, sharp, and sweetly poisonous—as he rolled his hips back a little, barely-there movement, just enough to earn a reaction.

Auau’s jaw twitched.

“Still not your taste?” Save whispered.

Auau’s voice was molten. “Don’t flatter yourself. I like my food warm, not bait.”

The photographer shouted, “Perfect! Hold it—one more—YES—”

Click. Flash.

Velvet. Envy.

A fever caught in still frames.

Kong, whispering to Teetee: “So who’s gonna tell the fans they’re sharing a hallway and a shared bathroom after this?”

Teetee, traumatized: “They’re gonna find out in 4K.”

Save dragged his nails—lightly—over Auau’s shoulder, pretending to adjust his chain. “You think being cold makes you interesting, Auau? You’re just boring with better lighting.”

Auau’s hands tightened at Save’s waist. “And you think being loud makes you desired. You’re just noise with nice thighs.”

Teetee, somewhere off-camera: “CUT THE FEED. I’M NOT OLD ENOUGH FOR THIS.”

Keng was face down on the prop velvet chaise. “They’re gonna kill each other.”

Kong muttered, “Can they at least sign my poster first?”

The camera snapped again—flashes freezing them in time: Save in Auau’s lap, hatred burning between them like it could swallow the lens.

“Alright,” the photographer called, breathless, “that’s the shot! We got it. You can let go now.”

Neither moved.

Breath to breath, fire to fire.

Then Save finally slid off, slow, deliberate, leaving heat behind like a warning.

Auau rose with him, brushing past without looking, only pausing to mutter, “Next time you climb on top of something, try being worth it.”

Save’s smile was bloodless. “Next time you open your mouth, try shutting it.”

Behind the monitor, Ryujin whispered, “They’re either gonna kiss or commit homicide.”

Teetee: “And either way, we’re posting it.”

Scene: Group Photo Shoot – Velvet Envy Era

The set was all smoke glass and crushed velvet, diffused lighting casting soft shadows that turned everyone into walking magazine covers. Stylists flitted around with powder brushes and lint rollers. A photographer yelled something about “asymmetrical formation,” and Keng pretended to understand.

Save stood front and center in an icy slate jacket draped over a sheer black shirt, hair freshly tousled, face locked in passive-aggressive model mode.

Auau was one step behind him—because of course they couldn’t just stand next to each other again. That would be too predictable .

From the sidelines, Ryujin sipped his iced Americano and muttered, “Bet they crop each other out of the group shots in the final edit.”

Namping elbowed him. “Shh, you’re not helping.”

“I’m not wrong .”

Por kept one eye on Save, who hadn’t said a word since the last shoot. Kong and Teetee were off to the side, adjusting their jackets and quietly hyping each other up in soft voices. Thomas stood with his arms crossed, already perfectly posed without trying. Keng, as always, was spinning his ring and trying not to sneeze from the fabric sprays.

“Okay, now duos!” the photographer called. “Let’s start with Sirenix pairs!”

Teetee and Auau. Thomas and Ryujin. Then the Dusklike pairings—Por with Keng and Namping. Kong with Save.

Kong barely had time to blink before Save was on him like a cat draping itself over a sun-warmed window. One arm around his shoulder, smile charming and eyes dangerous.

“P’Save,” Kong said sweetly, “if you pose like that, people are going to ship us.”

“That’s the point,” Save purred, batting his lashes.

Across the set, Auau watched.

Watched and said nothing.

But when the next call came— “Auau. Save. Let’s do Velvet Core duo now. Just you two.” —he finally moved.

The stylist barely touched up Auau’s jacket before he was stepping into frame.

Save’s entire expression shuttered. The moment Kong stepped aside, it was like a wall fell into place.

They were positioned unnaturally close—Save’s back to the camera, spine arched just slightly as if he were pulling away, though his body was caged in by Auau’s presence behind him.

One of Auau’s hands rested low on Save’s waist, fingers grazing the top of his thigh, close enough to set fire but not enough to call it touch. His other hand hovered like he was seconds from pulling Save closer by the hips, like this was a lovers’ promo shoot and not a battleground.

Save tilted his head up, lips near Auau’s jaw, breath hitting skin as he hissed through clenched teeth, “Get your hand any lower and I swear I’ll bite.”

Auau’s smile was barely there. “You’d choke on me.”

Click. Flash.

“Keep whispering,” Save said sweetly. “I dare you.”

“You’re lucky we’re filming,” Auau breathed. “I’d have had you on your knees by now—begging to shut up.”

“Say that again and I’ll give them a shot of me biting you.”

The photographer clapped. “ Perfect. That’s the intensity we want. Hold that!”

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

One perfect shot after another—burned onto film and burned into memory.

Post-Shoot Dressing Room — Tension Still Loading

The heavy studio doors clicked shut behind them, muffling the last echoes of camera flashes and shouted wrap calls.

Inside the dressing room, the air was thick with hairspray, heat, and whatever unresolved tension had just walked in with them.

Kong flopped onto the couch, unbuttoning the top of his shirt with a sigh. “Well, that was sexy and terrifying.”

“No,” Thomas corrected gently, “ they were terrifying. You were a cinnamon roll.”

Keng was already digging through a snack bag. “Do you think if I leave something sweet in Save’s seat, he’ll soften by morning?”

Ryujin didn’t look up from his phone. “Only if it’s a collection of trinkets or a jellycat.”

Por was seated at the mirror, watching Save’s reflection instead of his own.

The moment the shoot ended, Save had marched straight to his chair, yanked off the velvet blazer, and started dabbing at his temples with a cotton pad like his skin was offended by proximity alone.

No one had said a word.

Not until Auau walked in.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at anyone. Just shrugged off his coat, hung it up with surgical precision, and moved to the far sink like the rest of the room wasn’t even there.

Save didn’t even pretend not to notice. His fingers stilled mid-motion.

The silence stretched.

Tightened.

Bent like a bowstring.

Until Save stood.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Everyone in the room went very, very still.

He crossed the space with the controlled grace of someone walking into a war zone they planned to win, stopping just short of Auau’s mirror. His voice dropped low.

“If you ever breathe that close to me again, make sure it’s the last thing you do.”

Auau didn’t blink. “Funny. I was about to say the same.”

“You think this is all some game,” Save hissed. “You’re so smug, so calculated —you don’t care who burns as long as it makes you look good.”

“And you care too much about looking untouched,” Auau said, voice ice. “It’s exhausting. We all see the act.”

Save’s jaw flexed. “I would rather be fake than whatever the hell you are.”

There was a thud behind them—Keng dropping a brush, Teetee choking on his juice, something—but neither of them turned.

Auau stepped forward leaning down for him to be on eye level with save enough for the tension to snap taut. “Then you better start faking better, sweetheart. Because if this is you trying, it’s pathetic.”

They were eye to eye now. Barely inches apart. Breath against breath. Like the camera was still on them and neither could back down.

Until a voice broke the air—clear, startled, and far too close :

“…Holy shit.”

They both froze.

Turned.

In the doorway, holding two coffees and looking like he’d just walked into the end of an R-rated cliffhanger, stood Thomas.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then said, “I—uh. I’ll come back.”

The door closed again.

Hard.

Save exhaled shakily. Auau stared at his own reflection, unreadable.

The silence after the door shut was deafening.

Save turned his head back slowly, like his spine was made of snapped glass. “You want to talk about pathetic?” he said, voice low and venom-laced. “You walk around like your silence is holy, like one sharp look from you is gospel. News flash,P’au —brooding doesn’t make you deep, it just makes you insufferable.”

Auau’s expression barely twitched, but his eyes snapped to him like a blade.

“And dramatics don’t make you interesting,” he said, tone cold enough to crack concrete. “You’re not dangerous, Save. You’re just loud. The rest of us outgrew tantrums before we turned twenty.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Save snapped, stepping in again. “Did my existence disturb your tortured little artist routine? Maybe if you didn’t spend all your time pretending to be above everyone, people might actually like you.”

“Like you?” Auau’s smile was pure poison. “You think they like you? They tolerate you. You’re shiny wrapping paper on an empty box.”

“And you’re a locked drawer full of nothing but ego and daddy issues.”

The entire room inhaled sharply.

Auau’s eyes darkened like storm glass, his voice dropping a note lower. “Say that again.”

“Why?” Save said, fire flaring in his voice now. “You gonna write a song about it? Scowl at a mirror? Maybe finally tell the truth instead of hiding behind whatever dead-eyed cool act you think is working?”

“You are one bad day away from being unbearable,” Auau said, barely loud enough for the others to hear.

“And you’ve never been bearable,” Save shot back. “You were born with that stick in your ass, and everyone around you just has to suffer for it.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You’re irrelevant.”

“You’re a goddamn soap opera.”

“And you,” Save hissed, stepping even closer, “are every cliché of a tortured genius, minus the genius.”

A pause.

Heavy.

Breathing uneven. Eyes locked. Energy burning.

Auau opened his mouth—but Save held up a hand, just one finger, like sealing a coffin.

“No. I’m done. This conversation ends here. I have a face mask waiting, “our” group who actually likes me, and at least three reasons not to get arrested for homicide today.”

He turned sharply, the hem of his shirt flicking Auau’s leg as he walked past.

“Enjoy stewing in your own self-importance, P’Iceblock.”

And then he was gone, leaving the room colder behind him.

Auau stared at the door.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

But the mirror in front of him reflected something flickering in his eyes.

Something not calm.

Chapter Text

The van was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that clung to the walls, stifling and uncomfortable, like everyone had just witnessed something intimate, inappropriate, and possibly illegal—and no one knew how to talk about it.

Save sat by the window, jaw clenched, arms crossed, legs pointed firmly away from Auau.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared out at the streetlights like if he glared hard enough, they might explode.

Across from him, Auau was lounging like nothing happened. One leg stretched out, head tilted slightly back against the seat, expression unreadable. But his eyes—when they flicked sideways to look at Save—were sharp and far too entertained.

No one dared sit between them.

Por was tucked in the back seat next to Teetee, texting furiously. Probably a group chat titled “??? Did We Just Film Softcore Hostility ???”

Kong kept glancing at Save like he wanted to offer a snack and a hug but feared for his life.

Thomas finally broke the silence. “So, um. That was… good camera chemistry.”

“Chemistry?” Save snapped, finally turning. His voice was sweet—fake sweet—the kind that came before he started flipping tables. “If by chemistry you mean getting felt up by a glorified refrigerator with cheekbones, sure. Chemistry.”

Auau didn’t even flinch. “You were the one who arched.”

Save twisted toward him so fast the van creaked.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he hissed. “Was I supposed to collapse into your arms and moan for the promo shot?”

“You could’ve tried,” Auau murmured.

“Don’t tempt me to turn this van into a war zone,” Save snarled.

Keng actually ducked.

Teetee held up a half-open snack bag between them like a peace treaty. “Would anyone… like a banana chip?”

“I’d like bleach,” Save said, not looking away from Auau.

“Drink it then,” Auau muttered.

That was the final straw.

Save lunged—but Kong caught him mid-pounce, wrapping him in a panic-hug that turned into Save clinging for dear life. “Let me go. Let me fight him. Let me end him—”

“You’re going to wrinkle your makeup,” Kong whispered soothingly.

Meanwhile, Auau leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, eyes never leaving Save’s. His voice dropped low. “The way you trembled back there, you sure you hate me?”

“Let me go,” Save said again, to Kong this time, lips twitching, furious and flushed. “I have something to say directly into his smug little soul.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Let’s maybe save it for when there aren’t witnesses.”

Por, still typing, didn’t look up. “Too late. I’m already writing the fanfic.”

THE PENTHOUSE — NIGHT — FRONT DOOR OPENS

They all spill out into the lobby. Save stalks ahead without a word. Auau lingers behind, slowly unwrapping the snack Teetee handed him like this was the calmest day of his life.

Back in the van, Keng whispered to Namping, “They’re going to kill each other.”

Namping whispered back, “Yeah. Or kiss.”

Keng shuddered. “Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse.”

——-

The door slammed behind Save so hard it rattled the picture frames.

He didn’t stop moving—barefoot, pajama pants low on his hips, shirt half untucked like even his clothes were trying to escape the day. His rage was quiet now, simmering, which made it so much worse.

He threw his phone onto the couch. It bounced, barely missed a scented candle, and landed face down.

One second later— click.

The hallway door.

Auau.

Save’s back straightened like someone had yanked a string through his spine.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Save didn’t turn around. “If you’re here to say anything with your mouth, don’t. Go eat a blender.”

Auau stepped into the room, all loose limbs and lazy venom. His hair had fallen slightly in his eyes. The same shirt from the shoot still clung to him in all the wrong, right places. His voice was low—calm in the way hurricanes eye themselves before shredding towns.

“Can’t sleep?”

“You’re the human embodiment of sleep paralysis,” Save snapped, whirling to face him.

“Oh?” Auau took another step in. “Then why do you keep letting me get this close?”

Save took a step forward too. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to finally do something stupid enough to get kicked from this project.”

Auau tilted his head, smirking. “Like pin you against a wall again?”

Save’s fists clenched. “Try it, and I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Auau asked, voice going low, cruel. “Write another diary entry about how much you hate my face while secretly hoping I kiss it?”

That did it.

Save lunged forward—not physically, not yet, but his words hit first, daggered and ice-tipped.

“You know what you are?” he hissed, inches away. “A very egoistic and very unworthy of my words looking assfuckinghole.”

Auau didn’t flinch. He leaned in, close enough that Save had to tilt his head slightly to maintain eye contact.

He whispered like a promise. “And you’re a glitter-covered brat in a glass box screaming for attention you pretend to hate.”

Save smiled. It was all teeth. “At least I’m not so emotionally constipated I need to pretend hate is the only thing that gets me hard.”

A breath. Sharp. That one hit.

Auau grabbed his wrist. Not gentle. Not violent. But firm.

And then—“I swear to god—”

“—If you finish that sentence,” Save interrupted, “I will actually slap your face so hard it’ll reset your debut era.”

A beat of silence.

And then the door creaked behind them.

Keng. Frozen in place. Mouth open. Holding a bowl of cereal.

“…I was just gonna ask if anyone wanted milk,” he whispered.

Auau let go of Save’s wrist instantly.

Save turned away, marching toward the bathroom like he hadn’t just been seconds away from slapping and/or kissing someone into hell.

As the bathroom door slammed behind him, Keng slowly turned to Auau.

“Do I need to lock the knives?” he asked.

Auau didn’t answer.

He just rubbed a hand over his mouth.

And smiled.

INT. PENTHOUSE – MORNING 

The door creaks open under protest.

“Absolutely not,” Auau says flatly, already stepping back.

“You lost the game,” Namping sings from the hallway, holding a juice box like it’s a mic. “Go wake him up.”

Auau turns. Glares. “I’d rather lick a subway pole.”

“Wouldn’t be your first questionable choice,” Teetee chirps, shoving him the rest of the way in.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence.

The room is dim, light filtered through sheer curtains. It smells like lavender and overpriced skin serums.

And there, tangled like sin in satin sheets, is Save.

One leg kicked free from the blanket. His pink silk pajama top has ridden up over his ribs, the sheen catching soft sunlight and flashing the glint of his white belly ring. The matching shorts cling loosely over the curve of his ass—dangerously high, almost obscene. His face is relaxed, lips slightly parted, eyelashes dark against flushed skin.

He looks peaceful.

He looks kissable.

He looks like trouble.

Auau stands frozen in the doorway.

“…For fuck’s sake.”

He approaches like he’s diffusing a bomb—quiet, annoyed, and trying not to stare.

“Hey,” he says gruffly. No response.

He kicks the bedframe lightly. “P’Save.”

Still nothing.

He leans in, hair falling forward, teeth clenched.

“Get up, Sleeping Trashfire.”

Save groans softly, rolls onto his back—and that just makes it worse. The shirt slips higher. His toned stomach flexes unconsciously. Auau catches a flash of one thigh and almost chokes on his own breath.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Auau mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

He reaches out. Fingers hover above Save’s shoulder—hesitate—and finally jab.

Save jolts. Blinks once. Disoriented. Squints up, voice still drenched in sleep:

“…What the hell are you doing in my room? You trying to catch feelings or just a lawsuit?”

Auau deadpans, “If I wanted to die, I’d eat Kong’s cooking. Get up. You’re late.”

Save yawns— yawns —and stretches like a goddamn cat, the shirt sliding higher, the shorts shifting, and Auau looks away so fast it nearly breaks his neck.

Save smirks without even opening his eyes. “Aw. You woke me up. What, couldn’t resist?”

Auau glares. “You look like a dream I’d rather forget.”

Save flips his pillow at him. Misses.

“You’re lucky I’m too beautiful to press charges.”

Auau slams the door shut waiting for the sleeping cat like pretty boy to wake up and go to fresh up so they can leave on time.

From the hallway, Namping’s voice: “Did you kill him or fall in love? Can’t tell from your face.”

“Shut up.” Save screams back

Save stumbles out of his room in a mess of pastel silk and pure rage, still blinking sleep out of his eyes. His pajama top is only half-buttoned, shorts rucked up from tossing in bed, and his expression says murder before coffee .

The hallway tilts.

No. That’s just Save tripping over his own blanket, which somehow got dragged with him.

“Shi—!”

His legs go out from under him, and he crashes forward—slamming into the one person who could make this worse:

Auau.

“WHAT THE—”

Save clutches at him instinctively, hands fisting in Auau’s shirt from behind, one leg nearly tangled in his.

He’s basically hanging off Auau’s back like a furious designer backpack.

“Get off,” Auau snarls, spinning around—just in time for Save to slap his shoulder in a panic.

“DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DISEASED GOBLIN SKIN!”

“Oh my god, ” Auau hisses, grabbing Save by the waist and lifting him like a sack of insults. “I’M HELPING YOU, YOU TANGLED TOOTHBRUSH.”

“I WILL BREAK OUT JUST FROM BREATHING NEAR YOU!” Save shouts, full volume now, slamming a fist against Auau’s back. “PUT ME DOWN BEFORE I SUE!”

“YOU’RE WEARING MORE SERUM THAN FABRIC—HOW ARE YOU EVEN ALIVE?”

They burst into the dining area like a Greek tragedy and a reality show collided.

Everyone goes still.

Thomas, mid-sip of coffee, chokes.

Keng drops his toast.

Teetee: “…What in the fanfic fever dream?”

Por leans in. “Is he… carrying him?”

Ryujin, without blinking: “P’Save. Blink twice if you’re in enemy captivity.”

“HE’S GOING TO CONTAMINATE ME,” Save screeches, legs flailing. “MY PORELESS SKIN WILL NEVER RECOVER.”

“I SHOULD’VE LET YOU FACEPLANT INTO THE FLOOR LIKE THE DRAMATIC GREMLIN YOU ARE.”

Auau finally dumps Save unceremoniously into one of the dining chairs.

Save flops like a cat, glaring daggers as he repositions his shorts with wounded pride.

“Don’t ever touch me again.”

“I’d rather kiss P’keng.”

Kong whispers to Namping, “They’ve got so much tension I think I just got pregnant.”

Namping nods solemnly. “And we’re the kids of divorce.”

Meanwhile, Save adjusts his silk collar like nothing happened, snatches a croissant from the table, and mutters, “I’m filing for restraining order and eye bleach.”

Auau, biting into toast like it’s Save’s soul: “Try not to trip over your own ego next time.”

Their eyes lock.

Everyone watches, completely silent.

And then Teetee says, deadpan:

“…So we’re not doing a group prayer before breakfast anymore?”

————-

The members are squished into the back of the black, tinted promo van, half-asleep, half-dead, and fully regretting their career choices. The AC hums softly. The city blurs by outside.

Auau sits at the far end, legs stretched, hoodie up, one headphone in. Calm. TOO CALM FOR SAVE. Calculating.

Too calculating.

Because when the assistant driver turns from the front with a tray of drinks, she calls, “Milk tea for everyone—oh, except for the matcha latte for Save!”

Dead silence.

Save blinks. “Matcha?”

Everyone else freezes. Everyone knows Save hates matcha. Like… physically gags, hates.

He turns slowly , like a villain awakening.

“Who,” he says sweetly, “ordered this abomination ?”

Auau takes a lazy sip from his milk tea, eyes never leaving Save. “Must’ve been a mix-up.”

“Oh really? A mix-up like your entire existence?”

“Drink it,” Auau says coolly. “It’s good for your blood pressure. God knows you need it.”

Save hurls the matcha out the open window without blinking.

The van erupts.

Keng: “You could’ve handed it back—”

Teetee: “No no I love it. Give him another one so I can see what else goes flying.”

Thomas, from his window corner: “Y’all. My iced coffee was right next to that. I swear to god—”

Save, in full rage now, turns to exact vengeance.

He grabs the Winnie the Pooh blanket Auau had draped over his legs (because he always keeps a soft one with him even though he pretends he doesn’t), yanks it off, and curls up in it like it’s his birthright.

Auau stares.

“Touch that blanket again and I’ll wrap you in it, roll you down a hill, and call it modern art.”

“Big words for someone who drinks grass water,” Save snaps, tugging the blanket tighter, pressing up closer against Auau just to spite him.

Now they’re too close. Shoulder to chest. Save tucked in, lips pursed, nose wrinkled, curled under his enemy’s blanket , while Auau seethes beside him like a nuclear reactor trying not to explode.

Ryujin (from the front seat, recording on his phone): “Breaking news: P’Save now sleeps with the enemy.”

Por: “Do you think if we drive fast enough, the wind will blow the tension away?”

Namping: “They’re going to kiss or kill each other. And honestly? I’m scared for both outcomes.”

Save doesn’t move. Just glares.

Auau sips his tea.

And the van rolls on, steeped in sugar, spite, and sexual tension no one asked for.

The studio is dimmed with colored LEDs lining the walls, the air thick with adrenaline, nerves, and barely-tolerated proximity. Velvet Envy has gathered to record vocals and begin choreography run-throughs for their first joint single .

And even though everyone’s technically excited, Save and Auau have been coiled like vipers all day.

The first few hours go by in layers—warm-ups, vocal stacking, headphone feedback loops.

Then Save steps up to the mic.

He wears the headphones like a crown. His spine curves with focus. And when he sings— goddamn —even Auau has to pause mid sip of his energy drink, his gaze flicking up from behind the soundboard glass.

He doesn’t mean to admire him.

But he does.

Save’s voice climbs, falls, melts into the track like he was poured into the melody. There’s a subtle grit at the ends of his notes—an ache when he sings “don’t forget me when it burns.”

Auau hates it. Hates how good he is.

He also hates that he has to clear his throat after.

When it’s Auau’s turn, Save’s arms are crossed, unimpressed on the outside—but his eyes follow every movement.

Because Auau dances like his bones were made to break beats, and when he sings, it’s low and clean and stupidly, stupidly hot. His harmonies wrap like silk around the track. Save’s face doesn’t change. But his fingers curl a little tighter around the water bottle he’s holding.

Later, when the camera director sets up for “tension” promo clips between duos…

Enter chaos.

They’re told to “get closer. Closer. Look like it hurts.”

Save, still slick with sweat and fury, turns, slams Auau into the studio wall — hard . His smaller frame presses close, one hand against Auau’s chest, breath ragged with rage and something darker. Their faces inches apart.

“Say one more word,” Save hisses, “and I swear I’ll carve lyrics into your face with a mic stand.”

Auau’s smirk curves—dangerously slow.

Then he flips it.

His hands lock around Save’s hips and he switches their positions, pressing Save to the wall with a strength that makes Save gasp—barely audible—but very much heard.

“I dare you,” Auau murmurs into his ear. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to perform hatred?”

Click.

The photographer almost forgets to breathe.

But then—something shifts.

Out of the corner of their eyes, both Save and Auau clock it:

One of the new backup dancers—a guy with almost like a know it all aura and a fake smile—is rummaging near the personal bags . Way off-mark. Too casual. Too confident.

Auau’s hold on Save stills.

Save doesn’t move either.

Their eyes meet—brief, electric, shared awareness flaring between them like sirens.

It’s just one look. A glance. But it says:

“You saw that too?”

“We deal with it later.”

Then the moment breaks. The camera clicks again. The director cheers. Everyone thinks the performance was so good they stayed in character.

But they weren’t acting anymore.

INT. STAIRWELL – AFTER REHEARSAL, NIGHT

The metal door slams shut behind them, echoing through the empty stairwell. Harsh white light flickers above. It hums like the air itself is tense—like it knows these two can’t be alone without drawing blood.

Save moves first—storming down two steps before turning on his heel, hoodie falling off one shoulder, lips curled in fury.

“Too dramatic?” he throws back, voice low but deadly. “That’s rich coming from you, P’au .”

The honorific hits like mockery—weaponized politeness.

Auau leans back against the railing, arms crossed, gaze cool as ice. “You done throwing a tantrum, or should I grab you a mic?”

Save scoffs, stalking up closer until they’re toe-to-toe, his smaller frame pulsing with heat. “You didn’t even notice he was digging through our stuff. What—too busy checking your angles?”

“If he was really a threat,” Auau says coldly, “you wouldn’t be the one finding him. You’re not exactly known for… subtlety.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Save spits. “I forgot your version of leadership is standing around looking unimpressed while other people do the work.”

“Better than flailing around looking important,” Auau mutters, uncrossing his arms.

The air thickens.

“You know what?” Save snarls. “I’ll do it myself. Like always.”

He turns—but a hand snaps out, catches him at the waist.

Save freezes. Jaw clenched. Eyes narrow.

“Don’t.” Auau’s voice is quiet now. Controlled. Dangerous. “You push this too far, and we all go down with you.”

Save whips around, eyes burning. “Don’t touch me like we’re on the same side.”

But Auau doesn’t let go.

“Drop it,” he says again, firm now, fingers tightening just enough to mean it. “Or I make the call and leave you out of it completely.”

That does it.

Save slaps his hand away, steps in close— too close—jabbing a finger into Auau’s chest.

“You don’t scare me you asshole ,” he bites. “And don’t think for a second I need your fucking permission. I’ll handle it my way—and when I’m right, don’t bother pretending you didn’t see it coming.”

Their faces are inches apart now. Breath mingling. Rage palpable.

Auau’s eyes flicker down—just briefly—to Save’s mouth.

Save notices.

And it infuriates him.

“You always look like you’re calculating something,” Save growls. “But it’s funny—no matter how smart you act, I’m the one catching what you miss.”

Auau finally speaks, voice low and cold. “And you’re just loud enough to make people believe you.”

A beat of silence. The only sound is the buzzing light and the echo of their shallow breathing.

Then:

“Go to hell,” Save says.

Auau smirks.

“Lead the way.”

They don’t move. They just stand there—clashing, locked, electric.

Until a door creaks somewhere below. A voice yells faintly for rehearsal call.

They break apart like shrapnel. No apology. No truce.

Just fire in both directions.

The group’s back in formation. Cameras rolling intermittently. The air is still tight with the aftershock of Save and Auau’s stairwell clash—and everyone feels it.

No one dares mention it, but the way Save won’t look in Auau’s direction? Loud.

The way Auau keeps adjusting his sleeves like he’s wiping off lingering heat? Louder.

And then he walks in.

One of the backup dancers—the newer one, short but filled with egoistic wannabe pretty boy issues, overly confident, name probably something like Beam or Boss or Boom, no one really knows. He struts in like he owns the place, plastic bottle in hand, sweat glistening like it’s audition tape lighting.

Save clocks him immediately.

So does Auau—but with less suspicion, more mild annoyance.

The dancer moves toward Auau with a grin far too polished, voice sugar-slick.

“P’Au,” he says, too sweet, “you went so hard earlier—I swear I felt the floor shake. Can I just say—your center control? Insane.”

He puts a hand on Auau’s arm. Lingers.

Casual. Too casual.

Save stiffens so hard Teetee physically flinches beside him from the tension in the air.

Auau blinks at the hand, but instead of moving it or reacting like a normal human with basic awareness, he just tilts his head in vague confusion.

Like: Why is this happening?

Like: Did I do something to deserve this attention?

Like: Should I say thanks?

Save is across the room, eyes doing unspeakable things to the dancer’s entire existence.

Save’s head whips over. He blinks, then glares, like someone just stole all of his jellycats.

Auau barely reacts—but his eyes flick to the hand. Not quite welcoming it, not quite brushing it off.

He doesn’t need to. Because across the room, Save’s tone slices through the space like steel wire.

“Oh? We flirting now? Didn’t realize we were auditioning for The Bachelor: Backup Dancer Edition. ”

Everyone freezes. Even Teetee half-chokes on his water.

The dancer blinks. “Um… I was just complimenting—”

“I heard what you were doing,” Save snaps, stepping closer, arms crossed. “And trust me, P’Au doesn’t need your little floor-shaking poetry.”

Auau finally speaks, voice dry. “I don’t need a translator, thanks.”

Save turns to him, jaw tight. “Maybe if your brain worked as hard as your abs, I wouldn’t have to.”

Keng drops his phone. Thomas just stares, mouth open.

The dancer clears his throat awkwardly and mumbles something about needing to stretch before practically jogging away.

Silence falls.

Save and Auau are still locked in a silent standoff.

But there’s something new now—something heavier.

Possession.

Jealousy.

Rage, barely restrained.

But Auau just… stares at Save. A little stunned. A little confused.

Because what was that?

Was Save—defending him? No. That’s insane. That was clearly jealousy, right?

But why?

And Save?

Save thinks he’s just being protective of the group’s “image” or something equally unconvincing. He doesn’t realize he just growled at a dancer for touching Auau like a possessive cat.

Everyone knows.

Everyone. Except them.

Keng, whispering: “Are they… dating? Or murdering each other slowly with eye contact?”

Namping groans and hits his forehead against the back wall.

Ryujin is already updating his Notes app with the drama. “‘Save and Auau: the slowest burn known to man. We’re all prisoners now.’”

Por tosses a snack in the air. “God. I hope they never kiss. I’d combust.”

Auau finally turns back to his spot, still frowning like he’s doing math in his head.

Save looks smug—for no reason.

No one breathes until Teetee finally mutters, “I give them a week before one of them explodes. Emotionally or physically.”

And no one dares disagree.

They watched Save’s flushed face, the twitch of his jaw, the breath a little too fast for someone who supposedly doesn’t care . It hits him—not just the ridiculousness of Save’s reaction, but the realization:

He doesn’t even know he’s jealous.

Save might think he’s just annoyed, territorial about group boundaries or professionalism , but the way his eyes followed that dancer’s hand like it burned?

Yeah. That wasn’t about professionalism.

——-

It starts with Save pushing too hard.

Practice had technically ended ten minutes ago, but Save was still moving—still dancing, drilling that one part of the routine again and again and again. His white oversized t-shirt was soaked through, sticking to his spine and clinging down his chest, sleeves drooping and collar stretched from sheer exhaustion, legs shaking with every spin. Frustration radiated off him like steam.

The choreo wasn’t even wrong. Not really. But it didn’t feel right , and that made Save angrier.

“You need to lift more here,” Auau had commented earlier—offhanded, casual, like it was nothing.

And Save had snapped.

“Oh, thank you P’Au , how would I ever survive without your robotic perfection?”

Now everyone was gone.

Everyone—except Auau.

He walked in quietly, barely making a sound, in a black tank top clinging to his torso and arms taut and so biteable looking  enough to make Save’s tired brain short-circuit and want to behave like a cat and go bite those attractive and annoying as fuck biceps. Sweat still glistened on his skin from his own practice round—he looked like he was carved out of heat and hate.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just stood there.

Watching.

Until Save finally stumbled—just slightly—on the same step again.

“You’re still here?” Auau asked, voice even.

Save didn’t look at him. “Can’t leave when it’s still wrong.”

“You’re overthinking it.”

“Oh, so now you’re in my head too?” Save turned, eyes sharp, jaw tight. “Great. Maybe next time you can control my limbs while you’re at it.”

A beat.

Then Auau moved.

Fast.

He crossed the room and slammed his palm flat on the mirror behind Save’s shoulder, the other hand gripping Save’s hip—not hard, but firm. Their bodies pressed together, Save’s back flush against Auau’s chest.

The breath died in Save’s throat.

“You mean like this?” Auau said, voice low near his ear.

He guided Save’s right arm up, sliding his fingers down the length of it, fitting it into place.

Then the hips—he nudged them gently, aligned their movement, pressing his thigh behind Save’s as he whispered, “Your weight’s too far back. Shift into me.”

And then—his head dipped lower. Auau’s lips hovered just above Save’s bare shoulder where the shirt hung loose, his breath hot against sweat-slicked skin. His lips brushed against the fabric. Just lingered, like he might. Like he wanted to. Like he didn’t know if he was allowed to .

Save stiffened.

Because this—this was something else entirely.

This wasn’t just a correction. This was skin. This was heat. This was Auau’s hand slipping lower than necessary, resting on the curve of Save’s waist like it belonged there. This was their bodies moving in sync—not because of choreography, but because something ancient and maddening lived beneath their skin.

Save’s voice came out a little too thin. “I don’t need your help.”

“You need something,” Auau murmured, breath brushing the side of his neck. “Because this little tantrum? It’s not about the choreo.”

“Oh, go to hell and take your brain with you too when you do.”

“I’m already there,” Auau said smoothly. “You live in it.”

Save turned his head slightly. Just enough to feel the corner of Auau’s mouth brush his jaw.

He was vibrating.

With adrenaline. With rage. With something else he refused to name.

“Let go of me,” Save said, but it didn’t come out like a command.

It came out like a dare.

Auau didn’t move.

He just met Save’s eyes in the mirror—dark, unreadable, frustrated as hell.

And a little lost.

Save blinked.

Fuck.

Why did his heart stutter at that?

Chapter Text

Save left first.

Not dramatically. Not with a slam or a shout. But fast enough that anyone watching closely—anyone like Auau—would catch the stumble in his breath. The twitch in his jaw. The way he didn’t bother to towel off, just grabbed his phone, water bottle, and left the studio like the air was suffocating him.

And maybe it was.

Because the way Auau had looked at him—had touched him— lingered . It stuck to his skin like sweat. Or memory.

Or guilt.

Save stormed down the hallway, phone clutched so tight his knuckles paled. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t.

He just needed air.

He was halfway to the dorm when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Unknown Number.

He stopped walking.

Stared.

Buzz.

Buzz.

He didn’t want to answer.

He did.

He didn’t.

He—

He answered.

“…Hello?”

There was a long pause on the other end. Long enough that his stomach twisted.

Then:

“Still picking up my calls, I see.”

That voice.

Save felt it like a punch to the gut.

He almost dropped the phone.

“Why are you calling me?” His voice came out hoarse, smaller than he meant it to.

The laugh on the other end was soft. Charming. Too smooth to be comforting.

“I was in the area. Saw your latest interview clip. That thing you said about your first kiss being onstage? Cute. Real cute.”

Save’s mouth went dry.

“You don’t get to talk about that.”

“Why not? It was mine, wasn’t it?”

“You left me.” Save’s tone cracked like something sharp underfoot. “You used me. Then you left and never looked back—until now.”

Silence.

Then a murmur, sickly-sweet. “I looked back. I just didn’t call. But I’ve been watching. You’ve grown. Got fans now. You look good.”

“Stop it.” Save’s breath hitched. “You don’t get to say this. You don’t get to come back just because you’re bored.”

“I sent flowers. Thought maybe you’d want to reconnect. Or at least be friends. Don’t tell me you’re still bitter about what happened.”

“Don’t tell me how I feel.”

His voice was barely above a whisper now. Shaky.

Shattered.

“I trusted you,” Save said. “I gave you something I’d been saving for someone who actually gave a damn.”

“I did give a damn.”

“No,” Save whispered, hand clutching the strap of his dance bag like a lifeline. “You gave a performance. And I fell for it.”

He hung up before he could hear more.

Stood frozen on the sidewalk. Chest heaving. Air burning cold against the back of his throat.

The screen lit again— two missed calls . A message notification popped up:

“Let’s just talk. I know you miss me.”

He deleted it without reading further.

Didn’t even notice the footsteps coming down the hallway behind him until a voice, low and cautious, broke through:

“…Save?”

He turned.

Of course.

Auau.

Now in a hoodie, hair damp from a rushed rinse, holding his own phone and a confused frown.

“You okay?” Auau asked. Not mocking. Not smug. Just… unreadable.

Save’s spine snapped straight. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look—”

“I said I’m fine, P’Au. ”

There was that familiar venom again. Like teeth behind a smile.

But Auau didn’t flinch.

He just watched.

And Save hated— hated —the way his skin still remembered Auau’s hands. The way he’d almost leaned into that touch. The way everything had spiraled since.

Auau looked like he wanted to say more.

But Save was already walking past.

“Mind your own business,” he muttered.

His voice didn’t shake.

But if Auau had been listening closely, he would’ve heard the crack underneath.

The next day, Save is quieter.

Not soft—never soft with Auau—but clipped. Brisk. Back to that efficient, polished version of himself, one breath away from snapping.

The others notice.

Teetee keeps glancing between him and Auau like he’s waiting for an explosion. Kong whispers something to Keng and gets elbowed. But no one says anything out loud.

Because Save is rehearsing harder than anyone else.

And watching harder, too.

His eyes keep darting—every few beats—toward the backup dancer at the edge of the room. Beau. The one who strutted in too confidently, touched too casually, and had no business being near any of them but somehow kept lingering near the sound station, near their bags, near him.

Beau flashes another too-slick grin at the team as they take a break. Save doesn’t return it. Just stares.

And when the others step out—bathroom, snack run, whatever—Save stays behind. Pretending to scroll his phone.

Beau lingers too.

Suspiciously.

When he thinks no one’s watching, he moves to the corner where Keng left his bag open. His hand dips in—

“What exactly are you doing?”

Beau freezes.

Save’s voice cuts sharp through the room like a blade.

Beau turns, laugh brittle. “Looking for my phone. Thought I dropped it here.”

Save’s arms cross. “That’s Keng’s bag.”

“Is it?” Beau’s grin falters. “My bad.”

Save doesn’t blink. “You know, it’s funny. You move like a dancer, but you hang back every time we run full formations. And you’re always hovering. Touching stuff. People.”

Beau’s expression shifts. Just for a second.

Then: “You always this paranoid, pretty boy?”

Save doesn’t flinch. Just steps forward, eyes locked. “Only when I smell rot.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Back off,” Save says, lower now. “This isn’t your show.”

“And you’re not the one running it,” Beau replies coolly. “Careful, Save. People might think you’re threatened.”

The tension between them spikes—

Until a new voice cuts in behind them, low and unreadable:

“He said back off.”

Beau turns—slowly—to find Auau standing in the doorway, black hoodie pulled over his damp hair, towel slung over one shoulder, jaw set.

Not smug.

Just serious.

Save, startled, doesn’t say anything at first.

Beau raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission too, P’Au.”

Auau’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You don’t. But you are pissing off the wrong person.”

Another pause. Then Beau scoffs and walks away, muttering something about “save’s guard dog.”

Silence settles thick in the air.

Save is still frozen. Shoulders tense. Mouth slightly parted like he forgot how to breathe for a second.

Auau doesn’t move. Just watches him, then speaks—soft, but not gentle.

“I told you to leave it alone.”

Save finally turns, tone sharp. “And I told you I don’t need your babysitting.”

Auau steps forward. Closer than necessary.

“You’re distracted,” he says. “You’re angry. And now you’re picking fights with people we have to work with for the next month.”

Save snarls. “I’m protecting us.”

“No.” Auau leans in slightly. “You’re spiraling. And dragging me with you.”

That hits.

Save’s eyes flash. “No one asked you to follow.”

Auau’s voice lowers. “And yet I always end up cleaning your mess.”

Save shoves past him then, skin burning, fists clenched.

Auau watches him go. Watches his back. Watches the shake in his shoulders.

He still doesn’t know what it means.

But he knows one thing:

This is far from over.

It’s almost midnight when the knock comes.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just… persistent.

Save doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy hunched over his phone, face lit up in blue light, scrolling through Instagram handles and dancer agency websites like his life depends on it.

Beau. Beau. Beau.

Nothing adds up. His agency doesn’t have him listed. His follower count is suspiciously low for someone who carries himself like a headliner. His tagged photos are messy. Some look recent—some look scrubbed.

Too clean. Too fake.

Save’s knee bounces fast. His white sleep shirt hangs off one shoulder. His hair’s a little damp from a too-hot shower. His phone battery’s red, but he doesn’t care.

The knock comes again.

“Go away.”

No response.

Then: the soft sound of a keycard.

The door opens.

Save twists around. “What the hell—”

Auau steps in.

He doesn’t look smug. He doesn’t even look angry.

He looks tired.

Black sweatpants, plain grey t-shirt, hair messy like he towel-dried it and gave up halfway through. There’s something quiet about him—but sharp, too. Eyes already trained on Save’s screen like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You gave Thomas your backup key,” Auau says simply. “Thomas gave it to me.”

Save scoffs. “Of course he did. What, are we micromanaging now?”

Auau shuts the door. Leans on it. Doesn’t step further.

“Stop digging.”

Save’s eyes narrow. “You’re not my manager, P’Au.”

“No,” Auau says evenly, “but I am the only one who sees how close you are to falling apart.”

Silence.

Save looks away. Fingers still scrolling. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know obsession when I see it.” Auau’s voice is low. “And this isn’t about Beau anymore. This is about whatever the hell’s making you unravel.”

Save stands up fast—too fast.

His phone hits the floor with a clatter.

“You think I’m unraveling? You think this is me unraveling?” His voice pitches, sharp with something that isn’t just anger. “I’m holding this whole thing together while everyone else prances around like we’re not being watched. Like we’re not being set up for something—!”

He’s breathing hard. Too hard.

Auau pushes off the door.

“Save.”

“Don’t—” Save steps back as Auau comes closer. “Don’t talk to me like you get it.”

“I do get it.” Auau’s tone finally sharpens. “I get what it’s like to not trust anyone. To sleep with one eye open. But this? You’re about to blow your cover and take the rest of us with you.”

Save’s hands clench into fists.

“Why do you even care?”

That stops Auau for a second.

“You think I care?” Auau’s tone was flat. “I care that your paranoia is bleeding into rehearsal. You’re distracted.”

“Because I’m human,” Save snapped. “Unlike you, I don’t run on choreography and caffeine.”

Auau didn’t answer. He just reached—quick and unforgiving—toward the lump under the blanket where the phone was.

Save scooted back instantly, dragging the covers with him. “Don’t you fucking touch my stuff—”

“I’m not gonna read it,” Auau said, lying through his teeth, climbing halfway onto the bed now, hand planting firm next to Save’s hip for balance. “I want to see what’s dumb enough to get into your head again.”

“Get off!” Save kicked at him, the sheets tangling around his legs. “You’re insane—”

The phone buzzed again. Auau’s eyes dropped. He didn’t grab it, not yet—but he read the name that flashed.

Beau.

Something changed in his face.

Knee on the edge, then both, hands braced on either side of Save’s legs like a silent cage. His face was calm—too calm. That kind of calm that burned right beneath the surface.

Save scooted back fast. “Are you insane?!”

“I’m making sure you don’t get us all in trouble.”

Auau reached for the phone.

Save turned his body, half-lying on his side, clutching it to his chest.

Then it buzzed.

Instagram notification.

Post from: beau.dtc

“Another long day at rehearsals”

Caption aside, what hit Auau square in the face was the location tag —the studio address.

“You’re tracking him?” Auau said sharply, trying to snatch the phone again.

Save twisted away with a snarl, shoving him back. “Don’t read that—!”

Too late.

Auau had already seen the search history.

“beau scandal”

“beau fan Twitter”

“beau fired trainee rumors”

“beau ex-agency expose”

Save slapped Auau’s chest. Hard. “Get out of my shit!”

But Auau didn’t budge. “You’re losing it.”

“No—I’m figuring it out. Someone has to.”

“You’re not Sherlock, you’re a trainee with a death wish.”

Save pointed a finger into his chest. “If something’s wrong with him, I’m not gonna sit back and smile for the fucking cameras.”

Auau’s jaw tightened. His voice dropped. “And when he files a complaint? When management starts asking questions? When we lose a deal because of you ?”

Save shoved him again. “Then let me be the one to burn. I don’t need you protecting me.”

“You never asked for it,” Auau snapped, finally grabbing the phone and throwing it across the bed, “but you’re getting it anyway .”

A tense pause.

They were still close. Too close.

Auau’s breath hit Save’s cheek. Neither of them moved.

The air was thick—anger, tension, something unspoken humming just beneath their skin like an exposed wire.

Finally, Auau stepped back. “Don’t make me choose between protecting you and stopping you.”

Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

Save sat in the dark.

Still angry.

Still shaking.

Still completely unsure who the hell he was trying to protect anymore—himself, or everyone else.

The phone buzzed again.

Beau liked his latest photo.

Later That Night

Dorm Kitchen – Dimly Lit, Past Midnight

The fridge hums. The light overhead flickers like it’s tired too. The rest of the house is dead quiet—everyone else is asleep or pretending.

But Save?

Still in the kitchen. Perched on a stool, hoodie bunched at his elbows, one knee up against his chest like he’s shielding something.

Not typing. Not scrolling. Just staring at his phone.

Holding it like a fuse, thumb hovering.

Too familiar. Too bold. Too wrong.

Save’s jaw clenches.

He hears the door creak open behind him, but he doesn’t look up.

Until a voice slides in, calm and irritatingly knowing.

“Of course it’s you,” says Namping, dragging socked feet across the tile floor.

He’s dressed in silky pajama pants and a crop top that reads “cute but unstable.” His hair’s a mess, sleep still tugging at his lashes, but his eyes? Razor-sharp.

Save groans. “Don’t start.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” Namping says sweetly, already reaching for a juice box from the fridge. “But thanks for the guilt confirmation.”

He hops onto the counter beside Save, sipping like this is a casual gossip hour and not the unraveling of Save’s dignity.

“You know he’s not sleeping either,” he says finally.

Save tenses. Doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t have to.

“Look, I’m not trying to butt in or make it worse, but… maybe stop trying to beat him at being the most emotionally repressed bitch in the building.”

Namping nudges his leg with his knee.

“I’m fine,” Save mutters.

“Mmhmm.”

“I am.”

“Sure.”

Silence. Then:

“He’s annoying,” Save snaps. “Beau. He’s fake and smug and—why does he even talk like that?”

Namping swings his legs. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because he—” Save gestures, vague and frustrated. “He acts like he’s part of the team when he’s not. All over Konghyun, smiling too hard at Por, flirting with P’Au like he’s got a shot.”

A pause.

Then Namping says, casually, “So… you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Namping raises a brow. “You sure?”

“I just don’t want him messing up the group dynamic.”

“Oh, totally. Has nothing to do with how you almost broke the mirror today when Auau didn’t look at you for two minutes straight.”

Save scowls. “It’s not—”

“You stomped out of rehearsal.”

“I had a reason. ”

“You were vibrating like a microwave burrito.”

Save exhales. Deep. Shaky.

He won’t say it. He can’t say it.

Because saying it would mean acknowledging that something inside him twists whenever Beau opens his mouth. That something burns when he thinks about Auau looking at anyone like that—easy, effortless.

Like it didn’t take blood and war to maybe earn half a glance from him.

Namping finally levels him with that unnervingly soft voice.

“He doesn’t want to protect you,Save.” soft words in such a gentle tone, when he sucked in a breath he didn’t knew what namping was gonna say next.

“But if it’s you? He always will.”

That lands like a punch.

Save doesn’t look at him.

And Namping doesn’t wait for him to.

He hops off the counter, slurps the last of his juice, and heads for the hall with a lazy wave.

Save stays frozen. Still. Quiet.

The screen of his phone dims out completely.

But his grip never loosens.

Because he heard it.

And it messed him up more.

Practice Morning — The Calm Before Whatever the Hell This Is

No one talks about last night.

Not directly. Not out loud.

But everyone feels it.

Tension has a shape now—sharp, pointed, impossible to ignore. It lives in the air like smoke, clinging to fabric and skin and the very walls of the practice room.

And it starts even before that.

Because this morning—for the first time ever—it’s Save who knocks on Auau’s door.

Not gently. But not his usual kick-everything-down kind of knock, either.

A quick, rhythmless thump-thump . Hesitant. Like he’s afraid of being ignored.

He is.

There’s no response.

Save opens the door anyway.

Auau is still in bed, one arm slung over his eyes, black tank rumpled from sleep, his toned frame folded into the sheets like some goddamn fashion editorial.

Save stands there, awkward, one sock slightly sliding off, hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess from rushing.

“We’re gonna be late.”

Auau doesn’t move.

Save tries again, this time from a safe distance near the doorframe. “You take forever to get ready. Come on.”

Still no reaction.

Save takes a step in, frowns. “Seriously? Are you dead or just being a dick?”

Auau sighs. Slowly lifts his arm off his face. Blinks like he’s annoyed light exists.

And then—his eyes settle on Save.

The tiniest twitch of a smirk threatens his mouth.

Because this —Save coaxing someone out of bed, making the effort, trying to play nice?

Auau’s never seen that before.

And now that he has?

He wants to see it again .

But he won’t give Save the satisfaction.

So he says, perfectly flat, “I’ll be down in ten.”

Save blinks. “…That’s it?”

“You want a thank you?”

“God, you’re so—” Save cuts himself off. Then he tosses a pair of clean socks at Auau’s chest. “Whatever. Just don’t drag your feet like yesterday.”

He’s out the door before he can see the way Auau stares after him—shoulders shaking not from rage, but amusement.

Because Save?

Save trying to peacefully wake someone up ?

Wild.

⸻

Practice Room — An Hour Later

The entire group is lined up, mid-marking through a routine. Beau stretches too close to Por again. Keng is trying to mediate with his please let me survive this week energy. Namping is half-watching, half-texting—but his eyes dart toward Save and Auau constantly.

Because they won’t look at each other .

They’re side by side. Perfectly in sync.

And still—somehow—glaring forward like their lives depend on not acknowledging the other.

Auau corrects Thomas’s foot placement with a quiet, “Fix your pivot, it’s dragging.”

Save immediately mutters, “Wow, so you do know how to give helpful corrections and not just act like you invented walking.”

Auau doesn’t look at him.

But he hears it.

And smiles.

Just a flicker.

Later, when they break for water, Namping slides up beside Save and hands him his bottle.

“Still pretending you don’t care?”

Save squints. “I don’t.”

“Right,” Namping says. “So I guess waking him up personally is just a new team-building exercise?”

Save groans. “I was being civil.”

“You were being cute. He knows it.”

“Don’t use that word. I’ll actually throw up.”

Namping leans in with a wicked grin. “Keep this up, and you might accidentally fall in love.”

Save whips his bottle at him (Namping ducks).

Across the room, Auau’s watching.

Expression unreadable.

Except for the eyes.

And those damn eyes?

They see everything .

Practice Room —

The studio was heavy with early-morning fatigue, the air thick with the sharp sting of disinfectant, coffee breath, and silent grudge matches. Everyone was stretching, marking steps, hydrating like they were training for war.

Because in a way, they were.

Save stood off to the side, hoodie shrugged halfway off one shoulder, hair still damp from his quick shower after waking Auau up. That had been his first olive branch . This would be the second.

He scanned the room. Everyone paired off or clustered up—except for Auau, who was near the mirror, arms crossed, watching the others like a hawk made of muscle and spite.

Save walked up to him, expression stiff.

“P’Au,” he said—rare usage of the honorific already making Thomas raise his brows from across the room.

“Can you—can you walk me through the second eight count again? That left spin into the floor sweep?”

Auau didn’t even blink.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t look at him.

“Busy.”

That was it. Flat. Dismissive.

Save opened his mouth like he might argue—but snapped it shut just as quickly. Pride warred with irritation, but neither could win fast enough

Now, standing in the rehearsal room, Save wonders why he’d bothered.

The mirrors stretch out in front of him, doubling his impatience. He’s trying hard not to look like he’s watching the door. Trying harder not to look like he cares when it opens and Auau steps in like he owns the air between them.

No reaction. Not even a nod. Just Auau in his oversized hoodie and loose sweats, wiping at his jaw with a towel like Save hadn’t waited for him outside his door ten minutes longer than he’ll admit.

Save huffs. Loudly.

They go through warm-ups like strangers. Dance through their positions like professionals. Like they haven’t been circling each other like wolves in heat for the past week.

Then, Thomas pipes up.

“Bro—can you help me with the second chorus? I keep messing up the center pivot.”

And Auau, infuriating, unreadable Auau, goes immediately. Without so much as a glance at Save.

Something cold and petty flares inside Save’s chest.

“Oh, wow. Fuck you, dickhead,” he says—sweet as poison, loud enough to echo off the mirrors.

There’s a beat of shocked silence. Teetee almost chokes on his water bottle. Namping doesn’t even try to hide his snort.

Auau pauses. Glances back. His face is unreadable, but his mouth quirks—not a smile. Just a twitch. Just enough to suggest that he heard Save. That he knows.

And then he turns back to Thomas like nothing happened.

Save grabs his water bottle a little too hard and stalks to the corner of the room, muttering under his breath and practically radiating betrayal. He slams onto the floor like gravity was a personal insult, curls up against the wall like the dramatic little storm cloud he is, and glares into the distance.

Auau watches him.

Not long. Just a second longer than needed.

Because for all his sharp tongue and furious energy, Save sulking like this—with puffed cheeks and narrowed eyes and that stupid determined set to his jaw—makes something shift in Auau’s chest. Something quiet. Stupid.

Adorable, he thinks, reluctantly. Just a little.

He’ll never say it. Not to anyone. Not even himself.

But the truth settles in his bones: Save trying not to care is impossible not to notice.

And maybe, just maybe, he wants to see how far Save will go next time.

Everyone looked over.

Por half-snorted, covering his mouth. “Is he sulking?”

“ He’s so sulking, ” Keng whispered.

“His ears are pink,” Namping noted, delighted.

Meanwhile, Auau calmly demonstrated the movement for Thomas, nodding, all focus—but his eyes kept flicking toward the side where Save now stood, arms crossed again, chin high, refusing to look back.

But his pout?

Undeniable.

And Auau…?

Yeah. He was definitely smiling a little.

Not enough for anyone to call it a smile.

But just enough for his eyes to crinkle.

He liked this side of Save. Angry, petty, stompy.

Save trying to connect, failing, and pretending he didn’t care.

It was stupid.

It was adorable .

And it was going to ruin him.

Later That Night | Post-Practice Spiral

It had been a long day. Long enough that even Save didn’t have the energy to pretend he hadn’t been watching Auau the entire time.

Watching him ignore him.

Watching him correct everyone but him.

Watching him joke with Thomas. With Por. With everyone except Save.

And it wasn’t like Save wanted his attention.

No, seriously.

It was just that—after all the tension, all the push and pull, all the moments of too-close and too-much—Auau had gone cold . Like a switch flipped. Like none of it ever happened.

And Save wasn’t used to being ignored.

So, naturally, he waited.

He loitered after practice. Slower to pack up. Slower to leave. He was already wound too tight and annoyed with himself for caring, which made the perfect fuel for what came next.

Auau finally walked out of the changing room, hoodie half-zipped and hair still damp from the shower, looking like he’d shaken the day off like dust.

And Save snapped.

He cornered him at the end of the hallway—quiet, sharp, and dim with fluorescent lighting. That kind of soft hush that made every breath sound louder than it should.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Auau paused, just enough to register it as a choice. His jaw tightened slightly, but his tone was maddeningly calm.

“You.”

Silence.

Not a dramatic silence. Not a romantic one.

A war-front silence.

Save blinked, thrown for half a beat, but his anger caught up fast. “Excuse me?”

“You asked,” Auau said, leaning against the wall like he hadn’t just detonated a mine. “You’re the problem.”

“You’re the one being an ass,” Save snapped, stepping closer. “Ignoring me all day like—like I did something.”

“You did ,” Auau said, voice still low, unreadable. “You exist.”

Save stared at him.

“No wonder no one can stand you.”

“Oh, you mean like you?” Auau shot back. “Funny, you never seem to leave me alone.”

“I’m trying to work . I’m trying to make this group better . You’re the one playing head games.”

Auau laughed—quiet, humorless. “Is that what you think this is?”

“What else would it be?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s you losing your mind over me helping Thomas.”

“That’s not—”

“You sulked like I stole your cat.”

Save opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Shut up.”

Auau stepped forward. Just a hair. Just enough to make the air between them go razor-wire taut.

“You’re the one who cornered me, Save. So go ahead. Say what you want to say.”

Save’s throat tightened. He didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

Not when Auau was looking at him like that—like he’d already won.

Not when all Save could feel was how close they were, how this whole thing felt like standing too close to a fire you hated yourself for needing.

So he turned.

Walked away.

Fast.

Before he did something stupid like grab him.

Before he said something he’d regret.

Before he realized how much of himself he was starting to lose in that stare.

The hallway outside the practice room was quiet, too quiet—just the distant hum of a vending machine and the soft thud of Save’s trainers as he stalked away, chest heaving like he’d just come off stage.

He’d had enough.

Enough of Auau ignoring him during practice. Enough of Auau pretending he didn’t see him. Enough of those stupid smirks that made Save want to throw something—or worse, stare.

He was halfway down the hall when he felt it—a gentle tug at his wrist. Not rough. Not sharp. Just enough.

“Say it.”

Save turned, only to find himself immediately cornered—literally—back flat against the wall, Auau standing just close enough to make the air taste warmer.

“Say what ?” Save snapped, refusing to look up.

“You’ve been storming around all morning like I kicked your cat. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“I did say it,” Save shot back, cheeks already blooming pink. “You just don’t listen unless someone’s kissing your ass—”

“Not that,” Auau interrupted, low and calm. Too calm. “Say the real reason you’re mad.”

“I’m not—”

“Say it.”

Save’s eyes darted up—and that was a mistake. Auau’s face was right there. Ridiculously close. His breath warm against Save’s flushed skin, his eyes so unreadably calm it only made Save more flustered.

“I just…” Save faltered, scowled harder, and looked to the side. “Forget it.”

A beat of silence.

And then, quietly , deliberately—like he didn’t even know the weight of it—Auau leaned just a fraction closer.

“Baby,” he murmured.

Save’s whole body short-circuited.

Eyes wide. Ears burning. His brain went white noise.

“What the fuck did you just—” he sputtered, shoving at Auau’s chest, the touch more panicked than angry. “You don’t get to—don’t call me—”

But Auau was already stepping back, all serene amusement.

Save, still burning from neck to ankles, flipped him off with both hands, muttered, “Fucking asshole,” and turned on his heel so fast his shoe squeaked.

He nearly slipped on the floor running away.

And Auau?

He watched him go, biting back the tiniest smile.

God, he was so screwed.

Dinner was quieter without Save.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that wrapped around the group like humidity, like something left unsaid was sitting in the center of the table between the rice bowls and iced teas.

Keng poked at his food. Thomas scrolled aimlessly. Por didn’t even bother with a joke. Namping kept checking his phone—once, twice, three times—before finally setting it face-down with a pointed sigh.

“He’s not coming?” Teetee asked, voice soft like he already knew the answer.

“Probably just tired,” Auau said.

But everyone heard the lie. Even he didn’t sound convinced.

Save never missed dinner. Not unless he was actually sick. Or mad. Or—

No one said it.

No one said: not unless it has something to do with you.

“Should someone go get him?” Thomas asked. “Like… make sure he eats?”

No one moved.

Eyes slowly shifted toward Auau, who kept his face perfectly blank and his chopsticks moving. His tank top clung to his skin, hair damp from the late practice. He looked like someone who didn’t care.

He was trying very hard to look like someone who didn’t care.

“Not my job,” he said flatly.

“You’re the one he’s mad at,” Namping said, which was very bold for someone with a baby face and glittery nails.

Auau didn’t even blink. “He’s always mad at me.”

“That’s not the same,” Por mumbled. “This time he looked… like he was trying.”

“Exactly,” Keng chimed in, eyes narrowed. “He actually asked you for help. Save doesn’t ask for help. From anyone. Ever.”

Auau’s fingers twitched.

He covered it with another bite.

Teetee tried to lighten the mood with a joke about Save possibly staging a hunger strike, but no one really laughed.

Because everyone could feel it.

Something had shifted. Tiny. Stubborn. Petty. But important.

And the only one who could do anything about it?

Was still eating like none of this touched him.

Namping leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said quietly, “You’re not gonna go check on him?”

“No,” Auau said simply.

“Why?” Thomas asked.

“Because,” Auau replied, still not looking up, “if he really wants me there—he’ll have to say it.”

Silence.

And then, slowly, Keng whispered, “You’re both gonna die alone.”

Save sulks pretty.

He’s hunched over his iPad, furious little scribbles pressed hard into the screen with his Apple Pencil, coloring in the harsh outline of a cartoon puppy/wolf(?) with the precision of someone trying to erase a memory.

“You should’ve just said thank you, dumbass,” he mutters under his breath, tongue poking out as he shades the tail. “Should’ve just said, ‘Good job, Save. Wow, Save, thanks for trying. Wow, Save, I didn’t know you could be nice. ’ But noooo—just had to go be a smug, muscly— ugh. ”

The tail is now red. It wasn’t supposed to be red.

He sighs, flops back, legs slightly parted, shorts riding up his thighs. The night air is warm, and his skin feels sticky. His back sticks to the sheets. He feels small in the room. Smaller because he’s not downstairs. Smaller because—

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Not about how he was the one who asked first.

Not about how Auau didn’t even look at him.

Not about how, when Thomas asked, Auau leapt to help like Save had never opened his mouth at all.

He stabs the iPad screen harder.

“Stupid. Ugly. Tall. Stupid. Abs-too-perfect-why-don’t-you-trip-on-your-own-attitude—”

There’s a knock.

No—not a knock. A creak. A shadow.

Save freezes, heart stuttering a little.

Then the door opens an inch.

Just an inch.

Auau.

He’s in a hoodie now, hair damp, arms crossed like he regrets even walking up the stairs. He doesn’t say anything. Just lingers in the doorway, eyes falling straight to Save’s figure sprawled across the bed, tablet glowing between his knees.

Save doesn’t sit up.

He does shift the iPad to cover his thighs a little more. Petty defense.

Auau raises an eyebrow. “You’re not hungry?”

Save shrugs, voice flat. “Didn’t feel like begging.”

That lands. Auau’s jaw flexes.

And then he leaves .

Save just sits there and than finally, release a breath

“I literally tried,” Save mutters, pressing the pencil harder. “I literally tried . And he walks away? For Thomas?? I should’ve asked Por . Por would’ve at least smiled.”

He draws a little Por in the corner, giving him a gold star.

Then redraws Auau tripping over a dumbbell and falling into a trash can.

The knock at the door comes five minutes later.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move.

Whoever it is leaves after thirty seconds.

Save keeps coloring.

Keeps sulking.

Keeps pretending that the little tightening in his chest isn’t disappointment. That he didn’t want Auau to knock. That he didn’t want him to show up and say, “Why the hell are you being weird?” so Save could yell at him and feel something again.

Instead?

Nothing.

And that pisses him off more than anything.

He slams his iPad face-down on the bed and flops backwards dramatically, legs still folded under him like a brat in a commercial.

“Whatever,” he mutters at the ceiling. “I don’t need him.”

Then quieter.

“He could’ve just looked at me.”

———

It was just past 1 a.m.

The dorm was dead silent—lights off, everyone knocked out from the day’s brutal practice, and Save? Save was starving. Not metaphorically. Like, stomach-punching-itself kind of starving. And the only thing that could fix it?

Late-night convenience store ramen.

He sat in the hallway for a good three minutes in his stupid fuzzy socks and oversized hoodie, debating if he could just drive himself. But his legs were jelly, and his eyes already stung from exhaustion. He looked like a soggy cat—one that wanted to be mad at the world but didn’t have the energy for it.

So he did the unthinkable.

He padded over to Auau’s room.

Door cracked open slightly, just like always. Save peered in.

Auau was sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone with those stupid resting-serious-face eyes like he was solving world hunger. Shirt loose, hair damp from a late shower. God.

Save hated that he looked so good doing absolutely nothing.

He hovered in the doorway for a second, then stepped in, slow and quiet.

And then—without a word—he reached forward and gently tugged at the sleeve of Auau’s shirt.

A little shake.

Soft.

Tentative.

Like a kitten trying to steal food but not ready to fight for it.

Auau looked up, brow raised. “What.”

Save didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m not asking you to take me.”

“Oh?”

“I’m just saying… everyone’s asleep. And I’m hungry.”

“That sounds like asking.”

Save’s lips pressed together in a pout. “I could drive myself.”

“You look like you’d fall asleep at the wheel before the engine starts.”

A pause. Then—

“…Probably.”

Auau sighed. Folded his phone face-down. “Get your wallet.”

But Save didn’t move.

He just stood there, still holding onto his sleeve with the very tips of his fingers, like he wasn’t sure if letting go would end the spell. His face was a little puffed from sleep, bottom lip sticking out just slightly, eyes huge and a little dazed.

And Auau—

Auau leaned forward.

Slow.

Too slow.

“What—what are you doing—” Save started, but Auau was already crouching slightly, nose almost brushing Save’s cheek.

He squished Save’s face between both hands, leaned in like he was about to whisper a state secret, and—

bit his cheek .

Soft, quick, obnoxiously fond.

Save squeaked .

And immediately slapped Auau’s chest. “WHAT THE HELL?!”

“You’re being cute,” Auau said, unbothered. “I hate it.”

“Then don’t do that!!”

“You’re the one tugging on my sleeve like a lonely toddler.”

“I WAS BEING RESPECTFUL.”

“You were being needy .”

Another slap to the chest.

This one less angry.

More flustered.

Save turned around quickly, muttering all sorts of curses under his breath as he stomped off to grab his wallet, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands like a retreating cartoon.

Auau smiled to himself as he grabbed his keys.

God help him.

He was doomed.

Because Save wasn’t just cute.

He was kill-me-in-my-sleep adorable when he was trying not to be.

And Auau was starting to realize he was screwed in at least six languages.

Save returned with his wallet clutched in one hand, his pout still intact and his pride only slightly bruised from the cheek-biting incident.

Auau glanced at him once—just once —before smoothly plucking the wallet right out of Save’s grip and chucking it onto the couch like it offended him.

“Hey!” Save snapped, spinning. “What the hell was that?!”

“You don’t need it,” Auau said casually, already walking past him to grab his keys from the table.

“You told me to take it!”

“Well, I changed my mind.”

Save was trying to stomp away from him, eyes sharp, arms flailing slightly in that way he always did when mad and sleep-deprived. “You’re so—so inconsistent! You tell me one thing and then you— let go of me! ”

Because—of course—Auau had looped one arm firmly around Save’s waist the second he got close, dragging him back just as Save was about to snatch his wallet off the couch.

Save thrashed dramatically, arms shooting out like a disgruntled cartoon character mid-kidnap. “I hate you—I actually hate you!”

Auau didn’t even flinch. He calmly reached down with his other hand, plucked the car keys off the side table, and slung them into his pocket— still holding Save with one arm like he weighed nothing.

“Put me down!”

“You’re stomping like a brat. Sit still.”

“You told me to get the damn wallet!”

“And I told you to shut up,” Auau said, dry and amused, resting his chin casually on Save’s shoulder as he carried him two steps backward like a sack of flour.

“I’m not even wearing real pants!”

“You’re wearing shorts. Close enough.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Save accused, face burning, already flushed from the way Auau’s palm had practically spanned his entire waist .

“Maybe,” Auau murmured near his ear. “You’re fun when you’re mad.”

Save made a frustrated little squeaking noise and shoved at Auau’s chest—again—but it was less forceful and more flustered. The kind of push you give when you’re losing. When you don’t really want the other person to let go.

“Let me walk or I swear I’ll scream.”

“You always scream.”

Save’s jaw dropped.

Auau just smirked, already halfway to the door, still holding onto him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Fine,” Save muttered, finally giving up the fight. “But I’m picking the music.”

“Nope.”

“YOU HAVE TASTELESS PLAYLISTS.”

“And you wear socks with cats on them.”

“They’re lucky socks, you—”

“Shut up.”

Save’s only reply was a strangled growl as he slumped forward slightly in Auau’s arms—pouting, sulking, and already planning revenge via choosing the worst, most dramatic ballads to blast in the car the entire ride to the convenience store.

But if he leaned his head back slightly against Auau’s shoulder for just one second?

No one had to know.

Not even Auau.

(Okay, maybe especially not Auau.)

——

The fluorescent lights of the 24/7 convenience store buzzed softly, humming like a secret. The place was quiet—nearly empty—except for the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, the whir of the freezer doors, and the clink of Save tossing instant ramen into a little wire basket like he was stocking up for the apocalypse.

Auau followed at a safe distance. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough to pretend he wasn’t watching the way Save always reached for the spiciest options and then immediately added a chocolate milk like he’d regret it in advance.

“You gonna eat all that or cry halfway through again?” Auau said lazily.

Save didn’t even look at him. “I’m gonna eat this, ” —he shook a packet dramatically— “and choke happily on my own decisions, thanks.”

Auau snorted. “You’re into choking now?”

Save blanched. “ Die. ”

They were still bickering when they reached the counter—Save shoving snacks up with far too much force and Auau lounging behind him like a bored bodyguard.

The cashier blinked. A soft-looking guy, bleached hair and pierced lip, chewing gum like he had nothing to lose and the night shift had already taken his soul. He eyed the snack pile. Then Save. Then Auau. Back to Save.

“You always shop with an entourage?” he joked, scanning items.

Save blinked. “Huh?”

“Just sayin’,” the cashier said with a grin, “you seem cool. You on Insta? I’m trying to make more friends with… like, good skin. And maybe cursed sleep schedules.”

Save laughed, surprised. “I mean… yeah? Sure—wait, you want my—?”

And that’s when Auau—calmly, perfectly timed —reached over Save’s shoulder and placed a single extra spicy ramen cup down like a mic drop. His fingers brushed the side of Save’s hip, casual. Possessive. Now, both of his arms were caging save from behind as he leaned forward and almost put his chin on the petite boy's shoulder. Now, save was FLUSHED head to toe as hi back was pressed up against the strong chest 

The cashier paused.

Auau looked him dead in the eyes, smile lazy. “He’s not very good at replying.”

Save blinked. “What the hell?”

The cashier, unbothered but now slightly concerned, raised both hands like whoa, okay, drama. “I was just being friendly, bro. Not trying to steal your man.”

Save choked. “ I am no one’s man— ”

Auau, still leaning on the counter like a panther in joggers, tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t say you were. Yet.”

Save’s ears turned crimson. “YOU’RE—”

“Forty-eight baht,” the cashier interrupted, fully Done.

Save scrambled to pay with his card—only for Auau to snatch it first and tap the reader.

“I hate you,” Save whispered, mortified.

“You say that a lot,” Auau replied, already grabbing the bag. “But you still asked me to come.”

The cashier handed over the receipt slowly, watching the two of them like a drama just walked off the set.

“…Man…he you are so pretty,” he muttered.

The cashier didn’t know he was signing up for trauma tonight.

Save was practically glowing, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, eyes lit like a kid on his first school field trip. “I mean, it’s not a crime to want more friends, right?” he was saying, tapping his card on the counter (or trying to—Auau’s hand shot out and blocked him again ). “I want a pretty boy bestie too. Like—twink solidarity, you know?”

He even looked at the cashier with this hopeful grin. “You’re cute. We could totally—”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence.

Because Auau, dead silent until now, reached out and grabbed Save by the collar. Not hard. Just enough to tug him back like a misbehaving brat. The cashier’s eyes bulged. Save let out a yelp as he stumbled slightly backward.

“ What the hell— ”

“You talk too much,” Auau said calmly, not even looking at him.

Save tried to lunge forward again, flailing his arms like a furious kitten, fingers clawing midair. “I was being friendly, you asshole!”

Auau sighed. Didn’t even blink. Just put his palm to Save’s forehead and held him there— at arm’s length —like some ancient, bored god keeping the chaos at bay.

Save’s feet skidded on the tile. “I’m gonna—KICK YOU—YOU—”

“Yeah?” Auau said, still calm. “Try it.”

The cashier didn’t dare move. He just stood there watching, eyes flicking between “angry wet cat” and “emotionally unavailable panther.”

Then Save really tried to scratch him. Which was impressive, considering his reach was useless.

So Auau did what any emotionally stunted man with too much upper body strength would do: he grabbed Save by the waist, hoisted him clean off the ground like a sack of noodles, and carried him away from the counter.

Save let out a tiny, indignant squeak.

“PUT ME DOWN—”

“No.”

“PUT—ME—DOWN—”

Auau walked over to the little convenience store window seat, dropped Save onto the bench like an offended princess, and set the bag of ramen beside him.

“Eat,” he said simply.

Save stared at him. Open-mouthed. Shocked. Betrayed. A little breathless.

The cashier, stunned into silence, finally mumbled, “…You guys okay or should I call someone?”

Auau glanced back with a flat smile. “No need. He always acts like this when he’s hungry.”

Save threw a candy bar at his head.

The ramen steamed between them like a truce.

Save sat with his legs swinging under the table, sulking into his bowl. He had dramatically cracked open the lid, stabbed the plastic fork in like he was avenging a blood feud, and now slurped every noodle as loud and obnoxious as humanly possible.

Auau didn’t look at him.

Except he absolutely did.

Every time Save tilted his head back too far when sipping broth, or when his cheeks puffed up like a hamster mid-chew, Auau’s eyes flicked up—brief, quiet observations he tried to pass off as nothing.

Save, of course, noticed everything.

“Don’t look at me,” he muttered around a mouthful of ramen.

“I’m not,” Auau replied.

“You are.”

“You sound like a drain pipe.”

“I hope your soda explodes in your bag.”

“Then I’ll blame you.”

“Like you blame me for everything else ?”

They glared at each other.

A noodle slipped off Save’s fork and slapped against his chin.

Auau cracked a grin he tried—and failed—to hide behind his cup.

“Don’t you dare laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You’re the one trying to flirt with a cashier using instant noodles.”

Save choked. “I wasn’t flirting! I was—he was cute! I wanted to make a friend!”

“Sure,” Auau said, dry as a desert. “A friend. ”

Save threw another candy bar at him. It bounced off Auau’s shoulder and hit the floor. Auau didn’t flinch.

They fell into a weird rhythm after that. Ramen slurping. Passive-aggressive glares. The occasional elbow nudge when one of them got too loud with the chopsticks. It was weirdly… nice.

And quiet.

Not tense quiet. Not fight quiet.

Just them.

Just night.

Just noodle-fueled detente.

When Save finally stopped pouting long enough to lean forward on his elbows, hair falling into his face as he sucked the last of his broth, Auau glanced at him again. This time, he didn’t hide it.

And when Save wiped his mouth on his sleeve, eyes still heavy-lidded and sulky, Auau reached over.

Gently.

Softly.

Fingers threading through Save’s bangs before lightly patting the top of his head.

Save froze.

“I’m not a cat.”

“You sulk like one.”

Save narrowed his eyes but didn’t pull away. Just blinked slowly, like a cat pretending not to enjoy the affection.

Auau’s voice was lower now. Not teasing. Just… there.

“If you want to come out at night,” he said, still ruffling Save’s hair with a touch too much care, “don’t come alone.”

Save blinked up at him.

“Wake me up,” Auau said, even softer now. “Okay?”

Save’s throat felt warm. He hated that it felt warm.

“…You bit my cheek earlier,” he muttered.

“You tasted like mochi.”

Save squeaked, kicked him under the table, and turned so fast his face nearly hit the window. The tips of his ears were glowing.

Auau just sipped his drink and let him have that moment.

And maybe, just maybe—

—he smiled into his cup.

——-

The ride home was silent, if you didn’t count the click-clack of Save’s keyboard as he angrily texted Kong from the passenger seat like he was live-blogging his trauma.

3:04 a.m.

Save 🐈‍⬛ : can you believe this man picked me up like a sack of rice

Save 🐈‍⬛ : I weigh 52kg

Save 🐈‍⬛ : like I’m not a duffel bag with legs

Save 🐈‍⬛ : how does he have that much arm strength

Kong  : you literally asked him to take you

Save 🐈‍⬛ : NOT LIKE THAT

From the driver’s seat, Auau had one hand on the wheel, the other casually stretched across the gearshift. His face was annoyingly calm. Of course it was. As if he hadn’t physically hoisted Save off the convenience store floor like a grocery bag and walked out with zero shame.

Save narrowed his eyes. He reached out and slapped Auau’s hand off the console.

Auau raised an eyebrow. “That for the kidnapping?”

“No,” Save muttered. “That’s for the ego.”

And then—he pinched Auau’s bicep. Because it was there. Because it was offensive. Because it looked too smug under the streetlight.

“Stop being annoying.”

“hmm.”

Which is when Save’s fingers, for some reason known only to his traitorous lizard brain, curled and squeezed.

Right there. On the damn muscle.

There was a pause.

A horrible, terrifying pause.

Save’s eyes went wide. “Oh my GOD—”

He yanked his hand back like he’d been burned and pressed himself flat against the car door. “I DID NOT MEAN TO DO THAT. BRAIN TO HAND—MALFUNCTION. ERROR. ABORT.”

Auau didn’t even blink. Just smirked. Slow. Like he’d been waiting .

At the next red light, he offered Save his hand, palm up, like an invitation.

“Wanna hold it too?”

Save screeched and flicked him in the forehead so hard Auau’s head jerked slightly to the side.

“I hope your pillow’s warm on only one side forever.”

⸻

By the time they parked, both boys were dragging their feet—Save dramatically stomping ahead like he hadn’t almost cuddled a tricep in the car, and Auau trailing behind, looking mildly entertained by Save’s every grumpy movement.

Right before they went to their respective rooms, Save paused at the kitchen.

He rummaged through the fridge, yanked out a bottle of strawberry milk, walked over, and chucked it at Auau’s chest.

Auau caught it effortlessly.

“Go to sleep,” Save said, jabbing a finger at him. “Don’t stay up like a cryptid again.”

“And if I do?”

Save squinted. “I’ll confiscate your pink pillow.”

Auau blinked.

Save leaned in, deadly serious. “Even the cat plushie that you got from Suzhouu

Auau clutched the milk to his chest like it was an emotional support item.

“…You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“And? What will you do more?” At this point auau was just holding himself back from taking save to his room and bite his cheeks again and again.

“Your computer and Nintendo switch? Torn apart,” Save hissed. “One screen at a time slowly and surely.”

Auau smiled.

Save stomped away again.

But not before he muttered, way too fast and way too flustered: “Thanks for the ride.”

He slammed his door.

Auau stood there in the hallway for a second, holding the milk, his lips twitching like he wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite allow it.

He drank it cold, standing there in the dark.

Still smirking.

Practice Room — Morning

Save arrived late. Technically not late , but practice had started and everyone else had been there for twenty minutes already, stretching and buzzing with a little too much energy.

He wasn’t trying to be dramatic.

(He was.)

He dropped his bag near the wall and sat on the floor, back slumped against the mirror, expression unreadable behind his oversized black hoodie. His hair was damp—rushed shower. His face was clean—no concealer, no balm. His iced coffee was half-full, the straw barely surviving how hard he was chewing it.

And then: the moment of disaster.

His hand reached for something beside him, then froze.

No pink bottle.

No cat stickers. No plushie keychain bouncing from the cap. No adorable hydro flask with the peeling cute stickers he refused to replace.

His water bottle wasn’t there.

He sat there frozen, eyes blinking slowly like this had personally betrayed him.

And then—worse—Auau walked in.

Perfectly composed. Hair pushed back in that stupid way that looked like he didn’t even try. Sleeves rolled up, bag slung over one shoulder.

Save looked away fast, like that’d undo the last five seconds of brain static.

He was still not looking when something thudded softly beside him.

He looked down.

It was his bottle.

His pink hydro flask, the one with the pooh bear sticker, the sparkly cat eyes, the tiny Mario Kart decal that was somehow still hanging on after a year—and the plushie, still hooked onto the side. Dangling.

His heart made a very stupid sound in his chest.

He looked up sharply. “Did you—did you go into my room?”

Auau was already across the room, stretching like this was nothing.

“You left it out,” he said, tone flat. “It was on the bed.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to touch it.”

Auau gave a half-shrug. “Didn’t want you crying dehydration tears.”

“Fuck off,” Save muttered, hugging the bottle to his chest.

Auau didn’t look at him again.

Not once.

Save sat back, arms around his knees, sipping water with a very deliberate pout. Slurping dramatically, as if to say look what you made me do.

From the far side of the room, Namping leaned over to Ryujin and whispered, “Is it normal that I feel like I’m watching a domestic argument unfold?”

Ryujin blinked. “I’m 97% sure they’ve been married in another life.”

From the corner, Teetee whispered to Keng, “Did he just blush?”

“Hard,” Keng said. “That was second-lead-in-a-high-school-drama level blush.”

“I feel like we’re in episode 10 and they still haven’t kissed.”

Namping sighed. “They need to be locked in a storage closet with one flashlight and zero patience.”

The room had mostly emptied.

Shoes scuffed across the floor, towels slung over shoulders, and faint laughter echoed off the mirrors as the others trickled out, one by one. The hum of post-practice exhaustion filled the air—quiet, content, easy.

Save didn’t move.

Still on the floor, back against the mirror. Still annoyed. Still sweaty. Still very much not over what had happened earlier.

He stared at the pink hydroflask resting next to him, his fingers curled around it like it might be taken again. The stickers were familiar. Three cats, all in different chaotic poses. The faded corner of a Mario Kart decal. And—

His brows knit together.

There were new stickers.

He turned the bottle, inspecting it. One was a smug-looking calico cat wearing sunglasses. Another was a pixel-style mushroom—classic Nintendo. The last one was some kind of glittery Switch controller with stars around it. They were placed just so—fitting seamlessly with the rest like they’d always belonged.

Save blinked.

His ears started to go hot.

This was sabotage. Emotional warfare. Undeclared sticker warfare.

He looked up slowly.

And of course— of course —Auau was there.

Leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed, one leg bent slightly as if he wasn’t waiting for anything at all. Like he just happened to be watching. Like the world aligned itself for him out of spite.

His face was unreadable.

Except—one eyebrow arched. Slightly. Almost smug.

Save scowled. “What?”

“Nothing,” Auau said flatly.

But his lips twitched. Just a little.

Save glared. “Are you trying to gaslight me with cartoon stickers?”

Auau’s mouth twitched again. “Didn’t touch anything.”

“You did, though.” Save held up the bottle like it was evidence in a murder trial. “These weren’t here this morning.”

Auau looked pointedly at the bottle. “Maybe your cat got bored.”

“I don’t have a cat.”

A shrug. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Save threw his head back and groaned into the mirror. “I hate you.”

“You say that a lot,” Auau said, voice mild.

Then, like it was nothing—like it didn’t mean anything—he pushed off the doorframe and walked away, hands in his pockets.

Save sat there, gripping the water bottle like it was the last anchor to his sanity, the glittery Nintendo sticker catching the light like a taunt.

He muttered under his breath. “I really hate him.”

And yet—he stayed there a little longer. Fingers tracing the edges of the stickers.

Because if Auau had bothered to put them on himself…

He’d had to look at them.

Carefully.

Close up.

And somehow that felt infinitely worse than a stupid duck.

The studio was hot with leftover sweat and the thud of sneakers on sprung wood. The group had just wrapped the last run-through of the day, and everyone was sprawled across the floor in varying stages of exhaustion.

Kong tossed a dry towel at Save from across the room. “You good?”

Save caught it, nodding breathlessly. “Yeah—thanks—”

Before the towel could even touch his skin, another one smacked him dead in the chest.

A wet one.

Save blinked, confused, then looked up.

Auau stood a few feet away, water bottle in one hand, looking unbothered. The damp towel he’d just chucked now sat in Save’s lap—cool, clean, the exact way Save liked it.

Save narrowed his eyes.

Kong looked mildly betrayed. “Bro—”

Auau didn’t even spare him a glance. “He doesn’t use dry ones.”

Save pressed the towel to his face, mostly to hide how very red his cheeks were getting.

Kong rolled his eyes. “You could’ve said that without aiming for his lungs, man.”

“I could’ve,” Auau said flatly. “But I didn’t.”

The others went back to their business. But Save?

Still not over it.

The wet towel cooled his face, but not his ego. Not the way Auau said it like he knew him. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just exposed that he paid way too much attention .

Save clenched the now-obviously superior towel in his hand and swallowed down the burn in his chest.

Okay.

Fine.

Cool.

He stood up.

Marched across the room.

Then dropped right in front of Auau on the floor, legs crossed, elbows on knees, towel still in his lap.

Auau’s eyes flicked up.

Save’s voice was low. Not loud. Not sharp. Just… simmering. “Do you enjoy messing with me this much?”

Auau took a sip from his water bottle.

Paused.

“Every second,” he said. And then, without flinching: “Baby.”

Save stared at him.

He blinked once. Twice.

His heart kicked like a threat behind his ribs. His cheeks went up in flames. His ears betrayed him completely.

“Don’t—” he whispered, voice cracking as he slapped a hand to Auau’s chest, “Don’t call me that!”

Auau raised one brow, totally unmoved by the hit. “Why? You’re acting like one.”

Save gasped. “You’re so—”

He stopped.

Because his brain had caught up with the rest of him—specifically with the warm press of Auau’s thigh against his knee, the calm, half-lidded look in his eyes, and that damn towel still sitting on Save’s lap like a neon sign of affection neither of them would ever admit to.

Across the room, Kong and Namping tried to pretend they weren’t watching.

Save scrambled up, flustered, mumbling something about murder and restraining orders as he stormed off—again.

Auau just leaned back on the bench, looking far too satisfied for someone who hadn’t moved an inch.

——-

It started as a joke.

Or at least, that’s what Auau would later claim.

But Save wasn’t laughing.

Because somewhere between warm-ups and lunch break, his favorite hair clip had mysteriously vanished from the side pouch of his tote.

He needed to clip his bangs away because they were bothering him,

This hair clip, it was the one his fans gave him. The one with the customised charm of his own face where he was wearing a tiny plush bow in his hair and his own cute little face on it—mid-wink, mid-smile, mid adorableness .

Save searched once. Then again. Then tore his whole bag apart like a gremlin on a mission.

“Looking for this?” Auau asked innocently, spinning something between his fingers.

Save turned. Froze.

There it was.

His hair clip.

Held hostage in Auau’s infuriating hand.

“Give it back.”

Auau leaned casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, smugness dripping from every pore. “Ask nicely.”

“P’au.”

“That’s not nicely.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

“Still not nicely.”

Save narrowed his eyes. “You want me to beg?”

Auau shrugged. “You want it back or not?”

Save whined.

And then Auau had the audacity —with all the calm of someone handing over a receipt—to toss another hair clip at him. A different one. Not his.

This one was bright blue with glittery edges… and a photo. A close-up of Auau wearing a fuzzy puppy-eared headband, looking deadpan at the camera like he knew exactly how cursed it would become.

Save blinked. “What the hell is this.”

Auau deadpanned, “A trade.”

“ A trade? ”

“You get mine. I get yours. Fair.”

“This isn’t Pokémon,” Save snapped. “I want my clip back, not your stupid face in sparkles—”

“You’re welcome.”

“—with puppy ears —”

“Limited edition,” Auau added.

Save squawked.

It was such a genuine sound of disbelief—so squeaky and frustrated and personal—that even Namping, halfway across the room, snorted into his drink.

Defeated, Save stomped off.

Straight to por, who was lying face-down on the floor stretching, minding his business like a good citizen.

Without warning, Save slumped directly onto his back, like a tragic Victorian heroine overcome with heartbreak.

“Porrrrrr,” he groaned into the boy’s spine. “I’m going to die.”

Por wheezed. “Get—get off—you’re—sweaty—”

“I’m being psychologically tormented.”

“By who? Ghosts? Consequences?”

Save reached up and clipped the glittery Auau-headband hair clip to his bangs in slow, dramatic defeat. “Worse.”

Por  turned his head to look.

Then burst out laughing. “ What is that. ”

“Hell,” Save said, sighing. “Hell has a face. And it’s wearing puppy ears.”

And across the room, Auau watched him do it . No smirk. No teasing.

Just quiet satisfaction as he turned away—because Save was wearing him.

And no one had to know that somewhere, safe in Auau’s bag, Save’s fan-gifted hair clip had been carefully wrapped in tissue and tucked into the front pouch, right next to Auau’s favorite practice gloves.