When We Fall Asleep TAYNEW

Real world ☀️

New doesn't know exactly how Gun manages it. How he got him of the couch, how he pushed him out the front door, and how he now drags him into the club against every ounce of resistance. Everything in New had screamed no.

No to the noise, no to the crowd, no to the crush of bodies where you disappear without trace. And yet here they are. Lights flash across his face in harsh, cold colors. The bass pounds through his chest as if it is trying to drown out his heartbeat, and the heavy mix of alcohol, smoke, sweat, and perfume makes it hard to breathe.

Gun, however, thrives in it. He is a spectacle all on his own, glittering energy in human form. His outfit is sharp, playful, deliberately provocative. Dark eyeliner frames his eyes and makes them glint, while a subtle sheen across his lips turns every word into something suggestive. Where New stands grim and closed-off beside him, Gun is electric, as if the world exists solely to watch him shine.

It had started already in the late afternoon, when Gun showed up unannounced at his door. A plastic bag of clothes in hand, eyes glinting with that look that said no was not an option. He made himself at home in New's bedroom without hesitation, pulling open drawers and yanking out shirts and jeans without asking.

"This will look good on you. Better than that black rag you always wear," Gun had said, tossing outfits onto the bed as if it were nothing.

New had snapped at him more than once. "I'm not going. Seriously, Gun. Just leave me alone." His voice had been sharp, defensive, but Gun never flinched. He only moved closer, tilting his head, his gaze narrowing with mischievous determination.

Then came the moment that broke him. Gun had slid halfway onto his lap, one knee pressed against his, one hand gripping his chin. "Hold still, I'm gonna do your eyes." His voice was soft, but unyielding. The cool swipe of eyeliner traced along New's lashes, darkening his gaze, and before he could even protest, Gun was pressing lipstick across his mouth in a smooth, confident motion.

New shoved him away, his cheeks burning red with irritation, but he ended up letting Gun do his thing. By the time he realized, he was standing in front of the mirror in clothes that were more Gun's choice than his own, his face transformed. Less tired, less heavy. As if Gun had painted him into a role he never wanted to play.

Beneath the mask, though, something darker stirred.

That one image still burning in his mind; Off's story. Tay with Namtan, their bodies too close, their arms brushing, the stuffed toy he had won for her. She glowed beside him, and Tay smiled. Not the forced smile New sometimes saw, but a warm, gentle one that refused to leave his head.

New knows Namtan. Everyone knows her. She is Sweet, funny, smart, beautiful. The kind of girl you don't even need to choose, because she already is everything. And that makes it unbearable. Because while he himself had felt stupid after that night, after giving in on the dance floor, after kissing Tay as if the world were ending, Tay had gone on easily. Laughing, playing games, enjoying with a girl like her.

It burns deeper than he ever thought it could. Because while New had been hunched over in shame, getting himself off with Tay in his head—his kiss, his voice, a memory that was half his own, half Kao's—Tay had been somewhere else, smiling without effort, wrapped in something so much easier to love.

And it cuts, it cuts so deep that now, standing here in this club, New cannot even breathe. He feels ripped in two: on one side, the disgust at himself, at how far he has already gone, and on the other side, the paralyzing pain of watching someone he cannot stop wanting laugh with someone else.

Gun does not notice. Or maybe he pretends not to. He sparkles, grabs New's arm like he can drag him forward through sheer force of will. "Come on, this is good for you!" he shouts over the music, his eyes alive with neon light.