Chapter Text
They know it the moment they step on stage.
Not because anything goes wrong.
Because nothing sparkles the way it usually does.
The lights come up. The cheers crash over them in a familiar wave. Banners lift. Phones glitter like stars. The fans are loud, warm, devoted.
JG smile.
They always do.
But the rhythm is off.
Joss stays close. Too close to be accidental. He positions himself half a step nearer to Gawin at all times, shoulder almost brushing, hand hovering like a question he’s ready to answer. When Gawin shifts, Joss shifts with him.
Gawin performs.
He hits his marks. Says the right lines. Laughs when prompted.
But he doesn’t initiate.
No teasing first blows.
No mischievous lean-ins.
No sudden jokes that derail the script and send Joss scrambling to recover.
Instead, he reacts.
When Joss jokes, Gawin smiles and follows.
When the MC banters, he responds politely.
When fans scream his name, he lifts a hand and waves, a little slower than usual.
It’s subtle.
Painfully so.
They’re not failing. They’re just… dimmer.
And they know it.
Joss feels it every time he glances sideways and sees Gawin’s eyes flicker, not toward the audience, but somewhere far away. Somewhere that smells like home and baby shampoo and warm milk.
Once, mid-segment, Joss squeezes Gawin’s wrist lightly.
Grounding.
Gawin exhales and nods, adjusts his mic, keeps going.
Professional. Controlled.
Inside, both of them are counting minutes.
They are acutely aware of the room. Of the fans watching closely. Of how well their audience knows them by now. Too well.
They know the fans will notice:
- that Gawin laughs less
- that Joss touches more
- that the energy has shifted from playful to protective
They know speculation will follow.
And that thought coils cold in Joss’s stomach.
But right now, they can’t afford to spiral.
Right now, the goal is simple.
Finish this.
Go home.
Plan.
They sing.
The songs land. The cheers are still loud. The lightsticks still sway.
But when Gawin sings, his voice carries something heavier than usual. Not sadness exactly. Longing. A thread of ache he can’t fully hide.
Joss watches him the entire time.
Not like a co-star.
Like a lifeline.
When the final bow comes, they stand shoulder to shoulder. Hands clasped briefly, tightly, before they wave goodbye.
Backstage, the moment the curtain falls, Gawin’s shoulders sag.
Joss is there immediately, hand firm at his back, guiding him forward.
“Almost done,” he murmurs. “You did great.”
Gawin nods. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t joke.
“I just want to go home,” he says quietly.
Joss’s chest tightens.
“I know,” he answers. “We will.”
They walk down the corridor together, the noise of the venue fading behind them.
They can already feel it waiting.
The conversations they’ve been avoiding.
The logistics they can’t ignore anymore.
The maps that no longer fit into two small boxes on a fridge.
But that’s for later.
For now, they’ve done what they came to do.
They held it together.
Barely.
And as they leave the venue, dread trailing them like a shadow, both of them know one thing with painful clarity:
Whatever comes next, they cannot keep pretending nothing has changed.
—
They don’t even make it past the doorway properly.
The door closes, bags abandoned where they drop, and Thian looks up from the floor where he’d been stacking blocks with intense concentration.
He sees them.
Really sees them.
“Papa!” he squeals, scrambling to his feet.
Joss barely has time to open his arms before Thian veers, sharp as instinct, straight toward Gawin.
“Papa Wing!”
He runs into him full force.
Gawin catches him automatically, arms locking around small warmth, the familiar weight settling into his chest like gravity finally remembered how to work.
Thian doesn’t pause.
He cups Gawin’s face with both hands, tiny palms warm and clumsy, and presses his mouth against Gawin’s cheek. Once. Twice. Again. Little noisy kisses, enthusiastic and uncoordinated.
“Papa home,” Thian declares, like a fact that needs saying out loud.
That’s it.
Gawin folds.
The sound he makes isn’t loud. It’s worse than that. A sharp, broken breath, chest hitching as he bends forward, forehead resting against Thian’s shoulder. His arms tighten, holding Thian closer, closer, like he might disappear again if he loosens his grip.
“I’m here,” Gawin whispers, voice shattering. “I’m here.”
Thian frowns, sensing the shift immediately. His little arms loop around Gawin’s neck, squeezing hard, cheek pressed tight against his jaw.
“Hug,” he says, firm and certain.
Joss’s throat closes.
He steps in, hand gentle but insistent at Gawin’s back. “Come on,” he murmurs softly. “Bedroom.”
Gawin nods without lifting his head, clutching Thian like a lifeline as Joss guides them down the hall.
They pass Mama Sangngern in the living room.
“Ma,” Joss says quietly, already moving. “Thank you. I’m sorry— give us a minute.”
She takes one look at Gawin’s hunched shoulders, at Thian’s arms locked tight around his neck, and her expression softens instantly.
She nods. No questions. No offense taken.
“Go,” she says gently.
Behind her, the manager hesitates, concern written all over her face.
Mama Sangngern waves her in with a calm hand. “Come. Sit. Have tea.”
The bedroom door closes.
Inside, Gawin sinks onto the bed, still holding Thian, still shaking. Thian climbs higher, practically draping himself over Gawin’s chest, fingers tangled in his hair, lips brushing his cheek again.
“Papa sad?” he asks softly.
Gawin laughs weakly through tears. “Yeah,” he admits. “Papa was sad.”
Thian considers this very seriously.
Then he presses his forehead against Gawin’s and says, with absolute conviction, “Papa home.”
Joss sits beside them, hand on Gawin’s knee, thumb grounding, steady.
“Yes,” he echoes. “Papa’s home.”
Gawin buries his face in Thian’s hair and finally, finally lets the sob come. Thian holds on tighter, unbothered by tears, secure in the simple truth that matters most.
Outside the room, Mama Sangngern pours tea.
Inside, the world narrows to three bodies on a bed, breathing in the same space, holding each other through the quiet aftermath of leaving and coming back.
Home.
—
In the living room, the kettle clicks softly as it cools.
Mama Sangngern pours the tea anyway, movements unhurried, practiced. She slides a cup toward the manager, then takes her own seat, folding her hands in her lap.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Mama S breaks the silence first.
“He’s not okay,” she says gently, not accusatory. Just stating fact.
The manager exhales, eyes dropping to the steam curling up from her cup. “No. He’s been holding on by his fingernails since Taipei.”
Mama S nods, as if she already knew. “And my son?” she adds quietly.
The manager gives a small, tired smile. “He’s functioning. But he’s in protector mode. All the time.”
Mama S hums under her breath. “That boy has always been like that.”
She lifts her cup, then lowers it again without drinking.
“I can come with them,” she says. “Europe first. I’m retired. I can stay in the hotel, keep Thian away from cameras.”
The manager looks up sharply.
“That… actually might be the best option,” she admits. “If this were just logistics.”
Mama S tilts her head. “But?”
“But it’s not,” the manager says honestly. “Europe is… visible. Paparazzi. Airports. Hotel lobbies. Even staff phones.”
Mama S sighs. “Children are hard to hide.”
“Yes,” the manager agrees softly. “Especially when people already feel something is different.”
Mama S’s gaze drifts briefly toward the closed bedroom door. “He’s not a secret,” she says, firm but calm. “He’s a child.”
“I know,” the manager says quickly. “And I agree. But the industry doesn’t care about intentions. Only optics.”
Mama S considers this, then nods. “Passports?”
“Not done yet,” the manager replies. “Birth registration, guardianship paperwork, emergency permissions. Then visas. Schengen. UK. US.” She grimaces slightly. “It’s a process.”
Mama S taps her fingers thoughtfully against the cup. “Then we start now.”
The manager looks at her.
“If Europe is me,” Mama S continues, voice steady, “then America could be her.”
“Mama Caskey,” the manager says.
“Yes.” Mama S smiles faintly. “She won’t hesitate.”
The manager lets out a slow breath, something like relief sneaking into her shoulders. “If we can make it work legally… emotionally, this is the least harmful option.”
Mama S nods. “My grandson should not have to learn that love disappears on weekends.”
The manager’s throat tightens. She nods once. “I’ll talk to P’Tha. And legal. Quietly.”
Mama S reaches across the table and pats her hand. “Thank you.”
The manager looks toward the hallway again, where muffled sounds of soft crying have finally faded into quiet.
“We’ll need to be careful,” she says. “Very careful.”
Mama S’s smile is gentle, but unwavering. “I raised a public figure,” she replies. “I know.”
They sit there in shared understanding, tea slowly cooling between them, while down the hall, a child clings to his Papa and learns what safety feels like when the world finally stops pulling him apart.
And for the first time since the tour began, there is a plan that doesn’t ask anyone to break just to make it work.
—
P’Tha listens without interrupting.
The manager stands in his office with her tablet untouched in her hands, because this isn’t a numbers meeting. This is a people meeting. And P’Tha knows the difference.
“They’re at a breaking point,” she says plainly. “Not theatrically. Not publicly. But internally.”
P’Tha leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “Gawin?”
“Yes,” she answers immediately. “And if he breaks, Joss follows. He’s already compensating. Hovering. Over-functioning.”
P’Tha exhales through his nose. “Relapse risk.”
She nods. “Not substance. But burnout. Dissociation. Emotional shutdown. If we push the West leg the same way we did Asia, they will make it through the shows… and then collapse afterward. Possibly publicly.”
Silence.
P’Tha doesn’t like public collapses. Not for optics. Not for humans.
“There’s a child,” he says finally. Not a question.
“Yes,” the manager replies. “Two years old. Primary attachment. Separation anxiety already managed carefully. The current structure barely holds for Asia. It will not survive Europe or the US.”
“Explain.”
She does.
Long-haul flights.
Layovers.
Time zones.
Leaving before bedtime, returning after multiple sleeps.
Promises no longer matching reality.
“And Gawin already unraveled once in Shanghai,” she adds. “Privately. Joss caught him in time.”
P’Tha’s jaw tightens. “That’s early.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Which is why we’re talking now.”
She shifts, then continues. “Mama Sangngern suggested accompanying them for the Europe leg. Mama Caskey for the US. That allows the child to stay close without being in public spaces. Hotels. Controlled movement.”
P’Tha drums his fingers once on the desk. “And visas?”
“In progress. Guardianship paperwork will be expedited. We can make it work legally if we start immediately.”
“And PR?” he asks.
The manager doesn’t sugarcoat it.
“Worst case scenarios,” she says calmly.
“Photos of the child with them in Europe. Speculation spirals. Headlines about secret families. Accusations of deception.”
“And best case?”
“We control the narrative without revealing the child,” she replies. “We adjust messaging. Reduce physical fan interactions. Frame visible changes as health and workload management. If needed, we prepare a statement later about their relationship, not the child.”
P’Tha considers this.
“What about fans feeling betrayed?”
“They’ll feel confused,” the manager corrects gently. “Not betrayed. Their audience is emotionally literate. If we don’t lie, just redirect, they’ll adapt.”
“And if something leaks anyway?”
The manager meets his eyes steadily. “Then the worst PR nightmare isn’t a child.”
P’Tha waits.
“It’s a visibly unwell artist breaking down on camera,” she finishes. “Or a public hiatus mid-tour.”
That lands.
P’Tha sighs, long and slow. “We built this tour on the assumption they were… elastic.”
“They aren’t anymore,” she says. “They’re anchored.”
He nods once. Decision forming.
“Prepare contingency plans,” he says. “For Europe with family accompaniment. For the US with the same. Quietly. No internal chatter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And,” he adds, voice firm but not unkind, “we begin drafting a values-based communication strategy. Not an announcement. A philosophy.”
The manager allows herself a small breath of relief. “About boundaries.”
“About adulthood,” P’Tha corrects. “About growth. About lives evolving.”
He stands, signaling the meeting’s end.
“We protect our artists,” he says. “And the people they love. That’s not a PR nightmare.”
He looks at her, expression sharp but resolved.
“That’s the job.”
The manager nods.
Outside, the condo is quiet now. A child finally asleep. Two men holding on to each other in the aftermath of a hard truth.
Inside the office, the machinery of protection begins to move.
Not loudly.
But deliberately.
—
The manager waits until Thian is asleep.
Really asleep.
Not the light, checking-breaths kind. The deep, thumb-loosened, sprawled-across-the-bed sleep that means the day finally let him go.
Joss closes the bedroom door quietly behind them.
They sit at the dining table. No tablets. No paperwork yet. Just three cups of water.
The manager doesn’t ease into it.
“I talked to P’Tha,” she says.
Joss nods. Gawin doesn’t speak.
“He agrees,” she continues, eyes settling on Gawin now. “This can’t continue the way it is.”
Gawin exhales, shoulders slumping, like someone finally said the thing out loud. “Thank you.”
“But,” she adds gently, “bringing Thian along isn’t something we do on instinct alone.”
She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
“Mama Sangngern suggested coming with you for the Europe leg,” she says. “And Mama Caskey for the US.”
Joss straightens slightly. “And P’Tha?”
“He agreed that if Thian is going to be anywhere near the West tour,” she says, “this is the safest adult structure we have.”
Gawin nods slowly. “So that part is… possible.”
“Yes,” the manager says. “Logistically. Legally. With work.”
Then she leans forward.
“But I don’t want to pretend that means it’s automatically right for him.”
The room goes quiet.
“We know how tours affect adults,” she continues. “Time zones. Sleep. Regulation. We have experience there.”
Her gaze softens.
“We don’t have that experience with a two-year-old.”
Joss’s hand finds Gawin’s under the table.
“I need us to understand what this does to Thian,” the manager says plainly. “Not guess. Not assume.”
Gawin swallows. “You’re worried about the travel.”
“I’m worried about patterns,” she replies. “Weekly separation. Or no separation. Long flights. Unfamiliar places. What helps. What hurts.”
She exhales.
“That’s why I want you to speak to a child psychologist. One who specializes in attachment.”
Joss nods immediately. “As soon as possible.”
“Before Europe,” she agrees. “Before we finalize anything beyond paperwork.”
Gawin hesitates, then asks quietly, “What if… bringing him makes it worse?”
The manager doesn’t dodge it.
“Then we need to know that,” she says. “And adjust.”
Joss frowns slightly. “And if leaving him in Thailand is worse?”
“Then we need to know that too.”
Silence settles between them, heavy but honest.
“This isn’t about optics,” the manager continues. “This isn’t even about the tour.”
She looks at them both.
“This is about not hurting a child while trying to keep two adults functioning.”
Gawin lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t want to make the wrong call.”
“You won’t,” she says firmly. “Not if you ask the right questions.”
She gathers her bag, but doesn’t stand yet.
“One more thing,” she adds.
They look up.
“If Thian comes with you,” she says, “people will notice changes. Less access. Less spontaneity.”
Gawin smiles faintly. “They already do.”
“Yes,” she says softly. “And that’s okay. We’ll handle that when we get there.”
Joss nods. “One step at a time.”
The manager stands. “I’ll set up the appointment. And I’ll coordinate with Mama S and Mama C.”
She hesitates at the door, then adds quietly, “You’re doing the responsible thing.”
After she leaves, Joss and Gawin stay where they are.
Gawin’s voice drops to a whisper.
“I just want him to be okay.”
Joss pulls him close, forehead resting against his temple.
“We’re making sure he is,” he murmurs. “That’s the point.”
Down the hall, Thian shifts in his sleep, breathing soft and even.
The future is still uncertain.
But now, they’re asking the right questions before choosing it.
—
The office is quiet in a way that feels intentional.
Soft light. Low shelves. Toys arranged without expectation. Nothing blinking. Nothing loud.
Thian is on the floor, pushing a wooden train back and forth, humming to himself. He glances up occasionally, checks where Papas are, then returns to his track.
The psychologist watches this with interest.
“He checks,” she notes gently. “That’s good.”
Joss nods. Gawin’s hands are folded tightly in his lap.
They sit across from her, not holding hands yet. Both alert. Braced.
“So,” she says, voice warm but precise. “Tell me what you’re worried about.”
Gawin answers first. His voice is quiet but steady.
“Time zones,” he says. “Leaving. Coming back. Him not understanding when we’ll return.”
Joss adds, “We taught him to count sleeps. It works right now. But it won’t… later.”
The psychologist nods slowly. “You’re right.”
That lands heavier than either of them expected.
“At his age,” she continues, “children don’t understand time abstractly. They understand patterns.”
She gestures gently toward Thian.
“Sleep. Wake. Presence. Absence.”
Gawin swallows.
“When you cross time zones weekly,” she explains, “the pattern breaks. A promise like ‘two sleeps’ stops matching his body’s experience.”
Joss exhales. “So he wouldn’t be wrong for being upset.”
“No,” she says immediately. “He’d be responding appropriately to confusion.”
That word hits Gawin hard.
Confusion.
“What about leaving him,” Gawin asks, voice tightening, “for longer stretches? Like… weeks?”
The psychologist considers this carefully.
“Long separations are hard,” she says. “But predictable long separations can be easier than frequent short ones.”
Joss looks up. “Easier how?”
“Because the nervous system settles,” she explains. “He learns: Papas are gone, but the world is stable. They return, and they return the same.”
She pauses.
“What hurts most is repeated rupture. Leaving. Returning. Leaving again before the bond fully resettles.”
Gawin presses his fingers to his lips.
“That’s what’s happening now,” he whispers.
“Yes,” she agrees gently. “You’re not imagining it.”
Joss asks the question they’ve both been circling.
“What about bringing him with us?”
The psychologist’s gaze softens.
“That can work,” she says. “If done thoughtfully.”
Gawin’s breath catches.
“But,” she continues, “travel itself is not the enemy. Disorientation is.”
She leans forward slightly.
“If he travels with you but stays in one region for a while… one time zone… one bedtime… one set of walls he can recognize…”
She trails off, letting them finish the thought.
“He’d still have us,” Joss says.
“Yes,” she nods. “Consistently.”
Gawin’s shoulders sag with relief and grief all at once.
“And the work?” Joss asks. “The noise. The crowds.”
“He shouldn’t be at the work,” she says plainly. “He should be adjacent to your life, not inside your profession.”
That makes sense immediately.
“He stays with family during events,” Gawin says. “Hotels. Quiet.”
“Exactly,” she says. “And when you do leave him for a few hours, you narrate it. Every time. Same words. Same ritual.”
Gawin nods. “He likes rituals.”
“I know,” she smiles. “I can tell.”
They watch Thian for a moment as he lines up the train cars perfectly, satisfied.
“Will he remember this?” Joss asks quietly.
The psychologist meets his eyes.
“He will remember how it felt,” she says. “Safe. Or not.”
Silence settles.
“What you’re trying to do,” she continues, “is not avoid discomfort. That’s impossible.”
Gawin nods faintly.
“You’re trying to avoid damage,” she finishes. “And you’re doing a good job of that.”
Gawin’s eyes burn.
“So,” the psychologist says gently, “here’s my recommendation.”
They lean in.
“If you enter Europe, stay in Europe.
If you enter the US, stay in the US.
Reduce separations. Reduce time zone whiplash. Keep routines sacred.”
She pauses.
“And if at any point this starts costing him more than it gives him,” she adds, “you stop.”
Joss doesn’t hesitate. “We will.”
The psychologist smiles, soft but firm. “I believe you.”
Thian toddles over then, climbing into Gawin’s lap without asking.
Gawin catches him instinctively, arms closing tight.
The psychologist watches the way Thian melts against him.
“You’re his safe place,” she says. “The question isn’t whether you can do this.”
She lets the silence hold.
“It’s whether you’re willing to reorganize your world around that truth.”
Joss and Gawin look at each other.
They already know the answer.
—
They don’t start with flights.
They start with names.
Joss sits at the dining table with a stack of forms spread out like a fragile thing. Not neat. Not chaotic. Just… careful. Gawin stands beside him, Thian perched on his hip, one small hand fisted in the collar of Gawin’s shirt.
The first form asks for Full Name of Child.
Joss hesitates longer than necessary before writing it.
Ink feels permanent.
Gawin watches his pen move, then looks down at Thian. “That’s you,” he murmurs softly.
Thian blinks at the paper. “Ti?”
“Yes,” Gawin smiles. “That’s Ti.”
Thian nods, satisfied, and presses his cheek into Gawin’s shoulder.
They work in short stretches.
Ten minutes.
Then a break.
Not because they’re overwhelmed by the paperwork, but because Thian needs water. Or a snack. Or simply reassurance that Papas are still right there.
At the passport office, the floor is too shiny and the chairs are too big.
Thian sits between them, legs swinging, humming tunelessly. He doesn’t know what a passport is. He knows the feeling of waiting.
When they call his name, he startles.
Gawin crouches immediately. “It’s okay. Papa’s here.”
The photo booth is bright. The flash goes off too suddenly.
Thian flinches, then laughs, surprised by himself.
“That was silly,” Joss says, laughing with him.
They don’t correct his posture. The photo isn’t perfect. His hair sticks up at the back.
It’s fine.
At another desk, they guide his hand around a pen. He grips it wrong, scribbles enthusiastically across the line.
The clerk smiles. “That counts.”
Gawin exhales like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath.
Forms multiply.
Birth records.
Guardianship letters.
Consent forms stamped and restamped.
Every signature feels like a small promise.
Between offices, Thian grows sleepy. Joss carries him then, warm weight tucked under his chin. Thian’s fingers curl into Joss’s shirt, trusting, absentminded.
He doesn’t ask where they’re going.
He doesn’t need to.
That night, back home, they spread everything out again.
Envelopes.
Receipts.
Copies.
Gawin double-checks dates. Joss organizes piles by urgency.
“This one’s Schengen,” Joss murmurs.
“This one’s US,” Gawin replies.
Thian crawls between them on the floor, pushing a toy car through the valley of papers.
“Careful,” Joss says reflexively, then stops himself.
It’s fine.
Nothing breaks.
Later, when Thian is asleep, Gawin sits on the edge of the bed longer than usual.
“This makes it real,” he says quietly.
Joss nods. “It already was. This just… admits it.”
Gawin leans back against him, tired but steadier than he’s been in weeks.
Down the hall, Thian sleeps with his elephant tucked under his chin, unaware that his world has just widened.
Not loudly.
Not suddenly.
Just enough to hold all three of them together, wherever they’re about to go.
—
By the time they land in Ho Chi Minh, exhaustion has stopped feeling sharp.
It’s dull now. Heavy. The kind that settles into bones and makes everything slower.
They move through the airport on autopilot. Bags. Passports. Familiar motions. Joss walks half a step ahead, glancing back every few seconds without thinking. Gawin follows, eyes unfocused, phone warm in his hand even though he hasn’t checked it in minutes.
They’re already counting.
Not sleeps.
Hours.
“How long until we’re home?” Gawin asks quietly as they get into the van.
Joss checks without looking at his phone. “Three days. Two nights.”
Gawin nods, like he’s filing that information somewhere safe. Then, softer, “Mama’s sent three pictures today.”
“I saw,” Joss says. “He looks happy.”
He does. In the photos, Thian is sitting on the floor with Mama Sangngern, stacking cups, elephant tucked under his arm. Smiling. Safe.
Gawin knows that.
His chest still aches anyway.
“What if—” He stops himself. Shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Joss reaches back, fingers brushing Gawin’s knee. Just contact. Just enough.
“He’s okay,” Joss says gently, not correcting him, not dismissing him. “And Mama would tell us if he wasn’t.”
“I know,” Gawin exhales. “I know.”
The knowing doesn’t stop the spiral. It just keeps it quiet.
At the hotel, Gawin drops onto the bed fully clothed and stares at the ceiling. Joss sits beside him, loosening his watch, shoulders slumping.
“My head won’t shut up,” Gawin murmurs.
Joss lies back next to him without comment, shoulder to shoulder, their arms brushing.
“Mine either,” he admits.
They lie there in silence, air conditioner humming, city noise leaking faintly through the glass.
At some point, Gawin turns onto his side without thinking. His forehead presses into Joss’s shoulder. Joss shifts automatically, arm wrapping around him, hand settling at the back of Gawin’s neck.
They freeze for half a second.
Awareness flickers.
We’re not alone.
Someone could walk in.
This isn’t—
Neither of them moves away.
Joss exhales slowly and pulls Gawin closer instead. Gawin melts into it, relief flooding his body so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“Oh,” he whispers, like he didn’t realize how badly he needed this until now.
“Yeah,” Joss murmurs back.
Later, backstage, the same thing happens.
They’re waiting for sound check. Gawin sits on a road case, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Joss steps in front of him to block the draft from the open door. Gawin leans forward, forehead resting briefly against Joss’s chest.
Joss’s hand comes up, steady at his back.
They both notice.
They both let it happen.
No jokes.
No glances around.
No pulling apart.
The thought of separation feels… absurd now.
Not because it isn’t necessary.
But because it isn’t survivable tonight.
They’re both thinking the same thing, even if neither says it:
We just need to get through this.
We just need to stay afloat.
We can’t afford to drift apart right now.
On stage, they perform. They smile. They bow.
But the moment the lights dim, Gawin is back at Joss’s side, shoulder pressed to his arm like it’s the only way to stay upright.
Joss doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t caution him.
Doesn’t care who sees.
Back in the hotel room that night, they video call Mama Sangngern.
Thian presses his face too close to the screen, giggling.
“Papa home soon?” he asks.
“Yes,” Joss answers immediately. “Very soon.”
“Two sleeps?” Thian asks, hopeful.
Gawin closes his eyes for a second. Opens them again. Smiles.
“Yes,” he says softly. “Two sleeps.”
After the call ends, Gawin turns into Joss fully, arms wrapping tight, face pressed into his chest.
“I miss him,” he says, voice breaking.
“I know,” Joss whispers, holding him just as tight. “I know.”
They don’t talk about the remaining cities.
They don’t talk about Melbourne.
They don’t talk about Europe or the US or cameras or plans.
Right now, they only have enough energy for one truth:
They need each other.
And whatever rules they used to follow can wait until they’re home.