Chapter Text
Gun’s live broadcast has a lot less fans than he had expected, which is just sad given the fact that he’s literally in a hospital. His manager had told him that sick singers would garner way more sympathy and attention for him to get his career back in the game. However, a few weeks ago, Gun had brushed that off with a half-assed laugh. Now, though, it’s like the universe is on his manager’s side and had decided to give him a horrible throat infection.
It’s been exactly four days since his surgery, and the first day where he could talk while controlling his drooling. The first thing Gun had done when he realised he could speak without his throat hurting, is to go live and update his—very much deteriorating number of—fans. He can’t say he isn’t disappointed though.
Because what used to be at least a hundred-thousand fans chiming in during his live, he’s only left with half the amount of them. It’s still a big number, Gun had comforted himself. Yeah, for a fucking beginner, he had also trash-talked in return.
Gun! How are u????
When is the next album?
Can you say hi in Spanish
Love from India <3
It’s comforting to see that the comments have not changed. Gun gives them his award-winning smile despite being plugged up on IV bottles and painkillers. “I’m doing fine, everyone,” he reassures his fans. “It’s been bothering me for quite some time now. I’m happy that I got it removed,” Gun smiles again.
Can you sing after? I hope you gws :(
Should you be talking?
When is new album?
“Probably not for a week or so,” Gun answers the highest question. “After that—I’ll come back to you guys,” he gives the camera a wink and tries not to cringe when a nurse eyes him from outside.
His manager had just left to deal with the hospital paperwork, and Gun was getting bored. The live helps him a little, but it’s getting exhausting to talk for so long. He expects his fans to maybe entertain him with funny stories, but all they seem to be worried about is making sure he says hi to their respective countries.
Gun thinks he should end the live after a few minutes.
“I think it’s time for dinner,” he lies to the camera. “I’m getting hungry, you guys. I’ve barely eaten good food for the past few days,” the messages chime in faster with pleas for Gun to not end the live. He gives them another endearing smile; “You miss me already? Alright—” Gun waves them off. “I’ll stay for another five minutes,”
It baffles Gun how so many things can happen in just five minutes, because here he is, lying in bed like a completely loser, talking to his phone. And then—
The door to his private ward slams open before—
“Papa!”
A little girl with an ash grey Chinzhilla plushie attached to her hips begins to stumble inside. She’s got a pair of bright pink glasses that cover half her face and make her eyes look a little animated, and she walks with a trip in each step. She’s definitely less than five. Gun stares with horror, his phone still standing upright with multiple questions chiming every second. The little girl stumbles closer to him with a toothless grin and—
“PAPA!PAPA!PAPA!”
The Chinzhilla plushie is long forgotten when the girl begins to climb up his bed, and only then is Gun startled out of his revery, his eyes growing wide with both alarm and fear. “Hey, nong,” he calls out. “Be careful, you’ll—”
“Papa! Papa, Papa!” the girl comes dangerously close to his phone—which is still on live. The last thing Gun wants is a random girl’s face to be posted all over social media. He’s quick to end the live and catch the little girl from falling off the bed. “Papa,” she hugs him tightly, uncaring about the pain in his neck and, in return, squeezing the exact spot that hurts the most.
Gun cries out in pain, then pulls the cobra grip she has around him. The little girl situates herself on his lap, a gleaming smile on her face while her round, boba-like eyes begin to stare him down. “I’m not your Papa,” Gun tries gently, a fake smile on his face. “Are you lost?”
The girl looked offended at Gun’s words, which makes him wonder if he really does have a child. Gun furrows his eyebrows in confusion, then recoils from the little girl’s grabby hands; “Nong,” he stifles a sigh. “Where are your parents?”
The girl points at Gun, a finger pressed just over his nose; “Papa!”
Gun groans out loud again; “I’m not your father. I don’t even know who you are, missy!” he cries out.
The little girl grabs the discarded Chinzhilla plushie and pushes it between them. Gun has no idea how she even got that. He’s pretty sure they stopped manufacturing it as soon as his group disbanded. “Papa,” the girl points to the plushie, then back at Gun.
Gun grabs her hand and places it back to her side; “No,” he scolds. “What’s your name?”
The girl lights up at that and straightens her back as if preparing to recite something; “My name is Ranee Jirawatthanakul. I am 4-years-old. I like to—
“Yeah, I didn’t ask that,” Gun cuts her off. “Your name is Ranee Jirawatthanakul,” he retorts. “Well, my name is—
“Papa!” Ranee cuts him off this time. Before Gun could continue, she speaks again; “Guntaphon Wongwitthaya! Papa!”
“What the fuck,” Gun hisses back, unable to get rid of the shivers that ran through his spine. “How did you know that? How do you know my name?” he grabs the girl by her shoulders and shakes her.
Ranee seems to have an opposite outcome than what Gun had expected. She throws her head back and laughs out loud, a high-pitched squeal that even Gun could not help but swoon over. This must be a joke. Maybe someone decided to pull a prank on him and paid this poor child instead.
“Where’s your Mama?” Gun tries to ask instead, but Ranee only looks at him with a pout and confused eyes. “Mama,” the singer repeats. “Mae?” he tries again. “Mother?”
Ranee sits back on her haunches, flat on Gun’s lap before hugging the plushie to her chest; “Dada,” she answers back. “Dada?”
“Dada?” Gun questions.
“Dada,” Ranee nods in confirmation.
She has a father?
“What is your Dada’s name?”
Once again, Ranee straightens her back and is prepared to recite her monologue. “My father’s name is Tin—
The doors are pushed open and a doctor rushes inside with flushed cheeks and sweat-matted hair clinging to his forehead. It’s so easy to spot the resemblance between both father and daughter. Gun concludes it the second he catches the same boba-balled eyes hidden behind a pair of frameless glasses perched on his doctor’s nose. “Ranee!” Dr. Tinnaphob Jirawatthanakul breathes out as he catches his breath for a few seconds.
Gun has met the doctor only a number of times; Twice before his surgery, and once after. He hadn’t expected the handsome doctor to be a father as well. Even now, Ranee doesn’t budge from Gun’s lap as she waves at her father; “Dada! See! Papa!”
Tinn’s cheeks—he didn’t know it was possible—grows redder than ever. He steps inside and doesn’t look at Gun at all when he reprimands his daughter; “Ranee,” the doctor points an accusing finger at her, “What did Dada tell you about running around in a hospital?”
The light in Ranee’s eyes fades away, and so does her toothless smile; “But—
“The hospital is not a playground for you!” Tinn scolds and hell, he sounds so soft even scolding someone. “You could’ve gotten lost, or worse, sick!”
Ranee keeps her head hung low as she listens to her father.
“If you keep doing this again, I won’t bring you to Andamanda for your school break,” Tinn warns his daughter and it gets the job done. Ranee is soon scrambling down the bed, without sparing a glance at Gun and rushing outside to follow a nurse who waits for her.
For a brief moment, Gun wonders if he’s going to get scolded as well, but his doctor merely pinches the bridge of his nose and forces a smile at the singer; “Sorry you had to see that, Khun Guntaphon. How are you feeling now?”
Gun nods with an understanding smile before he answers; “It’s okay, doctor. I’m feeling better now,” he hesitates for a moment, but Tinn easily catches it. The doctor steps closer to him with an encouraging smile and a nod, hands shoved into his pockets in his default doctor stance. “I just—I’m curious. Why was your daughter so sure that I’m her father?” it’s meant to come off as a joking way of asking, but Gun makes it sound like a threat. “Not that—! Not that I’m complaining or anything. I just—uh. Had me wondering if I really did have a daughter,” he brushes it off with another nervous chuckle.
Tinn looks—constipated. For at least a few seconds before he schools his expressions into nothing but patient-doctor professionalism. The doctor nods and smiles before checking his wristwatch. All Gun could do was stare at his ridiculously red cheeks and wonder how one’s cheeks could actually be that red or if he was just seeing things after being on meds for five days.
“I wish I had the time to explain this whole—” Tinn flails his hand around adorably. “But I have an emergency surgery right now, so I’ll come back to you on that doubt by tomorrow,” he tells Gun.
“Oh yeah, sure!” Gun feels like shit for asking that. “Sorry—you should—go save someone. I’ll be here! Thank you, um, doctor,” he stammers out with a wave and a smile.
Tinn gives him a wave as well; “Get some rest, Khun Guntaphon,”
—
The next morning, Gun can’t say he’s surprised when he finds little Ranee all snuggled up on his bed while he cleans himself in the bathroom. Gun wipes his wet face with a spare towel and stands by the door of the bathroom, staring at the little girl who gives him a bright smile and a; “Papa!”
“Well,” Gun sighs, perching one hand on his hip before returning a smile to the girl. Today, she’s dressed in a white sundress with bright yellow sunflowers printed all over them, matched with a sunflower headband that keeps her hair away from her face unlike the previous night. “Good morning to you too,”
His throat feels horrible today, but at least he could finally eat something that wasn’t fucking soup. Today, the hospital had made him congee with his favourite salted eggs as garnish. Ranee scoots over to the edge of the bed to make space for Gun. At this point, Gun is too tired to question the girl and decides to just follow her instructions.
The singer spends his morning eating his porridge while Ranee plays with her iPad. “Where’s your Dada today, hm?” he asks the little girl, unable to hold back a smile when he watches her eyes grow wide with focus as she plays her game.
“Surgery,” Ranee answers easily. Her eyes remain glued to the screen of the iPad.
He doesn’t know how long time had passed as he watches Ranee play multiple games on her iPad—occasionally playing along with her too—but his manager soon comes in with a cartful of bouquets, plushies, and Get Well Soon greeting cards for the singer. Upon catching the sight of the little girl tucked perfectly under Gun’s arm, his manager takes a step back, confusion etched on his face; “Um,”
Gun shrugs, still very much focused on watching Ranee jump over cliffs and avoid traps in her new game. When she accidentally jumps too early and falls down the cliff, Ranee whines with annoyance—Gun wonders if her father whines like that too—then curls into Gun’s arms. “Papa,” she mumbles into his hospital robe. “This level is so hard,” Ranee complains, looking up at him with her round and sparkling eyes.
The singer could not help but chuckle as he takes the gadget from her and restarts the level; “Let me try,” he tells the little girl.
“Am I..” Kwan stops by the foot of the bed, his eyes wide as they dart between the girl and his singer. “Interrupting something?”
Gun keeps his eyes glued to the screen where he’s focused on winning the level for Ranee; “Yeah, apparently I have a daughter now,” he nudges Ranee gently, “Ranee, this is Uncle Kwan. Say hi,”
Ranee obeys her Papa instantly, facing Kwan with her toothless smile and clasping her hands in a respectful wai. “Hello, Uncle Kwan,”
“Uh huh..” Kwan murmurs, carefully pulling out his phone to unlock it; “I guess that explains the calls I got this morning,”
Gun manages to finish the level successfully just as Kwan finishes his sentence. He spares Ranee a soft smile and a pinch to her chubby cheek before facing Kwan; “What do you mean?”
Kwan pinches the bridge of his nose; “Guntaphon, you have a lot of explaining to do,” is what he says before shoving a recently posted article under a very prominent Thai news outlet.
Upon reading the title alone, Gun could feel his eyes bulging out of their sockets. “Oh, no,” the singer gasps.
—
It’s only at noon that Dr. Tinnaphob manages to find time to visit Gun in his ward. Judging by the exhaustion on his face, Gun is pretty sure he rushed here right after his surgery. The surgeon is dressed in his usual white coat, a black shirt hidden underneath, his glasses hanging low on the slope of his nose. He enters Gun’s ward and could only sigh at the view of Ranee sleeping fitfully, tucked under Gun’s arm.
“The nurses told me that she was throwing a tantrum to see you,” the doctor drags a cushioned chair close to Gun’s bed before giving him a tired smile. “My surgery was beginning, so I couldn’t stop her. I’m so sorry for her bad behaviour,”
“Bad behaviour?” Gun scoffs. “She’s the most well-behaved kid I’ve ever met. Don’t worry about it, doctor,” he grins.
Tinn returns the smile, and the singer would be lying if he said his heart hadn’t fluttered.
“Now,” the doctor clears his throat, clasping his hand on his crossed legs. “I don’t know how to begin explaining this whole—” he flails his hand around. “Predicament to you,”
Gun rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish smile; “I’m afraid I have some news too, doctor,”
Tinn cocks his head to the side and frowns adorably. “Oh?” the doctor quips.
Gun motions for him to go first.
Tinn’s cheeks are bright pink when he begins to explain his side of the story to the singer; “My ex-wife told me that she was pregnant just a month before we signed the divorce papers,” Tinn explains. “And that she wanted nothing to do with the baby, as well as me. We formed a mutual agreement to stay together throughout the period of conceiving Ranee, and then get a divorce.”
“Of course, as a single father raising a newborn child, I became some sort of a pity party for everyone in our neighbourhood,” he continues with a fond smile. “And although I was fine with that label, my friends were not. I guess you can see where this is going, right?” he chuckles, but his face held so much embarrassment that it was almost cute. Gun nods along to him, reassuring the doctor that he wouldn’t judge. “I—uh—I was actually a huge fan of Chinzhilla back in my high school days. When Ranee was born, you announced you were going solo too. My friends knew how crazy I used to go over you. Thinking back, I wonder how I never realised I was gay until my ex-wife had to point it out—God, this is so embarrassing,”
Gun pats his shoulder reassuringly. “Hey, I’m actually pretty honoured that such a famous doctor would like my songs,” he tells Tinn with a delighted grin.
Tinn smiles back. “Well, I guess my friends hated the idea of Ranee growing up and being subjected to all the pity. So, they came up with a lie,” he looked almost constipated when he says the next few words. “They made Ranee believe that her other father.. was you,”
Gun’s eyes grow wide, but he remains silent and waits for Tinn to finish his story.
“We didn’t spread false rumours or anything!” Tinn is quick to clarify. “We just.. Well, Ranee doesn’t really know the whole mechanics behind having kids. It was easy to just tell her that her other parent was too busy singing to come home. And for four years, you’ve been her Papa. I was going to stop this whole thing when she starts kindergarten next month. But—I guess she beat me to it,”
“I’m so sorry for dragging you into this mess, khun,” Tinn mumbles, his eyes bright red. “I never meant for things to get this big. I just—dreaded the day Ranee would ask me why she only had one parents. This was an easier lie to maintain than telling her that her mother doesn’t want her,”
“I understand why you had to do that,” Gun whispers to him. “And—I’m kind of proud that you chose me out of other singers. Makes me feel happy that I’m keeping her happy,” he jerks his chin to Ranee’s sleeping figure. “I feel bad when she finds out the truth,”
“Yeah..” Tinn runs his fingers through his hair with a long sigh. “It’s okay. She’ll be older and understand me,” he reassured. “Hopefully,” the doctor adds after a pause.
Silence ensues between them, and Gun is unsure on how he’s going to bring the sudden news up to the father without him freaking out; “Hey—uh, doctor.. I have something to say,” Gun clears his throat.
Tinn straightens his back at that. “Oh, yes. You said you had something to tell me as well,” he’s so sweet, and soft, that it scares Gun shitless, wondering how he was going to break the news.
Instead of saying, Gun thinks he should just show Tinn the exact article Kwan had shown him earlier this morning; “Don’t get scared, okay?” Gun pushes the phone to the doctor.
Tinn chuckles softly as he takes the phone; “Why would I get sca—HUH?”
The intensity of Dr. Tinnaphob’s scream was enough to jolt Ranee into consciousness. The little girl rubs the sleep out of her eyes and looks to her father; “Dada?”
But Tinn has his eyes glued to the screen, then back to Gun, then back to the screen. “I—this can’t be—no.”
Gun looks at the article again, hoping that if he read it for the hundredth time that day, the words would change miraculously;
FAMOUS THAI POP SINGER GUNTAPHON WONGWITTHAYA IS A FATHER! HERE’S ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW ABOUT THE SINGER’S ABRUPT ANNOUNCEMENT.
“Yeah..” Gun trails off. “We have a problem,”