Work Text:
Rain, he wanted it comfortable
I wanted that pain
"100 baht," said the man sitting on the sidewalk. A worn bag lay beside him as he held a palette in one hand and a brush in the other. A small clear canvas rested on his lap, catching the faint glow of the streetlights.
"Alright. I can pay," Mix said with a lopsided smile, stumbling slightly as he lowered himself beside the man. "Draw me on a red carpet. Flashing cameras everywhere. Everyone looking at me… loving me."
His words slurred just a little, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol, eyes half-lidded and soft. He kept talking, describing the scene in his head—his dream—until he noticed the man had already begun to paint.
Mix fell silent as he glanced at his watch. It was midnight.
He then rested his elbow on his knee and propped his chin on his palm, watching the man with fascination. Even in the dimness of the evening, the moonlight traced the angles of the stranger’s face. His hair was tied in a loose man bun, messy strands falling across his forehead. Thin-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. He wore a dirty white henley shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and with every gentle flick of the brush, the veins on his forearms subtly revealed themselves—just enough to be noticed.
His jaw was sharp, with a shadow of stubble lining it. His eyes were dark and intense. His nose was straight. And Mix found himself smiling without meaning to, eyes glittering with amusement and admiration.
God, he’s beautiful. And hot.
The kind that makes you pause and wonder what kind of life he's lived.
The kind of man who probably never looks back.
He had the face of someone who knew exactly what he wanted and wouldn’t waste time chasing anything less.
"Are you done?" Mix asked, boredom laced in his sigh. Minutes had passed, and the man had only glanced at him three times before going right back to painting. Yes, Mix counted how many times he was looked at.
The man didn’t respond. Mix frowned.
Then, he felt it—a drop of water landing softly on his arm. He tilted his head toward the sky and opened his palm.
"It's raining..." he whispered, a soft smile forming on his lips. He turned to look at the man beside him, who was still intently focused on his work. On the canvas, Mix saw that half of his face had already been finished.
He reached out and touched the man’s arm, causing him to pause and finally glance his way.
The man’s brows were furrowed as he asked, voice low and deep, sending a shiver down Mix’s spine.
"What?"
Mix didn’t let his reaction show. Instead, his smile grew wider. "C’mon, it’s raining now. You can finish that later." And just as he said it, the drizzle turned into a steady shower.
The man stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. One hand held the small canvas, palette, and brush, while the other reached out to grab Mix’s arm, urging him to run.
Mix laughed as the rain poured heavier, soaking through his clothes—but he didn’t care. He let the man lead him for a few steps, but then he gently pulled his arm free from the man's grip.
Earth stopped when he realized the boy he had just been holding was no longer beside him. He turned around—and there he was.
Earth stood there, unmoving, as the rain soaked through his shirt and dripped from his hair. But all he could see was the boy in front of him—arms slightly outstretched, face lifted toward the sky, completely unbothered by the world. The rain kissed his skin and there was a faint smile on his lips.
This boy...
This boy was unlike anyone he’d ever met.
Loud and dreamy, a little drunk, and a little reckless. But in the middle of this quiet rain, he looked like he belonged in a painting himself. Not the kind that sits framed in a gallery, cold and untouchable—
No.
Mix was the kind of art that breathed. That made noise. That lived.
Earth tightened his grip on the small canvas he carried.
He had painted dozens of faces before. Strangers who passed him by. Clients with specific poses. Figures from memory. But none of them ever made him feel like this.
And the rain, the night, the way the boy laughed—it all felt like it was meant to be captured by Earth’s hands.
I want to paint you again, Earth thought.
But next time, not as a stranger.
Because tonight, under the rain, Earth found his muse.
—
Weeks passed. Then months.
And just like that, the boy who once drunkenly demanded to be painted like a star… actually became one.
Mix was rising—fast.
He was on magazine covers now, his smile plastered across billboards, his name trending almost daily. He walked red carpets in custom suits, answered questions with a carefully trained smile, laughed in interviews while lights flashed around him like lightning. The industry loved him.
He was everything the world wanted.
But when the lights went out, when the cameras stopped rolling—
He went home to Earth.
A quiet apartment tucked away from the city. A place without paparazzi, without makeup, without pretense. Where his name didn’t need to shine. Where he could just be Mix—barefoot, hoodie-clad, hair messy, cheeks flushed from Earth's touch.
Earth never said much about fame. He didn’t need to. He’d been there before it all—before the roles, before the buzz, before the boy he painted in the rain became a face everyone knew. He was there when Mix couldn’t sleep from nerves.
When he broke down after auditions.
When he wondered if any of it would ever come true.
Earth had seen it all.
He held it all.
And now, he watched quietly as Mix became the person he was always meant to be.
They kept it quiet.
For now, it had to be.
It was safer that way. Mix would sneak out at midnight, hoodie pulled low, cap covering his eyes. Sometimes Earth would already be waiting by the lamppost at the end of the block. Other times, Mix would knock softly at his door and melt into his arms the moment it opened.
Sometimes they wouldn’t even speak. They’d just sit, backs pressed together on Earth’s old couch, fingers brushing. That was their peace.
But tonight, after another long shoot, Mix sat between Earth’s legs on the floor, the scent of studio makeup still faint on his skin. He leaned back against Earth’s chest, his body finally relaxing for the first time all day. The TV flickered with muted interviews—his own face on screen, smiling at strangers and answering questions he’d rehearsed with his manager.
"Look at you," Earth whispered, brushing damp hair from Mix’s forehead. "Dreams turn real."
Mix closed his eyes, exhaled slowly. "It’s only real 'cause I come back to this."
Earth kissed his temple softly. "This?"
Mix reached for Earth’s hand, lacing their fingers together.
"You."
Earth felt that familiar ache.
Because while Mix was rising—chasing his dreams—Earth only ever wanted quiet mornings and constant love. While Mix became a star, Earth just wanted to be someone's safe place. And even though Mix came back to him night after night, Earth wondered if one day, the boy he loved would stop returning altogether.
But he didn’t say it. He just held him tighter.
And though the world still didn’t know and they had to hide in plain sight—
Every time Earth looked at him, Mix felt like he was still the boy in the rain.
Alive.
Loved.
And home.
—
But borrowed hours catch up eventually.
The midnight walks grew shorter. The messages, slower. Mix would still come to Earth’s apartment, still press soft kisses to his jaw and sigh into his chest—but the light in his eyes dimmed. His mind was always somewhere else. On the next script, the next country, the next stage he had to stand on alone.
And Earth—he saw it. He felt it in the way Mix clung tighter during every goodbye, like he already knew he was leaving piece by piece.
Until one night, Mix didn’t come home with tired limbs and whispered apologies.
He came home quiet. Too quiet.
He stood by the door, fingers trembling as he tried to find the words. And Earth… he already knew. He felt it in his chest, a tightening that reached down to his soul. Still, he asked.
"What’s wrong, Mix?"
Mix sighed as he looked into Earth’s eyes, like he was memorizing them for the last time. "I can’t do this anymore."
The silence that followed cracked something open.
"I love you," Mix added quickly, like he was trying to catch a glass mid-shatter. "God, I love you so much it hurts."
"Then stay," Earth said, voice nearly breaking. He took a step forward, slowly, like one wrong move would make Mix disappear. "Please. We don’t have to go anywhere. You don’t have to be anyone else here."
Mix finally turned to face him, his eyes glossy and tired. "That’s the problem, Earth. I can’t be anyone right now. Not for you. Not for me. Not when everything’s falling on top of me."
"The shoots, the image, the pressure to be perfect. And hiding… hiding you—it kills me." One lone tear slid down Mix’s cheek.
Earth choked out. "You just have to hold on."
"I don’t have the strength to hold anything anymore," Mix whispered.
Earth reached for him. One last reach. "Please."
But Mix stepped back.
And that was it—the sound of Earth’s heart quietly breaking as Mix turned away. Not because he stopped loving him. But because staying felt heavier than leaving.
And he left.
He didn’t come back the next night. Or the night after.
The key Earth had made for him stayed cold on the hook by the door, untouched, forgotten.
No text. No call. No closure.
Just a silence so loud it echoed in every room.
Earth stood by the window every night, waiting for footsteps he would never hear again. Because the boy who once danced with him in the rain had finally chosen the storm.
And he didn’t return.
It was another night, just like all the others, with Earth still waiting for someone who no longer waited back. He didn’t know how many months had passed—he stopped counting. But each time he waited, it was with his canvas, his palette, and his brush.
He painted beside the window where the light used to fall on Mix’s face.
Earth glanced at the moonlight seeping through the glass, casting soft silver across the canvas. He reached out with trembling fingers and gently brushed it with a smile—sad and soft, like remembering a dream he couldn’t keep.
Because the muse he once painted was now only a memory beneath the stars.
—
A year passed. The world had continued to move, with Mix’s name rising higher than ever. He’d done films, commercials, and even some stage performances. But the emptiness remained. Fame felt like a spotlight that burned too bright, and the loneliness echoed in every corner of his life, no matter how many people surrounded him.
One evening, Mix was invited to an art exhibit. The glistening gallery was filled with beautiful, intricate pieces, and for a moment, it almost felt like an escape. He wandered through the rooms, admiring the work, until he found himself at the very edge of the space, away from the crowd.
There, in a small, quiet corner, was a painting that stopped him cold.
It was of a boy standing in the middle of a street, his arms outstretched like he was welcoming the rain, his face turned to the sky, and a smile on his lips.
The boy in the painting… was him.
Mix’s chest tightened as tears welled up in his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He stumbled forward, reaching out with shaking hands.
The sound of his own sobs filled the room. The staff nearby noticed him and hurried over, concerned.
"I-Is this for sale?" Mix’s voice trembled, weak and broken, as he tried to find the words, as if it would give him back the one person he had lost.
The staff, noticing the urgency in his voice, answered quickly, "The artist instructed that only one person could buy this painting."
Mix’s breath caught in his throat. The words froze him. He looked up, meeting the staff’s eyes, but the staff's gaze lingered for a second longer, before realization hit. The staff’s eyes widened.
"Mix," the staff muttered under their breath, recognizing the man in front of them. "The artist said that only Mix Sahaphap Wongratch can buy this painting."
Tears streamed down Mix’s face. His voice shook as he whispered, "I-I'm Mix."
"Where’s the artist of this work?" he asked, desperation leaking into every word.
He needed to know.
He had to know.
The staff hesitated before answering, and their voice softened with sympathy. "The artist… passed away a month ago. He had cancer. Eye cancer. But even as his sight was failing, he fought to complete it. He wanted to make sure it was sent here, to this exhibit."
Mix’s heart stopped.
The weight of the words crushed him. Earth. Earth had painted this… right before he passed. He could almost see him in that lonely apartment, sitting by the window, painting in the cold, fighting through the illness.
The painting was a memory, a final goodbye. And in that moment, everything came crashing down on Mix.
Earth had been so alone. He had fought his battle alone. And Mix had never known.
He choked back a sob, his body shaking with the grief he hadn’t allowed himself to feel, the grief he’d buried under the weight of his own career, his own fame. How could he have been so selfish?
"I'm sorry," Mix whispered to the painting, as if Earth could hear him through the canvas. "I'm sorry I wasn't there.”
His knees gave out, and he collapsed on the floor, his sobs loud and uncontrollable. It hurt in a way he couldn’t explain, a physical ache in his chest. He imagined the silence that had settled in the apartment—where only the brushstrokes of Earth’s lonely paintings remained.
"I never knew," Mix whispered, his words choked with tears.
Mix sat there, alone in the midst of everything, his heart heavy, knowing he had lost more than just a person—he had lost the one part of himself that he had truly needed.
And this time, there would be no going back.
"H-How much is it?" Mix asked between his sobs.
The staff answered.
"100 baht."
And I never think of him
Except on midnights like this...