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Perth notices it at 10:07 p.m., when the workshop room finally empties and the quiet hum of the air-con sounds louder than his own thoughts. The swords are stacked point-down in a padded bin. Tape marks are still on the floor like little bruises. Outside, the corridor lights have gone into night mode, softer, yellowed.
Seven days, he tells himself. It’s nothing. It’s work. He has Scarlet Heart Thailand staging, forms, breath control. Santa has JASP.ER—practice, vocal blend, a new song with Pond, Aou, Joong. Everyone’s busy. Adults.
He sits anyway, half on the edge of the sprung floor, and his hand is already on his phone before the thought finishes.
Video call. The ring crawls—one, two, three—then Santa fills the screen, close enough that it’s just cheek and lashes at first, then he leans back and grins. Hair smashed by headphones. Hoodie zipped, sleeves frayed at the cuff. The light is harsh on the wall and somehow soft on his skin.
“Phi Perth,” Santa says, voice low, like he’s trying not to wake anyone in the building. “Finish?”
Perth exhales. The sound shakes something loose in his chest. “Just now. Nong?”
Santa tilts the phone; Perth gets a flash of a messy desk—paper cups, a pencil behind a lyric sheet, Joong’s jacket on the chair. “My flat, we’re practicing the vocal for our new song. Phi Pond just left. Phi Aou and Phi Joong are arguing about the bridge, na.” There’s affection in it, that way Santa speaks about his people—an easy warmth that makes Perth want to be better.
A small blur springs onto Santa’s lap and meows into the mic like it is the star. Perth feels his nose prickle on reflex. “Ta—don’t put—” He sniffles. “—don’t put your princess near the phone.”
Santa laughs. “My princess?” He moves Chieko out of the frame with two fingers. The cat blinks like a villain. “Poor Phi.”
“Very poor.” Perth rubs the bridge of his nose and smiles anyway. “Move in with me.”
The line is out before he edits it. He watches Santa hear it, sees the split-second flicker in his eyes—fond, unsurprised.
“With who?” Santa murmurs. “Me and…?” He shifts the phone like he might flash the cat again and then thinks better of Perth’s sinuses.
“You and me, Tataa.” Perth leans back on his palm and tries to sound like a functional adult and not a boy who needs his favorite person within arm’s reach. “I’ll build her a house.”
Santa tucks his chin, smiling. “You can’t stand on my doormat. Last time you sneezed five times before shoes off.”
“I’ll build her a sealed kingdom,” Perth says, freshly inspired. “Airlock, HEPA. The works.”
“Phi.” Santa’s smile settles into something softer. “Go sleep. Tomorrow you have workshop again.”
“Ta,” Perth says, thumb dragging across glass like he could trace a cheekbone through it. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Phi Perth.”
Perth ends the call and stares at the ceiling until his phone slides off his chest and thuds the floor. Seven days. Stupid number.
Day 2
He wakes early and starts before he can think: three photos, rapid-fire. A mirror selfie with tragic bangs. His script with highlighter bleeding through the paper. A bowl of congee. Eat, okay? he texts. I wrote “Ta” on page 14 so I don’t forget your face.
Santa replies with a picture of his hand holding a guitar pick and a coffee cup in the corner. Practicing harmony. Eat, Phi. If headache then take meds, na.
Perth: Move in with me.
Santa: Chieko says no. (A sticker of a cat kicking him out.)
He adds another beat later: เธอหวงแม่มากนะ—very possessive.
Perth actually opens his laptop and types: “cat‑safe glass enclosure cost Bangkok.” He ends up with three quotes and three new acronyms in his head—HEPA, CADR, MERV—then starts recording a voice note about negative pressure and condo permits. He’s mid‑ramble when Santa’s name flashes on screen; Perth answers, and the first thing he hears is Santa laughing, hiccuping through it.
“Phi Perth,” Santa manages, still breathless. “Stop. Sleep.”
“I’m only planning,” Perth says, dizzy from that laugh. “I’m not kidnapping her.”
He flips his notebook open like proof. “Morning: I make coffee, you feed her. Evening: you dance, I run lines. We meet in the middle for hugs,” he reads, suddenly shy at how real it sounds.
Santa huffs a smile. “And where does the princess go?”
“Anywhere she wants,” Perth says. “I’ll just… wear a mask and love her from a distance.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you.”
Santa goes pink, covers his mouth, and laughs again.
“Let Mr. Tanabaht fund the Chieko Wing,” Perth adds in a smooth, fake–business voice. “Or else, budget reallocated to hugs.”
Santa shakes his head, eyes bright. “Mr. Tanasleep should rest first. If you build all that and then collapse from sneezing, who will carry me to bed?”
“I’ll carry you first,” Perth says. “Collapse later.”
“Phiii.” Santa giggles, then softens. “No. Sleep now, Tanaben.”
Perth swallows the protest. Santa is right. He hates that Santa is right.
“Tata,” he groans into his pillow, smiling anyway. “Bullying me.”
“Taking care,” Santa corrects, warm. “Sleep.”
Day 3
Workshop runs late. The fight director adds an extra hour on footwork (“again—no shoulder; hips, na”). By midnight, Perth is finally at his bedroom. The mirror is fogged. His hair is damp. He collapses onto the bed and hits video call, not caring that the angle is unflattering.
Santa picks up fast. He has changed into the oversized tee Perth bought him last month. You could call it a coincidence; Santa doesn’t.
“Hi,” Santa says, voice small with sleep, even though he insists he’s not tired. “How’s your weird soap food?”
Perth blinks. Then remembers the takeaway he told Santa about—something sweet and floral and confusing. He groans. “I think my taste buds are in a lawsuit.”
Santa laughs, a quiet puff. “Phi Joong said my high note today sounded like I got electrocuted in a cute way.”
Perth snorts. “That’s—what does that even mean?”
They talk like that until the clock rolls. Nothing grand. Little things that make the day’s edges smooth—Aou’s serious face softening when the chord locks; Tay’s terrible dad joke; Phi Dao crashing their recording session with Phi Kangsom; the new lyric that might be the chorus if it stops being shy. Santa sticks his cheek to the camera.
Perth reaches out on instinct before memory catches up and glass reminds him what it is. Like an idiot “Tata.” He pinches air anyway. “Come here.”
Santa tips his other cheek in, mischievous. “Both, Phi.”
“You…” Perth grins, helpless. The place below his ribs, where the week has been a tight knot, loosens a fraction. “Okay. Sleep.”
“You too.” Santa’s eyes are already heavy. “I’ll call morning.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Perth falls asleep with the call still open, the grey of Santa’s room dimming to black, and wakes to a selfie Santa took of him—mouth open, not flattering, somehow adorable. My baby tiger, Santa has typed. Perth threatens to sue and sets it as his lock screen.
Day 4
At 1:23 a.m., Perth is ten minutes from Santa’s building with two takeaway coffees in the cup holder, windshield blooming with drizzle, when his phone buzzes.
Phi. Don’t come. Please rest. I’ll be okay.
If you come I can’t stop you from carrying me home.
But you need sleep more than me.
He shouldn’t be this close. He told himself he was just going to loop the block and go home, that he only wanted to see the lobby light spill onto the pavement and imagine Santa padding out in a hoodie, hair mussed, Chieko meowing like a judge.
All week the calls had taken the edge off, but tonight the ache wouldn’t sit still; it moved into his hands, his jaw, the way his foot pressed the accelerator without asking permission.
He misses Santa. in a way that feels physical, like a pulled muscle he keeps testing even when it hurts.
Perth pulls into a petrol station and drops his head to the steering wheel. The two coffees cool between his knees. Santa’s texts sit on the screen like a palm pressed to his chest—gentle, firm. He laughs once, short into the dark, because of course Santa is the one protecting him from himself. He types with his forehead still on the cool leather. You know me too well.
Santa sends a single white heart, then: เก่งมาก—good boy.
He lingers, breathing with the wipers, letting the wanting loosen its fist by degrees. He wants to ignore the message and drive the last ten minutes anyway; he also wants to be the man Santa trusts to listen.
Perth groans loud enough that a sleepy attendant looks over. He U-turns.
Day 5
The days after settle into a gentle rhythm of small check-ins.
Morning call. A midday check-in with a photo of a half-eaten salad (“vegetables, na”). An evening countdown (“two days, na”). A night call where Santa is already half asleep, cheek mashed into his pillow, mouth parted a little. Perth watches him breathe and pretends he isn’t cataloging every detail like a thief.
“Phi Perth,” Santa murmurs without opening his eyes. “You stare too much.”
“Never enough.” Perth keeps his voice quiet. “I miss you.”
“Mm.” The smile is small and dangerous. “Me too.”
That night Perth dreams of something simple: Santa standing in his kitchen, the light from the fridge making a square on the floor, Chieko peeking from the hallway with the high disdain of a princess. The dream smells like dish soap and orange peel, and relief. On the stove a small pot ticks and breathes; Ta walks him through khao man gai the way his mom taught him—rinse the rice in three waters, toast it with garlic and ginger until it turns glossy, then flood it with chicken stock perfumed with pandan. Poach gently, no bubbles, let it rest. Mix the dipping sauce—chilies, ginger, garlic, a little soy, vinegar, sugar—taste, adjust, laugh when Perth adds too much ginger.
In the dream it’s easy: steam on the windows, two bowls, one cat hovering for scraps, and the kind of warmth you can eat.
Day 6 – Doi Kham
Backstage smells like hairspray, acrylic signage, and chilled fruit syrup. The set is bright even with the red light off—frosted plexiglass and a carousel of ice pops arranged like jewels. Staff move in smooth circuits, checking cables, fixing one more flyaway, conferring in low voices with a tablet.
Perth sees him and the whole week sucks to a single, sharp point.
Santa in a green shirt over a white tank top, clean lines. Lips pink. His hair is brushed soft and a little boyish. He is bent over the product table, reading the cue card. Then he senses it—senses him—and looks up.
“Phi Perth.” The smile that breaks over Santa’s face lands somewhere behind Perth’s sternum and lights the room from the wrong angle.
Perth tries to act normal. He makes it two steps before drifting close enough that their shoulders brush, his fingers tapping the edge of Santa’s sleeve like an accident that isn’t. He dips his head—quick, private, the kind of greeting that plays as a joke to everyone else.
“Hi,” he says, keeping it light.
“Hi,” Santa answers, eyes bright; his lashes lower for a blink, then he straightens.
The live is the good kind of chaos. The host—Phi Arm—bounces; the chat goes feral in Thai, English, and emojis. They hit the talking points but tilt them until they sound like themselves. Santa riffs and laughs; when asked his favourite fruit, Perth says, very plainly and proudly, “Santa,” and the room cracks up. Without thinking, he takes a bite from the same ice pop Santa just sampled, and the MC and staff lose it as the chat detonates into hearts and 55555.
Perth keeps his touches studio‑safe—legal in the frame. A palm at Santa’s waist to guide a trade. Fingers grazing his wrist when they pass a tray. A brief tap at the nape when Santa laughs. During the game cue that calls for a hug, he loops an arm around Santa’s waist—secure, tight—and Santa fits there like it’s familiar.
He lifts his phone for a quick clip—“for the fans,” he says, because they haven’t seen Santa in seven days—but the truth is he wants it for himself; his favourite view in the world.
When they sign off and the red light dies, the world narrows. Perth drags Santa into the shadow beside a folded backdrop and kisses him—temple first, because he’s stupidly reverent; then cheek; then the corner where a half-laugh still lives. Santa goes pliant, smiling into it, a quiet “Phi…” slipping out like a thank you he doesn’t want to say on a full breath.
“Missed you Ta,” Perth says into warm skin.
“I can tell,” Santa teases, shivering when Perth’s mouth finds the soft below his ear. “We finished, na.”
“We are.” Perth kisses the other side to be fair. “And I still need more.”
They stand with their foreheads pressed for one minute that feels like a drink. Staff pass by in purposeful blurs. The world returns, as it always does, with a practical knock: Santa has another schedule tomorrow. Perth does too. The endorphins drain. Perth remembers the calendar. After today, there’s nothing together until next week.
The drop is almost physical.
Santa sees it—the way he always does. He tips their brows together until Perth has to refocus. “Hey,” he says softly. “In two days I have TikTok Live for Bobbi Brown. You can watch.”
Perth looks at him and hears only the sting: watch, not touch. Streams, not skin. He nods anyway and finds himself already plotting without meaning to.
“Or,” he says, words tasting like a dare, “I crash it.”
Santa laughs like it’s purely a joke. “You? Brand live? You’ll steal my lipstick.”
Perth smiles back with an ease he doesn’t feel. “We’ll see.”
Before they can linger, Mae Add pops her head in with a clap: “WilliamEst—hurry, they’re about to end.” Santa and Perth trade a look; it lands, easy and sure. Perth offers his hand without thinking, Santa hooks their fingers, and they’re already jogging for the door. They spill into the corridor, laughing at the small, breathless rush of it, and tumble into the van still out of breath—grinning because they’ve stolen a few more minutes side by side.
Day 7 – The Plan
Turns out, money talks very politely.
Perth starts where rational people start: Mae Add. Perth is not suicidal.
She listens to him with the phone on speaker, the clack of her keyboard like percussion. “You want to appear in his brand live,” she repeats, skeptical but not dismissive. “Two days’ notice. No prior lock-in. You know that’s—”
“Sudden,” Perth says. “I know. I’ll cover my own appearance. I’ll cover any incremental production cost. And I’ll do pre-stories, post-stories, and a TikTok duet before. You can cap deliverables. I just—” He exhales. “I want to be there.”
There’s a pause. It stretches long enough for him to hear a page turn on her desk.
“You’re very motivated,” Mae Add says at last, and he can hear her smiling now. “Don’t overdo it. Let the brand lead. I’ll call.”
What follows is a small miracle built on polite emails and midnight line edits. GMMTV sends a spreadsheet. The agency sends a deck. Legal sends a docu-sign. Someone on the brand side laughs, surprised and delighted and a little scandalized, and asks again to confirm the fee structure. Perth repeats: “I’ll waive my fee.” It isn’t a flex; it’s triage, using the one lever he can pull fast.
They land on a “special cameo” that doesn’t cannibalize Santa’s spotlight: a ten-minute window with room to breathe; a “boyfriend test” segment (transfer-proof check, close-distance check) that plays into the product without crossing any lines; two light pre-promos on Perth’s IG. He wires a deposit for the incremental crew; signs; screenshotted group chats sprout like mushrooms.
That night he texts Santa like he didn’t just buy himself into a live. Sleep early. I’ll call morning. Proud of you, na, kitta.
Santa sends a photo of Chieko sitting like a loaf, expression accusing. She says goodnight to her step-daddy.
Perth sneezes at his phone on principle and grins into his pillow.
Two Days Later – Bobbi Brown
The studio is pocket-sized, all mirrors and light boxes and trays. It smells like alcohol wipes and new plastic. Santa sits at a high table, sleeves pushed up, mouth glossy with the new shade. He’s in work mode, the bright, polite version that still manages to be himself. He greets the flood of usernames like they’re friends he actually remembers.
“—and for Mae who want something natural but still healthy-looking, this one is good,” Santa says, tapping the bullet with a careful nail. He glances sideways as the host preps the next beat.
The host smiles into the camera. “We actually have a surprise guest today—”
Perth steps in.
Santa’s face does exactly two things in one second: first a full-on “:O” — eyes huge, lips parting — then it flips into “:D” so fast the comments explode. “Phi!!” he blurts, half-scold, half-delighted.
Perth breaks into a laugh, hands up like he’s caught. “Sawasdee krub,” he greets, bowing to the host and brand, then side-eyes Santa with a grin. “I was nearby. Very nearby.”
Santa’s already laughing too, head ducking, shoulders bouncing. “Nearby where?” he teases. “The door?”
“The budget,” Perth shoots back, and they both crack up again. The chat goes feral: PHI PERTH 55555, NONG TA’S FACE 😭, BOYFRIEND LIVE CONFIRMED.
They settle at the high table. Perth hooks his fingers on the back of Santa’s chair instead of his waist (behaving), but they’re still angled to each other like magnets that forgot about camera lines.
“We have our new shade,” the host says, sliding the bullet between them. “Natural but healthy-looking, na. Maybe Phi Perth can help Nong Santa demo a little?”
“Yes, krub,” Perth says, too eager. Santa glances up, amused, mouth already curving.
Perth offers his wrist. Santa swatches him with mock-serious precision, tongue peeking out for one adorable second. They both notice; both choke on a laugh.
“Undertone… neutral,” Santa says, trying to keep it professional and failing because his eyes are smiling. “Finish… mm… comfy.”
“Comfy,” Perth echoes, nodding solemnly like he’s rating a mattress. Santa snorts. They lose it again for a beat, shoulders bumping as the host grins and lets them be.
“Transfer test?” the host prompts, playing along. “Our chat wants to know if it’s… kiss-proof.”
Perth turns slightly, offering the side of his face to camera (strictly PG), then glances at Santa with exaggerated innocence. “For science?”
Santa’s laugh catches on an inhale. “Science,” he agrees, cheeks already a shade pinker than the lipstick. He leans in—just the distance where their breaths meet, nothing scandalous—and Perth comedy-gasps, hand to his chest.
“Ehh, I’m shy, Tataa,” Perth says, and Santa wheezes, head tipping forward. The comments are just a wall of 5555555.
They pivot to a safer version: Santa taps the lipstick onto the back of Perth’s hand, then presses a clean tissue to show minimal transfer. Perth holds Santa’s wrist steady with two careful fingers and makes a dramatic face like he’s doing heart surgery. Santa presses his lips together, trying not to laugh, fails, and laughs into the tissue anyway.
“You see?” Santa tells the camera, recovering smoothly. “Low transfer. Good for… mm… c-close friend test.”
Perth chokes. Santa chokes because Perth chokes. The host cackles.
“Last step,” the host says, delighted. “Removal. Phi Perth can help clean?”
Perth takes a wipe, glances at Santa—okay?—and Santa nods, eyes bright. He wipes gently, almost ceremonious, and when he’s done, he wiggles his eyebrows at the camera like he’s just disarmed a bomb. Santa swats his forearm, laughing.
They wrap right on time. Perth turns to the lens, playful but earnest. “Everyone, support Tata na krub. He worked hard… and laughed too much.”
“Ay Tanaben!” Santa adds, leaning in, voice warm, teasing. “He laughed more.”
They bow out. Mics click off. The room exhales.
Santa spins on his stool to face him, hands braced on the edge. “You!” He’s still in his :D face, cheeks high, eyes crinkled. “I really—Phi!—” He breaks into another laugh, can’t even finish the scold.
Perth’s laughing too, just looking at him. “I missed that face,” he admits, softer, thumb brushing the red thread at Santa’s wrist like a secret.
Santa’s smile gentles. He tips forward for a quick forehead bump—one beat only—then sits back, eyes still bright. “Crazy,” he says, fond. “But fun.”
“For you?” Perth grins. “Always.”
Santa’s answer is the small, sincere “I know,” before he snorts again. “Also— ‘the budget’ is crazy.”
Perth widens his eyes, mock-offended. “Allegedly.”
They both dissolve into one more round of helpless giggles.
Backstage, After
The studio thins to crew and empty chairs. The host waves goodbye; the brand PR thanks them for being “cute but professional.” Santa hops off the stool, feet landing with a soft thud, and steps into Perth’s space like gravity forgot its job.
“You really did it,” he says in Thai, soft and amused. “You paid to see me.”
Perth shrugs with one shoulder like it’s nothing and everything. “I asked what would make me breathe easier. Answer was you.”
Santa stares at him for a second, eyes shining in a way studio lights can’t fake. Then he ruins the seriousness on purpose: “Move in with me.”
Perth’s heart stops, then stutters. Santa lets him dangle for one count and nudges his arm, grin returning. “Kidding. Chieko said no.”
“Ai Chieko,” Perth mutters, dramatic. Santa laughs and leans his forehead to Perth’s shoulder for a breath. Perth doesn’t move, just looks down at the red thread around Santa’s wrist and nudges it with his thumb, once, like a promise he isn’t ready to put in words.
“Okay,” Perth says into Santa’s hair, deciding again what he’s already decided. “Then I’ll build the kingdom.”
“HEPA?” Santa murmurs, smile touching the letters.
“Two.”
“Crazy,” Santa repeats, softer.
“For you,” Perth says, simple.
Santa’s reply is quiet enough to keep. “I know.”
Later
Perth calls from bed, night soft around him. Santa answers from the sofa with Chieko curled like a comma against his thigh. The TV is on low; the room light is off. There’s a sense memory in Perth’s throat of how this would smell, if he were there: soap, cat, the faint powder of a makeup wipe, Santa.
“17th August,” Perth says. “We have work together again.”
“Mm.” Santa tucks the phone closer. “We’ll survive.”
Perth pretends to think. “Or I’ll buy the company.”
Santa bursts out laughing, head tipping back against the sofa. “Phi—”
“Allegedly,” Perth says, grinning into the dark.
Santa looks at him for a long second, something serious arriving behind the amusement. “Thank you today,” he says, voice smaller. “Really.”
Perth swallows. “Anytime.”
There isn’t a better word for what sits between them then—gratitude braided with want, with relief, with the strange, simple joy of making problems solvable by showing up. Santa’s eyes drift. He fights sleep long enough to say, “Goodnight, Phi Perth.”
“Goodnight, Ta.” Perth hesitates. “Miss you.”
Santa’s mouth curves around it without drama. “Me too.”
Perth falls asleep with the call still open, Santa’s breathing steady in his ear. It isn’t moving in. It isn’t an airlocked cat kingdom. But it is close to ordinary, and for now, that is enough.
17th August, Soon
The calendar reminder sits there, plain: “Shopee Food Live PerthSanta.” Perth taps into it and adds one more line no one else will see: Bring flowers. Bring allergy pills. Bring a plan.
He puts his phone face down, breathes in, breathes out, and finally sleeps without counting the days.