Work Text:
I watched the view count climb with a kind of reckless grace, as if the new episode had slipped a spark into the world and the world, unable to resist, let it flare. My spare phone would not stop trembling due to the notifications dissolving into each other until they became a continuous hum beneath the night. Two episodes left and the audience seemed consumed the view bar breaking records with each episode…almost fevered. I had a hunch the moment I took on the project that Me and Thee would be a hit but the response was anything my thoughts ever crossroaded.
I breathed out a tired laugh and lifted my wine glass allowing the sweetness to rest on my tongue before leaning back against the cool marble wall. From the height of the penthouse, Bangkok stretched outward like a luminous fever dream. The skyline shimmered with pale golds and electric whites and each tower glowing as if trying to outshine its own reflection. The city moved with a restless pulse. Roads twisted through the darkness like incandescent veins, carrying the heat of impatience and awaitment , hatred and laughter, hopes and surprises and the small cruelties of nightlife.
It looked magnificent from here.
It always did. It also looked merciless.
Distance makes even chaos appear intentional.
Just like home, just like…him.
The clock displayed 1:14. Its pendulum swayed with an almost mocking gentleness, its soft clicking reminding me that time continued to move even when I could not. The motion seemed to whisper that it understood me too well yet unlike me at least it knew what direction it was headed. It knew I was also a Sisyphus circling around the same old routine. Mounted with overwork and reaching home with exhaustion soaring around me. It's better than before anyways. Better than those times I would only circle around him.
A cold gust from the air conditioner washed over my skin and raised a trail of goosebumps, as if my body reacted to emotions I fought to suppress. My gaze drifted across the room to where my phone lay on the glass shelf. It rested there quietly although its silence felt unbearably loud.
His name lived inside that phone.
His name formally saved Pond GMMtv but that formality was built on house of cards. Would collapse anything, recklessly..beautifully.
His contact.
Too near to ignore.
Too dangerous to reach for.
I told myself to stay still. I told myself that work required boundaries, that feelings were impractical… that nothing good could come from wanting someone whose voice I heard every day on set and whose presence lingered long after shooting wrapped.
Yet every time I tried to forget, the truth resurfaced with a sting .I missed him. More than I should. More than I had any right to. I missed his heat against my skin ... .his cheesy approach and soul elevating words to derive the boredom, the stiffness off of my shoulder. I missed his company. Ever since I started filming Scarlet Heart and he got busy with Jasp. er , we barely talk. He's slumped by work and so am I. Just once a week for the reaction of the series, and it was yesterday I met him briefly for half an hour. Our schedules were tough so we just pre-recorded our reaction to Episodes of Me and Thee before we both had to storm out.
What the hell is wrong with me actually?!
The city glittered beneath me oblivious to my hesitation. The glass felt heavy in my hand. I took another slow sip, my forefinger grazed the silky circle of the curve of the glass ever so gently as the heat trailed down my throat like a confession I refused to speak.
I averted my eyes from the phone, but the wanting remained.
Quiet. Persistent. Unavoidable.And I knew, with a sinking sort of clarity, that resisting him felt far more impossible than admitting I wanted to call. I should not, I won't call him. I won't . I won't text him.
The notification pierced the stillness again.My phone lit the room in a soft, electric glow. His name. Always his name. Cause hs is the only one you left unmute in your socials, you dumbass. Yes I have. I am a stupid, I am a dumbass. That's why I keep the number of my coworker whom I introduced as my situationship a few weeks ago pinned to my chats. Fuck you Phuwin.. I lunged at the lifeless device now buzzing with his name in the lock screen.
Pond:
Have you checked X?
The reach is insane.
Another vibration followed, too quickly for me to breathe.
Pond:
5 million and a half already.
Congratulations. I’m proud of you. You nailed it man.
My fingers tightened around the glass in my hand. The wine suddenly felt too sweet, too warm but also tasteless. I set it down on the table and stood there for a moment, unsure whether to pick up the phone or steady myself first. My pulse thudded at my throat like it was trying to get out. He's always had this effect on me…more in the past few weeks.
I finally swiped the screen open where his messages glowed softly. My chest ached in a way I refused to characterize. Rolling my tongue over my dried lips, I typed with trembling and overexcited hands.
Me:
Yeah, I saw.
Feels surreal.
Thanks.
I stared at the text, hating how distant it sounded. I deleted it. Typed again.
Me:
Just checked.
It’s… overwhelming.
Thank you, Pond.
A bit warmer. Still safe. I pressed send before I could hesitate again.
Immediately, the silence in the room thickened . I couldn’t sit still as if some sort of invisible ghost pulled me in its cubicle varnishing my neurons with good nothings.. I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, staring at Bangkok burning softly beneath the night lights. My reflection hovered faintly in the glass.. I saw a man with eyes brimming with exhaustion, lips bitten and chapped, skin rough from all the makeup I removed within a reckless minute and behind that physical mortification,there lived too much yearning tucked into the corners of my expression.
My phone buzzed again.
I almost dropped it.
Pond:
You deserve the hype.
Your acting really hit this time. People are swooning over my handsome boy again. 😉
It was nice to watch you on set these past weeks.
Handsome boy. My handsome boy. My…
Why did that word feel like it had teeth? I could almost hear his voice. I could feel that teasing smirk plastered across his face. That hauntingly beautiful eyes of his staring at me, passing genuine words through the contact.
I swallowed hard, ran a hand through my hair then sat down on the edge of the sofa. My knee bounced , my bare feet drumming against the cold floor. My throat felt dry making me reach for the bottle of water by the lamp,
I took a slow and measured sip as if it could cool whatever was burning inside me. What the fuck?! He is joking with me!!! Phuwin!! Get a grip, oh god.
I typed.
Me:
You served in this episode too.
People keep praising your scenes. And dude? The world’s most handsome face card list check? Did not see that coming..
I stared at what I wrote. Too forward.
I hovered over delete.
Paused.
Then added a thin layer of restraint:
Me:
Your performance stood out. Those cheesy-ass lines and the dramatic sound effects. You really didn't have to act this time, your script must have said ‘Be yourself Pond Naravit, unleash your inner Khun Thee,’
Better.
Just professional enough to pass. But playful enough to keep it engaging.
Just sincere enough that he might keep the banter on.
I sent it and leaned back ,exhausted from one message. This was ridiculous.
Why did talking to him nowadays feel like trying to balance on a thread over a fire?
My phone lit up again. God. Does he have to respond immediately?!!
Pond:
Don't make me get tomato ears again, c'mon.
The scenes stood out only because you’re easy to play off with.
You make the shots feel natural. And my cringe ass dialogues blended with your natural responses as Peach so dramatically.
I can't stop staring at your expressions and rewind it again and again
I closed my eyes. The compliment slid into me too easily. It's because it's me. It's because of me . I keep rewinding to see your face. Come over and see me then, press the facetime button, let me look at you outside the tv screen. I can't stop staring..His words landed where I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.
He typed again before I could reply.
Pond:
What are you doing though? You had an off today, right? Still awake so I was asking.
It was followed by another text that made my heart thump.
Pond:
You should rest, Phuwin. Really. You rarely take rest.
I suck in a breath and curse him. If you care this much then come over and take care of me. I am not resting, I am restless because of you. I am mentally assaulted by your thoughts and now it's physically starting to hurt. You are making me crazy Phi. And I can't control it.
Me:
Oh, I threw up a small celebration. Opened a bottle.
Don't worry, I am doing fine.
Take the bait. Tell me something like ‘how could you celebrate without me?’ and drive over. Tell me to wait before I take another sip and prepare a glass and some roti. Your favourite.
Pond:
that's not resting. Like you have a few more days of rest before the next fall in for Scarlet Heart, yes? And instead of sleeping, you are drinking?
dude.
My breath hitched. How does he know my schedule? This dumbass, why does he have to care this much?
I stood up again unsure of how to reply and walked across the room, opened the fridge, grabbed another chilled water bottle I didn’t need. I unscrewed the cap just to have something to do with my hands while thinking of a reply that wouldn't reveal the inner demon I was fighting.
I typed slowly.
Me:
Stop scolding me. You are also not sleeping, bothering me instead.
And I am not just drinking, the city looks…beautiful from my window, I am taking the night in. And wine is just an accompaniment for solitude .
TAKE THE HINT POND NARAVIT.
I wanted to add
Trying not to think about you more than I should.
But I didn't.
Professionalism had teeth too.
His reply came with a slight pause.
Pond:
Don’t drink much, you always get terrible headaches and rashes after three drinks.
If you need anything, text me.
My heart jumped once. Painfully. Memories of my drunk dazed states being handled by him countless times enthralled me. I deposited myself on the couch again. Stared at my thumbs. They hovered above the keyboard like they already knew what they shouldn’t write.
What I wanted:
Can you come over?
Can you call? Can I see your face?
Can we meet tomorrow? No..right now. I will drive over. Can I?
Can we talk like we used to, without pretending we’re only coworkers? Like a few months ago? Can you help me relax by dragging me to a sauna with you like before? Can you barge in anytime and force me to play Jenga with you until I get bored and fall asleep over your stomach?
What I typed instead:
Me:
Mnmhn, where are you by the way?
I saw your cf story, you're still in the studio?
It looked forcefully dragging a topic. Flat. Nothing close to the storm twisting inside me.
His reply appeared softly.
Pond:
I'm in my car. .
We worked hard this time although Joong was busy with courting Dunk. Jesus I don't get these two.
He's in the car, he's not driving. I tumbled my teeth against my lower lip, where could he be now? phuwin phuwin..you loser..you overthinking loser…
Me:
Haha, they better get married actually. Or I am gonna lock them in a room for a week. I can't bear to look at them when they are together. It's always so.. uh.. you know.
Pond:
Yea those two are the irl ‘seven days a week’ duo. 🙂↔️
Me:
Yea.
I feel the conversation dying. He does not text , I do not either and at a point I just type out a good night and lock the phone.
Hold it against my chest for a moment without meaning to. Then set it face-down on the sofa cushion beside me.
—
Pond’s thumb hovers over the screen again, the familiar glow of Phuwin’s name taunting him like it knows exactly what it does to him. He wants to type something .. anything … to keep the thread alive, to hear from him again, but the rational part of his brain slaps the hand away before it can commit. Don’t. Not now. Not like this.
He leans back, letting the seat cradle him but he can’t stop fidgeting. Fingers twist the steering wheel, then flatten against his knees, then press into his palms. He flexes his toes inside his shoes, shifts his weight forward, then back, each small movement an attempt to release the tension he can’t name.
His eyes keep darting to the apartment, to that faint flicker of light behind the curtain, imagining Phuwin moving around probably unaware, probably perfect and impossibly near, and it feels like a knife sliding between his ribs. His chest tightens and he swallows hard, tasting the dryness of his own frustration. He wants to call. He wants to walk up the steps, knock, say anything, feel him, but every rational cell screams that it’s reckless, that it’s dangerous, that it would undo everything they’ve built. And still, the desire coils tighter, insistent and raw.
He opens his phone again, types, deletes, types, deletes. Every time he starts, he imagines the words landing wrong, revealing too much, shattering the careful balance they’ve held for years. But the urge , the unrelenting, almost physical tug , refuses to relent. He pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long, shaky breath, and then sighs in frustration, letting his head rest against the wheel.
The car feels too small, too close, too suffocating, and yet leaving feels impossible. He reaches for the water bottle again, tips it slowly, savoring the cold trickle down his throat, as if the act of swallowing might anchor him somehow, might steady the storm in his chest. But it doesn’t. It only sharpens the ache, reminding him that he’s sitting here, near him, and he can’t reach out, can’t touch, can’t speak the words curling and clawing in his mind.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, pressing his palms against his face, thumbs brushing against his eyes. He wants to laugh at himself, but a harsh, hollow sound that he can barely recognize. This is insane. He whispers it to the empty car, the sound swallowed by the night, the streets, the city that hums just beyond the glass. He’s trapped in the impossible, where wanting and restraint coexist like jagged teeth, biting into him from all sides.
And then…almost without meaning to .. his fingers brush the phone again. He thinks about typing, about sending a line that would risk everything but feel like relief.
Can I call you?
Can I come over?
I need to see you.
His pulse accelerates, heart hammering against his ribs, stomach twisting with the weight of everything he wants to say but cannot. He imagines Phuwin reading it, imagining him, and the mental image of that small, unreadable smile is enough to make him press back against the seat and groan softly, nearly desperate.
He wants to break the distance.
He wants to reach through the screen, knock on the door, slip past every caution he’s learned to live by.
And yet, the words never leave the phone.
He stays, trapped in the hum of the engine, the glow of the screen, the impossible nearness of someone he cannot, will not, touch.
He closes his eyes, letting the pulse of desire and restraint ripple through him, knowing that this limbo ..the ache, the want, the unbearable holding back
.. is the only place he can exist tonight.
And still, every muscle in his body, every quickened heartbeat, every tremor of his fingers whispers the same truth: he is utterly, irrevocably undone by him., the world shrinks to the car, the phone, the impossible distance between him and Phuwin.
Then …a sharp rap on the glass.
His eyes snap open so violently he nearly jerks forward. Heart lurching, breath hitching, every muscle tensing reflexively. The sound reverberates through the car, tiny yet thunderous and for a moment, his mind refuses to accept what he’s seeing.
Phuwin.
Phuwin is standing there, just outside the window, leaning slightly, arms crossed against the frame, eyes narrowing with a mixture of amusement and accusation. The corner of his mouth quirks up like he’s been waiting for this exact moment, and something feral and desperate unravels inside Pond.
“I knew it,” Phuwin says softly, low enough to mock and tease, yet carrying that familiar warmth that twists something in Pond’s chest like a knife.
….
Phuwin paces slowly across his apartment, bare feet brushing against the cool wood floor, each step deliberate but restless. The text thread with Pond still glows on his phone, faint and insistent, like it’s demanding more than he can give. He curls the phone in both hands, thumbs brushing over the screen absentmindedly, tracing the words he already read a dozen times.
What if… what if I just… the thought spins through him, quick and dangerous, and he stops mid-step, letting the weight of it settle heavy in his chest. The weight of desire, of recklessness, of wanting something he knows he cannot afford.
Because he knows.
He knows what the fans would say. The social media mobs are waiting to dissect every glance, every gesture, every rumor. He knows the BL industry doesn’t forgive improvised affection between co-stars. Long-term projects, tours, shoots… they live and die by the public’s perception. If they slip, if anyone slips… it could ruin years of work, credibility, even Pond’s career. Their careers.
He spins slightly, fingers tightening around the phone, thumbs flexing nervously. And what if we fight? he thinks, the impossible scenario playing on
repeat. A small disagreement, a misunderstood look, a tense moment on set …and suddenly, everything would be exposed, public, messy, unforgiving. Everyone would have an opinion, and none of those opinions would consider them human. Would we even survive it? Could we survive it?
His stomach twists. He leans against the counter, pressing his palms into the cool surface, closing his eyes for a long moment, feeling the ache of wanting without entitlement. He knows Pond feels it too. He sees it in the way his co-star responds, in the lingering looks, in the careful formality hiding something more volatile underneath. And that knowledge torments him, because it doesn’t make it easier. It just makes every hesitation sharper, every unspoken word heavier.
Phuwin sways slightly, as if the motion could shake the tension out of him. He scratches at the nape of his neck, tugging his hair lightly, lips pressed together in a line he doesn’t even notice forming. He thinks of Pond sitting in his car …how he’d imagine him there, tense, fidgeting, perhaps replaying their messages just like he does now. The thought both comforts and enrages him. Why does it have to be so hard? Why can’t we just… But he can’t finish the thought. He knows why.
He pours himself a glass of water, drinks it slowly, deliberately, letting the liquid ground him for a second while the heat in his chest refuses to fade. He sets the glass down, taps it gently with his fingers, and watches the faint ripple of condensation like some small metaphor for the waves of longing and caution crashing inside him.
And yet… the “and yet” gnaws at him. The possibility, the fantasy, the small, quiet rebellion in his chest whispering what if you just take the chance? What if he steps off the edge, what if they cross the line, what if… he lets Pond in?
He shakes his head, bitter laugh tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Impossible,” he mutters under his breath, not quite a sound, more a vibration of frustration. The deal .. the contract, the fans, the public eye, the entire machinery we’re trapped inside .. It isn't just a cage. It’s a thousand tiny, invisible bars he can feel pressing against his ribs, pressing against his lungs, pressing against the reckless beating of his heart.
Phuwin walks slowly back to the window, gazing out at the night skyline, letting the city lights blur into a hazy smear, as if the world outside can’t reach him here, in this suspended moment of craving and restraint. He taps his fingers against the sill, silent, almost apologetic to himself. He wants to reach out, wants to call, wants to break the rules and see if Pond will meet him halfway. But every microsecond, every memory of their shared professionalism, every ghost of expectation from the fans and society presses back…don’t risk it. don’t risk it. don’t risk it.
His chest tightens again, and he swallows hard, letting the taste of desire and frustration linger in his mouth. He shifts, leaning one shoulder against the frame of the window, breathing shallow, slow, deliberate, trying to convince himself that he can leave it, that he can survive this ache by sheer will. But he doesn’t leave. He can’t. The thought of walking away from this ..from him … feels like erasing a part of himself.
And so he stands there, trapped between the impossible … wanting more than he should, knowing the cost if he dares … and the unbearable knowledge that Pond feels it too, just beneath the surface, equally desperate, equally terrified, equally human.
He taps his phone again, almost reflexively, almost hoping, almost daring… and then shakes his head, letting the device fall to his side. Not yet, he whispers to the dark. Not yet. Too much at stake.
But even as he mutters it, he knows the ache won’t fade. It never does..
---
I glanced at my phone for the fifth time in ten minutes as my thumbs hovered over the screen, rereading Pond’s texts like some small ritual that had begun to gnaw at my sanity. Each perfectly polite sentence unsettled me in a way I could not hide from myself, and my chest tightened while my fingers curled around the device as if it were something fragile.
“Why is he so impossible?” I muttered to the empty room, my voice thin in the vast quiet of the penthouse.
My gaze drifted toward the window almost involuntarily as if my mind expected the night to conjure him out of nowhere. I looked down at the street, ready to dismiss my ridiculous imagination, until a faint glint of dark polished metal flickered at the corner of my eye.
A Maybach.
It rested under the streetlamps with the quiet arrogance only expensive machines possessed. The body was a sleek obsidian sweep of curves and shadows, the hood shimmering like liquid ink, the chrome edges catching light like teeth. The car looked impossibly smooth, powerful, a creature bred from luxury and secrets, and my pulse skipped when my brain whispered the stupidest, most reckless thought it could produce. And all of these? It was easily familiar.
Could it be him?
My breath hitched as I leaned forward against the railing, my thumb pressing into the metal as if grounding myself could erase the sudden surge of anticipation clawing up my spine. The city hummed around me, neon and heat and exhaust and music, yet all of it narrowed to that one car.
“Calm down. Don’t be ridiculous,” I whispered, the words trembling out of me without conviction.
Because the next heartbeat betrayed me, and I was already moving, without caring about anything.
I descended the stairs faster than I should have, each step a small fall through hope and disbelief. My shoes tapped softly while my fingers slid along the railing, and every turn in the staircase tightened the coil in my stomach. I tried to appear calm, casual, sensible, but inside I already felt light-headed, tangled with butterflies and a strange mischievous joy I refused to name.
And then I saw him.
Pond sat in the driver’s seat, parked neatly under the streetlight like some scene from a nighttime confession drama. The Maybach’s interior lighting framed him with this soft, luxurious glow that made the tension in his posture impossible to miss. His hands flexed anxiously around the wheel, his shoulders stiff beneath a dark hoodie, and his jaw was set in that familiar stubborn line he always had when he was trying and failing to look composed.
His face was half lit, sharp cheekbones, a faint shadow along his jaw, lips slightly parted with the kind of nervous determination that always gave him away. His eyes, wide and darting between the road and his phone, shimmered with uncertainty. He looked young and older at the same time like a man trying to swallow emotions too big for the space of a luxury car.
My heart surged with something bright and impossible to contain and laughter rose in my chest before I could stop it, soft and warm and delighted.I leaned casually against the car, one hand sliding across the cool roof while the other dropped into my pocket, letting the streetlight catch in my hair as I grinned at him.
“So this is what you do when you can’t decide whether to text or run away,” I said, voice teasing, light enough to hide the chaos simmering inside me. “what the hell are you doing here at 2 ?. The fuck, Phi?”
He jolted as he pulled the window down, eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost instead of me.His jaw tightened as he scrambled for words. “Um… uh… I…” he stammered, muttering another useless “um” as though language itself had abandoned him.
I let a smug smile pull at my lips because every nervous shuffle of his fingers, every stiff line in his shoulders, every tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him completely. He was a storm of emotions in a hoodie, and he still thought he could hide.
“You’re ridiculous, do you know that?” I said, warmth threading through the sarcasm. “What are you, eighteen still? Showing up at my place at two in the morning and sitting in your car like some Victorian child waiting for parental permission?”
He mumbled something inaudible, cheeks warming beneath the streetlight.
“How did you know?” He managed to mutter out. I snorted. “Dude I literally brought your car with you. I was the one who checked around every single nook and cranny while you signed your confirmation documents. And your car can be seen crystal clear from my window. Also is this the first time you are pulling these dramatic stunts? Waiting for me without letting me know? And leaving before I got to know?”
I raised a brow.
Pond swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel before he forced himself to sit up straighter. “I wasn’t… waiting,” he muttered, eyes darting anywhere but at me. “Then what?” I retorted and gleamed with the hidden adrenaline inside me. HE'S ACTUALLY HERE. “I was just..parking…”
I scoffed loudly. “Bro, what are you ? Romeo? Parking your expensive-ass Maybach under my window like you’re about to recite a monologue? Should I throw a flower down or something?” His eyes finally snapped to mine, horrified. “No! No, I wasn’t doing anything like that,” he said, voice cracking as his hand flew up to scrape the back of his neck. His fingers kept dragging through his hair, nervous and restless. “I told you I was just… I was just… passing by.” I bit back a grin. “Passing by? At two in the morning? In front of my building? In the exact lane with the perfect lighting? Wow. Total coincidence. Truly. So you were texting me while SITTING in front of my fucking building? So you literally saw me drinking like a sickass loner and decided to throw a text? Dramatic…aren't you?” It all connected to me and it all made my toes curl.
He winced and his shoulders rose defensively, hoodie scrunching. “Maybe I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he whispered, barely audible.The sweetness of it hit me square in the chest but I refused to let him off that easily. “You could’ve texted, you know. Or called. Or literally done anything other than sitting here like a K-drama extra rehearsing how to look tragic.”
Pond groaned softly and dropped his head against the headrest. “Please stop,” he muttered, covering his face with one hand. “I didn’t think you’d come down.”
“Oh, so you wanted me to stay upstairs while you suffer dramatically in your car?” I leaned closer, drumming my fingers on the roof. “You were giving main-character sorrow, okay? I felt obligated.”His hand slowly lowered from his face and he peeked at me through his fingers, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t being dramatic.” “Phi, you were literally gripping your steering wheel like it wronged your ancestors.”He choked on a laugh, trying and failing to hide it. The tips of his ears turned pink as he rubbed them quickly, a tell he probably didn’t even know he had.“And,” I added, stepping to his window, “you kept glancing at your phone. Every ten seconds. Like you were waiting for me to magically read your mind through the screen.”
“I wasn’t,” he protested weakly, but his voice lost all strength when I leaned in just a bit more. “Pond,” I said slowly, “did you rehearse what you’d say to me? Be honest.”His foot tapped nervously on the car mat. His hand returned to the back of his neck, scratching harder. His eyes flicked down and then away, avoiding me with Olympic-level determination.
“…Maybe.”I burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you DID. You practiced. You’re insane.”Pond squeezed his eyes shut. “I just didn’t want to sound stupid.”
“You always sound stupid.”His eyes opened in betrayal.“Affectionately,” I added. “Like… stupid in a cute way.”
The betrayal faded into something softer, and he dropped his hand from his neck, fingers twisting together in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them now.” Phuwin…. you're…excited and you're talking too much, did you notice?” Pond teased back. Phuwin blushed.. “oh shut up…”
“So,” I said lightly, “are you getting out of the car or am I supposed to drag Romeo by the hoodie?”He let out the smallest sigh of defeat, cheeks warm, lips twitching into a shy smile. “I’m coming,” he murmured as he unbuckled, trying very hard to act nonchalant and failing gloriously.When he stepped out, he shut the door gently, hands sliding awkwardly into the pockets of his hoodie as he looked anywhere but me.
“You’re… really annoying,” he mumbled.I grinned. “Good. That means you missed me.” He stuttered, froze, and just scratched his nape again.
I CANT FUCKING BELIEVE IT. HES ACTUALLY HERE…okok calm down now dalm down Phuwin Tangsakyuen. Life is a fairytale.. you're good. Act COOL.
---
Pond followed Phuwin up the dim stairwell. The soft shuffle of Phuwin’s home slippers echoed in uneven rhythms that made Pond bite back a smile. The slippers were fluff-covered PermPoon, their mascot and slightly bent at the sides from being stepped on too fast, something that felt painfully true to who Phuwin was. He remembered that they got it from a fan and he himself also had one back at his home. He stared at them longer than necessary, thinking he should not find slippers this adorable, yet there he was, feeling warmth rise in his chest.
“You came down in those,” Pond said quietly, nodding at the slippers. His voice sounded calm but inside he felt a flicker of amusement that kept expanding.
Phuwin looked down and groaned. “I forgot, okay. You appeared like a jumpscare at two in the morning. I am sorry I couldn't arrange a proper Juliet gown and high heels for you,” Phuwin retorted. “So you DO prefer the landing,” He joked nudging Phuwin on his shoulder. Phuwin rolled his eyes. “gross,”
Pond let out another laugh that slipped into the stale hallway air. He covered it with his hand and shrugged. “They suit you. Very… heroic.”. “says Khun Theerakit Kian Lee, the grandmaster of drama” Phuwin muttered, but he tugged the slippers closer to his feet as if to hide them.
The door clicked open and Pond stepped inside first. The apartment breathed with the chaos of someone who had been living through long schedules and irregular sleep. A pile of scripts sat half-open on the coffee table. A stack of game controllers was tangled with wires that snaked across the rug. Food containers occupied the counter like tiny monuments of survival. Clothes draped across the back of the sofa and the hum of the old air purifier filled the quiet.
Pond looked around with slow, exaggerated inspection. “Wow. I see a tornado visited.” Phuwin threw his arms up. “It is artistic. It is organized chaos.” “It is …. Chaos but redeemable ,” Pond corrected, picking up a sweater that had somehow fused with a throw pillow.Phuwin rolled his eyes and brushed past him, heading to the small open kitchen. “Shut up and sit. I will get wine.”
Pond obeyed without argument. He placed the sweater over the back of a chair and began clearing the table in gentle motions. It felt natural, the same way breathing did. The small acts of care he tried to hide had become habits. He stacked files neatly, moved the controllers to one side, wiped a ring of condensation from the surface. He tried not to think about how familiar it all felt.
Phuwin opened a cabinet and reached for two wine glasses. His hand hovered for a moment, mind drifting to the past five years. Five years of being colleagues and partners, five years of jokes and rehearsals that blurred into friendship, five years of something quiet growing beneath the surface until he confessed the word situationship with a laugh that didn’t feel like a laugh. Since then the air between them had shifted. They acted the same yet not entirely. A softness remained but it carried weight now. Every glance felt too full, every silence too charged.
He found the bottle and poured it. The wine flowed in a smooth line, catching the light in the room. He steadied his wrist, noticing it tremble slightly.
Pond watched from the couch. He saw the faint tremor and the way Phuwin’s shoulders rose as if bracing for something he could not name. He felt a slow pull in his chest, the same pull he had felt these past weeks. A feeling that grew each time they stood a little too close on set, each time their hands brushed for just one second too long.
Phuwin placed the glasses on the small table near the couch. The apartment light softened against the glass, making the wine glow like something alive. He sank down beside Pond. Their knees brushed. Neither of them moved away.
“I came to this house only once right? On your housewarming party, damn, you really made it cozy,” pond commented, driving his eyes towards his partner's house.
The living room was small but cozy. The bookshelves on the far wall were packed to the point of overflow. Hardcovers with cracked spines leaned against stacks of scripts tied with elastic bands. There were textbooks on psychology and directing mixed with manga volumes he reread whenever he needed comfort. A few binders with sticky notes poking out sat crookedly on the top shelf, proof of his workaholic nature.
A vintage-style gramophone sat on a wooden cabinet beside a modern turntable. Pond noticed the vinyl discs scattered near them, some housed in neat sleeves and some lying out as if Phuwin had been switching through nostalgia moments before he decided to come down. Jazz, old Thai ballads, indie bands, OST albums from previous dramas. The gentle hum of the room always felt richer when the record spun.
The window nook near the far corner was decorated with cushions that didn’t match but somehow belonged together. A soft blanket draped over the side like a reminder of the nights Phuwin curled up there with books or scripts. A small lamp with a warm bulb stood on the ledge, casting a honey-like glow that softened the entire room.
Fan gifts filled the shelves under the TV. Carefully displayed letters in neat rows, each envelope labeled with dates. Small plushies. Handmade crafts. A few framed notes that meant something personal. Pond knew Phuwin read every single letter. He had caught him doing it enough times on tour.
Next to the cabinet stood a tall plant that leaned slightly toward the light. The soil looked dry again. Phuwin forgot to water it all the time yet refused to replace it. He claimed it was surviving on pure willpower.
On the coffee table lay an open notebook filled with scribbles, reminders, and scene breakdowns. A half-finished crossword puzzle sat beneath a game controller. A pair of blue-light glasses rested on top of a stack of papers, the lenses smudged.
The kitchen blended into the living room without clear boundaries. There were two mugs in the sink, one with coffee stains and the other with traces of instant ramen. The refrigerator had magnets shaped like little cassette tapes and postcards stuck under them. A photo booth strip of Pond and Phuwin from three years ago sat near the top right corner, yellowing slightly at the edges.
But the thing Pond always noticed first was the picture wall.
A collage of memories climbed from the side of the hallway entrance toward the ceiling. Photos from sets, events, trips with friends, childhood snapshots his mom insisted he keep, random polaroids of sunsets and cats and silly faces. And in the corner, not prominent but perfectly visible, were photos that made Pond pause every single time.
A picture of the two of them laughing during a rehearsal. Another of Phuwin clinging to Pond backstage with his face half-hidden in Pond’s shoulder. Another one taken by a staff member on a tour bus, Pond sleeping against the window while Phuwin leaned into him.
And tucked at the bottom, almost shyly placed, were two photos of Pond alone. One from a magazine shoot. One candid shot at an award event where he looked offstage mid-smile.
Pond always pretended he did not see them.
But he did.
He saw everything.
He noticed the way the apartment felt like Phuwin’s heart folded into a physical space. Warm. Cluttered. Thoughtful. Overworked. Sentimental in ways he would never confess. A little lost, a little chaotic, a little brilliant.
A home that had enough softness to hold two people even when they did not know what they were to each other. A place that smelled faintly of coffee and old books and the sweetness of a life shared in small, unspoken ways.
“You came here another time, you were too drunk to remember,” phuwin’s voice broke him out of the reverie. He sensed the upcoming joke behind Phuwin’s eyes which now gleamed with the light of the television. “Don't even start about my drunk deeds, “ phuwin hummed, throwing a teasing smirk. Not in the mood to fight huh. Pond muttered inside his mind.
“So wanna rewatch the epi? It's already reached 5 million,” phuwin suggested. Pond just hummed. “Yup I can't recover from you saying P’Kian” phuwin scoffed as Pond reached for the remote and switched on their ongoing series. The opening scene filled the screen and a familiar background track drifted through the room. They watched themselves appear on the television, two younger versions, two characters who had no idea what came next. Pond took a sip of wine while his eyes stayed fixed on the drama. “i can't believe you brushed my teeth here,” he murmured.
“i can't believe either like dude You’re 28, a Mafia boss can't even burhs your fucking teeth?” Phuwin replied, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Look at your expression..Traumatic.” Pond nudged him lightly with his shoulder. “c'mon Thee was swooning down bad... “
“and Thee is basically giving unemployed aunt here,” They continued their commentary, soft jabs and quiet laughter. Their hands rested beside each other in the space between them, fingers occasionally brushing, always by accident, always followed by a fraction of a second when neither breathed.
The apartment felt warmer now. The lights dimmed slightly as the old bulbs flickered in a lazy rhythm. The wine tasted smoother as time passed. The room seemed to shrink around them, or maybe they just kept leaning closer without realizing.
A scene appeared where Pond’s character cried. Phuwin groaned dramatically. “Your serious face is so unusual after watching the dramatic Thee for the whole epi” Pond let out a small huff. “You said it was good on set” “I lied to spare your feelings.”
“You liar.”
Phuwin laughed, leaning into Pond without thinking. His head rested lightly against Pond’s shoulder. The weight felt soft and warm. Pond inhaled sharply. His heart jumped in his chest. He kept staring at the screen yet saw nothing.
Phuwin’s eyes grew heavier. The warmth of Pond’s shoulder felt too comfortable. The hum of the air purifier blurred into a gentle drone. The wine softened his limbs. His body relaxed, surrendering to the moment.
Pond sat still, barely breathing. He felt the rise and fall of Phuwin’s breath against him. He felt the slight twitch of Phuwin’s fingers as he drifted toward sleep. He looked at the half-finished wine glass on the table, the soft glow of the TV, the gentle curve of Phuwin’s lashes resting against his cheek.
His own thoughts tangled quietly.
This is not friendship anymore. This is something else. Something warm. Something dangerous. Something he did not want to let go of.
Phuwin shifted, leaning more heavily onto him. His hand brushed Pond’s thigh before settling there, loose and unaware. Pond swallowed hard. His chest tightened with a mixture of longing and fear.
He looked down at Phuwin. The soft lighting brushed across his hair. His lips parted slightly in sleep. Something inside Pond softened in a way he had no defense for. He raised a hand just a little, not touching, only hovering close as if the air between them was too fragile to disturb. A small thought whispered in him.
If I touch him now everything will change.He lowered his hand slowly and let it rest on the couch beside them. His fingers curled inwards, fighting the urge.
He kept watching him. He kept breathing him in.
The drama continued playing yet both of them slipped into a space that felt outside the world. A quiet place where their five years of friendship and the uncertain present intertwined. A place where fear and desire lived side by side.
The apartment stayed messy, warm, lived-in. The wine glasses stayed half-full. The night stretched softly around them. And Pond stayed still because if he moved, even a little, he feared the truth in his chest would spill out.
---
I woke slowly. The kind of slow that feels like rising through warm water. My body was heavy and soft and unwilling to leave the peace it had found. At first I could not tell where I was. I only knew warmth. A steady breath at my temple. A heartbeat against my chest. A weight around my waist like a silent vow.
Then it hit me with a quiet and devastating clarity.
I was in Pond’s arms.
Not beside him. Not near him. Not politely sharing the couch like coworkers who fell asleep during a rewatch. I was held by him. Gathered. Tucked. Kept.
His arm was around my waist in a way that felt too natural. My face was resting on the place between his shoulder and collarbone. My hand had betrayed me during the night and curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. His thumb rested on my hip as if he had claimed that spot hours ago in his sleep and never let go. Our legs tangled, half of my body over his body plastered together. Good god.
For a moment I did not breathe. I was afraid the world would snatch the moment from me.
His warmth wrapped around me like a blanket woven from every year we had known each other. Five years of jokes and late rehearsals and sleepovers. Five years of his laughter bouncing off cramped practice rooms. Five years of casual touches that once meant nothing and now meant everything.
I kept my eyes closed for a second longer and let myself feel him. The rise of his chest beneath my cheek. The soft exhale that brushed my hair. His scent. Clean. Faintly citrus. A little like the cologne he pretends not to care about. A little like home.
I opened my eyes.
Pond looked unreal like this. As if sleep had peeled back every layer he used to shield himself. His lashes rested on his cheeks like dark feathers. His skin glowed in the thin morning light that slipped through the curtains. A quiet halo. His hair was a dark cloud of softness that tilted over his forehead and begged to be touched. His lips were parted just enough to release the quiet breath that kept brushing my fingers.
I stared shamelessly. How could I not. I had looked at this face for years yet somehow I had never truly seen it this closely. Not like this. Not with my heart exposed and trembling. Nowadays his touch felt something sacred, something I crave for. I was always clingier than him and he let me do whatever. He gave in so easily but nowadays, I could feel my touches linger more than necessary and even though we couldn't get more comfortable than we are now, there's something surpassing us, a devotional desire. Something I could not name. Of course I love him, but this purified love between two almost friends ..could they dive into the well of mysteries where we are more than what we are now?
I watched him nuzzle his face towards my face in his sleep. A smile enveloped my mouth. We have touched each other many times. We are always touchy behind the camera. We kissed so many times. Scenes. Workshops. Blocking. Retakes. Comfort pecks when one of us was down. Hugs that lasted too long for friends. Nights where we fell asleep sharing a bed because the world outside was too loud.
But this was different.
This felt like the moment before a storm. The air charged. The heart aware. The body pulled by a force it could no longer ignore.
My chest tightened. My lungs felt too small. I let my gaze drift to the soft line of his throat. The curve where his neck met his shoulder. I pulled back fast from embarrassment even though he was asleep. Then curiosity dragged me close again. I pushed his hair away from his forehead with trembling fingers. It was too soft. So unfairly soft. He leaned into the touch in his sleep and let out a tiny hum that went straight to my spine.
I bit my lower lip hard. My whole body felt like a wire pulled to its limit.
I traced the slope of his nose. The gentle arch of his brow. The sharp line of his jaw. My finger stopped near his mouth. That familiar mouth. The one I had kissed a hundred times without ever tasting what the kiss truly meant.
My breath shook. I let myself memorize him. Every detail. Every freckle. Every quiet beauty that I had pretended not to adore.
His hand tightened around my waist. Just slightly. As if he sensed the distance in my thoughts and refused it. His thumb brushed my shirt. Absent. Sleeping. Yet intimate in a way that felt like a confession.
I wanted him so much my thoughts scattered. I wanted him in a way that frightened me because it was not sharp. It was tender. Deep. Old. A wanting that had grown in silence for years and finally realized it could no longer stay quiet.
I swallowed. My fingers traced down his jaw again. Slow. Reverent. Hungry for understanding. Hungry for him.
Then something shifted.
His lashes fluttered. A tiny movement. Another. A breath caught in his throat.
His eyes opened.
Warm. Sleepy. Confused. Then focused on me.
Time felt still. No air. No sound. Only his gaze resting on mine as if nothing in the world had ever made more sense.
And in that stillness I felt every year of friendship turn into something brighter. Softer. More dangerous. A gravity that pulled me across the breath between us.
The kind of yearning that could rewrite a life.
I could watch him like this my whole life…fuck any labels…only Pond.. there's only one label in my life now…Pond and I don't care how he stays with me as long as he…stays…
“Rak chan mui…P’Pond”
Phuwin whispered, brushing his fingertips above Pond’s nose. A smile crept up on the sleeping bear’s lip as he snuggled closer. His nose coming in contact with Phuwin’s and rubbing against his.
“Mnhmn rak chan mui, phu…”