Chapter Text
1: The One-cm Difference
The air in the GMMTV dressing room was thick with the scent of hairspray, expensive cologne, and the relentless teasing of their coworkers.
Dunk Natachai sat still—or as still as he could manage—while a stylist fussed with his bangs. Through the mirror, he watched Joong Archen. Joong was currently engaged in a heated debate with their manager about the shooting schedule of The Heart Killer S2, his expression serious, his posture straight. He looked every bit the mature, composed lead actor.
But Dunk knew better. He knew that under that tailored suit was a man who still slept with a specific stuffed cat and had a borderline alarming obsession with sour gummies, or maybe anything Dunk feed him.
"Dunk, stop squirming," the stylist scolded gently.
"I’m not squirming, P’," Dunk chirped, his voice reaching that higher, 'Joong' register he only used when he wanted something. He caught Joong’s eye in the mirror. "Joong Archen, I’m hungry."
Joong didn't even look up from the schedule, but a small, fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small protein bar, and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. It landed perfectly in Dunk’s lap.
"Eat that for now, Dunk-Dunk. We have ten minutes until the live session starts," Joong said, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative tone that made the fans—and, if Dunk were honest, Dunk himself—melt.
"See?" P'Nam, their makeup artist, whispered loudly. "Why aren't you guys dating yet? He feeds you like a bird."
"We're just coworkers, P'," Dunk said, though he was already peeling the wrapper with a grin. "Best bro. Right, Joong?"
Joong finally turned around. He walked over, closing the distance between them. Despite being five months younger, Joong always seemed to loom. He was exactly one inch taller, a fact he never let Dunk forget. He leaned down, placing a hand on the back of Dunk's chair, effectively trapping him.
"Right," Joong echoed, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Just bro, friends who know exactly what the other needs at 2:00 PM on a Tuesday."
The "JoongDunk" ship was a juggernaut. On screen, they were the perfect romantic leads. Off screen, they were a chaotic blend of domesticity and professional boundaries that were becoming increasingly blurred.
The Mature Kid of the pair, Joong had been working since he was a teenager. He’d learned to navigate the industry with a shield of maturity. He looked after the bills, the schedules, and the moods of everyone around him.
And his Older Baby: Dunk, despite being the elder, had a lightness to him. He was the one who could diffuse a tense room with a pout or a widen eye glancing at Joong. He sometimes allowed Joong to be the "big brother" because he knew Joong needed to be needed.
But lately, the "pampering" was shifting.
That evening, after a grueling twelve-hour shoot, they were back at Dunk’s car because Dunk insisted he want to drop Joong off at his home, he has someone who help drive his car anyway. Joong was slumped on the back seat, the "mature" mask finally cracking. His shoulders were tight, and he looked exhausted.
Dunk watched him from the sideline. Usually, this was where Joong would ask if Dunk had eaten or if he needed help with his lines. Instead, Dunk leaned over, grabbed a bottle of water, and place it near Joong’s lap.
"Hey," Dunk said softly.
Joong opened his eyes, looking at him. "Hey. You should get to sleep, Dunk. You have a brand event tomorrow."
"Shh," Dunk muttered. He reached up, his long fingers beginning to massage Joong’s knees, then moving up to his thighs. "You've been taking care of me all day. My turn."
Joong’s breath hitched. The air in the room shifted instantly. The "bro" label felt like a thin sheet of glass that was beginning to spider-web with cracks.
"Dunk..." Joong’s voice was a warning, low and rough.
"I'm older, remember?" Dunk teased, though his eyes were fixed on Joong’s lips. "I can take care of you too, Archen."
Dunk leaned forward, resting his chin on Joong’s shoulder, looking up with an expression that was half-innocent, half-devastating. He watched the way Joong’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
The denial was loud, but the tension was louder.
---
2: The Script of Reality
The following Tuesday, the GMMTV hallways were buzzing. The new project—the season 2 of heart killers that pushed the boundaries of their previous work. The workshop was scheduled for 8:00 PM, long after the building had mostly emptied, leaving only the security guards and the lingering scent of floor wax.
Joong was already in the rehearsal room, pacing. He was wearing an oversized hoodie that made him look his actual age—twenty-five—but his face was set in that stern, "mature" mask he wore when he was nervous.
Dunk walked in, balancing two iced tea and a bag of those specific chips Joong loved.
"You're overthinking the blocking again," Dunk said, not even looking up as he kicked the door shut with his heel.
"The chemistry read for Scene 14 is... intense, Dunk," Joong replied, taking the tea cup but forgetting to drink it. "The director wants 'visceral.' He wants the audience to feel like they're intruding on something private."
Dunk popped a chip into his mouth, crunching loudly. "So? We’ve been 'intruding' on each other’s lives for years. What’s the difference?"
Joong stopped pacing. He looked at Dunk—really looked at him. Dunk was leaning against the mirrored wall, looking relaxed, his hair a bit messy, his collar slightly crooked. To anyone else, he was the "natural baby" of the pair, the one who needed constant looking after. But Joong saw the spark in Dunk’s eyes, the quiet confidence of someone who was five months older and infinitely more comfortable in his own skin.
"The difference," Joong said, stepping closer, "is that in Scene 14, I don't just look at you. I have you."
They cleared the chairs to the perimeter of the room. The script for Scene 14 was short on dialogue and heavy on stage directions.
Character A (Joong) pins Character B (Dunk) against the desk after they misunderstood and don't talk for one week.
The denial breaks. Consumption.
"Let's just mark it," Dunk suggested, though his voice lacked its usual playfulness.
They started the lines. Standard bickering. The "enemies-to-lovers" trope they knew so well. But as Joong reached the breaking point in the dialogue, he didn't just step forward. He lunged.
His hands slammed into the mirrors on either side of Dunk’s head. The 'thud' echoed through the empty studio.
Dunk didn't flinch. He looked up, his breath hitching as Joong leaned in. Because Joong was standing while Dunk was sitting on a chair, just like in the story board, Dunk had to tilt his head back just so, exposing the pale line of his throat.
"You're supposed to say the line, Joong," Dunk whispered.
"I can't remember the line," Joong rasped. His mature facade wasn't just cracking; it was shattering. He looked at Dunk with a hunger that wasn't in the script. "All I can think about is how everyone thinks we're already doing this. And how much I hate that they're wrong."
Joong’s hand moved from the mirror to Dunk’s shoulder and as Dunk slowly stand up, the hands make it way to Dunk's waist, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of Dunk's shirt. He pulled him forward, eliminating the near one-inch gap between their chests.
"Joong..." Dunk breathed, his hands coming up to rest on Joong’s broad shoulders. This was the pampering turned inside out. This was Joong demanding to be held, and Dunk finally reaching back.
"Tell me to stop, Dunk. Or you should call me Fadel. Or Use your 'older brother' voice and tell me this should be a mistake."
Dunk didn't tell him to stop. Instead, he reached up, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of Joong’s neck, and pulled him.
The kiss wasn't 'romantic one.' It was desperate. It was years of shared meals, shared beds on press tours, and shared secrets colliding into a single point of contact.
Joong tasted like chewing gum and wanting. He groaned into Dunk’s mouth, a sound of pure surrender. He hoisted Dunk up, sitting him on the edge of the choreographer's table. Dunk’s legs immediately wrapped around Joong’s waist, pulling him into the cradle of his hips.
"Friends don't do this," Dunk gasped against Joong’s lips, his hands roaming feverishly under Joong’s hoodie, finding the warm, solid muscle of his back.
"We aren't friends," Joong muttered, his face burying in the crook of Dunk's neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.
"We haven't been friends for a long time."
Joong’s hands, usually so careful and protective when "looking after" Dunk, were now frantic. He found the hem of Dunk's trousers, his palms hot against Dunk's skin. The friction was electric. Every time Joong moved, Dunk let out a soft, high-pitched whimper that drove Joong closer to the edge.
"Dunk-Dunk," Joong whispered, using the pet name like a prayer. "I've got you. I've always had you."
The mature kid was gone. The older baby was gone. There was only the heat of the rehearsal room, the reflection of their tangled bodies in the mirrors, and the realization that the difference was the perfect distance for a total collapse of willpower. The kiss last a lot of time.
But Dunk smiled, he bit Joong lip and shove his chest a little.
"Hmm, yes, but what happened to Natachai bro"
Joong groaned. He can't help bit laugh out loud. He hug Dunk tight. And try to bite the flawless white nape of his bro.
As a punishment or as a lingering? Well. He has no idea, too.
---
3: The Performance of a Lifetime
The fluorescent lights of the GMMTV lobby the next morning felt like a personal attack. Dunk adjusted his sunglasses, sipping an iced Americano that tasted like nothing. His neck felt high-voltage—every time his collar brushed the spot where Joong had left a mark, he felt a jolt of memory that made his toes curl in his sneakers.
"Dunk! Over here!"
He turned to see their group of friends or P'—First, Khaotung, and Joong—huddled near the elevators.
Joong looked… infuriatingly composed. He was back in "Mature Mode," wearing a crisp white shirt, checking his watch, and discussing the day's script with Khaotung, the bison of heart killers. He looked like the responsible younger brother again. But when Dunk walked up, Joong’s eyes flicked over him. For a split second, the mask slipped. His gaze dropped to Dunk’s lips, then back up, dark and heavy with the secret they now shared.
"You're late," Joong said, his voice dropping into that protective, authoritative rumble. He reached out—entirely too naturally—and adjusted Dunk's messy hair. "Did you sleep at all?"
"I had… distractions," Dunk shot back, his voice a bit breathier than intended.
Khao narrowed his eyes, looking between them. "You guys stayed late at the workshop yesterday, right? How was Scene 14? Director says it’s the 'climax' of the first arc."
"It was… informative," Joong said smoothly, his hand lingering just a second too long on the back of Dunk's neck. "We found the right 'energy'."
The day was a torture of proximity. They were filming a series of social media clips, which meant they had to be "JoongDunk" for the cameras.
Usually, the fanservice was easy. It was a game. But today, every touch felt like a live wire. When Joong had to lean in to whisper a joke for a TikTok, his breath hit the shell of Dunk’s ear, and Dunk nearly dropped his phone where he was reading comments.
"You're shaking," Joong whispered, so low only Dunk could hear.
"Shut up, Archen," Dunk hissed back, trying to maintain his 'cool' persona for the camera. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what? Being your partner?" Joong’s hand slid down to Dunk’s waist, pulling him an inch closer—that familiar difference that now felt like a throne. He leaned his chin on Dunk's shoulder, the "mature" protector playing his part perfectly for the fans, while his thumb surreptitiously stroked the skin just under Dunk's shirt.
By lunchtime, the denial was suffocating. They retreated to their shared dressing room. The second the door clicked shut, the "coworker" act evaporated.
Dunk didn't even wait for Joong to sit down. He turned, slamming his hands against the vanity table. "I can't do the 'just bro' thing today, Joong. Not after last night."
Joong’s composure snapped. He crossed the room in three strides, his boots heavy on the linoleum. He didn't say a word; he just grabbed Dunk by the waist and hoisted him onto the vanity, scattering makeup brushes and hair ties.
"Then don't," Joong growled.
He moved between Dunk's legs, his hands sliding up Dunk's thighs with a possessiveness that made Dunk gasp. Joong looked up at him, the younger man finally demanding what he wanted. "You want me to pamper you, Dunk-Dunk? Or do you want to show me how much older and wiser you are?"
Dunk’s response was to wrap his arms around Joong’s neck and pull him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and caffeine. He wasn't the "baby" now; his hands were bold, tugging Joong’s shirt out of his trousers, skin meeting skin.
The vanity was cold against Dunk’s back, but Joong was a furnace. Joong’s mouth moved down Dunk’s throat, finding the exact spot he’d marked the night before. Dunk arched his back, a choked sound escaping his throat as Joong’s hands worked at the button of his jeans.
"We have… fifteen minutes," Dunk panted, his fingers tangling in Joong's hair.
"Then we'd better be efficient," Joong muttered against his skin.
He didn't waste time. He focused on Dunk with a terrifyingly mature intensity, his fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring Dunk to the edge of the world. Every whimper Dunk made was answered by a deep, vibrating hum from Joong’s chest, Dunk’s head fell back against the mirror, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Joong didn't pull away. He stayed right there, forehead resting against Dunk's, breathing heavily. He reached up, gently wiping a stray tear of overstimulation from Dunk's cheek with his thumb.
"Still just coworkers?" Joong asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
Dunk let out a shaky laugh, pulling Joong in for a soft, lingering kiss. "The most unprofessional coworkers in the history of the company."