Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1 - The Boy Everyone Wants
Bangkok looked beautiful through camera lenses.
That was the problem.
Everything softened under the right lighting. Neon signs reflected prettily against rain-slick streets. Luxury events glittered gold beneath chandeliers. Celebrities smiled like they had never known loneliness a day in their lives.
Perth had built an entire career on capturing beautiful lies.
“Focus on Santa tonight.”
His editor barely glanced up from his monitor as he spoke.
“The actor?”
“The actor everyone is obsessed with,” the man corrected. “His engagement numbers are insane. People eat up anything he does.”
Perth slung his camera bag over one shoulder. “And what exactly am I looking for?”
“A scandal would be nice.”
“Of course it would.”
“Dating rumors. Bad attitude. Secret hookup. Anything that proves he’s human.”
Perth snorted quietly.
That was always the irony of celebrity culture.
Fans wanted idols to feel real while simultaneously demanding perfection from them.
The moment celebrities acted like actual people, the internet tore them apart.
“Don’t give me that look,” his editor sighed. “You’re the best photographer we have. You catch things other people miss.”
Yeah.
That was exactly what worried him.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
The gala event occupied the top floor of one of Bangkok’s most expensive hotels.
Luxury brands.
Actors.
Models.
Politicians pretending not to flirt with actresses.
The usual circus.
Reporters crowded behind designated press barriers while camera flashes exploded every few seconds. Perth adjusted the lens of his camera and scanned the room automatically.
Nothing interesting yet.
Then the atmosphere shifted.
Not dramatically.
Subtly.
Like the room itself noticed someone important arriving.
People straightened.
Phones lifted.
Whispers spread quickly through the crowd.
“He’s here.”
“Santa!”
“Oh my god—look over here!”
Perth turned instinctively.
And there he was.
Santa.
The nation’s newest obsession stepped into the ballroom wearing black from head to toe, sharp tailoring fitting him perfectly beneath warm golden lights. Silver jewelry glinted against elegant fingers while stylists and managers hovered nearby like anxious satellites orbiting something too valuable to lose.
Beautiful.
Not in an intimidating way.
Worse.
Beautiful in the kind of effortless way that made people emotional.
Perth understood immediately why the internet loved him.
Santa moved through the crowd with practiced ease, smiling at reporters, greeting executives, bowing politely toward older actors. Every movement looked perfected through years of media training.
And yet—
Something about him felt distant.
Not arrogant.
Just tired.
Perth lifted his camera.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Santa turned slightly at the sound of shutters firing.
Their eyes met briefly.
Perth expected the standard celebrity reaction:
annoyance,
indifference,
performance.
Instead, Santa looked at him carefully.
Like he was trying to memorize his face.
The moment lasted maybe two seconds before a manager touched Santa’s arm and guided him toward the stage.
Still—
Perth found himself watching long after he should’ve looked away.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Three hours later, Perth accidentally witnessed Santa having a panic attack.
The gala had mostly ended by then.
Rich people were drunk.
Reporters were exhausted.
Everyone important had already posted their curated photos online.
Perth stood outside near the hotel’s back entrance smoking a cigarette he technically quit six months ago.
His camera rested against his chest.
Bangkok buzzed around him in humid midnight heat.
Then the back door slammed open.
Santa stumbled outside alone.
Perth froze.
The actor braced both hands against the wall like he couldn’t breathe properly. His shoulders rose sharply with each inhale while trembling fingers tugged desperately at the collar of his shirt.
No cameras.
No smile.
No performance.
Just panic.
Perth immediately looked away.
Not out of politeness.
Instinct.
Some moments felt too private to witness.
“You can stare,” Santa rasped suddenly between breaths. “That’s what reporters do, right?”
Perth blinked.
“You know who I am?”
Santa laughed weakly.
“You’ve been photographing me all night.”
Fair enough.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Santa slid down against the wall until he sat on the wet concrete, pressing the heels of his palms hard against his eyes.
“I hate these events,” he whispered.
Perth hesitated.
This felt dangerous somehow.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Because celebrities weren’t supposed to become real people in front of him.
The second they did, his job got complicated.
“You should probably breathe slower,” Perth said awkwardly.
Santa looked up.
“You always give medical advice to strangers?”
“Only the famous ones.”
That earned the smallest laugh.
Tiny.
But genuine.
And suddenly Perth understood something terrifying:
Santa looked completely different when he wasn’t pretending.
Softer.
Younger.
Human.
Perth crouched nearby after a moment, keeping enough distance not to feel intrusive.
“No security?” he asked.
“I told them I wanted five minutes alone.”
“And they actually listened?”
“They think I’m changing clothes for another schedule.”
Perth winced.
“That bad?”
Santa tilted his head back against the wall.
“I’ve slept maybe nine hours this week.”
Jesus.
Perth studied him quietly beneath the dim alley lighting.
Without cameras constantly flashing, Santa’s exhaustion became impossible to miss. Faint shadows lived beneath his eyes. Makeup no longer fully hid how pale he looked.
“How old are you?” Perth asked before thinking.
Santa turned toward him suspiciously.
“That’s a weird question.”
“You just look…” Perth stopped himself.
“Miserable?” Santa supplied.
Perth snorted softly. “I was going to say young.”
“I’m twenty-two.”
Twenty-two.
Perth suddenly felt strangely protective.
Which was ridiculous.
Because Santa was rich, famous, adored by millions, and definitely didn’t need protection from a random paparazzi photographer.
Still.
The silence between them settled into something unexpectedly comfortable. Rain began lightly tapping against nearby pavement.
“You’re different from other reporters,” Santa said eventually.
Perth raised an eyebrow. “How would you know?”
“You didn’t take a photo.”
Right.
That.
Because honestly?
The image would’ve been devastatingly good. Nation’s favorite actor breaking down behind luxury hotel. Human vulnerability hidden beneath celebrity perfection. His editor would’ve lost his mind over it. But Perth never even considered lifting the camera. Not once.
“I don’t photograph people when they’re hurting,” Perth said quietly.
Santa stared at him.
Something unreadable flickered briefly across his expression.
Then—
“You should,” Santa murmured. “That’s where the truth usually is.”
The words lingered long after the rain started falling harder.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
The internet loved Santa.
Perth learned that quickly.
Over the next few weeks, every assignment somehow circled back to him.
Fashion campaigns.
Brand launches.
Airport sightings.
Magazine shoots.
Santa was everywhere.
And somehow, increasingly, so was Perth.
At first it remained professional.
Photos from a distance.
Brief eye contact during events.
The occasional sarcastic comment exchanged in passing.
Then came the convenience store incident.
Perth entered the small shop around one in the morning after finishing an editing deadline from hell. Half-asleep and mildly dying, he headed straight for instant ramen. Another hand reached for the same cup noodle simultaneously.
Both froze.
Santa slowly lowered his mask.
“…You.”
Perth stared.
“You buy convenience store ramen?”
Santa looked offended. “Rich people can enjoy sodium too.”
Despite himself, Perth laughed.
Santa rolled his eyes dramatically before grabbing two ramen cups instead of one.
“You owe me dinner,” he declared.
“I literally did nothing.”
“You traumatized me at a gala.”
“You had a panic attack.”
“Exactly. Very traumatic.”
Perth should’ve left.
Instead, twenty minutes later they sat outside beneath buzzing fluorescent lights eating microwaved ramen while motorcycles roared through Bangkok streets nearby. This was insane.
Truly insane. If anyone recognized Santa, both their careers would explode instantly. Yet Santa looked happier than Perth had ever seen him.
No managers.
No scripted interviews.
No cameras demanding perfection.
Just oversized hoodies, convenience store food, and exhaustion.
“I used to do this all the time before debuting,” Santa admitted quietly between bites. “Sneaking out at night.”
“And now?”
“Now people follow me everywhere.”
Perth looked down at his ramen guiltily.
“Not you,” Santa added quickly.
“Good save.”
“I mean it.”
Perth glanced toward him. Santa was already looking back. There it was again. That strange intensity. Like Santa kept trying to see past every wall Perth built around himself.
“You know,” Santa said thoughtfully, “you smile differently when nobody’s watching too.”
Perth nearly choked.
“What?”
“You look less lonely.”
The comment hit far too hard.
Perth looked away first.
Because no one had ever described him that accurately before.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
After that, things became dangerous quickly.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
Perth started waiting for Santa’s texts. Random messages arriving at impossible hours:
are you awake?
this movie sucks
i escaped my manager again
why do you drink terrible coffee
Sometimes they met secretly.
Convenience stores.
Quiet rooftops.
Tiny restaurants hidden deep in Bangkok alleyways.
Santa always wore masks and hoodies.
Perth always checked their surroundings twice.
It felt ridiculous.
And intimate.
Especially when Santa started smiling the second he saw him.
Especially when Perth realized he could recognize Santa’s footsteps before even looking up.
One night, after a long filming schedule, Santa fell asleep against Perth’s shoulder in the backseat of a taxi.
Perth stopped breathing instantly.
The city lights painted soft gold across Santa’s sleeping face while exhaustion finally loosened the tension constantly living in his body.
He looked peaceful.
Trusting.
Dangerously precious.
The taxi driver glanced at them through the mirror.
“Your boyfriend is tired,” the man said casually.
Perth’s heart nearly stopped.
“He’s not—”
But Santa shifted slightly in his sleep, instinctively curling closer.
And Perth suddenly couldn’t finish the sentence.
Because he didn’t know what this was anymore.
Only that somewhere between hidden ramen dates and midnight conversations, Santa had stopped feeling like a celebrity. He had become simply—
Santa.
The boy who hated sleeping alone.
The boy who smiled brightest at 2 AM.
The boy who looked at Perth like he was something safe.
And Perth was already in far too deep to walk away now.