Chapter Text
The first time Perth Tanapon saw Santa Pongsapak in person, he was eating a congee he didn't want in a campaign office conference room at 11:47 PM, trying not to let his exhaustion show in front of the security detail stationed outside the door.
He had been awake for nineteen hours. His schedule that day had begun at 4:30 AM with a factory tour in Samut Prakan, followed by three town halls, two radio interviews, a televised debate where his opponent—a sixty-year-old former general named Somchai—had called him "a boy playing at statesmanship," and a fundraising dinner where Perth had smiled until his jaw ached and shaken hands until his palm was raw. He was thirty-three years old, the youngest presidential candidate in the history of the Thai Republic, and he felt approximately ninety.
The congee was plain, hospital-food beige, ordered by his wife's assistant because Nalin had told the staff he preferred "simple, digestible meals late at night." The lie was easier than the truth: that what Perth actually wanted at 11:47 PM was pork satay from the street vendor near his old apartment, the one he hadn't visited in two years because security wouldn't allow it, because the optics were wrong, because a presidential candidate did not eat street food alone at midnight in a neighborhood where the rent was less than his current monthly dry-cleaning bill.
He was eating mechanically, staring at the whiteboard where his campaign manager had scrawled YOUTH VOTE: 18-24 = 12%?? in red marker, when the door opened and a young man walked in.
Perth's first thought was: He's tired.
Not small. Not childlike. The figure in the doorway was perhaps 175 centimeters, slender but with the wiry build of someone who danced for a living, who trained until his muscles memorized choreography in his sleep. He was wearing an oversized cream-colored sweater that slipped off one shoulder, black jeans, and white sneakers scuffed at the toes. His hair was dyed a soft ashy brown, falling across his forehead in a way that looked styled to seem accidental. His face—Perth had seen it before, of course, on billboards and music videos and the sides of buses—was even more striking in person. Fair skin, almost luminous under the fluorescent lights. Large, dark eyes with a slight upward tilt at the corners. A mouth that curved naturally upward, giving him a perpetually gentle expression even in rest.
He looked like a porcelain doll that had learned to move like a predator.
"Sorry," the young man said. His voice was softer than Perth expected, melodic, with a slight lisp that made his Thai sound intimate even when speaking to a stranger. "They said this was the right room?"
Perth swallowed his mouthful of congee. He stood automatically, years of etiquette training overriding his exhaustion. "You must be—" He paused. He knew the name. His chief of staff had mentioned it three days ago, had fought with the communications director about it for two hours before Perth finally approved the expense. But in his current state, with his blood sugar crashing and his vision slightly blurred at the edges, the name wouldn't come.
"Santa," the young man supplied. He stepped into the room, pulling the door closed behind him, and offered a hand that was slender but not delicate—long fingers, visible veins, the calloused pads of someone who played guitar. "Santa Pongsapak. I'm here for the campaign thing."
The campaign thing. Perth took his hand. Santa's grip was firm, brief, his fingers warm and slightly damp, as if he'd been rubbing them on his jeans. Up close, Perth could see that he was wearing makeup: a subtle foundation that evened his already flawless skin, a touch of gloss on his lips, a soft brown shadow that made his eyes look even larger. He smelled expensive—something clean and warm, vanilla and cedar, the kind of scent that came in bottles with minimalist packaging and prices that would feed a family for a month.
"Perth Tanapon," he said, releasing Santa's hand. "Please. Sit."
Santa sat. He didn't perch on the edge of the chair like someone uncertain; he settled into it with the ease of someone who had spent years in green rooms and waiting areas, who knew how to make any space temporary. His gaze moved around the room with open assessment—the whiteboard, the stacks of polling data, the half-eaten congee—before returning to Perth.
"You're younger than I thought," Santa said.
Perth blinked. It was not what he expected. Usually, people told him he looked older than his age, that the stress of campaigning had carved lines into his face, that his eyes were too serious for someone who had barely crossed thirty. "I'm thirty-three."
"I know. I looked you up." Santa smiled, and it transformed his face entirely—not the practiced, camera-ready expression Perth had seen in the briefing materials, but something genuine, slightly crooked, revealing a small gap between his front teeth that made him look approachable in a way that felt dangerous. "I mean you seem younger. In person. On TV you look very... presidential."
"And now?"
"Now you look tired." Santa said it without judgment, simply observing. "Do you always work this late?"
"Usually later." Perth reached for his water bottle and took a long drink, buying time. "Mr. Pongsapak—"
"Santa. Please." Santa's tone was firm but polite, the voice of someone who had corrected this formality a thousand times. "Nobody calls me Mr. Pongsapak except my accountant, and even he usually just says 'the talent' or 'the asset.'" There was no bitterness in the words, but Perth heard it anyway, buried under the lightness. "And I can call you Perth? Or do you prefer Khun Tanapon?"
"Perth is fine."
"Perth." Santa tried it out, nodding to himself. "That's a nice name. Is it from the city in Australia?"
"My mother studied there. She always said she wanted to name her first child after the place where she was happiest." It was a story Perth had told a hundred times, a polished anecdote for interviews and fundraisers. But saying it to Santa, in this empty conference room at nearly midnight, felt different—like he was revealing something he hadn't intended to.
"That's sweet." Santa leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle, his posture relaxed but not sloppy. "My name is stupid. My grandmother named me after the saint because I was born on Christmas Eve. But in Thailand, it's just... weird. Kids used to tease me. Called me 'foreigner' even though my family's been here for generations."
It was too much information. Perth recognized it immediately—the oversharing of someone nervous, someone filling silence because silence felt dangerous. He should redirect the conversation to the campaign, to Santa's role, to the contract that had been negotiated for three weeks by teams of lawyers. Instead, he heard himself say: "I was teased too. For being serious. For reading books at recess instead of playing football. For having a 'foreign' name in a school where everyone was named after kings and virtues."
Santa's eyes lit up. "Really? I can't imagine you being anything but serious. Were you ever not serious?"
The question caught Perth off guard. He opened his mouth to give the safe answer—the one about youthful indiscretion, about growing up, about the responsibility that came with his family's legacy—but what came out was: "Once. Briefly. I was twenty, maybe twenty-one. I spent a summer traveling with friends. No security, no schedules. We went to the islands, stayed in hostels, got food poisoning from bad seafood." He stopped, shocked at himself. He hadn't thought about that summer in years. Hadn't allowed himself to.
"And then?"
"And then my father died. Heart attack. I came home, took his seat in parliament, and stopped being not-serious." Perth heard the flatness in his own voice, the careful removal of emotion. He stood abruptly, needing distance, needing to remember who he was and why this conversation had gone so far off script. "Mr. Pongsapak—Santa. We should discuss why you're here."
Santa's expression didn't change dramatically—he was too well-trained for that—but Perth saw something close in his eyes, a slight withdrawal, a retreat behind the pleasant mask. "Of course. The campaign thing."
"The campaign thing," Perth repeated. He moved to the whiteboard, picking up a marker even though he had nothing to write. "Your manager explained the terms?"
"Twelve weeks. I tour with you, appear at rallies, post on social media. My image—" Santa's voice changed, becoming slightly mechanical, as if reciting from a contract. "—is to be 'strategically aligned with progressive youth values while maintaining broad demographic appeal.' I sing at three major events. I do interviews where I mention your name positively. In return, my agency receives a consulting fee and I get..." He paused. "What do I get, exactly?"
"Exposure to a new audience. Credibility beyond entertainment circles. The association with a serious political movement." Perth listed the benefits his team had prepared, the talking points that had convinced the agency to lend their biggest star.
"Right." Santa's smile was back, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Credibility. Because I'm not credible now. I'm just the Nation Baby. Soft. Cute. Harmless." He said the words without inflection, but Perth heard the weight behind them—the years of being seen as a product rather than a person.
"You're very popular with the 18-24 demographic," Perth said carefully. "Our polling shows that your endorsement—or even association—could increase our youth vote share by 8 to 12 percent. That's significant. It could be the difference between winning and losing."
"So I'm a prop."
"You're an asset."
Santa laughed, a soft, surprised sound that was more genuine than anything he'd said so far. "An asset. That's worse, somehow. At least a prop gets to be in the background. An asset has to perform." He uncrossed his legs and stood, moving to the window. The conference room looked out over the Bangkok skyline, the glittering towers of Silom and Sathorn, the river a dark ribbon beyond. "Do you know how long I've been performing, Perth?"
Perth didn't answer. He wasn't sure he was meant to.
"I was fifteen when a scout found me at a school talent show. Sixteen when I debuted. Seventeen when I had my first number-one single. I've been 'Santa'—cute, soft, harmless Santa—for six years." Santa's reflection in the glass was ghostly, distant. "I wake up as Santa. I go to sleep as Santa. I don't remember the last time someone looked at me and saw..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm here to do a job. I'll do it well."
Perth watched him. The set of his shoulders under the oversized sweater. The way he held himself, straight but not rigid, a posture that spoke of years of dance training and media training and the exhausting work of being constantly watched. The exhaustion in his posture that mirrored Perth's own, though Santa was eleven years younger and worked in an industry that should have been frivolous, should have been easy.
"Why did you agree?" Perth asked. The question wasn't in his briefing notes. His communications director would have killed him for asking something so open-ended, so potentially damaging.
Santa turned from the window. In the reflected city light, his face looked older, the softness hardened into something more complex—resigned, perhaps, or determined. "Because my agency said yes. Because the money is good. Because—" He stopped, chewed his lip. "Because I looked you up. Not just your polls and your policies. I watched old interviews. I read articles from when you first started. And I thought..." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. I'm here. I'll smile and wave and sing your campaign song and the young people will vote for you because they think I approve of you. That's the job."
Perth felt something shift in his chest, a slight unsteadiness that he associated with too much caffeine or too little sleep. He recognized it now for what it was: curiosity. He was curious about Santa Pongsapak in a way that had nothing to do with polling data or demographic analysis. He wanted to know what Santa had thought when he looked him up. He wanted to know who Santa was when he wasn't performing. He wanted—
He cut the thought off. He was married. He was running for president. He was not allowed to want things that weren't already on his schedule.
"Your first event is Thursday," he said, his voice returning to its polished, professional register. "A university rally in Chiang Mai. You'll travel with the advance team, arrive two hours before my speech, do a fifteen-minute set, then join me on stage for photos. My wife will be present."
The words my wife landed between them like a door closing. Perth hadn't planned to say them, hadn't needed to mention Nalin at all—she wasn't part of this meeting, wasn't part of Santa's contract. But he heard himself say them anyway, a warning, a boundary, a reminder to himself.
Santa's expression didn't change. "Of course. I look forward to meeting her. I've admired her work with the children's foundation."
"She's very dedicated."
"I'm sure she is." Santa moved back to his chair, gathering his phone and a small leather backpack. "Is there anything else? Or can I go? I have a recording session at 6 AM."
"That's all." Perth didn't move toward the door, didn't offer to walk him out. "My chief of staff will send you the detailed schedule. If you have concerns, contact him directly."
"Not you?"
"I'm not available for direct contact with campaign assets." The words came out harsher than intended. Perth saw Santa's jaw tighten, a flash of something—hurt? anger?—before the pleasant mask returned.
"Understood." Santa pulled his backpack over one shoulder, adjusting the strap with a practiced motion. "Goodnight, Khun Tanapon. Sleep well. I'll make sure to smile extra hard at tomorrow's event so your polls don't drop."
He left before Perth could respond. The door clicked shut with a finality that seemed louder than it should have.
Perth stood alone in the conference room, the whiteboard's red marker bleeding slightly into the white space around YOUTH VOTE: 18-24 = 12%??, his half-eaten congee turning cold and unappetizing on the table. He thought about Santa's reflection in the window, the way his voice had changed when he said I'm just an asset, the small gap between his teeth when he smiled.
He thought about his wife, asleep in their shared apartment across the city, in the separate bedroom they had maintained for the last eighteen months because Nalin slept poorly and Perth worked late, because it was easier than explaining why they didn't touch anymore, because the marriage was a contract as binding as any campaign agreement and twice as carefully negotiated.
He thought about the summer he was twenty, the islands, the bad seafood, the friend who had held his hair back while he vomited over a boat railing and then laughed with him until they both cried. He thought about being not-serious, about being known, about being seen.
Then he picked up his phone and called his chief of staff to review the next day's schedule. He threw away the congee. He did not sleep.
---
Three days later, Perth saw Santa again.
The university rally in Chiang Mai was held in an outdoor amphitheater, a concrete bowl that held five thousand students and felt like an oven even at 5 PM. Perth had spent the morning in meetings with local business leaders, the afternoon in a carefully staged "casual" visit to a coffee shop where he discussed student debt with pre-selected young voters, and the last hour in a holding tent behind the stage, reviewing his speech and trying not to sweat through his shirt.
He heard Santa before he saw him. A soundcheck, the young man's voice floating over the crowd in a Thai pop ballad that Perth didn't recognize but that the students clearly did—the amphitheater erupted in screams when Santa appeared on stage for his soundcheck, a wave of sound that made Perth's security detail tense visibly.
"Who is that?" asked Nalin, appearing at his elbow. She was wearing a pale blue dress that his communications team had approved as "approachable but dignified," her hair pulled back in a style that showed off the pearl earrings her mother had given her at their wedding. She looked beautiful and slightly bored, the expression she wore at all campaign events.
"Santa Pongsapak. The youth ambassador." Perth didn't look at her. He was watching the stage, where Santa was testing a microphone, laughing at something a technician said, his body language loose and confident in a way it hadn't been in the conference room.
"Oh. The idol." Nalin's voice carried the slight distaste she reserved for anything she considered beneath her social standing. "He's very... pretty, isn't he?"
"He's twenty-two."
"Still. He looks like he belongs in a music video, not a political rally." Nalin touched Perth's arm briefly, a gesture for the cameras that would be behind them. "I'll go check on the student representatives. Good luck with your speech."
She left. Perth didn't watch her go. He was watching Santa finish his soundcheck, the way he bounced slightly on his heels, the way he waved at the crowd with both hands, the way his smile seemed to reach every corner of the amphitheater simultaneously.
Performance, Perth reminded himself. It's all performance.
But when Santa left the stage and passed near the holding tent, their eyes met for a brief moment. Santa's smile faltered, just slightly, before returning full force. He raised one hand in a small wave—not the big theatrical gesture he'd given the crowd, but something private, almost hesitant.
Perth didn't wave back. He turned to his speech notes, his jaw tight, his heart beating faster than it should have.
---
Santa's set was fifteen minutes, as contracted. He performed three songs—two upbeat dance tracks that had the crowd jumping, one slower ballad that had them holding up phone lights and singing along. Perth watched from the wings, partially hidden by a curtain, telling himself he was assessing the crowd's energy, measuring the response, calculating how much Santa's presence would boost the rally's social media reach.
He was not watching the way Santa moved. He was not noticing the line of his neck when he threw his head back on a high note, the sheen of sweat on his collarbones where the stage lights caught his skin, the way his hair had fallen across his forehead in damp strands. He was not cataloging the way his white t-shirt clung to his torso when he danced, the lean muscle of his arms, the confident, practiced grace of his body.
He was not doing any of these things. He was working.
"Good crowd," said his chief of staff, Krit, appearing at his shoulder. "Engagement is up 40% from the last university event. Social media mentions are already trending. The Santa thing is working."
"Good." Perth's voice was neutral.
"You should join him on stage for the last song. The photo op. We discussed it."
"I remember."
"Nalin is ready. She'll come out first, you'll follow, Santa will position himself between you for the final chorus. Family-friendly. Youth and experience together. The optics are perfect."
Perth nodded. He didn't correct Krit's assumption that Nalin was part of the "family" being referenced. Their marriage was public knowledge, their separate bedrooms were not. The contract held.
The final song began. Santa's voice, live and slightly breathless from dancing, filled the amphitheater. Perth walked onto the stage at the pre-planned moment, Nalin on his arm, smiling for the cameras. Santa turned, his face lighting up with practiced delight, and reached for Perth's free hand.
Their fingers touched. Santa's were still warm, still slightly damp, but now they were also calloused—guitar strings, Perth realized, or hours of dance practice. The roughness surprised him. It made Santa real in a way that the conference room meeting hadn't.
"Smile," Santa murmured, too quiet for the microphones to catch. "They can tell when you're faking."
Perth smiled. Not his campaign smile—the careful, measured expression that had been photographed ten thousand times—but something closer to real, prompted by Santa's audacity, his proximity, the faint smell of vanilla and stage sweat that surrounded him.
The cameras flashed. The crowd screamed louder. Nalin released Perth's arm and stepped slightly back, allowing Santa to move between them as choreographed. Santa's shoulder pressed against Perth's chest. He was slender, yes, but solid, present, his body warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He smelled like work and effort and something sweet underneath.
The song ended. Santa raised Perth's hand with his own, lifting them both in a victory gesture. The crowd roared. And for one moment—one breath, one heartbeat—Perth felt something other than exhaustion. He felt the energy of the crowd, the heat of Santa's hand, the strange, dangerous aliveness of being seen, being chosen, being wanted.
Then the moment passed. The photographers got their shots. Krit signaled from the wings. Perth extracted his hand from Santa's, nodded to the crowd, and walked off stage with Nalin at his side, not looking back.
But he felt Santa's eyes on him until the curtain closed.
---
That night, in his hotel room, Perth reviewed the photos from the rally.
There were hundreds. Official campaign photographers, wire services, student journalists with phones. Most showed exactly what they were meant to show: Perth and Nalin, the perfect political couple; Santa, the youthful energy; the three of them together, a strategic alliance of demographics.
But there was one photo, taken by a student journalist and posted to an online forum before the campaign's media team could request its removal, that Perth couldn't stop looking at.
It was from the final chorus. Santa between them, Nalin slightly apart, Perth's hand raised with Santa's. But the camera had caught something the choreography hadn't intended: Perth was looking at Santa. Not at the crowd, not at the cameras, not at Nalin. His head was turned, his campaign smile gone, replaced by an expression that Perth barely recognized on his own face.
It looked like longing.
He closed the laptop. He took a shower that was too hot, scrubbing his skin until it was red. He lay in the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Nalin's breathing through the connecting door—she had taken the suite's second bedroom, as always.
He thought about Santa's calloused fingers. About the gap between his teeth. About the way he had said I'm just an asset in the conference room, quiet and resigned.
He thought about the summer he was twenty. The boat. The bad seafood. The friend who had held his hair back while he vomited over a railing and then laughed with him until they both cried. He thought about being not-serious, about being known, about being seen.
At 2 AM, he opened his laptop again and looked at the photo once more. He saved it to a private folder, encrypted, hidden behind three passwords. He told himself it was for opposition research, for media monitoring, for understanding how he was perceived.
He did not believe himself. But he was very good at pretending.
---
The tour began in earnest the following week.
Twelve weeks, as contracted. Twelve weeks of shared buses, shared hotel lobbies, shared stages. Twelve weeks of Santa singing at rallies, posing for photos, posting carefully curated social media content that mentioned Perth's policies in language that sounded authentic because Santa had insisted on writing it himself ("If it's fake, they'll know. My fans always know").
Twelve weeks of Perth ignoring him.
He did it systematically, thoroughly, the way he approached everything. He spoke to Santa only when necessary, in groups, with staff present. He never touched him beyond the required photo ops. He never asked about his recording sessions, his early mornings, the exhaustion that showed increasingly in the slight hollows beneath Santa's eyes.
He told himself it was professionalism. He told himself it was respect for boundaries, for his marriage, for the campaign. He told himself that the tightness in his chest when Santa laughed at someone else's joke, the way his hands itched to reach out when Santa stumbled off stage after a particularly energetic set, the dreams he started having—confusing, heated, featuring Santa's face and Santa's voice and Santa's long, calloused fingers—were simply stress manifestations, nothing more.
He told himself these things so often that he almost believed them.
But Santa noticed.
Perth saw it in the small changes: the way Santa stopped trying to make conversation in empty elevators, the way his smile became more formal when they were introduced at events, the way he started referring to Perth as "Khun Tanapon" in interviews instead of the familiar "Perth" he had used that first night.
He saw it most clearly three weeks into the tour, at a rally in Khon Kaen. The event had run late, a thunderstorm delaying Perth's speech, and by the time they reached the hotel it was past midnight. Perth was walking to the elevator when he heard Santa's voice behind him, sharp and unguarded in a way it never was in public.
"You're not even going to say goodnight?"
Perth turned. Santa was in the hallway, still in his stage clothes—ripped black jeans, a sheer black mesh top under an open jacket, boots that added a few centimeters to his height. He looked young and disheveled and furious, his usual performative cheer stripped away entirely. The mesh top clung to his torso, revealing the lean muscle of his chest, the faint outline of abs earned through years of dance training. He looked like an adult. He looked like someone who knew exactly what effect he had.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Goodnight. It's a word. People say it when they share space. When they work together. When they—" Santa stopped, his hands clenched at his sides. "You know what? Forget it. I don't know why I expected anything different. You're exactly like they said you were."
"Like who said?"
"Everyone." Santa's laugh was short and bitter. "Cold. Controlled. Using people and throwing them away when you're done. I thought—" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Goodnight, Khun Tanapon. Sleep well. I'll make sure to smile extra hard at tomorrow's event so your polls don't drop."
He turned toward his room. Perth moved without thinking, his hand catching Santa's arm before he could walk away. The contact was electric—Santa's skin warm through the thin mesh, his muscle tensing under Perth's fingers, the smell of him close and overwhelming. He was solid, real, a grown man with a grown man's strength and a grown man's anger.
"Wait," Perth said. His voice was rough, unfamiliar.
Santa froze. He didn't pull away, but he didn't turn back either. "What?"
Perth didn't know what. He had acted on instinct, something he hadn't done in years, and now he had no script, no strategy, no prepared statement. He was holding Santa's arm in a hotel hallway at midnight, and he could feel Santa's pulse racing under his thumb, and he didn't know what he was doing, only that stopping felt impossible.
"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "I'm not good at this. At... people. At talking."
"You're a politician. Talking is your job."
"Not like this. Not—" Perth released Santa's arm, stepping back, putting distance between them that he didn't want but knew he needed. "Not when it's real."
Santa turned slowly. His face was guarded now, suspicious, but something in his eyes had softened. "What do you want from me, Perth? Honestly. Because I can't keep trying to read you. I can't keep thinking maybe there's something here and then having you look through me like I'm furniture. It's exhausting. And I'm already exhausted."
Perth looked at him. Really looked. At the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself as if bracing for a blow. He thought about the twelve weeks, about the photo hidden on his laptop, about the summer he was twenty and the person he had been and the person he had buried so thoroughly that sometimes he forgot he existed.
"I want—" He stopped. The truth was dangerous. The truth was everything he had spent thirteen years learning not to say. "I want to not be cold. I don't know how."
Santa stared at him. For a long moment, the hallway was silent except for the hum of the ice machine and the distant sound of the storm that had delayed them.
"Then learn," Santa said finally. His voice was gentler now, but still wary. "I'm not asking for much. Just... acknowledge that I'm a person. That I'm here. That we're spending twelve weeks of our lives together and it might as well not be torture."
"It is torture," Perth said, before he could stop himself.
Santa's eyes widened. "For you?"
For me. Because every time I look at you I remember what I can't have. Because your voice is the last thing I hear before sleep and the first thing I want in the morning. Because I am married and I am running for president and I am not allowed to want anything, and yet I want you so much it feels like dying.
He said none of it. He couldn't. The words were trapped behind thirteen years of discipline, of duty, of the careful construction of Perth Tanapon as a man who never wanted anything he couldn't have.
"Goodnight, Santa," he said instead. "I'll see you at breakfast. The advance team wants to review tomorrow's schedule at 7 AM."
He walked to the elevator. He didn't look back. But he felt Santa's eyes on him until the doors closed, the same way he had felt them in Chiang Mai, and he knew—he knew—that this was not over. That he had started something he couldn't control. That the careful walls he had built around himself were cracking, and Santa Pongsapak, with his calloused fingers and his gap-toothed smile and his exhausted, perceptive eyes, was going to walk through them whether Perth invited him or not.
The elevator descended. Perth leaned against the mirrored wall and closed his eyes.
He did not sleep that night either.