Work Text:
Verse 1
Pond couldn’t say when he started feeling proud of Phuwin.
Everybody talked much about the exact moment someone fell in love, but for this all-encompassing emotion that surrendered in his chest with complete warmth—would there ever be a timeline? Would anyone understand if Pond tried to explain it: when he does something well, I feel it in my chest? Love, now that has a place to go; a target, if you will. But pride in someone else’s accomplishments, already too inflated with intimacy, had nowhere to get to. It simply sat there, lodged like an awkward frog between the last two bones of Pond’s left rib, and croaked its endless song.
He wished he could pry into it; maybe some deep, hidden memory would reveal itself to him as an answer. What had been the exact moment when Phuwin’s accomplishments became more than only a source of harmless joy and inspiration? When had Pond started to feel so involved in the other’s life that he’d started to share his happiness as more than a well-meaning colleague?
Pond’d always appreciated Phuwin. Admired him, even. It was a careful, beautiful distance between two people who had no hopes of ever truly becoming normal friends. He had a sense that Phuwin shared this ideology by the way he sometimes found humor in Pond’s play-acting as a “good older brother from the company”. Neither of them ever pointed out what it was: a farce. No good older brothers did half the things Pond had already done with Phuwin, and even if it was part of work, it was still odd to completely dismiss it. It was also rather naïve to pretend that they could live in some parallel dimension detached from the one they were working in as actors—as a BL CP. Pond would only understand these things much, much later, though he suspected that Phuwin’d secretly known all along, and had simply indulged Pond so that Pond could come to terms with the truth at his own pace.
Regardless of his interpersonal feelings on the nature of his friendship with Phuwin, a rookie, fresh-faced BL actor Pond took great pleasure in speaking of Phuwin as his partner. They hadn’t been that close then, and he once worried that Phuwin might see this as some sort of overstep. Instead, he never got any complaints or indications of displeasure from the younger boy; if anything, Phuwin seemed to like it when Pond spoke of him in a positive light, praised his skills, made sure everyone knew that he was Pond’s partner.
Over the years, this feeling of having something worthwhile in his life only intensified. However, where earlier he had been proud of being Phuwin’s partner, Pond had now started to feel a brand-new emotion which occupied just as much space in his body as a second set of lungs. For someone attuned to deep feelings, sensitive to even the slightest shift of his mind, Pond experienced the mass and density of proud of Phuwin like a grape under an iron hammer.
There was no delicacy to it. Every single time, it came as a blow. No matter what Phuwin achieved, big or small, together or individual, Pond staggered under the weight of it. He saw in that achievement what nobody else would ever see: the nights Phuwin put into practice, the hours he worked silently without complaining, the way he pushed himself farther each time, the difficult things he did as a routine even when he didn’t enjoy doing them, the discipline he carried and held himself accountable to, the strength with which he held himself together even on his bad days.
Maybe he was proud of Phuwin because he felt a kinship with him; they were both in the same boat after all, actors and artists, and struggling in the same ways. Maybe he saw Phuwin’s achievements as a reflection of his own, or as an extension. All of that hardly explained, however, the sweet-curling feeling of pride in his chest that inflated as if it had any right to lay claim to Phuwin’s journey, his achievements. As if anything Phuwin did well could be tied to Pond that was more intimate than a professional camaraderie. As if there was any logic or reason for Pond to hear the ‘Mine’ that underlined each burst of warmth, each spectacle of pride inside him.
Naturally, he picked up the habit of referring to Phuwin as his partner. When he’d used that word in front of Phuwin for the first time—Phuwin’d looked at him with something close to awe, and Pond was not used to being on the receiving end of that so he’d barely saved himself from total embarrassment and changed the subject before he could turn red as a tomato. “My partner,” he’d tell the fans while answering a lighthearted question. “My partner,” he’d tell his mother and grandma when recounting his day. “My partner,” he’d begin whenever asked about Phuwin.
In time, Pond had become so invested in Phuwin’s happiness and success that it seemed unthinkable to not mention it at every opportunity, or praise Phuwin for it when he wasn’t too shy to do so, or even just simply sit in his house smiling like a fool at the knowledge that Phuwin had accomplished something yet again. He found “I’m proud of you” to be a much more revealing confession of feelings than “I love you”. He thought of his mother who rarely showed it through words, but he knew that she was proud of him; perhaps silence was meant for sacredness, for gravity, for sobriety. Intimacy. He took it and fashioned it into something to use for special occasions, or to be said as “I’m happy for you” and “I’m thankful for you.” ‘Happy for you’ and ‘thankful for you’, Pond thought, really sums it up.
He came to be proud of every little thing, embarrassingly enough. He was proud when Phuwin showed up to work every day, and when he guessed correctly in a game show, and when he won something silly during an event, and when he spoke multiple languages with ease. He became so familiar with these bouts of pride that they became as constant as his adrenaline right before a big performance, or his nervousness before he met his fans. There, but not disruptive. When nothing seemed to hold them in, like a swarm of butterflies trying to break free from his ribs, Pond soothed them by using the word ‘partner’.
It became a common word. Innocuous.
Or not that much, really, if Pond were being honest, because they still had to do plenty of explaining and exposition around it, the two disclaimers they’d learned to give to the watchers: this is not fanservice and this is fanservice, both equally defiant of the rules that’d ruled them in the industry for a long time. But once a certain amount of time passed, ‘partner’ became a familiar term in interviews and shows. It made its debut on stage—Pond couldn’t recall the first time they’d used that word in front of cameras—and settled into a comfortable position by the bed, knees tucked in, not quite sure where it was going to spend the night but not quite anxious about it either.
Pre-Chorus
Pond’s work took up a lot of his time.
By the time he was twenty-three, he was already starting to feel the faint pressure of a rudimentary engine about to pick up speed, and the urgency seeped down his bones from his neck to his spine, the kind that urges you on to grab your bags and board the train. He watched his brother getting into a relationship and his friends falling in love and his colleagues re-defining careers all in the same strip of time, and felt that he’d aged only about two and a half years since his father died. The world and life, in general, remained unpredictable to him; he couldn’t touch the shape of it, and he was learning not to always trust his eyes. And in the great many things that others were doing, planning to do, cancelling, leaving, rejecting, accepting, Pond kept his chin up and watched Phuwin walk ahead.
He thought that if there was ever a moment to fall in love with someone, it would be this: watching Phuwin’s back as he walked ahead.
As work became a big part of Pond’s life, Phuwin became a big part of Pond’s work. And then it was a matter of applying Euclid’s axiom: Phuwin became a big part of Pond’s life. Pond was happy with how things were, he didn’t think there was anything more he could ask for. Except, sometimes, head reclined on the wall, almost drowning beneath his AC blankets, he would think of a younger time, a younger Phuwin…
His time seemed to be intertwined with Phuwin forever; when he met someone nice, he would notice his laughter and think of Phuwin’s, that first time he ever heard Phuwin laugh. History seemed to be in Pond’s embrace more than any living, breathing body. More than a man’s flesh, he touched a memory: the smoothness of Phuwin’s hand in his, the surprisingly soft swelling of his abdomen and arms, the dampness of his sweat unhindered by propriety. When he went on dates, which had gotten rarer and rarer, he was not really there; he was waiting for a future-him who was already with future-Phuwin somewhere after the date, and experiencing the past-him who was still reeling from the pleasant surprise of having past-Phuwin place his order for him.
At some point in the same history, he’d become fixated on the idea of going back in time to meet Phuwin sooner. A younger Phuwin. He was often in Pond’s dreams, on Pond’s mind, in Pond’s thoughts. Pond never really left him, like an old house that had gotten creaky and dangerous to live in but still held all the comforts of home. The danger was at that particular step on the stairs where the wood was rotting—and rotting was just a process of making way for something new—where Pond was with someone new, wondering if it would’ve been Phuwin at his side instead if they’d met someplace else, and sooner.
He wanted these to be fleeting thoughts.
He stopped going on dates altogether. (Guilt?) Sometimes, he allowed himself the luxury of letting a stranger take him to a non-descript bed in a non-descript motel for a night. It was an itch that bled the more he scratched it but Pond grabbed the relief of it with both hands wet and red. He never told Phuwin about it; never not told Phuwin about it, but if Phuwin suspected anything and chose to let it go without a single jokey comment or teasing remark or suggestive eyebrow-wagging that he was prone to do with his other friends, well. Pond supposed Phuwin was not really interested in his sex life.
It was not that Pond wanted him to ask, or to take notice. Phuwin took notice of Pond in plenty of other ways, like any good friend would, and in a way that only Phuwin did. He knew that he mattered to Phuwin; he didn’t need to stand out, make a show of himself. Everything here, then, was ruled partially by his own greed to have Phuwin pay attention to him in every possible way, in the land of his disappointments.
And if he rejected a date or an invitation occasionally because Phuwin happened to need him more than the bubbly-faced boy he’d met at the vet, then that was solely his own burden to bear.
Verse 3
“I’m proud of you, you know.” Phuwin’s hand was around him before he had the chance to respond, but what could he have said except yes, and me too? He clung on tightly to the smooth vetiver-scented fabric of Phuwin’s coat, touching his forehead to Phuwin’s shoulder, like a pilgrim at the stone idol of their god. Phuwin’s hand came up as a wind pressing warm against the back of his head, “You did so well. Thank you.”
Being held in Phuwin’s arms—there was already no word in any language to describe that. Pond had been praised and rewarded many times; indeed, most of his life, he thought he’d spent being comforted, pampered, and to some extent, coddled. He hadn’t had it as bad as his younger brother, hadn’t ever been in want of love from anybody, and even in the saddest moments of his life, he remembered hugs, consoling words, warmth. He didn’t want to say that his life had been devoid of this, but when Phuwin held him, said ‘you did so well’ which meant ‘you’ve been so good’, and told Pond he was proud of him, why did it make Pond’s heart beat a little harder?—Because it made him feel as if he’d been denied something for a long, long time, and only Phuwin had made him aware of it. Suddenly, that was enough sounded like you deserve more on Phuwin’s tongue, like Pond wasn’t cheating even if he’d gotten everything that Phuwin had to give, and then some.
Pond knew when to step back; he recognized this building wave in his chest, he knew this was where it spilled. Behind his tightly closed eyes, the entire universe was folding into Phuwin, and he was being sucked in, agonizingly, in dying spurts of breath. So much approval in so little time was surely a cause for downfall. Approval from Phuwin, even more so. The inane belief that he wouldn’t be denied anything anymore, whether he was entitled to them or not, was a mad girl’s love song. To escape the deep waters trying to pull him under, to crane his neck away from sirens, Pond gently pushed away from the hug.
And then, inexplicably, he lowered his head, blind with tears, and pressed a kiss to Phuwin’s neck.
There was no one with them, perhaps a rarer event than Phuwin speaking of his feelings in plain words, and they still hadn’t undressed properly. Phuwin was still in his coat from the show, and Pond’s makeup was smearing all over it. When he realized what he’d done, the sheer horror of presumptuous sent him staggering back. His eyes caught the faint but unmistakable shape of a glossy lipstick mark just above Phuwin’s collar. His skin blew hot then cold, something prickly twisting sharp in his intestines as he stood there before the terrible monument he’d erected—on Phuwin’s body, in a secluded room—the boundary he’d just crossed.
“What happened?” Phuwin asked, voice low and rough with use, brown eyes a city lit up in lights, a darkness so festive that it invited the heart to burn like a star.
Pond took another step back, throat clicking, dry, arid, burning hotter than a star but emitting none of its glow, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”
Phuwin’s brows furrowed and smoothened—Pond’s brain fixating, annoyingly, on the glittering, fairy-like pinkness of his mouth instead as he said, “Hey. No.” He took a step towards Pond, hands outstretched halfway through the air as if he expected Pond to recoil from his touch, “It’s okay.”
Their eyes met, some invisible string going taut.
In the next second, he was stumbling backwards, knocked by the force of Phuwin’s weight, and Phuwin had his head by both hands, his mouth on Pond’s. A chair went crashing. Pond’s backside met the edge of a dresser with a low thud, and sparks shot up from the point of contact, mingling with the alien sensation of Phuwin’s kiss—the familiar mouth, the well-rehearsed movements, but soaked in flavors, spit and sweat, no candies to mask the real taste, no sweet drinks. Phuwin didn’t kiss anything like his characters.
He was almost aggressive, prying into Pond with a bold swipe of his tongue, licking the roof of Pond’s mouth, the perimeter of Pond’s teeth and gums, as if marking his territory. His teeth sank into Pond’s bottom lip and pulled slightly until Pond opened wider with a gasp, shivers wrecking his body, mind completely scrambled from the shock, the easy slides of soft lips, the reckoning force of Phuwin’s kiss.
They came away panting, open-mouthed. Pond held on to Phuwin’s waist for support, or to confirm that he was real, he wasn’t sure, and Phuwin’s hands slid down his face to the lapels of his coat, so lightly it could’ve been a dream. Pond pulled him closer and Phuwin’s hands pressed up harder, realer, against Pond’s chest, his body heat enough to weld freezing iron, his eyelashes swooping low, anticipating, and Pond guided his head gently to give him what he wanted.
Pond wanted to give Phuwin what he wanted.
The second kiss was shorter than the first, and the third shorter than the one before, until Pond felt he couldn’t go on without bursting into tears once more—the sensation of Phuwin’s gentle lips and sweet exhales in his ears—and had to pull away. A slight touch brought him back to Phuwin looking up at him with a seemingly never-ending patience, his finger raised in the air between them, crowned with a tiny drop of Pond’s tears. His lips were swollen and red, and he was picking one by one at the moisture gathered at the corners of Pond’s eyes as if they were flowers floating in the holy river.
“Pond, Phuwin?” Khun Ying was still outside, waiting for them to finish up. She’d graciously given them the space to spend some time alone together, but it must be getting late. After all, they were still backstage, still on the site of the action, although the performance had long concluded.
Pond looked to Phuwin, waiting for him to step away and let P’Ying in. Instead, Phuwin’s lips softened into a tired pout Pond knew well due to years of performing and travelling alongside him, and he leaned his head gently against Pond’s chest, his arms coming up and wrapping around Pond’s waist in a non-negotiable hug. He nuzzled a little, sighed, and let his entire weight fall on Pond, who was propped up against the dresser and couldn’t breathe properly.
Somehow, desperate not to wheeze, Pond called in their manager and fought hard to keep a straight face, which failed spectacularly on the first comment P’Ying made about a kitten falling asleep on their owner.
“He’s- he’s awake,” Pond gestured loosely at Phuwin’s head which was tucked under his chin with one hand, the other rubbing Phuwin’s back in a soothing up-and-down motion.
P’Ying gave him a shrewd look, “I didn’t say anything about Phuwin, son.”
Pond’s heart gave a flip, and his entire body shook with a laughter that was not his own but coming in low waves and rumbles from Phuwin, still pressed against him whole, as he enjoyed himself at Pond’s expense. Then, loudly, he said, “He knew you meant me when you started talking about kittens, P’Ying.”
“And is he your owner?”
“Alright,” Pond muttered under his breath, gently extracting himself from Phuwin’s hold as Phuwin began to lazily argue with P’Ying about semantics for the sake of Pond’s honor.
Chorus
Every day, Pond was exhausted. He existed, simply, in a liminal state of aches and fleeting rest, his moments connected end to end like floating boats on a fast-running stream.
His empathy for the world seemed simultaneously to extend—a jaw, alligator-like, wide open to swallow every wandering creature—and prune up like a raisin in the sun. Each brush of hands, wandering of eyes, and restless voice sent him jumping as if he were sitting on a coiled spring; at the same time, he’d never felt more isolated, or more detached from human contact. And by the time he caught up to himself at nights, in solitude, clutching the brief respite given to him with all four limbs, he’d screwed himself over a dozen times around the same guilty-angry iteration. Overthought his mistakes and thoughtlessness to the point of faint nausea.
Years ago, Phuwin had shown him that it didn’t have to be a never-ending vicious cycle; that Pond didn’t have to overthink, overcorrect, fly into a fit of perfection at the slightest hint of judgment. It was difficult to argue with Phuwin on this: someone as comfortable in his body, as inherently flawed that to err seemed divine. All those mistakes that Phuwin’d made in the past had also made up Phuwin, and ultimately, Phuwin was the man Pond loved. He discovered that there wasn’t truly a way to despise the past without resenting the present. And Pond didn’t resent the present, he could be sure of that without much overthinking at all.
He was ashamed to say that he’d tried to avoid Phuwin after they first kissed. On a filming set, that is.
At the time, he was convinced that the less spoken on the matter of kissing, the better. Phuwin didn’t seem like a person who was having a hard time comprehending that their lips had met and that it had no stake in reality, meanwhile Pond was quite disturbed by this foreignness of having his body go through a very real experience but his mind unable to accept it as it was. His lips might have kissed Phuwin’s, but they weren’t Pond and Phuwin when they were kissing. It felt like being the stopper on a shaken bottle of soda. Pond didn’t even understand which angle of it he was allowed to feel guilty about, and which to feel happy about.
His very much one-sided agony came to an end after living a minuscule life. Phuwin did bring up their kiss scenes—with a composure that was perhaps half a façade to a trained eye—and Pond was forced to admit his shame, and frustration, and confusion, and fear.
You’re not alone, Phuwin’d said. Not alone. Just that, spoken with a firm, silencing look. That look continued to quiet all spiraling screams and nasty voices inside Pond’s head for the rest of the year. Lost with age, the faint impression of that look still remained, a powder-outline signifying the original object that could no longer be retrieved.
Everyone spoke a great deal about love, but Pond hadn’t yet heard about this—whatever this’d shaped out to be—the voice inside your head that’s on your side. The way someone could be in your head like a protection spell. The way they stood in the ranks of family.
Outro
Pond found him on the twenty-second floor of the Asoke building, and offered to give him a ride back home. Phuwin didn’t refuse.
They met a couple of the guys from GMMTV, Force and Dunk, who detained them for a quick congratulations and cheek-kiss before letting them step away. Phuwin watched Pond transform into a giant puppy as affection was showered on him, and bit back a very loud smile.
“So, you guys just finished filming for the last queue, right?” Dunk said, clearly with an agenda.
Pond, as always, was oblivious to it. “Yes. We still have a lot of work, though.”
“Perfect.” Pond blinked at Dunk’s loud declaration as Force moved between him and Phuwin and slipped an arm around Pond’s shoulder, “Then you’re coming with us for a night-out. Boys’ night!”
Phuwin almost protested having Force and Dunk practically carry Pond towards their car, but Pond’s rushed voice rang out first, “Hey, wait—wait. I need to take Phuwin home.”
“Phuwin can come with us,” Force turned around as if waiting for Phuwin to chime in an agreement.
Pond flailed his arms out of their octopus grip, which was honestly quite impressive, and made his way back to Phuwin’s side. Phuwin took his cue, and casually stepped forward to block a tiny portion of Pond’s body from Dunk and Force’s reach. “I’m giving Phuwin a ride first, and then I’ll come with you guys.”
“I have urgent work,” Phuwin explained, wai-ing for emphasis, and then raised one hand in farewell before slipping out of the situation altogether. He heard Pond and Dunk’s overlapping voices as Pond made to follow, and then something which made him freeze on the spot.
“Just tell me if you want to meet that guy again, Pond,” Dunk’s voice was barely above a whisper. Of course. They were talking about Pond’s hook-ups in public.
Phuwin felt the amusement drain from his body.
“No,” Pond answered, somewhat apologetic. “I just—I’ll tell you, okay? Tonight.” Pond’s warmth touched him first, and then a large hand was at his shoulder, gingerly pushing, Pond’s breath at his ear, “Let’s go.”
Phuwin didn’t speak for a long time as Pond drove; he was too preoccupied to even enjoy the rare event of being in Pond’s passenger seat. He knew, technically, he had no rights to dictate Pond’s personal life. He still couldn’t bring himself to say so.
“You sure you don’t want to join the Omakase Gang?” Pond teased softly. His hand turned the steering wheel, gentle but firm.
Phuwin’s heart thudded against his chest in that annoying way it did around Pond, “I really do have urgent work at home. You can go and have fun, though. Don’t let your nudes be caught on a tabloid.”
“What?” There was a brief, embarrassing pause, and then Phuwin glanced at Pond before quickly turning back. “I don’t get it.”
Phuwin’s thumb and forefinger absently took hold of his ring finger, rubbing softly. “I overheard what P’Dunk said. It’s fine, I know you’ve always been careful, I mean. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”
“You think I’m sleeping with other people.” It wasn’t a question; it was flat, even a little disappointed. Pond sounded like someone Phuwin’d only caught glimpses of by association to other people. The older brother version.
“I think you’re living your life as you should.” That was difficult to say, but Phuwin forged on, “I know I’m—that we’re not—whatever.”
Pond’s voice was dark, “It’s almost like you want me to crash this car.” He steered a touch more aggressively on a turn, and Phuwin felt the faintest pressure of the seatbelt digging into his shoulder, “Phuwin.”
Phuwin knew that tone, too—never directed at him before today, but well-known. The back of his neck tingled, and his heart beat faster, like a shameless melody in the middle of a holy prayer. He swallowed against his dry throat, and kept his eyes on the road.
It wasn’t that he was intentionally trying to get a reaction out of Pond, or upset him—although, God knew, Phuwin had his days. It was just that despite all the time he’d overheard or been told a priceless tidbit of Pond’s love life, he’d tucked it into a corner of his mind, and thus created a monstrous pile of evidences and implications that were about to come crashing down. He knew, of course he knew—he knew that Pond hadn’t been sleeping with anyone for years, that he’d stopped even meeting new people, always deflecting his friends’ efforts or outright refusing, and the reasons were often his busy schedule and his disinterest. He also knew that the unsaid Phuwin came up in a lot of these excuses: ‘Sorry, I can’t. I have plans with my partner’; ‘My partner is tired today, I have to support him right now’; ‘I just asked my partner—we have an event that day’; and so on.
Just once, he’d wanted to do the noble thing which was to tell his partner, Pond, that he deserved to go out and spend his time with whoever he wanted. But Phuwin was a bastard; he didn’t like doing things that didn’t make him happy.
So far, the noble action wasn’t going super great.
Because Pond had his own armory of knowledge on Phuwin. Pond, too, knew all these things that nobody else knew—they simply weren’t in the position to know. Although, sometimes, Pond seemed to read his mind, which was to say that Phuwin couldn’t figure out how Pond’d come across that information at all. Such as this: Pond clearly knowing that Phuwin was lying to him.
If Phuwin didn’t explain himself within three minutes, Pond would probably park them at the side of the highway until Phuwin talked.
“I’m sorry.” Phuwin was a broken record. He squeezed his fists until the nails dug into his palm. “I won’t say that again.”
“Good.” Phuwin waited, and waited, and finally looked up at Pond’s profile lit up by the sunset and the running shadows of the road. Their eyes met for a split-second before Pond turned his attention to the road again, stern face going a little softer, “Take some rest. We’ll talk later.”
Phuwin cleared his throat, pressing himself back into the seat with his heartbeat echoing in his ears and his skin faintly steaming with awareness, and closed his eyes as told. He hoped that if he fell asleep, he would dream of Pond.