Work Text:
The spare keycard beeped softly against the lock.
Santa pushed the door open with his shoulder, one hand still occupied with the canvas tote hanging from it. His feet hurt.
Not enough that he would complain about it. Just the familiar, dull ache that came after hours of practice — standing, dancing, repeating the same eight counts until the body stopped thinking and simply remembered. JASP.er's concert was getting close enough that every rehearsal had begun to feel like a countdown rather than a practice.
He closed the door behind him and let out a long breath.
Home.
Well.
Perth's condo. Which, at this point, was close enough to home that Santa had stopped correcting himself whenever the thought crossed his mind.
He slipped off his shoes near the entrance.
His hair was slightly damp from sweat, his oversized practice shirt sticking unpleasantly to his back. He had barely made it two steps into the living room before a memory from earlier floated back to him.
The promotional event of Dao Coffee. Perth has been beside him, with his arm around his waist.
Santa smiled despite himself.
It hadn't even been fanservice.
That was the problem.
Or perhaps the best part.
They had been standing beside one another while the staff adjusted their positions for the cameras. Santa had been talking to one of the coordinators when Perth had appeared beside him, listened for approximately three seconds, and then casually put a hand against Santa's lower back.
No warning.
No glance toward the cameras.
Nothing performative about it.
Just Perth.
Santa had looked at him. Perth had looked back. And that tiny smile — the barely-there one that Perth seemed to reserve for moments when he forgot anyone else was watching — had nearly made Santa forget what he had been saying.
Later, during the photo session, Perth had leaned over to say something against his ear. Santa hadn't even understood the words. He had just felt the warmth of Perth's breath and immediately smiled. And again during the fan event where they were making the coffee. Or rather splashing it everywhere and giggling in their own little bubble.
Mae Add had threw a stern glance at them. Perth had shrugged as if he had done nothing.
Santa had known better.
He was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.
He had been dating Perth long enough to know that.
And apparently not long enough to stop being affected by him.
Santa dropped his tote beside the sofa.
"P'Perth? I'm home."
No answer.
He expected to hear the television.
Maybe music.
Maybe Perth calling back from the bedroom.
Instead —
"FUCK!"
Santa flinched.
The sound came so suddenly and so loudly that his shoulders jumped. He froze.
For one second, he wondered if something had happened.
Then he saw him.
Perth was sitting on the couch. Home clothes. Loose dark shirt. Sweatpants. No styling. No jewelry except the pendant he rarely removed. Their shared red and white threads were visible through the long sleeves. His hair was messy, thankfully without the gel that Perth always whines about at home.
One hand was buried in his hair. The other had just released his phone. It landed on the carpet with a dull, harmless thud.
There was a bottle of whiskey on the glass table, considerably half-empty. There was a half-filled glass in Perth's hand.
Santa stopped. He knew that look.
Not the drinking.
Perth drank sometimes when he didn't have a schedule the following day. He could hold his alcohol well, far better than Santa could, and two or three glasses usually barely touched him.
This wasn't about the whiskey.
It was his face.
His jaw was clenched. His breathing was too hard. His eyes were fixed somewhere on the floor and his fingers were shaking slightly where they gripped the glass.
"Phi?"
Perth looked up. For half a second, their eyes met. Then Perth looked away.
"You're back."
His voice was quiet. Too quiet.
Santa's smile disappeared.
"Obviously."
Perth gave a tiny nod.
Santa glanced at the bottle.
"How much?"
"Not much."
"How much is not much?"
"Three."
Santa looked at the bottle. Then at him.
"Actual three or Perth three?"
There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Perth's mouth.
"Actual."
"Okay."
Santa stepped closer.
He was tired. Exhausted, actually. But the moment he saw Perth like this, the fatigue became secondary.
Something had happened. He could feel it.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Phi."
"Nothing."
The second answer came more sharply.
Santa stopped. He knew when to push. He also knew when Perth needed time.
But before he could decide, his eyes fell on the phone lying on the carpet. He bent down.
Perth's head snapped toward him.
"Don't."
This time, his voice was softer. It sounded almost desperate.
Santa paused. Then picked it up anyway.
The screen was still illuminated. Perth's X handle was opened. A post. A thread. Comments.
Santa read the first few without meaning to. Then the next. Then another.
His eyebrows rose.
"Oh."
Perth said nothing.
Santa scrolled.
The pilot trailer for Heartbound had apparently unleashed the exact sort of chaos everyone had expected. More so when Perth had let it slip that the workshops would be ginning soon. And now people thought it was alright to dissect their and everyone else's dynamics.
Gun and Narin. Perth and Tytan. People had intertwined the two pairs so closely that they themselves could not separate which was what.
Chemistry.
Looks.
Expressions.
Edits.
Speculation.
People were already picking apart seconds of footage.
Santa knew how fandom worked. He understood shipping. He had been on the receiving end of it for years. Some of it was funny. Some of it was ridiculous. Some of it was sweet. And most of it was simply people having fun with fictional characters.
He had never been particularly bothered by it, especially not this.
The Perth-Tytan shipping had started slowly. Then it had gathered momentum.
Now it seemed every other post was some variation of "They have insane chemistry" "Perth looks different with Tytan" "GunNarin is going to destroy me" "Perth and Tytan have something"
Santa snorted. He scrolled again. Then stopped.
There were comments about him. About their relationship. Or rather, what people assumed wasn't a relationship. Apparently Santa was uninterested. Apparently Perth was more affectionate toward Tytan than he had ever been toward Santa. Apparently Santa didn't reciprocate Perth's affection.
Santa laughed. It wasn't a particularly amused laugh.
"Wow."
Perth's shoulders tightened. Santa looked at him.
"You've been reading these?"
No answer.
"P'Perth."
Another silence.
Santa looked at the screen again. He wasn't hurt. It didn't affect him anymore. If anything, he found it almost absurd. He knew Perth. He knew exactly how Perth looked at him when there were cameras around. He knew what Perth did when there weren't. He knew how the older man unconsciously searched for him in crowded rooms. How his hand always found Santa's shoulder, waist, or the back of his neck. How Perth would pull him a little closer whenever they stood together, sometimes without even realizing it.
He knew the difference between fanservice and genuine affection. So did Perth. That was precisely why the comments had gotten under his skin.
Santa sighed.
"These people."
Perth stared at the floor, still silent.
Santa put the phone down on the glass table. Then he looked at him again.
His boyfriend.
His very, very stupid and adorable boyfriend. The same who was sitting on their couch drinking whiskey because strangers on the internet had decided his fictional character had better chemistry with another actor than he did with the person he actually loved.
Santa almost smiled. Then he noticed Perth's eyes, red-rimmed, as if he had been holding himself back. His heart softened immediately.
"Hey."
Perth rubbed his face.
"I'm fine."
"You are absolutely not fine."
"I'm fine," Perth sniffed, "I've faced worse things."
Santa's lips twitched.
"Fair."
A pause. Then Perth's eyes filled again.
Santa's expression changed. There it was, the thing about Perth that very few people saw. He was sensitive, much more than he allowed people to know. But he had a strange relationship with those emotions. He could carry them quietly for hours, sometimes days, until they became too heavy to contain. Alcohol made the walls thinner.
Santa knew. He had learned through these years. Whenever Perth drank while upset, everything he had been holding back tended to surface. Anger first, then frustration, and inevitably, tears.
Santa put a hand on Perth's knee.
"Come here."
Perth didn't move.
Santa waited.
"Baby."
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"I don't know."
Santa's chest tightened. He hated this. Not because Perth was crying, because Perth was trying to apologize for crying.
Santa stepped between his knees. Perth looked up at him.
"Don't apologize."
"I just..."
"Don't."
Perth swallowed. Santa could see his throat move.
For a moment neither spoke. Then Santa climbed onto his lap.
Perth startled slightly.
"Tata-"
Santa settled himself facing him, knees on either side of Perth's hips. The movement was familiar enough that neither of them thought about it. Perth's hand automatically came to Santa's waist.
Even upset and slightly, even with his emotions all over the place, his body still knew where Santa belonged. But Perth turned his face away.
Santa noticed.
"Look at me."
"No."
Santa almost smiled looking at the stubborn pout on Perth's face.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Perth shook his head.
"I look ugly."
"You look like you drank whiskey and fought with X."
"I didn't fight."
Santa smiled despite himself.
Then his thumb brushed slowly over Perth's cheek. Perth went still. He leaned into the touch as if more intoxicated by Santa's touch than the whiskey.
"Look at me."
Santa cupped Perth's face between both hands.
"Hey."
Perth tried to look away again. Santa didn't let him this time, not when he could see everything written so plainly across the older man's face. The anger had burned itself out. The frustration too. What remained was something much softer, something raw.
Perth's eyes were glassy, lashes damp. The fierceness that had been there earlier was gone, replaced by a vulnerability that very few people ever got to see. Santa's heart squeezed painfully. There was something about Perth when he got like this. Not weak. Just open. As though all the walls he normally kept around himself had quietly crumbled away.
"Come here."
Perth obediently leaned forward. Santa smiled softly. Then he pressed a kiss to Perth's forehead. A second one. A third. Slow. Unhurried. The way one might soothe an upset child. Perth's eyes fluttered closed.
Santa kissed the bridge of his nose. Then the tip. Perth let out a long, broken sigh.
Finally, Santa leaned closer and placed a gentle kiss against one eyelid. Then the other. The moment he pulled back, a tear escaped anyway. It rolled silently down Perth's cheek. Santa immediately wiped it away with his thumb.
"Oh, my baby."
Perth made a small sound, half embarrassed, half miserable. Santa couldn't help the fondness that flooded through him.
"You've been keeping all this inside your head, haven't you?"
Perth swallowed. His jaw tightened. Then loosened. Finally, he spoke his voice cracked almost immediately.
"It's unfair."
Santa's expression softened. Perth blinked rapidly.
"It's unfair."
His fingers tightened slightly around Santa's waist.
"They always do this."
"Mm."
"They always drag you into everything."
Santa listened. He didn't interrupt, didn't rush him. Perth rarely talked this much when upset. When he finally did, Santa had learned to let him.
"You work harder than anyone."
Another sniff.
"You've proved yourself over and over. You've improved every day."
Santa's throat tightened. Perth rubbed at one eye angrily.
"Your acting is good. You sing like an angel. And don't get me started on your dancing."
"Phii."
"You are the most talented person I have ever seen in my life."
The response came immediately. It was so sincere, as though there wasn't even room for argument. Santa smiled despite himself. He was grateful that Perth wasn't sober enough to notice the pink tint on his cheeks, he would have teased the younger male relentlessly.
Perth continued.
"You work hard."
Another sniff.
"You're good to people."
His voice cracked again.
"You're good to me. The best."
Santa's chest hurt.
"And they still talk like..." Perth's expression twisted, "...like none of it matters."
Silence.
Perth looked down. Then quietly added, "I don't like it."
The words came out with all the heartbreaking sincerity of a child announcing that they didn't like thunderstorms, or monsters under the bed, or scraped knees.
Santa almost smiled. Not because it was funny, because it was so unbearably Perth. He reached up and brushed messy strands of hair away from Perth's forehead. His eyes were fond and heart tender.
Perth immediately looked offended.
"Don't."
"You sound so cute."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
Perth glared. Or tried to. It would have been more effective if his eyes weren't red. Santa couldn't help himself. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. The familiar pressure settled something inside both of them immediately.
There.
Home.
"I know, baby."
Perth's shoulders slowly loosened.
"I know," Santa repeated it more quietly, "But people are going to hate no matter what."
Perth sighed.
"People hated me before. They'll hate me after. They'll just find new reasons."
Perth frowned. Santa smiled.
"And then they'll move on to hating someone else."
That earned the tiniest huff of reluctant amusement. Santa considered that a victory.
For a while neither spoke. Perth slowly shifted forward. Then rested his cheek against Santa's chest. Santa's arms automatically wrapped around his neck, his own cheeks rested on top of Perth's hair. Perth relaxed instantly. His weight settled against Santa. His breathing gradually slowed.
Santa stroked his hair. The strands were soft today, he noticed once again. No hairspray. No styling products. Just Perth. He continued running his fingers through it, listening to the city beyond the windows, listening to Perth breathe.
Minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe ten.
Santa almost thought Perth had fallen asleep. His eyes had drifted shut. His body had gone heavy, comfortably heavy, like a cat.
Then suddenly, Perth spoke again. His voice was so soft that Santa thought he had imagined it.
"I'm sorry."
Santa blinked.
"What?"
Perth lifted his head. His eyes looked even sleepier now. But there was something else there too. Guilt.
Santa immediately frowned.
"For what?"
Perth looked at him for a long moment. Then his voice became smaller. Painfully small.
"I'm sorry."
"Perth."
"I'm sorry."
Santa's stomach dropped. The older man swallowed. His eyes immediately filled again.
"Oh, baby..."
Perth shook his head. His gaze dropped to where his hands rested on Santa's waist and then back up.
"When you met me..."
Santa listened.
"...you only ever gave me love."
The words hit him harder than expected. Perth continued.
"You always believed in me."
Santa felt his eyes sting.
"You stayed. You gave me a reason to keep going."
The room suddenly felt very quiet.
Perth rarely talked about that period. The exhaustion. The uncertainty. The moments when he had genuinely considered giving up and leaving the industry. But Santa remembered. He remembered once hearing about it in passing from Pond years ago. He remembered Perth telling him the same while he was lying on Santa's lap, months into them dating. He remembered all of it.
Perth looked away.
"You made me not want to quit."
Santa's vision blurred slightly.
"Perth..."
"And what do you get back?"
The older man's voice cracked.
"What do you get because you're with me?"
Santa froze. That was what this was. Not jealousy. Not anger. Not even hurt pride. Guilt. Perth blamed himself.
"All you get is hate from my fans."
The words shattered something inside Santa. He grabbed Perth's face, firmly enough that Perth was forced to look at him.
"Don't."
Perth's eyes widened.
"Baby-"
"Don't."
The warning came sharper this time. Perth immediately fell silent. Santa's throat burned. Because Perth actually believed it. Somehow this ridiculous man genuinely believed that he was responsible for every negative comment on the internet, that Santa was suffering because of him, that loving him had somehow been a bad deal.
Santa felt tears threatening. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched again. Their noses brushed. Their breaths mingled. They were close enough that Perth couldn't escape.
"Listen to me."
Perth nodded once. Santa took a breath.
"I love you. And it is enough."
Santa felt Perth's shaky breaths against his lips.
"It is enough that you love me."
Perth's eyes softened.
"It is enough that our friends love me. It is enough that the people who truly support us love me."
Perth swallowed. Santa smiled through the sting in his eyes.
"No one else matters."
Silence.
Without warning, Perth's face crumpled. He immediately buried his face against Santa's chest. Both arms tightened around Santa's waist, clutching tightly enough to leave a bruise. He was holding him as though he needed physical proof that Santa was still there. Santa nearly tipped backward from the force of it.
Perth only held tighter. Santa laughed wetly. Then wrapped his arms around him again.
"There you go."
Perth didn't answer. His face remained hidden.
Santa could feel warm breaths through his shirt. The occasional sniff. The wetness seeping through. The slow relaxing of tense muscles. He began rocking them gently, very carefully, considering they were both sitting on a couch and gravity was not their friend.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The motion gradually became slower. Perth's grip loosened. His breathing deepened.
Santa smiled.
The whiskey was finally catching up, combined with emotional exhaustion and a long day.
By the time another fifteen minutes passed, his boyfriend was practically falling asleep upright.
"Phi."
No answer.
"P'Perth."
A grunt.
Santa laughed.
"Let's go to bed."
"No."
"You're asleep."
"No."
"You're literally asleep."
Perth tightened his arms.
"No."
Santa smiled fondly.
"You are impossible."
"Stay."
"I'm staying."
"Here."
"No."
A pause. Then a dramatic whine.
"Tataa."
"Oh my God."
Another whine, longer this time.
Santa burst out laughing.
"You are twenty-five."
Perth ignored that.
"Stay."
"Bedroom."
"No."
Eventually Santa won, mostly because Perth was too sleepy to properly argue. The moment Santa stood, Perth complained. The moment Santa guided him toward the hallway, Perth complained for a second time. The moment Santa took away the whiskey glass, Perth whined about wasting expensive alcohol. Santa scoffed. The moment Santa switched off the living room lights, Perth was trying and failing to sulk. Every complaint grew progressively less coherent.
By the time they reached the bedroom, he was barely making sense.
Santa was trying very hard not to laugh.
The bedroom was dimly lit. Soft and comfortable just as they liked. The familiar space immediately made Perth relax further.
Santa guided him toward the mattress. Perth sat down heavily, pouting for no reason. His eyes immediately landed on the Domiia plushie resting against the pillows.
Santa knew exactly what was about to happen.
"P'Perth."
Too late.
Perth had already picked it up, carefully, as if it were a real baby. Santa bit his lip. Perth looked down at the plushie, his eyes immediately softened. The transformation was instant, almost comical. His entire face melted.
"Hello."
Santa covered his mouth. Perth gently adjusted the red-headed devil.
"There you are."
"Oh my God."
The older man completely ignored him.
"Did you miss Daddy?"
Santa lost the battle and started laughing. Perth frowned at him.
"Don't laugh at our baby."
"I'm sorry."
"No you're not."
Santa laughed harder. Perth looked down at the plushie again. The plushie stared back at him blankly.
"Daddy missed you too."
"Perth."
"And Papa."
Santa nearly choked. Perth nodded solemnly.
"Papa missed you."
The plushie, unfortunately, offered no response. Perth looked offended by this.
"Say hello to Papa."
Santa buried his face in his hands. This was easily becoming the highlight of his week.
"Phi, please."
The older man hugged the plushie protectively.
"Dad and Papa worked hard today."
Santa was crying with laughter now. Perth remained completely serious. The contrast only made it worse. Finally, Santa managed to compose himself enough to stand.
"I'm showering."
Perth nodded. Then immediately returned his attention to the plushie.
"Say goodnight to Papa."
Santa shook his head.
"I love you."
Perth smiled sleepily.
"Love you too."
Then, to the plushie, "Papa loves us."
Santa laughed all the way into the bathroom.
By the time he emerged twenty minutes later, dressed in an oversized shirt, which may have belonged to Perth months ago, and comfortable shorts, the apartment had gone completely quiet. He opened the bedroom door. Then immediately stopped. His heart melted.
Perth was asleep. His one arm was wrapped around the Domiia plushie, face half-buried against it. His messy hair was falling over his forehead. His mouth was slightly open, traces of drool on the corner. The expression of absolute peace on his face made him look years younger.
Santa stared. He quietly reached for his phone.
Click.
The picture was perfect.
Evidence.
Blackmail material.
Future teasing material.
Something he will absolutely stare at in secret.
All of the above.
He smiled as he saved it. Then carefully climbed into bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. Perth stirred, just slightly. Even asleep, he instinctively shifted closer, seeking warmth, familiarity, seeking Santa. The movement made Santa's chest ache. So he scooted closer too.
Perth immediately settled. One hand found Santa's waist, even in deep sleep. Santa smiled. He leaned forward, pressing one soft kiss against Perth's forehead, another in the corner of his lips.
"Goodnight."
Perth didn't wake. But his grip tightened slightly, as though somewhere in sleep, he had heard. Santa smiled into the darkness, closing his eyes.
Tomorrow would bring workshops. Schedules. Interviews. Fans. People who claimed to be fans. Rumours. Shipping discourse. Another hundred opinions from people who knew neither of them.
But tonight was quiet. Tonight there was only Perth, curled around a plushie he had apparently adopted as his child. And Santa, lying beside him.
The last thought Santa had before falling asleep as well, was that he wanted this — Perth, fiercely protective of him, falling asleep beside him, waking up next to him — for the rest of his life.
His home.