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Phuwin likes to keep it functional.
For a very long time, he worked under the belief that his first kiss was a non-issue. He was an actor on a filming set—it was hardly any surprise that most of his firsts took place during acting. First time he gazed at someone lovingly; held hands with someone; felt someone’s lips touch his own; and this list was perfectly proportional to the rest of his life, and as far as Phuwin knew, it would always be this way. He was just doing his job.
The first time anyone offered to ride him home after a grueling shoot; took his favorite shirt and returned it to him drenched in the scent of their laundry detergent; fixed his hair for him unprompted between takes; reminded him to drink water on exactly the right intervals after Phuwin confessed to being absent-minded about his health; and even fawned over his kitten despite being uncomfortable around cats—There are innumerable firsts that Pond has been for Phuwin.
But sure, Phuwin can see why fans sometimes giggle about Pond being his first kiss, so he keeps it functional by gracefully scrolling past the occasional hit tweet about their FUTS era.
The fact that it was Pond who was his first, though, in a way, could not stay limited to any one area in Phuwin’s life. It seemed to spread and stick like a giant web, slowly growing more strings that seemed deceptively fragile until you tried to separate the skin from the weaver.
In his life, there are many lines that were blurred, many boundaries that have been crossed, a Frankenstein doll of a friend and a lover and a coworker. And all linked to only one person.
Phuwin doesn’t think about it very often.
What grew from the spiderweb was not affection in its fathomable form, like a shape without an outline, a force without energy. It simply stood in the way of life as hollow men do, effigies that could be brushed past and ignored until suddenly, a conscience was awoken and a weight was gained, and then the straw-stuffings turned into bread and wine, and real meat.
Certainly, while it couldn’t be understood—Pond’s insistence on treating him right; Phuwin’s nervousness at meeting Pond’s mother for the first time; Pond’s gloomy eyes in the beach-sunset as if Phuwin were the one who’d wronged him; Phuwin’s white-hot anger at Pond’s refusal to see him as he wanted to be seen—while it was a jumbled mess of emotions and memories that couldn’t be pinned to a solid frame at all, even still, it benefited them. What did the industry not love more than ambiguity? Pond and Phuwin, one in a line of many twos, known to be just on the right side of romantic to get people’s hearts beating again. Sometimes, it could feel like creating a life, Phuwin thought. Undeniably, there was an element of godhood in it.
Even with barely any achievement behind him, Phuwin knew how the directors saw them, too, as much as anything could be seen when it was being weighed for qualification against some obscure parameter. What did those two, that Pond and Phuwin, what did they have?—They were different, weren’t they; not close friends like the other couples, and they got along fine but there was an invisible boundary between them still, and not mature enough to understand when to give the other space, but they never tripped an inch past politeness. How did this tension sustain?—Wanting to communicate but finding your language is different from the other; harboring wounds in your chest that throbbed with agony each time your eyes met; no resolution, like an ocean to the one dying of thirst—Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.
There was, for the lack of a better word, something there. It was alien. It drew eyes, and made people wonder. It made Phuwin wonder, sometimes, when he wasn’t being careful.
Don’t get caught up in how it feels, somebody had advised him, a millennia ago. Focus. Be practical. Now, over the years, that voice in his head sounds like his own, telling himself more than necessary to not get caught up in it, but he still wonders. And he secretly believes that maybe the alien thing is the way he was always aware of Pond being his first kiss.
Maybe the answer to every mystery between Pond and Phuwin is the fact that Phuwin can’t forget the things Pond has done for him without having to ask; he’s made sacrifices for Phuwin that must be known only to himself and Pond; he’s been there in Phuwin’s life since Phuwin was a young man, his mother’s ‘little gentleman’, and a nong to about half the industry as it was back then, and the Pond he knew then is a world away from the one he’s beginning to know now, and he kissed Phuwin. For the first time.
What PondPhuwin have is Pond’s elegant acceptance of his work and life after years of overthinking, and Phuwin’s tendency to completely overlook every unstable, scary feeling only to torture himself over little things, and acting unbothered afterwards. That’s their chemistry.
Obviously, there was a time when Pond had his doubts.
That happened so long ago, it seems like a different universe, now, but Phuwin still remembers every inch of that conversation in vivid detail, like a neon-bellied fly stunning itself against glass, catching the sunlight as gravity pulls it down.
There are some things he’d love to ask Pond today, like why he locked himself inside the dressing room for ten minutes and wouldn’t talk to him after they filmed that scene, or what he carried in the front slit of his wallet for two years that he never told anyone about. The Fish Upon the Sky days were just as surreal and dreamlike as the name of the series; many times, Phuwin feels sure that he could be persuaded into believing it was all just in his head. Except for the kiss.
The kiss that drove Pond a little bit crazy with nerves, and Phuwin was the only one who could sense that something was off and went to talk to him about it.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” was the first thing Pond said, when Phuwin entered the room.
For a moment, it really hurt, hearing Pond talk like that, as if Phuwin was part of the problem. He was trying to make a space in Pond’s life that he thought should technically be his, since he was Pond’s partner and Pond liked working with him—He didn’t take into account the scores of conventional distance between the two of them that the other couples didn’t have to deal with because they’d been friends long before any business contracts defined their relationship. Phuwin was acting like an owner on rented property. “Phi, it’s okay. I understand how you’re feeling—”
“What do you understand?”
The words froze Phuwin. Pond has always had a talent for swaying Phuwin’s heart with the simplest words. But the first time Phuwin ever got a full taste of it was in the dressing room, stuffy with Pond’s frustration, the barely put-on mask of composure slipping from his face, revealing an entirely strange creature underneath who didn’t respect Phuwin much and reduced Phuwin’s well-meaning worry to a few strokes of self-serving ego. What do you understand?
Phuwin couldn’t answer. For the first time, he realized that he didn’t understand at all—indeed, whatever understanding he’d begun to develop of Pond was a fiction he’d created for himself. The real Pond Naravit wasn’t interested in the role Phuwin’d assigned for him; he was a wild card.
At some point later on in their career, Phuwin suddenly realized why Pond’d reacted like that. He never asked Pond about it, really; it became one of the things that they didn’t talk about but still tacitly understood. Understood. Understand. Understanding. Phuwin only came to know the real meaning of these words after meeting Pond. Real understanding had nobody to perform for. Real understanding didn’t stalk down a hiding person to the dressing room and tell them, “It’s okay”.
Real understanding was so quiet. And rarely announced itself to an audience.
In his mind, a slightly older Pond braced himself on a chair next to Phuwin. “Alright,” he patted Phuwin’s back, looking into his eyes with all his worry and determination pouring right into the open. This was Never Let Me Go—another dream, surreal in its own way—and this time, Pond wasn’t pacing the inside of some dressing room. Neither of them said it but each understood. Phuwin didn’t let himself tilt under the weight of Pond’s gaze, matched it with his own, showed him that he could be trusted and be steady when Pond couldn’t. In essence, he was the same Phuwin from a year ago, saying It’s okay, I understand.
This time, Pond believed him.
Eventually, they reached a place where they could talk about their NC scenes like adults.
It felt like a lie, like playing grown-ups, but Pond made it worth it. Phuwin doesn’t know how Pond does that—makes him feel so at ease and yet restless.
When they started talking, what came out was familiar. Because it was all the things they’d already understood, just not spoken aloud yet. Once they named it, it became easier to spot in a room full of people. We Are was the least of their NC scenes combined up till this point in their career, and probably what propelled Pond to confidently state that they were “experts at romantic scenes now”. Phuwin didn’t probe into it. But it was indeed easier to see the hunched nervousness in Pond’s stare from across the bed, under set-lighting, in a cacophony of voices from all sides.
“When I act in those types of scenes with you, I feel—scared,” Pond’d confessed, “of hurting you. Upsetting you, in some way, accidentally.”
Phuwin had felt caged in from all sides by the tone of Pond’s voice—suddenly overwhelmingly mature for a moment, reminding Phuwin of the two years between them—before Phuwin’s brain had caught up.
The shots lined up across the board, and it was a perfect hit. Pond’s newfound professional composure fracturing for the very first time on the set, his refusal to confide in Phuwin, his attempt at pushing Phuwin away. What do you understand? The question tolled like a bell in the center of his chest, echoing down to the bones.
“Why?” Phuwin’d asked.
He’d been grateful that day for being out in the open in a non-descript park when this conversation opened up and took such a turn. They could’ve ended up in a thousand hotel rooms, and Phuwin would’ve tried to do something stupid about it. He’d always wanted to know if, in his own way, he was part of the problem; if Pond ever felt that his presence made a few things more difficult; or if Pond’s fear of accidentally hurting and upsetting his partner during a love scene would’ve been true in any other version of reality for anyone other than Phuwin as well.
“I- I don’t want to overstep your boundaries.”
“And you find it difficult to stay within the boundaries when we’re—?”
Pond had turned his face away before he’d finished that question. After a short inhale, he’d only said, “I want you to be comfortable with me and I—”
“I am. And I wouldn’t be here if you ever made me feel bad.”
“Okay. Got it.”
He is not Pond’s first kiss, but maybe a first kiss isn’t what keeps them together. The secret of PondPhuwin isn’t a first kiss directed on set by an intimacy coordinator. Maybe Phuwin doesn’t care about his first kiss at all. Maybe it isn’t about the kiss. Hasn’t been.
When all he is really hooked on to is the gentle and gentler register of Pond’s voice when he’s tired from a long day; the childlike warmth with which he takes the world in his embrace; his big stature that doesn’t know how to harm; and his passion. The certainty in the fact that when he’s given his attention to Phuwin, it will stay there until Phuwin says otherwise. There’s still so much to know about him, so many parts of him that haven’t introduced themselves to Phuwin yet.
They’ve kissed many times since Phuwin’s first. Angles, blocking, takes, lighting, levels. Each one like a tug on the hand saying one more, one more.
He wants to ask Pond the question that’s been sitting inside him getting bigger each day. Wants to make it innocuous, pleasant. An afterthought, almost. Do I make you nervous, too?
But it’s not out of a need to know the answer, because Phuwin already knows. He understands.
“Your lip-gloss is gone,” Phuwin comments, idly running a finger down the line of Pond’s jaw. His ear is so red, it might as well be its own light source.
Pond turns to give him a look that’s still a bit too much Khun Thee, the silver of Pond in there winking at Phuwin from tiny cracks here and there, and Phuwin suddenly has the feeling that he’s trying to uncover an artifact buried thousands of feet under the earth. “Yours too.”
The movement of his head made Phuwin’s finger slide right off his skin. He’s so pristine, Phuwin thinks, not for the first time. He trails his finger down the line of Pond’s bicep, now, leaving a long, faint nail-mark behind.
He would offer to retouch Pond’s lip but the last time Santa caught them at it and Phuwin’s sure he’s going to hear about it sooner or later, probably with another thousands of viewers watching.
Besides, he’s not sure if re-applying the same lip-gloss that he sucked off Pond’s lips about five minutes ago is a good idea. He usually takes some time before he can come down from the high of Peach and his love for … showing affection to Thee.
“You ate it,” Phuwin says, slapping Pond’s bicep lightly.
There’s a brief, loud silence. Pond regards him with hooded eyes, and Phuwin has no idea what new heights of acting Pond has unlocked because he still oozes Khun Thee. He’s starting to get a bit worried about it now. “Yeah. Guess it’s my fault.”
“It’s Khun Thee’s fault,” Phuwin reminds, gently.
Pond’s lips quirk up to one side, and that’s definitely a smirk. Phuwin has never seen Pond smirk at him like that. He sits up straighter in Peach’s tiny bed, his heart lurching violently in the direction where the mattress happily dips and almost sends him touching into Pond’s bare shoulder.
The set is still alive around them, but that is irrelevant to the way Phuwin’s breathing is labored—again. He’s not pressed to the mattress this time, and he’s put his shirt back on, but he’s getting touched nonetheless, trapped under a big body, sculpted and warm. Pristine skin.
“Hm? Whose fault is it?” Pond’s voice is so low, almost a purr.
Phuwin is pretty sure he looks as gobsmacked as he feels right now. He blinks, blood rushing hot to his face, and plasters himself against the headboard. “You’re being weird,” he tries to not sound breathless, and makes a face. It doesn’t work, really, because Peach is still at the back of his head and he would never make such an in-elegant expression—sometimes, Phuwin feels that it’s exhausting to be Peachayarat not because of all the trauma and the responsibilities, but because of how graceful he has to be at all times. In every situation. Peach even side-eyes Khun Thee with an air of Miss Thailand. Honestly, no wonder him and Thee fall in love—Peach has all the markers of a powerful mafia wife.
He only relaxes again when Pond starts laughing, and the mafia sex appeal thing he has got going on turns down a notch. He reaches over, all of a sudden, and tickles Phuwin in the tummy until Phuwin almost falls off the bed. “Glad you’re having fun,” Phuwin says through gritted teeth, smacking Pond in the face with a pillow, and starts rearranging his long hair, now messy thanks to Pond.
Nobody pays them much attention; probably because they’ve seen this too many times. Phuwin’s pretty sure he saw one of the staff drop his sandwich when he saw Pond tackling Phuwin on the bed after one of their bedroom scenes, and someone else who’s worked with PondPhuwin before had to tell him that it’s normal.
Phuwin wants to tell them that it’s not. Normalcy was forever chemically altered six years ago, and though he’s gotten used to it, it doesn’t mean that he’s stopped understanding what it is.
Instead, he shoots Pond a warning glare, and says, “If you tickle me one more time, I will bite your tongue.”
Pond smirks again, but though this one is less like Khun Thee’s, it is no better for it. He almost looks pleased with this outcome, “You can’t. My tongue is out of your reach.”
Phuwin purses his lips together, and turns to the monitor where P’X is looking over the script, “We’re ready for the next scene.” Then he grabs Pond’s shirt and tugs him close, “Don’t whine later. You provoked me first.”
“We’re not using tongue in this scene.” But he does obediently crawl halfway up Phuwin’s lap, and they really start to get into their positions again, ready to begin rolling. Pond’s strong arms on either side of Phuwin’s head, muscles flexing, ridged silk.
Phuwin absently wonders if he’s supposed to take off his shirt, but honestly he’s very distracted by Pond’s mouth—after all, he has a target. “If you open your mouth, I will use tongue.”
“I can’t kiss you without opening—oh, should I take off my shirt again?” The last part is broken off and directed to someone to the side, and then Pond’s heat lifts off him, a blanket removed, “Okay.”
“Ready?” someone asks.
Pond sneaks a hand down between them and digs his fingers teasingly into Phuwin’s waist. Phuwin shudders, one of his hands flying to clutch at Pond’s arm above him. Pond’s eyes are molten pools of brown; Thee’s eyes, but the gaze is Pond’s. He isn’t laughing anymore.
What do you understand?