Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The Art of Almost
Bangkok, 11:47 p.m.
The first rule of loving someone in secret was learning how to look at them without getting caught.
Joss had perfected it.
He could look at Gawin across a crowded room and make it seem as though he were looking at the person standing beside him. He could follow the movement of Gawin's hands while pretending to listen to an executive discuss box-office projections. He could recognize Gawin's laugh from three rooms away, even through music, conversation, and the incessant clicking of cameras.
He knew the difference between Gawin's real smile and the one he wore for interviews.
He knew that Gawin rubbed the back of his neck when he was nervous, that he went quiet when something hurt him, and that he always ordered coffee he barely drank when he was waiting for someone.
He knew that Gawin hated being touched unexpectedly when he was tired.
He knew that Gawin loved being held when he was sad.
That last piece of information was particularly inconvenient.
Because Joss had never been the person Gawin allowed to hold him.
Not when it mattered.
"You're staring."
Joss blinked.
His manager, Nicha, stood beside him with a champagne flute in one hand and an expression that suggested she was reconsidering every professional decision she had ever made.
"I'm looking at the stage."
"The stage is over there."
"I'm aware."
"You're looking at Gawin."
Joss turned toward the enormous screen behind the ballroom's main stage.
"He's on the screen."
"He's also standing twenty feet away from you."
"Then I suppose I'm looking at both."
Nicha closed her eyes.
"One day, I'm going to quit."
"You say that every week."
"One day, you'll fall in love with somebody who doesn't want you back, and I'll have to listen to you pretend you're fine for six consecutive months. Then I'll quit."
For half a second, Joss forgot how to smile.
Nicha noticed.
Of course she did.
She had been his manager for six years. She knew when he was lying about exhaustion, when he was irritated with a director, and when he had deliberately taken a longer route through a building because Gawin happened to be somewhere along it.
She also knew that the subject of Gawin Caskey had become a particularly dangerous landmine in Joss's otherwise carefully managed life.
"Don't," he murmured.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're thinking loudly."
"Someone has to think around here."
Across the ballroom, Gawin laughed at something a young actor whispered in his ear.
Joss looked away.
Too late.
He had already seen it: Gawin's head tilted slightly backward, his eyes narrowing with genuine amusement, one hand resting against the other man's arm.
It was an ordinary gesture.
A meaningless gesture.
A gesture that should not have made Joss feel as though someone had reached into his chest and squeezed.
"Who's that?" he asked.
Nicha followed his gaze.
"Who?"
"The guy."
"Which guy?"
"The one talking to Gawin."
"Oh." She paused. "Thanet. He was in that independent film last year. He's nice."
"Didn't ask whether he was nice."
"You asked who he was."
"I asked because—"
"Because you're curious?"
"Because I have eyes."
"Congratulations."
Joss gave her a look.
Nicha smiled into her champagne.
"He's single, by the way."
Joss stared at her.
"Why do you know that?"
"Because I have eyes."
He hated her.
He genuinely, sincerely hated her.
Mostly because she was right.
Thanet leaned closer to Gawin to say something over the music. Gawin smiled again, softer this time, and nodded.
Joss felt something ugly and unfamiliar coil beneath his ribs.
It wasn't jealousy.
Jealousy was for people who had a right to be jealous.
He was simply observing.
He was an actor. Observation was part of his profession.
He observed Gawin's fingers curling around the stem of his glass. He observed Thanet's hand settling briefly against Gawin's lower back as they moved to make room for a passing waiter. He observed Gawin not moving away.
And then he observed himself imagining the same hand on Gawin in a different room, under different lighting, with no cameras and no witnesses.
"Joss."
"What?"
"Stop looking like you want to murder a man at an awards dinner."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
Before Joss could defend himself, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
"Who are you planning to murder?"
He knew that voice.
God help him, he knew it better than he knew his own.
Joss turned.
Gawin stood beside him, wearing a black suit that fit him with almost criminal precision. His dark hair had been styled away from his forehead, revealing the expressive eyes Joss had spent the better part of three years trying not to memorize.
There was a small silver earring in his left ear.
Joss had seen him wear it before.
He had spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about it.
"Nobody," Joss answered.
Gawin looked at Nicha.
Nicha looked at Joss.
They shared the silent understanding of two people who had witnessed the same disaster from different angles.
"He's in a mood," she explained.
"I'm not in a mood."
"He's always in a mood when he's hungry," Gawin said.
Joss stared at him.
Gawin raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You've been doing that all evening."
"Doing what?"
"Looking at people like you're trying to solve a murder."
Nicha made a choking sound into her champagne.
Joss shot her a warning look.
Gawin smiled.
And there it was.
That smile.
The real one, not the polished, camera-ready curve of his mouth. The small, crooked thing that appeared when he was genuinely amused by Joss.
For one reckless moment, Joss forgot about Thanet.
Forgot about the cameras.
Forgot about the carefully constructed distance between them.
He wanted to touch Gawin's cheek.
He wanted to tell him that he looked beautiful.
He wanted to ask whether Gawin had any idea what it did to him, standing this close and smiling as though Joss were simply another friend.
Instead, he said, "Your suit's crooked."
Gawin looked down.
"What?"
"Your lapel."
"It's fine."
"It's crooked."
Gawin glanced at Nicha, who had abruptly become fascinated by the ceiling.
Then he looked back at Joss.
"Fix it, then."
The words were casual.
An invitation offered without thought.
Joss's heart stumbled.
He reached forward.
His fingers brushed the edge of Gawin's lapel, smoothing the fabric against his chest. It was an absurdly simple thing to do. They had touched countless times before: hands clasped during promotional events, arms slung over shoulders for photographs, fingers briefly intertwined when a director demanded a more convincing take.
None of those touches had ever felt like this.
Gawin stood perfectly still.
Joss straightened the lapel, then brushed a tiny invisible speck from the shoulder of his jacket.
"There."
His hand lingered for half a second too long.
Gawin's gaze lifted to his face.
Their eyes met.
Something shifted.
It was small enough that Joss could have convinced himself he imagined it: the sudden stillness in Gawin's expression, the way his lips parted slightly, the warmth that seemed to disappear from his teasing smile.
Then somebody called Gawin's name.
The moment shattered.
Gawin stepped back.
"Thanks," he said.
"Anytime."
The word escaped too quickly.
Gawin looked at him for another second.
Then he smiled politely and turned toward the person calling him.
Joss watched him leave.
Nicha leaned closer.
"That was painful to witness."
"Go away."
"You're welcome, by the way."
"For what?"
"For not announcing to the entire room that you're in love with him."
Joss's smile returned, brittle and automatic.
"Don't be ridiculous."
Nicha said nothing.
Somehow, that was worse.
The trouble with being Joss Way-ar was that people assumed he had everything.
The face. The body. The career. The money. The attention.
He could walk into a room and watch heads turn. He could flirt his way out of uncomfortable interviews. He could make strangers believe they had a chance with him simply by remembering their names.
He was good at being wanted.
He had never learned how to survive wanting someone who might never want him back.
At 12:36 a.m., he stood alone on the hotel balcony, his tie loosened and his phone pressed against his palm.
Below him, Bangkok glittered in gold and white.
The city was beautiful at night. It made everything seem distant enough to bear.
His phone vibrated.
A message from Gawin.
Gawin, 12:31 a.m.
Did you leave already?
Joss read it once.
Then twice.
Then he typed:
Yeah. Tired.
He deleted it.
Typed again.
Had something to do.
Deleted that too.
He stared at the blank message field, suddenly furious with himself.
They had known each other for years. They had each other's numbers, shared friends, shared memories, shared the kind of familiarity that made other people assume there must be something between them.
And yet Joss was sitting on a balcony, treating a four-word text as though it were a legally binding confession.
He typed:
Yeah. You still at the hotel?
The reply came almost immediately.
In the lobby.
Joss straightened.
Then another message appeared.
Was going to ask if you wanted to get something to eat.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
He imagined going downstairs. Finding Gawin in the lobby, probably with his sleeves rolled up and his hair falling over his forehead. Sitting beside him in a quiet restaurant. Listening to him talk about the film he'd watched last week or the song he couldn't get out of his head.
An ordinary night.
An ordinary opportunity.
A chance to be close without an audience.
Joss typed:
Sorry. Already ate.
He sent it before he could change his mind.
For several seconds, the screen remained silent.
Then:
Oh. Okay. Goodnight, Joss.
He stared at the message.
Goodnight, Joss.
No teasing nickname. No stupid sticker. No follow-up question.
Just his name, and a period at the end of a conversation that could have become something else.
Joss set his phone face down on the balcony table.
He told himself he had done the right thing.
He told himself that getting food with Gawin at midnight would have meant nothing.
He told himself that the ache in his chest was the natural consequence of being tired and drinking too much champagne.
He told himself many things.
By two in the morning, none of them sounded convincing.
Three weeks later, Joss learned that fate had a particularly vicious sense of humor.
It arrived in the form of a script.
He was halfway through an early breakfast when Nicha placed a thick black folder on the table in front of him.
"Read this."
Joss looked at the folder.
"Good morning to you too."
"Good morning. Read it."
"What is it?"
"Your next project."
He opened it.
The title page was stark and elegant.
THE SPACE BETWEEN US
A romantic drama.
Written by one of the country's most respected screenwriters. Directed by an award-winning filmmaker. Backed by a production company with enough money to make the entire industry pay attention.
Joss flipped through the first few pages.
The story followed two men who had known each other since their early twenties. One was a celebrated actor who hid his loneliness behind charm and public affection. The other was a musician-turned-actor who had built his life around the conviction that love was something other people could afford.
They met again after years of missed opportunities.
They fell in love.
They hurt each other.
They learned that sometimes the most devastating thing a person could do was walk away while still being loved.
Joss stopped reading.
His stomach tightened.
"What the hell is this?"
"A script."
"I can see that."
"Then we're making progress."
He flipped to the character descriptions.
ARIN: Thirty-two. Charismatic, reckless, emotionally evasive. A man who confuses being desired with being loved.
Joss slowly lifted his eyes.
Nicha took a sip of coffee.
"Interesting character, isn't he?"
"Who wrote this?"
"An excellent screenwriter."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting until you finish reading."
He looked back at the script.
The second lead's name was Kiet.
KIET: Thirty. Quietly intense, observant, and guarded. A man who has loved the same person for years and finally decides that love without courage is simply another way of hurting someone.
Joss closed the folder.
"No."
Nicha didn't blink.
"You haven't even finished it."
"I don't need to."
"You do."
"Find me something else."
"This is the biggest offer you've received in two years."
"I don't care."
"You're contractually obligated to consider projects before rejecting them."
"Then consider this my consideration."
Nicha leaned back in her chair.
"You're scared."
Joss laughed.
It sounded terrible.
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified."
He stood.
"I'm not doing a film about two men who spend their entire lives making each other miserable."
"Why not?"
"Because it's depressing."
"Because it's familiar?"
He stared at her.
Nicha's expression softened, and for the first time that morning she looked less like his manager and more like someone who genuinely cared whether he destroyed himself.
"Joss, the character isn't you. You know that."
"Then why does he sound like me?"
"Maybe because good writers know how to write people."
"Or maybe because somebody's been talking."
"No one has been talking."
"Then how—"
"Read the script."
She pushed the folder toward him.
"The director wants you. Specifically. He said you're the only actor he can imagine playing Arin."
Joss looked down at the cover.
There was another page tucked beneath the title sheet.
He hadn't noticed it before.
The casting announcement was printed in neat black lettering.
ARIN — JOSS WAY-AR
KIET — GAWIN CASKEY
For a moment, the room became very quiet.
Joss read the names again.
Then a third time.
He felt cold.
"No."
Nicha sighed.
"Joss—"
"No."
"You need to at least—"
"No."
He pushed the folder away so sharply that it slid several inches across the table.
"Find another project."
"The director has already spoken to Gawin."
Joss froze.
"What?"
"Gawin's interested."
The words settled between them.
Joss looked at the script as though it had become something dangerous.
Gawin was interested.
Of course he was.
Gawin loved complicated stories. He loved characters who were difficult to understand, people who made terrible choices for reasons that were painfully human. He had always been drawn to stories about loneliness and the things people did to escape it.
He would read this script and understand every word.
He would recognize the tenderness beneath the cruelty, the fear beneath the arrogance, the love that became destructive when nobody dared to name it.
And then he would look at Joss and ask him to play the man who kept hurting him.
Joss could already imagine it.
The rehearsal room.
The cameras.
Gawin standing opposite him, delivering lines about loving someone who never chose him.
Gawin's eyes meeting his.
That terrible, beautiful honesty in his voice.
Joss didn't think he could survive it.
"Tell them no," he said quietly.
Nicha watched him for a long moment.
Then she asked, "Do you want to know what Gawin said when they offered him the role?"
Joss didn't answer.
"He asked whether you had accepted."
The room tilted.
"What?"
"He said he wanted to know who his co-star would be before making a decision."
Joss's mouth went dry.
"And when they told him it was you," Nicha continued, "he asked them to send him the full script."
Joss sat down slowly.
It was ridiculous, the way hope could hurt.
A single sentence. A small, insignificant detail.
Gawin had asked about him.
Not because he had to. Not because a publicist had instructed him to. Not because a camera was waiting to capture his reaction.
He had asked.
For one dangerous second, Joss allowed himself to wonder what it meant.
Then he remembered the ballroom.
Thanet's hand against Gawin's back.
Gawin's easy laughter.
The way he had stepped away when someone called his name.
He remembered the message he had received three weeks earlier.
Was going to ask if you wanted to get something to eat.
And the lie he'd sent in return.
Sorry. Already ate.
Maybe Gawin had stopped waiting for him long ago.
Maybe this film was simply another job.
Maybe the universe was offering him a final chance to find out whether the story he had been telling himself for years had ever belonged to both of them.
Joss opened the script again.
He turned to the first page.
And he began to read.
Gawin was in the middle of a recording session when his phone rang.
He ignored it.
It rang again.
He glanced at the screen and saw his manager's name.
"Sorry," he told the sound engineer. "I need to take this."
He stepped into the corridor.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I have news."
"That usually means something's wrong."
His manager laughed.
"The offer is official. They want you for The Space Between Us."
Gawin leaned against the wall.
He had read the script the previous night.
He'd finished it at four in the morning and spent the next hour staring at his ceiling.
It was a beautiful story.
A cruel one.
The kind of story that asked what happened when love became a place you returned to even after it had stopped being safe.
He wanted the role.
He wanted it badly enough that the thought of playing Kiet made his hands shake.
But there was one question he hadn't been able to stop asking.
"Did they tell you who's playing Arin?"
A pause.
Then, "Joss."
Gawin closed his eyes.
He had known it was possible.
He had prepared himself for the possibility.
He had even rehearsed the expression he would make if someone told him that Joss Way-ar would be playing the man he was supposed to love.
Apparently, rehearsing something did not make it hurt less.
"Oh," he said.
His manager chuckled.
"That's all you've got?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. You're working with one of the biggest actors in the country."
"I've worked with Joss before."
"Not like this."
No.
Not like this.
Not with a script that demanded they stare into each other's eyes and confess things neither of them had ever been brave enough to say.
Not with a director who would ask them to make every touch look like a promise.
Not with a production team that would spend months encouraging their chemistry while the real thing, if it existed at all, remained hidden beneath layers of professionalism and denial.
Gawin pressed his fingers against his forehead.
"Has he accepted?"
"Not yet."
Something small and foolish inside him lifted its head.
"Why not?"
"I don't know. Scheduling, probably."
"Right."
"Are you going to accept?"
Gawin looked down the corridor, where the recording studio door stood slightly ajar.
He thought about Kiet.
A man who loved someone for years, believing that patience would eventually become courage in the person he loved.
A man who mistook being needed for being chosen.
A man who finally learned that he could love someone deeply and still decide to leave.
Gawin swallowed.
"Yes," he said.
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll tell them."
The call ended.
Gawin remained in the corridor for another minute.
Then he opened his messages.
Joss's conversation sat near the top of the screen.
The last exchange was still there.
Was going to ask if you wanted to get something to eat.
Sorry. Already ate.
He had never deleted it.
He wasn't sure why.
Perhaps because it reminded him that there had been a time when he still made excuses for Joss.
When he believed that if he were patient enough, gentle enough, undemanding enough, Joss might eventually understand that there was a difference between wanting someone around and wanting them to stay.
He had been in love with Joss for almost four years.
He had never said it.
Not directly.
Not even when Joss had fallen asleep against his shoulder during a late-night flight and Gawin had spent two hours barely breathing, terrified that moving would wake him.
Not when Joss had called him after a terrible day and confessed that he hated being alone.
Not when Joss had kissed his cheek at a party and told him, with a careless smile, that he was one of the few people who made everything feel easier.
Gawin had loved him through every careless touch and every almost-confession.
He had loved him when Joss flirted with other people.
He had loved him when Joss looked at him with an intensity that made his heart race, only to laugh it off when Gawin looked back.
He had loved him enough to become an expert at pretending it didn't hurt.
But he was tired now.
Tired of waiting for the meaning behind a gesture that Joss would always insist was meaningless.
Tired of being the person Joss turned to when the world became too loud, only to watch him return to that world without looking back.
Tired of hoping.
Gawin locked his phone.
He would take the role.
He would do the work.
He would be professional.
And when filming ended, he would finally let himself move on.
He had no idea that Joss had spent the last hour reading the same script and making exactly the same promise to himself.
Neither of them knew that the director had already scheduled their first chemistry read.
Neither of them knew that the first scene they would be asked to perform was a confession.
Or that, before the day was over, one of them would say the words the other had been waiting years to hear.
The cruelest part was that they would both know it was acting.
At least, that was what they would tell themselves.