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He'd always thought love, or whatever this was, would feel like rain. Something you simply accepted, let wash over you.
This felt more like a held breath. Something he wasn't sure he wanted to exhale.
It began, as so many questionable things did, with a live stream.
Fourth’s pointed question—tossed like a stone into still water—sliced through the cramped car: “You've got a thing for Pond, don't you? Bet you wouldn't kiss his cheek.”
Maybe it was a joke. But those kinds of jokes had weight. Especially with Pond in the backseat. Especially with thousands of eyes watching through the glass of their phones. Especially when Phuwin’s own expression felt foreign.
Thank god the Grab. Gemini was already out before it fully stopped. The live stream died. Topic changed. But something had caught. Dry tinder.
Phuwin hated leaks.
Especially the emotional kind. Especially his own.
He could play surprise, amusement, even a believable blush. It was the actor in him. But this unfamiliar warmth, catching him off guard, felt almost like exposure.
Growing up, Phuwin could usually figure people out. Feelings, though? That was a different story. He could mimic an emotion flawlessly, a perfect reflection of something he didn't inherently grasp. Expressions, tone, the way someone held themselves—he could read all that. Empathy, though, felt like a second language, something he had to consciously translate.
Pond wasn’t an exception. If anything, he was the one who scrambled the translation entirely.
Phuwin remembered the reading table. Pond's smile had swept over them all, and Phuwin hadn’t known where to look. Not intimidating, exactly. More like… a pull. The way Pond leaned in, really listened. His jokes, even the ones that landed flat, drew easy laughter. Phuwin hadn't always joined in. Didn't quite know how.
Pond was older. That felt significant, a hurdle. He’d never navigated anything like that. Hadn't navigated much, period. This partnership felt manufactured, a product of casting calls and camera setups. That's what he told himself anyway. Forced closeness. Just work. The timing of it all.
Not much aligned between them. Phuwin, all edges and quiet; Pond, a burst of ridiculousness. And yet, Pond kept worming his way in. Not a hand on his arm—Phuwin could handle touch. This was… internal. Sneaky. Pond didn’t force anything; he just made the barriers feel… silly. No interrogation, just a steady beam of his attention. His dumb grin. That easy laugh. Always there. It was so damn irritating.
But the truth he didn’t want to admit? It was actually doing something.
This wasn't some trauma response. Phuwin had no sad beginning. He'd been loved well, taught firmly. His parents' affection was practical. “Try to fix it yourself first,” his dad always said. “We're here if you can't.” He'd learned to internalize, to be undemanding, to understand love as a strong foundation, not necessarily tenderness. He knew he was loved. It just meant his first instinct was to deal with things alone, to be seen as capable, to never be a problem.
Vulnerability? No. That meant letting down walls, trusting what shifted.
And Pond had a way of making him want to risk that.
When they were paired again for Never Let Me Go, the connection went deeper than the script. Deeper than just being friends.
Something was changing. Not with a bang. Not for show. Internally, a quiet give.
Then Nuengdiao happened.
Back then, Phuwin’s Google Calendar was a solid wall of color. Blocks stacked and bled into each other, some stark red with “Confidential” blazing. Shooting days bled into online classes, crammed into breaks. Study happened in the van’s cramped back. Exams, meetings, voice-overs, fittings, 4 a.m. makeup calls. He’d memorized lines while brushing his teeth. Scripts sometimes became pillows—not for luck, just because they were there.
He wasn’t complaining. Not really. He’d signed on the dotted line. But the drag in his muscles was real, the thumb-swipe between apps just to know where he needed to be next.
To everyone else, he'd vanished. Online, the fans were restless, demanding more appearances, especially with Pond. They spun theories, pointed fingers at his agency. Phuwin knew the truth: the hours simply weren't there, even if he had the energy. His schedule was a locked box. And the urge to tell them? Impossible. NDAs were his silent shadow. Projects, scripts, appearances—all secret until they weren't.
The peculiar thing? In all the on-set madness, it was Pond's face he kept finding. His touchstone.
They were a constant presence for each other, acting bleeding into real life and back again. Late shoots, shared naps—it was their routine. Solid. Uncomplicated.
That's what made this new stirring inside him so damn confusing.
Acting, before Nuengdiao, had felt like a switch he could flip. Sadness on cue, anger on demand. He could cry for a scene, yell for a take, and then walk away clean. His roles were like clothes: worn briefly, then discarded.
He'd been Ice in The Warp Effect then, all that teenage heat—but it hadn’t followed him home. The Jungle was a quick in and out. Even Kul, messy as he was in Wednesday Club, hadn’t stuck. And Hoon Payon? Mostly left him with a tan he regretted and a fresh loathing of sunscreen.
None of them had lingered past the call sheet. None had asked for anything real.
Until Nuengdiao.
At first, it hadn't registered. The Never Let Me Go shoot was demanding, sure, emotionally and physically, but doable. Dramatic, high-stakes, all for the camera. The romance there? A story, like Romeo and Juliet—gorgeous, heartbreaking, and miles away from anything he knew. That gap had made it simpler. That was just acting.
But then there was the day Nuengdiao missed Palm.
Odd, because it was early in the shooting schedule, their characters nowhere near “I love you”—not even close to deserving it in the script.
The scene was out of order. Phuwin had to play Nuengdiao devastated, a raw ache because Palm had walked away. Except that hadn’t happened yet, not for them. No foundation. Just this abrupt absence he was supposed to embody.
He knew the mechanics of it, the way to manufacture that kind of pain. He’d done it before.
Pond wasn’t filming that day. Still, he showed up. Sat by the director, arms crossed, looking relaxed.
Then, before action, he was just there, pulling Phuwin into a hug. No words, no rehearsal. Just a solid warmth, a silent comfort.
Something shifted inside Phuwin. A fleeting thought of Palm losing Nuengdiao flickered, but what hit harder, unexpectedly, was the bare thought of Pond leaving him. Suddenly, the grief in the scene felt impossible to fake. He just felt it.
Phuwin gripped Pond tighter than intended, burying his face in his shoulder until Pond’s glasses went crooked. When the camera started rolling, the tears came—not just for Nuengdiao missing Palm, but for the raw fear of a world where someone like Pond might simply vanish.
He cried through the take, through the cut, and kept crying.
It was new.
Even now, he couldn’t quite name what had shifted inside. Not romance, not exactly. Something else. Big, undeniably. And stubbornly refusing to be ignored.
It was his mother who'd clocked it.
“Bringing Nuengdiao around again,” she'd observed one time, a smile playing on her lips, a question in her eyes, when he felt both detached and strangely vulnerable. He'd been dragging out dinner, quieter than normal.
Not a complaint, but it registered.
Because she was right. Something was breaking through. Nuengdiao was supposed to be an act. Instead, he'd become a lens. Focusing on parts of Phuwin he hadn't anticipated—a quiet touch, a certain ache, a deep desire. Not a performance. A feeling.
And Pond. Christ, Pond. He was at the heart of it, though not in the way Palm was. Not even on purpose, probably. Yet, when Phuwin had to reach for something tender inside, it was always Pond who appeared in his thoughts.
It was terrifying.
Pond was so open, emotions spilling from him easily. Affection didn't scare him. He spoke in feelings like others spoke in facts.
And that was the worst part.
Around Pond, Phuwin lost his grip. The lines he tried to draw blurred.
Phuwin’s life had been built on order. Emotions filed neatly away. He knew the dance of being liked, not seen—how to let people in, but only at a measured distance. The delicate parts stayed locked down tight.
Then Pond. He’d walked right past those walls, no effort at all.
Maybe that was the real fear.
Nuengdiao had shifted something inside him, cracked it open. But it was Pond who made him not want to shut it again.
It began like this: a quiet unraveling.
He'd mapped his own heart carefully, thought he knew the terrain. But then came this… disorientation. Like waking up in a room that looked familiar but wasn't quite his.
He told himself it was nothing. He wasn't entirely convinced.
He remembered it clearly: asking for that kiss.
Off-script. Unnecessary.
“I think they'd kiss here,” he'd said, like suggesting a line change.
As if it wasn't a request for something real, something exposed. As if he wasn't layering his own wanting onto their characters.
And the nerve to sound so nonchalant. It was for the scene. Mostly.
Looking back, it was clear. A clumsy reach. A way to test, without showing his hand.
To hint at something too tender for plain words.
He hadn’t asked as himself. It was Nuengdiao who’d spoken.
A permission slip. A safety net. “Nuengdiao would do this,” he’d said.
But his own quiet truth was louder: I want this. And I’m scared.
And bless the director. He’d said yes. Let them film it. It had felt… real. Maybe too much so. Which was probably why it ended up on the cutting room floor. Didn’t suit the tone, the word was.
Privately, Phuwin was both grateful and hollowed out. He wouldn’t have to dissect it.
But the lack of it… It left something unfinished.
That moment lived only within him now—a memory held in his skin, a lingering ache of what wasn’t said.
That's when the distance began.
Not a fight, just a quiet retreat. He became so careful. Every word, every glance. Was it real, what he felt, or just echoes of the script?
He'd replay moments in his head, searching for the seam between himself and the part he played.
It didn’t work.
Compartmentalizing just made the wanting spill over more. He missed Pond with an ache that felt unreasonable.
Out in the jungle filming Hoon Payon, the distance amplified it. He started inventing reasons to call. Phi Jack became a convenient shield.
“Pond should see this view,” he'd say, like it was a casual thought.
Not the truth: he just needed to hear Pond's voice.
Then the signal began to break. The higher they went, the more remote it felt.
That pull—the absence—sharpened.
He asked for the satellite phone before he could overthink it. “Just a call to Bangkok,” he’d offered, as if it were just a place.
But Bangkok was Pond. And he’d climbed this far, to the country’s edge, just to catch the ghost of his laugh through static.
Much later, Phuwin saw Pond’s tweet. Something about not knowing how Phuwin had called, or with what phone, given the dead signal.
But he did.
Fans ate it up—sending satellite kits, thinking it was promo. A cute little ship moment.
But to Phuwin, it felt like a door he hadn’t known was even ajar, now wide open.
Then there was Ocean World.
Casual—that was the plan. A day off after the pressure.
He could’ve invited half his contacts. So many friendly faces, even from work. But it had to be Pond.
He’d felt a stupid kind of anticipation. More than just a day out.
Pond bailed with a text: “Sorry, not feeling great.”
Phuwin was already there. He should have felt annoyed—he often did.
But this time, it was different.
It was just... hurt.
He shut down. Unusual.
Usually, words flowed easily, honesty a given. But now, he was all wounded boyfriend, stood up at the curb. This silence felt… pointed.
And the weird part eating at Phuwin was that he wasn’t fighting it. Just… letting the silence win.
When they finally saw each other again, Pond came up behind him, arms circling around his waist.
“Sorry about before,” Pond said, his breath warm against Phuwin's ear. “I'll make it up to you. We'll go. Soon. Shabu? My treat.”
Phuwin knew he should be holding onto his irritation. But the simple fact of Pond’s touch, the familiar scent of him… it was enough.
The fight drained out of him—pathetically fast.
Just like that. He always caved.
That was it.
He was starting to care, something unfiltered. His reactions now felt raw, unscripted. He wasn’t sure where the performance ended and he began.
And that—more than anything—unnerved him.
He was used to knowing what he felt, the neat labels.
This was… not that.
By December, a different kind of chill had set in. Not the weather—jealousy.
He told himself it was stupid. He hadn’t even cared about NCT, could barely pick Jaehyun out of a lineup.
Still, Pond had gone. With Dunk.
And the quiet knowledge of that fact felt like a constant pressure behind Phuwin’s ribs.
It wasn’t his place to feel this. But he did.
The worst part wasn’t betrayal. They weren’t even together. Nothing broken. Still, a low burn. Not distrusting Pond. Just this sudden, unwelcome want. A want he hadn't articulated, even internally.
Phuwin wouldn’t have labeled himself emotionally dense. He spent enough time inside his own head. But it was Fourth—Fourth—who’d finally spelled it out.
A statement so straightforward it felt absurd: “Pond. Come on. He’s your boyfriend.”
Phuwin had gone still. Because that wasn’t true. Except… a confusing warmth bloomed at the thought that maybe it was.
They were domestic, in a way that made Phuwin’s stomach flip. Face ID worked both ways. Their wardrobes bled together.
He knew Pond’s schedule better than his own, and Pond always remembered his favorite takeout orders.
Their lives weren’t just close; they were braided.
Friendship, Phuwin told himself. It was the only word that didn’t feel like a freefall.
Phuwin’s eyes automatically sought out Pond in every space.
Even on a night that should have been solely his—his movie premiere.
Maybe especially then.
His gaze drifted across the blur of faces—fans, friends, actors—until it snagged on Pond. Pond, who'd peeled himself away from his own friends just to catch Phuwin's eye for a handful of seconds from the audience.
That small thing… it shouldn't mean this much.
When Pond slipped from his sight at gatherings, even briefly, Phuwin would find himself needing to know: “Where were you?” “What were you up to?” “Where'd you go?”
He knew it sounded like nagging, maybe even controlling. It wasn't that. It was… a subtle unraveling. Without Pond close, the air felt thinner.
Possessive? Yeah, probably. The thought didn't make the urge any less insistent.
He should've laughed off Fourth's teasing. Smirked, maybe. Played it cool. Instead, his face went hot. He over-explained. Another tell he couldn't quite control.
Then his birthday arrived.
Pond asked what he wanted. Phuwin, only half teasing, requested a guitar—a step up from what he had. It was a lot, enough to make his parents raise an eyebrow at the cost.
“Isn't that... too much from a friend?” they'd commented.
Pond had his practiced justifications. An investment, he called it. Said Phuwin had helped him become himself. Partners, in every sense. It made the gesture acceptable, almost ordinary. Not loaded.
But underneath, a different truth vibrated: Pond simply wanted to give him something that held weight. And Phuwin wanted to be worthy of that weight.
Still, the words stayed inside.
Love.
He hadn't said it. Not aloud. The word felt heavy, a decision he wasn't ready to make.
And what did it even mean, this thing between them? If he couldn't quite grasp its shape, how could he speak its name?
Funny how it took a mess to see things straight.
Phuwin was in Tokyo when it hit. Pond—two and a half hours south by bullet train—had a rare free day with his family.
Then the old shadows stretched long again. Photos from Pond’s Korea trip with his friends reappeared, contorted into something ugly that festered on Twitter.
And Phuwin, inevitably, was pulled back in. Again.
He’d figured Pond would let it go. Family around. Safe.
But later, his phone buzzed—a jumble of texts. Raw anger. Raw hurt.
Pond, definitely drunk. Spiraling.
The demand flashed: Tell me. Do you love me?
Silence hit Phuwin first. Then the urge to joke, deflect—anything to put space between them.
But the sheer vulnerability of the moment stopped him.
This wasn’t a scene. Not Palm and Nueng. This was them.
And the sudden, sharp fear of losing Pond—not to anyone else, but because he was too scared to be honest—settled deep.
Phuwin answered, trying for steady. “You already know.”
He watched the reply bubble appear, then disappear. But he hoped Pond understood.
That small hope felt significant.
After that, Phuwin started doing things differently.
He wasn’t just taking; he was giving back. Pond’s hand on his lingered, and now his on Pond’s did too. Even their texts felt like more. Nothing felt like just nothing anymore.
Then, two months later, Fourth’s throwaway line felt like a punch: “If you’re just friends, why can’t you kiss him on the cheek?”
Yeah, why couldn’t he? The thought landed hard.
Last day of 2023. Phuwin was in the back of a tuk-tuk, hurrying to Pond.
No explanations needed. No big declarations.
Just the kiss. Firm. Certain.
Like it had always been coming.
We're doing this now, it said—wordlessly.
After that, separation felt wrong.
Not the usual kind of apart. Even when Phuwin was swallowed by shoots in distant provinces, his schedule a disorienting mess, Pond was woven in. The snatched moments, the 2 a.m. calls, the ridiculous memes that made him snort between scenes.
He wasn't pretending anymore. He needed Pond. Like air. Like water.
The new script landed, and he picked it.
Not the story, not the studio—not even the money drew him.
It was Peem. A character he could slide into easily. Soft. Maybe too gentle.
He could lend him a good chunk of himself—forty percent, maybe a touch more—and no one would see the join.
Enough left over for the grit of other roles, the endless travel, the bone-deep tired.
Safer this way. If he cracked, it would be him cracking, not some borrowed skin.
Then there was Pond.
This new version of him did things to Phuwin, still made him feel off-kilter in his own skin. A giddy flush. Mortifying, almost. He wanted to laugh at the cliché of it all, how thoroughly lovesick he was. He'd judged this.
Now, he craved Pond's voice daily. Couldn't drift off without seeing if there was a goodnight text, a photo. Couldn't even fake being okay when there wasn't. Pathetic, maybe, this tether he now had.
Phuwin found himself actually looking forward to filming We Are now—a first.
The intimacy wasn’t just acting anymore. They'd turned it into a kind of game.
He could hold Pond’s hand, let the cameras believe it was just a scene. Leaning in during blocking, letting his lips hover near that familiar jawline—a private thrill disguised as rehearsal.
The bed scenes were a laugh for the crew, but for him, they weren’t.
When he’d climbed on top of Pond, the kisses held a beat too long. His hand lingered a fraction lower.
It was all layered. Meta. A secret language with the man he was sleeping with.
Or was it falling? Or something that felt both inevitable and terrifying.
It made him feel almost lightheaded, a little reckless. Their privacy remained untouched; no one else knew. The staff, used to their proximity, were none the wiser. He liked that. The secret thrumming between them, amplified by stolen touches, shared glances, and the scripted tension that no longer felt entirely like acting.
Then there was that night. Just before New Year's.
A year since the kiss. A year of acting like it hadn't changed anything. A year of wanting everything and saying nothing.
New Year's Eve itself would be all work. Stages, lights, a couple of songs.
No stolen midnight kiss then. So, the night before felt like their own.
It wasn’t planned. Phuwin knew that much.
No romance novel setup. Just the simple fact of wanting—the press of skin.
Love wasn’t soft in that moment. It was a need. A worship conducted skin to skin.
Usually, Pond kept a certain distance, even when they fucked. But not tonight.
He attacked Phuwin’s cock with the same all-consuming desire he gave to everything he loved. Deep, wet sucks. No hesitation. No embarrassment.
Just Pond—intent.
His hand on Phuwin’s leg wasn’t gentle; it was a claiming.
Phuwin’s breath hitched as his cock nudged the back of Pond’s throat. Pond just moaned, like it was exactly what he craved.
His eyes fluttered shut, a hint of white showing beneath the lids.
Pond loved to tease—it was the bedrock of them. Even in bed.
He drew his tongue slowly over Phuwin’s head, down the shaft, at an excruciating pace. Then a rougher rub against his balls, a nuzzle into his inner thigh.
Phuwin’s breath hitched. Annoying, beautiful bastard.
He fisted Pond’s hair, tugging harder than intended.
A low groan rumbled from Pond, and Phuwin felt the answering jump in his own cock. Idiot, he thought, vision tunneling, even as a dark thrill shot through him.
“Goddamn, you’re hot,” Phuwin rasped, the words torn out of him.
Pond’s eyes glittered, and his grin widened—sharp and pleased. He ate the compliment up.
Maybe that was the exact beat—that charged, private look.
In that instant, Phuwin knew. No more maybes. He knew.
He let himself settle into it: this was the man. His man.
And a fierce need rose in him to offer something true.
He hauled Pond onto the mattress, a rough hand on his chest, and pressed a hungry kiss to his mouth, tongue sliding in without invitation.
Fuck pretense.
Phuwin wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing—not really. But he knew what he wanted.
To unravel Pond, the way Pond unraveled him.
Not a contest. A shared fall.
Giving in, piece by piece.
Pond came hard. Every muscle in his body seemed to clench as he slammed against the mattress, a string of curses and moans ripping from him.
His hand fisted in Phuwin’s hair, the brutal tug snapping his head back. Tears pricked at the corners of Phuwin’s eyes, mingling with the taste of Pond’s come flooding his mouth.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry, na,” Pond gasped, hands flying away like he’d been burned. Always so worried about overstepping.
“No worries,” Phuwin said, a grin tugging at his lips despite the throb in his scalp.
He spat into the sink before turning back. “I love it.”
Pond was still a mess of apologies—flustered and soft. The same hand that had gripped his hair now stroked it gently.
Phuwin chuckled and crawled back, fitting himself against Pond. He found the angle of Pond’s jaw with his lips, tasting the salt of his skin.
Rough, then tender. He wanted all of it.
Pond’s breath ghosted against his ear. “Hi, handsome,” he murmured, one hand sliding lower, pressing into the curve of Phuwin’s ass.
He liked the nicknames—the tenderness in them.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? How Pond’s earnestness always managed to do this—this fluttery thing low in his stomach.
It felt unfair.
“Love it,” he said—
a beat—
“or love me?”
Phuwin smiled. He felt it—the solid truth of what they were.
“Love you,” he said. The sound of it felt right. Not strange at all.
And it was easy. Simply said. Simply felt.
They kissed.
He tasted himself on Pond’s mouth, and vice versa. A little gross, maybe. But mostly… he didn’t care.
They held each other. A grip tight enough to feel bones, soft enough for comfort.
Like the first touch held all the wanting, the last held all the fear.
Now, skin to skin, Phuwin didn’t need the words.
He knew.