Chapter Text
-POR
Por Suppakarn hated mornings like this.
Not because he had to wake up early—he had been doing that since he was seven and his mother first dragged him to a commercial set with sleep still clinging to his eyelashes—but because mornings like this always came with entertainment news.
And entertainment news, apparently, had decided to ruin his appetite again.
Por sat at the dining table of his condo, dressed in an oversized black shirt and gray sweatpants, lazily eating toast while the television played in the background.
Or at least, it was supposed to stay in the background.
“—and once again, idol Teetee Wanpichit has sparked dating rumors after being seen leaving a luxury restaurant late at night with actress Mintra Krittiyacha—”
Por stopped chewing.
On screen, the footage played like a badly edited spy movie. A tall man in sunglasses and a cap—even at night, ridiculous—walked beside a beautiful actress while reporters zoomed in like their lives depended on it.
Then the screen switched to a studio photo.
Teetee Wanpichit.
Por rolled his eyes immediately.
Of course it was him. Pretty face. Sharp jawline. That stupid smirk. The kind of person who looked like he flirted by breathing in someone’s direction.
The reporters kept talking.
“Fans are divided once again, as this is the third dating rumor involving Teetee this year—”
Por clicked his tongue.
“Third?” he muttered. “It’s only April.”
He took another bite of toast, looking mildly offended by Teetee’s entire existence. Honestly, Por didn’t even know the man personally. They had never met. But Teetee had become one of those celebrities Por instinctively disliked.
Maybe it was the endless dating rumors.
Maybe it was the infamous “playboy” reputation.
Maybe it was the way entertainment journalists wrote about him like he was some irresistible walking romance disaster.
Or maybe—Por admitted only to himself—it was because he was a little jealous. Not of Teetee specifically. Just… the freedom.
Dating was nearly impossible for Por.
He had been in the industry since childhood. Cameras followed him everywhere. Fans watched everything. His company watched everything. Even having dinner with a female co-star could start rumors for weeks.
And while other people his age were collecting exes, heartbreaks, and regrettable drunk kisses, Por was collecting awards and vitamin supplements.
Twenty-three years old.
Still a virgin. Still had no idea how people casually flirted. Honestly, it was embarrassing.
Meanwhile, Teetee Wanpichit—younger than him, probably—was apparently collecting romantic scandals like Pokémon cards.
Por looked back at the TV and sighed dramatically.
“Disgusting.”
Pause.
“…must be nice.”
Right as he reached for his coffee, his phone buzzed on the table.
Manager P’Jane.
Por stared at the screen like it had personally offended him. He already knew. No manager called this early for good reasons.
He answered anyway.
“What.”
P’Jane’s voice came immediately, bright and dangerous.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine. Come to the company in an hour.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes, and wear something decent. We’re discussing your future.”
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
The call ended.
Por stared at his phone. Then at his untouched breakfast. Then at Teetee’s face still smiling smugly from the television.
“This day is cursed,” he announced to nobody.
~*~
The meeting room at the company somehow always smelled like stress and expensive coffee.
Por sat across from P’Jane and the executive team, arms crossed, already suspicious. Whenever management smiled too much, disaster followed. And today, they were smiling like people planning a crime.
P’Jane slid a file across the table.
“There’s a new opportunity.”
Por didn’t touch it.
“That sentence never means anything good.”
She ignored him.
“You’ve built a strong image. Reliable actor. Talented singer. Former child star who successfully transitioned into adulthood.”
“Thank you.”
“But.”
“There it is.”
P’Jane leaned forward.
“But people still see you as safe. Familiar. The nation’s polite son.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not.”
One of the executives nodded.
“You need something bigger. Something that changes public perception.”
Por narrowed his eyes.
“No.”
“We haven’t said anything yet.”
“I can feel the nonsense.”
P’Jane smiled.
“A romance project.”
Por relaxed a little. That wasn’t terrible. He was never in a romantic movie or series as an adult actor. It will be nice to finally try those genre.
“A big production house.”
Better.
“Prime-time slot.”
Even better.
“You’ll be the lead.”
Excellent.
Por reached for the file.
“See? You should’ve started with that.”
He opened it. Read one line. Stopped. Looked up.
“No.”
P’Jane blinked innocently.
“No what?”
“No as in absolutely not. No as in I would rather become a monk.”
“It’s a BL series.”
“I noticed.”
“And?”
“And I said no.”
Por threw the file back on the table like it had insulted his ancestors.
“I don’t do BL.”
P’Jane sighed like she had prepared for this.
“You don’t do romance either, but here we are.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Por opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“I just… I don’t know that world.”
And that was the honest part. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t judgment. Por just genuinely didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about it.
Fans shipping actors. Selling chemistry. Skinship at events. Interviews about “how much do you love your co-star.”
The whole culture around it felt unfamiliar, complicated, and dangerously capable of ruining his peace.
P’Jane softened a little.
“That’s exactly why this could work. It’s new. It pushes you. It changes your image.”
“It also gives me a stress-induced early death.”
“Think bigger.”
“I am thinking bigger. My funeral.”
One of the executives laughed.
Traitor.
P’Jane folded her hands.
“Just attend the casting.”
“No.”
“Just the audition.”
“No.”
“Just meet the director.”
“No.”
“You already signed the preliminary participation form.”
Silence.
Por blinked. “…what?”
P’Jane smiled the smile of a woman who would absolutely survive a war.
“The papers from last week.”
“The endorsement contract?”
“The stack underneath.”
Por stared at her. Slowly. Horrifically.
“You tricked me.”
“We guided you.”
“You tricked me.”
“We supported your career choices.”
“I hate everyone in this room.”
“That means you’ll attend?”
Por stood up.
“I hope karma finds all of you.”
P’Jane beamed.
“See you at casting on Friday.”
~*~
Three weeks later, Por sat in complete silence while P’Jane nearly vibrated beside him. Across from them, the director from one of the biggest production houses in the country smiled warmly.
“We’re very happy to offer you the lead role.”
P’Jane looked like she might cry from happiness. Por looked like he might commit a crime.
The director continued talking about chemistry tests, workshops, schedules, and how perfect Por was for the role. Por heard none of it. Because one sentence kept echoing in his brain.
Lead role.
BL series.
No escape.
When the meeting ended, he walked out like a man leaving his own execution. The moment they reached the parking lot, he turned to P’Jane.
“No.”
She kept walking.
“Yes.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I can still refuse.”
She finally stopped and turned to him.
“No, you can’t.”
Por frowned.
She pulled out another folder. Contract. Signed. His signature. His very real, very stupid signature.
Por stared at it like betrayal had taken physical form.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m employed.”
“This is manipulation.”
“This is management.”
Por dragged both hands down his face.
“I don’t even know who my partner is.”
P’Jane gave him a smile that immediately made things worse.
“Oh.”
Por pointed at her.
“No. Don’t ‘oh’ me like that.”
She patted his shoulder.
“You’ll find out soon.”
That wasn't reassuring. Not even a little. Whenever P’Jane smiled like that, Por knew two things immediately.
First, his peace was about to be ruined.
Second, somehow, in the middle of that ruin, she was still trying to protect him.
Their relationship had always been like that—like standing under the rain while someone held an umbrella over his head, only to complain the entire time that he was getting wet.
P’Jane had been with him since he was fourteen—right after his mom decided he was no longer "a child" there is no need to accompany him everywhere like she used to—, when his voice was still awkwardly changing and he still believed adulthood would magically make life easier.
P'Jane had watched him grow through school uniforms traded for tailored suits, through first award nominations and first scandals that were barely scandals at all.
She scolded like an older sister, nagged like a mother, and negotiated contracts like a lawyer fighting for custody. Sometimes Por wondered if she managed him because it was her job, or because somewhere along the way, she had accidentally decided he was hers to worry about.
Probably both.
She knew when he skipped meals. She knew when his smiles for cameras were too practiced. She knew the difference between his real anger and the kind he performed just to avoid difficult conversations.
And Por—despite all his dramatic complaints—knew it too. Knew that every trap she set came with a safety net hidden underneath. Knew that every push came from a place softer than she would ever admit.
She was, unfortunately, the nicest person in his life. Which made hating her extremely inconvenient.
So when she said, "Just attend the casting," Por knew it was never just that.
It was her way of saying, Trust me. And trust was a strange thing. It didn't always sound gentle. Sometimes it sounded like arguments in meeting rooms and contracts signed under fluorescent lights. Sometimes it looked like being pushed toward doors he was too afraid to open himself.
Por hated that.
Por was grateful for that.
Often, those two feelings looked exactly the same.
But for now, despite knowing all that, for the first time in years, Por Suppakarn had the terrifying feeling that his life was about to become significantly worse.
~*~
-TEETEE
The television in the practice room was playing Detective in Summer again.
And Teetee Wanpichit was watching it like it was a religious experience.
Again.
Not for the second.
Not even for the fifth.
At this point, Teetee Wanpichit had lost count somewhere around rewatch number ten and decided numbers were for weak people anyway.
He sat cross-legged on the floor in oversized sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt, hair still messy from dance practice, holding a spoonful of half-melted ice cream like his entire life depended on the next scene.
The rest of his group had long accepted this as a normal part of life. Teetee, after practice, watching Por Suppakarn like a housewife waiting for her husband’s drama rerun.
On screen, Por stood under heavy rain, heartbreakingly handsome, his white shirt half-soaked, expression sharp and distant as he played the young detective cornering his father's murderer suspect in a dark alley.
His voice—calm, low, cutting—filled the room.
Teetee placed a hand over his chest.
“See? See this?” he whispered to absolutely no one. “This is art. This is suffering. This is cinema.”
Teetee sighed.
Actually sighed.
North, his bandmate, walked past the open practice room carrying a protein shake and stopped just to stare.
“You’re doing it again.”
Teetee didn’t even blink. He pointed at the television without looking away.
“Be quiet. He’s about to accuse the murderer.”
“You know who the murderer is. You’ve watched this twelve times.”
“Knowledge doesn't lessen beauty. Art deserves respect.
Look at him, North! Look at his face. That is not a human face. That is a national treasure.”
North looked ready to call for help.
“I need you to understand that if Por Suppakarn ever hears about this, he will file a restraining order.”
Teetee gasped.
“He would never. He seems like a very reasonable man.”
“He absolutely would.”
Teetee narrowed his eyes.
“You just don’t understand true love.”
North looked deeply exhausted.
“No, I understand obsession. I’m watching it.”
Teetee ignored him.
Honestly, he had liked Por Suppakarn for years now. Not in the unserious celebrity-crush way people joked about. Not just because Por was handsome—though, objectively, offensively handsome.
It started when Teetee was still a trainee, exhausted and half-starving and wondering if all dreams eventually turned into things you had to survive. One night, unable to sleep, he found one of Por’s older interviews. Por had been younger then, still carrying traces of his child actor image, sitting under bright studio lights answering questions with that quiet honesty people rarely had in entertainment.
When the host asked if growing up in the industry was lonely, Por had smiled a little and said, “Sometimes. But I think loneliness is just another room people have to learn how to live in.”
Teetee remembered sitting there in the dark, staring at the screen. Because somehow, that sentence had felt like someone opening a window in his chest.
Since then, he watched everything. Movies. Interviews. Old dramas. Perfoemances. Award speeches.
He liked the way Por never tried too hard. Liked the way he looked cold at first, but every now and then, if someone caught him off guard, warmth slipped through like sunlight under a closed door.
It made Teetee curious. Because people like that were never simple. And deep down, Teetee had always been weak for complicated things.
On screen, Detective Por was now threatening someone with his eyes alone.
Teetee sighed dreamily.
"That man could ruin my life.”
North nodded.
“I think he already has.”
Before he could continue insulting Teetee’s dignity, the practice room door opened. Their manager, P’Nina, stood there. And immediately, everyone in the room felt the shift.
Managers had different walking styles depending on the situation. This one was bad. This wasn't a casual check-in walk. This was a you-have-created-a-problem walk.
Teetee sat up straighter.
North smirked instantly.
“Oh, he’s in trouble.”
P’Nina crossed her arms.
“Teetee. Office. Now.”
Teetee blinked innocently, “Me? What did I ever do?”
She gave him a look. The kind of look only managers and disappointed mothers could perfect.
North laughed so hard he nearly dropped his drink.
“Good luck, lover boy.”
Teetee stood up with all the confidence of a man walking to his own trial.
“False accusations made by jealous people.”
P’Nina raised an eyebrow.
As he walked behind P’Nina, he glanced once more at the paused frame on screen. Por’s face frozen mid-scene. Beautiful face. Dreamy pale-skim. Wet hair. Intense stare.
Teetee sighed.
“If I die today, tell him I was handsome.”
P’Nina didn’t even turn around.
“I’ll tell him you were annoying.”
“Close enough.”
“Move.”
“Yes, mother.”
~*~
The agency meeting room was too cold. Teetee had always believed companies did that on purpose. People confessed more easily when they were freezing.
He sat across from P’Nina, legs stretched lazily under the table, looking like the picture of relaxation.
It was a lie.
Because sitting on the table in front of him was a tablet displaying a headline that practically screamed betrayal.
IDOL TEETEE WANPICHIT SPOTTED LEAVING LUXURY HOTEL WITH MYSTERY WOMAN
And below it—photos. Very clear photos. Painfully clear.
Teetee stared.
Then winced. “Ah.”
P’Nina crossed her arms.
“Ah?”
P’Nina inhaled slowly.
“Do not start with that.”
Teetee gave her his brightest smile. “In my defense, I looked very handsome in those photos.”
She looked unimpressed.
“Who is she?”
He leaned back in his chair.
“Just someone I met at an after-party.”
“Dating?”
“No.”
“Talking stage?”
“No.”
"Ex?"
"No."
“Future wife?”
“No.”
P’Nina pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Teetee.”
Teetee sighed, because honesty, while noble, was often deeply inconvenient. “It was a one-night thing.”
Silence.
Even the air conditioner seemed judgmental. P’Nina closed her eyes briefly. There were probably prayers happening behind her eyelids.
When she opened them again, her voice was calm in the terrifying way only experienced managers could achieve.
“Do you enjoy making my life difficult?”
Teetee tilted his head.
“I think difficulty builds character.”
“I am developing too much character.”
Teetee offered her a polite smile. “At least I’m honest.”
“That doesn't help me.”
“I feel like honesty should be rewarded more.”
She ignored him.
He understood why people assumed the worst about him. Too many rumors. Too many names attached to his. Too many blurry photos outside restaurants, clubs, hotels. Too much smoke for people to believe there wasn’t fire. Maybe there was.
He liked people easily. Beautiful people, kind people, interesting people. And unfortunately looked exactly like the type of man people warned their friends about.
The “fuckboy” reputation had followed him for years now.
Some of it was exaggerated.
Some of it was… fair.
But most people assumed he was careless. He wasn’t. Teetee may engaged with people too easily, maybe. But he never played with hearts on purpose. His heart already belong to one person, but sadly the possibility of building a proper romance with that person seems too high of reach. Therefore he decided just to enjoy the physical attraction here and there. That part, people rarely believed.
Sometimes desire looked like recklessness from the outside. Sometimes loneliness dressed itself like confidence. Sometimes people saw the flirt and never bothered to look for the boy underneath.
That was fine. He had learned to survive being misunderstood.
Still, there were moments—quiet ones, late at night—when he wondered if anyone would ever stay long enough to see that he was softer than he looked.
P’Nina sighed.
"Your image needs saving.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It is dramatic.”
“I prefer ‘romantically misunderstood.’”
“I prefer ‘stop giving me hypertension.’”
She slid a file across the table.
“Which is why we have a new plan.”
Teetee looked at it. Then blinked. “Acting?”
P’Nina nodded.
“We’ve been discussing it for months. You have the face, the popularity, and frankly, enough fan interest to make producers listen.”
Teetee stared at the file. His chest did something strange. Because before he became an idol—before the dance practices, before debut showcases, before lightsticks and screaming fans—he had wanted this.
Acting.
It had been the dream first. A childish one, maybe. But real.
He used to memorize scenes from dramas and perform them dramatically in front of his bedroom mirror like he was accepting an award.
Life had simply turned left before he could walk that road. And now it was sitting in front of him again. Quietly. Like fate pretending it hadn't disappeared for years.
His voice came out softer.
“…seriously?”
P’Nina nodded again.
“A big production house is casting for a new project. We want you to audition.”
Teetee didn’t even pretend to hesitate. “Yes.”
She blinked. “That fast?”
“Yes."
“You didn’t even ask what project.”
He smiled. Because some opportunities felt like doors opening. And if life offered you the dream you once buried with your own hands, you did not ask too many questions. You ran. Before it changed its mind.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “Anything. Workshops, classes, embarrassing crying scenes—I’ll do it.”
P’Nina narrowed her eyes.
“You’re suspiciously cooperative.”
“I’m choosing trust.”
“You usually choose chaos.”
“This time I choose growth.”
“That sentence sounds fake.”
“It is, but I still mean it.”
P’Nina sighed.
“Fine. Attend the casting. And please, for the love of my blood pressure, avoid new dating rumors for at least two weeks.”
Teetee placed a hand over his heart.
“I shall become a monk.”
“Liar.”
“Extremely.”
And maybe that was why she trusted him anyway. Managers were strange like that. They learned how to love disasters. And Teetee, unfortunately, had always been one.
~*~
The audition process felt like stepping into an old dream. Script reading. Camera tests. Acting workshops. Meetings that made his palms sweat. For once, Teetee wasn’t the loudest person in the room. He was careful. Focused. Hungry. Like he was trying to prove something to the younger version of himself who once thought dreams had expiration dates.
And somehow—against all logic—he got the call.
Accepted.
Second lead.
Teetee stared at his phone for a full ten seconds. Then screamed. Loudly. So loudly that his group’s leader, James, dropped an entire bowl of instant noodles in the dorm kitchen.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!”
Teetee ran into the living room like a man possessed.
“I GOT IT.”
His bandmates stared.
“I GOT THE ROLE.”
Chaos. Actual chaos. Screaming. Jumping. Someone nearly died because of slippery noodles.
James grabbed his shoulders dramatically. “You’re going to be famous-famous now!”
“I’m already famous!”
“Actor famous is different!”
“That’s true!”
Everyone talked at once until P’Nina sent the final message. Casting details. Production schedule. Lead actor confirmation.
Teetee opened it casually. Read one name. Stopped breathing.
Por Suppakarn.
Silence.
Tutor, another band mates, frowned. “…why do you look like you saw God?”
Teetee slowly lifted his phone with shaking hands. His voice came out as a whisper. “It’s him.”
“It’s who?”
“My husband.”
Everyone groaned. Wave, the youngest, snatched the phone. Read it. Looked up. Then immediately started laughing.
“No way.”
Teetee was pacing now.
“No, no, no, wait—actual wait—I’m going to work with Por. Por Suppakarn. The Por Suppakarn. My Por.”
“Not your Por.”
“Our nation’s Por.”
“Still not yours.”
Teetee pressed both hands to his face. “This is too much. I need to lie down. I need holy water. I need a better skincare routine.”
His bandmates were dying. One of them shouted, “Please don’t flirt with him on day one!”
Teetee looked personally offended.
“Excuse me. I am a professional.”
North snorted, “You sent him a birthday post on your private account with heart emojis.”
“That was private!”
“You forgot to make it private.”
“That was character development.”
More laughter.
Teetee collapsed dramatically onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere between excitement and panic, his heart was doing dangerous things. Because crushes were easy from far away. From screens. From interviews. From movie premieres where you watched someone shine from a distance and thought, beautiful.
But in person?
Working together?
Looking into those eyes without a screen between them?
Suddenly Teetee Wanpichit, professional flirt and certified menace to society, felt sixteen again.
Nervous.
Stupid.
Hopelessly obvious.
He groaned into a pillow. Tutor patted his back with fake sympathy.
“Good luck, Casanova.”
Teetee’s voice came muffled.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
And for the first time in years, Teetee was genuinely terrified of meeting someone. Not because he didn’t know what to say. But because for once—
he cared too much.