Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Workshop Smiles
The first thing Wave notices about Thee is his laugh.
Not his face. Not the fact that he is taller in real life than Wave expected. Not even the way half the room seemed to immediately like him within ten minutes of introductions.
It is the laugh.
Bright and sudden and completely unguarded, echoing across the workshop room while one of the acting coaches demonstrates a scene incorrectly on purpose. Everyone laughs politely. Thee laughs like he forgot there are cameras pointed at them.
Wave looks up before he can stop himself.
And Thee is already looking at him.
Smiling.
Wave immediately looks away.
“Okay,” the coach claps once from the center of the room. “Again. This time with more emotion. I want tension. Romantic tension. You are in love with each other, not filing taxes.”
The cast laughs again.
Wave stretches his arms over his head, trying to loosen the stiffness in his shoulders. It is only the third workshop day for Duang with You, but everyone already looks exhausted.
Half-open iced coffees sit abandoned around the room. Someone’s script packet is upside down on the floor. One of the stylists is asleep in the corner holding a curling iron like a stuffed toy.
Wave glances toward the mirrored wall.
Thee is still smiling.
He does that a lot.
Not fake smiling. Not the careful celebrity kind either.
Just smiling.
At people.
At jokes.
At awkward silences.
At literally nothing.
It is slightly alarming.
“You’re staring,” one of the makeup artists whispers while fixing Wave’s collar.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m observing.”
“That’s worse.”
Wave ignores her.
Across the room, Thee is listening to the director explain scene dynamics with an attentiveness that almost looks exaggerated. He nods seriously every few seconds, script balanced on one knee.
There are colorful sticky tabs poking out from the pages.
Wave narrows his eyes.
Who annotates workshop scripts that intensely?
Before he can think about it longer, the coach claps again.
“Pair exercise!”
Collective groans.
“You’ll improvise a domestic scene. No scripts. I’ll assign partners.”
Wave immediately prays not to be paired with someone overly intense. Improvisation workshops are either magical or horrifying with absolutely no in-between.
The coach points randomly around the room.
“You two.”
“You two.”
“You—”
A finger lands directly at Wave.
“And Thee.”
The room erupts into teasing noises instantly.
“Ohhh.”
“Good luck.”
“Visual couple alert.”
Wave feels his soul leave his body.
Thee, meanwhile, just laughs again.
That stupid laugh.
“Come on,” Thee says easily, standing and offering Wave a hand like they are in a romance movie already. “Let’s survive this together.”
Wave stares at the hand for one second too long before taking it.
His palm is warm.
Annoyingly warm.
The improv setup is simple.
One person comes home exhausted from work. The other tries to comfort them without outright asking what is wrong.
Wave expects awkwardness.
Overacting.
Secondhand embarrassment.
Instead, Thee sits beside him on the practice couch and quietly asks, “Do you want me to lead or follow your energy?”
Wave blinks.
“Huh?”
“For the scene,” Thee says. “You looked nervous earlier during improv.”
There is no teasing in his voice. Just observation.
Wave feels oddly exposed.
“Oh. Uh. Either’s fine.”
Thee nods once.
Then the exercise starts.
And suddenly, somehow, it is easy.
Wave leans back dramatically against the couch cushions. “I hate my boss.”
Thee snorts softly beside him. “Again?”
“He told me my presentation lacked passion.”
“That’s because your presentation was about printer ink.”
Wave breaks character immediately, laughing.
Thee grins at him like he has accomplished something important.
The acting coach points excitedly. “See? Natural chemistry! Don’t lose that.”
Wave clears his throat and tries very hard not to think about the phrase natural chemistry.
The exercise continues.
Somewhere in the middle of improvising an argument over burnt rice and unpaid electricity bills, Wave notices something strange.
Thee listens.
Not actor listening.
Not waiting-for-his-turn listening.
Real listening.
Every time Wave changes tone slightly, Thee adjusts immediately. Every joke lands naturally because Thee somehow catches all of them without effort. He mirrors expressions unconsciously, leans closer without noticing, reacts before Wave even fully finishes speaking.
It feels less like acting and more like falling into step with someone unexpectedly.
When the exercise ends, the room claps.
Thee bows dramatically from the couch.
Wave shakes his head, laughing under his breath.
“You’re annoying.”
“You smiled though.”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves everything actually.”
Thee says it casually, still smiling.
Wave suddenly becomes aware that everyone else in the room has moved on already while they are still sitting too close together on the couch.
He stands immediately.
“We have break now, right?”
“Running away already?”
“I’m getting coffee.”
Thee brightens instantly. “Can you get me one too?”
Wave narrows his eyes. “You have legs.”
“But you’re already going.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“Please?”
The smile again.
Weaponized.
Wave clicks his tongue. “Fine. What do you want?”
Thee answers immediately. “Less sugar. Oat milk if they have it.”
Wave pauses.
“You answered that too fast.”
“You mentioned yesterday you hate overly sweet coffee, so I figured if we have similar taste—”
“You remembered that?”
Thee blinks like the question itself is strange.
“Yeah?”
Something warm and uncomfortable settles briefly in Wave’s chest.
He leaves before he has to examine it further.
—
By the second week of workshops, everyone starts noticing it.
Not the ship teasing.
That starts almost immediately.
No, people notice Thee.
Specifically how Thee acts around Wave.
“He’s following you again,” one stylist whispers while adjusting Wave’s microphone pack.
Wave glances behind him.
Thee is, in fact, following him.
Not intentionally, probably.
He is reading something on his phone while absentmindedly trailing after Wave through the studio hallway like a particularly tall lost puppy.
Wave stops walking suddenly.
Thee walks directly into his shoulder.
“Ow.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Following me.”
Thee looks genuinely confused before glancing around.
“Oh.”
“You didn’t notice?”
“No?”
Wave stares at him.
Thee smiles sheepishly. “Maybe your face is just familiar now.”
That should not make Wave’s heartbeat stumble weirdly for half a second.
Yet.
—
Workshops become longer as filming approaches.
Everyone grows more exhausted.
More irritable.
Except somehow Thee.
Or at least that is what Wave initially thinks.
Until one night.
It is nearly midnight when Wave realizes he forgot his phone charger in one of the backstage practice rooms.
The building is mostly empty now, lights dimmed low in the hallways. Staff members are packing equipment into cases while music from another studio echoes faintly through the walls.
Wave pushes open the practice room door quietly.
And stops.
Thee is asleep in the corner.
Not comfortably either.
He is folded awkwardly against the side of the couch with his cheek smashed into a hoodie bundled under his head. Papers are scattered everywhere around him.
Wave steps closer carefully.
Dental anatomy diagrams.
Printed lecture slides.
Color-coded notes.
Three uncapped highlighters.
There are deep shadows under Thee’s eyes that makeup usually hides well during workshops.
Wave frowns slightly.
He remembers hearing someone mention Thee was studying dentistry, but he had not realized how intense it must be balancing university with filming preparations.
One of the papers slips from Thee’s lap when he shifts in his sleep.
Wave crouches automatically to pick it up.
Tiny handwritten notes fill the margins in neat cramped writing.
His chest tightens strangely.
“That’s going to ruin your spine.”
Wave nearly jumps.
One of the assistant directors stands in the doorway holding a stack of equipment cases.
Wave glances back at sleeping Thee instinctively before lowering his voice.
“How long has he been here?”
“Since after lunch.”
“What?”
“He had classes this morning too.” The assistant shakes his head. “Kid’s insane.”
Wave looks back down.
Thee’s glasses are slightly crooked from sleeping in them.
There is ink smudged against the side of his hand.
His phone screen is still faintly glowing beside him with what looks like a paused lecture video.
Wave exhales slowly.
Then, before he can think too hard about why he is doing it, he carefully removes the glasses from Thee’s face so they do not bend.
Thee stirs immediately.
Wave freezes.
For one terrifying second, he thinks Thee might wake up.
Instead, Thee only shifts closer unconsciously toward the warmth of Wave’s hand still hovering near his face.
And smiles in his sleep.
Wave’s stomach flips.
Violently.
The assistant director watches this entire interaction with visible interest.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
Wave stands up immediately. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
The assistant grins.
Wave grabs the nearest hoodie off the couch and tosses it directly at his face before leaving the room.
But even while walking away down the hallway, he cannot stop thinking about it.
About warm hands.
Crooked glasses.
Sleepy smiles.
About Thee remembering tiny details.
And maybe, just maybe, about how Wave is starting to remember them too.