Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As main leads starring in a romantic series, it was inevitable. Sooner or later, they were bound to film kiss scenes. And while neither of them was new to that — they’d each kissed co-stars before — it felt different now. A whole new experience, simply because this was their first time working together.

They’d gone through the usual steps: workshops, chemistry reads, icebreakers that turned into conversations that turned into private jokes. By the time filming began, they were past the awkward introductions and firmly on the path to becoming close friends.

So it shouldn’t have been awkward.

That’s what both of them thought. Professional. Prepared.

But as it turns out — expectations don’t always translate to reality. During script readings, things went smoothly. They had a good grasp of their characters, already forming clear pictures of how they’d act — and more importantly, how their characters would kiss. They talked about it with ease, joked about it even, shared their past experiences with kissing scenes like it was no big deal. Just another part of the job.

But when they tried a test run, not actually kissing but just the scene to see if they can do it— alone, just the two of them, tucked away in some quiet corner of the studio — it didn’t go the way they imagined.

It felt… off.

Stilted.

A little too mechanical, a little too hesitant. Neither of them said it, but the tension was obvious. They laughed it off. Tried again, repositioned, and talked through it. But the rhythm wouldn’t come.

Santa, in particular, couldn’t stop overthinking. He'd been circling the thought since they started filming: Shouldn’t we just practice this properly? But it’s not like he could casually ask, "Hey, do you want to try kissing? Just to get it right?" That’s a different kind of crazy he wasn’t ready to entertain.

So he figured — if he fumbled it, the older one could just take the lead.

Except Perth was nervous too. Maybe even more than him.

Because somewhere along the way, Santa stopped being just a co-star. Somewhere between the rehearsals and the car rides home, the sleep-deprived filming days and the quiet in-between hours, Perth realized this boy — who was supposed to be just another colleague — was slowly becoming something else. Important. Familiar. Someone he noticed even when he didn’t mean to.

And that was the problem.

Because now they were stuck — aware of the tension, aware of the pauses, aware of each other in a way that had very little to do with the camera. Eventually, they figured it out. Not by kissing — not yet. But by circling around it, rehearsing without touching, talking through the beats of the scene until the movements felt like choreography. They’d linger their eyes a little longer - let the tension draw out - walk themselves to the edge and step back just before the fall.

Until the day came when there was no more stepping back. It was time to shoot their characters’ first kiss scene.

Everyone knew it was coming. The director, the crew — all waiting to see if the chemistry that sparked on screen would burn through. It wasn’t a heavy scene. Just a soft, tentative kiss after an emotionally charged moment. Their characters weren’t together yet, but something had shifted in the story. The air between them needed to crackle.

It did.

But not without that pause.

Right before the kiss — that split-moment where neither of them moved. Eyes flicked down. Breaths were held - a breath too long. The room didn’t go silent, but it felt like it. Then something shifted in Santa — maybe nerves, maybe instinct — and he leaned in first, just enough for Perth to meet him there.

It landed.

A little stiff. A little slow. Not perfect — they had to redo it. Multiple takes, actually. Different angles, softer lighting, different energy.

But the kiss — the kiss itself — came out right.

Exactly how the characters would’ve kissed. That awkwardness of a first time, charged but uncertain, still tender. The director was pleased. The acting coaches gave notes. No one minded the imperfections - except them.

Because for all the praise they were getting, it didn’t sit right.

They knew they could’ve done better. Not because they didn’t try — but because something got in the way of doing it right the first time. And it wasn’t nerves anymore, not really. It was… something else. Something unspoken. After the shoot, they stayed behind.

No cameras and no script supervisors. Just the two of them, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a waiting room with leftover makeup still on their faces and bottled water between them. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet, so they started picking things apart.

They went over the script again — not just the kiss, but the moments before and after. They discussed character arcs, what kind of emotional baggage each one carried, Yotha particularly, how it might influence the way they kissed, touched, looked. And then, inevitably, they talked about the kiss scenes. The ones coming up.

Because there were a lot.

The next few were sweet. They did not shoot everything in exact order so it was still brief pecks. One while laughing. One in the middle of an argument. But after that — maybe two episodes later — they got intense. Less hesitation, more urgency. More touch. Deeper kisses. Longer kisses. Tongue.

They both knew it. They both read the same script. But it wasn’t until Perth looked up from his marked-up copy and said, “You good with the ones in episode six?” that it really hit them.

Santa blinked. “You mean the beach scene?”

“Yeah.” Perth’s voice was light, but his fingers were clenched around the script like it meant more than paper should.

Santa nodded, slow. “It’s… a lot of kissing.”

Perth gave a dry laugh. “Yeah.”

Another pause. This one stretched. Santa didn’t move, didn’t fidget or joke or turn away. He just looked at him — quiet, thoughtful. And then, almost too casually: “If we kissed right now, I wouldn’t mind.”

He didn’t say it as a dare, didn’t say it like a tease. He meant it.  Just a truth, sitting bare between them. Perth doesn’t say anything right away and just holds the words there — between his chest and the tight press of his ribs — like they might break if he breathes too hard.

And then he looks down. Not away. Just… down. At Santa’s lips. Just for a second. It would’ve been so easy to lean in. Too easy. But he doesn’t. Instead, he swallows. Nods, just once. Quiet.

“Yeah,” he says, barely more than a breath. “I wouldn’t either.”

But they don’t move.

No kiss. No touch. Just the hum of something dangerous and sweet filling the silence. The kind that doesn't burn all at once — just smolders, steady and slow. And then someone knocks on the door — a PA calling them back to set — and the moment folds itself neatly into the space between their bodies, tucked away for later.

Filming continues.

And with it, so do they. Because series take time. Even when they nail a scene in one take — even when the emotion hits perfectly, or the kiss lands at just the right angle — they still have to redo it. Different shots. Close-ups. Wide. Reverse. One version with a tilt of the head. One version with a softer pull. Another with a deeper exhale.

Sometimes the delays come from lighting. Or the sound guy sneezing. Or the mic catching something it shouldn’t. Or the weather turning on them just as they reach the climax of a key scene.

But often — too often — the delays come from them. Because now, they’re in that arc — the part of the story where tension thickens and feelings are confessed through glances instead of words. Where kisses aren’t shy anymore. Where their characters are allowed to want. Kind of anyway.

New characters enter the story, bringing more energy, more dynamics. There are scenes where all they have to do is listen and react, but even then — especially then — they sometimes have to redo one scene five times because someone snorts while trying to stay serious, or Santa breaks into laughter the moment Perth so much as raises an eyebrow.

And sometimes… the kisses have to be redone not because they messed up technically, but because they felt too much. Or not enough. Or not quite right.

It takes time.

And with time, they change. They get better - more in sync.

They talk about their characters like they’re real people. Talk about them in layers — what Gun might be thinking when he takes Yotha’s hand, what it means when Yotha chooses to kiss him instead of just saying he’s sorry. They rewrite scenes in their heads before filming even begins. They send each other music that fits the tone. Quotes. Dialogues. Midnight messages that say “I think Gun wouldn’t look away in this moment. He’d stay.”

The lines blur.

Their lives begin to overlap, and eventually blend. Spending every day together becomes routine. Even when they go home to different houses, they’re still tethered — calls, texts, voice memos. Sometimes the line doesn’t even disconnect after a goodnight. One of them just falls asleep, the other still listening.

And the awareness grows.

That feeling – the constant, unbearable closeness of it. The heat under their skin every time a kiss scene is called. The way Perth’s hands know where to go now — how they fit around Santa’s face like he’s done it for real. The way Santa barely blinks when Perth’s breath brushes his lips. They know it’s acting.

They know.

But they also know it’s not just that anymore.

Because somewhere between episode three and seven, between the laughing and retakes, between missing cues and brushing fingertips just a second too long, they stopped being characters and started being something else. Something they haven’t named. And the longer it goes on, the more unbearable it gets.

Because now when one of them leans in — even outside the script — the other almost always meets them halfway. Almost. But not quite.

Not yet.

It happens gradually — like most things that matter.

The kisses evolve.

On-screen, it’s easy to justify. They’re Yotha and Gun. They’re supposed to be falling for each other. It’s written into the script, built into every line of dialogue, every softened glance, every touch that lingers longer with each episode. They rehearse like professionals, discuss intention and rhythm and meaning. But no amount of preparation can fully account for how their mouths begin to memorize each other — not just the motions, but the feel. The weight of it.

In the beginning, the kisses were shy. Hesitant. A brush of lips. A press, and then retreat. There was still room for doubt.

But then it shifted.

Not all at once — never all at once — but slowly, scene by scene. The kisses grew deeper - more certain. The choreography blurred with instinct. Perth would lean in before the cue sometimes, and Santa would move with him without thinking. They stopped asking “Was that okay?” after each take. Stopped laughing it off. The silences afterward stretched longer, heavier.

Off-screen, it’s harder.

Because they’re still just Perth and Santa — not lovers, not characters, not anything they can define. And yet.

Yet.

There are nights when Santa lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, recalling the exact way Perth’s thumb brushed his jaw during that last take. Not because it was scripted — it wasn’t — but because it felt right. Natural. Like a reflex. There are days when Perth spaces out on set, replaying the sound Santa made when he laughed mid-kiss, and how he’d felt it against his mouth.

They try to deal with it separately at first.

Santa turns the confusion into quiet reflection — journaling lines that sound suspiciously like poetry, telling himself that maybe it’s just character bleed, that maybe his heart’s just confused. He’s always been a little too tender, a little too open.

Perth takes a different route — compartmentalizing, sorting, organizing. He reminds himself of the boundary between fiction and real life, that the job demands intimacy, closeness. But sometimes, when Santa isn’t looking, Perth finds himself watching. And he wonders if anyone else notices how the line keeps moving.

And then, of course, comes the question — the one they’ve both been avoiding, the one that finally escapes late one night when they’re going over lines together, curled into opposite ends of a too-small couch, scripts forgotten somewhere on the floor.

“Are you okay with all of it?”

Santa doesn’t look up. He just shifts, the faint furrow in his brow deepening. “With what?”

Perth shrugs, casual but not really. “The kisses. The, you know… intensity.”

Santa is quiet for a moment too long. Then he whispered quietly, “It’s our job.”

It sounds rehearsed. Like something someone told him once. But Perth doesn’t press and Santa doesn’t elaborate. They both let the silence swell between them, each hoping the other will fill it with something truer. Neither does.

Because saying it — naming it — would make it real.

And if it’s real, then it’s dangerous. Because when they became close, when they first learned how to make each other laugh without trying, how to lean on each other on hard days, there was an unspoken promise that came with it: You are safe with me. I will never be the one to hurt you.

And that promise — that trust — is sacred.

So they don’t risk it. Not with a confession. Not with a kiss that isn’t required. Not with a truth that might ruin everything. Instead, they skirt around it. They joke. Tease. Talk about how their characters are the ones falling hard. Not them. Never them. Even when Santa’s hand slides into Perth’s just a little too easily during interviews. Even when Perth unconsciously shields Santa from the crowd with his body, no matter how tightly the space is already packed. Even when they lean in and forget to stop, until someone coughs or a camera clicks.

They joke.

They act.

They pretend.

But their actions betray them. Because no one kisses like that unless something has already unraveled inside them. No one looks at the other like that — as if memorizing, as if afraid to forget. And maybe they are young, but they are not naive.

They are old enough to know what love feels like — or at least the beginning of it. Old enough to recognize the yearning tucked beneath their smiles, the longing they carry like a secret they’re too scared to say aloud. They know. They just don’t say it.

Not yet.

Because they’re still scared — of what it could mean, of what they could lose, of what would break if they crossed that line. So for now, they let the kisses carry what they can’t. And the rest of it — the feelings, the ache, the trembling possibility — they let it bloom in the space between almost and not yet.

Chapter Text

They’re filming the bar sequence today.

It’s a turning point in the narrative. Not dramatic, not explosive. Just… complicated. Gun knows about Warich. Knows he’s Yotha’s ex. He’s not angry. Not threatened. The script makes it clear — Gun’s feelings are steady. Unspoken, but solid. He doesn’t flinch at the name. He doesn’t bristle at the presence. He’s there because Yotha asked him to come. Because he wants to be close. Because he’s trying.

And Santa, as Gun, plays it exactly right.

He’s present in the scene — seated nearby, quiet but watchful — as Warich sat on their table with a round of drinks and clinks glasses with the table. Yotha makes a few dry comments. Gun smiles politely. The air is light, tensionless. There's laughter, teasing, playful nudges under the table. And it’s so well done — so natural — that even off camera, no one really notices how tightly Santa’s holding the base of his glass.

He’s fine. He tells himself he’s fine. Because the script says he’s fine.

But then it happens — right after the toast, right after Warich leans in and makes some offhand comment only Yotha catches — Perth’s character excuses himself. Says something about the bathroom. Warich follows a beat later. Just two lines. Casual. 

Santa follows too.

He's not in character, not exactly. There’s no cue for it. The cameras aren’t on him. He just… moves, script still in hand. Quiet, unnoticed. He doesn’t know why. Maybe to check the lighting near the hallway. Maybe to double-check where they’re blocking the next entrance. Maybe — just maybe — to be nearby.

He pauses at the corner, just out of frame, where the corridor curves toward the bathroom. And that’s when he sees it. It’s not a romantic kiss. There’s no music. No dramatic lighting. Just the edge of a frame, the curve of a shoulder, and then — a kiss.

Five seconds, maybe.

A peck.

It’s meant to be awkward — a moment where Warich crosses a line Yotha doesn’t fully welcome. Perth plays it perfectly, even recoils a little, as the script calls for. But none of that registers. Because in those five seconds, something inside Santa folds in on itself. It’s not jealousy, not exactly. It’s the ache of it.

That after everything — the nights of memorizing lines together, the lingering looks, the kisses that always meant more than they were supposed to — someone else still got there first. Still touched a part of Perth’s character that wasn’t acting. And it’s so stupid, Santa tells himself, because it’s just a script. Just a scene. Just a moment.

But he can’t stop the way it hurts. Because they may not be together — may not have a label or a confession — but something about it still felt like betrayal. Not because of what happened. But because it wasn’t him.

After the take, they don’t talk.

They always do — always check in, always debrief with each other. Even after the most basic scenes. “How did that feel for you?” “Did that land right?” “Wanna run it again?” But today there was nothing.

Perth comes back to set with his shoulders tight. He doesn’t meet Santa’s eyes, doesn’t sit beside him like usual. He just grabs his water, nods when the director gives the go-ahead for the next blocking. And Santa? Santa doesn’t reach for him this time. He lets him be. Just this once. Because Santa doesn’t trust himself to speak right now. Doesn’t trust the steadiness of his voice. Not when it already trembled watching Perth kiss someone else — even if it was acting.

They finish the rest of the night in near-silence. There are no arguments. No cold shoulders. Just a soft, aching quiet. The kind that sneaks in when both people are pretending nothing’s wrong.

They go home separately. No call that night. No messages. Just stillness. And in that stillness, they each sit with something they don’t know how to name.

The next morning, they see each other at call time. They greet each other like usual — like nothing happened. There’s a rhythm to it, still: coffee, script flipping, soft eye contact that doesn't quite hold. It’s polite. Professional.

But something's changed.

They feel it in the gaps. In the words unsaid. The distance isn’t wide — just one breath too long, one word too few. They could ignore it. They’ve ignored worse. They're good at pretending. But the irony is cruel — today, they’re shooting the bar fight. The scene where Gun sees Yotha losing control. Where he sees him pulled into chaos, and can do nothing to stop it. It’s the first moment Gun realizes what it really means to care. To worry. To be powerless when the person you love is hurting and unreachable.

Santa pours everything into it.

Because now, he doesn’t even need to act. And Perth — blood on his lip, eyes wide and glassy — doesn’t even have to try. Because when he looks up at Santa mid-scene, something in his chest twists. They don’t even hear the director call cut. The room is quiet for a beat too long, the air heavy.

And finally — finally — they break.

They don’t speak at first. Not until they’re both in the empty dressing room, breaths still uneven, hearts still racing, something raw and splintering sitting between them. Santa speaks first, this time.

“I know it was just a scene.”

Perth doesn’t move.

“I know it was nothing. I know we’re not—” Santa stops, willing himself to breathe. “But it felt like something.”

Silence.

And then Perth says, “It did to me, too.”

There’s a pause. No one looks away. Then Perth adds, voice lower now, almost afraid:

“I didn’t want it to be anyone else.”

Santa swallows. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

Perth laughs, small and broken. “Because if I say it, it becomes real.”

Another beat.

Santa’s voice is barely a whisper. “And if it’s real?”

Perth looks up, finally. “Then I don’t know how to keep it safe.”

And that’s the truth. Not that they don’t feel it. But that they do — so deeply — and they don’t know how to carry it without risking everything they’ve built. They’re not ready. But they’re close. So close.

It doesn’t happen on a night that feels particularly important. No final scene wrapped. No grand celebration. No rain. Just a quiet evening in Perth’s apartment, two take-out containers between them and the TV left on for noise. The script pages lie discarded nearby, forgotten after only a few lines. They didn’t get far. Not tonight.

They’re not even talking anymore. Just sitting — side by side on the couch, legs stretched out, bodies leaning into each other like they’ve done it a thousand times. And maybe they have.

But tonight is different. There’s something quieter between them now. Something unspoken, but there. Not tension, not urgency — something softer. Like the silence after a storm. Like a sigh. And then Perth looks at him. Really looks.

Not as Yotha. Not through a scene. Not as someone playing someone else. Just him. And Santa meets it.

That gaze.

Still. Steady. Like he’s been waiting. Like he’s not afraid anymore. Neither of them speaks. There’s no lead-in. No banter. No “can I?” or “should we?” Just the smallest lean forward. A breath. And then—Their lips meet. Gently. Like this is the first time they’ve ever done it.

And in a way — it is.

It doesn’t feel like any of their rehearsed kisses. It doesn’t even feel like a scene. It feels like everything else.

Like a first love you never knew you were allowed to have. Like the kind of love that feels too pure for words — the kind you keep safe in your chest, guarded and untouched, until the right person shows up and makes it feel easy. It’s a kiss made of late-night calls and barely-there touches. Of script notes passed back and forth. Of looking at each other across a room and always, always meeting in the middle.

It’s a kiss that says I see you. I’ve been holding this for so long. I’m scared too. But I want this. I want you.

They part for breath, just barely. Eyes half-lidded. Foreheads resting together. The silence around them warm and full. And then Perth kisses him again. Not because he needs to — but because he wants to. Because he can. Because now there’s no pretending anymore. And Santa doesn’t hesitate. He leans in with a quiet exhale, his hands sliding gently over Perth’s jaw, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of something that’s finally real.

A second kiss.

Then a third.

And suddenly, they’re making out — not heated, not rushed — just present. Lips moving slow. Hands moving slower. They don’t press too close, don’t try to take more than what’s offered. They just… hold each other. Tighter. Closer. As if every unsaid word, every almost-touch, every lingering look is pouring out between them now.

Santa makes a soft sound — a half-sigh against Perth’s mouth — and Perth feels something inside him settle. Like a weight he didn’t realize he’d been carrying just lifted. Because this — this — feels like coming home. It feels like telling someone everything you’re afraid of and not being met with fear. It feels like saying I need you without having to explain why. And when they finally pull apart, neither of them lets go.

They don’t speak right away. They don’t need to. They just sit there, limbs tangled, arms wrapped around each other.

Holding.

Breathing.

Santa tucks his face into Perth’s shoulder. Perth presses his cheek against Santa’s hair. Their hands find each other somewhere between the folds of their clothes, and they link fingers without looking. It’s their first time really cuddling — not just a side hug, not an arm draped lazily during press cons or acting workshops. Not a brief brush of hands during blocking or comfort tucked under the excuse of character.

It’s them. Fully. Soft and tired and warm. And it doesn’t feel like a start. It feels like something that’s always been there — only now, finally,

it’s allowed to exist.

Sometime between midnight and morning, they both wake. Not at the same time.

First it was Santa.

It’s still dark out, the apartment cloaked in that muted hush only early hours know how to hold. He blinks slowly, adjusting to the dim light, the soft sound of the aircon, the faint rise and fall of the chest he’s curled up against. Perth is still asleep.

One arm wrapped around Santa’s waist. The other tucked under his head like a pillow. His brows relaxed; his mouth slightly open — lips parted like he’s halfway to a dream. And even in sleep, his hold doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. Protective. Gentle. Like even unconscious, his body recognizes Santa and keeps him close.

Santa doesn’t move. He just watches. Because this version of Perth — soft, unguarded, unknowingly affectionate — is so far from the version he first met. Back then, Perth was composed, careful. Kind, always, but not easy to read. Always watching before acting. Always holding something back.

But this?

This is different.

This is his Perth — the one who reaches for him without thinking, who lets himself be held, who wraps himself around Santa like a promise. Santa smiles faintly. Brushes his nose lightly against Perth’s shoulder. Whispers a soft “thank you” even though he knows Perth won’t hear it. And then he closes his eyes again. Lets himself fall asleep cradled in arms that make him feel safe in every possible way.

Later, it’s Perth who stirs.

The light has changed — grey-blue now, the slow stretch of dawn beginning to sneak past the curtains. He blinks against it, confused for half a second by the warmth pressed against him — and then remembers. Santa.

Asleep. Curled in close. One hand bunched lightly into the fabric of Perth’s shirt, like he’s holding on even in sleep. Perth doesn’t move. He just looks. And God, the sight of him. Hair a little messy. Lips slightly pouty. Face soft in that unguarded way people only get when they feel truly safe. He looks like a kitten, Perth thinks, and then immediately flushes at the thought. Because it’s so Santa. So deeply, impossibly him. Like all the edges in the world couldn’t touch him here.

Perth feels something in his chest loosen. Like air finally filling lungs that hadn’t realized they were tight. Santa never pushed.

Not once.

Not when Perth was still figuring things out. Not when Perth hesitated, afraid to ruin something delicate. Not even now. Santa simply waited. Patient, steady, open. And Perth doesn’t take that lightly. Because he’s never had this before — this safety. This quiet. Someone who doesn’t just hold space for him but softens it.

He lets his fingers brush lightly against Santa’s back. Just once. And then he closes his eyes again, presses a quiet kiss to the top of Santa’s head. And lets sleep take him, wrapped around something that finally, finally feels like home.

When they wake for real, it’s later than planned. But neither of them panics. They stir slowly, faces half-hidden in each other’s necks, arms tangled so comfortably they couldn’t pull away even if they wanted to.

Santa yawns first. Perth snorts. Then Santa grumbles, “Your breath smells.”

And Perth mutters, “So does yours.”

And just like that — they’re laughing. Giggling, really. Like teenagers. Like idiots. Like two people who’ve been holding their hearts too carefully for too long and have finally realized they’re safe to put them down.

No awkwardness. No weird tension. Just happiness. Soft, full-bodied, simple happiness.

They move around each other like they’ve been doing this for years — brushing teeth side by side, stealing bites of each other’s breakfast, helping zip up jackets and find missing socks. Perth insists on making coffee even though it’s Santa’s machine. Santa insists on fixing Perth’s bedhead even though it doesn’t help.

There are no big talks.

No “what are we now?” or “should we define this?”

Just quiet affection in a shared morning. And when it’s time to head back to set, they go together — side by side, shoulders brushing. Like nothing’s changed. But everything has.

Something changes after that night. Not abruptly. Not in a way that calls attention to itself. But it’s there — threaded quietly through their scenes, stitched into the pauses between lines, laced in the way they look at each other across the frame. Before, they were already good. Everyone said so. The chemistry was sharp, clean, believable. The timing? Impeccable. Their performances? Unshakable.

But now?

Now it’s something else entirely. It’s not just chemistry anymore.

It’s connection.

It’s the way Perth says Gun’s name like it means something more. The way Santa reacts to Yotha’s lines with eyes that don’t just hear the words, but feel them. It’s in the improvisations — small things, unscripted things — the lingering touch on a wrist, the half-second glances that don’t read as “acting,” just being. When the camera is on, they don’t shift into character so much as slip. No resistance. No tension. Just seamless immersion, as if Gun and Yotha were simply extensions of themselves.

The director notices first.

He doesn’t say anything at first — just watches them through the monitor during one particular take. It’s a quiet scene. Yotha brushes Gun’s hair back mid-conversation. Gun stops mid-line and laughs, cheeks flushed. It wasn’t in the script. They kept rolling. No one called cut.

When the scene ends, the director just shakes her head, smiling. “Whatever that was,” she says, “do it again.”

The staff pick up on it too — the lighting crew, the sound techs, the script supervisor. They exchange glances more often now, some grinning behind clipboards. No one asks. No one pries. But the warmth is palpable.

“You two are insane this week,” one of the makeup artists says as she dabs concealer on Perth’s cheek. “That last scene? That wasn’t acting.”

Perth just smiles, gaze drifting to where Santa’s getting his mic adjusted.

“We’re just in sync,” he says.

She doesn’t believe him, not fully. But she doesn’t push either.

Because it’s not her business.

Backstage, in the quieter corners of the studio, their small circle of co-stars becomes their safe zone. Junior — always bouncing around like he drinks sugar for breakfast — is the first to point it out. “Perth,” he says to Perth one day between takes, “I don’t know what you’re on these days, but you look ten years younger. Is this what love does to people?”

Perth almost chokes on his coffee. Santa just laughs. Book joins in, lounging across the sofa and scrolling through a BTS video of them. “Seriously. Whatever he’s doing to you? Keep letting him do it.”

Force raises an eyebrow. “That sounded dirtier than you meant.”

Book, unbothered and teasing, “But accurate.”

They’re teasing — obviously — but not in a mean way. Not in a gotcha way. It’s gentle. Affectionate. Protective, even. Because they’ve seen it too — the difference in Perth’s posture, the way Santa brings out this light in him. The way Santa melts into Perth’s orbit so naturally that you forget there was ever a time they didn’t know each other.

Perth and Santa don’t deny it.

They don’t even try to hide anymore. Not here.

So when the teasing dies down and the others start messing with props or playing mobile games in a circle on the floor, Perth leans in. Places a soft kiss to the side of Santa’s neck. Barely a press of lips. Gentle. Unrushed. Santa hums quietly and smiles into Perth’s shoulder.

Force doesn’t even look up. “Do that again and I’m charging rent for the privilege of watching this fanservice in real life.”

Book adds, “Too late. I’m emotionally invested.”

Mark: “I ship this. I’m delusional now.”

Junior shrieks and clutches a cushion like he’s watching a drama finale.

And Perth and Santa? They just laugh. Laugh and lean into each other, grinning like idiots, glowing like people who no longer have to carry the weight of pretending. It becomes normal — their new normal.

A forehead kiss between takes. Holding hands under the table during script reads. Sharing a single rice cracker while everyone pretends not to notice. A soft press of lips backstage when they think no one’s watching — even though everyone is. But no one intrudes. No one crosses the line.

Because they’ve found their people.

And now that they’re here — held gently, accepted wholly — they stop holding back.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be harmless.

Just a cute fan event. One of the lighter moments after weeks of emotional scenes and late nights — a chance for everyone to breathe, laugh, and let the fans see them outside the frame of Yotha and Gun. The host brings it up near the end, grinning with too much mischief in his eyes.

“So,” he says, “let’s do one for the fans. That scene. The tie scene. The one that started it all.”

The crowd erupts, phones go up, even the staff chuckles knowingly. Santa covers his face with one hand, already blushing. Perth just groans dramatically like he’s being asked to perform open-heart surgery instead of reenact the moment that made half the country fall in love with their characters. But they do it. Of course they do.

The stage clears just a little, a chair is pulled out like in the drama, and Perth sits while Santa takes the tie in both hands. The audience cheers even before anything starts. Santa stands in front of him, draping the tie around Perth’s neck with practiced ease. They’ve done this scene countless times.

But today — today — something is different.

Maybe it’s the angle. Maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the fact that this time, there’s no director yelling “action” and no assistant reminding them to emote toward camera left. There’s just… them. Perth tilts his head up slightly, looking at Santa. And Santa—hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for something charged to slip between them. Their eyes meet - and hold.

Santa swallows, grip tightening just slightly on the tie. Then Perth, with the calm mischief only he can carry so convincingly, slowly lifts one brow, puckers his lips just slightly, and gives him that look.

The “well, go on then” look.

The “I dare you” look.

The “I know what you’re thinking and maybe I want it too” look.

And Santa— He steps in. Just a fraction of an inch. Barely noticeable. His hands are still holding the tie. His lips don’t move. But his eyes—his whole face—gives him away.

He’s smiling. Flushed. Redder by the second. It’s electric. Subtle, but unmistakable. The audience screams. The hosts laugh. And Perth—smug, maybe a little smug—just lets it sit there before reaching up and actually tying the knot himself, eyes locked on Santa doing that triangle method, smooth and confident, the way he’s done since episode one.

Santa’s hands fall to his sides, too flustered to do anything but look at him.

And that’s all. That’s literally all. But somehow—it’s enough to light Twitter on fire before the night’s even over.

They get home late.

Perth unlocks the door to his condo, both of them toeing off their shoes, jackets draped across arms. It’s quiet, comfortable. Santa’s staying over — that’s not new. They always do this after fanmeets. Debrief, destress, crash with takeout and maybe play some Switch until one of them falls asleep mid-cutscene.

Tonight, though, it’s different. Not tense. Just... charged.

Santa throws himself onto the couch with a groan. “You’re so annoying phi,” he mumbles into the cushions.

Perth plops beside him. “What did I do now?”

Santa turns his head, one eye glaring. “That look you gave me. The pucker. You knew what you were doing.”

Perth smirks. “And you leaned in.”

Santa groans louder, throwing a pillow over his face. “I hate you.”

“You don’t,” Perth says. He reaches out, tugs the pillow away just enough to see Santa’s eyes.

Santa’s cheeks are still red. He’s still smiling. And Perth, still smug, leans a little closer.

“Bet the fans got great angles, though.”

Santa glares. “phi Perth if you don’t shut up—”

Perth lifts both brows again, teasing. “Or what? You’ll reenact the kiss scene too?”

And Santa—He doesn’t reply, just moves. Quick, sure. He leans forward and kisses him. Firm. Soft. Sure.

It catches Perth off guard — for a second. Then he melts. Hand curling behind Santa’s neck, leaning up into it, parting his lips before he can think better of it. A sigh slips between them, and then another kiss, and then a third, and then—They’re kissing like it’s second nature.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

Just close.

Like this is what they do. Like this is how they speak now, how they say I like you, I missed you, you’re mine. Fingers curl into fabric. Bodies shift closer. And the makeout — if you could call it that — doesn’t turn steamy. It just deepens - draws them in - folds them together in that same way they held each other that first night. Like being close is the goal. Like this is what they’ve always meant.

Eventually, they stop to breathe. They lean into each other’s space with heavy sighs and grins they can’t hide. Santa tucks his face into Perth’s neck. Perth kisses the top of his head. Their hands are still tangled, resting between them on the couch cushions.

“More productive than flirting,” Perth mumbles sleepily.

Santa hums. “Said the guy who puckered first.”

They fall asleep there, eventually. Wrapped around each other. Tied up in something deeper than just a scene.

It started after they filmed episode eight.

The one fans were already calling the turning point. The one where Gun and Yotha finally confessed. Where the lingering glances and restrained touches gave way to something more — a deep, unhurried kiss that turned French, their first time being officially boyfriends, and yes — the implied sex scene after.

It wasn’t graphic, not really. Just bare shoulders, fingers tangled in sheets, that close-up of their clasped hands tightening before the lights faded.

But it felt real. Too real.

They’d kissed before in the series. Many times. But this one — this one was different. There was a slow hunger in it, a pull that felt like gravity, like I know you want this too, stop pretending you don’t.

Perth had gripped Santa’s arms during one of the takes — not consciously, not even hard, but firm enough to leave a faint ache that lasted through the night. Santa brings it up later, when they’re alone in Perth’s condo again. Post-wrap, late night, both of them a little loopy from the shoot, hair still damp from the shower.

He lifts one arm and rubs at his bicep with a mock pout. “If I were any paler phi, you’d have left bruises shaped like your fingers.”

Perth, halfway through pulling on a shirt, pauses. Something shifts behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away and just looks. The idea — that he could’ve marked Santa — something about it sticks. Not in a rough way. Not cruel. Just… real. Physical. A proof of something he otherwise has no right to claim out loud. Because they can’t. Not with filming. Not with the public. Not with the boundary lines that, while soft, still exist.

So he turns and crosses the room slowly, deliberately. Santa’s still sitting on the bed, one eyebrow raised, still grinning like he thinks he’s being funny. And maybe he is. But Perth kisses him anyway.

Slow.

Deep.

Hands cupping his jaw, then sliding into his hair, pulling him close until Santa’s laughing into his mouth.

“phi—”

“You said I gripped too hard,” Perth murmurs, lips brushing against Santa’s.

“I was teasing—”

“So now I’ll kiss softer.”

He doesn’t.

Not really. He kisses with the same intensity he did in episode eight — only more, because it’s not Yotha kissing Gun anymore. It’s Perth. Perth Kissing Santa. And that difference? That knowledge? It sears.

Santa tilts his head back, parting his lips instinctively, a soft whimper slipping through before he catches it. But Perth hears. Of course he does. And when Santa breaks the kiss to catch his breath, flushed and wide-eyed, he grins — eyes sparkling with mischief.

“That’s not how we did it in the scene,” he says.

And Perth—Something primal flashes in his chest.

“I know,” he says, voice low, already leaning back in. “That was Yotha.”

He presses his lips to Santa’s again, firmer, thumb brushing along Santa’s jaw.

“This is me.”

And the kiss—It deepens. Heated now. Not rushed, but sure. Teeth grazing lips. Hands tightening in hair. One of them pulls the other down onto the bed, and they’re not even aware of who moved first.

It’s not about sex.

It’s never just about sex.

It’s about being allowed. About being real. About Perth being able to finally kiss Santa not because a script told him to, not because a camera was rolling, but because he wanted to. And Santa— Santa lets himself be kissed. Moans into it. Clutches the back of Perth’s shirt like he’s trying to hold him still. His legs shift, one hooking around Perth’s hip. He’s smiling between kisses. Teasing still. So Santa.

But every time he laughs, Perth kisses him harder.

Until Santa’s breath hitches. Until his lips start to sting. Until he murmurs a soft “phi Perth…” and Perth kisses him again anyway.

“You’re mine right now Tata,” Perth whispers against his mouth. “I don’t care how they wrote the scene. This is ours.”

By the time they stop — if you could call it that — Santa’s lips are swollen. Red. A little puffy. Kiss-drunk and dazed, but entirely pleased. He flops back onto the pillows with a grin.

“Someone’s possessive.”

“You started it,” Perth mumbles, still hovering over him.

Santa lifts a hand, cups Perth’s cheek, thumb stroking lightly under his eye. “I like it.”

They stay like that a while. Breathing. Smiling. Then Perth lays beside him, tugging Santa into his chest. And they sleep like that — curled into each other, the world quiet for once. No script. No lines.

Just them.

By the time episode ten wrapped, kisses had become a permanent fixture between them. Not just the ones they filmed — though those too had grown easier, more fluid, more theirs — but the off-cam ones. The real ones.

And there were types now.

There was the greeting kiss — usually a peck on the cheek or the temple when one of them walked into the dressing room. No fanfare. No hesitation. Just hi, I missed you.

The teasing kiss — usually delivered mid-banter, when Santa was laughing too hard or when Perth was being a little too smug. A quick press to the corner of a smile. A way to shut each other up that worked far better than words.

The grounding kiss — gentle, thumb brushing under the chin, a soft “you’re okay” when nerves crept up before a hard scene or long day.

And then the ones that weren’t named. The ones between lines in a script read. Between bites of shared lunch. Between takes when no one was looking and sometimes even when they were. A touch here, a lean there. Fingers brushing hair from a face. A hand on the small of a back. A kiss pressed into a shoulder, casual, thoughtless.

The staff had long stopped commenting.

By now, even their co-stars didn’t blink. It was normal. They were normal — whatever that meant anymore. And for a while, it was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Until Perth found himself kissing Santa on the collarbone, barely thinking about it, while they waited for the lighting crew to reset a frame. Until Santa caught himself mumbling phi a little too softly into Perth’s neck, voice dipped in something that didn’t sound like banter.

Until they both realized that this — whatever this was — was something they should talk about. Not because something was wrong. But because everything felt so right, they owed it to themselves to name it.

So when they got a break in shooting — just four days off between arcs — they left.

No press, no itinerary, no drama. Just Chiang Mai.

They flew up on a quiet Thursday, checked into a small inn with a view of the mountains, and disappeared into each other. They played tourists. Visited temples and fed elephants, argued over the best khao soi, and got sunburnt even though they packed sunscreen.

Santa made fun of Perth’s mosquito bites. Perth complained about Santa hogging the blanket in their shared bed. They wore matching shirts without meaning to and didn’t bother changing when they realized.

They kissed in the back of tuk-tuks. On temple steps. In the quiet of their room when the curtains fluttered and the sky turned gold. There was no urgency. No tension. Just peace. But on their third day, when they visited a small monastery outside the city — quiet, hidden behind a wall of trees and incense smoke — the moment found them.

They were led in by a friend of the production manager, someone who had been a monk for decades and was known for his quiet wisdom and warm smile. He spoke gently to them, blessed them with soft words, and tied sai sin bracelets around their wrists.

White and red threads. Sacred cotton. A symbol of purity, peace, love, passion and protection. Connection. A wish for good things.

They sat down together after on a low bench under a tree. Just the two of them feeling the breeze, the weight of what they wished for together. Santa fiddled with the knot on his bracelet, then reached out to lightly tug Perth’s sleeve.

“Do you think,” he said slowly, “we’re already in a relationship?”

Perth looked at him and didn’t answer right away. Then he quietly utters, “I think we’ve been in one.”

Santa laughed — not nervously, just gently. “Yeah. That’s what it feels like.”

There was silence again, soft and full.

“I guess we just never said it out loud,” Perth added.

Santa nodded. “Should we?”

Perth turned his hand over, palm up. Santa slid his fingers into it without needing to be told. And still — still — they smiled like idiots. Like teenagers. Like two boys who had finally given each other permission to be happy.

“So…” Perth said, squeezing Santa’s hand. “You want to be my boyfriend?”

Santa leaned in, pressed their foreheads together, then kissed him. It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping background music. No dramatic monologue. Just a kiss. Warm. Simple. Sure.

And afterward, when they pulled apart, Santa whispered, “I thought I already was.”

Perth kissed him again for that. Then again. Then again.

Back at the inn, they didn’t talk much more about it. They didn’t need to. They shared a bed that night like always — but now with no hesitations left. Just kisses that deepened slowly. Just touches that lingered longer. Just laughter between the pillows and arms wrapped tight around each other like they’d earned this. Because they had.

They slept like that. Wrapped around each other. Red and white threads tied to their wrists. The promise not shouted but chosen. Quiet. Unshakeable.

Real.

The last scene they filmed together was bittersweet. Yotha and Gun sitting along the riverbank. No more angst. No more hesitation. Just two people who had found their way back to each other — quiet, steady, hand in hand.

The script ended on a kiss. Soft. Lasting. A kiss that promised “we’re okay now.”

When the director yelled cut for the final time, the whole crew erupted. Applause, cheers, staff hugging each other. The lighting techs were crying. Junior ran over and hugged them both so hard he nearly knocked them over. But even in all the celebration — the flowers, the group photos, the wrap dinner plans — Perth and Santa found themselves slipping into a quiet corner on set.

Backstage. Just them. And then —They kissed. Not for the camera. Not for Yotha and Gun.

Just them.

And it was different. Deeper. Messier. A little clumsy from the sheer rush of it. Because for the first time since it all began, they weren’t holding back. They weren’t acting anymore. They weren’t worrying about who was watching or what scene came next or whether the cameras were rolling.

So they kissed like they meant it. Like they needed to.

Perth pressed Santa against the wall of their old dressing room, mouths meeting with the urgency of weeks withheld. Santa's hands gripped his shirt, tugged him closer, tilted his chin up like he'd been dying to do that for days. And Perth—God, Perth—

He didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to let go. And it wasn’t lust, not really. Not only that. It was the ache of finally being able to touch what had always felt just slightly out of reach. He kissed Santa’s neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth — again, again, again.

“Phi Perth,” Santa breathed, laughing against his lips, “you’re going to leave marks.”

“Good,” Perth whispered. “Let them see.”

Of course, it wasn’t always like that.

Sometimes it was soft. Sometimes it was quiet forehead kisses while brushing their teeth in the morning. Or slow kisses traded half-asleep while curled on the couch after a long day. But sometimes — when a producer leaned too close, or a makeup artist complimented a little too sweetly — the look would come out.

It wasn’t dramatic. No fights, no sulking. Just quiet flashes of jealousy that surfaced before either of them could catch it. Like the time a guest actor joked about Santa’s “very kissable lips” during the wrap dinner.

Perth had laughed along. Smiled and even toasted the guy’s beer. And then, ten minutes later, when no one was looking, he pulled Santa into the hallway and kissed him hard. Possessive. Slow. Intense. Santa didn’t even ask why.

He just grinned against Perth’s mouth, breathless, and murmured, “Was that about the comment earlier?”

Perth rolled his eyes. “No.”

“Liar.”

Perth kissed him again. And Santa let him — fingers laced behind his neck, not at all trying to hide how much he loved it. Later that night, when they were tangled up in Perth’s bed, Santa traced lazy circles on his chest and said, “I didn’t even realize you were jealous.”

Perth blinked at the ceiling. “I wasn’t.”

“You kissed me like you were.”

A beat passes. Then they both burst out laughing. Because yeah — okay — maybe they were a little ridiculous. But sometimes love is ridiculous. Sometimes it shows up in the small things — a pout, a tight hold, a kiss pressed too hard just to say mine. And neither of them minded. Not when they both did it. Not when it meant being loved back just as hard.

In the days that followed the wrap, their freedom felt intoxicating.

No more scripts. No more blocked angles. No more lines to blur between who they were and who they were playing. So they kissed whenever they felt like it. Sleepy kisses in the morning light. Silly ones — nose to nose, lips barely touching, laughing into each other.

Hot ones, too — desperate, insistent, against kitchen counters or bathroom walls when words couldn’t quite express the way one of them missed the other, even after a few hours apart. And there were new kinds now, too.

Kisses that said I’m sorry for overthinking.

Kisses that whispered I’m so proud of you.

Kisses that didn’t ask questions but gave answers anyway. Kisses that reclaimed. Reassured. Reminded.

They’d spent months holding back. Now? They couldn’t stop reaching for each other. Not that they wanted to.

The video dropped on a Sunday evening.

It was just a short fan-taken clip — blurry, a little shaky — from one of the recent live events. The segment had been harmless: reenact the tie scene, again, but this time let Perth deliver the lines while Santa does the tying. They’d done it a dozen times. They knew the beats, the expressions, the pause at the knot.

Only this time — this time — something shifted.

Perth was mid-line, standing in front of Santa, who was laughing about something a fan had shouted. Santa, in all his usual energy, hugged him from behind on instinct — arms around Perth’s waist, chin briefly on his shoulder. It wasn’t even part of the script. Just something he did now.

They both laughed.

And then—Santa leaned in. Not jokingly. Not with the exaggerated flair of fan service. Just leaned forward with the kind of softness that said I’m yours, always. And Perth—Perth puckered. Without thinking. Like it was normal.

Like this was something they did all the time.

And then — when he realized — he blinked, startled, and visibly pulled his head back. Santa burst out laughing behind him. Perth followed, shaking his head, rubbing the back of his neck. The moment passed. The crowd cheered. The show went on.

But the fans? Oh, the fans noticed.

#ReflexKiss started trending by midnight.

By morning, it had over 300k likes on Twitter and was clipped in slow motion, analyzed, slowed down, zoomed in, edited with dramatic music. People were debating the exact angle of the lean. Some said it was instinct. Others said it was proof.

And then came the theories. About how this wasn’t just slip-up — it was a reveal. About the red and white sai sin bracelets they'd both been seen wearing recently — how white was for protection and connection, and red for love and desire.

A fan account tweeted:

maybe it’s not about them “finally kissing” anymore.
maybe they’ve kissed so often behind the scenes that they forgot how not to.

Perth was the one who found the tweet first. He snorted so hard milk came out his nose. Santa, from across the couch, looked up with wide eyes. “Are you dying?”

Perth handed him the phone, still wheezing. Santa watched the tweet, then read the caption, then the comments. And then stared, eyes wide, mouth agape. He could only blink.

“…I mean…” Santa started.

Perth raised both brows. Santa flopped back onto the couch and groaned into a pillow.

“Okay, some of these theories are wild,” Perth said, scrolling. “Someone said your bracelet changes shades depending on how in love you are.”

“That’s literally not how color works—”

“And this one—‘they kiss like it’s prayer’—who writes like that?!”

Santa peeked through his fingers. “Poets. Clearly.”

Perth tossed the phone aside and turned to him, grinning.

“Phi,” Santa warned. “Don’t.”

Perth smirked. “You leaned in first.”

“I hugged you.”

“You tilted your head.”

“I was talking.”

“You aimed for my mouth.”

Santa sat up, indignant. “You puckered!”

“It was reflex!”

“Exactly!”

They stared at each other. Then burst into laughter. Helpless, ridiculous laughter — because yeah, okay, maybe they were insane. Maybe this was absurd. But also? Maybe it was just… true. They’d blurred the lines so much they forgot there was a line. The kisses weren’t for show anymore. They hadn’t been for a while.

They just were.

Later, curled up on the bed post-shower, Santa still hadn’t let it go. Perth, scrolling again, muttered, “Seriously, someone posted a thread of your ‘dangerously kissable moments.’ It’s like forty slides.”

Santa narrowed his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much phi Perth.”

“Can you blame me?” Perth turned to him, grinning. “Have you seen you?”

Santa shoved his shoulder. “Phi!”

Perth laughed, shifting to straddle Santa’s legs loosely, thumbs brushing his waist. “I blame you, honestly. Always looking that pretty. Acting like you’re not a walking temptation.”

“I was literally just standing there.”

“And yet I almost kissed you in front of thousands of people.”

Santa covered his face again. “I hate you.”

Perth bent down and kissed his cheek. Then his jaw. “You don’t.”

Another kiss. “You love me Tata.”

Santa peeked through his fingers. “Don’t say that right now. That’s unfair.”

Perth smirked, shifting closer. “Why?”

Santa exhaled. “Because you never hold back.”

“Correct,” Perth murmured, voice dropping, “I don’t.”

Santa grabbed the collar of his shirt. “If you did, my back wouldn’t be sore.”

“Oh?” Perth leaned in, eyes twinkling. “What about your arms?”

Santa gasped. “They’re fine, actually—”

“You sure?”

And just like that, the air thickened. Charged. They kissed. Hard. Laughing into it, playful and dizzy and wanting. It escalated quickly — familiar by now, the kind of heat that never pressed for more than what was welcome, but always pulled just close enough to burn.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and flushed, Perth whispered, “Still blaming me?”

Santa, dazed, lips bitten red, grinned. “Always.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Only kissed again.

And again.

And again.

Until the only thing left between them was breath and want and the quiet, unshakable joy of being known — and chosen — every single time.

In the days that followed, the internet stayed loud. Perth and Santa didn’t.

They filmed one more promo together, answered a few interviews, played up their usual banter on camera. Their chemistry, as always, was clockwork — easy, affectionate, unreadable in the way that kept people guessing. But the moment the lights dimmed and they were alone again, everything softened.

Their world shrank.

To slow mornings, bare feet on cold tile, a shared toothbrush holder. To Santa pouring Perth’s coffee without asking how he takes it, because he already knows. To Perth folding Santa’s hoodie with practiced hands and draping it over the back of the chair, not because it was messy, but because he didn’t want it to wrinkle.

To quiet nods across the room. To knowing smiles. To kisses that didn’t need reason — just timing.

Sometimes, Perth would hold Santa’s hand in the car without even realizing he was doing it. Sometimes, Santa would steal Perth’s shirt just because it smelled like him and say nothing, just wear it around the house like it was always his. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just real.

And now that the series had wrapped, now that they weren’t tethered to scripts or schedules, they learned to live inside it — the little life they had quietly built behind closed doors.

But of course, the internet still speculated.

Of course, some theories made it to their group chat.

Book had been the first to send a screenshot, all caps: ‘SO WHICH ONE OF YOU KISSED FIRST 😭😭😭’

Force sent a gif of a magnifying glass zooming into Perth’s puckered lips.

Junior, ever the agent of chaos, added: ‘Your both so unserious 😭 ur dating and the whole world knows except you two apparently’

They’d all seen the fan threads by now. The bracelet theory. The reflex kiss theory. The “they’re married in private and just not telling us” theory. Some of them were unhinged. Some of them were funny. But some — some were eerily on point.

Santa sat cross-legged on the couch one night, scrolling with a bowl of strawberries in his lap, snorting as he read a particularly long thread about how the red and white strings were “symbolic of a karmic soul tie born of divine timing.”

He passed the phone to Perth without a word. Perth read it and paused, then deadpanned, “Well, now we have a soul contract.”

Santa smacked his arm. “phi—”

“No, no. Wait. We’re fated now. There’s divine timing. You can’t back out.”

Santa groaned, “You make it impossible to be sincere.”

Perth set the phone aside and leaned in, gaze warm. “That’s rich, coming from the boy who made me kiss him in front of a thousand people.”

“I didn’t make you do anything phi Perth.”

“You aimed for my mouth.”

“I always aim for your mouth.”

That earned him a kiss — slow, unhurried, fond.

“You know,” Santa whispered later, tucked beneath Perth’s chin, arms looped around his waist, “I thought we’d feel different after making it official.”

Perth tilted his head, thinking.

“Do we?”

“Not really,” Santa murmured. “Just... safer. Like I don’t have to second guess anymore.”

“Yeah,” Perth said softly. “Me too.”

And that was it. No fireworks. No sweeping declarations. Just two people who’d already been choosing each other — now finally saying it out loud.

And the world? They could wait.

This part — the best part — was just for them.

Chapter Text

Their lives slowed down after the wrap.

Not entirely — they still had commitments, still took interviews, still fielded projects — but the pace shifted. Without the constant hum of set call times and overnight shoots, their days became gentler. More theirs.

They didn’t make an announcement. They didn’t drop any hints. They just… let things happen. Let the world speculate. Let themselves breathe. And in that quiet space, they began to build something even more real than what the show had given them.

It started with the toothbrush. Santa had always stayed over here and there, especially during shoot-heavy weeks when they’d both collapse into the same bed from exhaustion. But now he didn’t pack a bag every time. Now, there was a spare toothbrush next to Perth’s — red, with a little dent in the handle. His.

Then came the hoodie.

Then a set of socks.

Then the very subtle, completely non-negotiable takeover of half of Perth’s closet space.

And Perth let it happen. Smiled when he found Santa’s face cream next to his cologne. Lets him rearrange the mugs. Lets him program a playlist for morning coffee. Let him exist in the space. And it became theirs.

Their weekends, once rare and fleeting, were now slow and deliberate. Grocery runs where they fought over cereal brands. Late morning breakfasts where Santa cooked and Perth did the dishes, both in oversized shirts and half-brushed hair. Laundry days where they forgot to separate whites from colors, ended up with pale pink shirts, and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Perth had a photo of Santa balancing oranges on his head. Santa had a video of Perth trying to fold fitted sheets and giving up halfway through, flopping into the pile. They had lazy Sundays where they didn’t leave the bed until 2PM. They had Tuesdays where they stayed up reading, ankles tangled, trading passages from books with voices heavy from sleep.

Sometimes they talked about the future. But mostly? they just lived in the now. And in between all that — kisses.

Not dramatic. Not deliberate. Just little, constant ones. Kisses on the forehead when one passed behind the other. On the shoulder while cooking. On the wrist, the cheek, the back of the neck. Soft and wordless.

I’m here. I’m yours. I see you.

There were moments, too, of stillness. Of lying on the couch, one’s head on the other’s lap, a film playing they weren’t even watching. Of quiet dinners with friends where their hands found each other under the table, fingers grazing, grounding. Of coming home to lights left on and food warmed up and a soft “welcome back” that carried more love than entire confessions.

This — this — was what people didn’t see.

Not the fanservice. Not the trending clips. Not the perfectly lit moments. Just two people choosing each other in the smallest, realest ways. Not hiding. Not performing.

Just living.

Sometimes Santa would look up from the couch, book in hand, and catch Perth watching him. Just watching. And Perth would shrug.

“What?”

“You’re looking at me.”

“Yeah,” Perth would say. “I like looking at you.”

Santa would try not to melt.

He’d fail, every time.

They still joked, of course. Still teased and bickered and poked fun at the absurdity of being lowkey “married” before even going public. But they knew the truth. Knew it didn’t need proving. Knew what they had — all soft routines and quiet glances and unsaid things made obvious in the way they held each other — was real. And in a world that always asked for more — more visibility, more access, more proof — they chose instead less.

Less noise.
Less spectacle.
More of them.

Because they weren’t hiding.

They were just home.

It started small — the way these things always do.  A little extra eye contact during interviews. A laugh held too long. Shoulders brushing and never quite parting. Gentle teasing laced with something warmer, something deeper, something that made even seasoned MCs blink and glance between them like, wait, is this real?

It didn’t take long for the shift to become noticeable.

Because Perth and Santa were always close — but now, they were closer. There was a difference.

The way Perth smiled when Santa spoke — like he’d already heard the story but wanted to watch him tell it anyway. The way Santa leaned in when Perth laughed — like he wanted to catch it with his hands. The subtle way their fingers brushed. The lingering touches on backs, arms, knees.

They didn’t hold hands on stage — not really. But they gravitated. Always within reach. Always finding each other, naturally, instinctively. They weren’t hiding. Not anymore. They were just together.

It got harder to play dumb when they attended group panels.

The entire Perfect 10 Liners cast was close — the kind of close that came from shared shoots, sleepless nights, endless waiting under hot lights and cold rain. The bond was genuine. But even among that ease, Perth and Santa had their own orbit.

Their own gravity.

It was especially obvious when they were seated beside each other. Which was… always. Sometimes Mark or Book would try to switch seats with one of them, just to see if it changed anything. It didn’t. They’d still lean toward each other. Still whisper, still look over, still share inside jokes and nudge knees like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

The MCs caught on.

One of them tried to gently steer a question toward the others — “Let’s give the spotlight to Junior for a bit”— but the audience, ever perceptive, still caught the way Perth’s eyes flicked to Santa’s mouth during the lull. Still caught the way Santa ducked his head and grinned like he could feel the gaze even without seeing it.

Junior eventually leaned into the mic and sighed dramatically.

“Can you two at least pretend we’re here?”

The crowd lost it. Santa flushed to his ears. Perth just smirked and leaned back in his seat, arms crossed — like he’d been caught red-handed and didn’t even care.

Then came rehearsals for the upcoming fanfest — a massive event with actors from various series, one of those rare nights where fandoms collided and behind-the-scenes met stage glamour. Rehearsals ran long. Often overnight.

Despite being friends with nearly everyone, Perth and Santa still fell into their introvert rhythm: together, always near, always moving as one. During breaks, they’d share a water bottle, sit side by side on the edge of the stage, sneakers touching. Sometimes they’d talk, voices low, laughing softly. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all — just sat there quietly, leaning shoulder to shoulder, like silence between them had never been awkward.

One night, around 2AM, they’d collapsed onto the waiting couches behind stage. Santa, half asleep from a long dance practice, crawled into Perth’s side with zero hesitation. Literally — into him.

He tucked himself under Perth’s jacket, head buried into the crook of his neck, arms looped around his waist like a koala. And just… stayed there. Perth blinked. He looked up and caught William, Est and Gemini standing across the room, open-mouthed.

“You’re letting him hibernate under your jacket?” Gemini gasped.

“He bit me when I tried to share his fries yesterday,” William added, betrayed.

Perth rolled his eyes. “Shhh. He’s sleeping.”

“But—”

“He had a long day.”

“You both had a long day—”

“And he’s cold.”

“He’s under your jacket—”

“Exactly.”

Gemini covered his face. Est took a picture. Force who just entered in time to watch the exchange, sipped his coffee and muttered, “I give it two weeks before you start showing up in more couple outfits.”

Boun, beside him, added “They look alike already. If Ta and I didn’t have history, I would mistake him for you.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t explain. Perth just held Santa a little closer, fingers gentle on the back of his head as he whispered something only the younger could hear. Santa stirred slightly, murmured something soft, and curled in deeper. Later, when the photo leaked into other couple spaces — Perth half-asleep but upright, Santa completely draped over him like he’d grown there — the teasings exploded.

But neither of them addressed it. Didn’t need to.

Because now, people didn’t really ask if they were real.

They just watched.

Watched how Perth’s hand always hovered behind Santa’s back. How Santa always smiled differently when he looked at him — wider, sweeter, more honest. Watched how they didn’t bother pretending anymore. And still — even with the rumors, the teasing, the closeness now impossible to hide — they never said anything official. Because they didn’t need to.

What they had was theirs.

And for the first time, the world seemed to understand that.

The fanfest was already legendary before it happened.

The moment they stepped onto the stage — seated on thrones, lights dimmed low, crowns of confidence resting easily on their heads — the crowd lost their minds. Perth with his electric guitar slung across his chest, Santa in a custom black and white ensemble to match Perth that shimmered every time he moved — both of them all heat and power and precision.

They performed like gods.

Their rap segment? They devoured it, Perth even more so with his voice steady, eyes sharp, every word punched like a line straight out of Yotha’s darkest arc.

Santa’s dance break? Lethal. Liquid hips, sharp hits, soft smirks. The kind of charisma that made cameras zoom in involuntarily. Someone on Twitter later said “Santa danced like his bones were made of honey and fire.” Accurate. Then came the guitar duet — raw, wild, not perfectly rehearsed but alive. Like music was just another language they spoke only to each other.

And the crowd? The crowd screamed like they were witnessing history. Because they were. But nothing — nothing — could’ve prepared them for the ment. It was meant to be five minutes. A thank-you segment. Just five minutes of calm after the storm.

A breather.

They stood side by side, flushed from exertion, hair damp, breathing hard but smiling wide. Their faces lit with something warmer than stage lights. Something proud. Santa spoke first — in that sweet, slightly breathy post-performance tone that made fans collectively hold their breath. He thanked the staff, the fans, their friends, their castmates. Then turned to Perth.

“And to my partner,” Santa said, and Perth — despite the sweat, despite the adrenaline — blinked a little softer. “Thank you for always having my back. I’m really grateful to be standing next to you here. I don't know what else to tell you. I told you, you can do whatever you want, I'll always support you”.

Cue a wave of screams. Perth grinned. Santa, emboldened, leaned in for a hug — and maybe, just maybe, the tiniest kiss to the cheek. Nothing new. They’d done it before. The fans liked it. It was safe.

Only—Perth turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough. Just in time. And instead of cheek to cheek, it was lips to lips.

Not fully. Not planned. Just—A touch. Just the corner of their mouths brushing, soft and quick and real. The stadium erupted.

The sound? Deafening. Unreal. Screams so loud they shook the rafters, like a collective scream of did that just happen?!

Perth and Santa froze for a split second — barely a beat — before they tried to move on.

Tried and Failed. The crowd kept screaming. For a full minute. One of the backup dancers dropped their water bottle. Santa’s hands flew to his face, eyes wide, laughing and panicking all at once. Perth? Perth was thriving.

Because, of course, he was. He stepped forward, arms out like he was trying to calm the chaos — and then, deadpan into the mic:

“By the way, yesterday someone said khun noo didn’t have the guts to kiss me on the cheek.”

The crowd screamed louder. Santa wheeled on him knowing no one said that.  Perth just shrugged, the picture of mock innocence and turned to offer his cheek.  Santa made a distressed noise into his mic. But gave in and kissed him on the cheek. Loud. It echoed through their mic. Santa backed away, face now even more flushed.

The audience laughed. Their friends and other company staff, even the CEO— seated VIP — were half standing, shrieking. One staff looked like he was filming it for evidence. Tay was losing it, the others no better. None of them expected this.

And just when it looked like it couldn’t get worse—

Just then, Perth remembered something from yesterday. The scene where William, grinning from beside his partner, Est, leaned into his mic and said, “I learned from P’Perth that when in doubt during awkward silence, just kiss your partner on the forehead.” Perth turned to Santa and recited those lines.

Santa backed up. He’s not seriously going to do it right?

Perth gently cupped the back of his neck.

“Phi!”

Pressed a kiss to his forehead. The third kiss. The final nail in the coffin.

Screams. Absolute hysteria. People standing, waving banners, phones in the air. A chant broke out — something incoherent, maybe their ship name, maybe just “again! again!”. And Perth, proud and smug and red in the ears, just took Santa’s hand and raised it.

Three kisses. No announcements. Just pure chaos, sincerity, and joy.

Later, on the ride home, Santa groaned and flopped against the seat.

“My mom was in the VIP section.”

Perth, scrolling through a feed already exploding, muttered, “Your mom cheered.”

“She’s going to ask questions.”

Perth reached over and laced their fingers. “Let her.”

Santa looked at him, narrowed his eyes. “You planned that didn’t you?”

“I didn’t!”

“You turned your head phi!”

“I thought you were aiming for my lips.”

“I never do that in public.”

“You did today.”

Santa groaned again and buried his face in Perth’s shoulder. Perth chuckled, head resting on top of Santa’s. “We’re never gonna live this down.”

“Nope.”

“We’re trending number one in four countries.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Love that for us.”

And still — neither of them said it out loud. Didn’t need to. Everyone already knew. The love was obvious. And them? They were happy. Flushed. Buzzing. Holding hands in the back of a van, humming along to the post-performance playlist with three unplanned kisses and a thousand memories pressed into their skin.

And a forever ahead.

The kiss — or the almost-kiss — became the moment.

Fancams with different angles flooded the internet. Some in slow motion. Some replayed with dramatic soundtracks. Others looped it alongside all their other fanservice moments over the months, captioned “AND YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THIS IS JUST ACTING??”

They trended for three straight days. Number one. Across multiple platforms. On the fourth day, someone stitched a clip of the moment with their old interview where Perth said, “Santa makes me feel calm.” The edit went viral in under an hour.

They didn’t deny it outright. Didn’t confirm it. They just kept living.

Only, it started to follow them. At the next event, the MC chuckled and asked them directly, “So… was that part of the choreo?”

Santa laughed, charming and easy. “Wrong script.”

Perth deadpanned, “Poor coordination.”

Cue laughter. Cue louder speculation. Every interview after that included a version of the question. And their mothers? Not spared.

Santa’s mom sent him a message that just said: nice aim 😘

Perth’s mom called and asked if they were finally going to stop skirting around it. He told her no, then laughed about it for five minutes straight.

Junior made it worse — of course he did. He retweeted the fancam with: ‘told you this was normal for them’. Followed by: ‘I told you’

Publicly, Perth and Santa laughed it off. They leaned into the teasing during fanmeets. Pulled the whole “just the angle” excuse. Even recreated the moment — complete with Perth turning away dramatically while Santa rolled his eyes like a man suffering from love-induced chaos. They played it well. Too well. But the tension was there. Beneath the playfulness. It built up slowly. Like a kettle left on boil.

Until it snapped.

It happened at home. Another long day, another round of DMs from their manager reminding them to stay chill online, another compilation edit sent by Junior to their shared group chat titled “just boyfriends being boyfriends.”

They’d been fine all day. Laughing. Cooking dinner. Doing laundry. But Perth teased one time too many.

“So,” he said, nudging Santa with his shoulder as they folded bedsheets. “Tata what’s the plan next time? Full kiss? Tongue?”

Santa shot him a look. “phi Perth.”

“Or are you just gonna mount me on stage—”

Santa dropped the sheet. He’s quite had enough of this. He walked up to older. Kissed him hard. Not sweet. Not slow. Just hard. Enough to knock the breath out of Perth’s lungs. Enough to make him stumble backward, grabbing Santa by the waist like he wasn’t sure who started it but he definitely wasn’t ending it. Perth chuckled, breathless, against Santa’s mouth.

“Baby.”

“You keep running your mouth phi,” Santa snapped, eyes dark. “Maybe I should remind you how not normal this is.”

The rest? Heat.

Fast hands. Clothes left in a trail from the hallway to the living room. A pause against the wall where Santa bit down on Perth’s lip a little too hard and Perth grunted, “Oh, you wanna go there?” And they did. All the way there. Not quite angry. Not quite gentle. Just them, burning through the weight of the last few weeks — the teasing, the tension, the noise. Every kiss was a mark. Every grip a reminder.

You’re mine. We don’t need to tell them. But you know this is real.

They took it to the bedroom, finally — out of breath, flushed, hands never letting go. The sheets tangled. The air thick. When they were done — muscles sore, bruises fresh, mouths red and swollen — Perth collapsed on top of Santa with a satisfied groan. Santa huffed a laugh under him.

“Still wanna joke?”

Perth kissed his shoulder. “Only if you’re gonna punish me for it.”

Santa groaned and smacked his thigh. “Stop—”

But he didn’t mean it. Not when Perth pulled him close again, whispered against his skin, “Next time, do it on camera. Let them all lose their minds properly.”

Santa didn’t answer. He just smiled against Perth’s neck. And kissed him again. Slower this time.

No pressure. No panic. Just love.

Chapter Text

The thing about kisses — theirs, at least — is that they were never just kisses.

Not really.

They started as scenes. Scripts. Stage directions. As Gun and Yotha, they were meant to fall in love. It was written that way. So, when their first kiss happened, it was just that: the first kiss. A little awkward. A little nervous. Like touching something precious for the first time and not knowing how much pressure it can take before it breaks.

It was shy. Soft. Careful.

But something shifted. And every kiss after that — both on camera and off — began to hold more.

More trust.
More feeling.
More them.

They practiced. They fumbled. They laughed through the misfires, the mistimed turns, the too-fast-too-slow mishaps. But they learned. Learned how to read each other. How to lean in. How to hold back when needed — and when not to.

Their on-screen kisses evolved with their characters — first love, then longing, then commitment. The pecks turned to deeper kisses. Gentle touches became firmer, bolder, laced with years of fictional emotion.

Off camera, their kisses followed.

At first they hid it in stolen glances. In forehead touches. In hand grazes backstage. Then came the reflexes — the instinctual lean-ins, the automatic puckers, the split-second near-misses that weren’t really misses at all.

Then came the real ones. The ones pressed into shoulders in the dead of night. The ones exchanged mid-laugh on the couch. The ones given in greeting. In comfort. In reassurance.

Kisses that weren’t scripted but said, I see you.
Kisses that murmured, I’m here.
Kisses that screamed, I’m yours.

They kissed in kitchens and under jackets and during water breaks on set. They kissed on accident. On purpose. On instinct. Sometimes their kisses were silly — half-pouts and exaggerated smack sounds and forehead bonks. Sometimes they were slow and quiet and sacred. And sometimes they were too much, too fast — like their hearts couldn’t bear the weight of silence any longer.

There were secret kisses in car rides. Kisses on necks when they thought no one was looking. And not-so-secret ones — three in a row during a fanfest ment that set the internet on fire.

No one really knew when it changed. Not even them, not exactly.

It wasn’t a clean transition. It never is. But somewhere along the way, their kisses stopped being part of a story someone else wrote.

They became theirs.

Unscripted.
Unplanned.
Unapologetically real.

And maybe — just maybe — that was the most romantic thing of all.