Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pond was out cold, gone in the way you are after a long week.

He was pulled back by a shattering sound—the front door hitting the wall.

Not an open, a slam.

He was still trying to piece together where he was when a fist, or maybe an elbow, slammed into his jaw.

Pond gasped—a choked, ugly sound—and instantly recoiled, his head whipping sideways from the impact.

“What the actual f—?” He didn't register pain, not yet; just a sickening hum inside his skull, the kind of confusing, electric static you got after a bad signal dropout.

When his vision snapped back, Dunk was right there. He was gasping for air, furious, and his eyes were locked on Pond like a thermal flare. He looked like he wanted to kill him or just burn him alive with the sheer heat of that gaze.

“What the fuck, Dunk?” Pond managed to grit out, his own hand coming up not to comfort the sting but to serve as a clumsy, useless shield. It did nothing but prove the impossible thing was undeniably real. He just hit me. He actually fucking hit me.

Dunk’s voice fractured, the sound catching deep in his throat. “Stop. Seriously, just shut up.”

It took Pond a beat to register what he was seeing. Dunk stood there—absurdly domestic in his flour-dusted chef’s apron, like he’d stepped straight from kneading dough into a street fight. But it wasn’t the apron that held Pond’s gaze. It was the fists—tight, white-knuckled, the thin, trembling line between holding it together and breaking something apart.

“I’ve kept my mouth shut this whole damn time,” Dunk spat, “because you’re my goddamn best friend. But Gemini? Gemini? Fuck that, Pond. He’s my actual, genetic-code cousin.”

“What the hell did you just say?” Pond leaned forward, eyes wide and fixed on Dunk, the vertigo of his movement barely registering. The whole impossible connection—it was a punch straight to his gut, knocking the air out of the argument.

Dunk let out a sharp, nasty sound that wasn't a laugh, just a cough of pure dismissal. He was looking at Pond like he was something shameful caught in the light.

“Cut the bullshit, Pond,” Dunk seethed. “Don’t pretend you don't know. I see what you’re doing.”

Pond felt the familiar, hot flare of anger he always defaulted to when he was wrong.

“Me? What the hell am I doing?” Pond demanded, the volume in his voice rising. “Dude, you’re just freaking out. You don’t even know what you’re mad about.”

The volume dropped completely out of Dunk’s voice, which somehow made it worse.

“God, Pond, you seriously have a type.” His tone was flat, the words a period at the end of a long, bad chapter. Dunk stared at him with that weary, I-knew-it look—like Pond was just proof of a theory Dunk had been trying to ignore for years.

Pond felt his brow furrow, the internal alarm bells screaming that Dunk was getting too close to the truth.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he challenged, his voice just above a mumble. “Honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're being super dramatic right now.”

Dunk inhaled sharply, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair—that familiar tic of impending meltdown.

“Am I?” Dunk fired back. “We got Yibo, Eunwoo, and now Gemini. They’re clones! Same fucking blueprint, Pond. The high nose bridge, the same sharp cut to the jaw, pretty faces, and always those innocent eyes. You’re not even trying to mix it up anymore—you’re just refilling the same damn trophy case.”

Pond let out a long, shuddering breath, dragging his palms across his eyes.

“Stop,” he muttered, dropping his hands. “You’re completely reaching now. That’s bullshit.”

“Don’t even try. You met him outside Thewalai. In front of the Maha Chakri Sirindhorn Building. Just admit it. You can’t stop yourself from making your life look like a low-budget GMMTV drama, can you?”

Pond straightened his spine, grabbing onto the only defense he had.

“I didn’t know he was your cousin,” he offered, meeting Dunk’s eyes.

“That’s not the point!” Dunk roared, his face went crimson. “Nineteen. Pond, he’s nineteen. And you’re twenty-four. Are you serious right now?”

“We didn’t even do anything, Dunk. I didn’t even kiss the guy,” Pond insisted.

“But you took him out.”

“Twice! That’s all it was, twice, okay?” Pond burst out. “Ice cream on Banthat Thong, and a walk in Suan Roi Pi. Nothing else happened. I cut it off. I knew he was too damn young.”

“You brought him to your places,” Dunk stated, articulating each word with brutal slowness.

Pond’s gut dropped out. That was not a misunderstanding; Dunk knew something.

He narrowed his eyes. “Run that back. What did you just say?”

Dunk leaned closer, his eyes drilling into Pond's, ensuring the name hit its target.

“I said, your places,” he reiterated. “The same damn spots. The ones you used to take him. The ones you shared with Phuwin.”

The name landed on Pond like a punch to the gut, a hit far cleaner than any slap. He didn't just clench his fists; the tendons in his forearms stood out, white-knuckled and vibrating with strain.

“Watch it, Dunk,” he ground out, the sound barely clearing his throat.

The heel of Dunk's palm slammed hard against Pond's sternum, shoving him back a step.

“Why, Pond?” Dunk demanded, stepping closer until their noses were almost touching. “You think I don't see it? You’re not even looking at these guys, Pond. You’ve been chasing a ghost in every goddamn face you meet. And now you’ve just dragged my blood into your messed-up search party.”

Pond tried to mount a defense, but the sound failed him.

“I don’t—” he started, the word catching halfway up his throat, choking on the guilt.

“Phuwin.” Dunk breathed the name, a curse he'd carried for years. “Five years I've kept my mouth shut. I felt sorry for you. But, Pond—for fuck’s sake—you're twenty-four. You're not some little kid chasing a crush anymore. Get your head straight.”

Pond kept his focus locked on a scuffed patch of floor, refusing to look up. He let out a harsh, fake laugh. “Relax. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Dunk's eyes were sharp, scanning Pond as if measuring his lack of conscience.

“This is funny to you?” Dunk demanded. “All of them, Pond. Phuwin with a different name tag. Yibo, Eunwoo, that same damn cat smile and the same timid voice. Now Gemini—with the pout and the look in his eyes. He’s crushing on you, man. You can hear it in the way he whispers ‘Phi Pond.’ He’s still holding his breath, checking his screen, hoping you’re not done playing with him yet.”

Pond’s defensive posture crumbled. He lowered his gaze, the adrenaline draining out of him as he whispered the only thing that mattered. “How’s Gemini doing?”

Dunk let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension draining out of him to leave only weariness.

“He’s crushed,” Dunk whispered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Locked himself in his room. My aunt actually rang me, worried about him not eating. I went over. He told me everything. You put your phone on ‘DND’ and just noped right out of his life, didn’t you?”

“I didn't mean to ignore him,” Pond murmured. “I was going to pull back, okay? I knew it was wrong. I was going to stop the texts and just... ghost him. I never wanted to be the asshole who hurt him.”

“He’s stalking your IG, man,” Dunk said. He didn’t laugh—just let out a choked, defeated sound that Pond recognized as pure pity. “Refreshes it every hundred and twenty seconds. Doesn’t even pretend he’s not obsessed. Then he said it—he actually looked at me and said, ‘Phom rak Phi Pond.’”

Dunk shuddered—a dramatic, full-body shake, like trying to dislodge poison.

Pond’s face went hot. “Fucking hell.”

“Yeah. Fucking hell.”

“I’ll text him now,” Pond mumbled, already dreading the keyboard. “Say I got back with an ex. Something clean. Make it a quick exit.”

Dunk gave a short, brusque nod. “He’ll lose his shit,” he stated, crossing his arms. “But whatever. He’s just a kid. He’ll bounce back fast enough.”

The room fell into a dead silence, the time between them stretching like a tripwire.

Then Dunk sniffed, drawing in a sharp, unnecessary breath. “Dude, you actually stink.”

Pond was frozen, his wide eyes blinking slowly. It was such a small, human thing to say—a weirdly juvenile, utterly deflating detail cutting through the entire blow-up. “Excuse me?”

A faint smirk broke Dunk’s lips—a detail Pond found himself unwillingly fixated on.

“Look, I honestly came here just to punch you,” Dunk confessed, shrugging. “But I’m staying now. I want you to meet my boyfriend. So unless you want to meet him looking and smelling like the hot mess you are, hop your ass in the shower, like, five minutes ago.”

Pond’s brain lagged. “A boyfriend? You have a boyfriend?”

Dunk only raised one eyebrow. “Honestly? You don’t deserve the timeline until you deal with your toxic bullshit.”

A tense knot finally unspooled in Pond’s chest as he hauled himself up.

“Fine, whatever,” he conceded. “Just keep your hands to yourself, yeah?”

Dunk rubbed his knuckles, his expression smug. “Didn’t even leave a mark, did I?”

Pond offered a quick, lopsided grin. “Zero. Not a scratch. You hit like my grandma.”

The fragile bridge of their old, easy banter had miraculously held.

Dunk gave him a withering look. “Move it, loser. I’m waiting.”

Pond headed for the bathroom, his shoulders felt a few pounds lighter, though the sting of the argument hadn't faded. Beneath the dread, a strange, unexpected lightness was starting to bubble up—the fight was over.

The shower screamed its white noise through the bathroom glass. Pond pressed his weight into the cold tiles, palms flat, needing the resistance.

He dragged in a breath of the steam, letting it settle on his skin—a temporary, stinging shield against Dunk and the fight.

The hot water streamed down his bowed neck, running a steady line over the curve of his spine. It was a soft, insistent whisper against the place where Dunk’s accusation had landed.

Pond pressed his fingertips against his jaw. No visible damage, but the pain wasn't on the surface; it was a sinking, gut-deep throb. Not a result of force, but the consequence of having a private lie dragged into the light.

He angled his skull into the heavy spray, begging the water to drown out the noise—anything for five seconds of dead silence.

But even here, Dunk’s voice was a phantom yelling in his ear, sharper than the water pressure:

“You’re twenty-four. You're not some little kid chasing a crush anymore. Get your head straight.”

The physical blow was nothing. Pond could handle a bruise. The actual impact—the one that really hurt, the one that broke him—was the savage accuracy of Dunk’s tirade. That was the wound he’d be carrying.

He genuinely didn't think Dunk cared enough to notice—not truly. Years of it, and not a single, cracking piece of evidence. Dunk never went overboard for Pond’s boyfriends—Yibo, especially, always pulled a kind of dead air out of him—but he hadn't actively been an asshole, either. Just that distant, almost bored neutrality: the kind of bland tolerance you gave a friend’s temporary bad tattoo that you hoped they’d eventually laser off. Pond, the delusional fuck-up he was, had interpreted that silence as a safe zone.

He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, trying to flush out the shampoo, but all the sting did was amplify the failure. That memory, all sharp edges and unwelcome focus, had already set. You don’t just power-wash that kind of shit out of your head.

Yibo. Four years ago. That's how long it had been since he was at Chula, trying to make the family’s shredded blueprint of a future work. Aerospace Engineering. The whole International Program thing. It was fancy as fuck, sure, but it felt like a goddamn cage, not a life. He’d been underwater then, drowning in equations, the cold, dead logic of the subject. Getting out of bed and dragging himself to lectures and labs was the only battle he could fight.

Dunk was the one permanent fixture in Pond's chaotic life—still in the same building, different department. He never called ahead; he just materialized, coffee and pastries, or those greasy egg sandwiches he loved. “You look like actual hell, man,” Dunk would deadpan, but the insult was always delivered with a tone that meant the exact opposite.

And then, the dance studio. It was his real life, his own private universe, hidden behind a rusted-out shutter near Siam. That’s where he found Yibo. He was all carved muscle and sharp lines—terrifyingly beautiful and utterly controlled. Watching him dance was a kind of hypnosis, like seeing liquid mercury given human form: fluid, breaking, and snapping back with impossible grace. And when he was moving—whether dominating the floor or later, slammed down hard on top of Pond, pushing him into the mattress—the technique was flawless. There was never a wasted breath, never a single wasted sound; every gasp was choreographed, a second, instinctual heart Pond could feel against his own chest.

And Yibo was sweet. Too damn sweet. He’d waited out Pond's ghosting, never complaining about the forgotten texts. He’d been quiet and gentle about the black hole Pond carried behind his gaze. Yibo's Mandarin—the way it sounded so soft and familiar—couldn’t have been intentional. It had to be unintentional. Pond felt a twist of self-disgust. No, it wasn’t a coincidence. Because that was the language Phuwin would be speaking. Probably in China. Definitely in China.

Pond slammed the faucet shut, as if the abrupt, violent cut of the water could somehow drown out the memory clinging to the back of his neck.

It didn’t work.

Pond broke it off with Yibo after five agonizing months, pulling the oldest, shittiest trick in the book: “It’s not you, it’s me.” The awful part? It was absolutely true. Yibo had done nothing wrong. They were only scenery—the Chula campus, the cool air of lecture halls, the clatter of bright orange lunch trays. They were the humid air of Bangkok, the same damn air that Phuwin’s ghost breathed down his neck in the sun-drenched walls of the Engineering Building. They weren’t real. They were just Phuwin’s reflection.

So, he nuked it. Just like that. Dropped the classes, bailed on the whole degree. He got the hell out, transferring to KMITL and picking Biomedical Engineering almost randomly because, honestly, the name just sounded vaguely impressive enough. To the few who cared, he’d mumble something technical about robotics. The real, gut-deep reason was pathetic: he didn't know the major from a hole in the wall. He just needed a fresh wound, a different place to ache.

And then there was Eunwoo. Pond was twenty-two, so burnt out he saw the world in sepia, working doubles at an Ekkamai café, juggling dance competitions and classes. Eunwoo had that face: the kind of angelic perfection that shut down conversations. Café owner. Straight-up leading man material. He was too polite, too pretty, and honestly, too fucking good for the mess Pond was.

Even his mother was in on it, plastering their photos—Eunwoo’s perfect face next to his—everywhere with the cringey caption, “Future son-in-law.” She’d tag him on the grid and rave to her entire friend list: “His face is so small! He’s so respectful. Such a Khun Noo.”

The flattery felt like a punch in the gut—because that’s what she always said.

That’s exactly how she sold Phuwin to her circle.

Yet Pond kept dating him. He built the lie brick by brick. He even let himself feel happy—sometimes. Eunwoo was genuinely nice, intense as hell in bed, and looked at Pond like he was a goddamn miracle. But it was pointless. He was still cheating. Even then—always then—Pond would press his mouth into the pillow, tasting cotton and shame, and let that other name fill his head while Eunwoo fucked him.

He couldn’t voice it. The truth would break him, and it would break Eunwoo's pretty heart.

So he did the dirtiest thing possible.

Used Dunk. Invited him over, knowing exactly what it would look like. No warning for Eunwoo. Just let it play out.

They crashed out on the couch, a knot of limbs as usual—skin on skin, legs draped, half-naked in the afternoon light. It was never sexual. But it was definitely intimate. Too fucking intimate for an outsider.

Eunwoo came in with takeout, and the sight of them hit him like a physical blow. His expression shattered.

Pond stayed put. He could hear Dunk scrambling, shouting Eunwoo's name in the stairwell.

Pond just stared at the ceiling. Because he'd engineered it. That was the whole point.

He quit the job instantly. He got lost in his books and projects. Made those cringe TikToks with his crew just to look busy. The world kept turning, but not for him. His heart flatlined. He swore off dating for ages. Hard pass. Honestly, what was there left to prove?

And then there was Gemini.

It was so stupidly innocent at first—just arguing over NCT on the timeline, debating Jaehyun’s style versus Taeyong’s lyrics. Pond genuinely didn't know what the hell Gemini looked like. Or that he was Dunk's cousin, a kid Pond had met years ago when Gemini was, like, twelve.

They didn't trade face pics. Didn't matter. The connection was immediate. The fun was the point. Text replies slid into DMs. DMs casually became, “Hey, wanna grab food after uni?”

The first time Pond actually saw him—not on a screen, but for real—was at Chula, outside the Faculty of Arts building.

Gemini stood with his back to Pond, completely focused on his screen. For one terrifying, stomach-dropping second, Pond’s lungs just stopped. The perfect slope of that neck. The fit of the t-shirt across his shoulders. The way the hair went soft and fuzzy in the heat.

Phuwin.

The name hit Pond like a fucking seizure, collapsing five years into a single, painful inhale.

But then Gemini spun around, a blinding grin already in place, and called out, “Phi Pond?”

The spell broke. He was only a stranger.

Gemini was more. Brighter, bubblier. His smile was too wide, his laugh too damn loud. He wasn't Phuwin. Couldn't be. Not internally, not where it mattered.

They went for ice cream on Banthat Thong. Wandered through Centenary Park. They talked shit about professors and music, and the whole time, the chemistry was loud. A click that was impossible to ignore.

But Gemini was too young. The same age Phuwin had been when Pond lost him. Pond couldn't contaminate that. He had to back off. So he faded out. Set his phone to silence, ignored the texts.

He told himself that burning the bridge was the only decent thing to do.

But now, standing under the pulsing cold spray, water pooling at his feet, the shame hit him with the force of a punch: Dunk was 100% correct. He had to grow the fuck up. This wasn't just about Phuwin anymore. He was actively recruiting doppelgängers for his sad little life, ruining them in the process.

He was a leech. It had to end.

Today.

Pond took in Joong the second Dunk opened the door. Handsome, sure. But it wasn't the kind of look that made Pond's stomach flip. It was this unnerving, mirror-image quality. Joong had a face that was almost too perfectly symmetrical, with an intense stare that gave him serious presence. Whatever. That wasn't what mattered here.

Joong carried this unsettling stillness, like a photograph taken just a second too late—a fraction off, yet impossibly perfect. There was a feeling, an immediate pull. A reflection. It was the shock of seeing yourself in a mirror, except this one was shining back the better half: the one who had his shit together. The one who hadn't been completely hollowed out by grief.

Pond didn’t like feeling this discombobulated around anyone, let alone a stranger. It unsettled him to his core. But still, it was done. He’d fallen in love at first sight—the kind that had nothing to do with sex or romance.

He wasn't the kind of asshole who went after a friend's partner. Ever. Especially not Dunk’s. But the second Dunk introduced them, framed in the cramped condo doorway like a stupid photo op, Pond felt a desperate clutch in his ribs.

“Meet Joong,” Dunk supplied, forcing a nonchalant tone that didn't match the tightness in his shoulders. “Joong Archen.”

Archen. Pond swallowed, the name echoing in his head. It had a sound, a gravitas—the kind of weight that guaranteed it would stick in your memory forever.

Joong's hand was solid, his grip a beat longer than was strictly polite on Pond's palm. The eye contact was worse—unblinking, skeptical, and curious all at once. It made Pond's skin crawl and his ego swell at the same time.

Why? Pond had no idea.

Not until they exchanged a few words.

Then, he knew exactly why.

The whole thing began with a kiss. A Dunk and Joong kiss, to be clear.

Dunk was rolling out his Navori expansion and needed a decent interior designer for the new aesthetic. Some mutual friend threw Joong’s name out.

Just like that.

It escalated fast. Branding meetings and layout edits turned into those hazy, sleep-deprived brainstorms. They went from talking about moodboards to arguing about merchandise, drinking too much wine and sweating over spicy chicken larb for two nights straight. And then, that kiss—the one that ended the 'professional' part. Ninety days later, they weren't debating it anymore. They were boyfriends.

Pond couldn’t look away from Joong’s profile—the way his lips slightly worked when he concentrated, the annoying, boundless energy in his bouncing knee. He flashed back to Dunk charging into the condo, clocking him in the jaw, and then ordering the shower. That had happened, what, an hour ago? The memory was already dulling, as if it had happened to some other guy days ago.

Sitting at Dunk's small, square dining table, Pond immediately picked up the scent: acrid burnt garlic mixed with a choking amount of coriander. Classic Dunk. That was his sign—when the food was aggressively flavored, he was spiraling. Over-seasoning meant he was overthinking.

Pond's eyes kept catching on the absurd details: those wine glasses were way too delicate for the cheap IKEA table, and Dunk had actually folded the napkins into origami swans. Dunk’s need to stage every damn thing always grated on Pond's nerves.

He swallowed, clearing the sticky feeling in his throat. “You could’ve fucking told me.”

Joong looked at Pond, genuine confusion in his gaze. “Wait, told you what?”

“I'm talking to Dunk right now.”

Dunk remained fixated on his plate. “I wasn't ready to talk about it.”

“Three months? You literally ask my opinion on new underwear. You couldn’t manage a text saying, 'Oh, by the way, I have a fucking boyfriend now'?”

Joong glanced between them once, then went back to surgically cutting his chicken into perfect, identical squares. “You’re Pond.”

“You say that like I’m some kind of local legend,” Pond muttered, unable to stop the defensive bite in his voice.

“You sort of are,” Joong replied, his tone smooth, utterly unreadable. “Dunk won’t shut up about you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Pond’s gaze narrowed into a skeptical slit. “Must be nice. He never mentioned you existed.”

Dunk let his breath go, finally meeting Pond's eyes with reluctance. “It wasn’t about the time,” he muttered tightly.

Pond raised an eyebrow, pressing him. “Then spit it out.”

Dunk slammed his fork down hard enough to make the glasses jump. “It was about you, Pond! Because I didn't know if you could handle it.”

“That you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” He flicked his eyes to Joong. “That I have this boyfriend.”

That was the answer. The whole, fucked-up reason.

Joong pushed his plate away, finally dropping the act that the food was the most important thing in the room. He didn’t intercede, just sat there like a silent spectator. Pond could read him like a headline, except Joong was doing the exact same thing, reading Pond right back, syllable for strained syllable.

Pond leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “And what the hell makes him so special?”

Dunk let out a strained breath. “Because you two are the same fucking person.”

Pond let out a rough, humorless little bark of a laugh. “Oh yeah? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You both communicate in broken code,” Dunk delivered, his gaze drilling into Pond. “You dance out your heartbreak. You run when you’re terrified, but your words, Pond, they level people. Every time.”

Pond didn't move, the words hitting him square in the chest.

Dunk leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, strained register. “You both grip things too tightly. Keep them like shrapnel. And I had to know this one was for real before I invited a fucking hurricane into a thunderstorm.”

Joong let out a single, dismissive snort, but offered no argument.

Pond just raised a brow and waited, letting Dunk flounder.

“You're... Pond, you're my person,” Dunk finally said. “My person. Like, after my parents and my sister, it's always been you. I desperately needed you to like him. And for him to not walk away because of you.”

Joong frowned slightly at the exchange. “You were afraid I'd hate him?”

“I sure as hell didn’t need another Eunwoo round two,” Dunk shot, looking right at Pond now.

Joong looked confused, picking at the label on his drink. “Wait, Eunwoo? Who the hell is that?”

Dunk scoffed, leaning back. “Your story, Pond. You got this? Or should I just give him the highlights?”

“Go for it,” Pond ground out.

Dunk nodded, turning back to Joong with a solemn, theatrical look.

“Okay, so Pond dated this guy, Eunwoo. Insanely attractive, ridiculously sweet, completely wasted on Pond. But Pond couldn't commit. So, instead of breaking up, he invited me over, no warning to Eunwoo. And we were spooning, the way we always did. Just boxers, just sleeping, but anyone else looking in would think something else. It was a straight-up cheating.”

Joong squinted. “Wait—you guys spoon?”

Dunk grinned slightly. “When it’s cold, yeah.” He addressed Pond this time: “I just didn’t want people getting screwed over because of… this thing we have.”

Pond felt a cold wash of panic. “There is no thing,” he bit out. “Don’t even say that.”

“You and I are non-negotiable, Pond,” Dunk stated, dangerously calm. “We speak a language the rest of the world can’t touch.”

To prove his point—to rub it in, Pond realized—Dunk leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Pond’s mouth. Just like he’d done for years. It was the instinctive grounding they’d always given each other. Always.

But this time, Joong was watching.

Joong’s entire body went rigid. His hand death-gripped the fork. Pond watched his jaw clench, a muscle ticking beneath the skin.

Pond clocked the calculation in Joong’s eyes instantly. It wasn’t a soft flutter of jealousy or simple possessiveness—it was a pure assessment. He was being weighed. Pond didn’t just see the punch coming; he could already taste the exact fight they were about to have.

“What the actual fuck?” Joong said.

“Don’t,” Dunk cut in quickly, turning his full attention to his boyfriend. “It’s fine. That’s just… that’s how we are. Always been like that.”

Joong’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You kiss your best friend like that?”

“It’s not romantic,” Pond muttered, using the napkin to scrub at a spot on the cheap table. “That’s cringe. He’s literally my brother. It’d be like swapping spit with your therapist.”

Dunk pulled a face. “Why are you even thinking about kissing your therapist?”

“Because it proves my point,” Pond countered, folding the napkin into useless, tiny squares. “It just fundamentally violates the contract.”

Dunk ticked off the details on his fingers. “We kiss hello, kiss goodbye. We eat off each other's plates, feed each other, crash in the same bed sometimes when one of us is having a shit day,” Dunk continued, completely nonplussed. “Our parents were confused, yeah. They still side-eye us. His mom got me silk boxers. And I definitely called him babe once when his grandmother was right there.”

Joong just blinked, his perfect calm momentarily fractured. “Hold up. What?”

Dunk smiled into his wine glass, the picture of smug contentment. “She loved it.”

Joong looked from Dunk to Pond, then massaged his temple, looking genuinely lost. “I seriously need to rethink every damn thing I know about you two.”

“Tell me about it,” Pond muttered.

“I mean, seriously,” Dunk tacked on, rolling his eyes slightly. “It’s only Pond. He’s totally not my type.”

Pond winced. “Uncalled for, man. Seriously.”

“Look, I didn’t say you weren’t a whole snack,” Dunk countered. “I just said I don’t eat that snack.”

Joong finally spoke, drawing the words out slowly. “And what exactly is the type you’re into, huh?”

“Oh, you know,” Dunk deadpanned, without missing a beat. “It's designers who whisper sweet things in Turkish and are a complete mess in the kitchen. Specifically with onions.”

Pond hated how effortlessly they tossed around their own inside jokes.

Joong gave a self-satisfied hum, but the question wasn't done. “You certain nothing ever happened? You two never slipped up, not even once?”

“Ew, no thanks.” Pond grimaced, holding up a hand. “Don't even mention it. Kissing him once was all I needed. It was like trying to drink water after a marathon session of flossing and using industrial-strength mint mouthwash.”

Dunk physically pulled back. “That is so unnecessarily detailed.”

“Well, it was unnecessarily unpleasant,” Pond countered.

Joong simply tilted his head. “You ever feel the urge to try again?”

“Nah, man. Never,” Pond replied, making sure his voice held no inflection. “Like, you know that dead feeling when your face is numbed for a root canal? That's the vibe.”

“You’re telling me you never had any feelings for him, then?”

Dunk, seeing the opening, plunged the knife. “Relax. He just dates copies of the guy who walked out on him.”

“Dunk, cut it out!” Pond spat.

“Why? I’m right.”

Joong observed them both, clearly intrigued. “Okay. What’s the ex-boyfriend’s name, then?”

Pond opened his mouth to deny it, but all the air had left his lungs. He closed it again, shaking his head. “That’s irrelevant.”

Dunk managed a short, empty laugh. “Let's not even open that can of worms.” He waved the topic away. “Look, if Pond was ever going to hook up with me, it was going to be in Hua Hin, two years ago, when we were trapped with one bed and no bars on our phones. It didn't happen.”

“I'm just saying—” Joong paused, the intensity in his gaze cracking into a grin. “You’ve seen his ass. You have to at least consider it.”

“Oh, spare me,” Pond said flatly. “I’ve seen him cry so hard he snot-bubbled all over his rice. That’s a permanent erection killer.”

Dunk dropped his head onto the table, groaning. “Could we not, for the love of God, discuss my ass or my crying habits while there’s food present, you animals?”

Joong scooted forward, crowding the small table space. “Alright, you two never even slept naked?”

Dunk actually had to pause before replying. “Boxers. At least a pair of boxers, always.”

Pond watched him closely. “Got any more questions?”

Joong nodded once. “Were you why Dunk swore off relationships for a year?”

Dunk buried his face in his hands. “Joong, stop.”

“Just need to check the facts,” Joong dismissed.

Pond’s smirk was instantaneous and felt brittle. “No. Dude, Dunk’s just picky as hell. And he needed a year to maniacally focus on getting that second location up and running. Nothing deep.”

“Why are you still calling him ‘Dunkie’? Seriously, who uses a nickname like that past, like, middle school?”

“I don't know, man. It bugs him. And I’ve been doing it for six years.”

“Why do you sit that close to him?”

“It’s my chair. Back off.”

Joong fought a smile. He just stared at Pond. “Okay. I’m convinced.”

“You are?” Pond couldn’t stop the question.

“Not really. But I believe you tell yourself that story.”

Eventually, Joong visibly stood down.

Enough that he actually started chewing his food instead of just worrying it.

Enough that the small, hard lines around his mouth eased into a smile—one that wasn’t guarded.

The appraisal was over.

He saw Pond for what he was: not a danger, but a double.

A mirror.

After a painfully obvious beat, Dunk disappeared. The excuse was something ridiculous about the rice being too dry and needing to re-steam it, even though the plates were already stacked and Pond had finished his second helping.

Left alone in the living room, Joong visibly softened. He settled back, one leg tucked beneath his thigh, slowly spinning the wine glass between his fingers—ready for the conversation.

Joong took a slow sip of wine, then met Pond's gaze over the rim. “You still busting out those dance moves?”

Pond gave a short, awkward nod. “A bit. Not, like, a career. I hook up with a crew in Yaowarat. We practice near Charoen Krung—just open street, running off a busted speaker. Zero glamour, man. It’s just for fun.” He toyed with the brittle top of his crème brûlée. “I need it, though. It’s the only thing that actually settles my brain.”

Joong nodded once. “I danced, too. Back when I was dreaming big. Before I got the contract with the Insight. That shut it down.”

Pond gave him a quick sidelong glance, catching the edge of resentment in his voice. “Right. Dunk filled me in during the car ride—you were in OXQ, yeah?”

Joong let out a frustrated, strangled sound and threw his head back against the sofa, as if the ceiling could absorb the trauma. “God, don’t remind me. We never even got an official glow stick. It was done before it even started, man.”

A full, genuine laugh burst out of Pond before he could stop it. “Ah, come on,” he chuckled, leaning back. “I definitely remember that single. You guys really tried, I’ll give you credit for that.”

“Tried is generous, dude. We totally tanked. We called it quits like, two weeks after the thing dropped, right? World-class joke, honestly.”

Pond looked down, tracing the rim of his glass with his thumb. “You still actually got up on stage,” he murmured. “Which is more than I can ever say for myself.”

“Didn’t you… didn’t you almost go K-Pop?”

“Yeah, I know,” Pond interrupted quickly. “SM audition, 2020. That was right after I won the Clean & Clear thing. I’m dead serious, so don’t even start laughing.”

Joong pressed his lips together, successfully stifling the grin. “So you were a pretty-boy model?”

“An exclusive contract, full GMMTV backing,” Pond said, his voice coated in bitter irony. “Yeah, I had it all. I was supposed to be the new star. Then I tore up the deal, walked away from the money, and bought a ticket to chase the K-idol dream.”

“And then?”

“Then the universe decided to fucking laugh at me,” Pond replied. “Thought I was making the right call. But the global lockdown peaked right after I got there. Everything ground to a halt. I was stuck in a hotel room for months. Totally stalled. I couldn’t move forward. Just rotting.”

Joong looked him dead in the eye and nodded. “Fucking same.”

“Same?”

Joong leaned his elbow on the table. “I was lined up for a Chinese survival show—Asia Super Young, if you know it? I’d been prepping for months, living and breathing it. Learning Mandarin, running the choreo until my feet bled, sticking to this fucking brutal diet. Packed everything, had the whole goodbye dinner with my aunt and everything.”

“And?”

“COVID. Same fucking deal as you,” Joong clipped out. “The whole production shut down. We were stuck, man. Literal jail in a hotel for months. No way back to Thailand.” He paused. “Two years since I came back from Turkey. I thought that was my actual shot.”

Pond just nodded. “I understand.”

“I was this close to quitting, for real,” Joong murmured, pulling Pond out of his head. “I changed my damn name four times! I know, right? How pathetic is that? I seriously thought I had bad karma weighing me down. You ever get that desperate?”

Pond scoffed. “Don’t even get me started. I became that guy: obsessively Googling every single fortune teller in Bang Rak. I went to temples, I prayed, I tried to undo the bad karma. I was convinced this was payback for something I screwed up ten lifetimes ago.”

“Oh, my mom was on a mission. We hit up four fortune-tellers, and I had a fresh name for every visit, but the luck just wouldn't stick. Rachen, Archen, Vachirawit, and then back to Archen again. The final prediction was supposed to make me rich, no joke. I even bought a freaking amulet to ‘fix my whole life.’”

“I almost hit my mom up for cash, but then I looked at her, and I saw the cost of it all,” Pond continued. “I couldn't do that to her. She was already working double shifts to cover my flights and fund the delusional fantasies I'd stuffed into my carry-on. I wasn't going to sink her any deeper.”

Joong let out a quiet breath, a faint wince crossing his face—he remembered that specific kind of old pain, Pond realized.

“When the show failed, I went into a deep hole. Mostly just depression. Couldn’t peel myself out of bed. Tried to bury that entire year. I thought, Okay, maybe this isn’t for me. But my family needs a breadwinner—I don't have the luxury of being depressed. I started doing design work to pay the rent and switched majors entirely. I went from Creative Media Design at Stamford to Broadcasting and Streaming at BU.”

Pond just hummed a small sound of absolute, grim understanding, as if failure was the only goddamn equation that ever added up for him.

“Right there with you. I bounced around majors too. Aerospace, then Biomedical, now I’m just winging it—or not even. Still haven’t figured my actual life out.”

Pond leaned back, letting the ceiling fan push stale air across his face. “The difference is, back then, I actually believed I could hit the reset button,” he admitted. “I thought the universe was just fucking with me. Like, okay, I lost the contract, I lost my shot—but I still had people. I had Dunk. And…”

His voice caught, the name stuck like a fishbone in his throat. It was too late to take it back.

“And someone else,” he forced out. “Someone I truly loved. Someone who mattered that much.”

Joong didn't press. He just held the silence, letting Pond choose the next word.

Pond nervously rubbed his thumb back and forth across the glass. “He left in 2020, too. No warning. Just gone. I came back to a place that felt like a stranger's house, and the one person who made home bearable wasn’t there anymore.”

Pond tried to swallow, but his throat locked up solid. He felt the sudden, terrifying pressure, like his chest was a cracked container, and everything trapped inside was now fighting to escape.

“That year fucked me up, honestly,” he admitted. “Not the career part. It was… losing him and never finding out why.”

Joong studied Pond’s face—like he was looking for permission, but knew he had to ask anyway. “So that chapter just never closed for you?”

“No,” Pond said simply. “He just... vanished. While I was trying to figure out how to un-fuck my life, he was gone. I spent so long running the numbers, convinced I was the problem. I’m still not sure I wasn’t.”

Joong stayed quiet, like he understood Pond didn't need some bullshit platitudes, just space to breathe out the rot.

Pond snorted. “The funny thing is, 2019 was my peak. I was winning the competition, I had the contract, and he was right there. I had everything. And somewhere in that same twelve months, you were debuting on actual TV.”

Joong just nodded. “Yeah, that's fair.”

Pond stared at the wine glass. “You were stepping into the spotlight right when I was dancing in it for the very last time.”

They sat in the wake of that truth for a long minute.

Joong shifted closer. “We both almost got there, didn't we? Just… missed the turn.”

An unwelcome lump was lodged in Pond’s windpipe. He forced out a rough, audible cough, just to shove some damn air past it.

“Yeah. Just missed. Like the universe decided it'd be hilarious to hold the door open, let us see inside, and then slam the shit shut at the last second.”

Joong raised his wine glass. “To almost.”

Pond quietly clinked his glass. “To not giving up,” he corrected.

They didn't talk for a long time, just sat there like two separate car crashes side-by-side. Pond didn't feel fixed, not even close, but the concrete shell of his loneliness had finally cracked open. He wasn't the only one left standing.

Pond broke the silence by reaching across and tapping Joong’s wine glass with his own. “Ditch Dunk one night. Come meet the crew. Yaowarat is insane after sunset. We're near the old cinema, and I know where to get squid skewers that will change your life.”

Joong arched one dark brow. “You serious right now?”

“Completely.”

Joong studied him closely—not just his face, but his entire posture, the way Pond was essentially mirroring his own guarded stance—except Joong didn’t wear his pain on his sleeve.

Then, he finally smiled. “Yeah. I’d be down for that.”

Notes:

The nickname เทวาลัย (Thewalai) is used exclusively for Chulalongkorn University’s Faculty of Arts. The term itself means “abode of the gods.” This name originated because the faculty’s original building was located next to a shrine and featured classical, temple-like architecture. Over time, students affectionately began referring to the building as เทวาลัย. Think of it as campus-specific slang, similar to how Harvard students refer to the Yard or Oxford students mention the Bod. While outsiders might find it confusing, those familiar with the university immediately understand what’s being referenced.

Locals often refer to the Chulalongkorn University Centenary Park (อุทยาน 100 ปี จุฬาลงกรณ์มหาวิทยาลัย) by its shortened name, Suan Roi Pi (สวนร้อยปี).

Chapter Text

Pond stopped buying into destiny.

It wasn't a spiritual breakdown. He didn't cry in a wat, didn't get rid of his amulets, didn't follow the old rules about burning stacks of ghost money past six while facing the auspicious direction.

It was quieter than that.

He just realized nothing good was coming, and he stopped holding his breath.

He used to be a believer. He actually thought everything that happened was meant. That people showed up for a specific reason, and that some scars were just lessons in disguise. That real, actual love would inevitably circle back. That was only back when Phuwin was still a thing. When he still looked at Pond and smiled like forever wasn't just a lie.

But when the person you love just leaves—no reason, no excuse, nothing—a wire in your head goes permanently silent. The self that believed in signs and destiny is replaced by something else. A quiet, steady bruise deep in your chest. Just an ache that never, ever quits.

Pond had spent years labeling it shit timing. A cosmic joke. The universe’s personal vendetta.

Then Joong showed up.

He wasn't a whirlwind. He didn't stage a rescue. He never pretended he was fixing anything.

But he was solid. He was present.

And in that steadiness, the earth under Pond’s feet started, slowly, painfully, to shift.

Saturday meant Yaowarat, and somehow, it meant Joong was with him.

They walked the stretch from the MRT in a silence that felt less like a lapse and more like a given. What was there left to talk about when they’d already burned through every available topic since they met?

Pond kept his focus on the plastic handle of the party speaker, tugging the little roller wheels along, letting them provide the soundtrack. Joong carried only his camera, the strap cutting across the collar of his shirt. Despite Pond’s repeated, laid-back assurances about how chill his crew was, he looked like a guy about to walk into a firing squad.

When they reached the alley, Santa was already there, looking like he’d stepped off a magazine shoot. His shirt was tucked sharp into his pants—like he was on a real set, not this cracked-up sidewalk behind a duck noodle stall. 2K was nearby, headphones on, crossed-legged by the shuttered convenience store, already locked into a beat only he could feel.

They weren’t planning on full choreo practice today; the usual rotation of 2K’s friends couldn’t make it. It meant it was just the core group, and Pond liked it that way: less crowd, more work.

When Joong spotted Santa, he went still, like someone had hit a remote control pause button.

“That’s... I know him,” he whispered, like a secret.

Pond barely spared a glance. “Santa,” he confirmed. “Yeah, you would.”

Pond watched Joong try, and fail, to hide the fact he was totally starstruck.

Santa spotted it, too, giving a casual wave. “Relax,” he said with a smirk. “I only bite when I mean it.”

“You're a goddamn celebrity. Why are you even standing in this trash?” Joong demanded, his hand sweeping toward the stacked boxes.

Santa offered his hand, and Joong shook it almost robotically. “If you mean the guy whose picture they put on the back of the tuk tuks to beg for votes, then sure.”

Santa was something else. Even after being dumped from a huge Korean show like Fantasy Boys after all that hype, he still had actual light coming off him. He wasn't tired. Unlike Pond and Joong, who were both just coasting now—two guys who had decided the spotlight could go to hell.

That day, since Joong was new, the rules were off. They didn't aim for perfect rehearsal; they just ran on pure adrenaline. It was all call-and-response, loops, hard cuts, and freestyles, with every mistake getting twisted into a killer transition.

Three tracks in, Santa's singlet was soaked and sticking. Pond's throat felt like sandpaper from screaming the beats, but the release was addictive.

Joong wasn't moving much, opting to stand back and watch. Pond figured he was just warming up. Then the camera came out, and he was shooting video: hiding the lens behind a wall of empty bottles, shooting between the neon glow of the signs, getting low, getting high.

His eyes were constantly working, but not with the judging stare of some reality show critic. He wasn't assessing them; he was simply taking pieces. Pond didn't have the creative language to figure it out.

It dropped onto the table right between the dishes.

“You guys should tell that story,” Joong stated, midway through his bamee. “Tell it all the way.”

2K ripped his eyes from his phone. “Huh? What story is that?”

Joong went straight for the throat. “Us. That's the story. All of us. Everything that died out, everything that somehow stubbornly stayed alive.”

He quickly moved to the pitch: a short film. A documentary. Something absolutely raw. It would capture what it felt like to be on the verge of fame, to almost taste the whole career, and then to walk away with nothing but the steps they'd already drilled a thousand times, and a handheld camera.

Santa stayed silent for a long moment, considering. Finally, he said, “Only if it’s unfiltered. No industry fluff, Phi.”

“It’s the whole point,” Joong confirmed.

The cameras started rolling the following week. No studios. Zero budget for lighting. They shot in real-time, grabbing whatever they could: borrowed rooftops, grimy parking lots, closed shops, fire escape stairwells.

Santa danced in a temple courtyard. That was the setup. Pond rapped over a lo-fi loop he’d dug out of a public archive—some single, plucky note from a Northern instrument, fuzzy with age. 2K was the one carrying the team, handling the bulk of the choreography even though three other guys were credited. He'd bruise his knees daily. He’d be up past 2 a.m., firing off timecoded LINE messages with zero patience: “Kill this section. My line is sloppy.”

Joong filmed everything.

He’d edit all night after work, running on coffee until he passed out right there at his desk. His white T-shirt was usually stained with the bright orange of chili oil from the instant ramen he ate while distractedly listening to Pond’s low voice rapping through his headphones.

And little by little, it turned into the thing. Not the debut they'd chased. Not a clean pitch for a production company. Just proof they hadn't been erased.

One night, 2K didn't even say hello. He just stated, straight up, “We’re missing a whole vibe. We need another voice, now.”

Pond was pulling his leg past his ear, focused on the pain. Santa was totally checked out, laid flat on his back, absorbed by his phone screen.

“Who?” Pond called out, not pausing his movement.

“I know a guy from Khon Kaen—Aou,” 2K said. “We used to do dance covers back in the day. Now he’s a corporate slave, but he’s active on TikTok with the challenge stuff. His tone is spotless. I’m telling you, he’s a frontman.”

No one felt the need to question the instinct.

Aou walked in three nights later, wearing a shirt buttoned all the way up and a backpack that looked heavy—like he’d gotten lost between commutes. He bowed, quiet and almost apologetic, checking his surroundings like he was about to get yelled at.

When he opened his mouth, it wasn’t powerful; there was no flashy drama. But his vocals were impeccably controlled and clean. It was the voice of someone who knew how to minimize his own presence, but whose talent refused to shrink.

They were still nameless.

Pond had already joked that their initials—P-S-J-A—sounded like some failed pharma trial. Joong shot down all of Santa’s over-the-top suggestions, and 2K just checked out of the conversation entirely.

It was Dunk, the one person who wasn’t even in the band, who finally ended the misery. “How about JASPER?”

They were in Dunk’s kitchen, and Dunk was kneading dough for egg tarts right on the counter. He had fine flour dust streaked up his forearms like war paint.

“Jasper?” Pond repeated, testing the name.

“Yeah, the rock,” Dunk said. “It’s fragments. Just leftovers, man. Nothing clean or pure. But look at it—it holds together. It’s goddamn solid, and that makes it beautiful.”

That same night, Joong looked up the meaning. Jasper. A rough stone, marked by flaws, made beautiful through friction and time.

That was their concept.

They added the dot for aesthetics and to connect the initials, making it JASP.ER. It was sharp, brandable, and looked killer digitally—like the dot in a username, a marker of the online generation.

It was a flawless piece of branding that managed to feel perfectly imperfect, just like them.

Viral fame was never the goal. They just wanted to be legitimately seen.

They knocked out three videos fast: one cover, one Thai hit, and one original, minute-long clip—something unpolished and real that didn't fit a mold, just a moment of pure creation.

Joong went global with the captions (English, Turkish, Mandarin, Thai), obsessively timing the uploads for peak algorithm performance. Santa fixed the Korean captions and chopped the B-roll into shareable reels. 2K was the metronome, syncing every beat drop to the exact 15- and 30-second sweet spots for maximum impact on TikTok.

They weren't a boyband; they were just guys with a camera and a YouTube channel. But the content worked. When the views started coming in—not big league, sure, but a definite jump—Pond didn't brag to anyone. No screenshots, no calls to Mom. He simply tracked the numbers, watching them rise like a thermostat hitting the right temperature.

He felt grounded. For the first time in forever, the suffocating fear of going under finally eased.

There were days now when Pond woke up and realized the emptiness wasn't there.

It still shocked him, the quiet of it. The dull, constant ache had softened into something manageable, something he could actually live with. It was like the scar tissue from a deep wound—no longer stinging, just a quiet, pale line reminding him of the fucking damage that used to be there.

The shift wasn't sudden. Nothing that important ever was. But on certain mornings, Pond woke up and the crushing weight that used to anchor itself right behind his ribs was just... gone.

On some days, a song played, and the first person he thought of wasn’t Phuwin.

It was Joong. Of course, it was.

He registered them for the event without telling anyone. Pond only found out when Joong dropped a line into their group chat, sandwiched between rehearsal notes and practice schedules: Thammasat collab program. Just a small student showcase. Word is, label people will be scouting. We're set to perform.

He didn't elaborate. Didn't hype the damn thing at all. That was just Joong—he kept the machine running quietly, but every single move was calculated for the entire group's win.

But it was bigger than they signed up for.

Turns out the campus stage was part of a legitimate music and media festival thrown by Thammasat. The panelists were full of A&R sharks from different labels. But one name on the list made Pond’s blood stop: Riser Music.

Riser wasn't just a label. It was the one they should be running from. Founded under the GMMTV umbrella last year, it was the first company to explicitly say they wanted to build T-Pop with the exact global ambition of the Korean music houses—global reach, local roots. It was the boldest, most terrifying kind of idealism. And the whole thing was headed by Kangsom Tanatat.

Pond had run into Kangsom once, years back, outside a casting room. That was back when he honestly thought the spotlight was his second sun, before he learned just how badly those stage lights could burn you out.

Kangsom had been kind, quiet. He had a stack of sheet music in hand, zero corporate attitude. Pond remembered the exact thought: Someday, I want to work with people like him.

And just like that, someday was now.

It was a frantic Saturday in a cramped student commons, their name official, printed on a cheap piece of laminated signage next to the words “PERFORMANCE LINEUP.”

That little, cheap sign felt like the entire future of their lives.

They weren't expecting a miracle; they were just trying not to faceplant.

The expectations were rock bottom, because beggars can't be choosers. The stage was tiny. The soundcheck was a mess. Their outfits were mismatched trash. Joong’s shirt was already damp with sweat by two p.m. Pond’s nerves were vibrating through his legs, making his knees knock like they had a violent life of their own.

Then the track dropped. And suddenly, the quality wasn't the issue.

People started freezing where they stood. Students first. Then a few faculty members. Even the security guards paused their rounds. It was a slow, magnetic pull—not the usual flash mob effect, but a true gathering where people started filming because they recognized something worth the battery life.

Pond thought about the flaws later—it was never perfect.

He fucked up a cue. Aou’s mic popped and died briefly. But the energy never dipped. Pond couldn't tell if it was the power of the LYKN cover, the song that every kid from the slums of Thonburi to the condo penthouses of Sukhumvit knew by heart, or just the desperate, all-or-nothing hunger radiating off them like fever heat. Whatever it was, those four minutes? They annihilated that stage.

Later, when their adrenaline was crashing and their breathing was still synchronized, Aou made the executive decision.

He marched directly to the Riser booth. His years in the corporate grinder paid off; he looked cool and collected, handing over a digital press kit: one slick sheet and a QR code with the whole story—bios, clips, the demo reel, and the real hook, a proposal. Zero guarantees. Zero money requested. Just a straight-up challenge. They had nothing left to protect. All chips pushed to the center. Go big or go home.

They left the place in a haze, walking on air that night.

Pond barely spoke a word all night; he just couldn't stop the small, stupid smile that felt foreign on his face. He’d forgotten how to wear it.

He became instantly addicted to checking his phone, watching the follower count tick upward, like he was tracking the return of a comet that he’d thought was lost forever in the deep black.

The phone never rang.

Not the labels, not the reps.

Crickets.

Weeks went by.

But the DMs were suddenly flooding. Small companies wanted in. They got free detox tea, free contact lenses for cosplay nerds, and a local streetwear backpack line named something like gngr—two letters, no caps, trying way too hard to be aesthetic.

It was a step forward, sure.

But none of them could shake the ugly feeling of want—the Unwholesome Root of greed they were supposed to suppress. Because the yes they got wasn't the yes they were really chasing.

It was understandable, sure. They weren’t those rookie idols, training ten hours a day. They were juggling jobs, classes, and running food on motorcycles. They snatched practice time where they could—a real studio sometimes, a dark street corner or a park most other times.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so damn much. Because Pond had dared to hope again.

And the worst part? He prepared to go all in.

The shift came back in muscle memory, faster than his brain could process.

He'd be standing in line at 7-Eleven, waiting for coffee, and his feet would instinctively shuffle an old eight-count. Or walking across campus, his hips suddenly snagging the rhythm of a passing motorbike's engine.

His body hadn't just been on mute for years; it felt like it had been held down. Now, the pressure was off, and the volume was blasting.

Phuwin used to call him out on it, fondly. Always with that soft look.

“Are you even conscious when you do that?” he’d demanded, giggling, as Pond started a quick body wave right behind the counter line at McDonald’s. “Watch the elbows, babe. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Pond had only grinned, shrugged off the warning, and kept catching the beat. The music was always in his veins.

Dunk used to give the dramatic eye-roll in public. He’d actually turn his whole body away, making a show of pretending they’d never met. But Pond was never fooled; the guy could never hide the corner of his lip pulling into a smile.

It was back.

The feeling always arrived first, then his body followed, a low-frequency rhythm vibrating under his everyday life. Washing dishes. Crossing the street. Shifting the hot bowls at the Yen Ta Fo spot. In the middle of boring lectures, he’d find his fingers silently drilling counts into the paper, carving steps where notes should be.

Of course Dunk noticed.

They were just hanging out—a random Thursday in the kitchen.

Joong hunched over his laptop, Santa crashed out cold on the rug. Pond waited for the kettle to scream, humming beneath his breath, his hands jerking out the familiar counts in the steam-filled air.

“You’re here again,” Dunk stated softly, watching him.

Pond lifted his head, a line of confusion creasing his brow. “What?”

Dunk didn't elaborate, just gave him a sincere smile. “I’m glad I introduced you guys. It feels right. Like Joong walked into your life precisely because you were finally ready for him.”

Pond didn't answer immediately. He just watched the kettle on the stove begin to hiss, steam curling up and dissolving into the warm kitchen air like a pressure finally easing.

He killed the stove, letting the kettle's dying whistle fade into silence. His hands remained over the burner for a long second, the heat soaking in.

That was when it hit him.

He’d been counting the whole time: one-two-three-four. Because the numbness was breaking apart in precise steps, the way a body remembers rhythm, the way it remembers how to move again.

Notes:

Wat (วัด) is the Thai word for temple.

The term ngern gong tek (traditional Chinese paper money or “ghost money,” typically burned for ancestors) is used in this story to refer to a specific Thai-Chinese ritual: “Kan Phao Kradat Khuen Jao Kam,” or The Paper-Burning Ritual to Repay Karmic Debts.

This ritual is usually performed by those who feel their life is blocked. They might find that every time they are about to earn money, someone cuts them off, or obstacles simply always appear when they try to achieve something. This is believed to happen because, in this life or past lives, they may have stolen, borrowed, or taken advantage of others without repaying them. This causes karmic creditors (jao kam jao wian) to follow them through lifetimes.

The Simplified Ritual: The basic version is usually performed after 6:00 PM, facing west (the direction of the spirit gate). After chanting “Namo” three times, one recites a prayer while lighting the fire and burning each piece of paper individually. If rain falls during the ritual, it is believed the karma has not yet accepted the repayment, and the ritual must be repeated in seven days. Incense sticks may or may not be used; if they are, prepare 15 sticks.

The complete version of the ceremony must be done with a master (ajarn) present and can include incense divination or floating karmic ashes, potentially taking six to seven hours. However, even performing this simplified version can bring positive effects.

The actual JASP.ER band's name means “Gem of Battle,” referencing the gemstone's historical significance. However, for the purpose of this story, I selected the interpretation that suits the narrative best.

Although not all jasper is inherently fragmented, it frequently incorporates pieces of other rocks or minerals that infiltrate its cracks, voids, or sediments before hardening into solid stone. As this process occurs, the fluids absorb surrounding rock, sediment, or fossil fragments. These inclusions are responsible for patterns like banding, brecciation (broken, angular fragments cemented together), or orbicular (spotty) textures. Brecciated jasper, specifically, is literally made up of pre-existing rock fragments that have been bound together by silica.

Here's a fun fact about that fictional backpack brand: the English name gngr (for the free products they sent the JASP.ER members) is just a stylized way of writing ginger. The Thai word is ขิง (khing), but here’s the cool part: ขิง is slang for to brag or to show off.

I absolutely love this display of Thai linguistic playfulness, where food terms are repurposed for personality traits. We see it with แซ่บ (zab), which literally means spicy but now means sexy or fierce. Similarly, ขิง (khing), which is ginger, evolved to mean spicy in personality, leading to bragging. When you consider that, it's actually a great brand name. Haha.

Thai Buddhism (Theravāda) doesn't use the concept of the Seven Deadly Sins from Christianity, but it has similar moral teachings, especially concerning Greed, which they call Lobha (โลภะ) in Pali and Thai. Lobha is one of the foundational Three Unwholesome Roots (Akusala-mūla 3): Greed, Hatred (Dosa), and Delusion (Moha). Every negative behavior—from lying and jealousy to exploitation—can be traced back to one of these three root causes. So, while greed isn't a sin in the traditional Western sense, it is considered a primary source of suffering (dukkha).

Yen Ta Fo (เย็นตาโฟ) is a popular Thai noodle soup instantly recognizable by its striking pink broth. It’s a favorite street-food dish throughout Thailand. The signature pink color comes mainly from fermented red bean curd (or red tofu), which is mashed and added directly to the broth. When mixed with the soup base, this paste turns the otherwise light broth into that distinctive pastel pink shade. Occasionally, coloring from roselle (hibiscus) extract or food dye may be added to intensify the pink, but the primary source is the fermented red tofu.

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Everyone knows luck is a loan, not a gift.

It always comes in a burst, dragging the inevitable cost along with it.

Pond couldn't look away from the success, yet he was constantly waiting for the punchline. He just couldn't figure out if this feeling was the beginning of the win, or the pre-payment for the loss.

All Pond knew was that the Bangkok sky had shifted into that weird, high-pressure state he hated again—sun and sudden, heavy rain hitting simultaneously.

It was the kind of light that felt uncomfortably bright. Steam hissed off the pavement, and the heat pressed down on him like a second, sticky skin. You shielded your eyes from the glare, yet the rain still managed to slam into your bones.

Whenever the sky did this, Phuwin’s skin flared up.

A blotchy red rash would appear on his throat and all down his chest, right where Pond was used to resting his head. Pond would find himself absently shooing gnats off the sweaty skin of his shoulder. Phuwin would scratch until he almost bled, then catch himself and hiss a curse. “This whole damn city is out to murder me.” He never quite meant it, but Pond believed it anyway.

Pond fucking hated this weather because it brought the memories back every single time. The way he used to compulsively tuck small tubes of hydrocortisone into his wallet, his jacket, his gym bag—just out of instinct.

But today wasn’t about Phuwin. Not right now. Pond wasn't letting it be.

Today, the phone rang, and Aou picked up.

They used his phone as the official JASP.ER line because Aou was the only responsible adult who kept it charged and actually answered.

Since he worked an office job, he was the only one who could pull it off: not too eager, not too distant. Just enough calm competence in his voice to make them seem like they were actually a legitimate operation.

Pond had just staggered in from his latest delivery run, head still half-helmeted, when he heard a thud on the worn sofa.

Aou had just dropped his phone.

“Guys,” he managed, one word that felt like it pulled all the oxygen out of the room.

“It’s the label. It’s Riser.”

Joong instantly dropped the charger he’d been fumbling with; it clattered on the floor. Santa froze mid-chew, fork halfway to his mouth. Pond was just stuck, one arm twisted inside his jacket sleeve.

“The Riser?” 2K squeaked.

Aou nodded once, eyes wide. “Yeah. They want a sit-down.”

He swallowed hard, then forced out the punchline that felt like fiction: “The CEO wants us.”

It didn't sink in immediately. Not until Joong wordlessly reached across the sofa and hauled Pond into a fierce hug. Then 2K’s usual reserve shattered, his arms wrapping tightly around Pond's back. Santa let out a high, breathless laugh and buried his face into Joong's shoulder. Aou just clung to them all, acting like he was the only thing keeping them from floating away. And Dunk, who came through the door a beat late, dropped his groceries and barrelled into the mess like he had to physically secure his spot. Which, goddamn it, he did.

Pond felt the wetness on his cheeks and couldn't tell if it was the last of the delivery sweat or if his tears had finally broken through. Maybe it was both. But he hadn't felt anything this alive since the moment his entire acting career cratered right after he signed the contract.

That night, they called home.

They put their mothers on speaker and settled onto the floor, surrounded by a nest of black cables and empty plastic containers in Dunk’s living room. Aou’s mom went straight for the waterworks. Santa’s mom mentioned some karmic debt being paid. Pond’s mother, a woman who only dealt in facts, simply warned, “Don’t blow this by being late.” But Pond knew that was her version of screaming with happiness. Joong’s mom kept yelling, “I KNEW IT,” while 2K’s grandmother just asked if the news was good enough for him to ditch the retail job.

Dunk came through with a declaration of a meal. No quick-fix, no leftovers. He made proper chicken roulade with truffle paste and rich pumpkin soup, pouring it into the dainty teacups just because.

He brought out the chilled mangoes, too soft for the customer counter, but just right for family.

Then he lit the candle.

“I’m making sure you never forget this feeling,” he said. “For when you guys are up there accepting a Kazz Award.”

Pond ate until he felt sick, trying to force some normalcy. But despite his physical exhaustion, he caught maybe two hours of sleep that night.

The day after the call, Pond hit the ATM for the first time in forever.

He pulled out proper savings, not just pocket change, and dragged Joong and Dunk shopping.

He mumbled something about “professionalism” and “looking clean,” but if six years of being Dunk's best friend had taught him anything, it was that faking it until you made it wasn't cute—the right people only saw what you showed them.

That's probably the secret to Dunk and Joong: they were a match because they both tried so hard. They understood the effort required to look effortless—the need to seem completely together even when the wiring was fried.

They wore pressed clothes and polished loafers like it was a basic survival skill. Joong was never sloppy, even on a coffee run—he’d wear clothes Pond used for first dates just to buy eggs. And Dunk? He was pathologically neat: the guy slept in pressed pajamas. He even starched the aprons he only wore in the kitchen.

Pond was the king of zero effort. He lived in baggy hoodies, sneakers that were probably dirty, and hair that belonged under a hat. But for Riser, he swallowed his ego and let the fashion police—Dunk and Joong—rebuild him from the ground up for the pitch.

They herded him through the racks, shoving shirt options onto his arm like they were high-fashion stylists working on a celebrity's final, life-changing look.

Joong tossed the linen shirt back onto the pile.

“Too soft, Pond. You need to project ‘survivor,’ not ‘new hire.’”

“I am a survivor,” Pond shot back.

“Good. Now, dress like you’re about to burn the building down, not apply for a staff loan.”

The second Pond's feet started drifting toward the new sneaker wall, Dunk instantly covered his eyes, and Joong grabbed his arm, steering him away from the danger.

“Bad boy,” Joong chided, entirely too amused. “No distractions.”

After two hours of debate, they landed on a clean, slate-blue shirt, collar sharp, the cuffs casually rolled.

Pond stared at the man in the fitting room mirror.

The polished look felt like a lie, until he realized what was wrong: he hadn't allowed himself a real haircut in years.

It was time to finally face the barber's chair and shed the last of that old skin.

He settled in the swivel chair and said, “Just take it all on the sides and back.”

A clean undercut.

“New vibe,” he announced, watching the first clumps of hair hit the tile floor.

When the barber spun him around—when he touched the soft, shorn layer at his nape and saw the unobscured view of his own face—it wasn't rebirth. He was just finally him, the person he'd spent the last few years actively avoiding.

The morning of the meeting, they walked into the Asoke Building, a tight formation of four guys, trying their best to look like they belonged there.

Pond recognized the lobby immediately. He’d crossed this threshold, his palm sweaty and the GMMTV contract feeling like a lifeline.

He was barely out of his teens. His first supporting role was canceled before they even finished the cast introductions. The source novel was “too much heat,” they'd whispered. Not worth the bottom line, the execs decided. It was the first time he understood. Here, dreams didn’t fail—they were calculated risks that were simply withdrawn.

He still recognized the synthetic, clean scent pumped through the vents, the slight shush of his shoes on the tile floor. Same structure. Same long-shot dream. But the difference was the direction. He didn’t turn toward the floor where his first contract had died. He rode the elevator higher. To Riser. And this time, he wasn’t alone. He had the only people who knew the scars walking with him.

Phi Kangsom himself was waiting, welcoming them into the room with a presence that felt way too solid for a guy in his early thirties. He was quiet, calmly lethal—singer, songwriter, producer, and the CEO of something barely two years old but already pulling the strings on half the scene.

“Phi Kangsom,” Joong greeted, offering a wai.

Pond followed the motion, his chest suddenly too tight to breathe. He remembered the man from the days when he was just Kangsom the artist, before the executive title. He was the one who had given Pond a “good job” and actually sounded like he meant it.

He was older now, but the goodness hadn’t faded; it was still there, right around his eyes.

The offer wasn't a debut, not even close. But it was still more than any of them had dared to beg for.

A three-month probationary period. A temporary deal under some new, experimental sub-label, Kangsom explained. They’d be called “PROJECT JASP.ER” for the time being—a pilot program, their audition for the public to see if they were worth the investment.

They were offering an immediate digital single, a reality docu-series tracking their process, and a chance to perform at the annual Thai Festival in Tokyo—the one the Embassy throws, which is basically a proving ground for rookies. If the response was strong, they could talk about going bigger. Full integration into the GMMTV system. A real career.

Pond felt his throat closing up through the final minutes. He couldn't stop thinking: If this were 2020, if I hadn't slipped through the cracks, would I even be here? But that ship had sailed. The past was fixed. This was now. Pond wasn't trying to market himself as some tragic comeback kid. He didn't need to rise from anything; he was just relieved to have his boots laced up and finally feel steady on the horse. This time, he was staying in the saddle.

They said yes. Like, obviously, they said yes. How the hell could they not? For guys like them—washed-out failures coasting on fumes, fighting for a second chance—this wasn't just something. It was everything they had left.

They asked if 2K was part of the deal as choreographer: done. They asked if Dunk could manage the circus: the execs laughed—a little too loud—then signed off. Dunk rolled his eyes. “I know you’re only using me for my baked goods,” but he was already nodding yes. Pond laughed so hard that his eyes watered.

He realized right then how badly he wanted it—not the end result, but the grind and the chaos. With these people.

It should have ended there. With the good news. With the win. But Pond knew better. Life doesn't do neat endings. Pond felt the other boot kick the door in. The second half of the saying was already here, because luck never came without a price tag.

Apparently, Riser wasn’t just handing them a producer and calling it a day.

Kangsom called back that same week, completely upending the concept of a “trial.” The label had just finalized a whole damn team dedicated to PROJECT JASP.ER. They weren't just testing the waters; they were diving in headfirst.

They were getting the full creative rollout, complete with a new music director. This wasn't some intern. It was a young guy, around their age, specifically brought in to completely redefine their sound.

His credentials was insane: graduated from the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts, with a specialization in composition and sound design. He was the one who did the score and music direction for last year’s viral iQIYI BL. One of his scores for a quick Guangdong tourism short blew up, earning him praise for the fresh sound and the subtle Cantonese folk flavor. He wasn't some nepo-baby; he was self-made. He built his career on the dirt of freelance—jingles, indie film cues, and scoring jobs—hammering out every single deadline himself.

He came highly recommended by a former arranger from Riser—a guy who knew his shit. The word was this director had an ear for the texture of a track, especially vocal layering and emotional contour. Best of all? He wasn't chasing trends; he was just making music that felt fucking real.

“We got you someone who can make you sound like the most honest version of you,” Kangsom said.

“Someone who hasn't forgotten that people can actually smell the bullshit on a generic track.”

And Pond—

Pond absorbed the whole damn résumé, and his chest locked up.

It wasn't dread, but a sudden, unsettling familiarity—like an icy current running through a house he thought he’d renovated. It felt exactly like a memory pressing its face against the glass, wanting back in. Pond couldn’t name it out loud, not with his rational brain. But the dark little chamber he kept locked up inside him already knew.

Notes:

The shelved project I mentioned is actually based on You Fight, and I Love, a romantic action series announced during the GMMTV 2022 event, from the same production team as An Eye for an Eye. It was set to feature Joss Way-ar and Love Pattranite, and introduce Win’s younger brother Mick (who served as the inspiration for Pond’s character here). The main reason the series was canceled was the huge backlash against the source material. The novel faced criticism for romanticizing child grooming—Love’s character was in high school while Joss’s character was an adult boxer—in addition to sexual harassment and toxic masculinity. That controversy is why the series was ultimately dropped.

The concept for PROJECT JASP.ER’s signing was actually inspired by real artists who got a limited “trial run” before fully committing. The Arctic Monkeys are a key example: before their debut album, they dropped a small, self-produced EP (Five Minutes with Arctic Monkeys) and tested the waters at a few festivals using minimal resources. They chose Domino Records partly because they were attracted to the owner’s DIY ethic—Laurence Bell genuinely ran the label based on personal taste, not just commercial appeal. This directly mirrors PROJECT JASP.ER’s offer: a low-risk package—a single, a rookie-level docu-series, and a cultural festival slot—backed by a team invested in them personally rather than purely commercially.

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