Chapter Text
2035
Phuwin POV
Every sweep of the brush across his skin felt like a feather that prickled instead of tickled.
Each bristle felt entirely foreign, a strange, scratchy friction that made his jaw tighten. It was a ridiculous sensation, considering Phuwin had been sitting in these exact chairs for nearly twenty years now. He had spent more of his youth staring into the fluorescent glare of studio vanity mirrors than he had sitting at the dining table in his parents’ house. He should have been entirely numb to it by now.
But today, the ordinary routine felt completely wrong.
The set around him was a chaotic, high-energy hive of activity. The commercial shoot had been a frantic, last-minute booking, but because it was one of the luxury brands he had been personally endorsing for over five years, he hadn't been inclined to deny the request. Usually, he thrived in this environment. He was no stranger to relentless, overlapping schedules – in fact, he preferred them. The packed calendar kept his mind anchored, leaving no empty spaces for his thoughts to wander.
Today, however, he couldn't quite rein his irritation in. Each stroke the stylist brushed through his hair felt like a persistent tick, forcing him to grind his teeth. The wardrobe pieces didn't sit right against his shoulders either, the fabric shifting uncomfortably every time he moved. And in the background, reflected in the glass, P’Min’s eyes seemed to follow his every movement far more keenly than usual.
None of those things were the actual source of his irate mood, though. Phuwin knew this.
His gaze was pulled, like an unyielding magnet, toward the script lying innocently on the cluttered makeup table. It looked so unassuming. It was just a white stack of A4 papers stapled together at the corner, filled with standard black ink and beautifully written lines.
Yet, it felt like a taunt.
Like it knew that by simply existing in his space, it was cutting something open deep within his chest. Phuwin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the title page, half-wishing the papers would spontaneously catch fire and cease to exist.
The makeup artist poked his cheek gently with a sponge, softly reprimanding his scowl, forcing him to let his face relax again. The smooth, pleasant mask felt fraudulent. The whole day – the whole week, if he was being completely honest – had felt entirely out of place.
P’Krit’s calm, steady voice echoed in his head, transporting him right back to that familiar wooden table at the GMMTV headquarters a few days prior.
“It’s a really good script, Phuwin.”
Phuwin had been able to tell as much from the first three pages. It was penned by Narin Vechasorn – the kind of writer whose work every actor in the industry was desperate to portray, and Phuwin was no exception. But sitting in that office, he had immediately sensed that the managing director wasn't telling him the entire truth.
He had eyed P'Krit warily across the clean surface of the table. The director was calm and collected, maintaining the same unshakeable composure he always had. It was no wonder P’Tha had decided to hand over so much of the executive responsibility for GMMTV's projects to him. P’Tha might never truly retire from the company he built, but P’Krit was a stable, deeply trustworthy anchor for the network. He was a person all actors somehow felt comfortable around, even though he never beat around the bush.
Phuwin had worked with him before, though it felt like a lifetime ago. Back when everything was still different. Back when they were all still whole.
"You’d be directing this yourself, P'?" Phuwin had asked, his tone cautious.
P’Krit offered a small, quiet smile and nodded. "It’s an important project for the network's legacy. And I truly love the depth of the story."
Phuwin had reached for the copy, his fingers tracking the clean cardstock. The Spaces Between Us stood in simple, unembellished black letters across the front. Below it were P’Narin’s and P’Krit’s names, but otherwise, the page was entirely blank. P’Krit hadn't printed Phuwin’s name on this specific draft – his own quiet way of saying ‘no pressure’.
"You said it’s a story about childhood best friends?"
"Yes," P’Krit nodded, leaning back slightly in his leather chair. "The main characters grow up together. One of them is profoundly in love with the other, while the other remains completely oblivious. He ends up marrying the friend’s sister, a choice that ultimately drives the first friend out of the country. The narrative focuses heavily on what happens when they are brought back into each other's orbits years later, after the marriage falls apart."
On paper, it sounded like an ordinary, classic drama. But because P’Krit was personally vouching for it, Phuwin knew it possessed an emotional complexity he didn't fully understand yet.
"So," P'Krit murmured, tilting his head. "Are you interested?"
Phuwin raised a brow, a small, polite smile spreading across his lips to mask the sudden tightness in his throat. "This is a romantic project, though, isn't it? A partnership series."
The director’s lips pulled into a faint smile as well, though it carried a slight, self-deprecating edge. "Yes. It's a BL series."
Phuwin tilted his head, pretending to look confused to buy himself a fraction of time. "I don't have a partner, P'. I haven't had one for years now. I do solo work."
P’Krit was already nodding before Phuwin could even finish the sentence. "I know that, Phuwin. Everyone knows that. But this is for the 40th-anniversary year. The network needs something monumental. Something that is going to cause a wave. An effect."
Phuwin didn't answer right away because, frankly, his voice had locked up behind his teeth. He wasn't a man who downplayed his own success – he knew his worth in the industry – but he would have been lying if he claimed he was confident he could generate the specific 'effect' P’Krit was gunning for. Not with this.
"It’s for the anniversary, Phuwin."
The director leaned his elbows on the table now, fixing him with a steady, unyielding stare that sent a distinct chill right down Phuwin’s spine. He could feel it incoming – the actual catch he had been dreading the second he stepped into the room.
"I want it to be a reunion of sorts."
Phuwin blinked, his mind briefly stalling. "A reunion of...?"
P’Krit lifted a single brow, his eyes flitting toward the left wall ever so subtly. Phuwin didn't need to follow the gaze to know what was hanging there. It was P’Tha’s pride and joy: a massive, beautifully lit photo gallery of the most successful legacy series in the history of GMMTV, proudly decorating the main conference room. So many young, aspiring faces captured in their prime, intended to inspire every new project hatched within these four walls.
To Phuwin, those frames felt like a mockery. Not all of them – just a few select photos that he could have pinpointed within seconds even with his eyes completely closed.
"No," Phuwin said, shaking his head instantly, his voice dropping into a flat, defensive line. "No, c'mon, P'Krit."
"Before you completely shut the idea down," P’Krit interrupted, lifting his hands placatingly as if he could sense that Phuwin was on the verge of bolting out of the room, "it’s not just about the anniversary marketing. This script, this specific character... Kirin was made for you, Phuwin. You would absolutely love the depth of this role."
Phuwin only heard half of the explanation through the sudden, loud buzzing in his ears. It wasn't that his blood had run completely cold, but an uncomfortable, heavy weight settled deep in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't dread, exactly, but a profound sense of inevitability nonetheless. He could see from the quiet determination in P’Krit’s eyes that while he wouldn't be forced into the contract, it was going to be incredibly hard to say no.
"It’s been so many years," Phuwin tried, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "How would that even work? We don't even know each other anymore. We're completely different people."
"I know," P’Krit said softly, his expression entirely non-judgmental. "And honestly? I think that’s why it’s perfect. Thanwa and Kirin in the story are navigating the exact same situation. I think you two could pull this off with absolute, raw honesty."
Phuwin hated the sound of that, but he hated even more that his creative mind instantly understood the director's logic. The entire concept was brutal – method acting at its most volatile – but it would undoubtedly cause the massive wave the network hoped for.
"You don't have to decide today," P’Krit had concluded, sliding the papers closer to him. "Think about it. Just let me know your decision by the end of the week."
Phuwin had done nothing else but think about it since walking out of that room. The choice had consumed him, making him grow more and more irritable as the days bled together, and P’Min hadn't stopped giving him worried glances. Even now, he could feel her eyes in the reflection of the vanity glass, watching him as if he might randomly combust at any given moment.
But it wasn't that bad. He told himself he was a professional. He could handle a choice like this objectively, stripping away the old, historical static to look at the material clearly. That was the lie he kept repeating to himself, even as the script sat on the table, giving him sidelong looks like it too knew that he didn't have a handle on this at all.
P’Krit was right about the story. It was beautiful, emotionally rueful, and filled with the kind of morally grey characters that would require him to explore some incredibly complex, painful feelings if he were to portray Kirin. Not that he had chosen a character that spoke to his own history, of course. Because there was absolutely no way he was going to entertain doing the series.
Obviously.
"Phuwin, are you ready?"
P’Min’s hand settled gently onto his shoulder, warm and grounding, pulling him out of the memories and back into the fluorescent brightness of the dressing room. For a split second, he didn't recognize his own reflection – the perfectly styled hair, the flawless skin, the polite, practiced expression that had been trained into his features over years of press tours and brand shoots. It looked like him. But beneath the surface, it wasn't him at all.
"Hmm? Sure, P'."
She didn't move her hand.
Phuwin met her eyes in the mirror, the naked concern written across her face making something in his chest twist uncomfortably.
"You’ve been somewhere else all week, Phuwin," she said quietly, her tone entirely devoid of accusation, simply stating a fact. "Is it the new project?"
He forced a small, dry huff through his nose, something intended to pass for a casual laugh. "I always have new projects."
"This one came directly from P’Krit, though."
That made him look at her properly, his defensive mask slipping a fraction. Of course she knew. She was his manager; she always managed his schedule.
Phuwin reached down, grabbing his leather gear bag, and slid the white stack of papers inside, pressing it down firmly between his tablet and a bundle of neatly organized cue cards, as if he could suffocate the words there.
"Out of sight, out of mind," he muttered, pulling the zipper shut.
P’Min watched the movement with a heavy, knowing patience. "Is the script bad?"
"No," he said immediately – far too quickly to be convincing. He softened his voice, trying to regain his usual composure. "That’s the problem. It’s... it’s incredibly good."
"Then why do you look like someone just handed you a death sentence?"
He didn't answer.
Because how could he possibly explain to her that it wasn't the narrative that unsettled him? It wasn't the childhood friends, the sister's wedding, or the quiet years of longing written into the margins of the dialogue.
It was the other name that hadn't yet been printed on the front page. The name that didn't need to be. They both knew exactly whose shadow was waiting in the wings.
P’Min’s fingers tightened briefly on his shoulder before she stepped back, giving him the space she had learned to provide whenever he needed to gather his defenses. "The crew is waiting on standby. Ten minutes, Phuwin."
"Nodding," he murmured.
When the dressing room door clicked shut behind her, the space suddenly felt entirely too large.
For a moment, he just sat there in the quiet, listening to the distant, muffled bustle of the commercial set outside – staff calling out cues, the clatter of equipment being moved, someone laughing too loudly down the hall. A perfectly normal day. A life he had built carefully, piece by piece, over six years of isolation until everything in it fit exactly where it was supposed to.
He pulled the zipper back open, reaching into the bag to drag the script back out before his logical mind could stop him.
The cardstock was already slightly bent at the corner from how often his fingers had handled it over the past few days.
The Spaces Between Us.
His thumb slid over the dark ink of the title. He told himself he was only opening it because he had a few minutes left before the cameras rolled. Because he wanted to review a specific scene. Because he was an actor, and this was simply what professionals did – they studied exceptional material even if they had no intention of accepting the role.
He flipped the pages, stopping at the section he had read the most in the dark of his own apartment. Kirin stood in the doorway, watching Thanwa’s wedding from a distance, the internal narration running over the frame:
“You never looked back. So I learned how to leave without making a sound.”
Phuwin swallowed hard, a sudden, sharp ache tightening behind his teeth.
It wasn't just the line. It was how effortlessly he could hear those exact words in his own voice. It was how clearly his mind could see the blocking of the scene, the slow camera movement, and the way the light would fall across the floorboards.
It was how naturally his body understood exactly where Thanwa would be standing in relation to him. As if some hidden, unpolished part of his heart had already signed the contract without his permission.
He closed the script with far more force than necessary, the sharp snap of the paper echoing against the vanity mirrors.
"P’Min," he called out, his voice carrying clearly through the half-open dressing room door.
She appeared almost instantly, her expression hyper-observant. "Yes, Phuwin?"
Phuwin hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edge of the papers. The whole thing was ridiculous. He had turned down massive, international films before. He had walked away from lead roles opposite award winners and offers other actors would have killed to secure.
This was just a series. Just a corporate anniversary project. Just a reunion. Just work.
"Can you... can you clear my schedule for this tonight?" he asked, his voice low but steady.
Her brows drew together in immediate confusion. "You have the wardrobe fitting for the end-of-month commercial block, Phuwin–"
"I know," he interrupted, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing his jacket, the script held firmly under his arm. "I need to go back to the main office. To GMMTV."
Realization dawned slowly across P’Min’s features, the worry in her eyes softening into something deeply intuitive. "You’re going to see P’Krit."
Phuwin didn't answer right away. Because he knew that if he said the words out loud, the script would become real. He glanced one final time at his reflection in the glass – at the man he had spent the last six years becoming. Calm. Successful. Entirely untouchable.
Then he looked down at the white stack of papers under his arm.
"I’m just going to ask some questions, P'," he said quietly, his voice dropping into a softer, less guarded register.
P’Min didn't smile, but her expression filled with a quiet, protective warmth – the exact look she used to give him years ago when he made choices that terrified him. "Of course you are," she said softly.
As they stepped out of the dressing room and into the loud, chaotic noise of the commercial set, Phuwin slipped the script securely under his arm. It no longer felt like a weight he was carrying out of obligation. It felt like something that had already taken hold of him, pulling him toward a trajectory he could no longer calculate.
And for the first time all week, beneath the irritation, the dread, and the tight control he had wrapped around his life, there was something else waking up beneath his ribs.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't even anticipation. It was recognition.
As if a door he had spent six years pretending didn't exist had finally opened – quietly, patiently – and was waiting for him to decide whether he was brave enough to walk through it.
2035
Pond POV
The first thing he noticed was that everyone in the building had stopped pretending not to look at him.
It wasn't done openly – no one at GMMTV was ever that unprofessional – but there was a distinct, unmistakable shift in the air the moment he stepped through the glass doors. Conversations softened into quiet murmurs as he walked past the styling pods, and staff members who had known him since he was barely out of high school gave him a careful, deeply respectful wai. It was a gesture meant for Pond, the established actor, a polite barrier that replaced the old, comfortable familiarity of the kid who used to steal snacks from the production tables.
He offered them all his trademark, easy smile anyway. It was simply less exhausting that way.
The main conference room hadn’t changed at all over the years. It featured the same long, polished wooden table, the same stark lighting, and the same expansive wall of framed series posters tracing decades of network history. Automatically, Pond drifted toward the seat near the very end of the table – the one closest to the exit. It was an old habit, a quiet instinct to always keep an escape route within reach in case the weight of the room became too heavy to carry.
He sat down before he even realized what he was doing.
P’Krit didn’t comment on the choice. The managing director remained perfectly calm, sitting across from him with a steady, unhurried patience before he reached forward and slid a script across the clean surface of the wood. The pages were perfectly aligned, the dark title standing out sharp and clean against the white cover sheet.
The Spaces Between Us.
Pond didn’t touch the paper immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out beneath the table – the picture of a man who had walked into an executive meeting without a single worry in the world. He threw his arms over the backrest, his posture casual, fluid, and entirely unpolished.
"So," Pond said lightly, his gravelly voice smooth as he broke the silence. "An anniversary project, P'?"
P’Krit inclined his head once. "Forty years."
"That long already?" Pond let out a soft, low whistle, a small, playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth to mask the sudden tightness in his lungs. "I should start asking the network for a loyalty discount."
The joke achieved the exact reaction he had been gunning for: a brief, quiet exhale from P’Krit that might have passed for amusement. The director was never a man to laugh loudly on set, let alone in an executive meeting.
Pond finally reached forward, his long fingers trailing over the edge of the script before he flipped it open. He didn't look at the first page; he simply let his thumb track through the center, scanning a random block of dialogue in the middle of the draft. His eyes moved across the text with a practiced, instinctive speed, trained by years of industry experience to immediately assess tone, emotional pacing, and character rhythm.
The writing was beautiful. It was raw, grounded, and heavy with a quiet dejection.
"You want me for this role?" Pond asked, keeping his voice carefully leveled, entirely conversational.
"Yes."
Pond nodded slowly, his expression remaining perfectly calm as if he were evaluating the offer purely from a career standpoint. He didn't ask the one question that was currently hammering against his ribs. Not yet. Because he knew that the second the words left his mouth, the reality of the script would lock into place.
He turned another page, his eyes catching the structural beats of the narrative. Childhood friends. A wedding. The one who left. The one who stayed behind, wondering. His thumb stopped dead against the edge of the paper as a sudden, sharp ache tightened behind his jaw.
Ah. There it was.
Pond let out a long, slow breath through his nose and closed the script with a quiet thud. He didn't look back up at the director, his eyes fixed on the empty white cover.
"You’ve already talked to him," Pond said. It wasn't a question.
P’Krit didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. The heavy silence in the conference room laid the truth bare.
Pond looked down at the blank space on the title page where the lead cast names would eventually be printed. Over the past six years, he had spent an immense amount of energy learning how not to react to the world around him. Live interviews, media rumors, awards he didn't win, public speculation – all of it had trained him into this specific, hyper-polished version of himself that could take any volatile situation and turn it into a joke, a loose shrug, a quiet mai pen rai.
But his body had always been a traitor to his profession.
His broad shoulders had gone entirely rigid beneath his jacket. His jaw was tight, the muscles aching from the sheer force it took to hold his expression perfectly still.
"I thought we were past this, P'," Pond said, his voice dropping into a smaller, softer register than he had intended.
"Past what?" P’Krit asked quietly.
Pond huffed a short, breathless laugh, running a hand through his dark hair as he looked away. "You know what I mean. Nostalgia. Reunion marketing. The whole–" he gestured vaguely toward the wall of legendary posters behind them "–’remember when they were twenty and the entire world was obsessed' sort of thing. It's a lot of static."
"This script isn't a marketing gimmick, Pond."
"No?"
P’Krit held his gaze with an unshakeable, calm clarity. "This is a role you can only play now. At this specific time of your life. It requires the years you've spent apart."
Pond had read enough of Narin’s dialogue in those few seconds to know that the character of Thanwa would sit in his chest like a stone. It was the exact kind of heavy, emotionally rueful part that wouldn't let an actor sleep properly while the cameras were rolling. The kind of raw, unpolished role he had been quietly waiting for his entire solo career.
He should have been excited. And somewhere beneath the sudden pressure in his chest, he was. That familiar, dangerous spark of an actor’s instinct was vibrating in his veins – the hunger for a project that was difficult, honest, and completely exposed.
And layered beneath that instinct, quieter but infinitely more terrifying, was another thought he shouldn't be having: If it's with him, it will work.
Pond pressed his palm flat against the script, grounding himself against the warmth of the paper. "He doesn't need this, P'," Pond said, the playful nonchalance completely vanishing from his tone, leaving his voice raw. "He has his own path now. International features. Acclaim. Solo awards. Why drag him back into... this."
Into us, he didn't say.
P’Krit’s expression didn’t change, his posture remaining unyielding. "You’re assuming he’ll accept."
The words hit Pond’s chest with a sudden, twisting friction. Because the possibility that Phuwin might look at the script and say no – the thought that he might not even consider stepping back into a frame with him at all – was violently worse than the prospect of standing across from him under hot studio lights, pretending to touch him like it was just blocking, just choreography, just another job.
"I’m busy," Pond murmured, defaulting to the safest, most corporate shield he had left. "I have the regional brand tour in the summer. Possibly a domestic film project in the fall. My schedule is locked."
"You’re always busy."
Pond offered a small, automatic smile as a thick silence settled over the table. Before the tension could stretch any further, his phone lit up against the dark wood, a brief notification illuminating the screen.
Have you eaten yet? I’ll be home late tonight from the firm.
It was Lin. The message was calm, safe, and completely ordinary – a reminder of the comfortable, domestic shelter he had spent four years building to hide from his own history. He reached out, his fingers slightly mechanical as he turned the phone face down, cutting off the light. The guilt was a dull, familiar ache behind his ribs, a reminder of a home that held plenty of safety – everything Pond now needed.
When he looked up again, P’Krit was still watching him with that same calm, unbearable patience.
"This project doesn't exist unless both of you agree," the older man said, laying the facts on the table. "If either of you declines the role, the script goes into the archive, and we move on to the next lineup block. No questions asked."
Pond nodded slowly. That was fair. That meant the entire trajectory was out of his hands. He could walk out of this room, let the silence take over, and never have to think of any of this again.
He reached down, his fingers tightening around the edge of the papers as he picked the script up. The stack felt significantly heavier than it should have.
"I'll read it," Pond said softly.
It sounded like a minor concession, a polite professional courtesy, but both men sitting in that room knew it wasn't. P’Krit simply inclined his head once, as if the choice had already been made long before Pond had even parked his car downstairs.
When Pond stood up to leave, his boots heavy against the floor, he paused for a single, uncalculated second in front of the wall of framed posters. He didn't look at the entire archive. His eyes locked onto a single frame near the center.
Two very young men, standing far too close together in the frame, smiling out at the world like they didn't know yet how carefully, and how painfully, they would learn to stand apart.
He didn't let himself look for long. By the time he stepped out of the conference room and back into the main hallway, his expression had returned to its normal, easy warmth. He was the familiar, charming version of himself that everyone in the building expected to see.
But as he walked past the staff who greeted him, past the empty dressing rooms, and toward the elevator bank, his grip on the script never loosened. And for the first time in six long years, the thought he had trained his mind never to entertain surfaced before he could stop it.
If he says yes...
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Because the answer – whatever it would be – had already completely changed the rhythm of his heart.