Chapter Text
Gun wakes up to the scent of fresh linen and the soft shift of morning light.
The room is unfamiliar—far too warm-toned, too lived-in to be his own. There’s an arm loosely curled around his waist. Someone breathes slow and steady against his nape. Someone big. He tenses.
Then a sleepy voice murmurs, fond and groggy, “Good morning, baby.”
Gun turns around slowly. And freezes. The man beside him is breathtaking—strong features, bed-tousled hair, sleep still clinging to his lashes, tall, handsome. He smiles lazily and leans in to kiss Gun’s forehead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Gun recoils—subtle but certain.
“…You’re not him,” Gun says before he can stop himself.
The man blinks, amused. “You just spent all night on top of me and now you don’t know who I am?”
Gun frowns. “…Where am I?”
Perth’s smile falters.
“Did you hit your head again Tata?” he asks, voice lowering into genuine concern.
Gun sits up. Something’s wrong—very wrong. He stares at his hands, then at the body in the mirror across the room. Longer limbs. Softer jawline. His own reflection, but not his own body.
His blood runs cold. “What… what the hell—”
“Santa?” Perth is sitting up now too, alarmed. “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”
Gun looks at him with wide eyes. “Who’s Santa?”
Meanwhile, somewhere else entirely, Santa stares at the ceiling.
It’s cracked. The bed beneath him is soft but squeaky. He doesn’t remember falling asleep in this room. Or this body. He blinks, slowly. The weight of a new, unfamiliar body makes him dizzy for a moment. Then the door opens.
“Gun.”
A voice that cuts. Santa turns his head and is met with a face he knows too well—Yotha. His entire soul lurches. He sits upright too fast and winces when the mattress groans beneath him.
“Gun?” Yotha repeats, now closer, narrowing his eyes. “You okay? You’ve been weird since yesterday.”
Santa wants to scream. This is Gun’s body - and that - that was Yotha. A fictional man he read lines for, acted beside, shot scenes with, got into fake arguments and fake kisses and fake breakups with. Alive, in front of him.
Yotha is real now. And Santa doesn’t know the script – if this is still even part of some script the directors cut.
“…Can I hug you?” Santa asks, voice low, trying to play it off.
Yotha raises an eyebrow. “You’re asking now?”
Santa smiles sheepishly. “Trying something new.”
Yotha stares for a beat, suspicious… but moves closer. Santa wraps his arms around him and tries not to tremble.
This is not a dream.
[Gun as Santa | With Perth]
The man who called him "baby" now sat across the breakfast table with a worried frown, flipping pancakes like muscle memory. Gun blinked down at the dish in front of him, then back at the… Perth? Yes. He’d heard that name when the man’s phone lit up. Perth.
He didn’t know who this man was. Not really. He bares the face of his lover, except a little bit older, but the way he looked at him—like he was the center of his whole world—was terrifying in how warm it felt.
Gun, now trapped in Santa’s body, had tried to piece things together quietly. He’d checked the phone: “Santa🤍 ” in too many group chats. Socials and event photos. The most recent? Something called “Perfect 10 Liners.”
He stared at the name on the screen. Santa. Pongsapak. 'That’s not me', Gun thought. 'But he looks like me.' And this man—this Perth—was speaking gently now. He's offering him coffee, and telling him they didn’t have to go to the event if he wasn’t feeling well. Event?
“I just…” Gun tried, clutching the mug with both hands like it might anchor him. “I had a dream. Weird dream.”
Perth leaned in. “Was I in it?”
Gun’s throat bobbed. “…Yeah.”
“Sexy dream?”
Gun choked, expression taken a back in a clear 'what the fuck'. “I don’t—I think I need some air.”
“Okay,” Perth said, standing up the moment he saw it. “Then let’s go out. No pressure today.”
Gun followed in silence, mind a mess. Whoever this Perth was, he was incredibly attentive. His jokes were offhanded, voice deep but soothing. He kept glancing at Gun like he was reading him—measuring.
And Gun? He didn’t know this man, but every time Perth touched the small of his back, or looked at him with such quiet devotion, he felt something in his chest pull tight.
The worst part? He didn’t want it to stop. Because this man, Santa's lover, with the same face as his but older, felt familiar. In a world so unfamiliar to him, this man is a quiet comfort.
[Santa as Gun | With Yotha]
Santa sat still in Gun’s body, perched on the edge of the couch in what was apparently… Yotha and Gun’s shared apartment.
This was real. Too real.
It wasn’t the series anymore. This was life. A life Gun lived beyond the credits. The décor was shared—plants and photos and laundry too close to the couch. The coffee table had clutter, the fridge had magnet notes, and when Santa brushed Gun’s fingers over a notebook on the table, the handwriting was scribbly but affectionate.
My turn to cook today. Don’t argue. Love you anyway. —Y
Santa didn’t even realize he was smiling until a voice cut through the haze.
“You’ve been weird since last night. Is this about the job offer again?”
Santa looked up to find Yotha leaning against the wall, hair damp from a shower, wearing sweats and holding a bowl of cereal. Just like that. As if seeing the man he’d acted beside—only fictional—was now real and breathing.
“…No. Not about the job,” Santa said quietly, unsure if Gun had one.
Yotha moved closer and set the bowl down. “You’re not gonna back out of the interview, right? We already agreed—”
Santa blinked. “Interview?”
A pause. Yotha’s brow furrowed. “You okay, Gun?”
Santa looked at him, voice dry. “Do I seem okay?”
“…You seem like you’re going through it.”
Santa stood, tried to stretch Gun’s frame out of nerves, and let out a breath. “I’m just… adjusting. To… adulthood.”
“Since when are you not over it?” Yotha chuckled. “You said we’d take turns spiraling—remember? Yours is on Tuesday.”
Santa huffed a laugh before catching himself. It was alarming. This whole domestic routine. The closeness. The way Yotha reached out to fix the collar of his shirt and gently kissed his temple before saying, “Go nap. I’ll handle the groceries.”
It made Santa’s throat tighten.
Because in all the ways he’s imagined Gun and Yotha’s bond… he never once thought of the soft silences. The way Yotha’s eyes lingered. The way “home” could sound like him.
He wants to scream. He doesn't know what to do, how to deal with this suddenly real reality. He wants to cry. He wants Perth.
That night, Gun stood in front of a mirror in Santa’s bedroom. Perth had offered to sleep on the couch, citing “headache,” but Gun had seen the faint red on the man’s ears. The way he kept checking his reflection like he was trying to see something that wasn’t there.
Gun lifted Santa’s shirt and stared at the lean build. His. But not. Then, the necklace—a familiar one. Perth had given it to Santa. The photo beside the bed confirmed it. Gun lifted the pendant, heart racing.
He didn’t know love like this. Not as Gun. But this Santa… had found someone who looked at him like sunrise. And Perth—
Who are you? Gun wondered, missing his own lover, And how do you love this fiercely?
Meanwhile, across worlds, Santa couldn’t sleep either.
He was curled into Gun’s bed, in Gun’s body, and everything reeked of the boy he once was coached into this role. Of the person he guided and protected. And now? He was him. Santa buried his face in the pillow. The soft thump of footsteps in the hall made his heart jump. In fear, nervousness, or panic, maybe all three? He doesn't know.
Yotha’s voice came through the door, quiet. “Still awake?”
Santa said nothing.
There was a pause before Yotha added, “I love you, Gun. Don’t have nightmares.”
Santa closed his eyes. This scene was never in the script. He seriously wants to cry.
[Gun as Santa | With Perth]
Gun was now settled enough in Santa’s life to navigate the basics—his schedule, tone of voice, even his texting habits—but one thing remained constant: Perth.
And Perth… had caught on. The conversation was quiet, done over the kitchen counter while Gun stirred milk into Perth’s coffee. The older man hadn’t asked outright. But he’d started offering stories.
Not interrogation. Just sharing.
“There was this time… Santa and I bickered for three hours because I told him I didn’t like how short his shorts were at practice.” Perth laughed softly, head tilted against the marble. “He wore something shorter the next day. Just to spite me.”
Gun chuckled, he doesn't even how the man but he feels like that matched so well. “Sounds like him.”
“You’d think I’d get mad again, but when I saw him backstage, pacing and mumbling lines just to calm himself down, I knew he wasn’t just being a brat. He wanted to be seen, even if it meant provoking me.”
He sipped his drink and looked at Gun.
“I think that’s when I knew I was already too far gone.”
Gun’s hands trembled.
Perth set the cup down gently. “You’re not him,” he said, voice warm but firm. “But I know you love someone too. That’s the only reason you’re still standing here. And that’s enough for me to trust you.”
There it was again—love without condition. Not romantic. Not misplaced. Just honest.
Gun nodded, voice a whisper, quietly marveling how calm this man is with dealing with all of it. He doesn't think his lover will be this level-headed when it comes to him. “He’s a good one.”
Perth smiled. “He’s mine.”
They never needed to say more.
Together, they researched quietly—journals, forums, esoteric texts from corners of the internet that probably weren’t safe. They reached out to a theoretical physicist Perth knew from a business tech collaboration. They talked about dreams, timelines, possible triggers.
And in between all of it, Perth shared stories. How he makes up a new nickname for him every week. How Santa cries watching reruns of “Spirited Away.” How he hums when he cooks. How Santa is the first person who ever made Perth feel wanted without needing to be impressive.
Gun listened, intrigued and mesmerized it all.
[Santa as Gun | With Yotha]
Meanwhile, Santa’s world was heartbreak in slow motion.
Yotha wasn’t stupid. He noticed immediately—the hesitations, the lingering glances, the way “Gun” tripped over jokes only they were supposed to share effortlessly. But he didn’t confront it.
Not yet.
Instead, he let Santa be. He watched the stranger in Gun’s body clean dishes slower than usual. Fold laundry with practiced but foreign hands. Overwater his plants. And every time Santa—this Santa who wasn’t Gun but still loved like him—looked at him with something unreadable, Yotha wanted to say - to scream - 'Just tell me!'
But he didn’t.
Because something in him whispered: ‘It’s not him. But he’s not wrong. He still feels right.’
One night, Santa broke. He sat on their shared bed, knees drawn to his chest, fingers clenched tightly as if holding back everything. Yotha emerged from the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder and knew. He took in the defeated stance of the other and quietly sat beside him.
“I’m not who you think I am Yotha,” Santa whispered, eyes never meeting his.
“I know,” Yotha replied simply.
Santa’s breath got caught. He doesn’t know what to do if the other man gets really mad, though he doubts it.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he started. “I woke up here. In his body. I’ve watched you from another world, loved your story, but I’m not him.”
“...But you remember the house rules. You know how I like my tea. You tied my apron the same way he does.” Yotha’s voice was low, unsure too, but steady.
Santa nodded, not knowing how to break this in gently. “Because I studied him. I watched him. I admired your love.”
Silence passes by for a full minute, then, softly as if speaking louder would break them—
“Do you love me?”
Santa looked up, eyes now wet with barely held back tears. “Not...not fully… Not you. I have someone too. But I respect you too much to lie.”
And Yotha—Yotha of all people—smiled.
“Then let’s fix this. You help me find him. And I’ll help you go home.”
Santa finally broke into tears, the kind that tremble quietly and fall one by one. Yotha, in spite of his held back questions and doubts, he chose to hold him a little close. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”
Somewhere across the mirror of worlds, Perth was reading an article Gun had pulled up—quantum echo fields, soul memory theory, parallel emotional anchors, putting his all into this despite the ache of missing Santa, seeing his face but knowing its another person inside. And Santa, curled up in Yotha’s oversized hoodie, typed out a message he never thought he’d send:
Santa: "I think… I found someone who understands. I’ll be okay a little longer. But come get me soon, okay?"
Gun, across time and space, felt his phone vibrate but no message was sent or received.
He smiled, barely a whisper: “Hang in there.”