Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.”

Chapter Text

[Santa as Gun | With Yotha]

It’s late. The apartment is dim, the light from the kitchen casting a warm, amber glow across the hardwood floors. Santa sits at the dining table — well, Gun’s body sits at the table, but the shoulders are straighter, the energy quieter. Yotha leans against the balcony doorway, glass of water in hand, staring out into the streetlights. He hasn’t said much since dinner.

Santa watches him for a while, fingers curled around a tea cup Gun probably wouldn’t have chosen.

“Do you always keep things to yourself like this?” he asks softly, not looking up at first.

Yotha doesn’t turn around, but there’s a flicker — a pause, like someone gently holding their breath. Then he replies,

“Not always.”, He pauses, as if choosing his words, “Only when I’m scared.”

Santa hums quietly. He doesn’t push. He’s good at that — sitting in silence until the space feels safe enough to speak again. Mostly, its him trying to make this easier for the other, especially after knowing that he is younger. Eventually, Yotha continues, voice still quiet.

“It’s not even that I don’t believe you. You’ve taken care of things. You didn’t cross any lines. It’s just—every time I look at your face, I expect him. And I know it’s not him. And I keep thinking, what if he doesn’t come back?”

There it is — the thread of worry, stretched too tightly over days of pretending everything is fine. The weight Yotha carries so quietly.

Santa stands and crosses the room slowly. He doesn’t touch him — not yet — but he stands close enough to be felt. Close enough that if Yotha needed to fall apart, he wouldn’t have far to fall. And Santa understands, he knows the history and like Yotha, he’s been here too, just different battles. And despite the absurdity of things, when faced with his lover's face and especially after his late morning theory of this being a boon, an insight to where what if they really are just another version of themselves.

“I used to be like that too,” Santa admitted. “Held things in. Thought if I didn’t speak them, they’d go away. But it just turns your chest into a battlefield.”

Yotha finally turns to face him. The tension in his shoulders is rigid, and his eyes shine a little — not with tears, but with that quiet, aching kind of exhaustion.

“I don’t even know you,” Yotha murmurs. “Not really. But I feel like I do.”

Santa smiles, a little sad as he understands the notion. Especially when inside he feels like breaking. “Maybe that’s what love does. Makes echoes in other people’s hearts. Maybe we’re just catching them.”

Yotha looks at him — really looks — and for the first time, something in his expression softens. The war eases, just a little.

“Do you think he misses me?” he asks, and it’s the most fragile he’s sounded.

Santa doesn’t hesitate. “More than you know. He talks about you in the small moments out loud when he is alone. The way your hand feels when you hold his. The mug you always use. How the world makes sense when you’re nearby. I’ve seen it in my head, some of these memories.”

Yotha’s throat works around the sudden lump. He turns back to the balcony quietly.

“Thank you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Santa steps closer and gently bumps his shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me. He’s lucky to have you. And I think…I am too, in a way.”

They stay like that for a while — not touching, not speaking. Just two men, bonded by the people they love, holding space for the ache of missing someone and the hope of getting them back.

[Gun as Santa | With Perth]

The sun filters in through the half-open curtains of Perth’s condo. The living room is quiet, the kind of peaceful that feels earned after a long, strange night.

Perth steps out of the kitchen holding two mugs of coffee, one black and the other made the way Santa likes it — sweetened just enough, with a dash of whole milk. He pauses in the doorway when he sees Santa, or rather Gun, curled up on the couch, knees tucked under his chin, watching the city like it’s foreign. At the fragility of the other, Perth thanked his parents and all the training he had that he was able to handle all this supernatural happening without breaking, because the younger one feels more pitiful. He knows the story but interacting with the boy for hours had him pushing his own feelings aside and just treat this as if this is Santa's younger brother.

“You like coffee?” Perth asks gently, walking over.

Gun turns, startled a bit before offering a sheepish smile. “I mean, I do. But I don’t think he does.”

Perth chuckles, sitting beside him and handing over the mug anyway. “Then take it for yourself. You’re still you, even like this.”

There’s a quiet sip. Gun closes his eyes at the taste. “This is nice,” he says softly. “No offense, but your world is kind of loud. Fast. But you’re… grounded.”

Perth glances at him. There’s something in Gun’s voice — not quite sadness, not exactly nostalgia either. Something softer.

“You okay?” he asks, not particularly invested but more concerned, not wanting the other to cry because he himself is barely keeping it together.

Gun looks down into the cup. “I don’t know. It’s weird. It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s favorite shirt. It fits, sort of. But I know it’s not mine. And I keep thinking about Yotha, about how worried he must be.”

Perth nods. “He is. You’re his world. You can see it — in the way he looks at you, even when you're not in the room.”

Gun laughs, surprised. “You sound like you know what that feels like.”

Perth tilts his head, a small smile on his lips. “I do.”

Gun glances at him, something quiet and curious in his eyes. “Was it scary for you too? Loving someone that much?”

Perth doesn’t answer right away. He stares at his coffee, at the ring of light reflecting off the surface.

“Terrifying,” he says finally. “Especially when it sneaks up on you. When it comes from someone you weren’t supposed to fall for. But then one day you realize it’s not a crush. It’s not curiosity. It’s home. And suddenly, anything else feels like exile.”

Gun doesn’t speak for a long moment. His throat moves like he’s swallowing down something too big to name.

“I think I get it now,” he murmurs. “Why he loves you. Why your story matters.”

Perth looks at him, brow raised. 'what is this kid on'

Gun smiles, eyes glassy but warm. “Because you make it easy to want forever.” Gun truly thinks so. From the moment this man knew he was not his lover, he was still treated with respect and kindness. 

And Perth — unshakable, in control, always the composed one — feels something flutter in his chest. For a second, the image before him flickers, the cadence and tone of voice gets overridden and he sees his Santa.

It’s not Santa’s voice even if the tone is the same, but for a second, it feels like something he’s been told before. Maybe not in words. Maybe in glances, touches, the way Santa always leans just a little closer than needed.

They sit there in silence, two men in borrowed skins, bonded by the people they love — realizing that, even in this twisted moment of fate, they’d still find echoes of home in each other’s worlds.

[A Place that's Not Quite a Dream]

The familiar scent of jasmine and firewood, crisp linen and the faint warmth of another body pressed beside his, registers first. Santa breathed in deeply, his limbs weightless in this space that was neither dark nor light, just soft. Gentle.

He blinked and found himself sitting on the couch in Perth’s condo. Only it wasn’t quite the condo. The furniture shimmered at the edges, half-remembered. The walls flickered between gray and warm beige. Like memory filling in the blanks.

He looked up—and there was Perth. Older. Real. Solid. His.

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Phi…?”

Perth didn’t speak at first. His chest rose and fell like someone waking from a dream that was a little too real. But then—his hands reached forward, fingers grazing Santa’s cheek.

“You’re here.”

Santa nodded, nearly breathless. “I thought maybe this was another fantasy. My brain teasing me.”

Perth swallowed hard. “Feels real enough to me.”

For a moment, they didn’t speak. They just looked, held each other, drinking each other in like the parched survivors of a long drought.

“You’re safe?” Perth finally asked, now leaning in and cradling him close, the question bothering him since their bodyswap.

“Yes phi,” Santa whispered. “Yotha was kind.”

“And you phi?”

Perth gave a small smile. “Gun’s... clever. Different. But he’s come to love you. I see it in how he talks about you, even to me.”

Santa leaned forward, curling his fingers over Perth’s.

“I missed you every day.”

“I never stopped wanting to see you again.”

It wasn’t a kiss that followed—but a pressing together of foreheads, a mingling of breath. The kind of closeness that only lovers who knew each other before they even touched could create.

But then—The air cracked. A sharp, static hiss cut through the scene, and suddenly the world shimmered, melting like watercolor under rain. Perth tried to hold on.

“Ta—!”

His voice was yanked away.

[Santa & Gun]

It felt like stepping into a garden mid-bloom — soft golden light filtering through lace curtains, and a scent in the air like fresh tea and sun-warmed pages.

Santa looked around, breath caught in his throat. And then—he saw him.

Gun.

Shorter, leaner, radiant in a way that went past smiles or posture — Gun practically glowed with that bright kind of energy that wrapped around others like sunlight through leaves. Santa had to pause, ‘he really is the sunshine of this world’, he thought, chuckling despite the situation.

Their eyes met, and everything slowed. Gun’s steps were light as he crossed the space, head tilting with warmth and curiosity.

“You’re really… not me,” he said, half-whispered.

Santa blinked and gave a sheepish smile. “No. I’m not.”

There was no fear between them — no wall of awkwardness or tension. Just a blooming recognition, like two sides of a coin finally seeing each other face-to-face.

“I took care of Yotha,” Santa said softly. “The way I knew you would’ve. I promise you, I didn’t try to change him or do anything. I just… kept him company. Until I figured it out.”

Gun’s smile reached his eyes. “He’s tough. A bit grumpy. But he loves hard. It’s hard not to want to care for him.”

Santa nodded, and just to be sure, he asks. “And you… you did the same for phi Perth, didn’t you?”

“I tried,” Gun said. “He figured it out pretty quick. He saw me. Really saw me. But he still protected me like I was his. And… he talked about you.”

Santa’s breath hitched.

“Even in your body, even when he knew something was off — you were all he talked about. How you laugh. How your eyes flick up when you’re shy. How you made him feel like he could still feel play around like a kid even now after all those years, when everything else still expected otherwise. I saw it afterwards you know, like flashes of your life when I sleep."

Santa’s eyes burned. “I missed him.”

Gun stepped forward, eyes also watery, knowing and feeling the same, and took his hand. “I know,” he said. “But now you’ll get to say it yourself.”

[Yotha & Perth]

The air was thicker here — heavier, not ominous, just grounded. Like dusk settling before nightfall. Yotha was already standing and alert when Perth appeared. Their eyes met. There was no challenge, no sizing each other up, just a quiet moment of observation — man to man, protector to protector. Perth was the first to smile.

“You know, when I was preparing for the series, I thought I understood your character.”

Yotha didn’t speak but he acknowledged it. Santa told him all about it.

“I read your lines, studied your pauses. Thought I had you down. But it wasn’t until now… that I really get it.”

Yotha’s shoulders relaxed, slightly.

“Is he safe?” he asked, ever the one to be straight to the point. Quiet. Firm. 

Perth’s gaze softened. “He is. Safe. Cared for. Loved.”

Yotha finally breathed. “Good.”

There was a long silence before Perth added, “He took care of me too, you know. Even in my Santa’s body.”

“He would.”

“You know, the way he talks about you,” Perth said with a half-laugh, “he never stopped. Even when it confused everyone else, he always came back to you.”

Something shifted in Yotha’s expression — not quite a smile, but the hint of it tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I think,” Perth said, “we both got very lucky.”

Yotha gave a quiet nod. “Even if it started weird.”

Perth chuckled. “Especially because it started weird.”

[The Rift is Closing]

Two pairs stood, now closer to returning home than they had been before. Santa and Gun stood side by side, fingers lightly linked, both looking toward the light now splitting across the horizon, having bonded over the short amount of time.

Perth and Yotha exchanged a firm handshake — more than polite. It was a promise, between people who understood love from opposite ends of the mirror. And then — as if something in the universe knew the exchange had been complete — a hum ran through the air. Its time to return. Each turned to their other, one last time.

“You’ll be okay,” Gun said, smiling wide, leaning to give his counterpart a hug. “Better even.”

Santa laughed, teary-eyed but also went it and held the other tight. “So will you Gun, thank you.”

Yotha gave Perth one last nod. “Thank you.”

Perth clapped his shoulder gently. “Take care of him and yourself too – as you always have.”

Four steps forward — and in a shimmer of gold and silver, the dream unraveled like mist.

[Present]

The first inhale came with a gasp. Sharp, too fast, like surfacing after being underwater too long. Perth jolted upright, hair damp with sweat and chest rising too quickly. The world was back — warm, soft morning light streaming through the curtains, the quiet hum of the air conditioner. Familiar. Safe.

He looked down to see Santa’s body curled beside him. Santa. His Santa. Not Gun.

“Tata,” he whispered, hands coming up to gently hold him, not trusting himself to believe it just yet.

The younger stirred, eyelids fluttering open. And just like that — Perth knew. The way Santa blinked, disoriented and then locked eyes with him like he was anchoring back into reality — that was him. No hesitation. No unfamiliar distance. Santa’s hands reached out, gripping him tightly like he was scared he’d vanish again.

“It’s me phi Perth,” he said, breathless.

“You’re back,” Perth breathed, voice cracking slightly. “It’s really you.”

Santa nodded, shakily, clinging to Perth now. “I dreamt of you. But you weren’t you. And it felt too real. It wasn't a dream.”

Perth pulled him closer, burying his face in Santa’s hair. “I know baby. Same.”

There was silence between them for a moment, the kind that only two people who had almost lost something precious could share.

“Was it real?” Santa whispered. “That place, the meeting?”

Perth pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

“I think so. Doesn’t matter if it was magic, a dream, or the universe playing games,” he murmured. “What we said… what we felt… that was real.”

Santa smiled, recalling the other in that space. “Gun’s kinder than what the story portrayed. We bonded, he said you talked about me.”

Perth let out a soft laugh. “Couldn’t shut up about you.”

That earned him a grin. “Figures.” Perth leaned in and pressed his lips to Santa’s forehead. “Never leave me again like that Tata.”

“I won’t,” Santa promised, and he meant it with everything he had.

[Yotha & Gun]

Gun awoke in Yotha’s arms.

The weight of the familiar hold made him freeze. For a beat, he didn’t dare hope — but when Yotha whispered “Gun,” with the warmth of someone who’d waited, Gun exhaled.

“You’re back,” Yotha murmured, brushing strands of hair from his lover’s face.

“I think so.”

Gun blinked, taking stock of his limbs. His reflection in the mirror near the bed showed himself, not Santa. Relief flooded through him then Yotha pulled him even closer.

“He was kind,” he admitted softly.

Gun looked up. “Santa?”

Yotha nodded. “He looked like you, but I could feel it – He wasn’t you. But he cared, cared too much. He spoke gently, stepped back when I needed time. Told me I’d be okay.”

Gun rested his head against Yotha’s chest, listening to the steady heartbeat beneath. From his journey on the other side to the actual talk with Santa, he felt it too.

“I talked to Santa,” he whispered. “He… he loves his partner. Like, fiercely. But gently too. You’d like him.”

“I already do,” Yotha said, remembering his own encounter in that strange place.

There was a moment of quiet before Gun added, “It was weird. Being someone else. Not just being inside a body that feels weird but strangely natural or seeing how they look like us. But it made me realize… how much I missed just being us.”

Yotha kissed the top of his head. “We’re lucky,” he said. “Not everyone gets to see what they look like from the outside.”

Gun smiled. “It made me love us more.”

“Me too.”

Later that day, both couples sat — worlds apart but emotionally aligned — and typed out nearly identical messages to the other pair.

“Whatever that was… thank you. We’ll carry it with us.”

Not needing to send it, not even knowing how — but it felt right. And maybe, in some liminal way, it was received. After all, hearts that know how to love so deeply — across worlds, across time — never truly lose each other.

They just find new ways to say, "We’re okay now. Better, even."

The day after the swap, Santa had woken up expecting disorientation, maybe a little emotional whiplash. What he didn’t expect was Perth smirking at him across the breakfast table like he had the upper hand in a debate Santa didn’t know had started yet.

“So,” Perth starts, casual as ever, “was I right?”

Santa, still in his oversized tee and bedhead, squints. “Right about what?”

“The way you played Gun.” Perth sips his coffee, smug. “I told you he’s the type to cry before punching someone.”

Santa rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smile. “He didn’t cry. He brooded.”

“He pouted.”

“Brooded,” Santa insists, then adds softly, “but you were right phi. About how soft he really is. He loves hard, protects harder.”

There’s a pause before Perth leans in, voice lower now, invested. “And Yotha?”

Santa glances up at him, teasing glint returning. “Which one?”

Perth blinks, then narrowed in the way where he knows a stupid comment is coming up. “There’s only one Yotha.”

Santa smirks. “Exactly. But I meant the one in the script, the one in your head, or the one who lowkey glared at me every time I touched the stove?”

Perth chuckles at that, understanding it even without seeing how that played out. “Ah he’s territorial.”

“So are you phi, you’re no better,” Santa fires back, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? And which Yotha did you like best?” Perth teases, eyebrow raised.

Santa pretends to think. “The one who had abs and nearly killed me with one stare or the one who actually looked at me like I was his whole world in the middle of a messy apartment with burnt toast?”

Perth stills, the teasing is turning to jealousy real fast. Right. He might have fucked up with this question.

“I liked both, but probably the one who looked at me like I’m all the wrong things but still treated me like a princess. He was nicer phi. Touched me too gently too, like I was porcelain. It was nice, I enjoyed it.”

Perth felt that tick in his jaw, he did not want to feel jealous of some character except, from the events these past days, he’s not just a fictional character now.

“He touched you?” He asked, voice lowered to that voice he knew Santa would not resist.

Santa continues, a bit softer now, no teasing as he looked at his lover getting all jealous of someone who might as well be himself, just in another dimension.

“I can choose. But I’d still choose you phi.”

Perth looks at him for a long second, feeling the flutter in his chest, then bites his cheek. “Okay. Not fair Tata.”

Santa grins. “Why?”

“Because now I feel like I’m falling for you again.”

Santa shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Good. Fall harder.”

Meanwhile, in the other world, Gun and Yotha are still recovering from the weirdness of it all.

Gun is pacing their kitchen. “You have no idea how weird it was to know about you like I’d watched you grow up. Do you know how creepy that felt?”

Yotha snorts, leaning back on their worn-out couch. “Do you know how creepy it was that you cooked with chili oil? Chili oil, Gun. For eggs. You.”

Gun shrugs. “I panicked. Your boyfriend liked it.”

Yotha narrows his eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Gun grins. “He said otherwise.”

Yotha groans. “He thinks otherwise.”

Then quieter: “He looked like you, Gun. But he wasn’t you.” 'he wasn't you but he looked at me like he loved me too'

Gun looks up. “Yeah… I know that feeling. It was weird, because even when he wasn’t you, he made me feel safe. And I could tell he felt the same way about you.”

Yotha sighs, remembering something from a book when him and Santa were researching, “Same soul, different world?”

Gun smiles. “Something like that.”

They sit in silence before Yotha adds, “They’re actors. Imagine that. Thousands of people watching your every move. I’d lose my mind.”

Gun chuckles at that. He had the exact same thought back in that world. “You already do. When I leave laundry on the couch.”

“…Fair.”

A beat passes then Yotha leans his head back, eyes softening. “But it’s a relief, isn’t it?”

Gun blinks. “What is?”

“That no matter the world… we find each other.”

Later, they met in the dreamspace for one last time.

It’s not clear who dreams first, but somehow, they all find themselves there again — the misty place between timelines, standing face-to-face once more. No alarms. No glitching. Just a quiet air of understanding. No words needed, really.

Perth smiles at Gun. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Gun nods. “And he’s lucky to have you, too. But don’t burn the kitchen down.”

Santa chuckles at that. “No promises.”

Yotha eyes Santa from beside Gun. “Don’t wear those tank tops again.”

Santa smirks. “No guarantees.”

They laugh. Then they say it, one after the other, voices overlapping as the dream begins to fade—

“You’ll be okay.”

“We’ll be okay.”

“Better.”

And just before the light swallows the dream—Perth reaches for Santa’s hand. Yotha leans into Gun’s side. Because even if this was all a one-time fluke, even if they never find each other like that again in another life—they’ll remember and they'll carry it with them. Because love — real love — leaves echoes. Even across worlds.

Morning sunlight drifted lazily through the half-open curtains, casting soft streaks across the hardwood floor and over the edge of the bed where two tangled bodies lay in a still cocoon of cotton sheets and quiet breathing.

Santa stirred first. He blinked sleep from his lashes, the edges of his dreams still clinging to him like fog. Glimpses of another world, another version of himself, of Gun. Of Yotha. A fleeting life shared with someone else — someone who wasn’t Perth, but who still reminded him of the man holding him now.

Perth’s arm was slung possessively across his waist, legs entwined like he couldn’t bear a single inch between them even in sleep. His face was tucked close, nose buried in Santa’s shoulder, breathing steady and soft.

Safe. Familiar. Real.

Santa turned slightly, brushing his fingers through Perth’s hair. He smiled when the older man shifted closer instinctively, mumbling something incoherent into his skin. There was something stupidly sweet about seeing him like this — unguarded, gentle, not the businessman or the old-money heir or the commanding presence everyone knew him as.

Just Perth. His Perth.

A few minutes passed in silence before Perth’s voice cracked through the sleepy haze. “Tata you’re staring again.”

“Because you’re ridiculously clingy when you sleep.”

Perth grunted. “Only with you.”

Santa laughed quietly. “Lucky me.”

They stayed like that for a while longer, until Perth finally opened his eyes and blinked up at him.

“That dream,” he murmured, voice raspy, “it felt so… real.” It was like they're just realizing how bizarre yet real that experience was even if it was just for a few days.

“It was,” Santa replied, fingers still threading through his hair. “In some way, it was.”

Perth nodded slowly. “Do you think they’re okay? The other us?”

Santa smiled. “They’re us. Of course they’re okay.”

“You think I’d ever fall for someone else in another world?” Perth teased lightly, eyes now fully awake and watching him.

Santa leaned down, kissed his forehead. “You could try phi. I’d still find you.”

Perth chuckled, rolling them both so that he hovered over Santa, bracing himself with an arm. “Confident.”

“Always phi,” Santa said with a grin. Then quieter, almost shyly, he whispered, “I love you.”

Perth looked down at him, all sleepy affection and soft awe. Like every time he heard those words from Santa, it undid something inside him — loosened knots he didn’t know he carried. He lowered his head and kissed him — slow, tender, no rush, no heat. Just love.

“I love you, too,” he whispered. “And I’m not letting you out of my sight today.”

Santa grinned. “You say that every day.”

“I mean it every day.”

They spent the rest of the morning like that — stealing soft kisses, cooking terribly uncoordinated breakfast together (Santa burnt the toast again, claiming it was “texture”), and falling asleep on the couch halfway through a movie they both had seen five times already.

No more supernatural swaps. No more dreamscapes. No more alternate timelines. Just them. Here. Now. Real. And in the gentle quiet of that home, the echoes of other lives softened into background hums — not forgotten, but no longer needed.

Because in every universe, in every version of love, they’d still find their way back.