Chapter Text
The air in the Stray Kids’ practice room was thick with the scent of citrus-scented floor cleaner and the lingering humidity of eight men who had spent the last four hours perfecting a choreography they could probably do in their sleep. But today, the atmosphere wasn’t just heavy with sweat; it was heavy with a looming departure.
“You have the Thai-Korean dictionary app downloaded, right?” Bang Chan asked for the fourth time, leaning against the mirror as he watched Jisung shove a pair of oversized headphones into his carry-on.
“Yes, Channie-hyung,” Jisung sighed, though there was no real bite in it. His stomach was a nest of live wires.
“And you’re going to call us after the press conference? Even if it’s late?” Felix added, hovering nearby with a small bag of Australian snacks he’d insisted Jisung take. “I heard the food there is amazing, but sometimes you just need a Tim Tam, you know?”
Jisung looked at his members—his brothers—and felt that familiar tightening in his chest. He was the "Quokka," the ace, the lyricist who could melt a crowd with a single rap verse. But he was also the boy who got anxious in large crowds, who overthought every social interaction, and who had never stayed in a foreign country alone for six months.
“It’s a drama, not a military deployment,” Lee Know remarked from the corner, though he was busy meticulously folding Jisung’s hoodies into his suitcase with a precision that betrayed his own worry. “Besides, he’s going to be a 'star.' Our Sungie, the BL King.”
“It’s a crossover!” Jisung protested, his face heating up. “It’s a serious romantic drama. Sunsets in Seoul. It’s about cultural exchange and… music.”
“And a lot of staring into a handsome Thai actor’s eyes,” Hyunjin teased, winking. “I’ve seen First Kanaphan’s clips, Jisung. You’re in trouble. He’s got that ‘golden retriever’ energy that makes people want to give him their soul.”
Jisung swallowed hard. He had seen the clips too. He’d spent the last week "researching" his co-star, which was really just a polite way of saying he’d fallen down a YouTube rabbit hole of First Kanaphan’s laugh. There was something terrifyingly genuine about the way First moved—a grace that felt grounded, unlike the sharp, polished edges Jisung was used to in the idol world.
“Don't let him charm you too much,” Changbin said, clapping a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. “Remember, you’re representing 3RACHA. Keep your cool.”
“I’m always cool,” Jisung lied, tripping over his own suitcase a second later.
The flight from Seoul to Bangkok was five and a half hours of internal screaming. Jisung spent most of it staring at his lyric notebook, scribbling lines about "strangers sharing a script" and "the static between two languages."
When the doors of Suvarnabhumi Airport opened, the heat hit him like a physical weight. It was floral, spicy, and thick with moisture—a complete departure from the dry, biting cold of a Korean November. But it wasn't just the weather that was intense.
As soon as he cleared customs, the sound reached him.
“HAN JISUNG! HAN JISUNG!”
A sea of fans—STAYs and Thai BL enthusiasts—were packed against the barricades. The flashes of cameras were blinding. Jisung felt that familiar spike of adrenaline-laced anxiety, but as his manager, Min-ho (not the member), guided him forward, he saw a group of men standing near a black van.
One of them stood out.
He was taller than Jisung expected, wearing a loose-fitting linen shirt that should have looked messy but instead looked effortlessly chic. His skin was a warm honey-gold, and his eyes were crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something the person next to him said.
This was First Kanaphan.
Beside him stood a shorter, equally handsome man with a sharp jawline and a mischievous glint in his eye—Khaotung, First’s legendary on-screen partner and off-screen best friend.
As Jisung approached, the world seemed to slow down, the screams of the fans fading into a dull hum. First turned, his gaze locking onto Jisung’s.
Jisung’s heart didn't just beat; it thudded against his ribs.
First didn't give a polite, stiff Korean bow. He stepped forward, his entire face lighting up with a radiance that felt more powerful than the Thai sun.
“Jisung-gap?” First said, his voice a smooth, low baritone that vibrated in Jisung’s marrow. He used the Thai suffix for respect, but his tone was incredibly intimate. “Welcome to Thailand.”
Before Jisung could remember how to use his tongue, First reached out. It wasn't a handshake. He tucked a hand under Jisung’s elbow, a steadying, tactile gesture that was so common in Thai culture but felt like an electric shock to a Korean idol used to strict personal boundaries.
“I… hello. Yes. Thank you,” Jisung stammered in a mix of English and broken Thai. “I am Han Jisung. Happy to meet you.”
“I’m First,” the actor said, his smile widening, showing teeth that were perfectly imperfect. “This is Khaotung. He’s playing your rival in the show, but don't worry—he’s only mean when the camera is on.”
Khaotung stepped forward, giving a playful wai. “Welcome to the madness, Jisung. We saw your performance at the MAMAs. My sister is a huge fan. She told me if I’m mean to you, I’m not allowed home for New Year’s.”
Jisung laughed, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to dissipate. “I’ll try to make sure you can go home, then.”
Three hours later, Jisung was sitting backstage at a luxury hotel, being fanned by two stylists while someone touched up his concealer. The reality of the "Fake Dating" contract was about to begin.
His manager knelt in front of him. “Jisung, remember. This isn't just a drama promotion. The production has invested millions in this crossover. The 'First-Jisung' ship needs to be the biggest thing in Asia by tomorrow morning. When you’re out there, look at him. Touch his arm. Laugh at his jokes even if you don't understand the Thai. We need the fans to believe the chemistry is real before the first episode even airs.”
Jisung looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like an idol—sharp suit, styled hair, glitter on his eyelids. Then he looked at First, who was sitting a few feet away, scrolling on his phone.
First looked up and caught Jisung’s eye in the mirror. He didn't look away. Instead, he winked.
“Ready for the lions' den?” First asked, walking over.
“I’m used to crowds,” Jisung said, trying to sound confident. “But I’m not used to… this.” He gestured between the two of them.
First softened. He stepped into Jisung’s personal space—a move that would have been a scandal in Seoul but felt like an invitation here. He reached out, his long, slender fingers gently adjusting the collar of Jisung’s suit.
“Just look at me,” First whispered, his eyes dropping to Jisung’s lips for a split second before returning to his eyes. “When you get nervous, just look at me. I’ve been doing this a long time. I won't let you fall.”
The "humanity" of the moment hit Jisung harder than the PR training. First wasn't just being a professional; he was being kind.
As they walked out onto the stage to the deafening roar of a hundred journalists and a thousand fans, First reached down and found Jisung’s hand. He didn't just hold it; he interlaced their fingers, squeezing firmly.
Jisung’s breath hitched. He looked up, and for the first time, he didn't see a Thai actor or a co-star. He saw a man who felt like a lighthouse in a storm.
The cameras flashed, capturing the exact moment Han Jisung’s pupils dilated, and the internet began to break.
The script was set. The roles were assigned. But as Jisung felt the warmth of First’s palm against his, he realized with a sinking, terrifying certainty that he was a very, very bad actor. Because he wasn't sure he could pretend to feel something this real.
The SKZ Group Chat (2:00 AM BKK Time)
Chan: Jisung! We saw the photos from the press con. You look… wow. You’re really holding his hand, huh?
Hyunjin: THE EYE CONTACT, JISUNG. I’m literally screaming in the dorm. You look like you’re staring at your soulmate.
Lee Know: Did he feed you? He looks like the type who would feed you. Make sure he buys you the expensive mango sticky rice.
Jisung: It’s just for the cameras, guys. It’s the contract.
Seungmin: Sure, Jisung. And I’m a professional dancer. Your ears are red in the high-def photos. Explain that.
Jisung turned off his phone, tossing it onto the hotel bed. He walked to the window, looking out at the glittering lights of Bangkok. The humidity was still there, clinging to his skin like a memory.
He could still feel the phantom pressure of First’s fingers between his own.
“I won’t let you fall,” First had said.
Jisung pressed his forehead against the cool glass. “Too late,” he whispered to the empty room. “I think I already am.”