JG one shots - Fictions

This was before joss came to gawin life

Podd and Gawin

Bangkok was a city built on contradictions, a sprawling metropolis where the ancient and the ultramodern collided with violent, beautiful regularity. By day, it dazzled beneath a merciless golden sun, its towering glass buildings reflecting ambitions as high as the clouds, a place where dreams were packaged and sold through slick advertisements, glowing television screens, and promises whispered by ambitious people chasing success with bared teeth. The air smelled of street food and exhaust fumes, of jasmine offerings at spirit houses and the chemical scent of new money. By night, however, the city transformed into something else entirely—a creature of shadow and neon, where the heat refused to dissipate but instead gathered in thick, humid pools among the alleyways. Neon lights, red and blue and sickly green, reflected across rain-soaked streets like spilled oil; secrets moved through crowded sois with the efficiency of professional thieves; and power shifted hands in places hidden far from public view, in underground arenas and private rooms where the rules of daylight did not apply.

Joss Way-ar Sangngern belonged to both worlds with equal fluency, moving between them as easily as a shark cuts through dark water.

To the public, he was a familiar face, almost deceptively so. People knew him as a successful actor, a model who could command attention simply by entering a room, and a former athlete whose discipline and determination had earned him respect throughout the entertainment industry. Magazines featured his photographs on glossy covers where his sharp cheekbones and intense gaze seemed to promise stories of conquest and luxury. Brands competed for his endorsement, offering fortunes for the privilege of attaching their names to his image. Fans admired the confidence he carried so naturally—the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he seemed untouchable, as if he had never known a moment of doubt or desperation.

What they didn't know was how hard he had fought to reach that point. What the cameras failed to capture were the scars beneath the designer clothing, the history written in calloused skin and the particular set of his jaw that spoke of battles fought in silence.

Long before the cameras. Long before the fame. Long before his name became recognizable throughout Thailand in breathless whispers and screams of adoration.

There had only been survival.

Joss had never been born into luxury. Nothing in his life had arrived easily, wrapped in convenience or handed down through privilege. Every opportunity had demanded sacrifice, each one paid for in blood and time and pieces of his youth that he would never recover. Every achievement had been earned through sweat, pain, and a relentless determination that bordered on the pathological—a refusal to kneel, to break, to admit defeat even when defeat seemed the only rational option.

Boxing had become his first teacher, his harsh introduction to the philosophy that weakness was a currency more expensive than gold.

The ring taught him lessons no school ever could. How to endure pain not as a temporary sensation but as a permanent companion. How to stand back up after being knocked down, when every neuron in his body screamed for stillness, for surrender, for the mercy of the canvas. How to keep moving even when every muscle fiber trembled with exhaustion, when his lungs burned and his vision blurred at the edges. Most importantly, it taught him that weakness was a luxury few people could afford, and that showing vulnerability was an invitation for the world to crush you.

While other young men spent their evenings enjoying their youth in clubs and casual gatherings, Joss spent countless hours in gyms that smelled of leather and iodine and desperation, training until exhaustion became his baseline normal. Split knuckles that wept blood onto the heavy bag, bruised ribs that made breathing a calculated negotiation, and aching muscles that sang with inflammation were simply part of life, as routine as morning coffee. Every victory came at a price, and Joss learned early that success belonged only to those willing to pay it in full, without hesitation or regret.

Then modeling found him, or rather, he found modeling when his body had been forged into something that cameras could not ignore.

His height, sharp features carved by genetics and discipline, and undeniable presence—the particular stillness he had learned in the ring that made every movement deliberate and potent—opened doors he had never imagined entering. Photoshoots replaced training camps. Fashion events replaced boxing tournaments. The world suddenly viewed him differently, seeing not a fighter from the wrong side of the tracks but a potential star, a face for billboards, a body for expensive fabric.

But underneath the expensive clothes and polished image remained the same fighter. The same survivor. The same storm that had never stopped gathering force, merely learned to hide behind tailored suits and practiced smiles.

Years later, when GMMTV offered him opportunities in acting, Joss had almost laughed out loud. Acting wasn't his world. At least, that's what he believed. He was a creature of physical truth, of direct action and consequence, not manufactured emotion and scripted dialogue. Yet somehow, the company saw something inside him worth developing—an intensity that translated to the screen, a charisma that could not be taught. They gave him chances. Training. Roles. Coaches who peeled back his layers and found the raw material of performance beneath the muscle. A future he never expected but found, against his own predictions, that he wanted.

Slowly, the boxer became an actor. The actor became a star. And the star became one of the industry's most recognizable faces, a man who could smile for the cameras while his mind calculated exits and angles, who could charm interviewers while his instincts remained coiled and ready.

But there were parts of Joss nobody truly knew. Parts carefully hidden beneath success and fame, buried so deep that even he sometimes forgot they existed. Rumors occasionally surfaced online—stories shared quietly between people who lived in darker corners of Bangkok, in forums that required special access and conversations that happened in encrypted messages. Whispers about a man known only as "The Storm." A figure who appeared in underground circles when situations became dangerous, when debts needed collecting or protection needed providing. A myth connected to private fights where the rules were few and the consequences severe, to powerful individuals who operated above and below the law, and to problems that disappeared before anyone could ask questions.

Nobody knew his real name. Nobody knew his face. Most believed he wasn't real, just another urban legend born from the city's fertile imagination and its hunger for dark heroes.

Joss preferred it that way. Because some truths were safer when they remained buried, and because the man he was in the ring—the man who could hurt, who could enforce, who could be terrifying when necessary—needed to remain separate from the man who signed autographs and attended premieres. Compartmentalization was survival.

Even his closest friends knew very little. Force knew Joss could become frighteningly protective when someone he cared about was threatened, had seen that darkness surface once when a drunk executive had gotten handsy with a friend at a club, but he didn't know the extent of it. Fluke knew there were moments when Joss disappeared without explanation, vanishing for days with only a text saying he was handling business, but he never pressed. Neither of them knew the entire story.

Nobody did.

As far as the world was concerned, Joss Way-ar Sangngern was simply a successful actor building a promising future, a rising sun in the entertainment firmament.

And for now, he intended to keep it that way.

Across Bangkok, in a neighborhood far removed from the luxury condos and private clubs where Joss moved, another life unfolded beneath entirely different circumstances.

If Joss was a storm—violent, unpredictable, and powerful—Gawin Caskey was music. Not the bombastic, aggressive kind, but something melodic and searching, something that found beauty in minor chords and complicated harmonies.

His apartment felt nothing like the glamorous homes people imagined celebrities owned. There were no panoramic views of the city, no marble floors or imported furniture. Instead, instruments rested against water-stained walls—an acoustic guitar with a worn fretboard, a keyboard covered in stickers, a ukulele he had owned since university. Half-finished lyric sheets covered tables alongside empty coffee mugs and pens that had run dry. Notebooks overflowed with melodies written in his cramped, artistic handwriting, scattered ideas that captured moments of feeling like butterflies pinned to paper. The space wasn't perfect. It was messy, lived-in, small. But it felt alive, breathing with creativity and the residue of emotion.

Much like Gawin himself.

Music had always been his sanctuary, his truest form of communication. Long before acting. Long before fame. Long before anyone recognized his face on the street or stopped him for photographs. When the world became overwhelming—when the expectations became too heavy, the schedules too demanding, the masks too tight—music understood him in ways people failed to. Songs carried emotions he struggled to express aloud, articulating the nuances of his heart with precision that speech could never achieve. Melodies became conversations with feelings he couldn't explain to friends or family, secret dialogues between his soul and the universe. Every lyric represented pieces of himself hidden beneath the smiles and quiet laughter he wore like armor.

People often underestimated him because of that gentleness. They noticed his soft personality first—the way he spoke quietly, the kindness he extended to everyone from directors to production assistants, his calm nature that seemed to absorb stress rather than reflect it. His warm smile, which reached his eyes and made strangers feel immediately at ease. What they failed to see was the determination beneath all of it. The resilience required to continue chasing dreams in an industry that chewed up hopefuls and spat them out daily. The courage it took to remain soft in a hard world, to choose vulnerability when cynicism would have been safer.

Music wasn't simply something Gawin loved. It was part of who he was. Part of his soul. His fingers on strings were his truest self.

Unfortunately, not every dream came true. Especially when it involved matters of the heart.

Podd had never intended to become the center of Gawin's world. It happened gradually, insidiously, like a song that starts quietly and builds to a crescendo before you realize it's become the soundtrack to your life. A smile here. A conversation there. Years spent working together on sets, sharing meals, exchanging glances that held weight Gawin was afraid to measure. Trust turning into affection. Affection becoming something deeper. Something dangerous. Something impossible to ignore, no matter how much logic argued against it.

The problem was that Podd knew.

Of course he knew. Anyone paying attention would have noticed eventually. The way Gawin's entire demeanor shifted when Podd entered a room, brightening like a lamp receiving current. The way his eyes searched for him in crowded spaces, finding him with unerring accuracy regardless of how many people stood between them. The way happiness arrived unbidden whenever Podd appeared, as if his presence generated a gravitational field of joy.

Podd noticed everything. The sensitivity that made him a good actor also made him observant, and he saw the way Gawin's fingers would tap nervously against his thigh when they sat together, the way his breath would catch when their shoulders brushed.

And yet—he never returned those feelings.

Not because he disliked Gawin. Not because he wanted to hurt him. But because he loved him differently. Like family. Like a younger brother who needed protection and guidance. Like someone precious and cherished. Just not as the man Gawin desperately wanted him to be, not with the fire and the possession and the romantic forever that Gawin's heart demanded.

One evening, after filming wrapped for their current project and the sky turned shades of bruised orange and burning gold, Gawin finally gathered enough courage to say what had remained trapped inside his heart for far too long. The confession had been building for months, years perhaps, a pressure behind his sternum that made it difficult to breathe, to sing, to sleep.

The words felt heavy. Terrifying. Necessary.

Podd sat beside him quietly on the steps outside the studio, scrolling through his phone while enjoying the peaceful evening, the last light catching in his hair. For several moments, Gawin simply watched him. Memorizing him—the line of his jaw, the way he held his phone, the casual power in his posture. Preparing himself for the fall he knew was coming.

Then finally, he spoke.

"P'Podd…"

Podd immediately looked up. His expression softened the moment he saw Gawin's nervous smile, the vulnerability naked in his eyes.

"Hm? What's wrong?"

Gawin laughed softly. A nervous sound. A fragile one that trembled at the edges. Then he took a breath. And jumped.

"Will you be my boyfriend?"

Silence followed. One second. Two. Three. Long enough for hope to bloom in Gawin's chest, terrible and bright. Long enough for heartbreak to arrive on its heels, inevitable as gravity.

Because Gawin saw the answer before Podd spoke. It was there inside his eyes. Sadness. Regret. Affection. Everything except the kind of love that would have made him say yes. The kind of love Gawin had nurtured in secret, watering it with every shared moment until it had grown too large to contain.

"Gawin…"

The younger man smiled despite the ache spreading through his chest, a fissure opening in his heart that he knew would take years to heal, if it ever did.

Podd reached over carefully and squeezed his shoulder, the gesture brotherly and final. "You mean so much to me."

There it was. The beginning of goodbye.

"But not in that way."

The words were gentle. Kind. And devastating, falling on Gawin's ears like blows he could not dodge.

Podd's voice softened further, lowering with regret. "I love you."

Hope flickered. Then died, extinguished by the words that followed.

"As my younger brother."

For a moment neither man spoke. The city continued moving around them, indifferent to the small tragedy unfolding on the steps. Cars passed. People laughed somewhere nearby. Life continued, brutal and unceasing. Yet for Gawin, everything felt strangely quiet, as if someone had pressed mute on the world.

Still—he smiled. Because loving someone sometimes meant accepting they would never choose you, and because his dignity demanded he not crumble in front of the man he loved.

"It's okay."

The lie tasted bitter, metallic. Both of them knew it wasn't true. But neither challenged it. Some heartbreaks deserved dignity, even when dignity was the last thing you wanted to offer.

Later that night, Gawin sat alone in his apartment with a guitar resting across his lap, the wood warm and familiar against his body. Soft music filled the room while his fingers moved absentmindedly across the strings, playing a melody that sounded like rain against glass, like tears falling in darkness. The song had no words yet, but it had feeling—longing and acceptance, pain and persistence.

He didn't know it yet. Didn't realize that somewhere else in Bangkok, in a penthouse high above the streets where he moved, a man known only through whispers and legends and the occasional frightening rumor was unknowingly moving toward the same future. A storm. A myth. A man feared in shadows who carried his own damage like a weapon.

And soon—a voice beautiful enough to reach places no one else ever could, to calm the storm and be protected by it in return.

Because fate had already begun writing a story neither of them were prepared for, weaving their threads together with invisible hands that cared nothing for timing or convenience.

And somewhere between music and darkness—between the gentle beauty of a song and the violent protection of the storm—everything was about to change.