Chapter Text
The glow from the phone screen was the only real light in the room. It painted Dunk’s face a sickly blue, hollowing out his eyes and hardening the set of his jaw. The shaky, vertical video played on a loop on his Twitter feed, the caption a screaming font of hearts and exclamation points. JOONGPOND REAL?? BACKSTAGE MOMENT JUST NOW!!
The fan-cam was grainy, all harsh fluorescent light and frantic movement. But it was clear. It was his Joong. His long-term partner, his person. Pressed against a concrete wall backstage at some magazine event, bodies angled together, Joong’s hand cradling the back of Pond Naravit’s head. It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite. It was the breath before one, the intense, private space where only one conclusion waited.
Dunks finger hovered over the screen he didn't blink.
“Dunk?” Ryu’s voice came from somewhere to his left, tentative. “You’ve been staring at that for five minutes. Talk to us.”
The apartment felt too small suddenly, the cozy clutter of script pages, discarded hoodies, and empty water bottles transforming into the debris of a neglected life. The single lamp by the sofa cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock him. A faint, perpetual hum from the streetlight outside bled through the curtains.
“Is it bad?” Figo asked, leaning forward from the armchair. His usual joking tone was sanded down to something careful. “I mean, it’s probably nothing. Staged for the cameras. You know how it is.”
Dunk finally moved, dropping the phone onto the cushion beside him like it was hot. It landed screen up, the video still playing silently. He rubbed his palms hard over his knees of his sweatpants. “His hand was on his neck,” Dunk said, his voice flat. “He only does that with me.”
The silence that followed was thick. Ryu and Figo exchanged a glance over Dunk’s slumped shoulders.
“Okay,” Ryu said, shifting on the couch. “But, like, context? Maybe Pond had something in his eye. Or it was a secret handshake gone wrong.”
Dunk let out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh. It came out as a dry crack. “A secret handshake where you breathe into someone’s mouth?”
Figo winced “right dumb theory.”
“He hasn’t answered my texts all day,” Dunk said to the dim room. “Sent him a stupid picture of my lunch. A ‘hope your shoot is going well’ this afternoon. Nothing. But he had time for… that.”
The word ‘that’ hung in the air, ugly and vague. The neglect hadn’t been a sudden storm; it was a slow gradual dimming. Cancelled plans that were “just work,” conversations that ended with Joong already half asleep, a kiss that felt more like a habit than a hello. Dunk had been patching the holes with understanding, with patience, telling himself this was just the grind, the price of their lives. The video was the final gust that ripped the whole frail structure away.
A key turned in the lock.
All three men stiffened. The door swung open and Ohm stepped in, kicking off his shoes with a familiar clatter. He had a paper bag from the late-night market in one hand. “Hey, losers. I brought satay. The smell in that elevator is still a crime, by the—” He stopped, his cheerful patter dying as he took in the scene: the oppressive quiet, the two friends sitting like sentinels, and Dunk in the center, carved from stone.
Ohm’s eyes went to the phone on the cushion. The video had looped back to the beginning. He didn’t need to pick it up. His face just softened, the easy smile melting into something pained and understanding. He put the bag down on the cluttered entryway table.
“Ah,” he said, quietly. That was all.
He came over, not to the empty chair, but to sit on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of Dunk, their knees almost touching. Ryu and Figo seemed to fade into the background.
“You’ve seen it,” Dunk stated. His voice threatened to break.
“I’ve seen it,” Ohm confirmed. His gaze was steady, holding Dunk’s when Dunk wanted to look anywhere else. “About an hour ago. I was going to call you.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted to see you. Not just hear your voice trying to be okay.”
The simple honesty of it was a small fracture in the dam. Dunk felt his chin quiver. He looked down, focusing on a frayed thread on his sweatpants.
“I don’t know what to do,” Dunk whispered.
“You don’t have to know right now,” Ohm said. His voice was a low, warm hum, a counterpoint to the cold digital buzz still emanating from the phone. “You just have to breathe.”
Ohm reached out, not for the phone, but for Dunk’s wrist. His fingers brushed over the rapid pulse there, a gentle, grounding pressure. They lingered. A second too long for just friends. The touch was a different language than the one in the video. It wasn’t claiming or possessive; it was an offer. A steady, silent presence in the crumbling world.
Dunk’s breath hitched. He turned his wrist, just slightly, so their skin pressed together more fully. The contact was a lifeline.
Ryu cleared his throat. “We should… maybe get some plates for that satay.” He stood, pulling a grateful Figo up with him. They retreated to the small kitchen, the sounds of cabinets opening and closing a deliberate, respectful noise.
Alone in the lamplight, Dunk finally looked up at Ohm. The hollow feeling was still there, a cavern in his chest, but at the edges, something else flickered. A recognition. A question.
Ohm’s thumb swept once, slowly, across Dunk’s wristbone. “It’s going to be a shitty night,” he said, his words barely audible. “But you’re not alone in it. Okay?”
Dunk nodded, a single, shaky movement. He believed him.
The moment stretched, fragile and new. Then headlights from the street below swept across the ceiling, a sudden white arc that vanished as quickly as it came. It was followed by the sound of a car door slamming, not on the street, but somewhere in the building’s parking structure underneath them.
A specific, familiar engine cut off. Dunk’s body went rigid. Ohm’s hand tightened on his wrist. They all knew the sound of Joong’s car.
The silence in the apartment became a living thing, thick and charged. The faint clatter from the kitchen stopped. Dunk could feel the blood rushing in his ears, a tidal wave drowning out the hum of the streetlight. Ohm’s hand was still on his wrist, a warm, solid tether.
Ohm didn’t pull away. He just looked at Dunk, his gaze asking a silent question. Are you ready?
Dunk wasn’t. He felt split in two. One part was the hurt boyfriend, shredded by the pixelated betrayal on his phone. The other was the performer, already calculating the angle of his shoulders, the tone of his voice, the script they would both have to act out.
“Okay,” Dunk breathed, the word just a shape on his lips. He gently extracted his wrist from Ohm’s grip. The loss of contact felt like stepping out of a warm room into the cold.
The door opened.