Chapter 1: Morning After the Fallout
Light stabbed through the gap in the curtains, a laser beam aimed directly at Dunk’s left eye. He winced, and the movement sent a dull thunder through his skull. His mouth tasted like something had died in it—whiskey-sour and regret.
The heat was the second thing he noticed. A oppressive, skin-sticking warmth that seemed to come from all sides. The third thing was the weight. An arm, heavy and familiar, was slung across his waist, pinning the sheet to his hips.
Memory returned not as a flood, but in jagged, unwelcome shards.
Pond’s laughter, too loud, bouncing off the walls of his own living room. Joong, eyes dark and fixed on him, pouring another shot nobody needed. The way the music had seemed to pulse inside his chest, a frantic rhythm matching his own loneliness. A hand—whose?—brushing the hair from his forehead. Another guiding him backwards, down the hall, toward the bedroom. The collapse onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and hungry, searching mouths.
He wasn’t alone.
He turned his head, a millimeter at a time, his neck stiff.
Joong was pressed against his back, that possessive arm the anchor. His breathing was even, deep. The sharp, perfect lines of his profile were softened in sleep, but he still looked like a monument. An idol, even in repose.
And then, in front of him, facing him, was Pond.
Pond’s face was smashed into a pillow, his exhales warm and steady against Dunk’s throat. One of his legs was thrown over Dunk’s, a casual, intimate claim. In sleep, his usual charming smirk was gone, replaced by a startling serenity.
A full-body cringe, cold and sharp, swept through Dunk. His stomach twisted. He needed to move. Now.
Extracting himself was a clumsy, torturous operation. He lifted Joong’s arm, the muscles limp with sleep, and slid out from under it. He peeled Pond’s leg away, holding his breath. Each motion was agony, a blend of hangover and a deeper, psychic ache. He stood on shaky legs, the faded wood floor cold under his feet. The room was a disaster. Clothing strewn like road markers of bad decisions. An empty bottle on the nightstand.
He grabbed the first thing he found—a rumpled t-shirt—and pulled it on. It smelled like Pond’s cologne. He almost wretched.
In the kitchen, the silence was a roaring thing. He filled a glass with water, drank it, filled it again. He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, head hanging, trying to steady the spin. The shame was a physical layer on his skin, sticky and inescapable. He’d broken so many unspoken rules. With his partner. With his best friend. The two most important people in his life, and he’d let everything get blurred and ruined.
The soft pad of footsteps. He didn’t turn.
“Hey.” Joong’s voice was morning-rough, a sound that had once been a comfort. Now it felt like an accusation.
Dunk just nodded at the window, watching a pigeon on the fire escape.
Joong came up behind him, not touching, but the heat from his body was a presence. “You’re running. Already.”
“I’m getting water,” Dunk said, his own voice flat.
“You know what I mean.” A pause. “Look at me.”
Dunk turned reluctantly. Joong was shirtless, lean and pale in the gray light. His eyes, intense even now, scanned Dunk’s face. There was no horror in his expression. No regret. There was a simmering, focused energy Dunk hadn’t seen from him in months.
“Don’t do that,” Joong said softly.
“Do what?”
“Shut down. Pretend it didn’t happen.” He took the glass from Dunk’s hand and set it on the counter, his fingers brushing Dunk’s. “It happened. And it was…” He searched for a word. “Necessary.”
Dunk let out a short, hollow laugh. “Necessary? What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’ve been an idiot.” Joong’s hand came up, cupping the side of Dunk’s neck, his thumb stroking the jumpy pulse there. “Going through the motions. Distant. I know I have. Last night… I woke up. We all did.”
The touch, once craved, now felt confusing, tainted. Dunk pulled back. “You were drunk. I was drunk. Pond was… Pond. It was a mistake.”
“Pond’s still in your bed,” Joong said, and there was an edge to it. Not quite anger. Possession. “You think he thinks it’s a mistake?”
As if on cue, Pond wandered into the kitchen doorway, stretching with a grunt. He was wearing only his briefs, completely at ease. His smile was slow, real, and directed entirely at Dunk. “Morning. You got aspirin? My head is hosting a drumline.”
Dunk turned away, busying himself with a cabinet. “Top left.”
He heard the rattle of the bottle, the tap running. Felt them both there, in his space, a new and terrifying dynamic solidifying around him.
Pond leaned against the counter next to him, shoulder to shoulder. He popped the pills and dry-swallowed. “So. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” Dunk said, too quickly.
“Yeah, we do,” Joong said from his other side.
Dunk was trapped between their bodies, the memory of last night a living thing in the air. Pond’s playful confidence, Joong’s intense resolve. They were aligned in this, a united front against his denial.
Pond nudged him gently. “It doesn’t have to be a big, messy thing, Dunks. It just… is. It happened. And parts of it,” he glanced at Joong, then back at Dunk, a faint pink on his cheeks, “were really good. Weren’t they?”
The question hung there. Dunk couldn’t lie. The shards of memory included moments of breathtaking, shocking connection. A feeling of being seen, wanted, from both sides, that had filled a hollow place inside him he’d been ignoring for months. That was the worst part.
Joong watched him wrestle with it. A small, knowing smile touched his lips. He saw the crack in Dunk’s armor. He always did.
“You can’t just un-know something,” Joong murmured, his voice low, for Dunk alone. “I can’t. I won’t.” He reached out, his fingers hooking gently in the neck of Dunk’s borrowed t-shirt, his thumb brushing the collarbone underneath. “This is mine. He’s mine. You’re mine. And after last night, we all know it’s more complicated than that.”
Pond watched the exchange, his easy smile tempered by something raw and hopeful in his eyes.
Dunk looked from one to the other—the partner who’d rediscovered his obsession, the best friend who’d stepped out of the shadows. The quiet, lonely future he’d been resigned to was gone. This, whatever this was, pulsed between them now, fraught and terrifying and undeniably alive.
He had no idea what to do next. But the silence stretched, and in it, the only thing that felt clear was that the choice was no longer his alone to make.
But the silence stretched, and in it, the only thing that felt clear was that the choice was no longer his alone to make.
“I need air,” Dunk said, the words cracking in the middle.
He slid out from between them, a clumsy sideways shuffle that made him feel like a crab. Their hands fell away. The space they left on his skin felt colder than the kitchen.
“Dunk—” Joong started, his voice that particular careful tone he used during interviews.
“Just air. Five minutes.”
He didn’t go for the front door. That was too final, too dramatic. He fled to the bathroom instead, a pathetic retreat. He locked the door and leaned back against it, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until star-bursts bloomed in the darkness. The shower still smelled of Pond’s bergamot body wash. Joong’s razor sat on the edge of the sink next to his own. Evidence of a shared life now horribly, wonderfully complicated.
He could hear the low murmur of their voices through the door. Not the words, just the tones. Joong’s was insistent, persistent. Pond’s was calmer, a balm. They were talking about him. Deciding.
His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This wasn’t a hangover. This was pure, distilled panic. The walls of the tiny bathroom seemed to pulse inward. He couldn’t breathe in here, with their scents and their things. He couldn’t go out there, into the living room where the whiskey glasses still sat on the coffee table like exhibits in a museum of his bad judgment.
He looked at the small, high window above the toilet. It led to the fire escape. It was how he sometimes sneaked out to smoke when he’d told Joong he’d quit.
The thought was immediate, physical. A compulsion.
Moving quietly, he stepped onto the closed toilet lid. The window latch was stiff, but he wrestled it open with a soft grunt, the crunch of old paint loud in the quiet room. A gust of cool, sour city air washed over him. He hauled himself up, wincing as the old metal frame dug into his stomach. For a moment he was stuck, the t-shirt—Pond’s t-shirt—riding up, the morning chill raising goosebumps on his skin.
Then he was through, kneeling on the grated platform of the fire escape. The world outside was jarringly normal. Traffic hummed five stories below. A delivery truck beeped as it reversed. The sky was a pale, watery blue.
He didn’t go down. He went up, his bare feet silent on the冰冷 metal. One flight, then another, until he reached the rooftop door. It was, as always, unlocked.
The rooftop tar was gritty and cold under his soles. The vast, empty sky opened above him, a relief after the claustrophobia of his apartment. He walked to the edge, the low parapet wall hitting him mid-thigh, and gripped the rough concrete. He could see his neighborhood stretching out, all brick and faded signs and little lives contained in little boxes. His own box, directly below, held a problem with too many sides, a feeling too big to name.
He wasn’t thinking. He was just being. The wind dried the sweat on his temples.
HE ESCAPES SILENTLY.
The wind was colder up here, cutting through the thin cotton of Pond’s t-shirt. It felt good. It scrubbed at the film of shame clinging to his skin. He could still feel the shape of Joong’s hand on his waist, the weight of Pond’s leg over his. Phantom limbs, holding him down.
The rooftop door squealed on its hinges.
He didn’t turn. He knew the tread. Lighter, more deliberate than Joong’s. Pond.
"You're gonna freeze," Pond said. His voice was close. He’d brought a hoodie, which he draped over Dunk’s shoulders. Dunk stiffened but didn’t shrug it off. The fleece was warm from inside the apartment. From Pond’s body.
"It’s easier to think up here," Dunk mumbled.
"Yeah. Less of last night’s ghosts." Pond came to lean against the parapet beside him, close but not touching. He followed Dunk’s gaze to the distant skyline. "Joong’s pacing a trench in your living room. He thinks you’re gonna call everything off."
"And what do you think?"
Pond was quiet for a long moment. "I think you’re scared. I think we all are. But I also think you kissed me back. And you looked at him while you did it." He finally turned his head. Dunk could feel the look like a physical touch. "That wasn’t nothing, Dunks. That was… something real. Messy. But real."
Dunk’s throat tightened. Messy was the word for it. His whole life was neat compartments: partner, best friend, career. Now someone had kicked the walls down and everything was spilled together, ruined.
"What does it even mean, Pond?" The question was a whisper, lost for a second in the wind.
"It means we talk. We figure it out. Together." Pond’s hand came to rest on the parapet, his pinky an inch from Dunk’s. "Or we don’t, and we let it fester. And we lose each other. All of us. That’s the other option."
The back of Dunk’s eyes burned. He was so tired of being the understanding one. The patient one. The one who waited while Joong chased a dream that left no room for him, who laughed off Pond’s flirting as just Pond being Pond. Last night, for a few drunken hours, he hadn’t been understanding. He’d been wanted. Demanded. It had been terrifying and electric.
The door slammed open again, harder this time.
Joong stood in the doorway, hair wild, pulling a sweater over his head. He looked furious and scared, a caged animal. His eyes locked on Dunk, then flicked to Pond’s nearness. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"Get down here," he said. It wasn’t a request. It was an echo of a hundred commands in rehearsal halls, but his voice cracked on the last syllable.
"This is my roof, Joong," Dunk said, and his own quiet steadiness surprised him.
Joong strode across the tar, ignoring the cold in his bare feet. He stopped a foot away, a force field of anger and need. "So you just run? That’s your play? You climb out a bathroom window rather than talk to me? To us?"
"What is there to say?" Dunk pushed off the wall, facing him. The hoodie slipped from his shoulders. "That we messed up? We know. That it can’t happen again? It won’t. So what’s left to discuss?"
"You’re lying," Joong shot back, stepping closer. "To us and to yourself. You think I didn’t feel it? You think I don’t know you anymore?" He reached out, gripping Dunk’s wrist. His hand was warm, his grip too tight. "I know you. Last night, you were there. You were present. You haven’t been present with me in months."
"And who’s fault is that?" Dunk yanked his arm back, the anger finally surging, hot and welcome. "You’ve been a ghost, Joong! Your body’s here but the rest of you is with Jasper, or your managers, or…" He trailed off, the unspoken name hanging between them.
"Or with me," Pond finished quietly. He hadn’t moved from the wall, a spectator to the collision.
Joong had the decency to flinch. "That’s not—"
"Isn’t it?" Dunk laughed, a short, bitter sound. "You’ve had time for late-night rehearsals with Pond. Deep, meaningful chats. You brought that energy home and poured it into him because I was just… furniture. Reliable, quiet furniture. And then last night, you finally looked at me again, and you didn’t like that he was looking too."
The truth of it silenced even Joong. His lips parted, but no sound came out. The wind whipped between them.
Pond pushed himself off the wall. "Okay. Enough autopsy." He moved to stand between them, not as a barrier, but as a pivot point. He looked at Joong. "He’s not wrong. You have been distracted." He looked at Dunk. "And you’ve been a martyr. Neither of you know how to ask for what you need." He took a deep breath. "What if… what if we need something different now? All three of us."
Dunk stared at him. "Like what? A schedule? A rotation?"
"Like honesty," Pond fired back, his easy charm gone, replaced by a raw urgency. "Like admitting that maybe we don’t fit in the neat little boxes we built four years ago. Joong’s life is insane now. Your career is taking off. My feelings…" He shook his head. "They’re not simple. They haven’t been for a while. Last night was chaotic and stupid and perfect because for one night, we stopped pretending. That’s all I’m saying. Let’s just... stop pretending."
The world seemed to tilt. Dunk looked at Joong, really looked. The anger had dissolved into a naked vulnerability he hadn't seen since they were broke kids sharing a bowl of instant noodles. He saw the fear there, the same fear that was clawing at his own ribs. The fear of losing this. Of breaking.
Joong’s gaze held his, pleading silently. Then it shifted, ever so slightly, to include Pond. A triangle of tension, of possibility.
Dunk couldn’t breathe. The offer was too vast, too unknown. It wasn’t a solution; it was a leap into a void. The safe thing, the sane thing, was to shut it down. To demand normalcy. To rebuild the walls.
But the memory of last night wasn’t just sweat and mistake. It was Joong’s mouth on his, yes, but it was also Joong’s hand finding Pond’s, linking them all together. It was laughter tangled with desire. It was a feeling of being entirely full, for the first time in a long, lonely year.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t process this, not here with the wind biting and them watching, waiting, their hopes hanging on his next word. The pressure was a physical weight on his sternum. He needed it to stop.
He took a step back. Then another. Away from the parapet. Away from them.
"Dunk…" Joong’s voice was a frayed thread.
"I can’t," Dunk said. The words were flat, final. "I just… I can’t do this right now."
He turned and walked toward the rooftop door. Not running. Just leaving.
"Where are you going?" Pond asked, confusion and hurt finally breaking through his calm.
"Out."
He didn’t clarify. He pushed through the heavy door, descended the cold metal stairs two at a time, and ducked back through the bathroom window. His apartment was empty, the silence screaming with their recent presence. He didn’t pause. He pulled on the first pair of jeans he found, real shoes, grabbed his wallet and keys from the bowl by the door.
He didn’t look back at the rumpled bed. He didn’t listen for them on the roof.
HE LEAVES.
HE LEAVES.
The door clicked shut behind him, a sound so final it echoed in the stairwell. Dunk took the steps two at a time, his breath coming in sharp gasps that had nothing to do with exertion. The lobby was a blur of mailboxes and faded linoleum. Then he was out on the sidewalk, the late morning sun a personal insult.
He walked. No destination. Just away.
The city was Saturday-morning sluggish. Cafe queues, dog walkers, the rumble of a distant garbage truck. Normal people with normal problems. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his fingers brushing against a forgotten ticket stub. From a movie they saw together months ago. He let it stay there.
His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession. He didn’t look. He knew the rhythm of the vibrations. The first, insistent and arrhythmic, was Joong. The second, a quick double-tap, would be Pond. He turned the corner, the sounds of the main avenue fading into a quieter residential street. The buzz came again. A text chain. A group chat. Of course.
He pulled the phone out, thumb hovering over the power button. Instead, his traitorous finger swiped the screen open.
Joong: Where are you?
Joong: This isn’t funny.
Pond: Give him a minute.
Joong: A minute for what? To completely shut down?
Pond: To breathe. You’re smothering him.
Joong: You’re one to talk. Your “honesty” speech worked great.
Dunk’s vision blurred. He stopped, leaning against the cool brick of a building. He typed, deleted, typed again.
Dunk: I’m breathing. Stop.
The typing bubbles appeared instantly. Both of them. He could see it, them in his apartment, maybe on the same couch, phones in hand, united in their worry and their need. A new kind of intimacy he wasn’t part of. He locked the screen.
He walked for twenty more minutes, his feet carrying him on a well-worn path he hadn’t realized he was taking. The small, shabby park by the old canal. Their spot. From years ago, when Joong wasn’t an idol, just a drama student with a killer smile, and Pond was just the ridiculously handsome friend from the boxing gym who kept eating all their snacks. When the biggest problem was affording beer.
He sat on their bench, the green paint flaking under his thighs. A couple of ducks paddled in the murky water. This was the epicenter of his before. And now he sat here, trembling in the after.
He heard them before he saw them.
The distinct cadence of two sets of footsteps—Joong’s quick, purposeful stride, and Pond’s longer, slightly rolling gait. He didn’t turn.
They stopped a few feet behind the bench. He could feel their presence like a change in barometric pressure.
“You found me,” he said to the ducks.
“You’re predictable,” Joong said. His voice was closer, softer now. Stripped of the rooftop anger.
“We were worried,” Pond added. He came around and sat on the bench, leaving a careful foot of space between them. He stared straight ahead, mirroring Dunk’s posture. Joong remained standing, a restless silhouette in Dunk’s peripheral vision.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of everything unsaid. The ducks quacked.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Dunk finally whispered. The admission cost him.
“None of us do,” Pond said.
Joong moved then. He came to the front of the bench and crouched down, putting himself in Dunk’s sightline. His eyes were red-rimmed. “I’m sorry. For before. On the roof. For… for a lot of things.”
Dunk looked at him. Really looked. The sharp idol facade was gone. This was just Joong, scared and sorry. “I’m scared, too,” Dunk said, the words jagged in his throat.
Joong nodded, swallowing hard. He reached out, tentative, and placed his hand over Dunk’s where it rested on the bench. His touch was warm.
Pond watched the connection, a complicated emotion passing over his face. Not jealousy. Something sadder. Acknowledgment. He slowly placed his own hand on top of Joong’s, completing the stack. A silent, layered pact.
Dunk stared at their hands. His, then Joong’s, then Pond’s. A sandwich of want and fear and potential. The world didn’t end. The bench didn’t collapse. The ducks just kept swimming.
“So what now?” Dunk asked, his voice raw.
“Now,” Pond said, squeezing their hands gently. “We go get stupidly expensive coffee. And we sit. And we don’t pretend we have any of the answers.”
Joong looked up at Dunk, his dark eyes holding a question, a promise, a plea. “Just be there. Please. Both of you.”
Dunk took a shuddering breath. The sun felt warmer on his skin. He didn’t move his hand. He left it there, anchored under theirs.
THEY FOLLOW.