Chapter 1: Skyline Tensions
Umut’s laugh faded into the humid afternoon, leaving a silence that felt heavier than before. Berkay watched a thin line of ash drop from his cigarette and dissolve in the breeze. Years ago, he’d told Ismail he was gay, right here on this rooftop; Ismail had clapped him on the shoulder, said “Cool, man,” and then never mentioned it again, a quiet acceptance that somehow felt like a door gently closed. Umut had found out later, his reaction a mix of clinical curiosity and a slight, unplaceable shift in his posture whenever the topic skirted too close.
“Kyiv, though,” Umut repeated, stretching his arms behind his head, his t-shirt riding up. “Seriously. No commitments, no morning-after chat over coffee.”
“Just a prescription after,” Ismail grunted, taking a long pull from the bottle before passing it to Berkay.
Berkay felt the warm glass in his hand. “Must be nice,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended, “to have that as an option.” He kept his eyes on the skyline, feeling the weight of Umut’s gaze slide over to him and stick.
“What, you don’t?” Umut asked, his tone light but probing.
Ismail shifted in his chair, the aluminum creaking. “He’s got options. He’s just picky.”
“I’m not picky,” Berkay said, a faint smile touching his lips. He took a sip, the liquor burning a clean line down his throat. “It’s just been a while. A long while.”
The admission hung in the air, stark and simple. Ismail looked away, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the concrete. Umut’s expression softened, not with pity, but with a sharp, calculating understanding. “How long’s a while?”
Berkay shrugged, the motion easy, but his knuckles were pale around the glass. “Years.”
“Shit,” Ismail breathed out, a laugh that held no humor. “Man, I’d lose my mind.”
“Man, I’d lose my mind.”
Ismail took the bottle back, shaking his head with a gruff laugh. “Shit, forget Kyiv. We should just solve your problem right here.”
The words, meant as a crude punchline, landed in the still air. Umut’s eyebrows shot up, a slow smirk spreading. Berkay simply stared at Ismail, his expression unreadable.
“What, like a three-way?” Umut asked, his voice light, testing the water.
“Yeah, sure,” Ismail scoffed, his face flushing immediately. “A mercy fuck. For Berkay.” He gestured broadly with the bottle, the liquid sloshing. “We’re friends. It’s just… logistics.”
A brittle silence followed, broken only by Umut’s low chuckle. Berkay finally let out a soft, incredulous breath. “You’re an idiot.”
“Totally,” Ismail agreed quickly, too loudly. “Forget I said it.”
They all laughed then, a strained, dismissive sound that evaporated into the city’s hum. But the idea, once spoken, didn’t dissipate. It settled among them, a ghost now sharing their sunlit space.
A week later, on the same concrete, Umut nursed a beer and watched a plane cut across the twilight. “Been thinking,” he said, his tone casual, steady.
Ismail tensed almost imperceptibly.
“About that stupid joke,” Umut continued. He looked at Berkay, then at Ismail. “Not as some big thing. Just… trying something. Like skydiving.”
“Skydiving doesn’t involve your friends,” Ismail muttered, not looking up.
“It doesn’t have to change what anything means,” Umut pressed, his voice persuasive, smooth. “Ismail, it’s just an action. It doesn’t rewrite your history. And Berkay… friends help each other out, right? It’s natural.”
The silence was thick, charged. Berkay studied the label on his bottle, peeling it slowly. Ismail rubbed his jaw, the stubble making a faint sandpaper sound. No one said no. The ghost between them took a solid breath.
The ghost between them took a solid breath. Another week passed in a series of texts about football and vague plans to hang out. No one mentioned the rooftop, but on Friday evening, the same unsaid thing pulsed through a final message from Ismail: Flat’s empty tomorrow. The replies were a thumbs-up and a cool.
The air in Ismail’s living room the next afternoon was still and too warm. Berkay’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he was sure was visible through his shirt. Ismail leaned against the kitchen counter, ankles crossed, laughing too loudly at something Umut said. Umut himself was a study in forced calm, scrolling through his phone before placing it facedown with a definitive click.
“We could just… not,” Berkay said suddenly, his voice thin in the quiet. He gestured vaguely at the space between them. “We can stop. Nothing’s happened.”
A heavy silence collapsed. Ismail pushed off the counter, the relaxed facade cracking for a second, his internal debate clear in the tightness around his eyes. Then he snorted, a rough, familiar sound. “Are you kidding?” he said, striding toward Berkay. “I’ve been psyching myself up for this all week. I even trimmed my beard.” He scratched his jawline, a crude, hilarious gleam in his eye. The tension shattered into reluctant, breathless laughter. Umut shook his head, a real smile finally breaking through. “Yeah, okay,” Berkay breathed, the permission leaving him lightheaded.
“Yeah, okay,” Berkay breathed, the permission leaving him lightheaded.
“Good,” Umut said, his voice low and practical. He moved first, crossing the short distance to the worn couch and patting the space beside him. “Come on. Just sit. We’re just talking.” Berkay sat, the springs groaning under his weight. Ismail hesitated, then lowered himself onto Berkay’s other side, his thigh a solid line of warmth pressed against Berkay’s. Umut slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingertips just brushing Berkay’s shoulder. The casual contact was a brand.
“So,” Umut began, his thumb moving in a slow, absent circle on Berkay’s shirt. “What’s the… protocol? Is it difficult?”
Berkay focused on the ceiling crack Ismail had stared at a week before. “The mechanics aren’t,” he said evenly. “Your brain makes it hard. You just have to stop thinking.”
Ismail let out a shaky laugh. “Stop thinking. Great. Simple.”
Umut’s hand slid from the couch to Berkay’s neck, a firm, grounding squeeze. “See? Just a mindset.” Then, without fanfare, Umut turned Berkay’s face toward his and kissed him. It was a dry, closed-mouth press of lips, lasting only three seconds. He pulled back, his expression unreadable. “There. Not a catastrophe.”
He looked past Berkay at Ismail, whose face had gone pale. “Your turn.”
“No way,” Ismail barked, recoiling. “I’m not—you know what I’m into.”
“It’s just an experiment,” Umut said, his voice like a calm river smoothing over rock. “A data point. It doesn’t mean anything unless you decide it does.” The silence that followed was thick enough to swallow. Ismail’s jaw worked. He looked at Berkay, who held his breath, and then, with a grimace of pure conflict, he leaned in. The kiss was clumsy, all misplaced pressure and held breath, but it was intentional. When Ismail pulled away, he wouldn't meet either of their eyes.