Chapter Text
It starts the day after Joong moves into his new apartment. He returns from work when the time’s almost bleeding into midnight, having stayed back longer than necessary to finish working on a deadline. He contemplates whether he should just go to bed or eat something.
His stomach grumbles, for which he will be grateful later, but which annoys him now. He sighs as he washes his hands and digs into the cabinet with packets of instant noodles. He has just about filled a pot with water when he hears yelling. It sounds threatening; Joong almost drops the pot on his feet. “What the fuck,” he whispers to himself as it seems to keep going on.
He considers ignoring, assuming it is a fight, until he hears a sharp scream of pain and a thud of heavy wood dropping. It is the upstairs neighbour for sure, and there are two people. What is being spoken is pretty incomprehensible, but he hears profanity. Someone calls someone a “dirty slut” and someone wails, apologizing.
He immediately knows it isn’t a fight, it is very one-sided. But it could be something else, too. So he decides first to check for himself. But as he opens the door, he finds a man standing in front of him, leaning against the door of the apartment across from Joong’s own. His eyes look glassy, sympathetic. “We have all tried, khun. There is no point. He’s just going to tell you it’s a kink thing,” the man tells him with a sad smile.
“What?” Joong is confused. There is no fucking way it is a kink thing. “I don’t think anyone, irrespective of how into BDSM they are, would not even stop to check in on someone they are domming, especially when a piece of furniture slams on the ground.” He sounds accusatory; the noise upstairs seems to have subsided, but Joong swears he hears faint sniffles. His heart breaks.
“Everyone knows that, khun. But there is only so much the rest of us can do when the victim doesn’t speak up and lets his husband humiliate him and his sexuality in front of everybody,” the man says, his eyes morphed into disgust. “I promise. We have tried a lot. Complained to the landlord, police, and even ganged up on the asshole. But the poor boy always defends him, says everything is consensual.”
“Nobody even tried to evict them?” Joong cannot fathom how an entire group of people could have missed to disable this. The man smiles at him again, a myriad of emotions. “They almost were, but somewhere along the way, we stopped it. The poor boy, his name is Dunk by the way, he is too nice. Speaks to everyone politely and helps out people in the building. We didn’t know what would happen to him if he left this place. Keeping him here is all we can do to protect him considering the possibility of it not being consensual. When you hear noise, just knock on the door and his husband gets conscious and stops—or at least stops making the noise.”
Late into the night, when the neighbour from across the hall—who introduced himself as Off—retracts to his room, Joong cannot sleep. It sends shivers down his spine thinking about the circumstances of this place. The plainsighted abuse that is being allowed! Joong doesn’t believe he can be a bystander and thus a complicit.
“At the end of the day, it is their personal matter, khun. You cannot come between spouses when they don’t want you to,” is the last thing Off had told him, as if abuse could ever be excusable.
“You never know. Maybe it is indeed a kink,” Pond says when Joong tells him about it. Next to him, Phuwin rolls his eyes, “Then wouldn’t they have installed soundproof barriers by now?”
Joong feels like pulling his hair out. “It is still a possibility. The chances of a couple being deep into sadomasochism isn’t zero, you know? Have you even met them yet, Joong?” Joong shakes his head; he doesn’t exactly know if he wants to or not. But there is something.
“Don't assume then. I know it always helps to be wary, but it is one of those things. If he isn't speaking up, there must be some reason. Try to get to know him if it's possible, and if you ever want to put trash in a landfill, you have us for it,” Phuwin pats Joong's shoulder as he says it, smiling at him gently. Joong only but nods.
It is a few days later when he hears the shouts again. Joong tries to consider Pond's words. There are people who are ridiculously kinky, but the thought that it always sounds so painful and never pleasurable—there never are moans of pleasure, no signs of enjoyment—makes Joong adamant. The shattering of the glass is Joong's last thread.
Before he can think of what he is supposed to say, he has rung the doorbell. Everything goes still for a moment as he waits, and then he hears something. It is faint, barely audible, but Joong has always been known for his impeccable hearing. “You useless piece of shit. Can never keep quiet!”
Joong sees red before registering anything else. He is a law-abiding citizen, and is morally upright. Uncivilised actions aren't what people ever expect of him. When the door opens, he knows it is not Dunk. The rough stature and the inhumane face speaks for it. The man leans against the doorframe as he puts on an obviously fake smile.
“How may I help you?”
Joong wants him dead at that moment. He tries to peak in, for any signs of other existence. He doesn’t care to bring himself up to answer this man's question. “Khun? How may I help you?”
Joong snaps back, and tries. “Erm. I heard glass shatter and shouts. Everything alright here?” The man grins like he knew this is what Joong would say, like he knows Joong cannot touch him. “Yes, khun. I am sorry for the disturbance. My husband . . . he has trouble keeping it low. I guess he likes being heard.” Joong clenches his fist and teeth as the man laughs. He hasn't ever witnessed monstrosity of this level.
“Oh,” Joong says, trying to think of ways to solve this mess. “Is he okay? I could hear cries, too. Would you mind if I see him?” He hates asking this man for consent, he knows he should shove him against the wall and barge in and take Dunk far away from him.
But he is nobody. A stranger. And this man, no matter how disrespectful and shitty the husband is. The other man raises his eyebrows, lips pursued like he is failing at an improv show. He thinks for an answer, almost forgetting he is perhaps not compliant to the stranger at his door.
“I am so sorry on his behalf, khun. We'll keep it down, you won't be disturbed, stay rest assured. And he isn't in a state to be presentable to you. You know? He is in the middle of something.”
Joong nods, vision mostly blurry, and leaves. Because if he doesn’t leave now, he perhaps would end up doing something he'd regret later. He doesn’t comprehend anything other than the in-between lines of the conversation. The implications, the obvious cruelty.
He calls Pond immediately. “What loving husband sells his partner like that, Pond? What kink makes someone humiliate their spouse in front of a stranger?”
“Joong, calm down first, please,” Pond replies. He sounds concerned, Joong perhaps sounds really angry. “And then tell me what happened. Slowly.”
And Joong does. He keeps emphasizing on “He said his husband has a hard time keeping quiet, Pond. He said his husband likes being heard. What is he trying to achieve? What is this if not defaming his husband and an attempt at having him slutshamed by people?”
Pond stays quiet for a while, and Joong loses patience as the silence stretches. “Pond,” he says in irritation, “you said it could be kink. Do you still think it is?”
Joong hears him sigh. “No, Joong. I think someone needs a little help. Even if he rejects it.” That's strangely what Joong needs to hear to feel like he isn’t going crazy. “It was a two minute conversation, Pond. And I feel jitters all over me. I think he would have convinced me if I stayed longer.”
Pond sighs again, more despondent, like he wants to protect something he doesn’t know, too. “You know what to do when you need help.”
About three days later, on a Saturday morning, Joong is going out to buy groceries, tiredness evident in his form from sleeplessness. Outside the building, he sees a few kids chirping and playing in the park. He stops to see them, they're playing football, and Joong observes for a bit.
Then, donned with a simple full-arm sleeve white t-shirt, the most beautiful man Joong has ever seen steps in, blowing a whistle at two kids who get a little aggressive with each other. Joong isn't usually prone to talking to strangers, but there are a few things that make him pocket his car keys and enter the park.
He's always enjoyed watching normal people, kids and adults alike, play. There is a definite pull he feels about the man who glows from such a distance. And he wants to know more about the upstairs couple so he needs to talk to people here.
He sits on the bench closest to the group and leans back. One of the kids looks at him and runs in his direction. “Phi, do you wanna play with us?” Joong looks at the adorable boy who is looking at him with big excited eyes. He laughs, “Will you allow phi to?”
The boy nods. “If you want to, some phis join us all the time.”
“What’s your name,” Joong asks, looking at the kid with interest, even as his eyes trail off to the man trying to manage the children. He is prettier upclose, Joong notices, so soft and sweet-looking. Joong wonders. The boy answers him, pulling his focus back, “My name is Beam. What is yours, phi?”
It is just at that moment the man catches them, seemingly looking for a missing child from the group. “My name is Joong,” he answers and watches the most gorgeous person he has ever set his eyes on walk towards him—milky skin, full pink lips, and eyes that tell stories. His eyes meet Joong, and sends shivers down Joong’s spine. There is something eerie, Joong can say it, behind the smile and behind the excitement.
The man looks away at Beam. “Nong Beam, why did you run off in the middle of the game?” He sounds so smooth, and an underlying of something familiar. Joong cannot look away, it is like a box of mysteries. Joong wonders what this man’s name is. Beam looks at the man, “Phi Joong here was looking at us, I was just asking him if he wants to join.”
The man looks at Beam with a kind of tenderness that scratches his heart with soft nails. Joong feels his eyes relax automatically. “Oh,” the man says, eyes landing back on Joong, and he nods. Beam runs back to his group as Joong stares back at him.
“Hi. I am Joong, I just moved here a few days ago.” He watches as the man’s eyes frown at the last part, as if he recognizes. “Oh,” he replies, and there is a pit of anxiousness forming at the bottom of Joong’s chest. “Welcome. I am Dunk.”
Dunk must see Joong’s eyes widen, because he looks at the ground immediately. He knows, Joong can say. He either saw Joong that night or he recognized his voice, or it is because he is new here. But Dunk knows who he is. And now, Joong knows Dunk doesn’t like any of it.
“That’s a nice name, khun Dunk. Do you come here to play with the kids often?” Joong has to put every bit of energy and determination to sound cordial and pleasant. Dunk nods slightly, still not meeting eyes. “Um, sometimes. When time permits.” Joong has an inkling he knows what it implies.
“Oh, that’s nice. You look like you enjoy it, it is sweet.” Dunk looks up at him then, eyes rounding up. Perhaps curious, perhaps a little doubtful. “Ah, yeah, um, thank you. I like playing with these kids. They are adorable.” He smiles, looking back at the group, a kind of love emanating from him that makes Joong’s head spin, his heart crack.
Protection comes easy to him—with family, with friends, with people he cares about. He makes a decision that comes to him so easily. “Do you mind if I join?” Dunk purses his lips like he is trying to understand Joong. Joong lets him have his time, lets him adjust to the request, process, and make a decision. But, to be sure, he adds, “If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t impose.”
It awakens Dunk, Joong sees the jolt, sees his entire body shudder. Such a little thing and this beautiful man is thinking too much over it. “Of course not, khun. You can obviously join us.” Dunk smiles at him as he says, and Joong knows he is in trouble. The smile is unlike the one he has had this entire conversation. It is more open, friendlier, an opening of a door.
Joong walks to the kids shoulder to shoulder with Dunk, who is as tall as he is. And they play. Dunk quits being the referee and teams against Joong. It takes a minute for the reservations to drop, for Dunk to get loud and boisterous and laugh with abandon. His hair bounces adorably as he runs, and he cheers so loudly and happily when he blocks Joong’s goal; Joong misses every goal after that. Dunk jumps around, making adorable faces at Joong.
“Do you wanna grab breakfast, khun,” Joong asks when Dunk’s team wins against Joong’s and the adults leave the children be. Dunk looks happy, but this brings him to it. He looks at Joong, beads of sweat dripping down his hairstrands. “I am sorry, khun. I am a married man.”
Joong snorts, only lightly. “Does that forbid you from breakfast?” He doesn’t want to scare Dunk away; he wants Dunk to feel comfortable and relaxed. Dunk sighs, “No. I just thought I should let you know. Just in case—I am sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a narcissist.” Joong laughs at that. “No, you’re too pretty not to think people hit on you. I get it. But I really am just asking you to accompany me, if you are comfortable, that is. I don’t know much about the surroundings here,” he assures, eyes twinkling.
Dunk seems to ponder, the tip of his upper lip between his teeth. “I don’t know much either,” he whispers, looking at his feet. Joong has observed that he does that a lot, casting his eyes down, bending his head low.
“Oh,” Joong says, trying to mask his surprise and concern, “That’s okay. We can explore together, then.” Dunk takes a few more moments, but nods in the end. “Okay. B-but I have to be back in an hour, so can we—” Joong doesn’t say anything at first, waiting for Dunk to finish his sentence, not wanting to interrupt. But when it becomes clear that Dunk has just trailed off and isn’t going to complete it, Joong steps in. “I’ll drop you off in fifty minutes. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Joong memorizes Dunk’s congee order in a heartbeat. It is fairly simple: soft boiled egg, roasted peanuts, sesame oil, and fried shallots. Joong thinks it fits him. It doesn’t seem like he is much of a talker though, and Joong doesn’t pry much. He keeps the conversation at bay—how long he has lived here (six months), how long he has been married for (one and a half years), and what his favourite ice cream flavour is (coffee walnut, but he hasn't eaten that in a long time).
Dunk asks him questions, too. Softly. “Do you work close by?” Dunk chuckles around a spoonful of his own congee. “Not very close, it's a thirty-minute drive.” Dunk splits his egg and lets the yolk seep into the porridge, eyes focused. “What work do you do,” he asks, stirring his spoon in the bowl. “I am a linguistics subject-matter expert,” Joong admits, sprinkling some salt in his own congee. Dunk looks up at him with curiosity and wonder. “Woah, that is so cool. Do you write text books?”
Joong chuckles. “I help in the process, and I write researched essays. Do you work, khun Dunk?” It is the first crack that Joong sees. It pains to see the way Dunk stills, and the way his hand shakes around his spoon. Joong wants to make it stop, but it perhaps is necessary. He takes a very long time, Joong practically sees him forcing himself to answer. “Oh, um, I used to be a . . . a s-school teacher. Not anymore though, I—I stay at home.”
Joong has so many questions, and this is a leeway. He can solve the problems, but it doesn’t seem like the right opportunity. If saying this little information gave Dunk such a hard time, there isn’t a chance anything more wouldn’t collapse him. So Joong tries to pivot. “No wonder you are so great with the kids. They adore you so much,” he exclaims, cheering him on. And it is a successful attempt to an extent, as it does bring a very small smile to the beautiful face. “It is the highlight of my days. I adore the kids a lot, too.”
They are at Joong’s doorstep five minutes earlier than the time Joong promised. Dunk looks at his feet again. “Come in anytime, yeah,” Joong says above a whisper, soft and inviting. He doesn’t think he can put to words what he exactly is feeling; but, he wants to know more about Dunk—as a person. Dunk makes a sound from his throat, which sounds much like a scoff, but he stops it from taking complete fruition.
“Thank you for today,” Dunk says instead, smile barely reaching the corner of his eyes. Joong wants to stop him as he steps on the stairs—pull him lovingly by his wrist and hug him—but he stands there silent, watching this beautiful man climb one stair at a time, slowly, until he disappears.
The next day, late in the afternoon, there is a knock on Joong’s door. He is in his sweatpants and tank top when he opens it. He is taken by surprise. It is Dunk, with a shy smile and wondering eyes, with an airtight container clutched in his hand. “Oh, khun. Hi,” he says, surprised but excited. He hadn’t expected to see him so soon.
Dunk bites the center of his lower lip and looks down the container. “Hi. Do you maybe like strawberry flavoured things?” Joong thinks he can melt right here, and puddle around Dunk’s feet; and he hopes Dunk will jump around on him like a happy child in rain.
He smiles at Dunk and opens the door completely. “I do.” He makes space, and continues, “Would you like to come in?”
Dunk hesitates, looking around, as if searching for someone—or perhaps making sure nobody sees him. It itches the palm of Joong’s hands in a way that burns his brain. “Okay,” Dunk whispers when he deems the area clear enough. Joong closes the door behind him silently.
He lets Dunk walk ahead of him, instinctively wanting him to familiarise with the place. Dunk turns around when he reaches the middle of the living room, just right next to Joong’s plush seafoam green couch and turns around. “Your apartment is so warm.” He sounds so soft and . . . embraceable. Joong just stares at him for a moment as he looks around and assesses.
“Do you want me to turn the AC on,” he asks then, moving to grab the remote. Dunk’s little chuckle stops him, music. “No, khun. I didn’t mean it that way. Your apartment is cosy, like a place with warmth and comfort.” It is like Joong swallowed a bunch of roses intact with their steams; it’s clogging and the thorns bleed his insides.
He measures the distance between them, and his gaze lands on Dunk’s bare feet. The bandage tied haphazardly around his big toe. “What happened,” he asks, instinctively. Dunk follows his gaze and takes a step back. That is when Joong realises he has come off a little harsh. So he retouts. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just, your wound is still bleeding.”
Dunk immediately looks at his feet and gasps. “Oh, I am so sorry, I just stubbed it against the dining table.” He looks back up, a little panicked but seemingly trying to keep his calm. They do meet eyes in the process, and Joong does feel himself soften up even more. Nothing else matters right now. So, he takes slow steps towards where Dunk is and extends his hand.
“Why are you saying sorry, Dunk? It is you who is hurt.” Dunk purses his lips then, and scrunches his nose up. He doesn’t cry, Joong doesn’t think he is comfortable to do so, but it is baffling how easy it is for him to act like he doesn’t want to. “Will you let me clean that up and re-bandage it, hmm,” Joong then asks—slow, gentle, and soft. It seems to conflict Dunk even more.
“You’re not touching my feet,” he says, and it is maybe the rawest thing he has said so far. It seems like an assertion, but Joong reads it more as an internalization. His hand is still hanging in the air between them. Joong waits. “Why not?”
Dunk looks at Joong’s palm, like he is trying to read it. Like there will be an answer for whatever question he has. “Because, it is strange.”
Dunk furrows one of his eyebrows and smiles, amused. “Is strangeness worse than letting yourself get infected?”
“Joong . . .” Dunk mutters, almost a whine, and Joong only smiles at him encouragingly. “Come on, Dunk. I promise I will be gentle and fix it.”
Dunk, despite his hesitation and worries, shifts the container to one hand and places the other on Joong’s open palm. It tickles Joong’s chest, and is like a stream of cool waters going up his spine. He holds Dunk gently and leads him to his dining area. Pulling one of the chairs, he slowly helps Dunk sit. “Are you gonna keep holding it?” He motions towards the container, and it seems like Dunk comes to be then. He almost stands up, but Joong pushes him back with a gentle hold on his shoulder. “You can say what you want to while you are comfortable.”
Dunk looks up at Joong, who is standing just hovering above him, like he means something. He maybe has something to say, something other than the box of whatever strawberry flavoured he is holding. But, he just says, “I baked cookies for you. As a thank you, for yesterday.”
Joong sighs, and laughs, touched in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. “Khun, I told you don’t have to. I invited you.” Joong still takes it from Dunk’s hand. “Thank you very much, though. This is very adorable of you.”
He maybe imagines it, but pink crusts the apple of Dunk’s cheeks. “You said I could pay next time. Um, I usually—I don’t carry money with me. This, this is more viable for me. It also makes me feel better.”
Joong slots it in the folder of all the questions and concerns he has. He will let Dunk decide the pace of everything, as long as he lets Joong be there, however he likes. “You are so sweet. Thank you.” He walks towards the kitchen with a smile on his face, trying to have Dunk feel cosy and warm as he seems to like.
He places the cookies on the counter, and opens a cabinet to extract the first-aid kit he keeps there. He sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Dunk and looks up at him, his eyes asking for permission before his mouth does. “I am going to keep your foot on my lap so it is easy to work on. Is that okay?” There must be so many emotions slashing in Dunk’s mind right now, but he only nods, and it makes Joong so proud of him.
He slowly unfurls the crookedly wrapped bandage and chuckles when he sees the condition. “You should disinfect your wound before you plaster it, Dunk. It isn’t of any use otherwise,” he says as he picks a swab of cotton and dips in the glass of water he brought along. “I’ll do it for you now. You can watch, okay? So when I am not there, and something like this were to happen, you can do it for yourself.”