Chapter Text
Coy woke like the world had already started without him and didn’t care he was late.
His head throbbed—heavy, fogged, uncooperative. Even opening his eyes felt like a bad idea he couldn’t take back. Light stabbed through the room, too bright, too clean, like it was judging him for still being alive in it. The ceiling looked unfamiliar for half a second, like he’d borrowed someone else’s morning and forgotten to return it.
He groaned into the pillow.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t think.
Just existed in the aftermath, suspended somewhere between sleep and regret, trying to remember what version of himself had made it to bed in the first place.
Then he turned his head.
A glass of water sat on the nightstand.
Two Advil beside it.
Coy stared.
Still.
Processing.
His brows knit slowly, like his brain was trying to assemble a memory out of broken pieces and coming up empty.
“…Who—” he started.
It didn’t finish.
The question dissolved before it could become real.
He pushed himself up anyway, immediately regretting it as pain flickered through his skull like a warning shot. The room tilted slightly, then settled. He squinted at the setup like it might confess if he looked hard enough.
Full glass.
Neatly placed pills.
Intentional. Quiet. Careful.
Not the kind of thing that just happened.
Coy blinked again, slower this time, like maybe clarity would load if he gave it a second.
“Okay,” he muttered, though it sounded more like a surrender than understanding.
He took the pills. Chugged the water in one go like it was punishment he’d earned and didn’t have the energy to argue with. The cold hit his throat, sharp and grounding, dragging him a little further into reality whether he wanted it or not.
It helped.
Barely.
The fog didn’t lift so much as shift—like it was deciding where to sit instead of leaving.
He sat there a moment longer, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty glass like it might apologize or explain itself if he gave it enough time. The room was quiet in a way that felt too deliberate, like even the silence was trying not to wake something.
Then he swung his legs off the bed.
The floor hit cold.
It traveled up through his bones, steady and real and unavoidable.
He stood anyway.
The walk to the kitchen felt longer than it should have.
Not because of distance.
Because his body was still in negotiations with itself about whether participation in reality was optional or mandatory today. Every step felt slightly delayed, like his limbs were receiving instructions from a server that was running behind.
Coy shuffled in, hair a mess, hoodie half-on, eyes still squinting like the world had personally offended him and he was considering whether to forgive it.
And then he stopped.
Will was sitting at the counter.
Hanbon was there too, legs crossed on a stool, phone in hand, looking far too awake for someone who had also been at the bar last night.
And Anthony—
Anthony was at the counter, making coffee as the window behind him lit his hair in a way similar to a halo.
Coy paused in the doorway, suddenly very aware of his own existence in the frame of the room.
“…Morning,” he said.
Will looked up first, immediately grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Look who’s alive.”
Hanbon didn’t even hesitate.
“Barely.”
Coy pointed vaguely at them, slow and uncoordinated.
“Rude.”
Anthony didn’t turn around yet.
Just said, “You’re up early.”
Coy squinted at the back of his head.
“It’s… morning.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Anthony said calmly, like the clarification was obvious and also not worth expanding on.
Coy walked in slowly, grabbing a glass from the cabinet like muscle memory was doing him a favor out of pity. The movement was automatic, like his body was trying to prove it still knew how to function even if his brain was currently buffering.
“I’m fine,” he said immediately. “Just drank too much.”
Will laughed under his breath.
“‘Just’ is doing a lot of work there.”
Hanbon leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing in curiosity.
“You and Anthony left early last night. You good?”
Coy waved a hand vaguely, like he could physically dismiss the entire conversation.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just—”
Three sharp dings cut through the kitchen.
Coy froze mid-sentence.
His phone.
He pulled it out.
Patterson.
The name sat there on the screen like it had been waiting for him to wake up, like it had been patient in a way that felt slightly too intentional.
He blinked once.
Then again.
Will tilted his head immediately, interest snapping into place.
“Ooooh.”
Hanbon leaned in like gravity had personally pulled him closer.
“What’s that?”
Coy didn’t answer right away.
He opened the message.
> *Hey, I had a really good time with you last night.*
> *I’d love to take you out on a date sometime.*
Coy stared at it.
His face changed before he could stop it.
A small blush creeping in, subtle at first, then unmistakable, like his body had decided to betray him in high definition.
He typed something back without fully thinking, thumb moving faster than his brain could catch up.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said out loud, still half-distracted, still looking at his phone like it might explain itself. “I just drank too much, that’s all—”
Will narrowed his eyes.
“Who are you texting?”
Hanbon leaned even closer.
“Yeah, who is it?”
Coy opened his mouth—
But Anthony spoke first.
“Some stupid guy at the bar kept hitting on him.”
The kitchen went quiet for half a second.
Not empty quiet.
Heavy quiet.
Unlike the bar.
The conversation.
The person.
Patterson.
All playing on his mind.
"All I really remember is talking to him, Patterson. He's a really nice guy. Then Anthony came over and we left. After that it’s just—” he gestured vaguely at his head, “—nothing. Fuzzy.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened slightly.
“The rest doesn’t matter.”
Coy looked up at him.
“What?”
Anthony finally turned around, coffee in hand, expression flat in a way that didn’t match the tone he’d just used. Controlled. Too controlled.
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
Coy stared at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then frowned.
“Why does it matter to you?”
A beat.
Anthony’s gaze flickered—just for a second—like something underneath the surface had shifted but he was refusing to let it show.
“It doesn’t.”
He set the coffee down.
Too carefully.
Like even the sound of it hitting the counter needed to be controlled.
Then he added, quieter, “Forget it.”
And walked out of the kitchen.
No slam.
No dramatic exit.
Just gone.
The silence he left behind was worse than noise, because it didn’t resolve into anything. It just stayed there, suspended, like the room had forgotten how to continue.
Will looked between Coy and Hanbon.
Hanbon mouthed, what the hell?
Coy stood there for a second longer than necessary, phone still in his hand, unread message still glowing like it was waiting for him to return to it.
Then he slowly put it down.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
No one really responded.
The next few days didn’t fix anything.
They just stretched it out.
Like the tension between them had been pulled thin and left hanging in the air, impossible to ignore but also impossible to grab and deal with directly.
Anthony and Coy still existed in the same space, but not in the same way.
They passed each other in hallways like timing had become a skill neither of them had mastered anymore, like they were both slightly out of sync with the version of reality where things were normal.
In the editing room, they worked without talking.
Coy would say something.
Anthony would respond.
Short.
Controlled.
Nothing extra. Nothing unnecessary. Nothing that could accidentally turn into something else.
And then silence again.
Sometimes Coy would catch Anthony looking at him.
Not long.
Not obvious.
Just enough to register.
And sometimes Anthony would look away first.
Neither of them commented on it.
Will noticed.
Hanbon definitely noticed.
Neither of them said much about it either, which somehow made it worse, like everyone had agreed not to touch a live wire in the middle of the room and just pretend it wasn’t there.
Three days after the bar, Will clapped his hands in the middle of the living room like he was announcing something life-changing and possibly illegal.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ve got a new video idea.”
Hanbon perked up immediately.
“Oh no.”
Will grinned.
“Oh yes.”
Coy looked up from his phone slowly, already suspicious.
Anthony didn’t look up at all.
Will continued, pacing slightly like he was building momentum.
“‘Looking for the Keys to Our Handcuffs.’”
Hanbon blinked.
“…What?”
Will pointed between them like it was obvious.
“We get handcuffed together. All of us. And we have to go around NYC solving clues to find the keys.”
Coy stared at him.
“That sounds illegal.”
“It’s content,” Will said confidently, like that explained everything about morality and law.
Hanbon laughed.
“That’s not an answer.”
Anthony finally looked up.
“No.”
Will didn’t even pause.
“Yes.”
Coy sighed, long and tired.
“…Why are we like this?”
No one answered that either.
Ten minutes later, they were standing in the middle of the apartment.
Handcuffs.
Real ones.
Metal cold against skin, heavier than they looked, like they carried more meaning than just physical weight.
Click.
Coy felt it immediately.
Not pain.
Not discomfort.
Just… finality.
A physical reminder that movement was no longer entirely his own decision. Every shift of his wrist pulled against someone else’s presence, every small motion now shared, negotiated, unavoidable.
Hanbon tugged at his wrist experimentally.
“This is insane.”
Will grinned like a man who had never experienced consequences in his life.
“This is art.”
Anthony looked down at the cuff connecting him to Coy.
Then back up.
Coy noticed.
Of course he did.
Neither of them said anything.
The silence between them didn’t feel new anymore.
Just familiar.
Like something they had both learned how to live inside without acknowledging it directly.
Will clapped again.
“Alright. NYC. Let’s go find some keys.”
Hanbon groaned dramatically.
“I hate all of you.”
Coy exhaled slowly, already resigned to whatever version of the day this was going to become.
Anthony didn’t move.
Not yet.
And then—
They stepped toward the door.
Together.
The camera wasn’t rolling yet.
But it was about to.
They made it to the subway before Hanbon stopped in the middle of the platform like she’d just remembered something life-altering.
“Wait,” she said.
Will turned. “What?”
Hanbon slowly looked down at the handcuffs, then back up at all of them.
“So we hired a guy on Craigslist to hide the keys.”
Silence.
Coy blinked.
“…You did what?”
Anthony turned his head slightly.
“What?”
Will’s grin faltered for the first time.
“Why would you—”
Hanbon shrugged like it was obvious.
“I thought it would be funny. Like a scavenger hunt thing. He said he’d ‘make it challenging.’”
Coy stared at her.
“Hanbon.”
“What?”
“You let a random Craigslist guy design our entire mobility situation?”
Hanbon pointed at the cuffs.
“You’re literally still walking.”
“That’s not the point!”
Anthony exhaled through his nose, already looking like he regretted every life decision that led to this sidewalk.
“Where is he supposed to have hidden them?”
Hanbon checked her phone.
“Uh… he said ‘somewhere meaningful.’”
Will slowly turned his head.
“…That is the least helpful instruction I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Coy tugged his cuff slightly, immediately pulling Anthony with him by accident.
Anthony stumbled half a step.
They both froze.
A beat.
Coy cleared his throat.
“…Sorry.”
Anthony didn’t look at him.
“It’s fine.”
But he didn’t move away either.
Hanbon clapped her hands once.
“Okay! Great! So we just have to find ‘meaningful places’ in Manhattan while being physically attached to each other. Easy.”
Will pointed at her.
“You are banned from making decisions.”
Hanbon nodded.
“Fair.”
Coy looked down at the cuff again.
Then at Anthony.
Then, very quietly, like it was a private thought he didn’t mean to share with the universe:
“This better not take long… I have a date.”
Anthony’s head snapped slightly toward him.
“Wait Coy, do you actually have a date?”
Coy didn’t notice the way his words landed heavier than they should have.
“Yeah..”
“Who’s the lucky lady then?” Anthony’s words land sarcastically.
Coy then realizes he has a good idea for a bit for the video.
“The lucky lady, is a boy Anthony, fine!” He starts, “Now that we’re handcuffed I’ll tell you!”
The camera clicks off.
Coy looks to Anthony.
He was already looking forward, ignoring him.
“With Patterson? He’s not good for you. Be quiet, you’re making a scene”
Coy huffs and shakes his head, the camera pans onto him.
“Let them look, that’s called pride, baby.”
Coy tries to play a joke for the camera, but he can already feel Anthony’s words start to sting.
What did he know about what’s good for him?
He notices the camera still on him, and as a joke he says “I’m crying.”
Tears are in his eyes, but not from the way viewers expect. For the camera he’s laughing with his friends, but really, Anthony’s words hit a bit too hard.
Coy blinked fast, like that would reset whatever just shifted in his chest. He let out a short laugh again, softer this time, forcing it into something that could pass for normal on camera, even as his throat tightened in a way he didn’t fully understand. The handcuff tugged slightly when he moved, pulling Anthony just enough to remind him they were still connected, still in the same frame, still stuck in the same moment whether they liked it or not.
Anthony didn’t look at him.
Not this time.
And that somehow made it worse.
Coy wiped at his eye quickly, turning it into a joke before it could become anything else, stepping forward like motion alone could outrun the feeling building in his chest. “Alright, come on,” he said lightly, voice cracking just slightly at the edge. “Let’s go find these stupid keys before I actually start crying for real.”
Will laughed somewhere behind them. Hanbon muttered something about “this being the worst idea ever,” already walking ahead.
But Coy didn’t really hear any of it.
Because for a second—just a second—he looked at Anthony again, expecting something. A glance back. A comment. Anything that meant the words hadn’t landed the way they felt like they had.
But Anthony was already moving forward.
And Coy followed anyway.