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You're staring again.
You know it's rude—you could practically hear your mother's voice echoing in your head, chiding you for forgetting your manners—but in your defence, you weren't the only one. You could see the makeup artist giggling to the hairstylist behind her hand, the hairstylist smiling crookedly despite doning the face of a suffering man resigned to his fate. The camera operator stood on standby, studiously pretending to be focused on getting the right angle for the next shot while not so subtly staring from her peripherals. Even the director looked like he didn't know what to make of what he was witnessing, a smile equal parts endeared and baffled seemingly permanently etched onto his face.
Though you haven't been working this gig for long, you've heard the rumours—of course, in an industry like this, it's hard not to hear something. But for all that you've heard, you never expected it to be worse, somehow.
Joong and Dunk. Both tall and good-looking. Well-mannered and kind. Professional and friendly.
So painfully affectionate with each other that it made it hard to believe they're not more than friends.
Like now—Dunk was sitting in Joong's lap, back to chest, an arm slung around Joong's shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly picking at the fabric of Joong's sleeve while the other hand scrolled on his phone with lazy flicks of his thumb. Preoccupied with the contents of his own screen, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows as he looked, Joong's unoccupied hand busied itself by settling on the curve of Dunk's waist, his arm wrapped around Dunk's stomach as his fingers slowly slid up and down in a soothing motion. Joong's head was nestled in the crook of Dunk's neck, eyes heavy-lidded, and Dunk, in turn, had his head tilted to rest on Joong's, his face partially buried into fluffy strands.
With a sigh, Joong locked his phone before tilting his face up to meet Dunk's eyes, Dunk having looked down when he felt the movement against his neck. The whispered conversation between them was impossible to hear, but the way Joong wrapped both arms around Dunk's waist, looking put out, and the way Dunk's hand gently carded through Joong's hair—comforting, but careful not to make more work for the stylist when they were to be called for touch-ups soon—was clear. It was the very picture of domestic comfort, the two of them only half hidden away in the corner, but nonetheless encased in the bubble of their own world.
It was only at the call of your name that you were able to force yourself to tear your eyes away with difficulty. The duties of a production assistant were never-ending, always keeping you on high alert to catch the next task thrown at your face, but even as you moved towards your beckoning supervisor, your brain was stuck replaying the scene you just witnessed. You couldn't help but think that rather than being an overstatement, the whispers you heard about Joong and Dunk's behaviour with each other were quite the understatement.
Your thoughts drifted to the distant memory of those sneering posts about excessive fanservice and accusations of discontent between the two, nervous jitters having driven you to fish for information before your first day on the job, and scoffed. Fanservice? Yeah, right.
If they were bad in the presence of cameras, they were even worse in the absence of them, the atmosphere around them somehow sweetening even more. A subtle tension seemed to release once the cameras stopped rolling, the two of them all but melting into each other without abandon. It stunned you at first, in the way that public displays of affection do, but constantly bearing witness to such a harmonious relationship—akin to ceaselessly being forcefed dessert, if you're being frank, a sticky kind of sweetness that clung to the back of your throat, even long after leaving work—was essentially free exposure therapy. You did get used to it, or as used to it as you could get, surprise no longer colouring your face when you turned around and saw them wrapped up in each other.
Sometimes, they were so unapologetically showy with it that you couldn't help but laugh underneath your breath, endeared.
The kisses—the pressure of Joong's lips to Dunk's shoulder or neck, sometimes a fleeting peck, and other times a steady pressure that loathed to leave. Joong's constant need to lay a kiss to Dunk's cheeks, strong fingers gently pressing against soft skin, Dunk pliantly following the coaxing guidance.
The hugs—Joong burying his face into Dunk's neck and Dunk's chin resting on Joong's shoulder as they slowly swayed back and forth, their arms locked around each other, Dunk refusing to let go when Joong shifted away after having his momentary fill. Joong's arms snaking around Dunk's waist to press his back against Joong's chest, Dunk's hand coming up to cover the hands searing heat onto his stomach without missing a beat.
The words—flirtatious lines said with barely suppressed giggles and growing smiles, sincere compliments given to each other with lips upturned and pillow soft eyes. Admissions of love tinged with shyness, eye contact constantly wavering but stubbornly held for as long as they could stand it before it finally broke under the weight of embarrassment.
The obvious displays of affection always elicited a groan or a giggle from any unfortunate soul that caught them, but having watched them through queue after queue, you had to admit that the more subtle things were even louder. It was the way they naturally ended up in each other's orbits, even when starting at opposite ends of the room and talking with other people, the gravitational pull tethering them together rivalling that of the moon and the ocean's tides. It was the way they were so different yet able to understand each other anyways, a million things said with one glance and compromise found in hushed words. It was the way they looked at each other with bottomless adoration, an endless whirlpool of love and devotion swirling in their eyes.
That's why, perhaps, you weren't surprised when Joong, accidentally hitting his head against one of the props, yelped in surprise at the sudden pain, and Dunk was there in quick, measured steps, eyes wide as he gently swept Joong's bangs aside with petal soft fingertips to inspect the damage. That's why, perhaps, you weren't surprised when Joong's eyes darted over in an instant at Dunk's sudden cry, assessing, before crowding into Dunk's space with questioning eyes and gentle touches.
That's why, perhaps, you shouldn't have been as surprised as you were when Joong reacted the way he did when Dunk got injured on set, chaos erupting the moment Dunk hit the floor.
It was the textbook example of a freak accident, equipment faulty with age. It all happened so fast—an ominous noise before it came down with a crash, Dunk's surprised voice combined with the shouts of shock that erupted making a cruel harmony.
But the loudest was Joong's shout, "Dunk!" a cracking whip in the air. He ran to where Dunk was on the floor like he was being chased, pulling off the fallen equipment as staff buzzed around in a flurry.
Blood dripped steadily down Dunk's face from the cut high on his forehead, just shy of his hairline, matting the hair there and fighting against gravity to draw a crimson path down to his chin. For a terrifying moment, he laid there, eyes closed and as still as death, before they fluttered open with difficulty, a low groan of pain escaping his mouth.
"Someone needs to get a towel or something to staunch the bleeding—!"
"We need to take him to the hospital—"
"He's conscious— Can he stand—?"
The ensuing trip to the hospital was suffocating.
Only a few people piled into the car—the GMMTV company staff member that came on set with them today, rapid-fire words spoken hushed but urgent into the phone. Your supervisor, her grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel as she drove to the hospital. You, on your own phone in an attempt to coordinate with the rest of the crew to salvage what was left of the day's schedule.
And Joong.
Joong, murmuring a steady stream of words, only falling silent to listen to Dunk's slurred replies, his words sounding half muffled from where he was slumped against Joong. His hand, applying a steady pressure against the bloodstained towel to stem the sluggish bleeding on Dunk's forehead, kept Dunk pressed against his side, careful not to jostle him.
When they finally arrived to the hospital, the nurses whisked Dunk away, one kindly but firmly stating that everybody else was to wait so that they could assess the extent of the wound without overcrowding.
"Head wounds can be tricky," she had said, eyes apologetic and tone sympathetic, "but you can see him as soon as we're done."
Joong just stood there, face carefully blank but ashy with fear, stained crimson hands hanging by his sides as he watched Dunk disappear from sight. He stared, even long after Dunk was gone, and you felt lost in a way that you knew the other two with you also felt.
Nobody quite knew how to approach him. You hesitated, glancing over at your supervisor, who nodded at whatever the company staff member was quietly saying to her, before the both of them approached him. He snapped out of it with some coaxing, stiffly nodding at their soft suggestions to wash up in the bathroom, and shook his head when asked if someone should accompany him. You all watched him go silently, exchanging apprehensive looks before it was broken by your phones pinging with notifications.
The clock ticked away as phone calls after phone calls were made and logistics were confirmed for the rest of the week. When things finally quieted down, you went to get some bottled water for everyone, throats parched from speaking so much, and set two bottles aside for Joong and Dunk later, just in case.
But Joong was gone long enough that you were starting to wonder if someone should go check up on him. You were patient, finishing your own water with measured sips, cracking open another one and drank it until it was completely empty too, leaving you with nothing to occupy yourself with. Just when you were about to open your mouth to ask, looking at the time on your phone with furrowed eyebrows, he finally came back, hands clean and bangs a little damp. A heavy silence enveloped the space as he plopped down onto one of the plastic chairs, offering a shaky thank you when you quietly handed him a bottle. The silence felt almost unbearable, but you kept quiet, knowing that words would do little to soothe.
Time passed by like that, and when the doctor finally approached your group with tired eyes but a reassuring smile, it felt like a gift from the heavens.
"He has a minor concussion and needed stitches for the cut. We have him on IV fluids right now and we'll need to keep him for observation for a few hours just in case, but he'll make a full recovery," the doctor said, tilting his head in acknowledgement at the multiple sighs of relief and words of gratitude that followed. "He can head home afterwards, but someone will need to monitor him. You can see him now—keep it to one person at a time."
Everybody looked at Joong and the restlessness and longing painting his face in broad strokes. A wordless understanding seemed to settle, and the doctor kindly told him Dunk's room number while pointing the way.
Seeing him go, polite but nearly running, you also excused yourself to take care of one more problem.
Your bladder.
Drinking all that water so quickly probably wasn't the best idea, but you were anxious and checking your quiet phone every five minutes did nothing to distract you from the tangled ball of worry sitting on your chest. It was, at the very least, the easiest problem of the day to fix.
With your body no longer protesting and your mind a little calmer, you made your way back to the waiting room, absentmindedly looking at the numbers on the wall as you passed, and realized with a start that you were about to reach a familiar number.
The room that they put Dunk in was right down the hall.
As you approached, you could see the two of them through the crack of the door, sitting ajar like someone rushed in and haphazardly pushed it behind them. You abruptly stopped—from where you were standing, you could see Joong sitting on the chair next to the bed and Dunk lying against the propped up pillows, but you couldn't bring yourself to move a step further. There was something delicate in the atmosphere that you felt you would irreparably shatter if you did, so you stood there, rooted on the spot, hesitantly watching.
"Dunk," Joong called out, voice small. Dunk smiled at him, a tired thing that wavered at the edges but refused to fall. He reached for Joong, his name coming out of Dunk's mouth in a barely there whisper, Joong catching his hand like he was afraid it would disappear.
"Dunk…" Joong's voice cracked. He looked at Dunk with red-rimmed eyes before bowing his head, his quiet inhale sounding wet and shaky.
"Don't leave me," Joong murmured, voice breaking in stuttering stops. He held Dunk's hand in both of his like a lifeline, grip firm but still gentle, head bowed over them like a prayer. His shoulders were a rigid line, the trembling of them barely noticeable unless you looked for it.
Dunk made a noise—broken, as if it was strangled out of him—his free hand clumsily stroking Joong's tear stained cheek, coaxing his head up to press their foreheads together. His eyes were still dazed, the foggy sheen over them unable to hide the wetness threatening to spill over, but the rawness of his voice as he fervently whispered never, never, never, repeated in the miniscule space between them like a mantra, was enough for Joong's shoulders to sag in relief.
You stepped back then, careful not to make a sound, going back the way you came from to take the other way around. When you turned the corner, you came face-to-face with your supervisor who looked at you, questioning, but you shook your head and muttered out a half-hearted excuse that was more sound than words. She opened her mouth to say something, but to your relief, her attention was pulled away by the other staff member.
You slipped away to sit down heavily onto one of the plastic chairs, staring at the stark white ceiling. Fatigue suddenly hit you all at once, and you sighed, thoughts hopelessly clinging onto what you just saw—what you felt like you shouldn't have seen, the intimacy of the moment making you feel like an intruder, even from a metre away.
It was the kind of relationship that was hard to define, the fire of it licking up and out the confining walls of pre-existing labels. Lines seemed to blur in its heat haze, the oxygen of their love only feeding into it, a constant flame that may flicker but never falter. Only one terrifying, irrefutable truth stood tall—
They would sooner burn away than snuff out the flames.