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Dunk’s hands were always busy when Joong was in the room.
If Joong was sitting at the low wooden dining table, Dunk was fixing the loose leg of his chair or sliding a plate of sliced mango toward him. If Joong was lying on the couch after a long shift, Dunk was taking off Joong’s shoes, unbuckling his belt so he could breathe easier, and placing a damp, cool towel across his forehead.
He didn’t think about doing it. It was just how his body moved around Joong. Love, for Dunk, wasn't something you said; it was something you built out of small, quiet actions every hour of the day.
Joong was different. Joong lived out loud.
“Look at me,” Joong would say, reaching across the kitchen counter while the kettle came to a boil.
Dunk would look up, his hands wet from rinsing rice. Joong would smile that soft, effortless smile that had undone Dunk the first week they met.
“I really like your face. I love you, you know.”
Dunk felt that familiar warmth settle in his chest. He would smile back, tilt his head, and press his cheek against Joong’s shoulder.
He rarely said it back. Sometimes he’d quiet Joong with a kiss behind his ear; sometimes he’d just squeeze Joong’s hand until their knuckles went white. To Dunk, the squeeze meant I am grounding myself to you.
He didn't realize Joong was standing there waiting for sound.
The guesthouse Dunk lived in sat high enough on the hill that you could hear the ocean down below without seeing it. It had a wide, bare wooden terrace that caught the wind.
On a clear, cool night, the sky cleared out completely, leaving a full, bright moon suspended over the dark line of the trees. They dragged their thin mattress out onto the floorboards, wrapped in a faded blue blanket.
Joong was on top of him, his weight warm and solid against Dunk’s chest. His hair was damp from the shower, smelling of eucalyptus soap. He kissed Dunk slowly; a long, deep drag of a kiss that tasted like cold water and sleep. Dunk’s hands came up to wrap around Joong’s back, his fingers digging into the firm muscle of his shoulders, pulling Joong down until there wasn't a millimeter of air between them.
When Joong pulled back, his eyes were wide and inscrutable in the moonlight, searching Dunk’s face.
“Dunk,” Joong whispered. His thumb traced Dunk’s lower lip. “Tell me.”
Dunk’s chest tightened. The words caught somewhere at the base of his throat. He looked up into Joong’s face, seeing the moon reflected in his pupils, seeing how open Joong was, how bare.
“I’ve got you,” Dunk said quietly. He tightened his arms around Joong’s waist, pulling him back down against his collarbone. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Joong stayed still for a moment. He didn't pull away, but he didn't relax either. Dunk felt Joong go quiet and slightly heavy in his arms before Joong rested his chin on Dunk’s shoulder.
“Okay,” Joong said. The word was small.
They lay together under the white light of the moon until Joong’s breathing turned heavy with sleep. Dunk lay wide awake under the bright moon, his hand flat on Joong’s back. He didn't understand why the air felt so cold when they were held this close.
****
Dunk was folding laundry when Joong sat on the edge of the bed, watching his hands.
“Do you actually like having me here?” Joong asked.
Dunk paused, a shirt half-folded in his hands. He looked at Joong, surprised. “What kind of question is that? I bought your coffee yesterday. I cooked.”
“I know,” Joong said. He wasn't mad; his voice was just flat, drained of its usual brightness. “You always do.”
“Then why ask?”
Joong looked down at his own bare feet on the wooden floor. “Because I have to guess.”
A week later, they were out on the terrace at night. The moon was a thin, sharp sliver, throwing long, empty shadows across the deck. Joong sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, looking out at the trees.
Dunk brought out two mugs of matcha (Joong's favourite) and set one down beside Joong’s ankle. He sat down next to him, reaching out to rest his palm on the back of Joong’s neck; his usual way of saying I’m here with you.
Joong leaned away from the touch. Not far; just an inch. Just enough for Dunk’s hand to fall uselessly back to his own lap.
“I’m tired, Dunk,” Joong said quietly.
Dunk’s heart gave a sudden, hard thud against his ribs. “Tired of what? I can make dinner earlier. If you’re stressed about work...”
“It’s not work,” Joong interrupted. He turned to look at Dunk, his face pale in the faint light.
“It feels like I’m standing out here every night trying to shoot the moon. Trying to pull something down from the sky that just isn't there for me. I need to hear it, Dunk. I need you to say it out loud, without me begging for it. I need to know I’m loved in words.”
Dunk felt panic flood his stomach. He opened his mouth, desperate to fix it. I love you, he thought. I love you so much it makes my chest ache every time you turn away from me.
But when he opened his mouth, the words felt like dry dust on his tongue. They sounded fake before he could even form them. Forced, like saying it now was just a way to end the conversation.
“I show you every day,” Dunk whispered, his voice cracking. He reached out, grabbing Joong’s hand, squeezing his fingers so hard his own knuckles ached.
“Look at what I do. Look at how I live for you.”
Joong looked down at their joined hands. A single, quiet tear spilled over his cheek, catching the dim moonlight.
“I see what you do, Dunk,” Joong said softly, pulling his hand gently out of Dunk’s grip. “But it’s not enough. And it’s hurting both of us for me to keep asking for more.”
When Joong left a month later, he didn't leave a mess.
He packed two bags while Dunk was at the market. When Dunk came home carrying a plastic bag full of fresh pork and the green onions Joong liked, the room was already half-empty. Joong’s jacket wasn't on the hook by the door. His spare shoes were gone from the mat.
Joong was standing near the terrace door, waiting for him.
“I left the extra key on the counter,” Joong said. His voice was steady, but his eyes were red-rimmed.
Dunk stood in the doorway, the heavy plastic bag cut into his fingers. He couldn't move. He couldn't put the food down.
“Joong,” Dunk said. It was just his name, but it felt like everything Dunk had left inside him.
Joong walked over, stood close to him for a second, and reached out to touch Dunk’s cheek. His palm was warm.
He pressed a brief, quiet kiss to the corner of Dunk’s mouth, stepped around him, and walked out the front door. The door clicked shut behind him with a small, flat sound.
Dunk didn't move for ten minutes. He stood in the middle of the quiet house, holding the groceries, listening to the silence fill up the room like water.
****
The weather turned cold. Dunk stayed in the guesthouse. He worked, he came home, he washed his dishes. But he didn't cook full meals anymore. He ate sitting down at the sink, staring out the window at the hill.
He found out on a Tuesday night.
A mutual friend posted a photo from a casual dinner at an open-air restaurant in the city. Dunk was scrolling through his phone in the unlit living room, the blue screen light washing over his face.
In the middle of the photo was Joong. He looked healthy. His hair was slightly longer, and he was laughing; really laughing, his head tilted back. Sitting next to him was someone with a broad jawline, an arm thrown easily over Joong’s neck.
In the photo, Joong was looking right at the guy, his face bright and completely open.
Below the photo, Joong had tagged the person with a caption:
“My favorite voice in the world.”
And right underneath, he had commented:
“As many times as you need to hear it.”
Dunk just sat there, staring at the words on the screen. Something heavy settled in his chest, and he stayed there for a long time.
Joong hadn't been asking for the impossible. He had just been asking the wrong person.
Dunk locked his phone and put it on the table. He stood up and walked out onto the wooden terrace.
The air was sharp and clear, biting at his bare arms. High above the yard, the moon was full again; a cold, sharp circle of white light hung in the middle of the dark.
The bare wooden floorboards were cold under his feet. Dunk walked to the edge of the railing, right where they used to lie together under the blue blanket. He looked up at the moon, feeling the vast, endless quiet of the night pressing down on his shoulders.
He raised his hand slowly, reaching out toward the light, his fingers curling into the cold air, grasping at nothing at all.
He stood there alone, the wind blowing up from the unseen sea below, and opened his mouth.
“I love you,” Dunk said to the empty terrace.
The words came out small, quiet, and completely clear. But there was no one there to catch them, and the silence swallowed them up without a sound.