what doesn't kill you (drives you crazy)

by lilypottery

Summary:

A year after the games, Nam-gyu finds comfort in routine. Wakes up, goes to work, then goes to bed. It’s safe and uneventful, nothing like he’s used to. He’s only managed—with great difficulty—to maintain contact with one other player, and he’s content with that.
But when a familiar person struts right back into his life like he’s always owned it, it’s hard for him to hide any longer.

Chapter 1: memento vivere

The talk show host laughs, covering his head in his hands, as he desperately tries to calm the crowd down. It's a mess of yelps and breathless giggles, the somewhat organized chaos of it all resembling an off-key choir. The rapper, who'd just reemerged after a year-long hiatus, joins in, not doing much to help the flow of the conversation being had just seconds ago.

Nam-gyu scoffs.

“In all seriousness though,” he says, seemingly coming down from the high his own jokes had caused him, “it was a much needed break. I feel like my mind was a bit scrambled—though the partying didn't help either—''

The crowd erupts again. The rest of his words aren't important to Nam-gyu; He's heard and seen everything he needed to. He turned the TV off, not interested in hearing anything more that came out of Thanos' mouth. The insistent hum of the fridge is the only sound echoing through the walls of his measly apartment. It wasn't bad; it was just enough to accommodate him, and at least there weren't rats walking around in his walls every night. Nam-gyu could even go as far as to call it pleasant. It was fine. Really.

It's been about a year since the games, and ever since then, he's been acting on autopilot. The money was just over enough. It was enough to pay off his debts, to pay his rent, which he was falling behind on the last three months before going to that island. It was enough to get him an apartment, and it was enough to make him feel just a little bit empty. Day by day, he started to realize that the 456 freak was right.

Blood money.

Cigarettes bought with someone's head, a couch purchased for a hand and a leg, bodies sitting and collecting dust in a safe in his closet. He's vomited a couple times already at the thought. It wasn't an easy reality to come to terms to, and an even harder one to forget.

Drugs don’t do it for him anymore. They don’t help him forget, and sometimes even make it worse. He gets paranoid, looking for pink jumpsuits and desperately trying to reach for as much air as he could, no matter how fucked up he gets. Getting drunk, pills, weed; nothing helps; it was clear from the first week out of the games. The thought of getting high made him sick, and the withdrawals made him sicker, but at least the physical pain went away. The thought of getting high made his stomach churn, despite how much he thought he missed it.

He still works at Pentagon; not as a promoter, though. Sure, the money’s good, and Nam-gyu would even dare to say that it’s at least ten times better than working as a bartender—both money and status wise—but this is easier. He has enough money to keep him afloat, and for now, bar-tending is enough. He makes a couple drinks, cleans the bar, stocks up, cracks jokes with ridiculously drunk costumers, and goes home. For a few hours, he can pretend to be normal. Which is enough.

His phone buzzes right as he’s about to walk out the door. Se-mi's name flashes on the screen, and a single text is under it.

I thought you were supposed to come earlier today. He smiles, ever so slightly.

Fuck off.

After a couple of seconds, he types in a second text.

I'll be there in ten.

She sends back a smiley face and a thumbs up, and he makes his way to his car.

 

The thing is, he never liked Se-mi; not in the games, that is. He thought she was a cocky, insufferable bitch who could drop dead any moment, for all he cared. But that night, on the pavement, when the guard through them both out of that limo, and when they stirred awake and all he could feel was an itching desire to finally give her a piece of his mind, to finally show her that he wasn't as much of a coward as she thought, she helped him.

She untied the rope around his wrists, and then his ankles. She helped him find his clothes, and she quietly dressed herself as well. No words were exchanged, and yet they walked together through the streets of Seoul for almost an hour, looking for food, a place to charge their phones, any place that could remind them that they weren't in that place anymore. That it was over, whether they liked it or not.

“So,” Se-mi spoke, all of a sudden, her bite of food still in her mouth, covered by her hand. “What are you gonna do now?”

For a fleeting moment, Nam-gyu thought he liked her better when she was quiet. He swallowed the angry lump starting to form in his throat, and answered.

“Go to work and pray to everything that I haven't gotten fired.” She laughed at that, quiet and polite. “You?” He asked, absentmindedly poking at his own plate of food.

“Pray to everything that I get a job anywhere.”

He didn't stop himself when the words slipped out. The offer came naturally, despite his better judgment. He couldn't find it in himself to stop.

“Pentagon was hiring right before we went to the games,” he half-whispered. Se-mi's eyes opened slightly, and she stayed silent for a while.

The cold stabs at his face, sharp and unforgiving, making him walk just a little bit faster to his car. A used, two-seater KIA, painted a not-so-discreet green, welcomes him, and as he fights to unlock it, his fingers feel like they’re about to wither away from the cold. He shuts the door with a loud thud when he finally enters, and starts the car; he doesn’t bother putting on a seat belt. His drive to Pentagon lasts about five minutes, more than enough to set the sun and spike the temperatures even lower.

His face is flushed red by the time he's made his way to the bar, both by the cold and by the speed in which he was running at, trying to prove a point to Se-mi.

“Congrats,” Se-mi says, amused. “You made it on time and,” she looks him from head to toe, “look like you're about to have a heart attack right on my bar.”

“It's not your bar.”

“Right, right, our bar. Okay.”

He rolls his eyes at her, a little dramatically, making sure she sees it. He ties his apron around his waist and turns to face the mostly empty club. “Slow day?”

“For now,” she adds. “It's a Saturday, man,” she sighs. He couldn't agree more. Saturdays are the days that every single living soul in Seoul apparently decides that getting drunk out of their minds and making a show out of themselves is a fantastic idea, and the ones that usually have to deal with it are Se-mi and Nam-gyu. And, despite her calm and intimidating demeanor, Se-mi is quite squeamish, leaving Nam-gyu to deal with shit like people vomiting on the bar, cleaning the toilets after close, and so on. Not that he’s any better at cleaning anything remotely gross, but by now, he’s gotten used to it. He makes himself a quick drink, raises a mock toast at Se-mi, and downs it in one go, mentally preparing himself for the night. The lights flash from purple to blue and then green, as the music gradually get louder and louder. They can hear a line starting to form out the door.

---

Se-mi was right.

Minute by minute, the club grows more and more crammed, and drinks left the bar one by one in a matter of seconds; a speed that Nam-gyu was used to working at, but still an unnatural one. There isn’t enough time to spare for small talk and frankly, considering the amount of work piling up, he’s not in any mood to participate in any.

The easy distraction that this job offers him is enough to make him forget everything for a while. To pretend that Se-mi’s just a co-worker, someone he met on the street or just randomly appeared into his life with no explanation; to pretend that this past year was a very, very vivid trip, and that at some point, he just sobered up.

The lights continue to flash rapidly, each color following the other now, directly on beat with the music. Some of the songs are in English, resulting in incoherent, yet melodic gibberish from the crowd, in place of the lyrics. Korean rap songs usually follow right after the English ones, and then pop, then techno remixes of popular songs—English, Korean, Spanish, you name it—and then closing music for an hour straight. Boring beats from struggling, undiscovered artists, one good song that no one knows the lyrics off, and repetitions of the songs played before. Each club-goer loses their identity in the crowd as they slowly merge themselves with it, becoming just one more incoherent voice drowning in the sea of all the others.

A familiar beat starts to play. Everyone loses it, screams at the first note, throws their belongings over their head. Everyone goes fucking crazy, staff included; everyone except Nam-gyu and Se-mi. Her face sours, and somehow, she starts to shrink. Her back isn't straight anymore, and Nam-gyu catches her jaw clenching in the corner of his eye. He’s not doing any better, though.

In fact, it’s safe to say he’s doing much, much worse. He can feel cold sweat forming at the nape of his neck, and on his temples, each droplet a step closer to insanity. The room starts to spin, and before he ca register it, the inside of his palms get clammy and adorned with violent nail marks on them; his tongue can taste metal. He releases his lower lip, relaxes his fists and brings a sweaty finger to his lower lip. Deep red. This is bullshit.

“I'm going for a cigarette,” he mumbles, and yet somehow, Se-mi understands.

“Take your time, man,” she says, patting his shoulder. Her eyes are fixed on anything but the bar, which suddenly felt smaller than usual. He all-but runs to the back exit, his apron still on.

It feels like waking up; a brutal reminder of what he's done. Of what they'd done. Back when his whole world was one person, when he was willing to kill anyone that got in their way. Back when he gave away his everything, his body, his soul, and got nothing in return. When the feeling of long, tattooed fingers grazing the skin on his back, pulling at his hair, was the only high he was really chasing.

Whatever.

Those days are behind him now. He doesn’t need the money, and he doesn’t need the drugs anymore. What he needs is a cigarette. Yes, that's all he needs. He brings one to his lips, and he can feel them wrap around it, desperately waiting for a fire to swallow it, for the heat to make its way inside his body. He doesn’t feel the cold anymore.

His face is illuminated briefly by his lighter in the dark alleyway right behind the club, an unofficial smoker's lounge, flooded by various other cigarette butts. He takes a deep inhale, which doesn't do much for his nerves, but stops the shaking temporarily. He doesn't feel dizzy anymore.

Inside, and crawling its way through the cracks of the door, like a snake, Thanos' voice is heard, echoing on the speakers. The crowd sings along, losing their flow at the rap verses, but continuing to scream nevertheless. Nam-gyu doesn't wanna know what would happen if Thanos were to actually perform there. Matter of time, he thinks bitterly. He laughs, an angry, hollow sound, as he takes another drag.

Fuck him.

Suddenly, something in the air shifts. He's not alone, and he's also not ready. He pierces his gaze at the ground, trying, in vain, to convince himself he was imagining things. His prayers go unanswered.

“Nam-gyu.”

Chapter 2: alea iacta est

His knees buckle at the mention of his name, much more at the thought of it directed at him. It isn't hard to recognize the voice calling out to him, and even if it was, the shift in the air alone is a tell-tale sign of his presence. A year ago, Nam-gyu had convinced himself that the stuffy, drowning atmosphere was all due to the humid dorms, the small space accommodating almost five hundred people, but if the sinking feeling in his stomach was anything to go by, it was all Thanos. Choi Su-Bong, he thinks, almost mockingly, putting emphasis in each and every syllable.

Half of his cigarette’s gone, blown away by the wind. He drops it to the ground in front of him and stomps on it. He tries to find the courage to open his mouth and speak. It takes him a minute, but he gets there.

“Don't you have anything more important to do?” He begs, eyes still not meeting his.

“This is important, man!” The man replies, seemingly oblivious to whatever Nam-gyu's feeling at the moment. Typical. “I went through hell and back trying to find you, my boy,” he sighs, his cologne becoming stronger and stronger as he approaches the bartender, like a cat does a mouse. Nam-gyu doesn't dare move; he couldn't even if he wanted to. “Man, look at me, c'mon. Where the hell have you been?”

He'd be lying if he said his pleads weren't breaking him down. It's what Thanos was always good at; picking him apart, piece by piece, word by word, until he found one that could help him get his way with him. Nam-gyu went with it. He went with it because that' what he knew, and that's what he deserved. It's hard to say no to him, even a year later.

Fuck, they could've been strangers, for all he knew, and Thanos could still get his way with him.

He peels his gaze off from his feet, torn and faded black boots, and rests it on the rapper. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly, mostly from the shock that Thanos' sober look caused him. His eyes are clouded with something, sure, but it’s not the drugs; all he’s ever known about Thanos is his eyes when he’s high, and right now, his gaze is unfamiliar. His thick eyebrows are stitched together in a frown, as if he’s waiting for an explanation from Nam-gyu.

Where the hell have you been?

It feels as if the city has gone quiet. Even the music from the club grows fainter and fainter, as if everyone had their ears against the door, waiting to hear anything that might follow up. The only thing Nam-gyu can hear is his and Subong's breath, sure and steady, and the occasional water droplet making contact with the puddles right under the water pipes. It's so, so quiet. He exhales, gathering the courage to find something to latch onto, an excuse to make small talk. Thanos beats him to it.

“I figured you might've still worked here, because you told me that you did back in the—” He stops himself. “Anyway, I came down here a couple times, I tried to look for you in the VIP rooms, asked some new promoters if they knew you, but they all said no.” He points to the shorter man's apron. “I didn't know you weren't doing that shit anymore man, I thought you were still a promoter—”

“I don't do that shit anymore,” he scowls, glaring at him. Another cigarette. His face lights up in the dark alleyway again. He purses his lips at the bitter taste it leaves behind, gladly accepting the slight burning sensation in the back of his throat. As he speaks, a small cloud of smoke escapes his lips. “It's not for me.” He shrugs.

The silence, ashamed, begs for him to cover it. He obeys. “I grew out of that lifestyle.” His eyes scan the rapper. “You should, too.”

“Hey,” the rapper says, half-defensively, half-reassuringly, “hey man, it's okay, same. Really, I haven't touched that shit since we left, I swear.”

Nam-gyu meets his gaze again, disbelieving. It breaks something inside of him to look. To meet him, touch him, even for just a fleeting second. But he lets it happen. He lets the lump on his throat grow bigger and bigger, until he can't swallow it anymore. Thanos' face was just as painful to look at as back then, making Nam-gyu sigh at the sudden eye contact. He's fantasized about this exact moment, had nightmares about it, heated pretend conversations in the shower, and yet, no words escape him.

He assumes the look on his face is enough for Thanos take a hesitant step back, and only then does he avert his gaze elsewhere. The chipped brick, the sunken concrete, the red, dried spots forming on his knuckles as a result of the cold. He takes another drag, the smoke doing next to nothing to soothe him from the crisp, unpleasant air around him.

It's evident this situation's starting to get awkward, whether it had to do with Nam-gyu not being willing to speak to Thanos, or Thanos refusing to fill the silence. It was unusual; sober. Pure, asphyxiating silence. They've both been at Pentagon before, at the same time, at the same room. Both were high as a kite, though; he doesn't think he remembers Thanos being sober for more than five minutes, in front of him, at least. He sours at the thought that whatever it was that he thought they had was all drug-induced. Thanos got a bit too high, Nam-gyu was always—literally always—within arm's reach, and he looked like a girl enough for him to not have to think about it later. Delusional.

The bastard couldn't even remember his name, for Christ's sake. Probably took him a year to find him because he was asking around for a Namsu, he figured. It hurts to think about, and it hurts even more to face it in real time.

Thanos still hasn't left him alone, despite the evident stiffness of his shoulders, or Nam-gyu refusing to look at him again.

“Don't you have a concert or a gig to go to?” He spits out at him.

“A world tour,” he corrects him. Of course.

“Go catch a flight or something, then,” he turns on his heel.

“Wait.”

He bites down on his lip again. His earlier assault on it makes its presence known with a sharp sting. The light right over the door flickers on and off, casting an odd light on his and the rapper's face. Before he knew it, the palm of his hand was covered with Thanos' own. He can feel his face start to get flushed, but he wills it away. Or at least he thinks he does.

“Back in the games,” Thanos starts, and Nam-gyu's eye twitches just enough for the other man to notice. “You gave me this,” he says, as he releases something cold, metallic into his hand. Nam-gyu shakes his head in disbelief. He'd honestly forgotten about it; in the haze of everything, he'd probably given it to Thanos; in exchange of something, he's sure. “I want to give it back.”

Before he knew it, the silver jewelry hugged his ring finger, cold and yet, welcoming. Thanos is gone as suddenly as he had come, but he doesn’t mind. If it weren't for that ring, he would've been fine convincing himself that whatever happened in that alleyway was a figment of his imagination. A mad man's fate catching up to him. It would have been a better reality to come to terms to.

He ignores a confused Se-mi as he walks back in, apron never removed, and puts his hair up in a ponytail. Despite the ugly state of his eyes, the redness around them and his puffy, red lips, the lines of his face were illuminated by the club lights in such a way that made it easy for him to pick up more orders than usual. Almost robotically, he makes it through the night. When the sun comes back up, outstretching his arms to light up the city just enough for Nam-gyu to make out his keys and to wince at the sudden light when emerging from the work parking lot.

Se-mi, half asleep right beside him on the passenger seat, is mumbling incoherently when Nam-gyu accidentally makes contact with a speed bump, making her jump and swear at him. He snickers at the insults thrown at him and rolls his eyes when she falls back asleep, snoring so loudly he can feel it on the back of his own seat. It’s a nice end to the night, something they became used to doing ever since Se-mi started to work at Pentagon. He'd pick her up when they clocked in at the same time, and he'd almost always drop her off back home, regardless of whether he clocked out first or not.

Today feels different though, charged. When it all slowed down and people were finally starting to leave, Se-mi turned to him, unphazed by his depressing look and attitude.

“Mind telling me what happened back there?” She prodded, hands in her pockets for the first time in that night, finally getting the chance to relax herself. “Who was with you?” Nam-gyu was dangerously close to breaking down again, and so, looking away, he denied pretty much anything she threw at him.

“It's not that big of a deal,” he nagged, trying to put an end to the conversation that Se-mi was hellbent on having. He could tell she wanted to talk about it. About the games, about everyone else who made it out, about everything. A part of him felt bad for her; she had no one apart from him to talk to about all of this, and he was way less than willing to open up that door just yet. It got tense and awkward at times, sure, but there was nothing he could do about it.

And he sure as hell isn’t telling her about Thanos' reappearance; not now, not ever. It serves no purpose. He’s gone now, following the moon and hiding under the horizon, not to be seen again unless you looked for it when the sun came down. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s finally home, and he gets to pretend again. To run away from the ghost of his own self, of his own actions. The hot water runs over his face as he washes last night off of him, and he lets his pale skin turn a hot red as he lets himself go under the shower head.

Back in the games, Thanos had said. Back in the games, when we killed those people. When you left Gyeong-su to die, Thanos.

When Nam-gyu pushed that poor girl away from the only open door in Mingle, and when the lights were out, just before the room put them to sleep and woke them up away from that island, when he thought he was protecting himself. When instead of punching back, he—

He was defending himself. There was nothing he could do. All he could do to comfort himself is to repeat himself, over and over again. Everyone killed someone at those games, whether by accident, self-defense, or on purpose. Nam-gyu would like to think he belonged to the second group. Anyone would go that far to protect there own life; even if there was nothing to protect or fight for.

So when Pilate saw that he was gaining nothing, but rather that a riot was beginning, he took water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man's blood; see to it yourselves.”

His ring stings all of a sudden, making him jump and wince, shaking his hand up and down, trying to rid himself of the uncomfortable sensation. He removes it, immediately bringing his finger to his lips and trying to soothe the now red area. He turns the ring, investigating it, even trying it on different fingers. Nothing out of the ordinary. He huffs.

Suddenly, under the glistening light of the bathroom, his eyes land on something inside of the ring. A carving, one he doesn't remember putting there himself. A series of numbers, and an initial right next to them. “-T.”

That bastard.

---

Se-mi's feet tingle as she brings her knees to her face, not minding the look Nam-gyu shoots at her when her shoes touch the leather stools. She turns around, turning to face her friend who had now moved to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water for himself. “Thank you for the water, Namg—” she starts, trying to tease, but is cut short by a bottle flying her way, barely catching it on time before it lands on her face. She shoots a middle finger at him; he replies with his own.

“So let me get this straight,” she starts, doing Nam-gyu the favor of speaking first, “the reason you were walking around like a kicked puppy last night was not only because you saw Thanos,” she steals a look at his ring, pushing aside memories of him toying with it as he shot genuine insults at her just one year ago, “but because he also gave you back your ring?” His silence serves as an answer.

“So, your ex gave you back your stuff. Is that it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not for a million won.” Nam-gyu rolls his eyes again as he sits across from her. The TV serves as background noise, only taking up their attention for a minute before they come back to their conversation. “He's not my ex, Se-mi, and it's not just the ring.” He removes it, letting it land on the table with a clank, the drop revealing the number carved on its interior.

“I told you I was ready to talk about it, and I mean it. But I need you to help me here,” he whispers, as if the guards can still hear him, and he gets closer and closer to her face. Se-mi's face softens and her stomach sinks when she realizes she can't see any malice etched on his face, or can't hear any bite to his words. This is Nam-gyu, and he's scared, raw, and vulnerable. She reaches for his shoulders and squeezes them tightly.

“We'll figure it out, okay?” Se-mi breathes, half in relief at finally being able to accept what had happened to her, and half in inability to reach her voice any higher. It feels as if the air's been sucked out of her, and it looks like Nam-gyu shares the sentiment. He puts his head in his hands as he makes breathy sounds that Se-mi's never heard come from him. She tries to convince herself that he's not crying.

When he looks back up at her, his eyes are still wet and his glasses are askew. “Do you think we need to find the others?” she says, before she can stop herself. Shockingly, Nam-gyu nods in agreement.

Se-mi rolls her eyes. Right until yesterday, she was sure of only one thing; if Thanos ever made it back to Nam-gyu, the latter would be all over him, most likely ecstatic to receive any attention from him as he could. This is new to her, Nam-gyu not bearing the idea of facing the rapper again, eyeing the ring as if it’s radioactive. Maybe it is, she figured; She wouldn't put it past Thanos to experiment with dangerous chemicals on anything he could put his hands on. Nam-gyu included. Clearly, though, carving out his number means something; it isn’t over to him, and he’s making it clear to Nam-gyu, who’s as oblivious as ever. Or maybe that's what he tries to be; she can't really figure him out sometimes. 

"Why do you think he left his number there?" she asks, trying to fish any information out of him as possible. "He needs money or something, I don't know," he huffs out. Se-mi purses her lips. She throws her water bottle at him, smiling contentedly as she hears the melodic bonk it makes as a result of the contact with his apparently empty head. He doesn't even complain. "Right before he leaves for a world tour, right," she adds sarcastically. 

"I wouldn't be surprised, though," she shrugs. "There was a reason we were all there." Nam-gyu frowns, looking up from his hands towards her. She breathes heavily before speaking up. 

"We weren't to be trusted with money Nam-gyu. Three hundred million in debt, man? And who knows how much more money Thanos owed? Do you think that money accumulates by chance? Do you think the money I owed piled up by chance? That I was falling behind on rent and just got given a card? Thanos almost killed himself, for Christ's sake! And who knows what could've happened once we got out of there? For all I know, Min-su could be dead in a ditch somewhere," her voice cracks at mention of the boy, "and it's only a matter of time before we fall back into whatever shit we were doing everyday for years!"

Nam-gyu stares, mouth agape. "You're one dumb fuck if you really think I'd let you touch your last won for something as stupid as the things you were doing two years ago," he bites back. "And if you really think that fucker's dead, then you're as dumb as you can get. Don't say stupid shit."

Se-mi looks up at him, now standing up with his back to her. His fingers are rubbing at his temple, and he's visibly tensed up. She knows he means no harm, but she doesn't care. If Nam-gyu wants to live with the fact that he never reached out, never looked for the others, he can do so. But she's not gonna let that chance go; not like that, when the ring is right in front of her, when the chance to know whether or not she was just going lunatic this past year is right in front of her. Before Nam-gyu could react, the ring was in her heft hand and her phone on her right.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

"Hello?"

"Is this Thanos?"

Chapter 3: mea culpa

Nam-gyu's working alone tonight. He hasn't worked any shifts with Se-mi since he last saw her at his place, when she decided to call Thanos; he'd rather keep it that way, for now. They'd talked for about thirty minutes, and for the last fifteen, she was out on the balcony, smoking as she took in every word she heard from the other line. He couldn't hear much, but he could see the look on her face: attentive, understanding. She was truly absorbing every word Thanos had to say, and something about the look in her eyes let on just how long she's been waiting to have a conversation like this.

When she'd walked back in, phone in her pocket, Nam-gyu didn't even look at her when he told her to leave. There was a lot of shouting, name-calling, and insults coming out of both his and Se-mi's mouth, which he doesn't really bother to recall. He's comfortable doing what he's already learned to be good at, which is ignoring the issue until it disappeared; one way or another.

He hasn't checked his phone since the fight, but he knows there's not much waiting for him in there. A text from Se-mi, sure, from yesterday, but he's not planning on replying just yet.

Call me when you're done being a baby.

The thing is, he knows he's wrong. He knows that willing the memories of the games away until they left him alone, until they stopped keeping him company in his sleep, until the blood on his hands is finally washed away, isn't really a proper plan of action. He knows that he doesn't have to run as fast as his feet will let him to have a chance at a better life, or bite and kick to make it through the day anymore, but he's never really lived any other way. Like Se-mi said herself, there was a reason he was at the games along with scammers, scumbags and gamblers; right up until a year ago, he didn't even have a place he could call home. Only thing keeping him somewhat afloat was his job; and barely, at that.

The good thing about Pentagon is that it houses people like him. Especially back then. He did his job, he signed deals and booked events, and in return, he got the money he needed for another fix and his boss looked the other way when he used the staff bathroom for a bit too long, or when he spoke with the known club dealers a bit too familiarly. She didn't ask him any questions when he came back and, most importantly, didn't fire him. If Nam-gyu was a tad bit more sentimental, he would've thought of her as his second mother, of sorts. Soon-bok has known him for almost ten years now, being his first and only employer. She's seen him high, sober, drunk and beat up, and she hasn't ever compromised his position in any way.

When he walked back into the club after almost a week of being gone, he powered through the shouting, and he let her call him whatever names she wanted; lazy, junkie, selfish, and so on. At the time, he couldn't even bring himself to disagree. He braced himself for an overdue termination, but all he heard in return was her quiet sniffles as she took in a deep breath, in, hold, out. He started to get the rare, uncomfortable feeling of cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and the longer Soon-bok went without speaking, the more bile he could feel rising up his throat. He was either getting fired or straight-up banned from Pentagon—or both.

“Tend to the bar tomorrow. Don't be a minute late. By next week you'll be back to promoting,” she says, walking out and squeezing his shoulder as if he was about to fade away. The woman takes another shaky breath, and talk again, just loud enough for Nam-gyu to hear her. “Don't ever scare me like that again.” She squeezed his shoulder one more time, a bit too tightly, and left him alone in her office.

Apart from her, he had no one. And he wasn't that close with her, anyway. He didn't know much about her other than that she was divorced, and had a son about his age who she hasn't spoken to in three years, ever since he went to jail. She was strict, stubborn and sometimes even a total bitch, but he could never bring himself to dislike her. He didn't have it in him; not for her. Not when she's the only person that ever bothered to check up on him when she could tell he wasn't doing fine, or that's willing to look past his slip-ups and outbursts.

On the other hand, though, the reason he was there in the first place and the reason he didn't really care if he made it out as the winner was the same; there was no home to go back to. He fought for his survival purely out of instinct, he killed people and singled them out because he saw himself in them. Disposable trash, guilty of the crime of poverty. And in there, no one was better than the other. And yet, Nam-gyu was on his way of becoming the worst out of all them. The only thing stopping him was the inevitable sleep brought onto him and swallowing him whole, kicking him as further away from that place as it could.

Outside of the games, he's no-one. And he's more than happy with that. He's happy with his studio apartment, with his job, with his one friend. He's happy with his cigarettes, with his money sitting and collecting dust, with his bed, and with the hot water he showers with everyday. He's happy with his long hair, now grown out by choice and not because of the lack of money to take care of them. But every now and then, the guilt catches up to him. It's quick to come, and hesitant to go away. It's a feeling he's familiarized himself with, and even dared to say gotten used to. But the other night, when Thanos met him on that alleyway, when he gave him back his ring, it was like he was back there again. Like Thanos was the only wall he could lean himself against, the only person who could understand him.

Something about the other man had changed, too, and Nam-gyu could see it. His eyes were faraway, his once so-sure-of-himself posture now slightly slouched, his nails too short and eaten away at to be painted any color, let alone a vibrant one. Nam-gyu saw him, he saw him as he'd never had before, raw and beaten down by the same thing chasing Nam-gyu for all this time. Even outside of the games, they were the same. Too similar, like a coin with the same two sides; rare, but without any actual value.

The night's slow; too slow. It's a Wednesday, sure, but that never stopped anyone. Nam-gyu's busied himself with cleaning the same surface over and over, restocking mint leaves, cutting limes in quarters until he could find a place to store them at, and staring at the door for a bit too long, hoping for a group of ten to walk in, or something. Anything. Anything that helped him stop thinking, just stop. Stop it, stop. Stop.

He jumps upon hearing a singular buzz come from his phone. A text from an unsaved number. He doesn't even look at it, shrugging it off as a scam. And even if it isn't, he doesn't want to see it. Not right now.

The rest of the night doesn't really get any better, at least on bar. He serves probably around fifty people his whole shift, sighing in disappointment when it's time to clock out. Crumbs it is today, then. He doesn't bother with changing when he leaves, simply putting on a jacket over his work clothes, his dirty apron tossed in the passenger seat carelessly. On the five minute drive home, he manages to completely tune every single thought of his out. His eyes are tired, riddled with the familiar sting of much-needed sleep, and yet Nam-gyu doesn't want to close them when he locks his door and plops down on his couch. His body's practically screaming at him to give out for the next eight hours, right there on that couch.

He has to shower. He's sweaty, and restless, and wants to convince himself he can wash off the dirt that will never leave him. Out of the thirty minutes it took for him to wash himself, twenty-five of them consisted of him standing under the hot water, allowing it to leave red, angry marks all over his back and chest. His hands were starting to wrinkle, and all he could do was stare at them. He didn't move them, he didn't get out of the water; he just stared at them.

Nam-gyu scrubs himself so brutally, he's sure he's left scratch marks. The water, now more lukewarm than scorching hot, stings as it runs down his bare body. He wraps himself in a towel, taking small and calculated steps to his bedroom. He doesn't look for his pajamas. Instead, he falls limply on the bed and lets his exhaustion do the work for him. Work, shower, sleep. Wake up, watch TV, go to work. Shower, sleep.

---

His headache gets to him before his alarm does. His mouth is dry, the back of his throat reverberating his heartbeat, loud and ever present. He tries to swallow it down with a big gulp of water taken from a forgotten bottle on his nightstand, and turns on his phone.

(2) Text(s) From: Unsaved Number

its thanos

call me asap, please

His heart does a flip, and Nam-gyu brings both of his hands to his face. He wishes he could just fall back in the comfort of his bed, which was practically shooing him away now, his mind fully registering the world around it, rendering it impossible for the man to fall back asleep. He hisses as he stands up, turning off his alarm in the meantime. The towel that was delicately wrapped around his waist last night was now on the floor, and Nam-gyu made his way towards his dresser, not bothering to pick it up just yet.

He throws on a random shirt and pants, not even glancing at the design and color of them as he all but runs to his phone. It's 7:55 A.M. It's pretty unlikely that Thanos is up, but that doesn't stop him from clicking on the call button. If he doesn't pick up, he'll have an excuse to postpone the conversation. If he does, then he'll be able to get this over with. Nam-gyu can't quite tell which is better right now.

“Nam-gyu?” the voice asks, hopeful, just a bit after the first ring. The long-haired man bites down on his lower lip.

“Where'd you get my number?” he immediately inquires.

“Se-mi gave it to me. Can we please talk?”

Nam-gyu rolls his eyes at the mention of her name. Of course she did. “Aren't you on tour, or something? Why the fuck are you calling me?”

“I haven't seen you in a year, man, c'mon—”

“And what made you want to see me now? Listen, I'm not giving you any money, if that's what you want. I don't care if you've ran out—”

“What the hell are you taking about?” The voice on the other end shot back, slightly raising. Thanos is starting to get angry, and for some reason, it makes Nam-gyu's lips twitch upwards.

“There's no way you called me just to talk Thanos, be serious.”

“That's right.” He agrees. Nam-gyu's smile drops.

“I called you because I wanted to see you again. Not in an alleyway, or some weird game, just us. Can you do me this solid, please, just once? I don't want your money. I don't need your money, Nam-gyu.”

The man stays eerily still as he waits for him to finish. Thanos clearly has more to say.

“You wouldn't have called me if you didn't want to see me either, Nam-su, and you know it.”

The teasing along with the wrong spelling of his name brings back an unwanted feeling deep in Nam-gyu's chest, and he swallows it down. “Don't ever call me that again.”

“Sure.” He can hear the other man grinning.

“Okay.” He says, shakily. He's given up on his ego by now, letting Thanos pretty much make the decision for him.

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, when you're back from tour, we can talk about it. Call me when you're back in Seoul.”

He interrupts Thanos' celebrations, not bearing the lump in his throat anymore. “Break a leg on that stage, Su-bong.” He says, and hangs up.

With a blurry vision, he texts Se-mi.

If you ever give out my number to anyone again, I'll break your phone myself.

Within seconds, he gets a reply.

Thank me later, big baby!

;)

Despite himself, he lets out a teary laugh.

Chapter 4: o tempora! o mores!

Nam-gyu jolts awake, his heart jumping and unsteady. He's sweaty everywhere, his hands, his back, his hair, and his feet are so numb he's starting to think someone cut them off while he was sleeping. He takes a look at the time, turning on the phone laid right in the middle of his bed. 12:00 P.M. Two unanswered texts. His breathing is unsteady, shallow and fast. His jaw is clenched, and he's gripping on the bed sheets. He doesn't realize it, but he's sobbing.

It takes way too long to get himself to calm down, even slightly enough to bring his feet to the ground and support himself without falling. He drags his hands down his face, maybe a bit too intensely, but it's fine. He'll be fine. He doesn't even wait for the water to heat up before turning on the shower. The cold water attacks his body, painful and unwelcoming. It almost hurts, but he does nothing about it. It doesn't welcome him, but he does. He embraces the feeling the freezing cold wates gives him; tiny jabs at his back and his ribs, and tugs at his hair.

The mirror isn't foggy when he gets out, allowing Nam-gyu to completely perceive his reflection when he gets out. He's always had bags under his eyes, but now they looked bigger, darker; the kind that only makeup can hide, and barely.

It's not unusual for him to wake up panicked by dreams he can't remember. He knows it had to do with that place, but he never can quite really place what actually goes down. One time it's Mingle, panicked green tracksuits running around like rabid dogs, bullets echoing in the tiny, locked rooms, and the guards. Oh God, the guards. They were everywhere; in every dream, every nightmare, every darkness that follows for a brief second when he blinks. He can't remember a lot of things from his dreams, but he can remember that much. It's like they follow him in his wake, just waiting for him to snap again. He takes one more look in the mirror.

The tiny scar right on his cheekbone seems to sinks deeper into his skin, coming alive and eating away at him. Second by second, it's eating away at him. There'll be nothing left on him when it gets to—

When he looks back, it's back to normal, almost mockingly so. His heart finally starts to slow down, and his skin is dry enough for him to reach for his phone and open his texts. Both were from Se-mi. He swallows.

Hey man, is it okay if I come over?

Bored as a mffffff

The two texts increased to five, probably while he was showering. 

Bro

Did u take a nap or a coma?????

Wake up nam nam.

He types back, honestly still half asleep.

Fuck man, I'm so sorry

I fell asleep. Come over the house's a mess

Three dots. A reply.

So, the usual?

He rolls his eyes.

Just come over.

 

He grabs his cigarettes on his way to the balcony, not even bothering with straightening up his place. His palms are a bit sweaty and his hands still shaky from the remnants of his reoccurring nightmares, but he pays it no mind. The moment he traps his Marlboro between his lips and blows out the guilt it carries, his worries will be one with the smoke, one with the wind.

The air is cold and dry, unfitting for the time of day. The cigarette is already on his lips when he steps out of the warmth of his heated floors and fancy creme walls, the light being born from the inhalation of smoke and deep, desperate inhale is the only sign of life from Nam-gyu's apartment; he takes a seat, choosing the one that faces the house across from his. He squints slightly as he tries to watch the interior, a bad habit he developed when he was still a little boy, choosing to people watch as a distraction from all the shouting going on in his mother's trailer house. Maybe that's how he ended up so mean; always focused on others, never on him.

His hands are dry and scabby as per usual, and his hair still wet and messy from his shower, but at least he doesn't smell like shit. He doesn't really do anything about it; it's just Se-mi visiting anyway, and as long as he's fully clothed and his stubble is shaved, then all is well.

The cigarette is halfway gone, but Nam-gyu still feels like exploding; his dreams carry shame, and shame carries guilt. Guilt carries desire, and with desire, it dissipates. Before and during the games, he would usually calm himself down with a hit, or a puff, or he would shoot up until he was so gone, he might as well have called himself Nam-su. But he's gone off drugs now, and cigarettes don't do much unless he smokes a whole pack in one day; and he doesn't really shy away from doing exactly that.

He remembers the first week of withdrawals. No heroin, no weed, no coke, no pills. He was so, so sweaty, and so nauseous all the time, he sincerely prayed for death. Everything was exhausting and disgusting, and while he craved the high, the very thought of using made him actually sick; at least it made the transition from promoter to bartender easier. He strutted right into that bar like he always did, acting as if he owned the place, and eventually ending up doing exactly so. During the first month, he tried to remember the state he was in during the games, to no avail; it was like watching a foreign movie with no subtitles.

He tried to remember the way he felt, soft and hard and mean and familiar at the same time, but it was too much for him. Right until a few months ago, he was completely under the impression that the fucker was dead, and it broke him. He lost even more weight, some of which he managed to gain back after getting completely clean, but his ribs were still visible, his cheekbones still dark and sharp, and his hip bones still were prominent.

The bitter taste of tobacco being part of his breath, part of him, the familiar, clingy smell of it, provides him with some comfort. He puts it out, and light a second one. The bell dings. He swears.

He doesn't put it out when he walks to the door; just walks in, taking a deep draaaaag and puffs out the smoke slowly, watching it envelop him. The door is way too new to creak when he opens it.

“Smoking indoors now?”

“Fuck you. I bought this house, I'll do whatever I want inside of it,” he bites back, with minimal aggression; he can't bring himself to feel that way anymore, especially towards her.

Se-mi mocks offense as she dramatically slaps a hand to her chest and gasps, one hand occupied with a holder supporting one iced, black cold brew—americano is too light for Nam-gyu—and one hot, black drip coffee. Nam-gyu fakes a gag as he steps aside, allowing her to come inside and follows her to the balcony.

“How do you even drink this shit? It's like, 25 degrees average this week.”

He helps himself to his own coffee, taking a sip after one more puff. Se-mi takes the pack in her own hands and gets one for herself. She crosses her legs, in a way more masculine than Nam-gyu's whole existence, and lights it.

“Well, not right now.” She exhales the smoke. “Besides, drinking warm stuff when it's hot helps. I heard it from a customer or some shit; supposed to balance your temperature.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Did you get in touch with lover boy yet?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

A big pause.

“I called him this morning.”

Se-mi coughs out smoke and turns to him, her eyes now wide open and her pupils almost completely blown. When she gets excited, she almost reminds Nam-gyu of him. “Yeah,” he sighs, reaching for his pack. He lights up before he keeps on talking.

“I told him that we'd meet after his tour. I dunno what got over me,” he continues, his words slightly muffled by the cigarette in his lips.

“Did he say yes?”

“He said “fuck yeah” actually, if I remember correctly. Something in English too, but I didn't really catch on.”

“Well?”

Nam-gyu pauses. “Well, what?”

She takes a sip out of her own coffee, long and unbothered, before answering him. “Well, are you actually gonna go through with it?” He hates that she has to make him think sometimes.

“I don't know; I don't wanna think about it right now. I told him that we'd talk when he's back from tour, but if I know anything about myself,” he places his palm on his chest as if introducing himself, “is that I'll probably have him blocked by then.”

“That's not very polite.”

“When have I ever been polite?”

Silence follows for a few seconds as Se-mi thinks. Nam-gyu drags a sleepy hand on his face. He takes another drag and exhales the smoke from his nose.

“Sometimes at work.”

Nam-gyu stares, incredulously. She snaps her finger, as if having the greatest idea known to man land right on her feet. “When you go to restaurants and shit! You're very polite then,” she pointed out. “It's scary. It's like it's not even you.”

“Sorry for respecting people at their place of work, Se-mi.”

“Oh, come on. You know what I mean. Besides, it's not like you're a bad person; you're a great guy, just a bit mean.”

The words jab at his heart. Great guy.

 

Great. Guy.

 

He tries to play it off with a frown as he goes for his third, toying with the red lighter before he actually uses it. He tries to pretend as if it wasn't the first time he's heard something so positive about himself, inhaling the smoke to try and stop his ears from growing red, to no avail. It's anomalous to him, getting compliments and recognition, and frankly, it feels way more overwhelming than being the outcast he's used to being.

“Okay, don't cream your pants.”

He guffaws, the heavy feeling on his shoulders finally gone. They move over the positive feedback like it never happened (to his relief) and go back to talking about work, some new girl Se-mi's messing around with, the spiderwebs growing on Nam-gyu's cock, as Se-mi puts it kindly, and everything else of utmost importance. But alas, nothing good lasts forever.

“Anyway, you know why you're doing this, right?”

“Doing what?”

“Avoiding that poor man like the plague.”

He shakes his head, an invitation to an answer to her own question.

“You're willing to run away from something if it means it'll make you feel something, rather than facing it. Let's be real here, Nam; you meet him, you hate it, you put an end to it. I've seen you trash letters from your own mother. I'm sure you can reject a B-list—at best—rapper who you interacted with for at most four days.”

“It's not about how close we were—”

“It's about what you were doing there. I'm the first person to understand, Nam-gyu.” Fuck, that's heavy. He takes a really, really long drag. He coughs out his response.

“S-so wh-why, fuck, h-hold on,” he lifts up a finger, collecting himself. “Why do I have to do it, then?”

“Because it doesn't matter if you will. It only matters if you won't. It's like, I don't know man, like shooting the box with a bazooka before finding out if the cat's dead or not.”

“Woah. Real poetic.”

“Fuck off.”

“You wish.”

“Just go, Nam. Why don't we bet on it?”

“I'm not a gambler anymore, that won't work on me.” She rolls her eyes before she presents him the unasked for bet, stubborn as ever.

“Give it a go, and if you hate it and regret it, I'll cover your shifts for a week. If you do end up agreeing to maintain any form of contact—physical included,” she adds, glancing at him and not failing to catch his middle finger sticking up at her, “then you cover mine.”

Both don't sound to bad to him. His choices are a week of rest, or an extra buck. Whatever.

“Sure, Se-mi. Let's bet on it.”

“Man, I knew I liked you for a reason. Let's go!” she whoops, slapping her hand on the table, which responds in a loud thud, as if whining in pain. Se-mi points at him. “I'm gonna go pee in your bathroom now.” She shoots up from her chair, heading inside.

“Real classy!” he shouts back.

Left in silence for a few minutes, Nam-gyu does the only thing left for him to do; he thinks. He thinks of the games, of bright, purple hair sticking out even in the darkness, of the feeling in his stomach every time they met his fingertips. He’s not so sure how much of Thanos he can handle now that he’s back out; how he’ll handle the reality of him, alive and sober, sitting right across from him discussing God knows what. And if it’s one thing that Thanos reminds him of, it’s himself.

Nam-gyu’s seen some pretty terrifying, horrible shit happen around him during his twenty eight years on this earth; he’s had various kicks and punches landed on him, and he's managed to brush off every single one. He's managed to dodge bullets, survive children's games in the name of money, and yet, the only thing that manages to stay with him is his own self. He haunts him at night, taunts him when he's finally feeling up, stopping only when he’s left bits and pieces of Nam-gyu scattered everywhere. A heavy consciousness is a real bad fucking trip.

From the little memories he has of his mother, a specific one comes to mind; her sitting next to him, on their run-down couch, Nam-gyu still shaken and bruised by something he can't bring himself to remember in detail, reading a single verse to him, before sitting back in silence, eyes glued to the TV.

 

You have done more evil than all who lived before you. You have made for yourself other gods, idols made of metal; you have aroused my anger and turned your back on me.

---

The club is way too full once again tonight. His black shirt, tucked in his black pants, is sticky from sweat and spilled alcohol, and his hair is so greasy he had to tie it up in a ponytail. His hands are working on automatic, and his eyes aren't really communicating with his brain, making him sort of unable to register the environment around him.

He slams the drink on the counter, dismissively calling out “spicy paloma” as he goes back to wiping down the bar. It's already a bad shift, having to train the new girl and shit, and his patience is already wearing thin. The silence that follows instead of a thanks pushes him off the edge.

“Hey, man, I don't know where you come from, but in our country we say “thank you” when being offered a drink—”

A pair of big, brown eyes stare back at him, like a lost, pathetic puppy. They're wide and terrified, five long, smooth fingers almost touching the drink. Nam-gyu lets out an incredulous laugh, bitter and hateful.

“Finally rich enough to buy palomas, MG?”

“I'm sorry, I don't—”

The drink flies from the bar and lands all over his branded t-shirt.

“Oops, are you okay?” Nam-gyu purrs, pulling him from the hem of his shirt after grabbing a dirty towel from the bar sink. He rubs it all over him, staining the shirt beyond saving and getting the other man soaked in the process. “There, all better.”

The son of a bitch doesn't even say anything in response. It's driving Nam-gyu insane. He pulls harder, drags him closer to his face, a move so intimate it earns a couple excited screeches from a couple of teenage girls nearby. Their noses are touching, but neither move away; one to scared to do so, and the other to full of rage to let go just yet.

“Will you do me the favor of leaving my bar before I bash that pretty face of yours in, right here in front of everybody?”

Myung-gi all but runs when let go, and doesn't look back at him once. It's a shame; his face really is quite pretty to look at. Nam-gyu goes back to wiping glasses and surfaces, a genuine smile now plastered on his face.

Notes:

sorry if this is messy, trying to get over a major block rn :((( i've edited this chapter at least three times so apologies

Chapter 5: divitae bonum non sunt

A callused hand runs up and down Namgyu's back, focusing mainly on the small of his back. Painted nails dig at his skin, and the only thing the walls can hear for now is muffled groans and sighs. The acoustics of that room are awfully good; it's like it was made for being quiet, empty.

Thanos is the only one receiving, as per usual. His eyes are shut while Nam-gyu works on getting him to finish, preferably quickly enough; he wouldn't like to think about what he's doing a second more. He ignores his own twitching pain right in between his legs, making his pants tighter by the second. This isn't about him; it never was, and it never will be. And he's more that happy with that. Hell, he could die at the next game and he'd be just fine; in fact, Nam-gyu could just die right there and then. At least he'd be doing something enjoyable.

Despite the silence enveloping Nam-gyu's throat, his inability to even think straight, let alone talk aloud, Thanos seemed completely unbothered, constantly having to bite down on his hand when Nam-gyu moved his hand too fast, or occasionally whispering things into his ears that made his stomach turn in slight hope that one day—maybe, just maybe, Nam-gyu would finally be on the receiving end.

Nam-gyu’s getting tired. Of moving his hand, of palming Thanos, fuck if he knows. He starts to stroke faster, harder, his hand not only moving up and down, but making circular motions as well, trying to get the other man to the finish line faster. It feels like a competition; the only competition that Nam-gyu could win, apparently, he mused, as his hand got covered with the rapper's essence, his being. Despite everything in him, despite his heart beating way too loudly, or his cheeks being a little too flushed, he wipes his hand on the side of the mattress, feigning disgust. Even with all the death happening around him, this is probably the best thing that's happened to him.

The text messages with Thanos are awkward and brisk.

 

I saw you on tv lol, Nam-gyu starts.

 

wat did u think of the nails? ;)

 

Hideous. Very you.

 

i do it for the fans, thank you <33

Their chats are mostly small talk, similar to two former colleagues catching up after one of them ends up quitting. He doesn't actually know him, and having an actual, meaningful conversation with him births such a deep pit of terror deep in his stomach, that he doesn't really dare dip anything more than his toes in the waters he's tested so much, they've become warm by now. Thanos continuously hands him shots, and he dodges every single one of them. It's like talking to a stranger, with the major disadvantage of the stranger at hand being famous and both of them being sober. 

The whole ordeal' s childish, and Nam-gyu hates it to his core; He's never been one to develop relationships, to the point that even his friendship with Se-mi felt like a bag of bricks on his head, so chatting to some guy he hasn't actually talked to in a year feels like a humiliation ritual; it's not like the shared anything other than drugs. Sure, he's jerked him off a couple times when they were both still high after each game, but at the time, it was nothing more than a service for a service. A high for a high. It was nothing like the way it is now, and it was certainly not as confusing. 

So, to distract himself, he does as usual. He leaves his bed, smokes outside, and makes himself a shitty cup of coffee. He sips it while thinking of last night, the remnants of anger doing more for him than the caffeine. He doesn't really resort to indoor smoking when it's cloudy outside, but his thoughts are anchoring him to the kitchen at the moment, and he doesn't really feel like steeping outside again. The room is modern, equipped with a modern (fully functioning!) stove and black tile walls, and a black, marble island with tall leather stools. Between the kitchen and island there's a huge window on the wall, providing full view of the road next to Nam-gyu's house. If he somehow managed to meet himself before the games, he'd be so disgusted; wealth is filth, but Nam-gyu's lack of it was also filthy, so at least he feels fancy now. All grown up with his blood money. His mother would be proud. 

The kitchen quickly fills up with smoke, the familiar smell of tobacco lingering in it. Nam-gyu lazily turns on the TV, surfing through news channels, a kids network, and a handful of cheesy romances before landing on a random history documentary. He scrolls on social media as he smokes, leaning against the countertop, letting the show act as background noise.

His throat burns slightly from the nicotine swimming in it, but he doesn't stop. His phone buzzes twice. 

Holy fuck dude

The second text is a link to an online magazine, and specifically an article talking about the one and only Thanos. Nam-gyu's stomach sinks.

Rapper Thanos spotted with mystery lady in cafeteria in Milan!

He reads and reads and reads, his face dropping more and more after each line. Something about speculations of a woman he started dating helping him get clean, speculations of who this woman could be, going off her short black hair and skinny figure.

In the picture used in the article, Thanos is leaning against a wall right outside a cafe in Italy, a smug smile on his face and one hand in his pocket. He's wearing an oversized, brightly-colored hoodie and baggy cargo jeans. His hair is tussled, probably his, or probably her doing, and is looking down at what seems to be a skinny girl with black hair that reached her shoulders. Nam-gyu can't see her face, but he's sure it's ugly.

He doesn't even realize his vision is blurry when he reaches the part that says that Thanos has neither denied nor confirmed the rumors surrounding this. The hurt felt familiar, and yet his head was still spinning. For some reason, he really did think that the rapper was actually planning on reaching out after the tour. It's not surprising; divine presences don't really respond to prayers, and that's exactly what Thanos was to him. A cross and a couple of pills, a purely transactional relationship had turned into a ritual for Nam-gyu. A prayer, knees on the floor and a head bowed down as a sign of respect. 

Besides, Thanos was never into men like that. Nam-gyu serves as nothing more than a reminder of Thanos' moral evolution, a vision of a path followed by a man with nothing better to do with his life. Thanos is famous, handsome and successful; his body isn't scarred, at least not every visible part of it, and his tattoos are strategically placed on his perfectly symmetrical body in a way that covered any scar he might have caused himself. He was the epitope of perfection, divine perfection, and Nam-gyu was nothing but his follower. And, given the opportunity, he knows he could be swayed into praying to him again. His breath is shaky and his heart is about to hammer out of his chest. The lump in his throat grows more each and every second he looks at picture, briefly hidden by an intentional cough. He feels dizzy.

He exits and goes back to his chat with Se-mi.

Good for him. How does this concern me?

Bruh

Are you serious

His eyebrows furrow and the muscles around his mouth twitch downwards, but he painfully manages to keep them completely still. One cigarette left; placed upside down, some habit he got from seeing an ex boyfriend do it, and hasn't stopped doing it ever since. He doesn't remember what he wished for yesterday, but he still lights it up, hopeful in all of the unknown desires he's been taken by. For the first time in his professional life, he prays for a bad shift. He prays and begs for a shift so bad, that his mind won't have the time to get occupied by anything else. 

---

“You're seriously not gonna talk about this?” 

Her forearms are muscular and it's even more obvious when she crosses her arms over her chest, making Nam-gyu feel a little intimidated. Se-mi's a lot of things; forgiving, funny, and she can even be smart sometimes. What she can also be is very, very scary. Good thing Nam-gyu's good at hiding being scared. 

“Talk about what? He texted me first, he's seeing someone, he's obviously not into this thing like that. It's fine.”

Click. Flash. Light. Drag. 

“Except it's not,” she argues, her eyebrows raised in disbelief, as if she was the one getting played by the guy she used to like a year ago. “He totally led you on, dude.” 

“What if he's straight?”

In response to that, he earns a pure of look disappointment and pursed lips from her. “And he just carved his number into your ring, tracked you down, found you, and gave it to you in hopes that you'd call him.” 

“What if he's straight and crazy?”

“And trying to do what?”

“I dunno,” he muses around a cigarette, “kill me, maybe.”

“You're being funny.”

“I don't even know what that means.” 

He says it with a stupid grin on his face, rightfully earning a shove from Se-mi. The alleyway behind the club is lit by one singular, ancient light that flickers every minute or so. At first, it used to give him a headache; now, it offers him the comfort of hiding every time it goes out. Every time the alley gets dark, he relishes the feeling of being invisible, even for just a fraction of a second. It's what he's always known. 

His alarm assaults both their ears, and they both hurry to stub out their cigarettes before they make their way inside. It's a Saturday, and Nam-gyu can already smell the throw up he's gonna be cleaning by the end of the night. No amount of deep breaths can calm him down, not when the line of people waiting to get in reaching the other side of the street and people are already drunk out of their minds before even stepping foot into the club. 

He puts his hair in a ponytail mentally noting to book a haircut soon; his hair's getting way too long, and he;s been called “ma'am” way too much for his liking lately. Se-mi's already locked in, wiping down the surfaces of the disproportionately small bar and prepping limes, ice and everything in between. Nam-gyu, on the other hand, just exists as he waits for the doors to open and the inescapable evil to barge in. 

Some kind of private party's supposed to take place at Pentagon tonight, which practically means opening earlier and closing later, dealing with the same costumers again and again, watching them get drunker and drunker, to the point of probably needing to call an ambulance for one of them, something that Nam-gyu is not excited to do. He's made a pact with Se-mi, basically forcing her into a game of rock, paper, scissors whenever anyone passes out in front of the bar—the loser calls medical services, the winner takes a shot. 

The music's already too loud when the doors opened, and people are already stumbling around drunkenly, trying to find the nearest bar. Some kind of company party, he assumes, as no amount of money the average person has available is able to get anyone this drunk, no matter if it's the weekend or not. Also, in the crowd, he can make out a couple of suits and jackets, messed up from what he can only guess is dancing clumsily after a weak attempt at presenting as professional at a party. Weak.

It's these kinds of days when Nam-gyu is actually grateful for his career choice instead of nine-to-five loophole. At least he can get drunk on shift.  He winces at the mere thought of being trapped in front a computer for a full eight hours, pouring him a shot to calm his nerves; he ignores Se-mi's look as he downs it.

The DJ winks at Nam-gyu, shooting him some finger guns. He winks back.; it's a shame he has a girlfriend, poor guy. The big lights turn off, and in their place, the familiar purple strobes in sync with the bass of the music take over. He turns to her, exchanging a look of both amusement and dread; it's gonna be a long night, but he'll be damned if he doesn't wake up with a hangover tomorrow.  

---

A grunt and a thud, followed by a laugh. Nam-gyu picks himself up from the tile bathroom floor. Holy fuck, he giggles. He's so drunk. His black shirt is crinkled and his hair undone, and he doubts  he can fix his state before his thirty minute break ends.

He wipes his bottom lip with his pointer and middle finger, watching them stain a deep shade of crimson. The man standing above him is breathing shallow, angry breaths, and all he can do in return is giggle once more. 

“Well, I'll give it to you,” he sniffs, trying to draw the blood from his nose back inside it. “You do know how to fight.” 

“You're pathetic,” the other man spits. Nam-gyu looks up at him, mocking a pout. The confusion of the attacker renders him defenseless for a bit, allowing for Nam-gyu to kick him at the shin. He grunts, falling to the floor. He gets up, finally at a place of advantage, and kicks him again. 

The man on the floor reflectively tears up from the kick to the ribs, folding in a fetal position. “What's wrong, MG Coin?” 

The light flickers, hiding them for a moment, forgiving all sins and, for a moment, defining them as two strangers, angry and intoxicated. The games are distant now, not even serving a valid reason for the beating taking place in the dingy club restroom. He extends an arm. He's very drunk; and so is Myung-gi. Very, very drunk. 

“Got beat up by a—” 

He tries to tease, but the other man's already right in front of his face. His hand hurts from the pressure applied to it, but he doesn't let go. He's got a stupid grin on his face, and a strange, dangerous, euphoria that he hasn't felt in a long time. He feels high, and yet there are zero drugs in his system. Maybe the alcohol fucked him up, or maybe he's just missed being a victim and an attacker at the same time; maybe he just loves riling Myung-up that much, and just discovered a new hobby. 

Their faces are very close to each other. Nam-gyu's still smiling like an idiot, showing canines and somehow managing, despite being slightly shorter, to look down at the youtuber. He's a lot of bad things, but he's unfortunately also very attractive. The kind of attractive that he'd make a free drink for, or wear a little bit of concealer to impress. But alas, he's not only straight, but has also scammed him of his money, so Nam-gyu doesn't really think it would work out. 

“I can smell your drink, dude. You mind stepping back, or is this some sort of foreplay?” He winks, mockingly rubbing his hands on his chest. His pulse is fast and unsteady and he backs away from the touch almost immediately. They're both strong; there's no point in fighting any more, unless they both want to create some pretty annoying bruises. Neither of the two are capable of winning, so for the next minute, they try to catch their breath. 

“You're fucking insane.” 

“Don't you have a chick with a baby or something waiting for you at home?” 

“Fuck you,” MG retaliates, his voice thick with venom. Nam-gyu raises his hands. 

“Ah, can't, sorry. Too busy tonight.” 

He laughs at the stuttering and relishes in the embarrassment the other man is visibly feeling, sarcastically blowing him a kiss as he slams the door behind him. 

The silence is worse than the beating.

Chapter 6: audi alteram partem

The bathroom is suddenly cold and lonely when Myung-gi leaves. The sounds of the club are drowned by the thick, yet barely maintained walls of the place, bass, music and fights; the raw sounds the club hosts every night have become a sort of white noise to Nam-gyu, and every nightclub worker he can think of. The fucker is probably still out there somewhere, fixing his shirt and hair, or wiping his mouth from the punches he took. It pisses Nam-gyu of just thinking about it. He lets out a long, exasperated sigh and then a groan, like he just got his ass beat again, and heads to the sink.

His reflection is not pretty. His hair is fucked, messy and damp from the sweat, and he can already spot a couple bruises forming, one on his left cheekbone and the other just below his jawline. His lips are puffy and scratched, one side of his mouth is decorated with dried blood and his eyes are hazy, telling on the fact that he is completely, utterly done. He turns on the tap and takes one last look at the state of himself.

The water is cold and unforgiving when it attacks his face, but at least it wakes him up. He's still a bit dizzy, but he's completely convinced that every last drop of alcohol has been completely drained out of his body. He still has fifteen minutes left, so he takes the extra time to lean against the sink and catch his breath. Right now, all he can feel is the bass on his feet and all he can hear is the humming of the water pipes. He's been so busy this past year, working his thoughts away and counting his money again and again, not daring to spend it, that it hasn't dawned on him that the only person he actually knows and interacts with him is the one he tried to kill. There isn't any hate left in him anymore, enough to genuinely, actively, try and kill someone; that island swallowed it all up, and whatever soul he had with it.

If he knew the pain would be this much, he wouldn't have quit the drugs. He would've used his money to buy a few more pills and pop them anytime he needed, just like he did in the games, when the guilt got too heavy or when the fear was too present. All he could think about when the cold asphalt hit his bare back and left marks all over it was how much he hoped Thanos was there with him to give him a pill. He would've gotten on his knees and begged, wouldn't even have bothered to put on any clothes and would have chewed it until the terror of his own actions left him alone. Instead, he woke up next to Se-mi, ate some pathetic excuse for a soup at the closest place, and threw it up almost immediately. For at least a couple weeks after that night, he could barely eat. He'd take one bite of his food and let his mind wander for one second, and his stomach would immediately turn upside down. Then there were the withdrawals, and any hope of him eating left were just flown out of the window. He lost twelve pounds, started coping by smoking more, and made himself swallow every bite of whatever shit Se-mi threw at him to get him to eat.

His mouth's dry. His vision is blurry again, and he doesn't dare to make any sound. If he does, his voice will crack, and if his voice cracks, he'll start sobbing. He coughs away the pain, promising himself a cigarette on his next break, and tries to put himself together. He takes a last look around the restrooms, surprisingly empty for this time of night. His eyes land on a specific stall, one he doesn't dare go into, not even to clean.

Drugs are expensive, Nam-gyu knows that. He also happens to know that not everyone can afford them, especially at such unprecedented times. The guy having him pinned against the freezing stall wall is cute, but not enough for Nam-gyu to take the time to memorize his face. It's generic, definitely not ugly, and his breath doesn't smell like shit. If he remembers correctly, he used to be a promoter as well, but his life went downhill when he started experimenting with substances. He got demoted to waiter at the prime of his career for stealing Nam-gyu's shit, but continued to visit the club. Lately, he's gotten more and more desperate for a high, and Nam-gyu's started to notice. He's started to notice when his hand lingered a little too long when he tried to walk past him, or how his gaze fixed on him when he was talking to someone else. He was straight, at least he thought up until ten minutes ago, so the chances of the guy actually making a move on the promoter were very slim. Besides, he tried to steal his drugs; if Nam-gyu knew any better, he wouldn't even give him the chance to talk to him for a mere second.

But what is Nam-gyu if not merciful? How can he not forgive him when he asked so nicely and when he placed his hands so perfectly on his hips and kissed him so well? It was only a tiny ziploc bag of pills after all, not the end of the world. He also hasn't gotten touched in so, so long, let alone this well. The stall door is locked, the music is blaring and Nam-gyu's very high, so his pleased hums and tiny moans fall on pretty much deaf ears; he doesn't mind.

“So pretty,” the taller man mumbles, “just like a girl.” Nam-gyu laughs, his pants getting tighter and tighter as his erection gets harder and harder to hide.

“Well,” he breathes against his neck, “you're in for a surprise,” he half-laughs, half-moans, as he pushes his hips against him, making his arousal obvious. The man laughs as he pushes back. He opens his mouth, presumably to say something to him, when he gets interrupted by a loud gag coming from the stall next to him. They both look at each other and giggle at the situation before locking lips again, only for the stranger to gag again. Nam-gyu rolls his eyes, now obviously annoyed at the situation. “Ignore him,” he hums soothingly against him right before biting at his neck, leaving one more mark. Nam-gyu tries to; he even hums happily at the bite, stretching to give him more space.

Gag. Spit. Cry.

The guy tuts, and Nam-gyu moves away from him. “Listen, I need to do my job, man.”

“People get drunk all the time, Nam-gyu,” he groans. “So what if he's throwing up his guts right now? It's good for him anyway, no?”

“It is,” Nam-gyu drawls, “but I have to go check out if he's fine. If something happens to him and people find out I was too busy doing whatever I'm doing with you, then—”

“Whatever.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Didn't even want you anyways, man.”

The tent in his trousers seems to say otherwise, but Nam-gyu lets the lie slide when he bites back at him. “If you need the drugs so bad, go sit under a bridge or something. I only take actual payments.” He unlocks the door, motioning for him to get out. “Go on. Go jab a needle in your arm or whatever it is that you do. I have to do my job.”

He knows it's a heavy thing to say to someone. He knows it's hard, because he relates. The man standing across from him, all pouty and enraged, is exactly like him; just unluckier. They're both addicts, and in another life, Nam-gyu would've spared him and just shooed him off like a normal person. But it's unlike him to be kind, and the only way to get him to leave isn't good manners, anyway. So he doesn't even look when he stomps out of the bathroom, immediately moving on and heading to the—surprisingly, unlocked—stall.

A hunched man is really going at it, and Nam-gyu almost gags himself at the lurching and water splashing, but he powers through as he approached him.

“Hey, man, you need anythi—”

He gets interrupted, fast, by a set of deep, purple hair and dark brown roots raising from the toilet seat. A neck, adorned with two lines tattooed on either sides of it turns and reveals a familiar figure, as two dark eyes raise to meet his.

“I'm fine...” he groans, going back to doing whatever he was doing earlier.

“You sure look like it.”

“Leave me alone, dude.”

“Fight with girlfriend? Too much liquor? Come on, man, don't make me call an ambulance on you. Let me help you for a second.”

The rapper catches his breath and looks at him again. “The great Thanos doesn't need help.”

“The great Thanos is vomiting all over the toilet I'll have to clean later.”

“Hold my hair,” the man deadpans, and they both exchange a look that's worth a conversation. Are you serious? – You brought this on yourself.

So, Nam-gyu reaches out, defeated, and grips the man's hair with enough force to make him wince. His hold tightens every time Thanos goes back to throwing up, enjoying the strangled cry's of the rapper to let go.

He's spotted him around the club a few times this past year, even bought him some free shots after two performances as a thank you. Every single time he's done so, Thanos reintroduces himself, as if he's never met Nam-gyu before. For now, it's not really an issue. Besides, the tight grip on his wrist every time he grabs at his hair is pretty rewarding on its own—no apology needed. He'll be there for hours if the guy doesn't straighten up. He can already hear his boss' complains; Nam-gyu, you junkie, you were supposed to be done with the toilets an hour ago! And why have I welcomed in five clients of yours? If you slack off like this again, I swear I'll have you shooting up in the streets, you useless fuck! Nam-gyu, you—

“Nam-gyu?”

Se-mi's face is one of concern when Nam-gyu snaps back to reality, her hands tight on his shoulders. “Nam, you okay?”

“Hm? Yeah, I'm fine,” he breathes, lost for a moment. Her eyes lack trust. “Are you high?” shhe inquires, laced with hurt.

“What? No, Se-mi, I'm not high. A bit shaken up, I'm just—”

“Wait.” Shit.

“Did you get in a fight? What the fuck's wrong with your face, are okay?”

“I'm fine, Se-mi, really.” Her lips purse, unconvinced. “You should see the other guy.”

She really should see the other guy. Myung-gi looked fucked up when he left, bruised up and bloody, to the point where Nam-gyu's not sure how he didn't hear security stopping him. It's not like he's the most experienced fighter; most of the hits were him landing on his face after Nam-gyu dodged his fists or tripped him when he ran towards him after being pushed away.

“What happened? Who was the guy?”

“Didn't you see him at the bar? I think he ordered a couple drinks before he got in here, I'm sure I saw him..”

“You're rambling, Nam.”

It takes a moment of silence to realize the room's spinning, and when it does, Nam-gyu loses all control of his legs. His knees buckle as he struggles to find some balance at the sink , to no avail. He drops to the floor, not quite devoid of his senses, not quite there. He can hear Se-mi in the distance, a couple woah's and grunts as she tries—and fails to pick him up, before everything goes black.

---

His head is killing him when he comes to, almost as drunk as he was last night. His hair is all over his face, damp and greasy, and he can feel his pained back when he sits up on his bed. His phone's dead, and his curtains are open. He's still wearing his work uniform, which is almost completely destroyed from his antics, and he's over his covers. It definitely looks like someone dropped him on his bed carelessly, just enough to make sure he was alive, and left.

He would assume it was Se-mi, but he doesn't think she's that strong. He's out of people.

Defeated, he plugs his phone to charge and tries to wait a couple minutes. He bites at his nails and toys with his rings, wincing when his eyes land on the one Thanos gave him. He doesn't even have the energy to reach for his remote, instead opting to literally hide under his covers until he hears his phone buzz back to life.

The sun is blinding, and his head is throbbing, but at least he isn't nauseous. If there's anything in this world Nam-gyu hates more than heights, is throwing up. He likes to stay grounded and light, thank you very much. Sometimes, he's glad the games ended where they did; he can't imagine being thrown into a game that involved heights, of all things. That old freak promised there would be one, but Nam-gyu never got to see it with his own two eyes, and he's grateful for that. If it came down to it, Thanos would have to survive on his pills, alone, and with a dream. Nam-gyu would've begged the guards to shoot him right there on the spot.

After what feels like an eternity, his phone finally comes back to life. What follows is an endless stream of buzzes of notifications, so frequent that it can't be from just one person, and enough to make him jump up, ignoring all pain.

Twelve text messages from Se-mi.

One message from him boss.

Two messages from an unknown number.

Twenty one messages from Thanos and two missed calls. His stomach drops. He decides to open his boss' chat first.

Hey, everything okay? Se-mi told me you had to leave early, I hope you're doing well. Text back when you can.

Nam-gyu's fingers hover over the keyboard.

Good morning. Yeah, I'm fine, probably got the flu.

I'll be fine to come in tomorrow.

The three dots appear almost instantly.

You don't have to. Take your time, just go to the doctor if possible; can't risk an outbreak during peak season.

Nam-gyu nods to nothing, and text back.

Got it

He moves on to the unknown number. He doesn't know how he got his number, but he's almost sure about who the messages are from.

Saw you being carried out of the club

Couldn't handle it? ;)

His face heats up. He doesn't bother replying.

He doesn't take a minute to breathe when he moves to Se-mi. The last few messages catch his attention the most.

Please don't be mad at me

I really couldn't carry you all the way, you're so heavy dude

He just happened to drive by and saw you I swear

Please don't get scared, I told him to wait at the living room until you woke up

Suddenly, the text messages from Thanos make sense. His nose unplugs as it welcomes the scent of poorly made coffee and the familiar scent of a blueberry vape half of his coworkers can't put down because if Thanos does it, it's sooooo cool dude. He feels like he's about to faint again.

The fear is similar to finding out an intruder broke into his house, because that's exactly what this situation is. When he steps out to the kitchen and his eyes lock with a pair he shamefully prayed to anything there was that he'd see again, surrounded by artificial smoke partially covered with a few loose purple strands, he loses it.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house.”

Dark eyes widen in shock and anticipation.

“Nam-gyu, you're awake! My boy, I was so—”

“What the fuck are you doing in my house,” he raises his volume.

“Didn't you see Se-mi's texts? I drove you here, man! You were completely out of it! That fucker MG coin rocked your shit, bro, when I find him—”

“When you find him, I'll make sure he rocks your shit too. Who do you think you are, Thanos?”

“What?”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he realizes.

“You go on tour, text me every day, fuck another bitch, use my coffee machine, sleep on my couch, vape in my kitchen, and expect me to what​? Say “thank you, Thanos”? You're so...” he tries to catch himself before he spits it out. He's really not in a state to fight any anger, as he never is. If Nam-gyu is one thing, he's a destroyer. He destroys himself, he ruins his body, he says things he's not supposed to say or he doesn't even feel. But it's too late to catch himself before he falls to his death; he always is.

“You're so pathetic, Su-bong!”

He watches him flinch at the usage of his own name. He knew it would cause a reaction. He doesn't care.

“What do you want from me? From this thing you're doing? You want me to suck your dick? To beg for drugs? To give you drugs? Aren't you tired of treating me like shit?”

“Nam-su, please—”

“It's fucking Nam-gyu, you fucking idiot! You're so fucking lost on yourself and your fame, and whatever it is that you've got going on, you can't even remember the name of the guy you're leeching off of! You know what?”

The silence is straight-up painful. Nam-gyu's stomach is crumpled up, and he's crying, and pointing at Thanos as if he's committed a crime, because in his eyes he has, and points to the door.

“If you're so mature and smart, why don't you use your big, adult brain to pack your shit and leave my house? Huh?”

His thoughts are all over the place, and the look in Thanos' eyes makes him want to take everything back. He wants to dig himself a hole and crawl in it, but he'd rather kill himself than show it. The man in front of him doesn't even look mad. He just looks hurt, like he's already forgiven him. Nam-gyu wants to die when he watches Thanos actually pack his shit and leave in silence. A minute later, his phone dings.

One (1) text message from: Thanos

i made that coffee for you

Notes:

hope this wasn't too messy!! im on vacation rn with family so my thoughts are all over the place atm :(

Chapter 7: si vis pacem, para bellum

Notes:

okay, okay, it gets a little worse before it gets better! warning for very slight smut towards the end. also, thank you SO SO much for 2k hits u guys :( it means a lot to me, and i love knowing that so many people are willing to read my silly little fic ^_^

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He hasn't dared to answer any calls or texts so far; the consequences of his own actions are a bit too heavy for him to handle at the moment, so the calls from Se-mi go mostly unanswered. He's called in sick for the second day in a row, something he never did even when he was in the worst depths of his addiction; he'd just go to work high as shit and clock out, praying the money went into his account and not into a wellness check for addicts or something.

He's talked to Se-mi twice, which—for them—is uncommon; it makes Nam-gyu want to move to a desolate island and never talk to anyone again. He's never been this scared, never this desperate. The apartment is lonely without her coming in to annoy him and use his shit, or make a mess in his balcony when the weather is good and his living room when it's chilly.

“When are you planning on coming to work?”

“I told you, Se-mi, I'm sick.”

And that probably is the biggest lie he's ever told someone, and for the dumbest reason ever. His nose isn't even clogged and his voice is as flat as usual, making the voice on the other line sigh and Nam-gyu to remember that, to his disadvantage, Se-mi knows him better than anyone does. It makes him sick.

“I can't come in, okay? I feel like shit. I can't leave my house right now.”

“And for a good reason too, you dickhead. You do know that Thanos has my number, right? You don't have to push everyone away, Nam. He wanted to help, bro—”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

His voice is bitter with venom as it slips out of his mouth, sharp and unfiltered. It's not a side of himself that he likes to show nowadays, but it still escapes him from time to time; when he's too tired to guard himself. It's evil, rot spilling out from his insides, rot that should have physically been there a year ago, but unfortunately isn't.

“Nam-gyu, calm down. Don't give me that mean girl shit, or you're gonna make me come over.”

“Oh, and you're gonna do what? Are you gonna preach me on kindness? Maybe grab a few sharpies on the way and teach me the alphabet while you're at it, you fucking—”

The line goes dead. Nam-gyu can feel the bile rising in his throat, familiar and threatening, but he fights it. Throwing up a couple times a year ago is enough for a lifetime for Nam-gyu, he thinks as he swallows and stumbles his way to the kitchen. If he keeps going like this, he'll self-isolate so much he won't even be able to speak to his own echo when he—inevitably—goes mad. It's a reality that, before the games, he'd come to terms with, even growing fond of the silence that swallowed him whole when he was home alone. He dealt with it by using, and when he used, he slipped out of the world he lived in and in to a different one, free of anger, and horror, and being broke. It was heavenly, right until he had to go clean.

Now, he realizes why humans are social beings. If he was an animal before, a good-for-nothing junkie that relied on others for survival, just like prey trying to become a predator, he can't imagine what he'll become now if he loses the slight trace of human interaction he has left.

The cigarette is hanging on for dear life on his lips before he knows it, and he lights it with shaky hands. Maybe he'll clock in tonight, just to apologize to Se-mi. Just to see a few faces, breathe the air outside, shit, maybe even fuck someone; it's been so long since he last did, that at this point, it's probably the root of a lot of his problems.

His thoughts get interrupted by the jingling of keys right outside his door, scaring him so shitless, he almost drops his cigarette; that would be a real tragedy. His fear gets replaced by a long, exasperated sigh—which is slightly tinged with relief, but he's not willing to admit that—when he remembers the owner of the spare keys.

“Come on, kiddo, take a seat; it's time to learn your ABC's.”

“You're so not funny.”

She snorts at him, raising her middle finger as she closes the door behind her. When Se-mi turns to him, her other hand is occupied, carrying a grocery bag packed with four items. Two bottles of soju, and two packs of cigarettes. She places them neatly on the kitchen table, maintaining some distance.

“One for you,” she pushes the soju and one pack towards him, “and one for me. Let's go to the balcony, crybaby.”

He follows, not speaking a word the entire time. He doesn't need to, for now.

The sky's gotten dark, and the streets just a little bit quiet. It's Monday night, both their day off—not that Nam-gyu was planning on going anyways—and for a moment, they relish in the quiet. Out of all days, Monday is Nam-gyu's favorite. He gets to sleep in and sleep at a regular time, and the street right outside his house isn't full of people. Just him, his phone, and whatever takeout he decides to indulge in. Tonight is reminiscent of the calm that overtakes him when he's all alone; not lonely.

It's quiet, and he can tell Se-mi's mad at him, and that kills him, but she's willing to let it go, for just a minute. For a minute, they can pretend they randomly met on the street and started hanging out. For a minute, he can pretend to be normal, that the games were a drug-induced hallucination, and whatever it was that he shared with Thanos a weird dream. Maybe, in another life, Nam-gyu doesn't carry lives tied to a ball and chain on his ankle, and maybe, walking through each day isn't so heavy. Maybe he isn't so fucked in the head, and maybe any god that's out there has nothing to forgive him for.

But alas, normalcy isn't a luxury he can afford. Neither him nor Se-mi, and it's starting to become more obvious and heavy with each second that passes, each cloud of smoke that emerges to fill the silence in the air between them, each heavy, guilt-ridden breath of his that escapes him. A cricket signals the start of the conversation.

“So,” he starts, as much as he hates to, “what'd I miss when I was out?”

Se-mi snorts, again. It's a habit of hers, he's come to find out, a thing she does when she's uncomfortable. He knows neither of them want to talk about it, because if they do, they're gonna go back to that night, when Nam-gyu was right across from Se-mi, a fork in his hand, ready to pounce, and she was eyeing the shards on the floor. They're gonna relive the moment when Nam-gyu called out to her, beckoning her to come closer, his heart so full of hate, hate so strong that it terrified him somewhere deep inside, somewhere where he was still a little sober. But the point they've reached is one of no return; they're either gonna cross that bridge now that they've gotten to it, or fuck everything that they've built together up. And considering they work together almost every day, that's gonna get real awkward, real soon.

“You just collapsed in my hands.”

Nam-gyu doesn't interrupt. She wants to talk, and she wants to talk about everything; for once, he respects that.

“It feels silly admitting it, ah, I don't know, but I got so worried. I knew you were fine, I've seen you faint before, and I know what it looks like, but you were so fucked up, dude, I hope you know that.”

He nods. He makes a mental note of her face at the moment, a note that he'll try his hardest to scrap, when he knows everything is fine. Her face is slightly illuminated by the street lights, and she looks so scared. Her short hair is framing her face in a way that makes her look like she's hiding, like a child confessing a mistake. Her eyes are a little bit wet, and she's fiddling with the label on the soju bottle, still almost full; his is almost halfway empty. It's strong stuff, he knows it, but it doesn't seem to give him the same buzz it did when he was younger; cleaner.

“That's a bit embarrassing, but I actually cried a little. I couldn't pick you up, you fatass, so forgive me for not knowing what to do.” She raises her hands in mock surrender. “I kinda dragged you out of there, so if your clothes were filthy when you woke up, my bad. I took the fire exit right next to the restrooms,” she points as if they're looking at Pentagon's floor plan, her voice cracking already. It makes Nam-gyu's throat tighten.

“I didn't expect to see him, really. He was right outside, ready to get in line when he first spotted you. He saw me second, poor guy; I was probably sweaty and snotty and shit, it wasn't a pretty sight—anyway, he offered to drive you home since I couldn't do it. You were still out of it, of course, so he carried you all the way to his car.”

Nam-gyu chokes at the sentence, not managing to hide the red forming on his cheeks. Carried him? Shit, that's so embarrassing.

“Yeah, you twink. Princess carried you and all.”

He responds for the first time, playfully shoving her as she laughs at him being a hot mess. “Shut up.”

“Anyway, he texted me telling me that you woke up and were fine, but were acting like a bitch and told him to leave.”

Silence takes over again. The crickets are louder than his own thoughts, a welcome intrusion, and the street below them painfully empty. The distance between the fourth floor and the ground is starting to become very obvious, and it feels like the balcony's getting smaller and smaller. He can feel a few droplets of sweat forming.

“He's not mad at you. You were very hungover, so... anyway, please just text him when you can. I know you don't wanna man, but at least thank him or some shit. He feels really bad; thinks he intruded or some shit.”

“He did intrude.”

It's a lie, and they both know that. Nam-gyu's happy he intruded, carried him home and everything. If he met him under any other circumstances, he'd be happy to wake up to Thanos making him coffee. Se-mi knows that. It's visible on the way her lips form into a thin line, and her eyebrows furrow together. He gives up.

“I'll text him, Se-mi, fine. I know he didn't mean to make me feel that way, okay?”

“Okay, Nam-Nam. Drink your soju.”

“Okay, mom.”

She laughs at the snarky reply, and takes a big gulp out of her own bottle. The street is a little bit louder now, the lights outside not that blinding. The night doesn't feel artificial, and the oxygen around him finally feels limitless.

“It's okay, Nam-gyu.”

“I know it's okay, I told you I was gonna—”

Her face doesn't indicate her talking about Thanos. Nam-gyu's skin feels tight again. He knows what she's talking about. If he tries to shut her off, the night won't end pretty for either of them. And besides, he wants her around, so he doesn't interrupt; her eyes hold nothing more for him that forgiveness and genuine fondness. It's a horrifying mirror of Nam-gyu's own feelings for her. Trust, love, anything sickly sweet and familiar that comes with having someone to call a friend.

“You're not him anymore. I hope you know that.”

Nam-gyu's throat clenches around the lump forming in it; his eyes get watery and he tries to look down to ground himself for a second. His hand is clenching the chair he's sitting on, not opting to move it away when Se-mi places her own on top of his. A squeeze and a smile caught at the corner of his eye finish the conversation for them.

---

The mirror is still foggy from the hot water and his hair still damp when his phone buzzes on the side table, twice. Nam-gyu shifts in his seat on the couch, trying not to check it out. His heart is racing for whatever reason, the newly-bought pack doing absolutely nothing to calm his nerves, already having reached the single digits in a few hours. It's a stressful night, sue him.

The marine-life documentary is becoming less and less interesting after each notification, and with a final vibration, he shifts his attention completely to the tiny screen next to him. He hasn't bothered to save the number yet, and he doesn't plan to. He knows who it is, and attaching a name to the contact will make this thing he has going on with the number tangible, real. He opens the chat like a starved man finally being graced with a feast.

He feels his face heat up text after text. If a hole were to open up and split the earth, now would be the perfect time.

You bruise so easily.

If fifteen minutes are enough to get you like this...

His heartbeat is stuck on his throat. There's no use fighting it, he figures, as he shakily types out a response. He's very, very glad he's alone right now. The only light sources in the living room are the vivid, blue images the TV program emits, and the phone's screen, resting bright and insistent on his face.

You wanna find out?

It's so unlike him at the moment, to text the straightest man he knows and maintain a conversation about his own body, but he's doing it either way. He can feel the discomfort pooling in his boxers, embarrassing and juvenile, he notes, as he starts to palm himself to the letters on his screen. Three dots, a buzz.

Would it be bad?

Nam-gyu's breath catches in his throat. In a vain attempt to divert the conversation, he opts for the usual approach; offense.

Don't have a wife and a kid back home?

A slight pause.

Would I be talking to you if I did?

Nam-gyu grins. He most likely would if he did, but he's not too keen on finding out if that's the case; it's not his problem to solve, anyway.

Alright, big boy.

You started sharing your location with [Unknown Number].

He doesn't even bother waiting for a response when he goes back to nervously watching his documentary. It's either gonna happen or it's not, and it's not like Nam-gyu's got anything to lose; his self respect left him a long time ago. He feels his legs twitch as he moves it up and down, reaching for the pack and the lighter as desperately as he did his phone five minutes ago.

It doesn't even register to him that he's been waiting for an hour when the text arrives. A simple I'm here is enough for him to open the front door and leave his own hanging just slightly ajar, a sign that he doesn't really care about this at all. His heart is totally not racing at all.

From what he's gathered, this is either a booty call or a scheduled fight. Either way, Nam-gyu's missed both, the first one a little more than the other, but he's happy to do whichever. He's clean enough for any circumstances, either way.

The footsteps get louder and louder as the other man approaches, their echo slowly disappearing as he reached Nam-gyu's floor. It's when he's right at his door that he realizes that he's probably not throwing punches tonight.

“You walked to the fourth floor?” He laughs at the man, almost incredulous. “We have an elevator.”

“Couldn't wait to see me?”

Touche. Nam-gyu takes the first step to totally just close his front door, letting their shoulders graze each other as he moves past Myung-Gi. He can feel his eyes burning at the back of his head, deciding to turn around to face him as slowly as possible.

The door, matching the color of his hair and clothes, only serves to enhance his face under the dim TV light. His pale skin grows even paler under the blue light, and his eyes break the sea of white as he looks up to the other man. He knows his hair is framing his face just right, and he'll be damned before he thinks of himself as ugly, especially after taking the time to bask in the way that poor boy looks at him. His hands are placed behind him, a gesture of faux shyness he's learned to perfect over the years, and they stay right there when Myung-Gi moves to kiss him. He doesn't turn away, and he kisses back, but he's not making any moves either.

He relishes in the feeling of the pair of unfamiliar lips pushing against his own, traveling from his jaw to his neck, and for a moment, he lets his cheeks redden. It's wrong, and it feels perfect, and everything about this is perfect, apart from the fact that it's happening. His boxers get tighter and tighter and his sighs progressively louder, as he opens up his legs to let him push himself onto him, ignoring any negative feeling that bubbles deep in his stomach. He allows for more access, tilting his head up, and takes every bruise that forms like he's been begging for them.

He lets him grab his legs and carry him to the bedroom, laughing as he struggles to find it for a second, earning himself a sharp bite on his collarbone, interrupting his giggle and replacing it with a moan.

There are no words exchanged for the whole hour, just grunts and sighs and moans and slaps, something that's completely fine with Nam-gyu. The less he talks, the more likely he is to regret this. To his surprise, it's obvious this isn't the first time the famous MG Coin's fucked a guy; he makes a mental note to make fun of him for it later.

When later comes, though, the man reaches for the nightstand, and cleans him up, no anger visible on his face, and places the dirty paper towels back on the nightstand as he lies back down, catching his breath. Nam-gyu doesn't make fun of him for anything, instead diverting his unwavering attention to his fascinating ceiling. His eyes drift to the wall across from him, ignoring the mirror opposite the bed as best as he can, counting the little scratches on his wooden dresser that's placed right under it, and trying to tell the difference between the shades of green painted on his fake plants and compare the vibrant colors to his gray, lifeless curtains. The room's a mess; clothes are scattered everyone, the door's hanging completely open, and the sheets are in complete disarray. He'd honestly just rather clean the place than spend another moment laying naked in it.

He doesn't tell him to leave, and doesn't mind the hand tucking his stray hair behind his ears. For once, he lets himself drift off, not even bothering to check on the presence next to him. His door is unlocked, he'll leave when he's ready. Nam-gyu just hopes it'll be before he wakes up.

Notes:

oh nam-gyu needs THERAPY!