Chapter Text
The boy in his lap is all cheekbones and glitter. There's glitter on his nose, glitter in his hair, glitter in the sharp, sweaty dips of his collarbone.
He's got his skinny arms looped around Thanos’s neck, and when he leans in close, Thanos can smell him, the sweat and the breath of him, a little sweet.
The music still throbs, even though everyone else has left, sending tiny ripples through the half-empty drinks abandoned around the room. Thanos feels it right in his chest, like someone pressing the flat of their palm to his heart and holding it there.
The boy - can't remember his name? - slides Thanos’s shirt off one shoulder - did he come here with Gyeong-su? - and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the skin there, and Thanos pushes up a little into the wet heat of it, liking it, liking the way the boy sucks at him gently, kittenish. The boy's hands trail lower, over his stomach, stopping at the zip of his jeans.
“You're so fucking pretty,” the boy breathes. He’s got a tattoo of a rabbit in a cowboy hat on his neck. He can't be more than twenty. He tilts his glittery head. “You want another line?”
Thanos blinks slowly. His mouth is lagging behind his thoughts, everything delayed just by a second or so. Like if he tried to speak, his words would come out after his mouth has already stopped moving.
Before he can answer, the boy shifts, scooting off Thanos's lap with a playful little roll of his hips. Moments later, a key appears in front of Thanos's face, tipped with fat, white powder. The boy’s fingers are holding it steady under Thanos's nose.
“Bottoms up,” he grins.
Thanos doesn’t wait. He squeezes one nostril closed and inhales, hard. The burn rips through his nose, the drip hitting his throat. For a moment, everything snaps into glorious focus.
The boy reloads the key for himself. His tattoo flashes again as he tips his head back to snort his own bump, too fast, hardly careful.
He breathes out with a little shiver and laughs, high, so pleased with himself. Then he crawls back into Thanos’s lap like a cat, winding his arms around his neck again, pupils blown wide.
Thanos closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the couch, lets the coke settle in, the clean, biting rush of it, flooding his skull like neon.
The boy's hands are on him. Warm, damp palms. Possessive in that bolshy, post-bump way.
Thanos feels one hand slip behind him, fumbling along the small of his back beneath his t-shirt. The clumsy, pawing pressure of it tugs at his memory; his body tenses before his mind even catches up, foolishly expecting the cool snap of a mic pack being clipped to his waistband, or a palm pressing between his shoulder blades to straighten him up.
He swallows, face tight for half a second. Then opens his eyes again, remembering where he is.
The boy is staring at him, lips parted.
“You’re really Thanos,” he murmurs, like it’s only just hit him.
Thanos slides a hand up the back of the boy’s neck, fingers grazing the edge of that stupid tattoo.
“Why are you so glittery?” he asks.
The boy glances down at himself and laughs.
“I don't know!” he says, and then, “Do you like it?”
Thanos drags a thumb down his jaw, then wipes it off on the boy’s shirt.
“I'm just wondering how much of that shit’s gonna end up in my bed after I'm done with you.”
He roughly tugs him closer and leans in, teeth grazing the smooth column of the boy’s neck; not biting, just letting him feel the threat of it. His skin tangs like sweat and soap, and when Thanos flicks his tongue lightly against the pulse beating just beneath the surface, he feels it hammering away like a frantic animal's.
The boy’s hips shift in his lap, grinding down.
“You gonna eat me up?” he murmurs, voice catching a little, betraying his nerves.
Thanos hums against his throat. Doesn't answer. Drags his hand down the boy’s back, slow and flat, settling it at the dip of his skinny spine, squeezing. His mouth finds the blood-warm skin beneath the boy’s jaw and sucks hard enough to hurt.
The boy makes a ridiculous noise in the back of his throat and tips his head back, offering more. Greedily, Thanos takes it, mouth hungry, fingers digging in.
A sudden rush swells behind his eyes, hot and sickly. A warning, maybe. That he's taken too much. Or maybe it's nothing at all.
He presses his tongue to the boy’s throat, licks the sweat and the sugar of him, shuts his eyes. Lets the sickness crest. Lets it pass.
“He's not normally this late.”
Woo-seok says it with a tight smile, as if he and Nam-gyu have only just sat down together. The reality is, they've been sitting here for over half an hour.
Nam-gyu nods politely, folding his hands in his lap. He’s perched on the edge of an enormous leather sofa. The vast living room around him is unnervingly quiet, except for the distant hum of air conditioning, the occasional faint ding of Woo-seok’s phone lighting up beside him.
In the corner of the room there's a piano. Spotless, its lacquered lid closed. On the bench in front of it, a chunky grey cat is perched, warming itself in the cheerful sun pouring through the windows. The cat blinks at Nam-gyu slowly.
After a pause, Woo-seok sighs and leans back, undoing another button on his shirt. He tugs the fabric away from his chest like he’s trying to catch some air under it.
“Okay,” he says, “that was a lie. He’s always late. Chronically late. You might as well know the truth if you're going to be spending every day with him. I…” He gestures helplessly. “I lose sleep over his lateness. I've lost hours to it. Days. Sometimes I invent whole fake meetings just to keep him within fifteen minutes of the real ones.”
Nam-gyu blinks. The cat jumps down and pads over to him. Nam-gyu reaches out and scratches it gently behind the ears, grateful for an excuse to be distracted.
“She likes you, huh?” Woo-seok observes. “That's a good start.”
“What's her name?”
Woo-seok appears to think for a moment. “Uh. Goose," he says, then waves a hand like he’s swatting the moment away. “Don't ask me why.”
Goose bats at the hem of Nam-gyu's trousers and then climbs half into his lap without permission.
“She’s friendly,” he says, surprised.
“She's sweet,” Woo-seok blandly agrees.
Silence again. Nam-gyu’s eyes flick around the room. It's all obscenely American. The mammoth television mounted like a shrine, the shelves stuffed with vinyl records and collectible action figures, the piano gleaming under the sunlight like a trophy. There’s a bar lining one curved corner, stocked greedily, as if the end of the world might very well be looming.
“Perhaps we should talk about my schedule,” Nam-gyu says, when he can't bear the silence any longer. “What should be my priority in the first thirty days?”
Woo-seok rubs his jaw, as if he's thinking through how much of the truth is safe to share.
“Honestly... I'd say helping him get his shit together long enough to make it to rehearsals.”
Nam-gyu nods, already mentally opening a new spreadsheet. There'll need to be a column for deadlines. One for contingency plans.
“He’s got a big showcase coming up. The Avalon.”
“As in… The Avalon Show?”
“Yeah,” Woo-seok grimaces. “It’s kind of… all or nothing. We're betting everything on it. Comeback of the century, redemption arc, whatever the kids are calling it these days.”
Nam-gyu knows The Avalon Show, of course. He used to stream it on a cracked tablet during overnight shifts at his first job in Seoul, bleary-eyed at 3 a.m., watching acts stumble through their sets while talent scouts watched blankly from the crowds. The show isn't televised in Korea, but someone always uploads clips to YouTube. It has a reputation for being the show where musicians either land or go up in flames.
It's a lot of pressure. And Nam-gyu knows what that kind of pressure can do to a person. He’s seen it first-hand, backstage at concerts, in green rooms before tours, watching young men press shaking hands to their hearts and whisper mantras under their breath. But those were rookies. Rising stars. Not fallen idols gasping their way back to the top.
Woo-seok says, “So your first month? Just get him to the stage. That’s it. Get him in the room. Keep him in it. If you manage that much, I’ll personally see to it that you're nominated for a sainthood.”
Before Nam-gyu can ask anything else, the sound of footsteps thuds from the hall. The double doors to the living room open.
Woo-seok glances over, then stands, already smoothing the front of his shirt.
“Ah. And here’s the man himself.”
Nam-gyu rises too, brushing cat fur off his lap just as Thanos enters the room, barefoot and squinting, like the light off the huge windows is physically painful to him.
He looks nothing like his old press photos. The ones Nam-gyu studied on the plane. Back then, Thanos's hair had been slicked and naturally black, his skin luminous with BB cream and precise, delicate lighting. This morning, his hair is unwashed and pushed off his forehead like he’s been sweating in his sleep. It's also bright purple.
His eyes are bloodshot. His vintage t-shirt is horribly wrinkled.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, looking not at them but towards the kitchen. “I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” Woo-seok says flatly.
“I’m dying,” Thanos repeats, louder, ignoring him. “Goose, do not climb me right now.”
The cat has trotted over and begun to paw at Thanos’s leg. Instead of brushing her off, he drops ungracefully to a crouch and scoops her up. She sprawls in his arms like a loaf of warm laundry.
“There’s my girl,” Thanos murmurs, pressing his cheek into her fur. “Have you eaten? Did anyone feed you? Did anyone even ask you how your morning was?”
The cooing is shockingly tender. It goes on for several seconds, husky and entirely unselfconscious. Then Thanos straightens, blinking at Nam-gyu like he’s only just noticed there’s a third person in the room.
His voice changes, flattens. “You must be the new babysitter.”
Nam-gyu bows politely, hands at his sides. “Nam-gyu. It’s really good to meet you.”
Thanos doesn't return the gesture. He drops onto the couch with Goose still slung contentedly over his forearm.
“He doesn’t look like a Nam-gyu,” he says around a yawn.
Nam-gyu sits back down, meeting his gaze without blinking. “You don’t look like a Thanos.”
Thanos snorts once. Almost a laugh. He slouches deeper into the couch.
Woo-seok steps in quickly. “Nam-gyu’s from Seoul. Only just arrived, isn't that right, Nam-gyu? Flew in yesterday. He's fluent in English and Korean. He’s -”
Thanos waves a vague hand. “English is better. Just - English, please.”
Woo-seok looks at Nam-gyu. Nam-gyu nods.
“English,” Nam-gyu says. “No problem.”
Woo-seok tries again. “Nam-gyu’s here to keep you on schedule, Thanos. Especially with the Avalon coming up.”
Thanos sighs like it’s a personal attack. “Mm.”
“He's just finished his military service. Before that, he was a junior coordinator for Rogue Boys.”
Woo-seok continues giving Thanos a complete oral overview of Nam-gyu's most recent employment history, and within seconds, Thanos's eyes slide shut.
“I need coffee,” he announces to the ceiling.
“I can make some,” Nam-gyu offers, glad of the opportunity to be useful.
Thanos opens his eyes again and looks straight at him. “Starting already? Eager little thing, aren't you?”
“I asked Nam-gyu to start straight away,” Woo-seok explains, an edge creeping into his voice now, like a father finally losing patience with his teenage son. “I thought we needed to get you a -”
“Why are you doing all the talking?” Thanos interrupts, dragging his eyes from Nam-gyu back to Woo-seok.
Woo-seok blinks.
“I’m just trying to explain things clearly,” he says.
“He can explain things for himself,” says Thanos.
Nam-gyu shifts uncomfortably, but Thanos’s gaze cuts back to him.
“Hey,” he says to Nam-gyu, “you got any thoughts about all this? Anything you'd like to share?”
Woo-seok opens his mouth again, but Thanos cuts him off.
“No, no, you take five. Let me hear what Nam-su’s got to say.”
Nam-gyu clears his throat. “Nam-gyu.”
“Huh?”
“My name, it's - Nam-gyu.”
Thanos smirks, Goose's tail batting lazily against his chin. “Right, Nam-gyu. My bad.”
Nam-gyu swallows the sting of being so casually dismissed, and folds his hands against his lap again.
“I think I can do a good job as your assistant,” he says, pulling the words from his trusty stock of interview answers, even though he already signed his employment contract with Thanos's management team several days ago. “I've got a lot of experience.”
“What, with Rogue Boys? They're, like, twelve.”
“I helped coordinate their last two tours.”
“That sure is a fancy way of saying you made sure they got out of bed in the morning.”
Nam-gyu straightens a little. “I wasn’t just handling schedules. I kept them on track when the pressure was high, made sure they stayed focused. Made sure they stayed… united. When things got tough.”
He glances up at Thanos, hoping for at least a speck of praise.
Thanos narrows his eyes.
“You helped keep them together. Good for you.”
Nam-gyu blinks, surprised by the sudden edge in Thanos's voice. Woo-seok swoops back in, clearing his throat.
“Hey, Nam-gyu, how about that coffee now? Thanos here lives off caffeine so it's probably best to get acquainted with the Keurig sooner rather than later!”
Thanos rolls his eyes with the listless boredom of a nine-year-old.
Nam-gyu escapes into the kitchen. He takes a breath, using the sudden solitude to steady himself.
The kitchen is too clean. Not just tidy, but quite obviously unused. Chrome appliances, endless marble counters, a stove that looks like it's never even been used to boil water. There’s a coffee machine on the far end of the counter, but when he checks the water tank, it’s bone dry. He can’t even find any coffee beans.
He tries a drawer. Tea towels and chopsticks. Tries another. A jumble of cereal bars and loose change.
The third one finally yields a box of coffee pods shoved in beside a tin opener and a heap of unopened mail. He frowns. Mail sorting is one of the less glamorous aspects of his job.
He grabs the pods, finds a clean mug, and turns back to the machine Woo-seok called a Keurig.
It is very much not a Keurig. Perhaps Woo-seok was being ironic. It’s a towering designer espresso machine, fat with shiny knobs and glowing buttons, with a digital screen that cheerfully tells him: READY TO DIAL IN!
Nam-gyu stares at it for a long second.
“Sure,” he mutters. “Let’s, uh… dial in.”
He fills the water tank. Loads the pod. Presses the only button that looks like it might turn it on. The machine sputters to life, and espresso begins to drip out in two even golden streams. He watches the mug fill slowly.
That's when he realises. He hasn’t asked how Thanos takes his coffee.
Nam-gyu frowns. That’s not like him. He always asks. Always. It’s part of the job. Know your client. Note their preferences. He had one member of Rogue Boys who would only drink coffee with soy milk frothed at exactly 135 degrees. Another who liked it just below room temperature. Another who gagged just at the smell of it.
But somehow, this morning, Thanos has already thrown him off.
Maybe it was the moody eyes. Or the bitter voice. Or that moment where Nam-gyu had been looked at and immediately deemed underwhelming.
He whirls around again, opening the fridge. No milk. No cream. Just Red Bull and a crumpled sleeve of American cheese slices, a box of teeth whitening bleach, half a bottle of wine. Somewhat bizarrely, the crisper drawers are stuffed with fresh fruit. Nam-gyu closes the fridge in frustration and finds sugar in a canister by the coffee machine. His instincts tend to be good; Thanos seems like the kind of guy who would like sweet things.
Nam-gyu adds a flat spoonful. Then a second.
He hears them talking in the next room, Thanos and Woo-seok. He isn't trying to eavesdrop, but without the coffee machine whirring and sputtering, their voices carry clear through the open-plan layout of the house.
“I don’t get it,” Thanos is saying. “Why do I need to pay someone new to nag me?”
“Because your last PA quit,” Woo-seok snaps. “After three days.”
“I don’t remember him.”
“You called him ‘Lurch’ the entire time.”
Nam-gyu lets out a silent breath through his nose, not allowing himself to laugh.
“Do you want to make the Avalon or not?” Woo-seok’s tone sharpens. “Because if you’re going to keep sleeping through rehearsals, let me know now so I can stop bleeding money.”
Nam-gyu shoves a second mug under the machine for Woo-seok. Just as Thanos starts to respond, the machine clatters back into action, steam wheezing from the valve, swallowing his reply.
He carries the mugs back into the living room like he hasn't heard a word.
Thanos is sprawled across the couch now, one arm flung dramatically over his face, Goose snuggled into the crook of his other arm. Nam-gyu sets the mugs down on the low table.
“There was sugar by the machine, so I figured you take it. Let me know if it's no good.”
Thanos barely opens his eyes. “Thanks.”
Nam-gyu lets his gaze drift to the shelves of action figures lined up like a miniature museum beside the TV.
“You’ve got a good collection,” he says, nodding at the display. “That one there. The vintage Kenner Boba Fett... first release, right? Those are getting really rare. Worth a fortune.”
Thanos’s eyes flicker open, a spark of interest cutting through the groggy facade.
“You like Star Wars?”
There's a surprisingly childish note to his voice. Nam-gyu sits down next to Thanos's feet.
“I grew up with it. Me and my brother.” Nam-gyu gestures to the bottom shelf. “That Maul’s rare too, isn't it? The double-blade from the Clone Wars line?”
“Yeah, that one’s legit. I had to outbid some psycho in the UK to get it.”
“Looks mint.”
“It is.” Thanos says it with the solemn pride of a jockey talking about a purebred horse. “I’ve got a Luke Stormtrooper upstairs. AFA 85. Cost more than my fridge.”
Thanos picks up his coffee mug, sips, grimaces faintly but, surprisingly, doesn’t complain. Woo-seok, clearly sensing an open, leans in.
“So,” he says, “let's talk schedules. You've got the Dazed shoot tomorrow morning. 10 a.m. call time -”
Thanos groans and drops his head back against the couch again. “No, no, no. Cancel it.”
“No,” Woo-seok says, and his voice isn't even stern anymore. It’s just tired. “Absolutely not.”
“They’re gonna make me wear tweed again. I hate tweed.”
“It’s summer. No one’s putting you in tweed.” Turning to Nam-gyu, Woo-seok adds, “Make sure he gets there. No matter what he says tomorrow. Or what time he goes to bed. Or what he’s…” He pauses, eyes flicking towards Thanos, “...recovering from.”
Thanos lifts his middle finger in Woo-seok’s general direction, but doesn’t open his eyes.
Nam-gyu nods. “I’ll make sure he’s there.”
Woo-seok gives Thanos a long look, then glances at his phone. He tells Nam-gyu, “I’ve got a thing. If he tries to ghost you tomorrow, text me.”
“Not gonna ghost,” Thanos mutters, but he’s already rolling over sideways on the couch, dragging Goose with him like a favourite pillow.
Woo-seok sighs. “Well. Guess all that's left to say is... welcome, Nam-gyu.”
“Thanks. Happy to be here.”
And he is. This job is one in a million. The pay so delicious and the location so appealing that Nam-gyu forces himself to ignore the little voice in his head which says it doesn't sound like Woo-seok is telling him welcome at all.
It kind of sounds like he's telling him good luck.
It sounds like he's telling him I'm so sorry.
*
Nam-gyu has been promised free rein over a car of his own soon, but tonight, Woo-seok pays for an Uber Lux to drive him back to his new accommodation.
In the back seat of the car, he takes out his tablet and pulls up the calendar he's already been granted access to by Thanos's management. It contains Thanos's weekly itinerary. Well, attempted itinerary. Nam-gyu scans tomorrow's column with a frown.
Monday:
10:00AM – Dazed photoshoot (call time non-negotiable)
1:30PM – Avalon fittings (delayed)
3:00PM – Vocal check-in (pending confirmation)
7:00PM – Dinner with MJ from Variety (optional)
Nam-gyu taps into the calendar event labelled “Vocal check-in” and sees a half-finished note from someone on the team: if he’s up for it???
He leans back, breathing out through his nose slowly. He remembers what Woo-seok told him to do. Just get him to the stage. Not prepare him for it. Not help him perform at his best. Just physically get him in the same room as the stage and pray that he doesn’t run.
Nam-gyu closes the calendar and lets the tablet go dark in his hands. Outside, the city glides past in pretty golden blurs. He wants to look at LA properly, eat it all up, but jet lag is blooming thick behind his eyes. They flutter shut for a moment, just long enough to remind him how badly he wants to sleep.
They stay shut, despite his best efforts. He nods off, like a baby, his temple pressed against the window.