Chapter Text
The first thing Nam-gyu thinks when he sees Thanos the great, the rapper, the legend for the first time, is that he dresses fucking awful.
Nam-gyu’s certainly no fashion expert, but even he knows that wearing such mismatched neon colors is nothing more than an eyesore, especially when it clashes with brightly colored purple hair. The entire setup the guy has going on is a complete mess. Nam-gyu feels a little bit sorry for him, actually.
“I heard that one just landed himself in a load of debt,” his coworker says idly, counting his tips with pursed lips. “Invested in some crypto bullshit. How embarrassing.”
The words are pointed, doused in such exorbitant amounts of condescension that it makes Nam-gyu consider fisting his hand in his co-workers' shitty, choppy hair and bashing his head into the nearby bar table. He doesn’t do this, of course, because violent thoughts are different than violent actions, and while the comment is clearly aimed to get under Nam-gyu’s skin, he needs to be on his best behavior. He’s walking on very thin ice these days.
“Ooh, now that I think about it,” his co-worker winces dramatically, jutting out his bottom lip in mockery, “didn’t you do the exact same thing?”
Nam-gyu stays silent. It’s in his best interest to ignore the existence of his fellow workers; he’s not entirely sure why they’ve all grown to hate each other so intensely, can't remember the logistics of it all, not with how drugged out he spent most of his shifts back when he first got hired. But he does know if they all simultaneously got set on fire, he’d do nothing to help any of them. It is what it is. Such is life…or, whatever.
Thanos has a red-headed woman hanging on his arm, biting her lip and staring up at him like she’s getting ready to pounce him at any given moment. She probably will — the pair give off the vibes of a couple of exhibitionists. …Alright, now Nam-gyu’s just passing baseless judgment. He can’t really help it; most of the clients at Club Pentagon attend either for drugs or sex or a mix of the two, and most of them, for whatever goddamn reason, seem to get a kick out of groping each other in public spaces.
Whatever. It’s not Nam-gyu’s business, and he couldn’t care less about a random, debt-ridden rapper and his side piece of the week. He’ll likely either do a few lines of coke and never come back, or get hooked on the stuff and become a regular face. Nam-gyu’s seen this shit a thousand times over. It's never anything new in this hellhole.
There does seem to be something just a bit different about Thanos, from the way he holds himself. Maybe Nam-gyu is just bored or hopeful for some sort of change, but he doesn’t have the same conniving, cruel look that so many of the club’s clientele so often do. He looks curious. Looking around, sending a few flirtatious winks at pretty women despite the one already hanging on his arm.
He looks like he knows what he’s doing. Like he’s done this before, and isn’t exactly thrilled to be doing it again. If anything, he actually looks a little unimpressed.
“You know what, Nam-gyu? I’ve gotta be honest with you…if I got caught up in something as stupid as a crypto scam” his co-worker continues on, snapping Nam-gyu back to attention. “I’d kill myself.”
The words are spoken flippantly, without care or concern, and the worker gives Nam-gyu one last close mouthed grin before turning his back. “I’ll deal with the rapper. Go make yourself useful and clean one of the VIP rooms, or something. Maybe there’s a pillow with a stain for you to scrub out, eh? That seems up your alley…”
He tacks on a cruel, wheezing little laugh at the end, trotting off with his head held high and his ego bolstered. Nam-gyu screws his eyes shut and takes a long, heaving breath. He wishes desperately for an injection of drugs, but he’s been trying to lessen his intake these days—ha! What a fucking joke. Him, Nam-gyu, who’s spent years shooting up in the grimy bathrooms of this shitty, overcrowded club, randomly deciding to cut back on his drug consumption.
…Well, maybe ‘randomly’ isn’t the right word to use. His decision, made only a few months ago at most, wasn't really all that random at all. Seizing on the ground on the tile floor of his bathroom, choking and hacking on his own upheaval of vomit and almost keeling over dead in the process…it’s a situation that would frighten any average person. Nam-gyu may not care all that much about living and dying and all the phases in-between, but he does know that when he dies, he’d rather it not be excruciating.
He hasn’t stopped taking drugs entirely. He’s only decided to limit himself.
Nam-gyu watches as his co-worker strides up to the rapper, who’s taken a seat on a plush couch tucked away in the corner of the club, a shadowy area often used by clients who frequent the club for the drugs instead of the drinks and overly loud music. Thanos, with his neon clothes and bright hair, sticks out like a sore thumb. Now that Nam-gyu really studies him, squinting at his confident stature across the room, he recalls seeing a few posters hung up detailing small upcoming performances a while ago. Nam-gyu’s never seen him on stage before, but he thinks he remembers hearing rumors of the legend Thanos forgetting his lyrics and making a fool of himself on stage.
Nam-gyu sticks his tongue out slightly in concentration, as he so often does, and squints harder as he tries to get a better look at Thanos’ features, trying to make sure that the Thanos across the room is in fact that same Thanos he’d seen plastered on a poorly made flier a few months back. He must resemble one of those cliché detectives following a homicide case, scanning a crowd for suspects in the most embarrassingly obvious manner possible.
(In other words, he must look fucking stupid.)
Thanos tilts his head, meeting Nam-gyu’s eyes for just a second. Nam-gyu retracts his tongue stupidly and turns his head away sharp enough to appear ridiculous. As he makes his way back to one of the VIP rooms, he can only hope he didn't look moronic enough to leave a lasting impression of foolishness.
Foolishness is never a good look to have. Especially not in a place like this.
– – –
Absurdly enough, there actually is a pillow that needs cleaning in one of the private rooms. Nam-gyu has no desire to know what the mystery liquid is composed of, though it doesn't exactly take a genius to figure it out.
There’s a stifling pressure that permeates Club Pentagon—maybe not for the clients, but certainly for the workers. Maybe it’s the intensity of the pulsing lights day end and day out, setting them on edge as days turn to weeks, to months, to years. Maybe it’s the cruelty of the club’s owner, who insults the promoters just as harshly as he does the bartenders and bouncers. Or maybe it’s the treatment that’s received from the clients, who order them around for drugs and drinks without wasting any time treating them as actual people.
When Nam-gyu was younger, more bright-faced and naive, he found Club Pentagon to be a momentary sanctuary. He liked the party-atmosphere, and he really liked the drugs. But as time has gone on, years somehow trudging by like molasses and simultaneously whizzing by with a quickness, the Club has revealed its true nature. A cage, with the workers fitting snugly in the description of prisoners.
The illusion of grandeur fades away quickly, when faced with the reality of how the club functions in its entirety.
“Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu,” a young woman calls from the bar as he emerges back onto the main floor. “Do me a favor will you? Take these drinks to that rapper—the one with the crazy hair.”
Purple hair doesn't really seem all that crazy, in Nam-gyu’s humble opinion, but he bites his tongue. “It’s not my job to deliver your drinks.”
“You seem to deliver drugs just fine,” she says with a sharp smile, words dipping into irritation. “Tell him the pretty girl at the bar is giving these to him as a free treat, m’k?”
“You’re kidding,” Nam-gyu scoffs. “You have a thing for failed rappers?”
“Can you just do it?” She scowls. “It’s always such a damn hassle with you.”
Nam-gyu picks the tray up with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, walking over to where Thanos is seated with a sigh of annoyance. It’s a good thing the owner isn't here today. They aren't supposed to be giving out freebies like this.
The co-worker from earlier is still babbling on to Thanos and the girl clinging to his arm, subtly displaying a bag of pills next to a bag of powder. Ah, great, it looks like Nam-gyu has to intercept a drug deal to deliver shitty, colorful alcohol that wasn't even requested to begin with. He could stand off to the side, drinks in hand, and wait for the deal to end if he was feeling particularly polite. But none of his dear co-workers ever give a shit about interrupting his carefully memorized sales pitches, so why should he respect theirs?
“Excuse me,” Nam-gyu sidles beside his co-worker, drink tray in hand, and smiles politely down at the patrons. The girl looks slightly nervous, pressing her overly-glossed lips together as her eyes dart around the establishment as if worried a cop is going to jump around the corner and bust the operation at any given moment. Ironic, considering how many of their regulars happen to be cops themselves. Shitty, overpaid officers who refuse to do their jobs right, drink until they can hardly stand, and then refuse to pay what they ought to. ‘A special discount’ for keeping it all under wraps.
Thanos, unlike the lady beside him, seems unfazed by the display of drugs. He’s clearly used to this.
“Yeah, excuse you.” The co-worker looks at him with barely concealed anger, making a shooing motion with his hand. “Come back later, will ya’?”
“I just need to drop these off real quick,” Nam-gyu says lightly, keeping a grin plastered on his face as he attempts to maintain some semblance of professionalism. The man wraps his hand around Nam-gyu’s wrist before he gets the chance to set the plate of drinks down on the table, nearly causing the drinks to tumble to the ground in the process. Nam-gyu steadies himself, glasses shuddering on shaky groundwork.
“They didn't order any drinks.”
Nam-gyu frowns at the harsh grip on his wrist; if it weren't for the plate of drinks in his hand, he’d be wrenching himself out of his grip. “They’re freebies.”
“Freebies?” His colleague admonishes. The sentiment goes unsaid; freebies aren’t typically allowed. Thanos is a debt ridden rapper, not a legitimate big shot. “What–?”
“The bartender–”
“Look, bitch, we’re clearly fuckin’ busy,” the man curses, “why don’t you go hop on some other guys dick and let me do my fucking job?”
“The freebies are from the bartender, dipshit,” Nam-gyu says through grit teeth. “What the hell is your issue?”
“The pretty lady with the jewelry and long nails?” Thanos perks up, jolting both workers back to attention. Nam-gyu forgot, for a moment, that he was there to begin with, carefully watching the altercation unfold. “Hell yeah, man! Give me those drinks.”
Thanos snaps his fingers as if signaling to a dog, which is far from appreciated, but not something Nam-gyu is unused to. The hand around Nam-gyu’s wrist subtracts in defeat; this simple victory of being able to set the drinks down on the table will be something Nam-gyu can use to gloat over for the remainder of what’s sure to be a god-awful week. The entry doors to Club Pentagon and the gates of Hell don’t seem all that different these days.
“Thanks, dude,” Thanos says, and the words are so bafflingly unfamiliar that they cause Nam-gyu to falter. The last time someone looked directly at Nam-gyu and said thank you was when he’d been curled up in a stranger's bathtub during a party, shaking and shivering through a particularly bad trip. The host had walked in, asked him very bluntly to leave, and then said thank you when Nam-gyu began to stumble to his feet. As in, thank you for getting out of my house.
“You’re welcome,” Nam-gyu responds, the words foreign on his tongue. The woman looks far from pleased with the freebies, surely due to the fact that they’ve been given from the flirty bartender, but the drinks are handed over without consequence, and Nam-gyu prepares for a quick and painless escape. Before turning away, he looks straight at Thanos, who looks right back at him—which, Nam-gyu makes a point to inwardly note, is strange in itself. Clients hardly look him in the eye. Most of them like to categorize him as a non-thinking robot designed purely to fetch them things, he’s come to realize.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Nam-gyu says over the thumping club music. “Okay?”
Thanos nods, winks, and then turns his attention back to the drugs laid out in front of him. “Hey, can I get a discount on this one if I…?”
Nam-gyu doesn't stick around long enough to see which drug Thanos is intent on. He walks away in long, quick strides, and ignores the menacing glare from his colleague that follows in his wake.
– – –
Nam-gyu isn’t fond of the club’s breakroom.
He can’t smoke in it, for one thing. A sensible rule for a small, closed-off room, but annoying nonetheless. The most irritating thing about it, aside from how egregiously small it is, is the fact that it’s hardly ever empty.
Club Pentagon is a popular establishment, so it’s no surprise how much staff they have. No matter what time of night it is, there’s always someone in the break room. Whispering rumors to each other about popular clients, tapping aimlessly on their phones, snorting a line or popping a pill before trudging back out into the fray. There’s always a subdued sense of panic in the breakroom, uncanny fear paired with general suffocating exhaustion.
It’s the furthest thing from relaxing, which Nam-gyu finds laughably ironic.
The anxious energy that always permeates the poorly-lit, muggy room is exactly why Nam-gyu never sticks around in it for long. The environment is chokingly miserable, stifling in every aspect. It reminds him of something straight out of a low budget horror flick. Odd, isn't it, that the only room not decked out in over-expensive bullshit is the breakroom designed for the hardworking employees?
Nam-gyu bypasses a young girl with a phone pressed to her ear (“let’s go out after my shift is over, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here!”) to grab his bag, rifling through his contents to make sure nobody got sticky fingers while he was away. After ensuring the safety of his items, Nam-gyu plucks his packet of cigarettes from their confines, and hurries towards the door.
(He makes a point to check his phone to see if his mother has called.
She hasn’t. When does she ever?)
Nam-gyu hears someone mutter, “where does that fucker always scurry off to?” as the door clinks shut. Gossipy shitheads. He’s thankful, at least, that nobody has figured out the small area that he’s turned into his own ‘personal breakroom’ of sorts.
There’s an exit door tucked away near where the bathrooms are situated within the club, small and inconspicuous, hardly used and often forgotten about entirely. It leads to a cramped back alley where Nam-gyu goes to smoke his cigs and consider how many more years of this he can take before dying. There’s never anybody out in the alleyway, and the air is often crisp and cold. It’s nice. Usually, it’s the highlight of his day…which in turn, makes him feel rather pathetic.
There’s also the cat.
The stray cat that always wanders aimlessly in the back alley, which he has affectionately nicknamed…“the cat”. Look, he’s never been all that creative when it comes to naming things, okay?
It’s a small, black little ball of fur that has big green eyes and a ridiculously fluffy tail. A very cute little animal, and surprisingly clean, despite the fact that Nam-gyu is pretty sure it routinely sleeps in upturned garbage lids. Nam-gyu doesn’t qualify himself as an “animal person”, but the cat has grown accustomed to weaving in between his legs each time he goes out in the alleyway to take his break, purring and meowing and flopping on its back, showcasing its stomach for petting.
The cat serves as an extended comfort. It’s nice, being shown affection from a small animal after dealing with shitty club-goers all day. He’s made a routine of smoking a cigarette, disposing of it, and spending the rest of his break-time scooping the cat into his arms and giving it the affection it quite literally yowls for. Not out of the kindness of his heart, or whatever other mushy ooey-gooey bullshit people must think of. Out of routine, that’s all.
Besides, the cat often tries to climb up his leg if he refuses to hold it. It’s a very clingy little thing.
Nam-gyu slinks through the exit door, his head on a swivel to make sure none of his nosy colleagues catch sight of it, and emerges into the cold night air. It’s almost midnight, if Nam-gyu had to guess. He’s got a long night ahead of him.
Even when the doors click shut behind him, the music pumping from the club is still heard, a muffled version of its actuality. Nam-gyu gulps down a harsh breath of cold outside air, thankful to depart from the stifling heat of the club and the bodies that are packed like sardines within it.
A voice sounds from beside him. His carefully constructed routine is shattered in seconds.
“Oh, hey—“
Squeal, shriek, yelp—the sound he makes in response to the sudden voice is humiliating no matter what way he describes it. The fact that he jumps at the sound like a frightened puppy doesn’t exactly lessen his embarrassment either. His reaction would be fitting for a man being faced with a masked killer, raising a knife and preparing to strike.
Instead, he’s faced with the purple-haired rapper from the club. Thanos. …And he’s holding his cat!
Ugh, hold on…now Nam-gyu is really entering tricky territory. It’s not his cat. It’s a stray cat that he just so happens to feed and care for when he gets the chance. It’s not like he’s attached to it, and it’s not like seeing the animal curled up in a stranger's arms is making him feel like a scorned parent watching their child say they prefer another adult over them, or something silly like that. Of course not. That’d be ridiculous.
“Holy shit, dude,” Thanos gawks, taking a step back in surprise. “Scream any louder and someone’s gonna think you’re getting fucking killed back here!”
“I didn’t scream.” Nam-gyu scowls. “And you— you're not supposed to be back here.”
“Really? I can’t mill around an alleyway?” Thanos snorts. “Yeah, right. Whatever.”
The cat curls deeper into Thanos’ arms, purring loudly. Nam-gyu swears he feels his eye twitch.
“You on break, or something?” Thanos asks. “Dude, look at this cat I found.”
What the fuck is going on? Has Nam-gyu entered an alternate reality of some sort? Why the hell is this random rapper standing here and talking to him like their old buddies, holding a stray cat, engaging with him like this is all totally normal and standard?
“Um,” Nam-gyu says. Not very eloquent, he must admit. “Yeah, the cat’s always out here. It's a stray.”
“Oh, for real?” Thanos looks down at the animal in his arms, rocking it like it’s a baby. “What’s its name?”
“It’s a stray,” he repeats.
Thanos looks at him blankly.
“…So, it doesn’t have a name,” Nam-gyu finishes dumbly.
“You haven’t named it?” Thanos raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Dude, seriously?”
Is this guy seriously criticizing him over not naming a stray cat right now? “Yes, seriously. Why would I name a cat that’s not mine?”
“Ugh, boring,” Thanos complains, scratching the top of the cat's head. “I’m naming it…Thanos junior.”
“Oh, hell no,” Nam-gyu admonishes. “I’ve known the cat longer than you! If anything, it should be Nam-gyu junior.”
Thanos grins giddily, understanding the absurdity of the conversation and taking great amusement in it. “Nam-su? Your name is Nam-su?”
“Gyu. Nam-gyu.”
“Right, okay.” Thanos smiles, blindingly bright and devastatingly handsome. “Nam-su.”
Nam-gyu wants to throttle him.
“Thanks for the free drinks, by the way,” Thanos continues on, blissfully unaware of Nam-gyu's inner thoughts of strangulation. “Your co-worker was a real dickhead.”
This wrenches a startled laugh from Nam-gyu, loud and blaring. He covers his mouth with his fingertips and averts his gaze. Embarrassing. He’s really off his game tonight. “Yeah, man. For real.”
…This is weird. He’s talking to Thanos like he’s a person instead of a client, and in turn, Thanos is talking to him like he’s a person instead of a club promoter whose only purpose is to serve him. Nam-gyu is wildly unused to this sort of dynamic.
“They were from the bartender, though,” Nam-gyu tacks on awkwardly. “So, there’s no reason to thank me.”
“You’re the one who brought ‘em over. Why wouldn’t I thank you?” Thanos scoffs as if Nam-gyu has said something particularly ridiculous. “That bartender really is a hottie, though…I’ve got to get her number.”
“She’s married.”
“She’s— huh?!”
“Yeah,” Nam-gyu draws out the word with a wince. “Not a very stable relationship, obviously. What about the girl you were with?”
“Went home early. Not a fan of the drug scene, I guess.” Thanos shrugs. “She broke up with me just before she left, actually.”
“Oh!”
“But I didn’t even know we were dating in the first place, so I’m not sure what she was tripping so hard over.”
Yikes. “…Oh.”
“Anyways,” Thanos redirects, the cat chirping happily in his arms as he continues to pet it, “are you seriously naming the cat Nam-su junior?”
“Gyu. And, no.”
“How about…” Thanos looks upward in exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Fish? Cats like to eat fish, don’t they?”
“I like to eat noodles, and you don’t see me walking around calling myself noodle.”
Thanos snickers. “Yeah, okay. What about something common? Like Fluffy, or Whiskers?”
“You’re not very good at this, hyung,” Nam-gyu jests, stepping forward to scrub his fingers across the bridge of the cat's nose.
“Pumpkin!” Thanos exclaims suddenly. “One of the drinks you gave me had this nasty ass pumpkin flavoring. Let's name it Pumpkin.”
Let’s name it Pumpkin, he says, as if their two budding cat parents joining hands to mutually care for their new cat child, instead of two strangers who are conversing between themselves for the first time. Thanos probably isn’t even going to see the damn cat again.
And yet, Nam-gyu finds himself nodding. “Yeah, okay. Pumpkin. …Who the hell makes a pumpkin flavored alcohol drink?”
“That’s what I said.” Thanos shakes his head in dismay. “Fuckers act like just because it’s October everything has to be pumpkin-flavored.”
“Right? And all the gross minty shit during the holidays—“
“Exactly, bro, exactly,” Thanos agrees. In his arms, the cat—Pumpkin—raises its head and squints at Nam-gyu, as if just now realizing his presence. In a flurry of fluffy limbs, Pumpkin wriggles its way out of Thanos’ arms, landing on the ground with a thump and padding over to Nam-gyu quickly, weaving through his legs and meowing as a form of greeting.
“As fun as it is to name cats out here with you,” Thanos drawls, “I’ve got to pick up at least one chick before getting out of here tonight.”
Doused in moonlight, chatting aimlessly, Nam-gyu momentarily forgets their positions of club-goer and worker. The realization makes him tug nervously at his chain necklace, studying Thanos apprehensively, half expecting him to randomly accuse him of being unprofessional, to berate him for slacking off outside instead of working.
“At least one?” Nam-gyu repeats.
“‘Course. I can handle multiple at once just fine.”
The last few words are spoken in English, and Thanos leans forward with a smirk as he says them, waggling his eyebrows with exaggerated suggestiveness. Damn, this guy is fucking weird.
“We—“ Nam-gyu can feel himself flushing for some godforsaken reason, stumbling over his words like a blushing virgin over a tame, dumbass sex joke. In his defense, he’s just really, really not used to interacting with clients like this. He’s usually either ignored or berated, and fumbles in the wake of anything different. “We’ve got specials on VIP rooms if you—“
“I don’t want any of that shit, man, I’m just here for the drugs.” Thanos waves his hand dismissively. “Besides, people be fucking in those rooms like crazy, right?”
Nam-gyu opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Well, yeah.”
“If I’m getting with a girl, I’ll take her to my own bed and treat her right,” Thanos admits sagely, as if departing ancient wisdom upon him. Pumpkin chirps loudly at Nam-gyu’s feet, pawing at his shoes. “Treat her with some nice lacy sheets.”
Nam-gyu lets a snort slip before he can attempt to cover it. “You have lacy sheets?”
Thanos pauses. “Not…not usually. I have it on standby. For when the ladies come.”
“You have lacy bedsheets on standby for when women come over to your house?” Nam-gyu repeats, grinning against the words with palpable amusement. “Really?”
“Don’t knock it till’ you try it,” Thanos insists, lips twitching into a smirk as Nam-gyu covers his laugh with the tips of his fingers.
“I think I’d rather rent a room, honestly.”
“Ladies love my apartment. Seriously, dude, I’ve got cheap, glittery pop-on nails littered all up on my floor as proof.”
“Wow,” Nam-gyu nods seriously, though his words are laced with humor. “I’m really impressed.”
“As you should be!” Thanos claps him on the shoulder, jostling him slightly. “You know what? I want you.”
Nam-gyu nearly chokes. He’s pretty sure his vision flickers for a second. It’s all very dramatic. “What?”
“Like, I want you to be my personal server, or whatever.”
Oh. Right, right, of course. Jesus, the wording of that nearly laid Nam-gyu flat on the fucking ground. It’s a wonder he didn’t faint.
“You mean…with drugs and drinks, I assume?” Nam-gyu blinks in surprise. “Sure, hyung. I can handle everything for you each time you’re here, if you’d like. If I’m working a shift, I mean.”
“Sounds good, dude! You seem cooler than all the other workers I’ve talked to,” Thanos admits. “I’m a famous rapper—did you know that? I’m sure you did—anyways, my boy, no need to feel intimidated, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You must be a little starstruck.”
“Right.”
“Not that I blame you,” Thanos holds his arms out, displaying himself grandly. Nam-gyu takes note of a stain on the right side of his neon green shirt, and once again has to cover up a laugh. “The Legend Thanos, in the flesh!”
“It’s an honor, hyung.” Nam-gyu lays as much exaggerated sugary sweetness into his words as possible, but if Thanos catches the sarcasm he makes no show of it. Or, maybe he’s simply too tipsy to register it.
“Of course,” Thanos says in English, switching back to Korean as he sidesteps Nam-gyu to reach for the door, turning to wink at him again as he opens it. “See you around, Nam-su!”
“It’s Nam—“ The door clicks shut. “…Gyu.”
…Strange. He’s been out in this alleyway hundreds of times before, but he’s never once encountered someone. He’s never thought to name the cat, either. He’s always been met with the same circumstances. A stray cat (don’t get attached, it never ends well), a brick wall that barely muffles the noise from inside (always so loud, never a true moment of peace), a night sky with twinkling stars (don’t stare too long, it’s a waste of time), a cigarette clenched between his teeth (contaminating a piece of himself every day, bit by bit, a necessity to continue), an overflowing trash can (how many used syringes reside within it?), the brightly shining moon overhead (circular, half, waning—signs that time is fleeting, slipping through his fingers with every passing day). Familiarities stack around him, carefully set in place to be examined with the same rumination they always are.
Pumpkin bangs its head against Nam-gyu’s ankle. It’s familiar, but it doesn't feel as such.
– – –
Over the years, Nam-gyu has grown to hate his walks back home, after he finishes his work at the club.
His apartment is only about ten minutes away from Pentagon. A quick walk, one that many would likely describe as peaceful and tranquil. To Nam-gyu, the narrow streets and darkened atmosphere only tend to unnerve him. The endlessness of the night sky is suffocating, pressing down on him harsher and harsher each time he walks the familiar route to his apartment.
Nam-gyu can’t help but view each nighttime walk as another step towards an inevitable end. It’s a pessimistic way to view things, but his mind has always had a tendency to latch onto nihilism, and this is nothing new. Each walk back home reminds him how tired his body is becoming, and each step he takes is accompanied with a thought, a memory, a fixation on the drugs he could be taking if he had the guts to swipe some from where they’re so expertly stored in Club Pentagon.
“Only for the patrons,” the higher ups always say. “We don’t want any of the workers grimy fucking hands all over our high quality shit,” are the words that go unspoken.
Nam-gyu used to have the confidence to steal from them, back when he was more reckless and desperate. He’s still desperate now, but his situation has developed over time.
He needs this job. Without it, he has nothing.
He can’t afford to be caught stealing like a teen swiping alcohol from their parents liquor cabinet. The higher ups are lethal, and if he can’t afford to pay for the drugs himself (which he can’t, due to his piling debt), then no drugs will be offered to him. Not even on a discount, despite how long he’s worked for them, and how hard he’s dedicated himself.
This job is killing him. So are the cigarettes he constantly smokes. So are the drugs. He’s starting to think that everything in the world is designed to harm him, down to the cells that make him himself, to the air that’s constructed to keep him alive.
At the very least, the night air is more tolerable to the stifling heat of the club. Nam-gyu used to love the energy of clubs, and while he’s still accustomed to it and doesn't necessarily hate it, it's lost its charm over the years. Not that he’ll ever admit such a thing out loud. He has an image to maintain.
Every night, he falls into the same pace along the same roads. Sometimes something different will break the mundanity; bumping into a stranger on the sidewalk and mumbling apologies, a text from a prior hookup asking him to swing by, getting lost in his own spiraling thoughts and accidentally bypassing his apartment altogether, causing him to have to turn back and retrace his steps like a fool.
Nam-gyu is accustomed to these walks home, cold air chilling him to the bone. He always stays on the sidewalk, even if he accidentally takes wrong turns on particularly bad nights. He never steps into the road, even when he feels strangely compelled to. He never stops and waits and hopes for a car to swerve off of the road and hit him right where he stands, rigid and stoic on the sidewalk. The sound of his breathing doesn't unnerve him, nor does the sound of his feet hitting the gravel. This is all perfectly fine, normal, and standard.
He repeats these sentences over and over in his head, consistent mantras ringing through his skull, a feeble, senseless hope burrowing within him that repetition is another word for truth.
Just as he always does, he arrives at his apartment with too many thoughts stuffed in his head at once. Why did that rapper insist on only being served by him, anyways? Was it all just an act to get Nam-gyu to let his guard down? Thanos is clearly a man who thinks he’s cooler than everyone, so why even bother conversing with a random club promoter in some shitty, dreary alleyway? Why’d he even go back there to begin with?
Too many questions, and none of them even matter in the grand scheme of things. Thanos is just another club-goer, and Nam-gyu is just another worker. Nothing to lose sleep over.
Though, for some reason, Nam-gyu has a feeling he will.