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The hand down Thanos’ pants jerks back past the elastic of his waistband at the sound of a twisting doorknob. He’s been nearly lulled to sleep in the quiet apartment, comforted by the soft buzzing television and casual masturbation, eyes drooping mid-stroke, when Namgyu interrupts.
His premature arrival is the first inclination that something is not right. If Thanos has to guess, it’s somewhere around midnight, and Namgyu typically doesn’t come home until at least 5 in the morning.
The second is Namgyu’s sticky, glistening hair when he shuts the door behind him, and the third is the boneless slouch of his body like some depressive parasite has sucked out all the nutrients responsible for keeping him upright.
For a second Thanos considers pretending to still be asleep in the hopes that Namgyu might just go to bed and let him finish jerking off in peace, but like an animal, he doesn’t even take off his shoes. Just sulks over to the fridge and plucks a beer out of it. He reminds Thanos of a wet stray cat that’s come in from the cold.
The question is already climbing up the back of Thanos’ throat.
Namgyu spits it out first.
“I quit the club.”
He says it so casually, as if he’s talking about someone else, but the beer rim is at his mouth and he’s chugging it down like a man freshly served divorce papers.
That wakes Thanos up.
“You quit?” Thanos pushes himself to lean over the arm of the couch, erection somewhat forgotten, “Like, actually?”
“What did I just say?”
To be fair, he’d just kind of assumed maybe the club was a little slow and Namgyu had gotten off early tonight. It’s rare, but it happens. He’s having a hard time comprehending any other possibility because Club Pentagon is Namgyu. Namgyu is Club Pentagon. He spends nearly every weeknight there and has been employed for as long as Thanos has known him. Hell, they met there, and now they split the rent 50/50 every month on this overpriced apartment. He never really considered that Namgyu could just… quit.
“Damn, Nam…,” His lavender hair, in desperate need of a re-dye, is rough when he runs his fingers through it. “What happened?”
Namgyu’s come home pissed off many times, slamming things, chugging down beers, bitching and moaning about his boss or whatever client did him in that night, and had never done shit else about it, but for him to actually quit, it has to be something extreme. So when Namgyu tells him it’s because, quote, “some bastard poured his drink on me”, Thanos waits for more to the story, blinking at him in anticipation, but Namgyu just keeps sipping, staring back blankly at Thanos, and the rest never comes.
“That’s it?”
Namgyu nods. His hair is so sticky that none of it moves. Finally, his shoes come off and he leaves them right there in the middle of the kitchen, his red work tie still fastened against his neck.
He raises a curved finger, waves it vaguely in the air. “You know, I’ve been there six years,” Namgyu starts, and this is when Thanos sits up and leans in. He knows Namgyu well enough to know that he holds everything in until his cup overflows, and then won’t shut up. Namgyu’s ears are starting to tinge a little red from where his long hair is tucked behind, and he’s got that hard bone in his jaw that appears when he’s all worked up. “Six years running around that club, letting people bark and snap their fingers at me like I’m some kind of bitch.”
“So how’d you do it?” Thanos asks while the fire’s hot.
The bones of Namgyu’s throat bob as he swallows down another sip of beer. He wipes his mouth with his shirt sleeve and leans against the countertop. “I walked into the manager’s office—“
“Mr. Park?”
“Yeah, him—“
“He’s an asshole.”
“—Right, so I went into his office, right after that cunt poured that drink on me, and I gave him my ID and keys. Threw them on his desk, made all kinds of noise, and the bastard barely even looked up from his computer. I just said ‘I quit’. Then he was begging. All on his knees and shit, oh god, you should have seen it. It was pathetic,” Namgyu recounts and feels a small swell of pride over the wide-eyed attention he’s getting from the man on the couch. It’s not often that Namgyu has command over a room.
Most of his story is true. Right before he’d thrown his ID onto the desk, Namgyu recalls having one last look at it. Printed on the laminate, a tiny picture of himself six years ago, just a baby, with a small, begrudging smile and a youthful glow still in his skin that is now long gone.
Club Pentagon’s an ugly, deeply dark place, with priority placed on commission and client satisfaction, but absolutely no respite for employees. Namgyu’s had a handful of drinks tossed his way before, gotten into a couple of scraps, has been spat on, shoved, and belittled like it’s completely permissible, yet every single time he’s gone to his manager to complain, he ends up leaving in a worse mood than before. The club has turned him into a bitter person. After donating many precious years of his life to it, he’s refusing to give it a second more, and now all that’s left is fire under his skin, beer on his scalp, and about ₩140,000 crumpled up somewhere in his pocket.
And so what if the truth is that the manager had barely even glanced at him at all when he quit? Hardly even blinked the entire time, just said “okay”, and let Namgyu leave? Hell, Namgyu may have even stayed if he’d actually gotten on his knees and begged nice enough.
“I should’ve shaken my wet hair all over his desk like a fucking dog, since that’s how he treated me.”
Thanos’ eyes widen. “Holy shit, you did that?”
“I said ‘I should’ve’, dumbass. But I’m thinking about it now. Wish I did.”
“Isn’t that the worst?” Thanos says when he stands, “thinking of better things to say after the argument’s already over?” He walks to the fridge and grabs an identical beer. The bottle’s already glistening and beaded when he slings a lanky arm around Namgyu’s shoulders and shakes him playfully. Against his warm cheek, smushed nose and all, Thanos presses a firm kiss, and actively pretends not to notice how desperately Namgyu needs a shower.
“I think,” he kisses him again, “you should’ve lit the whole place on fire.”
With his face still against Namgyu’s flustered cheek, Thanos blindly clinks their bottles together in a small cheers.
Namgyu laughs. A pleasant, pretty sound.
A comfortable silence settles over the room when they part. They stand there, stomachs pressed against the cool kitchen counter edge, and behind them, the television continues to drone on. Flashes of dull blues and pink shade their faces when the scenes switch. The beers leave glistening rings of condensation every time they’re picked up and set back down.
The adrenaline is quickly melting from Namgyu and the insides of his nervous system resemble the sweating glasses. He scratches at his nose, wets his lips, and starts to twist around the jewelry on his fingers as overthinking occupies him instead.
After a moment, he mumbles, “Man, I quit over one beer pour.” Thanos is expecting him to follow it up with some regretful monologue that he’ll have to talk him out of, but Namgyu only shrugs and says, “I guess, it’s like, the stick that broke the camel’s back or whatever.”
Ten years ago, a young Choi Subong took the trash out at his crappy fast food job for the last time.
It wasn’t that bad. The people were kind of cool and he got to eat as much as he wanted on breaks, but God, his manager was a dick. He pictures his face every time Namgyu mentions Mr. Park just so he can match the rage, and it always works.
The trash bag had split before, plenty of times, but this time, instead of going to fetch a broom, he stared down at the vile-smelling mess of half-eaten chicken, crumpled-up sauce-soaked napkins, a single bandaid stuck to a leg bone, and decided he was done. He was going to be a rapper.
It ended up being the best four days of freedom until his bank account was in the negative numbers again, so he knows the high that Namgyu is on right now, and damn, he kind of wishes he had a job to quit, too.
“Thanos?” Namgyu’s voice brings him out of the fast food kitchen and back into their apartment.
“Yeah?”
On the TV, a pretty infomercial actress pitches something about a new perfume, and at that very same moment, Namgyu becomes self aware that he smells like Club Pentagon and wet dog.
“Were you jerking off earlier?”
He doesn’t know what he was expecting Namgyu to say, but it wasn’t that.
Silence.
Namgyu just nods, sucks his teeth, and says, “Okay. Well, I’m going shower.” and Thanos isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be an invitation to join, but he follows him anyway.
At first, having Namgyu home all the time was great.
They played video games and smoked all day, eating whenever they remembered to and fucking whenever they felt like.
“Look,” Namgyu said two days into unemployment, showing off his buzzing phone to Thanos, “the bastard’s lost without me.”
After the third unanswered phone call, Namgyu blocked his manager’s number, declaring all of his ties officially cut with the club, though he just couldn’t stop mentioning it. Every once in a while he’d turn to Thanos and ask if he’d ever go back. “No, baby,” Thanos would say, and that would satisfy him for a few hours until he’d mumble something else about his stupid manager, or the stupid patrons, or how ecstatic he is that he never has to wear the stupid uniform again.
Namgyu still lives like he works at the club, too. His internal clock is still set to night shifts, so while Thanos is trying to sleep, Namgyu is up doing God knows what and being noisy as fuck, but like a true team player, Thanos lets him be.
There is still no mention of a backup plan by the second week.
They’re sitting at a late-night cafe table, red-eyed and reeking of marijuana, when the topic is conjured up.
“I‘ve been thinking lately…,” Namgyu starts.
His eyes are locked on Thanos’ thumb on the syrup latch. For now it’s an acceptable, slow drizzle of maple over the two-tiered plate of pancakes.
“And?”
Namgyu chews on the inside of the cheek that’s being supported by his open palm. “I’m going to be a salaryman.”
Thanos’ thumb pops off the latch in tandem with the falling of his jaw, and Namgyu knew this would be his reaction, but it’s still accompanied by a sting. His ears prickle with embarrassment, blood rushing up his neck by the time Thanos is laughing. Really laughing, shoulders shaking and all.
“It’s not funny, stop,” Namgyu kicks him under the booth, though it’s not hard, and does nothing.
“You’re not serious, Namgyu,” Thanos says with humor still in his throat, returning to syrup pouring. The amused edge in his voice makes Namgyu’s jaw twitch. “You don’t even have a degree.”
“I am serious. Dead serious, dude. I want to work at a desk.”
A weird, choking-like sound. “A desk? Nam, do you even know how to turn on a computer? You can barely text right, I mean, who are you?”
The way Namgyu’s neck recoils in offense wipes the smile clean off of Thanos’ face.
“Who am I? I’m not Pentagon’s bitch anymore, that’s who.”
“Bro…”
“Fuck off, Subong. Seriously.”
Oh god. He really means it. And now Thanos has to be the heartless, dream-slaying asshole because, for once, by some strange turn of events, he’s become the level-headed one. “Nam, you’re not… Christ, look, I love you. I care about you, deeply, you know that,” Thanos reasons, “But you’re, like, 90 pounds with chick hair and you’re covered in tattoos.”
He pauses, glances around them at the ghost-filled seats to make sure no one is listening, and leans in closer, “I mean, what about the background check?”
Namgyu scoffs and pushes his large head away. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Thanos has never been gifted with words, and really, there’s probably steam coming out of his ears from how hard his brain is having to work already. He’s trying, but he can’t quite think of a more delicate, workaround way to say what he means to. So, he considers opting to say nothing.
Namgyu’s always had a taste for blood, though, “What? Come on, say it,” he pushes.
Thanos hates being this guy. He’s irritated at Namgyu’s naïveté that has forced him into this position, but whatever. He opens his ugly mouth and because Namgyu needs to hear it, says, “You’re just not made for it.”
It wasn’t even that bad of a jab, but it’s still not nice to hear. Thanos can practically hear the tiny metaphorical grape of hope being squished right between his fingers, juice gushing like jugular blood. Still, Namgyu reacts exactly like Thanos expects him to. His body sinks a little against the leather of his seat, something small inside of him defeated and hurt, and stirs the straw around his drink just to fill the following silence with the sound of clinking ice.
The plate between them is overflowing with syrup now. The pancakes struggle to sponge any of it up, and it’s all pooled around the curve of the plate, practically inedible, yet Thanos still stabs his fork into it and licks some spilled syrup from his thumb.
Namgyu silently struggled in school. He didn’t have any drive or ambition inside to inspire any betterment of himself. There’s never been any light in the tunnel, always bumping around in darkness until he finds something jagged to hold onto, but he thinks sometimes, in passing thoughts and swallowed bits of jealousy, that if he’d had someone in his life when he was younger that cared for him or truly concerned themselves with his grades, aspirations, or whether the insides of his shoes were worn or not, he may have started out good instead of having to do the exceptionally hard work of turning himself around now.
Still, he understands where Thanos is coming from. Looking out for him, tilting his head towards realism for the sake of saving him the embarrassment when he inevitably comes back home with his head hung, but Namgyu doesn’t think it’s so shameful to wish a better life for himself, and he hates that Thanos is acting like it’s something he’s incapable of.
Namgyu says something then, playing with the metal utensil in his fist and running his finger along the cold prongs, and it’s so quiet that Thanos can barely hear the tenor of his voice at all.
“What?”
“I said,” He spoke louder now, spitfire, “I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”
The next time Namgyu reaches for the lit joint, Thanos pulls it away. “If you’re going to be a salaryman, they’re gonna fuckin’ test you there, dude. You won’t be able to have this shit anymore.”
Gears turn in Namgyu’s head but he doesn’t reach for it again. Instead, he settles strictly on cigarettes and whatever fruity half-dead vape he can dig from between the couch cushions.
Every day Namgyu is latched onto this newfound fixation is another day he’s not making money for next month’s rent, so Thanos waits for him to let it go and come back to Earth because no matter how hard he tries to be on his side, the salaryman vision just doesn’t come to him. Maybe because he knows Namgyu so well, he’s still waiting for him to crawl back to Pentagon in a week or so with his head hung begging for his job back, they’ll give it to him, and he’ll stay for another 5 years before “quitting” again. But Namgyu is nothing if not stubborn. Thanos knows this, too.
The length to which Namgyu was willing to commit himself to this drastic career switch starts to feel really real three days later when Namgyu hasn’t even mentioned the club in days and insists on accompanying Thanos to his hair appointment.
Purple is smeared all over from Thanos’ foil-wrapped hair. He sits there in the leather chair of this cheap barber shop, eyeing Namgyu as the hairdresser fastens the salon cape around his neck. After one bad chop in high school, Namgyu refused to let anyone touch his hair, and from then on let it grow until it sat right on the junction of his shoulders, yet here he is, watching the metal scissor blade glide precisely against his jawline and as his precious hair hits the floor. He considered letting Thanos do the honors, but all they own are kitchen scissors and Thanos is the last person in the world he trusts to do anything delicately.
“That looks fuckin’ sick, bro,” Thanos praises when it’s done and the duster brush is swept around his naked neck. “You look like a man now.”
Namgyu glares, but he’s kind of right. If he’d show up to Pentagon now with his hair above his ears, he may not get referred to as “ma’am” quite as often. His face, though, he can’t do much about. Still, Namgyu looks at himself long and hard in the mirror, the soft curve of his jaw, the sharp angle of his nose. Pictures himself in a grey cubicle, and speaks up right before the hairdresser snaps off the cape.
“Shorter.”
The scissors are already at Namgyu’s head again and Thanos’ eyebrows are furrowed in concern.
“Nam, you’re doing too much now,” warns the man with vibrant purple hair, but the scissors are cutting, and it’s too late, “We’re going for respectable, not virgin.”
And yet, Namgyu leaves feeling air on his ears and neck for the first time in years. His hair is closely trimmed against the nape, and since it’s been strictly trained in a middle part for all of his life, his forehead now houses little bangs that are pushed to both sides right above his eyebrows.
Thanos has never seen Namgyu’s spine so straight. He walks now with a strange confidence that looks foreign on him, yet no one who walked by would know what Namgyu had just done to himself or how differently he looked and carried his body 20 minutes ago.
Thanos is used to being the one walking around dick first while Namgyu shuffles beside him, but whatever.
The consequence is a week-long period of Thanos’ brain short-circuiting.
“F-fuck, wait,“ Namgyu grunts out from the corner he’s been fucked into on the bed. “Shit.”
His knees are to his chest, his head pressed against the headboard, and Thanos is fucking into him so hard that his body jolts with every brutal thrust. Every slapping of skin is accompanied by a small groan from Namgyu.
“You can take it,” Thanos says. He’s inches from his face and both of them are red, swapping spit and sweat.
Namgyu does take it. He grits his teeth and grips at Thanos’ wild hair while his arms are hooked around his wet neck. He’s always preferred it like this, a little mean, a little painful. Sex that will tire him out and leave him shaking after.
They look at each other, unblinking, all hard stares and locked jaws with their noses bumping together, and wait to see which one of them will break first.
Namgyu’s surrender comes in the form of him parting his lips and letting his head drop against the pillow when it’s starting to feel really good. Thanos won’t let him get too far, though. He’s quick to reach for Namgyu’s jaw, holding him in place when he leans down and spits right onto his tongue, and then they’re staring again, all while Thanos’ hips are relentless and his cock drags in and out of Namgyu. He makes sure he’s still watching when he swallows.
“Good girl. Shit,” Thanos grunts, his ring-clad hand moving from his jaw to lazily slap at Namgyu’s cheek until it’s rosy.
A cock-drunk laugh bubbles out from Namgyu’s mouth just as Thanos’ thumb hooks onto his lip, running the pad over the row of his bottom teeth. It’s taking every bit of Namgyu’s remaining strength to keep his eyes open, and they still keep fluttering closed with every violent thrust as he lets Thanos use his body.
“What the fuck?” Namgyu swears when Thanos suddenly pulls out.
His own cock is aching and leaking against his stomach, and he was getting there before all the momentum was lost. “I was about to cum, you dick.”
Thanos lets him bitch while he grabs at Namgyu’s thighs and flips him over. He cooperates, like Thanos knew he would, and buries his face in the sweat-drenched white pillow, slightly arching his back and waiting to be filled up again.
Thanos hesitates. Sits there on his knees, slick cock in his fist, and hesitates.
It’s not a big deal. It’s really not, but if Thanos didn’t know Namgyu so well—the strange, bold tattoos on his forearms, the dimples near his spine, the small, singular mole right under his shoulder blade, the pretty split line down back— he’d think this could be a stranger. It’s not a big deal at all, he’s just not used to seeing Namgyu’s neck, or his ears, really, and it’s obviously Namgyu, but it’s just freaking him out a little.
“Hey,” Namgyu’s voice, mean, impatient, and wonderfully familiar, calls out while he turns his head as best he can. “Are you going to fuck me or what?”
Thanos reaches out to touch him. Snakes his hot hand over the bare skin of his neck, along the sharp buzz near the nape and the short hair just above it, before roughly grabbing a fistful and shoving Namgyu’s face back into the pillow to shut him up. It’s softer with all the dead ends sliced off, moves through Thanos’ fingers like butter.
He’s saying something muffled, but Thanos spreads Namgyu to line himself up and they both groan in tandem when he eases in again. Once he’s completely inside and Namgyu’s body is shaking under him, knuckles white against the sheets, he lets his hair go to grab at the skin around his hips instead and resumes his brutal pace.
Thanos decided to choose peace when he first heard the kitchen cabinet slam. It’s not worth it is what he told himself when he rolled into his stomach in the empty bed.
A raspy groan is cried out into the pillow when the second cabinet slam comes a minute later, and by the time it shakes the walls for the third time, Thanos is fuming. He clamors out of bed, tugs his boxers on with incredible speed, and swings the bedroom door open like a drug bust.
What he finds is Namgyu standing in the fridge light with half of his arm stuffed in a chip bag. Thanos’ chips, the special barbecue flavor he’d picked up and strategically stashed two days ago.
Namgyu whips his head around. His right cheek bulges with half-chewed food.
“The fuck are you doing?”
Namgyu’s eyes dart around. “Eating?”
He says it like it’s 10am instead of 2am. Thanos likes downing energy drinks and stuffing his face with snack rat shit as much as the next guy, but every night? He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer before walking towards the chip bag Namgyu’s arm is still hiding in and yanks it away. “Do you have to slam every cabinet? It’s obnoxious.”
A few crunchy sacrifices hit the floor. Neither move to clean them.
Namgyu’s eyebrows furrow. He sucks at the powder on his thumb and looks Thanos up and down.
“Since when do you wake up from noise?” There’s an edge to his voice. Testing him, trying to gauge if he’s actually pissed or joking.
Thanos doesn’t say anything because he is really pissed and doesn’t want to fight. He’s actively trying to chill himself out, so he folds over the edge of the opened bag and puts it back to where it should be, right next to the rest of the chips, which are plentiful, but that’s not the point. And because he’s a little petty, not entirely against pricking Namgyu’s skin a little, he gently closes the cabinet as an example. The wood meets with a dull, quiet thud.
“Thanos,” Namgyu says when Thanos has already started back towards the bedroom.
He doesn’t turn, so Namgyu retaliates by making a big show of yanking a kitchen drawer out and slamming it back closed once, twice. This definitely gets Thanos’ attention, and when he turns, Namgyu makes sure he’s watching when he does it again. Yanks, slams. The impact echoes throughout the dark room as they stare at each other.
“You’re gonna make someone call the cops on you, you idiot.”
“For making noise in my own apartment?”
He says this like they haven’t been visited multiple times by security reporting a noise complaint. Threatening notes slipped under their doors, ugly looks from neighbors, the whole thing. The noise is nothing new, but the truth is, Namgyu’s not usually the one making it unless Thanos is inside of him or something.
“People are trying to sleep, Nam,” Thanos starts, contemplating the vitriol he’s swishing around in his mouth. It’s in his gums, green pieces of ugly words clinging to his teeth. He takes a page out of Namgyu’s playbook and mumbles like he’s anticipating a softer landing while intending to make it hurt. “We’re not all used to working in nightclubs.”
Namgyu hears him, scoffs with the fridge door still open and glowing white behind him. His arms cross over his chest. “What are you trying to say?” He challenges, jutting his chin out and trying to make himself bigger.
Thanos is tired. He hasn’t smoked all day, Namgyu’s eating his fucking chips, and he’s tired. “I’m trying to say you should get on your knees and go beg for your old job back.”
And there it is again, that little stab of hurt, the squeezed grape. His body slumps, all the fight deflating in his chest. It makes Thanos feel a little guilty, but God, he meant it, and God, it felt really fucking good to say.
“You know,” Namgyu says, toying anxiously with the rings on his fingers, “I think you’re jealous.”
Thanos rolls his eyes right to Namgyu’s face. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, I think you’re sick to your stomach that I’m changing, getting my shit together, and you’re still here, doing the same bullshit.” The epiphany is as upsetting to Namgyu as it is exciting, because Thanos has never been jealous of him.
Thanos laughs. It sounds eerily identical to the slamming of the cabinets: sharp, loud, and mocking. “Changing? You cut your hair, Namgyu, and you’re unemployed. That’s it.”
“You’re jealous that I’m trying to make myself better and get out of this shithole,” Namgyu spits, because now it’s venomous and their words have morphed into heavy, solid bricks that they throw to hurt. “You’re almost 40 and—”
“—Where’s your fucking job interview, Nam?” Thanos cuts him off, throws up his arm and motions around the room. His voice is increasingly hysterical, “No, better yet, where’s your rent money? Do you have that?”
“Do you fucking have it?”
“At least I know where I stand! I’m not out here playing dress-up.”
It’s Namgyu’s turn to laugh now, an ugly cackle that sounds painful coming out. “Okay, Thanos. You have fucking purple hair and paint your nails. You act like you have blue eyes for fuck’s sake. That’s not dress-up?”
“Dude—” Thanos scoffs.
“I’m in my own skin more than you’ve ever been in yours and it’s eating you alive.”
“Dude, you’re so fuckin’ in that head of yours,” Thanos talks over him because he can, nostrils flaring, “you think you’re doing some grand thing, climbing some giant fuckin’ mountain because you want to push paper, but you’re a fuckin’ junkie dressed up like a secretary.”
“You’re a loser asking me about an interview, Subong,” Namgyu nips and makes sure Thanos feels every bit of his own name, “Where’s your fucking job? Where’s your rap career, huh?”
Thanos has to be loud and take up space. He has to yell and fuss and point fingers and act like a preschooler in the midst of a temper tantrum because his rage just comes out that way. All bark. Everything is outside, seeping through his skin and moving his muscles involuntarily, but Namgyu doesn’t have that problem. He can be cruel without raising his voice, that scary, quiet kind of anger. It’s inside, knotted up and high-strung. All bite. They’re on even playing ground, twin flames in some gut-deep way, but it still makes the arguing feel unfair by nature.
Thanos points a painted finger, the violet one, at Namgyu’s red face, who shoves it away.
“You want to go there?”
“We’ve been there, Jesus Christ.” Namgyu wipes at his nose. Stands with his soft tongue between his strong teeth, biting down.
Both of their chests are puffing, Adams apples bobbing, staring at each other with resentment taking shape beside their molars. Bloody, rotten things. Thanos pushes it around in the wetness of his mouth but lets the silence talk and sits with the sour taste. He’s waiting, both of them are, to see who will give in. Two pit bulls in the dark kitchen, teeth showing and tails tucked.
A dirty dish shifts by itself in the sink. Cold air seeps from the open fridge in thin clouds of vapor that spiral and disappear. It’s giving Namgyu goosebumps on the back of his crossed arms.
There are signs of life outside the apartment walls, footsteps coming towards their door, and just before the knock, Thanos opens his mouth.
“You getting the attention you want?” He asks, knowing there is no answer, only insult.
Namgyu’s jaw does an anxious dance that grinds the hard bone together. He itches at his nose again.
“You know, I’ve got it figured out,” Namgyu says. He hears the knuckles rapping against the wood and a deep voice on the other side identifying themselves as security, but he stays firm. “You don’t see me as an equal. Never have, and now you don’t even know if you’re above or below me, and it’s freaking you the fuck out.”
When Namgyu’s legs start to move, it’s towards the bedroom instead of the entryway, and he makes it a point to roughly slam into Thanos’ shoulder on the way there. Mumbling something about an asshole, the word pathetic, and other small things that reach Thanos’ ears before another impatient knock drowns it out.
The slamming of the bedroom door is a surefire sign that Thanos is now banished to the couch.
He’ll spend the rest of his sleep-deprived night staring at the living room ceiling and mulling over potential insults he could have hurled, nails he wishes he’d hammered into the coffin, anything he could have spat so he could at least uphold the dignity of having the last word, but the verbal argument portion had come and gone, and he’ll just have to live with himself instead.
Thanos unlocks the front door latch.
“Again?” Is the first thing the disappointed security guard says.
Three quiet days that follow in which they don’t speak to each other at all.
Namgyu takes multi-hour-long walks around the neighborhood to avoid being in the same room together while Thanos is on season three of a show he started two days ago.
Progress comes in small, single-word replies. They sit on opposite ends of the couch and refuse to touch.
It’s 9 in the morning on a rainy Tuesday when Thanos leans against the bathroom doorframe.
“You got an interview?”
Namgyu’s in front of the mirror in the nicest clothes Thanos has ever seen him in. Adorned in khaki slacks, there’s a white-button down, pointed collar and everything, hanging onto his shoulders while he fastens a brown belt, a real leather one, through the pant hoops. He always dressed nicely at Pentagon, but he hasn't seen Namgyu in anything other than black in, well, ever. Thanos kind of thinks he looks more like a waiter than a salaryman, but keeps it to himself.
They briefly meet eyes again in the mirror reflection.
“Maybe.”
Either Namgyu’s getting dressed up to walk around Seoul for the next three hours to pretend he’s been interviewed, or some rare stroke of luck has been bestowed upon him. Thanos wouldn’t put it past him, the sly fucker, but there’s a small swelling of pride in his chest. Fondness, too, watching Namgyu fuss with the folded shirt sleeves.
Underneath all that is an itch in Thanos’ gut. It’s been there for days, flaring anytime he thinks too hard about their argument, and it’s only getting worse. If Thanos has to be haunted by his own words, fuck it, whatever, but he still feels a little sick knowing there’s a real possibility Namgyu intends to pitch himself to these businessmen with an identical guilty, icky feeling on his conscious.
And Thanos just can’t have that.
“I’m sorry,” he says without the over-confident, cocky backbone that usually supports his words.
He hates apologizing first, because while it’s not a competition, it still gives Namgyu a significant advantage. He’s unpredictable, and there is a throbbing blue vein somewhere in his body that can be cruel. He has every opportunity to laugh in Thanos’ face or force him to stay on the couch another week, but there is something in Namgyu, too, some occasional, abnormal pump of his heart that is plush and forgiving. Thanos knows that just as well.
“Me too,” Namgyu says in return, and it’s done.
They won’t talk about it. They don’t do that, ever, but it’s done.
There’s a weightlessness now where everything feels wonderfully open between them, so Thanos takes the liberty to move further inside the bathroom and settle on the edge of the bathtub.
“Where’d you get the clothes?”
“Huh?”
“The clothes,” Thanos nods towards the button-down, still untucked and oversized, hanging loosely over his hips. “Where’d you get them?”
Namgyu had clothes already, perfectly fine clothes from his not-so-distant Pentagon days, but he bought these so maybe he could pretend like he’s been someone simply dealt bad cards rather than an active participant in his own savageness. He glances down at himself, runs a hand over the fabric at his chest, and grazes his fingers under the tap water.
“That thrift store around the corner,” his damp fingers glide through his short hair to tame it the way he wants, pinching at the front pieces in the mirror to hold his stubborn bangs together.
“Next to the vape store?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re looking sharp, my boy,” Thanos praises while he himself sits shirtless in baggy sweatpants that hang low against the bones of his pelvis.
It’s kind of cute to see Namgyu getting ready and the bit of nerves that show up in the chewing of his cheeks and the slight shake of his hands. He keeps triple-checking his shoe laces and feeling at the buckle of his belt to make sure it’s still fastened, as though it would have magically come apart since he first buckled it three minutes ago.
“You’ve got to tuck that shirt in,” Thanos offers his advice out of the kindness of his heart.
Namgyu looks at him with disgust on his face, “It looks stupid tucked in,” he says and returns to checking his belt for the hundredth time.
Okay, whatever. Thanos will let him have this preference now because he’s certain that Namgyu will show up to whatever boring, grey office he’s trying to slither into, notice that everyone’s shirts are tucked in, and immediately follow suit. He’s a chameleon in that way, always has been, and Thanos doubts that has changed. He will pretend not to notice when Namgyu inevitably comes back home with it tucked in because he is nice like that.
“They better hire me, I bought all this shit,” Namgyu reaches for a cologne bottle. It’s cheap, but strong enough that it makes Thanos cough when he sprays it.
It’s a strange thing that Thanos knows exactly what’s under Namgyu’s clothes. Like walking out of the barber shop, Namgyu is a new stranger to the world, but not to Thanos. He knows there’s a discolored patch of skin in the crook of his elbow, big, colorful tattoos got inked into his flesh, a small hole in his ear lobe where a piercing used to be. He knows that Namgyu’s wardrobe is actually black and gothic and that the aroma of alcohol and weed used to cling to him like a damn leech, the poor guy. This is not you, this is not you, this is not you, Thanos keeps silently repeating while he watches him.
Tug-of-war is being played at both sides of Thanos’ ears, a rope pulling against the jelly of his brain. On one hand, he feels deeply that this is something Namgyu will come to regret and is selfishly waiting for him to come back home with his head hung so they can settle their feet back in reality. He hates himself for feeling this, even if it’s weak, even if he’s telling himself not to feel it. On the other, stronger hand, Thanos wants to follow Namgyu to this office place and push the boss up against a wall until he gives Namgyu a job because, goddammit, it’s his dream (as of three weeks ago) and he deserves it.
Thanos watches him lower his collar to spray cologne, once on his collarbone, another near his wrist, and one more around his legs. He’s instantly hit with the strong smell of sandalwood and some kind of faint fruit.
“Goddamn, that’s enough,” Thanos coughs again and waves his hand around when Namgyu sneaks in one more spritz at his neck. “Shit. You’re gonna air the place out.”
“Shut up.” Namgyu kicks his leg.
Namgyu’s a grown man, but when he leaves the familiar comfort of the apartment, he can’t help but feel like a child who’s kicked his training wheels off and is wobbling down the hill, headed straight for a tree or cliff or some scary, dangerous thing. He’s unable to help his sweaty hands and pumping heart, feels stupid for it, and walks on anyway.
It helps that Thanos is there, sticking his purple head out into the apartment hallway.
“You got this!” He calls out, voice loud as fuck, noise complaints be damned, “Good luck! You can do it, my boy!”
Namgyu’s middle finger is already in the air, pointed behind him in jest, with his dimple dipping deep into his cheek no matter how hard he’s trying to keep a straight face.
And then, “I’m proud of you!”
I believe in you. I’ll be here when you come home.
His legs go a little weak. He’s headed towards the tree, front tire tipping over the cliff, rock cracking and crumbling beneath him, and it’s fine. He’ll be okay.
It’s kind of everything Namgyu’s ever wanted to hear. It’s sweet from anyone, but from Thanos, it’s especially saccharine. A plate of overflowing pancake syrup, sticky, seeping over his chest until it’s all warm.
Namgyu returns home with that same bonelessness in his body. Humiliation radiates off of him. Every step is soggy with it, his sleeves are pushed up, and his shirt is half tucked. Everything is wrinkled.
It’s bad news.
Thanos doesn’t ask.
They spend the last of their combined won on takeout and shovel chunks of battered chicken into their mouths until it’s dark out.
At some point, Thanos rolls a joint and Namgyu takes it.
“I’m going to bed,” Namgyu says after midnight has come and gone, lifting his head from Thanos’ comforting shoulder. “You can come lay with me now, if you want. Unless the couch has grown on you.”
A laugh bubbles out of Thanos while he runs his fond hand over Namgyu’s silky hair. There is, in fact, a little bit of an ache starting up the base of his spine that he’s suspecting stems from the uncomfortably stiff cushions.
“Go ahead, baby, I’ll meet you in there.”
Thanos waits until the door clicks before reaching for his decrepit laptop. It’s damn near falling apart. The screen looks like a bullet’s gone through it, multiple keys are missing, there’s a permanent neon green glitch line on the left side, and the folding mechanism is barely functional. But Thanos likes familiar things. He hates the idea of having to figure out another model because he’s gotten really good at typing without the “s” button, so he keeps it.
Playing through the speakers is the weak beginning of a song beat, something he’s been working on all day while Namgyu’s been gone. His phone is full of equally weak lyrics he’s trying to piece together and align to the rhythm, and it sounds terrible. All of it is absolute shit and his laptop is already burning the fuck out of his leg within five minutes.
He hasn’t touched a song in months. He’s afraid to suck, afraid to fail, but if Namgyu can try to do better, by God, he can too. And someone still has to pay the rent.
“Difficult to be confronted with the fact of yourself. Opaque in the sense of finally solid, in the sense of see me, not through me.” - Siken