Archive of Our Own

It’s Hide and Seek.

Some weird, fucked up version of it, sure, but still. Just Hide and Seek. That’s what Nam-gyu’s gotta keep telling himself, anyway, to keep his head screwed on.

Blues first, Reds second. Hiders and Seekers. The Blues with some amount of time to go in beforehand, to disperse, to hide, as it were, and to fumble around some with the little keys they’d all been granted. After, the Reds to follow, unleashed like predators on prey in the enclosed space. And it absolutely does feel that way when they are, only minutes in before screams shrill and sharp pierce the air – bounce off the walls and echo down long, seemingly hollow hallways.

It sets Nam-gyu on edge. Can’t exactly help it – some knee-jerk reaction to the sound of people dying scared and slow. No time to think like that, though. No use in worrying about himself in their shoes or how soon he could be when he’s got things to do, shit to watch out for. Eyes peeled – always, always that – in pursuit of the main goal, promised: find Thanos.

The rest can come later.

And it’s not all bad, Nam-gyu figures. Still some things worth being thankful for here. Weight of the knife in his hand as he’s left to wander, for one – bit girly, the design, but whatever; still sharp – and the lingering taste of crushed candy between his teeth that always sets him a little straighter. Eyes forward, shoulders back – chemical confidence. Cracked and cut quick and easy beneath his bite with no nonsense, just as simply as the locket had been popped open and the little miracle pressed right onto Nam-gyu’s tongue.

Red, the pill had been. For good luck or something; cheeky. Matched his vest, just as the blue one Thanos had crunched down on matched his.

Cute. Matchy. Encouraging, if Nam-gyu wants to be really generous about the way he’s interpreting all of this.

And maybe he does. Maybe he can spare the sentiment for now; maybe he even wants to. Dole it out in heaping handfuls like he’s fucking sweet enough for it – swallow any hesitation or panic down in favor of understanding, acceptance, allowance – like he can regain some of his footing this way, keep himself collected and controlled. This is exactly what he’s gotten used to with Thanos, after all. Months and months of knowing him and procuring whatever whack-ass shit his dreams desired from Pentagon all the way here, in this godforsaken place, wherever the hell they even are. Go along with it, ride the wave; logic and reality are not often encouraged in Thanos World. Nam-gyu has come to know this well. Makes him real good at knowing when and where to shut the fuck up and hold himself back from getting too pissy about any real part of it. In this case, the lack of collaboration. The being left alone at all. Red and blue, split. They could have switched.

But Nam-gyu’s grown pretty good at it, he thinks. At the being left part, yeah, but what he’s really mastered is the shutting the fuck up part. At least Thanos doesn’t seem to complain. Not like he’s even around to right now, but still. Nam-gyu’s still doing better than he could be.

He’s thankful for the drugs again in this regard. Staves off the wobbly knees and pussyfooting around he’s sure he’d be doomed to without them. He’s doing a fair job of managing for now, more or less. Another skill of his. Gritting his teeth; grinning and bearing it. Fiddling with the tip of his dagger ‘til it smarts and lapping at the blood as it beads – anything to occupy his mouth with something other than the venom that’s pooling at the tip of his tongue, nowhere to go.

For Thanos, when Nam-gyu finds him.

If Nam-gyu finds him.

God, because it really is a big fucking if. Stupid, if you asked Nam-gyu, but of course no one ever did. Just downright moronic to split up. He literally cannot get over it. Pouring over every last detail of it all, the “relax, my boy. Don’t you get it? It’s a good thing we’re on different teams. We can hook each other up,” that Thanos had sold Nam-gyu at the time, as if it made any goddamn sense. The exaggerated hand motions to accompany the words, like they made anything better.

Where in Thanos’ mind any of this seemed like a good idea, Nam-gyu has no clue. Yet he’d nodded along like an idiot when Thanos had asked, “you feel me?”, even if Nam-gyu absolutely did not – in any sense of the word – feel him in this, but whatever.

Feels, in retrospect, a lot, he finds. None of the surety that Thanos always tries to impart on him. Surety Nam-gyu knew he was capable of because he had felt it once, after Mingle – the whole world theirs for the taking. That feeling is all gone, now. Warped and ripped from him in the blink of an eye in the bathroom when Thanos almost – almost.

Dread. Probably the best description for what Nam-gyu’s feeling right about now.

Dread, because Thanos is blue. Dread, because he’s fucking blue while Nam-gyu’s red, and the last time they were separated, Thanos almost died. Dread because of Thanos’ loud, obnoxious way of being – easy for Nam-gyu to track down, surely, but easy for other Reds too. His big words and all of his bravado that he thinks make him look strong but that realistically just leave him prone, especially in a game like this. Easy to spot – big and tall and bright fucking purple, rowdy; a target on his back from the very way he stands.

Nam-gyu has to find him. Has to find him soon, too. No telling what the hell happens if he doesn’t.

And that’s the part that sucks. Like, really, truly sucks: Nam-gyu’s not even sure what he’d do without Thanos.

Die, probably. Not for lack of trying, but more because Nam-gyu can’t ever seem to do shit on his own, and god knows he’s hardly played nice enough with anyone else here to be able to strike up a new alliance of sorts. Surely not one so reliable – not that that’s all this is here, because he’s got this weird ache in his ribs at the thought of Thanos dying that only serves to irritate him further and that’s only grown since their little run-in with MG Cunt in the bathroom – but, hey. Sue him for trying to think practically.

Not like he is, though. Not fully. Can’t – too caught up in the minutes winding down on the clocks that he passes as he walks around the maze. Ten minutes gone already, far too much of their half-hour to have lost with no hints of Thanos anywhere. It’s weird. Definitely the longest they’ve been separated the entire time they’ve been here. Has Nam-gyu feeling increasingly out of his mind with every step he takes, the winding passageways of faux streetlights and twinkling stars against rich blue only urging that ache into something that threatens to crack him straight open. Raw.

Empty halls fill with bodies in no time, Nam-gyu finds. Seconds ticking, ticking, ticking – the scattering of corpses growing frequent enough that Nam-gyu’s left stepping over them, now. Considering them, in the slightest way, at least. Doll-eyed and lifeless, red clinging and soaking their blue numbered vests.

None of them the number he’s looking for, but the idea–

Nam-gyu doesn’t like the idea. Doesn’t like it at all.

Dislikes it so much, in fact, that it’s got him crouching down and snagging keys from still, slumped forms.

Some desperate attempt at something. Anything. Maybe just busying his hands – better than slicing up his own fingertips as he has been. Being useful, perhaps, no matter how frantic he is in it. No matter how he shakes.

Like, really, honest-to-god shakes – can’t help it, even – and fuck knows why.

The bodies jolt with the rapid swipes of Nam-gyu’s quick work.

He’s not exactly careful about it, lifting chains over lolling heads or ripping them clean off of bent necks. Driven blindly toward it on instinct alone: hunt and gather, in a way. Ignore the blood that pools on the floor and that smears against walls in favor of collecting; dryly swallow down the seconds as they tick by all while recalling the triangle shape that’d dangled and danced right up against the cross on Thanos’ chest. Metallic clicking, chains mingling – the memory contrasts the distinctly not triangle shapes on some of the bodies Nam-gyu is finding.

He grabs one of each of the other shapes he finds: circle, square. A spare triangle, too. Claims them one by one, just in case. Practicality, of course – the only grounding thing about all of this. Passes on the duplicates and notes all of the extra details of the area as he goes if it’s all he can do: the writing on walls and the differing shape of the locks in the doors and the drone of player after player passing – but never him.

Never Nam-gyu. Never ever him – always passed up and left behind.

His own fault, as always. Maybe he should’ve tried harder to fight for a switch. Open his damn mouth for once and cut the pussy shit.

Or maybe, even further back, he should’ve been able to get Min-su to vote as he should have, as Nam-gyu promised he would convince him to. Or, if not that, he should’ve stepped up in the bathroom. Showed Myung-gi what a sorry son of a bitch he really is. Fucking done something. Anything. Followed through.

But instead? Failure, and always Nam-gyu responsible. Never a surprise there. Fists bunched in the fabric of Min-su’s jacket and punches thrown against the pastel-wash of the bathroom that had amounted to nothing except a bright red X and shallow stab wound right in Thanos’ neck that would have killed him had it been any deeper – that type of failure. Uniquely Nam-gyu’s fault. If only he’d moved, swayed, seen – done his job.

How aggravating, that he can’t even manage it now. Has the advantage, even, and still can’t; all that bark and none of the bite. Poor Nam-gyu, wandering and worried and pathetic on some guy that he doesn’t even – not sure if – whatever, with his clean knife that grins back at him with all of its menacing, sparkling sharpness, unused. Stained at the tip only with whatever of himself Nam-gyu had spilled through his anxious nicking and carving. Pitiful Nam-gyu, with the knees that betray him and start on with their wobbling despite the boost from the pill just minutes ago, because there’s no world in which he’s even a little bit high enough for this.

All alone, too. Making it worse.

Just… Nam-gyu. Struggling to make his own name even sound right in his head without an “and” before it.

Just Nam-gyu, with his hands that shake and his lip that trembles, the panic all he even has, all he’s left with. Just Nam-gyu – worst of all – with the hammering heart that climbs further and further up into his throat as time wears on. As he wonders. Rounding corners, up and down stairs, even trying his luck with different rooms, all empty – bodies Nam-gyu’s finding never quite the one he’s looking for as his panic swells and swells. Just Nam-gyu, who–

”Nam-su!”

–Freezes right where he stands.

Nam-su. Nam-gyu, Nam-su.

Nam-su, Nam-su, Nam-su.

Of course.

“Thanos,” he breathes.

And Nam-gyu has no real need to shout it out in response, so he doesn’t. There’s no reason for Thanos’ name to be any bigger than it already is, bigger than it already feels as Nam-gyu chews on it. Returns the call – stingy – to no one but himself.

Feels the relief wash over his body even as he hears the agitating little misnomer ring through the halls. Nam-su, Nam-su, Nam-su, like Thanos thinks that shit is funny or something – always does. Regardless, it’s got Nam-gyu’s limbs moving on their own. Drawn to the sound. A moth to a flame, each and every time.

Nam-gyu swears it’s practical this go around, to move like this. All urgent and quick about it. He’s got goals in mind, after all: lead Thanos to guaranteed safety, see it through. Correct Thanos again, likely a few times. Remind him of where the fuck his head should be, of reality. Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu.

Practical, yeah. Entirely. Has his body buzzing with it. Set on edge anew and near sprinting toward the sound of Thanos’ voice.

“Nam-su, my boy. Search and rescue is not your thing. You want another Red to find me first, or what?”

Down the hall. Back the way Nam-gyu had just come from.

“Hel-lo? Can you hear me?” There’s a faint pounding sound. Sounds like a fist on a door, if Nam-gyu had to guess; a little ruckus for whatever locked up room Thanos is passing – wherever he is. Kinda rhythmic, like he’s surely walking down the hall with some swagger and a beat in his head. Just obnoxious for the sake of being so.

It makes Nam-gyu walk even faster.

Down the hall, yes. To the left. Down the way. Round the corner, and – “Nam-su!”

Shouted at nothing, just open air. Nam-gyu sees Thanos before Thanos sees him. Best way to get his attention?

Correction, just as planned. “Nam-gyu.”

Mission accomplished; Thanos startles at the sound of Nam-gyu’s voice as he turns around to face him. Good, good – nice to see the wide-eyed look on his face; you’d think the guy saw a ghost. Maybe that’s even what he’s thinking too, the bastard. Surprised that Nam-gyu’s made his way here to begin with.

“Nam-gyu,” he parrots. Recovers himself quickly, and his smile comes easy. “Where have you been, bro? I’ve been lonely.”

Nam-gyu can’t help but to bristle. And he’s sure he looks like some mean street cat as he does, judging solely by the way Thanos’ laugh fills the space between them.

“It’s why I was calling for you,” he adds. Yet another thing that doesn’t make any goddamn sense. “Was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

Nam-gyu grits his teeth. Wouldn’t show, playful or not, stings. Like his lack of follow through on anything that matters is just one big joke.

He lets the silence sit for a moment. There’s lots of things he could say – hardly anything nice. It’s difficult for Nam-gyu to find any words even close to neutral in this state he’s found himself in, to be honest. All that’s left is the sick, festering thing inside that twists and tugs, climbs and chokes. Any of the nice words that he might grab for at any other time seem swept away by now. Nothing but thorns.

Despite it all, he settles on something simple. Effective. Fair, he thinks, given everything.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Thanos shrugs, still smiling.

“Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t like being stood up.”

Nam-gyu just scoffs. Not even worth dignifying that with a response when they’ve got a whopping – his eyes land on a nearby clock – 15 minutes left. Half their time shaved down because of Thanos’ complete and utter insistence on walking around and doing nothing to hide or find the exit on his own, all while he… what? Walks around singing to himself like a doped up lunatic?

Yeah, probably. It seems to be all he’s interested in right now, at least, even as Nam-gyu charges right past him, checked shoulder and all, to get moving.

Thanos follows easily.

The role reversal is weird. Not like Thanos is at all useful enough to be leading them here anyway, but still. Nam-gyu’s not used to it. Leading himself around alone is one thing, but it’s different when he’s responsible for the both of them, especially when Thanos exists behind him as nothing but a series of giddy little hums and murmured lines of raps – his own or otherwise. The occasional beating on passed up doors like he’s in search of a beat to accompany him, just like Nam-gyu could hear Thanos doing when they were apart.

And if Nam-gyu could hear it while he was however many paces down the hall, that means anyone else around can hear it, too.

Hardly ideal. Stressful as fuck, actually; distracting, too. His own shaky hands fiddling with keys in doors and listening to the seconds tick by on top of Thanos’ playful chittering is beyond overstimulating. Makes it all worse, leaves Nam-gyu’s skin burning hot with the threat of red rounding the corner, knife in hand, eager to put a stop to that very same noise.

If this were a game of pushing and shoving – brute strength – Nam-gyu would simply say whatever. Let Thanos be as loud and erratic as he wants. Could have been this, had Thanos not been so painfully whatever himself about the Blue versus Red thing, switching things around while they had the chance. But instead, he’s left wandering around, stuck on the team meant to either be quiet or to think, and just waiting around for Nam-gyu to come along and do the thinking for him. Like it was a given, almost. No room for anything else. Expected, as so much always is. Never a break from Thanos World.

It’s loud there. Too fucking loud, even for Nam-gyu, who makes a living surrounded by booming bass and rattling glass bottles. Dirt and grime aplenty mixed with all things sticky that cling and claim entirely with time – practiced smiles that make Nam-gyu’s cheeks hurt and crazy colorful shit that burns holes in his pockets. A job there, a job here; always too much at stake. Self-imposed, maybe. This part of him that feels at home in it; the dangling and the being needed and the needing back.

Can’t help it with Thanos. Overwhelming and raw all the time, all of Nam-gyu’s senses burning bright and brilliant and bold, like they rise to meet Thanos in his very way of being. Fucking embarrassing. Something – always something – there beneath the surface that keeps Nam-gyu close no matter how he chokes on the sentiment.

No matter how Thanos that Thanos is about the entire goddamn thing.

“Nam-su–”

“Thanos.” Nam-gyu doesn’t even look at him. Can’t, won’t – has to keep his eyes forward. “Do you want everyone to know where we are? Be quiet.”

Thanos laughs. It’s bright and airy, and it echoes. Doesn’t even give a shit.

“Me-ow, alright. Chill.”

Chill. Chill? Nam-gyu grits his teeth. Fucking chill – how classic. Nam-gyu’s heard that one plenty of times. Never fucking deserved, either. Screw him for having feelings about anything, ever. Always. Too loud when he speaks, too quiet when he doesn’t, so where does that leave him?

Some fight-to-the-death style kiddie games, that’s where. Playing at something with some guy that invites total losers to hang around with them and thinks it’s funny to pretend – hopefully it's pretend, anyway – to forget Nam-gyu’s name. Fuck his entire life.

“You know, Nam-su,” Thanos starts. There it goes again. Thanos leans a little closer when he says it, though, and Nam-gyu can feel the heat of breath from where Thanos looms over his shoulder, still behind. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were worried about me.”

Worried. Worried.

Something snaps. Winds tight and urgent and mean inside of Nam-gyu, that ache in his ribs turning sharp in an instant. It spills over, fractures and floods between them. Seizes Nam-gyu like a sudden, wild current and urges him in grasping for a handful of bright, brilliant blue – the only reason he can do this at all. Only reason he’s got a voice all of a sudden, only reason he’s allowing himself any of this stupid, useless feeling. Hot and cold in being caught up in all the horrible ways he and Thanos are the same and all of the wonderful ways they’re different but can never quite settle in one single notion; can never quite chill, as Thanos puts it. As fucking everyone alive that’s ever gotten close enough to touch has put it.

Close enough to touch, or, in this case, be touched by. Shoved by, slammed by – ushered into this nearby corner that looks like a new section of hallway but is really a dead end by. Worse, Nam-gyu can reasonably assume that Thanos is probably into it. In some sick, fucked up way, that is. Into being able to have pushed Nam-gyu and into being pushed back – this stupid, awful game Thanos always plays but that Nam-gyu is never quite good enough to win. A loser from birth and doomed to it until he dies, Nam-gyu, and always a remarkably poor sport about it.

He decides this all changes today. Even though the noise forced from Thanos as he collides with the harsh brick wall has Nam-gyu’s chest burning with something bright, familiar, hot. Even as Thanos grins down at him – always, always that, everyone – with this panting open-mouthed grin that gleams beneath the low light of false stars. This mean sharpness to his teeth that outright taunts, has Nam-gyu itching terribly for a taste.

Nam-gyu hates it. Hates himself, always has, but hates this part the most. The part that so openly needs that he couldn’t hide it if he tried. Couldn’t stop his eyes from catching on that wide, terrible smile or his hand from splaying out flat against the broad expanse of Thanos’ chest – searching for a heartbeat whose hammering hopefully matches his own. Hates the way it hinders him. Hates the way it hurts.

All bone-crushing and everywhere. All-consuming, never satisfying. The hatred perhaps not for needing, exactly, but for needing like this. For not knowing any other way about it. Hard and fast and violent and in every way that makes him feel small. What other way is there, he wonders? Is there any place out there that Nam-gyu fits without feeling that he has to change shape to fill the space? Where he gets to be solid for once?

It doesn’t matter. Won’t ever, at the rate they’re going. The bathroom ordeal proved it. If something so minor as MG Coin’s little maneuver is enough to have them toying so closely with the very real concept of death and Thanos still gives so little of a fuck, then it’s certain to come eventually. Less of an if and more of a how, now. When.

And Nam-gyu hates himself for that, too. The way he’d so naively believed, even if for a moment, that they might be able to make it out of here. Fucking laughable to even consider, now; he’d been high off his ass and preening with the being chosen up until this point. Pills pressed between hands – theirs alone – and fingers that made sure to graze one another on the way; way too indulgent for here. Eyes that lingered long and shared breaths in bunks and bathrooms. Moments Thanos swore on, and that Nam-gyu so easily believed in. Too cocky, Thanos. Always hopeful in this way that’s completely and utterly delusional but has Nam-gyu reaching for it anyway. Hoping, trusting, craving.

Like an idiot.

“Come on, Nam-su. Don’t–”

“Gyu. Nam-gyu,” he says. Fucking bites, all of that venom spilling over. He pushes at Thanos’ chest harder, as if he can get any closer to the wall than he already is. Nam-gyu hopes it hurts. “And, no, I wasn’t.”

He exhales.

A hair of silence that festers in a way that has Nam-gyu seeking to over-explain himself, clarify. Because he wasn’t, really, looking back on it. Just practical, just–

“Worried.”

Thanos’ grin widens, almost like he knows something. He huffs a laugh.

“You sure?”

And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Nam-gyu grits his teeth. The sort of thing that matches the way that Thanos’ tongue darts out to lick his lips – all hungry. Different things, maybe. Maybe not. Either way, Nam-gyu’s never seen prey so excited to be torn to shreds before. “Am I sure? What–”

“What are these, then?”

Metal scraping.

Layers of beaded chain that grind against each other – against Thanos’ own – between their bodies. A finger of Thanos’ suddenly so smoothly hooked into them to pull Nam-gyu even closer, somehow. Flush. The shimmering dance of Thanos’ gaze as he eyes Nam-gyu way too carefully.

Searches. Sees. Seeks. The keys.

It’s damning. So incredibly so. A dog off its leash but still chasing its own usefulness. Seeking praise even now, in his own way. Growling and clawing and baring teeth but still unable to resist its own instinct for…

God. Just some fucking acknowledgement. Pitiful.

The craving winds itself tight in Nam-gyu’s chest. The vast, lifelong emptiness of it; the wide, gaping chasm that splits him open, makes him weak, makes him sick. Has him following Thanos’ eyes down to where the necklaces are caught between them – every shape Nam-gyu could find, including the duplicate, all for Thanos – and has his mouth fucking watering at the glint of the silver against Thanos’ fingers. Bold black lines that stretch and wrap around, too-perfect polish that makes Nam-gyu’s teeth itch. A dog, indeed. Pavlovian, surely, this effect. Beyond Nam-gyu’s control. Nothing he can even think to do about it if he tried.

And Thanos – that bastard – has him caught. As if Nam-gyu is the one pressed into the brick. Roles reversed, hider and seeker, and with Thanos so goddamn smug about it. Flirtatious, almost. Like he’s got shit worth feeling flattered about. Shame burns hot beneath Nam-gyu’s skin.

Feels warm even, from a certain angle, as if it doesn’t scorch Nam-gyu from the inside out. Feels–

Insulting, he settles on. Mocking. Must be. Nam-gyu’s so used to being made the joke that he hardly knows what it’s like to be taken seriously anymore.

Thanos’ fist closes over the bunch of keys. The ones around Nam-gyu’s neck as well as his own.

Leashed and fucking collared.

“For me, right?”

Sharp.

Sharp in an instant.

Nam-gyu doesn’t bother swallowing down any of that pooling venom of his. Lets it rest instead; lets it coat his teeth and tongue as he matches Thanos in leaning in close, but draws the line between them once and for all with the swift press of his knife beneath Thanos’ chin. Pointing upward, the tip digging. The threat. It dares Thanos to speak again.

A taste, that’s all. A taste of it is all Nam-gyu wants. Figurative, literal, otherwise. All of it.

And he has earned it, hasn’t he? Has hunted, gathered, been so obedient. It’s Nam-gyu’s turn to try that greed on for size. Slots in nicely along with all that insatiable sickness of his, all that hungers and rots. The urge: fill the void, feed the chasm – just a taste. A taste of thin, pink lips that curl upward, a taste of the throat that bobs with a harsh swallow as it constricts around words Thanos seems to look for but ends up unable to find. A taste of the ragged breathing and of the hummingbird heart that does, in fact, match Nam-gyu’s own – all ceaseless beating between ribs, entirely out of sync. Nam-gyu wants to sink his fucking teeth into the fluttering thing. Tear into Thanos – flesh and blood, body and bone. That would show him. Force him to really see, maybe, to remember.

Just something to prove that Nam-gyu is real. Lord knows he hasn’t made his mark anywhere else. A pierce of teeth that says Nam-gyu was here and a soothing of tongue that apologizes for it right after.

Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu. Set to scar or – more likely – to die red and ugly right along with Thanos. Who’s to say?

Today? Nam-gyu’s to say. No matter how the knife burns in his hand like some kind of betrayal. It’s not, simply put. The same way he’s not worried. Wasn’t. Whatever. It’s something else entirely. Always circling around it, the two of them. The something.

Nam-gyu figures it’s a fair trade, maybe.

A nick to the neck to match the blooming blue and purple beneath his own collar. A gift of the very same sentiment: marking territory; some kind of fucked up keepsake – a little of that strained, unnamed something for the road. Some promise of more if Nam-gyu only asks, because that’s how this works between the two of them. Push and pull.

Sure as the kiss of the dagger and the tugging of the keys.

In it, Nam-gyu finds himself. Finds some surety when he looks for an answer to the question that still rests.

For me?

Can fake said surety enough, anyways. Take it. He digs the tip of the knife in with purpose, now. Firm.

“No.”

Unbothered, Thanos hums. Casual, a little too sing-song-y. Like he doesn’t realize there’s a blade at his throat.

“Shame,” he says. “I thought it was cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“What? Come on, Nam-su–”

“Gyu.”

“–Nam-gyu.” Thanos grins; even has the nerve to look a little earnest in it. The something burns hotter, and Nam-gyu only realizes his grip on the knife has already loosened when he goes to press it even further up. Stop talking, it says, but Nam-gyu can’t and won’t find the words to back it up. Betrays himself and his lack of conviction with every breath Thanos continues to take, with every stupid word he’s allowed – with Nam-gyu’s ultimate permission – to say. “You can just take the compliment.”

A beat. Thanos’ face inching towards Nam-gyu’s, his eyes dancing. Something, something, something.

Something to add. “You’re acting like a chick.”

Nam-gyu sputters. Opens and closes his mouth around nothing before settling on what’s simplest.

“Fuck you.”

“Now?” Thanos doesn’t budge. “I’m game.”

“Fuck. You.”

Nam-gyu presses the knife up further. Tight, right beneath Thanos’ chin. Nam-gyu would like to see him try to speak again like this; he’s sure to split the skin wide open if he does. The idea of the image is nice. Bright red and gorgeous, staining Thanos’ pretty blue vest and pairing just fine with the red-crusted scrape on the side of his neck – four parallel prongs. Like claw marks, almost. MG Coin’s maneuver indeed – rat bastard – a fucking fork. Just a surface level scrape from blunt metal as it stands, though at another angle, Thanos would’ve been done for. Pairs just fine, too, with the remains of the mess dried under Nam-gyu’s fingernails from when he’d treated the wound the best he could. Ironic. Poetic. Full circle.

Thankless.

Sends Nam-gyu reeling.

“You’re too fucking loud. You’re so – you talk too much. Always have. Can’t even shut your mouth for 30 goddamn minutes to hide, or even – even try to find your way out of here. Just been waiting for me to come along to do it for you. Like a bitch.” Nam-gyu scoffs. Can’t help the way his grip on the knife loosens again. Can’t help – hates – the way his voice shakes and stutters and breaks off entirely. “And you say I’m a chick.”

“Hey.” Thanos’ hand leaves the keys. Instead, he wraps it right around Nam-gyu’s, and guides the blade back to his own throat. Reinforced. “Maybe I just like playing damsel. Like in the movies, y’know? Princess in a tower type shit.” His throat bobs when the sharp edge grazes his skin. Presses in harder than Nam-gyu’s been doing – enough to sort of scrape. Starting to scratch. Starting to split. Thanos parts his lips. “Like I said. ‘S cute.”

Nam-gyu can only blink. Thanos moves closer. Digs the knife deeper, deeper – pulling at it against the protest of Nam-gyu’s grasp.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Not your line, Prince Charming.”

“Thanos.”

“Nam-gyu–”

“Stop!” Nam-gyu’s turn to get loud. “What’s your problem, huh? Seriously.”

“Don’t have one.”

“No? What’s with the death wish, then? And what does it have to do with me?” Nam-gyu’s voice wavers. He fucking loathes it. Traitorous, pitiful. Pathetic. The need, again – clear as day. All because it’s Thanos. Because Thanos –

He can’t just die. Not here, not today. Not tomorrow either, not if it’s before Nam-gyu. “You can’t–”

“What? Die?”

”Yes.” Nam-gyu wants to scream. Too honest. “Or, no. I mean–”

“Up to you to save me, then.” Thanos closes in. “Romeo.”

Nam-gyu nicks him for real.

It’s nothing serious. Just a swift nudge of the blade’s edge. Tears the surface of Thanos’ skin right above the curve of his throat where it’s shifted to, where Thanos guides it, and bright red beads quickly. Wells, after a moment, along the edge of the thin wound. Pools a bit. Starts to run. And Thanos just–

God, no way. Fucking seriously?

Thanos is hard.

Yeah, there’s something wrong with him; Nam-gyu’s never been more sure of this. Discovers the hot and hard and swelling proof only in the way that he shifts against Thanos to maybe – who knows – cut him again? Take advantage of the shock to pull the knife away for good? The sentiment is muddy at best. Entire situation is, honestly, now that Nam-gyu can feel it.

Unmistakable. Sure and solid against his hip where they slot together. This sort of catch in Thanos’ breath when Nam-gyu brushes against him, sputtering and snagging on the sharps of teeth that Nam-gyu finds he still wants so badly to trace with his tongue. The spark in Thanos’ eyes that doesn’t dim even a little bit, like he’s not aware that he’s bleeding at all or – worse – he is aware, and he likes it. Likes that he is. Likes, maybe, that Nam-gyu–

Did it. Might do it again. Likes that Nam-gyu isn’t deterred, and neither is he. Likes that whatever is wrong with him is wrong with Nam-gyu, too.

Because really, that’s the something between them. All they’ve got. All there is.

And… well. Already damned, Nam-gyu kisses him for it.

Hard, fast, hungry. No forgiveness to be found in the immediacy of it, Nam-gyu’s fist still bunched in blue cloth and pushing like there’s anywhere beyond the corner that Thanos could even go if he tried. Nam-gyu pins him there, and it’s downright sloppy – all clacking teeth and the hot glide of tongues. No practice, no finesse, all meanness. Raw and furious and starving, and all Thanos can do is stand there and take it.

Not like he’s complaining, though. He plays his part well. Makes an earnest effort of trying to keep up, parting his lips nice and easy for the insistent press of Nam-gyu’s tongue as it finally gets a chance to trace along the sharp edges of canines, swallowing down each and every little catch of breath it earns him. Yanks Thanos down just that little bit to his height to deepen it all, too, uncaring of the technique of it all, and especially uncaring of whether or not it’s polite. Doesn’t matter. Not here, not now, not like this – and it matters even less the more apparent it becomes that Thanos is used to leading in these types of things, not following. Gives himself away in the stupid, clumsy way his hands scramble for something to hold.

Something satisfying in it, Nam-gyu thinks, as Thanos’ hands find and wind tight in red. Surely white-knucked in the way that he grasps. Gasping, grinning, shamelessly grinding now, and–

Nam-gyu pulls away.

Just enough to catch his breath. Just enough to stop and look – hardly practical, all of this, but it’s a nice view, anyway. Thanos with his lips going pink and his eyes all big and wanting. This helpless little bob of his throat, these shallow breaths that have his chest rising and falling but that can’t be steadying him at all. Best, the fresh slice beneath his chin that leaves his neck all sticky, shiny, stained. Bright red and beautiful against the backdrop of starry blue – stark.

And Nam-gyu just – watches. It makes his mouth water.

“Feel better?” Thanos asks.

It comes with a smile. Not the same kind of amusement Thanos was wearing before, but something much less composed. Not so smug; looks like he’s maybe going a little dizzy, blood all… elsewhere. Pressing his hips forward in this shameless rut even now that they’re just taking a breather, always so fucking insatiable. Making himself stutter on it. Opening and closing his mouth around something smart to add but getting lost, no real bite to his stupid little question.

Feel better – fuck. Nam-gyu bites back what would certainly be a cruel laugh. Does he feel better?

But when he leans forward and drags his tongue along the line of red that’s tracked down the jut of Thanos’ throat, finally claiming that taste, he decides that – yeah.

Yeah, honestly. He is feeling better.

He starts from the bottom. The edge of the spill, the bit that threatens to roll further down and keep seeping into the green neckline of Thanos’ shirt. Nam-gyu catches it there, careful. Eager. Not much he can do about the smidge of already stained cotton, but plenty left that he can taste, dragging up and up, teeth grazing along the motion of Thanos’ harsh swallow and leading him slowly, deliberately – all metal and salt – to the split flesh beneath Thanos’ chin.

Nam-gyu leaves the wound be. Doesn’t offer Thanos the satisfaction – tipping his head back and baring his throat as he is – because, really he could stand to go without for once.

For now, anyway. Instead, Nam-gyu’s teeth come to hover over the dried dotting of prong marks on the side of Thanos’ neck. Breathes out, but doesn’t dare sink in to bite. Relishes in the way Thanos shudders.

“You’re disgusting.”

Thanos swallows again. Stalls. All telltale and steady and fucking throbbing against Nam-gyu’s hip. Yet, still, the attitude. “You thought I tasted fine yesterday.”

Ah, of course. Yesterday. Last night, more accurately, pressed awkwardly together in an ugly pink stall. Keeping each other company, passing the time. A bitch and a half to even get the privilege of using the bathroom at all, let alone trying to convince Thanos to be quiet during it. Running theme: Thanos, massively inconsiderate and entirely uncaring of consequences, thinks the entire world revolves around him. Shocker.

Real shame it’s so hot in certain lights, though: the cockiness. Back pressed and arching off of tile with a hand on Nam-gyu’s head urging him on in taking it and running his mouth ad nauseam about how fucking pretty Nam-gyu looks doing it – it’s much the same here. New scene, new story, and Thanos is still just as shamelessly selfish, even with the threat of a nearby knife. Maybe even more so. Boosted by his own mention and memory of Nam-gyu with his mouth full before, some leverage he seems to think he’s found in Nam-gyu having kneeled for him at all. Clear with the way his hips shift; clear with the way he slots himself against Nam-gyu’s thigh more intentionally. Moves into outright fucking humping it, face twisting up nice and pretty at the contact.

“You’re such a whore.”

Thanos only smiles. Lets a breathless moan part his lips as he continues; lets his head tip back against the brick, wounded throat bared and begging for more. Ever the performer.

“Yeah? You into it?”

“No.”

Thanos pouts, all show. “No?” he asks. All unbelieving, because he can see through Nam-gyu just as easily as Nam-gyu can see through him. All broad palm, long fingers splaying, slipping down, teasing. Colorful nails inching just past bunched elastic and grazing heated skin beneath.

Nam-gyu’s dick – also hard – twitches.

“Huh.” Thanos smiles again. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Infuriating, really. So incredibly agitating the easy way every last thing out of Thanos’ mouth only serves to make it all worse. Every last nerve of Nam-gyu’s alight, every breath of Thanos’ that ghosts his lips and urges him to give into the promise of kisses if just to shut him the fuck up. Keep him from continuing to talk – all he ever does – and always like he knows everything. As if he ever stops to think; as if his head is full of anything more than loose fucking screws. The nerve. The gall.

Has Nam-gyu’s hips inching forward into the contact.

Warm – sweats on sweats, fabric on fabric. Thanos’ leg slotting nicely between his own – all encouraging. Fingers that don’t slow as they creep further into Nam-gyu’s pants and hips that don’t stop for anything, inviting Nam-gyu right into the shallow little roll of them.

A clock that ticks away somewhere.

“Thanos,” Nam-gyu says. Definitive. He grabs at Thanos’ wrist to stall the descent, though it’s not like it does much. Tugs a bit, even, trying to urge him away. “Thanos. We gotta go.”

It’s no use. The grip on Thanos’ wrist is weak. Enough that he keeps moving anyway, keeps trailing downward. He holds Nam-gyu’s eyes as his fingers slip low enough to curl around the base of him.

“Go?” Dry. Searing, blinding friction. Not entirely unpleasant, but–

“Not – we can’t – not here.” Nam-gyu shakes his head, but his hips buck despite himself. He groans. “We’re running out of time.”

“Awww, come on,” Thanos coos. Fake hurt. “Don’t think I can get you there? I’ll be quick.”

The grip on Thanos’ wrist tightens. “Thanos.”

“Nam-su.”

“I–” There’s no real use even trying to correct it. Thanos is ignoring him entirely, anyway, his hand picking up whatever he can manage of a rhythm tucked away in Nam-gyu’s pants like this. All too dry still, the fucker, though Nam-gyu feels like a lit fuse all the same. Has him all dumb already, all frayed nerves and nails digging in where he’s gripping despite the way he tries – fails – to shake his head. Precum smears on the upstroke with a particularly deliberate swipe of Thanos’ thumb. Across the head, down the length. Weak, and finally a little wet, Nam-gyu shudders. “Thanos. We have to – fuck.”

Useless. All of it. Thanos just does what he pleases as always. Keeps touching, humping, smiling; not a care in the goddamn world. So fucking loopy and lovesick-looking that it makes Nam-gyu want to crawl out of his skin – can’t Thanos hear the ring of player after player passing?

There are only so many Blues. If anyone happens to kill more than one, or if too many pass, then – well. Nam-gyu is out of luck. Already kind of fucking is; lost on the logistics of the whole thing when he tries – struggles, given his split attention – to really think on it. There can’t be much time left. Can’t be many people left, even, and on top of all of this, Nam-gyu has to be strong and smart and fast enough to actually catch one. To restrain them, to corner them and hold them steady, which is – ironically – what he’s doing with Thanos, and even still he’s out of control.

Then, Thanos. Of course. Thanos who – honestly – is not getting out of this shit without Nam-gyu’s help. Getting him to safety, helping him hide, whatever. Thanos, who planned all along on Nam-gyu being the one to go and handle the whole thing for them, which, fuck, would’ve been a whole lot easier if it was Nam-gyu wearing blue instead of him. Thanos would’ve been able to kill someone no problem – in and out easy. Not like the asshole cares about that, though. Too reasonable for him, too practical. Not as fun or as interesting as quickening his hand or leaning in closer like he might steal a kiss, but opting instead to just… keep smiling. Keep close. Close enough for his lips to drag against Nam-gyu’s as his grin widens, but nothing more. Close enough for Nam-gyu to taste his little huff at all the contact. At the fact that he, with so little effort, is winning.

As such, Nam-gyu finds himself shifting his leg to help Thanos move better. For the angle, or something – for the both of them, really. Only makes sense. Just as so when Thanos lets out a girly fucking whimper that’s loud enough to have Nam-gyu shushing him, pressing closer, firmer, lips brushing lips.

“Why are you – shit – shushing me? You like it.”

Open-mouthed and still on the cusp of a kiss, Nam-gyu grits his teeth. Likes it? Debatable. Nam-gyu’s dick might like it, sure, but his head is all alarm bells. All what ifs and gruesome possibilities. Being found, being seen, a throat slit for real.

“You want people to find us?” he asks. Doesn’t dignify Thanos’ stupid shit with a response; Nam-gyu is a hypocrite anyway, absolutely unable to swallow down the hitch in his own breath, nor hide the way his voice goes all pitched and wobbly when he talks. Can’t help the noises, either, drawn out of him in time with rapid, needy pulls. Cringes just the same when Thanos matches him, though, outdoes him. Not like there’s any room to really enjoy it where they are. “You need to be quiet.”

“Or what? Someone will come? Someone will see?”

A hand tightens around Nam-gyu’s. Curls snug around his knuckles, holding hands, almost – twisted – and urges the knife closer again. Thanos’ swallows, thick, and guides the sharp tip to the very place his throat bobs. Anticipation.

Doesn’t cease his pitiful fucking grinding act, though. Only becomes more desperate in it, more sloppy, as his other hand works Nam-gyu in time. His voice is small when he speaks again.

“You’re gonna protect me.”

It comes out strained. A challenge, yes, but strained all the same. A turn of the tide. Waves that build steadily below and aim to grow steep, climbing and climbing and climbing, just itching to crash against a willing shore.

For all his teasing, Thanos is close. Probably a big part of what got him here in the first place. Nam-gyu can see it all over his face, too; knows it well: a jaw gone slack and the upturned corners of pretty pink lips that hint at another smile. An expression that basically screams from the rooftops that Thanos is pleased with himself, furrowed brow and fluttering lashes and sparkling eyes. Something bright and beautiful in him that always craves attention, especially in moments like these. Demands it, even. Craves eyes on him, a hand, the glint of a blade, and dares any of it to try and silence him when he cries for it.

The display is too gorgeous to ignore. The beckoning of it, the begging. The way Thanos tips his head back against brick and exposes the long column of his wounded throat for whatever it is Nam-gyu may choose to do with the knife.

It’s too good. So good that Nam-gyu finds himself uncreative. Impatient, too, and not entirely there enough to think of anything too exciting, but it’s enough to prompt him to drag the blade up. Lets the flat of it guide the way until he finds how nicely it tucks itself right along the sharp line of Thanos’ jaw, tip teasing where it hinges. Bone and blood below heat the metal where it rests against skin, vibrating as Thanos moans again. Less showy this time, honest. Like he just can’t help himself. Nam-gyu’s hips jerk against his grip.

“Protect you?” he asks, pleased by the immediate nod he earns in response. Frantic, the bob of a throat, the mouth that falls open in a gasp against his own, all noises Nam-gyu earns fair and square and seeks to outright swallow as he drags their parted lips against one another more intently. Still no kiss. “You think so?”

Pressure curls around Nam-gyu’s hand where it holds the knife, Thanos himself urging it on. He presses it into his own flesh, needy on the idea of being cut right open.

“Yeah,” Thanos breathes. Nods again. It’s all making for very good leverage. Even better when Thanos levels his head a little, just enough that he can flick his eyes down to catch sight of the way he finally frees Nam-gyu’s cock from his sweats.

Nam-gyu hisses. A sound sucked in between tightly clenched teeth, and his own eyes that drift to where the action is. However familiar, the sight leaves his knees all wobbly. Such a large hand around himself, such a broad palm that tugs steady. A break in it, too – quick – for Thanos to bring his hand up and spit, returning to Nam-gyu’s aching need with all the slickness he’s been craving the whole time. Red, flushed, and glistening now, Nam-gyu can hardly look away. Especially can’t when he catches a glimpse of Thanos’ own mess dampening the front of his pants. Darkening, too, the more he grinds. All building heat, all friction. All whines that leave Nam-gyu dizzy with the need to do something.

Nails dig into Thanos’ wrist. Nam-gyu’s grip strengthens, trying to tug Thanos off, but Thanos just carries on like he did the last time. Spoiled, greedy, not used to the word no or even wait, but he’ll have to learn today. Nam-gyu shifts his thigh away from where Thanos is able to grind on it to show he’s serious.

It earns him a whine. A pout. Some broken little cry that splits on the end of the pitched sound in Thanos’ throat, and God, Nam-gyu can’t help but wonder if the guy has ever known an ounce of shame in his entire goddamn life. It’s hot, yeah, but fuck. Seriously. It does gets Thanos to stop moving, however. Has his eyes all pleading and scanning Nam-gyu’s face like he’s wondering what he did wrong. Brows drawn together like he’s frustrated about it, too, like he’s so unused to not getting his way that he doesn’t even know what the hell to do with himself when it happens.

”What?” he asks. Some impatient little thing. Annoyed. Like Nam-gyu is the one with the issue for daring to act on his own and – more importantly – like there isn’t a knife right against his pulse. The surety that Nam-gyu won’t do anything fatal with it only makes him want to. Plunge it deep into the side of a neck where the fork was meant to go or into the front where the vibration of Thanos’ bratty little noises buzz true. Right into his windpipe, clog it with the unforgiving rush of blood. That’d show him. Some rapper he is. Doomed to choke on his own words, bleed out on them. Hard to swear up and down on your own greatness when you bleed just as easy as any other man.

Nam-gyu throbs.

“You’re being such a bitch,” he tells Thanos. A bitch, his bitch – both good. Feels like a nice change of pace for them. Entirely out of time for bullshit, though, Nam-gyu tugs Thanos’ waistband down and pulls his cock out. Just as hot and hard as his own – leakier, for sure, a bitch indeed – and so infuriating in its size that it has Nam-gyu’s lip twitching. Mouth watering, too. He masks it all by bringing his hand up to spit in, and makes quick work of taking hold of the both of them. Snarling as he does. “So wet too, fuck. What’s the matter with you?”

Thanos only whimpers. Can’t seem to decide between tugging his bottom lip between his teeth in some rare semblance of self-control or just letting it all out, mouth falling open every other breath on these shameless little moans. They mingle nicely with the slick sound of Nam-gyu’s furious pace. Good and steady still, but eager to have the whole thing over and done with. To shut Thanos up once and for all, leave him stumbling and stupid to either hide or find the exit on his own. Leave him without the keys Nam-gyu had gathered, too, for whatever they might help with – Thanos’ fault for wasting all this time. This way, he can solve his own issue for once. Learn the world doesn’t revolve around him, won’t always bend so easily to his will. Especially here. No flashing lights or free drinks or VIP rooms for Thanos; just 124 and 230, red vest pressed against blue, and victories that never come for free. None of that silver platter shit. No special treatment. A game Thanos can’t rig, and a Nam-gyu who can’t – won’t – keep helping him try.

He’s close, anyway – Thanos. Was before, even more so now. This, Nam-gyu knows. Has made it his job to. Annoying, in some way, but at least in this, it’s almost over. They can stop fucking around and wasting time. Not like the little rendezvous isn’t good – because it most certainly is – it’s just that it makes about as much sense as all the other crazy shit Thanos has pushed them into so far, both here and before. Stupid decisions made in the haze of the crossfade, spilled drinks and squealing groupies and spotlights. Streetlights and alleyways and Nam-su, Nam-su, Nam-su – even when Thanos was asking for a refill, a fix, to bum a smoke. All favors, every last one. Little debts. Little ways Nam-gyu always found himself waiting to be repaid, and in some ways, he had been – the bright-light, saturated call of two on a twirling platform halted, firm hands to pull Nam-gyu close in talks about shared pain, a broad body to put itself between Nam-gyu and anybody he ever sought to provoke, the pills – but still, the feeling never levels. The need never evens out – how could it? Something so loud and large to draw from, something that boasts so easily of excess – surely there is more to be had of it. Surely there is more of Thanos to be owned, claimed, consumed.

And Nam-gyu has earned it, hasn’t he?

Of course he has. Stupid thing to even wonder about. Has earned every last bit, every last moment, all straight from the source. Every hitch of breath, every clutch of red fabric as Thanos scrambles for something to hold, every sigh and moan and outrageous fucking noise wrung from him – all Nam-gyu’s. Alive at all because Nam-gyu has willed it, has looked out and informed and let him be. Alive because Nam-gyu does not press the knife any further than is wanted; alive because Nam-gyu simply will not waste his time killing a man who already wants so badly to die.

Alive – and real in it. Red and gorgeous and sticky as Nam-gyu uses the knife to draw it out slow. Wants it all; has earned this, too. Every last drop. The pulse that flutters beneath, hums against the blade and paints it pretty and vibrant with life as it drags, slices again. All things bright and beautiful that make Nam-gyu’s blood sing in perfect harmony and have him leaning in to drink it all down.

Copper and salt. From a god or merely a man, Nam-gyu doesn’t know. Hasn’t been let close enough to ever taste quite like this before; wouldn’t know how to tell the difference. Bold, brash, brilliant. Hot against Nam-gyu’s tongue; slick and leaking right into the palm of his hand.

Nam-gyu’s hand that – working over them both in this way – favors Thanos. Fits fingers more around him, prioritizes pressure and rhythm that he likes; can’t help it. Just well trained like that, some sort of auto-pilot. Left with a hand, too, that betrays him in being too small to really wrap around them both. Not like Nam-gyu can be fucked to bring his other one into it, either – for one, it’s occupied, and second, it’s not like Thanos’ ego needs any more stroking.

Nam-gyu keeps his mouth shut about it, and for the moment, so does Thanos. Nam-gyu takes advantage of the rare moment of wordlessness to occupy himself with taking all he can get – finds that greed feels so good when he lets it lead him. The needy thrum of life beneath Thanos’ skin, all that thick red that wells and clings. A tongue that drags right over all of it indiscriminately. Traces the taut muscle beneath that strains helplessly as Thanos opens himself up for it all, drags through the mess until it reaches the wound itself.

Thanos jolts. Sensitive, no doubt, with the way his fingers squeeze tight around where Nam-gyu grips the knife’s handle. Tugging, too, on the front of Nam-gyu’s vest, fist bunching against 124 and pulling close – as if there’s any closer they can actually be. Nam-gyu flattens his tongue and responds in kind. Drags the wet heat of it against every bead that surfaces between the freshly split skin and hums in turn, all vibration and huffs of breath and scraping teeth. The new cut, the old cut, the drying, flaking residue of nearly fatal fork prongs – all of it. It earns him a gasp, air sucked harshly between teeth. Thanos so, so close to unwinding. He ruts helplessly into the rhythm of Nam-gyu’s hand.

“Nam-gyu,” he pants. Shifting focus, Thanos lets go of red fabric and lets his grip drift down to their cocks to help. Digits curl around Nam-gyu’s here, too, and in this way, they’re holding hands again. “Nam-gyu, I–”

Finally, something for Nam-gyu. Thanos’ fingers aiding in the movement. Spreading slickness, keeping time, his hand larger than Nam-gyu’s in all the ways that matter. In any other situation, it’d likely be frustrating – the way Thanos comes and effortlessly makes it all decidedly better – but not today, not this time. No time for it. Not with the feeling that tightens in Nam-gyu’s gut at the curl of pretty painted nails, the tension that winds tighter and tighter as they start to get sloppy with the joint, slippery drag. Hips stuttering, rhythm faltering, hands that clench and tremble around salt and slick until something finally breaks.

Nam-gyu first, somehow.

Bared teeth. The metallic taste of borrowed time coating his gums. The feeling splits him wide open as it always does when it’s Thanos – comes with knees that nearly buckle and this bright white light behind his squeezed shut eyes that leaves Nam-gyu half-blind when he opens them again to watch, renders him as useless as he’s always been. Draws him in and offers him no way out, stumbling – at the sight of their joint hands, at the feeling – but guides his lips right home. Away from the taste of all he can take and instead to what he can give.

A kiss, finally. Sloppy. Feeds Thanos the taste of his own pulse and drinks down the moan it earns him as Thanos licks right into the heat; takes all he can possibly get. Greedy once more the very second he’s allowed to be, likely moaning more for himself than anything else.

Typical. Thanos is always hungry for it: his own taste, the sight of himself, the sound – all of it, but – Nam-gyu can hardly blame him. It ruins him just as well. Drags him helplessly through the worst of it; has him painting the joint pace of their frantic fingers in thick, white spurts as Thanos parts from him, heaving. Wide-eyed, sweat beading on his brow, lips smeared red with himself, and visibly pleased with the newfound slickness as he, too, watches. From the trembling peak to the panting spiral of the comedown. Seems to scan Nam-gyu’s features to take him in during it, all as his own twist up with the telltale sign of–

Nam-gyu halts the movement of his hand.

Squeezes the base of Thanos’ cock. Stops moving entirely.

Just… holds.

Thanos’ brow furrows. He whines, oh-so devastated, once again lost at not being immediately catered to. Curses, some breathless little – fuck – as he goes lax. Shaking hands, a worn and spit-slick bottom lip pulled between teeth. The sight is pathetic. Frantic almost, as big brown eyes flit between Nam-gyu’s face and his stilled hand. Enough that for a split second, Nam-gyu almost feels bad.

Not all the way, though. Not enough to keep him from saying, emboldened by the metallic taste of mercy between his teeth: “Ask.”

Thanos looks confused. Shakes his head, licks his lips; all fucked out on practically nothing as he breathes – “What?”

“Ask,” Nam-gyu repeats. Simple. Not like he fucking stuttered; Thanos is just… Thanos. Could shift his own hand to get himself there – doesn’t. Spoiled. Nam-gyu tightens the curl of his fingers at the base of him in emphasis and stifles Thanos’ indignant little noise with a bruising kiss. Speaks right against his lips after. “If you want it, ask.”

And maybe Nam-gyu is pushing it here. It’s a bit useless, admittedly; Thanos gets whatever Thanos wants every time without fail, and Nam-gyu trips over himself to provide it. But this? It’s nice. Nam-gyu actually has a say in the follow through this time. No question of whether or not he’ll be able to see it through, more a deal of if he wants to. If he’ll bother sparing Thanos the time of day, if he’ll offer up a few more measly flicks of his wrist to keep Thanos from being left high and dry or – better – leaving Thanos to finish himself off alone. Nam-gyu’s all good to go either way, so, not like he needs to stay. All up to Thanos now. Always is. Nam-gyu can’t be blamed for his consideration.

His own mouth, though, and how he needs it just as bad? Another thing entirely.

“Come on.” Urging. Daring. Pressing a kiss to the corner of Thanos’ parted lips in promise that if he just behaves, complies– “Wanna hear you.”

Comes out too fucking soft.

Some admission in there. Gives away Nam-gyu’s hand entirely in this stupid, desperate fucking wish to hear Thanos need him. To hear it right from Thanos himself – straightforward.

Even if it’s just for this. Even if just for now. Just – something. Anything at all to have it spelled out plain and simple: that Nam-gyu is worth a damn at all. No mind games, unquestionable. Solid. Might as well be his dying fucking wish at the rate they’re going.

And Thanos – like he’s read Nam-gyu’s mind or like he’s just that fucking good at knowing exactly what to say and how to say it – just smiles.

Wide and pretty, unrestrained. Lets the grin spread across his face, not at all unkind and with a little bit of that unspoken something that blooms as it tries to match whatever raw, unfettered need had laced Nam-gyu’s worthless command. A breathless chuckle catches on his teeth.

Feels sharp. Like a knife at Nam-gyu’s neck, almost. Digs itself in deep and takes root until it bleeds him dry right between them.

Paints them both pretty, at least, as Thanos arches off the wall just so, bares just the slightest hint of his throat and says, all thick and syrupy sweet like he just knows – “Please?”

Nam-gyu’s powerless to do anything else but break again, then. To concede. To play right into Thanos’ hand just like he always, always fucking does and just can’t even stop himself from doing, like it’s fucking compulsive. Loosens the pressure of his fingers to stroke up once, twice, again, again – all wet and shiny and growing tacky beneath Nam-gyu’s grip as Thanos finally, now with express permission, lets go.

Pretty – the best way Nam-gyu can describe it. Gorgeous. Magnetic. Couldn’t take his eyes off of Thanos if he tried; bound forever by the taste lining his teeth and by the awful ache in his chest at the time he’s sure keeps passing no matter how it feels like it’s stopped. Coaxes out every last drop the best he can like it’s all he’s good for, too – wrings Thanos dry with precision that only comes with practice. With knowing just how Thanos likes it and by making sure he is the one who knows it the very best. Drags along the head, smearing; thumbs the slit and the piercing on the upstroke in a way that has Thanos shuddering, eyes fluttering shut, grasping, gasping. No surprise, all just feeling. Knuckles that go white as they both come to grasp at red fabric at once, keeping Nam-gyu close, panting against his lips.

All – right. All Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu, Nam-gyu and none of that Nam-su bullshit. Void of the stupid little lilt to his voice or the obnoxious gesturing that makes up Thanos in favor of something that actually borders on honest. It’s hard to know what to do with, but Nam-gyu watches all the same. Stays steady. Takes unique pride in the part of him that knows, somewhere deep down, that this sight is his alone, at least for now.

Hardly the first to see it, of course, but likely – if Nam-gyu is really, really honest himself – the last. That tastes like something.

And for just a moment, it tastes like enough.

Not like it lasts. It’s fleeting, like every best part of Thanos is. Slips through Nam-gyu’s fingers in the form of hot, white lines – thick and surely salty where they catch and smear between them. Mouth-watering, aggravating. Slides against Nam-gyu’s palm, mixes in with the traces of his own mess as he works Thanos through it; watches the way it passes through him in needy little shudders and with eyelashes that flutter shut. Lips that go even shinier as a pretty pink tongue comes out to wet them, smearing the red streaking them once more before parting on a tight, shameless moan.

A nice picture, for sure, but over so soon. It’s unsurprising, given Thanos’ desperate, downright whorish display earlier – worked up so fast and nowhere to go with it but here. Unfortunate in many ways, but practical in that fractured, unsteady way that Nam-gyu is still trying to cling to somehow. Failing miserably in it, though, when Thanos leans forward – entirely too fucking sweet as he comes down from it all – to meet Nam-gyu in a kiss.

Nam-gyu grants it. Of course he does.

Wouldn’t ever – couldn’t ever – how could he ever do anything else? Be anything else?

He’ll be obedient until his very last breath, he’s sure. Doomed to it; wired that way. Owned, leashed, collared, claimed. Sure as the keys around his neck gathered for Thanos and Thanos only, if he’s honest. This alone: loyalty – recognition – in whatever way it comes. Weighs him down in the form of bunched and dangling chains; hangs heavy between panting, pressed-close bodies. Comes at the price of knowing he’s dying with every second that passes them by.

Doesn’t really change the way he’d stopped in his tracks, though. Chased it just like this.

He’d do it again. Does it again now: stays put. Kisses back, indulges. Wants to. Needs to, even. Compulsive. No other way about it.

Done for Thanos. No more, no less. His need. His craving. Insatiable and outrageous and so undeniably something. Someone.

Worth far more than Nam-gyu’s ever been. Ever will be.

Sometimes it’s just nice to pretend.

Eventually, Nam-gyu wills himself to part. It’s all… too soft. Too rich. Too much – bordering on it. Always is.

“We gotta go.”

Nam-gyu leans back just to say it, though he’s abrupt in how quickly he does. Like getting burned or something, touching what you’re not supposed to. Tasting something far too hot or staring at the sun too long. Sticky fingers, sweet kiss – scorching. And Thanos, he–

Doesn’t even move. Just… looks.

It’s a bit ridiculous. With his big brown eyes and the way the light of false stars catches in them, it’s Thanos who’s pinned, but Nam-gyu finds himself just as caught. Can hardly move at this rate when he’s being looked at like he is, like Thanos is expecting something, but – fuck. This has gone on for way too long already. Places to be, things to do. That’s what’s practical. None of this… whatever this is.

It’s fine. Most of the dumb romantic fantasy Thanos was playing at earlier dies pretty much the minute the kiss does. Hangs – whatever’s left of it, anyway – in the space between lips; shared breaths and the lingering tang of spilled blood. Not like the whole loverboy act is even real, really – can’t be. Not many parts of Thanos that are. It’s what makes it so easy for Nam-gyu to turn his head away when it’s time.

Just – break the eye contact altogether. No more. Quick about it too, feigning a look around the corner they’re tucked in as if he can really even see anything from where he’s at, but – whatever. Nam-gyu’s only granted a mere moment to let his attention stray before a hand is tugging at his own, and with it, drawing his eyes right back to what matters.

And that’s the issue, isn’t it? Nam-gyu just can’t keep his eyes off of Thanos. Fucker makes it hard to in general, all bright purple and obnoxious as he is. Especially hard now, though, as he catches Nam-gyu’s eyes with his own again and guides the caught hand right to his lips.

Faced with the mess – the joined mess, salty and slick and both of them spilled across Nam-gyu’s fingers – Thanos doesn’t bat an eye.

Nam-gyu tries to tug his hand back. “Come on.”

No luck. It only seems to make it worse, actually, because Thanos just holds the eye contact, opens his mouth, and draws a finger in.

Fucking filthy. Blood and dirt and cum and whatever else, and Thanos is licking it clean. Making a real show of it too, and right away, as he draws Nam-gyu’s finger into his mouth to the very last knuckle and really sucks. Drags his tongue along the whole thing, even dips it into the skin between this digit and the next. Pulls off only when he’s satisfied and leaves Nam-gyu all sticky with spit; even opens his mouth again like he’s keen on swallowing another one down right away.

Nam-gyu doesn’t give him the chance. Dizzy as he is with it, it’s too fucking much. He rips his hand back for real this time. And as much as Thanos wants to sit there with his big puppy eyes and look confused, the moment’s over. No more. They’ve wasted enough time as is, and Nam-gyu’s not about to sit here and let himself be roped into what’s quickly starting to seem like some ridiculously elaborate way to get him killed off.

Distract him, or whatever. Lure him somewhere and provoke him into one last quick fuck before they run out of Blues for him to kill and some guard comes by to put a bullet right in his head.

Yeah, easy, and Nam-gyu’s made it overly so. What a pathetic show he’s made of himself. Played the fool, and eagerly, too.

What a fucking idiot.

But what else is new, really? Nam-gyu grits his teeth and wipes the rest of what’s on his hand right onto Thanos. On his jacket, too, not even his vest; leaves Thanos with a little something to remember it all by since he seems to want to savor it so bad. Nasty.

Not like they’ll live long enough for it to matter though, anyway. They’re at least a little bit doomed, Nam-gyu most of all. With only – what – a few minutes left, now? All his time to actually play the game eaten up by Thanos’ ridiculous mouthy bitch act? There’s no chance. But Nam-gyu will be damned if he doesn’t at least try. No use wasting any more of his breath on whatever stupid shit Thanos is trying to pull. Getting himself killed is better. Easier. More dignity. Letting Thanos die to any desperate, lingering Reds would be, too.

But, of course, Thanos follows. Which, again – weird change of pace for them, but Nam-gyu’s seen stranger things. There’s something satisfying in seeing it, though. Again, just for him. Right before he dies.

They only have five more minutes.

Nam-gyu catches it on the first clock they pass. Five minutes. Five fucking minutes. He’s walking as fast as his feet can carry him now. What he’s looking for, he doesn’t even know. One of those false doors with the drops behind it to throw himself off of? Blue vests? The exit, for Thanos, like it even matters anymore? Who fucking knows. He just – he walks. Better than sitting around and waiting for it.

Better than turning around and sinking his knife into Thanos’ neck for real.

Which, Nam-gyu certainly could. There’s a big part of him that wants to, and if Thanos’ post-coital bliss is enough to make him all sentimental and sappy, then he’s surely still softened enough by the whole ordeal for it to work. Off-guard. Nam-gyu could turn around quick, catch him by surprise and make easy work of it. A wound too severe to scrape his teeth against and lick clean. Bright red and sticky in the dirt. Pretty picture.

But his stomach twists the longer he entertains the thought. Not a genuine idea, even; he could’ve done it by now if it were. If Nam-gyu were any less like himself, and if Thanos were any less like Thanos.

Thanos, who is still talking, somehow. Quick on Nam-gyu’s heels, seemingly trying to get his attention. Who gives a shit what he wants, though? Another last minute seeker might, but Nam-gyu sure doesn’t. He’s got no time for the potential last words of Choi Su-bong. Whatever he needs to share so badly, he can tell Nam-gyu in hell. Their time ticks.

A harsh shout pulls him from it all.

“Nam-gyu!”

Sounds animal. Urgent. His name – actually his name – has Nam-gyu whipping around, heart in his throat, because maybe he should have been watching Thanos’ back. Should have been keeping a better eye out. And maybe, if he had just let Thanos lead–

Well.

Then, Thanos wouldn’t have this random blue vest in a chokehold right now.

Nam-gyu’s eyes on him seem to offer some relief, for what it’s worth. Thanos exhales once he’s earned it, heavy – “for fuck’s sake,” – as he tugs the guy around a corner and out of the main hallway.

It seems easier, this way. The man struggles now, but Thanos does not. At once red in the face, straining – but not for long; he leans his back against the wall and strengthens his hold around their target’s throat. Holds him still despite the thrashing.

“What are you waiting for, my boy? Come on,” he says. English. Still finding the time to act fucking obnoxious for no reason, nodding his head at the guy like he’s beckoning Nam-gyu over. Like it isn’t obvious. “Hurry up.”

Nam-gyu could laugh. Hurry up, huh? Much like chill out and the accusations that he’s acting like a chick, it makes him grit his teeth again. Curl his fingers around the dagger nice and tight with the frustration. Follow, just like he was asked. Obedient. Coming when called, but fangs bared. Hurry up. How rich coming from Thanos. Nam-gyu itches to tell him so.

But how could he, really? There’s hardly any time, and it’s not like he would hear it. Just as Nam-gyu had said, Thanos talks too much. Fills the empty spaces of rooms and awkward pauses in conversations with so much of himself that it’s overwhelming. Drowns everything else out; easy to choke on. Nam-gyu always finds himself lost.

This time, the hammering heartbeat of the poor stranger between them is all Nam-gyu has to guide him home.

It’s easy. Quick. A few steps forward, closing in. The way the cool, sharp edge of the dagger presses in against that lively thrum just so, splitting skin and fabric alike as red oozes thick and sticky between them. It clings, it’s cloying – heavy and metallic and ugly as it carries on every shaky, shallow breath Nam-gyu takes.

The man goes limp slowly. Nearly chest to chest – sandwiched between himself and Thanos – Nam-gyu can feel the way his pulse slows, rhythm stolen by Nam-gyu’s own hand. Would he have hesitated, he wonders, if he had more time? If things were not so urgent as they are now, if he were not fighting against the final minutes on the clock?

If Thanos were not here with him, guiding? Holding the man in place? If Nam-gyu were pinned in place by the gaze of a scared and pleading stranger, rather than of the man most familiar? Most suffocating?

In lieu of words, Nam-gyu swallows. Harsh. Thanos lets the poor sack of shit fall to the ground between them. Anything left to say is lodged in Nam-gyu’s throat.

Thank you, or something? I could have done it myself, perhaps? It all stings.

I’m sorry, maybe. That stings worse. And Thanos just looks at him.

All of that honesty, still. Earnest, unwavering. As raw and straightforward and undeniable as Nam-gyu’s ever seen him. Feels nothing like Pentagon, feels nothing like before; feels like here and now and Nam-gyu – clasped hands and flashing lights and Mingle. False stars and Thanos’ stupid useless flirting; the offering of an easy target. A way out. A way to live, to see another day.

Just like Nam-gyu had offered Thanos. Just like in the bathroom, when he’d wrestled Myung-gi away. Feels like a second chance; feels like–

Being chosen. And Nam-gyu’s not sure what to do with that.

Not sure what to do with that at all.

And, again, because Nam-gyu really is just that see-through, and because Thanos always knows somehow, he steps in to soothe it, if just for now. Tucks what hair had slipped out from behind Nam-gyu’s ear back in place, hand shaking, and sighs. Sounds something like relief.

He drags a thumb across Nam-gyu’s cheek, too, while he’s at it. Nam-gyu stops being able to think all that much when Thanos smiles at him.

“Anyone ever tell you that red’s your color?”

And – no, Nam-gyu wants to say. No one. The something is burning him up from the inside out. And no one ever will again. There’s no time to.

Sick, really. Some cruel joke. The only real chance Nam-gyu’s ever had at anything better soon to be squashed in here. The only one to ever look at him like that caught in the same sick place Nam-gyu is, forced to offer what looks like affection in the form of neat tablets pressed to tongues and strangers captured to kill. Romance wrapped up in the final moments of a ticking clock and the slow ration of chemicals to keep them pushing; spilled blood and bathroom stalls and ugly green tracksuits. All they’ll be remembered by, in time. As if they’ll be remembered at all.

It’s fine. Nam-gyu’s used to not being memorable.

He kisses Thanos for it anyway.

Player 124: pass.