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the living room smells like stale oil and old air.
thanos is slouched on the couch like he was left there by mistake. white tank top stretched thin over his chest, yellowed a little at the collar. basketball shorts hanging low on his hips. his purple hair sticks up in stupid directions, like it gave up trying to look intentional weeks ago. maybe months. his controller is greasy. his fingers move on muscle memory alone.
fifa screams from the tv. crowd noises. commentators yelling names that mean nothing to him.
a half-empty bag of chips is sinking into the couch cushion beside him, crumbs everywhere.
the coffee table is cluttered with unpaid bills, old lighters, an ashtray that hasn’t been emptied in days, a cracked phone screen facing down like it’s ashamed of itself. there’s laundry on the floor. clean, dirty, who knows. the distinction stopped mattering a long time ago.
he yells at the screen. loud. sharp. angry.
“what the fuck was that pass?”
his voice echoes a little too much. the apartment is small. too small for how heavy his thoughts are.
he presses restart. again. and again.
this was not the life he imagined. not even close. he used to think he’d be something. rapper. artist. name whispered, then shouted. now his stage is a stained couch and his audience is a blinking screen that doesn’t care if he exists or not.
failed rapper. broke. in debt. married.
he hates that word the most.
the door opens behind him.
mina walks in like she belongs somewhere better.
she’s beautiful in that effortless, almost cruel way. hair done without trying. skin glowing even under the flickering tv light. she’s wearing real clothes, not house clothes. she smells clean. expensive. like movement, like outside, like life continuing without him.
she stops when she sees him.
same position. same couch. same stupid game.
her face hardens.
“oh my god,” she says. “you’re still there?”
thanos doesn’t turn around. his thumbs keep moving.
“relax,” he mutters. “i’m in the middle of a match.”
she laughs, but there’s no humor in it. just disbelief, curdled into something bitter.
“a match,” she repeats. “wow. amazing. we’re broke, thanos. broke. and you’re sitting here playing fifa like a thirteen-year-old.”
he sighs. loud. exaggerated.
“can you not do this right now?”
she drops her bag on the chair. it lands with a soft thud, heavier than it should be.
“do what?” she snaps. “talk? notice reality? god, you’re useless. you do nothing all day. you don’t work, you don’t try, you don’t even pretend anymore.”
he finally looks at her. eyes dull. tired. annoyed.
“shut up,” he says. “you’re annoying me.”
that does it.
her voice rises. cracks at the edges.
“i hate you,” she says. “i hate this. i don’t even know why i married you. do you know how embarrassing this is? you proposed with that cheap ass ring like it was some joke. and i said yes because i was stupid.”
she steps closer.
“i was in love with the idea of thanos. not subong. not this.”
she gestures around the room. the couch. the mess. him.
the words hit harder than she knows.
he doesn’t say anything. he never says the right things. or maybe he’s just too tired to say anything at all.
what he doesn’t say is that he hates his life so much it makes his chest ache. that every morning feels like waking up inside a punishment he doesn’t remember earning. that sometimes he wishes she’d scream louder just so the noise could drown out his own thoughts.
he remembers the proposal.
too clearly.
he was high. not just a little. gone. floating. everything felt possible, brilliant, urgent. drugs do that to him. they stretch time, inflate feelings until they feel like truth. he walked into a jewelry store like it was destiny, bought a ring he couldn’t afford, convinced himself this was love, this was fate, this was the moment where things turned around.
they’d been dating two months.
two.
he got on one knee like it was a movie scene. she cried. people stared. he felt like a god.
then he got sober.
and reality stayed.
you can’t undo a proposal. not without becoming the villain. so he didn’t. he married her because she was pretty. because she liked him. because stopping felt harder than continuing.
now here they are.
she’s shaking.
“i’m done,” mina says. “i’m actually done. i can’t live like this.”
she grabs her bag. heads for the door.
thanos scoffs.
“yeah, okay,” he says. “leave. like you always do.”
she pauses, hand on the handle.
“this time i’m not coming back.”
the door closes behind her.
the apartment goes quiet.
too quiet.
thanos waits. counts in his head. ten. twenty. a minute. two.
nothing.
he snorts.
“that’s what i thought,” he mutters. “bye-bye.”
but his chest feels hollow.
he stares at the paused game. at his reflection in the black screen. he looks older than he should. duller. like something essential leaked out of him and never came back.
he reaches for his phone.
scrolls. contacts blur.
namsu.
he calls.
it rings twice.
“yo?” namgyu’s voice is bright. alive.
“hey,” thanos says, forcing something like energy into his voice. “namsu. you busy?”
“not really. what’s up?”
“come over,” thanos says. “i got chips. drinks. we can play fifa.”
a pause.
“your wife there?”
thanos smirks, even though no one can see it.
“nah,” he says. “she’s mad. left. don’t think she’ll be back anytime soon. just come, bro.”
namgyu laughs on the other end.
“hell yeah. i’m on my way.”
the call ends.
thanos drops the phone onto the couch.
he picks up the controller again.
the game boots back up. crowd noise fills the room.
for a moment, just a moment, the emptiness quiets down.
not gone.
just waiting.
thanos always thought of nam-gyu like a place.
not a person. a place.
somewhere he could go when everything else got too loud, too sharp, too demanding. nam-gyu never asked him to be better. never sighed when thanos talked in circles. never corrected him, never challenged the version of himself he was trying to survive as.
thanos could talk for hours and nam-gyu would just listen. nodding. humming. eyes soft, unfocused, like he was absorbing him instead of judging him. agreement came easily from nam-gyu. like gravity. like loyalty without conditions.
he loved that.
he loved dragging him around like a shadow, like a quiet little animal that followed without needing a leash. loved that nam-gyu never looked bored, never looked tired of him. not like mina, with her heavy pauses and sharp exhales and eyes that always seemed halfway out the door.
nam-gyu stayed.
nam-gyu always stayed.
and god, nam-gyu was beautiful.
thanos noticed it in fragments. never all at once. long hair falling into his face when he leaned forward. eyes dark and reflective, feline, watching everything without revealing much. the way he moved, soft but sure, like those black cats that walk along fences at night, balancing between worlds, never rushing, never afraid of falling.
he had his own gravity. quiet charm. something that pulled thanos in without making noise.
sometimes thanos thought, stupidly, if only he were a girl. just for a second. just enough to make it make sense.
but nam-gyu wasn’t a girl.
the doorbell rang, snapping him out of it.
thanos stood, stretched, walked to the door.
“yeah?” he called.
the door opened.
there he was.
his namsu.
“yo,” nam-gyu said, smiling. “missed you, man. feels like forever. ever since you got married, you disappeared.”
thanos laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“welp. that’s life. i’m thirty-two now. ancient. gotta get my shit together. marriage, family, all that.”
nam-gyu scrunched his nose.
“ew.”
they collapsed onto the couch like nothing had changed.
chips. beer. more beer than planned. fifa booting up again. laughter spilling too loud, too easy. crumbs on their clothes. knees brushing. shoulders bumping. nam-gyu leaning closer every time he scored, proud and playful.
at some point, nam-gyu pulled something from his pocket.
“got these from the club,” he said casually. “rare shit. not even supposed to be here. came from somewhere overseas. south america, i think. don’t ask.”
thanos laughed it off, waved it away, but his eyes lingered.
they kept playing.
thanos kept watching.
nam-gyu’s mouth when he smiled. the shape of it. the softness. the way it opened
when he laughed. the way it focused when he concentrated.
a mouth he shouldn’t be thinking about like that.
but he was.
every goal nam-gyu scored made thanos react differently. instead of yelling, he reached out. hand landing on nam-gyu’s thigh. a congratulatory squeeze. casual.
friendly. except it stayed there a beat too long. rubbed, slow, absent-minded.
“wow,” thanos said, voice low. “you’re really good at this.”
nam-gyu froze for half a second.
“what the hell?” he laughed nervously. “you’re touchy today. you usually hate that when i do it.”
thanos shrugged, eyes still on the screen.
“nah. i’m always like this. you just never noticed.”
nam-gyu hesitated, then nodded.
“alright.”
but his body didn’t fully relax again.
they kept drinking.
the room grew warmer. heavier. mina’s absence sat between them like permission neither of them named.
thanos hadn’t had sex in days.
weeks, maybe. anger and distance had replaced intimacy. his body was restless, irritated, looking for relief anywhere it could justify.
even nam-gyu.
especially nam-gyu.
the third goal.
thanos’s hand landed again. higher this time. not intentional. maybe a little
intentional. fingers sliding just enough to be noticed.
nam-gyu inhaled sharply.
“okay,” he said, quieter now. “you’re really close.”
thanos turned his head. finally looked at him.
their eyes met.
something shifted.
nam-gyu had never been there for no reason. he knew that. he’d always known. friendship had been the safest word for something that wanted to be bigger, messier, impossible. he wanted more, but more came with consequences, and thanos was married, and married to a woman, and that alone felt like a locked door.
but thanos’s hand was still there.
warm. heavy. familiar.
and nam-gyu didn’t move it away.
the game kept playing. the crowd kept cheering.
neither of them was really watching anymore.
the tension sat between them, thick and humming, like a storm deciding whether it was going to break or just hover forever.
and neither of them said a word.
nam-gyu swallows.
his voice is quieter now, like he’s afraid the room might overhear.
“i think,” he says, eyes locked on thanos’, “i think we’re making a mistake. a big one.”
he doesn’t move away.
that’s the problem.
up close, thanos is unfair. devastating in a lazy, ruined way. the kind of face that should have been everywhere. billboards. album covers. girls screaming his name for reasons they wouldn’t even bother to justify. perfect bone structure, tired eyes, a
mouth made for sin and apologies.
nam-gyu has always wondered how someone so good-looking could lose so often.
pretty privilege should’ve saved him. carried him. handed him success on a silver platter.
but thanos always felt unlucky. like something in the universe just… missed him. wrong timing. wrong choices. cursed moon, cursed birth chart, cursed everything. the kind of man girls blame astrology for when they can’t explain why he keeps slipping through their fingers.
thanos stares back at him.
his hand is still on nam-gyu’s thigh. warm. grounding. dangerous.
“fuck this shit,” thanos mutters.
and then he leans in.
the kiss is messy. not careful. not sweet.
their mouths collide like they’ve been waiting too long. teeth knock. breath tangles. thanos kisses like he’s angry at the world, like he’s trying to forget it exists. nam-gyu freezes for half a second, then melts, fingers curling into the fabric of thanos’ tank top, pulling him closer.
thanos’ hand tightens on his thigh.
slides.
just a little.
their lips part, foreheads touching, both of them breathing too hard, too fast.
namgyu laughs nervously, glancing around the room like it might judge them.
“what if she comes back?” he whispers. “what if mina—”
“she won’t,” thanos cuts in immediately. “not until later. she always does this.”
then, softer. desperate.
“don’t say her name. please. just… make me forget her. make me forget this shitty life.”
nam-gyu’s heart stutters.
oh.
before he can overthink it, thanos kisses him again.
harder this time.
the bag of chips tips over. spills. the sound is loud, stupid, final. chips scatter across the floor like evidence neither of them looks at. their world shrinks to mouths and hands and heat.
kissing turns deeper. slower. more intentional. nam-gyu feels it then, unmistakably. the tension pressed between them. the way thanos’ body responds without asking permission.
he pulls back just enough to breathe.
“wow,” he murmurs, half teasing, half stunned. “you’re already hard. dude, we’re just kissing. and i’m your friend. that’s kinda—”
“you’re kissing me back,” thanos says quietly.
their eyes meet again.
nam-gyu exhales.
“…maybe because,” he admits, voice barely there, “that’s something i’ve been thinking about for a long time now.”
they go back to kissing.
not gentle. not slow. thanos’ hand slides up nam-gyu’s thigh again, more certain now, fingers pressing like he’s memorizing the shape of him. nam-gyu’s mouth opens instinctively, a quiet sound swallowed between them.
then.
keys.
metal in the lock. unmistakable.
they break apart like they’ve been burned.
controllers are grabbed. distance appears out of nowhere. thanos drops back on one end of the couch, nam-gyu on the other, both staring at the screen like it’s always been the most important thing in the world. fifa noise fills the room again, rushed and wrong.
mina walks in.
her eyes flick over them once. too fast. the angle is off. the room looks normal enough.
still, something nags at her.
their cheeks are red. both of them. flushed like they ran up stairs, like they were holding their breath too long. she chalks it up to stress. the game. men yelling at pixels.
“hi, mina,” nam-gyu says, a little too polite.
“hi,” she answers flatly.
she drops her bag.
“you said you wouldn’t come back,” thanos mutters, eyes still glued to the screen.
she scoffs.
“well guess who’s paying the rent? if anything, you’re the one who should be gone.”
she doesn’t wait for an answer. just walks past them, down the hallway, into the bedroom. the door doesn’t slam. it doesn’t need to.
the apartment exhales.
nam-gyu finally turns his head, whispering, “shit. that was close.”
thanos chuckles under his breath. low. shaky.
“yeah, dude.”
the game keeps going. the crowd keeps cheering. neither of them really sees it.
after a long silence, nam-gyu speaks again.
quiet. careful.
“will that happen again?”
thanos doesn’t look at him.
he shrugs.
unpauses the game.
thanos works at a record store that smells like dust and old plastic and dead dreams.
the kind of place he used to dream about. the kind of place he imagined his albums lining the shelves of, shrink-wrapped and shiny, his name printed on the spine like proof that he existed, that he mattered. now he just clocks in, clocks out, minimum wage, no one asking for his autograph, no one even recognizing him anymore.
the internet killed everything. streaming, downloads, playlists that forget you the second the song ends. nobody buys records unless they’re nostalgic or pretending to be interesting. most days, the store is empty. painfully quiet. a graveyard for sounds
that once meant something.
so he organizes.
alphabetical order. again. and again. his fingers trace spines he knows too well. artists who made it. artists who didn’t. sometimes he pulls one out and reads the back like it’s scripture, like there’s some secret hidden between liner notes and
tracklists that explains where it all went wrong.
at night, nam-gyu belongs to pentagon.
he’s been there so long the walls probably recognize him. the lights, the bass, the way sweat and smoke mix into something sticky and alive. he works like it’s muscle memory now, moving through the club with ease, slipping between bodies, handing out drinks, pills, words that don’t mean much but sound right in the dark.
he’s seen eras come and go in that place.
including thanos’.
there was a time when thanos owned the stage. when the crowd leaned forward when he grabbed the mic. when his voice cut through the room sharp and confident, like the future had already chosen him. nam-gyu remembers standing in the back, watching girls scream, watching men nod in respect, thinking this guy is going somewhere.
bright future. inevitable success.
nam-gyu would be lying if he said he never thought about him back then. or after. or now.
but he always told himself it wasn’t worth it. not worth losing the friendship for one night of heat and regret. because deep down, he knew thanos wasn’t the type to stay. always chasing something else, something just out of reach.
that’s why the proposal shocked him.
mina didn’t look like the wife type either. not really. they looked good together, sure. aesthetically correct. but nam-gyu couldn’t help thinking thanos would look better with him.
thank god no one could read thoughts.
that’s how he ends up in the record store that afternoon, killing time before his night shift. the register is empty, so he wanders the aisles until he spots thanos tucked between shelves, reading the back of a vintage cd like it’s holding his fate.
“hyung?”
thanos looks up instantly.
“namsu,” he says, too fast, already smiling. he steps closer without thinking. “what are you doing here?”
nam-gyu shrugs, hands in his pockets. he looks tired. club-tired. neon nights and loud bass still clinging to him even in daylight.
“was walking by,” he says. “thought i’d say hi.”
they stand there for a moment, surrounded by music no one listens to anymore.
then they sit. on the little stools behind the counter. not touching. close enough to feel each other’s presence anyway.
silence stretches. comfortable at first. then heavy.
nam-gyu clears his throat.
“about the other night,” he says carefully. “at your place.”
thanos stiffens. his eyes flick toward the door, the register, the empty aisles.
he exhales.
“yeah,” he mutters. “i… i don’t know what i was doing. i’m sorry.”
nam-gyu blinks.
“no,” he says quickly. “no, don’t. i liked it.”
thanos looks at him like he misheard.
“…what?”
nam-gyu nods once. then laughs, soft and awkward, scratching the back of his neck.
“not gonna lie,” he admits. “i’ve thought about it before.”
thanos stares.
“no way,” he says, incredulous. “you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
they laugh. both of them. quiet, stupid laughter, the kind that comes from shared history and things almost said a thousand times.
nam-gyu nudges his knee.
“your wife’s not really doing her job, huh.”
thanos laughs, but it doesn’t land right. his smile fades. he shakes his head.
“…i think i hate my life.”
the words fall out before he can stop them.
nam-gyu’s expression changes immediately.
he stands. steps closer. his hand trembles slightly as he lifts it, fingers brushing thanos’ cheek like he’s checking if he’s real. like he’s afraid he might disappear.
then he kisses him.
soft. careful. nothing like the hunger from the other night. just lips pressed together, tentative, almost reverent. like a question. like an apology. like something long overdue.
thanos’ back hits the shelf with a quiet thud. cds rattle softly behind him, disturbed but not falling. his breath catches. his hands hover uselessly at his sides.
he pulls back first.
“what if someone comes in?” he whispers.
nam-gyu exhales, resting his forehead against thanos’.
“yeah,” he says. “you’re right.”
they linger a second longer anyway.
then thanos smirks. small. dangerous.
“we’ll finish later,” he murmurs, winking.
nam-gyu’s cheeks flush instantly.
“idiot,” he laughs, stepping back. “see you.”
he leaves before thanos can say anything else.
the bell over the door rings.
thanos stands there alone again, heart racing, surrounded by records that never saved him, wondering when his life split into before and after without anyone bothering to tell him.
it was too risky to meet at thanos’s place. the walls there felt like they had ears, and the fear of mina walking in was always sitting in the back of thanos’s throat. so he went to namgyu’s instead.
namgyu’s apartment wasn’t big or fancy. it was just a small roof over his head that smelled like old cigarettes and namgyu’s sharp cologne. but it was clean—cleaner than thanos’s house had been in weeks.
thanos stepped inside and let out a shaky breath, trying to act normal. "man, every time i come here i feel claustrophobic," he joked, looking at the narrow hallway.
namgyu rolled his eyes and gave thanos’s arm a gentle smack. "shut up. you’re acting like you live in a castle or something."
thanos laughed, but then he stopped. he turned around and looked at namgyu. the air in the small room suddenly got heavy. "but it makes me feel closer to you," thanos whispered. his voice was thick with all the things he wasn't allowed to say out loud.
namgyu’s heart skipped a beat. he found the sweet words a little cringe, mostly because they made him want to cry. "hyung, stop with the dumb words," he mumbled, looking at his feet. "i’m not mina. you don't have to perform for me."
thanos didn't answer with words. he just reached out and pulled namgyu in.
the kiss was desperate. it was the kind of kiss that tasted like a goodbye and a hello all at once. thanos was hurting so bad; he hated his life, hated his wife and hated the fake smile he had to wear every day. namgyu was the only place where he could finally breathe. they made out right there against the door, their teeth clashing, their tongues searching for some kind of peace they couldn't find anywhere else.
it was sensual and dark and a little bit mean. it was the sound of two people trying to swallow each other's sadness.
their hands were everywhere. thanos’s hands were sliding under namgyu’s oversized shirt, feeling the heat of his skin. namgyu was wearing soft sweatpants and a shirt with sleeves that were too long, making him look small and breakable. thanos was in a baggy shirt and pants, but underneath, his body was tense and shaking.
they undressed each other in the dim light of the hallway. clothes fell to the floor in a messy pile. namgyu’s skin was pale, almost glowing, and covered in dark, sharp tattoos that looked like bruises. his hair fell over the back of his neck in messy strands. thanos looked at him like he was a miracle.
thanos had a beautiful body—strong and golden and perfect. namgyu looked at him and couldn't help but think about how mina was missing out on the real him.
"you're so hot, hyung," namgyu whispered, his eyes running over thanos's chest. "it's almost annoying."
thanos let out a wet, broken laugh. "shut up, namsu"
namgyu leaned back against the mattress, looking up at him with dark, sexy eyes. "what do you want to do to me? tell me."
thanos looked at him with a gaze that was almost scary. "just shut up and let me do everything," he rasped, his hands gripping namgyu's waist. "let me forget everything for a few minutes. please. i just want to forget who i am."
namgyu saw the raw pain in thanos's eyes and just nodded. he let go of the control.
thanos loomed over namgyu, the shadow of him swallowing the smaller man whole. he grabbed namgyu’s thighs, his grip bruisingly tight, and hiked them up high until namgyu was folded nearly in half. there was no romance in it, just the blunt urgency of two people trying to outrun their own heads.
thanos prepped him with shaking fingers, his touch frantic and rough. he was breathing like he’d been running for miles, a jagged, desperate sound that filled the small room. he needed this so bad it hurt—the friction, the heat, the reality of skin on skin. his fingers were slick, stretching namgyu out with a hurried carelessness that bordering on painful, but namgyu just took it, his head pushed back into the cheap pillow, eyes rolled back.
"hurry," namgyu hissed, his voice a broken rasp. "just fucking do it."
thanos guided the tip of his dick against namgyu's entrance, the contact making namgyu let out a sharp, jagged gasp. he was thick and heavy, the skin of his shaft hot and straining as he pushed forward. he let out a low, guttural grunt as he forced his way through the initial resistance, the sensation of namgyu’s tight, wet heat swallowing him whole.
they moved together on the small, narrow bed, the springs squeaking a rhythmic, lonely metal sound that echoed against the thin walls. thanos wasn't gentle; he was driven by a frantic need to disappear into the sensation. every thrust was deep and blunt, the sound of their bodies slapping together—a wet, fleshy thud—filling the silence between their breaths.
namgyu looked up at thanos through a haze of pleasure and exhaustion. he loved the way thanos's brow furrowed, the way he looked like he was in agony even as he buried himself deep inside namgyu. he watched the way the sweat dripped from thanos’s jaw onto his own chest, and he clung to him, his nails digging into the hard muscle of thanos’s shoulders, leaving angry red crescents.
namgyu was vocal, letting out high, shaky moans that broke into pathetic whimpers every time thanos hit that specific spot deep inside.
thanos, though, was struggling. his brain was a suffocating mess of guilt and the crushing weight of his life outside this room. to get himself to finish, to actually reach that peak, he had to squeeze his eyes shut and force a lie into his head. he pictured mina. he pictured the soft, safe domesticity he was supposed to belong to. he used the thought of his wife like a tool, a way to bridge the gap between his duty and his animal hunger.
namgyu’s breath hitched, his body beginning to vibrate with the coming release. he wrapped his legs tight around thanos's waist, pulling him in as far as he could go, wanting to feel every inch. "hyung... hyung..." he choked out, his back arching off the mattress as he came, his inner muscles clenching down with a rhythmic, desperate intensity.
that frantic pulsing was what finally broke thanos. he let out a jagged, ugly cry, his body stiffening as he came inside namgyu, an explosion of relief that felt more like a physical collapse than a climax. he let out a jagged, ugly cry, his body stiffening as he spilled deep inside namgyu.
thanos didn't pull away immediately; he stayed buried, his weight crushing namgyu into the mattress, letting the heavy, viscous rhythm of his release finish. inside the tight, twitching grip of namgyu’s body, the seed felt like a brand—a hot, liquid anchor tying them together in the dark.
it was a messy, physical mark of ownership that neither of them could take back. even as the heat began to cool, namgyu could feel the heavy, wet evidence of thanos’s betrayal pooling deep inside him, a literal weight that felt more honest than any word they’d ever spoken. it was the only part of thanos that namgyu actually got to keep, a secret burden that sat heavy and warm in his gut, proof that for one desperate moment, they were the same kind of ruined.
the silence that followed was instant and suffocating.
it settled between them like dust after something shattered.
whatever heat had been there vanished all at once, replaced by a sharp, nauseating clarity that hit thanos straight in the throat. he rolled onto his back, chest heaving, skin clammy, staring up at the ceiling like it might explain what he’d just done. the room felt smaller now. tighter. crowded with everything he’d been pretending wasn’t real.
mina.
the marriage.
the future he’d already ruined once.
his jaw clenched.
“…fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.
nam-gyu didn’t answer.
he didn’t rush to fill the space with jokes or apologies. didn’t ask if thanos was okay. instead, he shifted closer, slow and careful, and rested his head on thanos’s chest. their skin was still warm, still too close for comfort, but nam-gyu stayed anyway.
thanos’s heart was racing under his ear. frantic at first. panicked. then, gradually, it slowed into something heavier. something tired.
“i shouldn’t have—” thanos started, then stopped. his voice broke in the middle of the sentence.
nam-gyu didn’t look up.
“you don’t have to explain,” he said quietly.
thanos swallowed hard.
“i have a wife,” he muttered, like he was reminding himself more than anyone else. “i have a whole life i keep fucking up.”
nam-gyu’s fingers curled lightly into the fabric near thanos’s side.
“yeah,” he said. “i know.”
there was no judgment in his voice. no disappointment. just understanding. raw and unpolished.
thanos let out a long, shaky sigh, the kind that sounded like something giving up. his head turned slightly toward nam-gyu, but he didn’t quite look at him.
“i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he whispered.
nam-gyu stayed where he was.
“maybe nothing,” he said after a moment. “maybe you’re just tired.”
the apartment was dark. quiet. no music, no city noise, no distractions left. just the aftermath. just two people lying in it.
nam-gyu shifts again, closer this time, like he’s afraid thanos might disappear if he doesn’t anchor him somehow.
his hand moves slowly, almost hesitant, coming to rest over thanos’s chest. he can feel the uneven rhythm there, the way it skips and stumbles before settling again. he presses his palm there, gentle, grounding.
“breathe,” nam-gyu murmurs. not an order. just an invitation.
thanos lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“i’m so fucking tired,” he whispers. his voice is hoarse, scraped raw. “i keep ruining everything. every time i think maybe this is it, maybe this is where it gets better… it just gets worse.”
nam-gyu lifts his head slightly, just enough to look at him. his eyes are soft, tired in the same way, but steady.
“you’re not ruining me,” he says quietly. “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
thanos swallows. his eyes burn.
“you should hate me.”
nam-gyu shakes his head, slow.
“i don’t know how to,” he admits. “i tried.”
that does it.
thanos’s face crumples, just a little, like he’s been holding it together with brute force and it finally gives. he turns his head away, ashamed of how close he is to breaking.
nam-gyu follows the movement, pressing his forehead to thanos’s shoulder.
“hey,” he whispers. “don’t do that.”
“do what.”
“disappear on me.”
thanos closes his eyes.
“i don’t deserve you.”
“maybe,” nam-gyu says softly. “but i’m here anyway.”
his fingers trace slow, absent lines against thanos’s skin. nothing sexual now. just comfort. just presence. the kind of touch that says i’m not leaving, not yet, not tonight.
“you don’t have to decide anything right now,” nam-gyu continues. “you don’t have to be good or brave or honest. just… stay. okay?”
thanos nods, barely.
another long breath leaves him, shaky but deeper than before.
they lie there like that, tangled in quiet, in regret, in something that feels too gentle for the mess they’ve made. outside, the world keeps moving. consequences wait patiently.
but for this small stretch of time, nam-gyu holds him like he’s worth holding, and thanos lets himself believe it, just for a moment.
thanos would be lying if he said it was his first time with a man. college days, curiosity, reckless nights with dim dorm lights and music bleeding through cracked windows, he’d experimented, learned, explored—careless, fumbling, laughing at how easy it all felt. back then it was play. exploration. nothing that lingered. nothing that lasted.
but this—this was different.
ever since that night with nam-gyu, ever since the heat and the silence that followed, he had been missing him every single day. he tried to pretend it wasn’t there. he tried to bury it under the ordinary—his work at the record store, bills, music that no one bought anymore—but it clung to him like smoke. he’d catch himself staring at the clock, imagining nam-gyu walking through the door, the sound of his voice, the way his fingers felt against thanos’s skin, light and certain.
he couldn’t bring himself to do it again. not with nam-gyu. not really. not with that same reckless honesty.
so instead, he did the unthinkable. the stupid, desperate thing. whenever he was with mina, in their bed, in their quiet apartment, he would pretend. he would imagine nam-gyu’s hands instead of hers. nam-gyu’s mouth. nam-gyu’s laugh when he whispered stupid little things in his ear. the weight of him pressed against thanos, steady and warm, anchoring him.
it made him feel guilty, yes. disgusted, sometimes. angry at himself. but the thought of nam-gyu, even in stolen moments, even in pretend, made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t felt with anyone else in years.
one night, while laying beside mina, her arm draped across his chest, he muttered something under his breath.
“nam…gyu,” he whispered.
mina shifted, groaning softly.
“what?” she mumbled, eyes half-closed.
“nothing,” thanos said quickly, heart hammering, shame curling in his gut. “just… nothing.”
he closed his eyes, imagining nam-gyu’s hair brushing his face, the warmth of him pressed against his side, his head leaning into thanos’s chest, silent and steady.
it was safer this way. pretending. imagining. keeping nam-gyu in his mind instead of letting him slip back into the world where he might actually exist again, where consequences would follow.
and yet, every morning, every shift at the record store, every song he stacked neatly on the shelves, thanos found himself thinking about that night. about the quiet weight of nam-gyu resting against him. about the way his chest felt full and empty at the same time.
he would be lying if he said he didn’t want it again. if he said he didn’t dream about it, ache for it, replay it endlessly when no one was watching. but he knew the truth—he couldn’t. he couldn’t ruin it. couldn’t risk friendship, couldn’t risk everything.
so he settled for shadows and echoes, for pretending that mina’s touch could ever compare to nam-gyu’s, even though he knew deep down it never would.
one evening, alone in the apartment, staring at the ceiling, he whispered into the darkness, voice cracking just slightly,
“i miss you, namsu. every day. i miss you so much it hurts.”
and there was no answer. no comfort. no warmth. just the quiet apartment, the hum of the refrigerator, and the memory of a boy who had once made him feel like he belonged somewhere, like maybe he could be enough.
and thanos hated that. hated that he couldn’t have him, hated that he settled, hated that pretending was the only thing keeping him alive. hated the ache, hated the absence, hated the way he’d never be able to tell nam-gyu just how much he wanted him, every single day, in the spaces where nobody else could reach.
it was cruel. it was unbearable. and yet he couldn’t stop.
because nam-gyu wasn’t just a memory. he was a necessity. a wound that throbbed behind every decision, every sigh, every quiet, lonely night.
and thanos, for all his mistakes, all his failures, all his regrets, couldn’t bring himself to let him go.