Archive of Our Own

There’s a man sitting on the front steps of his motel. His back is against the wall, his head down, chin tucked into his neck like a tortoise. He’s wearing a grey jacket, a soft hoodie peeking from underneath it, and his hair is damp, almost covering the strangers’ eyes in loose, unruly strands. His arms are wrapped around himself and shaking slightly. Probably from the rain. 

There’s a ghost sitting on the front steps of his motel.

Gi-hun freezes, and then his feet propel him forward, acting of their own accord. His mind is numb, not a single thought rushing through his brain as his legs pull him closer and closer to the stranger until he can only watch as his own arms grab him by the jacket and pull him upright and away, face against the wall.

The stranger lets out a startled whimper but otherwise stays remarkably still. He must know better than to make sudden movements against a madman. 

Because that’s what Gi-hun is: nothing short of a complete madman. That’s the only reasonable explanation. He’s finally lost it, and his desensitized brain is now supplying images of its own, plastering a dead man’s face onto the body of a random bum who had the bad luck of trying to find some comfort on the steps of this stranded building.

Gi-hun’s fingers dig deeper into the stranger’s back. He feels the urge to kick him in the shin just so he can hear him whimper again – so he can confirm that he sounds nothing like the dead man whose face he’s wearing. Fuck, he’s really lost it, alright.

The way the stranger just stands still and takes it unnerves him even more. Gi-hun pushes at his shoulders, like he’s trying to drive him even deeper into the wall. To check if he’s real. “Who– who are you?”

He feels the man’s muscles tense against his fingers. Even so, he still doesn’t turn around or beg for Gi-hun to let go of him. And when he finally does answer, his voice is calm, if a little faint. “Gi-hun, it’s me.”

He knows this voice.

“Young-il?”

A shaky nod is his only response.

Aggressively grabbing the other man by the shoulders, Gi-hun spins him around, simultaneously reaching out to pull down his hood. The back of his head knocks against the wet concrete behind him. Gi-hun’s breath hitches in his throat. It’s Young-il.

His face is adorned with a rough layer of stubble and the pronounced bags underneath his eyes render him older than he seemed in the games, but it’s Young-il, alright.

The world spins around them and Gi-hun outstretches his arm, supporting himself against the wall before he can collapse. His legs are shaking and weak, as if his muscles have atrophied. This is fucking insane. Still, no matter how dizzy he feels, he never takes his eyes off Young-il.

The other man is peeking at him carefully from beneath bloodshot, impenetrable eyes. His face is oddly cold, like an empty beach on a windy morning. Gi-hun can’t stop himself from reaching out, clenching his fingers against Young-il’s shoulders, just to prove to himself that he’s real.

“But you were dead. I heard you. I heard you die–”

“I guess I got lucky,” Young-il says, his words leaking with sarcasm, although Gi-hun doesn’t quite understand where it’s coming from.

He realizes that his hands have migrated from Young-il’s shoulders and are wandering around his body. Gi-hun flinches back, trying to compose himself. Maybe the weird look on his companion’s face is Gi-hun’s own fault. Get yourself together, Seong Gi-hun .

He forces himself to take half a step back, granting Young-il more space in case he’s feeling overwhelmed by Gi-hun’s touch and attention. The truth is, he wants nothing more than to pat the other man down, check him for injuries and bruises, to find proof that he’s not a ghost doomed to follow Gi-hun in his afterlife. But Young-il has probably been through utter hell after their coup, and Gi-hun doesn’t want to traumatize him even more.

The thought flips a switch in his mind. What exactly happened to Young-il after they separated? How the hell is he here?

“How did you find me?” He can’t quite stop a hint of suspicion from seeping into his voice. 

Young-il continues gazing at him with a neutral expression. Like a robot. “The Frontman,” he answers. “He gave me your address. He told me that you–”

He hesitates and stops himself from finishing his thought. A cold shiver runs through Gi-hun’s body. What the fuck did the Frontman tell Young-il about him? Were they lies meant to pit Young-il against him? Or, even worse, did he spoonfeed him the truth?

There’s a reason why Gi-hun couldn’t bear to tell anyone about his mother, about Sang-woo, about his daughter. And now that Young-il has become not just a reluctant ally, but as close to a friend as anyone in his life could be, Gi-hun can’t bear to imagine how he’d react if he found out just what a piece of shit Gi-hun actually is.

“What did he tell you?” He asks sharply, unwilling to let it go.

For the first time, Young-il avoids his gaze, looking at the wet ground under his shoes instead. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Young-il, what…”

“My wife died.”

He feels like an idiot. His wife . He should’ve asked about her before starting to interrogate Young-il. He knew damn well that his friend was dealing with life-or-death shit, and that it extended beyond the borders of the games. Fuck. 

He doesn’t know how to react. It’s been a while since he was close to anyone, since he got to comfort another person. It used to be the easiest thing in the world to hug his friends, to give the bartender a sympathetic smile, or ask a stranger if they were okay. Those instincts now lie dormant somewhere deep inside him. 

“Oh.” Fuck. Staying quiet would be better than letting out this surprised noise that betrays how awkward and out of depth he’s feeling.

Young-il doesn’t seem to mind. His mask finally slips and a twisted expression makes its way onto his face, features distorted in sheer pain, like there’s an invisible force pulling at his cheeks and lips. His tired, glazed eyes are now adorned with tears. Gi-hun remains frozen, even as he curses himself for being unable to react. But Young-il is uncaring about keeping up the pretenses, and he breaks down in front of him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He all but falls into Gi-hun’s arms, lodging his head into the crook of his neck, hands clenching the back of his jacket.

“She’s- she’s gone, Gi-hun, she’s…”

Gi-hun timidly caresses the back of Young-il’s head.

He leads them inside the building, all the way to the room that doubles as his makeshift home. Young-il remains disturbingly quiet and unresponsive throughout the length of the walk. Gi-hun hesitates once they’re inside. It’s a mess– random objects scattered around the floor, dirty furniture buried beneath his used clothes. It’s not exactly like he was expecting guests. Something warm stirs in his stomach and it takes him a moment to realize that he’s embarrassed. The feeling isn’t obvious at first because he’s used to the type of embarrassment that engulfs him like a tidal wave, usually going hand-in-hand with horrifying guilt and shame. It’s almost funny how light this feeling is.

He leaves Young-il’s side to gather his dirty clothes, rolls them into one messy ball, and shoves it inside the closet without sparing a glance inside it. Young-il remains frozen where he left him.

“Here,” Gi-hun directs him to sit down at the now empty armchair by the table, guiding him with light touches. It feels like handling a feral cat or a spooked horse. He’s half expecting him to bolt. “Stay. I’ll be right back.”

He feels a little guilty about leaving the other man. Get it together, Gi-hun , he tells himself. Young-il is not a child or a wild animal, even if the way he spoke to him seems to suggest. He’s not going to kill himself if left alone for a few minutes. 

He heads to the room with a tiny kitchenette at the end of the hallway. He pauses in the doorway, unsure where to go from there. He has one brand of tea and coffee, and not much else. He’s not much of a tea drinker and if he wanted to make something just for himself, he’d probably choose the coffee. But given how wrecked the other man looks, caffeine really isn't on the table.

When he steps back inside his room, hands occupied with two steaming mugs of hot tea, Young-il is still sitting in the exact same spot where Gi-hun left him. In fact, it seems like he hasn’t moved at all, hands stiff and bent at an odd angle on the table. Gi-hun forces one of the mugs between them. “Drink this.”

It’s not a request. It’s a plea.

He doesn’t know how to make this better. If he was still the same man he used to be three years ago, he’d know what to say. Sure, he’s never been a smooth talker or a particularly tactful conversationalist, always too rugged and impulsive to consider the impact of his words. But he didn’t use to second-guess himself. In the past, words spilled out of him like there was no substance to them other than the sound. But now, Gi-hun finds himself petrified by the fear of saying the wrong thing and pushing the other man over the edge. 

He takes a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Young-il,” he says. The words feel too small in his mouth; still, at least they’re true. “What–”

“Don’t,” Young-il’s voice is sharp and heavy, like an anvil. He looks up and meets Gi-hun’s gaze. “I can’t talk about her.”

Okay. At least he’s drawing the line, telling Gi-hun what the rules are. He can work with that. 

“Okay. Alright, we don’t have to talk about it,” he hesitates again, watches the way Young-il’s hands curl around his tea. Gi-hun’s own mug is scorching hot to the touch. “Just drink your tea.”

The next couple of minutes pass in silence. Not the comfortable type; no, the silence is filled with tension and restless questions curling at the top of his tongue. He considers his options, contemplates what he should say next. Young-il clearly doesn’t want them to talk about his wife. And although Gi-hun understands, he can’t help but wonder what happened. Did she die when they were in the games? A terrible idea crosses his mind: Did the Frontman have her killed in retaliation for Young-il’s role in the rebellion?

No, that’s impossible. If the Frontman wanted to punish him, he’d have simply killed Young-il. The man was cruel, but he was fair. A player’s family was off-limits. 

At least that’s what Gi-hun has been telling himself since the moment he decided not to get on that plane.

Distracted by his thoughts, Gi-hun almost misses it when Young-il begins to pull himself together. He takes a sip of his tea, his movements slow and strained, like it physically hurts him to simply raise a mug to his lips. But the first sip seems to sober him up slightly. It’s probably the warmth, Gi-hun supposes. He wonders how long the other man waited in front of his motel. He was drenched in rain, too– his hair is almost dry now, but his shirt is still wet and clinging to his chest. Gi-hun feels a sting of guilt for watching him so closely, like an exotic animal in a zoo, and focuses his attention on his own tea instead.

But he can’t help but notice the way Young-il’s eyes flicker across the room with mild curiosity. “Why do you live in an empty motel?”

He chokes back a laugh. Is this his version of making small talk? He’ll play along if that’s what Young-il wants, but he’s not sure if the other man is ready for his answers. For Gi-hun, even the most casual of questions carry the weight of a thousand cuts.

“It was cheap. And I wanted space.” What a diplomatic answer, he congratulates himself.

He expects Young-il to ask him to elaborate, to explain what he means. He’s surprised when the other man offers him a slow nod- a way out. “I understand.”

Gi-hun peers into the other man’s face, trying to find a flicker of any emotion. His tears have dried, or maybe just mixed with the faint traces of rain that remain fixated on his face. Either way, his sorrow is safely tucked away behind a dark mask of forced detachment. It’s a little disturbing; but mostly, it’s heartbreaking. 

Gi-hun remembers finding his mother dead in their home. How he couldn’t even find it in himself to cry or scream. He just lay there, deflated, with his face buried in her shoulder. Was Young-il the one who found his wife’s body, too?

His thoughts drift away from the sorrow and heartbreak and linger on the practicalities of their situation. What’s going to happen to Young-il now? Gi-hun knows that some debt collectors can take a person’s home away if their dues remain unpaid for long periods of time. Is that what’s brought Young-il to his footsteps? 

Young-il’s hands are still wrapped tightly around the mug. The steam is curling around his face in sluggish waves, arching and winding like a snake or a question mark. He fights back the impulse to reach out and touch the backs of Young-il’s hands to check if he’s warmed up. “I… Do you have a place to stay?” 

The other man’s head bows in an easy nod. “Yes.”

Gi-hun bites his lips, unsure. He doesn’t really know what it’s like, being too ashamed to ask for something. He was always too careless and selfish to waste his time on shame . If he wanted money, or a favor, or someone, he asked, brazen and confident. But it strikes him that Young-il seems like the opposite of the person Gi-hun used to be. “Are you just saying that? You can stay here as long as you want.”

Young-il’s lips twist slightly. It’s not exactly a smile, but it’s a close call. “I’m fine, Gi-hun.”

Okay, that’s good. Gi-hun feels his shoulders relax. He didn’t even realize how stiff they were.

Young-il drinks again and Gi-hun realizes he hasn’t even touched his own tea. The pace of Young-il’s sips and the force with which he’s clinging onto the mug makes it seem like it’s been years since he last had a warm drink- or perhaps a warm meal, too. An idea forms in Gi-hun’s head and he immediately berates himself for not thinking about it earlier. “Wait here.”

When he comes back, Young-il has finished his tea. There’s more color in his face now, like the warm drink has breathed life back into him. He’s looking at Gi-hun with an open curiosity, too; no longer just a shell of a man, waiting to be pushed into another room and manhandled into an armchair. 

But his interest turns into annoyance when he realizes what’s inside the bag Gi-hun places on the table next to his empty mug. Young-il flinches, blinking at the bundles of bills peeking at him.

Gi-hun doesn’t care. “Take this, please.”

“I can’t–” He tries to push the bag away, but Gi-hun won’t let it budge.

“For fuck’s sake, Young-il, take the money,” he says, irritated. “I’m begging you.”

He can tell when Young-il notices the desperation on his face. Perhaps the other man realizes that this is as much about helping Young-il as it is about Gi-hun helping himself, because he finally relents. He glares at the bag, distrustful. “Okay. Thank you.”

Gi-hun should feel better. He doesn’t. 

He retakes his seat on the other side of the table. He watches Young-il graze the bag with just his fingertips. The air is thick around them.

He takes a breath. He has to break the tension by addressing the elephant in the room. “Do you hate me?”

Young-il raises his eyes. A silence follows– and Gi-hun is ready for Young-il’s next words to cut to the bone. “No. I think…” He pauses, looks away. “There’s this voice in the back of my head telling me that maybe I should. But I don’t.”

Yes, you should , Gi-hun thinks. If there’s anything he deserves, it’s the other man’s wrath. It’d be easier to accept that than this uncomfortable tension, his refusal to let Gi-hun help. 

Why are you here, he wants to ask. Why have you come, if you don’t want my help?

“Can I come back again?” Young-il asks, as if he could hear his thoughts.

He should say no. He should tell Young-il to stay the hell away from him, for his own sake. “Yes,” He grabs a pen and a piece of paper and writes down his phone number; one of many. “Call me if you need anything, anything at all. Okay?”

This time around, he’s sure that the slight curl of Young-il’s lips is an actual smile, no matter how weak or shy. But it looks genuine. A warm feeling coils inside Gi-hun’s stomach. “You have a thing for taking care of people, you know,” Young-il says it so lightly, like he doesn’t realize that his words are a loaded gun. And the gun is pointed at Gi-hun’s heart. 

I’m just trying to fix what I broke .

He shrugs, vaguely uncomfortable at the turn their conversation has taken. He doesn’t want to talk about himself. And he definitely doesn’t want Young-il thinking about him like he’s some puzzle to be solved or a casket to be cracked open. “I guess. So don’t feel bad, okay? Take advantage of me. I don’t mind.”

The next day, he ends up wandering into the room where he keeps his winnings. The comically gigantic stack of bills looks exactly the same, as if the money he gave to Young-il returned somehow. It’s funny, he thinks to himself; when you have that much money, it all blends into one.

Young-il is back the next evening. He doesn’t text Gi-hun to let him know that he’s coming over; he’s lucky that Gi-hun happens to be home when Young-il arrives. If he’s not working outdoors all day, he usually likes to take a walk once the sun sets. He stumbles through markets and parks, trying to lose himself in thinly-crowded spaces where he can be around people without actually finding himself crammed between foreign bodies. He wonders if crowds now make Young-il claustrophobic, too. When he walks, his feet drag behind him, like he’s forgotten how to use them. Maybe he’s just avoiding people in general. Gi-hun imagines him locked inside his home all day, tucked into a couch under a blanket whose softness used to carry some comfort to it. 

Gi-hun makes them instant ramen. Young-il follows him into the kitchenette this time, silent and placid. His demeanor reminds him of the time Eun-ji had a nervous breakdown a few weeks after giving birth, when they ended up in an emergency room because Ga-yeong caught a heavy infection. One of their doctors relented and gave Eun-ji some kind of medicine that got her to calm down. But in the hours that followed, she was barely there. Not physically; Gi-hun made sure that her body was pressed against his own, still trying to comfort her long after she stopped crying. But her eyes were vacant, and even when she asked the doctors questions, she remained stone-faced and distant when they answered. As if there was a thick layer of foggy glass between her and the hospital.

Is that how Young-il is feeling? Like he’s not really there? Like he doesn’t have it in himself to care what happens next?

Gi-hun lets the silence between them fester as they walk back to his room and start eating. Curiously, Young-il seems to have a strong appetite. He digs into the food like it’s the first meal he’s eaten all day. Well, maybe it is. Gi-hun catches himself staring, eyes glued to the noodles disappearing inside Young-il’s mouth, the way his throat works as he swallows around them. He blinks and switches attention to his own food.

When they’re done, Gi-hun braces himself to take the containers and throw them in the trash. But before he can rise from his seat, Young-il breaks the silence.

“They kept me in a recovery room for a few days after the rebellion,” he says, so quietly that Gi-hun instinctively leans closer to catch the rest of his words. Young-il is looking down at his hands, inspecting his knuckles like it’s the first time he’s taking stock of them. “I don’t know exactly how long I was out, but by the time I got back to the mainland, the last day of her funeral was already over. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her. She passed the morning of our second game. If I had voted to end the games on that first day…”

Gi-hun’s stomach turns in protest. He knows exactly where this is going; he’s been down this road before. He’ll do anything to stop Young-il from following in his footsteps. “Stop,” he says, voice forceful and rough, to the point where he barely recognizes it. “There’s no point in what-ifs, Young-il. You can’t blame yourself.”

Young-il looks at him– really looks at him, like he’s seeing him, not just observing. He hesitates, teeth catching against his lower lip in a wavering motion. “The Frontman told me about your mother,” he confesses. The words slam into Gi-hun like a freight train. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t blame yourself for her death?”

A shiver travels down his body. The way that Young-il poses the question, how he’s watching him- it’s wrong, almost impersonal . Gi-hun desperately wishes he could hide his face in his face. It feels like the other man’s gaze is pulling away Gi-hun’s layers, threatening to expose him.

“Of course I did.”

A beat. “Does it ever get better?”

What the hell is he supposed to say to that? The truth isn’t going to do him any favors. Right now, Young-il is probably at the lowest point of his life. He’s looking for confirmation that he’ll be able to crawl out of this pit he’s found himself buried inside. But Gi-hun knows the secret: there’s no going back. No matter how many borders you cross, literal or not, the body remembers, the guilt remains. 

He can’t say that. But he can’t lie to his friend’s face, either. 

“No,” he answers. He hopes his voice carries a weight of sympathy to it. Young-il is still looking at him like he’s listening to a sermon. “You wanna know what it’s really like? It’s like there’s an open wound, a hole in your cheek. And the pain, you get used to it, sort of. But then you open your mouth to speak and you pull at the edges, and you come apart, again and again . And every now and again you forget about it, but at the end of the day, there’s still a hole in your cheek.”

He thinks this might be the most he’s said in one sitting in a long time. He feels blood rush to his cheek, slightly embarrassed at the length of his monologue. But it’s not just that- it’s the fact that he knows he’s laid himself bare in front of the other man. Young-il’s mouth has fallen open slightly, his fingers twitching idly against the table, like they’re itching to press elsewhere.

Maybe he said too much. He moves to stand up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

But Young-il shakes his head furiously and reaches out. Gi-hun looks down to where he’s grabbed his right hand, probably to stop him from standing up and leaving. Asking him not to retreat. “Don’t,” the other man says, his voice stronger now. “Don’t apologize. I know what you mean.”

Gi-hun forces down a bitter chuckle. No, Young-il doesn’t know. How could he possibly understand? Gi-hun isn’t one to pit tragedy against tragedy, but their situations are incomparable. Young-il didn’t do anything wrong.

But he doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to rub more salt into that wound. He vaguely pats Young-il’s hand resting on top of his own, and then removes it, needing an escape from the overwhelming touch. He looks Young-il up and down, trying to find a way out of this conversation. The other man is still looking quite pale and his hair is messily clinging to his forehead. He keeps waiting for Young-il to fade into the background like he’s a ghost. Suddenly, a question forms in the back of his mind. What exactly happened during their rebellion? How is it that Young-il has avoided death?

“How are you doing, physically? They shot you, right?”

Young-il nods, wincing slightly like the memory is burning bright in his mind. “In the chest,” he confirms, gesturing to his left pectoral. “They just about missed my heart. It hurts, but… It’s no hole in my cheek.”

He says it with a smile, teasingly. The attempt at humor takes Gi-hun by surprise, forces a weak laugh out of him. “Yeah.”

He reaches for their dishes and stands up, heading back to the kitchenette. Young-il follows him like a lost cat. He throws the empty containers into the trash can, sets the water to boil. He still remembers how the steam from their tea rendered the other man’s face flushed and warm, how his hands closed tightly around the mug. Gi-hun’s still not a tea drinker, but he’s willing to make an exception for Young-il.

Once the tea is ready, Gi-hun doesn’t lead them back to his room. He just leans against the sink and raises the mug to his lips, silently asking Young-il to follow suit. It’s safer in here- the kitchenette is almost vacant and impersonal. They’re on neutral ground. Gi-hun’s room is riddled with stashes of medicine, files and maps, and cigarette butts. All those tiny hints that mean nothing when taken at face value, but when put together form a picture of Gi-hun that’s a little too close to the bone. 

Young-il settles next to him, his arm brushing against his own when one of them takes a drink. They’re standing side-to-side, but Young-il’s head is turned to face him, observing Gi-hun with an easy interest. “Are you still trying to stop the games?”

Gi-hun raises the mug to his lips, welcoming the heat against his chapped lips. It’s a little too hot for him, but the way it burns going down his throat is just right. 

“No,” he braces himself and turns to meet the other man’s gaze. He worries he might crumble underneath its weight, but Young-il deserves to see him confess just what he is: a coward. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Young-il.”

The expression on his companion’s face doesn’t falter, but his stare grows sharper. “You’re giving up?”

“I don’t know,” the words taste bitter on his tongue. All of a sudden, he feels like someone is holding his head underwater. The pressure, the weight surrounding him– it’s too much. “I’m just… I’m not here.”

Young-il doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t let him off the hook, either. “But you are,” he grabs Gi-hun’s left hand, the one still maimed with a scar from Sang-woo’s knife, like he knows exactly where to touch him to push his buttons. His fingers dig into Gi-hun’s palm. “Feel that? You are here.”

If it were only that easy. “I fucked up. Hundreds of people, all of them dead because of me.”

Young-il shakes his head like he knows better. “You didn’t kill anyone.”

Gi-hun puts down his mug and turns to fully face the other man, taking him in. Young-il is glaring at him expectantly, an impatient, firm look nestled plainly on his battered face. Gi-hun feels a crease form between his brows. “How are you so calm about this?”

Young-il grins; it’s a little too wide, too careless. It looks manic. Gi-hun starts to worry that the games and his wife’s death have taken too great a toll on the other man. “I have a hole in my chest and another in my cheek. It changes your perspective, no?”

Gi-hun barks out an amazed laugh. It’s flattering, if surprising, that Young-il has remembered his words. “Yeah. I guess so.” 

He bites his lip and slumps down against the sink, feels its edge digging into his hip. He’s been trying to avoid thinking about the games ever since he came back. The truth is, Gi-hun has been defeated, in too many ways to count. All his best-laid plans, the backups, the backups of backups. The Frontman and whoever else was running the show behind the scenes knew what he was up to every step of the way. Is he really that predictable? Or is it just that his enemies are utterly invincible? He closes his eyes, tries to let the blindness ground him.

“I don’t know if there’s any point in trying to stop them anymore,” he confesses. “They won, over and over again. And every time I try, I just end up making it worse.”

“That’s bullshit,” Young-il’s voice is suddenly so close to his ear that it makes Gi-hun startle and open his eyes. The other man has taken a step in his direction- and he’s not standing by his side anymore, but facing him. He’s looking at Gi-hun with furrowed brows and vicious determination. The force of his voice, the way he’s directing Gi-hun to listen to him with nothing but his gaze, is anchoring him back into the present. 

“You’re not making it worse, that game would have ended with 455 corpses even if you hadn’t shown up. And this time, only 453 people died, right? So you didn’t make it worse. You only made it worse for yourself. You just… opened up that wound again,” A smile, pained but sincere, eases the restless lines on his face. “And now you’re in pain. And you’re afraid that if you try again, it’ll hurt more.”

The realization hits him right in the chest like a bullet. Fuck, Young-il is right. Gi-hun is being selfish. This isn’t about the fear of making it worse; it’s the fear of losing, of the shame in trying and failing, that has made him retreat back into the safety of his remote motel, away from prying eyes. This is the reason why he hasn’t talked to Jun-ho besides a quick phone call just to make sure that the other man was safe. Gi-hun is terrified to look him in the eyes and admit defeat. Even worse than that, he’s so fucking scared of trying again. Because he knows Jun-ho, Young-il, and everyone else will expect him to have all the answers.

“Fuck.”

The sudden awareness of his own cowardice all but makes Gi-hun double over. But before his legs do give out, strong arms catch him and pull him upwards. Gi-hun doesn’t want to look at Young-il, can’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes when he realizes that his friend is just another fraud. He feels his heart thumping in his chest. His breath catches in his throat, a pathetic cry forcing its way out of his throat. Look at me, Young-il , he thinks. Look at the goddamn wreckage of a man that you decided to put your trust in.

His arms are shaking viciously, close to spasming under Young-il’s hands. Before Gi-hun can tell him to back off, to leave and find someone steadier than him , the other man envelops him in a tight embrace. One of Young-il’s arms wraps itself around his shoulders, the other hand nestling on the back of Gi-hun’s neck, firm but warm.

Warm . Oh. His hand is still warm from holding the tea.

The hug feels like something ripped out of another world. Or stolen from another life- the one he used to lead before going through this hell. He can’t remember the last time he hugged another person. Was it his daughter?

Young-il’s chest is flush against his own, so close that he can almost feel his companion’s heart thudding through his shirt. He knows he’s just imagining things, but the idea is comforting nonetheless. It feels real , blood and all. Gi-hun follows his instincts, melting into his touch, and brings his arms up to close around Young-il’s middle. He lets the other man’s warmth cloak around him like a woolen blanket. 

“It’s okay, Gi-hun,” Young-il speaks into his ear. “You did the best you could.”

He can’t stop the tears anymore. He twists his head, hiding his face in the crook of Young-il’s neck, shaking profoundly. He retches wounded sobs into the man’s skin, hoping that his warmth will stifle them. It doesn’t. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Young-il…”

“Shhh. It’s okay.”

This isn’t a hug anymore; Young-il holds him, lets Gi-hun weep into his skin and clutch his fingers around his shirt so tight that he’s a touch away from tearing it. He takes it , like he knows exactly what Gi-hun needs. Sometimes you need to fall apart so you can put yourself back together.

They stay that way for a few minutes, until the tears give way and begin to dry. Young-il continues to hold him even as the cries die out and Gi-hun takes his time recovering. It’s been a while since he cried, too. Lately he’s been suspecting that the games left him emotionally stunted; that they broke a part of his brain that let him cry, and instead replaced it with violent, resentful impulses that weren’t really his own. 

He pulls himself away from Young-il, making sure to keep his movements slow and easy. He doesn’t want the other man to think that he’s ungrateful for his support. Still, Gi-hun can’t help but feel embarrassed about breaking down in front of him. Young-il just became a widower; he’s the one who should be held and comforted. Leave it to Gi-hun to make it all about himself.

But when they separate and Gi-hun leans back against the sink, he realizes that there are no traces of judgment or even pity on the other man’s face. Young-il is looking at him like he understands.

Gi-hun hesitates. Since he already cracked this can of worms, he might as well force it open completely. 

“Do you forgive me?” 

Young-il stares at him like he just said something stupid. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

But Gi-hun won’t have that. Young-il is clinging to him because right now, Gi-hun is the only person in the world who knows what he’s been through. He’s pushing past the pain that Gi-hun’s caused him because he needs this connection. But that won’t do. He needs Young-il to remember exactly how much Gi-hun fucked up, and to square these feelings. Remember how much pain I’ve brought you and tell me you can still stomach looking me in the eyes , he doesn’t dare ask.

“No, I need you to say it. Please.”

Young-il’s breath hitches in his throat. Maybe it’s about the please of it all, even if Gi-hun can’t quite understand why that word would move him so much. The other man’s eyes darken slightly. Gi-hun pretends not to notice.

“Okay. I forgive you.”

The words float between them like a curious insect. Gi-hun feels light-headed with the relief that washes over him- a fresh, translucent tidal wave. “Thank you.”

Young-il seems to battle with himself for a moment, opening his mouth and closing it again like he’s bracing himself to say something. Finally, his jaw twitches, and his hands reach out to grab Gi-hun’s wrist. “If you want to try and take them down again…” He hesitates again. “Look, I can’t promise I’ll know what to do, but I’ll try and help you.”

Gi-hun stalls, looking down at where Young-il is holding onto his wrist. Is he really willing to pull on this thread? “It’s dangerous.”

Young-il looks at him intently, face adorned with something raw and tender. For some reason, Gi-hun feels the impulse to reach out and graze his fingers against his cheek. Like he’s expecting to find a hole in it. “What more do I have to lose?”

He nods. “I’ll think about it.”

Young-il doesn’t come back the next day, or the day after that. Gi-hun tries to keep himself busy with cleaning the motel, working out, practicing at his makeshift shooting range, and keeping tabs on Sang-woo’s mother. His days are still riddled with blanks, long periods where he finds himself restless and aimless. Jun-ho tries calling him again, but Gi-hun declines the call as soon as his phone starts vibrating. He purposely doesn’t let it go to voicemail.

On the third day after he last saw Young-il, his phone vibrates again. This time, it’s not a call, but a text message from an unknown number. Gi-hun frowns at the phone; it’s already after midnight. He was just about to start getting ready for bed.

Are you awake? Can I come over? Oh Young-il

He replies immediately, barely processing what he’s writing.

Yes. Is everything okay?

It takes Young-il a couple of minutes to text him back. Gi-hun is close to losing his composure, imagining the other man forced into some horrible danger. 

Yes. I’ll be there in 20 minutes

He glares at the message. It sounds calm and casual, which gives him some peace of mind. At least Young-il’s not in any immediate danger. But maybe he’s just trying to downplay whatever trouble he’s found himself in. Gi-hun’s mind races, going over the possibilities of what could have happened. Maybe Young-il’s debts have finally caught up with him. Maybe he’s coming over to ask for more money. Gi-hun doesn’t begrudge him for it. He’d give him a thousand more stacks of bills if he only asked.

Young-il arrives exactly 20 minutes later, almost on the dot, just like he promised. Gi-hun walks down to the lobby to meet him. He lets the other man inside the building, taking him in as Young-il crosses the threshold with an air of familiarity. His hair is tousled and the bags underneath his eyes have grown ever deeper, but he doesn’t seem to injured. Still, there’s a certain stiffness to his body, like he’s putting all his focus into keeping his limbs still.

“What happened?”

Young-il runs a hand through his hair absent-mindedly. “I told you, everything’s fine,” an odd look flashes across his face, there and gone without a trace before Gi-hun can identify it. “I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to be alone.”

His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles almost white from the effort. His bottom lip is chapped and chewed raw. Gi-hun feels himself relax, his guard coming down. Young-il’s safe. The only danger here is coming from inside his own brain. “Come on. Let’s go get some food, okay?”

The other man hesitates, his eyes flashing to the hallway that leads to the elevator. “I’m not really hungry.”

Gi-hun rolls his eyes. Of course he’s not. “Humor me. I’m starving. There’s a chicken shop close by.”

He leads him to a tiny hole-in-the-wall chicken shop a few blocks from his motel. It’s a nice place, just shabby enough for Gi-hun to feel at home there. It doesn’t close until three in the morning, and the cheap fried chicken they serve is crunchy and greasy. The restaurant is usually half-empty whenever he visits. He enjoys hearing other customers’ drunken conversations break through the silence of fluorescent lights and neon signs. 

“I used to own a chicken shop, you know,” he mentions matter-of-factly as he leads Young-il down the street.

The other man sends a curious glance his way. “What happened to it?”

“I had to close it after a few years. I kind of ran it into the ground. I just wasn’t good at managing things.”

“Really?” Young-il sounds genuinely taken aback. “That’s surprising. You’re such a meticulous, reliable person.”

Gi-hun chuckles. It’s easy to forget that they’ve known each other for less than two weeks. Thankfully, Young-il’s never had to deal with the kind of person Gi-hun used to be. “It wasn’t always like that. That’s the entire reason why I wound up in the games the first time around. I was irresponsible, selfish, and stupid. A gambler.”

“That’s why you ended up divorced?” It’s a bit of an odd thing to ask. For one, Gi-hun doesn’t think he’s ever mentioned his divorce to Young-il, although he supposed he could have overheard him discussing it with Jung-bae. But his divorce is just a bizarre angle to focus on. Maybe Young-il’s mind is still preoccupied with memories of his own marriage.

“Yes,” he replies. Takes a deep breath before continuing. He wants Young-il to understand on whose side he decided to stand. “I was a terrible person, Young-il.”

He expects the other man to argue or ask more questions. But Young-il just glances at him with an intense look in his eyes. “So in a way… You should be grateful that you played these games. Because they changed you for the better.”

Gi-hun recoils, his steps faltering. The idea that he could actually be thankful for the games makes no sense. It’s even more strange coming from Young-il, who’s just been through the same ordeal. “What? No! Look, I’m glad that I got my act together, but I’m never going to be grateful for the games. Maybe I’m a better… maybe I’m a more reliable man now, but what good does it do? I have nothing to show for it. I’ve already lost everyone.”

Young-il grabs him by the elbow, stopping Gi-hun from taking another step. He didn’t even realize that they’d already reached the chicken shop. For a brief moment, Gi-hun naively thinks that Young-il is just trying to guide him inside, except that wouldn’t make any sense since his companion has never seen the restaurant before. No, Young-il has stopped him in his tracks because he’s about to say something and he clearly wants all of Gi-hun's attention focused on him. 

“Gi-hun,” he starts, looking a little lost. Gi-hun recognizes the feeling; the conflict between the need to say something and not knowing how to express it. “I meant it when I said that I forgive you. For everything. And you might just be the best person I know.”

“Don’t…”

“No, don’t interrupt me.” Young-il’s doubts are long gone now, replaced with something firm and sincere. His eyes are harsh and he won’t back down from trying to catch Gi-hun’s gaze. “I’m gonna be here for you, do you understand? I’m not going anywhere. I’m just as fucked up as you are.”

He gives his head a shake, like a horse. “You’re not.”

Young-il’s expression changes to something resembling pity. It feels out of place and Gi-hun can’t help but feel like he’s missing something. “Yes, I am. So, please. Let me in.”

It’s like he’s stuck in place, unable to move or look away from Young-il’s handsome face. How odd- the expression on the other man’s face is so unguarded, but impenetrable. It’s almost like he’s begging Gi-hun to read between the lines. If there’s a puzzle to be solved there, Gi-hun doesn’t quite manage to put the pieces together. He lets it go.

“Okay,” he looks away, Young-il’s bright eyes still burning a hole in his face. He gestures to the chicken shop. “Uh, this is us.”

The restaurant is emptier than usual, so they get to sit at Gi-hun’s favorite table: far in the back, right by the window. Young-il is busy looking around the place curiously as they dig into their meals. He eats at a steady pace but barely takes a sip of the beer Gi-hun ordered for both of them. He’s not alone; for some reason, Gi-hun finds it difficult to swallow the alcohol down, too. He doesn’t really drink anymore and when he does, he prefers soju. The taste of beer reminds him of his youth: late nights at bars with friends, his own chicken shop, Eun-ji cracking a bottle open as she worked on her computer. Beer was her go-to drink. She liked elaborate drafts, fancied herself a bit of an expert. She would always convince him to try her newest discovery with her, but to Gi-hun they just tasted bitter. Eventually, she stopped trying.

Gi-hun walks up to the counter and asks for two waters instead. He pushes one bottle Young-il’s way, opens the other one, and takes a deep gulp. The water is a pleasant palette cleanser after the greasy chicken.

Young-il watches him swallow. Gi-hun is a little taken aback by how the other man’s eyes are glued to his throat. But before he can call him out on it, Young-il breaks the silence. “Is there anyone out there who can help you?”

It takes him a minute before the question clicks into place. Ah, they’re back to talking about the games. Everything always comes back to the games. 

Gi-hun tenses, thinks about Jun-ho’s latest attempt to contact him. “I have this one associate who’s just as bent on finding that island as I am.”

Young-il raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Is he also a former player?”

“No. It’s complicated, but his brother is all tangled up in this. My associate thinks that he might have been a player.”

The other man nods at him slowly, like he’s filling in the blanks. “So did you meet his brother when you played these games last time?”

“No, he was a player almost ten years ago.”

“And your associate is still searching for him?”

Young-il is looking at him like this is a normal thing to ask. Gi-hun frowns at him, doesn’t even try to mask his discomfort. So far, he’s come to know Young-il as an empathetic, kind man who was willing to overlook other people’s flaws and mistakes. It’s a little out of character for him to be confused by Jun-ho’s need to continue looking for his brother.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” He asks, not caring that he’s sounding defensive. “It’s his brother, of course he’s still looking for him.”

Young-il pauses briefly, glancing down at his food like the remainder of his chicken is more interesting than this conversation. Or maybe he’s just stalling. “It’s not right,” he finally says, slowly, like he’s weighing the words in his mouth. “wasting your life chasing ghosts.”

Gi-hun blinks down at him. “What are you saying?”

The other man looks up at him. There’s something guarded and careful about his expression. “Maybe he should let him go.”

Slightly frustrated, Gi-hun leans back in his seat, pinning his companion into his seat with a piercing glance. “Frankly, I don’t care. Who am I to judge him? Tell him yourself if you care that much.”

Young-il flinches back, as if the force behind Gi-hun’s words actually slammed into him. “It was just a suggestion.”

For the second time that day, Gi-hun realizes that perhaps he doesn’t know Young-il as well as he imagined. He pushes the thought away, ignoring how it makes his stomach turn– so what? Young-il is a middle-aged man who’s probably been through just as much as Gi-hun. He doesn’t know anything about his upbringing, his family, his hardships. Maybe Jun-ho’s story struck a chord with him, reminded him of a similar situation in his own life. He doesn’t know shit about Young-il’s past. He doesn’t get to criticize him for his concerns. 

His face burns with shame. He sighs, annoyed with himself. “Sorry. I overreacted.”

Young-il shakes his head, offers him a slight smile. “It’s fine.”

Gi-hun notices that while Young-il hasn’t finished his chicken, his bowl of rice is empty. Maybe he prefers lighter food, not the cheap, greasy chicken that Gi-hun is so fond of. Since Gi-hun still has some leftover rice in his own bowl, he pushes it toward Young-il, locking their eyes together until the message is clear. 

Young-il accepts the olive branch and digs into Gi-hun’s rice.

Young-il comes back the next day, this time around noon. He brings lunch, explaining that he feels guilty for making him prepare or pay for all their meals. Because Gi-hun desperately wants to get out of his room and it’s a nice day out, they decide to eat on one of the balconies on the top floor. They make a big deal out of dragging two plush armchairs onto the balcony, laughing at how ridiculous they look. But the view is great, and Gi-hun decided that their kimchi fried rice tastes all the better with a side of fresh air.

As they eat, he notices a familiar figure walking down the street, heading for the motel’s entrance. He frowns and stands up to take a closer look; he wasn’t expecting Jun-ho this early. Convinced by his late-night talk with Young-il, Gi-hun called Jun-ho in the morning, asked him to come over so they could finally get back to work. But he’s not supposed to arrive until late in the afternoon. 

Well, it’s not like he can ask him to leave. He’ll just have to cut his lunch with Young-il short.

“What is it?” Young-il asks. He’s standing next to Gi-hun now, leaning over the railing and trying to find what it is that’s caught Gi-hun’s attention. Suddenly, he freezes, eyes locked on Jun-ho where he’s already reached the entrance. Ah, Young-il is probably terrified because he’s assuming that the mysterious figure might be one of the Frontman’s boogeymen. 

“It’s okay, he’s just my associate,” Gi-hun explains, placing a comforting hand on the other man’s shoulder. Young-il flinches at the touch. “He’s the guy trying to find his brother.”

With his free hand, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and uses the security system app to open the entrance. 

“Did you just let him in?” He looks up, finding Young-il’s eyes locked onto him, sharp and restless.

“Yeah. You were right, I need to get back in touch with him.”

“That’s not what I said,” he responds, an almost desperate edge to his voice. “Gi-hun, that’s the opposite of what I said.”

“I need his help,” Gi-hun replies stubbornly. Young-il turns on his heels and heads back inside without sparing him another look. His steps are fast but uncoordinated, and Gi-hun is worried that he’s going to trip. “You’re leaving?”

Young-il doesn’t turn back, just crosses the room in long strides. “Yes.”

Gi-hun has to jog to catch up with him. He grabs his arm, stopping Young-il in his tracks. He tries to catch his gaze, but the other man avoids it, looking down the hallway instead. “Hey, if you really want to help, you should stay. Maybe we could use a fresh pair of eyes.”

Young-il shakes his head fiercely. He’s still looking away, but Gi-hun catches a glimpse of a panicked expression on his face. Weird. “No, I need to leave.”

He’s not going to argue with him over something this minor. Even though Gi-hun would love to bring Young-il into the fold, introduce him to Jun-ho and hear his insight, he understands if this is too much for him. That’s probably why Young-il is panicking– it’s easy to imagine helping to stop the games, but it’s another thing to actually go through with it. Helping Gi-hun automatically puts a target on his back.

Gi-hun releases Young-il’s arm, letting him go. But the man’s eyes linger on the small loveseat by the doorway, where they left their stuff before walking out onto the balcony.

Young-il reaches out, fingers grazing Gi-hun’s discarded hoodie on the messy pile. “Can I take this?”

He blinks. His brain is short-circuiting. “My hoodie?”

“Yes. I think it’s raining.”

No, it’s not. Both of them were just outside; there wasn’t even a cloud in sight.

What the hell is going on with Young-il?

But there’s no real reason to say no. It’s just a hoodie. “I… I guess.”

Young-il immediately snatches and puts it on, pulling the hood up so low that his eyes are hidden beneath it. He joins Gi-hun in heading for the corridor, but instead of waiting on the elevator, he just legs it all the way to the staircase and takes it without so much as a goodbye. 

What the fuck?

Before he realizes, Young-il’s visits become routine. He stops by the motel every day; usually in the evening or late afternoon, except for the one memorable time he dropped by first thing in the morning and ended up cooking breakfast for the both of them. Some days, when Gi-hun feels cooped up from staying inside all day, they eat out at one of the nearby restaurants or take a leisurely walk around the neighborhood.

Most of their encounters are short and relatively quiet. Although Young-il has started to act like himself again, he’s still reluctant to talk about his own life. Finally, Gi-hun just stops asking, accepting that he’s probably just not ready to reveal so much of himself. But he likes to ask questions, especially about Gi-hun’s past. 

At first, Gi-hun is slightly uncomfortable at how personal the questions are. Young-il asks about his childhood, the first round of games, Gi-hun’s ex-wife and daughter. Unwilling to deny the other man, he tries to keep his replies short and vague, but Young-il somehow manages to wrestle answers out of him anyway. After a while, he gets used to it. Oddly enough, he finds that talking about his failures and breakdowns doesn’t even hurt that much now that he’s done it a few times.

One day, now almost two weeks after his return to the mainland, Young-ok arrives so late at night that Gi-hun’s not expecting him anymore. He’s been keeping himself occupied throughout the evening doing a routine gun inspection, cleaning the revolver he keeps in his room, when an alert from his security system app comes through, announcing the arrival of his unexpected guest.

Once he’s inside Gi-hun’s room, Young-il immediately eyes the gun, now left discarded on top of the drawer. He raises his eyebrows in mild amusement. “You’re lucky I’m not a cop anymore, I’d have to arrest you for that.”

Gi-hun frowns. “You used to be a cop?”

There’s a beat, quick but noticeable, before Young-il replies. His expression never wavers. “Yeah,” for some reason, he sounds unsure when he confirms it. “I thought I told you that before.”

Nope. Gi-hun definitely would have remembered this. “No, you didn’t.”

He hides the gun back in the drawer, making sure that the safety is on. Young-il’s eyes follow his every movement. “You look surprised. You don’t think I seem the type?”

He shakes his head. Now that he thinks about it, it actually makes perfect sense. He saw the way Young-il defended himself from other players. The man is strong and steady, all quick reflexes and an observant stare. There’s even something cop-like in the way he carries himself; an air of casual authority.

“I didn’t say that. It’s not even that it’s surprising, it’s just….” He pauses, debates how best to phrase it as not to offend his companion. “I don’t have the best experiences with the police.”

Something eases in Young-il’s expression. “I see.”

Gi-hun takes a seat on the bed, letting his body sag. He woke up at 5 am sharp, left to go for a run immediately, and spent the rest of his day with Jun-ho and Woo-seok. He feels completely spent. “I’m guessing they won’t let you back on the force?”

Young-il shakes his head solemnly. “No. I was thinking I could look for a job as a security guard,” He sends a playful smile his way, like this is supposed to be some kind of an inside joke between the two of them. “I think it’d suit me.”

The playful tone confuses him a little, but he supposes Young-il’s right. “Yeah, that sounds like you.” The mention of a job search reminds him of the fragility of Young-il’s situation. “Look, if you need more money…”

“For the last time, no . My brother-in-law helped me pay off most of my debts, and I can take care of the rest of it in installments.” He’s starting to sound frustrated. Gi-hun has this peculiar hunch that Young-il doesn’t want to waste their time talking about debts and bills. “I don’t want your money, Gi-hun. Please stop offering it.”

Fair enough. He had to try. “Fine.” He looks the other man up and down again. He’s just standing there, leaning against the wall opposite Gi-hun’s bed. Suddenly, something he said strikes Gi-hun as odd. “You never talked about your brother-in-law before.”

Young-il sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He does it sometimes, when he’s nervous or uncomfortable. He looks like he’s bracing himself for a tough conversation. After a brief moment of hesitation, he eases himself down on the bed next to Gi-hun. Even though he maintains a normal amount of distance between them, the choice to sit so close still strikes him as somewhat weird. Well, maybe this is one of those days when Young-il’s feeling particularly lonely. He did come in the middle of the night. “We’re not very close.”

He’s not quite sure how to respond. The other man doesn’t seem that bothered by it, even though his words hint at another part of the story that remains unsaid. “That must be tough.”

“Not really,” Young-il looks down, starts playing with the edges of the sheets, as if trying to distract himself from the conversation. “He wasn’t very close with my wife either, so I never expected anything from him in the first place. Were you close with your ex-wife’s siblings?”

He chuckles at that. “She’s an only child.” And she is the epitome of one. Confident, laid-back, and used to getting what she wants.

“Like you?”

He doesn’t remember telling Young-il about this, either, but perhaps it’s a lucky guess. Maybe Gi-hun just acts like an only child. “Yes. What about you?”

A shadow passes over Young-il’s face. Gi-hun’s gaze catches on his jaw and the way it twitches. “I have a brother. But I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

Ah. That explains a lot, actually– why Young-il is so reluctant to talk about his family. “I’m sorry. Did you two get in a fight?”

“No.” Gi-hun patiently waits for him to continue. Young-il exhales, like even just thinking about this is physically painful. “Something happened and I… Well. I couldn’t bear to face him anymore.”

“Have you thought about reaching out? Trying to fix it?”

He thinks about his mother, how much of a disappointment he was to her before he decided to rejoin the games. At the time, he was sure he’d have more time to fix it. 

Young-il’s jaw clenches. Gi-hun looks down and notices that the other man’s fingers have tightened around the bedsheets. “It can’t be fixed.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Gi-hun,” Young-il’s tone turns sharper. A warning. “It’s done.”

The truth is, he doesn’t want to let it go. He wants to keep probing, to learn exactly what happened between Young-il and his brother. Surely, it couldn’t be as horrible as his companion seems to think. Gi-hun might not have siblings, but he once forgave a brother figure for trying to murder him. Whatever Young-il did, his brother would probably look past it, too.

Or maybe he’s just being naive again. He lets it go. “Okay. I’m sorry for pushing.”

Young-il’s eyes meet his own. He seems almost timid and unsure, and he’s searching for something in Gi-hun’s face. Young-il does this a lot: not just staring at Gi-hun, but inspecting him, like he’s trying to catch a glimpse of fish swimming in a pond. “No, it’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just haven’t talked to anyone about this in years. I don’t really know how to do this anymore.” He lets out a broken laugh, rakes his hand through his hair. “That’s why I like you, you know? You wear your heart on your sleeve.”

The words should sound innocent, but there’s a new weight to Young-il’s gaze. Not for the first time since they reunited, Gi-hun feels like he’s missing something. A complicated idea creeps in the back of his head and he tries to push it away. 

He attempts to mask his doubts with humor. “I’ve been told that’s going to get me killed.”

But Young-il doesn’t laugh. He scoots closer to him on the bed, until their knees brush together. And his eyes– they’re stuck on Gi-hun’s face, like a magnet. He brings his face closer until their noses are almost touching. This close, Gi-hun can smell his cologne, a faint aroma that reminds him of conifers, amber, and sea salt. “I think it’s the opposite. It’s what’s kept you alive.”

Without warning, Young-il leans in and brings their lips together in a ghost of a kiss.

Fuck, Gi-hun feels like an idiot. So this is what he was missing.

Heat rushes to his cheeks. Young-il’s lips are still chapped, their touch rough against his own. He tastes of tea– the kind that Gi-hun doesn’t drink unless with him. He senses a light touch against his cheek and realizes that Young-il’s hand is brushing against it with delicate, but determined motions.

He pulls away from the kiss, but his body betrays him and keeps him glued to the bed. He should stand up, get away from Young-il, put some more distance between them. But he can’t find it in himself to lean away from the warm hand slotted against his cheek.

Panic sets over him. What the hell is he supposed to say? How does one even make sense of this?

 Young-il is watching him with mild amusement.

“What are you doing?” Gi-hun finally asks, quieter and weaker than he meant to sound.

The other man just smiles playfully. His hand brushes against his cheekbone, thumb tracing the lines under his eye. “Isn’t it obvious?”

No. It definitely isn’t fucking obvious. If it was obvious, he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. “Young-il… Where is this coming from?” But Young-il doesn’t seem interested in replying. He leans in, steals another kiss before Gi-hun can react, slower this time- just a tentative brush of lips. Gi-hun pushes him away, fingers twitching against Young-il’s chest. “Wait, wait.”

Reluctantly, Young-il pulls away. But his face is still too close for comfort, and Gi-hun can feel each of his exhales on his own mouth. His other hand has made its way to Gi-hun’s shoulder. The touch doesn’t feel friendly or accidental anymore. It’s deliberate.

Fuck, he’s in way over his head. He doesn’t know how to navigate this- the careful, sensual weight of Young-il’s heart bared only to him. It’s not really about the touches, the kiss, the promise of sex lingering on Young-il’s tongue. Gi-hun understands sex; if he thought this was just about two friends sharing a casual fuck, he’d still be surprised, but not overwhelmed. No, this is about the fact that this man has completely anchored himself around Gi-hun without his knowledge. 

He closes his eyes. How did he miss it? Young-il opened up so slowly that by the time he was spread open for him, Gi-hun didn’t even notice. Gi-hun thought he was the one doing the sharing, but Young-il was coiling himself around him with every secret, every little bad dream, every skeleton in the closet he confessed to. And now he’s found himself entwined with him so profoundly that he doesn’t even remember falling into his waters. Young-il’s waves crash into him, and Gi-hun’s tide washes over Young-il. 

When did this happen? When the fuck did this happen?

“Why?”

Young-il’s question brings him back to reality and his eyes snap open at the sound of his voice. The amusement on his face has faded. If anything, he looks hurt, and the realization that Gi-hun has caused this makes him feel slightly nauseous. 

He tries to collect his thoughts. The thing is, there’s no obvious answer to that question. Now that the penny has dropped, he’d be lying if he said he’s not attracted to Young-il. It just took him a long time to realize it. Still, he feels deep in his guts that he can’t let this happen.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he murmurs. When he speaks out, Young-il strokes his thumb against his cheek again, as if encouraging him to go on. “It doesn’t feel right. You just lost your wife.”

A crease forms between his companion’s brows. “ That’s what makes this wrong?”

Fuck. He’s oversimplifying it. “I’m not saying it’s wrong, it’s just not right.”

A wild look of determination flashes across Young-il’s face, illuminating it in the dusk of the room. “It is. Let me show you.”

He leans in, trying to connect their lips again, but this time Gi-hun’s body is ready for it. He pushes him away and scrambles away on the bed. “No, stop it, please.”

Young-il drops his hands as if burnt. For a minute, their eyes lock together, an uncomfortable mirror of the way Young-il tried to connect their lips. Finally, the other man looks away, folding his hands in his lap. His shoulders ease and his mouth sets into a thin line. Fuck, he looks like he might cry. Gi-hun wants to put his hand on his arm, press it in comfort, but he’s afraid Young-il will take it the wrong way.

He sees the way Young-il struggles, fighting with himself before he finally speaks. “I’m sorry. I just…” A beat. Gi-hun finds himself unable to look away. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

A deep tide of guilt and sympathy washes over him. He scoots back up, shrinking the distance between them, but making sure their legs or arms aren’t touching. Young-il looks up at him, eyes wide and unfocused, like a wild animal. “You’re not. You’re not alone, I swear.” Slowly, as if approaching a stranger, Gi-hun places his hand on Young-il’s shoulder, squeezes it deliberately. Young-il’s eyes lock on the spot where their bodies touch. “But I think you’re confused, and vulnerable, and lost.”

The other man huffs out a humorless laugh. “And you’re not?” 

He should probably be offended, or at least taken aback by how direct Young-il’s words are, cutting through him like a knife. But it’s too late for that. 

“I can handle it,” he says, not really sure if he’s telling the truth. “I’ve been through worse. But you, you’re not thinking straight right now.” He pauses, wonders how far he can push without breaking this. Fuck it– he decides to go all in. “I just don’t want to be one of the things you’ll regret.”

Young-il keeps looking at him like he doesn’t understand. “Okay. I understand.”

Before Young-il leaves, Gi-hun awkwardly tries to convey to him that he’s welcome back in his home anytime. And although the other man nods at the words, Gi-hun doubts that they’ll be able to go back to the way things used to be.

That night, he finds him wide awake, adrenaline coursing through his veins, restless like a stowaway. Fuck. He’s gotten so used to Young-il’s company, the ease with which the two of them revolve around each other’s orbits. The familiarity in Young-il’s touches, the way he seems to understand Gi-hun as if having reached into his soul. Gi-hun doesn’t have people in his life anymore– not friends . He’s not sure if he’s ready to let this friendship go.

Finally, he gives up on trying to fall asleep and takes out his phone. He pulls up his contacts, his eyes lingering on Young-il’s name. In the end, he scrolls up to Jun-ho’s name instead. He sends the man a brief message asking him to come by the next day, as early as he can. He needs a distraction. He longs to throw himself into work, keep his mind occupied with thoughts of revenge and violence. He thinks that Young-il would disapprove of it, and the idea leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

Don’t be a stranger. Come over for dinner tonight. He presses send and the text goes through to Young-il before Gi-hun can second-guess his decision.

He sighs, leaving his phone discarded by the pillow before letting himself sag against the headboard. Yesterday’s conversation with Jun-ho has cleared his head. He was right; talking with the other man was exactly what he needed to make sense of this fucked up situation. Looking back at it, things make more sense than he was expecting. It’s like he purposely didn’t connect the dots earlier, too confused and unnerved by the fragility of their relationship to probe it further. 

Well, he knows better now.

Young-il doesn’t text him back in the end, but he does arrive a few hours later. Gi-hun opens the motel entrance with his phone and waits for the other man to come up. Young-il probably knows the route to his room by heart now. When he finally arrives, he lingers in the doorway, like a vampire waiting for an invitation to enter. He’s wearing a deliberate expression of careful detachment, but Gi-hun sees through the mask. There’s tension in his shoulders, a slight twitch to his upper lip. He’s nervous. 

“Hey,” Young-il is the first to break the silence. 

Gi-hun sends a weak smile his way, hoping it doesn’t come off as awkward. “Hi. Is bulgogi okay? I was just about to order.” He picks up his phone and waves it at the other man to emphasize his point.

Young-il frowns. “I thought maybe we could go out.”

Normally, he’d take Young-il’s offer in a heartbeat, but he has plans for tonight– ones that very much involve his room. “Can we stay in? I just came back, I’m beat.”

The other man falters briefly, but in the end just nods at him. “Of course,” He finally enters the room, sits on the chair opposite Gi-hun’s bed. “Where were you?”

“Working with Jun-ho. The guy who’s looking for his brother.”

“Yes, I remember.” Young-il’s jaw clenches. He looks like he’s steeling himself for where this conversation is headed. Gi-hun watches as he takes a deep breath and locks eyes with him. “I wanted to apologize.”

“Don’t,” he says before Young-il is done speaking. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

His words don’t ease the frown on his companion’s face. If anything, it grows deeper. “No, I was out of line, Gi-hun, and I’m sorry.”

His heart beats faster, blood rushing to his cheeks, making him feel light-headed. He hesitates– should he really go through with this? But he’s already made his call. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll probably never find the courage. And he decides that this is the only path forward. He can’t ignore this pressure in his chest anymore. 

He gets up and crosses the room, dropping to his knees in front of Young-il’s chair, trying not to trip over his own feet. The other man’s eyes widen and a flush creeps up his exposed neck.

“Young-il,” the name falls from his mouth like a picked fruit. He raises his hand, his fingers trembling, and places it on the back of Young-il’s neck. The man watches him with a mix of surprise and want. “Listen to me. There is nothing to apologize for. ”

Shifting his weight on his knees, he straightens and locks their lips together in a messy kiss.

For a second, Young-il doesn’t kiss him back, probably too stunned to react. Gi-hun almost pulls back, scared shitless that he might have misread the situation again . But just when he’s about to retreat, Young-il’s lips move against his own and his arms lock around Gi-hun’s back, tugging his body closer until their chests are flush. 

Young-il kisses like he means it. He responds to every little press of Gi-hun’s lips, pulling away and back into his mouth in quick, impatient motions. When he withdraws, Gi-hun tries chasing after him, but Young-il directs him to stay still with his hands. 

He looks so fucking good like that. His pupils are blown wide, eyes hooded and intent, and he’s looking at Gi-hun like he wants to devour him whole. 

“What made you change your mind?” He asks, voice already husky. He brings one of his hands to Gi-hun’s face, swipes his index finger along his jaw.

Fuck. He doesn’t know what to say. Gi-hun wrestles with the question, trying to make sense of his own thoughts. “I just… I thought about you a lot yesterday. I think when you kissed me, I felt like I didn’t know you anymore. But you know what?” He presses their mouths together again, gives Young-il’s bottom lip a soft bite. It’s easier to speak now that he doesn’t have to look at him. “I do. I realize now that I know you better than I thought.”

Young-il immediately dives in again, pulling him into another kiss. It’s deeper this time, and the other man returns the favor, nibbling at his mouth like his life depends on it. He’s rougher than Gi-hun was, and the bite forces a whimper out of his throat, half-pain, half-pleasure. It’s a little unexpected, the force of his lips, the way his hands roam around Gi-hun’s body like he’s trying to map it out. 

Maybe it’s the loneliness. And it’s not like Gi-hun minds.

Young-il’s mouth drifts past his lips, leaving a wet trail of kisses down his jaw before attaching itself to Gi-hun’s neck. He moans, uncaring about being too loud, and throws his head back at the pressure. His hands move of their own accord, traveling down Young-il’s body as the other man sucks at his pulse point. Gi-hun palms his chest and stomach, lingering at his hips, before brushing against his crotch. Fuck, this is all happening so fast.

But without pulling away from his neck, Young-il grabs his hands and guides them back to his hips instead. “Gi-hun, fuck, keep still,” he instructs him, breath coming in hot against his throat. One of his hands clenches in his hair, immobilizing him so he can’t squirm against Young-il’s mouth.

Obediently, he keeps his hands locked to Young-il’s side. Still, he can’t help but lift the edges of his shirt and dig his fingers into the other man’s cold skin. Young-il shudders at the contact and licks the bite on his neck. He’s leaving marks. Neither of them cares.

He smashes their lips together again, licking into Gi-hun’s mouth messily. It feels so urgent like this, with Young-il’s fingers in his hair guiding their movements, experimenting with the angles. Gi-hun’s body is on fire with want, his mind clouded with fog, like the steam from the tea he makes every time Young-il visits. Fuck, he needs to pull himself together. This is supposed to be about Young-il. He’s supposed to make the other man uncoil, to remind him that he’s not alone, pull at his edges until he’s spread open for him.

Gi-hun disconnects himself from Young-il’s mouth and his companion’s fingers immediately tighten in his hair, the other hand caressing his cheek. 

“Why did you stop?” Young-il asks, sounding dazed. His thumb catches on Gi-hun’s bottom lip and he sucks it inside, noting with deep pleasure how the other man’s eyes flutter closed at the touch. “Gi-hun, fuck…”

He doesn’t want to tease. Not just for Young-il’s sake, but also for his own. So he sets to work, grabbing the other man’s trousers, directing him with an intent gaze to lift his hips so he can pull them down his thighs. Young-il obeys, eyes drilling holes into Gi-hun’s face. It’s flattering. Jesus Christ, how did it take him so long to notice this?

He lets his fingers linger over Young-il’s thighs, stroking the soft skin, grazing it with his nails, adding just a touch of cruelty. When a frustrated sigh leaves his companion’s mouth, Gi-hun can’t help a playful grin. Maybe he is a bit of a tease, after all. He cups him through his black briefs, appreciating the solid weight of his cock even through the fabric. Young-il is hard and probably leaking already, judging by the slight wetness his fingers come across when they curl around him.

Somewhere above him, Young-il curses. “Gi-hun, fuck, come on.”

He bites his bottom lip, letting his mind explore fantasies of what could happen next. He does have a plan- but is it really too late to change it? Maybe he should crawl into Young-il’s lap and ride him to completion? Or maybe force him up and ask him to fuck him into the wall?

No. This was, this is supposed to be about Young-il. The technicalities don’t matter. The plan is, this is going to be about Young-il’s pleasure.

“What do you want, Young-il?” He asks, trying to keep his voice from breaking, overwhelmed with the need to hear the other man verify how– and how much– he wants him.

Young-il’s hand returns to his mouth, two fingers replacing his thumb, forcing their way between his lips again. They rub against Gi-hun’s tongue before diving deeper without a warning, so far back that he almost gags. Young-il watches him intently, making sure he can take it, before retreating and thrusting in again. Gi-hun braces himself, just letting it happen. The other man doesn’t need to say anything, after all. Gi-hun can take a hint.

When the fingers leave his mouth, he doesn’t bother wiping his mouth. He pulls down Young-il’s briefs in one deliberate movement, freeing his cock. It’s flushed a deep, angry red, and already leaking from the tip, just like he suspected. His mouth waters at the sight of it. Fuck, he wants to taste it.

Young-il’s groan rings out in the quiet of the room the moment Gi-hun’s lips close around his head. It almost sounds like he’s in pain, Gi-hun thinks with mild amusement. He lets himself mouth along the head lazily, just exploring. It’s been a few years since he last did this. He figures it’s best to take it slow, no matter how much he wants to watch the other man lose himself in orgasmic bliss. 

He pulls away and licks a long stripe up Young-il’s cock. It’s slightly salty and appealingly firm. He traces a vein with his tongue, noting how the other man shudders at the contact. Fuck, the way he’s reacting, it seems like it’s been a while for him, too. Gi-hun wraps his mouth around the head again, this time sucking at it softly, trying to find the right rhythm. Young-il’s hips twitch.

He looks up. He’s not surprised to find the other man watching him, eyes wide open, like he’s savoring the image, trying to commit it to memory. When their eyes meet, Young-il shudders, like the fact that Gi-hun is watching him watch him turns him on even more.

“Keep going,” he chokes out. He’s not sure if it’s a plea or a command.

He doesn’t need to repeat himself. Gi-hun pulls off and dives right back in immediately, this time stretching his lips around Young-il’s cock, sinking down on it slowly but firmly. He can feel the other man’s gaze on him the entire time. He drags himself off him, briefly raising a hand to his mouth and spitting in it, before swallowing around him again. This time, he makes sure to wrap his hand around what he can’t reach with his mouth, stroking Young-il’s cock in rhythm with his lips.

He bobs his head faster, taking in another half a centimeter with each pull. He knows he can’t take all of it, not without more time, but he hasn’t heard many complaints in the past. And it doesn’t seem like Young-il minds that he’s a bit out of practice. “So good for me,” he groans, hips thrusting into his mouth instinctively.

The words send a shiver down Gi-hun’s spine. He wants more. He grabs Young-il’s hands and brings them to the back of his head, feeling the other man’s fingers clench around the short strands. This would work better back when his hair was longer, but they’ll have to make do. 

Young-il seems to get the message and tightens his hold. He starts guiding his movements up and down his cock, nice and slow. Gi-hun tries his best to comply with the unspoken commands, twirling his tongue against the other man’s slit, eliciting another broken moan. “Fuck, just like that,” he grunts. Gi-hun hums around his length, and the vibrations only drive Young-il crazier.

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to grow fast and rough- still, at least they’re not too deep. He’s not driving himself all the way down Gi-hun’s throat, as if realizing that it would be too much. Even frenzied with pleasure, he’s still considerate. Gi-hun looks up again. Young-il’s head is thrown back against the chair, eyes squeezed shut in bliss that seems to border on agony. He looks completely fucked out of his mind. An odd hunch passes over Gi-hun, like there’s something he’s forgetting to do. Whatever it is, he guesses it can wait.

He digs his fingers into the meat of Young-il’s thighs, trying to ground himself. The other man has taken control of the blowjob; all Gi-hun can do is stretch his mouth, hollow his cheeks, and focus on his breath. His own cock is hard and throbbing in his jeans, but he doesn’t want to distract himself from the other man’s pleasure. This is about Young-il , he reminds himself again.

His companion’s hips stutter and Gi-hun can feel his thighs clenching under his palms. He’s close, he realizes. As if reading his mind, Young-il speaks again. “Look at me,” he directs him, voice dark. He sounds like a completely different person altogether.

Gi-hun shudders when their eyes meet. Young-il is staring at him like there’s nothing else in the room, like looking at anything else would be a sacrilege. Gi-hun knows that he doesn’t deserve it, but he tries to push the thought away, doubling his attention on the cock in his mouth. He hollows his cheeks and takes a deep breath through his nose, swallowing around Young-il, trying to pull him deeper inside. His eyes water from the pressure and a loose tear escapes, rolling down his cheek. The other man looks down at him with worship, and as he finally comes, driving into him with abandon, a warm finger wipes the tear away. Gi-hun closes his eyes, surrendering to the pleasure of granting Young-il release, swallowing the come that dribbles down his throat in pulsating waves. This is it. This is what he wanted. 

Young-il’s cock continues to thrust shallowly, twitching in the aftershocks. Gi-hun keeps licking around his length until the other man pulls out, oversensitive and fucked stupid. But he doesn’t grant him the mercy of a respite. “Come here,” Young-il pulls him into his lap and kisses him like a man dying of thirst. Gi-hun wonders if he can taste himself on his lips.

The kiss is fast but shallow, a mosaic of quick presses and pulls. Before Gi-hun can realize what’s happening, he feels the other man’s hand on the button of his jeans. Fuck, he’s so hard that it hurts. But this was never supposed to be about his release. 

With shaking hands, he stops Young-il’s fingers, gripping them loosely. “You don’t have to…”

But his companion is already busy mouthing along his jaw. He unbuttons his jeans with easy confidence and pulls them down. “Shhhhh,” he whispers, and the words are lost in his neck.

Gi-hun feels pathetic and desperate, moaning wantonly the moment Young-il gets his hands on his cock. It’s been a while. But it’s not just that- He’s so turned on that he can barely breathe, frantic with the taste of Young-il’s release still potent on his tongue. He melts against the other man, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. His mouth now freed, Young-il immediately decides to keep it busy by pressing his lips against his ear. “Come on, Gi-hun,” he whispers, egging him on.

He thrusts into Young-il’s hand, chasing his release like he’s running for his life. He bites the other man’s neck, so lost in his own pleasure that he doesn’t care if his teeth close around the sensitive skin a bit too roughly, trying to distract himself from the overwhelming pressure coiling deep in his belly. Fuck, it feels like he’s being boiled alive in scorching waters. Young-il is relentless, fisting his cock with everything he’s got. When his lip closes around his earlobe and he pulls , Gi-hun is lost, his orgasm hitting him like the bullet he took to the shoulder. 

Young-il strokes him through it, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as Gi-hun comes down from his high. He’s still too fucked out of his mind to feel embarrassed about how quick and loud his release was. Young-il tucks him back into his jeans and then wipes his hand, the one covered in his come, on the armrest. This is going to leave a stain. That asshole.

Just as he comes back to reality, he realizes what it is that he forgot to do.

“Good?” Young-il asks. His voice, silky and playful, pulls Gi-hun out of his thoughts. His companion’s hands are wrapped around his waist, heavy and possessive. 

Gi-hun nods against his throat. Then, he reaches into his pocket, grabs the syringe that he hid there before Young-il arrived, and plunges it deep into the other man’s neck with a single, unwavering motion.

He passes the time by cleaning them and handcuffing In-ho to the pipe behind him, but not before checking his pulse to make sure he didn’t overdo it with the downer. Woo-seok promised that it was enough to knock a grown man out for half an hour, but not strong enough to do any real damage. 

He takes a seat on the bed and watches him. Hwang In-ho . He still finds it difficult to reconcile the name with the image of the man who held him through his breakdown. And he can’t help the sting of guilt that pulsates just beneath his consciousness. There’s a reason why he asked Woo-seok for a tranquilizer instead of knocking Young-il out.

Instead of knocking In-ho out.

The drive takes Jun-ho less than fifteen minutes, courtesy of the SOS message Gi-hun sent him. Once his phone alerts him that the other man has entered the building, Gi-hun leaves the room, closes the door behind him and positions himself in front of it like a guard, waiting for Jun-ho. He’s out of breath when he arrives, having taken the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. 

He looks Gi-hun up and down, narrowing his eyes with suspicion at the sight of the closed door behind him. “What is it?”

Gi-hun doesn’t break eye contact. Jun-ho always thinks that between the two of them, he’s the one holding the cards. Well, this time, he fucked up. “Your brother is here.”

He can’t deny the thrill of satisfaction that floods his body as he watches the other man’s face fall. He finally gives in to his anger and frustration with Jun-ho. They’ve been working together for months- they certainly weren’t friends, but Gi-hun has learnt to trust him.

Well, as he’s learnt twice already, one should never trust a Hwang brother.

“What?” 

“I know that he’s the Frontman,” he explains, making sure that his words sting. “You shouldn’t have lied to me, Jun-ho.”

The other man hesitates. He’s probably debating whether he should make excuses. Gi-hun knows they’re long past apologizing. “How did you figure it out?” He asks instead.

But the whole story is way too long and convoluted for a brief summary. In-ho is set to wake up any moment, now. And frankly, Gi-hun is simply too annoyed with the other man to talk to him. “Ask him to explain it to you.”

A dark look passes over Jun-ho’s face and his gaze flickers to the door to Gi-hun’s room. “He’s in here?” Gi-hun nods. “What happens now?”

This time, it’s Gi-hun who pauses before answering. If only he knew. “It’s up to him. And you. But mostly to him.”

Jun-ho’s jaw clenches. He reaches for the door handle, opens the door and steps inside. Gi-hun lets him. 

He follows him, but stops dead in his tracks when he realizes that In-ho is already awake. He’s still sprawled in the armchair, body tense, muscles clenched so hard it must hurt. He doesn’t seem surprised to find himself handcuffed, or to see Jun-ho. He probably overheard them through the door, Gi-hun realizes.

He doesn’t spare a look at Gi-hun. His eyes are locked on Jun-ho, who crosses the room in two long strides, almost trance-like. He stops in front of the armchair, lets out a sigh, watching his older brother like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Hyung.”

In-ho flinches. “Jun-ho.” It sounds like a warning.

His eyes flicker and shift to Gi-hun. He feels himself drowning under the weight of his gaze.

“Good job, Gi-hun,” his voice is rough and dry. And yet, there’s an exposed edge to it. Like he’s barely clinging onto a mirage of control. “I never saw it coming.”

He swallows down his guilt. “Yeah, I know.”

Jun-ho looks between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. His brows furrow in confusion. He turns to Gi-hun. “Can we have the room? I want to talk to him.”

He hesitates. “I think I should talk to him first.”

“No,” he’s surprised to hear In-ho’s firm dismissal. It stings. “Let me talk to my brother. Then you and I can talk. And then… I think all three of us have much to discuss together.”

Fair enough. He can wait a few minutes. He supposes a brother he hasn’t talked to in nine years should be the priority, after all. He nods at In-ho, then locks his eyes with Jun-ho in a silent warning. “I’ll wait outside.”

He doesn’t want to pass the time in front of the door. He knows that the sound carries through the wall and he really, really doesn’t want to overhear this conversation. Gi-hun walks further down the hall in a daze, lowers himself to the ground in front of a different room. He feels overwhelmed and exhausted, adrenaline finally wearing off and leaving his body spent and split. Too much has happened over the past hour. His mind is still flooded with the memories of In-ho’s cock, his mouth, his hands. The same hands that Gi-hun locked in handcuffs.

His head rolls back, resting against the wall. Absently, he realizes that In-ho and Jun-ho’s voices still manage to carry across the hall. He can only hear them vaguely; they’re not loud enough for him to pick up on what they’re saying. He closes his eyes, trying to distract himself by clenching and unclenching his fists. He’s afraid he’ll fall asleep if he lets his body relax.

Suddenly, the voices coming from his room grow louder, until he can’t ignore them anymore. It sounds like they’re fighting. He tries to convince himself that maybe it’s just a heated discussion between two brothers, because what the hell does he know about brothers, anyway? But then another noise booms in the quiet of the motel- a loud thump, as if something, or someone , hit the wall. 

Gi-hun pulls himself upwards and runs back into the room, opening the door with an unnecessary force. Inside, the two brothers are now standing by the window– and the window is wide open. More importantly, In-ho is no longer confined by the handcuffs, and Jun-ho has his brother’s wrist in a death grip, seemingly dragging him towards the window.

“What the fuck, Jun-ho?” Gi-hun screams. He can’t believe this guy has tried to fuck him again. “You let him out?”

It doesn't take a genius to put the pieces together– Jun-ho released In-ho from the handcuffs and was going to break him out through the window. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is the fact that In-ho is clearly resisting against his brother’s grip. The idea doesn’t make any sense. Why would he struggle against his own escape?

Jun-ho avoids his gaze. He looks like a kid who got caught stealing from his mother’s purse. “You would have killed him.”

He flinches back, disgusted by the very idea. “No! Fucking hell, Jun-ho, I wasn’t going to–”

“You weren’t?”

In-ho is looking at him intently, like he’s trying to drill holes in his head to read his mind. The weight of the stare is uncomfortable, but not unbearable. Gi-hun has found himself accustomed to it over the past weeks. This is just the way In-ho looks at him. Always has been, and probably always will be. 

“No,” he replies firmly. If Gi-hun wanted In-ho dead, he would have done it when he was unconscious. And In-ho is smart enough to know this. 

Gi-hun’s had a lot of time to think about In-ho after he finally figured out the truth during his last conversation with Jun-ho. It still frightens him, seeing the man in a completely different light. It’s like looking at his reflection in one of those funhouse mirrors that distort your image. He feels like he knows everything about the other man, but simultaneously knows nothing at all. He desperately wants to change it. Which parts of Young-il’s personality were a ruse, and which ones were glimpses of the man In-ho really is? And his affection for Gi-hun– He almost wants to believe that it was all a part of his manipulation. But his gut is telling him that there’s more than meets the surface.

He needs In-ho to tell him the entire truth. And then Gi-hun is going to convince him to help them bring the games down. Perhaps he’s the same naive fool that he used to be three years ago. But, at the end of the day, would that really be so horrible?

The other man is still staring at him with a raw and fearful look in his eyes. His body is frozen in place, like an animal caught in a beartrap. Gi-hun imagines taking his hand, kissing his fingers, telling him that it’s okay- and asking him to stay. “Why didn’t you leave?”

Young-il hesitates, looking away. His gaze flickers to the armchair. Gi-hun wonders if the fabric is still warm from where their bodies intertwined on it. “I’d rather stay here ,” he emphasizes the word “here” and Gi-hun wonders if it’s just the motel he’s talking about. “Cards on the table and all.”

A heavy look passes between the two of them. He feels a slight tingle on his cheek. It reminds him of the way wounds itch when they start to heal.

“Okay. Sit down. Let’s talk.”