Chapter Text

The base rattled through the walls, the floor, pulsing in Nam-Gyu’s chest as he wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The club was a mess of bodies and strobe lights, every beat of the song vibrating the glasses stacked behind him. Different night, same shit. 

Until it wasn’t.

The door swung open, and the crowd shifted, just like they always did when someone important walked in. Heads turned. Phones secretly filmed. Nam-Gyu didn’t look right away. He didn’t have to. He could feel the way the air shifted, the usual starchy-hot cling suddenly charged. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of heavy jewelry, a familiar smirk cutting lazily through the noise like it was made for him. Thanos — the Thanos — swaggered in, a girl draped over his arm, laughing at something he'd whispered into her bejewelled ear.

Nam-Gyu’s stomach twisted, suddenly aware of where he was, how his hair stuck to the back of his neck, how his uniform was wrinkled. But his hands stayed steady as he finished wiping the bar. Professional. Detached.

 He could pretend.

Thanos made his way up, grinning like he owned the damn place, and leaned an elbow on the counter, loose and easy. 

“Rum and coke,” he said, voice rough, though in a way that probably sounded intentional. He could feel his eyes burning into the back of his neck, and Nam-Gyu turned around as Thanos let his eyes flicker briefly, deliberately, to Nam-Gyu's hand. "And the usual."

Nam-Gyu's breath caught, just for a second, but he didn't let it show. The girl, perched on a barstool, murmured for a martini, smiling sweetly. 

Nam-Gyu nodded, cool and wordless, turning to mix the drinks. His fingers moved fast, muscle memory, but his other hand reached subtly under the counter, fishing out the tiny packet tucked into the taped off section only the staff knew to look.

When he slid the drinks across, the packet was wedged neatly under the napkin.

Thanos's eyes flicked down — the faintest glint of approval — before his hand closed over the glass.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” Thanos said, grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. 

Nam-Gyu shrugged, keeping his tone cool. “Don’t get paid to.”

Thanos laughed — low, pleased —  and tossed some bills onto the counter without counting. He picked up the drink, and downed half in one go, ice crunching between his straight white teeth. 

“Keep the change,” he murmured, voice silky with a tilt of his head before straightening up, arm snaking back around the girl's waist, her lips playing with an olive-less toothpick.

Nam-Gyu watched him turn, watched him get swallowed back into the crowd of people asking questions, voices overlapping and mingling with the music, watched him leave through the haze of lights and smoke —  his heart thudding too fast, too loud. 

So much for detached.

He hated how his hands shook as he took the empty glass. He hated how, later that night, he knew he’d end up searching his name again like a fucking idiot.

And he hated, most of all, how part of him was already wondering when the next usual would come.

♱♱♱

He almost didn’t come tonight. 

He’d been on edge all day – mouth dry, skin too tight. Withdrawal crept under his skin like static. He could’ve hit up someone else. Anyone else. Should’ve.

The club was disgusting, like always. Noise and heat and cheap cologne and cameras always flashing where they weren’t wanted. He hated how bright it was in this place. Like the lights were actively trying to peel off your skin. 

The girl on his arm was already talking too much – some shit about her influencer friends. Or her parents. Or maybe it was about a dog. He wasn’t listening. Couldn’t. His head felt like it was filled with frayed cords. 

All he could think about was the bar. 

Was he even working tonight?

He couldn’t remember.

Had he said he was?

The moment the smoke tainted doors swung open and he stepped into that heat-slicked dark, he felt it. Sure, he felt the way everyone’s eyes turned to him. Felt their cameras flash and their voices overlap. But that static in his chest? In his head? Gone. The itch that settled behind his ribs? Faded away. 

The air shifted – or, maybe he did. He couldn’t tell.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Thanos whispered in the girl's ear as they moved across the floor, camera flashes bright. He held back the urge to roll his eyes as she laughed, fake and sweet.

Like she was the first person he’d said that too. Like she was any different. Like she didn't wear the same clothes as anyone else, too much skin and temptation, and didn’t smell like that same tacky perfume, the scent wrapping around his head and fogging his thoughts. 

He saw the slope of a shoulder, the dip of a blank neck – so different from his, heavy with silver and chains – the precise, dismissive way he wiped the counter like it didn’t matter to him in the slightest who walked in.

Hair damp with sweat, sleeves rolled. Fuck, he looked good. Even with that wrinkled uniform. Especially with that wrinkled uniform.

Thanos made his way up to the bar like he wasn’t losing it. Like his hands weren’t secretly twitchy from lack of sleep and restraint. He let the smirk do the work. Let the crowd part just like they always did.

Leaned on the counter and dropped his voice and tried to act like he wasn’t already staring at the back of his neck as he turned around.

“Rum and coke,” he said, eyes tracing over his hand. “And the usual.”

He heard the way his breath hitched. Saw the way his hand twitched – just barely – before smoothing out again. That was something. That was his.

The girl said something sugary beside him, but he wasn’t listening. He didn’t care. Didn’t look at her. He only watched his fingers.

Those quiet, clever fingers. Fast. Deliberate. 

Don’t look at him too long. Don’t say anything stupid. Just get it and leave before you lose it.

When the drinks were slid over, Thanos’s eyes flicked instinctively down – saw the little packet tucked expertly under the napkin like a secret. LIke muscle memory. 

Or trust.

Or worse.

He swallowed down the sudden spike of want that lodged itself in his throat. Not just for the drugs. Not really. He closed his fingers around the glass instead.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” he asked. Testing. Teasing.

Nam-Gyu didn’t even flinch.

“Don’t get paid to.”

Thanos almost grinned without meaning too. Almost said I’d pay you to. But he didn't. He just laughed instead. That worked better, he decided. Worked way better. Tossed some cash like it was easy, like it was nothing.

Downed the drink like second nature. It burned, and he relished in the feeling as it slid down his throat. He crunched on a cube of ice and watched him closely.

“Keep the change,” he murmured, voice soft as he titled his head. He didn’t want to leave. But the crowd was watching, and the girl was touching his jacket again. So he let his arm snake around her waist, her perfume giving him a headache.

 Let himself get swallowed again. Voices. Flashing lights. Too much heat. 

He flashed his smile and took photos and answered hurried questions and tried not to think about the next time he’d come back. The next usual. Tried not to wonder whether he checked his name online. 

Wonder if he’d ever get a real answer from him. 

Wonder if he knew he didn’t come here for her. He didn’t even come for the drugs, not fully.

He came for the second it took for their fingers to touch over a drink.

And even that was barely enough.

♱♱♱

The walk home was a blur.

The streets were slick with rain and neon reflections, and Nam-Gyu moved through them like a ghost, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets.

By the time he shoved open the door to his cramped apartment, kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned his uniform, and collapsed onto the concerningly lumpy mattress that passed as a bed, his fingers were already itching for his phone.

He shouldn’t. It was stupid. Pathetic, even.

But still. 

He pulled the cracked device from his back pocket, the same pocket where the extra packet that had never been picked up had been burning a hole all night. He set it on the nightstand with a shaky breath, trying to not think about it, before thumbing open a new browser tab. 

He scoffed at himself as he typed “Thanos girlfriend ” into the waiting search bar, the words bitter in his mouth. 

The first thing that came up was a grim looking purple villain and a wiki page detailing the destruction of half the universe with a single snap. 

Nam-Gyu stared.

“...Fucking seriously?” He muttered, thumb hovering before adjusting the search like an idiot. 

"Thanos rapper girlfriend”

This time, real results filled his screen. Photos of Thanos — arms thrown around random girls, jaw sharp under harsh club lights. Multiple articles speculating about who he was dating. A blurry photo of him half-hiding, not very well, behind a car door with a girl whose face was barely visible.

Nam-Gyu scrolled. 

And scrolled.

 And scrolled.

At some point he wasn’t even pretending it was casual anymore. He found it violently embarrassing, the level of interest the man sparked in him — but it was hard to resist, a sharp tug he couldn’t ignore. Ever since that first gig he’d held at the club, the first night he’d seen him, heard him, watched him , he was stuck.

His violently purple hair, his loud jewellery, bright colored hair, his clothes, everything.  He was ethereal,  captivating and enticing and everything Nam-Gyu wasn’t. 

Since then, he’d been, not actively, just... occasionally keeping tabs. Following his recent gigs were, the odd Instagram post weaving into his feed. It wasn’t like he cared. He was just… interested.

And, really, who wasn’t? It was Thanos. He was a rapper, he was confident and charismatic and scandalous. When were the tabloids not about him?

Nam-Gyu paused, thumb hovering.

One photo caught his eye —  one he hadn't seen before.

It was Thanos was laughing, mouth wide open, some kind of pill sitting on the tip of his tongue and eyes squinted shut, looking so fucking alive it made Nam-Gyu’s chest ache for the same kind of rush.

His gaze flicked, uncomfortably, to the extra packet on the nightstand.

Another photo — a rare one —  standing backstage, sweaty, exhausted, shirt sticking to him like tape. His usual cocky smile was gone. He looked real.

Nam-Gyu pressed the side of his phone to his forehead, groaning softly. 

“This is pathetic,” he muttered.

Still, he went to Thanos’s Instagram, like a walk of shame, scrolling through a grid of cocky captions and smirking selfies. Somewhere around 1 AM, he started reading old interviews, listening to unreleased tracks found by fans, headphones crammed into his ears. 

At 1:47 AM, he found a video — grainy footage from one of Thanos’s club sets, months ago.

It was nothing special.

Just him, rapping, sweat shining on his hairline, voice rasping out lyrics with a desperate kind of edge.

But, at one point, he looked dead into the camera — into him — and Nam-Gyu sat frozen, phone clenched tight in his hand. Heart hammering so loud he could hear it in his ears, mingling with the sound of his husky voice as it continued to sing as if nothing happened.

Maybe Thanos didn’t know he existed. Maybe he was just one of a hundred other background faces to him.

But sitting there, alone in his shitty apartment, packets lined up on his night stand like a goddamn store, Nam-Gyu could at least pretend.

♱♱♱

It was two nights later when Thanos showed up again. 

The bass thrummed through the floor, each beat an extra pulse under Nam-Gyu’s skin. His hands moved on autopilot, the endless churn of sweaty, half-drunk customers lining the bar keeping him busy, but not distracted enough. 

Semi leaned against the back counter, twirling a straw between her fingers. She caught his twitchy glances and smirked. “You’re pathetic,” she said loudly over the thump of the music. 

“Don’t you have glasses to polish?” he muttered, not looking at her.

“Not when the views are this entertaining,” she said, reaching to attempt and kick his shin. “Seriously, if you get any thirstier you’re gonna drown behind the fucking bar.”

Nam-Gyu scowled, ears hot, but lost the chance to fire back, an insult curling around his tongue — the door swung open in a flash of cold night air, the club's usual stale air flooding out into the streets.

There he was.

No entourage of drunk friends. No girl on his arm.

Just him — black ripped jeans, a fitted jacked hanging open over a violently bright tee, silver chains catching in the strobe lights at his throat. Rings glinted on his fingers, his tattoos stark and dark against his skin.

And worse, he was heading straight for the bar. Right for him.

He sauntered up, lazy and easy, like he had all the time in the world. Nam-Gyu ducked his head, pretending to fix something under the counter. Play it cool. Like you weren’t stalking his entire online presence. Play it fucking cool, Nam-Gyu.

“Yo,” Thanos’s voice was a lazy drawl above him. He felt Semi’s foot dig into his back, and he shot up. 

Nam-Gyu straightened, face carefully blank. “What can I get you?”

Thanos leaned one elbow on the counter, a picture of casual menace. His dark eyes glistened.

“Tequila. Straight. And—”

He paused, lip curling into a half smirk. 

“Your number, if you’re feeling generous.”

The bottle he’d reached for slipped an inch — just enough for a sharp-eyed bastard like Thanos to notice. Nam-Gyu didn’t blink. Didn’t let himself look up as he grabbed a shot glass and poured.

Nam-Gyu’s gaze lifted, flat and unimpressed, masking the way his skin prickled hot along the back of his neck.

“We’re out of numbers,” he said plainly, sliding the shot across the counter.

Thanos's fingers brushed his deliberately — not an accident. Not quite.

“Only drinks.” 

Something small, folded, shifted under the counter where Nam-Gyu's hand had just been. Nothing obvious. Just a whisper of trade, the kind only they knew to look for.

For a second, Thanos just stared at him. 

Then he chuckled — a low, rough sound that scraped Nam-Gyu’s ribs from the inside. 

He tapped the rim of the glass and tipped it toward him in a mock salute, before knocking it back in one clean, practiced motion. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, such a casual gesture yet he still managed to make look effortless, eyes still locked on Nam-Gyu’s. His expression set like he was amused. Like he could see right through him and his translucent exterior.

“Guess I’ll just have to come back when you’re restocked.” Thanos said, voice softer now, teasing — but his gaze flicked once to Nam-Gyu's hand, to the invisible pass.

Semi, still loitering behind him, choked on her drink. Like she had a clue.

Thanos smiled slow and dangerous, pushing a crumpled bill across the bar — far too much for one singular shot. He winked. “I’ll be back. Keep the change, put it towards a proper restock.” 

Nam-Gyu stood frozen, the cash burning a hole in his hand, watching wordlessly as Thanos disappeared back into the crowd — swallowed by flashing lights and the haze of cigarette smoke. 

Semi whistled low. “Oh, you are so fucked.”

Yeah. He was so fucked.

And the worst part?

A tiny, traitorous part of him wanted to be.