Archive of Our Own

“Let’s go home… together…”

Sang-woo stares up at Gi-hun’s extended hand. His head is swimming from blood loss and his vision is impaired by the onslaught of rain falling directly into his eyes. The bite on his achilles tendon throbs in time with his pounding heart. He’d fought hard and cruelly to get to this point. He’s beaten and bloodied, some of it Gi-hun’s but most of it his own.

Hesitantly, Sang-woo raises his as well. It trembles slightly as all the adrenaline and fight dissipates from his body. With every centimeter he lifts it, the more he reconsiders. He’d stooped so beneath his morals that three people wound up dead, he doesn’t deserve to take the hand extended for him. If he took it, he’d be sent home without anything to show for how hard he fought besides the cuts in his face and some missing persons reports. No consequences in sight.

Gi-hun, however, played fairly. He still maintained his innocence in all this. He never went as far as killing anybody here. The round of marbles hardly counted as murder, he’d beat that old man fair and square. Not once had Gi-hun acted selfishly in the week he was here, Sang-woo noted. While he was so focused on saving himself, the older man tried to save everyone he could.

Sang-woo had three options. First, he could take Gi-hun’s hand. If they call off this final game, they’ll leave empty handed. The police will likely find him and he’ll serve time. His mother will be so horrified that she’ll either disown him or not reach out for an indeterminate amount of time, and he’d still be penniless. It would be near impossible to get a decent job with his criminal record. Gi-hun likely won't want to speak to him ever again after everything he’s done, he’s just offering to call off the games because he feels bad. He’s too kindhearted to kill a monster, so he’d much rather release it back into the wild. Alone, broke, and desperate, he’d wind up in another hotel bathtub, choking on the fumes from the briquette burning away beside him.

His second option includes killing Gi-hun and walking off with the prize money. If he moves quick enough, he could grab the knife stabbed into the dirt and attack. When free, he’ll pay off his debts, get his mother’s house and shop back, and be consumed by so much guilt he’ll still wind up dead in a bathtub. This time it’ll be his own, he could afford it in this outcome. Maybe this time, instead of carbon monoxide, he’ll use something sharp. Just to see if he bleeds red like everyone else he’d killed- just to see if he was still human.

His third option still finds him dead. It’s an inescapable fate. He can take the knife beside him, plunge it deep into his jugular like he had done to that girl, and Gi-hun wins. Gi-hun, whose hands have never been truly stained with the blood of another person’s. He’ll pay off his debts with it, and then Sang-woo doesn’t doubt he’d use the rest to help his mother and that daughter he always talks about. Maybe in his dying moments he’ll be able to convince Gi-hun to use a portion of it to help his mom get her things back.

His mind races as his hand gets closer to Gi-hun’s. When thinking through all three options with the same invariable outcome, he decides. Out of all 456 players to set foot in this hellish warehouse, Gi-hun was the most deserving of that prize money. Sang-woo was destined for hell, and he wasn’t about to bring the older man down with him.

“Hyung,” he starts as tears fall from his eyes, blending in with the pools of rain by his head. He’d been crying since the guard first pointed a gun right at his temple. “I’m sorry.” Time slows as he lifts his chin to give himself room before grabbing the knife and moving it to his jugular. He expects a sharp pain in his neck and warmth in his mouth as blood fills it, but it never comes. Sang-woo cracks his eyes open to see Gi-hun is now crouched down significantly lower than he was before. He’s holding Sang-woo’s wrist in his shaking fist, determination written on his face.

With his free hand he yanks the knife from his grip. Sang-woo notices how he winces slightly when the cool metal makes contact with the wound on his palm. He’d done that to him. “No,” Gi-hun grits out as he throws the knife as far away from the two men as he can.

Sang-woo’s eyes guiltily follow the knife as it soars. If Gi-hun weren’t holding his arm so tightly he might’ve been able to crawl over to it. Why’d he do that? He had been so angry with Sang-woo, so why did he care whether or not he died? He certainly didn’t seem to care when he’d lunged, knife in hand, after finding the girl dead. He didn’t seem to care when he threw sand in his eyes and attacked, no matter how hard Sang-woo tried to keep him off, too.

“Why’d you do that?” It comes out choked. He’s caught off guard and his hand is starting to go numb from how tightly he’s being gripped.

“I can’t just let you die, Sang-woo.” The harsh contrast between Gi-hun’s previous actions and current words are enough to knock someone off of their feet.

“Why not?” He tries to pull his hand away, but Gi-hun’s grip remains firmly in place. “You deserve the money more than I do.”

Gi-hun sighs. “Can’t you just-” he looks up at the red numbers counting down to their fate. There’s not a lot of time left. “Don’t you want to come home with me? Our moms are waiting.”

So he’d misunderstood what Sang-woo meant. When he’d said that their mothers weren’t calling them anymore, it wasn’t out of reminiscence and a desire to leave. It came from the understanding that there wasn’t anyone present to cut the game short, it had to end. One of them wasn’t allowed to make it out. Of course, Gi-hun misconstrued his words and decided it meant that they were calling themselves home.

“I meant the game had to end. Not that we should leave together.”

“I’m not leaving without you.” He’s being far too stubborn for how little time they have left. If he doesn’t let Sang-woo do this they’ll both die.

“Look at the count-down, hyung.” Three minutes. “We don’t have enough time. Let me do this, or would you rather die here along with me?”

Sang-woo wasn’t expecting the answer to that question being sharp “yes.” He can’t stand to let the older man die here. The only one deserving of such a humiliating and dehumanizing death here was him.

“Fine,” he sighs. He doesn’t know what Gi-hun plans to do when he gets dropped off, but Sang-woo knows his own plans. He’ll march back into his hotel room and relight the briquette still sitting beside the tub.

Gi-hun shifts his grip from Sang-woo’s wrist to his hand and pulls him up onto shaking legs.

The people paying to see this are probably enamoured by this conversation. What a thrill to see two childhood friends, with something else buried deep below, fighting to the death. Even more of a thrill to see them throw the thing they’d fought tooth and nail for away just because they can’t stand to see the other dead.

The timer stops and the sand pit’s roof begins to close over them, blocking the rain. It’s dark for a moment before large fluorescent lights suddenly flick on and illuminate the room. With the lights on you can clearly see the discarded clothing and puddles of blood the two men left behind. The steak knife Gi-hun had thrown shines like a beacon. Sang-woo, even after calling everything off, still wants to reach for it. In every possible scenario, he was meant to end up cold and lifeless.

The walk back inside the warehouse is eerie. There’s no fanfare to keep the players moving, the lights are dimmed, and the human chandelier is still up. The sounds of their bare feet limping against the linoleum floor echo throughout the halls. They’re left in the room they’d slept in with a change of clothes, the ones they’d arrived in. The piggy bank full of the cash they’d forfeited glows mockingly as the two men change. They didn’t see a point in moving to the bathroom this time, there was no girl present.

Sang-woo can’t help but glance at Gi-hun. He hadn’t seen him change in a long time. He hadn’t seen him in general in a long time. They’d had a horrible falling out when Sang-woo was in college. They were never an official item, but it felt like a break up. Sang-woo had been distancing himself, hardly picking up calls or coming over to visit for months. He doesn’t remember what started the fight, or where they’d been, but he remembers how hard he’d flinched at the crack of the door slamming shut. It was more than likely over something he’d done. He’d been self sabotaging because he didn’t deem himself worthy of Gi-hun’s doting attention and eventually pulled away so hard they didn’t speak for decades. Despite how long it had been, Sang-woo never forgot the burn of their bare skin touching.

In the midst of watching him change, he notices Gi-hun struggle. The cut in his thigh is making his balance unstable and he almost falls over multiple times. Every time he tries to undo the buttons with his cut hand, he hisses and lets go, leaving a patch of red behind. Sang-woo is already in his white button down and grey pants, but Gi-hun remains in his soaking wet suit. The only progress he’s made was undoing his belt and unclasping the top few buttons on his shirt.

“Hyung,” he calls out.

Gi-hun looks up from what he’s doing, clearly flustered. “What?”

What exactly perturbed the older man was unknown to Sang-woo, but he assumes its embarrassment and frustration at his inability to change on his own. “Do you need help?”

Gi-hun looks down at his clothes. “You don’t mind?”

Sang-woo tilts his head. The answer should’ve been obvious. “Of course not.”

He places a hand on Gi-hun’s torso to support his weight and guides him to sit on the nearest bed. Second nearest, actually. The one that was actually closest to them was still coated in the girl’s blood. Sang-woo guiltily realizes he’s been referring to her as “the girl” this whole time- he’d never learned her name. He spoke to her directly once, when they’d first returned, but that was about it. Gi-hun had addressed her by name multiple times, but it never stuck. At least he’d learned Ali’s name before he betrayed him.

Gi-hun sits stiffly on the bed as Sang-woo undoes the remaining few buttons. He’s very toned, Sang-woo notes. He’d always been, but it’s even more noticeable now. He has to fight back the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch him and instead continues helping. He removes the wet shirt and then the belt. The next step in the process is clear, but it feels like an assault on their boundaries. Sang-woo’s hand hesitantly hovers over the fly of the older man’s dress pants. “Can I…?” His voice trails off. Gi-hun can fill in the blank.

He nods before inhaling sharply, bracing himself. “Yeah.”

Sang-woo undoes the button, the fly, and tries to tug the slacks down. Since Gi-hun is sitting down he can’t get them off. “Put your hands on my shoulders and lift your hips on the count of three, okay?” He has to get him off of the bed, but he doesn’t want him putting unnecessary weight on his blood soaked leg.

“But then I’ll get blood on your shirt.” Gi-hun had always been too considerate of Sang-woo’s feelings. It’s frustrating.

He didn’t particularly care for this shirt, so it wasn’t even a big deal. He had ten just like it folded in his suitcase back at the hotel he’d been living out of. “That’s okay, hyung. I just need to change your pants,” he reassures.

“It’s an awfully nice shirt, though,” he observes.

“It doesn’t matter, really.” To prove his point he gently grabs Gi-hun’s injured hand and places it square on his shoulder. He softly apologizes when Gi-hun whimpers from the pain. “See? It’s okay. Are you ready?” Gi-hun places his other hand on his shoulder and nods. “One… Two… Three.”

Gi-hun weakly lifts his hips and Sang-woo gently tugs the clothes down. He tries to not dwell on how reminiscent it is of their time spent together in college. The tenderness and familiarity makes his heart ache.

Once the pants are below Gi-hun’s thighs Sang-woo sets him back down on the bed to finish removing them. The gash on his upper thigh is severe. Blood pumps from it in the same rhythm as Gi-hun’s heartbeat. It’s deep enough that Sang-woo worries he might see bone.

He gasps at the sight. The same guilt he felt at seeing Gi-hun’s pain in his hand swells. He’d done that to him too. “Hyung, I’m so sorry-”

Gi-hun cuts him off. “It’s okay, Sang-woo-ah. I’ll be fine.” He won’t be, though. He’s already looking a little pale. He’d always been so dismissive of his own problems.

Without even thinking Sang-woo stands up and walks to his pile of discarded clothes. Next to his finalist suit, the muddy 218 face up, is his grey jacket. He pulls at the sleeve, trying to rip it. It’s a nicer material than the t-shirt he’d torn apart during marbles, so it takes longer. Eventually he gets it along the seams, and the arm comes free.

Before Gi-hun can even ask why he’d done that Sang-woo is already gently lifting his thigh and worming the fabric beneath it. He wraps the sleeve as tightly as he can around the wound before knotting it. Gi–hun’s jeans should be baggy enough to fit over the makeshift bandage. “That should stop the bleeding for now,” he explains. “Now let me finish dressing you.”

Once the last of Gi-hun’s clothes are on, two pink guards appear in the doorway. They were there to escort them to the exit, they explained.

The next thing they know they’re bound and blindfolded in the street.

“Sang-woo-ah? Are you there?” Gi-hun feebly calls out.

“Yes,” Sang-woo replies. He tries to follow the sound of the older man’s voice in order to help him. He brings his arms to his front so he can lift both of their blindfolds. His own first, and then Gi-hun’s. He undoes Gi-hun’s ties no problem, but Gi-hun struggles with his. The cut on his hand is making it difficult to grip it properly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m trying.”

“Take your time,” he reassures. It’s the middle of the night so there’s no one to watch them. They’re outside the convenience store Sang-woo and Ali had been dropped off at before. Nowhere near Gi-hun’s mother’s house, but just across the street from his hotel. “Once you’re done, we should go to my hotel. It’s closer than your mother’s house and I don’t think she’ll be happy to see you in this state.”

Gi-hun nods, fingers still fumbling with the tie. “Okay.”

“I have a first aid kit, so I can help clean you up, by the way.” It’s a fairly well-equipped kit. It was the paranoia talking, but Sang-woo had purchased it out of fear of sustaining an injury and needing to go to the hospital. Needing to go to the hospital wasn’t the issue, it’s was the fact that it might lead the police right to him.

“Thank you,” Gi-hun sighs. He finally got the ties undone.

Sang-woo is embarrassed by the state of the hotel room when he opens the door. His luggage is open and a pile of clothes are strewn on the floor. The bathroom door is wide open, revealing just what he’d been trying to do earlier that week. Tobacco sits in puddles on the floor where they’d seeped out of the cigarette wrappers and the soju bottles are knocked over. Gi-hun glances at it, but he remains silent.

“Why don’t you sit down on the couch and I’ll get the kit and some painkillers.” Gi-hun nods. “It might be easier if you take your pants off first,” he says before he can stop himself. They aren’t nearly close enough anymore and their relationship is far too different for that question to seem normal or casual.

When Sang-woo comes back from the bathroom, first aid kit and aspirin bottle in hand, he glances down at Gi-hun’s thigh. A minor amount of blood has seeped through the makeshift bandage he’d been given. It’s not a severe amount, which is good. “Here,” he offers Gi-hun some of the white tablets before taking some for himself. It’s higher than the recommended dosage, but neither of them care.

Gi-hun struggles to get them down with no water and eventually opts to bite down on them instead. He shudders the second the bitter taste coats his tongue. Sang-woo, however, swallowed them no problem. He’d been well versed in taking pills with no water- back when he could afford his medication he grew used to it. The aspirin tablets were smaller than his Prozac had been, anyways.

With the painkillers out of the way, Sang-woo puts his glasses on, crouches between Gi-hun’s legs, and opens his first aid kit. “I’m going to unwrap your leg, okay? I need you to lift it.” Gi-hun obliges and Sang-woo notices how his eyes tear up at the corners with each layer of fabric that is removed. It probably hurts like hell. Hopefully their aspirin will kick in shortly. Upon further inspection, the wound in Gi-hun’s thigh isn’t as deep as he originally thought. Just a quick cleaning, some butterfly bandages, and gauze should hold him off for a while. His hand is in a worse state, and he should definitely get it checked out as soon as he can.

“This is going to burn,” Sang-woo warns before dabbing Gi-hun’s thigh with iodine. It's less harsh than alcohol, but Gi-hun flinches regardless.

“Fuck!” His hand flies down on instinct, but Sang-woo stops him. Iodine smears on his wrist.

“Squeeze my hand if you need to.” He offers up his non-dominant hand, which previously had been sitting uselessly by his side. “I’m almost done.”

Gi-hun nods and laces their fingers together. Sang-woo would have expected him to just squeeze his palm, but he doesn’t mind the familiarity of the action. Once, when they were in high school, he’d accompanied Gi-hun to a routine check-up at the doctor. He had to get some shots and he squeezed Sang-woo's hand just like this then, too. Fingers tightly laced together.

Sang-woo gently places the butterfly stitches over the wound before reaching for the gauze. He delicately unlaces his fingers before requesting, “lift your thigh again, please.” Gi-hun obliges, and the younger man continues to wrap it. One hand holding his leg in place while the other adjusts the tightness. It's just tight enough to apply pressure on the wound and stop the bleeding, but not enough to hurt. “Your leg’s all done,” he gently pats his knee, “may I see your hand now?”

Gi-hun offers the wounded hand, which had been sitting on the armrest over some towels.

Once again, Sang-woo warns him about the sting and Gi-hun curses. He puts butterfly stitches on both sides before applying double the gauze. It wouldn’t do any good to let the wound get infected.

“You’re all done.” Sang-woo moves from his kneeling position so he’s sitting flat on the ground between Gi-hun’s legs. He then begins to roll up his pant leg to bandage the bite mark. There’s some blood on the cuff of his pants from the injury. It’ll take a long time to heal- Gi-hun practically took a chunk out of him.

It’s almost comical how poetic that is. Gi-hun has always been Sang-woo’s one weakness- his achilles heel. The soft underbelly of Sang-woo’s otherwise impenetrable defenses. How symbolic that the older man was the one to bring him down in the end by biting his literal achilles heel.

“Can I get it for you?” Gi-hun offers.

“You don’t have to.” Sang-woo would feel guilty if Gi-hun moved in a way that would cause him any pain for his sake.

“I want to. Here, let’s switch.” Gi-hun slides to the floor, right beside Sang-woo. He’s careful not to place his hand anywhere too firmly and he barely moves his bandaged leg to get there.

“Fine,” he sighs. He’d been humoring Gi-hun too much lately.

Gi-hun sits flat on his bottom, head resting on Sang-woo’s knee as he tends to his ankle. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine. I did worse to you, anyways.” The sting of iodine is strong, but he doesn’t flinch.

Gi-hun snorts. “Way to brag.” He finishes wrapping up Sang-woo’s ankle, but he doesn’t lift his head. The position is far too intimate. They hadn’t sat like this in a long time. Even back then it wasn’t a common way for them to sit, but it was tender all the same. Gi-hun would rest his cheek against Sang-woo’s kiss bitten thigh and trace the bruises his teeth left behind.

As they fall into a comfortable silence, Sang-woo’s curiosity gets the better of him. “Hyung…”

“Hm?” Gi-hun’s hum vibrates against his knee.

“Why’d you change your mind?”

“What do you mean?” He lifts his head from Sang-woo’s knee to meet his eyes.

“You could’ve crossed the line and won, but you didn’t. Why?” Sang-woo couldn’t figure it out. He’d been so close, but he gave it all up. Billions of dollars were thrown down the drain at the last possible second.

“I didn’t want you to die, not really,” he explains. “I was just angry with you.”

Sang-woo considers arguing that most people don’t attempt murder when they're mad, but he keeps it to himself.

“I’m sorry for attacking you,” Gi-hun continues. “And I’m sorry for what I said, after that game with the tiles. I knew bringing up you being the pride of our hometown would hurt you, which was why I said it. That was cruel of me. I understand where you were coming from now.”

“No, I was cruel first. I shouldn’t have called your life pathetic.” He’d been so hurt by Gi-hun’s accusation that he’d push him that he spat pure venom. He’d been exasperated and on edge, and Gi-hun misunderstanding him led to his breaking point.

“You only said that because I wasn’t understanding you-”

“But I shouldn’t have said it, hyung. You were making a fair point, too.”

Gi-hun smiles lopsidedly. “Let’s just forgive each other and leave it at that, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The sight of Gi-hun between his legs is doing something to Sang-woo that it really shouldn’t. His grin isn’t helping. Old feelings begin to bubble up his throat like they had been for the past week. He’d caught himself staring at Gi-hun while they were in that place before, during, and after every single game. He’d watched Gi-hun struggle with the umbrella dalgona, he’d watched him calm his shaking hands post tug-of-war, the way he gripped that marble like a lifeline, and the relieved smile on his face when he realized the number he’d chosen was going last. It had been so long since he was last in close proximity with Gi-hun that his body is already reacting this way. He moves to get up and away from the heat beginning to pool in his abdomen. He’s not sure where he’ll go, but he’ll figure it out.

Before he can fully stand, Gi-hun is grabbing his hand. “Where are you going, Sang-woo-ah?”

He scrambles for a response. “Out.”

Gi-hun frowns. He lifts his head from Sang-woo’s thigh and moves to lean over the younger man. “Why are you running from me again?” He sounds so sad. “I finally have you again, and you’re trying to leave me.”

“I’m sorry-” Sang-woo’s not too sure what the context behind the outburst is. It could be a reference to the fact that Gi-hun finally saw him again after decades, or he could mean it in a purely nonplatonic sense. Gi-hun was observant and he knew Sang-woo’s body a little too well. He very well could have picked up on the response he was having. He’s not sure if he wanted Gi-hun to know.

They’d been acting too familiar and intimately for people who’d just tried to kill each other lately. All the anger and potential to hurt left their bodies the moment they were alone. Something was left to linger, though. A small flicker of a flame on a dusty candle that hadn’t been lit in years.

Gi-hun moves his face even closer to Sang-woo’s. He’s searching for an answer. He must have found it in the way Sang-woo fully sits back down on the sofa, because he’s suddenly closing the distance between them.

Sang-woo hadn’t kissed Gi-hun since 1995, his junior year of college, but he tastes just the same. It’s not a taste you can describe, only one you can experience first hand. He leans into the touch and tilts his head to deepen it. It doesn’t start out slow and shy like their first one did all those years ago, this one is desperate and hungry. They practically attack each other's faces, entirely disregarding the oxygen slipping from their lungs. It's sloppy and immature for two men in their mid-forties, but they don’t care.

Gi-hun presses so far into Sang-woo’s space that he’s now straddling his lap, hands gripping his shoulders for support. They sit right where bloody handprints from just a few hours ago do. The bandaged hand’s grip is only slightly looser. He shifts his hips downwards and Sang-woo whines.

Sang-woo hadn’t been with anyone for a long time. He never found the time, or just wasn’t interested, so the most miniscule contact is sending shocks down his spine. His hips pathetically buck up in an effort to chase the friction. Gi-hun chuckles against his lips before grinding down again, matching Sang-woo’s pace. He can feel his skin flushing and if his lips weren’t pressed against the older man’s he’d be panting. Hard.

Gi-hun’s hands move from his shoulders to his waist to his shirt buttons. As he undoes them he moves his lips to Sang-woo's neck. Sang-woo had always liked the special attention to that area, especially the space right beneath his ear. Gi-hun nips at it and the younger man moans. His eyes immediately widen and he clamps a hand over his mouth in horror. He hadn’t meant to do that.

“You’ve always been so needy, Sang-woo-ah,” Gi-hun exhales hotly. Once he’s got the shirt fully unbuttoned his hands begin to roam, squeezing the flesh beneath his fingers.

Sang-woo can’t do anything but take everything Gi-hun is giving him. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides and his head is thrown back against the couch. When he tries to reach out, Gi-hun moves his arms back down.

“Let me do this for you,” he says between kisses.

Sang-woo recognizes this as the apology that it is. Gi-hun feels guilty about the way he’d tried to harm Sang-woo, and this was how he was making it up. There was no need for it, though. They were both guilty in the situation, so it was pointless if only one of them was making the amends.

“Please.” It comes out like a whimper. He wants to reach out and touch Gi-hun; just like he had for the past twenty years they didn’t speak. He finally had the older man on top of him and he wasn’t allowed to touch.

Gi-hun completely ignores him. He squeezes his hips and gently bites at his collar bone instead. When Sang-woo tries to thrust his hips forward again, Gi-hun pushes him down firmly. He was the one controlling the pace, it seemed.

Maybe Sang-woo misinterpreted this. It wasn’t Gi-hun apologizing, he was punishing him. All he can do is accept the onslaught of sensations, he can’t move and he can’t touch. It’s torture.

The bruises forming on his collarbones and neck feel hot and damp from Gi-hun’s spit. The bulge at the front of his pants is straining uncomfortably and the older man is choosing to not acknowledge it. He’s out of breath and overheating.

“Hyung,” he bites out. It comes out broken and desperate. “Please…”

“Use your words, Sang-woo-ah,” Gi-hun teases. He circles his thumbs over his hip bone and nibbles at his ear lobe. “What is it you want?”

“You-” he gasps, “you know what.” Gi-hun always teased him like this. When they were younger, he’d rile Sang-woo up and tease him until he admitted what he wanted, desperate.

“No, I don’t,” yes he does. “What is it you need?”

Sang-woo lifted his head from the back of the couch to meet Gi-hun’s eyes. His head feels hazy. “I want you-” he looks away. “I want you to touch me.”

Gi-hun kisses him square on the lips in reward. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Where?” Sang-woo was never able to get away that easily. He tries to thrust his hips upwards again, but Gi-hun presses him firmly back down again. “Your words,” he prompts.

His face burns with embarrassment. His pants are straining even more than they were earlier and Gi-hun looked completely composed. “My…dick.” The word comes out hushed. It’s sad, really. He’s 46 years old and is acting like a blushing virgin.

“Very good, Sang-woo-ah.” The praise sends tendrils of heat right to Sang-woo’s groin. He leans his head against the back of the couch once again and squeezes his eyes shut so he can hear rather than see Gi-hun finally undo his fly and reach into his briefs.

“Ah-” Sang-woo lets out a reedy moan at the sudden sensation of skin against skin. There’s no fabric barrier between him and Gi-hun’s hand now.

He should be put off by the fact that they’re crowded on a sofa in some cheap hotel he can't actually afford. They’re both too injured for this sort of activity, and their kisses have a faint taste of iron from the blood still lingering on their gums. Their stubble is overgrown and scratching at each other's cheeks. The cuts on Sang-woo’s face are starting to become irritated. There’s also the uncleanliness of the whole ordeal. They weren’t allowed showers or even soap at that place. They’re grimy and dirty, but he can’t bring himself to care.

In any other situation he would be absolutely mortified by the state that they’re both in, but for now he’s too focused on the way Gi-hun is moving his hand at the perfect pace. His vision is whiting out and he’s choking back embarrassingly loud moans for a handjob. Despite Gi-hun’s free hand holding him down, he still tries in vain to thrust into the touch. He’s getting antsy.

Gi-hun, who has sat fully on Sang-woo’s lap now, legs tucked beneath him, seems to be perfectly content with the pace. He entirely disregards the clear distress the younger man is in, instead focusing on that place just below his ear again. His rhythm hasn’t faltered once.

This time, when Sang-woo reaches up to touch, Gi-hun doesn’t stop him. His hands immediately find the older man’s hair. Gi-hun’s rain-soaked hair still hasn’t fully dried, the strands are damp yet frizzy between his fingers. His knuckles are almost white from how hard he’s gripping him, but he’s not pulling. He’s planted firmly in place, just trying to keep as much contact as he can.

On a particularly firm stroke Gi-hun asks, “do you like that, Sang-woo-ah?” The pace of his hand is quickening, and Sang-woo’s heart stutters. He lets out a keen gasp in response.

Sang-woo quickly removes a hand from the older man’s hair and shoves a knuckle between his teeth, embarrassed. He’s trying so hard to not be so vocal. If he is, Gi-hun will have new material to tease him with. Even in bed (or on a couch, in this case), Sang-woo always had a hard time showing vulnerability, and he always felt insecure. He puts up a harsh and disinterested front in an attempt to keep unwanted emotions away and out of sight. Without his harsh exterior, he has no safety net to fall back on when things eventually fall apart.

Gi-hun, as always, knows just how to crack that shell. He slows his hand to an excruciatingly slow pace and leans in for an impossibly tender kiss. Then another, and another. “Look at you,” he mumbles softly. “You’re doing so well,” another kiss. They trail down his flushed chest, praises peppered in between.

“Hyung,” he forces out, the rest of what he wanted to say dying on his tongue. He’s so close it almost hurts. “Please,” he tries again. “I want to-” he moves his other hand from Gi-hun’s hair and rests it just where the older man’s briefs meet his hips. He doesn’t want to finish yet, not when he hasn’t done anything for Gi-hun. “Please,” he repeats. His hands are fumbling for the band now, but they keep slipping with every flick of Gi-hun’s wrist.

The pace of Gi-hun’s hand finally falters, yet the grip remains firmly in place. There’s a glint in his eye as he watches Sang-woo struggle, but he makes no effort to help. Every time Sang-woo gets so close to grasping and pulling the thin fabric down, Gi-hun brushes his thumb just under his tip, right at the vein, making him lose his grip entirely.

Sang-woo lets out a frustrated whine every time it happens. He doesn’t doubt that he’s bright red, he can practically feel the heat radiating off of his skin. He’s oversensitive and just wants to touch Gi-hun like he’d dreamt about.

Their position isn’t exactly desirable, but it’s the best they can do given their situation. They’re both too riled up to stand and move to the bed on the opposite side of the room. Sang-woo wants to lay down, but Gi-hun would have to put too much pressure on his hurt leg in order to lean over him properly. Gi-hun never liked being underneath, so that was out of the question. They would have to settle for Gi-hun on Sang-woo’s lap, both of them much more clothed than they’d like to be. It would be too difficult to remove everything and their injuries would hurt too much for it to be worth it. They’re both too weak to do anything but a quick handjob anyways, so at least the angle isn’t a problem.

“Gi-hun-” he whines. “Please.” He’s resorted to begging. He’s been teased too much and he still can’t get Gi-hun’s briefs down low enough.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Gi-hun giggles.

When Sang-woo finally removes Gi-hun from the confines of the fabric, he wastes no time.

Gi-hun jerks forward, caught off guard by the sudden warmth wrapped around him. Sang-woo pumps once, twice, and the older man is flushing a deep red. His grip on the younger man is slipping, too focused on the feeling of his soft palm. “Shit, Sang-woo-” He’s already gasping for breath.

It eases the trapped feeling that had begun to grow in Sang-woo’s chest. While he wasn’t a huge fan of taking the lead, he was happy to even the playing field. Sang-woo always viewed sex as an equal exchange- both parties get something out of it. What Gi-hun was doing earlier, however, wasn’t equal. He was focusing too much attention on just Sang-woo, and it made him feel guilty. Even as a kid, he always hated all the attention being on him. Gi-hun knew this, of course. It was just another tool to poke at him.

“Yah-” Gi-hun gasps. “Sang-woo, wait.”

Sang-woo’s hand immediately halts. He might be a little hurt by Gi-hun teasing him, but he’s not cruel enough to ignore him.

“Let me try something.”

Before the younger man can even try to nod his head in acknowledgement, Gi-hun is moving closer. Initially he’d been sitting on Sang-woo’s mid-thigh, but now their hips are almost flush together. He takes his hand, the non-injured one, and holds them together. He meets the younger man’s eyes and when he nods in approval, he gives an experimental pump.

Sang-woo’s eyes squeeze shut and he ducks into the space between Gi-hun’s neck and shoulder. White-hot pleasure bursts behind his eyelids with each movement. Gi-hun doesn’t stop him from thrusting upwards this time. Eventually, his mouth falls completely slack. He might be drooling onto Gi-hun’s t-shirt, but he’s too blissed out to notice. He’s breathing so heavily that his glasses have begun to fog up and his mind is going blank. So blank, in fact, that he doesn’t fully process the bandaged hand moving to cradle the back of his head.

“Sang-woo-ah,” Gi-hun half whispers and half moans. “You’re beautiful.”

Pathetically, he whimpers. Gi-hun, as predicted, had successfully cracked the younger man open completely. Every desperate emotion he fought back for the past week is spilling out of him in the form of gasps and a singular tear rolling down his cheek. Gi-hun doesn’t notice it, it blends in too well with the sweat and the drool patch growing on his t-shirt. He’s so close to coming, and he doesn’t doubt the younger man is right behind him. He begins to claw at the older man’s shirt, trying to signal he’s almost finished.

“Hyung- Gi-hun-” Sang-woo’s tone is warning, but Gi-hun’s hand doesn’t let up. If anything, his grip tightens and his pace quickens. He’s moving his hips in time with his own hand and Sang-woo’s thrusts. “I’m-” he inhales sharply. It’s hard to get a full sentence out.

“Are you close?” It was almost as if Gi-hun could read his mind. It shouldn’t be that surprising that he knew, he’d always been so good at reading Sang-woo. Not a single minuscule movement or expression would go unnoticed.

He nods frantically. His bare feet are slipping on the hardwood floors beneath them as he tries to chase the pleasure coursing through his veins. Sparks are shooting down to his lower abdomen and he can't take it anymore.

Gi-hun flicks his wrist even harder when he nods. “You can let go, it’s okay,” he whispers in his ear before biting at his earlobe for what’s probably the hundredth time that night.

Just like that, Sang-woo is coming. He tries not to buck his hips too wildly for fear of accidentally knocking Gi-hun onto the ground. His hands struggle for purchase on his shirt and his feet fully slide out from under him, his heels making a dull thud as they hit the ground. Gi-hun strokes him through it, gently. He’s careful not to make the barrage of searing pleasure too overwhelming. It feels like it lasts forever.

Right when Sang-woo is spent, Gi-hun spills into his hand and over the younger man’s abdomen. The sound he lets out is high and needy. His hips gradually cease movement as he rides through it. Slowly and on shaky limbs, he climbs off of the younger man and sits beside him on the couch. They sit in silence as they both come down from their high.

As Gi-hun recovers, Sang-woo leans down for his first aid kit. They have no towels nearby, so he’ll have to sacrifice some of his gauze. He unravels a generous amount of the fabric, folds it, and begins to wipe the two of them down. Luckily, most of the fluids wound up on Gi-hun’s hand and not much of anywhere else, so the clean up wasn’t too difficult. With that out of the way, he tucks himself back into his briefs, and Gi-hun does the same. The dirty swatch of gauze has been discarded on the hotel floor. It’s an issue for later, Sang-woo decides as he sits back down next to the older man.

Gi-hun is staring blankly at the wall in front of them, hand face up between them. Hesitantly, Sang-woo reaches out for Gi-hun’s hand. The older man takes it. “So,” he starts. “What do we do now?” He himself isn’t too sure what he’s getting at. The question could mean a multitude of things- what do they do with their fingers intertwined, and what do they do with their crippling debts.

Gi-hun blinks at him slowly, not fully present yet. “What do you mean?”

They’re both difficult topics to discuss, but Sang-woo goes with the more pressing matter at hand. “Don’t you have those loan sharks after you?”

Gi-hun’s face falls and he grips Sang-woo’s hand a little tighter. “Right. I don’t know. Today was my deadline.”

Sang-woo frowns. He wasn’t aware of any deadlines, just that some people were after Gi-hun. He hopes the punishment isn’t too severe, he’s heard some real horror stories. If you owe enough, they’ll harvest every organ they possibly can instead of just one kidney or your appendix. If that’s the case for Gi-hun, he doesn’t understand why he was so determined to leave without the money. “Deadline?”

“If I didn’t bring them the amount I owed by tonight they’d take my eye and a kidney. It was why I went back.”

Bitterness and something akin to anger washes over Sang-woo in an instant. The afterglow has entirely faded. “Hyung, why didn’t you take the money? You could have. I was going to give it to you.” Gi-hun was always so stupidly caring. He’s sacrificing his own damn organs in order to keep him alive. He doesn’t even have a life worth living. He’ll probably get arrested soon, and prison time isn’t even going to take away the fact that he owes billions. There’s no coming back from the grave he dug himself. Gi-hun should’ve let him die back at that arena.

“I didn’t want you to die-”

“You should have. Why would you do that?” Sang-woo grips Gi-hun’s hand impossibly tighter and tries to ignore the way he flinches. “There’s no merit in keeping me alive. I owe billions. I can’t get out of that kind of debt.”

“Then why didn’t you kill me?” Gi-hun’s voice shakes, but it’s not from anger. It’s from sadness. “If you needed the money so badly, why not kill me instead?”

Sang-woo stares at him, absolutely flabbergasted. The anger bubbling in his head is the same as when Gi-hun suggested he’d push him to his death. Does he really think he cares for him so little, after everything? He’d pushed that man for him like he would’ve stabbed himself for him. “You mean more to me than that money, Gi-hun,” he chokes out. “I’d rather you be alive with it than me.”

Gi-hun is visibly bewildered by that. He runs his bandaged hand through his frizzy hair and rubs at his mouth. He’s completely at a loss for words, almost as if he never would’ve guessed Sang-woo cared about him to such an extent.

“That was foolish of you,” he continues. “You could’ve avoided this.”

Finally, ever so quietly, Gi-hun responds. “You mean more to me than the money too, you know.” He turns his body to fully face Sang-woo. “I’d rather lose an eye and a kidney if it means I get to keep you.”

Sang-woo wants to argue. He wants to point out that Gi-hun doesn’t have him, hasn’t for a long time now, but he doesn’t. That isn’t even a fully true statement anymore, anyways. There’s evidence of that in the wadded piece of gauze at their feet and the fact that their hands are still clasped together. Gi-hun has always had Sang-woo, even when they weren’t speaking for 20 years.

“I’ll probably go to jail. I’ll still be gone, this time you’ll just be missing some parts.” He doesn’t know why he’s trying to ruin this for himself. It’s too late to change their minds and win the money, there’s no reason to push Gi-hun away like this. It probably has something to do with the understanding of how his life is destined to end- by his own hands. If he pushes Gi-hun back far enough, it won't hurt as bad and he won’t regret forfeiting the prize as much.

“But you’ll come back from prison, Sang-woo. You can’t come back from death.” He’s scooting closer in an attempt to emphasize his point. “I can’t lose you forever.”

“You’ve lost me before,” he points out. Gi-hun is acting almost as if their relationship was never strained. Like maybe they never lost touch and had to lie when their mothers asked how the other boy had been.

“But you came back.” Gi-hun has Sang-woo there. “I can wait another couple years until your sentence runs out. I’d rather do that than wait until the afterlife.” He’s right in Sang-woo’s personal space now. They’re so close in proximity that their breath mingles between them.

“But-”

“I don’t understand why you’re trying so hard to argue with me. I knew the consequences of leaving without the money, but I still did it anyway. Why can’t you accept that?”

Sang-woo can accept it just fine, he just wishes Gi-hun didn’t do it. Selfishly, he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to live in a world without the prize money just as much as he didn’t want to live in a world without Gi-hun. By process of elimination, his only other option was death. Instead, he’s trapped in a reality where both of them must face the darkest outcome. He can’t guarantee Gi-hun will remain happy, and he can’t guarantee that he himself will ever feel happy again.

“I know our futures look bleak. I’m well aware, but it has the potential to get better. Your sentence will pass and I’ll get used to one eye. Life will be worth living again, eventually.”

Sang-woo badly wants to believe in that ‘eventually’, but he’s too pessimistic for his own good. It’s an unfortunate side effect for how logical he was. Gi-hun thinks primarily with his heart, so hope comes easier to him than Sang-woo. Hope is a difficult thing to cling to when your mind picks apart every possible outcome by default. He stares down the barrel of life with nothing but doubt and skepticism. In theory things could get better, but the probability of it actually happening is small. After his sentence serves out, he’ll spend the rest of his life pathetic life trying and failing to pay every penny he’d stolen back. His life might slightly improve, but it’ll never truly be bearable.

“Hey,” Gi-hun’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“That.” Gi-hun points at him as if it’ll help clear any of Sang-woo’s confusion. “Being all negative. I know it’s hard to be hopeful in your situation, but you have to try.” He knew him too well. “If you don’t try, things like this happen,” he lifts his arm and gestures to the bathroom door. He doesn’t mean the door, though. He means the briquette with half burned charcoal and piles of soju and cigarettes that hide behind it.

“That’s easier said than done, hyung.”

Gi-hun smiles at him sympathetically. “I know. Can you promise you’ll at least try? For me?” He lifts up his bandaged hand, pinky finger extended.

The juxtaposition between something as childish as a pinky promise and severe as their conversation is jarring. Sang-woo reluctantly brings his pinky up to lace it with Gi-hun’s. “Okay. I will.”

“Good. Now I think we need some rest.”

“I think we should shower first,” Sang-woo cringes. He wasn’t too keen on going another day unwashed.

Gi-hun nods. “I think I’ll need some help with mine, if you don’t mind.” It wouldn’t do him any good to wet the bandages Sang-woo recently applied with so much care.

Sang-woo’s solution for helping Gi-hun involved dragging the hotel provided desk chair into the bathroom.

After cleaning out his mess from earlier that week he filled up the tub about halfway with warm water. He sat Gi-hun in it vertically, injured leg propped up on the chair. His bandaged hand sat on the edge of the tub, hanging over to ensure no splashing. Sang-woo sat at the corner, cup and washcloth in hand.

He washes Gi-hun’s hair first. He makes sure to wet it thoroughly first because it always had a tendency to tangle, and Sang-woo can only imagine how bad it’s gotten after a week of no brushing. The smell of the hotel-provided shampoo is chemical and it burns their nostrils, but they persevere. He massages it into the older man’s scalp before rinsing it out with the cup of water. When Sang-woo applies the conditioner, he leaves it in.

“Why didn’t you rinse that out,” Gi-hun questioned.

“Do you not do that?” Sang-woo raises an eyebrow and Gi-hun shakes his head. “It just helps your hair absorb the moisture better. I’ll rinse it out once I’m done washing you off.”

Gi-hun laughs. “I can’t believe you do that.”

“I can’t believe you don’t,” Sang-woo reprimands. At least that explains the wild look Gi-hun’s hair always seems to have. “Now hush.”

Gi-hun remains dutifully silent for the rest of his bath. The only time he spoke was to confirm he was stable when Sang-woo shifted his position in order to clean his legs. The angle was strange and Sang-woo wound up spilling too much water on the floor when he tried to rinse the suds off.

He pulled Gi-hun from the tub, dried him off, dressed him, and walked him to the hotel bed. “Wait here. I’ll be back,” he reassures.

“Where are you going?” Gi-hun complains, but he’s already begun to get comfortable. He’s flat on his back, limbs sprawled out beside him.

“I’m going to take my own bath. I won’t take long.”

“Okay.”

Sang-woo’s own bath is quick. He only has one injury to worry about, his ankle, so he doesn’t have to move with as much caution as Gi-hun did. He sits in the tub regularly save for his injured ankle hanging over the edge. It’s the most relaxing bath Sang-woo thinks he’s ever taken. There’s nothing all that special about it- if anything it’s lackluster, but the warmth seeps into his bones. He’d been so on edge the past few days, and he finally allows himself to relax. The tension will return to his shoulders the instant he climbs out and is reminded of the world, but he chooses to ignore that fact. He does everything twice, just to be thorough. Shampoo, conditioner, soap, rinse and repeat. Once he no longer feels like a walking ball of grease, he gets out and towels off. His change of pajamas sit neatly folded on the toilet lid.

Back in the bedroom, Gi-hun is almost completely asleep. Upon hearing the bathroom door creak open, he shifted his body to the side, allowing Sang-woo room. Carefully, he crawls into bed beside him. Gi-hun immediately latches on to his torso.

“Goodnight, Sang-woo-ah,” Gi-hun mumbles as he leans in to kiss the younger man’s cheek, then promptly falls asleep.

Sang-woo can’t help but smile softly. “Goodnight, Gi-hun,” he whispers. Before closing his eyes he presses a kiss to the crown of his skull.

That night they sleep as peacefully as they can. In the morning they’ll have to brave the world and their consequences for leaving empty handed, but for now they can pretend they won’t. They’ll pretend that, when they wake, everything was revealed to have been a prolonged nightmare and that in reality they’re still young and nothing bad has happened to them.