Chapter Text
“You got the stuff?”
Namgyu leaned back into the couch, which groaned under him like it was trying to protest its own existence. The whole apartment was a dump—walls stained a sickly yellow-green from years of cigarette smoke, drywall pocked with fist-sized holes from drug-fueled outbursts. No way he was getting that deposit back. But it was home. Sort of.
“Why else would I be here, bitch?” Subong stepped in with that same shit-eating grin, waving a half-assed baggie of weed between two fingers. Barely enough to get a toddler high, but Namgyu never complained. He provided the busted hangout spot. Subong brought the whatever-the-fuck his dealer tried to pass off as weed.
Subong flopped onto the couch like he had zero doubts it wouldn’t collapse under both of them. Namgyu bounced from the impact, catching himself with a hand on the armrest.
“One of these days you’re gonna launch me into the goddamn ceiling,” he muttered. He made a mental note to finally eat a full meal this week.
Without a word, he reached forward and grabbed the Dragon Ball bong off the coffee table. The thing was loud orange with Goku’s dumb grinning face on the chamber. A ridiculous relic from his high school years—back when he still thought life might turn out cool. Now it was just habit. Nostalgia, maybe. Definitely not because he still fucked with Dragon Ball. Absolutely not.
Subong laughed when he saw it. “Bro, can you make it any more obvious you don’t bring bitches over?”
“Fuck off,” Namgyu snorted, flicking the lighter. “Bitches love Dragon Ball. Can’t say the same about the oregano you keep getting from that dumbass dealer.”
“Hey! Gyeongsu doesn’t fuck around. Dude’s practically a weed wizard.” Subong raised an eyebrow, already pinching the weed and packing the bowl with practiced fingers.
Namgyu watched him work. There was a weird kind of intimacy in how familiar it all was—the shitty couch, the dim light of the busted lamp, the low hum of the PS4 menu in the background. No masks here. Just two guys taking turns pretending none of this was eating them alive.
When the bowl was packed, Namgyu yanked the bong back and stuck out his tongue like a brat. Subong pouted and leaned into the cushions, grabbing the remote to switch the input to the PlayStation.
“Fine. But I’m picking the game this time,” he said.
Namgyu smirked. “If you pick FIFA again, I’m throwing this bong at your head.”
“Anything new?” Subong asked, glancing over as Namgyu lit the bong and took the first hit like it was oxygen. He held it in deep, chest rising, then let the smoke trail from his lips in slow, practiced circles—like some depressed wizard showing off party tricks. When his lungs were finally clear, he passed the bong back and grabbed a controller without waiting for an answer.
He scrolled lazily through the menu while Namgyu packed another hit. “Mario Kart?”
“Aghhh.” Subong groaned and threw his head back like he was personally offended. “Forget the chick-magnet bong, you need more games. Doesn’t that gay club pay you anything?”
Namgyu shrugged, already locking in Mario Kart. “Been slow,” he lied.
The truth wasn’t something he liked saying out loud.
The club paid—and paid well. The kind of tips that made rent disappear in one night, the kind of money dancers fought each other for. And Namgyu? He was good. Good enough to rake it in by the stack. But he never kept it long enough to feel rich. Rent, fifty bucks for ramen and frozen dumplings… and the rest? Straight to his guy.
His real dealer, not the weed fairy Subong idolized. The one who sold him poison in liquid or powder, whatever was available. The one whose product made Namgyu wear long sleeves in August and wrap gauze around the crook of his arm. He couldn’t tell Subong. Wouldn’t. Subong played the casual stoner. Namgyu was something worse—something deeper, quieter, more shameful.
Subong grabbed the second controller and instantly locked in Donkey Kong—he always did. Namgyu picked Boo. So what? Boo was cute.
For the next thirty minutes, they smoked, raced, and repeated the same exact patterns they always did. Same characters. Same maps. Same outcome. It was fucking boring.
“That’s first place again, bitch!” Subong cheered with exaggerated excitement, throwing both fists into the air.
“You know I let you win, right?” Namgyu smirked and dropped his controller. “Okay, winner gets to pick the next activity.”
Thanos clicked off the TV. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll try my best to inject some life into your depressing-ass apartment.”
“That’s why I threw the game, dumbass.”
They laughed—loud and easy, like nothing was rotting under the surface. Then Subong took another long drag, head tipping back like his brain had wandered somewhere else entirely.
“Got any new DVDs?”
Namgyu glanced at him sideways. “Yeah. You okay with anal?”
Subong recoiled with a dramatic snort. “That’s fucking kinky, my guy. Absolutely disgusting. Set it up.”
Namgyu chuckled and hauled himself off the couch, knees cracking like they were decades older than the rest of him. He walked over to his not-so-secret porn stash, dragging a finger along the dusty DVD spines until he found the latest pickup.
“You know,” he said, slipping the disc into the beat-up player, “some people might say it’s a little gay to watch porn with your bros.”
Subong scoffed. “Dude. Society’s so backwards that you can’t even enjoy adult cinema with your homies anymore? What the fuck kind of world is that?”
“Bro,” Namgyu said with a stunned smile, “that was beautiful. You should rap that.”
“I’m deadass. We’re over here watching DVDs because the internet’s still bricked. This is why Korean society’s so fucking uptight.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Namgyu grabbed the remote, queued up the DVD file, and flicked the lights off before dropping back onto the couch. The glow of the TV bathed the room in flickering shadows, and for a moment it felt like they were kids again—getting away with something, even though no one gave a damn anymore.
It was bullshit, he thought, that every other country got free access to degeneracy while Korea still made you feel like a felon for jerking off. Still, the restrictions were good for business. His club thrived on repression.
And it wasn’t exactly weird for guys here to get together and watch porn—especially not in their thirties, lonely, bored, too high to do anything else. But there were rules.
No eye contact.
No words.
And most importantly? No touching.
Namgyu always thought that was the real tragedy. If everyone was already gathered for the same reason, why pretend there was some invisible line? Why not admit the line was bullshit and step over it?
“So,” Subong muttered, shifting awkwardly on the couch, “you into anal now?”
“Not particularly. I think of it more like overtime. You know—studying what the customers want.”
Subong snorted. “Whoa, would you actually do it then—I mean, with a guy…?”
Yes. “No.”
Many times. “Never. What the fuck?”
“Hah! I’m just messing with you, man! Why you getting so defensive~?” He bumped Namgyu’s shoulder, grinning like it was the funniest thing in the world. His dumb eyebrows wiggled like a sitcom character.
Namgyu looked away. He couldn’t handle that look—how easy it came to Subong to joke about something Namgyu could barely admit to himself.
He changed the subject. “Why don’t you actually watch so you can keep your girl interested?”
Subong groaned. “Hey. Mina loves what I do. I don’t need help, bro.”
“And yet you’re always here watching porn at my place even with a girlfriend.” Namgyu lit another hit and didn’t bother passing it.
“Bro, she’s pregnant and ready to pop. What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m being considerate as fuck here.”
“Yeah, yeah. Gentleman of the year.” Namgyu’s voice flattened. It always did when Mina came up. Not because she was awful. Not really.
Just… she was his. Subong’s.
Namgyu tried—really tried—to be happy when he found out. He faked the congratulations, the smiles, even bought baby shoes once. But nothing rang true. His heart wouldn’t sync up with the joy in Subong’s voice, and it scared the shit out of him.
He told himself it was because Mina wasn’t good for him. She hated Namgyu—called him a deadbeat junkie to his face, and yeah, she wasn’t wrong. But she made sure to say it with precision, like she was flicking a blade between his ribs.
And she liked attention. Wanted it from any man breathing the same air. When Namgyu brought that up, hinted the baby might not even be his—well, that ended in fists.
One fight. Bloody lips. Bruised ribs. Silence.
Subong swore he’d never speak to Namgyu again.
It lasted six days.
They were back on the couch, smoking like nothing happened, laughing through split lips.
Maybe Namgyu was an asshole for saying it. Maybe he was jealous. Of Mina? Of the baby? Or was it something else? Something uglier.
He didn’t know. All he knew was this:
He only had Subong. And he wasn’t ready to let go.
Not yet.
“Dude, you just gonna keep staring at the title card or are we gonna jack off?” Subong’s voice snapped Namgyu out of his spiral.
He blinked, face flushed, and shook his head hard like he could toss the thoughts out through his ears. “Right. Yeah.”
He hit play, letting the painfully fake dialogue begin to drone through the speakers.
“Let me guess,” Subong laughed while unzipping his pants, already settling into the vibe. “She gets stuck in the washing machine, and her stepbrother just happens to be the only one home?”
Namgyu snorted, unzipping his own jeans. “Don’t forget all her panties are in that fucking washing machine.”
By now, they were past the awkward phase of watching porn together. Pants dropped without a second thought. Cocks half-hard, poking through boxers—well, Subong’s purple ones, and Namgyu’s… black panties.
He’d grown fond of them after working at the club—tips tripled when he wore something barely visible above low-cut pants. Just enough tease, not enough shame. And Subong never said a word about it. Never cracked a joke, never gave him that look. Which was weird, honestly. Subong was the type to roast anyone alive for mismatched socks. Rapper’s habit, he guessed.
But when it came to Namgyu? Silence.
On screen, the scene was exactly what they expected. Girl. Washing machine. Zero plot. The two of them exchanged a dry, knowing glance and laughed.
Subong rubbed himself lazily through his boxers, teasing his cock out through the slit and dragging a thumb over the leaking tip. Namgyu, wordlessly, grabbed the bottle of lube from the coffee table and handed it over with a gentle nudge to Subong’s side.
“Thanks,” Subong muttered, like it was nothing, like the act wasn’t strangely intimate.
Namgyu squirted some into his own palm and slipped his hand under the waistband of his panties. The cool slickness made him shiver, but he started stroking slowly anyway. His cock curved upward from the fabric, pale and flushed at the tip. It wasn’t as thick or long as Subong’s—nowhere close—but it had a color to it he liked. Subong once said it was “cute.” Like that made it better.
He kept his eyes glued to the screen, even though the porn itself was awful. Overlit. Awkward angles. The guy on top slipped into the girl with zero prep—no lube, no fingers, just shoved it in like anal was magic.
Namgyu scoffed under his breath. “Unrealistic,” he muttered, too quiet to hear, too high to keep himself silent and still moving his hand like it helped. The acting killed his buzz, but he kept going. Habit, maybe. Distraction.
Still, he couldn’t help but glance sideways.
Subong was into it—his breathing shallow, lips parted, hand working faster now. He bit down on his lip and stared at the screen like it meant something. And Namgyu? He felt that familiar ache in his chest, low and sharp. Like he’d swallowed glass.
Then Subong moaned.
Quiet. Soft. But it went straight to Namgyu’s groin.
He chuckled before he could stop himself—and immediately regretted it when Subong snapped his head toward him.
Their eyes locked.
Both their hands still moving.
Namgyu froze. Cheeks flushed red-hot. His hand dropped like it had been caught stealing. Shit, shit, shit. He fumbled for something—anything—to say.
“Sorry, I was—”
“Don’t stop,” Subong cut in.
Namgyu blinked. “Huh?” He turned to face him, eyes wide. “Don’t stop what?”
Subong paused, eyes dropping to Namgyu’s chest, then lower. “This movie’s garbage,” he said, voice unusually soft. “And... you look pretty today.”
Namgyu’s heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat.
“What does that mean?” He swallowed, lips trembling. “Are you—what the fuck is going on right now?”
Was the weed laced? Was this some kind of dream?
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched.
But then, too fast, Subong turned back to the screen. Like nothing happened.
Namgyu stared at him, heart pounding, words caught behind his teeth. He opened his mouth—only for Subong to laugh.
“Dude,” he said, voice high and nervous. “I’m fucking with you. Don’t look at my dick again unless you want me to break your scrawny legs.”
And just like that, the air snapped cold.
Namgyu looked away. His cock softened instantly, retreating like a wound.
He laughed too. A small, hollow sound. “Right. Got it. Obviously.”
But his hands stayed in his lap, clenched. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant that for a second, just a second, it felt real. Dangerous.
What was he expecting exactly?
The movie finished not long after. Subong, now lounging with a lazy grin, had apparently reached his climax without issue. Namgyu hadn’t. He sighed and gave up, resigning himself to a soft dick and another hit from the bong.
“So,” he said, voice casual as if nothing stung, “learn anything good?”
“Yeah—that I’m not into anal.” Subong chuckled and tucked himself back in with zero shame. “Gonna use the bathroom. You got work tonight?”
“Fuck, don’t remind me.” Namgyu groaned, dropping his head into his hands. The weight of everything—not just the shift, but what Subong had said earlier—dragged on his bones.
From the bathroom, Subong shouted, “I got a show tonight! Rap battle between me and some punk. You're not gonna make it?”
There it was—that whine in his voice. Namgyu knew it well. Subong always got like this when he couldn't come to a show. “You’re my lucky charm, bro!”
Namgyu reached for a couple tissues, cleaning himself off with dull movements. His body felt empty, like whatever was supposed to fill the space inside had already slipped away. He stared at the dirty tissue, then at the ceiling.
He hadn’t known Subong that long—just a couple years. It was Gyeongsu who introduced them. Funny how life worked. One night you’re scraping together enough cash for ramen, the next you’re lying half-naked on the couch your crush just jerked off on, pretending your heart isn’t pounding like hell.
Back then, Namgyu had only been a casual listener of underground rap. He liked the honesty of it—lyrics like broken glass and open veins. None of that sanitized, pre-packaged idol shit. Gyeongsu was the one who first told him about Thanos. “You’d like him. He’s raw,” Gyeongsu had said.
He was right.
Namgyu remembered listening to Tongue Like a Switchblade on the bus home—just one song at first, then the whole damn album, then every collab, feature, live stage, fancam, archived battle he could dig up. It didn’t hurt that Thanos was stupidly hot. Cocky. Tall. Pretty in that dangerous way, like he knew he could get away with anything and often did.
So when Gyeongsu offered to take him to a show, Namgyu nearly lost his shit.
“We go waaaay back,” Gyeongsu had said, acting nonchalant but clearly bursting with pride. “I can get you in. He’s actually mad chill.”
“Dude, that would actually be awesome,” Namgyu had replied, fighting to keep the giddy little spark in his chest from showing on his face.
The show was everything he imagined and more. Thanos took the stage in a blaze of neon—purple hair lit up under strobes, clothes mismatched but magnetic, like a human highlighter. He devoured his opponent without breaking a sweat. Namgyu had never felt so alive. Not since… well, maybe ever.
When Gyeongsu said, “Wanna go backstage?” Namgyu didn’t even hesitate. Just followed, heart pounding to the beat of a drum he had long forgotten.
Backstage, Gyeongsu greeted Thanos with open arms, loud and over-familiar. Namgyu hovered behind like luggage.
Thanos gave him a once-over before turning back to Gyeongsu. “Who’re you again?”
“You know… your dealer?” Gyeongsu whispered, grinning like a dumbass.
“Ahhh, that Gyeongsu!” Thanos lit up, pulling him into a hug like they were long-lost brothers. Namgyu cringed. It felt performative, fake, a little humiliating. Not that Gyeongsu noticed or probably even cared when he could claim he sold drugs to someone almost famous. Sounded like a damn game of three truths and a lie—a game Gyeongsu would always win at.
Then Gyeongsu gestured at Namgyu. “This is my boy, Namgyu. I introduced him to your stuff. He’s totally obsessed now!”
Thanos finally acknowledged him, and for a moment—just a blink—his expression shifted. A quick frown, an almost glare. Namgyu couldn’t place it. Disgust? Annoyance? Possessiveness?
Had he dressed up too much—maybe he looked stupid? His hair looked perfect, a long bob that framed his face almost like a hime-cut, he knew it wasn’t that. He had smoothed it to perfection at least a hundred times before the show. Was it the outfit? Baggy, black pants decorated with chains and a loose half-shirt that came just above his waist. Of course, his signature thong poking out the sides and resting above the curse of his hips. Okay, maybe it was because he looked a little…fruity.
But just as quickly as the unrelenting gaze started, it was gone.
Thanos smiled, walked over, and threw an arm around him like they were cousins at a wedding. “Welcome to the Thanos world, Namsu!” he beamed like he wasn’t just gazing into his rotten soul.
Namgyu blinked. “It’s Namgyu,” he corrected softly.
And just like that, the rest was history.
“Yo.”
Suddenly, Subong was right in front of him again, waving a hand in his face like he was swatting flies. The movement dragged Namgyu out of his spiral. His head snapped up.
God. This shitty weed was giving him more flashbacks than that time he nearly OD’d behind a dumpster in Hongdae. His vision swam slightly, Subong’s face flickering in and out of clarity.
“Earth to Namsu?”
Namgyu growled and smacked his hand away. “Namgyu,” he snapped. Then, softer, like the fight had drained out of him before it started, “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just out of it today.”
He stood, his body feeling heavier than it should, and trudged to the bedroom to start getting ready for the night.
Clothes exploded from the closet onto the bed like a warzone. He tried on a few options—tight jeans, a mesh crop, a thrifted silk top with too many holes—but tight pants just made him look like a malnourished toothpick. Nothing clung right. Nothing distracted from how slight he looked in the mirror.
Eventually, he defaulted to his usual: oversized black cargos and a skin-tight shirt that barely stretched over his ribs. He could see Subong watching from the doorway, leaned against the frame, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth twitching up like he was biting back something.
“Too plain,” Namgyu muttered.
He rummaged in his dresser until his hand landed on a tangled mess of chains. After five minutes of cursing and detangling, he picked one: a black collar that dropped a line of silver links down his chest, splitting into two chains that wrapped low around his hips.
It was practically BDSM. It was perfect.
“Jesus,” Subong snorted. “That’s so gay.”
Namgyu didn’t hesitate. He hurled a pile of dirty laundry at his face.
“Fuck you, I’m playing the part,” he barked. But there was a smile curling at the edge of his mouth, and he didn’t miss the way Subong’s eyes lingered a little too long.
Truth was, Namgyu liked dressing like this. Liked the way it made people stare. Liked how it made him feel sharp, deliberate. He looked good, and he knew it. And Subong? Subong definitely knew it.
He grabbed the eyeliner and leaned into the mirror. Lips slightly parted, he smoked out his eyes with practiced precision. The black framed them like daggers, adding a deliberate violence to his delicate face. His gaze was suddenly something to be survived. A threat wrapped in silk.
Last touch: a soft tint of rouge across his lips. He pressed them together, smacking them with a soft pop.
Behind him, Subong flinched. But he didn’t look away.
Namgyu turned. “Let’s go,” he said coolly, smoothing the ends of his hime-cut back along his cheekbones. He walked past Subong like he owned the hallway.
Subong followed, a beat late, still grinning like an idiot. At the door, while slipping on his shoes, he murmured, “I meant it, you know.”
Namgyu raised an eyebrow. “Meant what, dumbass?”
Subong shrugged, all false nonchalance. “You look pretty today.”
Namgyu didn’t respond. But the corners of his mouth curled slightly, just enough for Subong to notice.
--------------------------
On the bus ride to work, Namgyu clutched his jacket shut with both hands, like the zipper alone couldn’t contain the outfit underneath. It wasn’t shame—he liked dressing up. Liked how it made him feel tall, untouchable. But that didn’t mean he needed Korea’s entire conservative population gawking at him like he was a street performance gone wrong.
He kept his head down. Even now, the chains clinked faintly under the fabric with every bump in the road, betraying him.
He knew what it meant to dress like this. A target painted bright across his chest. Glares from ajummas. Snide giggles from high schoolers who thought they were invincible. He could handle it. He always had.
But tonight, it all felt heavier.
He pressed his forehead to the cool window, letting it ground him. Outside, Hongdae flashed past in neon blurs—cafés still buzzing, drunken couples stumbling, signs for clubs glowing like lures for moths. It was a city that thrived in the dark. A city where the desperate came to burn their secrets under dim lights and overpriced drinks. Where the scum of society gathered, ruled, devoured each other with plastic smiles.
His headphones throbbed with bass, but the lyrics slipped past him like water. He wasn’t hearing the song.
He was hearing a voice.
You look pretty today.
The words looped, over and over, echoing until they felt unreal. Until he wasn’t sure if Subong had said them at all.
What the hell did that even mean?
Had he ever said that to Mina? To anyone? Or were those words—those five reckless, offhand syllables—Namgyu’s alone?
A dangerous thought.
Namgyu had had a thing for Subong from the start. Ever since that first time he heard him rap with too much passion, his low voice echoed through blown-out headphones. That had been the spark. But even crushes had rules. Even fantasies needed boundaries.
Subong didn’t know what weight he carried when he spoke. Didn’t know how his voice could build Namgyu up just enough to break him more spectacularly.
And Mina was pregnant. Ready to pop, as Subong had put it casually, like it was just another fact. A due date penciled in between open mic nights and smoke breaks.
There was no space for hope. Not anymore.
He guessed Subong loved her. He was too afraid to ask after their fight and decided not to bring up Mina anymore unless it was to tease the rapper.
Only Namgyu’s flame of idealism, flickering against a wind he couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not tonight.
The bus came to a rickety halt. With a sigh, Namgyu slung his work bag over his shoulder and stepped off, the cold night air already crawling under his collar.
As much as he would’ve loved to skip work and screw around at Subong’s show, reality had other plans. Money didn’t make itself. And his rent was still only half-covered—thanks to the last time he got too high and pissed his paycheck away trying to chase the high a little longer.
He groaned, dragging his fingers through his hair like he was trying to calm down a nervous dog. No pills tonight, he told himself. Swear it.
A few more minutes of walking brought him to the familiar front of Club Pentagon. Neon lights blinked against the glass like they were twitching. The place looked like sin bottled in chrome. A haven for Seoul’s golden boys who needed somewhere to let go of their golden-boy acts.
A couple was already stumbling through the entrance—drunk as sailors, arms tangled around each other, too far gone to care who saw.
Namgyu slipped past them with practiced ease and kept walking, heading to the employee lockers. Same peeling paint. Same fluorescent buzz overhead. He shrugged off his jacket and shoved it into the tiny, rusted locker. Then double-checked that his wallet was still there before cramming in his bag.
The thing could barely fit two items, but no one cared. Not management. Not anyone. Employee comfort didn’t matter here—only the money they could pull in.
“Whoa.” A voice chimed from behind him. “Planning to put us all out of work, Namgyu?”
Hyunju. He muttered the name in his head like a curse.
Club Pentagon had room for all types. Even those who liked to play dress-up like girls. Not that Namgyu had anything personal against her. He admired her guts, sort of. But he couldn’t ignore the way she dominated the floor, reeling in the men who weren’t ready to admit what they wanted. They gravitated to her because it was safer. A halfway point. Someone they could lie to themselves about later.
She sold comforting illusions. Namgyu didn’t. That’s probably why she always beat him in tips.
“Not everyone,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, slamming his locker shut. “Just you.”
“Oh, I’m shaking.” Hyunju leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like she already knew she’d won tonight.
Namgyu rolled his eyes and ducked past her, the height difference almost comical.
He made his way back into the actual club and stepped behind the bar like it was second nature, fingers already reaching for the rag slung over the counter and wiping down sticky spots with practiced boredom. The bass thumped heavy beneath his feet, rattling the bottles that lined the mirrored shelf. Pink and blue lights strobed overhead, casting him in brief halos of color before dipping him back into shadow.
his eyes scanned the crowd with the detachment of someone who’d seen this all before: the wide-eyed first-timers, the regulars too drunk to remember how many drinks they’d had, the closeted businessmen pressing a little too close to the dancers under the guise of "accidental" touches.
“Namgyu-ah, vodka soda—double,” barked Daeho, one of the floor servers, as he whirled past in short pants and smeared eyeliner.
“Yeah, yeah,” Namgyu muttered, grabbing a glass and dumping ice into it like it had personally wronged him. He moved efficiently, sliding the drink onto the tray without breaking rhythm. His fingers were graceful but quick, spinning bottles and mixing cocktails with the kind of flair that earned tips but none of his own pride.
A customer leaned over the bar, eyes glassy and hopeful. “You free after your shift?” he slurred, breath reeking of tequila and mint gum.
Namgyu gave him a slow once-over, letting the silence stretch. Then he tilted his head, flashing a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. “Depends. You tipping or talking?”
The man blinked, confused for a second, before reaching into his wallet and tossing a bill on the bar. Namgyu didn’t look at the amount. He just poured him another shot and moved on.
Club Pentagon was loud and hot and sticky. The kind of place that pretended it had no rules until you crossed one. Namgyu liked the chaos of it, liked that it didn’t ask for anything more than performance. He didn’t need to be honest here—just charming. Just quick. Just pretty enough to look at while customers cried into their mojitos or confessed their married lives to strangers under pink lighting.
Same shit, different night.
“Keep it coming, baby!” someone yelled.
Namgyu smirked, flicked his towel over his shoulder, and threw back a shot of something neon green before diving back in. This was his stage, and if he couldn’t feel real, he could at least look good faking it.
After keeping up the charred for a couple hours, Namgyu could feel his skin itching. That little bit of weed really was terrible and not very helpful to him forgetting who he was and where he was.
He needed something stronger.
He mindlessly itched at the bandage covering his forearm, feeling the wound underneath threaten to reopen. He wondered for a moment if the guy from before had anything on him. Sure, he was old and not easy on the eyes—but he was willing to tip and what if he had what Namgyu needed?
As he was about to open his mouth and beckon the old fuck closer, he was interrupted by a painfully familiar sight.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” The person teased while sliding onto a barstool with all the force of a car crash in Namgyu’s life. Myunggi. “You've been hiding from me, baby?”
“You got me.” Namgyu raised his hands like he had been caught red handed. “What the hell do you want?” He sneered, already pushing his usual order of whiskey on the rocks towards him.
“You.” Myunggi smiled curtly, eyeing up Namgyu’s outfit with greedy interest.
Namgyu snorted and turned away. He couldn’t know how desperate he was to take him in the back rooms, not yet at least.
Myunggi wasn’t just a dealer. He dealt the things that gave Namgyu life and simultaneously took it away. He was a God and Namgyu was his servant—when the desperation kicked in and he couldn’t bare being fully conscious for another moment.
The source of all his income. The source of all his pain. Myunggi stood on top of it all with his stupid fucking grin. Dude was loaded though. Not many dealers in Korea would risk such drugs in their possession. That is to say, he didn’t need Namgyu’s money. So he often asked for favors in return.
Namgyu hated him, passionately hated him. But to Myunggi, it only made their sex better.
“No worries, it’s just you look like you might need me too.” Myunggi shrugged and downed his whiskey, watching Namgyu turn back towards him with a glare from the bottom of his glass.
Namgyu hated when he was right. “Meet me in the back in five.” He replied causally, rehearsed lines not unlike many he had spoken before.
Myunggi continued to smirk, sliding his empty glass over to Namgyu for him to clean. “See you there.” He added with a dreadful wink before getting up and walking through the doors into the back rooms. Namgyu watched him leave before he allowed himself to take another breath. When he was sure the man was gone,
He gripped the edges of the bar and cursed. A couple hours. A couple hours at best is how far he had made it before succumbing to his addiction. A painful reminder of how weak he had become to the idea of resistance. No, he never resisted it. Never even tried.
As much as he hated Myunggi, he hated himself sober more.