Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello, Bonjour, Hola. Welcome.

This is purely a crack fiction that I decided to write in the middle of the night simply because there were not many Thangyu fanfics. At least, not enough to my liking.

I must confess that English is NOT my first language so there might be some mistakes. I appreciate many and any additions, recommendations or dreams that might help me be a better writer and you have a better experience reading this shit.

Also this is my first fanfiction (on ao3 lmao, wattpad was a wholeee other story).

Can I swear? Guess we will find out.

Please cry, laugh, rage, but most importantly... enjoy.

Love yallll
Player 388 - That Hoe

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu sat in the study room, spine perfectly straight, hands folded neatly above his notes.

Third floor. Northwest corner. Nearest window.

He glanced at the wall clock. It was 17:06.

Late. Of course.

He didn’t sigh. He didn’t tap his pen. He didn’t move, really. Just sat there in the stillness of a library that didn’t care who showed up and who didn’t. If anything, the quiet made him feel more alone than usual.

On the other side of the glass wall, a group of underclassmen giggled too loudly over a vending machine. Nam-Gyu looked away.

He’d told the department head he wasn’t interested in tutoring anyone this semester. Especially not him.

But apparently, when you were top of the year for three years straight, they could just smile and say “You’re the only one who can handle him.”

Thanos.
Choi Su-bong.

Even his name sounded like trouble.

The rumours were endless: street races, expulsion threats, substance warnings, back-alley fighting rings, secret inheritance, some uncle in politics. Half of it was probably lies. The other half was probably worse.

And yet he was still enrolled. Still coasting.

Nam-Gyu didn’t like being used. But this felt exactly like that.

He checked the time again.
17:08.

He considered leaving. One missed session and the university would assign someone else. He wouldn’t have to deal with—

Thanos walked in like he didn’t know he was late — like he didn’t even realize this was a study room and not just another hallway to pass through.

His hoodie hung open over a faded black T-shirt, the fabric stretched thin across his shoulders and accessorized with a chunky silver cross that swung slightly as he moved. His purple hair looked like it had been cut with dull scissors, uneven and carelessly styled, and the metallic clank of his rings echoed softly as he adjusted the half-empty energy drink in his hand.

“You’re Nam-Su, right?”

Nam-Gyu closed his phone, adjusted the cuff of his sweater, and finally looked up.

“You’re late. And it’s Nam-Gyu”.

Thanos blinked once, then gave a half-smile like he’d already forgotten the name again.

“Yeah, yeah whatever. Wasn’t even sure I’d come,” he shrugged. “Still not sure I’ll stay.”

He sits across from him, leaning back like the chair belongs to him.

Nam-Gyu obviously already annoyed slides a printed schedule across the table.

“We’re covering what you missed last semester. Twice a week, one hour. If you’re late again, I’ll cancel the sessions.”

Thanos raises an eyebrow, a lazy smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. He looks Nam-Gyu up and down before asking: “Is this how you talk to everyone, or am I special?”

Nam-Gyu doesn’t answer. He opens a textbook and flips to a marked page. He doesn’t have time for people like him. Especially not with the end of year exams coming up.

“We’ll start with macroeconomics. Page 12.” Thanos leans forward, picking up the book with two fingers. His eyes skim the page, then he tilts his head.

“You actually want me to read this?”

“Yes.”

“You know I probably won’t, right?”

“Then this will be a very short arrangement.”

A pause. Then Thanos lets out a sigh. And Nam-Gyu felt every single emotion behind that fucking sigh.

He finally looked at him again. Just for a moment.

Why the hell did the school think they could order him around to tutor braindead dumbasses like this one?

Sure, he was their pride and joy — their top student, their clean record. But that didn’t mean he was a miracle worker.

Nam-Gyu rarely likes people. Maybe that’s why he only had a few friends left who still tolerated him. And now, he was stuck with this purple-haired freak who probably breathed, ate, and lived rap music and bad decisions.

“If you’re not going to try and make up for the time you’ve lost, I don’t know what we’re doing here,” he said, voice sharper now. “Frankly, I don’t have time for this.”

He pulled a small white card from his wallet — name, number, and department title printed with surgical precision — and dropped it on the table between them.

“If you decide to stop acting like a douchebag and actually use your brain, here’s my number.” And with that, Nam-Gyu packed his books, shouldered his bag, and left.

No hesitation. No goodbye.

Thanos didn’t move for a while. The card sat there like a dare.

His fingers hovered above it before finally picking it up. White. Heavy cardstock. Clean. Neat. Nam-Gyu’s name in sharp lettering.

He smiled. WOW. He’s kind of intense, he thought.

He tucked the card into his hoodie pocket — next to the half-crushed cigarette pack and his barely-used student ID.

Maybe he'd give this tutoring thing a shot after all.

As Nam-Gyu stepped out of the library, the late afternoon air hit him like a wall — damp, warm, and annoyingly loud. A group of students passed him, laughing too hard at something stupid. He kept walking.

This is going to be a disaster, he thought.

A complete waste of time.

He couldn’t wait to be done with him.

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu was too busy to breathe.

He sprinted out of his volunteer shift with a stack of flyers still clutched to his chest, barely dodged a cyclist, then downed a convenience store sandwich in four bites while answering a message from his TA and checking three grammar errors in a campus bulletin poster.

At some point, he found himself walking to class with a binder in one hand and an open highlighter in his mouth. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Twice.

Then again.

He ignored it — until the third time nearly vibrated the thing off the table during a group project he wasn’t even supposed to be part of. He glanced at the screen, expecting a reminder from the scholarship board or a complaint from someone who thought he was too blunt during tutoring sign-ups.

Unknown Number:
are we doing that nerd session again or what

Nam-Gyu stared at it. Then at the time. Then at the phone again.

No name. No context. No punctuation.

He frowned.

I think you have the wrong number.

Unknown Number:
you’re the one who gave it to me lol
library thing? econ?
you threw a card at me. kinda dramatic

He froze. There was only one person that sounded that stupid and that smug at the same time. Except… he didn’t remember giving Thanos his number.

Wait.

He physically groaned, pressed a hand to his face, and muttered something halfway between “Nope” and “Please no.”

He clicked on their messages again. Then just replied:
depends. is this my drug dealer or my mother?

Unknown Number:
lmao
i’ll bring vibes
see you tuesday

Nam-Gyu added them to his contacts under “???”

Then tossed his phone onto the bed and got back to rewriting his sociology notes. Or tried to.

He didn’t see Thanos again until Thursday.

It was raining — the kind of light rain that pretends to be mist but ruins your hair and soul anyway. Nam-Gyu had just finished organizing a club meeting none of the other leaders showed up for. His bag was soaked at the bottom. His feet hurt. He was hungry. He was five minutes from deleting the entire tutoring schedule and going into academic exile.

And then, Thanos appeared like a feral cat who knew when to show up for food. Nam-Gyu wasn’t expecting him to show up.

So when the door opened and Thanos strolled in — hoodie slouched off one shoulder, energy drink in hand — he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Didn’t answer my message,” Thanos said, like they’d spoken that morning.

Nam-Gyu blinked at him. “What text?”

Thanos rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone — same thread, open to the card comment.

Nam-Gyu stared at him. “That was you?”

Thanos tilted his head. “Who else would it be?”

“You didn’t say your name.”

“You threw a card at me. Did you think I wouldn’t text you?”

Nam-Gyu opened his binder.

“If I had known it was you,” he said flatly, “I wouldn’t have replied either way.”

Thanos snorted. “You’re charming.”

“And you’re late. Again.”

“Only by like three minutes.”

“Five.”

“You time me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrifying.”

Thanos dropped his bag onto the chair beside him like it had wronged him and pulled out a crumpled notebook. No pen. No textbook. Nam-Gyu stared at the mess of wrinkled paper and something sticky on the cover.

“You didn’t bring your materials.”

“I brought my charm,” Thanos said, deadpan. “That counts, right?”

Nam-Gyu exhaled slowly through his nose, retrieved a spare pencil from his case, and slid it across the table. “Page twelve. We’re going over opportunity cost.”

Thanos picked up the pencil with two fingers like it might bite. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

Nam-Gyu turned his own book toward him and tapped the paragraph. “It’s the loss of potential gain from other alternatives when one choice is made. So if you skip class to go smoke behind the gym, the opportunity cost is passing your midterm.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

“It wasn’t hypothetical.”

Thanos gave him a long, unreadable look. Then shrugged, eyes lazily scanning the text.

Nam-Gyu waited. And waited.

Three minutes passed. Four. He could hear someone chewing gum outside the door. He could feel his blood pressure rise with every second Thanos didn’t say anything.

“You’re just staring at the page.”

“I’m absorbing it spiritually.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s fair.”

Nam-Gyu leaned forward, tapped the margin again. “Read it out loud.”

“Why?”

“It forces your brain to engage. And it’ll prove you’re literate.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow but read anyway, stumbling through some of the economic terms with a dramatic flair that sounded more like stand-up than study.

Nam-Gyu corrected him twice. The third time, he didn’t bother.

At the fifteen-minute mark, Thanos leaned back with a sigh that shook the fake-leather chair.

“You’re really serious about this.”

“Is that surprising?”

“Honestly, yeah.” He tilted his head. “You don’t seem like the ‘help others succeed’ type.”

“I’m not,” Nam-Gyu replied. “This is community service.”

“For what crime?”

“Being born smarter than everyone else.”

Thanos laughed, too loudly for a library, then slapped a hand over his mouth in mock apology. The librarian outside glared through the glass. Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes and slid his laptop over to show a spreadsheet.

“Here. This is your grade breakdown.”

“Oh god.”

“You’ve failed three modules already. If you don’t pass the next exam, you’ll be on academic probation.”

“And I’ll have to drop out and start a SoundCloud career,” Thanos nodded. “Tragic.”

Nam-Gyu paused. “Would you actually care if that happened?”

Thanos didn’t answer right away. He was looking at the screen, but not really reading anymore. His fingers tapped the side of the desk rhythmically.

“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Maybe I should. Maybe that’s why they assigned me to someone like you.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know. You’ve got your whole life in alphabetical order or whatever. Maybe I’m supposed to get inspired by that.”

Nam-Gyu closed the laptop. “That’s not my job.”

Thanos smiled again, smaller this time. “No. But maybe it’s not all on me either.”

They didn’t talk for the rest of the session. Nam-Gyu went through the basics. Thanos scribbled notes when prompted. It wasn’t productive, but it wasn’t a disaster either.

That felt new.

Later that night, Nam-Gyu lay in bed, textbook propped on his chest, glasses askew, hair still damp from the rain he didn’t bother drying.

His phone buzzed.

???:
yo
how do you say “opportunity cost” in a way that won’t make me want to walk into traffic?

He stared at the screen. Then sighed long, slow, and maybe a little amused despite himself.

He typed back without thinking:
welcome to econ. you can’t.

He didn’t save the number.

But he didn’t delete it either.

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu was, again, running on exactly four hours of sleep, half a vitamin water, and pure academic rage.

He’d just finished a three-hour econ seminar — which Thanos skipped, naturally — and was now cornered outside the humanities building by Se-Mi, who had the kind of energy usually reserved for lottery winners and cult leaders.

“You look like you haven’t slept in six years,” she said cheerfully, holding out a bubble tea like it was a peace offering. “Drink this before your skin flakes off.”

“I’m not thirsty,” Nam-Gyu muttered, accepting it anyway.

Mi-na appeared next, platform heels clicking, phone already in her hand. “Did you know there’s a quiz online that tells you what kind of romantic tragedy you are? I’m an ‘accidental soulmate lost in another timeline’ kind of girl. Isn’t that depressing?”

“No,” Nam-Gyu said. “It’s predictable.”

“You think everything I do is predictable,” she said, not offended in the slightest.

“Only because it is.”

Then came Min-Su, late and shy as always, plopping himself next to Se-Mi and grinning at Nam-Gyu like a sleep-deprived cat.

“I thought you had a tutoring session with that purple-haired delinquent today.”

“Cancelled.”

“Aw, I wanted to see if he actually knew how to read.”

“I hate you,” Nam-Gyu said automatically.

“You say that every time I’m right,” Min-Su replied, stealing a sip of his drink

That was before Nam-Gyu swung his arm with dead-eyed precision and slapped the cup straight out of his hand. It hit the concrete with a sickly thwap, splashing across Min-Su’s shoes.

Min-Su blinked. “That was... deeply unnecessary.”

“Then don’t touch my stuff.”

“I was trying to bond.”

“Try therapy instead.”

Se-Mi, trying not to laugh, swatted Min-Su’s arm and shoved him behind her like a bodyguard.

Last to arrive was Gyeong-Su, who nodded once and took up silent residence on the bench beside them. He had headphones around his neck, a half-unzipped jacket, and the general aura of someone who spoke only when the planets aligned.

“Did you know Thanos got into a fight with a vending machine?” Se-Mi asked, scrolling through her phone. “Apparently it ate his coins, so he kicked it. Someone filmed it. It has thirty thousand views.”

“Of course he did,” Nam-Gyu muttered. “Can’t solve basic equations but has time to pick fights with appliances.”

“It’s kind of iconic,” Mi-Na said dreamily. “He’s so... dangerous.”

“He’s an idiot,” Nam-Gyu snapped.

“That too,” she shrugged, still smiling. “But like... a hot idiot.”

Nam-Gyu looked up sharply. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t think he’s a little attractive?”

“He looks like a raccoon that lost a bet.”

Mi-Na gasped. “He’s mysterious. And tall. With those arms... and that voice... and—”

“He doesn’t wear socks.”

“That's punk!”

“That’s fungal.”

Min-Su burst out laughing. “Okay but, real talk, if he was into someone here, who do you think it would be?”

“No one,” Nam-Gyu answered instantly.

“Mina,” Se-Mi said at the same time.

Mi-Na clutched her heart. “Do you really think so?”

“I think you’d throw yourself at him first.”

“That’s not a no!”

“Can we not do this?” Nam-Gyu said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m already one unfinished thesis away from a full breakdown.”

“Yeah,” Min-Su nodded. “We voted you Most Likely to Snap in our group chat.”

“You what?”

Se-Mi patted his shoulder. “It was unanimous.”

Nam-Gyu closed his eyes. “Why are you all like this?”

“You mean delightful?” Mina said.

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth to reply — and that’s when he heard it.

The lazy scuff of boots on pavement. The low hum of someone who didn’t know what a bad reputation was because he’d never cared to check.

Him.

He strolled up, earbuds in, sunglasses on despite the overcast sky, hands in his hoodie like he was strolling into a music video instead of a conversation.

Nam-Gyu visibly deflated.

Thanos pulled one earbud out and looked at the group. “Am I interrupting a cult meeting?”

Mina nearly choked on her drink.

“Oh. My. God. You’re even hotter up close.”

Thanos blinked. “Thanks?”

“Ignore her,” Nam-Gyu snapped. “She thinks every man with jawline is a romantic lead.”

“Not every man,” Mina said dreamily. “Just the dangerous ones.”

Se-Mi looked between the two of them. “Wait… this is the guy you’re tutoring?”

“I’m not tutoring him,” Nam-Gyu said at the same time Thanos said, “He is.”

Min-Su laughed like it made his whole day. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is your academic charity case?”

“Thanos,” Thanos said, offering a hand like this was a normal social interaction. “Nice to meet the fan club.”

“Fan club?” Nam-Gyu repeated, scandalised.

Se-Mi perked up. “We were just talking about you.”

“Was it flattering?”

“No,” Nam-Gyu said.

Thanos grinned. “Didn’t think so. But don’t worry. I’d talk about me too.”

Nam-Gyu looked like he was mentally packing his things and fleeing the country.

Mi-Na twirled a strand of hair. “You didn’t tell us you were friends with Nam-Gyu.”

Nam-Gyu: “We’re not.”

Thanos: “Aw, don’t be shy.” He said as he put his arms around Nam-Gyu.

Min-Su nudged Se-Mi with a whispered, “Oh my god, he’s actually hotter in person.”

“Right?” she whispered back.

Gyeong-Su didn’t even look up. “He’s taller than I expected.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow at the group. “You guys always like this?”

Nam-Gyu stood up, shaking off Thanos with agression. “Yes. It’s hell. Now let’s go. You missed the entire seminar.”

“Don’t worry,” Thanos said as he put his hands abouve his head in surrender. “You’ll tell me everything I missed. That’s what tutoring’s for, right?”

Thanos looked away for a second, gaze somewhere near the sidewalk. “Besides. I didn’t skip,” he said. “I just didn’t want to… be there today.”

Nam-Gyu frowned. “What does that even mean?”

And Mina, still clearly starstruck, whispered, “Can we keep him?”

Min-Su leaned in with a grin. “You sure you’re not into him? That was a pretty dramatic arm grab back there.”

“What?” Nam-Gyu blinked. “No.”

“I mean… he does have a thing for strays,” Se-Mi said, smirking.

“I’m standing right here,” Thanos added, not sounding offended at all.

“Exactly,” Nam-Gyu snapped. “That’s why I’m denying it loudly.”

Mi-Na gasped. “Wait, you’d tell us if you were falling in love with your tutee, right? Like, forbidden romance and all?”

“I’d rather choke,” Nam-Gyu said.

“Hot,” Thanos muttered.

Nam-Gyu walked away first.

Thanos followed.

The others stared.

Mi-Na whispered, “I give them three months before they hook up.”

Se-Mi: “Three weeks.”

Min-Su: “Three days.”

Gyeong-Su: “…three hours.”

Chapter Text

It started with a text.

Thanos [10:42 p.m.]:
you’re lucky i didn’t ditch halfway through today
i deserve a medal or a snack

Nam-Gyu stared at his phone from the chaos of his bed, half-buried under three open notebooks, a ripped problem set, and the existential dread of future employment. The text lit up the screen again as he re-read it.

He tossed the phone aside.

Then immediately reached for it again, sighing like it pained him to care.

Nam-Gyu:
Snacks require effort. Try self-respect instead.

Thanos:
ew
guess i’ll starve then

Nam-Gyu didn’t reply after that. But his lips twitched—barely noticeable, but there.

That was the night it started.

Not the tutoring. Not the bickering.

The... thing.

The slow, reluctant, stupid unraveling of the wall Nam-Gyu had spent years building brick by brick — only for Thanos to start chipping at it with jokes and energy drinks and that stupid, smug face.

By the third session, Thanos brought a pen.

It didn’t work.

He clicked it seventeen times before throwing it across the table.

“Useless,” he muttered.

Nam-Gyu didn’t even flinch. “You two have something in common.”

By the fourth, he brought a pen and a notebook. The pages were mostly blank except for an aggressive doodle of what looked like Nam-Gyu’s glasses with devil horns.

Nam-Gyu stared at it. “Do you have a death wish?”

Thanos grinned, completely unbothered. “Just an artistic side.”

“You’re wearing two different socks.”

“That’s balance,” Thanos replied easily, kicking his feet up. One sock was yellow with cartoon shrimp. The other was plain black and had a hole in it.

Nam-Gyu handed him a worksheet without breaking eye contact. “Try not to spill whatever that is,” he added, nodding toward the can of peach soda Thanos had perched precariously on his backpack.

“I’ll spill it on you if you keep judging my lifestyle.”

Nam-Gyu glanced up from his notes, unamused. “What lifestyle? Chaos?”

“Freedom.”

“Delusion.”

Thanos stretched his arms behind his head and smiled. “Borderline tolerable.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t smile back. But he didn’t correct him either.

Then came the rain.

Not just rain — biblical fury from the sky kind of rain. Horizontal, icy, loud. The kind that made you question every decision that led you to be outside instead of curled up inside a nuclear-grade blanket.

Nam-Gyu walked into the library study room looking like he’d lost a war.

His hair was plastered to his forehead. His scarf was dripping. His expression could’ve curdled milk.

“Umbrellas are a lie,” he muttered, slamming his bag onto the table. “Capitalist scam. You pay money for a fake sense of safety and then the wind mocks you.”

“You look like a drowned squirrel,” Thanos said.

Nam-Gyu glared at him. “Shut up.”

Thanos, notably dry and comfortable, pushed something across the table.

A drink. Nam-Gyu’s favorite one. Same brand, same weird flavor combo.

He blinked. “How did you—?”

“You bought it once. I have eyes,” Thanos said with a shrug, like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just short-circuited Nam-Gyu’s brain.

Nam-Gyu took the drink. Their fingers brushed—just barely. Just long enough for Nam-Gyu to notice.

“…Thanks.”

Thanos leaned back, grinning. “No biggie.”

That night, as Nam-Gyu tried and failed to rewrite an ethics essay, his phone buzzed with chaos.

Se-Mi [8:03 p.m.]:
did Thanos really show up EARLY today?? is this the apocalypse

Mi-Na [8:04 p.m.]:
namgyu are you feeding him or is this character development

Min-Su [8:07 p.m.]:
if you become friends with him i’m suing you for emotional damage

Nam-Gyu [8:08 p.m.]:
we’re not friends. he just brings drinks and chaos.

Gyeong-Su [8:15 p.m.]:
so… a friend.

Nam-Gyu locked his phone.

His face was warm.

He hated them. He hated Thanos.

He also… kind of liked the drink.

And the doodle.

And the socks.

And the fact that Thanos had been waiting when he arrived — for once, actually waiting.

It wasn’t friendship.

Not really.

But it was something.

And that something was starting to scare him more than any exam ever had.

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu was not okay. Again.

He had just come out of a brutal student council meeting, his inbox was a war zone, his professor had assigned surprise revisions to a paper he'd already gotten an A on, and someone had spilled coffee on the last clean copy of his annotated syllabus.

The library was too hot. His sweater was too tight. His headache had developed a personality.

And to top it all off — it was only 16:32.

Which meant he had twenty-eight minutes before Thanos was supposed to show up and ruin the rest of his afternoon.

He’d barely sat down, hadn’t even opened his laptop, when the study room door creaked open and in walked the purple-haired menace himself, looking like he’d slept in the hoodie he was still wearing.

“You’re early,” Nam-Gyu said flatly.

Thanos blinked. “You sound disappointed.”

“I’m just surprised you showed up at all.”

“I was feeling inspired.”

Nam-Gyu squinted. “Inspired to learn?”

“No,” Thanos said, already dragging a chair out. “Inspired to get out of the house before my neighbor started singing trot again.”

Nam-Gyu pressed his lips together, already opening his notes. “Whatever the reason, we’re going over price elasticity today. Don’t derail it.”

“I like your funny words magic man.”

“I swear to God.”

Thanos shrugged, slinging his bag into the chair opposite and flopping into it with the grace of a disinterested cat. “You said I’d fail if I didn’t. I’m trying not to ruin your perfect stats.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes but opened his textbook. “We’re going over everything from week five today. Starting with aggregate demand.”

“Sexy.”

“Don’t say that word while I’m holding a calculator.”

The session started as usual: strained silence, eye rolls, reluctant reading. Nam-Gyu explained concepts with razor-sharp precision. Thanos interrupted with off-topic questions and stupid metaphors. But about halfway through, something shifted.

They worked well in silence. Well — Nam-Gyu worked. Thanos leaned over the table in a way that could only be described as criminally distracting and underlined every third word like it owed him money.

Fifteen minutes in, Nam-Gyu realized he was rereading the same paragraph over and over because Thanos had started humming under his breath — something low and tuneless and frustratingly not terrible.

“Do you mind?” he snapped.

“Just trying to stay awake,” Thanos replied. “This textbook is dry enough to qualify as a desert.”

“Maybe if you actually—” Nam-Gyu stopped. “What is that?”

“What?”

Nam-Gyu pointed. “That.”

Thanos followed his gaze to the protein bar, which was oozing out the sides like a slow-motion crime scene.

“Oh. That’s just lunch.”

Nam-Gyu stared at him. “Have you ever eaten a vegetable in your life?”

“Does lettuce on a burger count?”

“No.”

Thanos grinned. “Thought so.”

Nam-Gyu let out a groan and dropped his pen. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re stressed.”

“I’m always stressed.”

Nam-Gyu had been mid-rant about inflationary gaps when Thanos leaned forward, elbow on the table, expression weirdly focused.

“You get all intense when you talk about this stuff,” he said.

“That’s because it’s important.”

“No, I mean, like—” Thanos mimicked Nam-Gyu’s posture, stiff shoulders and furrowed brow. “You do this whole thing where you lean forward and your voice gets all sharp. Like you’re trying to win a debate with the air.”

Nam-Gyu stared at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“A little. But mostly I think it’s kinda...” Thanos trailed off, then smiled. “Never mind.”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll revoke your pencil privileges.”

“Scary,” Thanos said, grinning. “But fine. I was gonna say it’s kind of cute.”

Nam-Gyu choked on air.

“You have two brain cells and they’re both suicidal,” he muttered, flipping a page harder than necessary.

“You wound me,” Thanos said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Anyway, I got through that paragraph. Want a gold star or something?”

“I want you to understand what you just read, not perform it like a TikTok.”

They went back and forth like that for another half hour, the jabs getting quicker, lighter. At some point, Nam-Gyu forgot to be annoyed. He even caught himself smiling.

Which is exactly when it went off the rails.

Thanos had leaned over to look at Nam-Gyu’s notes—too close, far too close—and when Nam-Gyu tried to shift away, his knee knocked into Thanos’ under the table.

They both froze.

A second too long.

Thanos didn’t move. Nam-Gyu didn’t breathe.

And then Thanos blinked, and said, entirely too casual, “Is this a lesson in contact economics?”

“No,” Nam-Gyu snapped, yanking his leg back. “This is a lesson in not invading personal space.”

Thanos grinned. “You’re really cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered. I’m contemplating murder.”

“Flustered murder. Got it.”

Nam-Gyu shoved his notes into a pile. “Session’s over.”

“Aww, I was learning so much.”

“You learned exactly nothing.”

“False. I learned you blush when you’re mad.”

Nam-Gyu stood up. “Goodbye, Su-bong.”

“Wait,” Thanos said, grabbing his bag. “I’m starving. Wanna go get food?”

Nam-Gyu stopped. Turned.

“Why would I do that?”

Thanos shrugged. “Because you haven’t eaten today and I owe you for not throwing your calculator at me.”

Nam-Gyu narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even know if I haven’t eaten.” He muttered under his breath “…Fine. One hour. Then we study.”

Thanos stood up, triumphant. “Deal. You’re buying, though.”

“I—what? Why?”

“I showed up early. That’s, like, historic.”

Thanos beamed like he just won something.

“Fuck that, you’re the one who is buying,” Nam-Gyu added.

“Obviously,” Thanos laughed. “This is a date, after all.”

“It is not a—”

But Thanos was already walking ahead, humming.

Nam-Gyu stared after him for a long second.

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes. “I hate you.”

“You say that a lot.”

“And yet you keep coming back.”

Thanos shot him a grin as they left the study room.

Chapter Text

The café Thanos picked was a fifteen-minute walk off campus and absolutely not worth the detour. It was tucked between a laundromat and a failing nail salon, smelled faintly of garlic and printer ink, and had exactly three tables, none of which matched.

Nam-Gyu stared at the neon “Open” sign like it had personally offended him.

“This is your idea of food?” he asked, deadpan.

Thanos held the door open like he was being knighted. “Trust the process.”

Inside, a bored-looking girl behind the counter barely looked up from her phone. Thanos waved like they were old friends.

“They have the best kimchi fried rice in this district,” he said.

Nam-Gyu looked at the sticky menu. “It’s laminated.”

“That’s how you know it’s legit.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

But Thanos was already ordering, effortlessly charming, leaning on the counter like he did this often — like he belonged here. Nam-Gyu stood two feet behind him, arms crossed, calculating the quickest escape route in case the food gave him food poisoning and he had to sprint to the ER.

They sat in a corner booth. The table wobbled. Thanos propped it with a napkin like a professional.

Nam-Gyu hadn’t realized how tired he was until he sat down. His shoulders slumped. His bag slid to the floor. His phone buzzed twice — he ignored it.

Thanos watched him, elbow on the table, chin in hand.

“You always look like you’re five minutes from a breakdown,” he said.

Nam-Gyu shot him a look. “That’s because I am.”

“Do you ever relax?”

“I’m relaxing right now.”

Thanos blinked. “Babe, your hands are clenched.”

Nam-Gyu looked down. They were.

The food arrived in plastic bowls. It didn’t look poisonous. Nam-Gyu took a cautious bite — and to his horror, it was good. Really good.

“Don’t say anything,” he warned.

Thanos was already smirking. “You like it.”

“I said don’t.”

“You like it.”

Nam-Gyu stabbed at his food. “I liked you better when you didn’t show up.”

“You’re literally eating fried rice and soup with me right now.”

“This is nutritional obligation, not friendship.”

“You’re fun when you’re in denial.”

“This broth? Life-changing. I’d sell my GPA for another bowl.”

“You don’t have a GPA.”

“Exactly. Nothing to lose.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but his shoulders relaxed just a little. It was so easy for Thanos to be like this — like the world owed him nothing and he didn’t care either way. It was irritating. And… weirdly comforting.

“Do you always eat like a starving animal?” he asked after Thanos inhaled a piece of kimchi in one bite.

“I was a teenage boy during peak growth,” Thanos said between chews. “Now I’m just feeding the monster I became.”

Nam-Gyu shook his head, biting back a smile.

It was strange, this — the absence of pressure. For once, no grades, no expectations, no carefully managed image. Just an overpriced dinner and a boy who leaned too far into everything he did, especially sarcasm.

They ate in silence for a bit. Not the awkward kind. The... tolerable kind. Thanos scrolled through his phone. Nam-Gyu watched the window fog up.

Nam-Gyu’s phone buzzed.

A message from a locked contact — saved under a fake name, just in case.

[Manager | PENTAGON]
“Club opens at 8. Bring the black shirt. VIP list is full tonight. Don’t be late.”

Nam-Gyu read it, screen low under the table.

He didn’t react. Didn’t sigh or grimace or roll his eyes. Just locked the phone again and placed it face-down.

Thanos glanced at him. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Nam-Gyu said. “Just school.”

“So,” Thanos said after a beat, pushing his tray aside. “What do you do on weekends, besides reformatting your resume and judging baristas?”

Nam-Gyu stiffened.

He glanced at the time. 6:47 p.m. Shift started at eight. Still had time. He cleared his throat.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “Study.”

“No, I mean when you’re not doing school stuff.”

“There is no ‘not doing school stuff.’”

Thanos paused, then said, “That’s the saddest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“I volunteer.” Nam-Gyu shrugged.

“Better. Where?”

“Nothing special,” he said, too fast. “Local clinic. Some translation work. Sometimes tutoring younger students.”

“Mm.” Thanos looked at him a second too long. “Right. You seem like the volunteering type. You’re like... a full-time saint.”

Nam-Gyu nodded quickly. “Yup.”

He was not about to explain the black button-up hidden in his locker. Or the regulars who called him “sweetheart” for tips. Or the blaring EDM that left his ears ringing all weekend.
He was definitely not about to explain how good he was at pretending he didn’t hate every second of it.

Thanos stretched, yawning like a cat. “Well. You fed me. I guess I can pretend to care about macroeconomics again.”

Nam-Gyu scoffed. “You owe me a written reflection on opportunity cost by Tuesday.”

Thanos blinked. “Is this emotional blackmail?”

“No, this is tutoring.”

A beat passed.

Thanos said, “You know, I don’t hate this.”

Nam-Gyu looked at him.

“This... whatever this is,” Thanos added. “It’s not that bad.”

Nam-Gyu’s face did something weird. Something small. He didn’t smile. But he didn’t frown, either.

“I’ve had worse afternoons,” he admitted.

And just as Thanos opened his mouth to turn that into some flirty, insufferable comeback—RIIIIIING.

Nam-Gyu’s phone lit up with a new notification.

???:
you’d be proud. i remembered the definition of elasticity. kind of. maybe. okay i still don’t know what it means.

Nam-Gyu stared at the screen. He hadn’t saved the number. But he’d known it was coming eventually.

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “That your other boyfriend?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look up. “Worse. It’s you.”

Thanos grinned, showing his phone not so discretly back into his pockets. “Guilty.”

Nam-Gyu stood up so fast his chair screeched.

Thanos followed, still grinning, and they walked side by side back toward the subway.

At the entrance, Nam-Gyu hesitated. His station was in the opposite direction — The Pentagon was tucked far enough away that no one from campus ever noticed him there.

He adjusted his bag, gave Thanos a look that said this isn’t a real friendship even though it was starting to feel dangerously close to one, and nodded.

“Don’t be late next time.”

Thanos saluted. “Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.”

Nam-Gyu turned, pulling his hoodie up against the wind.

Behind him, Thanos called out, “Hey! What do you do on weekends, really?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t stop walking.

“Nothing I’d ever tell you.”

Nam-Gyu’s pace didn’t slow until he was two blocks away. The streets got louder, messier and more alive. Neon signs blinked down at him like secrets. He stopped in front of an unmarked door, buzzed once, and waited.

A bouncer he vaguely knew nodded him through.

Inside, the bass hit like a second heartbeat. Lights pulsed. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and weekend desperation. Nam-Gyu exhaled slowly, pulled his hoodie off, and walked past the bar like he didn’t hate this place. Like he didn’t hate himself for needing it.

He clocked in without a word. Someone handed him a tray and a smile that didn’t reach their eyes. In the mirror behind the counter, he saw himself — shirt crisp, hair fixed, expression blank. The perfect part-time persona.

He adjusted his collar and thought, briefly, of fried rice and Thanos’ stupid grin.

Then the music got louder, and the night began.

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu made it back to the dorm after midnight.

The streets were mostly empty, but his legs ached like he’d run a marathon. Technically, he had—just not the athletic kind. Seven hours behind the bar, three shifts' worth of drunk patrons, two spilled drinks, one shattered glass, and one guy who tried to tip him with a Bitcoin QR code.

And somehow, somehow, he’d ended the day laughing.

He hadn’t expected that.

He hadn’t expected the dinner, either. Or how easy it had been. Or how Thanos had said, “I don’t hate this.” And Nam-Gyu had… almost agreed.

He toed off his shoes quietly, changed into sweats, and collapsed onto his bed face-first.

His phone buzzed.

It was a text.

Thanos [12:14 a.m.]:
ok don’t get weird but
today was kinda fun

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer at first. He stared at the ceiling. Thought about the food. The jokes. The casual shoulder bump when they’d walked back from the subway. The way Thanos had said “This is a date, after all.”

He unlocked his phone.

Nam-Gyu [12:17 a.m.]:
I’m already weird
but sure
wasn’t terrible

Thanos:
wow
slow down
ur gonna make me cry

Nam-Gyu:
get tissues
you’re not emotionally equipped for sarcasm

Thanos:
say that again and i’ll write a 3k word essay on price elasticity just to spite you

Nam-Gyu:
do it
I dare you
single spaced

He stared at the screen for a second. Then added:

Nam-Gyu [12:19 a.m.]:
also
you eat like a feral dog
and you’re annoying
but
you’re not… the worst

Thanos:
stawpppp
i’m blushing

Nam-Gyu:
you’re incapable of shame

Thanos:
not true
i had bangs in middle school

Nam-Gyu let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, then stilled.

He didn’t know what this was.

All he knew was that he was tired, and wired, and warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He clicked off his phone, rolled over, and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

Then clicked it on again.

Nam-Gyu [12:26 a.m.]:
don’t be late next week

Thanos [12:27 a.m.]:
yes sir

Thanos [12:27 a.m.]:
also
if you ever say “not the worst” again
i’m putting that on a shirt.

Chapter Text

Saturday night. The campus was quiet. Most students were at parties, cramming for exams, or pretending not to exist.

Thanos was doing none of those things. He was lying upside down on his couch, phone resting on his stomach, half a bag of chips scattered across his hoodie. He'd been staring at the same meme for five minutes.

He texted Nam-Gyu at 8:14 p.m.

Thanos:
tell me again what elasticity means
but this time make it cool

No reply.

He waited.

8:26 p.m.

Thanos:
r u alive or did ur GPA finally kill you

Still nothing.

He stared at the screen, then dropped the phone on his face.

“…Rude.”

Inside The Pentagon, the air was electric — bass thumping underfoot, lights pulsing like a heartbeat, sweat and perfume woven into the oxygen. Behind the bar, Nam-Gyu moved like he was choreographed. Fast. Focused. Effortless.

He flipped a shaker, caught it without looking. Garnished a drink mid-sentence. Took two orders while cashing out a third.

“Two vodka cranberries, one whiskey sour, and a—”

“Cherry gin and tonic,” he said automatically. “No ice. I remember.”

The customer blinked. “Damn. You always this good?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer, just smirked and slid the drink over with a practiced flick. The guy leaned in across the counter, voice lowered like they were sharing a secret.

“You sure you’re not the most dangerous thing in here tonight?”

Nam-Gyu raised an eyebrow. “Depends. You allergic to gin or heartbreak?”

The guy grinned. “Both, probably. You off at midnight?”

Nam-Gyu laughed — quick, smooth, automatic. A work laugh. One he could do with his eyes closed. “Only if the earth stops spinning.”

“Pity.”

The guy slid his number over on a coaster, winked, and disappeared into the crowd.

Nam-Gyu exhaled — not flustered, not uncomfortable. Just tired. This job was survival. And performance. And... sometimes kind of addicting. Because here, no one expected him to be perfect. They just wanted him to be good. And he was. Unfairly good.

It was the only place where being charming didn’t feel like a lie.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

Two drinks. Three orders. A spilled bottle. Someone yelling in the VIP section.

Buzz.

He glanced at his phone during a lull in orders.

Thanos [21:07]: are u ignoring me or r u dead
Thanos [21:15]: wait r u actually dead
Thanos [21:22]: namgyu. hellooo
Thanos [21:38]: okay well now i’m worried
Thanos [21:56]: if this is how i find out u were kidnapped i’m gonna be so pissed

Nam-Gyu sighed and shoved the phone back in his pocket. No time. Not tonight.

10:03 p.m.

Thanos:
you said u weren’t busy
what are u doing, solving world hunger?

Still no answer.

Thanos flipped over and let his phone fall between the couch cushions.

Fine. Whatever. Maybe Nam-Gyu was actually busy. Or sleeping. Or finally snapped and fled the country.

Meanwhile, Nam-Gyu was on break, crouched behind the club’s back entrance, texting his shift manager. He pulled out his phone to check the time—and saw the messages.

Fifteen from Thanos.

He stared at them. Then… locked his phone.

If he answered now, he’d have to explain. If he explained, Thanos would ask questions. And if Thanos asked the right ones—

Nam-Gyu shoved the phone back into his pocket and rubbed at his eyes. Just a few more hours. Then he could go home and pretend he didn’t exist.

Back at his dorm, Thanos finally gave up pretending he didn’t care.

10:11 p.m.
Thanos:
k whatever
good talk

He threw the phone across the bed, turned off the lights, and tried not to feel like an idiot.

Hours passed.

He stared at the ceiling.

Maybe Nam-Gyu had better things to do. Maybe this was his way of saying we’re not actually friends.

Thanos picked up his phone. Opened the messages. Closed them.

He thought about the tutoring sessions, the banter, the late-night texts. The stupid dinner.

Was he reading into it? Was he just bored and projecting onto the first person who didn’t treat him like an idiot?

No, he thought.

Nam-Gyu answered everyone else. He answers me.

Until tonight.

Outside the club, a group of drunk regulars had gathered near the back alley exit, laughing too loud and smoking cigarettes like they were currency. Nam-Gyu stepped out into the humid night for air, apron off, shirt untucked. One of the guys from earlier — the flirt — leaned beside him against the wall.

“You ever get tired of being the best-looking guy in here?” he asked.

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk and correct.”

He flicked his lighter. Nam-Gyu watched the flame dance. It was easy, letting the guy lean a little closer, because here — in this part of his world — no one knew what he was supposed to be. Saint. Scholar. Golden boy. Here, he could just be tired and a little mean and still get tipped for it.

Then the guy bumped his shoulder, laughed at something Nam-Gyu didn’t even hear.

And across the street, in the shadows by a food stall, Thanos stood completely still.

He hadn’t meant to come here. He hadn’t meant to follow the lie about Nam-Gyu’s “volunteering” to this end of the city. But curiosity, and worry, and something he didn’t want to name had dragged him here anyway.

He wasn’t expecting to see Nam-Gyu, in all black, talking to a guy twice his size near the back of a clearly illegal-looking club.

He saw everything.

The casual closeness. The laughter. The guy flicking a lighter and offering Nam-Gyu his phone number.

Thanos turned and left before he could see Nam-Gyu wave the guy off, shaking his head and pocketing the number without a glance.

Inside, Nam-Gyu finally opened his phone.

The screen was full of unread messages. All from the same person.

He stared at them for a full minute. His thumb hovered over the reply box. But the moment passed — someone called his name. A spilled drink. A manager waving him over.

He locked it and shoved it back in his pocket.

“Later,” he told himself. “Later’s fine.”

At 12:43 a.m., long after the last customer had stumbled out, Nam-Gyu sat on the empty bar counter.

He unlocked his phone. Scrolled. Read every message.

He hovered over the reply box.

Typed:
Sorry, work got insane tonight. You okay?

Deleted it.

Typed again:
Didn’t mean to ignore you.

Deleted it.

Locked the phone and shoved it back in his apron.

Too late, he thought.

He’s probably asleep anyway.

And if he wasn’t?

Then I don’t know what to say.

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu walked into the library with a bounce in his step and a protein smoothie in hand. The tutoring room was blissfully empty. For once, he wasn’t early to overcompensate. He just… felt good.

It had been a decent weekend. No spilled drinks, no creeps who couldn’t take a hint, and his tips had been high enough to actually laugh at his bank account. He hadn’t seen the guy from Friday again, which was a win. And now? Now he got to argue with a purple-haired delinquent who made macroeconomics feel like combat therapy.

He smoothed his sweater, took a seat, and grinned slightly as he pulled out his notes. He was excited to see Thanos. Stupidly so. Their last dinner hadn’t been a disaster, and it left something buzzing in Nam-Gyu’s chest he hadn’t had time to examine. He walked in ready to be annoyed, to banter, to roll his eyes.

Let the banter begin.

Except the door opened, and Thanos walked in like he’d been personally betrayed by God.

Hoodie up. No drink. No smirk. Just dropped his bag and sat without a word.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “...Hi?”

Thanos said nothing. Opened his notebook, flipped to a blank page, and started clicking his pen with quiet aggression.

Nam-Gyu tilted his head. “Okay. You’re either possessed or about to stab me with a fork. Which is it?”

Still nothing.

Nam-Gyu’s smile faded. “Is this about the texts?”

That got Thanos to glance up. Just for a second. His eyes were unreadable.

Nam-Gyu’s voice softened. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I just… I got busy. The weekend’s chaotic and—look, I should’ve said something. I’m sorry.”

Thanos gave a single humorless laugh. “Right. Busy. Volunteering or whatever.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “Yeah. I mean. Sort of.”

Thanos turned to a page in his textbook. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get this over with.”

Nam-Gyu paused. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great.”

“You don’t look—”

“I said I’m fine.”

Nam-Gyu recoiled slightly. The coldness in Thanos’s tone wasn’t something he was used to. Not from him. Not after Friday.

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth. Closed it.

They worked in silence. Or tried to.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What is going on with you today?” he asked after some while.

Thanos didn’t write. Barely looked at the page. Every time Nam-Gyu offered a definition or asked a question, he got a grunt or a nod. Nothing else.

Ten minutes in, Nam-Gyu finally snapped. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

“You, apparently.”

That stung. “Me?”

Thanos looked at him, jaw tight. “Forget it.”

“No. You don’t get to act like a kicked puppy and then shut down when I ask you what’s wrong.”

Thanos leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Fine. You wanna talk? Let’s talk. How about how you lied to me? About where you were? About what you do?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb. You weren’t volunteering. You were—” Thanos cut himself off.

“Friday night. Ten missed texts. Nothing for hours. And when I finally find you, you’re smiling and letting some guy practically lick your ear in an alley?”

Nam-Gyu froze. “You... what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Thanos stood. “I saw you. At that club. Dressed like someone who gets paid for a lot more than bartending.”

Nam-Gyu’s chest tightened. “Wait. You saw me?”

Thanos scoffed and repeated. “Friday night. Back alley. Guy all over you. Ring a bell?”

Nam-Gyu went pale. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“You… followed me?”

“I didn’t follow you,” Thanos snapped. “I was worried. You disappeared. I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead. Turns out you were just busy playing on God knows what and—” He stopped himself again. Voice sharper now. “Do you always lie like that? Or was I just special?”

Nam-Gyu was silent for a long moment.

Then quietly, “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Thanos shook his head and stood. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“You’re really something, you know that?” Thanos laughed, bitter and loud. “Saint Nam-Gyu, with his perfect GPA and pressed collars. But on weekends, he’s out here selling his soul to the highest bidder?”

“I’m not—”

“Save it.” He grabbed his bag. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want. Just don’t lie to my face like I’m some kind of idiot.”

“Thanos—”

But the door slammed shut before Nam-Gyu could even finish the sentence.

He stormed out, shoving the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.

Nam-Gyu didn’t follow. He sat there, staring at the empty seat across from him. For once, his thoughts weren’t sharp or organized. They were scrambled. Frayed.

Outside, someone had seen the whole thing.

Se-Mi had been walking by when Thanos stormed out. She blinked, then turned around and followed him.

“Hey. Hey! What the hell was that?”

Thanos didn’t slow down. “Nothing.”

“Uh, no. That was not nothing. You looked like you were about to punch a wall.”

He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “Just… don’t ask.”

Se-Mi raised an eyebrow. “Does this have anything to do with Nam-Gyu looking like he got hit with a frying pan?”

Thanos hesitated. “He lied to me Se-Mi. He’s not who he says he is.”

She blinked. “Nam-Gyu? As in allergic to fun, never-late-to-anything, student council’s wet dream Nam-Gyu?”

Thanos laughed bitterly. “Yeah. That one.”

Se-Mi crossed her arms. “Okay. Talk.”

Thanos shook his head. “He’s not who I thought he was.”

“Okay, slow down. What are you even talking about?”

“I saw him. At a club. Late. With some guy. Letting him touch him—”

“So you jumped to the worst conclusion?” she snapped. “You didn’t ask, didn’t wait, didn’t think that maybe — just maybe — the guy with straight As, zero time, and literal back pain from stress isn’t secretly a sex worker?”

Thanos blinked. “I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to. You assumed. And if that’s how quick you are to turn on someone just because they didn’t answer a text, maybe he’s better off without you.”

She stared at him for a beat longer. “Whatever it is, you better figure it out. Because if you’re mad over something he can’t talk about, and you act like this again, you’re gonna lose him.”

Thanos stared at the ground. Still angry.

She walked away.

“…And who did you think he was?”
He didn’t know the answer.

Nam-Gyu sat alone in the study room, still staring at the door. His breath came sharp, shallow.

He hadn’t seen Thanos. Had no idea. And now? Now the worst thing he’d feared was suddenly... real.

If anyone found out about The Pentagon, his parents would disown him. The scholarship committee would call it “inappropriate conduct.” And Thanos — Thanos thought he was some kind of liar. A fake. A fraud. A whore.

He clenched his fists in his lap, his chest burning.

He wanted to scream. Or hit something. Or disappear.

He wasn’t ashamed of working. Not really. But he was terrified of being seen — and seen wrong.

And Thanos hadn’t even let him explain.

Nam-Gyu grabbed his phone. He started to text: I’m not what you think.

Then deleted it.

He didn’t have the answer.

But he was starting to wish he did.

Chapter Text

Friday – 9:42 p.m.

Nam-Gyu was tired.

Not physically — not exactly — but that kind of exhaustion that wrapped itself around your brain and stayed there, humming like a broken fridge. The club's back storage room smelled like citrus disinfectant and spilled gin, and his bow tie was already starting to itch.

He should’ve been focused. He usually was. But this week had been a mess.

Thanos hadn’t shown up once.

Not to the Tuesday tutoring session. Not to the one on Thursday. Not even a “lol I’m skipping” text. Not even a sticker.

Nam-Gyu tried not to care. He failed.

It started on Tuesday — right on the dot, 5 p.m. sharp — when he found himself sitting in the library study room like an idiot, notes spread out, extra highlighters in place, two pens set aside just in case. He even printed the worksheet this time.

Thanos didn’t come.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty.

Nam-Gyu stared at the empty seat across from him like it had personally offended him. He texted once. Just once.

Nam-Gyu [17:12]:
you’re late. again.

No reply.

He waited until 5:45, then packed up and left.

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself Thanos probably forgot. Or got distracted. Or maybe had a family thing. Maybe his phone died. Or maybe — and this one he clung to, irrationally — maybe he’d show up next time and have some dumb excuse like, “a pigeon stole my backpack.”

Except Thursday came, and nothing changed.

Nam-Gyu waited again. Same room. Same time. Same stupid empty chair.

No message.

This time he didn’t text.

He wanted to.

He kept unlocking his phone and locking it again. Tapping it. Checking Wi-Fi. Checking for a message that didn’t exist.

And what made it worse — what made him furious — was that for once in his life, he didn’t care about the actual consequences.

He didn’t care that Thanos was failing again. That he’d probably get dropped from the program if he skipped another assignment. That the tutoring record would go blank for the week and screw with Nam-Gyu’s stats.

Nam-Gyu didn’t report him. He told himself it wasn’t his business. That the silence didn’t mean anything. That it wasn’t his fault for not explaining everything that night — the club, the job, the guy who got too close.

He should have cared. This was the kind of thing he always cared about.

But all he could think about was the look Thanos gave him that night outside the club.

The silence. The disappearing act.

And the texts. Dozens of them. Every single one unread.

Nam-Gyu kept scrolling through them like a ritual. Like maybe if he just looked hard enough, he’d understand why Thanos stopped talking to him.

He even started checking Instagram stories. Then deleted the app out of spite. Then reinstalled it. Then deleted it again.

By Friday morning, he’d rewritten a reply to those unread texts five times and still never hit send.

He paced during his break between classes. Snapped at Mi-Na when she asked if he wanted coffee. Didn’t answer Min-Su’s usual group chat meme drop. Barely noticed Se-Mi poking him in the arm on the subway.

He was unraveling, and it was stupid. Stupid that Thanos had wormed into his life fast enough to leave this kind of silence behind.

By the time his shift started, he was frayed at the edges. Tense. Distracted.

He fumbled a garnish. Knocked over a clean glass. Had to reprint a receipt three times because his brain wouldn’t stop spinning in circles around someone who hadn’t even bothered to show up.

He hated himself for how much it affected him.

He hated that he wanted to see Thanos walk through the door.

And most of all — he hated how hard his heart slammed against his ribs the second he actually did.

Now, as Nam-Gyu pushed through the beaded curtain separating the break room from the bar, trying to mentally reset before the next wave of orders—

He saw him.

Purple hair. Leather jacket. Familiar slouch.

And hanging off his arm, glittering like a human disco ball: Mi-Na.

Nam-Gyu’s body locked up so fast he almost dropped the glass in his hand. His fingers fumbled for a grip, the edge caught on the sink, and the sharp crack of glass echoed louder than it should have.

“Shit—” he hissed, catching it before it shattered. His knuckles grazed the steel faucet. Cold water splashed across his wrist. One of the bartenders, Jun-Hee glanced over. Nam-Gyu shook his head, shoved the cracked glass into the bin, and tried to steady his breathing.

His pulse wasn’t listening.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Mi-Na was clearly already tipsy — hair perfectly messy, lipstick slightly smudged, her laugh pitched too high as she said something to Thanos he didn’t even seem to respond to. She looked like someone playing a role: the wild girl, the fun friend, the flirt.

And Thanos… looked comfortable.

But not in the way he usually did — not lazy or aloof. There was something calculated in the way he leaned into the backrest, chin tilted, watching the room like he owned it. One arm slung around Mi-Na’s waist. The other nursing a drink. The smirk on his lips didn’t reach his eyes.

Then those eyes found Nam-Gyu.

Not a glance. Not a flicker.

Direct. Intentional. A bullet aimed across the club floor.

Nam-Gyu inhaled too sharply. The breath stuck in his throat. He looked away so fast his vision blurred, blinked hard, and braced himself against the sink.

What was he doing here?

Why with Mi-Na?

Was this punishment?

Another bartender nudged him with a clipboard. “VIP Room 3. Drink order. Move.”

Nam-Gyu nodded once. Mechanically. Like his body had already left him behind.

He made the drinks on autopilot. Ice. Pour. Garnish. No flair. No rhythm. Just muscle memory and something sour pressing at the back of his throat.

When he stepped behind the velvet rope, tray perfectly balanced, he already knew it was going to be bad.

He just didn’t know how bad.

“Gyu-Gyu!” Mi-Na squealed. “You work here? That’s sooo scandalous. I love it.”

Nam-Gyu forced a smile. “House specialty. It’s strong. Careful.”

Mi-Na giggled and reached for a glass like they were at brunch.

And Thanos — God, Thanos — was sitting with his legs spread and his arm behind her like it belonged there. His gaze swept over Nam-Gyu like it was a habit. Slow. Calculated. Familiar.

“Nice apron, Nam-Su” he said, like he hadn’t texted Nam-Gyu sixteen times a week ago.

“Nice attitude, and you know my name.” Nam-Gyu shot back before he could stop himself.

Mi-Na laughed like they were flirting. “You two are so funny together.”

But Thanos didn’t laugh. He just took the drink, sipped once, eyes fixed.

“So this is the big secret,” he said. “Volunteering. Right.”

Nam-Gyu stiffened. The tray didn’t shake. But his fingers ached from gripping it.

“I didn’t lie,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t tell you.”

Thanos tilted his head. “That’s called lying.”

“Why do you even care?” Nam-Gyu asked, stepping slightly closer, voice low.

Thanos’s smile was all teeth, no warmth. “Because I thought you were different.”

Nam-Gyu’s stomach twisted.

“You think you’re better than the rest of us,” Thanos went on, voice still casual, “but look at you. Flirting with customers for tips. Hiding in here like it’s a second life.”

Nam-Gyu’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“No?” Thanos leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Looked to me like you were having a good time last weekend. Real cozy with that guy.”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes narrowed. “Again I ask. You followed me?”

Thanos didn’t answer.

“You watched me. And said nothing.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to.”

Nam-Gyu’s voice went sharper. “And now you bring Mi-Na here like this? What are you trying to prove?”

Thanos’s expression dropped. Just for a second. Hurt. Raw. “Nothing,” he said. “Guess I just wanted to see how far you’d go.”

And then—

“I didn’t realize you were for sale.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. Low. Cold.

Mi-Na laughed at something unrelated, completely unaware. The bass dropped again. Nam-Gyu’s hand clenched around the tray so tight it might as well have fused to his skin.

He stepped back.

“Enjoy your drinks.”

He turned, walked off without another word. The hallway blurred around him as he shoved through the back exit and gripped the edge of the sink like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

His breath came in stutters.

What the fuck just happened?

Why did he say that?

Why did it feel like the whole room had turned inside out?

Nam-Gyu stared at his reflection in the little mirror by the prep station. His face was blank. But his eyes — they were too wide. Too shiny.

He pressed his fist to his mouth and exhaled through his nose.

He hated this.

Nam-Gyu was back behind the bar. Barely.

He’d swapped sections with Jun-Hee under the excuse of “needing to reset,” and she hadn’t asked questions. She just raised an eyebrow, said “whatever babes, just don’t start crying in the ice,” and handed over her tray.

He was stationed at the front now. Closer to the DJ booth. Further from VIP.

Further from them.

His hands moved out of habit. Lining up shot glasses, restocking the lime slices, counting orders like muscle memory could save him from whatever was clawing at his chest. The lights strobed in patterns across the counter. The bass shivered through the shelves.

It was fine.

He was fine.

“Three lemon drops and two tequila shots,” someone said, handing him a receipt.

Nam-Gyu nodded. Didn’t look up. He poured. Wiped the counter. Stacked napkins like they had done something wrong. Every motion clean, efficient, controlled.

And then he felt it. The heat. The weight of a stare.

He didn’t need to look to know where it was coming from. Still — he did.

Across the room, half-draped over a velvet booth and surrounded by dancers and half-empty glasses, Thanos was watching him. Hard.

Not in the usual way — not smug or teasing or curious. No. This was something else. This was slow-burning. Sharp-edged. Silent. His chin tilted just enough to be casual, but his eyes were locked in like a sniper scope.

Nam-Gyu tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He garnished the lemon drops with mechanical grace. Slid them toward the customer. Nodded once. Didn’t flinch. But his pulse was stuttering in his neck. His throat was dry. Every nerve in his body was acutely aware of that fucking stare.

Thanos didn’t look away.

Not when Mi-Na leaned in to say something near his ear. Not when someone tried to take his attention. Not even when Nam-Gyu moved closer to the other bartender and laughed at something — a fake, brittle sound that didn’t touch his eyes.

The stare only got heavier.

Nam-Gyu turned sharply, reaching for another bottle. His hands weren’t shaking. He refused to let them. But his skin felt too tight.

This wasn’t about the club anymore. This wasn’t about Mi-Na, or the fight, or even the insult. It was about that look.

Like Thanos was waiting.

Like he dared Nam-Gyu to break.

And Nam-Gyu wanted — God, he wanted — to march across the club, grab him by the jacket, and demand: What the fuck do you want from me?

But he didn’t.

Instead, he poured another drink. And when he passed it to a customer, his eyes flicked back across the room — just once, like a mistake.

Thanos was still watching.

But this time, his expression had shifted. Less furious. Less smug.

Something darker. Something softer. Something dangerous.

Nam-Gyu looked away first.

Again.

He wiped the counter down with too much force. The rag squeaked against the wood.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not while he was working. Not while he was pretending that this — that they— didn’t mean anything.

He had school. A reputation. A life to keep balanced.

And here came Thanos, all burning stares and broken silences, dragging it off course with nothing but eye contact and audacity.

It was maddening.

It was unfair.

It was still happening.

Nam-Gyu cursed under his breath, bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, and poured another drink like it could drown the heat rising under his collar.

Thanos – 10:12 p.m. – VIP Section

Fuck him.

Fuck Nam-Gyu and his perfect fucking shirt and that stupid little apron and the way he smiled at customers like he wasn’t built out of ice and ego.

Thanos took another sip of his drink, barely tasting it.

He hadn’t blinked in what felt like a full minute.

He told himself he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter. That Nam-Gyu lying about where he spent his weekends was exactly the kind of cold, clinical shit he should’ve expected. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that he did care.

The problem was the way Nam-Gyu looked behind the bar — confident, sharp, almost too good at playing the charming server. Like he’d done this a thousand times before.

The problem was that it looked natural on him. Who the fuck else has he done this with?

Thanos’s jaw clenched.

Mi-Na was saying something. He didn’t hear it. He just nodded, eyes still locked on the bar like it was about to explode. Nam-Gyu leaned across the counter, laughing — actually laughing — at something some guy in a button-up said, and Thanos’s grip on his glass tightened.

Are you fucking kidding me?

One week of radio silence. No texts. No answers. No explanation. And now he was out here playing bartender of the fucking year?

He said he volunteered.He said he tutored.He said nothing that was true.

And here Thanos was, sitting like an idiot in a VIP booth, pretending like he hadn’t spent the last five days triple-texting someone who clearly didn’t give a shit.

God, I’m so fucking stupid.

Nam-Gyu turned slightly. Their eyes met — barely. A flicker. Just enough to make Thanos’s pulse spike.

And then Nam-Gyu looked away.

Oh, okay.

Cool. Fuck me, I guess.

He threw back the rest of his drink and let the burn sit there, right under his tongue.

Mi-Na leaned closer, mistaking his silence for brooding mystery. “You good?”

Thanos didn’t look at her. “Peachy.”

He felt her shift beside him. She was warm and pretty and clearly interested — and that was supposed to help, right?

That was supposed to fix whatever was currently trying to crawl out of his chest.

But all he could think about was the way Nam-Gyu had looked when he walked in and saw them. Like someone had slammed a window shut behind his eyes.

Good. Let him feel something. Let him squirm.

He ordered another drink he didn’t want. Tipped too much. Kept watching. It was poison. Every second of it. But he didn’t look away.

Nam-Gyu smiled again, fake and polished. The guy across the bar smiled back.

Thanos’s blood boiled. What the fuck is this? What the actual fuck is going on here?

Because it wasn’t just the job. It wasn’t just the bar. It was the way Nam-Gyu moved — like this was his world and Thanos didn’t belong in it. Like none of it had been real. Like the not-a-date, the tutoring, the texts — all of it had been one long, elaborate joke and Thanos was the punchline.

His stomach turned.

He hated this.

He hated Nam-Gyu.

He hated the way he wanted to drag him across the bar, corner him against a wall, and make him say something — anything — that wasn’t perfect or rehearsed or distant.

Instead, he leaned back, threw an arm over the booth, and smiled like nothing was wrong.

If Nam-Gyu wanted to play cold?

Fine.

Two could fucking freeze.

Chapter Text

The alley behind The Pentagon smelled like smoke, sweat, and whatever oily street food someone had dropped hours ago. The air was thick with bass leaking through the walls, every beat rattling the rusted pipes above.

Nam-Gyu wasn’t supposed to be out here.

His shift had technically ended twenty minutes ago, but he couldn’t leave — not like this. Not with the tight coil in his chest. Not with Thanos still inside, throwing looks like grenades.

He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. His shirt was damp with heat and nerves. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that smug smirk. That arm around Mi-Na. That look — the one that said, “I see you. I know what you are.”

He’d been holding it together all shift. Barely. His hands still smelled like citrus and vodka. His neck still ached from hours of tension. And yet, the second he was alone— The mask cracked.

He hated this. Hated the way Thanos got under his skin. Hated that he’d spent a week trying to rationalize silence like it didn’t gut him. Like it didn’t hurt in that dumb, specific way that only mattered when you actually cared.

And he did. Which was the problem.

The he heard footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

Nam-Gyu’s eyes snapped open just as Thanos rounded the corner, jacket half-off, fists clenched like he hadn’t decided what to do with them yet.

“You ran,” Thanos said, voice low.

Nam-Gyu didn’t move. “You followed me.”

His stomach dropped. Fuck.

He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know what to say — whether to scream or hit him or ask if he’d finally lost his mind.

But the second he saw Thanos, everything he’d tried to suppress boiled over.

Thanos stopped three feet away. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Nam-Gyu snapped, rounding on him the second Thanos came into view. “You disappear for a week, waltz in here with Mi-Na on your arm like this is some kind of circus, and then spend the whole night glaring at me like I killed your cat?”

Thanos blinked, thrown off by the venom in his voice. “I—”

“No. You don’t get to I me right now,” Nam-Gyu cut in. “Where were you? Huh? Too busy making out with one of your backup dancers to answer a single text?”

Thanos’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t owe you anything.”

Nam-Gyu laughed — sharp and cold. “Right. Because I’m just the idiot who waited. Who checked his phone like a loser every goddamn hour. Who thought maybe, maybe, you had an actual reason for acting like I didn’t exist.”

“I did have a reason.”

“Oh, please,” Nam-Gyu hissed. “You ghost me for a week and then show up here looking for a fight? Was Mi-Na not enough attention tonight? Or did you just get bored?”

“You’re the one who lied!”

“I didn’t lie,” Nam-Gyu snarled. “I didn’t tell you because you don’t deserve to know everything about me. Because the second I did something you didn’t like, you went full ego-mode and decided to punish me for it. That’s what you do, right? Act like everyone owes you an explanation while you vanish whenever it gets too real.”

Thanos stepped forward. “That’s not what this is.”

“No?” Nam-Gyu spat. “Then what is it, Thanos? Jealousy? Spite? Or are you just trying to prove the rumors right? Because hey, maybe I am a manipulative snake. Maybe I do sell myself for grades. Maybe you should’ve asked instead of assuming like every other junkie with a superiority complex.”

Thanos’s fists clenched. “I never said—. I thought you were dead! Or worse—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, worse than dead is me talking to another guy?”

Thanos didn’t answer.

Nam-Gyu stepped closer, eyes sharp. “You saw me outside the club. You saw some drunk asshole flirt with me and decided I was what? A slut? A liar? Someone you couldn’t trust?”

“You smiled at him.”

“I smile at customers, Thanos.”

“You let him touch you.”

“He bumped into me!”

“I didn’t know that!” Thanos yelled.

“You didn’t have to. You still looked at me like I was dirt.”

“I was hurt! I didn’t know what to think!”

“And instead of asking, you decided to destroy me in front of a crowd,” Nam-Gyu said, voice low now. Cold. “So congratulations. You win. You’re just like everyone else.”

“I should’ve never trusted you,” Nam-Gyu whispered, venom low and shaky. “I should’ve kept you as the dumbass who showed up late and made my life hell.”

The second it left his mouth, he regretted it.

Thanos flinched. Nam-Gyu stepped back.

“I didn’t know,” he said again, quieter. “I just saw you… laughing. With him. After I thought we were—after I thought something was—”

He broke off.

“That’s not true.” Thanos trailed off finally.

Nam-Gyu’s eyes glittered. “Then tell me why you came here tonight. Tell me why you can’t stop looking at me.”

“I didn’t lie to hurt you,” Nam-Gyu said, voice soft now. “I didn’t know how to explain any of this. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the version of me my parents can tolerate. They can’t know about this job. About this club. About…” He stopped. “About you.”

“Do you know what it’s like to wake up every day and pretend you’re someone else? To smile, study, volunteer, perform — so that your parents don’t look at you like you’re broken?”

His voice was shaking now. “This place — this job — it’s the only thing that feels real. Because I get to be someone who doesn’t have to be perfect. And you — you — looked at me like I was disgusting for that.”

Thanos finally looked at him. Really looked.

“I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” Nam-Gyu said. “But you assumed the worst.”

“I was hurt.”

“So was I.”

The quiet hung between them, charged and trembling.

Thanos stepped forward. Nam-Gyu didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“I missed you, my boy” Thanos said, voice barely above the hum of the city.

Nam-Gyu’s throat worked. “Then stop pushing me away.”

And just like that — the air shifted.

Thanos closed the space between them in one breath.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough.

Nam-Gyu didn’t.

So Thanos kissed him.

Hard. Furious. Like it was punishment and apology wrapped into one.

Nam-Gyu kissed back like he was drowning.

Hands gripped fabric. Teeth grazed lips. Someone pressed the other against the wall, and neither of them remembered who moved first. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a car crash. A scream. A long overdue explosion.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing like they’d run a mile.

Thanos stared at him. “So… are we still pretending we hate each other?”

Nam-Gyu swallowed. “Give me a reason not to.”

Thanos leaned in again, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I just did.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but his lips curved — just slightly.

Their foreheads touched. Just for a moment.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Nam-Gyu pulled back, fixing his shirt.

“We’re not talking about this,” he said.

“Totally,” Thanos agreed, eyes still dark. “We’re never talking about it.”

“You called us friends!” said Thanos as he skipped down the dark alley. The only repsonse he got was a particular finger that made him laugh.

They walked home, pretending they were done.

They weren’t.

It wasn’t fixed. But it was real.

And that had to be enough. For now.

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu’s alarm went off at exactly 6:45 a.m.

He didn’t hit snooze. He never did. Instead, he lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it had something to say about the weird tight feeling in his chest.

Get it together, he told himself. It’s just Tuesday. You’ve lived through worse. He swung his legs out of bed. Stood. Stretched. His spine cracked like a damn glowstick.

His routine was precise — not obsessive, just... disciplined. At least that’s what he told people. Shower by 7:00. Skincare done by 7:15. Hair styled, uniform perfectly pressed, breakfast devoured like he didn’t hate everything he was putting in his mouth. Toast, banana, half a vitamin drink. No crumbs on the counter. No mess. No thoughts.

Except today, there were thoughts.

Too many.

Every time he tried to focus — on tying his tie, on brushing his teeth, on reviewing the day’s schedule — Thanos barged into his brain like he owned the place. That stupid smirk. That stupid purple hair. That kiss.

That fucking kiss.

Nam-Gyu caught himself staring into the bathroom mirror a full minute too long. His mouth looked... different. Or maybe it was just memory tricking him. He touched his lower lip and immediately wanted to punch himself.

You kissed Thanos, you absolute idiot.

Okay. Fine. That happened. That didn’t mean anything had changed. They weren’t together. Heck they werent even friends. They hadn’t talked about it. They weren’t even texting. Maybe Thanos regretted it. Maybe Nam-Gyu should regret it.

He didn’t.

And that was the problem.

Nam-Gyu grabbed his bag, locked his room, and went to class early just to feel like a functional human. He took notes. Answered questions. Gave a presentation on monopolistic competition without stuttering once. On the outside, he was perfect.

Inside, he was spiraling.

In the cafeteria line, he saw a flash of purple — heart jolted — turned. Not Thanos. Just a kid with bad taste in hair dye. In econ, someone behind him laughed like Thanos. He dropped his pen.

He kept checking the time. Not because he was impatient — no, definitely not — but because there was something at the end of the day he hadn’t let himself think about yet.

Tutoring.

Would Thanos show up?

Would he show up?

He told himself it didn’t matter. He told himself he was over it. He told himself he could skip and blame it on a headache or sudden-onset death.

But by 4:55 p.m., he was standing outside the library door, heart in his throat, staring at the handle like it was going to bite him.

Just open it, dumbass.

But what if he’s not there?

Worse — what if he is?

He paced. Twice. Checked his phone for nonexistent texts. Pulled it out, locked it, put it back. Swore under his breath. If anyone walked by right now, they’d think he was having a breakdown. Which he wasn’t.

Fuck it.

He shoved the door open.

And there he was.

Thanos. Sitting at their usual table like it was any other Tuesday. Legs kicked out, earphones in, head tilted back like he didn’t have a care in the world. The sun was pouring in through the library windows, catching on the edge of his cheekbone, lighting up the strands of violet hair like something out of a commercial. His lips were curled just slightly, like he was half-smiling at nothing. His fingers drummed the edge of his notebook in lazy rhythm.

Nam-Gyu stopped in the doorway.

Holy shit.

He looked...

He looked unfair. That was the only word for it. Like the kind of trouble teachers warned you about. Like someone you should stay away from if you wanted to live a long, emotionally stable life. Nam-Gyu didn’t move. Just stood there and watched him. For way too long.

Then Thanos noticed him. Pulled one earbud out. Smiled — lazy, slow, confident.

“You’re late,” he said.

And just like that, Nam-Gyu rebooted.

“Yeah, well, some of us have lives,” he snapped, sliding into the seat opposite him like his heart wasn’t trying to leap out of his chest.

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “You spent the last fifteen minutes hovering outside, didn’t you?”

“Nope.”

“Not even a little?”

“Delusional.”

Thanos grinned. “Good to know some things never change.”

Nam-Gyu scowled and opened his laptop. “You’re lucky I don’t dock your grade just for existing.”

“Aw, c’mon, admit it. You missed me.”

“I missed silence.”

Thanos leaned back, arms crossed, studying him. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m acting normal.”

“Exactly.”

Nam-Gyu narrowed his eyes. “Just open the worksheet before I end you.”

The grin on Thanos’s face only widened.

And under the table — under all the banter and biting and perfectly practiced distance — Nam-Gyu’s foot was shaking.

They try so hard to act like nothing happened that it becomes painfully obvious something did. Everything is extra sarcastic. Thanos keeps making these half-flirty comments that he then tries to cover up with nonsense about economic theory or whatever he thinks Nam-Gyu will hate.

“You know, for someone who kissed like that, you really suck at basic microeconomic principles.” Tried Thanos.

Nam-Gyu without looking up responded “I will stab you with a graphing calculator.”

“Hot.”

“You meant that in a literal sense.”

“Obviously. I was talking about… inflation.”

Thanos tapped a pen against his lower lip as he thought about what he just said. The lame puns had started to get to him, and he would sooner or later combust of embarrassment if this kept going on.

Meanwhile Nam-Gyu didn’t look at his mouth. Definitely didn’t.

“So,” Thanos said. “Are we going to pretend the alley make-out didn’t happen? Or should I open with a review question?”

Nam-Gyu’s head snapped up. “Shut up.”

“Copy that,” Thanos said brightly, flipping to the worksheet. “Economics it is.”

But the silence that followed was different. Less tense. Less sharp. Thanos kept glancing up, like he expected to be kicked. Nam-Gyu kept catching himself staring at Thanos’s hands — and then very quickly not staring at Thanos’s hands.

They were both pretending. But for once, it was kind of... mutual.

Thanos chewed on his pen. “So uh. Ground rules?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

“You know. Post-kiss etiquette. Rules of engagement. Secret handshake. Whatever.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes. “There are no rules.”

“Bet.”

“I swear to God—”

“Okay, okay!” Thanos held his hands up, grinning. “No rules. Just…. Vibes?” he added unhelpfully.

Nam-Gyu tried not to smile. Failed.

They finished the worksheet in record time.

Later That Night – Nam-Gyu’s Room

Nam-Gyu was swaddled in a blanket like a human dumpling, only his face visible, lit ghostly blue by the glow of his phone. The only thing protecting his poor eyes were his big round glasses that he wore stricly only at home. The rest of the room was dark. Silent. The kind of stillness that begged your brain to overthink.

He was definitely overthinking.

The study session had ended two hours ago. It had been fine. Perfectly normal. Completely average. They sat across from each other like they always did. They talked about market structures. They maybe laughed once. Thanos had absolutely not said anything weird or looked at him for too long or smiled like he’d won something.

It was normal.

Totally. Utterly. Normal.

So why was Nam-Gyu still replaying everything?

He unlocked his phone again. He’d done this seven times already in the past ten minutes.

New messages – Thanos [22:34]:
do u think capitalism would crumble if u just admitted i’m smart
also. good session. u looked less constipated than usual. progress.

Nam-Gyu stared at the screen.

He typed:
you looked like a budget club promoter with that hair

Paused.

Deleted.

Typed again:
Thanks. Don’t be late next time.

Deleted.

He ended up sending a thumbs-up emoji and immediately hated himself.

Across the room, his desk lamp flickered. He didn’t turn it on. He just flopped deeper into the blankets and let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a muffled scream.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t how he acted. He didn’t get like this. He didn’t do the “does-he-like-me” spiral. He didn’t obsess over text bubbles.

And he definitely didn’t Google things like—
He unlocked his phone again. Switched to Chrome. Hesitated. Then typed:

Google Search:
what to do when you kiss your academic rival and maybe liked it but also hate him and he’s ruining your life a little

Suggested results:
"Enemies to lovers: A guide to emotional whiplash"
"Accidental kiss with friend — now what?"
"How to stop being obsessed with someone who’s annoying and hot and kind of nice when no one’s watching"

Nam-Gyu threw the phone onto the floor, face burning.

“I’m going to die like this,” he muttered into his pillow. “Buried alive by gay panic.”

He let his head fall off the pillow and hit the mattress with a thud.

“I kissed him,” he whispered to the ceiling. “I kissed Thanos. I’ve gone feral.”

Then, louder: “I need to be institutionalized.”

Then the phone buzzed again.

Thanos [22:41]:
also. next time, u owe me a drink for how good i was today
i’ll take a cherry soda. or a kiss. whichever’s easier

Nam-Gyu stared. Blinked. His stomach did something he refused to name.

He typed:
I’ll pour you the soda.

Paused.

Added:
On your head.

Sent it.

And maybe, just maybe, smiled.

Chapter Text

Saturday – 2:11 p.m.

The city was obnoxiously sunny. Like, sunglasses-and-regret levels of bright. The kind of day couples took pictures in. The kind of day that made every cafe, park bench, and bubble tea shop look like it belonged in a rom-com.

Naturally, Nam-Gyu was pretending not to notice.

He wasn’t dressed up. Obviously. His shirt just happened to be pressed and tucked in. His hair was just doing that thing today. He didn’t wear cologne — okay, maybe just a little. But it was not a date. No matter what his traitorous heart tried to claim.

He spotted Thanos first.

Leaning against a light post like he was in a music video, chewing gum, sunglasses sliding down his nose. Purple hair tousled perfectly by the breeze. He seemed to be found by Nam-Gyu in this position often. He was wearing ripped jeans and a denim jacket layered over a graphic tee that read, in terrible font: Capitalism is Cancelled.

Nam-Gyu hated him.

“Two minutes late,” Thanos said as Nam-Gyu walked up.

Nam-Gyu raised an eyebrow. “Texting ‘u free?’ at 1:53 p.m. does not count as planning.”

Thanos shrugged. “You answered.”

“Because I was bored.”

“You could’ve said no.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped past him, hands in his pockets. “So what tragic waste of time are we doing today?”

Thanos grinned and fell into step beside him. “There’s this weird retro arcade like two blocks away. Thought you could embarrass yourself in front of some teenage gamers.”

“Oh good. I was worried I wouldn’t have the chance to destroy your ego in public again.”

“Confident,” Thanos said. “You planning to win at DDR? Can your iron spine even bend like that?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look at him. “Keep talking and I’ll bend you.”

Thanos choked on air.

Nam-Gyu smirked. “Didn’t think I could say things like that, huh?”

Thanos looked genuinely speechless for a beat, then recovered fast. “No, I just—wasn’t expecting violence and innuendo in one sentence. I’m impressed. Aroused. Terrified.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

The arcade was dimly lit and smelled like childhood — soda, metal tokens, and electrical burnout. Half the machines looked like they’d short-circuit if you breathed on them. A neon sign flickered overhead: LEVEL UP, LOSERS!

Thanos immediately bought a whole stack of coins and slapped half of them into Nam-Gyu’s hand. “For the pain I’m about to cause you.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Let’s make a bet. Whoever loses more games buys snacks.”

“Fine. I’ll enjoy my free food.”

“You wish.”

They battled through five games. Thanos destroyed Nam-Gyu at racing. Nam-Gyu annihilated him in rhythm games. Air hockey was a bloodbath. Claw machine was a war crime. Mario Kart ended with Nam-Gyu unplugging the controller “on accident” and Thanos threatening to file a lawsuit.

By the time they collapsed onto a bench near the soda machine, Nam-Gyu’s cheeks were pink with exertion and (if you asked Thanos) just a little joy. Neither of them mentioned it.

Thanos nudged him with his shoulder. “Told you this wasn’t the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

“You also once tried to microwave a frozen steak in the school cafeteria,” Nam-Gyu said.

“It was an experiment.”

“It exploded.”

“That’s science, baby.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but there was something softer underneath it now. Something easy. Familiar. Like this was normal — like they’d been doing this forever.

They were sitting on the arcade bench, Nam-Gyu sipping soda through a straw like he wasn’t fully aware Thanos was watching him. Like he didn’t know his cheekbones looked too good in this lighting. Like he hadn’t just leaned a little too close when he’d whispered, “You’re losing on purpose, admit it.”

Thanos didn’t say anything for a while.

He just stared at the side of Nam-Gyu’s face, the way his lips curled slightly around the straw, the flick of his eyes as he tracked someone beating the high score on the claw machine. He looked completely at ease — but Thanos had seen enough of Nam-Gyu’s real expressions now to know when it was a lie.

“Can I ask you something?” Thanos said, suddenly too serious for arcade noise.

Nam-Gyu didn’t look over. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Why’d you come today?”

“Because you texted me.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to say yes.”

Nam-Gyu finally turned, eyes sharp. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Thanos said too fast. “I just—wasn’t sure if you’d show. After everything.”

A pause.

Then, carefully, Nam-Gyu said, “You texted me like nothing happened.”

“I was hoping we could pretend it didn’t.”

Another pause.

Nam-Gyu’s voice dropped. “Is that what you want?”

Thanos looked away. Then back. His throat worked. “No.”

Their eyes held — something electric sparking in the space between — and neither of them blinked.

Then a guy walked by.

Tall. Pretty. Dressed like someone who knew he was tall and pretty.

“You work at The Pentagon, right?” he asked Nam-Gyu, smiling. “Behind the bar?”

Nam-Gyu blinked, caught off guard. “Uh. Yeah?”

“I knew I recognized you,” the guy said, grin widening. “You make a mean cherry soda. I’m usually there Fridays. You’re kind of hard to miss.”

Nam-Gyu forced a polite smile, suddenly hyper-aware of Thanos stiffening beside him. “Thanks. I guess.”

“You off tonight?” the guy asked, stepping a little closer. “We could grab a drink somewhere that’s not neon-lit and full of people dry-humping.”

He reached into his back pocket. “Here’s my Insta. In case you ever, you know… wanna hang out or something.”

Nam-Gyu stared at the card in his hand.

He opened his mouth to respond — not rudely, not interested either — but Thanos beat him to it.

He stood up, not too fast, not dramatic.

“He’s busy,” Thanos said, sharp enough to slice glass.

The guy blinked, finally acknowledging him. “And you are?”

Thanos smiled, all teeth, no warmth. “The person he’s busy with.”

A silence crackled between them. Nam-Gyu’s ears were burning.

The guy gave a slow once-over between the two of them and held up his hands. “Alright. Message received.” Then, with a wink at Nam-Gyu, “Let me know if you ever get bored of sarcasm and purple hair.”

And just like that, he walked off.

Nam-Gyu didn’t move. “You’re insufferable.”

“Excuse me?” Thanos said. “That man wanted to lick espresso off your fingers.”

Nam-Gyu barked out a laugh despite himself. “And that’s your business because…?”

“Because I was the one who bought you that cherry soda last week,” Thanos said, crossing his arms. “And because I don't like being invisible, okay?”

Nam-Gyu stared at him. “Are you jealous?”

Thanos huffed. “No.”

Nam-Gyu tilted his head.

“…Maybe.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The corner of his mouth curled — barely — and he nudged Thanos’s arm with his own as they kept walking.

Thanos muttered, “He wasn’t even hot.”

“He had abs.”

“I have trauma.”

Nam-Gyu laughed again, quieter this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You couldn’t even just let me take his number?” He asked while looking straight at Thanos.

“I didn’t know you wanted it,” Thanos snapped.

Nam-Gyu teased more. “Maybe I did.”

Thanos looked at him now. “Did you?”

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth. Closed it.

“…No.”

“Right.”

“Still. That was uncalled for.”

“Maybe.” Thanos rubbed the back of his neck. “I just—didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

Nam-Gyu stared. “You’re jealous.”

Thanos blinked. “I’m observant, my dear Nam-Su”

“You’re possessive.”

“You’re infuriating.”

Nam-Gyu took a step closer. “And you’re pouting.”

“I am not—”

“God, you’re like a golden retriever who saw someone else petting his human.”

Thanos stared at him. “You just called yourself my human.”

Nam-Gyu’s face froze. “…Shut up.”

“Never.”

They stood there, stupidly close, the tension thick enough to punch through.

Then Thanos said, too casually, “So. You wanna get food? You do owe me snacks.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “I won most of the games.”

“I won your heart, though.”

“Negative points for that one.”

“Brutal.”

Nam-Gyu sighed. “Fine. Let’s go. But I swear to god if you order pineapple on pizza, I’m walking into traffic.”

Thanos grinned. “No promises.”

And they walked off, not touching — but closer than they had any right to be.

Thanos did order pineapple on pizza.

As he argued with the Italian waiter about the ethics of pineapple on pizza, Nam-Gyu just… watched him.

It hit him then. This was fun. Like, actual fun. Like he wasn’t carrying the weight of three different lives on his shoulders. Like he wasn’t trying to outrun every version of himself he’d ever faked.
And Thanos — annoying, chaotic, reckless Thanos — was the reason.

Which was the worst part.

Because Nam-Gyu knew what happened to things he liked. They got complicated. They got taken away. And this — whatever this was — was already starting to matter more than he was ready for.
So he looked away. Bit his lip.

And when Thanos shoved a slice of pizza in front of him with a smug, “Say thank you,” Nam-Gyu just took it.

He didn’t say thank you.

But he smiled. The smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Chapter Text

Monday – 3:49 p.m.

Nam-Gyu was not in the library.

Which was insane, because Nam-Gyu was always in the library on Mondays. Rain, snow, emotional trauma, the apocalypse — nothing short of nuclear fallout had ever kept him from a tutoring session. But today?

Today he couldn’t do it.

He sat on a bench across campus instead, chewing his thumbnail and watching the second hand on his watch tick past 5:00.

It wasn’t like he forgot. He just… didn’t go. After Saturday’s hangout — the flirting, the smiling, the stupid near-jealous confession — his heart had been doing that pathetic fluttering thing every time he thought of Thanos. And today, just the idea of sitting across from him again, pretending it was all fine?

Yeah. No thanks.

His group was meeting on the quad. Se-Mi had texted earlier that she brought snacks, which Nam-Gyu had ignored because he was still trying to figure out if breathing counted as emotional labor.

But Thanos?

Thanos did not ignore it.

At 5:17, he burst onto the scene like a wrecking ball made of charisma and crimes against peace.

“Hellooo, my favorite people!” he called out, flopping down between Se-Mi and Gyeong-Su like he belonged there.

The group barely blinked.

“Oh, hey,” Mi-Na said with a wave, chewing something aggressively fruity. “What are you doing here?”

Thanos smiled like he had no idea what subtlety meant. “Oh, just thought I’d check in on my favorite academic rivals and emotionally unavailable tutors.”

Nam-Gyu froze mid-bite of a rice cracker.

Se-Mi snorted. “You mean Nam-Gyu?”

Thanos casually slung an arm around Nam-Gyu’s shoulders. “Who else?”

Nam-Gyu immediately went stiff as a corpse. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t in the library,” Thanos said with zero shame. “I figured I’d find you hiding out here instead, avoiding your feelings and making aggressive notes in the margins of your planner.”

“I do not avoid my feelings.”

“You wrote ‘emotion is a capitalist scam’ in your econ notes.”

“That was a metaphor.”

“Sure, babe.”

Se-Mi raised an eyebrow. “Are you guys dating or something?”

Nam-Gyu choked on air. “NO.”

Thanos smiled with all his teeth. “Not technically.”

Everyone just laughed, assuming it was another weird bit.

Nam-Gyu wanted to die.

Se-Mi threw a pretzel at Nam-Gyu. “God, you guys are insufferable.”

“You’re just mad no one calls you babe,” Thanos said.

“Please. I’ve been called worse.” She leaned over and offered him the bag. “Pretzel?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Thanos took one, bit into it, then fake-whispered to Min-Su, “My boy Min-Su does this group always feed you like it’s a cult, or is that just today?”

“Every day,” Min-Su said without looking up from his phone. “You’ll be initiated next. Hope you like hazing.”

Thanos grinned. “Does it involve spreadsheets? I feel like Nam-Gyu would run a cult with matching notebooks.”

“Absolutely not,” Nam-Gyu muttered. “You all lack the discipline.”

Thanos leaned toward him and stage-whispered, “That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”

Nam-Gyu kicked his shin.

Mi-Na laughed. “You two should get married. Or just kiss again already.”

Nam-Gyu choked.

Thanos blinked. “What do you mean again?”

Mi-Na rolled her eyes. “I meant in the fantasy world inside your head where you two are legally wed and own matching mopeds. Relax. I’m over you.”

Thanos blinked. “Wait—you were into me?”

“Tragically, yes. Like three months ago. Pre-character development.”

“Oh.” Thanos looked genuinely touched. “Well. Thank you for your emotional labor.”

“You’re welcome,” Mi-Na said solemnly, placing a hand over her heart. “I’ve moved on. Jung from chem wears glasses and owns a snake. I’m in deep.”

Gyeong-Su finally looked up. “Is the snake part of the appeal?”

“Obviously.”

They all laughed — even Nam-Gyu, though it was a little delayed. A little hollow.

The weird thing was, Thanos fit in. Too well. He kept up with Se-Mi’s chaotic stories, tossed sarcasm at Min-Su like they were in a tennis match, and even managed to make Gyeong-Su crack a smile — which was basically a miracle.

The whole afternoon, he stayed. He made jokes, maybe charmed Mi-Na a little again (soryy Jung from chem), threw a grape at Min-Su. But every time Nam-Gyu tried to lean away, Thanos leaned closer. Their shoulders touched. Their knees bumped. It looked normal — it felt like something else.

Nam-Gyu watched it all from the edges of the conversation, spiraling slowly. No one else seemed to notice. Not the way Thanos kept casually leaning into him. Not the way Nam-Gyu’s whole body went rigid every time their knees brushed. Not the way Thanos kept glancing at him between jokes like he was waiting for… something.

And maybe he was.

Because Nam-Gyu wasn’t saying anything. And pretending like it didn’t matter? That was starting to hurt more than he expected.

The more normal Thanos acted, the more not normal it felt to Nam-Gyu.

And Nam-Gyu couldn’t handle it.

At 5:02, he stood up. “Bathroom.”

He didn’t go to the bathroom.

He found the nearest empty hallway and leaned against the wall, dragging in one deep breath after another. He needed to stop being insane. He needed to calm down.

Footsteps followed.

Of course they did.

“You good?” Thanos asked, turning the corner.

Nam-Gyu turned on him like a loaded gun. “What the hell was that?”

Thanos blinked. “What?”

“You—showing up like that. Acting like it’s all normal. Like we’re normal.”

Thanos looked genuinely confused. “I thought we were—?”

Nam-Gyu laughed — brittle, ugly. “Thanos, I skipped tutoring today because I panicked. I’ve been panicking since you looked at me like I mattered.”

A pause. Then:

“You do matter,” Thanos said, too quietly.

Nam-Gyu looked away, jaw clenched. “Then why are you flirting with everyone like it’s your damn hobby? Why are you touching me like I’m yours, but only when people are watching?”

Thanos stepped forward. “Because I like you.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

“I like you,” Thanos said again. “I’m not cool about it. I don’t want to be.”

Nam-Gyu’s breath hitched. “Then stop flirting with other people and ask me out like a normal human.”

Thanos laughed, breathless — like that hadn’t hurt, like it had healed something.

“Okay. Fine. Nam-Gyu. Will you go out with me?”

Nam-Gyu’s glare didn’t soften, but he nodded. Once. Sharply.

“I swear to god, if you say anything stupid in the next ten seconds—”

Thanos kissed him.

A beat. Then: Nam-Gyu opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then, helplessly: “Fine. We’re dating. Happy now?”

Thanos grinned like the sun had just broken out of him.

“Ecstatic.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Obviously not.”

“No public displays of—” Thanos leaned in and kissed his cheek. Nam-Gyu stopped mid-sentence, stunned. “...affection,” he finished weakly.

“That wasn’t public,” Thanos said. “That was hallway-level private. Totally safe.”

Nam-Gyu groaned. “I’m going to regret this.”

“You already do.” Thanos bumped their shoulders together as they started walking back. “But you like me anyway.”

Thanos smiled. Not smug. Not cocky. Just… soft.

Nam-Gyu shoved him lightly. “Don’t make that face.”

“I can’t help it.” Thanos stepped in again, slower now. “You make me feel like a goddamn middle schooler.”

Nam-Gyu tilted his head. “In a good way?”

“In a terrifying, stomachache-inducing, can’t-stop-thinking-about-you kind of way.”

A pause.

Then, with barely a whisper: “Can I kiss you again?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

He kissed him first.

This time, it wasn’t a crash. No fists in shirts. No desperation. Just quiet. Gentle. Certain. Like they were both finally choosing it.

When they pulled apart, Thanos’s eyes were wide and stunned.

Nam-Gyu smirked. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m—gonna need a second,” Thanos said, grinning dumbly.

They stayed there a while. Close. Quiet.

Until Nam-Gyu said, “We’re absolutely not telling anyone.”

“Totally. This is top secret. Code red. I’ll delete all evidence of our love.”

“Don’t say ‘our love.’”

“My bad. Our romantic entanglement.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes. “Just—shut up and kiss me again or something.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “You want the honor?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Later that night

Nam-Gyu sat in bed alone, knees pulled up to his chest, staring at his phone like it owed him answers.

It buzzed once.

Thanos [22:48]:
Check my contact name 😌

Nam-Gyu opened the message.

His stomach dropped.

My Boyfriend 💥

He stared at it.

Then — after exactly five minutes of internal screaming — he replied:

Nam-Gyu [22:53]:
You’re a menace.

Thanos [22:53]:
Your menace.

Nam-Gyu shut off his phone and flopped back onto the bed, face burning.

He smiled like a complete idiot.

Chapter Text

Saturday night, post-confession.

Thanos wasn’t cool about it.

Despite everything he said, despite every smirk, every “whatever” he threw like armor—he wasn’t cool about it. Not even a little.

He was lying in bed, phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The screen had gone dark a while ago, but he hadn’t bothered to lock it. Nam-Gyu’s contact name still sat there in bold:

My Boyfriend 💥🕵️‍♂️

He had changed it three times. First it was just “Nam-Su.” Then, “Academic Menace.” Then something way too cheesy to live (“Heart Homework™”), which he deleted immediately.

This one stayed.

The room was dark. His cheap desk lamp buzzed every few seconds like it was trying to remind him of reality. He ignored it.

He couldn’t stop replaying it. The confession. The stupid, stupid look on Nam-Gyu’s face right before he said yes.

That split-second where he looked terrified. And then, like he was finally breathing.

“Fine. We’re dating. Happy now?”

Yeah.

Yeah, he was.

He ran a hand over his face and groaned into his pillow. “I’m so screwed.”

Earlier That Week – Tuesday (Library Day He Missed)

Thanos waited.

He had shown up early. Early.

Ew, who even was he?

He had actually taken notes the night before. He had gone over the worksheet, practiced stupid explanations for market elasticity like Nam-Gyu might actually be impressed.

He’d even worn cologne.

He waited.

By 5:10, he thought maybe Nam-Gyu was late. By 5:25, he thought maybe something had come up. By 5:40, he was dying inside.

He didn't text. Didn't ask.

Because if he asked, and Nam-Gyu didn’t answer, that would be worse.

Because if Nam-Gyu had chosen not to come — then Thanos didn’t know how to deal with that.

He told himself he didn’t care. Told himself maybe Nam-Gyu had homework, or a family thing, or a new personality that involved ghosting people after kissing them behind a nightclub.

He told himself a lot of things.

Then he sat there. For another fifteen minutes.

Thanos didn’t text him.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t even look around the campus afterward like some lovesick idiot.

Except he was a lovesick idiot, and he did look around. He found Se-Mi and the others. Saw Nam-Gyu from a distance, talking to a teacher. No emergency. No funeral.

He had just skipped.

Thanos didn’t go straight home. He wandered the streets, bought a bubble tea he didn’t drink, and scrolled through Nam-Gyu’s Instagram for twenty minutes before closing the app in self-disgust.

Wednesday Night – 1:34 a.m.

Thanos was in bed, half-asleep, trying not to scream into his pillow. He typed a message and deleted it three times.

“you good?”
“you mad at me?”
“was the kiss bad lol (asking for a friend)”

Deleted. All of it.

He considered changing Nam-Gyu’s contact name from “Nam-Gyu 😒” to “Nam-Gyu 😭”

Didn’t. Too real.

Saturday – Arcade Day, from Thanos’s POV

When he texted “u free?”, he didn’t expect a yes.

Honestly? He expected a block.

Or worse — nothing.

But when Nam-Gyu replied “unfortunately. Where?”, Thanos stared at the screen so hard he almost dropped his phone.

He told himself to be cool. Told himself he could play it off. Pretend he hadn’t spent the last four days spiraling into some kind of romantic identity crisis.

He showed up early.

Of course he did.

He waited outside the arcade, sunglasses on, pretending he didn’t keep checking every reflective surface to see if his hair was doing that thing. The wind was helping. Thank god.

But when Nam-Gyu walked up, neat shirt tucked in, hair obnoxiously perfect, chewing his bottom lip like he hadn’t decided whether to run or stay— Thanos knew he was done.

There wasn’t a single version of him, chaotic or confident, that could pretend he didn’t want this.

He played it cool.

But the moment Nam-Gyu smirked at him? It was over. His whole body ran on dopamine after that. Like the past week hadn’t existed. Like they hadn’t kissed behind a club in the dark and then ignored it like cowards.

So they joked. Bantered. Fought over Mario Kart like the fate of the world depended on it.

And when Nam-Gyu sipped soda and leaned just a little too close, Thanos had the insane thought: I could live here. In this moment. Right here, where everything felt weightless.

And then came that guy.

Tall. Flirty. Too charming for someone who liked cherry soda that much.

Thanos hated him on sight.

The moment he stepped too close, the moment he flirted in broad daylight, Thanos didn’t even think. He just stood up. Claimed Nam-Gyu like he had the right.

He regretted it instantly.

Not because it wasn’t true. But because what if Nam-Gyu didn’t want that? What if he wasn’t ready?

But Nam-Gyu hadn’t yelled at him. Not really. He’d teased him. Pushed back. Laughed.

And when Thanos said,

“I don’t want to be cool about this,”

he hadn’t run away.

Nam-Gyu had said yes. Not with flowers and music, but with that stupid defensive glare he used when he was scared.

It counted.

Saturday Night – Thanos’s Bedroom

He stared at his phone, contact name now officially changed:

My Boyfriend (Secret Edition) 💥🕵️‍♂️

He wanted to text. Say something stupid. Something flirty. Something real.

Instead, Nam-Gyu texted first:
“You still owe me snacks.”

Thanos’s heart actually skipped. Like a teenager. Like a loser.

He replied:
“Only if you admit I’m your boyfriend first.”

There was a long pause.

No typing bubble. No nothing.

Thanos closed his eyes and groaned.

“Smooth, idiot. Way to ruin it.” He groaned, rolled onto his back, and whispered, “Damn, Nam-Gyu I’m so gone for you, it’s disgusting.”

Then:
“fine. you’re my boyfriend. but don’t get used to it.”

He grinned so hard it hurt. Face buried into his pillow, kicking his feet like a romcom heroine. He didn’t even care.

He lay there in the dark, thumb hovering over the keyboard. No message left to send. Nothing clever to say.

God help him, he was going to ruin this.

But not tonight.

Chapter Text

Thursday – 4:48 p.m.

Nam-Gyu had exactly twelve tabs open on his laptop. Eleven were study-related. One was YouTube. None of them were helping.

Gyeong-Su was across from him, quietly annotating a textbook like it was a sacred scroll. Min-Su had taken over half the whiteboard with the world’s ugliest flowchart. Se-Mi was lying upside-down on the library couch, aggressively snacking and refusing to move.

Mi-Na was twenty minutes late and would, upon arrival, insist she brought "gossip, not notes."

The library smelled like dust and cheap highlighters. Nam-Gyu had chosen the farthest table from the windows, hoping the dim lighting and isolation would deter distractions. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten one very specific distraction had no sense of boundaries.

Right on cue Thanos walked in. Nam-Gyu looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of his purple and leather and audacity. His heart did something extremely stupid.

“Why are you here?” he hissed as Thanos slid into the seat beside him like he had every right.

Thanos blinked innocently. “Library’s public.”

“You’re not even in this class.”

Thanos shrugged, already opening a notebook. “Moral support.”

Min-Su looked up from across the table. “I thought you were banned from moral support after the incident with the paper plane.”

“That was educational,” Thanos argued. “Aerodynamics and chaos theory.”

Thanos looked over like he’d been summoned by a gentle breeze and the smell of chaos. “Anyways Mi-Na texted me,” he said simply, already pulling out a pen. “Said y’all were doing group study. I figured I’d join. Learn something. Bond. You know.”

Nam-Gyu scowled. “This is a closed session.”

Min-Su looked up. “It’s not.”

Se-Mi raised a hand. “I approve of his presence.”

Gyeong-Su just put his thumbs up, not bothering to voice his approval verbaly.

Thanos winked. “Unanimous vote.”

Nam-Gyu muttered something violent under his breath and shoved a worksheet toward Thanos — upside-down.

Thanos flipped it calmly. “You’re so sexy when you’re mad.”

Gyeong-Su didn’t blink. “Please don’t flirt over polynomials.”

Thanos: “No promises.”

Nam-Gyu groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Thanos was smiling at him, fully leaning into his personal space like this was normal. Like they hadn’t agreed — explicitly agreed — that no one could know.

But then Thanos casually plucked Nam-Gyu’s pencil from his hand.

“Hey—”

“Sharing is caring, babe.”

Nam-Gyu froze. So did the table.

Se-Mi slowly turned her head. “Babe?”

Thanos didn’t blink. “Ironically.”

Nam-Gyu coughed. “Obviously.”

Min-Su frowned. “That’s… not how irony works.”

“I’m reclaiming it,” Thanos said, scribbling nonsense in Nam-Gyu’s margins.

Mi-Na, who had just arrived with a bubble tea in hand, plopped into a chair. “Why does it feel weird in here? Are you guys fighting less lately or something?”

“We’re not fighting less,” Se-Mi said, narrowing her eyes. “They’re flirting more.”

“Flirting?” Nam-Gyu snapped. “No one is flirting.”

“Someone’s definitely flirting,” Gyeong-Su added, quiet and observant as always.

“I always assumed they’d hate-flirt their way into marriage,” Min-Su muttered, flipping a page.

Mi-Na sipped her drink. “As long as no one’s in love with Thanos anymore, we’re good.”

“I’m over him,” she added quickly. “Like, spiritually cleansed.”

Thanos threw his arm around Nam-Gyu’s chair. “You sure? Because I’m very lovable.”

“Only in a tragic poetry kind of way,” Mi-Na said.

Nam-Gyu looked like he might start screaming.

The tension would’ve snapped if Min-Su hadn’t closed his textbook with a sigh. “Okay, but we’re clearly not studying anymore. Someone’s foot is tapping at 200bpm and Thanos is doing interpretive doodles. Can we just go?”

“Go where?” Se-Mi asked.

“My place is nearby,” Min-Su said. “And my parents are out. We’ll actually get something done. Or at least eat snacks while pretending.”

There was a murmur of agreement. Everyone stood, gathering bags and half-finished worksheets.

Nam-Gyu hesitated. He had half a mind to say no. To invent some excuse and stay behind. But then Thanos nudged him under the table — a quick brush of his foot, nothing suspicious — and Nam-Gyu’s heart betrayed him completely.

So he stood.

Thanos looked at him, subtle but sure. Not asking permission — but giving him the choice. Nam-Gyu swallowed and nodded once.

They walked out together, into the dusky street.

Outside, the air was crisper than expected — early autumn biting at their sleeves, a kind of electric coolness that made everything feel more alive. Leaves crunched underfoot. Somewhere down the street, a kid was yelling about losing a balloon.

Nam-Gyu shoved his hands in his coat pockets and walked a little faster.

Thanos caught up beside him, grin half-cocked like he was up to something. And he was. Before Nam-Gyu could react, Thanos grabbed Min-Su’s hand on his right and Nam-Gyu’s on his left and ran.
Nam-Gyu startled. “What the—?”

“Race you,” Thanos said, already pulling them forward like a manic sled dog.

Min-Su yelped. Nam-Gyu cursed. But he didn’t let go.

They bolted down the street like kids escaping class, laughing, stumbling, dragging each other along until they reached the corner and collapsed against a lamppost.

Min-Su was breathless. “You’re insane.”

“Thank you,” Thanos said, still holding Nam-Gyu’s hand.

The others laughed as the three of them tore down the sidewalk, Thanos yelling something incomprehensible, Min-Su letting out a deadpan “why me,” and Nam-Gyu — against every rule he’d ever written for himself — laughing.

Nam-Gyu let go — a little too fast. A little too late.

Their friends caught up a moment later, unaware. Mi-Na was already digging in her bag for a camera. Gyeong-Su made a sarcastic comment about cardio. Se-Mi accused Nam-Gyu of “finally having a personality.”

And no one noticed anything strange.

Not yet.

By the time they reached Min-Su’s house, Nam-Gyu’s lungs burned and his pulse hadn’t slowed. He blamed it on the running. Not the feeling in his chest when Thanos looked over, smug and breathless, and bumped his shoulder on purpose.

Inside, the house was warm and chaotic — shoes kicked off by the door, music low in the background, a flickering candle that smelled like peaches and disaster. They spread out across the living room, everyone finding their usual spots on the beanbags, couch, or floor.

And, of course, Thanos sat beside Nam-Gyu. Not beside. Against. Thighs touching. Shoulder brushing. His arm slung lazily over the back of the couch, fingers almost in Nam-Gyu’s hair, like it was casual — like he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

“You’re sure you’re not dating now?” Se-Mi asked from her perch on the armrest.

“We are not,” Nam-Gyu said sharply.

Thanos shrugged. “Yet.”

Mi-Na, sipping soda, didn’t even look up. “You guys do seem... less hostile lately.”

“We’re maturing,” Thanos said. “Growing. Evolving. Like Pokémon.”

Nam-Gyu choked on his drink. “Please never compare us to Pikachu and Charizard again.”

“You think I’m Charizard?”

“I think you’re unstable.”

Gyeong-Su spoke quietly: “You’re flirting more than you used to.”

“Who says we’re not already married?” Thanos offered cheerfully. “Tax benefits, baby.”

“Emotionally. Spiritually. I’ve already changed his contact to ‘husband’.” He added.

“Divorce is coming,” Nam-Gyu muttered.

“See? This is our love language,” Thanos whispered to Gyeong-Su, who nodded solemnly.

The conversation moved on — barely. No one pushed it. The group made jokes, the topic shifted, and soon they were talking about the next exam.

But Nam-Gyu’s hand brushed Thanos’s under the blanket they shared, and Thanos didn’t move away.

Nam-Gyu didn’t move for a long moment. His gaze flicked across the room — to Gyeong-Su laughing at something Min-Su muttered, to Mi-Na curled up on the beanbag like she lived there, to Thanos beside him, far too still.

His brain, normally sharp and surgical, had gone soft around the edges.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve shifted away, cracked a joke, told Thanos to stop being weird. But the warmth where their hands touched was creeping up his arm like a slow electric hum.
And the worst part was, no one else noticed.

Or maybe the worst part was that Thanos wasn’t pretending. Not really. Not like Nam-Gyu was.

His knee bounced. He stared at the screen even though he wasn’t watching. His mouth was dry, and his throat was tight, and he had no reason for any of it except that he wanted to lean in just a little closer and that terrified him.

He pulled his hand back.

Quietly. Casually. Like it hadn’t happened.

Then he forced himself to grab a chip from the bowl and pretended the sting in his chest was just salt.

It didn’t help that he also kept laughing at all the right moments. That he slipped Nam-Gyu one of the peach drinks without asking. That when Mi-Na complained about bad exes, Thanos muttered, “Men are trash,” and gave Nam-Gyu a secretive side-glance that made him want to commit homicide and also melt.

He could feel it — the closeness. The way it buzzed just beneath the surface. And the worst part was, none of their friends seemed to find it strange. If anything, they liked Thanos. They liked him.
And that made Nam-Gyu’s carefully constructed panic rise even faster.

They were not normal. Not casual. Not friends in the way the others assumed. They were something else entirely — something made of long looks and private moments and the kind of kiss you didn’t recover from.

And now they were pretending. Again.

Nam-Gyu leaned forward, elbows on knees, trying to cool down the heat behind his ears.

This was going to be a long night.

By the time the room mellowed into half-sleep and afterglow, Thanos hadn’t moved far.

He was sitting beside Nam-Gyu again, body angled in that way that always made it seem accidental — like gravity just liked him more when he was close.

The others were chatting idly or dozing off. A movie no one was really watching flickered across the TV. The chaos had dimmed into something softer.

Thanos leaned in slightly, not touching. Just… there.

Nam-Gyu’s pinky brushed against his on the couch cushion. Once. Then again. Until Thanos curled his pinky around his, slow and sure.

No one noticed. Or maybe they did and didn’t care.

Nam-Gyu didn’t say anything. But he didn’t pull away.

And Thanos didn’t smile like he’d won. He just… stayed.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not exactly.

But it was something stolen.

Chapter Text

Monday – 7:03 a.m.

Nam-Gyu had always been a morning person.

Not in the annoying, let’s-go-on-a-run kind of way. But in the calculated, fifteen-minutes-earlier-than-necessary, perfect-hair, ironed-uniform, caffeine-measured-in-exact-milliliters kind of way.

His morning routine was sacred. Orderly. Calming.

Today, it was an absolute disaster.

He’d burned his toast. His tie was crooked. And when he checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, he realized he’d put on mismatched socks — for the second time that week. He swore under his breath and yanked one off.

All because of a text.

[Thanos, 6:32 a.m.]
Your bed’s probably cold without me lol

[Thanos, 6:33 a.m.]
jk unless

[Thanos, 6:34 a.m.]
you still ignoring me or can i see you before class

[Thanos, 6:35 a.m.]
(ps i stole your history notes. come get them.)

Nam-Gyu had stared at those messages for a full ten minutes without blinking. He didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to. But because if he responded, he’d start spiraling, and if he spiraled, he’d stop functioning.

And he had school to survive.

And yet... when he walked onto campus at 7:48 a.m., there he was.

Thanos. Leaning against Nam-Gyu’s locker. Hoodie half-zipped, uniform shirt untucked, purple hair somehow artfully disheveled like he hadn’t tried at all — which, infuriatingly, he hadn’t. A lollipop stuck out of his mouth like he was in a crime drama.

He grinned when he saw Nam-Gyu.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t slow down. “I told you not to call me that.”

“You did,” Thanos agreed, falling into step beside him, “but that was before I upgraded your contact to ‘My Boyfriend (Secret Edition).’ I would say that gives me some naming rights” He started doing some karate moves to impersonate a spy, but failed miserably.

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes. “You are—”

“—irresistible?” Thanos offered.

“—a security risk,” Nam-Gyu finished.

They turned the corner. No one around.

Thanos brushed his fingers lightly against Nam-Gyu’s — a whisper of contact, warm and too familiar. Nam-Gyu didn’t pull away. But he didn’t look at him either.

Before heading towards the classroom door, he paused.

“Fix your tie,” Nam-Gyu muttered, tugging Thanos by the collar before he could escape. He didn’t need to look to know Thanos was grinning. “You can’t go in looking like you got dressed in a hurricane.”

“You always this touchy before first period?” Thanos murmured.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Nam-Gyu muttered, yanking the knot tight.

Thanos leaned in enough to rattle him. “You’re very domestic. It’s hot.”

“Shut up.” But his fingers lingered half a second too long. “And stop smiling like that. You’ll get us caught.”

“Caught doing what?” Thanos asked, smug.

Nam-Gyu shoved a textbook into his chest and walked off.

Tuesday – 2:37 p.m.

They had routines now. Little, dangerous things that no one else saw.

A glance across the room when no one was watching. An excuse to pass notes — dumb jokes, half-insults, tiny sticky notes that said things like “You smell like trouble” and “You're my problem now.”

Thanos waited at Nam-Gyu’s locker most mornings, just to walk him to class. He always had some excuse — “I forgot my pen” or “Do we have math today?” — but the grin on his face always gave him away.

In quieter moments, they shared silence. Like Tuesday, during library duty. Nam-Gyu was reshelving dictionaries and trying to pretend he didn’t feel his phone buzzing every two minutes.

Except the phone vibrating in his pocket felt like it had a death wish.

[Thanos, 2:18 p.m.]
i’m dying

[Thanos, 2:19 p.m.]
of boredom

[Thanos, 2:19 p.m.]
and also of love

Nam-Gyu pressed his lips together and ignored it.

[Thanos, 2:23 p.m.]
are you shelving dictionaries again. is that your kink

[Thanos, 2:25 p.m.]
respond or i’ll send you more memes of frogs doing taxes

Nam-Gyu caved.

[Nam-Gyu, 2:27 p.m.]
Stop texting me or I’ll actually die of secondhand embarrassment.

[Thanos, 2:27 p.m.]
ok but if you did die would you haunt me or just my bed?

[Nam-Gyu, 2:27 p.m.]
I’ll shelve you next to the encyclopedias.

[Thanos, 2:28 p.m.]
oh no that’s not alphabetical order

Nam-Gyu stared at the screen for a long second and smiled.

Then shoved it into his bag and whispered “unbelievable” under his breath.

Wednesday – 11:08 a.m.

Chemistry class was not romantic. Not under any circumstances. Which made it worse when Nam-Gyu looked up from his notes and realized Thanos was staring at him through the glass door in the hallway.

He wasn’t even subtle about it.

Nam-Gyu blinked. Thanos waved. Standing outside the classroom door like he was trying to communicate through psychic force. He held up a piece of notebook paper, pressed against the window.

It read:
you look stupid hot when you’re focused

Nam-Gyu dropped his pencil.

Someone glanced up beside him. He shoved his pencil case over his notebook and stared straight ahead like it hadn’t happened. When he stepped into the hallway at the bell, Thanos was already gone — but there was a note in his locker.

u still owe me lunch, nerd
p.s. i meant it
p.p.s. stop blushing

Friday – 5:14 p.m.

It wasn’t supposed to feel this good because this week had been... ridiculous.

They weren’t doing anything obvious. No grand gestures. No kisses in the hallway or dramatic public confessions.

But it didn’t matter. Nam-Gyu could feel it. The magnetic pull between them — constant and inconvenient and entirely undeniable.

They walked home together that evening. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to breathe easy.

The sidewalk was half-drenched from the earlier rain, shimmering faintly in the evening light. The sky was still holding onto color, streaks of orange bleeding into navy. The street was mostly empty — just cars in the distance, a kid on a scooter, the sound of a dog barking two blocks away.

And Nam-Gyu… was smiling.

Not the tight-lipped, you’re-an-idiot smile he gave Thanos in public. A real one. Loosened shoulders. Pink in his cheeks from laughing too hard. Something open and a little messy.

He’d just told Thanos about a teacher accidentally emailing a parent group chat a frog meme instead of the homework PDF, and he couldn’t stop laughing about it.

“I swear to god,” Nam-Gyu wheezed. “The caption said ‘me calculating if one more breakdown will get me attention.’ My mom thought it was intentional. She sent a thumbs-up.”

Thanos was barely listening anymore. He was looking.

Nam-Gyu’s collar was crooked again. His bangs were falling into his eyes. He looked — relaxed.

He looked happy.

And Thanos, for once, didn’t say anything to ruin it. He just let it happen. Let himself walk a little closer, let their hands brush once, then again — longer this time. And when Nam-Gyu didn’t move away, he took it.

His pinky curled around Nam-Gyu’s. Loose. Light. Barely there.

Nam-Gyu didn’t pull back. “Are you trying to get us caught?”

Thanos blinked. “It was instinct.”

“Your instincts suck.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Thanos laughed, soft and rueful. “You’re panicking again.”

Nam-Gyu just kept walking. Talking. Smiling. Like maybe — maybe — this was okay.

Then a voice behind them:

“Nam-Gyu?”

It felt like a gunshot.

Nam-Gyu froze mid-step. Thanos turned. A girl was walking toward them — someone from the student council. Casual. Friendly. She didn’t look suspicious. Not yet.

Nam-Gyu dropped his hand like it burned. Took a full step away. Too fast.

“Hey,” he said, too loud. “I was just heading home.”

The girl looked between them. “You’re with… Thanos?”

Thanos smiled automatically. “Just ran into each other.”

She nodded slowly. “Right. Anyway, the meeting tomorrow is pushed to third period. Tell the others?”

“Sure,” Nam-Gyu said. His voice was clipped. Cold.

When she left, it was quiet.

Thanos didn’t say anything.

Nam-Gyu didn’t look at him.

The street felt longer now. The air colder.

They walked in silence until they reached the corner where they usually split. Nam-Gyu still hadn’t said a word.

Thanos stopped walking.

Nam-Gyu didn’t.

“Nam,” Thanos said.

Nam-Gyu halted.

Thanos's voice wasn’t sharp or sarcastic. Just… quiet. “Do you regret it?”

Nam-Gyu turned. “What?”

“Us. All of it.” Thanos rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking so young. “Because you dropped me like a bad habit the second someone saw.”

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then: “We said no one could know.”

“I know what we said. I just didn’t think you’d look at me like I was a mistake.”

That landed like a stone in Nam-Gyu’s chest.

He looked away. Jaw clenched. “It’s not like that.”

Thanos nodded, even though it clearly was like that. “Okay.”

Nam-Gyu stepped back. “I’ll see you Monday.”

He turned before he could change his mind.

Thanos didn’t follow.

Chapter Text

Thursday – 11:14 a.m. - Thanos POV

They didn’t talk about it.

Which, fine. Whatever. Thanos wasn’t the type to need a conversation about feelings. He was excellent at not caring. He was a professional at brushing things off, shoving them in a box labeled “deal with never,” and drowning it in sarcasm.

But something about the silence this time felt louder than usual. The thing about this silence was that it had weight.

Thanos never noticed it until now — not the quiet kind you slipped into comfortably, like an old hoodie, but the kind that sat on your chest and made every step feel off-beat.

It had been six days since almost. Three days since Nam-Gyu leaned in too close, smiled too freely, held his hand like it meant something — only to rip it all away the second someone might’ve seen.

Nam-Gyu was pretending it didn’t happen — the near-kiss, the hand-holding, the way he’d smiled like a real person, like they were something. Now he barely looked Thanos in the eye. His routines were back.
His walls were up. And Thanos?

Thanos was losing his goddamn mind.

At school, they passed each other like polite strangers. If Nam-Gyu noticed how Thanos lingered outside his classroom in the mornings, he didn’t say. They didn’t talk about it. He didn’t text, didn’t call, didn’t even glare like normal.

Just polite. Distant. Perfect.

And it was driving Thanos insane.

Now, sitting at the back of the study room with the others, Thanos pretended he hadn’t noticed the way Nam-Gyu picked the seat farthest from him. Pretended the joke he'd cracked ten minutes ago didn’t fall flat. Pretended his heart wasn’t crawling up his throat every time he glanced over and saw Nam-Gyu not looking back.

Mi-Na had noticed something. Of course she had.

She kept glancing between them, her glitter pen paused mid-sentence, expression half-curious, half-concerned.

“You good?” she whispered once when Nam-Gyu dropped his pen.

He didn’t answer. Just tightened his jaw and scribbled harder.

Se-Mi was too busy loudly arguing about French grammar to notice anything strange.

Gyeong-Su, however, was watching.

Quiet. Steady. Clocking every sideways glance and bitten lip.

Thanos tried to joke his way through it.

He leaned across the table once, nudged Nam-Gyu’s highlighter off the edge on purpose.

“Oops. Butterfingers.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t even flinch. Just picked it up and kept writing.

Thanos laughed. Not because it was funny. But because it was easier than saying, look at me. Please.

Thursday – 2:03 p.m.

Study group was a trainwreck.

Thanos showed up — uninvited, obviously — and dropped into the seat next to Gyeong-Su instead of Nam-Gyu. He didn’t even try to be subtle. Just flopped down, kicked his feet up, and started doodling on someone’s flashcards.

Nam-Gyu was across the room, head down, scribbling like his life depended on it. Their knees weren’t touching. Their shoulders weren’t brushing. Thanos might as well have been a stranger.
Gyeong-Su noticed. He always did.

But he didn’t say anything — just watched, as if silently calculating the emotional physics of the room.

“Where’s your emotional support rival?” Mi-Na asked, chewing gum aggressively.

Thanos grinned. “Busy doing emotionally distant things, probably.”

“He looks tense,” Se-Mi said. “More tense than usual. Like, murder-examiner tense.”

“Maybe he has a crush,” Mi-Na sang.

Thanos snorted and made a paper airplane out of her notes.

“Hey!” she smacked him with a pencil. “No being chaotic unless it’s to distract me from hating bio.”

“Always happy to serve.”

Se-Mi was oblivious. She was too busy comparing notes with Mi-Na, who had been acting weirdly supportive all day.

“Smile more,” Mi-Na told Nam-Gyu at one point. “It won’t kill you. Yet.”

Nam-Gyu offered a grimace. “Is this your version of mentorship?”

“Call it divine intervention,” she replied, sipping iced tea. “You’ve been sulking like a tragic prince for days. Whatever guy you’re not texting back? Fix it.”

Thanos heard that.

And maybe it was petty — but he looked away before he could start hoping.

He stopped smiling after that.

Thursday – 4:29 p.m.

After dispersing the study group and calling it another unproductive day Mi-Na cornered Nam-Gyu near the vending machines.

Thanos saw it from down the hall. Mi-Na tapping her nails against her phone, chattering about “energy drinks and vibes” while Nam-Gyu blinked at her like she was an alien. She leaned in close. Said something serious. Then shoved a can of soda into his hands with a bright, bossy grin.

Nam-Gyu smiled. Barely. But it was something.

Mi-Na skipped away like she’d saved the day.

Thanos just watched, stomach twisting.

Friday (week since the incident) – 6:58 p.m.

Thanos watched the sun dip behind the school gates, its last light bleeding red across the pavement like some kind of bad metaphor. He’d spent the entire day pretending nothing bothered him.
It was worse than fighting.

Fighting meant some passion or anger or at least heat.

This was absence.

Nam-Gyu hadn’t responded to any of his messages since the incident. Hadn’t smiled at him in class. Hadn’t sat near him during study group. Hadn’t even rolled his eyes when Thanos dropped his water bottle in math, which should’ve earned at least one withering comment about his motor skills.

It was like someone had hit mute on everything between them.

Thanos walked slow, hands shoved in his pockets, head down as he kicked a stray leaf across the sidewalk. He didn’t really have a plan — not until his feet started drifting, automatic. Turning left instead of right. Past the bakery. Past the vending machine that still owed him 2000 won.

He should’ve just gone home. Played video games. Stared at the ceiling. Pretended he didn’t miss someone who wouldn’t even look at him.

But then his phone buzzed.

Not a message from Nam-Gyu. Of course not.

Just a random school email.

Thanos locked the screen without reading it.

The street lights flickered on. He stopped at the corner.

His feet had carried him two blocks from The Pentagon.

He stood there for a full minute, arms stiff at his sides. He hadn’t decided to go — not really — but he also wasn’t turning around. His heart was too loud. His brain was too quiet.

And Nam-Gyu was probably inside. Laughing. Working. Smiling at strangers like he hadn’t spent the entire week pretending Thanos didn’t exist.

Thanos pulled his hoodie up.

Stepped off the curb.

And entered the bar.

The lighting was low, all red and gold, and the place smelled like citrus and sweat and spilled champagne. Thanos made his way through the crowd, ignoring the people who glanced his way, and slid into a seat at the far end of the bar.

He spotted him immediately.

Nam-Gyu — no, Nam — behind the counter, dressed in black, sleeves rolled, moving like water and fire and something sharp enough to cut. His hair was pushed back. His mouth was set in that half-smile he used when he was working. He looked calm. Effortless. Alive.

Too alive.

Thanos hated it.

Not because Nam-Gyu looked good. But because he looked good without him.

He watched him serve a cocktail to a laughing couple. Watched the way he dodged a flirtatious comment with a smirk and a wink and moved on like it didn’t mean anything.

But Thanos felt it. The space between them. The distance.

He didn’t belong here. Not really.

Nam-Gyu turned just slightly — and saw him.

Their eyes locked.

The moment stretched. Broke. Snapped.

Nam-Gyu’s expression flickered — surprise, then alarm, then that same mask he always wore in the daytime. The perfect one. The not now one.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave.

He just nodded, once.

Like a stranger.

And Thanos suddenly felt fifteen years old again, watching from the other side of the glass.

Small. Out of place. Unwanted.

He didn’t stay long.

Just long enough to realize that maybe he was right.

That maybe whatever this was — this stupid, aching, unnamed thing between them — wasn’t real outside their private world. That maybe he didn’t fit into Nam-Gyu’s life when it was neat and shiny and lit in gold.

Thanos left through the back door.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t look back.

But Nam-Gyu did.

From behind the bar, just for a second — after the door clicked shut — he turned.

And he watched the empty space where Thanos had been.

Friday (week after the incident) - Nam-Gyu POV

He was halfway through pouring a gin fizz when he saw him.

Thanos. Sitting at the far end of the bar like he belonged in a movie — hood up, shadows across his face, chewing on that stupid lip like he hadn’t been haunting Nam-Gyu’s thoughts all week.

Nam-Gyu’s hand almost slipped on the shaker.

For a split second, his breath stopped. Like his lungs forgot how to work.

He turned away fast, focused too hard on the lemon twist, gave the customer a dazzling smile he didn’t feel. But his pulse was a snare drum.

What the hell is he doing here?

This wasn’t their world. This wasn’t the library, the study group, the hallways where Nam-Gyu could control the narrative. This was Nam. The version of himself Thanos wasn’t supposed to see. The one he’d carefully carved out, separate from family, school, expectations — untouched by people who mattered.

And Thanos mattered. Too much.

Nam-Gyu risked another glance.

Thanos was watching him. Not smiling. Not smirking. Just… watching. Like Nam-Gyu had already walked away and he was trying to memorize what was left.

Nam-Gyu felt something sharp in his chest twist.

Don’t look at me like that.

He tried to school his face into neutrality. Just a nod. Just enough for Thanos to know he’d seen him. Nothing more. Nothing dangerous.

But even that was a mistake.

Because Thanos looked… hurt. Quietly, heartbreakingly hurt.

Nam-Gyu saw it in the way he dropped his gaze. In the way he didn’t come closer. In the way he sat still for three more seconds, like maybe — just maybe — Nam-Gyu would still walk over, smile, joke, reach for his hand and say I missed you too.

But he didn’t.

And Thanos left.

Through the back door, not the front. No wave. No goodbye.

Nam-Gyu froze mid-step.

The shaker in his hand was still full. The next customer was calling his name. The music had shifted to something lazy and warm.

But he couldn’t move.

His eyes locked on the door Thanos had disappeared through. The space he left behind.

For a moment, Nam-Gyu’s mask cracked.

He gripped the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping him standing.

He’d spent the whole week pretending nothing happened. Pretending he didn’t care. Pretending that if he just kept things neat and distant and under control, it wouldn’t fall apart.

But now it had.

And he didn’t feel safe.

He felt empty.

You idiot, he thought bitterly.

He came to see you.

And you let him leave.

Behind the bar, the lights glittered gold across polished glass. His coworkers laughed. The music rose.

Nam-Gyu didn’t hear it.

He was still staring at the door.

Still not moving.

Still wondering if it was already too late.

Chapter Text

Saturday – 1:42 a.m. Nam-Gyu POV

The door had clicked shut like a verdict.

Nam-Gyu stood behind the bar, still frozen, still watching, still half-expecting Thanos to come back. To push the door open again with that stupid lopsided grin and say something inappropriate and cruel and infuriating just to prove he wasn’t hurt.

But the door stayed closed.

Nam-Gyu didn’t remember finishing his shift. He must’ve. The glasses were washed, the tips counted, the uniform peeled off and folded at the foot of his bed like muscle memory had taken over. But he couldn’t remember any of it.

Now, he lay on his side, staring at his phone. The screen was still open to Thanos’s contact.

My Boyfriend (Secret Edition) 💥🕵️‍♂️

No new messages. Just the ones from last week. The ones he’d reread too many times.

He hovered over the keyboard. Typed:
I’m sorry.

Deleted it.

Typed again:
Are you okay?

Deleted it.

His thumb paused over the call button.

He didn’t press it.

Instead, he turned the phone face down on his pillow, chest tight and burning, and rolled over like that would help. It didn’t. The silence crawled up his spine like static. He could still hear the music from the club in his ears, still see the way Thanos looked at him — like something cracked and precious.

He’d taken a step after him. Just one. Half a second too late. And then he’d stopped.

Coward.

It echoed in his skull.

He curled tighter under the blanket, fists clenched.

What if it’s too late?

But the exhaustion finally swallowed him whole before he could find an answer. The phone buzzed once on the pillow beside him — a spam email, probably — and Nam-Gyu didn’t even stir.

Monday – 4:30 p.m.

Thanos didn’t show up to tutoring.

He didn’t text, didn’t call, didn’t leave a note in Nam-Gyu’s locker or a doodle on the whiteboard like usual. No chaos. No obnoxious flirting. Clean and final.

Nam-Gyu acted like he didn’t notice.

He sat in the tutoring room alone, flipping through a calculus workbook with perfect posture and dead eyes. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then forty-five.

Thanos never came.

Nam-Gyu closed the workbook, slid it into his bag, and walked out calmly. Straight-backed. Unbothered. Unshaken. He turned the corner toward the courtyard, barely glancing up — and stopped cold.

There he was.

Thanos.

Slouched against the sun-warmed stone wall like a painting come to life, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed, mouth curled in half a smirk. Like nothing in the world could touch him.

And beside him was a random guy Nam-Gyu barely recognized. Myung-Su? No, something like Myung-ji. The one who called himself MG Coin.

Nam-Gyu’s stomach dropped so fast it nearly took his lungs with it.

He didn’t even know they talked. Last time he checked, Thanos barely acknowledged Myung-Gi existed outside of class. And now? Now they were laughing over something on Myung-Gi’s phone like they’d always been close.

Since when?

They’d never been friends. Not real ones. Not the kind who shared secrets and inside jokes and sideways glances. Not the kind who were allowed to touch. Not the kind who got to see Thanos like that — soft and unguarded.

That was supposed to be his.

He felt something sharp and bitter twist behind his ribs. Possessive. Ugly.

Thanos had looked at him like that.

At the club. On the street. In the hallway when no one was watching.

Now he was looking at Myung-Gi.

And smiling.

Nam-Gyu gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. His body had gone stiff — muscles coiled, blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to scream. Or punch something. Or both.

Last week, Thanos was showing up to tutoring early, pressing notes to windows, calling him “sweetheart” under his breath like it meant something. And now?

Now he was giggling with some reject from PE like they were best friends?

No.

He didn’t get to do that. He didn’t get to make Nam-Gyu feel like this — exposed and terrified and wanted — only to turn around and give that same soft smile to someone else like it was nothing.

Nam-Gyu swallowed hard. His throat burned.

He was going to lose it.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until Myung-Gi leaned in and said something too low for Nam-Gyu to hear, and Thanos laughed — full and bright and real.

Nam-Gyu still didn’t move as Myung-Gi bumped Thanos’s shoulder with his own — easy, casual, like they were best friends. Thanos didn’t flinch. Didn’t shove him off. He just smiled. A real one.

Small, but real.

His blood turned to acid.

Since when did Thanos smile at him like that?

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t matter. He was already filling in the blanks — imagining whispered jokes and shared secrets and inside references that didn’t belong to him.

Didn’t belong to them.

His fingers curled tight around the strap of his bag.

What the hell was going on?

He’d spent the entire weekend staring at his phone, agonizing over texts he didn’t send, replaying every moment of that club visit until his brain ached — and Thanos had just moved on?

To Myung-whatever?

Nam-Gyu felt sick.

He didn’t even like Myung-Gi. Nobody did. Myung-Gi was loud and cocky and annoying in that way that screamed “middle school trauma with a bad haircut.” He always tried too hard to be liked. Always made too many jokes. Always invested in some stupidy currency that later crashed and left him with nothing. And Thanos — Thanos — had spent months rolling his eyes at him.

And now they were shoulder-to-shoulder? Laughing?

What changed?

Nam-Gyu didn’t know this version of Thanos. Didn’t know this warmth he gave so freely. He thought he did. He thought he was the only one who got to see Thanos like that — soft and sideways and full of sharp smiles meant just for him.

He was wrong. And it burned.

He swallowed hard. Tried to breathe around the jealousy clawing its way up his throat.

For a second — just one second — he considered walking straight up to them. Just grabbing Thanos by the collar and asking what the hell do you think you’re doing? But his pride caught him mid-step.

Instead, he turned and walked away.

Quick. Cold. Controlled. As always.

And if his pulse was pounding, if his jaw was locked, if he nearly snapped his pen in half later during class — well, nobody had to know.

Nobody except Thanos.

Monday – 1:13 p.m.

The group was gathered in their usual library spot again. Study session. Normal routine. Gyeong-Su scribbling silently. Se-Mi balancing three different language textbooks. Mi-Na chewing a pen cap and texting under the table.

Nam-Gyu sat two chairs away from where Thanos would normally be. Like he hadn’t spent three nights lying awake with his name like a prayer in his throat. Like Thanos’s silence didn’t feel like punishment.

Thanos didn’t look at him. Not once.

The silence was thick enough to choke on — until Se-Mi broke it.

“Did you two have a lovers’ quarrel or something?” she said around a yawn, flipping a page.

Nam-Gyu’s pencil snapped clean in half.

Mi-Na froze mid-scroll. “Wait, what?”

Se-Mi looked up, blinking. “What? I was joking. They’re acting weirder than usual.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer. He gathered his things like nothing had happened and stood up so fast the chair screeched.

He didn’t look back.

Gyeong-Su watched him go. Didn’t stop him. But his eyes followed.

Tuesday – 4:42 p.m.

Nam-Gyu hadn’t meant to go looking for him.

He’d meant to cool off. Meant to take a walk, breathe, shove the shattered remains of his pride into a locker and pretend everything was fine, just like always.

But somehow, his feet didn’t listen.

They carried him up the stairs. Past the third-floor landing. Up again. To the rooftop door — the one barely anyone used.

He shoved it open.

There he was.

He found him in the empty stairwell behind the science building.

Thanos was sitting on the steps, one knee up, sleeves rolled, headphones in — but not playing anything. Just staring at the concrete like it had answers.

Nam-Gyu didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood there.

Thanos didn’t look up.

That snapped something.

“You’re skipping tutoring now?”

Thanos looked up slowly. Blinked. “Oh. Hi.”

Nam-Gyu stepped closer. “That’s it? Hi?”

Thanos shrugged. “Wasn’t in the mood to be ignored in a quiet room again.”

Something cracked. Loud and sharp. Right behind Nam-Gyu’s ribs.

“Don’t turn this on me.”

“You think you’re so clever,” Nam-Gyu said. Sharp. Controlled.

Thanos blinked. Slowly pulled out an earbud. “Excuse me?”

“You show up at my work like some brooding indie drama, then vanish for days and expect me not to notice?”

“I didn’t expect anything,” Thanos said. “That’s kind of the point.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “ And I’m not turning anything. You’re the one who flinches every time someone gets too close.”

“Because I have to,” Nam-Gyu snapped. “Because not everyone gets to walk around like nothing matters.”

“And not everyone wants to live in a damn bunker,” Thanos shot back, stepping forward. “I came to see you. I sat at that bar, Nam-Gyu. I waited for something. Anything. And you looked right through me.”

Nam-Gyu's jaw clenched. “I had to. I didn’t know who might be watching—”

“Oh, right. God forbid anyone sees you with me.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Nam-Gyu snapped. “I’m the one who’s been—” He stopped. Chest heaving. Jaw tight. “You didn’t even text.”

Thanos stood now. Eye to eye.

“You made it pretty clear I wasn’t supposed to.”

“Don’t play victim,” Nam-Gyu hissed. “You looked at me like—like I was nothing. And then you left.”

Thanos’s laugh was bitter. “And what was I supposed to do? Beg you to acknowledge me? While you smiled at strangers like I didn’t matter?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He hated how his hands were shaking. Hated how loud his heartbeat was. Hated that Thanos looked tired, like he wasn’t even angry — just done.

Thanos let out a dry laugh. “You know, I thought we were... something.”

“We are—” Nam-Gyu started, then caught himself. “We were.”

“Past tense,” Thanos echoed, stepping closer. “Got it.”

Nam-Gyu’s back hit the concrete wall.

His breath stilled.

Thanos stopped right in front of him, close enough to touch, but didn’t.

“I get it now,” he said quietly. “I’m a joke to you. Something you play with in private and push away in public. And I thought I mattered to you.”

“You do matter!” Nam-Gyu shouted.

The stairwell went quiet.

Nam-Gyu looked like he’d slapped himself with the words.

Nam-Gyu’s mouth opened. Closed. “That’s not—”

Thanos leaned in. “No wait. Tell me what it is. Say it again.”

Nam-Gyu snapped.

“You—you’re the one who didn’t show up. You’re the one hanging out with Myung-Gi like none of this ever meant anything. You think I didn’t see you laughing with him like—like—”

Nam-Gyu’s voice dropped. “You do. You matter. I’m just—terrified, okay? I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never—this isn’t safe for me.”

Silence.

Then Thanos said, voice rough, “You’re an idiot.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

“Like I wasn’t waiting for you to stop pretending I don’t matter?” Thanos said, eyes flashing.

Nam-Gyu didn’t think.

He surged forward, fists balled in Thanos’s hoodie, and kissed him.

Fierce. Messy. Breathless.

Thanos didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

He kissed him back like he’d been holding it in for weeks.

When they finally broke apart, Thanos leaned his forehead against Nam-Gyu’s. Breath warm. Heart racing.

Then he laughed.

Soft. A little dazed.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

“You’re so dramatic,” Thanos whispered, grinning.

Nam-Gyu scowled. “Shut up.”

Thanos kissed him again, lighter this time. “Make me.”

“Feel better now?” Nam-Gyu asked, breathless.

Thanos grinned. “You’re still an idiot.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t argue. Not this time.

Chapter Text

Tuesday – 3:46 p.m. - Library

The study group had gathered as usual — halfheartedly pretending they were there to work and not to collectively spiral about midterms, finals, or the crushing weight of teenage uncertainty.

Nam-Gyu walked into the library and spotted Thanos at their usual table, slouched over a physics textbook like it had personally insulted him. He was there. That alone was enough to make Nam-Gyu pause in the doorway for half a breath too long.

Thanos looked up. Their eyes met.

Neither of them smiled.

But Thanos raised his brows like, what, you gonna stand there forever?

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes and slid into the seat beside him.

Close, but not too close.

Familiar, but not obvious.

It felt like breathing again.

“Hey,” Thanos murmured, low enough for no one else to hear.

Nam-Gyu pretended to read. “Hey.”

Silence settled between them. Not heavy this time. Just... soft.

They sat at the corner of the table. As Nam-Gyu scribbling notes with ruthless efficiency Thanos lounged beside him, spinning a pen between his fingers, doing nothing even remotely academic — but looking more at peace than he had in days.

Their shoulders brushed. Twice. On purpose.

Gyeong-Su was the only one actually studying.

Se-Mi was arguing with the French textbook like it had insulted her family.

Mi-Na was halfway through braiding Se-Mi’s hair while humming “Teenage Dream” and texting someone named “crush #3 ❤️”.

The tension that had hovered over the group for the past week — tight and brittle and unspoken — had finally cracked. In its place was something lighter. Warmer. Familiar.

Mi-Na noticed first.

She narrowed her eyes, clocking the way Thanos slid Nam-Gyu a candy from his pocket under the table. Not a big deal. Not romantic. Except Nam-Gyu smiled — real, small, crooked. And Thanos beamed like he'd just won the lottery.

“Oh my god,” Mi-Na whispered, scandalized. “Wait.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

Se-Mi blinked between them. “What happened? You two were full Cold War vibes last week, and now it’s like the romcom montage after someone gets hit by a car and realizes life is short.”

Thanos smirked. “What if it was me who got hit by the car?”

“You’d still fail math,” Gyeong-Su said, without looking up.

“Rude. I’d so not fail math. It’s my fave sbuject” winked Thanos as Nam-Gyu started laughing at the obvious lie.

Mi-Na leaned forward, grin spreading. “So... are my two favorite gays back together?”

Nam-Gyu choked on his tea. “We were never—”

“Together?” Thanos offered. “Out?”

“Communicating like functional people?” Se-Mi added. “Yeah, we noticed.”

Mi-Na flicked her pen dramatically. “Well, I’m just saying. The vibes are back. You’re orbiting again.”

“Orbiting?” Nam-Gyu echoed.

“You know.” She gestured vaguely. “Gravitational pull. Lingering glances. The space between you being all... emotionally charged.”

“Sounds fake,” Nam-Gyu said flatly.

“You’re literally leaning into him right now.”

Nam-Gyu froze. Looked down.
His knee was touching Thanos’s.
He didn’t move it.
Thanos bumped him softly, voice low. “Busted.”
Mi-Na leaned over her iced coffee and grinned. “It’s the post-fight calm. You know—like in K-dramas, when the leads finally kiss and start acting normal again?”

“Except,” Se-Mi said, eyes narrowing, “they haven’t kissed. Right?”

“Maybe they got it out of their systems.”

“Or into each other’s systems,” Mi-Na added helpfully.

Nam-Gyu dropped his pen.

Thanos choked on air.

Mi-Na clapped once. “I’m so happy. I don’t even care if you two are secretly married and hiding it from us — the tension was exhausting.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Thanos just winked. “Guess we’ll keep pretending for now.”

Se-Mi raised her hand. “Do I get to plan the wedding?”

“No,” Nam-Gyu and Thanos said at the same time.

Gyeong-Su, still silent, flipped a page in his workbook. “My our two favorite gays are back together,” he said, perfectly neutral. “About time.”

Everyone stared.

“Wait, back together?” Mi-Na blinked.

Se-Mi gasped. “Are you telling me you actually have kissed? And told only GYEONG-SU?!”

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

Thanos leaned forward with the cockiest grin he could summon. “Define kissed.”

Nam-Gyu kicked him under the table.

Thanos didn’t flinch.

“Unbelievable,” Se-Mi muttered, “and here I was betting it’d take another semester.”

Gyeong-Su sighed. “Can we go back to pretending we’re here to study?”

Later – 5:12 p.m.

They stayed in the library after the others left.

Nam-Gyu stayed behind to shelve books. Thanos stayed just to lean against the returns cart and watch him, arms crossed, looking criminally smug.

“You’re quiet,” Thanos said eventually.

Nam-Gyu turned a page. “So are you.”

“I mean… compared to usual.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t respond. His fingers twitched, brushing the edge of Thanos’s notebook.

Thanos reached for it just as he did. Their hands touched. Stayed.

Nam-Gyu didn’t pull away.

He didn’t say anything.

But his thumb brushed Thanos’s knuckle—once, slow—and that was louder than words.

The others had gone. The sky outside was streaked orange.

“You know,” Thanos said casually, picking at the wrapper of a Choco Pie, “you were really jealous.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look up. “You were talking to someone who uses a cryptocurrency nickname.”

“MG Coin,” Thanos supplied, smug.

“That’s not better.”

“He’s funny.”

“He’s loud.”

“He likes anime.”

“...He misquoted Demon Slayer during a presentation.”

“Still passionate.”

Nam-Gyu finally turned his head, expression neutral. “Were you doing it on purpose?”

Thanos blinked. “What?”

“With him. In the courtyard. Laughing that loud. Standing that close.”

Thanos tilted his head back and stared at the stars — what little of them peeked through city light. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Thanos huffed a soft breath. “Okay. Maybe I was hoping you’d look. Not like that, though. You looked like you were gonna commit a crime.”

“I still might.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They let the quiet fall again, filled with nothing but the occasional rustle of plastic and the distant hum of traffic.

After a long pause, Nam-Gyu said, “I thought maybe you’d moved on.”

Thanos froze. Then set the Choco Pie down.

His voice dropped, sincere this time. “I wasn’t trying to move on.”

Nam-Gyu’s throat tightened. He stared straight ahead. “I didn’t like it.”

“I figured.”

“I mean it. I hated it.”

“I know.”

Thanos leaned slightly, their shoulders brushing.

“I only ever wanted you to notice,” he said. “And then you did, and it felt like the best thing in the world. Until you stopped.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at the snack bag, suddenly very invested in the rice crackers. “I didn’t stop. I just… panicked.”

Thanos nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes flicked up. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Thanos grinned. “I’m furious. You made me go soft and then ghosted me. I was two seconds away from turning into a tragic indie ballad.”

Nam-Gyu almost laughed. “I hate you.”

“You wish.”

Thanos did, in fact, not wish that. But in that moment he could just lean back and smile.

Finally, he tought.

8:33 p.m.

[Thanos]
u left your pen in my bag

[Thanos]
should i hold it hostage or give it back if you kiss me

[Nam-Gyu]
I’ll just buy a new one

[Thanos]
cold.

[Thanos]
but fair.

[Thanos]
come outside.

[Nam-Gyu]
What?

[Thanos]
I’m near your street. I have the pen. And snacks.

[Nam-Gyu]
How do you know where I live?

[Nam-Gyu]
What kind of snacks.

[Thanos]
the kind that forgive rooftop tantrums and break hearts in a good way.

Nam-Gyu, still kind of shaken from the fact that Thanos just stalked his home didn’t answer.

He just grabbed his coat, and although he would never admit it, ran to the exit with joy.

Chapter Text

Friday – 6:23 a.m.

Thanos had never cared about school mornings. Usually, he rolled out of bed five minutes before class and showed up with one shoelace untied and crumbs on his shirt. But today? Today was different.

He stuffed the note into his backpack, then took it out. Put it back in. Took it out again to refold the corners.

It wasn’t even a gift. It was barely a gesture. But it mattered.

And he wanted Nam-Gyu to see it before the day started. Before the world got loud again. Before he had time to pretend.

He woke up before his alarm and for once didn’t just get dressed — he got ready.

He ironed his shirt twice and even YouTubed how to fold a pocket note “inconspicuously but charmingly.” Afterwards he stuffed the tiny, folded envelope into the front pocket of his backpack.
His hair refused to cooperate as always, so he re-did it three times, muttering threats instead of affirmations at his reflection.

When he finally sprayed on Nam-Gyu’s least favorite cologne — the one that made his nose crinkle but never stop him from leaning in — he caught himself smiling like an idiot.

Inside it was a note he’d rewritten three times and nearly set on fire out of embarrassment. It said: You looked like hell this week. But I missed you anyway. And taped to it was a tiny packet of throat lozenges, because Nam-Gyu always got hoarse when he was stressed and forgot to drink water.

It was stupid. Ridiculous. So disgustingly thoughtful he hated himself for it.

But he was going to leave it on Nam-Gyu’s desk. No dramatic confession. Just something small. Quiet. A little white flag with a smile.

He left early.

The courtyard was almost empty when he arrived — just the janitor unlocking the science lab and the faint whine of a bike chain somewhere down the road.

Nam-Gyu would be here soon. He always came early to review the schedule and drink tea like a 1950s office manager. Thanos stood near the steps, pacing. He wanted it to be perfect.

And then—

“Yo,” a voice drawled behind him. “Didn’t expect to see you this early. Or ever”

Thanos blinked. Myung-Gi. MG Coin. Of all people.

God was testing him today.

He slouched forward with a smirk like they were best friends. “Got a sec?”

Thanos hesitated. “Kind of waiting on someone.”

MG Coin just leaned in closer — too close — like he had a secret worth telling. “I know you hang out with Nam-Gyu. And I know he works at The Pentagon. I’m not gonna ask how you know that, but you clearly do. So. I need a favor.”

Thanos stepped back slightly, frowning. “What kind of favor?”

MG’s eyes darted left, then right. He lowered his voice. “There’s this girl. Jun-Hee. Works there. I want in. Thought maybe your connection could help.”

“You’re insane,” Thanos muttered.

MG Coin shrugged. “I’m romantic.”

He leaned in again to say something else — something sleazy, probably — and for one brief moment, Thanos debated pushing MG away.

He was already annoyed, already regretting coming to school early, already planning a strategic escape when Nam-Gyu arrived. But before he could step back or roll his eyes or tell MG to go bother someone else—

A flicker of movement.

From the corner of his eye.

Nam-Gyu.

Standing perfectly still on the other side of the courtyard.

His expression unreadable. His gaze fixed, locked, deadly.

Thanos froze. MG Coin kept talking, oblivious.

And something in Thanos’s chest twisted.

Oh no.

Friday – 6:39 a.m.

Nam-Gyu had been coming up the path, tea in one hand, headphones in. He was about to check his schedule for the fifth time this morning.

Then he saw them.

Saw Myung-Gi leaning into Thanos. Thanos, who looked a little confused but wasn’t pushing him away. Saw the way his hand hovered near Thanos’s wrist.

Nam-Gyu’s heart stopped.

And then it started again, but wrong.

He stood frozen for half a second before his pulse caught up and rage replaced all logical thought.

Not at Thanos. Okay, maybe a little at Thanos, who still hadn’t told him how he knew this MG Coin — but mostly at Myung-Gi. For standing that close. For breathing his air. For even looking like he belonged there.

Nam-Gyu made it two steps forward before someone caught his arm.

Gyeong-Su.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, voice low. “But if you ever need someone to… you know… I’m ready to cover it up. Maybe not today though.”

Nam-Gyu stopped. Blinked. Breathed.

And then stormed forward.

He didn’t think. Didn’t care that the sun hadn’t fully risen or that school hadn’t technically started.

He just marched straight up to them.

MG Coin looked up, smirking. “Oh hey—”

Nam-Gyu punched him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t theatrical. It was sharp and fast and fueled by mine mine mine. MG stumbled back, clutching his jaw, wide-eyed.

“The hell is wrong with you?” he sputtered.

“You think you can just whisper around and touch things that don’t belong to you?” Nam-Gyu snapped.

“What? You mean Jun-Hee?”

“Do I look like I mean Jun-Hee?”

Thanos, meanwhile, looked like he was torn between alarm and the deepest satisfaction a person could possibly feel.

MG Coin straightened, brushing dirt off his sleeves. “Jesus. It’s not that serious.”

Nam-Gyu stepped forward again. “I’ll show you serious—”

“Babe,” Thanos said, grabbing his arm. “We’re gonna get detention.”

Nam-Gyu stared daggers at him. Thanos grinned.

“I liked the part where you hit him.”

Nam-Gyu turned to MG Coin again, spat, “Stay away from him,” then turned back and started dragging Thanos down the path, fists still clenched.

“You didn’t even ask what he said,” Thanos said cheerfully.

“I don’t care.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones…”

Nam-Gyu shot him a look.

“…but chains and whips excite me.”

Gyeong-Su’s voice floated behind them, deadpan: “Come on.”

And for the first time in weeks, the tension was gone.

Nam-Gyu groaned, clearly regretting every life choice.

But Thanos just shoved his hands in his pockets, still smiling. Like he’d finally gotten something he’d been waiting for — not the punch, not the chaos.

The proof.

Nam-Gyu cared. Enough to lose it.

And that meant more than anything Thanos had been pretending not to want.

The three of them disappeared into the building.

The group felt it later that day.

In the way Nam-Gyu and Thanos sat side by side again. In the way Thanos called him “pretty boy” under his breath. In the way Nam-Gyu didn’t roll his eyes.

Mi-Na squinted. “Is it just me,” she said slowly, “or are they really acting like they are together?”

“Were they ever not together?” Se-Mi asked.

Gyeong-Su, eyes still on his book, said nothing.

Just smiled.

Friday – 3:56 p.m. - Nam-Gyu’s locker

The day had been too long and not long enough.

He felt it in his legs, in his shoulders, in the spot behind his ribs where adrenaline still hadn't left him. The fight with Myung-Gi replayed in flickers. The swing, the snap of impact, Thanos’s grin. He’d replayed it during lunch, through calculus, through study group. He’d tried to forget it. He hadn’t wanted to forget it at all.

Now, alone in the hall, he opened his locker.

And found something tucked behind his schedule sheet. Folded, square, slightly crumpled like it had been handled too much before being placed there.

He frowned. Unfolded it.

Inside was a note in Thanos’s unmistakable chicken-scratch handwriting:
You looked like hell this week. But I missed you anyway.

Taped beside it was a small, half-crushed packet of throat lozenges.

Nam-Gyu stared.

For a second, the hallway felt still and pale and unreal — like the space between breaths.

And then something in him cracked open.

He let out a small, sharp breath. Almost a laugh.

The kind you make when you're not used to being seen this clearly.

He looked around — no one nearby — and pressed the note flat against the inside of the locker like it was something delicate. Something worth keeping.

Then he closed the door quietly, fingers lingering on the handle.

His expression didn’t change. But his shoulders dropped just a bit.

And for the first time in a long time, Nam-Gyu smiled.

Not a sarcastic twitch.

A real one.

Just for himself.

Friday – 8:02 p.m. Myung-Gi POV

He pressed a cold can to his bruising jaw, sitting behind the old gym building where no one would bother him.

That had been unexpected.

But it had also been… illuminating.

He touched the side of his jaw where the hit landed. Hard enough to bruise and enough to make him curious.

That wasn’t about Jun-Hee. Not really.

He’d seen the look on Nam-Gyu’s face — the fury, the territorial snap. He knew the difference between righteous outrage and someone marking their territory, because he was the same way. And the way Thanos let himself be dragged away, grinning like a prize had just been claimed?

Oh, yeah.

MG Coin wasn’t stupid.

He hadn’t been sure before — not until he saw the way Nam-Gyu looked at him. The way Thanos didn’t protest. The way Gyeong-Su lingered like a scary shadow, always one step ahead.

So. That explained a lot.

The Perfect Nam-Gyu.

The Real Thanos.

A secret relationship?

That was valuable information.

The school’s golden boy had a secret. And not just any secret — a messy, reputation-ruining, scholarship-threatening kind of secret. One that wore designer shoes and called him “babe” in public.

He could do a lot with that.

Not now, maybe. But soon. When the timing was right. When Nam-Gyu had something to lose.

Because everyone always thought Nam-Gyu was untouchable. Too perfect. Too put-together. Too clean.

But no one’s clean forever.

He leaned back in the empty classroom, drumming his fingers across the desk with the kind of slow, satisfied rhythm that meant he’d found something interesting.

MG Coin smiled, slow and mean.

Let the boys play their little boyfriend games.

He was playing something bigger.

Because Myung-Gi didn’t believe in fate.

But he believed in leverage.

And now?

He finally had some.

Chapter Text

Saturday – 3:12 p.m. Nam-Gyu’s Room

Nam-Gyu didn’t know when exactly Thanos had become part of his weekend routine.

But now, when the sun reached a certain point in the afternoon sky and the light hit the floor just right — he found himself checking the time. Listening for footsteps. Tidying things that weren’t messy.

Thanos wasn’t even here yet. But Nam-Gyu was folding blankets. Lighting candles. Pretending it wasn’t because he wanted things to feel… nice. Like home. Like comfort. Like safety — something Thanos rarely got but always gave away like he had plenty to spare.

His house was unusually quiet. The kind of quiet you only get when no one’s home and it feels like the walls themselves are holding their breath. A kettle hissed somewhere in the background. Papers were neatly stacked on the desk. The overhead light buzzed faintly above them.

The knock came three minutes early.

When he opened the door, Thanos stood there with one eyebrow raised and a dumb grin on his face. “Is this a sleepover? Am I about to get murdered in a very expensive scented candle arrangement?”

“Come in,” Nam-Gyu said, rolling his eyes but stepping aside. “Shoes off. Don’t touch anything.”

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” Thanos muttered, toeing his sneakers off.

He had kicked off his shoes the second he stepped inside and now he was lying on the floor with one leg slung over the back of Nam-Gyu’s desk chair, eating half a bag of shrimp chips like it was a full-course dinner.

Nam-Gyu sat cross-legged on the rug beside him, flipping through chemistry notes. He didn’t need Thanos here to study — in fact, Thanos was objectively making it harder — but he didn’t ask him to leave. Not once.

In fact he’d even bought snacks. Thanos’s weird favorite ones. And made tea. Thanos hated tea. But Nam-Gyu still made it — just in case.

Because he wanted him to have the option.

This was the part he’d never admit out loud:

He liked having Thanos here.

Not just the flirting. Not the chaos. Not even the kissing (though, God, the kissing).

He liked the quiet of it.

He liked the way Thanos’s bag always ended up half-unzipped in the corner, like he’d be staying longer. He liked the hum he made when reading. The way he chewed his pen cap and pretended it was cool.

“You’re drooling on my homework,” Nam-Gyu muttered, nudging Thanos’s shoulder with his knee.

“You’re drooling on my face,” Thanos shot back, smirking.

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, what does that even mean?, he thought, but his hand stayed where it was. Resting lightly on Thanos’s arm. Their pinkies almost touched.

It was like that, lately. Always almost.

They sat in silence for a moment — long enough for the tension to dull and settle into something more tender. Thanos tilted his head and let it rest against Nam-Gyu’s shoulder, just heavy enough to make the moment real.

Nam-Gyu didn’t flinch.

He didn’t lean in either, but that was okay. Thanos would take what he could get.

“You’re actually good at this,” Thanos said quietly, nodding to the equations.

Nam-Gyu’s voice softened. “I know.

Thanos grinned. Nam-Gyu blushed. The world stayed perfectly still.

Eventually, Nam-Gyu reached into his drawer. Hesitated.

Then pulled it out.

It was a keychain — simple, brass, slightly vintage. The kind you couldn’t buy in a store anymore. He’d found it in a street market during a family trip years ago. It had a tiny compass inside. Still worked, surprisingly. Still pointed north.

“You get lost a lot,” Nam-Gyu said, tossing it gently toward Thanos.

Thanos caught it midair. “Is this a dig or a gift?”

“A little of both.” Nam-Gyu didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to keep it.”

Thanos turned it over in his palm, expression unreadable.

“What’s this about?” he asked quietly.

Nam-Gyu shifted in his chair. “Just… you said you wanted something that was mine.”

Thanos blinked.

Nam-Gyu looked away. “So now you have something. Even when you’re not here.”

There was a pause — a soft, heavy silence.

And then Thanos stood up, walked across the room, and hooked an arm around his shoulders.

“I’m still here, you know,” he murmured. “Even when no one’s looking.”

Nam-Gyu’s lips twitched. “It’s so you remember I’m yours, even if you won’t say it out loud.”

Thanos didn’t say anything for a second. Then he reached over, took Nam-Gyu’s hand, and kissed the inside of his wrist.

A soft kiss. Not hungry, not teasing. Just warm. Certain.

“You’re impossible,” he whispered.

“You like it,” Nam-Gyu whispered back.

Saturday – 8:10 a.m.

Again, Nam-Gyu didn’t know how this started. All he knew was that they always walked together on Saturdays.

No texts. No waiting. Just… met on the corner without saying a word. Thanos would bring the snacks, Nam-Gyu would bring the caffeine, and they’d fall into step like they always had — quiet, close, half-asleep, shoulders brushing.

This morning was no different. The sun was low and bright. Their shadows moved side by side along the pavement. Thanos bumped into him every few steps, like a game. Nam-Gyu elbowed him back, never hard.

It was comfortable.

Familiar.

Thanos nudged his hand closer, the way he always did near the crosswalk. And just like always, Nam-Gyu’s fingers hovered near his.

It had become a habit, really. No one around. No questions. Just the two of them, slipping fingers together for the last block before school. A moment that didn’t belong to anyone else.

Until today.

Today, Thanos reached for his hand — easy, automatic.

And Nam-Gyu didn’t take it.

He didn’t pull away harshly. Didn’t flinch or panic or look around.

He just… let the space stay.

Let their hands fall out of sync.

Thanos didn’t say anything at first. Just shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking like nothing happened. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

Because this was their routine. Their secret ritual. A quiet, wordless thing they both looked forward to — the softest part of Thanos’s whole week.

And now it was missing.

Thanos smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know,” he said, light and offhand, “sometimes I wish you didn’t care so much what people think.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at him.

But his steps slowed just a little, like part of him wanted to.

It wasn’t that simple.

And they both knew it.

Monday – 12:52 p.m.

Group study again.

Se-Mi was balancing two highlighters between her fingers like chopsticks and trying to pick up gummy bears without dropping them. Mi-Na was braiding the hoodie strings of a very unwilling Gyeong-Su, who kept swatting her hands away with increasingly dramatic sighs.

“I will cut them off,” he muttered, deadpan.

“My fingers or the strings?” Mi-Na asked sweetly.

“Yes,” Gyeong-Su said. Mi-Na scooted away slowly, yelping while stranding the lap of Min-Su for a change.

Meanwhile, Nam-Gyu sat at one end of the table, flipping through a textbook and trying very hard to look like he wasn’t avoiding eye contact with the person directly across from him. Thanos, sprawled at the opposite end, had one foot resting on the chair beside him, twirling the pen Nam-Gyu gave him like it was Excalibur.

They’d walked to school together that morning.

They hadn’t spoken since.

Mi-Na paused mid-braid on Min-Su’s hoodie and squinted across the table. “Okay but like… should we just get them couple rings at this point?”

Se-Mi perked up instantly. “Matching ones. With ‘Property of Nam-Gyu’ engraved in gold. Or maybe silver? He gives silver energy.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t even look up. “We’re not dating.”

It came out too fast. Too loud. Too guilty.

Everyone froze.

Then — chaos.

Mi-Na gasped like she’d just witnessed a live proposal. “You’re not denying the rings though?!”

Se-Mi slammed both highlighters on the table. “Oh my god, you totally are dating. That’s why you’re weird! I knew it. I KNEW IT. I called this like three months ago—”

“You also called that Gyeong-Su and I were in a secret marriage,” Nam-Gyu muttered.

“I still stand by that,” Mi-Na whispered.

Gyeong-Su flipped the page in his book. “Please don’t involve me.”

Nam-Gyu’s ears turned pink. He tightened his grip on his pencil like he was debating whether stabbing someone with it would violate the honor code.

Across the table, Thanos wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smiling.

He just kept looking at his keychain, gripping it between his fingers. The pen spinning in his fingers slower now.

He went quiet.

Later, after the study session — after Se-Mi declared herself the maid of honor and Mi-Na started designing hypothetical invitations in the margins of her notebook — Nam-Gyu caught up with Thanos in the hallway.

“Hey,” he said softly, glancing around.

Thanos didn’t stop walking. “What’s up, tutor boy?”

Nam-Gyu matched his pace. Close but not touching.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Earlier. I just… I panicked.”

Thanos shrugged without looking at him. “Yeah. I know.”

He didn’t.

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “You’re still holding the keychain, right?”

Thanos glanced down at it.

Then tucked it into his pocket and said nothing.

Tuesday – 4:03 p.m.

They shared lunch in the clubroom. Just the two of them.

The lights were off except for the window glow, soft and gold, spilling across the desks. A half-eaten kimbap roll sat between them, forgotten.

Nam-Gyu had collapsed against Thanos’s chest sometime around the third yawn, muttering something about “stupid midterms” and “caffeine is a myth.”

Now, he was half-asleep, cheek pressed to Thanos’s uniform shirt, arms folded like a cat in a patch of sun.

Thanos didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

His hand rested lightly on Nam-Gyu’s back, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric like it was a habit he didn’t even notice anymore.

He tilted his head just enough to rest his chin in Nam-Gyu’s hair.

“I like this,” Thanos said softly.

Nam-Gyu hummed but didn’t speak. Just curled closer, like that counted as an answer.

“You don’t have to talk,” Thanos murmured. “I just want to sit here. With you. Like this. Like… this is normal.”

Nam-Gyu let out a slow breath, the kind you only release when your guard’s down. His fingers brushed against Thanos’s side, then settled there. Steady. Familiar.

“I’m still mad at you,” Thanos mumbled into his chest.

Nam-Gyu half smirked. “I know. Obviously. But this is the best punishment I’ve ever had.”

A beat. Then—

“Shut up,” Nam-Gyu said, without venom. He didn’t move.

“You shut up,” Thanos whispered back, smiling.

They stayed like that — still and tangled, with only the hum of the old ceiling fan above and the quiet sounds of the campus winding down.

At some point, Nam-Gyu shifted just enough to reach into his bag and pull something out. A small, flat box. He didn’t hand it to Thanos right away. Just held it between them.

“I was gonna wait,” he said quietly. “But you’re being tolerable right now.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

Nam-Gyu finally pressed the box into his hand, eyes darting anywhere but Thanos’s face.

Inside: a simple silver ring. Stamped, in tiny lettering, was a single word:

Mine.

Thanos blinked. Once. Twice.

Nam-Gyu said nothing.

“I’m getting a lot of gifts from you nowadays” said Thanos finally as he slipped it on his hand.

Nam-Gyu smilled and lazily showed of his left hand. “We have matching ones.”

“Cheesy.”

“I hate you. I’m taking the ring back.”

Thanos gasped “You would never! It was a gift that I shall flaunt around for everyone to see”.

Nam-Gyu’s heart stopped a little for fear that Thanos would actually do that as he watched as Thanos twisted the ring around his finger like it belonged there.

And for a second — a tiny, treacherous second — he didn’t care who might see it.

He didn’t care about rumors, or expectations, or the fear lodged in his throat like a stone.

Because Thanos was grinning like a kid who just won a prize. And Nam-Gyu had given it to him.

Willingly.

His chest ached with something sharp and sweet.

Maybe… he didn’t mind people knowing.

Not all of them. Not yet.

But maybe someday.

Maybe soon.

Wednesday – 7:44 a.m.

MG Coin was waiting in the hallway.

Leaning against the lockers like he belonged in a drama called Strangers from Hell, or something. One foot crossed over the other. Perfectly relaxed. Too relaxed.

He looked smug. Confident. Like someone who knew something you didn’t.

Nam-Gyu stopped short.

His pulse skipped.

MG Coin smiled slowly. “Morning, Prince Charming.”

His eyes dropped — just briefly — to Nam-Gyu’s hand. The ring.

And then, casually, like it meant nothing at all, he reached forward and ran a thumb along Nam-Gyu’s fingers.

“Nice ring,” he said.

Nam-Gyu yanked his hand back, jaw tight.

MG Coin didn’t look offended. He just chuckled. “Relax. I’m not judging.”

Nam-Gyu narrowed his eyes. “Move.”

MG Coin smiled slowly. “I think you’d be surprised how fast a perfect reputation can fall.”

Nam-Gyu stiffened. His hands curled at his sides. His throat tightened — not with fear, exactly. With fury.

But he didn’t move.

MG Coin didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. He just kept walking, whistling softly, and vanished down the corridor.

It wasn’t a threat.

Not yet.

But the knife had been shown.

And Nam-Gyu knew, deep down, that the game had started.

It was coming.

And he’d have to decide how much longer he could keep pretending.

Chapter Text

Wednesday – 5:18 p.m. – Clubroom

The clubroom was almost empty. Just the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint thud of chairs being stacked down the hall. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the windows, painting gold over dust and forgotten paper scraps.

Nam-Gyu sat alone at a desk, gripping his phone like it might start bleeding.

On screen:

Unknow number:
Funny how quickly silver turns to rust.
[Image attached: a blurry photo of Thanos’s hand. The ring clearly visible.]

He dropped the pen he wasn’t using. Picked it up. Dropped it again.

The door creaked. Jun-Hee walked in, drying her hands on a faded hand towel, hair pulled back in a messy bun. She paused when she saw him.

He didn’t look up.

“Hey,” she said, voice low. “Everyone else is gone. You good?”

Nam-Gyu nodded, too quickly. “Yeah. I mean—yeah. Just tired.”

She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t. Jun-Hee always saw through him, even when he was trying to be opaque. She grabbed a can of soda from the club fridge, popped it, and slid into the chair beside him.

After a long moment, Nam-Gyu spoke. “If I told you something… would you still look at me the same?”

Jun-Hee didn’t even blink. “You sat next to me when I dropped out. When people talked. When I got pregnant. You treated me like I was still me. So yeah. I’d do the same for you. Always.”

Nam-Gyu swallowed hard. His voice came out thin. “I’m gay.” He finally choked out “And there’s someone that I really care about. And if people find out, I’ll lose everything. I could lose—”

His voice broke.

Jun-Hee said nothing, but her attention never wavered.

“I could lose my future. My parents. My shot at getting out of here. And the more I think about it, the more it feels like it might still be worth it.” His voice trembled now. “Is that insane?”

Jun-Hee didn’t speak right away. She just reached out and placed her hand near his — not grabbing it, not forcing comfort, just making the space for it.

Nam-Gyu’s jaw clenched. “I know men like me are supposed to be strong. Stoic. Righteous. I know I’m supposed to have it all together. But I don’t. Not with this.”

A pause.

“Strong men aren’t supposed to be gay,” he added with a humorless laugh. “So I guess that settles that.”

Jun-Hee finally broke the silence. “Strong men cry too.”

He looked at her then.

And something in him cracked — not in the way glass breaks, but in the way a window opens after a long, stuffy winter. The air moved again.

Jun-Hee gently put her soda down. Turned to face him. “You're not alone in this. I’m glad you came to me,” she said softly. “Maybe it’s not exactly the same. But I know what it’s like to carry a secret like it’s a ticking bomb.”

Nam-Gyu blinked, tears prickling. He didn’t wipe them away.

“I don’t think I can ever tell my parents,” he whispered.

Jun-Hee gave him a small, understanding smile. “Then don’t. Not yet. Just be proud of yourself for telling me. That counts.”

He let out a breath — shaky and deep and strangely freeing. Like some heavy invisible thing had shifted on his chest.

For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Thursday – 8:07 a.m. – School Hallway

Nam-Gyu was halfway to his locker when he heard the drawl — lazy, smug, designed to slice through calm like a blade.

The bell hadn’t even rung yet when MG Coin strolled past. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just spoke casually over his shoulder, loud enough for Mi-Na — and everyone else — to hear.

“Careful with that ring, Nam-Gyu,” MG Coin said, strolling past with perfect timing. “Someone might think you’re taken.”

He didn’t look back. Didn’t slow his steps. Just said it over his shoulder, like he was talking about the weather.

But it landed like a gunshot.

Nam-Gyu froze. Blood iced in his veins. The hallway felt too loud all at once — too many voices, too many eyes.

Mi-Na turned with perfect comedic timing. “Wait—what ring?”

Nam-Gyu glanced down, heart thudding. The silver band caught the light just slightly.

Shit.

He forced a laugh.

“It’s just… my cousin,” he blurted. “He’s into, uh, friendship jewelry.”

Mi-Na blinked. “What kind of cousin gives you a ring?”

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth. Closed it. Shrugged.

“Weird flex,” Mi-Na muttered, squinting.

MG Coin didn’t stop walking. But he shot a wink over his shoulder — slow and deliberate — like he knew exactly what he’d done. Like he was daring Nam-Gyu to run after him and demand what the hell he wanted.

Nam-Gyu didn’t move.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He yanked it out with trembling fingers — only to realize it was just the class group chat.

Not Thanos.

Not MG Coin.

Later, when the hallway emptied, Nam-Gyu stood by the lockers, heart pounding, and finally typed it out:

[Nam-Gyu]:
What do you want?

No reply.

Nam-Gyu had the sense that something terrible was already in motion.

Thursday – 4:43 p.m. – Walking Home

Thanos tore into a bag of shrimp chips with his teeth, humming some pop song under his breath. He bounced the packet in one hand, walking backward for a few steps just to annoy Nam-Gyu. Normally, it would’ve earned a sigh, a shove, a muttered “idiot” under his breath.

Today, Nam-Gyu didn’t even look up.

He kept checking his phone. Again and again. Like the notification he was dreading would only come when he wasn’t staring. Like doom had a schedule and it was late.

“You’ve been looking at me like I committed a war crime,” Thanos said finally, licking salt off his thumb. “Just tell me what I did. I’ll deny it, but I’ll still feel bad.”

Nam-Gyu blinked, thrown. “What?”

“I mean, yeah, I didn’t respond to your ‘wear something decent’ text yesterday, but come on— I wore pants, so technically I followed instructions.”

Nam-Gyu forced a tight smile. “I’m just stressed. It’s nothing.”

Thanos watched him for a second too long. The smile on his face didn’t quite match his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

Nevertheless, his fingers brushed Nam-Gyu’s elbow in passing, and lingered half a second longer than usual — like he was saying I notice.

Like he always did.

And Nam-Gyu didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t say anything, either.

Friday – 7:21 p.m. – Nam-Gyu’s Home

It was after his shit when Nam-Gyu was halfway through pulling on a hoodie, the sleeves bunching at his elbows, the silver ring still snug on his finger — when the door burst open without warning.

“Nam-Gyu, we’re going to your aunt’s tomorrow, so make sure—”

His mother stopped.

Her gaze snapped to his hand.

He yanked the sleeve down too late.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,” he said — too fast. Too sharp. “Just… a project.”

She squinted, lips pressed into a tight line. “You’re not getting distracted, are you?”

“No.”

Her voice was calm. Controlled. “Good. Stay focused. You know what’s at stake. You’ve worked too hard to end up like the others.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “The others?”

“You know what I mean.” She sniffed, like the word mediocre had passed through the air. “People who throw away their future for… weakness. Or sin. And their parents just let them. Not in this family. We’re better than that.”

She turned to go, hand already on the doorknob.

“You’re better than that.”

She shut the door. Gone as quickly as she came.

Nam-Gyu sat on the edge of his bed for a long time.

Then, slowly, he pulled the ring off.

He didn’t want to.

But the pressure was suffocating. The walls of his life felt too tight. One wrong breath and the whole house might fall down.

The words echoed — sin. Better than that.

He’d heard them all his life. Folded into praise. Tucked into rules. Smoothed over like compliments.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, the ring burning cold against his palm.

Friday – 9:03 p.m. – Clubroom

The message came out of nowhere.

Unknown number:
Clubroom. Desk drawer. 10 p.m. sharp. Leave the ring. Or I’ll make sure the school board sees you for who you are.

Another buzz.

Unknown number:
Wonder what your mom would say if she knew you were wearing another boy’s promise on your finger?

His hands were shaking.

He didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

He could feel it — the smug cruelty in every word.

And worse: the truth behind it.

Unknown number:
Don't test me. You're not the only golden boy here. But you are the one with more to lose.
Tick-tock, Nam-Gyu.

He almost threw the phone.

Almost.

But that would’ve been a reaction.

And reacting meant giving in.

And Nam-Gyu did not give in.

Except… this time, maybe he had to.

He stood in the hallway, heart jackhammering against his ribs. Every second felt like it was being carved into his spine.

Behind the door: the desk.

In his pocket: the ring.

Inside his chest: a thousand versions of what would happen if he didn’t go through with it.

He texted Jun-Hee earlier to say he wouldn’t be coming by. Said he was tired.

The worst part? He almost believed the excuses himself.

The door creaked open at exactly 10pm. Not loudly, but in the quiet, it might as well have been thunder.

No lights.

He didn’t need them. He knew the way.

The desk was waiting. Like it always was.

The ring sat in his palm for a long moment. Just sat there. Cool. Familiar. His.

It had never felt heavier.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Not to Myung-Gi. Not even to Thanos.

To himself.

Then he placed it in the drawer, closed it softly, and walked out without looking back

Friday – 10:08 p.m. – Nam-Gyu’s Phone

A text buzzed in the dark.

Unknown number:
Consider it returned to its rightful owner.
You’re welcome for the cleanup. What would you do without me?

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Didn’t scream.

He just sat on the floor of his bathroom, arms locked around his knees, forehead pressed to cold tile.

Friday – 10:48 p.m. – Nam-Gyu’s Phone

My boyfriend:
Missing something?
[Image attached: The ring, nestled in Thanos’s palm.]

Nam-Gyu looked at the messages and made a small change that made his heart break.

Thanos:
Didn’t think you were the type to lose things that matter.

The message was light.

Playful.

But Nam-Gyu could hear the sharp edge under it. The ache.

He pressed his hand to his mouth to keep from making a sound.

He didn’t respond.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he wanted to too much.

Because if he opened the chat, he wouldn’t be able to lie. And if he told the truth, Thanos would never forgive him.

And that would be the end of him.

Friday – 11:51 p.m. – The Pentagon (Back Alley, Unlit Corner)

Myung-Gi waited under a flickering streetlamp.

He watched as a familiar hunched figure slipped out of the school gate and disappeared into the dark.

He lit a cigarette. and smirked to himself.

"Funny how quickly silver turns to rust. That was a good one." he muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:
He didn’t respond. Must be getting the message.

He snapped a photo — Thanos’s hand from earlier, ring gleaming in the dark — and saved it.

Collateral.

Just in case.

Saturday – 12:07 a.m. – Thanos’s Room (Thanos’s POV)

Thanos stared at the ring in his palm. Still. Cold.

He hadn’t come back for anything in particular — just his charger, maybe, or his water bottle. That part didn’t matter. What did matter was the drawer. Half open.

With the ring inside.

It wasn’t the kind of thing Nam-Gyu would just forget.

Not this.

And someone had left a note taped under the desk:
“Could’ve at least hidden it better. 10 p.m. pick-up, just like planned.”

No name. No handwriting he recognized. But the smugness in the scrawl was all too familiar.

This wasn’t an accident.

Someone wanted him to find it.

Thanos gripped the ring tighter.

It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots. Not when MG Coin had been circling like a vulture all week, whispering things that felt sharp even when they sounded like jokes.

Thanos wasn’t dumb.

And now he was done pretending to be.

His thumb hovered over Nam-Gyu’s name in his contacts.

My Boyfriend 💥

Still there. Still saved. Still unread.

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t text. Not yet.

Instead, he sat up straighter. Eyes dark. Mind focused.

If someone thought they could mess with Nam-Gyu —

If someone thought they could plant this like bait —

They were about to find out who they were dealing with.

Chapter Text

Sunday – 9:40 a.m.

Thanos stood by the vending machines, unopened soda sweating in his hand, as he watched the social currents swirl through the crowd.

Nam-Gyu was by the fence. His friends clustered around him — Mi-Na twirling a straw between her fingers, Se-Mi perched dramatically on the railing, Min-Su with a half-smile, and Gyeong-Su pretending he wasn’t listening even though he always was.

That’s wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Absolutely nothing about the scene was unusual.

But Nam-Gyu?

He looked fine.

And that was the problem.

A little tired. A little thinner. Posture too perfect. Laugh too measured. Eye contact just enough to pass as human.

But Thanos knew that version of him too well.

That wasn’t ease. That was effort.

That was performance.

He’s wearing the mask again.

The perfect son. The tireless student. The boy with his future already printed on a brochure. All white teeth and clean lines.

And Thanos?

Thanos was the fingerprint he couldn’t wipe off the glass. He was the smudge on that clean white record.

Mi-Na tilted her head, half-bored, half-nosy. “Hey, Nam-Gyu, not to bring up ancient drama, but whatever happened to your little mystery ring?”

Thanos’s spine straightened.

Nam-Gyu blinked. Just once. But it was enough. Thanos saw the glitch in the code.

Nam-Gyu forced a chuckle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mi-Na scoffed. “Please. You wore it for, like, three days straight. Silver band. Tiny engraving. Very main-character behavior. Don’t tell me your cousin broke up with you.”

That earned a few chuckles. Even Gyeong-Su cracked half a grin.

Nam-Gyu didn’t.

“Not everything’s a joke, Mi-Na,” he snapped.

The silence was immediate. Like a speaker had been yanked from the wall.

Mi-Na blinked. “Okay, sheesh.”

Se-Mi raised her eyebrows. “Dude. Chill.”

Gyeong-Su narrowed his eyes, calculating something. “You alright?”

Nam-Gyu swallowed. “I didn’t mean— I’m sorry.”

Too late.

Thanos didn’t wait. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Not fast, nor loud. Just gone.

Because if he stayed, he’d do something stupid — like shout, or shake him, or ask why the hell you let me believe I mattered if you were just going to bury it like I’m dirt under your perfect shoes.

And the thing was — he didn’t want the answer.

Not if it wasn’t real.

Not if Nam-Gyu was going to smile through it with that empty look in his eyes like nothing ever happened.

He tossed the unopened soda in the trash as he passed.

Didn’t even hear it land.

Sunday – 4:34 p.m. – The Pentagon Clubroom

Thanos spun the silver ring between his fingers like it might answer his questions if he just stared long enough.

It didn’t.

He’d found it, tucked into the corner of the desk drawer like an afterthought. It hadn’t even been hidden well. Just sitting ther, waiting for him, without it’s other half.

The same ring Nam-Gyu had given him just days ago.

He hadn’t said much when he handed it over. Just:
“So you remember I’m yours, even if I won’t say it out loud.”

Now Thanos couldn’t stop hearing the silence that had followed.

Something had shifted. Something big.

Nam-Gyu had been off for days now. Quiet. Twitchy. Laughing too hard at things that weren’t funny. Locking his phone — his phone, the one Thanos used to steal just to annoy him.

Now, he barely let it out of his sight. He didn’t smile with his eyes anymore. He hadn’t even looked at the ring when Thanos texted him about it.

He just didn’t respond.

Thanos leaned back in the clubroom chair, kicked his feet onto the table, and stared at the ceiling like it might explain how everything went sideways this fast.

Jun-Hee entered a few minutes later, carrying two plastic bottles of green tea and a packet of instant yakisoba. She didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him.

“You’re here early,” she said finally, setting the tea down.

“Guess I like the smell of drunk dudes and their bad decisions.”

Jun-Hee snorted, but her eyes narrowed slightly. “Sick, that’s why I decided to work here….You okay?”

Thanos offered his best don’t-worry-about-it grin. “Always.”

He wasn’t. And she knew it.

She sat beside him anyway, cracking open the yakisoba bento boy with practiced hands. “If you’re trying to look chill, maybe don’t stare at a ring like it murdered your family.”

Thanos didn’t answer. He just turned it in his fingers again.

Jun-Hee didn’t press, but after a while, she said, “He’s scared. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t mean he doesn’t care”.

Thanos blinked. “What?”

“Nam-Gyu,” she said simply. “He’s scared, but that still doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you.” She repeated slowly.

There was a sharp inhale, like Thanos’s breath caught on something jagged. His voice came out rough. “You know?”

Jun-Hee didn’t flinch. “I know he’s been flinching like someone’s about to hit him every time he hears his name. I know he won’t look anyone in the eye. And I know you’re sitting in his seat looking like someone left you behind.”

She turned her head, meeting his eyes. “So yeah. I know enough.”

Thanos looked down at the ring again. Turned it over once. Twice. Let it settle in his palm.

“I don’t even care if it’s a secret,” he said, voice low. “I just want it to be real. Even if it’s only ever real when we’re alone.”

Jun-Hee tilted her head, considering him. “Then stop waiting to be told the truth.”

She reached into her bag, pulled out two battered fortune cookies from God-knows-where, and held one out.

He stared. “What?”

“Take it.”

He did. Opened it without thinking. Crumbs fell into his lap. The paper read:
Get your mind set…confidence will lead you on.

Thanos scoffed. “Great. The cookie’s a therapist now.”

Jun-Hee smiled. “Maybe it’s right.” She said as she showed him her own messgae: True love is not something that comes everyday, follow your heart, it knows the right answer.

A beat passed. Thanos looked up at her again — for real this time. “Did he tell you himself?”

Jun-Hee didn’t smile this time. She just nodded. Soft. Sure. “Not your name. But yeah.”

Something shifted in Thanos’s face. A twitch in his jaw. A crack in the wall.

“He told someone,” he whispered. Like it meant everything.

And to him, it did.

Jun-Hee bumped his shoulder with hers. “That’s more than most people ever do.”

Thanos swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the ring again.

It no longer felt like something left behind.

It felt like something waiting to be reclaimed.

Monday – 4:31 p.m. – The Pentagon Clubroom

When Nam-Gyu arrived and started sorting through paperwork with too much intensity, Thanos stepped inside and slowly closed the door behind him.

Nam-Gyu froze. Didn’t turn.

Thanos took a breath.

“If I’m just something you wear in secret and throw away in public,” he said, voice low, steady, “tell me now.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“I’m not going to keep guessing,” Thanos said, taking a step closer. “What I mean to you. If I mean anything at all. Because I’m standing here—” he held up the ring, just for a moment “—with proof that I mattered. Past tense.”

Nam-Gyu’s breath hitched. But he still didn’t look at him.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “This isn’t about you.”

“No,” Thanos said. “It’s about everyone but me.”

There was a silence then — not just stillness, but something dense. Something that crushed.

Thanos stepped forward quietly. Sets the ring on the desk, right in front of Nam-Gyu. Gently. Like it might break.

His voice cracked on the edge of soft. “I would’ve waited forever. I just needed to know it was real. I’m done begging.”

“We’re over before we even started” he finished.

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Didn’t reach for the ring.

Didn’t say his name.

Thanos watched him — one second too long — then turned.

In the hallway, a floorboard creaked.

Thanos glanced back at the door.

No Nam-Gyu chasing him. No one calling his name.

But just for a second — barely a breath — he thought he saw movement behind the glass.

Not lingering. Just… there. Watching.

Gone before he could focus.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. And walked.

Chapter Text

Monday – 5:12 p.m. – Outside the Clubroom

Thanos sat on the edge of the stairwell, hood pulled low, headphones in with no music playing. The hallway buzzed around him. Lockers slamming, shoes squeaking, laughter bouncing off the walls, all unimportant. It all sounded like underwater.

The ring in his pocket burned.

He didn’t feel proud. Not even relieved. We’re over before we even started still echoed in his head, tinny and cruel, like a line from someone else’s mouth.

He’d said it like a final blow.

But it felt more like cutting off his own arm just to stop the infection.

And still — he knew he had to.

Because Nam-Gyu wasn’t safe. And neither was he. And someone was watching.

He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the deleted contact like it might bring him back. Just one tap and he could put Nam-Gyu’s name back where it belonged.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he opened his gallery. The last photo: a blurry figure just past the frosted glass outside the clubroom. Not quite Myung-Gi. Not quite not.

He stared at it. Zoomed in. Nothing definitive. Just enough to fuel a fire.

“Glad the plan’s working,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Now let’s see if I can survive it.”

Flashback – Sunday, 4:34 p.m. – The Clubroom

Jun-Hee had still been sitting beside him when Thanos said, “I think someone planted it. The ring.”

Jun-Hee’s smile faded. “You think it was MG?”

“I don’t think,” Thanos said. “I know. He wants me to think Nam-Gyu threw it away. He wants me angry. Alone.”

Jun-Hee crossed her arms. “So what now?”

“I give him what he wants. For now.”

Jun-Hee blinked. “You’re going to—break up with Nam-Gyu?”

Thanos didn’t answer at first. Just exhaled slowly, like the words themselves would bruise. Then: “Yeah.”

She stared at him, something unreadable in her expression. “He won’t take that well.”

“I know.”

“You won’t take that well.”

“I already haven’t,” he said, voice quieter now. “But it’s the only way. MG’s setting a trap. If I act like we’ve really broken up, he’ll get cocky. He’ll stop hiding.”

Jun-Hee looked away. “You know Nam-Gyu might think it’s real.”

“I’m counting on it.”

That was the part that killed him. That Nam-Gyu wouldn’t know it was fake — not at first. That he’d believe Thanos had given up. Had walked away.

And Thanos had to let him believe it.

Jun-Hee softened. “You sure you’re okay playing the villain in his story?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But I’d rather have him hate me and be safe… than love me and get hurt.”

There was a pause.

“And then?”

“I find proof. And I burn him down with it.”

Jun-Hee looked hesitant. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

There had been a pause. Then Thanos’s expression shifted. His voice got quieter. “He messaged you once, didn’t he? Last year?”

Jun-Hee’s shoulders stiffened.

“Said some weird shit. You never answered.”

Her mouth tightened. “He’s a creep.”

“That’s why you’re out,” Thanos said. “You’ve got a kid now. I’m not letting him use you.”

Jun-Hee glared. “Thanos—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Just distract Nam-Gyu when I need it. That’s all. I’ll handle the rest.”

Monday – 8:04 p.m. – Thanos’s Room

Sticky notes bled across the wall like a crime scene. Names. Dates. Scraps of overheard conversations. Arrows drawn in red pen, connecting points no one else would’ve seen. At the center: “Myung-Gi” underlined three times, circled in black ink hard enough to tear the paper. It looked like a detective board straight out of a crime show. Maybe it was.

To anyone else, it looked unhinged.

To Thanos, it was clarity.

He sat on the floor, legs crossed, ring glinting beside his laptop. His textbook lay discarded somewhere under the bed. He hadn’t opened it in days. School didn’t matter. Finals didn’t matter. The world could wait.

Mi-Na’s voice echoed in his memory:
“Nam-Gyu hasn’t eaten in two days. He said he ‘wasn’t hungry.’”

Se-Mi:
“He’s been creepy quiet. Even for him.”

And Myung-Gi?

Thanos’s hands curled into fists at the memory of MG’s smirk earlier that day — barely there, a twitch of the lip when he mentioned cleaning out the clubroom drawer. It had been smug. Confident.

Like he knew what Thanos had found.

He’d smirked when Thanos mentioned cleaning out the clubroom drawer. Just barely. But it had been there.

Like he thought he was untouchable. Nam-Gyu was unraveling, while MG was getting bolder.

Thanos yanked open his drawer, pulled out the USB drive, and jammed it into the side of his laptop. The security footage flickered to life — grainy, black and white, with a busted timestamp. He fast-forwarded past hours of nothing. Then stopped.

There he was.

MG Coin entered the clubroom. Alone.

Thanos watched as he reached into the desk drawer. Took out the ring. Turned it over in his hand. Smirked.

Then placed it back, just crooked enough to look like an accident. Like something forgotten.

The camera didn’t catch his face clearly. But it caught the smile.

Thanos hit pause. Stared at the still frame for a long time. Screen glowing in the dark.

“Got you,” he whispered.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not yet.

He dragged over a notepad, scribbled something fast and angry. Every line curved like a weapon. A new idea. A new trap. He’d already started texting old classmates, old friends of Myung-Gi. Subtle at first. Then not.

Because someone out there had been hurt by him. More than one. Thanos could feel it. MG hadn’t just started being a monster last week.

He was a pattern.

And Thanos was going to break it.

This is for Nam-Gyu, he thought, staring at the still frame.

For Jun-Hee. For her daughter. For anyone that freak ever looked at sideways.

You don’t get to make people afraid and walk away untouched.

He reached for his phone, opened the messaging app. Then stopped.

He though about Jun-Hee. Thanos retrieved the footage from the USB he’d yanked from the clubroom’s cheap camera system while Jun-Hee distracted the advisor with a fake complaint.

He hadn’t told her why. He couldn’t tell her anymore, at least not this part.

MG had messaged her last year. Said things. Things Thanos hadn’t forgotten.

He wouldn’t drag her deeper. Not with a kid in the picture.

She’d done enough. Now it was his turn.

He looked back at the board. Red thread looped around MG’s name, pinned to photos, notes, circles of chaos.

This wasn’t spiralling.

This was strategy.

He’d been called crazy before. Rumours had flown: fights, suspensions, reckless chaos.

Let them whisper.

Let them remember why he was dangerous.

Because when someone came for the people he cared about — he didn’t just defend.

He burned.

He wasn’t done yet. Not even close. The real plan hadn’t started — but the bait was already in place. Now, all he had to do was wait for MG to bite.

Meanwhile – Tuesday, 10:13 a.m. – Study Room

Nam-Gyu sat stiff-backed in his usual seat, but everything else was wrong. His hair was unbrushed. His uniform was still perfect, if the norm was dressing yourself while half-asleep. His eyes were sunken, and the shadows beneath them looked bruised.

Min-Su slid a banana onto the table near him. “Eat something.”

“I’m fine,” Nam-Gyu mumbled, flipping a page he hadn’t read.

“You’re not,” Mi-Na said. “You’re white as paper.”

Se-Mi added, “You haven’t said a word in two days unless someone asks you directly. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s creepy. Even for you.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

He was cold all the time now. His head hurt. His stomach twisted at the thought of food. But he still showed up. Still took notes. Still tried.

His body was failing.

He just had to pretend it wasn’t.

Tuesday – 12:37 p.m. – Cafeteria, Far Corner

Myung-Gi was holding court again.

Perched at the center table like it belonged to him, flanked by nodding juniors and overeager committee members, he launched into some polished monologue about student council initiatives and how the school board was “finally recognising real leadership.”

Thanos sat a few tables back, hood up, tray untouched. Hidden in plain sight.

He didn’t need to hear every word. The performance was always the same — clean posture, sharp diction, practiced arrogance.

But then someone mentioned Nam-Gyu.

And Myung-Gi twitched.

Not a big one. Barely more than the shift of a jaw. But Thanos saw it. That brief flicker of something ugly beneath the smile. Like a hairline crack under glass.

He’s still scared.

Good. He should be.

Because fear meant pressure. Pressure made people sloppy. And Thanos was counting on it.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes cool behind the fringe of his hoodie. Watching, waiting, mapping every move.

Let MG enjoy his little kingdom for now — the fake laughs, the empty praise, the illusion of power.

Because the trap was already set.

And when it snapped shut…

Myung-Gi wasn’t walking out untouched.

Tuesday – 8:52 p.m. – Myung-Gi’s Room

The glow from his monitor flickered across Myung-Gi’s face, throwing shadows that made him look older. Sharper. His hands moved lazily over his keyboard, dragging an old group chat back to life. People hadn’t spoken in months — years even. But one little poke here, one little DM there… things started to stir.

He leaned back, rereading a thread of gossip he’d kicked up an hour ago. About Thanos. About Nam-Gyu. About what might’ve happened between them.

Nothing provable. Nothing too obvious.

Just… noise.

And noise spreads.

He clicked off the tab and looked at his phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing from Nam-Gyu.

Good.

Let him flinch a little.

Let him think he’s slipping.

He reached over, popped open a new soda, and muttered to himself, “Should’ve stayed perfect, Nam-Gyu.”

He didn’t notice the tiny red light blinking just above his desk lamp — the one on his webcam.

He didn’t know someone was watching back.

Chapter Text

Tuesday Morning – 6:41 a.m. – Nam-Gyu’s House

The bathroom mirror was fogged at the corners, but Nam-Gyu didn’t bother wiping it. He’d been up since 5:12. Showered in scalding water. Brushed his teeth twice. Pressed his school uniform so aggressively that the seams bit into his skin when he moved.

Now he was stood still, tie clenched in one hand, blazer perfectly ironed, mouth pressed into a straight line.

He looked… fine. A little thin. Eyes shadowed with fatigue. But, his collar was crisp and his posture correct, and that was all anyone would see.

He told himself that was enough.

One loop. Over. Under. Tighten.

His fingers trembled on the knot.

“Stop,” he muttered under his breath. “Focus. You’re fine.”

His stomach gave a sharp twist. He hadn’t eaten since Saturday. Just tea and a rice cracker he couldn’t keep down. He told himself it was discipline. Sacrifice. That hunger made the edges of his mind sharper.

He adjusted the tie again.

Third time’s the charm.

He also hadn’t slept. Not really. But he’d made flashcards between 2 and 4 a.m., retaken two old exams, and recited three chapters of advanced chemistry aloud until his throat burned.

Still, his brain felt like slush.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

His mother didn’t wait before opening it.

She stepped inside, heels soft on tile, expression unreadable. Her lipstick was already perfect, her blazer pressed like armor. She stood there for a moment, just watching him in the mirror.

He hadn’t noticed her at first.

“Cutting it close,” she said, glancing at the time. “Are you ready?”

Nam-Gyu nodded. “Yes, umma.”

She looked him over. Not with affection but rather with scrutiny. Like she was inspecting something she’d paid too much for. Her eyes lingered too long on his face.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said. “It shows.”

“I’m fine,” he replied quickly. “I’ve just been—studying more.”

“I received an email from the scholarship committee this morning,” she continued, her voice clipped and even. “They’ve noticed a decline in your test performance over the past two weeks. Small things. Still enough to merit concern.”

“I’m handling it,” he said. “I’ll bring it back up.”

“You’d better,” she said, flatly. “This family cannot afford failure. Not now. Not from you.”

He lowered his eyes. “I know.”

Her gaze lingered. She stepped closer and reached up to fix his tie — tugging it slightly tighter than necessary.

“You know how hard your father worked for you to have this chance,” she said, quiet now. “Do you think he’d be proud of this? Of slipping grades and excuses?”

He flinched. Just barely.

“He’s not here,” Nam-Gyu said before he could stop himself. It came out smaller than he meant it to.

Her hand dropped but her expression didn’t change.

“No,” she said. “But you are. And you’re going to carry this family’s name with pride. Even if it kills you.”

Then, as if that were normal — as if she hadn’t just choked him with a sentence — she smoothed the front of his blazer and turned to leave.

“Smile when you walk out,” she added. “People are watching.”

The door clicked shut.

Nam-Gyu stood frozen.

He didn’t move until the hallway light turned off and he knew she was gone.

Only then did he let his knees buckle just slightly against the edge of the sink. Just enough to breathe.

He looked in the mirror again.

He looked like a ghost.

His hands hovered over the sink like he was going to vomit. Or scream. Or break something.

Instead, he pulled out his phone.

No new messages.

His thumb hovered over Thanos’s name in his deleted contacts list. He hadn’t re-added it. He couldn’t. It would mean hope.

And hope was a liability.

He slid the phone into his pocket, straightened his tie tighter this time and left the room.

The smile came on just before the front door opened.

Like a reflex, muscle memory, what ever you want to call it. No one ever questioned it.

Tuesday, 12:37 p.m. – Cafeteria (farside) – Nam-Gyu POV

Nam-Gyu stood just outside the main office, blinking too hard at the notice pinned on the board.

“Mid-Term Evaluation Review – Scholarship Students.”

His name was circled. Red ink. A silent death sentence.

Meeting Requested. Wednesday. 7:30 a.m. Sharp.

He felt his throat tighten. The line underneath was worse.

Bring recent grade reports.

His last math quiz had come back with a 78. The comment at the bottom said: “Sloppy. Unlike you.”

It wasn’t a warning. It was a confirmation.

His fingers twitched, and he shoved them into his pockets before anyone noticed.

No one else was looking at the board. They didn’t need to. They weren’t being watched like he was. Evaluated. Weighed.

His stomach churned. He hadn’t eaten since Saturday. Maybe Friday. He’d lost track.

Behind him, the hallway buzzed — lunch period chaos spilling into the corridor. Lockers slammed. Someone shouted. Laughter cracked through the noise.

Nam-Gyu didn’t flinch. Not until—

“Honestly,” Myung-Gi’s voice floated through the din, sharp and easy. “If even Nam-Gyu is getting called in, that committee’s finally waking up.”

Nam-Gyu stiffened.

That wasn’t supposed to be public. The review list had gone up five minutes ago. No one else had seen it. Unless…

He turned his head just slightly.

MG stood a few feet away, leaning against the opposite wall. Casual. Smiling. Two younger students stood near him, nodding along to whatever he was saying.

He didn’t look at Nam-Gyu directly.

He didn’t need to.

The jab landed. Quiet. Clean. Precise.

Nam-Gyu looked back at the board. His vision blurred.

His name hadn’t moved.

He turned away, heading down the hall without speaking. Not fats nor slow. Just… away.

Behind him, MG’s voice lowered to a murmur. Something about “standards slipping.”

Nam-Gyu kept walking.

Scene – Flashback: Four Months Ago – Nam-Gyu’s House (Living Room)

Four months ago, Nam-Gyu sat stiffly on the couch, hands in his lap, while his mother stood with arms folded and chin lifted.

The man across from them — blazered, silver-haired, from the scholarship committee — smiled gently.

“We’re pleased to offer Nam-Gyu continued full funding,” the man said. “His exam scores and national rankings are exceptional. Frankly, he’s one of the top students in the country.”

Nam-Gyu lowered his head. “Thank you, sir.”

His mother beamed. “Of course he is. He always has been.”

The man chuckled. “If he keeps this up, he won’t just qualify for Seoul National. He’ll be a shoo-in for international programs too.”

Present – Tuesday, 12:52 a.m.

Nam-Gyu walked alone beneath the streetlights, blazer slung over one arm, tie stuffed in a pocket. His backpack was too light — he’d forgotten half his textbooks at school.

The wind pressed against his ribs like fingers.

His hand tightened around the printed notice in his pocket.

Meeting requested. Academic review.

He stopped outside his front gate, staring at the ground.

A thought flickered in the dark, unwanted but honest:

If I disappear now, will they still call me gifted?

He went inside quietly.

No one was awake to see him not smile.

Tuesday, 12:45 p.m. – Cafeteria (far side) – Thanos POV

The corner table by the vending machines had become MG Coin’s personal throne. He lounged with one arm draped over the chair beside him, grinning like he owned the room.

And maybe, for now, he did.

“My dad says the school board finally took my proposal seriously,” MG said, biting into an energy bar between sentences. “Said they’re impressed with my leadership. About time, honestly.”

A ripple of polite laughter followed. Even when he wasn’t funny, people laughed. That was the power of someone who knew how to climb.

Around him, two junior council reps nodded like wind-up toys. A girl from year two leaned in, eyes wide. Someone else asked about his mock trial scores.

Thanos sat a few tables over, back to the wall, earbuds in but nothing playing.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

MG basked in the attention. He answered questions like a politician — practiced, charming, fake.

Until someone at the table mentioned Nam-Gyu.

And something in MG’s mouth twitched. Barely.

Then he smirked.

“Please,” he said, loud enough to carry, “Nam-Gyu’s too busy playing martyr to show up for his responsibilities. Honestly, what does he even do anymore? Sulk and starve?”

The girl beside him laughed, uneasy.

He kept going.

“Actually—” he leaned in, voice dropping to that fake conspiratorial tone that always followed a cruel punchline, “you know who he probably does hang out with now? That dropout girl from the club. The one with the bastard kid.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Probably Nam-Gyu’s type,” MG finished with a lazy grin.

This time, no one laughed.

Even the juniors glanced at each other, uncertain. One of them looked toward the food line — where Jun-Hee was visible behind the counter, wiping down a tray.

She didn’t hear it.

But Thanos did.

He heard every word.

His jaw locked.

Fists clenched.

Something behind his eyes went very, very still.

MG didn’t notice. He leaned back, satisfied with himself, already moving on to something about university recommendations.

But Thanos had already stood up.

Didn’t make a scene.

Just walked out the side door, hand closing around the ring in his pocket like it was the trigger to something he wasn’t ready to pull — but would.

Not yet. Soon.

Tuesday – 11:42 p.m. – Thanos’s Room

The notebook was open on his lap, pages bent, ink smeared from how hard he’d pressed the pen down.

The ring sat next to his pillow. He hadn’t looked at it in hours, but he knew exactly where it was.

The laptop on his desk was still glowing, an unanswered message blinking on the screen — another anonymous account replying to one of Thanos’s burner messages:
"I have something. But I’m scared. What if he finds out it was me?"

He would never. Thanos made sure of it. Each conversation was logged under a code name. A timestamp. A method. They never knew his real identity, but he knew every one of them — what they’d been through, and what Myung-Gi had taken from them.

Lines connected dots. Dots connected dates. Every page looked more unhinged than the last. But Thanos didn’t care. It wasn’t about looking sane.

It was about truth.

And all of it pointed back to one name, underlined with furious red pen:

Myung-Gi. MG Coin.

Thanos flipped to the next page. Another list of names. Students. Former classmates. People who’d been in group chats MG ran. Club members who quit without explanation. Girls who dropped out mid-semester. One by one, Thanos had tracked them down. Online, through friends of friends. Some had replied. Most hadn’t. But the ones who did?

They all said the same thing.

“He made me feel crazy.”

“He never actually said it. But he implied it. So I shut up.”

“He turned everyone against me. Then acted like the hero.”

They didn’t want to go public. Yet. But they wanted him gone. That was enough.

On the far wall, sticky notes climbed toward the ceiling. Thanos had moved his bed to have more space. One corner was dedicated to “Patterns of Behavior.” Another, “Victims.” A third, “Weaknesses.”
Thanos underlined the last one twice.

He reached for a sticky note and scrawled another name. Another connection. Another debt waiting to be collected.

He flipped back a few pages and reread the testimonies — not because he needed to, but because they made the rage useful.

Testimony #6 – "Ji-Hye (Former Student, Graduated Early)"

“He used to sit next to me in study hall. Quiet, nice, polite. I thought we were friends.

Until I beat him on a math exam by two points.

The next week, rumors started — that I’d cheated. That I’d slept with a teacher. That I had some sugar daddy funding my grades. I didn’t even know what half of it meant back then.

He told people it was 'just a joke,' but he said it to everyone. Teachers started treating me weird. One of them moved my seat to the back. My homeroom advisor asked me if I needed 'moral guidance.'

Then someone leaked my family’s financial aid application. He said it was already public record. It wasn’t.

My mom lost her job a month later. I dropped out before graduation because I couldn’t show my face anymore.

He sent me a message on Instagram the day I left. Just a smiley face. Nothing else.

That’s when I knew. It wasn’t just about me beating him on one test. He wanted to ruin me.

And he did.”

Thanos got sick to his stomach as he read another confession from the tenths, maybe even hundreds he received.

Testimony #17 – Anonymous (Female Student, Graduated Early)

“He used to tutor me after school. I wasn’t doing well in math, and he offered to help.

It was okay at first. He was nice. Kind of quiet. Seemed like he cared if I passed.

Then he started… asking weird things. Personal questions. Things that didn’t feel like ‘just friends’ stuff.

I laughed it off. Said no.

But suddenly, my test scores started dropping. He’d say I ‘misunderstood the material,’ or that I ‘wasn’t trying hard enough.’

Then he told me he was going to report me for cheating. Said he saw me looking at someone’s paper during a quiz.

I didn’t. But he said, ‘If you want me to keep quiet, we can work something out.’

I didn’t know what he meant. Not at first.

Then the messages started.

Not threats. Not really. Just… expectations. Suggestions. ‘Wear something nice today.’ ‘You owe me study time.’

I tried to switch tutors. I told the school. They said there was no evidence. That MG Coin was one of their top students. A role model.

So I dropped the class. Dropped my extracurriculars. Transferred to remote. Graduated early.

And I never told anyone.

Because I knew no one would believe me.”

And the list went on and on.

"He told my girlfriend I cheated when I didn’t. Then comforted him until they started dating. Like I was a stepping stone."

"He used to ‘joke’ about my weight during group projects. Every time I talked, he’d say, ‘You sure there’s enough oxygen for two?’ I laughed along. I thought I had to."

"We were friends in first year. When I got a better grade than him once, he said I ‘owed’ it to him. That I’d embarrassed him. After that, people stopped replying to me. Even teachers started treating me different."

"I left the school. No one asked why. He knew. He smiled when I walked past his classroom on my last day."

Thanos didn’t have a group chat or secret club — he kept their names in this notebook, scrawled in careful handwriting, initials only. A quiet army. Anonymous. Angry.

And they weren’t alone anymore.

He glanced at the timestamped USB drive lying beside his keyboard. His eyes flicked to the folder he hadn’t opened yet — the one labeled “Insurance.” He didn’t even want to look at what else he might find. Not unless he had to.

A soft knock on the door made him flinch.

“Dinner,” his mom called through it. “You haven’t come out all day.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said without looking up.

Silence. Then footsteps. Fading.

Thanos flipped the page again.

Another note. Mi-Na said Nam-Gyu looks worse than ever. Gaunt. Pale. Like he’s barely hanging on. The scholarship committee was “reviewing his case.” One more missed exam and it might all fall apart.

He didn’t have time.

MG’s insult about Jun-Hee echoed in his ears again. That dropout girl and her bastard kid…

He gritted his teeth.

This wasn’t just about Nam-Gyu anymore.

He reached for the red pen and wrote two words in block letters across the top of the next page:
Final Phase.

His jaw clenched. His knee bounced. The ring glinted in the dark.

He wasn’t spiralling.

He was sharpening.

And MG had no idea how close the blade was.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. A new text from Se-Mi in the group chat:

Se-Mi: “Anyone else think Nam-Gyu’s like… lowkey dying?”
Mi-Na: “He’s not eating. His collarbones have COLLARBONES.”
Min-Su: “He hasn’t said more than three words to me in two weeks.”
Mi-Na: “Also?? Where are you Thanos?? I feel like we need an exorcism or something.”

Thanos didn’t reply. Just turned his phone over.

But he was watching. Always.

He still walked by the library sometimes, just to see if Nam-Gyu was there. He still lingered in the hallway longer than necessary to hear whether Nam-Gyu was coughing again. He still watched his back — from a distance, always from a distance — to make sure no one else could drive the knife in deeper.

He knew about the scholarship committee. About the review. About the late assignments, the red circles on returned test papers.

Nam-Gyu was breaking.

And Thanos hated himself for helping it happen — even if it was part of the plan.

But this wasn’t about a breakup anymore. It never had been.

It was about stopping a predator. About protecting everyone MG had ever hurt. About saving the one person Thanos would’ve gone to war for.

He slid his phone farther aside and stared at a small square photo pinned under all the mess — Nam-Gyu, blurry and half-laughing in the sunlight outside school. A moment stolen from weeks ago.

He’d taken it without permission.

He pressed a hand over it now.

Whispered: “Hold on.”

Because Nam-Gyu was fading. Thinner. Quieter. Sleep-deprived. Starved. The spark that made him unbearable — gone. And no one knew why. Everyone kept calling it stress.

But Thanos knew better.

He checked the time: 11:58.

Then dragged his chair closer. Pulled open a fresh document.

The subject line read:
Formal Complaint – Pattern of Harassment and Abuse by Student Council Member Lee Myung-Gi.

Attached: numerous testimonials, time-stamped security footage, a chart showing clubroom key access logs, a list of prior conflicts MG had with Nam-Gyu… and a footnote: “There are more.”

He saved it as a draft.

Not yet.

Not until MG stepped in it himself.

He needed one more mistake.

He leaned back, let his head hit the wall, and closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Then the door to his room cracked open.

Jun-Hee stood there in pyjama pants, holding her daughter’s baby monitor like it was a badge.

“You should sleep,” she said softly.

“I’m working.”

“I know.”

She hesitated. Then crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“This won’t end clean,” she said, voice low.

“I don’t need clean,” Thanos murmured. “I need justice.”

Jun-Hee’s eyes flicked to the board. She didn’t ask questions.

Just whispered: “Don’t forget who you’re doing this for.”

And left.

The room went still again.

Thanos looked back at the photo.

His voice cracked:

“For him.”

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 1:05 p.m. – Library, Study Room B

The study room was too bright.

Nam-Gyu sat with a highlighter uncapped in one hand, pencil clenched in the other. Neither moved. His textbook lay open to a page he’d read five times without processing a word.

Across from him, Mi-Na tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the desk. Not annoyed. Just… waiting.

Finally, she said flatly, “Okay. We’re staging an intervention.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

Se-Mi threw herself into the seat beside him, folding her arms. “You look like you’ve been auditioning for a zombie role. You eating?”

“I’m fine,” Nam-Gyu said, too fast.

“Liar,” Min-Su muttered from the corner. He hadn’t looked up from his sketchpad, but his voice was laced with concern. “You skipped lunch. Again.”

Nam-Gyu shifted in his seat. His blazer felt too heavy. His shirt clung to his back with a nervous sheen of sweat. He reached for his pencil again, but his fingers shook.

“I’ve just been busy,” he tried.

“Busy crying into your biology notes?” Se-Mi raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t said two words all week. Even Gyeong-Su’s talking more than you.”

From his perch on the windowsill, Gyeong-Su didn’t even pretend to deny it. He just looked up and said, “Rude, but accurate.”

Nam-Gyu exhaled through his nose. “I’m not— It’s not— I’m handling it.”

“Is it Thanos?” Mi-Na asked quietly.

That stopped him.

He didn’t look up, but something in his posture changed — a stiff, defensive ripple. A twist in his stomach.

“He hasn’t been around,” she added, voice softer now. “Like, at all. And you’ve been…” She waved her hand vaguely over him. “Like that.”

Nam-Gyu’s jaw clenched. “We’re not… anything. Anymore.”

“So it is Thanos,” Se-Mi said, more gently now.

He stood abruptly. His chair scraped the floor with a violent screech.

“I have to go,” he muttered.

“No, you don’t,” Mi-Na said, reaching out and grabbing his sleeve before he could escape. “You think you’re good at pretending, but you’re not. We’re not blind.”

Nam-Gyu tried to pull away. “Let go.”

“Not until you tell us what the hell is going on with you,” she said. “Because this? This isn’t just a breakup. You look like you’re disintegrating.”

“I’m fine—”

“Look at yourself,” Min-Su cut in. “You’re pale, you’re shaking, you smell like menthol gum and instant coffee, and you flinched when I asked if you were okay earlier. If that’s fine, I don’t want to know what bad looks like.”

Nam-Gyu’s throat burned. His voice came out cracked. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Then why won’t you talk to him?” Mi-Na asked. “Why won’t he talk to you?”

Silence.

Gyeong-Su slid off the ledge and crossed the room slowly, not unkindly.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” he said, soft and certain. “And if you are — that’s worse. Because it means you think we don’t care.”

Nam-Gyu yanked his sleeve free at last. He took one step back, then another. He was already halfway to the door.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, though it sounded like a lie even to him.

As he reached for the doorknob, Mi-Na called after him, “We’re not giving up on you, you know.”

He hesitated.

“No matter how good you are at giving up on yourself.”

He didn’t look back.

Didn’t answer.

But for the first time in days…

he almost wanted to but right now he had bigger things to worry about.

Wednesday, 1:40 p.m. – Scholarship Committee Office

The hallway outside the committee room was too quiet. Every sound echoed — the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the ticking of the wall clock, the scratch of Nam-Gyu’s thumbnail against the edge of the grade report folder in his hands.

He stood perfectly still, but the folder was damp where his fingers gripped it.

Inside the room, voices murmured. Low. Serious. One of them — a man’s — said, “Frankly, we expected more from him.”

Nam-Gyu’s stomach curled. He pressed the report tighter to his chest.

The floor felt unsteady beneath him. Like it might drop out entirely.

This is it. The review. The verdict. His name on a list. His perfect mask fracturing by degrees.

He closed his eyes.

For a split second, he saw Thanos. Laughing. Teasing. Pressing a coffee into his hands with a stupid straw because “You bite the corners of your mouth when you’re stressed — that means caffeine time.”

The memory burned worse than the fear.

This wasn’t happening because of Thanos.

But it also sort of was.

His name had been a shield for weeks — something to think about instead of himself.

Now all Nam-Gyu had was himself.

And he wasn’t holding up.

A secretary opened the door. “Nam-Gyu?”

He looked up. His hands shook.

Then — smile.

It clicked on like a light switch.

Not real. Not warm. But practiced. Muscle memory.

He stepped inside.

The door closed behind him.

Meanwhile – Student Lounge

The student lounge was louder than usual — a mess of chatter, half-eaten snacks, and club reps checking their phones.

Myung-Gi was in his element, lounging back in a plastic chair like it was a throne, smirking over the rim of his drink.

He’d been on a roll all day — making jokes, charming the juniors, reminding everyone of how “rough” it must be for the scholarship kids. Most people laughed politely. A few didn’t.

And then he saw her.

Hyun-Ju. Former student council vice rep. The one who quit last year without warning.

She’d come back to pick up her transcript. She wasn’t talking to anyone. Just waiting by the copier with headphones in.

MG’s voice cut through the lounge like a blade. Loud enough to carry.

“Well, well,” he said lazily. “Didn’t think they still let ghosts in here.”

A few heads turned.

Hyun-Ju didn’t. She had her back turned to him, unprotected.

“She probably missed the attention,” he added, loud and oily. “Poor thing’s been irrelevant since she quit. What was it again? Burnout? Breakdown? I forget.”

A small flicker of discomfort passed across the room. Then:

“You know what they say about girls who can’t handle pressure,” MG added with a mock-sympathetic shrug. “They weren’t built to lead in the first place.”

The silence hit hard.

But this time — someone recorded it.

From the back of the room, a second-year council assistant had her phone up, clearly filming.

And standing by the vending machine, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting for it, was Gyeong-Su.

He didn’t move right away.

Just watched.

Then — slowly — he pushed off the wall, walked toward MG, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“That’s enough.”

MG blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said, that’s enough.”

MG sat up straighter, expression darkening.

“What, you suddenly care now?” he said, scoffing. “You’ve barely spoken since first year and now you’re everyone’s moral compass?”

He stood too, voice louder. “Spare me, Gyeong-Su. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” Gyeong-Su replied, calm. “You think people forget. But some of us don’t.”

MG’s mask cracked — just for a moment. His nostrils flared. His eyes flicked to the girl still recording, then back to Gyeong-Su.

“You think I care what you think?” he spat. “You’ve always been just a background prop. A little mute with a nice transcript.”

A few people gasped.

“And now what?” MG continued, stepping closer. “You gonna act tough? Save the day? You’re pathetic.”

Gyeong-Su didn’t flinch.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He just turned slightly — and looked toward the far corner of the lounge.

Where Thanos stood.

Silent. Still.

Watching.

Their eyes met. Gyeong-Su gave the smallest nod.

As if to say: He’s done.

MG didn’t notice.

He was too busy fuming. “You’re all so dramatic,” he muttered, throwing a glance at the girl recording. “It was a joke. Jesus. Everyone needs to calm down—”

“You won’t be laughing later,” Gyeong-Su said quietly.

That stopped him.

The room held still.

MG looked around — realizing now how many people had gone silent. How many eyes were on him. How little power he actually had without the performance.

And how fast that performance was crumbling.

Wednesday, 4:52 p.m. – POV: Thanos

The clubroom was quiet. Too quiet, in the way empty classrooms always were after school — full of ghosts and breathless tension. But this time, it wasn’t the silence that felt off.

It was the final countdown.

Thanos sat hunched over the back computer, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a faint ring mark still visible around his finger where silver used to sit. The USB drive was already slotted in. The cursor on-screen blinked with unnerving patience.

He wasn’t shaking. He’d already done that earlier, when he first opened the folder labeled Insurance and saw the names — all of them — written in his own scrawl. One after the next. Carefully labeled files, cross-referenced dates, screenshots backed up twice. Footage clipped, cleaned, color-corrected for clarity.

The formal complaint sat open at the center of the screen:
Pattern of Harassment and Abuse by Student Council Member Lee Myung-Gi.

Everything he had — the testimonies, the footage, the matching timestamps, the clubroom access logs, and, finally, the recording from today — it was all embedded, all damning. Even the quotes: Hyun-Ju's story. The anonymous girl who transferred out mid-year. The one he still didn’t have a name for but who left him a message that just said, “He doesn’t deserve to walk away from this.”

Gyeong-Su’s video was the last addition. The perfect trigger. The final strike.

Thanos reached for his phone.

The message was already there.

Vice Principal Gi-Hun:

Received. We’ll review immediately. Thank you for your bravery.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t smile. He didn’t feel brave.

He just hit Send on the complaint to the authorities.

There was no big sound. No bang. No cinematic sting. Just the faint hum of the school’s air conditioning system and the way something seemed to click inside him — like a piece finally falling into place. Or a lock snapping shut.

It was done.

He slid the USB out and erased the local files. Then, methodically, opened the burner messaging app on his phone.

He scrolled through the list. All the people he’d spoken to. All the aliases. All the coded conversations and staggered accounts and VPNs he’d used to stay hidden. He’d tracked down victims through online forums, school transfer records, group chat leaks — anything he could get his hands on.

Now, one by one, he deleted them. No ceremony. Just clean exits.

No more ghost accounts. No more plans. No more late nights spent redrawing the board.

He stood, walked across the room to the whiteboard — his board — and stared at what was left of it.

The names. The timelines. The testimony breakdowns. The top-right corner still had MG’s name, underlined in red marker. Circled three times. A question mark added months ago now looked ridiculous. There was no question left.

He reached out and peeled the sticky notes off one by one. Ripped the photos in half. Wiped the board clean with his sleeve until it shone white again, like nothing had ever been there.

It didn’t feel satisfying. It felt necessary. Like disinfecting a wound before it scabbed over.

Thanos walked over to the window. Set the silver ring — the one Nam-Gyu had given him — on the sill. The light caught it at an angle that made it look delicate. Pure.

He didn’t pick it up.

He didn’t need to.

He just let it sit there. Unworn, but not forgotten.

The rest of the room was quiet. His bag slouched near the door, half-zipped. The desk where Nam-Gyu used to sit was still pulled slightly out, like someone had just left it a moment ago. Like if Thanos looked fast enough, maybe he’d still catch the ghost of him there — shoulders tense, pen tapping, eyes sharp.

His throat felt tight.

But he didn’t cry.

He didn’t let himself.

He turned off the light.

And left.

Wednesday, 5:33 p.m. – Hallway Outside the Student Council Room, POV: Myung-Gi Coin

Myung-Gi leaned against the wall just outside the student council room, scrolling through his messages. A student from the junior committee had just sent him a draft of their next proposal. Sloppy formatting. Amateur grammar. He rolled his eyes and sent back a thumbs down.

“Fix the second paragraph,” he added. “And learn how to spell.”

He pocketed his phone and adjusted his tie, casually glancing at his reflection in the glass of the trophy case. His hair looked good. He looked good. Unbothered. In control.

Voices echoed faintly down the hall, but he ignored them. The school always got too loud near exam season. People fraying at the edges, acting like a single test could end them.

He wouldn’t be one of them.

Then a voice rang out behind him: sharp, formal.

“Lee Myung-Gi. Office. Now.”

He didn’t turn immediately. Let the silence stretch for a second — dramatic, indifferent.

Then he pivoted, slowly, and raised an eyebrow.

The assistant vice principal stood at the far end of the corridor, holding a clipboard and looking... unreadable.

MG smiled, that same easy, polished smirk he wore at committee meetings and award ceremonies.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, already walking.

He walked in like he owned the place.

He wouldn’t walk out the same.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 2:44 p.m. – Main Hallway

The hallway was too loud.

Lockers slammed. Laughter echoed. The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the stampede had already begun — students shuffling, pushing, peeling away from the walls like water breaking through cracks in a dam. It was chaos.

But to Thanos, it all sounded like static.

He stood near the middle of the hall, back pressed to a vending machine, his hands in his pockets, shoulders low. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t moving. He was watching.

The door across from the student council room had been closed for almost half an hour.

Then — it opened.

The quiet didn’t come all at once. But it came.

It started as a ripple — a hush from the far end of the corridor that spread like a virus. One person stopped talking. Then another. And another. Until the noise dropped out of the hallway like air sucked from a room.

Myung-Gi Coin stepped out.

He wasn’t in cuffs. But he may as well have been.

Two uniformed officers flanked him — tall, grim, not saying a word. Behind them, Vice Headmaster Gi-Hun walked stiffly, clipboard clutched to his chest. His mouth was a thin, bloodless line.

Myung-Gi looked… different.

Not in his clothes. Not in his posture. But in his eyes.

Gone was the smugness, the unearned elegance. The calculation.

What remained was fury. Unguarded. Wild. Like someone who realized — too late — that the mask had been peeled off without his permission.

He didn’t speak right away. Just kept walking. Kept scanning the crowd. People had backed against lockers. Some were whispering. Others were filming.

And then he saw Thanos.

Their eyes locked across the hallway — one more time.

And something inside MG snapped.

He tore away from the officer’s grip like it was nothing — and in three strides, he was too close.

He reeked of cologne and sweat and something desperate.

“I knew it was you,” he snarled. Spit catching in his teeth. “You little fag.”

Gasps rippled. Phones lowered. Even the officers froze for half a second.

But Thanos didn’t blink.

He didn’t move.

He looked straight at him. Not with rage. Not with pity. With a quiet, still kind of knowing. The kind that makes people feel small.

MG didn’t like that.

He lunged again — but this time the officers grabbed him hard. One hooked an arm around his chest. The other grabbed his wrist. Metal jingled. Someone behind them shouted, “Back up!”

“That’s another charge,” one of them barked. “Verbal assault, hate speech — keep going, genius. You want to rack up the whole list?”

MG didn’t answer. He was still thrashing. Still snarling. “You think this is over?! You think people like you can just win?!” he howled. “You’re filth. You’re nothing.”

The nearest officer yanked MG back by the collar.

“You’re not helping yourself,” the officer warned. “Seriously. One more word.”

Thanos just watched. Silent.

He didn’t even feel angry. He felt… done.

Like watching a rabid dog bark through a muzzle. Just noise. Just fear.

MG was still spitting curses when they finally hauled him down the hall. He tried one last time to twist out of his grip again, but it was over. The other officer stepped in. Between them, they wrestled him down the hallway — red-faced, breathing hard, and shouting things no one really listened to anymore.

The spell broke.

People started whispering again. Filming again. Someone laughed. A girl near the lockers whispered, “Holy shit.” A boy nearby said, “Did you see his face?” Someone else said, “I told you something was off with him.”

People gasping. Whispers flying. Laughter from the far end. A guy turned to his friend and said, “Wait, was that real?” Another girl said, “He just called him a—” then cut herself off.

And just like that, it was chaos again. Phones were out. TikTok was about to eat well.

Explosive, noisy, too bright. The hallway turned back into a high school.

But Thanos stayed still.

His blood roared in his ears. His body trembled not with fear, but with adrenaline.

He was still standing in the same place, frozen in the echo of the slur, in the taste of silence after it.

And then — the hallway changed again.

Not with sound.

With light.

The afternoon sun had broken through the west windows at the end of the corridor. The beams fell in exactly the wrong place — or maybe the right one. They cut through the crowd like divine judgment. Warm gold spilled across tile and faces and frames—

And there, standing like he hadn’t moved in years—

Was Nam-Gyu.

He wasn’t part of the noise. He wasn’t part of the crowd. He was still.

Back straight. Blazer too big on his frame now — he looked small. Like something beautiful that had been folded up too many times. Paper-thin. Hollow-eyed. But standing.

He wasn’t looking around.

He was looking at him.

Thanos’s heart stopped.

Nam-Gyu didn’t blink.

It felt like looking at a ghost.

Not because Nam-Gyu was gone — but because this was what was left.

The boy who used to meet him in empty classrooms. The boy who clutched his coffee with both hands and made jokes he didn’t think were funny until Thanos laughed. The boy who tried so hard to stay untouched by the world but couldn’t anymore.

Nam-Gyu wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t faking it.

He looked wrecked.

But real.

And on his hand — on his left ring finger — was the silver band.

The one Thanos had given him.

His breath caught.

Stopped.

He hadn’t seen that ring since the day Nam-Gyu left it behind.

Thanos’s own hand twitched at his side.

His was gone. Still sitting on the windowsill of his room. Cold. Forgotten. Or maybe not forgotten — just too painful to wear. He’d left it behind the way people left heirlooms in locked drawers: not discarded, just… unclaimed.

But Nam-Gyu hadn’t forgotten.

He was still wearing his.

Still looking at him.

Thanos took one step forward. He didn’t think. He just moved.

But before he could cross the hall — before he could call out or run or even breathe—

“Nam-Gyu,” a voice said behind him. Firm. Professional.

He turned just in time to see Vice Headmaster Gi-Hun appear beside Nam-Gyu, touching his arm.

“We need to speak with you. Now.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t resist.

He didn’t look surprised.

But he didn’t look away either.

Even as he nodded. Even as he turned. Even as he followed Gi-Hun toward the admin wing and the waiting closed-door judgment.

He didn’t take his eyes off Thanos.

Not until the very last second.

The sun framed him like a painting. Too thin. Too pale. Too quiet. A boy made of paper and pressure and unraveling thread.

Thanos didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He wanted to scream. To run after him. To hold him.

But the light was gone now.

And so was Nam-Gyu.

And Thanos was alone again.

Wednesday, 3:10 p.m. – Headmaster’s Office, POV: Nam-Gyu

The office was too cold.

Not physically — the air conditioning hummed, low and steady. But the light here was wrong. Fluorescent. Flat. No windows. Just white walls and the faint smell of printer toner and carpet glue.

His mother sat perfectly composed at the long conference table. Not a hair out of place. One leg crossed over the other, a folder balanced on her lap like a shield. She didn’t look at him when he entered.

Vice Headmaster Gi-Hun closed the door behind them with a soft click. Headmaster In-Ho was already seated, hands folded neatly.

Nam-Gyu stood. His fingers felt numb.

"Please," In-Ho said, gesturing to the chair across from them.

He sat.

Silence.

Then: “We’re disappointed,” In-Ho said gently, almost like a sigh. “Not in your grades, though those have… clearly dropped. But in your silence.”

Gi-Hun nodded. “There were multiple opportunities to come forward, Nam-Gyu. You had every chance to report the blackmail. The harassment. Myung-Gi’s abuse. And yet, you said nothing.”

Nam-Gyu stared at the table. His mouth was dry.

“We could’ve protected you,” In-Ho continued. “We wanted to. But instead, your actions — and inaction — risked the safety of others. The scholarship committee, your classmates, your standing in the council—”

“Risked?” his mother snapped. “What exactly are you accusing my son of?”

Her voice was calm, but edged. Dangerous.

“He’s always been a model student,” she said, eyes sharp now. “So forgive me, but I’m struggling to see what someone like Lee Myung-Gi could possibly have over him.”

Her gaze cut toward Nam-Gyu. He didn’t meet it.

“Well?” she said. “Explain it to them. Tell them there’s been some misunderstanding.”

His throat burned.

They were all looking at him now.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And then— something in him snapped.

“I’m gay.”

It came out flat. Ugly. Ripped from his throat like something he’d choked on for years.

No one moved.

The air left the room.

His mother blinked once. Slowly. “No,” she said. “You’re not.”

Nam-Gyu laughed — short, strangled, cracked. “Yes. I am.”

“You’re confused,” she said, voice clipped. “You’re stressed. This—this isn’t you.”

“It’s always been me,” he said. Louder now. “You just never wanted to see it.”

His heart was racing. His hands were shaking. He was sweating through his uniform.

“I tried,” he whispered. “I tried, Mom. I studied harder. I got the awards. I smiled for the photos. I let you dress me for interviews, I stood next to you at his funeral—”

His voice broke. Something deeper cracked.

“—and I didn’t even cry,” he said, soft and shaking. “Because I knew you’d think it was weak. I stood there, in front of Dad’s casket, and I smiled for the family photo. Like it was some fucking banquet.”

His mother’s lips parted. But no sound came out.

“I never got to grieve him,” Nam-Gyu said. “I never got to grieve. Because I had to be perfect for you. Always. I had to win, so you wouldn’t be ashamed. So you wouldn’t… leave me too.”
In-Ho looked like he wanted to stop this. To intervene. He didn’t.

Nam-Gyu was shaking now, full-body trembling. “Do you know what it’s like to be scared of your own house?” he asked. “To listen for footsteps before you speak? To measure every word in case it comes out wrong?”

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away. He let them fall.

“I am gay. I’m in love with a boy. And I’ve spent months trying to undo that. Trying to cut it out like a tumor. But it won’t go. Because it’s me.”

Gi-Hun stood. “Nam-Gyu—”

“No,” Nam-Gyu said, breathing heavily. “Let me finish.”

He looked at his mother now. Really looked at her.

“I’m not your perfect boy,” he said. “I’m not your prodigy. I’m not your trophy. I’m me. And I’m tired. I’m so—so tired of waking up every day and wondering if I’m good enough to keep you loving me.”

Now Gi-Hun was already moving too close to Nam-Gyu “Maybe you should lie do-,”.

Suddenly the lights buzzed.

The air turned thick.

And then—his vision tilted.

The floor seemed to move.

Someone was calling his name.

Nam-Gyu swayed once. Twice.

Then everything—

everything—

went dark.

No thoughts.

No light.

No pain.

No anything.

Finally.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 6:06 p.m. – Principal’s Office

It happened in slow motion.

One second, Nam-Gyu was standing, his lips trembling, the words “I’m gay” still suspended in the air like ash after fire.

The next—his knees buckled.

He was lying crumpled on the floor like a doll someone had dropped. His blazer was twisted, one sleeve riding up to reveal a thin wrist bruised.

Gi-Hun lurched forward instinctively. “Nam-Gyu—!”

He caught him only halfway. Nam-Gyu’s body was too light, too limp, folding like a broken marionette in Gi-Hun’s arms before crumpling to the floor in a graceless heap. Now, his face was pale, lips parted, one arm stretched out like he’d tried to catch himself too late.

His skin was pale — not the ordinary kind, but sick pale. Ashen. There was a blueish tinge around his lips.

Gi-Hun was already on his knees beside him. “Nam-Gyu. Nam-Gyu, can you hear me?”

No response. Just the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Gi-Hun grabbed his phone with one hand and used the other to press two fingers to Nam-Gyu’s neck. The pulse was there — faint, but thready.

“Infirmary’s not enough,” he muttered to himself. “We need an ambulance.”

“Shit,” Gi-Hun muttered. “He’s burning up. He’s not breathing right— In-Ho, call an ambulance.”

The headmaster dialed fast, breath short, voice sharp but professional. “Yes. Student collapsed. Unconscious. Possible stress-related episode. We’re at Seongapdo Academy. Yes. Please hurry.”

Behind him, the mother remained still.

She took one look at her son — unconscious on the floor, cheeks bloodless, eyes fluttering beneath closed lids — and her mouth twisted.

Not a gasp. Not a flicker of panic.

Just one raised brow.

Gi-Hun looked up sharply. “Mrs. Kim—”

“I told you,” she said calmly, “he’s always been dramatic.”

Her voice was so cold it burned.

Gi-Hun rose to his feet. “He needs to be in a hospital.”

She barely glanced at him. “He’s had worse. He’ll be fine.”

“Ma’am—”

Gi-Hun’s hand clenched into Nam-Gyu’s blazer, as if shielding him with nothing but cloth and fury. “He collapsed in front of you. He’s barely conscious. He needs—”

“He needs to pull himself together,” she said. “Whatever this phase is, I expect it to be over by morning.”

Behind him, In-Ho stood still. Not moving. Not blinking. Only the faint crack of his knuckles gave away how hard his fists were clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm — terrifyingly so.

“The ambulance is on its way.”

Gi-Hun looked over his shoulder at the headmaster, eyes tight with disbelief.

Mrs. Kim stared at her son, sprawled unconscious and shaking on the school’s clean floor.

And then — just for a moment — her face cracked. The corner of her mouth trembled. Her eyes darted to his chest, watching the labored rise and fall. A flicker of something human. Something maternal.

But then… she blinked, and it was gone.

The mask slid back into place.

She straightened her blouse and turned on her heel.

“I’ve tolerated this charade for long enough,” she said crisply. “Whatever trouble he’s caused, I trust you can handle it from here.”

Gi-Hun stared at her, stunned. “You’re leaving?”

She didn’t answer.

She walked past her son’s limp body without a glance — and as she passed, she nudged his leg with the point of her heel. Just enough to leave a message.

“Stop it,” Gi-Hun snapped, standing halfway. “Are you— Are you serious—?”

In-Ho’s voice dropped to a growl. “Watch yourself.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade. “Touch him again and I’ll have you escorted off campus.”

She turned to face him, cool and composed. “He’s no longer my responsibility.”

That made the room go still.

Gi-Hun stared at her like he couldn’t understand the language she was speaking. In-Ho, on the other hand, looked like he was ready to throw her through a window.

“You’re abandoning your child,” he said quietly.

“He made his choice,” she replied. “I’m simply honoring it.”

Mrs. Kim didn’t flinch. Instead, she turned to face the headmaster with perfect poise. “As I stated previously. He is no longer my responsibility. That is why you may take me off the emergency contact list immediately. Permanently.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“You’re his mother,” In-Ho said, voice a low growl. “You don’t get to resign.”

She smiled thinly. “I just did.”

Then she turned and walked out of the office without another word.

The door clicked shut.

“She doesn’t care,” he said quietly. “He came out, fainted, and she— She doesn’t—”

“I heard,” In-Ho said. “Every word.”

Nam-Gyu let out a faint, broken exhale — his only movement. It was the sound of a body stretched too far.

Gi-Hun sank back down beside Nam-Gyu, shaking. “He really needs to be at a hospital.”

The only sound left in the room was the siren in the distance — growing louder, closer.

Nam-Gyu wasn’t moving again.

Gi-Hun crouched again beside him and whispered, “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

In-Ho didn’t say anything. But when the paramedics arrived minutes later, he was already holding the building’s front gate open.

“I’m not letting him out of my sight.” Said Gi-hun.

In-Ho nodded once. The silence between them said what neither wanted to put into words.

The boy on the floor — this bright, brittle, brilliant boy — had been drowning alone for longer than either of them had realized.

Gi-Hun pressed his hand against Nam-Gyu’s wrist again. The pulse was still faint. Still there.

“I’ll call his friends,” In-Ho said after a moment. “Someone has to tell them.”

Gi-Hun looked down, voice low. “And someone has to tell him.”

He didn’t have to say Thanos’s name.

They both already knew who he meant.

Wednesday — 5:56 p.m. — Hallway Outside the Principal’s Office

The hallway exploded with noise as the paramedics wheeled Nam-Gyu out on the stretcher.

A crowd had gathered — friends, classmates, even some teachers who’d heard shouting and then silence. A ripple of whispers. Gasps. Shock. This damned hallway was having a feast of drama today.

“Is that—?”

“Wait, oh my god—is he—?”

“Was that Nam-Gyu?”

Thanos pushed through the crowd before he could stop himself. Nothing mattered but reaching him.

Nam-Gyu looked worse under the corridor lights. His face, pale and still. His eyes, closed. His arm, limp over the side of the stretcher. There was a scratch on his cheek. His blazer was wrinkled like someone had tried to fix it and given up halfway through.

Thanos’s heart slammed against his ribs.

“Nam-Gyu—” he choked out, taking a step forward.

The ambulance lights cast everything in red and blue. Sirens had faded, but their echo still pulsed in the back of Thanos’s head like a memory he didn’t want.

He hadn’t meant to be here.

He wasn’t even sure how he got here — just that the moment he saw the stretcher at the end of the hall, everything else disappeared.

He didn’t feel the stares. The whispers. Even his name being murmured — “Isn’t that… isn’t he…?” — didn’t register.

He reached out—

—and stopped.

Because Nam-Gyu would hate this. Would hate being touched here, now. Would hate being seen like this. Thanos could hear his voice in his head: "Don't make a scene."

He stood frozen beside the stretcher, fingers hovering but not daring to close the gap.

“Wait—!”

He caught up just as the paramedics reached the front doors, his breath burning. “Please, wait—please, I’m—”

One of the paramedics blocked his path. “Are you family?”

Thanos froze.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

I’m… I’m what?

The boy who kissed him? The one who let him down? The one who found his ring and didn’t wear it because he thought he wasn’t allowed to?

He didn’t know what he was.

Not a boyfriend. Not even a friend anymore. Not since he’d let go.

“I—” he started, helpless.

“If he’s not your family then I’m sorry but you can’t go.” the paramedic said again, turning slightly toward Thanos.

Then the ambulance doors slammed shut with a hollow clang.

Inside, Nam-Gyu was still unconscious — strapped to oxygen, a line of IV already taped to the inside of his arm. Thanos watched helplessly as the red-and-white van pulled away, sirens off but urgency clear in the way it cut through the fading afternoon light.

Thanos stood frozen on the curb. He hadn’t moved since the paramedic asked if he was family.

He still didn’t know what the right answer was.

“I—” he had stammered. “I’m not— I just—”

He replayed how the woman had looked at him with something between sympathy and protocol. “I’m sorry. Only family.”

And just like that, the gap between them had become glass and steel and distance.

Thanos stood there, breath shaking, fists clenched.

Then a hand touched his shoulder. Firm. Gentle.

Gi-Hun.

“I’ll drive you,” he said softly.

Thanos turned to him, wide-eyed.

“But—”

“I’ll handle it. He shouldn’t wake up alone.”

Gi-Hun’s voice wasn’t urgent, but it left no room for argument. “Come on.”

Thanos didn’t even have time to say thank you. Just nodded and followed him to the car, head down.

As they passed the crowd still lingering by the gate — students murmuring, teachers unsure what to do — Thanos heard the whisper again: “Is he okay? Did he faint? What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even hear them.

All he could think about was the way Nam-Gyu looked on that stretcher — like a doll someone had forgotten to wind back up.

Gi-Hun unlocked the passenger door and nodded toward the back.

“In-Ho’s driving.”

Of course he was. Who else would be calm enough for this?

Thanos slid into the back seat without a word, feeling useless. Like everything else.

Gi-Hun got in after him, closed the door, and said only one thing as the car pulled away from the school: “You did the right thing, Choi Su-Bong.”

And for a moment — just a moment — Thanos let himself believe it.

Wednesday — 6:07 p.m. – En Route to Hospital

The city passed in a blur of headlights and pale windows, but Thanos couldn’t see any of it.

What he could see was that the car was too clean and too quiet for his liking.

The only sound was the hum of tires over the road and the occasional soft click when In-Ho signaled for a turn. In the front seat, the headmaster sat stiff-backed, both hands on the wheel, eyes forward like he could carve open the traffic by will alone.

He sat in the back seat, hands clenched in his lap, nails digging into his palms. Beside Thanos, Gi-Hun sat with one leg crossed and his hands clasped loosely in his lap. Not a single word since they left the school. Just… waiting. Letting the air settle enough for someone to breathe.

But Thanos couldn’t. Not yet.

In-Ho drove like he had somewhere to be and someone to punish once he got there. He hadn’t said a word since they left the school — just gripped the wheel, his jaw set like granite.

The silence filled with the pounding of Thanos’s thoughts.

Then Gi-Hun passed him a bottle of water. “Try to breathe,” he said gently. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

Thanos took it with shaking fingers. He didn’t drink. Just held it.

Gi-Hun leaned back. “We’ll be there in five.”

He blinked too fast. Swallowed too hard.

Gi-Hun spoke again. Not a question. Not a platitude. Just: “He’s going to be okay.”

Thanos’s throat closed up. He shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” Gi-Hun said quietly. “But I need to believe it. For him. And for you.”

Thanos stared at the lights ahead. “Do you really think… he’ll wake up?”

Gi-Hun didn’t flinch. He looked over slowly, gently. “We don’t know yet.”

“That’s not good enough.” Thanos clenched the bottle tighter.

“No,” Gi-Hun said. “It isn’t.”

Thanos swallowed. His nails dug into the meat of his palm. “They told me… he said it. To her. Out loud. That he’s—” His voice caught. “That he’s gay.”

Gi-Hun exhaled slowly. “He did.”

Thanos leaned his head against the window. “He never even said what she was like.”

Silence again.

Then Gi-Hun said, “You don’t have to be the first to know something to be the first to protect it.”

Thanos bit the inside of his cheek. “I should’ve protected him from all of this.”

“You did,” Gi-Hun said, calm but sharp. “You stopped the blackmail. You took the fall. You watched him fall apart and still stayed close enough to catch the pieces.”

“I didn’t catch anything.”

“You were the first one he gave a piece to.”

That shut Thanos up.

He blinked hard. Watched headlights drag streaks across the dark window. “Wait, they also told you what happened? In the office?”

“Yes.” Gi-Hun’s voice dipped, as if remembering it hurt to hold. “I was there.”

Thanos’s whole body stiffened. “Did she say anything? Before she left?”

Gi-Hun nodded once. “She kicked him.”

The words hit like a physical slap. Thanos’s throat closed. “What?”

“Lightly,” Gi-Hun said. “But enough that I’ll never forget it.”

They didn’t speak for a long time after that.

Thanos looked at him then — not sideways, but full-on, as if trying to figure out what kind of man sits this calmly next to a student’s panic.

Gi-Hun smiled and looked back, tired. “You love him, don’t you?”

That made the air in the car stutter. Even In-Ho’s knuckles twitched on the wheel.

Thanos opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“Yeah.” A breath. “I really do.”

“You don’t need to explain it to me,” Gi-Hun said. “Or to anyone, for that matter.”

Gi-Hun shifted slightly, voice lower now. “I’ve watched him struggle for a long time. We all did. But he always made it look like excellence. So we let him.”

“That’s the worst part,” Thanos whispered. “How good he was at breaking quietly.”

Gi-Hun’s jaw tensed.

Then he said, “When I was your age… I had to leave home too.”

Thanos turned to him again, surprised.

Gi-Hun gave a small smile. “It doesn’t matter what the reason was. Only that when I did, I swore two things: One, I’d never forget how it felt. And two…” He glanced toward the front, toward In-Ho, whose profile was carved in shadow. “That if I ever saw someone else about to fall, I’d catch them.”

Thanos’s hands tightened around the ring. “You think he’s still falling?”

Gi-Hun looked straight at him.

“No. Because you’re here.”

The words didn’t fix anything. Didn’t undo what had been said, what had been done. But they wrapped around Thanos like armor.

Finally, Gi-Hun leaned forward and said softly to In-Ho, “Almost there?”

In-Ho didn’t look back. “Two minutes.”

Thanos’s leg bounced once, then again. He was shaking and couldn’t stop.

Gi-Hun nodded, then turned back to Thanos. “When we get there, I’ll talk to the doctors. I’ll handle the paperwork. You—” He placed a hand gently on Thanos’s shoulder. “You just wait for him. That’s your job now.”

Thanos nodded, lips pressed tight.

Gi-Hun added, almost under his breath, “Make sure he doesn’t wake up alone.”

Then, soft and quiet, Gi-Hun said, “And when if he wakes up — when he wakes up — make sure you’re the first face he sees.”

Thanos blinked. “Why?”

“Because I think that’s the only thing he’d still recognize.”

Thanos looked at him fully for the first time. His voice came out thin and wrecked: “If he even bothers to wake up.”

Gi-Hun didn’t answer right away.

“I think if there’s one reason he might… it’s you.”

And then the hospital came into view — all glass and white and glowing in the twilight, like a promise Thanos wasn’t sure the world could keep.

Thanos hoped they reached it in time.

Wednesday — 6:34 p.m. — Hospital, Emergency Wing

The waiting room was all white light and nowhere to sit comfortably.

Plastic chairs lined the walls like a punishment. A muted TV played something meaningless in the corner — stock market updates or weather, maybe. No one was watching. Thanos didn’t sit. He couldn’t. He paced once, then again, then stopped, pressing his palms hard to the counter like he could anchor himself there.

Hands shaking. Vision fraying at the edges. Mind racing so fast it circled back into nothingness.

He’d watched Nam-Gyu vanish behind the swinging double doors nearly ten minutes ago, pale and unmoving on a stretcher that looked too big for his body. It hadn’t even looked like him. Just… some hollowed-out version. A body without the fire.

They hadn’t let him follow. Of course they hadn’t.

He wasn’t family.

He’d watched them wheel Nam-Gyu down the hall, an oxygen mask on his face and wires trailing like lifelines. His body was so still. His fingers curled in toward his palms like he was already halfway gone.

Gi-Hun had gone to talk to the nurse. In-Ho stood near the entrance, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and deadly quiet — something about paperwork, guardianship, what the hell happens next.

Thanos couldn’t hear him. Didn’t care.

He just stared at the doors.

If they opened, and Nam-Gyu wasn’t—

Footsteps behind him snapped him out of his trance. Fast ones.

He turned, heart skipping.

Jun-Hee, breathless. Wind in her hair. Her eyes scanned the room and locked on him instantly. She stood a few feet away, backpack still on, cheeks pink from the cold air outside. Her makeup was smudged. She looked like she ran while crying the whole way.

“Hey.”

And then, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t about to break him—

She pulled something from her pocket.

“I found this,” she said. “When I stopped by your place. This was still on the windowsill.”

She held it out in her palm.

Thanos stared down at it.

The ring.

Silver. Stamped. Familiar in a way that made his stomach fold in on itself.

“It was right where you left it,” Jun-Hee added, even softer now. “Like you didn’t know what to do with it. Like you were waiting. I thought we decide not to wait for things we want in life.”

He didn’t take it at first. Just looked at it like it might hurt.

“Take it,” she said, voice firmer. “You’ll need it.”

He reached out, barely breathing, and curled it into his fist.

Then he reached out, slow, and closed his fingers around it.

He didn’t put it on. Just… held it. Clutched it.

It burned.

He could still feel the warmth of the windowsill, of the sun that had touched it, of all the mornings he’d spent trying to forget the weight of it — and failing.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said, more to himself than her.

Jun-Hee didn’t correct him. Didn’t lie.

She just stepped closer. Reached out. And, carefully, pulled his trembling hand into hers — the one holding the ring — and pressed her other palm over it.

“Then make it right,” she said.

His throat closed.

“He’s in there,” Thanos choked, “and I don’t even know if he— I didn’t get to—”

“You don’t need to say it now,” she interrupted gently. “Just… say it when he wakes up.”

Thanos couldn’t nod. Couldn’t cry. He just stood there, breath hitched and uneven.

His thumb ran over the inside of the ring again and again and again, searching for the word stamped there. Mine.

He laughed once — a sharp, ugly sound with no joy in it.

“He always said I was his,” he whispered.

Jun-Hee sat down beside him in the waiting chairs, and this time, when she tugged lightly at his sleeve, he followed. Sat down.

The moment he did, the world caved in.

The room tilted. The walls buzzed. Everything was too loud and too far away.

“I can’t do this again,” he whispered. “I can’t— I don’t want to wait for someone I might never get back.”

Jun-Hee didn’t look away. Her voice cracked, but held.

“You’re not waiting for someone else. You’re waiting for him.”

He clutched the ring until the edges cut his skin.

Minutes passed. Then more.

The hallway clock ticked loud and slow. The door didn’t open.

So Thanos pressed the ring to his lips — just once, like superstition — and whispered,

“Don’t leave me.”

Then he sat down.

Jun-Hee didn’t speak.

She just stayed beside him.

And together, they waited.

Chapter Text

Friday, 9:06 a.m. – Hospital, Room 124

He was weightless. Or maybe he wasn’t anything at all.

The world returned slowly — like light bleeding through a paper wall. First, a high-pitched ringing. Then pressure behind his eyes. Then something soft beneath his back that wasn’t quite a bed.

Then came the cold — not sharp, but all-consuming. A numbness that clung to his bones. His fingers wouldn’t move. His mouth was dry. His throat was sandpaper.

He didn’t know where he was.

The ceiling above him wasn’t familiar — too white, too smooth, humming with fluorescent light. He tried to turn his head, but the ache in his neck pulsed like a bruise.

A curtain rustled somewhere. A machine beeped again. The smell of antiseptic clung to the air like mold.

Hospital, his brain supplied.

Everything inside him felt… hollow. Everything felt… wrong.

He blinked. Slowly.

Was he dead? No — pain still meant something.

A sound cracked through the fuzz. Breathing. Not his own. Shallow, jittery. Almost asleep.

Nam-Gyu blinked once. The ceiling was off-white and full of shadows. An IV line ran to his arm. There was a distant beep-beep-beep of some machine reminding him he was still alive.

For a moment, he wished it wouldn’t.

He turned his head a fraction. That’s when he saw it.

Thanos.

Curled into a stiff plastic chair beside the bed, his limbs folded tight, chin tucked to his chest like a bird sleeping mid-fall. One foot tapping unconsciously, as if still halfway in a dream.

His face looked wrong. Too pale. Lips cracked. Shadows under his eyes so dark they bordered on violent.

But he was there.

And in his hand — pressed to his chest like a lifeline — was Nam-Gyu’s ring.

The ring Nam-Gyu had left behind.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying until one tear slid into the corner of his mouth, salt stinging against the raw inside of his lips.

Nam-Gyu blinked again. The light hit Thanos’s face just enough to cast his lashes in shadow.

His chest tightened. A sob crawled up before he could stop it. It came out as a cracked breath.

Thanos startled awake.

The ring nearly slipped from his hand, but he caught it — and then his eyes met Nam-Gyu’s.

Everything in him seemed to freeze.

Then, suddenly, like someone pulled the pin on a grenade — he surged forward, dropping to his knees beside the bed.

Thanos jolted awake with a sharp inhale, nearly dropping the ring.

“Holy shit—” He lunged forward, blinking hard. “You’re— You’re awake—? Oh my god—”

Nam-Gyu tried to speak but only a rasp came out.

He couldn’t finish. His hand trembled as he brought the ring up between them. His eyes never left Nam-Gyu’s face.

Wordlessly, reverently, Thanos slid the silver band back onto Nam-Gyu’s finger.

“Wait—don’t—” Thanos fumbled with something at the bedside, probably the call button, but never took his eyes off him. “Don’t move, don’t— I’ll get someone—”

“Stop,” Nam-Gyu whispered, barely audible. “Don’t leave.”

Thanos froze.

Then, to Nam-Gyu’s horror, he started to cry.

Messy, quiet tears, falling without shame.

Nam-Gyu flinched. “Did I do something wrong?” he rasped, voice barely there. “Why are you—”

Thanos shook his head, laugh-choking through the tears. “No. No, you idiot. You did everything right. You’re awake.”

Nam-Gyu tried to smile, but it broke halfway. “You stayed.”

“Of course I did.” Thanos swiped his face roughly. “Jun-Hee had to go. Her feet were swelling. The crazy husbands tried to drag me out. But I told them — I’m not moving unless he tells me himself.”

Nam-Gyu’s breath hitched. “I thought… you hated me.”

Thanos blinked fast. “I thought I lost you.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in.

Then Thanos let out a breathless, messy rant:

“I went absolutely insane, by the way. I tried to fix everything, and then I watched you walk away and I didn’t know what to do with myself. And then that day — the hallway — you looked at me and I knew something was wrong but I was too slow, I didn’t say anything, and then the next thing I know you’re collapsing and they won’t let me go in the ambulance and Gi-Hun’s saying he’ll drive me and I thought— I thought—”

“Well you left and I just— I couldn’t stop thinking. And I kept replaying everything and wondering if I messed it all up and what if you hated me, or worse, what if you didn’t even want me anymore, and then I started panicking because—because I love you and—”

Nam-Gyu froze.

Thanos didn’t notice at first. He kept rambling. “—and I thought if I just stayed close enough, maybe—maybe—what?”

He finally saw the expression.

“Wait. What? Are you okay?” Panic rose fast. “Shit—should I call someone? Should I press the button? Breathe for me—nam—should I— Blink twice if I need to get the nurse—”

“Shut up,” Nam-Gyu whispered.

And then through pain, through dizziness, through a body that felt like it had been dragged through every layer of hell — he leaned forward and kissed him.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

But it was worthy it.

Thanos stilled, hands coming up slowly to cup Nam-Gyu’s face like he was terrified he’d vanish again.

When they pulled apart, Nam-Gyu whispered against his lips:

“I love you too.”

Thanos stilled — just for a beat.

Then he lit up like the sun had finally returned from exile.

“You what?” he grinned. “Say it again. Say it again so I can tattoo it on my brain.”

“No,” Nam-Gyu muttered, blushing miserably.

Thanos kissed his cheek, his nose, his temple. “You love me. My Nam-Su loves me.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“You love me and you can’t take it back. Say it again.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“You love me.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing. Look at you. Pink like a peach.”

“Peaches are disgusting.”

“My Nam-Su’s in love with me.” Thanos said in a singsong voice.

“I swear - Stop calling me that or I swear I will throw this IV pole at you.”

Thanos leaned in, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “You love me.”

Nam-Gyu smiled. Just barely. But it was the kind of smile he hadn’t had in months.

“You’re never going to shut up about this, are you?”

“Never.”

And neither of them let go.

“I should’ve never woken up.”

“Too late. You’re mine forever.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes — and didn’t let go of his hand.

Friday, 2:00 p.m. – Hospital, Room 124

Then the hospital room door creaked open like someone was afraid to wake a sleeping dragon.

Nam-Gyu was propped up now — barely, grudgingly — with three pillows stacked behind his back and Thanos stubbornly stationed in the armchair beside him, still refusing to go home, eat, or do anything remotely human.

He’d fallen asleep again. One leg hooked awkwardly over the side of the chair, face smushed against his fist. His other hand stayed curled near Nam-Gyu’s side like he was afraid someone would come and take him again if he let go.

Nam-Gyu was half-dozing, eyes closed, when the sound of shoes on linoleum snapped him back.

Then:

“Oh my god.”

Mi-Na.

He opened one eye.

She was standing in the doorway like she’d just walked into a sacred shrine — clutching a paper bag of pastries like it was an offering to the gods.

Behind her, Se-Mi peeked over her shoulder with wide, tear-bright eyes. Min-Su followed silently, carrying what looked suspiciously like a stress ball shaped like a whale.

Jun-Hee stood behind them, arms crossed, looking like a bodyguard.

The moment Mi-Na saw him awake, she dropped the pastries onto the nearby table with a gasp so dramatic it could’ve triggered another medical emergency.

“YOU’RE AWAKE,” she half-shouted, half-sobbed. “You absolute bastard. I thought you DIED.”

“I almost did,” Nam-Gyu croaked.

“I had to buy decaf because of you.” Mi-Na marched up and lightly smacked his arm. “Decaf, Nam-Gyu. Do you understand the level of suffering—”

Then she noticed the hand Thanos was holding, still curled tightly in his sleep. She froze.

Her eyes slid from the ring on Nam-Gyu’s finger to the exact matching one on Thanos’s pinky — now finally worn.

She gasped again.

Se-Mi’s jaw dropped.

Min-Su just blinked and said, “Huh. Knew it.”

“Shut up,” Nam-Gyu muttered.

Too late.

Mi-Na spun toward Thanos, who snored softly — just loud enough to betray that he was definitely faking it.

She leaned down, inches from his face. “Did you two finally kiss or something?”

Without opening his eyes, Thanos grinned.

“We’ve been kissing for months.”

Mi-Na let out an unholy screech.

Se-Mi fell onto the couch like she’d been shot.

Min-Su just high-fived himself.

Nam-Gyu covered his face with both hands. “I regret waking up.”

Jun-Hee stood by the door, trying to pretend she didn’t find it hilarious. “You want me to bring a nurse? Maybe some sedatives?”

Thanos opened his eyes and stretched lazily like a cat. “Missed you guys too.”

He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Relax, we’re just unofficially official.”

“OH MY GOD YOU ARE TOGETHER.”

Min-Su casually drew a heart in the corner of his sketchpad. “Finally. Took you long enough.”

“I KNEW you were dating!” Mi-Na jabbed a finger toward Nam-Gyu’s face. “You were so obvious. The banter. The blushing. The silent longing. Ugh!”

Nam-Gyu glared. “I was literally dying.”

“You were literally in love.”

He sighed.

Nam-Gyu glared at Thanos. “You couldn’t just lie?”

“I did lie. For months.”

Mi-Na threw a pillow at him. “This explains everything. The sulking. The fighting. The weird tension that made us want to scream every time you were in the same room—”

Thanos smirked. “That’s just my face.”

Se-Mi wiped her eyes. “He looks better, though. Like. Lighter.”

“Because he’s happy,” Jun-Hee said simply. She didn’t look at Thanos. She looked at Nam-Gyu. “Because for once, he doesn’t have to hide it.”

That shut the room up for a beat.

Nam-Gyu blinked, and blinked again. His chest ached, but not in the sharp, suffocating way it used to.

It was softer now. Warm. Like something healing too slow to notice, but real.

He looked at Thanos, who was already looking at him.

“Stop,” Nam-Gyu muttered, cheeks heating. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Thanos just whispered, “Little Nam-Su,” and winked.

“Get out of my room.”

“You love me.”

“I’m calling the nurse.”

Mi-Na leaned back and sighed like a proud mother hen. “I’m so glad we’re alive for this.”

Thanos, of course, leaned in and stage-whispered, “Don’t worry, babe. They’re just jealous.”

Nam-Gyu turned to him, deadpan. “I hope your chair breaks.”

“Wouldn’t leave anyway.”

The room echoed with chaotic joy — the kind that felt more like healing than any IV drip ever could.

Friday, 5:00 p.m. – Hospital, Nam-Gyu’s room

Later, after the others had left — after Mi-Na’s tears and Se-Mi’s dramatics and Min-Su’s awkward shoulder pat — the room felt heavier in its silence. Not sad, exactly. Just… still.

Thanos had dozed off again, curled awkwardly in the chair beside the bed like his body forgot how to rest anywhere else. One of his hands was slumped off the armrest, the other still clutched the edge of Nam-Gyu’s blanket like letting go would undo everything.

Nam-Gyu watched him for a while.

He didn’t look peaceful, not entirely. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and a faint crease in his brow like he was still half-waiting for something to go wrong.

Nam-Gyu’s fingers ghosted over the ring on his hand. His matching one — Thanos’s — glinted faintly from his hand, resting near Nam-Gyu’s side.

It almost didn’t feel real.

A knock came at the door. Soft, polite.

Then the door cracked open, and Gi-Hun stepped in — holding two paper cups and wearing the kind of expression that meant.

“Hey,” Gi-Hun said softly, already reading Nam-Gyu’s expression. “You awake?”

Nam-Gyu nodded. His throat was too dry to speak.

Gi-Hun crossed the room, gently placing one of the cups on the nightstand. “It’s not coffee. That was a war crime. This is tea.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t reach for it, but he nodded again.

Gi-Hun settled into the chair at the foot of the bed. In-Ho leaned silently against the wall near the window.

There was a pause.

Then Gi-Hun asked, “How are you feeling?”

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t empty.

It was real.

And it hit harder than it should’ve.

Nam-Gyu hesitated. Then: “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Gi-Hun said gently. “You’re allowed not to.”

They sat in the quiet a little longer. Thanos shifted beside him but didn’t wake.

In-Ho, of all people, nodded toward him. “He hasn’t slept in three days.”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Barely ate, either,” Gi-Hun added. “Refused to leave. We tried everything short of chloroform.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at the hand still half-curled around the blanket. His heart gave a soft, pathetic kick.

“He just… stayed?”

“He said he promised to be the first face you saw,” Gi-Hun said, smiling faintly. “And Thanos keeps his promises. Loudly. Aggressively. Annoyingly. But… faithfully.”

Nam-Gyu bit his lip. “That’s so stupid.”

“Yeah,” Gi-Hun said. “That’s how you know it was love.”

A pause. Then Gi-Hun cleared his throat and glanced toward In-Ho, who gave the faintest nod.

“We wanted to talk to you about what comes next,” Gi-Hun said carefully. “Your mother… made it very clear she’s no longer in the picture. We’re making sure it’s all documented properly.”

Nam-Gyu’s stomach turned. “She really said that?”

“She signed the release herself,” In-Ho said, his voice sharper but not cruel. “Her exact words were, ‘He’s not my son anymore.’”

Nam-Gyu swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“And we spoke with the doctors. They said it’ll be a few days before you’re strong enough to go anywhere.” Added In-Ho.

“And after that,” Gi-Hun continued carefully, “we wanted to… make sure you know your options.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “Options?”

Gi-Hun glanced at In-Ho. A silent conversation passed between them.

Then In-Ho stepped forward, voice even but heavy. “You are not going back to that house.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Nam-Gyu’s stomach twisted. “But—”

“She abandoned you,” In-Ho said. Not cruel. Not loud. Just firm. “In writing. With witnesses. You are not her responsibility anymore. And she will never again be yours.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at his lap. The tea trembled in his hands.

Gi-Hun leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You don’t have to go back to that house. And you don’t have to go to youth housing, either.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

“We’d like you to stay with us,” Gi-Hun said simply. “With In-Ho and me. At our home. Just until graduation. If that’s what you want.”

Nam-Gyu stared. “You’re… serious?”

“We have an extra room. You wouldn’t be a burden,” Gi-Hun assured him. “And we’ve already checked — legally, we can host you as your temporary guardians until you’re of age. You’d still have independence. But also security. Stability.”

In-Ho finally moved, stepping closer to the bed. For once, his voice was softer. Still rough around the edges — but softened. “You’re not staying in some institution, Nam-Gyu. Not after everything. You deserve better than that.”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes prickled. His hand gripped the blanket tighter.

“I don’t know if I can— Why?” he started.

Gi-Hun’s expression softened. “Because you’ve been our student for years. Because we saw the signs, and we didn’t ask the right questions. Because I know what it’s like to be seventeen and have nowhere to go.”

Nam-Gyu’s throat burned.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” Gi-Hun said quickly. “But we wanted you to know: there’s a place for you. With us. If you want it.”

“I don’t want to go somewhere else.” It slipped out before Nam-Gyu could think.

Gi-Hun smiled. In-Ho let out the faintest breath of relief. “Then it’s settled.”

“Wait—” Nam-Gyu looked between them. “What about Thanos?”

“Let him sleep for now,” In-Ho said. “You can tell him later. When you’re ready.”

Gi-Hun placed his cup down and stood. “Just know this, Nam-Gyu: you’re not alone anymore. Whatever happens next — we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Nam-Gyu looked at them — really looked. Two men who should’ve been just educators. Authority figures. Background noise in the chaos of school life.

But here they were. Steady. Solid.

And somehow, unbelievably, offering him a home.

They quietly left.

The door clicked softly shut.

Thanos murmured something in his sleep — Nam-Gyu didn’t catch it, but it sounded like his name.

He looked at the boy slumped beside him. At the ring. At the closed door.

His chest didn’t hurt as much as before.

But something else ached.

It was the strangest thing.

Hope.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let this be real. Just for once.”

Chapter Text

Hello, Everybody,

How are you?

I’m sorry this isn’t another chapter (I know, I know — boo, throw the tomato), but I wanted to check in with you lovely people. We're currently on Chapter 31, and while I’m proud of some chapters, others haunt me at 3AM.

Seriously though, I am so incredibly thankful for all your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and chaotic keysmashes. The Ao3 love? Chef’s kiss. This community is ridiculously sweet, and I don’t take a single bit of that for granted. You’re all adorable and unhinged — my favorite combination.

Now, let’s talk.
I do have the ending of this fic mapped out (yes, it’s coming).
BUT I’ve also been thinking... would you be interested in a spin-off? Like, maybe their lives as adults? Or a story about how Gi-Hun and In-Ho got together

Also, someone recently said I'm too hooked on positive comments and can't take constructive criticism, so to prove them wrong:
LEAVE A COMMENT TELLING ME HOW MUCH YOU HATE ME.
No, seriously. Roast me. Politely. Or not. I need to toughen up. Like emotionally. And maybe physically. Probably both.

Also — real talk for a sec — that someone who said that I’m too hooked on positive comments and can’t take criticism meant it to hurt me, not help. So no, I’m not here to prove them right. But I do want to get better, because I care about writing and I care about this story.

I really love writing (shocking, I know), and I want to major in journalism, so I actually want to improve. If you’ve liked my questionable word choices so far, that’s great! But more importantly, tell me what didn’t work. What annoyed you. What could’ve hit harder. What made you roll your eyes so hard you saw another dimension. Feedback is how the magic happens.

Final question before I disappear into my Word file again:
On a scale of 1 to “I will riot,” how mad would you be if this story didn’t end happily?
I’m not saying it won’t.
Just... asking.
For a friend.
A deeply curious, slightly chaotic friend.

Okay, I love you all so much.
Thank you for reading, screaming, crying, theorizing, and shipping.
You’re the reason I haven’t deleted this fic at 4AM in a fit of anxiety.

Truly, I love you - Player 388, That Hoe

Chapter Text

Nam-Gyu sat on the edge of the bed, hospital blanket still pooled around his waist, his fingers fidgeting with the edge like it might anchor him.

The nurse had taken out his IVs that morning. Said he was stable. Said he was cleared. Said a lot of things that made him feel like a discharge note instead of a person.

Thanos crouched in front of him, lacing up his shoes — a pair someone had dropped off in a plastic bag a few days earlier. Probably Gi-Hun. The left shoe was frayed at the edge. Nam-Gyu had never noticed that before.

“You sure about this?” Thanos asked without looking up.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “About what?”

“All of it. Moving in with them. Not going home. If that’s… still what we’re calling it.”

Nam-Gyu’s mouth twitched. “It’s not a home.”

Thanos nodded once. Tied the laces tighter. “Yeah. Still. I just— You get to choose now. I don’t want you to feel like you have to go with them just because everything else fell apart.”

Nam-Gyu stared at his hands. “It’s not about everything falling apart.”

Thanos glanced up.

“It’s about what I want to build,” Nam-Gyu said, barely audible. “And I can’t do that in the ruins of… whatever that house was.”

Nam-Gyu exhaled, slow and careful. His fingers dug slightly into the hospital blanket, clutching it like it might tether him to the moment.

The silence between them stretched — not awkward, just full. Full of everything they hadn’t said and couldn’t quite say yet.

Thanos shifted, his voice quieter now. “You had a fever two nights ago. Started mumbling. Gi-Hun was going to call the nurse, but you grabbed my sleeve, so hard.”

Nam-Gyu’s brow creased. “I don’t remember.”

“You kept saying ‘don’t send me back.’ Over and over.” Thanos’ throat moved as he swallowed. “I didn’t let go.”

Nam-Gyu looked at him.

“I didn’t even go home,” Thanos added, eyes flicking to the door like he was still afraid someone might come and drag him out. “Gi-Hun tried. In-Ho even offered me a cot at school. I didn’t budge. I slept in that damn chair so long I think I aged five years.”

Nam-Gyu blinked rapidly.

“You stayed?”

Thanos snorted. “You were out cold for three days. You think I was gonna just… go play basketball and come back later?”

“…Thank you.”

Thanos looked up at him then, startled by the softness. “Don’t thank me for loving you.”

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then Thanos grinned, soft and crooked. “God. That was hot.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but his shoulders eased. “You’re unbearable.”

“I’m your unbearable.”

“Not officially.”

“Unofficially officially.”

Nam-Gyu’s lips parted, just slightly.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Jun-Hee peeked in, a plastic bag hanging from her wrist. “Room service,” she said, walking in with a smile that was trying not to wobble. “Crackers, juice boxes, and enough protein bars to start your post-hospital gym arc.”

She tossed the bag onto the bed beside him and pulled him into a gentle one-armed hug, mindful of the IV tape still clinging to his skin. “You look less like death.”

“That’s because I saw you,” he mumbled.

She sniffled. “Don’t do that. You’ll make me cry and ruin my badass reputation.”

Thanos helped him stand. “Let’s go ruin the new dads instead.”

Jun-Hee blinked. “You’re going to live with them?”

Thanos grinned. “Open-door policy. No sleepovers. Terrifying rules. And I’m absolutely planning to break every single one.”

Jun-Hee looked at Nam-Gyu with mock sympathy. “Godspeed.”

Thanos snickered. “I’m going to make them love me.”

Jun-Hee raised an eyebrow. “They already love you.”

“Then I’ll make them admit it.”

Nam-Gyu took Thanos’s hand. His fingers were cold, but they steadied.

“Let’s go ruin their evening,” he muttered.

Nam-Gyu smiled faintly and followed them into the hallway, one slow step at a time.

Outside, the wind bit at Nam-Gyu’s skin as soon as the hospital doors slid open. Summer had turned cruel while he slept. The sky looked too big. The air too fast.

He clung to the inside of Thanos’s elbow as they stepped forward. Not out of weakness — at least not the kind people could see — but because the world spun a little when he moved too quickly.

Thanos didn’t say anything. He adjusted his pace to match Nam-Gyu’s without comment. Held open the doors. Kept his hand just close enough in case.

A car waited at the curb. A soft navy sedan with two figures leaning against it like some kind of strange, domestic still life.

Gi-Hun saw them first. He pushed off from the passenger side with quiet urgency. His eyes scanned Nam-Gyu from head to toe like he was counting ribs. Then, with a breath like it hurt to take, he smiled.

In-Ho stood on the other side of the car, arms crossed. He didn’t smile, but his jaw wasn’t clenched the way it had been all week. That was something.

Gi-Hun reached for the door, then paused. “Back seat,” he said gently. “We’ll drive slow.”

Nam-Gyu nodded once.

The car was clean and quiet inside. Not sterile like the hospital — warmer. There was a faint scent of tea from the thermos in the cupholder and something citrusy in the air freshener clipped to the vent. A jacket lay folded on the seat, clearly Gi-Hun’s — wool, worn, familiar.

Thanos helped Nam-Gyu lower himself inside, then slid in after him, holding his breath. He reached over, pulled the seatbelt across Nam-Gyu’s chest, and clicked it in.

“Too tight?” he asked, thumb hovering near the latch.

“It’s fine,” Nam-Gyu murmured. But he didn’t let go of Thanos’s sleeve.

In-Ho got in and started the car. No lecture. No warning. Just a glance at the rearview mirror to make sure they were okay.

They drove.

Thursday — 5:23 p.m. — The Apartment

The apartment wasn’t large — two bedrooms, one study, a kitchen too narrow for more than two people at once. But it felt large the moment Nam-Gyu stepped inside.

The entryway was warm. Not in temperature — the AC hummed faintly in the background — but in feeling. Something lived-in and whole.

There was a small wooden bench to the right, scuffed along the legs from years of use. Above it, hooks held a tangle of scarves and mismatched umbrellas. Shoes lined up neatly beneath — most too big for Nam-Gyu, one pair clearly Thanos’s, scuffed and stubborn.

“I’ll grab your bag,” Gi-Hun said, slipping back down to the car.

In-Ho waited, unmoving. His eyes scanned Nam-Gyu like a scanner checking for cracks — not out of doubt, but out of care he didn’t know how to voice.

“I already changed the sheets in your room,” he said. “The mattress is soft. Gi-Hun insisted. You can move things around if you want.”

Nam-Gyu nodded faintly.

In-Ho looked away. “There’s chamomile tea in the cupboard. For… sleeping.”

Thanos bit the inside of his cheek, clearly holding back a grin.

Nam-Gyu whispered, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” A beat. “No, really. Don’t. I have a reputation.”

Thanos snorted.

Gi-Hun returned with the small duffel someone had packed for Nam-Gyu at the hospital — clothes, medications, the frog socks.

He handed it over like a gift, not a burden.

Maybe it was the lack silence. Footsteps thundered softly into the floor. No slamming doors. No walls that breathed hostility.

Just shoes lined up neatly by the door.

Just the faint sound of a kettle clicking off in the kitchen.

Just space.

Thanos helped Nam-Gyu shrug off his jacket. It smelled like antiseptic and hospital linens. He folded it carefully and set it aside, then hovered as Gi-Hun pulled out a pair of thick socks and a borrowed hoodie from the hallway basket.

“They’re clean,” Gi-Hun said, a little apologetically. “Soft, too. I figured—well, you can wear whatever you like. These are just… here.”

Nam-Gyu nodded. His voice had gone somewhere else for a while.

The living room was warm. There were cushions everywhere, like someone had tried very hard to make it feel soft. A blanket was already draped over the couch. There were two mugs on the table, only one half-empty.

Someone had been waiting for them.

“You okay?” Thanos asked quietly as he helped Nam-Gyu sit.

Nam-Gyu nodded again, but didn’t speak. Just stared at the bookshelves. The small plant in the window. The framed photo of Gi-Hun and In-Ho looking young and stupidly happy at a festival.

Gi-Hun crouched in front of him. Not too close. “Nam-Gyu… this place—it’s yours now, too. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Just… because we want it to be.”

Nam-Gyu’s throat worked.

He didn’t cry.

But he leaned forward just slightly. And Gi-Hun put a hand over his. Quiet. No pressure. Just steady.

In-Ho cleared his throat from the doorway. “Visits are allowed,” he said gruffly. “But no closed doors. And no sleepovers. Especially not with boyfriends.”

Thanos snorted. “Understood.”

Nam-Gyu arched a brow. “Unofficially officially?”

In-Ho sighed. “…We’ll see.”

There was a pause.

Then Gi-Hun cleared his throat and motioned toward the hallway. “Dinner won’t be anything fancy. We’ve got rice, soup, and dumplings from the freezer. You should try to eat something, Nam-Gyu.”

Nam-Gyu hesitated.

Thanos reached for his hand again, this time with less ceremony. “I’ll heat it up. You just sit here and recover from standing for ten minutes.”

Gi-Hun raised a brow. “You know where the bowls are?”

“I’ll find them.”

“You won’t.”

“I’ll open every drawer until I do.”

Gi-Hun looked at In-Ho. “We’re going to have to childproof the kitchen.”

Nam-Gyu laughed — quiet, tired, but real. The kind that felt like it came from a place he didn’t know was still intact.

He let Thanos lead him to the couch again. The cushions dipped with his weight. A folded blanket slid slightly, and Thanos tossed it over his legs without even asking.

“I don’t need—”

“Shut up,” Thanos said gently, tucking it around his calves. “Let me domestic you.”

Gi-Hun disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something about mislabelled containers. In-Ho lingered a second longer, eyeing Nam-Gyu like he wanted to say something.

Then he did. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

In-Ho didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked off, leaving behind only the soft echo of boots on tile and the faint scent of ginger tea.

Thursday — 6:12 p.m. — Later That Night

The lights in the living room were dimmed. A lamp glowed amber in the corner. Nam-Gyu sat curled up in a hoodie that wasn’t his, on a couch that wasn’t his, sipping ginger broth from a chipped ceramic mug that had a smiling cow painted on it.

It should’ve felt unfamiliar. Foreign.

Instead, it felt like safety in disguise.

Thanos was curled up at the other end of the couch, cross-legged, hair slightly damp from a shower Gi-Hun had bullied him into taking. He looked clean and exhausted and proud of himself for figuring out how to use the microwave.

“You ate,” Thanos said, nudging Nam-Gyu’s knee with his own. “That’s, like, two victory points.”

“I didn’t realize we were keeping score.”

“We’re always keeping score.” Thanos grinned. “And you’re winning.”

Nam-Gyu tucked the blanket closer. “I feel like I’m falling behind.”

“You’re breathing. You’re choosing where to live. You’re wearing the ugliest socks I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Nam-Gyu looked down. The socks were a vibrant orange, covered in little frogs wearing crowns.

“…Gi-Hun gave them to me.”

“Then I take it back. They’re iconic.”

Thanos tilted his head, studying him. “You really okay?”

Nam-Gyu took a long breath. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

Silence stretched between them again — but the kind that wasn’t empty. It was thick with things unsaid and still safe in the quiet.

Then:

“Can I sleep here?” Thanos asked, voice casual.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

Thanos nodded toward the couch. “Like, here. In the living room. I know I’m not allowed in your room. Gi-Hun already threatened me with dish duty for a week if I so much as hover. But I want to be close. Just tonight.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t speak, but he didn’t look away either.

So Thanos nodded. “Okay.”

He laid down where he was, head on the pillow Gi-Hun had tossed him earlier, and pulled the throw blanket over himself.

It was a little short.

He didn’t complain.

That night, Thanos stayed on the couch.

Nam-Gyu, from the cracked bedroom door, watched him fall asleep mid-sentence.

He looked at peace.

And for the first time in days, Nam-Gyu didn’t feel like a ghost.

He felt... like someone wanted.

Chapter Text

Friday, 7:03 a.m. — The Apartment

The sunlight was soft and golden, slipping through the half-closed blinds. It painted faint stripes across Nam-Gyu’s face as he shifted beneath the covers, blinking slowly. His body felt heavier than usual — not in the dragging, sick way it had at the hospital, but in the way that meant he’d actually slept.

He didn’t understand how. He always woke up early. Even when he stayed up late to study, even when he didn’t want to — his body snapped to attention, used to footsteps in the hallway, doors slamming, the quiet dread of being yelled at for still being in bed.

But here, no one came.

Instead, the knock was gentle.

And then, a voice: “Nam-Gyu?”

He startled. Sat up.

Gi-Hun’s voice. Soft, slightly raspy from sleep. He was standing in the doorway in pajama pants and a hoodie, holding a mug with a smiling cat on it. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I just—uh. Made some toast. There’s jam. No pressure.”

Nam-Gyu blinked at him.

No one had ever woken him like that before.

He mumbled something — not quite a reply — and rubbed his eyes. The bed was warm. The room was simple but clearly his now: the frog socks folded on the dresser, a stack of books beside the bed, a framed photo from their friend group Jun-Hee must’ve slipped into his bag. A corner of the blanket was embroidered with his name — someone had stitched it in purple thread.

He slid out of bed slowly, stiff and slightly sore. His legs didn’t feel like strangers anymore, just a little out of practice. There was a hoodie draped over his desk chair, clearly Gi-Hun’s, and a pair of bright, chaotic socks sitting on top.

He frowned. Picked them up.

The socks were navy blue, covered in small cartoon shrimp playing electric guitars. There was a sticky note stuck to one:

“Today’s goal: Survival. Good luck.” —Gi-Hun

Nam-Gyu snorted quietly. Then he pulled them on.

He got dressed slowly, letting the quiet seep in. He ran a hand through his hair, slipped the silver ring back onto his finger and stared at it for a beat.

It caught the light just slightly.

He didn’t take it off.

The hallway smelled faintly like toast and citrus cleaner. The apartment wasn’t big, but every detail felt deliberate — books stacked in crooked towers, houseplants with names written on the pots, a row of photos along the wall. Some of them were old and faded. One of them was clearly a photo booth strip of Gi-Hun and In-Ho making progressively more ridiculous faces.

In the kitchen, In-Ho sat at the counter reading a paper newspaper like it was 1983. He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, he raised one brow.

“You’re not leaving without eating.”

Gi-Hun appeared beside him with a plate of toast. “You heard the boss.”

Nam-Gyu hesitated.

Then nodded. “Just a little.”

He sat down.

The toast was warm. Raspberry jam. The plate had a chip on one side, but someone had drawn a smiley face near the crack in black marker, like they were refusing to let it be ruined.

Thanos’s name lit up his phone.

[Group Chat: Disaster Club]

Thanos: UR ALIVE!!!

Thanos: Guess I won’t have to set the school on fire <3

Mi-Na: You better wear something cute.

Se-Mi: Also don’t die again.

Min-Su: Please. That was weird.

Min-Su: And we have uniforms Mi-Na, idk if that’s considered cute.

Nam-Gyu smiled faintly.

[You:] I’m wearing shrimp socks. Prepare yourselves.

He chewed the last bite of toast. Gi-Hun slid something across the table: a small packed lunch, neatly labeled with his name in blue pen. Two doodles decorated the top — a cat and a tiny, very angry Thanos. At the bottom was scrawled in loopy handwriting:

Text if you need anything. —Gi-Hun & In-Ho

He ran his thumb across the signature once.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Gi-Hun smiled. “Go show them you’re a tough umbrella cookie.”

In-Ho stood up too. His tone was flat, but his words were deliberate.

“If anyone bothers you,” he said, “you tell us.”

Nam-Gyu picked up his bag, tucked the lunch inside.

“I will.” He said, without really knowing what an umbrella cookie is.

He slipped on his shoes — neatly lined up at the door — and stepped into the light.

Friday, 8:20 a.m. — School Gates

The school gates were wide open, but it still took Nam-Gyu a second to walk through them.

The pavement felt different beneath his shoes. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because everything was the same — the usual hum of students arriving, the faint smell of cafeteria miso soup drifting from the kitchen, teachers calling out morning greetings — but he wasn’t the same.

There were no cruel stares. No whispers loud enough to pierce. Just a shift in the air — like the building had inhaled and wasn’t sure whether to exhale yet.

A few students glanced at him.

Then looked away.

One or two nudged each other.

But no one said anything cruel. That silence, in itself, felt like a small miracle.

He kept walking.

Then—

“You absolute bastard,” a voice called out behind him.

Se-Mi.

Nam-Gyu turned just in time to be hit with the full force of her hug-slash-shove. She grabbed his arm like she was going to scold him, then flung both arms around his neck.

“You better not die again without warning us first,” she said into his shoulder.

“I didn’t plan it,” Nam-Gyu mumbled, winded.

“Still rude,” she muttered, squeezing tighter before letting go.

Mi-Na was next. She didn’t say anything. Just barrelled into him and wrapped her arms around his middle like she wasn’t going to let go.

“...Breathing,” Nam-Gyu choked.

“Don’t care,” she whispered.

Min-Su hovered behind them, eyes darting everywhere. Then he stepped forward, awkward as always, and muttered, “Don’t do that again.”

Nam-Gyu blinked at him.

Min-Su turned pink. “I mean—like—your notes are better than mine. I had to talk to Thanos.”

Nam-Gyu huffed a laugh. “Tragic.”

“You all are so dramatic,” Gyeong-Su said, appearing beside them with a lollipop in his mouth. “He didn’t die. He just took a long nap.”

“You cried,” Mi-Na accused.

“I did not,” he said, absolutely lying.

“You did,” Se-Mi added. “You said, and I quote, ‘he’s my only tolerable classmate.’”

“That’s heartfelt for me!” Gyeong-Su protested. “I have feelings too, you know.”

The group laughed, something warm and a little shaky.

Then the air shifted.

Nam-Gyu turned before he even heard the steps.

Thanos.

Running a few minutes late, shirt half-buttoned, backpack hanging off one shoulder. His curls were still damp, like he’d showered and sprinted out the door with no plan. But his grin—his grin was electric.

Their eyes met.

And for a beat, it was just the two of them in the middle of the chaos.

A breath of I missed you passed between them without a word.

Then Thanos strutted toward them with way too much swagger, clearly coached by Mi-Na at some point.

“I’m here,” he announced. “You may all rejoice.”

“What the hell are you doing,” Nam-Gyu hissed, but his lips twitched.

“I’m making an entrance,” Thanos whispered. “And claiming what’s mine.”

He threw an arm around Nam-Gyu’s shoulders. Not possessively. Just close. Confident. Familiar.

No one in the group reacted. Of course they didn’t — they knew.

And as for the rest of the school?

It wasn’t their business.

Which is why Nam-Gyu didn’t hesitate.

He turned slightly — just enough — and kissed Thanos. Right on the mouth. Quick. Solid. Certain.

A few gasps sounded from nearby. A locker slammed. Someone’s pencil case dropped.

Thanos blinked. Then lit up like he’d won the lottery. “Oh my god, you’re so hot when you’re bold.”

Nam-Gyu flushed. “Shut up.”

“I will not.”

A throat cleared behind them.

They turned in unison.

In-Ho stood by the admin building, one brow raised and arms crossed like a judgmental statue — except for the barely concealed smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Nam-Gyu jerked back like he’d been slapped with holy water. Thanos didn’t even flinch.

In-Ho tilted his head. “Really? In front of the math wing?”

Thanos grinned. “We were going for symbolic. Algebra nearly killed him, so now love brings him back to life.”

Nam-Gyu made a noise that could only be described as a wheeze of despair. “Please stop speaking.”

In-Ho ignored him. “You think I didn’t pull that same move on Gi-Hun in ‘97?” he said, almost wistfully. “Except I did it behind the chemistry lab. And I had better hair.”

Thanos blinked. “You flirted behind the chem lab? That’s weirdly iconic.”

“Twice,” Gi-Hun added, poking his head out from the office hallway. “He nearly got detention both times. Remind me, why are we out here discussing this?”

Nam-Gyu looked like he was actively trying to pass away on the spot.

“God,” he muttered. “I’m never kissing anyone again.”

In-Ho snorted. “Just keep it PG-13. And maybe not in full view of the school’s security cameras. Unless you want to be the main character in this week’s disciplinary meeting.”

Thanos gave a mock salute. “No promises.”

But then — In-Ho’s smile softened, creasing faint lines into the edges of his face. He looked at Nam-Gyu the way someone might look at a moment they didn’t realize they missed.

“You’ve got guts,” he said. “I like that.”

Nam-Gyu blinked, startled.

“Reminds me of someone I used to be,” In-Ho added with a shrug. Then, more lightly, “You still can’t skip class, though.”

He turned, started walking — then paused, just before the staff room doors.

“Thanos,” he called back over his shoulder, “if I catch you sneaking into Nam-Gyu’s room, I will confiscate your shoes.”

Thanos cackled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Gi-Hun, now fully outside, sipped his coffee. “Try us.”

Nam-Gyu covered his face with both hands. “Kill me now.”

Mi-Na leaned in, stage-whispering, “This is my favorite season of your life.”

Thanos let out a whoop and high-fived Mi-Na.

Gyeong-Su muttered, “That’s going in the yearbook.”

Min-Su looked like he was mentally calculating odds on their relationship.

Se-Mi nudged Nam-Gyu’s arm. “You good?”

Nam-Gyu nodded, still pink but smiling.

“I’m good.”

And this time, he meant it.

Thursday — 2:17 p.m. — The Rooftop

It had been a while since they’d all been here.

The benches were slightly faded. A few weeds had grown through the cracks near the railing. But the sky stretched wide above them — open, uncaring, familiar. A breeze tugged at Nam-Gyu’s hoodie. It smelled like fresh rain and distant ramen.

Se-Mi plopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh. “You know, this place lost all its flavor without your judgmental glares and emotional repression. So glad you’re back.”

“I didn’t die,” Nam-Gyu muttered.

“You kind of did,” Min-Su offered, plopping next to Se-Mi. “Just… socially and emotionally. Which still counts.”

“Guys,” Mi-Na hissed, flopping onto the other bench and pointing at him, “he’s fragile. Look at that complexion. He’s clearly recovering from trauma and not enough moisturiser.”

Nam-Gyu raised a brow. “I will throw you off this roof.”

“You’d miss,” she said fondly.

Gyeong-Su leaned against the railing, hands in his pockets, chewing a Pocky stick. “I missed this chaos.”

Everyone turned to him.

He blinked. “…What?”

Se-Mi gawked. “Was that a feeling?”

Min-Su pointed accusingly. “Did you say you missed us?”

Gyeong-Su shrugged. “I have layers. Get used to it.”

“Next thing you know, he’s gonna cry during karaoke,” Thanos whispered behind Nam-Gyu’s ear.

Nam-Gyu snorted. “You already do that.”

“Bold of you to say when you sobbed during that ad with the stray cat and the violin music.”

“That was different. That cat had dreams.”

Mi-Na clapped. “God, I missed this stupid group.”

The sun shifted higher. Someone had brought drinks — iced milk teas and weird canned coffees. Thanos had picked a mango-flavored one for Nam-Gyu. “It looks like your soul,” he’d said.

Nam-Gyu had no idea what that meant, but he drank it anyway.

Conversations flickered between homework deadlines and show recs. At some point, Se-Mi mentioned a group study session.

“Midterms are in three weeks,” she said, stretching like a cat in the sun. “We should lock ourselves in the library again.”

“Nam-Gyu can make color-coded flashcards,” Min-Su said.

“He will anyway,” Mi-Na added.

“Group study sounds good,” Nam-Gyu said slowly, but his gaze had dropped to the table.

Thanos was fidgeting.

His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm on the railing. His smile was still there, but a little thinner now.

Nam-Gyu leaned in slightly. “You okay?”

Thanos looked up. “Huh? Yeah. Yeah, totally. Just… trying to remember if I submitted that physics thing.”

He hadn’t. He wasn’t even close.

And it wasn’t just physics.

His inbox was a mess of red-flag warnings and missing assignments. He’d missed tutoring the week Nam-Gyu collapsed, then most of the week after and many weeks before — he couldn’t bring himself to show up while Nam-Gyu was unconscious, while the only thing that mattered was waiting for his eyes to open.

Now the makeup work had stacked up. His GPA was a slow-motion train wreck. And every time he thought about telling Nam-Gyu — who was already holding himself together with tape and willpower — it made his stomach flip.

What if Nam-Gyu thought he was dragging him down?

So Thanos said nothing. Just peeled at the can and smiled like it didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.

He bumped Nam-Gyu’s knee gently under the table. A quiet tap. Familiar. Comforting.

Nam-Gyu looked down at their knees. Then up at him.

No words.

Just a breath. And a soft, knowing look that settled something deep inside him, even if only for now.

Thursday, 5:41 p.m. — Gi-Hun & In-Ho’s Apartment

The key turned in the door. Nam-Gyu stepped inside, kicked off his shoes, and hung his bag on the hook.

The apartment was quiet. Peaceful. He could hear the kettle starting to whistle in the kitchen.

He set down his phone and picked it up again a moment later.

[Text Message Thread – Boyfriend???]

Nam-Gyu: You made Gyeong-Su show emotion today. Are you proud of yourself.

Thanos: i consider it my magnum opus
Thanos: also you looked hot today
Thanos: like. radiant. not just in the shrimp socks. in general.

Nam-Gyu: You’re unhinged.

Thanos: i missed you.
Thanos: i love you.

Nam-Gyu stared at the screen a moment longer, thumbs still.

Then:

Nam-Gyu: I love you too.
Nam-Gyu: Sleep early tonight.

Thanos: lol
Thanos: i won’t

Nam-Gyu chuckled under his breath.

He climbed into bed without overthinking it.

That night, he fell asleep fast again — for once, safe.

Across the city, Thanos lay awake, staring at his ceiling.

Still smiling, just with a lot more on his mind.

Chapter Text

Everything after the hospital had felt perfect.

At least, it had seemed that way. Waking up in a warm room, walking through the gates without fear, sharing lunch boxes and inside jokes and secret smiles in the hallway — it felt like peace. Or the closest they’d ever gotten to it.

But peace is a tricky thing. You don’t always notice the cracks until you trip over them. And sometimes, by the time you look down, you’re already bleeding

Clubroom, 4:17 p.m.

A half-empty thermos sat between two stacks of worksheets — Nam-Gyu’s, neatly clipped and color-coded; and Thanos’s, crumpled, bent, and barely written on.

It was the first time they’d managed to sit down and actually study together since everything. No hospital visits. No super spy actions. Just them, back in the clubroom, back to normal.

At least, that’s what Nam-Gyu kept telling himself.

Thanos was slumped in the chair opposite him, hoodie pulled up halfway, pencil between his fingers, spinning. Not writing nor reading. Just spinning.

Nam-Gyu clicked the pen twice, then once more for luck.

“Again,” he said, flipping the worksheet over. “Question three.”

Thanos was now upside down in his chair, legs hooked over the backrest like a particularly stylish bat. His hair flopped in his face. “This feels like emotional violence.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t flinch. “You still have to try.”

Thanos groaned. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve always been like this. You were just too busy flirting to notice.”

Thanos grinned at that, lazy and warm. “I noticed everything about you.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes but a breath of color touched his ears. “Stop. Focus.”

“Okay, okay,” Thanos said, righting himself with the exaggerated groan of a man twice his age. “Question three is... something about a polynomial. Which is a vegetable.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nam-Gyu muttered under his breath. “No. Try again.”

Thanos frowned down at the worksheet. The paper had bent at the corner where he’d been doodling spirals. He stared at the numbers, then the letters, then back at Nam-Gyu.

“...I don’t know,” he said, finally. “X equals... something sad?”

Nam-Gyu stared at him.

“You didn’t even try,” Nam-Gyu said flatly.

“I did,” Thanos said, softer now. “I looked. That’s something.”

“That’s not studying. That’s hoping the answer’s written in invisible ink.”

Thanos slumped back in the chair, his arms crossed like a kid told to apologize. “Why does it matter? I’m not graduating top of anything. No one’s giving me a scholarship. This—” He waved vaguely at the worksheet. “—isn’t gonna save me.”

Thanos stopped and didn’t move.

Nam-Gyu glanced up. “What do you mean?”

Still nothing.

Eventually, Thanos sighed. “You ever think about how many things are more useful than math?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “Is this a lead-in to another SoundCloud metaphor?”

“No,” Thanos said. “I mean, yes. But also — like — I’ve been doing this for weeks and none of it makes sense. Not even a little.”

Nam-Gyu softened. “That’s because you missed most of the semester. It’s not your fault. We just need to catch up—”

“You’ve been saying that for months.”

“Because it’s true.”

“I’m tired, Nam-Gyu.” Thanos's voice didn’t rise. It didn’t snap. If anything, it dropped — low, flat, and final. “I’m so tired.”

Nam-Gyu sat up straighter. “You’re just out of practice. Once we—”

“No.” Thanos finally looked up, but not with his usual grin. His eyes were tired in a way Nam-Gyu hadn’t seen before — not after fights, not after the club, not even after sleepless nights. “You don’t get it. I’m not catching up. I’m not getting this.”

He pushed the worksheet away like it burned. “I’ve tried. I swear. I even watched those stupid online lectures you sent me. But it’s like trying to read a language no one taught me.”

Nam-Gyu swallowed. “We can go slower—”

Thanos stood.

“Where are you going?” Nam-Gyu asked, blinking.

“Out. I need air.”

“It’s just one worksheet—”

“It’s not just one worksheet.” That was the first time his voice cracked. “It’s every worksheet. Every quiz. Every class I missed while you were in a hospital bed and I was going insane and pretending I was fine. I fell behind and now I can’t even see the damn track.”

Nam-Gyu stared, stunned.

Thanos grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Forget it. You’ll probably finish the worksheet for me anyway.”

Nam-Gyu tried to reach for him. “Wait—Thanos, seriously, what is this?”

The silence shifted. It wasn’t funny anymore.

Nam-Gyu leaned back slowly, eyes narrowed, but not angry. Just... worried.

“Is that really how you feel?”

Thanos shrugged. “It’s how things are.”

Nam-Gyu’s voice went quieter. “So you’re giving up.”

“I’m not giving up,” Thanos snapped, too fast. “I’m just... accepting reality. There’s a difference.”

“No, there’s not,” Nam-Gyu said sharply. “You’re smart. You’ve done better than this. I know you can—”

Nam-Gyu’s expression flickered.

Thanos’s voice broke. “I’m scared, okay? That you’re gonna figure it out. That you’ll pass and I won’t and suddenly I’m not enough for you anymore.”

Silence.

The kind that stretched between them like a tightrope — fragile and high above something deep.

“You could never be ‘not enough,’” Nam-Gyu added, quieter now. “Not for me.”

Still, Thanos didn’t look at him. He just shook his head once, then grabbed his bag and muttered, “I’ll see you later.”

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

Nam-Gyu sat frozen, pencil still between his fingers.

He laughed once under his breath, unsure. “Okay. Drama queen. You’ll come back.”

But when he glanced at the worksheet again, at the empty chair, something in his chest tightened.

He didn’t know it yet — not really — but this wasn’t a joke.

Thanos wasn’t just skipping out.

He was slipping.

And Nam-Gyu felt like an idiot for not seeing it coming.

He pressed the pen to the paper again.

This time, he didn’t click it.

Thursday, 5:08 p.m. — Rooftop

The sky was peach-tinged and slow. A breeze tugged at Nam-Gyu’s hair as he leaned against the rooftop fence, a paper cup of vending machine coffee cradled in both hands. It had gone cold ten minutes ago. He hadn’t noticed.

Below, the school buzzed with late club meetings and lingering students, but up here, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He stared at the cup like it held answers. It didn’t.

It had been nearly an hour since Thanos walked out. No text. No dramatic return to sweep him off his feet and demand snacks. Just silence.

Nam-Gyu hated silence.

He replayed the moment in the clubroom again and again, like maybe he’d missed something. A clue of some kind or a warning. But Thanos had looked sotired. The kind of tired that didn’t come from staying up late. The kind that soaked into your bones and made you stop trying.

But Thanos was always dramatic when he was overwhelmed. This wasn’t new. Right?

Except he hadn’t looked overwhelmed.

He’d looked completely done.

Nam-Gyu rubbed his thumb over the rim of the paper cup.

He didn’t know if he was angry or worried. Maybe both. Maybe something worse: that sinking guilt he only ever felt when things slipped out of his control.

The door to the roof opened behind him.

He turned too quickly — heart stuttering — only to see Se-Mi stepping through, hair windblown, a juice box in her hand.

“You look awful,” she said, plopping down beside him.

Nam-Gyu said nothing.

Se-Mi sipped. “You and Thanos fight again?”

“Not exactly.”

“Ah,” she nodded. “You academically fought. The worst kind. Nothing like emotional repression mixed with textbook trauma.”

He huffed a small laugh. “He walked out. Said he’s tired. That he’s not catching up.”

Se-Mi tilted her head. “Is he?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “I mean... no. But that’s not the point. I’m supposed to help him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want help.”

Nam-Gyu looked down.

“Or maybe,” she added, softer now, “he wants help, but it’s not the kind you know how to give.”

That stung more than he expected.

Se-Mi stood, patting his shoulder. “He’ll talk when he’s ready. You’ll listen when you’re ready. Meanwhile, I’m going to steal his snacks from your bag. You probably packed some, right?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Se-Mi paused, then leaned in. “You’re not losing it,” she said quietly. “Even if it feels like it.”

She disappeared down the stairs, humming.

Nam-Gyu stayed behind, hands still wrapped around the empty cup, eyes on the horizon.

The sky was darkening. He didn’t notice the stars coming out.

He only noticed Thanos wasn’t there to see them with him.

Meanwhile the bathroom was empty. Quiet, except for the faint buzzing of a flickering ceiling light and the occasional drip from a sink that never quite turned off all the way.

Thanos stood in front of the mirror, hands braced on the edge of the sink, head bowed.

His reflection looked like a stranger. Pale under the cheap fluorescents. Tired in ways no sleep could fix. The necklace around his neck — Nam-Gyu’s ring on the chain — felt heavier than usual.

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t cry.

But his chest ached with a pressure that wouldn’t go away, no matter how many deep breaths he took. No matter how much he told himself it’s fine, it’s not that bad, you’re not failing, you’re just… not trying hard enough.

Liar.

He wasn’t just failing. He was drowning.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Opened his texts with Nam-Gyu. Blank draft. Fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Typed:
I don’t think I can do this anymore.

Paused. Backspaced.

Typed:
You should’ve picked someone smarter.

Backspaced again. His thumb hovered. Then, like muscle memory, he opened the voice memos instead. Didn’t record. Just scrolled.

Stopped on one.

Nam-Gyu, half-asleep, voice warm and slurred by exhaustion:

“You’re not a burden. You’re the only thing that makes sense.”

Thanos closed his eyes.

He remembered every second of that night. The way Nam-Gyu had curled into him without thinking, the way his fingers had brushed against Thanos’s wrist, anchoring them both. The warmth in his voice, like he meant it. Like there wasn’t a single part of him that doubted it.

But now?

Now Thanos couldn’t shake the memory of a voice that didn’t sound like Nam-Gyu at all.

He played the memo again. And again.

Flashback — a few weeks ago. Teacher’s office.

Nam-Gyu had stepped out for a second. MG had stayed behind. Leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place.

“Nam-Gyu’s reputation is… spotless,” he said lightly, voice low and casual like poison in tea. “You’re lucky he hasn’t dropped you already.”

Thanos didn’t look up.

MG tilted his head. “What? You think people don’t notice? He’s got scholarship interviews lined up. Full recommendations. The whole staff adores him. And you—what’ve you got? A mixtape and a bad attendance record?”

Thanos didn’t respond.

“Look, I’m not judging,” MG said, smiling like the snake he was. “Just saying. When he makes it — and he will — don’t be the reason people question his choices.”

The memory faded, but the feeling stayed.

Thanos gripped the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

Then tapped play on the memo again. Let Nam-Gyu’s voice fill the silence.

“You’re not a burden. You’re the only thing that makes sense.”

And this time, when the words faded.

Hee didn’t say anything.

Not yet. He just pulled himself together and acted like nothing was wrong.

Saturday — 5:01 p.m. — Mi-Na’s House

Everyone was there. Someone had brought drinks, someone else chips. Se-Mi had dragged up an old speaker and was trying to get it to connect via Bluetooth while Mi-Na yelled about battery life and Min-Su tried to hide in the corner with his homework.

Nam-Gyu sat curled up in one of the patio chairs, hoodie zipped to the neck, legs folded beneath him. He was quieter than usual but smiled when prompted, nodded when spoken to, and even laughed once when Gyeong-Su mimicked one of Thanos’s old TikToks with terrifying accuracy.

Thanos was sprawled beside him, head tilted back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. He wasn’t saying much either — just occasionally tossing Nam-Gyu a glance and a crooked half-smile, like he was trying to tell him something without the words.

It felt normal. Too normal.

And maybe that was the problem.

“Okay,” Se-Mi said, pointing her chopsticks like a conductor. “Let’s address the obvious: Thanos, have you ever passed anything other than a note to Nam-Gyu?”

Thanos snorted. “Yeah. I passed out once in gym.”

Everyone laughed. Except Nam-Gyu, who blinked. “Wait. When?”

Thanos waved a hand. “Not important. You were busy being perfect.”

That earned another round of laughter — until Nam-Gyu said, very gently, “You know, if you actually studied—”

And something in Thanos snapped.

“Wow. Thanks,” he said, too fast. “I’ll just go crawl back into my dumbass cave.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What—?”

“You think I’m stupid? Great. Got it. Loud and clear.”

The rooftop fell silent.

Even the Bluetooth speaker, having failed to connect, gave up and clicked off.

“Thanos—” Nam-Gyu started, sitting forward.

But Thanos was already pushing off the wall, grabbing his hoodie off the railing.

“I’m not in the mood to be pitied,” he said, not looking at anyone.

Mi-Na stood. “Hey. Don’t—”

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “I just forgot I had something better to do. Like flunk out.”

Nam-Gyu stayed seated.

Didn’t chase him.

He didn’t know if that was worse.

Se-Mi gave Nam-Gyu a sharp look but didn’t say anything.

Mi-Na rubbed her arms, eyes darting to the exit. “That wasn’t… about you,” she said quietly. “He’s been off all day.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

He just stared at the spot where Thanos had been, his heart caught somewhere between guilt and confusion.

Somewhere deeper: fear.

Because this wasn’t a joke.

This wasn’t the usual chaos.

This was a crack.

And something inside it was starting to give.

Saturday — 9:17 p.m. — Gi-Hun & In-Ho’s Apartment

When Nam-Gyu arrived the apartment was too quiet.

He sat at the dining table, one hand curled around a spoon that hadn’t touched the rice in front of him. The food was still warm. In-Ho had reheated it twice. Gi-Hun had left a note on the counter with a small doodle of a smiling bunny and a reminder: “Eat. Please.”

But Nam-Gyu couldn’t.

His phone lay face-down beside the plate. No new messages. No calls. Just the quiet churn of his thoughts — looping, spiralling, tightening.

He’d watched Thanos leave that rooftop like he was walking away from more than just a bad mood. And Nam-Gyu hadn’t stopped him. Couldn’t.

He didn’t even know what was breaking. Only that something was.

The floor creaked. In-Ho walked past without a word at first, towel slung over one shoulder from the laundry, a mug in hand.

He paused in the doorway. Looked at Nam-Gyu once, then at the untouched plate.

“Sometimes,” he said finally, “love feels worse than hate.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t move.

In-Ho took a sip from his mug. “That doesn’t make it wrong.”

Nam-Gyu’s throat tightened. “Did you—hate Gi-Hun? At first?”

In-Ho raised a brow. “No. But I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Because he made me feel things I couldn’t control.” In-Ho took another slow sip. “And I hate not being in control.”

They didn’t say anything after that. The silence stretched comfortably this time. Less suffocating. More like space to think.

In-Ho walked off down the hall.

Nam-Gyu turned his phone over.

Still nothing.

He unlocked it. Opened Thanos’s chat.

Typed:
Can we talk?

Paused.

Then hit send.

The moment it sent, something in his chest unclenched — but something else twisted tighter.

Across the city, somewhere in a dim bedroom lit by the glow of a laptop screen and posters peeling off the wall, Thanos sat hunched over his bed, hoodie up, headphones hanging around his neck.

He didn’t see the text. Not yet.

Sunday — 3:11 p.m. — The Clubroom

The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still bruised and heavy when Nam-Gyu stepped into the clubroom alone.

He decided he couldn't be at the apartment when all this was going on. He needed out.

The place looked smaller without the usual noise. Papers scattered on the long desk, an empty cup with Gi-Hun’s name scrawled on the side, half-dried ink pooled on one of the tables where someone had knocked over a calligraphy set and never cleaned it properly.

He set his bag down, slowly, like the air might break.

His ring — the silver one Thanos had once worn like a secret — had been returned. It was back on his finger now, twisting loosely. But something still felt missing.

No reply.

He hadn’t heard from Thanos since the voice memo. Since Can we talk?

The silence said a lot.

The door creaked behind him.

Nam-Gyu turned fast — too fast — heart in his throat.

But it wasn’t Thanos.

It was Jun-Hee.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just held up a drink carrier with two iced coffees and a sandwich in a paper bag.

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” she said simply, and walked over to set the bag on the desk.

Nam-Gyu didn’t sit.

She didn’t push him to.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked after a beat.

“No,” he said.

She nodded. “Want to not talk about it, but with company?”

His throat bobbed. “...Yeah.”

Jun-Hee pulled out a chair.

Nam-Gyu sat across from her.

For a long time, they didn’t say anything. They just drank coffee and listened to the clock tick on the wall. The kind of silence that holds space, not pressure.

Eventually, Jun-Hee said, “You still love him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Nam-Gyu didn’t flinch. “I never stopped.”

Jun-Hee’s gaze softened. “Then fight for him.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at his ring. The metal was cool against his skin. A reminder, a promise, a warning.

“I don’t know if he wants me to.”

“You don’t know what he wants unless you ask.”

He blinked slowly.

Outside, the clouds were parting — just barely.

And inside, for the first time all weekend, the tight knot in his chest loosened.

Not gone.

But loosening.

He took a deep breath.

And started writing.

He was going to get his boyfriend back to believing he loves him with all his heart. Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

12:47 a.m. — Clubroom

The school was silent. Long past curfew, long past reason. Only the faint hum of the hallway lights remained, and somewhere outside, the rhythmic patter of late-night rain against the windows.

Nam-Gyu sat alone at the clubroom desk, legs curled beneath him, a thermos of tea cooling by his elbow. His laptop was open but dim. The real work was in front of him — notebooks, worksheets, diagrams, all spread out like the blueprint of something bigger than a study guide.

The idea had started simple. Review materials. Recap the lessons Thanos had struggled with. A gentle nudge back into rhythm. But somewhere between scribbling an example and writing out a formula, Nam-Gyu had started... hearing him.

“You already know this, idiot.”

“That formula looks like a crime against humanity.”

“Is this the one that made me cry or the one that made me throw a pen at the board?”

It had made him smile. And then it had made him ache.

Because Thanos wasn’t there to say those things. And he should’ve been.

So Nam-Gyu changed course.

He rewrote everything — not like a tutor, but like a boyfriend. Like someone who knew exactly how Thanos learned: through chaos, color, context. Through dumb mnemonics and half-baked metaphors and jokes written in the margins. He made diagrams that looked like comic strips. Annotated math problems with reactions. Added stupid comments in red pen like:

“Stop skipping steps, you absolute muppet.”

“This graph looks like your hair in the morning.”

“You said this looked like a dance move. You weren’t wrong.”

“Don’t quit on me now.”

It was him trying to speak Thanos’s language. Not the one written in textbooks — the one made of late-night jokes and half-eaten chips and musical references and long silences pressed close together.

He pulled a flash drive from his pencil case — the one shaped like a tiny camera, Thanos’s birthday gift from months ago. He hadn’t used it yet.

He did now.

He plugged it in.

Opened the mic.

Paused.

His fingers hovered.

He remembered something.

—
It was a late night, mid-March, when Thanos had sprawled out on Nam-Gyu’s bedroom floor, halfway through a biology worksheet and dramatically defeated.

"You read the notes like you're a news anchor," Thanos had mumbled, arm flung across his face. "But somehow, it's still hot."

Nam-Gyu had stared at him, unimpressed.

"You realise this is the section on mitosis, right?"

"Mhmm. Say it again."

"Prophase?"

"Yep."

"You’re an idiot."

"But I’m your idiot," Thanos had replied, grinning without opening his eyes. "With a certified crush on your voice. Don’t make me say it again."

—

Nam-Gyu blinked back into the present.

Took a breath.

Then another.

He hit record.

Not perfect. Not polished.

He sang softly — vocabulary definitions, important formulas, keywords turned into melodies. A ridiculous rhyme for the order of biological classification. A whispered timeline for postwar treaties. It wasn’t catchy. It wasn’t even always on-key.

But it was his voice.

And that had to be worth something. He sang like he was tired. Like he was trying. Like this was all he could do.

After the last recording, he hesitated — then added one final track. Spoken, this time. Unscripted.

“You’re not failing. You’re not too late. You’re not alone.

I’m still here. And I’ll wait.”

When the worksheets were printed and the flash drive was packed in a soft felt pouch, he stared at the envelope for a long time.

Then he wrote:

Still here. Still yours. — NG

Pause.

Frown.

He scratched out the “NG” — not enough, too impersonal — and underneath, scribbled:
*— NS :) *

It was dumb. It was deeply embarrassing. But it was them.

A light knock startled him from his spiral.

He turned to see Min-Su in the doorway, hair messy from sleep, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

“You’re clinically insane,” Min-Su said flatly. “You know that, right?”

Nam-Gyu shrugged. “It’s a productive kind of insanity.”

Min-Su stepped inside and stared at the disaster zone of worksheets and scribbled-on flashcards. He picked up a page, squinted, then deadpanned:

“This graph is the only thing flatter than your hair today.”

“Stop skipping steps, you absolute muppet.”

Min-Su arched an eyebrow. “...Is this a study guide or a love confession?”

Nam-Gyu snatched the paper. “Both.”

Min-Su snorted. “You realize you could’ve just texted him ‘I miss you’ like a normal person?”

“He doesn’t respond to normal,” Nam-Gyu muttered, stuffing everything back into the envelope. “He responds to chaos. And color-coded notes. And musical threats.”

Min-Su peered at the mess. “So, you made... a study mixtape?”

Nam-Gyu shrugged. “More or less.”

Min-Su picked up a page. Read. Blinked.

“This formula looks like your hair in the morning.”

“Your brain is hotter than the sun (but not in a science way).”

Min-Su lowered the page slowly. “This is embarrassingly sweet. But I don’t understand a thing.”

Nam-Gyu’s mouth twitched. “He’ll understand it.”

Min-Su tilted his head. “You think he’ll even read it?”

Nam-Gyu met his eyes. “He always reads what I write. Even when he pretends he doesn’t.”

Min-Su stared at him for a long moment, then silently picked up the envelope, tucked the flash drive inside, and folded it shut with practiced precision.

“I’ll help you drop it off,” he said.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up. It’s raining. This deserves a movie montage.”

They left together, under the same umbrella.

Nam-Gyu didn’t say anything, but for the first time all weekend, he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Just fighting.

And for once, he knew what he was fighting for.

6:02 a.m. — Thanos’s Doorstep

The sun hadn’t risen yet.

The sky was caught in that dim, in-between gray — not quite night, not quite morning. The kind of light that made everything look a little gentler. A little lonelier.

Nam-Gyu stood at the edge of the apartment complex courtyard, shivering slightly in his hoodie. The envelope in his hand felt heavier than it should’ve. Like it carried something fragile inside. Like a heart, or a history.

Min-Su waited by the gate. Hands in his pockets, hoodie up, pretending he wasn’t watching.

Nam-Gyu walked up the steps slowly.

There it was — Thanos’s front door. Slightly scuffed at the bottom, a dent where someone (probably Thanos) had kicked it in frustration, the doorbell taped over with a sticky note that said “DO NOT. I WILL BARK.”

He smiled faintly.

Carefully, Nam-Gyu reached into his bag and pulled out a sheet of glittery Hello Kitty stickers Mi-Na had insisted he take. He peeled one off — the one holding a pink electric guitar — and pressed it next to the envelope’s seal.

Then, just before he slid it under the door, he paused.

The envelope wasn’t fancy. Just a thick, slightly overstuffed manila one, taped shut in three places because he got paranoid it might fall open. Inside: a pile of annotated worksheets, flashcards, hand-drawn diagrams, and a small silver flash drive labeled “Cheat Codes (ft. Your Hot Genius Boyfriend).”

He debated writing a letter.

Something with a beginning, a middle, a desperate, dramatic ending. But everything he wanted to say had already bled into the margins.

Instead, he flipped to the final worksheet, found the last bit of empty space beneath a particularly messy math problem, and wrote:

Please read this. Your NS :(

His handwriting wavered at the edge, like he’d been holding his breath while writing it.

He stepped up to the mailbox and paused.

Stupid mailbox. Rusted. Slightly crooked. Thanos had once joked that it mirrored his spine. That had been the first time Nam-Gyu ever laughed so hard he snorted.

Now, standing there in the early dawn, he whispered, “You better read this, Su-Bong. Or I’m breaking in and reading it to you myself.”

He slid the envelope inside.

But didn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, one hand pressed against the cold metal like it might transmit the message faster.

“Don’t quit on me. Not when we’re this close.”

His voice cracked on the last word — but no one was around to hear it.

He turned and walked away, hoodie drawn up, eyes stinging, heart loud.

6:05 a.m. — Inside, minutes later

Thanos was awake.

He hadn’t really slept. He was lying in bed, headphones on, eyes burning from scrolling through the same playlist for hours. His room was a mess — open textbooks on the floor, snack wrappers, crumpled drafts of apology messages he’d written and deleted. Again. And again.

He’d stopped hoping for a miracle.

He almost missed the faint scrape of paper on the floor.

But then he sat up.

Headphones off.

Silence.

He blinked.

And there it was.

A single envelope, poking through from the mailbox, the corner of a cartoon sticker still visible.

Thanos stared at it for a full minute before pulling it out.

Slowly — like approaching a wild animal — he slid off the bed, padded across the floor, and picked it up.

Inside, he expected more worksheets. Another stack of things he couldn’t understand. Another gentle reminder that Nam-Gyu was too good for him, too smart, too patient, too much.

He almost didn’t open it.

He did anyway.

And for a second, all he could do was blink.

The worksheets were there — sure. But they weren’t neat and intimidating like usual. The headers were written in messy block letters. Each formula came with a note: dumb jokes in the margins, little doodles of cartoon dancing Xs and math symbols holding hands.

Still here. Still yours.

NG… scratched out.

NS. :)

His hands shook.

He turned it over.

Inside: worksheets. Pages of them. Some he recognized. Some he didn’t. But it wasn’t just the work — it was the writing.

His writing.

“You already know this, idiot.”

“I still think this diagram looks like a K-pop dance move.”

“Don’t tell anyone but you were right about this one.”

Some of them had stickers.

One had a tiny doodle of Thanos himself in the corner, giving the middle finger to a triangle.

He flipped to another sheet.

More notes.

“You’re not dumb. Just distracted.”

“Also, the mitochondria is still the powerhouse of the cell. Thought that might help.”

“This is what it’s like loving you. Confusing. Exhausting. Worth it.”

Each page felt like a voice in his head. Like Nam-Gyu was beside him, narrating. Not with shame or pressure — but like he knew Thanos. Every scribbled joke. Every casual insult written like a love letter. Every underline like a hand on his back saying, Keep going.

At the bottom of one page, in messier-than-usual writing:

“If you fail, I’ll still love you.
If you leave, I’ll still find you.
But if you stop believing in yourself…
I’ll be the one who breaks your phone and drags you back.”

Thanos made a choking noise — somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He dropped to sit on the edge of his bed, legs suddenly not working right. His fingers shook as he reached the bottom of the stack.

His throat burned.

He didn’t cry, not at first. He just sat there, completely still, paper clenched in one hand like it was keeping him from falling apart.

And then he saw the flash drive.

Tucked in a tiny felt jellybean pouch. Familiar. Dumb. So them.

He plugged it into his laptop with trembling fingers.

The files were titled stupid things like:

“Math Is Your Enemy (ft. NS’s Voice)”

“Bio 101 — Thanos’s Redemption Arc.mp3”

“You’re Not A Failure, You’re Just Dramatic.wav”

“Surprise Ending.wav”

He clicked.

And then Nam-Gyu’s voice filled the room. Quiet. Smooth. A little tired-sounding. But so painfully him it made Thanos’s chest twist.

The lyrics were nonsense. Study material turned into gentle melodies and rhythm, like he was trying to sneak information past Thanos’s defenses. There was a line about factoring polynomials that somehow rhymed with “don’t skip breakfast.” Another about derivatives that turned into a joke about “deriving happiness from snacks.”

Then one that stopped him cold.

“Even if you can't find the answer.
Even if the page stays blank.
I’m still here.
Still yours.
Still waiting.”

Thanos covered his mouth with one hand.

It sounded soft. Measured.

Slightly raspy from lack of sleep. But steady. Warm. Real.

He was… singing. For Thanos.

It wasn’t good. Not like award-show good. But it was perfect in a way only Nam-Gyu could be — factual lyrics turned into lullabies, lessons into choruses. It was like he’d tried to teach and confess at the same time. Like he didn’t know how else to say “I love you” except by making sure Thanos passed his finals.

Halfway through the last recording — a whispered, spoken message:

“You’re not failing. You’re not too late. You’re not alone.
I’m still here. And I’ll wait.”

Thanos shut the laptop.

Buried his face in his hands.

He didn’t sob. He just... broke. Completely.

Because no one had ever done something like this for him. Not a parent. Not a friend. No one.

Nam-Gyu had stayed up all night — writing, recording, annotating, drawing cartoon triangles giving the middle finger — just to say:

“I love you.”

Even if he couldn’t say it out loud.

Even if Thanos had pushed him away.

Even if he didn’t deserve it.

He pulled the worksheet to his chest, clutching it like a lifeline. The flash drive still played in the background — Nam-Gyu's voice mixing with soft acoustic chords. Thanos buried his face in his hands and let it all hit him.

Every word. Every page. Every second he thought he’d lost him.

He hadn’t.

Not yet.

And he was going to make damn sure he didn’t.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t scared. He was just loved.

Loved in a way that saw every failure and stayed anyway.

He slid down against the bed, still clutching the flash drive in one hand, the worksheets in the other.

And then, like a decision being made with his whole body, he stood up.

Grabbed his hoodie.

And ran for the door.

Saturday, 5:42 p.m. — Rooftop

Nam-Gyu was soaked.

It wasn’t supposed to rain.

He hadn’t even checked the forecast. He’d just walked here after leaving the envelope, climbed the stairs two at a time, and waited. Stupid, hopeful, shaking.

And then it started — soft at first. A drizzle, like the sky couldn’t make up its mind. Then steady. Then angry.

Still, he waited.

The pages he brought to review were damp, forgotten beside him. His umbrella — if he’d brought one — would’ve been useless anyway. The wind was too strong, sweeping across the rooftop like it wanted to knock him over and be done with it.

But he stayed. Fingers curled into the railing. Water trailing down his spine. His hoodie plastered to his frame. Eyes on the stairwell door like it owed him something.

Minutes passed. Then more. Until he couldn’t tell if the shaking in his chest was from the cold or from the creeping sense of foolishness.

He bowed his head.

Maybe it was too much.

Maybe Thanos had read everything and—

Footsteps.

Wet sneakers on concrete. Fast, uneven, urgent.

Nam-Gyu’s breath caught.

The door slammed open.

And there he was.

Thanos.

Dripping wet. Hoodie half-zipped. Flash drive necklace thumping against his chest as he crossed the rooftop with a kind of angry purpose — like he didn’t know if he was going to kiss Nam-Gyu or yell at him or both.

He didn’t stop walking until they were face to face.

Nam-Gyu opened his mouth to say something — anything.

But Thanos beat him to it.

He held up the crumpled worksheets, the pages warped from water and fingers and whatever else he'd done to them between reading and now.

“You said ‘still yours,’” he said, voice rough, rain-soaked.

Nam-Gyu swallowed. “Yeah.”

Thanos didn’t blink. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Nam-Gyu said. No hesitation. No flinch. Just the truth, raw and quiet. “Even if you fail. Even if you walk out again. Even if it takes you three years to pass basic algebra. I’m not letting you go.”

Something in Thanos cracked. He made a small sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sob — and dropped the worksheets between them. His hands came up slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Nam-Gyu stepped forward, closing the space. Close enough to feel Thanos’s breath hitch.

“You love me,” Thanos said.

Nam-Gyu nodded. “Still do.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Probably.”

And then Thanos kissed him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fiery. It wasn’t the kind of kiss people wrote poems about or watched in slow motion on late-night dramas.

It was desperate.

Tired.

Honest.

Their teeth bumped. Their noses got in the way. One of them hiccupped from holding back tears — Nam-Gyu wasn’t sure who.

But neither of them moved away.

Not when the rain soaked through every layer of clothing.

Not when their lips trembled against each other’s.

Not when Thanos whispered, “I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” Nam-Gyu whispered back. “You never did.”

They stood there like that for a long time.

When they pulled apart, Thanos rested his forehead against Nam-Gyu’s. “I suck at math.”

“I know.”

“I’m gonna fail.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay. But if I do…”

Nam-Gyu smiled softly. “Then we try again. As many times as it takes.”

Thanos let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob, and Nam-Gyu pulled him into a hug so tight it felt like they’d never been apart.

The rain kept falling.

But the rooftop didn’t feel cold anymore.

Not with Thanos pressed against him, mumbling something about rewriting a song called “Derivatives of Desire,” and Nam-Gyu snorting against his shoulder.

They were both exhausted.

But they were here.

Still trying.

Still theirs.

Later that night, they were in Nam-Gyu’s room. Books spread out, flash drive still open on the laptop. Thanos pointed at a page.

“I got that one right,” he said proudly.

Nam-Gyu smiled. “You did.”

“You’re not disappointed?”

Nam-Gyu leaned over, kissed his cheek. “You’re mine.”

Thanos took a picture of their hands over the workbook — his, ink-stained and twitchy; Nam-Gyu’s, steady and soft. The picture wasn’t pretty. Rain-frizzed hair, messy room, wrinkled notes.
But it was theirs.

And that was enough.

Chapter Text

Interior – Clubroom – Late Afternoon

Here they were again. Trying to cram as their exams were mercilessly approaching.

Nam-Gyu arranges the printouts on the table with surgical precision, highlighters lined up like soldiers beside his planner. Thanos watches him for a moment, one cheek squished in his palm, already overwhelmed.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Thanos mutters.

Nam-Gyu pauses, halfway through uncapping a pen. “What thing?”

“Being... aggressively smart. I feel like you’re about to interrogate the worksheets.”

Nam-Gyu raises a brow. “Would the worksheets lie to me?”

“Exactly my point.”

Nam-Gyu rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I’m not gonna overdo it. Promise.” He reaches across the table and gently slides one of the worksheets toward Thanos. “This one’s for you. I didn’t touch it.”
Thanos looks at it like it might bite him. “No notes? No rainbow color-coded hell?”

Nam-Gyu shrugs, but there's something soft in his expression. “You said you wanted to try. I trust you.”

That makes Thanos sit up straighter. He takes a pencil — not even a chewed-up one — and starts.

Nam-Gyu opens his own workbook but doesn’t look at it. Not really. He watches Thanos from the corner of his eye: the way his brows pinch, the way he taps his pencil when thinking. He doesn’t reach over to correct. He doesn’t interrupt.

It’s hard.

Letting go of control is hard.

But he’s trying.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

Thanos groans. “Ugh, this is like trying to do algebra with two brain cells and one of them is asleep.”

Nam-Gyu glances up. “What if I… helped, but like, only with questions?”

“Like a game show host?”

“If you’d like.”

Thanos lifts his pencil like a mic. “Okay then, Quiz Master Nam-Gyu. Let’s go.”

Nam-Gyu stifles a laugh. “Alright. Question one. What do you do when you see a derivative function?”

“Cry.”

“Acceptable. But also: you rewrite the function in terms of its rule. Try again.”

The worksheet slowly fills in. Some answers are wrong. Some are guesses.

Across from him, Thanos is… trying. Really trying. Pencil clutched in his left hand, lips slightly parted as he mouths something under his breath — maybe the question, maybe a curse word. Maybe both. His brows are furrowed in that way that usually meant he was about to throw the textbook across the room.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales and rewrites the equation.

Nam-Gyu watches from the corner of his eye, quiet pride blooming in his chest.

"You’re staring," Thanos mutters without looking up.

"I’m not."

"You’re smiling."

Nam-Gyu shrugs. “You’re very… competent today.”

“That sounds fake.”

Nam-Gyu smirks. “That’s because it is.”

Thanos throws a gummy at him. Nam-Gyu catches it in his mouth.

The clubroom is warm in a way that has nothing to do with sunlight. It’s calm. Familiar. A quiet rebuild. They’re not pretending everything’s fine — but they’re moving. Together.

Nam-Gyu glances at Thanos’s notes. "Hey, try rewriting this part — not because it’s wrong, but because I think you’re confusing the variables. Switch your notation and see if the function makes more sense."

Thanos pauses, then rewrites the line. Slowly.

It clicks.

His eyes widen. “Wait. That’s… Oh my god, it’s that simple?”

Nam-Gyu smiles softly. “It always is, once it stops feeling impossible.”

Thanos leans back with a groan, arms flopping to his sides. "This is gonna kill me."

"You’ve been through worse."

"Yeah, but at least with my mom disowning me I didn’t have to do calculus."

Nam-Gyu snorts, then immediately looks guilty. “Sorry.”

Thanos shakes his head. “Nah. That one was funny. I'll allow it.”

Nam-Gyu doesn’t step in from that point on. He just leans his chin on his hand and watches. Watches Thanos furrow his brow, get frustrated, write something, erase it, and try again.

“You’re not dumb,” Nam-Gyu says quietly.

Thanos doesn’t look up. “You say that now. Wait till I accidentally prove that 2 = 5.”

“I’ll still say it then.”

Their eyes meet across the table.

It’s not loud, not dramatic. Just the quiet kind of belief that cracks something open.

Eventually, Thanos drops his pencil and flops across the desk. “Okay, break. My neurones are on strike.”

Nam-Gyu nudges a banana bread muffin toward him. “Baked by Gi-Hun. He said it improves memory retention.”

Thanos grabs it dramatically. “I knew I liked that man.”

Nam-Gyu watches him eat, amused. Then softer: “I like you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Trying. Not perfect. Just... here.”

Thanos swallows. “Gross. Stop being emotionally attractive while I’m eating.”

Nam-Gyu grins. “No promises.”

When they finished their study session the sun was low, throwing long shadows over the cracked sidewalk as Nam-Gyu and Thanos walked side by side. Their bags were heavier than usual — not with books, but with the unspoken weight of everything they were trying to rebuild.

Thanos kicked at a loose pebble and sighed, dramatic. “I’m not saying today’s test tried to kill me, but I’m definitely a ghost now.”

Nam-Gyu snorted, hugging a folder to his chest. “You only had to read a short passage and fill in blanks.”

“Exactly. Short. Like my will to live.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. The silence that followed wasn’t tense — just soft. Lived-in. The kind that didn’t need filling.

Then Thanos asked, without looking at him, “Do you really think I can pass everything?”

Nam-Gyu’s grip on his folder tightened. “Yes.”

“No hesitation?”

“You didn’t let me finish.” He turned, walking backward for a few steps so he could face him. “Yes. But I also think you’ll fail if you give up before you try.”

Thanos groaned. “There it is. The motivational poster voice.”

“I could start quoting physics formulas instead.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Nam-Gyu smirked. “Every action has it’s equal and oppos-“

Thanos shoved him lightly, and Nam-Gyu stumbled, laughing. “Okay, okay. Stop. You win.”

A beat passed.

Then Thanos slowed his pace, his tone more serious. “Bet on it.”

Nam-Gyu raised a brow. “Bet?”

“Yeah. We both do our best. No skipping study sessions, no last-minute cramming. If I pass, you owe me a date. Like an actual, official one. The kind with dressing up and dessert. And you have to kiss me in front of Gi-Hun.”

Nam-Gyu tried not to smile, but his ears were already pink. “And if you don’t pass?”

Thanos shrugged. “Then I still want a date. But I’ll wear a sign that says ‘My boyfriend is smarter than me and I love him anyway.’ In Times New Roman.”

“That’s—” Nam-Gyu paused. “Surprisingly fair.”

“So, what do you say?” Thanos held out his hand.

Nam-Gyu hesitated only a moment before taking it. “Deal.”

They kept walking, hands brushing — not fully held, but not letting go either.

At the crosswalk, Thanos looked over again. “What if I only pass some classes?”

Nam-Gyu tilted his head. “Then I get to pick the date outfit.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re in love with a menace.”

Thanos grinned. “Unfortunately.”

They waited for the light to change, their shoulders touching. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was something steady — like a new rhythm they were learning to walk in.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” Thanos said, toeing a crack in the sidewalk. “I won’t do anything. I’ll sit in the corner and study and be hot and miserable and tragic.”

Nam-Gyu snorted. “You say that like it’s a new thing.”

“So you’re saying I’m hot all the time?”

Nam-Gyu walked away before he had to confirm it.

Still, he didn’t protest when Thanos caught up to him a block later, and he definitely didn’t protest when Thanos fell into step beside him and casually said, “Let’s go to yours. I miss the unreasonably clean lighting and the way your new dads always act like I’m either a hurricane or a lost cat.”

Nam-Gyu glanced over. “You’re going to study?”

Thanos held up the annotated worksheet packet Nam-Gyu had given him earlier, rolled tightly like a diploma. “Swear.”

By the time they reached Gi-Hun and In-Ho’s apartment, the city lights had flickered on above them, glowing like a hundred cautious promises. Thanos kept fidgeting on the walk — fixing his hair in every reflective window, messing with his shirt, elbowing Nam-Gyu like a middle schooler. Nam-Gyu, on the other hand, was oddly quiet.

The elevator ride was too fast.

As they stepped into the hallway, Nam-Gyu hesitated for just a beat before unlocking the front door.

In-Ho opened it first. His face was unreadable at first — then he blinked and stepped back. “Thanos,” he said slowly, “You still exist.”

Gi-Hun appeared behind him, drying his hands on a dish towel. “We were beginning to think you’d vanished.”

“I did vanish,” Thanos said brightly. “Academic purgatory. It’s real. Your son dragged me out.”

Nam-Gyu muttered, “I’m not your son,” but Gi-Hun was already smiling.

“Welcome back,” he said. “We have leftovers if you’re hungry. Just no funny business. Open doors.”

Thanos held up his hands solemnly. “I’m here to repent and do math.”

In-Ho gave him a long, skeptical look, then walked away muttering something about “math not involving eye contact that long.”

Gi-Hun just leaned close to Nam-Gyu and whispered, “If he gets annoying, you have our permission to push him off the balcony.”

“I heard that,” Thanos called from the kitchen.

An hour later, they were on the floor of Nam-Gyu’s room, papers spread like petals around them, a playlist playing softly in the background. The door was, annoyingly, very much open.

Nam-Gyu was sitting cross-legged with his laptop open, glasses slipping down his nose, a red pen in one hand and a bag of sour candy in the other. Thanos was lying flat on his stomach with a pencil between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed as he stared at a page of notes that might as well have been written in Klingon.

Nam-Gyu poked him in the side with his foot. “You’ve been staring at that problem for ten minutes.”

“I’m trying to mentally intimidate it.”

Nam-Gyu laughed under his breath and handed him a second worksheet. “This one’s easier. Try this one first.”

Thanos groaned, but he took it. After a beat, he muttered, “What if I don’t get any of it?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer right away. He reached into his pencil pouch, pulled out a black marker, and scribbled something across the top of the worksheet.

When he slid it back, Thanos read the words:
“You’ve already gotten this far. I believe in you.”

There was a long, quiet beat.

Then Thanos said, too softly, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Nam-Gyu tilted his head. “The worksheet?”

“You.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

He just scooted closer and pressed his knee against Thanos’s — warm, steady.

They kept working.

Hours passed like that. Thanos yawned dramatically every twenty minutes. Nam-Gyu made him tea. They argued over the right way to format an answer. Nam-Gyu caught Thanos doodling hearts in the margins and called him out for it, and Thanos only grinned and said, “What? You inspired me.”

“Hey.”

Nam-Gyu blinks. “Yeah?”

“So… since we’re studying tomorrow anyway, and it’s, you know, educational and academic and totally innocent…” He’s already grinning, already building up the dramatics. “Can I sleep over?”
Nam-Gyu raises an eyebrow. “You want to ask Gi-Hun and In-Ho if you can sleep over?”

“No, I want you to ask them. They like you. I’m just the menace corrupting their honor student.”

“You are corrupting,” Nam-Gyu says dryly. “And loud.”

Thanos gives him the most pathetic puppy-dog eyes known to mankind. “Come on. I’ll sleep on the floor. I have snacks. I’ll be quiet. Ish.”

“Quiet ish doesn’t inspire confidence.”

“Please, Nam-Gyu. Pretty please with statistical probability on top.”

Nam-Gyu sighs. He’s already pulling out his phone. “If they say no, you’re taking the subway home in the rain.”

“It’s not raining.”

As if summoned by fate, a droplet lands squarely on Thanos’s forehead. They're still inside of Nam-Guy's room so this truly must have been fate.

Nam-Gyu tries not to laugh. Fails.

Ten minutes later:

Gi-Hun is standing in the kitchen, stirring tea. In-Ho is by the door, giving Thanos the patented Disapproving Dad look over the rim of his glasses.

“No funny business,” In-Ho says sternly.

Thanos blinks. “What would be funny about studying your brains out?”

Gi-Hun hides his laugh in a mug. “He can stay,” he says gently. “But as I said, doors stay open.”

“And no crawling into each other’s beds in the middle of the night,” In-Ho adds.

“We don’t—”

“I’m talking to both of you.”

Nam-Gyu, very red, is pretending to study the kitchen tile.

Thanos salutes. “Copy that, sir. Separate beds, open doors, no cuddling unless academically necessary.”

Gi-Hun sighs but his smile softens. “One night. You have school.”

Thanos turns to Nam-Gyu the moment they’re alone and stage-whispers: “You have school. I have destiny.”

Nam-Gyu elbows him in the ribs, but he’s smiling too.

By the time midnight crept up on them, Gi-Hun poked his head in. “Lights out soon. Some of us work in the morning.”

Nam-Gyu saluted with a sleepy smile. “Got it.”

When he disappeared, Thanos curled onto the futon at the corner of the room, arms pillowing his head. “You’re gonna make a great husband someday.”

Nam-Gyu, brushing his teeth in the doorway, choked.

The light was off. The room was quiet.

And Nam-Gyu, lying on his back, stared at the ceiling for a while.

Then — soft rustling.

Thanos’s voice, barely above a whisper. “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“…Can I hold your hand?”

Nam-Gyu reached across the space between them and found Thanos’s fingers, warm and real and just slightly trembling.

Their fingers tangled quietly in the dark.

No one said anything else.

But the silence felt full. Like something earned.

Like maybe — just maybe — proof of concept.

The morning:

Nam-Gyu woke slowly, something soft and warm weighing against his side. It took a second for his brain to catch up — the golden light bleeding through the curtains, the faint scent of shampoo, the quiet thrum of breathing that wasn’t his.

He turned his head.

Thanos.

Fast asleep. On his stomach, one arm draped across the edge of the futon like he’d reached for Nam-Gyu in his sleep and missed. His mouth was half-open, the blanket tangled around his waist, exposing a strip of pale skin and a constellation of freckles.

Nam-Gyu stared for a long moment. He could hardly believe it — that they had made it through the storm and somehow still ended up here.

Alive. Together. Breathing the same air.

He didn’t move. Didn’t want to.

This… felt rare. Felt sacred.

Eventually, he sat up. His body ached — not painfully, just the kind of fatigue that came after days of running on nothing but adrenaline and caffeine. He stepped over Thanos carefully and padded out of the room in his socks.

In-Ho was already in the kitchen, humming something under his breath as he poured coffee. He didn’t flinch when Nam-Gyu entered, just slid a mug across the counter.

“You survived,” he said, voice dry.

“Barely.”

“You’re glowing.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

“Don’t worry. It’s disgusting,” In-Ho added, but there was a smile in it.

Nam-Gyu sipped the coffee, letting the warmth fill in the cracks inside him.

“I’m making breakfast,” he said, not entirely sure why. Maybe because Gi-Hun usually did it. Maybe because he wanted to. Maybe because today felt like a beginning.

In-Ho blinked slowly, then leaned against the counter. “You’re aware that boy is allergic to anything with nutritional value?”

Nam-Gyu gave a soft snort. “He’s going to eat it anyway.”

He opened the fridge, rooting around for ingredients. Eggs. A bit of rice. Kimchi. He didn’t want anything fancy. Just… something real. Something warm.

As he cooked, he kept glancing toward the hallway — half-expecting Thanos to stumble in, dramatic and messy, demanding affection and caffeine. But he didn’t.

When he was done, he plated two bowls and placed them gently on the small kitchen table. The apartment was quiet in a comforting way. No tension. No voices raised in anger. Just the clink of cutlery and the distant sound of a neighbor’s dog.

Finally, Thanos shuffled in. Hair a disaster. Sleep still clinging to his face. He blinked at Nam-Gyu, then at the table.

“…Did you cook for me?” he asked like Nam-Gyu had just built him a spaceship.

“No,” Nam-Gyu said. “I cooked for me. You just happen to benefit.”

Thanos grinned and plopped into the chair. He took a bite — made a dramatic, sinful noise like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “You trying to wife me up already?”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but his ears went red. “Just eat.”

They sat together, knees brushing under the table.

Halfway through the meal, Thanos paused. “I didn’t dream last night.”

Nam-Gyu looked up. “No?”

“First time in a while. Just… slept. With you beside me.”

He didn’t say anything more.

He didn’t need to.

When they finished, Nam-Gyu started clearing the table. Thanos reached for the dishes, clearly trying to help but ended up nearly knocking over the soy sauce. Nam-Gyu gently pushed him aside. “Go brush your hair or something. You’re a hazard.”

Thanos snorted and padded toward the bathroom, grumbling about how domestic abuse starts in the kitchen.

Nam-Gyu watched him go, smiling faintly. Then, just before turning back to the dishes, he glanced down at his hand — still bare. Still waiting.

The ring sat on his nightstand. He hadn’t worn it to bed, too afraid of losing it in the blankets or having it fall off in his sleep.

But now, with the sunlight pooling through the curtains, with the breakfast still warm in his belly and the ghost of Thanos’s voice echoing in the kitchen, he went back to the room and picked it up.

Slid it on.

Let it settle.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t healed. It wasn’t easy.

And right now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Morning Chaos (Nam-Gyu’s POV) - Early morning, Gi-Hun & In-Ho’s apartment, final exam day.

Nam-Gyu wakes before the alarm.

The sky outside the window is a soft, washed-out grey — the kind that comes just before sunrise, not quite night and not quite day. His eyes open slowly, but the weight in his chest is immediate. It’s exam day.

This was it. The last day. Final exams. The day everything they’d worked toward would come to a head.

For a moment, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling. No racing thoughts, no spiraling — just silence. The good kind. The unfamiliar kind.

A quiet knock comes at the door. “Five-minute warning,” Gi-Hun’s voice calls softly, followed by the scent of toast and tea.

The apartment was otherwise quiet. Not the anxious, walking-on-glass kind of quiet he’d grown up with, but soft. Warm. The sound of someone boiling water in the kitchen, footsteps in slippers, the gentle clink of mugs.

Nam-Gyu pulls himself upright, stretching beneath the thick covers. His desk is clutter-free, his backpack neatly packed the night before. His uniform shirt is already pressed and hanging near the door, a pair of ridiculous patterned socks folded on top — neon green, with little dancing calculators. A gift from In-Ho, who’d said, “For luck, or just to annoy your math teacher. Both acceptable.”

He could hear In-Ho humming lowly under his breath, something jazzy and familiar, and the smell of eggs wafted in under his door.

Nam-Gyu sat up, stretching slowly. His uniform was already ironed and hanging on the door. His bag was packed. His cheat sheet notebook — useless during the test, priceless to his peace of mind — was in its front pocket.

He gets dressed slowly, deliberately. Button by button. He slides the ring onto his finger last — silver, worn, the word mine stamped into the inside. It fits perfectly now, like it’s always belonged there.

Downstairs, In-Ho is already waiting by the table, newspaper in hand and a second mug poured. Gi-Hun hands over a lunchbox — homemade kimbap, sliced fruit, and a folded sticky note that simply says:

“Do your best.”

Nam-Gyu doesn’t speak. He just bows his head for a second, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

What was strange, honestly, was how calm he felt.

He moved through his morning slower than usual, letting the moment settle. Gi-Hun surprised him in the kitchen with a packed bento box and a dumb little grin. "I put lucky sesame seeds in the rice. Don’t ask why. It’s a dad thing."

Nam-Gyu smiled at the family title but didn’t contradict Gi-Hun. There was no reason to do so.

In-Ho handed him his blazer. "You’re going to do fine. You’ve already passed the test that matters."

Nam-Gyu blinked. “Which one?”

“Getting back up.”

That hit harder than he expected. He swallowed, nodding.
He steps into his shoes, pulls on his backpack, and stands at the door for half a second too long.

Gi-Hun called out after him, “Text if you need anything!”

In-Ho added, without even looking up from his tea, “And eat the whole lunch. No cheating.”

Not because he’s scared.

But because—for the first time—he doesn’t feel like he has anything left to prove.

And still, he wants to show what he’s become.

Nam-Gyu smiled all the way to the school gates.

In the Testing Hall (Thanos’s POV)

Setting: Exam hall, mid-test.

The test paper stared at him like it had a personal grudge.

He stares at the blank test paper harder.

Like it’s a foreign language. Like he hasn’t spent the past who knows how many months drowning in study guides, voice memos, and very aggressive color-coded diagrams with angry little hearts in the margins.

Thanos runs a hand through his hair, shifts in his seat. His leg bounces like it’s trying to escape the floor. His palms are damp.

He knows this.

He knows this.

His brain doesn’t.

He flips to the next page. The question reads like a dare. He bites the inside of his cheek. The panic creeps in quiet — like a leak in the ceiling — and suddenly everything feels like it’s cracking under the weight of it.

Thanos tapped his pencil against the desk, bounced his leg, tried to breathe evenly. The classroom was dead silent, except for the occasional cough or scribble. He couldn’t hear Nam-Gyu — not that they were allowed to sit together — but he imagined him a few rows away, eyebrows furrowed, writing in that neat, sharp script.

Thanos stared back at question eight. He’d seen this before. They’d done it in the clubroom. It was the one Nam-Gyu had compared to a dance step.

He closed his eyes. “You said it looked like a cha-cha.”

A flicker of a smile. Then a stab of anxiety.

He couldn’t do it.

He should be able to. After all that work. After all those nights. But his brain had hit a wall. The formulas blurred. The variables tangled. Panic clawed up his throat.

You’re not dumb.

He tried to remember Nam-Gyu’s voice, steady and warm. He tried to remember the flashcards, the notes, the voice recordings that he still played sometimes, even though he pretended not to.

He looked around. Everyone else looked fine. Focused. Composed. Normal.

He didn’t belong here.

He’s gonna leave me.

The thought hit him out of nowhere. It came fast, sharp, and uninvited.

If I flunk this, what’s the point? He’s going to move forward. Graduate. Get his fancy scholarship. And I’ll still be stuck, chasing something that doesn’t want me.

His hand trembled.

Then, from his pocket — because of course he kept it there, like an idiot — he felt the cool edge of the flash drive. The one Nam-Gyu had filled with his voice. With notes. With dumb inside jokes and whispered encouragements.

He squeezed it like a lifeline.

And then, slowly, he flipped to the next page.

He didn’t know if he’d pass. But he was going to try.

Not because he believed in himself.

Because Nam-Gyu did.

His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk. There, tucked just beneath his pencil case, is a folded scrap of paper.

It’s not cheating.

It’s not even notes.

It’s a doodle.

A stupid, messy sketch of a frog wearing a graduation cap. And next to it, in Nam-Gyu’s unmistakable handwriting:

“You’ve got this. Show your work. I believe in you (against my better judgment).”

Thanos exhales — sharp, sudden, almost a laugh.

He adjusts his grip on the pencil. Reads the question again. Slower this time.

The voice in his head is Nam-Gyu’s — dry, impatient, and weirdly soothing. "Don't guess. Think. Start with what you know."

He writes.

A single line.

Then another. Then a diagram. Then a whole paragraph of math that might be wrong, but at least it’s his.

He doesn't look around. Doesn't check the clock.

He just keeps going.

Show your work.

The hallway hummed with that strange, disoriented energy — part exhaustion, part relief, part what the hell just happened. Students spill out of the classrooms in uneven waves, like water released too fast. Some are talking too loud. Some are silent. Some are already pretending it never happened.

Nam-Gyu walks out last.

He takes the stairs slowly, one hand brushing the railing, even though he doesn’t need it. His knees feel weirdly unsteady. Not from exhaustion — he’s had worse — but from something weightless and sinking all at once.

It’s done, he thinks.

And it feels less like triumph, more like surfacing.

Outside, the sun’s too bright. The sky is the kind of blue that almost feels sarcastic. Students scatter across the school yard like freed birds, their uniforms wrinkled and ties tugged loose. It smells like pavement, grass, and too many vending machine coffees.

His limbs are stiff, his head buzzing. He doesn’t even realize he’s scanning the crowd until he sees him.

Thanos is already outside, sitting on the low wall near the main gate. His tie’s undone, shirt half-untucked, expression unreadable. He looks like a delinquent and a disaster. Nam-Gyu has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.

He walks over slowly.

Thanos looks up.

“Did you survive?” he asks, voice low.

Nam-Gyu nods. “Barely.”

Thanos tilts his head. “Define ‘barely.’ Did you spontaneously combust halfway through the essay section?”

“No,” Nam-Gyu says. “But I thought about it.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… quiet. Like the silence after a storm.

Thanos tilts his head, watching him carefully. “You okay?”

Nam-Gyu shrugs. “Ask me again when we get our grades.”

Thanos huffs a laugh and kicks lightly at the pavement with his heel. “I think I stopped breathing halfway through that last problem. Did I even write anything? I blacked out. Be honest.”

“You did,” Nam-Gyu says. “You didn’t leave early. You didn’t give up. That counts.”

Thanos side-eyes him. “Counts for what?”

“For not quitting,” Nam-Gyu says.

There’s a pause.

“You sound proud or something,” Thanos says, like it’s a joke, but it’s not funny. Not really.

Nam-Gyu doesn’t answer right away.

Because he is. And he hates how obvious it feels — how soft it makes him.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I am.”

Thanos stares at him. No smirk. No snark.

“…Of me?” he says after a beat. “You literally dragged me through this semester by the collar. You made me study. You made me think. You deserve a damn trophy.”

Nam-Gyu shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I’m not proud of what you did with it."

Thanos looks down at his hands.

He fidgets with the frayed corner of his sleeve. Like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of praise.

“Okay,” he says, barely audible. “That’s… really unfair. Saying that and just—standing there.”

Nam-Gyu blinks. “Why?”

“Because now I want to do something stupid,” Thanos mutters. “Like kiss you.”

Nam-Gyu opens his mouth, then closes it again. His brain stutters. His entire body becomes one long flush of heat and panic.

Thanos notices. Of course he notices.

“Relax, I’m not gonna,” he says quickly, raising both hands in surrender. “We’re outside. People. Sunlight. I’m not that dumb.”

Nam-Gyu glares at him, even though his ears are turning red. “You’re exactly that dumb.”

Thanos grins.

Then — like it’s the most casual thing in the world — he hooks his pinky through Nam-Gyu’s. Not a full-on handhold. Not a show. Just something quiet. Something small and steady and here.

Nam-Gyu doesn’t pull away.

They sit there for a while. Just breathing.

Nam-Gyu’s shoulder brushes Thanos’s every time he shifts, and neither of them moves further apart.

After a few minutes, Nam-Gyu speaks again. “What are you going to do now?”

Thanos stretches, tilts his head toward the sky. “Probably sleep for fourteen years. Then eat everything in the vending machine. Then wait for my scores and scream into a pillow.”

Nam-Gyu considers. “Productive.”

“Thanks, I try.” Thanos glances at him. “You?”

Nam-Gyu thinks for a long time. “I don’t know. For the first time in a while… I think I don’t have to.”

Thanos stares at him again, this time with something unreadable in his eyes. Not pity. Not pride. Just… knowing.

“Good,” he says. “You deserve that.”

The bell in the distance rings for afternoon classes neither of them has to go to. Students wander past, loud and laughing, in groups or pairs. Some of them glance over — at Thanos, at Nam-Gyu, at their tangled pinkies.

But no one says anything.

And even if they did, Nam-Gyu thinks maybe he wouldn’t care.

Not right now.

Right now, it’s just this: the warmth of the sun on his face, the pressure of Thanos’s hand next to his, the feeling of finally, finally being still — not because he gave up, but because he made it through.

A shadow passes over them.

“Wow,” Se-Mi’s voice chirps from behind. “My two favorite nerds just sitting here, looking like a coming-of-age film poster.”

Thanos jerks his hand back instinctively. Nam-Gyu flinches. Their pinkies disconnect with a snap, like they’d been caught lighting something on fire.

Mi-Na flops down dramatically on the other side of Thanos, kicking her legs out in front of her. “We survived,” she groans. “Barely. If anyone asks me what the capital of despair is, I’m saying calculi. And I stand by that.”

Gyeong-Su stands nearby with his arms crossed. “It was calculus.”

“I don’t speak Latin,” Mi-Na shoots back.

Min-Su arrives last, slumping beside Nam-Gyu. “Are we allowed to be stupid again now?”

“Were we ever not?” Thanos says.

Se-Mi throws her empty water bottle at him. “You were—like—moderately tolerable for two whole weeks. It was disgusting.”

Nam-Gyu watches them all quietly, the chaos somehow grounding. Their voices rise and fall in familiar rhythms — insults, sighs, complaints, laughter. Thanos meets his gaze briefly across the noise.

And for once, Nam-Gyu doesn’t look away.

They’re not pretending anymore. Not pretending to hate each other. Not pretending this didn’t matter.

The group starts arguing over who gets to choose snacks from the nearest convenience store. Thanos nudges Nam-Gyu’s shoe with his own. Nam-Gyu kicks it lightly in response.

They don’t say anything.

But they’re still connected — like gravity.

Later That Night –

Nam-Gyu is already in bed, one arm flopped dramatically over his face, his phone balanced on his chest. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes. His brain is soup. His soul is soup. He thinks he might be vibrating from the leftover stress. Or caffeine. Possibly both.

A new voice memo pops up at 11:47 p.m.

From: Thanos
“Okay. So. I might have accidentally celebrated by eating three convenience store hot dogs and now I can’t move. This is a cry for help. But also a thank-you message.”

Pause.

“For real, though… I didn’t cheat. I think I only panicked twice. Three times max. Which is, like, personal growth, right?”
Another pause. Slightly wheezy.
“If I die of nitrates tonight, tell my story. And also clear my search history. Love you, nerd. Bye.”

Nam-Gyu stares at the screen. Blinks.

He plays it again.

Then — finally — he sends back a message.

To: Thanos
“You ate three?”

Three dots appear.

Thanos is typing...

Then another voice memo lands with a thunk.

From: Thanos
“Okay it was four. But I panicked. Shut up.”

Nam-Gyu snorts so loudly he has to muffle his face in his pillow.

His phone vibrates again.

Thanos: “Also. I lied. Six. Sorry.”

Nam-Gyu:
“If you die tonight I’m not coming to your funeral. But I will steal your hoodie.”

Thanos: “Worth it.”

Chapter Text

It’s been three days.

Seventy-two hours of limbo.

Nam-Gyu has refreshed the school portal so many times his browser memorized the login. Thanos asked if they could install an actual refresh button on Nam-Gyu’s forehead.

Now it’s Friday. The day the results go up.

“Why do they still use paper?” Thanos groans, dragging his feet as they walk toward the bulletin board on the third floor. “It’s 2025. Are we not a digital-first society?”

“You’re holding your phone upside down,” Nam-Gyu mutters without looking at him.

“Because I’m not checking. It’s bad luck.”

Nam-Gyu rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. His hands are clenched around the straps of his bag. His heart is somewhere in his throat.

The hallway is packed — students jostling to see the pinned sheet taped to the wall. Gyeong-Su is leaning against a locker with his arms crossed. Min-Su bounces on his toes. Mi-Na is holding a phone flashlight under the list like they’re reading an ancient scroll. Se-Mi is yelling at someone to move their “non-passing ass.”

Nam-Gyu hovers just outside the crowd.

The hallway crowd thickens near the bulletin board. Se-Mi is already there, holding her phone up like a torch. “Everyone MOVE. If I see your name before mine I’m pushing you down the stairs.”
Mi-Na waves her arms like she’s directing traffic. “Thanos, get in there. You’re tall. Be useful.”

Thanos takes one look at the cluster of students and turns around. “I changed my mind. I’m dropping out. I’ll become a street performer. Or marry rich.”

Nam-Gyu grabs the back of his jacket and spins him around again. “Go.”

“You go.”

“You need it more.”

“Excuse me, I have my sanity to protect.”

Nam-Gyu gives him a look.

Thanos groans dramatically, but elbows his way forward like it’s a Black Friday sale. Mi-Na grabs Nam-Gyu’s arm in suspense. Se-Mi is muttering predictions under her breath like it’s a horse race.

He elbows through the crowd with the grace of a bulldozer. Nam-Gyu watches from behind, chewing the inside of his cheek. He’s not scared of failing, exactly. He studied. He did his best. He survived.

But what if—

“HEY!” Thanos’s voice rings out, loud and startled.

Nam-Gyu’s stomach drops. “What?”

“WE’RE GENIUSES.”

“Why are you shouting?.”

“WE. ARE. GENIUSES.” Thanos turns around, grinning like he just won a gold medal. “You passed. I passed. I literally passed. Like... legally. Officially. It’s in writing!”

“Stop yelling!” Nam-Gyu hisses again, already pushing forward.

Thanos points at the list like it’s a treasure map. “There. See? Nam-Gyu: passed. Thanos: passed. Me. I passed. The government has officially acknowledged my intellectual dominance.”
Nam-Gyu scans the sheet. His name is there. Next to it, one word: Passed.

Nam-Gyu pushes through the crowd to double-check. His name is there. Perfectly normal. One line in a long list. And yet it glows right there at the very top.

He steps back slowly, like the floor might move beneath him.

“You okay?” Gyeong-Su asks, appearing beside him.

Nam-Gyu nods. He’s not sure if he’s breathing. “Yeah. Just… yeah.”

“Yeah,” Gyeong-Su repeats, like he understands more than he lets on. “You did good.”

Thanos bounds over and practically tackles him with an arm slung around his neck. “This is what victory smells like,” he says, sniffing obnoxiously. “Do you smell that? That’s the scent of academic redemption.”

“Called it,” Gyeong-Su says simply, then returns to leaning against the wall like nothing happened.

Mi-Na screeches and throws herself dramatically onto Se-Mi, who nearly drops her phone.

Min-Su stares at the board, stunned. “I thought for sure I failed English.”

“You are English,” Se-Mi deadpans.

Mi-Na waves her phone in the air. “Group rooftop celebration. Tonight. Be there or I will make you regret it spiritually.”

“Where are you getting these threats from?” Min-Su whispers.

“I actually have no clue.”

“Yeah, that fits.”

Thanos comes up behind Nam-Gyu and throws an arm around his shoulders, leaning in with way too much confidence for someone who almost died over a calculus question.

“Rooftop. Sunset. Snacks. Emotional speeches. You in?”

Nam-Gyu looks at him. His eyes are too bright. His voice is too casual. His arm is warm.

“…Okay,” Nam-Gyu says.

“Okay?” Thanos repeats. “That’s it?”

Mi-Na yells back, “I don’t care if you’re busy, dying, or in love. You’re all coming.”

Se-Mi fist-pumps. “I’ll bring fireworks!”

Min-Su: “That’s… highly illegal.”

Se-Mi: “You’re bringing soda. You don’t get to talk.”

Gyeong-Su rolls his eyes. “I’ll bring a first aid kit. And a fire extinguisher.”

They scatter in all directions, already planning the snacks, the music, who’s bringing what. Nam-Gyu watches them for a moment, heart still a little unsure if this is really real.

Then Thanos nudges his elbow.

“You did it,” he says quietly, just for him.

Nam-Gyu swallows hard. “So did you.”

Thanos shrugs. “Mine’s less impressive. You actually deserve it.”

Nam-Gyu doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he reaches down, grabs Thanos’s hand briefly—and squeezes.

Then lets go before anyone can see.

But Thanos grins like he felt it anyway.

Nam-Gyu shrugs. “Do you want me to scream ‘We are geniuses’ too?”

Thanos grins. “Desperately.”

Nam-Gyu smirks. “You’ll live.”

But even as he says it, something inside him eases. Like a knot slowly coming undone.

The sun is already lowering when Nam-Gyu steps onto the rooftop, arms full of snacks he was absolutely not supposed to carry alone.

He’s greeted by chaos.

Mi-Na is arguing with a bag of fairy lights tangled around her legs. Min-Su is trying to hang up a blanket as a makeshift curtain and has nearly fallen off the ladder twice. Gyeong-Su is taping extension cords to the floor like he’s prepping for a military operation. And Thanos is standing in the middle of it all—shirt half-untucked, holding a single sparkling juice bottle like it’s a microphone—singing off-key to a playlist no one remembers approving.

“Is this,” Nam-Gyu says, stepping over a coil of string lights, “legally a fire hazard?”

“Spiritually, it’s a celebration,” Se-Mi calls from the corner, where she’s lighting what might be a candle. Or incense. Or a sparkler. No one is sure.

Nam-Gyu dumps the snacks onto a nearby table. Someone cheers. Someone else throws popcorn in the air like confetti.

“I brought kimbap,” he mutters.

Mi-Na gasps. “You beautiful, beautiful man.”

He side-eyes her. “It’s from the convenience store.”

“Still counts.”

Thanos jogs over and takes the bag from his hand. “You showed up. You fed us. You’re perfect.” Then, with a grin: “Want me to put the lights around your chair so you glow like a mystical exam God?”

“No.”

Thanos is already doing it anyway.

“Stop,” Nam-Gyu says, but he doesn’t move.

“You’ll look majestic.”

“I’ll look electrocuted.”

Across the rooftop, someone finally plugs in the lights—and for a moment, the whole space glows.

They’ve strung the fairy lights along the fence, looped them around chairs, tables, even the ladder Min-Su gave up on. There’s a mix of snacks, drinks, portable speakers, and one very aggressive glitter balloon that no one claims responsibility for.

The sun dips lower, casting everything in that warm, syrupy gold.

They sit in a loose circle—some on folding chairs, some on blankets, Thanos sprawled halfway onto Nam-Gyu’s legs like a cat who decided this spot was his now.

Se-Mi opens the first drink with a dramatic pop and raises it high.

“To passing finals,” she says. “To not being expelled. To surviving another semester in this hellhole.”

“To being hot and literate!” Mi-Na adds.

“Speak for yourself,” Min-Su mutters.

They clink bottles. Someone drops theirs. Gyeong-Su catches it midair with one hand and keeps talking like nothing happened. Thanos calls him sensei for the rest of the night.

Nam-Gyu watches the way they all fit together. Loud, ridiculous, comfortable. He can’t remember the last time he felt this quiet in his head.

Then Thanos leans in, voice low against his ear.

“Hey.”

Nam-Gyu turns his head. “Hm?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Nam-Gyu blinks. His chest tightens.

“I brought kimbap,” he says, too fast.

Thanos laughs, soft and warm. “Yeah. You did.”

They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to.

There’s a quiet moment between them, filtered golden through fairy lights and the hum of distant music. Nam-Gyu expects Thanos to turn back to the others, make another joke, rejoin the chaos.

But he doesn’t.

He stays close. His hand brushes Nam-Gyu’s on the blanket between them, lingers, then turns palm-up—an unspoken ask.

Nam-Gyu doesn’t pull away. He lets their fingers link, carefully, like the smallest shift might shatter it.

Then Thanos says it. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just:

“I love you, you know.”

Nam-Gyu’s breath catches.

Thanos keeps looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just drop a bomb between bites of mochi and commentary on Se-Mi’s playlist.

“I’ve known for a while. I just didn’t want to mess it up. Or scare you. Or get punched. Any of the above, really.”

Nam-Gyu looks at him—really looks at him.

And Thanos finally meets his gaze. No grin. No flirty bravado. Just that terrifying kind of honesty that hits harder than any kiss.

Nam-Gyu’s voice, when it comes, is small. But sure.

“I know.”

Thanos raises an eyebrow. “That’s your answer?”

Nam-Gyu leans in, just barely.

“Also,” he murmurs, “I love you too. Obviously.”

Thanos exhales like he’s been holding it in all semester.

Then, because he can’t help himself:

“Wait—obviously?”

Nam-Gyu smirks. “I’m literally holding your hand under a blanket while you glow under fairy lights. What did you think this was?”

Thanos grins so wide it hurts. “A fever dream. A beautifully lit, emotionally stable fever dream.”

“Shut up,” Nam-Gyu says, and leans his head on Thanos’s shoulder.

Thanos shuts up.

Above them, the lights flicker on fully. Below, the city hums.

And for once, no one is running, or breaking, or trying to prove something.

They’re just here.

Together.

The party doesn’t really end. It just… softens.

After a while, the shouting dies down. The sugar highs crash. Someone puts on a chill playlist that loops lo-fi beats and acoustic covers of sad love songs no one admits they know the lyrics to.

The city glows below them in flickers of red and gold. Fairy lights hum overhead. Thanos’s head is still on Nam-Gyu’s shoulder, heavier now, like he’s on the edge of sleep. Their hands are laced loosely, resting between them. Neither of them moves.

And Nam-Gyu starts to think.

It’s not on purpose. The thoughts just arrive, slow and steady, like clouds drifting across the night.

A flash of memory:
Himself, months ago, sitting alone in the library with perfect posture and a headache that wouldn’t go away. A page full of notes in front of him, untouched. His phone buzzing with a new contact—“Stalker??”

Another:
Thanos at their first study session, pretending not to understand basic math. Kicking the chair. Doodling swords in the margins. Grinning like none of this mattered. And Nam-Gyu, exhausted, trying not to strangle him with a graphing calculator.

The clubroom.

The rooftop.

The nights they didn’t speak.

The ones they couldn’t stop.

Nam-Gyu’s voice cracking in the hallway after missing a call. Thanos showing up at the club like a warning shot. Jun-Hee’s knowing look. The ring left behind. The ring returned.

And now—

Now, they’re here.

There are voices still, distant and warm. Mi-Na is humming under her breath. Se-Mi and Min-Su are arguing softly about whether Se-Mi’s confession to her crush counted if it was screamed during karaoke. Gyeong-Su is scrolling on his phone but not really looking at it.

Nam-Gyu looks up at the sky.

It’s the same rooftop. The same city. The same stupid fairy lights they used back in fall for Mi-Na’s failed astrology-themed birthday party.

But the sky feels different.

Like something cracked open.

Like something healed.

He squeezes Thanos’s hand gently.

And Thanos, still half-asleep, squeezes back.

Nam-Gyu doesn’t say anything. He just lets the moment hold.

Not everything needs to be spoken out loud anymore.

Some things have been earned.

At some point, the others drift toward the stairs, one by one.

Mi-Na is the first to yawn dramatically and announce, “If I don’t sleep, I will become violent.”

Se-Mi: “You already are.”

Min-Su shuffles after them with two backpacks, looking like a haunted raccoon. Gyeong-Su gathers the trash in neat silence. Nam-Gyu offers to help, but he just gives a subtle nod that says: Stay.
And then, somehow, it’s just them.

The rooftop is quiet again, but not empty. Not like before.

Thanos shifts beside Nam-Gyu, sitting up slowly and rubbing his eyes. “They’re gone?”

Nam-Gyu nods.

“Damn. I wanted to force them all to say something sappy.”

“You can text them. Or blackmail them with karaoke videos.”

“Too easy.” Thanos stretches, arms above his head, then lets them fall into his lap. He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the lights.

They sit in silence for a while, the kind that’s warm around the edges.

Then Thanos glances down at Nam-Gyu’s hand, still resting between them, ring glinting under the fairy lights.

“You know,” he says, voice low but steady, “when I saw you wearing that again… it hit me harder than I thought.”

Nam-Gyu doesn’t look at him yet. Just listens.

“Because I thought I ruined it. Us. All of it. When you took it off, it felt like I’d lost something I wasn’t supposed to have in the first place.”

Nam-Gyu’s chest tightens.

“But when I saw it on your hand again—in the hospital, when you woke up—I just… knew,” Thanos continues. “You weren’t just wearing it. You were choosing it. Choosing me.”

Nam-Gyu turns to him. Slowly. Carefully.

“I was,” he says. “I am.”

Thanos swallows. “Good. Because I’m not hiding anymore. Not from them, not from you, not from myself.”

Nam-Gyu smiles—quiet and soft, but fierce underneath. “Then don’t.”

Nam-Gyu looks at the ring. It’s worn, but still bright. Still his. Still theirs.

He reaches out, slowly, and Thanos gently takes his hand.

No rush. No pressure.

Nam-Gyu stares at it for a second, then says, quietly, “This time, I’m not taking it off.”

Thanos looks up at him, and he’s grinning — not cocky, not smug. Just wide-eyed and a little overwhelmed.

Then, softly: “I wasn’t going to let you.”

Nam-Gyu hesitates for only half a second before leaning in. “Okay,” he whispers.

And he kisses him.

This one isn’t a secret. It isn’t rushed or stolen or uncertain. It’s slow, deliberate, and seen. Not by the world, maybe. But by the sky, by the lights, by the air that feels like summer.

Thanos kisses him back, one hand braced against the floor, the other still holding his.

When they part, neither of them moves far.

Thanos looks down at Nam-Gyu’s hand again, still linked with his.

Thanos murmurs, “So… are we officially boyfriends now?”

Nam-Gyu rolls his eyes. “You gave me a ring.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t propose. You gave it to me first. So technically—”

Nam-Gyu cuts him off with another kiss.

“You know,” he says, “it still kind of feels like a proposal.”

Nam-Gyu’s lips twitch. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Too late. I already planned the wedding. You’re going to hate the playlist.”

Nam-Gyu groans, drops his head onto Thanos’s shoulder. “We’re not married.”

“Not yet.”

“Stop talking.”

Thanos smiles.

Nam-Gyu doesn’t move away.

“Okay,” he says. “Now it’s official.”

Chapter Text

The school had entered its pre-graduation phase — part buzzing, part melting down.

Walls were covered in bright flyers with names of universities, deadlines, tuition breakdowns, dorm layouts. College reps had been visiting the school for weeks now, leaving behind glossy pamphlets and a collective sense of rising dread.

The hallways had never felt louder. “Class of the Future!” one flyer declared in neon pink. Another read: “Submit your scholarship essays by Friday!” in aggressive red Sharpie.

A countdown was taped outside the office:

Graduation: 23 Days.

Someone had changed the font to Comic Sans. Someone else had written “we’re all gonna die” underneath in red pen.

Nam-Gyu barely glanced at it as he moved past, folders tucked neatly under one arm, the other occupied with a coffee he hadn’t had time to drink. He didn’t stop to read the scholarship chart or the “Dorm Life 101” board or the one flyer that said “What if your dreams change?” with an aggressively smiling cartoon graduate.

He’d already memorized the deadlines. The numbers. The offers. He didn’t need reminding.

He’d done what he was supposed to. Submitted early. Perfect personal statement. Waited. Calculated. Waited more. He had three offers in hand — one strong, one good, one dream school hanging just out of reach unless some miracle check fell from the sky.

And no one needed to know how close he was to running out of options.

“Mi-Na cried in the middle of homeroom when her acceptance letter came,” someone behind him was saying. “Like actual sobbing. I thought she was dying. Turns out it was Ewha.”

“She’s going to dye her hair blonde and become unbearable,” another voice replied.

Nam-Gyu turned the corner, scanning the hallway, and found him.

Thanos was slouched against the lockers, one earbud in, chewing a plastic straw that had long since been flattened into uselessness. He was wearing a hoodie over his uniform shirt — technically against the rules, but no one was brave enough to stop him anymore. His backpack was unzipped. There was a piece of crumpled homework sticking out the top that looked suspiciously like Nam-Gyu’s handwriting.

He looked so relaxed it almost read as lazy — until you noticed his foot tapping restlessly, his jaw tight, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the flyers like they were written in a language he’d never learned.

Nam-Gyu paused a few steps away. “You’re going to kick a hole in the tile.”

Thanos startled slightly, then gave him a half-smirk. “At least then I’d leave my mark on this school.”

“Other than the chaos and academic dishonesty?”

“Academic innovation,” Thanos corrected, grinning. “I prefer to outsource my homework to qualified professionals.”

Nam-Gyu snorted but didn’t argue. He shifted his folders, settling into his usual posture of forced composure. “You’ve been standing here a while.”

“Maybe I like watching people have their existential crises. Makes mine feel less lonely.”

“So,” Thanos said finally, voice light but a little too casual, “you send your applications?”

Nam-Gyu nodded. “Early. Got a few offers back. Waiting on scholarship news.”

Thanos gave a low whistle. “Of course you did. Golden boy.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t any bite to it. “What about you?”

Thanos shrugged. “I’ve been… thinking about it.”

“That’s code for ‘I’ve been actively avoiding it.’”

Nam-Gyu tilted his head, trying to read him. “You okay?”

Thanos rolled his shoulder against the locker. “Define okay.”

“You haven’t filled out anything yet, have you?”

“Define anything.”

Nam-Gyu sighed. He glanced at the closest flyer — a bold red one with ‘Your Future Starts Here!’ in bubbly letters and a smiling student holding a diploma like it wasn’t paper and a lie.

“That one makes me want to walk into traffic,” Thanos said quietly.

Nam-Gyu didn’t laugh. He looked back at him, really looked. The smirk was still there, but the eyes behind it were dark with something else — fear, maybe. Resentment. Or worse: resignation.

“You don’t have to go to college, you know,” Nam-Gyu said, voice softer now. “It’s not the only way.”

“I know,” Thanos said. Then added, “But it feels like the only thing people are allowed to want.”

There was a silence. A hallway full of movement, but none between them.

Nam-Gyu leaned just a little closer. “You’re allowed to want something else.”

Thanos looked at him. “Even if I don’t know what that is yet?”

“Especially then.”

They stood like that for a moment — surrounded by classmates talking about majors and financial aid and dorm assignments — just the two of them, in the middle of the chaos, both quietly trying not to drown.

Nam-Gyu nudged Thanos’s shoulder with his own. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere we can sit without being suffocated by dreams and debt.”

“God, marry me.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “I’d still make you pay rent.”

Another beat passed. Thanos’s gaze drifted to a poster with a smiling student and the words ‘Your Future Starts Here!’ in bold letters.

“That’s a lot of pressure,” he said, almost to himself..”

Thanos grinned, but it was softer now. Grateful. A little amazed.

And he followed.

The rooftop wasn’t officially open to students, but the lock was laughable and Thanos had long since mastered the art of gentle rule-breaking. He kicked the door shut behind them with the heel of his sneaker and let out a breath like he’d been holding it all day.

Nam-Gyu stepped into the sunlight and squinted. The city skyline shimmered in the distance, framed by laundry lines and antenna wires. It smelled like cement and spring — sharp, clean, a little bit nostalgic.

“Your secret hideout?” he asked, glancing around.

“My anxiety chamber,” Thanos said. “Welcome. No guidance counselors allowed.”

Nam-Gyu snorted and dropped his bag near the wall. He sat down cross-legged, back against warm brick, and tilted his face toward the sky.

Thanos lingered by the door for a moment before sitting beside him — not touching, but close. Close enough to feel the quiet settle between them.

They stayed like that for a while. No sounds but distant traffic and the hum of school below. Nam-Gyu tapped his fingers against his knee. Thanos pulled at the frayed hem of his sleeve.

“You ever think about just… not doing any of it?” Thanos said suddenly. His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the quiet like a matchstrike. “Like, leaving? Going somewhere no one knows you? Starting over?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “All the time.”

Thanos glanced sideways, surprised.

Nam-Gyu didn’t look at him. “But I don’t think I’d stop trying. That’s the problem. I’d just try to rebuild it somewhere else. Same expectations, different zip code.”

Thanos let that sink in.

“I don’t want to keep doing things I hate just because I’m supposed to,” he said finally. “I look at these applications and essays and scholarship essays and it’s like… who am I pretending to be this time?”

“You’re not pretending,” Nam-Gyu said.

“I am. I’ve been pretending since the day I sat down in that library with you.”

Nam-Gyu turned to look at him. “Then maybe you’re not pretending now.”

Thanos was quiet for a moment. He picked at the rubber sole of his shoe, then asked, “What if I don’t want any of it?”

Nam-Gyu’s voice was steady. “Then you don’t take it.”

“And end up what? A failure?”

“No,” Nam-Gyu said. “You end up free.”

That made Thanos look up.

Nam-Gyu shrugged. “You’re not less smart just because your brain works differently. You’re not less successful because you want something else.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Thanos admitted, voice low. “Music, maybe. I don’t even know if I’m good enough for that.”

“You are.”

“You haven’t heard me lately.”

“Still better than most people I know.”

Thanos shook his head, laughing once without humor. “You always say that like it means something.”

“It does. To me.”

“I think I just want to make music,” Thanos said finally, voice low. “Not because I think I’ll be famous. I’m not delusional. But... when I’m writing something or messing around with chords, it’s the only time I don’t feel like a mistake.”

Nam-Gyu turned toward him slowly. “Then that’s what you do.”

Thanos gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, but that’s not a real plan. It’s a ‘starve in a basement and sell my guitar for ramen’ plan.”

“Plenty of people starve with business degrees too,” Nam-Gyu murmured.

Thanos snorted. “That’s dark.”

“Just realistic.”

They fell quiet again.

“You ever feel like everyone else got the instructions for how to live, and we just got... the disclaimers?” Thanos said. “Like, ‘Here’s what not to do. Good luck figuring out the rest.’”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer right away. The wind tugged at his hair. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.

“I used to think college was the answer to everything. Like, if I could just get in somewhere good, it would solve it all. But it doesn’t erase how close I am to not affording any of it. Or how much pressure I’ve put on myself just trying to be… enough.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you want to go to college?” Thanos asked him.

Nam-Gyu nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do. I want it. I want to study. I want to be somewhere new. I want to be around people who don’t already have a box to put me in.”

Thanos frowned. “Then what’s stopping you?”

Nam-Gyu hesitated, then said the words like they hurt. “Money.”

“I applied to a bunch of scholarships,” he said. “Waiting on decisions. I’m hoping I can piece it together somehow. But right now…” He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t know.”

Thanos looked at him — really looked. “You deserve to go.”

Nam-Gyu smiled, just a little. “So do you.”

“But I don’t want to.”

“Then figure out what you do want. And go after that.”

Their eyes met, and for once, there wasn’t any teasing behind it. No bravado. Just something raw and honest — two boys sitting on a rooftop trying to outstare the future.

Thanos frowned. “Wait. Can’t the husbands pay?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

“The two,” Thanos said, waving vaguely. “In-Ho and Gi-Hun. You know. Your personal support squad.”

Nam-Gyu snorted, a soft sound. “They’re not—”

He cut himself off.

Then, quieter, like it surprised even him: “They already offered.”

Thanos turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.

Nam-Gyu stared down at his knees. “Gi-Hun said it like a joke, but it wasn’t. You know how he is. He said, ‘We’ll figure it out if we need to.’ And In-Ho… I think he’s pretending not to notice that I’ve been reusing old notebooks all semester.”

There was a pause.

“I just don’t want to take from them,” he said, and this time his voice cracked a little. “They already do so much. And I finally have a home that doesn’t feel like I’m waiting to be kicked out of it. I don’t want to be another burden.”

Thanos didn’t speak right away. But his whole expression softened, eyes fixed on Nam-Gyu like he’d just said something sacred.

“You’re not a burden,” Thanos said.

Nam-Gyu gave a dry laugh. “Tell that to my dads when I bankrupt them.”

“They’d probably just be proud you aimed high.”

Nam-Gyu smiled despite himself. “Gi-Hun would cry and say something about how education is the key to the soul.”

“And In-Ho would nod and pretend not to care while wiring you tuition from his secret savings account labeled ‘Nam-Gyu Emergency Fund.’”

Nam-Gyu wiped at his eye quickly. “Shut up.”

Thanos nudged his shoulder. “Never. You’re my favorite emotional wreck.”

“Thanks,” Nam-Gyu muttered. But he didn’t pull away.

It was quiet again. The kind of quiet that felt heavy.

“Still they’re not my parents,” Nam-Gyu said, eyes downcast. “But they’ve been better to me than the people who are. And I don’t want to add to their list of worries.”

Thanos was quiet, but something shifted in him — his usual snark falling away like armor set aside.

“Then I’ll worry about you,” he said.

Nam-Gyu looked up, startled.

“I’ll do it,” Thanos said. “I’ve got nothing else going on. No college essays, no dorms to prep for, no scholarship deadlines. I’ve got the time.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” Thanos said. “You want to go to school. I want to make music. You don’t want to worry your dads. I don’t want to be useless. So... we make it work.”

Nam-Gyu stared at him. “You really think your mixtape’s going to pay my tuition?”

Thanos grinned, a flash of his usual bravado. “If I add a feature from that guy who dances in front of the bus station, maybe.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but there was warmth behind it.

“I mean it,” Thanos added, more serious now. “You’re going to college. I don’t care if I have to write a whole love album and sell it under a fake name. You’re going.”

Nam-Gyu looked away, blinking hard.

“You’re not responsible for me.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“But I want to be.”

Nam-Gyu swallowed. The sky felt too big. His heart felt too loud.

“…Do you really think you can do music?” he asked quietly.

Thanos hesitated, then said: “I don’t know. But I want to try. And I think… you believing I can might actually be enough.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, finally:

“It is.”

“You know,” Thanos said softly, “you make me think maybe I could.”

“Could what?”

“Dream bigger.”

Nam-Gyu felt something catch in his chest — like a skipped heartbeat, or maybe one that landed exactly right.

“Good,” he said, voice barely audible. “You should.”

They stayed on the rooftop long after the bell rang, long after the voices downstairs faded into afterschool chaos. The sun had dipped lower, casting everything in soft amber. The air smelled like spring dust and warm cement, and for once, neither of them felt the urgency to be anywhere else.

Thanos leaned back on his elbows, squinting at the sky. “If I ever get famous, I’m buying a rooftop like this.”

Nam-Gyu stretched his legs out, arms crossed loosely. “You mean illegally climbing onto school property for free isn’t glamorous enough for you?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Thanos said. “This place has charm. A certain asbestos aesthetic. But I’m talking real rooftop. Private. With furniture. One of those little string lights setups. Maybe a grill I’ll never use.”

“Mm,” Nam-Gyu hummed. “That sounds suspiciously like a future.”

Thanos glanced at him, smirking. “Gotta have somewhere to write my music while I avoid interviews and taxes.”

Nam-Gyu snorted. “That’s the spirit.”

They lapsed into silence again, not heavy this time — something lighter, more suspended. The kind that settles in when both people are thinking the same thing but no one’s said it yet.

Then, without warning, Thanos asked:

“If we lived together someday, would you make me take my shoes off at the door?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

Thanos shrugged like it was casual. “You seem like the kind of guy who has shoe policies. Strict hallway protocols. Separate towels for ‘aesthetic reasons.’”

Nam-Gyu narrowed his eyes. “You’re projecting. You’d walk into the apartment with mud on your sneakers and a bag of takeout you already spilled.”

“I’d call it atmosphere,” Thanos said. “You’d glare at me and then spend twenty minutes cleaning while muttering death threats.”

Nam-Gyu tried not to smile. He failed.

“So… is that a yes?” Thanos said, tone teasing, but his eyes flicked to Nam-Gyu’s face like the answer mattered more than he let on.

Nam-Gyu looked away, flushed. “I mean… maybe. Someday. If you can prove you’re not a health hazard.”

“That’s a big if.”

“I’m aware.”

They were quiet for a beat, and then Nam-Gyu added, voice softer:

“I’d need a desk. And a decent kitchen. And shelves. Lots of shelves.”

Thanos tilted his head. “Books?”

Nam-Gyu nodded.

Thanos smiled. “I’ll bring my record player. And speakers. And no furniture except a couch I found on the street.”

Nam-Gyu made a face. “Absolutely not.”

“Okay, fine,” Thanos said. “You pick the couch. But I want the bigger closet.”

“You own two shirts.”

“Exactly,” Thanos said. “I want them to have space to breathe.”

Nam-Gyu laughed, and this time it was full and real. His shoulders dropped like something unknotted inside him.

Thanos looked at him, smile fading just a little — not because he was unhappy, but because he was quietly stunned.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Nam-Gyu blinked. “What?”

Thanos shrugged again, this time smaller. “Living with you. Someday. I think it’d be… good.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer right away. He just looked at him. Really looked. All the tension in his chest that had been building for months — scholarships, money, expectations, the fear of losing this — it paused. Just long enough for a thought to slip through:

Maybe I get to keep this. Maybe there’s a version of the future where I don’t lose him.

“I’d like that too,” Nam-Gyu said. Quiet, but certain.

They made their way back inside slowly, reluctant to leave the golden rooftop behind. The school had mostly emptied, and the corridors had that strange after-hours echo — the kind that made lockers sound too loud and footsteps feel like confessions.

Thanos kept glancing at Nam-Gyu like he was working up to something. Nam-Gyu noticed but didn’t press. He knew this version of Thanos — the one who got twitchy when he felt something too deeply, who used jokes like armor and momentum like a shield.

They reached the third-floor landing before Thanos suddenly stopped.

“Wait,” he said. “I—can I give you something?”

Nam-Gyu turned, surprised. “Now?”

Thanos nodded, digging into the front pocket of his hoodie. “It’s not… big or anything. Just something I’ve been holding onto.”

He pulled out a small, square envelope. It was slightly wrinkled at the corners, the flap sealed unevenly. Nam-Gyu took it slowly, brow furrowed.

“What is it?”

“Open it later,” Thanos said. “When you’re alone. When it’s quiet.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being romantic,” Thanos corrected. “Get it right.”

Nam-Gyu snorted, but his fingers curled tighter around the envelope. “What’s inside?”

Thanos hesitated, then looked him dead in the eye.

“A promise.”

That shut him up.

Thanos looked like he wanted to say more, but instead, he reached into his other pocket and pulled something else out — a small black guitar pick, worn at the edges. He pressed it into Nam-Gyu’s palm without fanfare.

“It’s not valuable or anything,” he said. “But I’ve used it on every demo I’ve ever recorded. It’s kind of stupid, but when I hold it, I don’t feel like a loser. I remember why I started.”

Nam-Gyu stared at it, silent.

“So I figured,” Thanos said, voice quieter now, “if you’re going somewhere I can’t follow yet, maybe you should take a piece of me with you. Just until I catch up.”

Nam-Gyu looked up slowly, eyes glassy. “You’re going to make me cry in a stairwell.”

“I mean, I have to keep my brand alive.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t laugh this time. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him — fast, almost like he was afraid Thanos would vanish if he didn’t move quickly enough.

Thanos froze for a heartbeat, then melted into it.

They stood there in the stairwell, half-lit by dying sunlight through the window, both a little breathless.

Nam-Gyu didn’t let go. “You promise you’ll catch up?”

Thanos buried his face in Nam-Gyu’s shoulder. “I’m already trying.”

That night, after the dishes were washed and the lights were off and the city outside had quieted into its usual low hum, Nam-Gyu sat on the edge of his bed and held the envelope in his hands.

He turned it over twice. The seal was clumsy — sealed with tape, not glue — and Thanos had written “Open only if you miss me” in crooked black pen across the front.

“I already do,” Nam-Gyu muttered to no one.

He opened it carefully.

Inside was a single folded sheet of notebook paper, soft at the creases. There was no date. No heading. Just Thanos’s handwriting — uneven, rushed, like he hadn’t meant to write it all down but had needed to anyway.

If we end up far apart, this is what I want you to remember:

I was always serious.

I know I joke a lot. I know I act like I don’t care.

But I’ve never been more sure about anything than the way I feel about you.

If you ever feel alone out there —

In a dorm room, or a city where you don’t know anyone, or a class where you think you don’t belong —

I hope you’ll find this and remember that I’m still here.

Still trying.

Still catching up.

Still yours, even if we’re not in the same place.

This isn’t goodbye.

It’s just the start of a longer walk.

Wait for me.

Nam-Gyu stared at the words for a long time.

He read them once. Then again. Then folded the paper and tucked it back inside the envelope like it was something sacred.

Then he turned off the lamp, lay down, and pressed the guitar pick to his chest.

For the first time in weeks, he fell asleep smiling.

Chapter Text

It started like any other Tuesday — which, in hindsight, was suspicious in itself.

Nam-Gyu had made it through two classes, one awkward hallway run-in with Thanos, and exactly 63 minutes of pretending his brain wasn’t melting from scholarship stress when his phone buzzed.

He ignored it the first time.

The second buzz came with a notification:

Unknown Number – URGENT.

The third buzz was an email.

Subject: Re: Legal Representation – Estate of Jang Hwa-Young.

His heart stuttered. He blinked at the screen like it might change.

No. Still there.

“Nam-Gyu,” came a voice from the front of the class. Nam-Gyu looked up sharply. The teacher raised an eyebrow. “There’s someone here to see you.”

His classmates ooh-ed like it was a joke. A secret admirer, maybe. A missed dentist appointment. Someone called out, “Did you finally get drafted?”

He stood stiffly and walked out without a word, fingers tightening around his phone.

The man waiting in the office looked like a lawyer in a drama: neat charcoal suit, briefcase, a crisp air of practiced neutrality that made Nam-Gyu’s skin crawl.

“Nam-Gyu,” he said politely, standing. “My name is Cho Sang-Woo. I represent your family’s former company. I apologize for the abrupt visit, but I needed to deliver this in person.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t move. “What is this?”

Mr. Sang-Woo gestured to a chair. “May I?”

Nam-Gyu nodded automatically, but he didn’t sit.

Mr. Kim opened his briefcase, removed a folder, and placed a single sealed envelope on the desk. His movements were calm. Too calm.

“I apologize for the abruptness. This should’ve been a scheduled meeting, but due to the developing situation, we felt it best to notify you immediately.”

Nam-Gyu said nothing. The word situation echoed like a warning bell.

Mr. Sang-Woo hesitated, then sat again. “Your mother, Jang Hwa-Young, was recently investigated for financial misconduct regarding your late father’s company. She has since left the country.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “I—what?”

“She embezzled a significant amount of funds. However, as per the original estate agreement, and due to her disappearance, all legal and financial ownership now reverts to the next heir. You.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

Mr. Kim paused to let it sink in. It didn’t.

“What do you mean... left?” Nam-Gyu asked slowly.

“We believe she fled. Her current location is unknown.”

There was a silence so deep it made the walls hum.

Nam-Gyu stared at the envelope. “I’m seventeen.”

“Yes.”

Nam-Gyu stared at him. “I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person. I’m a student. I live with my English teacher. I-.”

Mr. Sang-Woo didn’t smile. “You are now the legal owner of Jang Technologies and all associated assets, including liquid capital, patents, and properties registered in your father’s name. I understand this is overwhelming.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Nam-Gyu said hoarsely. “This has to be a mistake.”

Mr. Kim opened the folder and slid it across the desk.

Nam-Gyu’s throat closed. “I—I don’t want it.”

“That is your right,” Mr. Sang-Woo said calmly. “But you should be aware of what’s involved before making a decision.”

He slid a document across the table and tapped the final line.

Nam-Gyu read it. Then read it again.

Annual income projection: ₩45,600,000,000.

He stared at the number for a long time, as if willing it to shrink.

It didn’t.

“Oh,” Nam-Gyu said softly. “Cool. That’s… so normal.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Counted the zeroes. Lost track. Started over.

“Is that… yearly?” he asked, faintly.

“Yes.”

“Won?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t even have a debit card.”

“We can assist with that.”

Nam-Gyu made a sound between a laugh and a gasp. “I just... I just wanted to apply for the national university scholarship. I wasn’t trying to—” He gestured helplessly. “—become a chaebol in the middle of homeroom.”

Mr. Sang-Woo slid over another card. “This is my contact information. We’ll arrange a follow-up meeting, but I recommend speaking with a financial advisor soon.”

Nam-Gyu nodded slowly. He didn’t remember standing. He didn’t remember leaving the office.

He only remembered sitting on the staircase twenty minutes later, head in his hands, whispering to himself:

“I’m going to throw up.”

From that point on, everything felt heavy. Too much.

The stairwell was quiet — not in the peaceful, serene kind of way, but again in the heavy, echoey kind that made your thoughts louder than they should be.

Nam-Gyu sat halfway up the landing, knees drawn to his chest, phone clutched in one hand, calculator still open. He stared at the number like it was going to change. Like maybe he’d added an extra zero by accident. Or five.

He didn’t even hear the door creak open.

“Okay,” came a voice from below. “If you died, I’m gonna be so pissed.”

Nam-Gyu looked up sharply. Thanos stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets, hoodie half-zipped over his uniform like usual — except he wasn’t leaning. He wasn’t smirking.

He looked worried.

“What are you doing here?” Nam-Gyu asked, his voice hoarse.

“I saw you get called to the office and then disappear,” Thanos said. “So I pulled the classic ‘I have a stomachache’ trick and got out of homeroom. They didn’t even ask questions this time.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “You ditched class… for me?”

Thanos shrugged, trying for nonchalance. “Well, yeah. Obviously. On the other hand I would ditch class just because I felt like it.”

He came up the stairs, sitting down next to Nam-Gyu without waiting for an invite. Close, but not touching.

Nam-Gyu didn’t know what to say.

Thanos peeked at the phone in his hand. “What are you doing, trying to calculate how much debt you’re in?”

Nam-Gyu gave a laugh that sounded nothing like a laugh. “Kinda the opposite.”

Thanos tilted his head. “What happened?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer immediately. He kept looking at the calculator screen like it might start making sense. Like it might translate into something real — tuition, rent, food, something that didn’t feel like it belonged to a stranger.

“My mom ran,” he said finally.

Thanos blinked. “What?”

“Left the country. Disappeared. She was being investigated for embezzling from my dad’s company.”

“…Holy shit.”

Nam-Gyu let out a breath. “Yeah. That was my reaction, too.”

A beat of silence. Then Thanos frowned. “Wait — what company? I thought she sold everything.”

“She didn’t own all of it. Turns out my dad’s half went to me when he died.”

He paused. “She used his money to commit fraud.”

Thanos looked at him carefully. “So… what now?”

Nam-Gyu flipped the phone toward him.

Thanos squinted. “Is that… is that number real?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s forty-five point six—”

“Billion won,” Nam-Gyu finished, voice flat. “Per year. In income. And that’s before the stocks and properties and... whatever the hell else she didn't manage to launder.”

Thanos blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

He leaned his head back against the stair railing, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said softly. “I just wanted to go to school. I didn’t want to inherit a company I didn’t build. I didn’t want her mess. I didn’t want her to leave.”

Thanos didn’t speak. He just sat there, still, quiet. Listening.

“I know it’s money,” Nam-Gyu continued, the words spilling faster now. “I know people would kill for it. And maybe I should be grateful, right? But it doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like a punishment.”

He wiped his eyes roughly. “She got to run. And I’m the one stuck cleaning up after her again.”

Thanos shifted closer, just enough for their shoulders to brush. “You don’t have to clean it up alone.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look at him. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You’re supposed to let me help,” Thanos said. “Step one: we process. Step two: we scream. Step three: I steal Gi-Hun’s fancy tea and we pretend to be rich until it becomes true.”

Nam-Gyu laughed, cracked and watery.

Thanos glanced at him. “You okay?”

“No.”

“Okay,” Thanos said. “Then we stay here until you are.”

He didn’t touch him. Didn’t offer a hug or a hand or a dramatic gesture.

He just sat there, shoulder to shoulder with him, like he was anchoring them both in place.

“I worked so hard,” Nam-Gyu whispered. “I worked so hard to make it without her. And now it’s like… all the pain, all the crap she put me through — it just turned into cash. And everyone’s going to think I’m lucky.”

“You’re not lucky,” Thanos said. “You’re surviving.”

Nam-Gyu squeezed his eyes shut.

“It feels wrong,” he admitted. “Taking it. Spending it. Like if I use it, I’m forgiving her. Like it’ll make everything she did okay.”

“It won’t,” Thanos said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to live your whole life as a punishment.”

Nam-Gyu looked at him, startled.

Thanos gave a lopsided shrug. “I mean, if you want to give it away, cool. But don’t starve out of spite. You’ve got dreams, right? You want to study. Live somewhere new. Do something that isn’t just surviving. Let the money do what she never did — take care of you.”

Nam-Gyu stared at him.

Then: “That was… weirdly mature.”

“I know,” Thanos said. “Let’s never speak of it again.”

Nam-Gyu laughed — real this time, sharp and sudden and slightly unhinged.

Thanos leaned his head back against the wall beside him.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Nam-Gyu admitted.

“Me neither,” Thanos said. “But hey — if you become rich, and I become famous, we can afford therapy.”

Nam-Gyu turned his head, smirking through the tears. “Group rate?”

“Obviously.”

They sat in silence for a while, sunlight slipping lower through the window, dust motes dancing in the still air. Their shoulders were pressed together now, the space between them gone.

Nam-Gyu exhaled. “You really came after me?”

Thanos looked at him. “You really thought I wouldn’t?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

Thanos already knew.

It was quiet when they got home.

Thanos kicked off his shoes with dramatic flair, like he always did, and Nam-Gyu followed more slowly, his fingers twitching at the hem of his uniform shirt like they weren’t sure what to do without anxiety to cling to.

The kettle was already on — because of course Gi-Hun had put it on, like some domestic psychic. Warm light spilled from the kitchen, and Nam-Gyu could hear In-Ho’s low voice, something about budget approvals and gym repairs. It was painfully normal. Familiar. Safe.

Which made the words in Nam-Gyu’s throat feel even heavier.

“We don’t have to tell them right now,” Thanos said quietly, brushing his hand against Nam-Gyu’s back. “You’ve had a day.”

Nam-Gyu shook his head. “If I wait, I’ll chicken out. Again.”

They stepped into the kitchen together.

Gi-Hun turned, smiling like sunshine in a cardigan. “Oh, good, you’re back. How was—”

“We need to talk,” Nam-Gyu said.

The smile dropped. Not from offense — but from understanding. Gi-Hun nodded once and gestured to the living room. “Sit. I’ll get the tea.”

In-Ho appeared a few moments later, sleeves rolled up, clipboard forgotten. His gaze swept over Nam-Gyu and Thanos, sharp as always — but not unkind. Just… assessing.

Nam-Gyu sat between them on the couch. Thanos took the floor in front, leaning back against his legs like a grounding point.

“I’m not in trouble,” Nam-Gyu said first, voice quiet. “I just— I found something out. And I don’t really know what to do with it.”

Gi-Hun set the tea down with gentle hands. “Whatever it is, we’ll help.”

Nam-Gyu stared at the cup. “My mom. She’s gone. She ran.”

Silence.

In-Ho’s eyes narrowed. “Ran?”

“She was embezzling from my father’s company,” Nam-Gyu said. “Millions. And now she’s disappeared. No one knows where she is.”

Another pause. Not judgmental. Just the kind that fills a room like thunderclouds.

Gi-Hun leaned forward, elbows on knees. “And… the company?”

Nam-Gyu’s laugh was hollow. “That’s the fun part. It’s mine now. I got a call. A lawyer. I’m—” He looked up, wide-eyed, suddenly sounding like a scared kid again. “I make forty-five point six billion won a year now. On paper.”

In-Ho blinked. “...Excuse me?”

“Forty-five billion?” Gi-Hun repeated, like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to laugh or faint.

“It’s fine,” Nam-Gyu said too quickly. “It’s— I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for any of this. I’m not… I’m not even sure if I can accept it. I mean, legally I can, but should I? What if people find out? What if the press—? I don’t even have a passport that works properly and I still don’t know how to microwave rice and I can’t do this alone, I can’t—”

“Hey.” Thanos sat up and reached for his hand. “You’re not alone.”

Nam-Gyu squeezed his eyes shut.

“I just didn’t want to worry you,” he whispered. “You’ve already done so much. And I know I’m a lot, and I’m sorry, but I just… I didn’t know who else to tell.”

Gi-Hun sat beside him without hesitation, wrapping him in an arm that said nothing needed fixing immediately — just held. In-Ho didn’t join the hug. But he knelt down in front of Nam-Gyu, meeting his eyes.

“Okay,” he said. “Step one — we call the lawyer. Step two — we hire you a proper advisor. Step three — you get to breathe, because we’ve got you. Understand?”

Nam-Gyu nodded, eyes glassy.

And then he said it, without thinking, just a little breath of a word:

“Thanks, dads.”

The silence this time was different.

It was immediate and heavy — like all the oxygen had been scooped out of the room and replaced with wide-eyed blinking.

Nam-Gyu didn’t even register what he’d said until it echoed back in his own head.

“Wait—” His face went white. “No, I didn’t— I didn’t mean to say that, oh my god—”

Gi-Hun froze with his hand still on Nam-Gyu’s back. In-Ho was blinking. Again.

Nam-Gyu scrambled to correct himself, eyes huge. “I mean, I didn’t not mean it? I just— it slipped, and now I’m making it worse, and I’m not trying to, like, emotionally ambush you at the tea table, I swear—”

Thanos, bless him, bit back a grin and said, “Bit late for that, babe.”

Nam-Gyu shot him a look like he wanted the couch to eat him whole.

“I just didn’t think—I mean, it’s not like I planned it, and you’re you, and I’m—ugh, I shouldn’t have said anything, you don’t have to, like, reciprocate or whatever, and it doesn’t have to be a whole thing—”

“Nam-Gyu,” In-Ho interrupted, voice flat. “Breathe.”

He did. Or tried to.

And then Gi-Hun, after a long, misty-eyed beat, finally broke the silence with a small, trembling smile.

“You called us dads.”

“I can take it back!” Nam-Gyu blurted, flustered. “I mean—no, I don’t want to take it back, but if it made it weird, I can just go back to calling you Vice Dad and Principal Dad like normal people—”
“Oh my god,” Thanos groaned into a throw pillow. “Please never be normal.”

Nam-Gyu slapped his knee. “You’re not helping!”

“Not trying to!”

Gi-Hun covered his mouth like he wasn’t on the verge of tearing up. “It’s not weird,” he said finally, softly. “It’s an honor.”

In-Ho, who had yet to show an ounce of visible emotion, simply reached over and gave Nam-Gyu’s knee a single, firm pat — like he was hitting save on the moment.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll take it. Proudly.”

And that was it.

No confetti. No fanfare.

Just two very tired teachers, a too-smart kid who didn’t know how to ask for love, and a boy on the floor who’d burn the world down to make him feel safe.

And in that moment, Nam-Gyu didn’t care how much money he had, or what headlines tomorrow might bring. There was warmth in his chest that felt like a home he didn’t have to earn.

The tea had gone a little cold.

But none of them moved.

No one asked Nam-Gyu to explain further. No one pushed. Gi-Hun passed around fresh mugs of tea. Thanos ended up sprawled across the floor with a pillow under his head and one arm slung dramatically over his eyes.

Eventually, In-Ho cleared his throat. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“With the money?” Nam-Gyu asked.

Gi-Hun nodded gently. “You don’t have to. Just because it’s yours.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at the cup in his hands, then across the room — to Thanos, who was currently trying to balance a sugar cube on his nose like an idiot. To the two men who made him tea and sat through his panic and didn’t flinch when their newfound son told them he’s a bilionare.

“I don’t want it,” he said honestly. “I want my mom to explain why she stole from a company my dad built. I want to not feel like this is my mess to fix. I want to go to college like a normal person and stress about laundry, not lawsuits.”

“Then you don’t have to keep it,” Gi-Hun said softly.

Nam-Gyu shook his head. “But someone will. And if it’s not me, it’ll be her. Or worse — it’ll be buried in court for years while she rots somewhere without consequences.”

He grabbed his phone off the coffee table.

Thanos sat up. “What are you doing?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer right away. His fingers hovered over the screen, breath steady, face unreadable.

Then, calmly, he opened his messages and typed:

I’ll take it.
All of it.
Clean up whatever needs cleaning. I’m in.

He hit send.

There was a beat of silence. Then Thanos let out a low whistle. “Okay, CEO.”

Nam-Gyu sank back against the couch, still holding the phone. “God. I just wanted to pass my midterms.”

Gi-Hun reached over and gently ruffled his hair. “Too late, son. You’re a future headline now.”

“Not a scandal,” In-Ho added, sipping his tea. “A legacy.”

And Nam-Gyu — tired, overwhelmed, loved — didn’t argue.

Chapter Text

The living room felt unusually quiet for how monumental the day was. Like the house itself was holding its breath.

Gi-Hun stood at the ironing board in his socks and a faded university hoodie, grimacing down at Nam-Gyu’s blazer like it had personally wronged him.

“Why is this material so slippery? Who designed this? Satan?”

“It’s wool,” In-Ho called from the kitchen, where he was burning toast on purpose. “It’s literally designed to survive war.”

“Well, it’s about to lose the war against me.”

The iron hissed dramatically. Gi-Hun hissed louder. Thanos, sitting criss-cross on the couch in a hoodie and pajama pants, spooned cereal into his mouth and watched like it was the best sitcom on earth.

Nam-Gyu entered mid-scene, already in his crisp shirt and slacks, hair still damp from his shower. He paused, watching his chaotic found-family spiral into domestic anarchy, and for a moment, he didn’t feel nervous at all.

“You’re not wearing socks,” Gi-Hun accused the second he saw him.

“I’m going to put them on.”

“Are they matching?”

“…Maybe.”

In-Ho appeared holding a second cup of tea. “He’s bluffing. I saw him grab one pink and one with raccoons on it.”

Nam-Gyu snatched the tea like a lifeline. “They’re chill raccoons.”

Thanos grinned, tipping his cereal bowl toward Nam-Gyu. “Can’t believe you’re gonna be the most distinguished graduate of our year with socks that look like they host a podcast.”

“You say that like I don’t.”

Thanos, perched on the arm of the couch with a spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth, looked up. “Should we be worried?”

“Yes,” Nam-Gyu said at the same time Gi-Hun muttered, “No.”

The blazer suffered a tragic but mercifully small singe on the inside hem. Gi-Hun tried to play it cool. “Battle scars. Very distinguished.”

Nam-Gyu took the jacket with a soft sigh and gave it a once-over. “It’s fine. I’m going to cry in it anyway.”

In-Ho handed him a travel mug full of tea and a paper bag with breakfast he wouldn’t eat. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t faint during the ceremony. It ruins the photos.”

Gi-Hun patted his back. “Unless it’s dramatic. Then faint near someone photogenic.”

Thanos grinned, nudging Nam-Gyu’s knee under the table. “I volunteer as photogenic tribute.”

They went through the usual morning motions — shoes by the door, last-minute check for wallets and hair gel. The whole thing felt like the ending of a movie they weren’t ready to leave.

Nam-Gyu stood near the mirror, fidgeting with his tie for the third time.

Gi-Hun tried to help, only to be elbowed aside by In-Ho, who fixed it with the same deadly precision he used on student reports.

“There,” he said. “Don’t mess it up, or I’m filing a complaint.”

Nam-Gyu snorted. “To who? Yourself?”

They all moved with quiet purpose, like a well-rehearsed pit crew. Bags, wallet, blazer, shoelaces, bobby pins. Gi-Hun clicked his tongue disapprovingly when Nam-Gyu tried to leave without his watch. In-Ho slipped a tin of mints into his pocket “for gravitas.”

And then, just before they opened the door, Nam-Gyu hesitated.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

Gi-Hun blinked. “No, you’re not.”

“I might.”

“Nope. I refuse. I didn’t spend all morning ironing that blazer for you to hurl on it.”

Nam-Gyu exhaled shakily. “Okay. Right. Okay.”

“Hey,” Thanos said gently. “You made it.”

Nam-Gyu glanced at him.

Gi-Hun stepped up and adjusted Nam-Gyu’s tie with exaggerated care. “And you’re going to walk across that stage like you own it. Because you do.”

Nam-Gyu looked around — at his chaotic dads, at Thanos sitting there in someone else’s hoodie like he lived here (which, technically, he did most weekends now), at the tiny mountain of toast In-Ho had burned just because Nam-Gyu liked it that way.

It hit him all at once — the absurdity and the sweetness of it. The house. The people. The way this wasn’t the end of everything, but it felt like the beginning of something better.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “I got into Yonsei.”

Gi-Hun froze mid-tie-fix. “You— what?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “The email came this morning. I was too scared to open it alone.”

Thanos yelped and launched himself off the couch, throwing his arms around him. “YES! I told you! You’re a genius, hot nerd, academic weapon!”

In-Ho clapped once and turned away like he was about to cry. Gi-Hun didn’t bother hiding it.

“Also,” Thanos said when the chaos calmed, “that producer guy? The one who ghosted me for three weeks? He sent a contract. Wants to meet after graduation.”

Nam-Gyu lit up. “Wait, really?!”

“I mean, he also said I have to stop writing lyrics in glitter pen, but yeah. It’s happening.”

Thanos was practically bouncing now, too much energy for a 9AM graduation. “Okay, boys, let’s not forget the big wins here. One: I didn’t fail. Two: he got into his dream uni—” he pointed dramatically at Nam-Gyu, who flushed— “and three: I’ve got a producer who actually thinks I can be the next big thing, so…”

He spun a slow circle. “You’re looking at a maybe-almost-kind-of musician. Possibly.”

“You are,” Nam-Gyu said without hesitation. Just quietly enough that only Thanos heard.

Thanos looked at him for a long second and then beamed like he’d just won a Grammy.

Gi-Hun cleared his throat, eyes suspiciously shiny. “Okay. Time to go. Before I start crying and make you late.”

In-Ho rolled his eyes, but he followed them out the door, fingers tightening briefly on Nam-Gyu’s shoulder.

Outside, the sky was unfairly beautiful — blue and bold and so full of light it made everything feel important.

Today was going to be a memory.

The rooftop wasn’t technically open during graduation — but when had that ever stopped them?

Mi-Na had bribed a janitor with a leftover croissant and Min-Su brought his infamous 'emergency lockpicking kit' (a bobby pin and unjustified confidence). So naturally, by the time Nam-Gyu and Thanos arrived, the whole gang was already up there — Se-Mi lying dramatically across a bench, Gyeong-Su leaning against the rail like a rom-com extra, and Mi-Na taking selfies with the sunrise.

“You’re late,” Se-Mi called. “We thought maybe you died of nerves and Thanos just eloped with your ghost.”

Nam-Gyu raised a brow. “Are you wearing heels?”

“It’s called going out with a bang.”

“Going out with a twisted ankle,” Gyeong-Su muttered.

“Shut up,” Se-Mi grinned. “You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“We all will,” Mi-Na said dramatically, twirling into Thanos’s arms. “Except for you, Thanos. You’ll miss me especially.”

“I already do,” he deadpanned, which earned him a very suspicious kiss on the cheek. Nam-Gyu grabbed his hood and yanked him away.

“I have so many questions,” Thanos whispered.

“You always do.”

They dropped their bags and collapsed into the moment — all six of them, for the last time in school uniforms, in a place where most of their drama had either exploded or quietly simmered over the year. The rooftop had seen confessions, insults, breakdowns, glitter bombs. It had, at one point, hosted a pigeon funeral. It was home.

Se-Mi stood up suddenly, waving her phone. “Okay, emergency yearbook quotes. You don’t get to graduate unless you say one.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Min-Su said.

“Too bad. You exist, so you get roasted.”

“I’ll go first,” Mi-Na announced, striking a pose. “My legacy: I peaked emotionally at seventeen. But at least I was hot.”

Gyeong-Su shook his head. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

“Okay, your turn, mystery man.”

Gyeong-Su sighed, looked into the distance, and said with deadpan calm, “At least I never got expelled.”

The group howled. Even Nam-Gyu cracked a grin.

“Alright, Thanos,” Se-Mi said, “what’s yours?”

Thanos smirked, leaned into Nam-Gyu, and said, “Got a boyfriend. Got a mixtape. Still can’t do calculus.”

Nam-Gyu groaned, “Oh my god.”

“Yours, sweetheart?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “I don’t—”

“Say it,” Thanos whispered.

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes but smiled. “I survived. And… I’m still figuring out what comes next.”

That quieted the group. Mi-Na teared up immediately. Min-Su handed her a tissue like he’d been waiting all day.

There was a long silence then — not awkward, just full. The kind that held too many things to say at once.

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” Se-Mi said, eyes suspiciously shiny. “Even you, Thanos. Especially you. You’re like… annoying glitter in the carpet of my life.”

Thanos beamed. “I’m touched.”

“You should be committed,” Gyeong-Su said.

Nam-Gyu stayed quiet, watching them all laugh and argue, and couldn’t stop the knot forming in his throat. These were the people who had seen him at his worst and still showed up. They didn’t just survive high school together — they made it through the mess, the rumours, the secrets, the stupid arguments, and came out the other side better.

Different. But not alone.

He didn’t say anything profound. Just looked around, memorizing it.

Se-Mi broke the silence. “Hey. Want to do the group photo now before I smudge my eyeliner crying over you losers?”

Phones were passed around. Positions were argued over. Mi-Na insisted on center. Gyeong-Su quietly set a timer.

When the shutter clicked, they all smiled — not fake or posed, but tired and proud.

And when the camera caught the moment, it froze something real.

The gymnasium smelled like waxed floors and someone’s panic sweat.

The air was too warm, the gowns too stiff, and the energy almost feral — a crackling hum of students who’d survived everything and were moments away from bolting into summer like a stampede.
Nam-Gyu stood behind the podium in full uniform. No gown. No robe. Just the crisp navy blazer, clean tie, and his silver ring on his right hand — a quiet rebellion gleaming under the lights.

He scanned the sea of students and teachers.

Some had cheered him. Others had torn him apart. Many didn’t know what to make of him even now. But all of them were here, and so was he.

He took a breath and started.

“Good afternoon.

I spent most of this year waiting for it to end.

I thought if I could just survive the next test, the next meeting, the next rumor — I’d finally be okay. That it would stop hurting. That I'd be able to breathe again.

But something changed. Not because the pressure disappeared, or because people suddenly liked me, or because life got easier. It didn’t.

What changed was... I stopped believing I had to do it alone.

And that’s what I hope you remember, more than any grade or title. You don’t have to do it alone.

The world doesn’t care about your class rank. But it might care about the way you show up for someone else.

Or the way you keep going. Even when it’s messy.

Especially when it’s messy.”

A pause. Quiet.

“I’m grateful. For everyone who got me here.

For the ones who challenged me. For the ones who stayed.

For the chance to start over, and do better.”

He looked up then — past the rows of students, past the teachers seated behind him — and met Thanos’s eyes.

The moment lingered.

“Congratulations to the class of 2025. We made it.”

Applause exploded. Se-Mi screamed something incoherent. Mi-Na sobbed into someone’s shoulder. Even Min-Su smiled.

Thanos sat completely still, like the moment had stunned him.

He whispered to no one, “What the hell did I do to deserve him?”

When names were called, students crossed the stage, each one handed a scroll and a short nod from the vice principal or headmaster.

Thanos’s name came first.

“Choi Su-Bong.”

He swaggered to the stage, not out of arrogance but because this was his stage now. Music or not, chaos or not — he’d earned this.

Gi-Hun handed him the diploma with a quick squeeze to the arm. “Proud of you, kid.”

In-Ho added, “Don’t forget to return your library books.”

The crowd laughed.

When Nam-Gyu’s name was called, the entire room felt like it took a breath.

“Kim Nam-Gyu.”

He walked up — tall, calm, and no longer pretending he didn’t belong here.

Gi-Hun was beaming, already emotional. He handed over the diploma like it was a coronation.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “You did it.”

In-Ho placed a hand briefly on Nam-Gyu’s shoulder. “Welcome to the rest of your life. You’re going to ruin us with your tax bracket.”

Nam-Gyu smiled. Not the perfect one. The real one.

They walked offstage in different directions, but their paths bent back together.

Behind the school. Out of sight. Just them.

Only once he saw Thanos again — waiting just past the steps, arms open — did Nam-Gyu finally smile.

The ceremony ended in confetti and chaos. Everyone hugged. Se-Mi broke someone’s heel. Mi-Na tripped into Thanos’s arms and winked at Nam-Gyu. Someone somewhere was already posting blurry Instagram stories with “WE DID IT” and crying emojis.

But Nam-Gyu and Thanos slipped away from it all.

The grass smelled like summer and sunscreen. The sky looked like a scene change.

They faced each other, still in their uniforms — the ties, the buttons, the entire chapter wrapped in cotton and navy and dumb memories.

Thanos leaned against the fence, diploma already slightly crumpled. “That speech?”

“Too dramatic?” Nam-Gyu asked.

“Too good,” Thanos corrected. “You’re insane. I’m in love with you.”

Nam-Gyu flushed. “You cried, didn’t you?”

“I sobbed,” Thanos said. “I might need a support group.”

Then Thanos stepped forward.

“You know what we need?” he said.

Nam-Gyu raised an eyebrow.

“A movie moment.”

And he kissed him.

In full uniform. Behind the school.

It wasn’t a kiss full of fire or desperation. It was soft. Certain.

It tasted like everything they’d been through, and everything they hadn’t said yet. Like promises.

When they pulled away, Thanos rested his forehead against Nam-Gyu’s.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “That hasn’t changed.”

Nam-Gyu nodded. “It won’t.”

They didn’t say goodbye.

They didn’t need to.

When they were back home. Dinner had been loud, laughter echoing against the walls of a house that had somehow grown too familiar to be new anymore. The borrowed suits were unbuttoned, their caps tossed somewhere on the couch, and Gi-Hun had insisted on baking a cake “for the graduates,” which promptly caught fire and was now sitting slightly charred on the counter, still getting eaten anyway.

Now it was quiet. Just Nam-Gyu and Thanos in Nam-Gyu’s room, the window cracked open, crickets humming.

“I still feel like I forgot to turn something in,” Thanos said, sprawled on his stomach across the bed, kicking his feet like a bored teen girl. “Maybe an emotional arc.”

“You never turned anything in,” Nam-Gyu replied without looking up, digging through his desk drawer. “That’s on brand.”

“Fair. What’re you doing?”

Nam-Gyu pulled out two plain envelopes and a pair of pens. “Something dramatic.”

Thanos perked up. “Finally.”

“I want to write us letters. For five years from now.”

Thanos blinked. “Like time capsules?”

“Kind of. I don’t know. I just want to remember what this felt like. What we feel like. Before everything changes.”

Thanos propped himself up on his elbows. “You’re not getting soft on me, are you?”

Nam-Gyu handed him a pen. “I’m letting myself have feelings. It’s different.”

They settled in silence, writing. The only sound was the scratch of pens and a distant kettle clicking off in the kitchen. Nam-Gyu wrote carefully, like he was afraid of misspelling the future. Thanos wrote fast, then scratched half of it out and started again.

After a while, Thanos leaned over. “What if we’re famous by then?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look up. “Then I hope this reminds us why we started.”

They finished. Thanos signed his with a dramatic flourish and a heart. Nam-Gyu sealed his envelope and stared at it a second too long.

They exchanged letters for a second — held each other’s — then swapped back. No peeking.

Nam-Gyu pulled a box from under his bed. Inside were old notebooks, a cracked phone case, a roll of film, and now… two sealed letters.

They closed the lid together.

“Do not open before five years,” Nam-Gyu said, dead serious.

“I’m gonna open mine in five days.”

Nam-Gyu gave him a look. “I will bite you.”

Thanos laughed, leaning back on the bed. “Fine. Five years.”

They exchanged the letters like a secret handshake. Quiet. Reverent. Kind of sacred.

Nam-Gyu curled up beside him, resting his head on Thanos’s shoulder. “You’ll still be here, right?”

Thanos answered without hesitation. “Always.”

They didn’t say much after that.

The letters were tucked away. The lights dimmed. The window stayed open, letting the summer air in — thick with dreams, half-formed promises, and the sound of two boys breathing in sync.

Outside, the world was already changing.

But for tonight, they were still here.

Still Thanos and Nam-Gyu.

Still ridiculous.

Still in love.

And not quite ready to say goodbye.

Chapter Text

The Pentagon was vibrating.

Not with bass — not just that — but with worship. The crowd was a single pulsing body, arms raised like believers at the altar, screaming back every word like their lives depended on it. Lights strobed, sweat glittered, and fog curled along the stage like it was trying to kiss his boots.

And there he was.

Thanos.

The crowd wasn’t just screaming.

They were praying.

Hands raised. Chests heaving. Mouths open like they were being baptized in bass and sweat and desire. The air in The Pentagon was thick — electric and sticky — the kind of atmosphere that made people blackout from overstimulation and wake up with glitter in their teeth.

Thanos was no longer a scandal. No longer a dropout. No longer a lost cause.

Now? He was the name.

He was music incarnate — all heat and hunger, hips and chaos, carved out of swagger and stitched together by beats that hit like gospel. The spotlight clung to him like he was gravity. The crowd didn't just follow him — they obeyed. A single tilt of his head and they lost their minds. A breath between bars and they begged for more.

Tonight, his hair was slicked back just enough to be dangerous. His eyes were rimmed in dark kohl that made every look feel like a dare. He wore layered chains and a half-unbuttoned black mesh shirt that clung to his inked chest, revealing just enough to ruin everyone in the front row. When he moved, he devastated. And when he rapped—

Every breath he took made the crowd scream. Every syllable he rapped had girls crying, guys converting, and the entire first row trying to launch themselves on stage. His shirt was open just enough to be illegal in several countries. Glitter dusted the side of his face like a comet trail, catching the lights when he spun. Tattoos climbed up his arms like promises— and everyone in that room wanted to be the one he broke them for.

He was cocky. He was magnetic. He was on fire.

“You want it loud?”

The crowd screamed.

“You want it rough?”

More screaming.

His voice — deeper now, rougher, dripping with command — didn’t just echo through the venue. It wrapped aroundpeople. Took their breath. Bent their backs. His tongue curled over every syllable like he meant it in every possible way.

And then—

He looked left.

The crowd thought he was scanning the venue, flirting, doing what stars do. Girls reached. Boys cheered. A hand even caught his ankle.

But he wasn’t looking at them.

He was looking at the shadows behind the curtain.

Arms crossed. Shoulders squared. Jaw locked. Wearing a suit that cost more than most people’s cars and still looked underdressed for the occasion. Clean-cut. Polished. Distant.

But he was suffering. Completely undone.

Because across the stage, his Thanos was out there making every person in the room fall in love — one lyric at a time — and no one knew it was his.

No one saw the way Thanos’s smirk changed when he caught sight of him.

No one noticed the slight delay in his next lyric.

No one understood that the filthiest verse in the set wasn’t for the crowd — it was a private threat aimed directly at the man hiding backstage, pretending he wasn’t about to combust.

Nam-Gyu’s ears were burning. His knuckles were white. His heart — buried somewhere under Gucci and restraint — was panicking.

He knew this game. He’d written the rules.

They couldn’t afford it. Not now. Thanos was too big. Nam-Gyu was too visible. The secret was the only way to survive.

His PR team had warned him about this. “Stay out of sight.”

“Keep your expressions neutral.”

“No one can know.”

He’d agreed. Of course he had. Thanos was a brand now — seductive, untouchable, single. Any public claim would light Twitter on fire. Fans were devoted, obsessive, terrifying. For Thanos’s safety, for the company’s, for everything they’d built...

Nam-Gyu stayed in the shadows.

But it didn’t matter.

Because on stage, Thanos wasn’t subtle.

He strutted like a sin he dared the world to forgive. Dropped low during a bridge, rolled his hips with disgusting precision, let a fangirl’s hand graze his thigh — then winked directly at the shadows backstage.

The crowd exploded.

Nam-Gyu flinched.

A girl near the speakers screamed, “HE LOOKED AT ME— I SWEAR HE LOOKED AT ME!”

Nam-Gyu exhaled through his nose. Adjusted his cuffs.

He didn’t react when Thanos licked his lips between verses. Didn’t blink when Thanos did that thing with his mic stand. Didn’t move when Thanos purred, “You like?” and the whole place lost its mind.

But his ears were red.

Nam-Gyu swallowed hard. His PR manager whispered urgently in his earpiece, “He’s getting too close to the edge. If he jumps into the crowd, we’re cooked. Mr. Nam-Gyu, should we—?”

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

Because at that exact moment, Thanos winked. Not at the crowd. Not at the cameras.

At him.

Directly.

Like the whole set was just for him.

Like the entire world was background noise.

Like every lyric, every gesture, every drop of sweat and beat of music, was a love letter only he could read.

Nam-Gyu blinked.

Looked away.

Stepped back.

But Thanos saw.

He grinned.

Bit his lip.

Thrust forward with sinful confidence.

And mouthed, Run away all you want. I’ll always find you.

The crowd didn’t know.

They thought he was being a tease.

But Nam-Gyu knew what that look meant.

Knew what it meant when Thanos’s voice dropped, eyes still on him, and he growled, “You know I’m not done with you yet.”

The chorus exploded.

So did Nam-Gyu’s brain.

The chorus hit. Hard. The crowd jumped. Thanos grinned, sweat dripping down his temple, and mouthed, Don’t look away from me.

Nam-Gyu did not look back.

Nam-Gyu also could not breathe.

Because in this moment — under stage lights, in front of thousands — Thanos looked like everything Nam-Gyu never deserved but somehow still got to love.

And Nam-Gyu?

He was watching his first kiss, first love, and first heartbreak become a legend in real time.

He turned his back, gripping the edge of the dressing table like it might steady the storm inside him. His heart was racing. His ears were ringing. His body betrayed him — shivers running down his spine, heat pooling in his gut, his knees weak in ways that should’ve been illegal in a room with this much security.

“You okay?” a staff member asked gently, not realizing the CEO of the establishment was trying not to faint from the sight of his boyfriend.

Nam-Gyu cleared his throat.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He was not fine.

Behind him, the crowd roared again. Thanos was finishing the bridge, mic tilted, sweat dripping from his jaw, hair coming loose — and still looking at him.

Nam-Gyu didn’t turn around.

Because if he did — if he caught one more look like that — he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from walking on stage, grabbing that goddamn mic, and telling the whole world:

“He’s mine.”

And right now, the world wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

The dressing room was a temple of controlled chaos. Designer bags on the floor, half-drunk energy drinks sweating on the table, fans whirring uselessly against the heat of Thanos’s performance.
Nam-Gyu was already inside.

He sat on the edge of the velvet couch with his legs crossed, tie loosened, jaw tight. His phone lay untouched next to him, screen lighting up with messages from his assistant, his PR team, a board member, and his mother’s lawyer, but none of them got a response.

Because right now, he had one target.

The door burst open.

Thanos swaggered in like he didn’t just destroy the laws of attraction for an entire generation.

Hair damp. Shirt clinging. Grinning like he was up to no good.

And he was.

“Was I good?” he asked, already unbuttoning what little was left of his shirt, chains clinking softly as he shrugged it off.

Nam-Gyu didn’t look up. “You were obscene.”

“That wasn’t an answer,” Thanos said, moving closer. “I asked if I was good.”

“You were fine.”

“Fine?” Thanos echoed, wounded. “Just fine?”

Nam-Gyu finally looked up.

And that look — sharp, exhausted, smoldering — almost knocked Thanos back a step.

“You winked at me during the moan line,” Nam-Gyu said flatly. “Someone filmed that. There’s a fan edit being made right now. Probably titled something like ‘the moment I died on stage.’”

Thanos sat beside him, close enough for their knees to brush. “I was just trying to keep you awake.”

Nam-Gyu narrowed his eyes. “And the hip roll?”

“That was for your sins,” Thanos said seriously.

Nam-Gyu groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Thanos leaned in, brushing their shoulders, “you keep believing in me.”

Nam-Gyu shoved him lightly. “Don’t flirt with me right now.”

“Why?” Thanos grinned. “Afraid you’ll give in?”

Nam-Gyu’s breath caught.

Because yes. That was the problem. Always had been.

No matter how polished, powerful, or perfectly composed Nam-Gyu had become… Thanos could still unravel him with a sentence. A glance. A grin.

“You’re reckless,” Nam-Gyu said, voice tight.

“You love it.”

“No, I—” He faltered. “I tolerate it.”

“Is that what you were doing? Tolerating me while you clenched the dressing table like it was your last anchor to Earth?”

Nam-Gyu stared. “Do you want to be sued by our PR team?”

Thanos grinned wider, patting his thigh in invitation. “If I’m gonna be lectured, can you at least sit down for it?”

“I’m not—”

Before he could finish that sentence — or remember how to breathe — Thanos had already reached out, gripped his waist, and pulled.

Nam-Gyu landed in his lap with a startled breath and wide eyes, hands braced on Thanos’s shoulders like the world had turned sideways. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Thanos leaned forward until their noses were nearly touching. “Obeying orders. You said to sit still and listen.”

Nam-Gyu’s heart pounded loud enough to qualify as percussion. “This isn’t—You can’t just—”

“Technically, you’re the one in charge,” Thanos murmured, fingers ghosting along the hem of Nam-Gyu’s blazer. “So if you really wanted to get up… you could.”

He didn’t move.

Thanos smiled, slow and dangerous. “Didn’t think so.”

Nam-Gyu shoved him again — harder this time. “I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Because you’re humiliating me. In front of my own employees.”

Thanos looked around the empty room. “Which employees?”

Nam-Gyu gestured vaguely. “The walls have ears.”

“I’ll give them a show then.”

“Choi Su-bong.”

Thanos grinned wider.

“I love when you use my full name,” he murmured, voice dropping, “Makes me feel like I’m being called to the principal’s office.”

“You never went to the principal’s office, you climbed out the window before you got there.”

“And I still graduated.” He tilted his head. “Didn’t I?”

Nam-Gyu bit back a smile, then slapped a water bottle into his chest. “Drink. You look like you’re about to faint.”

Thanos obeyed, taking a long swig, watching Nam-Gyu the whole time.

“You really thought I was amazing?”

Nam-Gyu sighed, softer now. “Yeah.”

“Say it again.”

“You were amazing.”

Thanos smirked. “That’s more like it.”

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats. Then—

“You know they were flirting with you, right?” Nam-Gyu asked, eyes fixed on his lap.

“Who?”

“The girls. In the front row. Screaming your name like they were about to leap the barrier and lick your abs.”

Thanos blinked. “...Yeah, I noticed.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Because his shoulders had stiffened. His mouth had thinned into a line. His foot was tapping.

And Thanos thrived on that.

“You jealous?” he asked, voice low, smug.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I have no reason to be.”

Thanos reached out, caught Nam-Gyu’s hand mid-tap, and laced their fingers.

“Good,” he said gently, “because there’s only one person I look at when I’m up there.”

Nam-Gyu tried to pull away. Thanos held tight.

“Every single song,” he said, “is yours.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at their joined hands.

And for once — for once — he didn’t argue.

“You’re such a—”

“Careful,” Thanos murmured. “That mouth's gonna make headlines.”

“You already made headlines by grinding on air.”

Thanos raised a brow. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Mr. CEO.”

Nam-Gyu flushed. “I wasn’t—”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

And then, as if to prove a point, Thanos’s hands slid from Nam-Gyu’s waist to the small of his back. Not indecent. Not quite. But intentional. Heated.

Nam-Gyu’s breath hitched. Their foreheads were nearly touching now. “You’re insufferable.”

Thanos smiled, wicked and warm. “And yours.”

Somewhere in the distance, a staff member knocked on the door. “Five minutes to after-party!”

Neither of them moved.

“I should…” Nam-Gyu began, then didn’t finish.

Thanos tilted his head. “You should what?”

Nam-Gyu looked down at him, at his wrecked hair and flushed skin and the fact that this boy — no, this man — had turned an entire stadium into clay in his hands and still looked at him like he hung the moon.

“…I should fire you,” Nam-Gyu whispered.

Thanos smirked. “But you won’t.”

Nam-Gyu’s answer came in the form of the softest brush of lips to his jaw — fast, fleeting, undeniable.

Then he stood, composure barely returned. “Get dressed.”

Thanos grinned. “Want to help me with that too?”

“Don’t push it.”

After the show was over, they made their way home. Their driver opened the door without a word. The outside world still echoed faintly with the pulse of bass and screams, but inside the car, it was all tinted glass and golden silence.

Nam-Gyu let out a long breath and finally unclenched his jaw. Thanos, still flushed and damp from the stage, leaned back with his eyes closed and legs spread like he owned the entire city — which, given how often he trended on social media, he arguably did.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Thanos murmured without opening his eyes.

“I’m not,” Nam-Gyu lied, arms crossed.

“You were doing the thing again.”

“What thing.”

“The thing where your face says, ‘I hate you,’ but your eyes say, ‘I’d sell a controlling share of the company just to kiss you once on the mouth.’”

Nam-Gyu turned toward the window. “Shut up.”

Thanos chuckled softly, cracking an eye open just to watch his boyfriend’s ears go red. “So dramatic.”

The apartment lights flicked on automatically as the front door slid shut behind them, casting a soft gold hue across the polished wood floors. Their new place still had that just-moved-in feeling — clean and expensive, but not yet worn into their rhythm. The walls were too bare. The bookshelf only half-stacked. There were still unopened boxes in the hallway marked “MEMORIES – N.G.” and “RANDOM?? – T.S.B.”

Nam-Gyu toed off his shoes and slipped out of his blazer, hanging it with meticulous care before immediately padding into the kitchen to boil water. Thanos followed behind, already halfway out of his shirt.

“You’re tracking dirt,” Nam-Gyu muttered.

“You’re tracking sexy,” Thanos said, then immediately laughed at himself. “Okay, that one was bad.”

Nam-Gyu gave him a look but didn’t disagree.

The space itself was modern — double-height windows, minimalist black fixtures, and a kitchen island the size of a small country. But it didn’t feel cold. Not anymore. Not with the smell of Nam-Gyu’s jasmine tea already steeping and Thanos’s jacket slung over the back of their ridiculous ¥2.4 million dining chair. Not with their cat perched in the window, tail flicking at birds that didn’t care she existed.

They had only moved in three weeks ago, after months of skimming luxury listings and arguing over flooring. Nam-Gyu wanted something efficient. Thanos wanted a balcony big enough for stargazing, which he insisted was “essential for artistic expression.” Somehow, they’d ended up with both.

It wasn’t perfect yet. The TV was still on the floor. The bed frame hadn’t arrived. There was a drawer in the bathroom that wouldn’t close all the way. But the space was theirs. Messy, lived-in, undeniably them.

But the space was theirs. Photos framed on the wall — some blurry, some Polaroids, some candid. Gi-Hun and In-Ho on a hike with matching hats. Se-Mi with eyeliner and a glitter gun. Mina and Gyeong-Su at someone’s wedding. One of Nam-Gyu and Thanos on a rooftop with Seoul behind them — young and slightly terrified, fingers just barely linked.

“You tired?” Thanos asked, tossing his jacket over a chair.

“Exhausted,” Nam-Gyu admitted, pouring hot water into a mug shaped like a cartoon frog.

“You looked proud.”

Nam-Gyu raised a brow. “That’s because I was proud. You owned that stage. Again.”

Thanos stepped closer. Close enough to touch. “You know it’s only fun because I get to look over and see you standing there.”

Nam-Gyu rolled his eyes, but softly this time. “You are so full of it.”

“And you are so in love with me.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t argue. Didn’t need to.

He just calmly walked to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and pulled out a new tin of matcha.

“You want something warm?”

Thanos, already sprawled on the couch like a starfish, groaned. “I want you.”

“You want tea,” Nam-Gyu corrected, but there was a smirk in his voice.

He stirred the whisk with practiced grace — efficient, focused — while Thanos slowly peeled off his overshirt and stretched like a cat under the soft lamp glow.

“You looked good tonight,” Nam-Gyu said quietly, placing the cup on the table next to Thanos.

“Just good?” Thanos teased.

Nam-Gyu raised an eyebrow. “Insufferable. But hot. Somehow both.”

Thanos grinned. “You’re so in love with me it’s embarrassing.”

“Only mildly.”

Later, after tea and teeth-brushing and something that couldn't be mentioned in front of the kids — not that they had kids, unless you counted the cat — Thanos wandered out into the hallway in nothing but sweats and a satisfied grin.

He returned a minute later dragging a battered moving box like it owed him money.

Nam-Gyu didn’t even look up from where he was curled on the bed, stylus flicking through columns of projected quarterly revenue. “If that’s another box of records, I swear I’ll—”

Thanos dropped it onto the mattress with a thud that made Min-Min leap from the window ledge in protest.

“Relax. No vinyl,” he said, flopping onto the duvet beside Nam-Gyu and digging through the mess like it was a treasure chest. “Just good old sentimental garbage.”

Nam-Gyu finally glanced over. “Please don’t make a mess.”

“This is the mess,” Thanos said, prying it open with a pen.

Inside was chaos in paper form. A cracked thermos with faded stickers. A stack of Polaroids from a long-forgotten beach trip, including one where Nam-Gyu looked suspiciously drunk. A notebook labeled “PRIVATE — Nam-Gyu’s Eyes Only” that was very much not Nam-Gyu’s. A clubroom key still on the original lanyard. Faded worksheets and flyers.

The kind of debris you don’t think you’ll care about until you’re twenty-three and exhausted and finally still.

And then there it was.

A slim, glitter-coated file folder jammed between an old textbook and a broken pencil case.

Thanos froze. “Wait.”

He pulled it out slowly, holding it up to the light like it might disintegrate.

In glitter pen, across the front, in unmistakably dramatic lettering:

“FINAL DRAFT – DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU’RE BOTH LESS DUMB.”

They stared at it.

“…That was Mina’s handwriting,” Nam-Gyu said after a beat.

“Yeah, but it’s your humor.”

Inside were two letters. Sealed. Yellowing slightly at the corners. One addressed to Nam-Gyu. One to Thanos.

Their names were written in their own handwriting.

They didn’t speak for a long moment.

“I forgot we did this,” Thanos said after a long beat, quieter now.

Nam-Gyu nodded. “It was after graduation. Se-Mi dared us. Said if we were gonna be stupid and romantic, we might as well go all in.”

“You said it was ‘pointless sentimentality.’”

“And you cried during the first draft.”

Thanos sniffed. “That was hay fever.”

Nam-Gyu gave him a look. “In the clubroom. At night. In winter.”

“Powerful hay fever.”

Silence stretched between them like static.

“We said we’d open them when everything felt different.”

Then Thanos looked up, all the joking gone from his face. “So… now?”

Nam-Gyu hesitated. His fingers brushed the flap of the envelope. His breath caught for no reason at all.

“…Now,” he whispered.

They opened them.

And the world stilled.

Thanos turned his letter over in his hands. The paper was worn soft at the edges. “I forgot what I wrote.”

Nam-Gyu nodded, eyes on the ceiling. “Me too.”

The silence stretched long and low. Outside, the city murmured its usual noise — taxis, neon, the hum of a life too big to hold. But in their apartment, everything felt very still.

Thanos opened his letter first.

He didn’t read it aloud.

Nam-Gyu watched as Thanos’s expression flickered — first amused, then surprised, then something smaller. Something close to grief, or maybe awe. His mouth curled at the edges. He blinked fast. Then read it again.

Only when he folded it back up did he speak.

“I think,” Thanos whispered, “I really didn’t think we’d make it.”

Nam-Gyu looked down at his own envelope. “Me neither.”

“I remember,” Thanos went on, “thinking… you’d be fine either way. That you’d move on, become some hot-shot CEO with shiny shoes and no time for a dumbass dropout.” A soft laugh. “But I also wrote that I hoped you wouldn’t forget me. Even if we weren’t… even if we didn’t make it.”

Nam-Gyu picked up his envelope. The seal cracked like a whisper.

Inside was his own handwriting — precise, cautious. The strokes looked like they’d been measured out with a ruler.

He read it silently, eyes moving slowly over each line.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it might break if handled wrong.

Inside, his own handwriting stared back at him — neater, more rigid, like he’d been afraid even then of messing it up. The words were sharp and uncertain, every sentence carved with worry. But between the lines was someone young and scared and hopeful.

“If you’re reading this, you probably made it through something hard. That’s how life is, isn’t it? One endless test after another.

I hope you didn’t forget how it felt to be seventeen — even if it hurt.

I hope you didn’t give up.”

“If Thanos is still in your life… I’m proud of you.

If he’s not — I hope you loved him well, while you could.”

Nam-Gyu put it down. Closed his eyes.

He didn’t say anything for a while.

Then, softly: “I was so afraid of messing everything up.”

“You didn’t,” Thanos said. He reached across the bed and took Nam-Gyu’s hand. “We didn’t.”

Their fingers curled together. No tension, no panic. Just warmth. Trust.

“I thought you’d leave,” Nam-Gyu whispered. “Eventually. After the novelty wore off.”

Thanos turned to him, solemn.

“I still think about leaving,” he said, with a glint of mischief.

Nam-Gyu looked over sharply.

“Leaving dishes in the sink,” Thanos clarified. “Leaving love notes in your briefcase. Leaving my dirty socks exactly where you told me not to.”

Nam-Gyu snorted, despite himself. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe. But I’m your idiot.”

The air softened again. The letters sat in their laps like artifacts. Proof. They weren’t just teenagers in love anymore — they were two whole people, bruised and brilliant, still choosing each other.
“I still love you,” Nam-Gyu said.

Thanos looked at him, eyes serious now. “You always did.”

A pause. Then:

“Hey,” Thanos added, brushing his thumb along Nam-Gyu’s knuckle. “I’m not late anymore.”

Nam-Gyu exhaled, the last of the weight from the day finally leaving his shoulders. He nodded once, barely.

“Not anymore,” he said.

They leaned back into the pillows, letters placed gently on the nightstand, like a pair of ghosts finally laid to rest. The room was warm, lived-in, scattered with little pieces of who they used to be.
They didn’t need to speak again.

Not when this — soft breathing, tangled legs, the slow rhythm of love earned over time — said everything for them.

Chapter Text

10:03 PM. A Tuesday.

The apartment was dark except for the faint golden glow from the desk lamp and the icy blue light of Nam-Gyu’s screen. The only sound was the soft clacking of keys and the occasional tap of a stylus against glass.

He was perfect, as always — collared shirt, sleeves rolled just enough, hair still somehow neat despite the hour. There were three tabs open: one for stocks, one for international contracts, and one for an internal memo draft. His tea had gone cold an hour ago.

The stress was invisible to most. But Thanos saw it all.

He stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching Nam-Gyu work like the world might fall apart if he stopped typing for a second. His boyfriend didn’t even flinch when Thanos called softly, “I made you those weird protein seaweed chips you pretend to like.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t look up. “They’re a great source of omega-3.”

“You haven’t eaten today.”

“I had a smoothie.”

Thanos padded closer, holding the bowl like a peace offering. “A smoothie isn’t food, Gyu.”

Nam-Gyu glanced up. Barely. “I’ll eat later. This is due tomorrow.”

“But I made you food,” he repeated finally, voice low.

Nam-Gyu didn’t turn. “No time.”

“You always say that.”

“Because there’s never any.”

Thanos took a step closer. “You’re still on the same email chain from this morning.”

“They added a reply-all comment. It changed the tone.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “The tone?”

Nam-Gyu finally looked over. His eyes were bloodshot but sharp. “Do you know how fast markets shift when tone is off?”

“I know your tone is off.” Thanos dropped the bowl on the desk. “That’s enough work.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t even flinch. “You sound like Gi-Hun.”

“Good. Because Gi-Hun wouldn’t let you rot in front of this screen.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” Thanos cut in, stepping between him and the desk. “You are wilting, Gyu.”

Nam-Gyu’s lip twitched — not a smile. Not quite. “I have to send these reports for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is also Valentine’s Day.”

A pause. Nam-Gyu looked at him properly then — exhausted eyes, a tight smile. “Happy Valentine’s.”

Thanos raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Be still my heart.”

“I said it,” Nam-Gyu mumbled, returning to his laptop. “That counts.”

Thanos didn’t laugh this time.

Instead, he gently placed the bowl down on the desk and crouched next to him. “You didn’t even let me kiss you this morning.”

“I was in a meeting—”

“At seven a.m.”

“I have responsibilities.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

Another pause. The tension now sat thick in the air, almost humid. Thanos didn’t break eye contact.

Nam-Gyu swallowed.

“I’m not asking you to give me some cheesy speech,” Thanos said softer now. “I’m not asking for chocolates or flowers or rooftop dinners.”

“You hate flowers.”

“I hate being ignored.”

The silence stretched between them. Nam-Gyu’s shoulders rose and fell like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“I just…” he murmured, voice fragile. “I want to be someone worth staying for.”

Thanos stepped back like he’d been slapped.

“You are. God, Nam-Gyu, do you hear yourself?”

“I can’t lose you,” Nam-Gyu said, sharper than intended. “I already lost my mother, my name, my home. If I lose you—”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Thanos snapped. “Because I chose you. Over and over. In every timeline. In every life. Even when you’re impossible. Even when you think being cold makes you strong. Even when you act like I’m a temporary thing.”

Nam-Gyu stared at the floor.

Thanos took a shaky breath. “You already deserve me. That’s the secret you haven’t figured out yet. You always did.”

No reply.

So Thanos did what he always did — crossed the line.

He walked behind Nam-Gyu’s chair and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of Nam-Gyu’s neck. Then another. Then another.

Nam-Gyu’s hands hovered over the keyboard.

And then, with a breath that sounded like defeat and relief in one, he clicked the little red circle on the spreadsheet.

Nam-Gyu’s fingers twitched near the keyboard, uncertain. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I want,” Thanos said. “I don’t want apologies. I want you to stop acting like you have to save the world alone.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” Thanos stood, voice rising slightly. “You’re still that guy who thinks love is conditional. That if you don’t check every box — run the company, plan every second, work yourself into the ground — you’ll lose it all.”

Nam-Gyu blinked at him. “I just want to deserve you.”

Thanos’s expression cracked wide open.

“You already do,” he said, quieter now, heartbreak in every word. “God, Nam-Gyu, you already do.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t reply. He just stared down at his lap, hands clenched. His shoulders shook.

It took Thanos two steps to cross the room and wrap his arms around him.

They stood like that for a while — Nam-Gyu trembling, Thanos pressing kisses to his temple, neither saying anything more.

Eventually, Nam-Gyu reached forward and closed the laptop.

And then, in the silence, he took Thanos’s hand.

They didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Thanos kissed his hair. “I forgive you.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

They stood there for a while — one grounded by the other's warmth, the other crumbling slowly in the safety of love.

Eventually, Thanos said, “You want to come to bed?”

“In a minute.”

Thanos pulled back slightly. “You’ll fall asleep on the couch again.”

“I won’t.”

“Liar.”

Nam-Gyu smiled and looked at the clock. Just barely. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“That means nothing if you spend it arguing with fonts.”

“…Come kiss me again,” Nam-Gyu murmured, and turned in his chair to face him.

Thanos didn’t hesitate.

He kissed him slow. Hands on either side of his face. Like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nothing else that mattered.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and tangled, Nam-Gyu looked up at him and whispered, “Don’t leave.”

Thanos grinned. “Not even if you beg me to.”

The next morning, Nam-Gyu woke up to two facts: He had slept through four alarms. Thanos was not in bed.

Which was strange — because he was the morning person. Thanos normally clung to the covers like a demon banished from the underworld. But today, the blankets were cold, the kitchen was too clean, and there was a faint scent of roses in the air.

Nam-Gyu padded into the hallway, bleary-eyed, wearing one of Thanos’s oversized sweatshirts that read SECURITY RISK in cracked font. “Hello?”

No answer.

He opened the living room door.

Thanos was there — dressed, showered, suspiciously chipper, and bent over his phone like he was coordinating an international heist.

He jumped three feet when he saw Nam-Gyu.

“Wow, look at you,” Thanos said quickly, standing in front of the phone like a human firewall. “Up before noon. New personal best.”

Nam-Gyu squinted. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You never say ‘nothing’ unless it’s something.”

Thanos spread his arms. “I’m literally just standing.”

“In jeans.”

“…Standing very responsibly?”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes narrowed. “Are you planning something?”

Thanos gave him his most award-winning smile. “Define planning.”

“You look like a raccoon caught wiring explosives.”

Thanos laughed too loudly. “That’s crazy. Anyway! Did you want coffee? I made that fancy imported one you like, the one that tastes like regret and woodsmoke and maybe war crimes.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t move. “Who were you texting?”

“No one.”

“Give me the phone.”

“I’m allowed secrets!”

“You hate secrets.”

Thanos tried to make his eyes big and innocent. “It’s a surprise.”

Nam-Gyu paused. Something about the word made him blink. “Wait… today’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Ding ding.”

“I already forgot again?”

“Well, I forgot your last three birthdays, so let’s call it even.”

Nam-Gyu groaned and collapsed face-first onto the couch. “God. I’m the worst boyfriend alive.”

“Incorrect. You’re the sexiest, softest, weirdest little spreadsheet goblin in Seoul, and I’m lucky to have you.”

“…Gross.”

“I’m romantic.”

“You’re suspicious.”

“I’m not! I’m normal!” Thanos was sweating.

Nam-Gyu peeked up at him. “You planned something, didn’t you?”

“I did not,” Thanos said, voice cracking. “Now get dressed in something that makes your legs look expensive and your mouth look kissable. No questions.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “Wait—what do you mean—”

Thanos kissed the top of his head, muttered something about being late for literally nothing, and ran off to coordinate with someone on his phone. Again.

Nam-Gyu stared after him, heart pounding in a confused way that only happened when Thanos was too nice.

He pulled his phone out and checked the calendar.

Nothing.

Except… one calendar invite. Added at 2:07 AM.

[Dinner with ya boyfriennn 8:00PM – Location: Don’t worry about it]

His heart did a small and stupid leap.

Valentine’s Day, huh?

He sighed, leaned back on the couch, and whispered to no one: “Please don’t let this be karaoke.”

From down the hall, Thanos yelled, “It’s not karaoke!”

“Stop reading my mind!”

“Can’t. I’m in love with it.”

Nam-Gyu had been dressed for the date for forty minutes.

And then re-dressed. And then redressed again.

Now he stood in front of the mirror, glaring at his reflection like it had personally betrayed him.

“Too formal,” he muttered, undoing the second button of his shirt. Then, “Too casual,” and buttoned it again. Then, “You look like a walking anxiety attack,” and tugged his sleeves down for the tenth time.

He spun, sighed, spun again.

Why was Thanos acting so weird?

He checked his phone: No new texts. No location drop. Just the same cryptic invite.

Thanos hadn’t even flirted with him while leaving. No “you’ll look hot.” No “don’t be late, pretty boy.” Nothing. Just kissed his hair and vanished like a romantic maniac.

Now, Nam-Gyu couldn’t tell if he should wear cologne or armor.

He picked up his cologne. Then put it down. Then picked it up again. Sprayed the air once. Walked through it dramatically.

“I hate you,” he whispered to no one, mostly meaning Thanos, partially meaning his own nerves.

Then the door buzzed.

His heart dropped into his socks.

He checked his phone again. Still no message.

Nam-Gyu took one long breath and opened the door—

—and found a driver in a black suit holding a single rose.

“For Mr. Choi,” the man said politely. “He requested you be driven.”

“…Driven where?”

“He didn’t say.”

Nam-Gyu’s eye twitched.

This was it. This was how he died. Murdered in his boyfriend’s Valentine’s Day scheme. Probably buried under a pile of glitter and heart-shaped confetti.

Still, he followed. Got in the car. Texted one final, cryptic “If I disappear, it’s Thanos’s fault” to the group chat. Se-Mi responded with six skull emojis and “worth it.”

The car glided into traffic.

And Nam-Gyu—after fixing his hair again—finally leaned back and let the nerves take over.

Thanos’s POV

Thanos had never known the human body could vibrate from sheer anticipation, but here he was — pacing a circle into the floor of The Pentagon’s private lounge, heart punching his ribs like it wanted to escape and run to Nam-Gyu first.

He was not okay.

Everything was set. Mostly. The candles were flickering gently in tall glass vases. Rose petals lined the path from the entrance to the center of the room. The playlist — some soft, vintage-inspired nonsense that Gi-Hun claimed was “subtle romance” — was low and warm and stupidly emotional.

The ring box in his jacket pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

Mi-Na adjusted the lights, then stood back with her arms crossed. “If he says no, I’m going to sob.”

Thanos turned so fast she almost got decked by his wild arm flail. “Don’t say that!”

She grinned like the menace she was. “What? It’s true! You’re all shaky and full of sparkles. It’s sweet.”

“I’m not—sparkly,” he muttered, wiping sweaty palms on his pants. “I’m cool. I’m composed. I’m devastatingly attractive.”

“You’re vibrating,” she said, stepping back to admire the setup. “But, hey. I’ve known you since you wore leather in July and flirted with baristas to get free oat milk. This? This is real. If he’s not crying by the end of it, I will be.”

Thanos rolled his eyes and tried to slow his breathing.

It was the stupid little things that kept breaking him today.

He’d watched Nam-Gyu get dressed this morning, all crisp lines and sleepy eyes, fingers twitching from stress as he double-checked calendar notifications before breakfast. He’d leaned against the doorway and thought, This is who I want to annoy for the rest of my life.

He’d kissed his head and left before he could say anything dumb.

It wasn’t nerves exactly. Or maybe it was. But it wasn’t the fear of rejection — it was wanting so badly for it to be good. For it to be right. For Nam-Gyu to know — not just think, not just guess, but know — how much Thanos loved him.

How much he always would.

He glanced at the ring again. It wasn’t flashy. No blood diamonds or unnecessary flexing. Just a slim platinum band with the engraving on the inside:

Not Anymore.

He swallowed.

The decorations were up. The mood was right. The plan had been relayed to the driver, who’d already texted Thanos with “Passenger acquired.” The friends were hiding in the green room with a bottle of champagne and an emergency tissue box. In-Ho had checked the fire exits in case Nam-Gyu ran.

Now, all he could do was wait.

He sat down briefly, then stood up again. Walked in a loop. Paused in front of the mirror to fix his collar. Patted his jacket pocket like a nervous wreck. Practiced the start of his speech in his head and then forgot it immediately.

His phone buzzed. ETA: 3 minutes.

He stared at the door.

Three minutes.

Three minutes and he’d be looking into the eyes of the only person who ever made him feel like more than a problem.

The only one who made him want to be more than just noise and chaos and bite.

He could already imagine it — Nam-Gyu standing in the doorway, wearing his stress like a crown, eyes going wide, arms crossed to hide how flustered he was. That look he got when he was overwhelmed but pretending not to be. The way his throat always bobbed when he was moved, even if his words stayed steady.

Thanos closed his eyes and let the image anchor him.

Three minutes.

He cracked his knuckles, gave himself one final, shaky breath, and whispered:

“Please don’t say no.”

The lights dimmed. The playlist shifted. A door clicked open.

Showtime.

Chapter Text

When Nam-Gyu was dropped off to the mystery location he didn’t panic. Because Nam-Gyu had done this walk a hundred times.

Through the back entrance, past the graffiti-scratched stairwell, up two flights to the private floor. The hallway always smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and smoke. The elevator always made a weird sound. And someone was usually yelling about a light fixture or broken mic stand or forgetting to stock the bar again.

But tonight, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Nam-Gyu slowed near the top of the stairs, his hand brushing the rail, breath catching like a fish on a hook. There was something off in the air — not wrong, exactly. Just… suspended. Like the world had paused mid-sentence and hadn’t decided how to end it yet.

He frowned.

The hallway lights were dimmer than usual. One of the sconces had been turned off entirely. The door to the club lounge — usually propped half-open or marked with a haphazard sign like Rehearsal in Progress — was firmly shut.

A thread of unease curled low in his gut.

His hand hovered near his phone. He thought about texting Thanos — something casual, something dumb. Are you dead? Should I order noodles without you? But no message would’ve come out right. Not with how weird the air felt. Not with the way his chest was already too tight.

He pressed his hand to the doorframe and exhaled once, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t know what he was walking into.

But something was coming.

And some part of him — the old part, the terrified part — already wanted to run.

The door clicked open.

Nam-Gyu hesitated.

For half a second, he didn’t move — like something in him short-circuited at the sudden hush of warmth that spilled out. It wasn’t the thump of club bass he was used to. No lights pulsing to a beat. No scent of sweat and too-sweet cocktails and someone shouting over music. The air inside the room smelled like roses and wax and something faintly familiar — Thanos’s cologne, maybe, or laundry detergent clinging to the memory of home.

The world slowed.

Inside, the lounge was transformed. The ceiling was strung with dim golden bulbs, casting a low, drowsy glow across the velvet walls. A gentle playlist hummed somewhere — jazz, probably, or one of those romantic acoustic tracks Gi-Hun claimed was “timeless.” Candles flickered in tall glass cylinders, and rose petals made a winding path through the room, like a spell in red and gold. At the center of it all, standing almost too still to be real—

Was Thanos.

He wasn’t wearing anything flashy. No rhinestones, no stage outfit, no oversized coat or messy jewelry. Just a black button-down rolled at the sleeves, dark pants, and a look on his face like someone had hit pause on the entire universe and told him to breathe carefully.

Nam-Gyu stood in the doorway, one hand still clutching the frame like a lifeline. His heart was kicking violently in his chest, confused and uncertain, like it had missed the memo.

He opened his mouth to say something. Closed it.

Thanos smiled.

It wasn’t his usual cocky grin, the one that said I’m going to kiss you in public just because you’ll blush. It wasn’t the sharp smirk he used when teasing, or the wide laugh he gave when Se-Mi said something outrageous. This was quieter. Softer. The kind of smile you give when you’re trying not to cry.

Nam-Gyu’s throat closed.

Thanos didn’t move right away. He just stood there, like he knew rushing would ruin something delicate. His fingers were curled at his sides, as if he’d rehearsed what to do with them but forgotten at the last second. His foot nudged a rose petal. He glanced down, then back up — and that’s when Nam-Gyu noticed the tremble in his breath.

Neither of them said anything.

Nam-Gyu took one step inside.

The door shut softly behind him. The lock clicked, and the sound made him flinch. The room was too quiet now. Too intimate. He’d never seen this lounge without people in it. Without the noise. Without distance.

And now it was just them.

Just them and a hundred candles and the scent of every single thing he’d been trying not to hope for.

“I…” Nam-Gyu’s voice failed. He cleared his throat. “This isn’t karaoke.”

Thanos let out a tiny breath of laughter — not loud, not teasing. Just grateful.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

Nam-Gyu looked around, eyes skimming the setup like it was too much to take in at once. The lights. The petals. The soft music that barely dared to exist.

His heart wouldn’t slow down.

“I thought you said not to wear anything fancy,” he managed.

“I didn’t think you’d take it as a challenge.” Thanos’s voice was warm, but there was a tremble to it now. “You look…”

He trailed off.

Nam-Gyu’s eyes met his.

And suddenly, nothing felt safe anymore.

There was no banter to hide behind. No sarcasm. No performance. No group chat snark. Just the weight of this, hanging between them like a secret someone had finally said out loud.

Thanos took one step forward.

Then another.

And then they were close enough that Nam-Gyu could see the way his collar shifted with every breath. The faint sheen of sweat at his temples. The flush in his cheeks.

“Thanos…” Nam-Gyu whispered, but didn’t finish the thought.

He couldn’t. Not with the way Thanos was looking at him. Not with that much hope.

“I know it’s a lot,” Thanos said softly. “I know you hate surprises. But I—I couldn’t not do this.”

Nam-Gyu blinked fast, like something stung behind his eyes.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he whispered.

“I wanted to.” Thanos swallowed. “I needed to.”

Nam-Gyu’s hands were shaking. He crossed his arms to hide it — too tight, like he was physically holding himself together.

There was a pause.

Then Thanos smiled again, the edges of it shaky. “You’re doing that thing where you look like you want to run but you’re too polite to actually do it.”

Nam-Gyu let out a short breath — not quite a laugh. “I’m trying to figure out if this is a dream.”

“It’s not.”

“Feels like one.”

Thanos tilted his head. “Good or bad?”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “I don’t know yet.”

Thanos laughed, nervous and sweet. “Fair.”

For a second, Nam-Gyu’s gaze dropped to the floor — to the petals, the soft carpet, the ridiculous romanticism of it all. If someone had told him a year ago that this would be his life — that this boy would be the center of a room like this, waiting for him — he would’ve laughed in their face.

But here he was.

And Thanos was still standing there.

Waiting.

Not saying it. Not yet. But carrying it in every glance.

Nam-Gyu swallowed hard.

“Why does this feel like goodbye?” he asked, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.

Thanos froze.

Then, after a breath that felt too long—

“It’s not.”

Nam-Gyu looked up.

“It’s not,” Thanos said again, firmer this time. “This isn’t an ending, Gyu. I promise.”

Nam-Gyu nodded slowly.

He didn’t trust his voice.

Instead, he stepped closer. Just one step. Just enough that he could feel the heat of Thanos’s presence — steady, nervous, alive.

And for once, Nam-Gyu didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t try to solve it or name it or write a to-do list about it.

He just felt it.

The weight of love, wrapped in roses and candlelight.

The unbearable silence of something about to change.

The ache of knowing he couldn’t stop it now — not even if he wanted to.

Not even if he wasn’t ready.

Still Thanos. Always Thanos.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Thanos looked like he was breathing on borrowed time, and Nam-Gyu looked like he didn’t dare. The air between them was electric — not loud or showy, but sharp and waiting. Like the next word might crack everything open.

Thanos shifted slightly.

Nam-Gyu’s gaze followed him, every nerve in his body tight with anticipation, dread, wonder — some combination that felt too big for his chest.

Then, finally, quietly, Thanos said, “Come here.”

Nam-Gyu didn’t move.

Not because he didn’t want to — but because his legs weren’t working. Not properly. He’d stood on podiums. Faced corporate boards. Been screamed at by billionaires and bowed to by presidents. But this? This was so much worse.

Still, he moved. Slowly. Like the air was made of water. Like if he moved too quickly, he’d startle it all away.

When he reached the center of the room, Thanos reached for his hand.

Nam-Gyu gave it to him.

And then Thanos — without ceremony, without a word — dropped to one knee.

Nam-Gyu’s heart stopped.

It didn’t flutter. It didn’t skip.

It stopped.

He stared down at him, wide-eyed, all oxygen torn from his lungs.

“Don’t panic,” Thanos murmured, even as his voice trembled. “I’m not— I mean, I am, but—”

He broke off, then gave a breathless, crooked smile.

“I practiced this,” he admitted. “Three times. Once in front of Se-Mi, once in front of my bathroom mirror, and once while I was brushing our dog.”

Nam-Gyu blinked. “We don’t have a dog.”

“We will,” Thanos said. “Eventually. That’s part of the speech.”

Nam-Gyu laughed — startled and too high-pitched.

Thanos squeezed his hand gently.

And then, like he had nothing left to lose, he began.

“I don’t think you understand what you are to me, Nam-Gyu.”

“I’ve loved you since you accused me of cheating on that physics quiz even though I didn’t.”

Nam-Gyu blinked.

“I did,” Thanos added quickly. “I totally cheated. But you were the first person to call me out on it. Like you actually saw me. And you still stayed.”

He swallowed. His hands tightened slightly on the ring box.

Nam-Gyu’s lips parted.

Thanos’s eyes stayed steady.

“You think I’ve outgrown you. That I’ve become something bigger, flashier, messier. And maybe I have. But none of it ever mattered unless you were watching. The lyrics, the lights, the fans — all of it means nothing if you’re not somewhere in the back, rolling your eyes like you’re above it, even when you’re not.”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes were stinging. He looked away.

“I’ve messed up so many things,” Thanos continued, voice softer now. “I don’t answer texts on time. I forget to eat. I lose my keys, and sometimes I can’t say the things I mean when they matter. But I’ve never — never — been unsure about this.”

He looked up at him.

“At you.”

Nam-Gyu’s throat closed.

“I’ve loved you when you called me a statistical liability,” Thanos said, laughing a little through the tightness in his chest. “When you rolled your eyes when I got detention again, and told me I was a waste of oxygen. I’ve loved you through our worst fights, through every late-night cram session, through the panic and pride and everything in between. I’ve loved you since I thought I didn’t deserve you. And I never stopped.”

Nam-Gyu couldn’t look away.

“I want to live in every version of life with you,” Thanos said, softer now. “The boring mornings and the burnt toast. The stress migraines and the overbooked schedules. The dumb arguments over dish soap brands. I want to walk through every heartbreak and headline with you. I want the quiet. The chaos. You.”

“I know we’re older now. I know the world’s bigger and we’ve changed and maybe you think we missed the moment. But I never did. I’ve always been in it, Gyu. Waiting for you to be ready.”

Nam-Gyu’s stomach dropped.

I’m not ready, something screamed inside him.

Not yet. Not with the world still shifting under his feet.

But he didn’t stop him.

Thanos reached into his pocket.

Nam-Gyu made a small, choked sound when he saw the ring.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t gold or massive or absurdly expensive.

It was silver.

Smooth. Simple. Familiar.

An echo of something they'd once hidden under desks.

“This was the first one,” Thanos said. “The one you gave me. I had it resized. Polished. Fixed the scratch I made in it when I dropped it on the stairs the night you told me you loved me.”

Nam-Gyu covered his mouth with his hand.

Thanos looked up at him, eyes wide and glassy and more serious than he’d ever looked before.

“Will you marry me?”

And then —

Silence.

Utter, deafening silence.

Nam-Gyu didn’t answer.

His lips parted, breath trembling. His eyes shimmered in the low light, flicking between Thanos’s face and the ring, back and forth like he couldn’t believe this was real.

Thanos waited.

Waited through the heartbeat that nearly broke him.

Waited through the spiral that started behind Nam-Gyu’s eyes — the flickers of doubt and pressure.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

And then —

“I–I…”

His breath caught.

“I…”

A long, shaking pause.

Then, almost inaudible:

“No.”

Thanos didn’t move.

Nam-Gyu’s voice cracked like glass.

“I can’t—” he started. Then stopped. His hands shook. “Not like this.”

Thanos’s eyes didn’t change. Not right away. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. Didn’t plead.

He just breathed — once, twice — and nodded.

“I understand,” he whispered.

Nam-Gyu covered his mouth again, stepping back like the floor was lava. “No you don't. I didn’t mean— I didn’t—”

Thanos stood slowly.

He didn’t let go of Nam-Gyu’s hand.

“I know,” he said gently. “It’s okay.”

But his voice sounded too calm.

Too even.

Like he was swallowing something sharp.

Nam-Gyu’s eyes filled with tears. “I love you. I—you know I do—”

“I know,” Thanos said again. “I know."

They stood there, in the middle of roses and flickering light, neither of them knowing what came next.

And then—

Blackout.

The End.