ruin our friendship

by otterpie

Summary:

“It’s okay. Use me. I don’t mind.”

He would mind, come the morning.

He minded now, actually.

He always would.

--

Nearly twenty-years after an abrupt end to their tumultuous relationship, Sang-woo and Gi-hun meet again - in the most unlikely of places.

Notes:

• For startlingirony.

Gi-hun didn’t recognize him.

Maybe he never would have, if the pulsing lights kept their echoes hooked behind his eyes; if the off-beat swell and swoop of the music remained a pounding heartbeat under his feet; if the company on the dancefloor had anything more to give than the sleaziest crop of men that Seoul could offer. The arrhythmic sway of their hips was a lure, while the buzz lasted, but nauseating, as soon as the soju had sloshed to settle in his stomach.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, depending on who you later asked – Gi-hun found the rapid lights becoming a fast headache, pressed deep against the ridge of his temple. After the fifth squeeze of his ass from a man he couldn’t even see amid the crowd, he reluctantly pulled himself free. He was forgotten immediately. The dancing and laughing and grinding surged on without him, mechanical and automatic in ways Gi-hun could only ever dream to be.

Unsurprisingly, casual sex did little to fill the gaping hole left behind by an ugly divorce.

Surprisingly, Gi-hun found himself wishing it did.

There was a sway in his step as he staggered towards the bar. The obnoxious crow of an older man desperate for attention was lost on him. He slumped over the stool, near flopped. Maybe I should stop here, he thought, that cool, logistical inner voice sounding far too familiar for comfort. He waved down the bartender if only to spite Eun-ji from afar. Stopping would be the smart thing to do. He had earned a night of dumb mistakes, the kind that he’d wear proudly as regrets come the morning.

“I’ll have the strongest beer you’ve got.”

The bartender arched one eyebrow impossibly high. Critical. Judging. Just like someone I know, he thought with a pained twist in his guts. “You sure? Snake Venom is no joke.”

Gi-hun couldn’t keep the challenge out of his voice when he replied, “try me.”

The Snake Venom was slid his way (in a disappointingly small shot glass to boot – what did he look like, a lightweight?) and Gi-hun pressed the drink to his dry lips, felt the deliciously silken heat run smoothly across his tongue, down his throat, into his battered liver. He thought of Eun-ji, as he always did, when doing something he knew she wouldn’t approve of; Gi-hun hoped she was thinking of him, too.

Alcohol wasn’t nearly as fun when he had nobody to share it with.

“Trouble with the wife?”

At first, Gi-hun didn’t notice him. He was far too wrapped up in his own misery to consider the equally miserable man by his side. That voice, however, was startlingly familiar, rough and flat and calmly measured, every word spoken as if it were chosen with a precise sort of care. He'd know it from anywhere. Could pin it out of a crowd even with all the background noise crowding in on him.

He swung around. The empty shot glass slipped from his hand and clattered noisily atop the wooden bench, earning him a glare from the bartender that Gi-hun pointedly chose to ignore.

“Sang-woo-ah?”

            He was so drunk that he barely had time to swallow the honorific before it clung to the end of his old friend’s name like a blood-sucking tick. It had been years since they’d last seen each other, so many years that he’d lost count. Gi-hun tried to quantify their time apart, a painful ache in his brain while he reached back through so many memories, memories empty of a man who had once been at the forefront of his existence. Before the divorce, before Ga-yeong, before the wedding, before –

(the sirens and the cars and the police and the death) –

He shook the echoes of those sounds away, a sore lump lodged in his throat.

Before Eun-ji.

“Sang-woo-ah,” he said again, dumbly, weakly, because at that moment it was all he could say. He cringed as soon as his name left his mouth, bit down hard on his lip belatedly when Sang-woo stared at him over the range of his elbows. His gaze lacked the critical burn of the bartender. Instead, he simply looked through Gi-hun, like he was hollow and empty. Like he wasn’t even there. Maybe I’m not, Gi-hun thought.

Fuck. Snake Venom was aptly named.

“What’re you –” Gi-hun scrambled for anything other than Sang-woo-ah to sit on his tongue. “I thought you were – that is, in America - your mom.” The sentence was a mess, not unlike Gi-hun himself, who had barely bothered to tidy himself up before deciding on a whim to find a hookup at a gay bar, of all places. Not that he’d had much success. Gi-hun looked down at his shot glass, tipped crudely on its side, a crack creased into its silver flesh. “I didn’t know you were back in Korea,” he finished lamely, and the betrayal that hit him from this realization stole his breath away. It cut like a knife through his chest. Severed him in half.

A faint hint of recognition dawned in Sang-woo’s eyes. That hint became a hole, his dark pupils blowing wide. He finally, finally looked at Gi-hun as though he were real; as though he were tangible, and not the faded tinge of a ghost. With it came an expression Gi-hun found himself relishing to see again – the subtle downward twist of his lips, the thin furrow of his brow. A scowl. Bitter and well-worn. So Sang-woo in all the worst ways.

Gi-hun had missed that. Missed him. Missed everything. Even the shit that hurt.

“Was I supposed to tell you?” His voice was like flint. Three drained bottles of soju stood tall beside him. Sang-woo picked up his fourth and tipped it back against his lips.

“No.” Gi-hun dropped his gaze and picked up his own glass. He circled the tiny sliver of liquid that remained at its bottom around and around until he was dizzy. “I guess not.”

Still, it would have been nice to know. Sang-woo couldn’t fault him for that, not with how close they’d once been.

Closer than the average friend ought to be.

He tried to ignore those memories as he always did when they came, unwelcome and summoning a shudder to ripple across his skin.

“It’s been so long,” Gi-hun murmured. “I, uh – I didn’t realize you were into this kind of stuff.” Parties. Heavy drinking. Clubs that stunk of men who reeked sweat and had incredible, meaningless sex. Even when they were young, Sang-woo had avoided these places like his life depended on it, content to sip on cigarettes while poring over his university textbooks. Such a stuffy nerd. A fresh pang of nostalgia stabbed through Gi-hun’s heart at the memory.  

Sang-woo narrowed his eyes. “I’m not.” Without another word, he turned away and took a final swig of his drink. Four empty bottles now, all perfectly aligned with each other. It would’ve been an impressive sight if Sang-woo didn’t look so fucking sad.

Silence fell between them – unsteady, punctured only by the heavy bass beats of the music, which should’ve been drowning, inescapable, yet somehow had become nothing more than a hazy background hum. It was difficult to pay attention to the cacophony of the nightclub when he was confronted with the person who he’d once given everything to, so soon after the loss of a woman who he’d given everything to and more. His fingers flexed and drummed against the countertop. Impatience flared in spikes with each long second of nothing that passed.

Finally, it grew too much to bear. “I thought you were in America,” he blurted, his words fuzzy around the edges. Woah. The bartender hadn’t exaggerated. That shot was strong. “Your mom, she told me. Said you were on some super fancy business trip over there. Did you just get back?”

Sang-woo didn’t answer.

“What’s it like? I’ve always wanted to go. So much to see and do. Nothing like over here.” Gi-hun's smile was soft and dreamy. “Disney World. The Grand Canyon. This giant ball of rubber bands - oh man, Sang-woo-ah, it looks ridiculous. Ga-yeong showed me the pictures in one of her little magazines. She wants me to take her there one day. I said I would. Did you see it in person?” The foolishness of his question hit him hard. He cracked a laugh, though, landing on his feet as he always did. “Of course you didn’t. You have way more important things to do on business trips than sightseeing. Maybe next time, then.”

No reply. Again.

Every fiber of Gi-hun’s remaining good judgment screamed at him to walk away, to leave Sang-woo floundering in his drunken fog, unreachable to all but the most determined of men. He’d spent so much time and energy, especially in his youth, running after the echo of a man who hadn’t wanted to be caught. Leave him alone. That’s what he so obviously wants.

But since when was tonight about good decisions?

Fine. If he wanted to play like that, then so be it. Gi-hun had never backed down from a challenge before, even when he probably should’ve. 

“She’s really proud of you. Your mom, I mean. Seriously, every second word out of her mouth is Sang-woo this, Sang-woo that. I can’t get her to shut up about you. We could be talking about squid, squid for heaven's sake, and she’ll find some elaborate way to make it all about you.” Gi-hun affectionately rolled his eyes. “What can I say. It’s a talent.”

“Is she well?”

It was the closest thing he’d gotten to a bite since this weird one-sided conversation had begun. Gi-hun felt a bit like a fisherman, feeling the telltale tug on his lure and spinning his reel up. “Oh, yeah! Of course,” he said, unable to keep the warmth from his voice as he recalled the wrinkled, smiling face of Sang-woo’s mother – and less fondly, the way she would rap him over the head whenever he said something to snag at her nerves. “She’s the healthiest sixty-one-year-old I’ve ever seen. And believe me, Sang-woo-ah, does she have the strength to prove it.” He rubbed at the back of his neck on instinct. “Business seems fine, too. There’s always a customer hanging about. Myself included, obviously.”

“That’s good,” Sang-woo said, uncharacteristically soft. “That’s good.”

And then silence, again.

Fuck.

If there’s anything I’m remembering about you, he thought, a sudden surge of frustration swelling up inside his stomach, it’s how annoyingly stuck in your own head you are, even when you don’t have to be. There were so many thoughts behind those troubled eyes. What Gi-hun would give to know at least one.

There were also so many questions he wanted to ask. Does your mom know you’re home? Are you okay? Why haven’t you answered my calls? He had an inkling he knew all the answers, though, and none of them were quite what he wanted to hear. Not especially when tonight was his, and his alone, to mope and wallow; not when Sang-woo had long since made it clear that he didn’t want Gi-hun to care, didn’t care for Gi-hun’s care, didn’t care about anything or anyone at all, really, outside of himself.

Huh. Funny. Eun-ji had said that about him, too, during their last ugly argument before the finalization of their divorce. He'd dragged his feet so much when it came to signing the papers. Hoped maybe somehow, someway, she'd just ... miraculously change her mind.

Shit. Maybe she was right.

Maybe Gi-hun was selfish.

“Sang-woo-ah.” Gi-hun hated how pathetic, how desperate, how cracked his voice felt. “Talk to me. Please.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sang-woo said. Gi-hun winced.

Had Sang-woo heard about his divorce? “Trouble with the wife?” implied otherwise. They’d barely spoken after the heated argument that came from Gi-hun’s wedding invitation. Eun-ji had always been a sore spot between them, a tender wound neither were willing to touch upon, and Gi-hun couldn’t stop himself from wondering if his misery – if his failure in something that was supposed to be forever, supposed to make him happy in ways Sang-woo could not – would have his junior smiling in triumph. It was an unfair assumption. Gi-hun felt the full brunt of his guilt as soon as the thought crossed his mind. But it weighed there, a cancerous growth that grew and grew with each second that ticked by, their once decades-old friendship suddenly unfamiliar. Suddenly cold.

“You could call it that,” Gi-hun said, swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. “Though, uh – she’s less my wife now, and more my ex. Yeah. I signed the papers last Friday.”

It was a terrible admission, and not for the first time that week did Gi-hun feel the full force of the realization that it was over, that everything was over, and there was no getting her or Ga-yeong back no matter how much he chauffeured or gambled or sold his dignity away.

“What’re you gonna do, huh? That’s women for you.” He tried to keep the sentence light, humorous, but the joke sat dirty and wrong in his mouth. Gi-hun regretted it almost immediately. “Or maybe that’s just marriage nowadays. My mom says our generation doesn’t know the first thing about keeping a relationship alive, which is funny, considering she’s got nothing to show for it either. Ah well. You win some, you lose some.” He paused; abruptly wished there was more venom in his glass, enough to poison himself with. “Though lately, all I seem to do is lose.”

Sang-woo laughed. It was such a rough, dry, inauthentic sound that Gi-hun wondered if he was choking, until he saw the slightest hint of a smile.

“Is that why you’re here?” said Sang-woo. “Because you’re losing?”  

“No,” Gi-hun admitted, unable to swallow a small smile of his own. “I’m here because I’m an idiot.”

“Ah. Of course. It’s good to know there are some things not even a decade can change.”

Gi-hun grinned at the playful dig and scoffed in return. “Oh yeah? What about you, huh? What’s the pride and joy of Ssangmun-dong, cream of the crop graduate from SNU, doing in a place like this? You do know where we are, right? This is, like, one of the shittiest excuses for a gay bar Seoul has to offer. Sorry!” Gi-hun raised his hands when the bartender shot him yet another judgmental look. Jeez. Touchy. “Not you, of course, you’re great.”

When the man returned to cleaning his cups (with a little more aggression than he’d exhibited before) Gi-hun had the good sense to lower his voice. “Seriously, though. The Sang-woo I know would rather be caught dead than loafing around with this kind of crowd. What gives?”

He didn’t miss the grimace Sang-woo made in response to his words, though he couldn’t begin to understand why. It was only the truth. Yet another cancerous silence swelled in the air between them, and for a moment Gi-hun wondered if he’d fucked up, like he did with everything and everyone else as of late.

But only for a moment.

“Same as you,” Sang-woo finally said. This time, his smile was genuine. “I’m being an idiot.”

Just like that, the tension between them melted, replaced by something Gi-hun was far too drunk to recognize. All it took was a laugh, the tiniest quirk of a smile, and fuck – he was twenty again, looking adoringly over at his dumb excuse for a nerdy best friend. It was almost embarrassing how quickly his frustration could be forgotten when he was faced with the real Sang-woo, the one kept hidden away from the rest of the world; the particular, peculiar person beneath all his carefully crafted pretense that only Gi-hun was privileged enough to sometimes see. 

Gi-hun thought he looked so much handsomer when he smiled. It fit his face well. He only wished he’d show some teeth. Lay himself bare with the kind of smile that got girls to their knees.

But this was good, too. It was a start. Gi-hun could work with that.

What was he working towards exactly?

He didn’t know.

But if the alcohol was talking, then it ought to be good.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, right?” Gi-hun teased. “Though I can’t say you’ve been missing much. Just killer hangovers and empty bank accounts. Y’know. The usual mistakes.”

“What was that drink you ordered?” Sang-woo asked suddenly.

“Huh? Oh. Snake Venom, I think it was called? Crazy name, right? Trust me, it lives up to it. Packs a real punch. Why, you want some?”

Sang-woo huffed, his smile quickly lost in favor of a frown, though amusement kept the warmth in his dark eyes. “Add that to your list of mistakes, then. That beer is considered one of the strongest for a reason. It’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.”

Gi-hun blanched. The bartender swung around, ears like a hawk – the cheek of him! “Hold on a second. How much exactly are we talking here?”

“Considering your supposed ‘empty bank account’ …” Sang-woo arched one eyebrow high. “More than you can afford.”

Gi-hun looked guiltily down at his empty glass. But his shot had been so tiny. What a rip.

The bartender was marching his way over, expression furious. “Ah – wait, wait, wait!” Gi-hun threw one hand out, as if that would miraculously freeze him in place. “Don’t worry about it, I can pay. Look, I’ll prove it, I –”

He reached for his wallet, fingers fumbling around the leather.

“It’s fine,” said Sang-woo, doing what Gi-hun could not and stopping the bartender in his tracks. “I’ll pay for his tab.”

            Sang-woo had always been an expert at getting what he wanted, which was more than a little funny, considering he had the social skills of a drowned rat at the best of times. Maybe it was the authority with which he spoke, or maybe it was his commanding presence, and immaculate presentation – not a strand of hair out of place, even the way he walked carefully practiced and nailed down to a precise art.  

Maybe it was the suit.

Yeah. It was definitely the suit.

“Wow.” Gi-hun knew he must’ve looked starstruck. He couldn’t muster the resolve to care. “So even twenty-something years later, being the top graduate of SNU still counts for something. You must be making bank. No wonder your mom’s so proud. Not gonna lie, I am too.”

Gi-hun had never been rich. He’d always scraped his way by, rubbed raw and bruised from the effort, what little excess he managed to earn tossed away on horses and slot machines or, most importantly of all, his packets of cigarettes, which kept him calm and soft-headed even when the stress of life sought to break his back. Maybe if he’d gotten himself a proper college education, he could be like Sang-woo now – miserable, sure, but miserable enough to afford his own damn tab and a friend’s to spare should the urge strike. That sounded nice – misery with a perk. That ought to just come with the bargain, in Gi-hun’s esteemed opinion.

Sang-woo was shifting uncomfortably on his stool, muscles tensed. Right. Gi-hun had forgotten how avoidant he was to such praise. It didn’t make any sense. It was merely the truth.

“Thanks,” he added. “You saved my ass there.” Gi-hun threw a gentle punch at Sang-woo’s shoulder. He tried to ignore the way his fist bounced against firm muscle, and how that sent heat pooling thick and deep in the pit of his stomach. That was an entirely unproductive train of thought. “Just like old times, eh?”

“Don’t thank me.” Sang-woo was already curling back into himself, like a scared turtle retreating into his shell. Logic said he ought to find the familiar behavior exasperating, but the alcohol deemed it very cute. “Try and be less impulsive next time – can you at least do that?”

“Hmm. Yeah, no. Your chances are looking really bad on that one, Sang-woo-ah.”

“It was worth a try.”

Somehow, someway, with the help of a little alcohol (okay – a lot of alcohol), Gi-hun had bridged the chasm between them. He didn’t know how long it would hold both their weights for, the tentative thread of connection frail beneath his feet, but he wasn’t about to let go. Not when he’d worked so hard to build where they now stood, a shaky and trembling foundation, but a foundation, nonetheless.

Conversation began to flow, one-sided like it usually was, but this time rich and sweet as wine. It was mostly surface-level bullshit, but Gi-hun knew how to make even the most mundane of topics entertaining. Throw in a few terrible jokes, spin some highly exaggerated personal anecdotes, and voila! Crowds were putty in his hands.

…That wasn’t so much the case nowadays, freshly divorced and teetering dangerously close to his late forties, but it rung true for his younger years, when he had more friends than fingers on each hand. Maybe his charm wasn’t up to par with his youth, but Gi-hun still liked to think of himself as charismatic. Sang-woo’s attention was living proof of that.

He wasn’t eating up his stupid punchlines, but he was listening, and occasionally he’d give that same haunt of a smile – small, yet deep, over far too quickly. Gi-hun surged on, encouraged, if only to coax more from him.

Gi-hun had just started recounting the kind of joke Ga-yeong would cringe and groan “dad” at when there was a sudden weight on his knees. Sang-woo’s hand was warm and heavier than he remembered. He stilled. Punchline forgotten. Sang-woo wasn’t looking at him. He was eyeing an empty bottle of soju. His finger idly traced the rim of the glass.

“Let’s go back to my place.”

“Why?” Gi-hun felt stupid for even asking. The answer was obvious.

“To talk. Like we’re doing now.”

Gi-hun had the sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t be just to talk.

But he covered Sang-woo’s hand with his own regardless.

***

Gi-hun didn’t know what he expected when Sang-woo switched on the lights. He’d never really taken the time to consider where Sang-woo lived now, though if he had to imagine it, he would conjure something pristine and minimalistic, decorated by fancy abstract paintings that defied understanding. Sang-woo was boring, so of course his house would have to be equally bare and boring to match.

It certainly wasn’t that, though. He almost wished it was. Gi-hun’s eyes were wide. An artificial pallid glow swallowed the room whole, sharply catching upon discarded empty beer bottles and a carpet that had seen better days, its once white fabric bruised a sore, ugly yellow. A bed was tucked away in the corner, unmade and sheets crumpled. An ash-tray ripe with dead cigarettes sat like a graveyard on the table beside it.

It was ethereal in all the wrong ways. Sang-woo didn’t seem to care.

“Water?”

Gi-hun blinked. Sang-woo was staring at him, eyes hooded. Calculating. As if he expected Gi-hun to run, or push him back against the wall, or – or something else, something that made absolutely no sense at all. So much happened inside that remarkably big brain of his. I don’t think I’ll ever understand what you’re thinking. The thought was accompanied by a dull pang. That was more than a little sad to dwell upon.

“Yeah,” he murmured, looking away. “Yeah, uh – water would be great.”

It would definitely help sober him up. Gi-hun was hammered, but his buzz was starting to wear thin, replaced by the looming threat of a headache.

He made his way to Sang-woo’s bed. The mattress was hard. Unyielding. Kind of like you, he thought, wry. Everything in this weird disaster of an apartment spoke of Sang-woo, actually, but only the worst parts of him – the ugliness, the mess, the immense, all-consuming sadness that made Gi-hun want to run. Not for the first time that night, he felt guilt chew incessantly at his stomach.

Sang-woo retrieved him a tall drink of water. He drank it all down greedily, enjoying the way it soothed his liver. When he was done, Sang-woo took the empty glass and laid it down on the floor. It joined bottles of beer tipped on their sides, green skins glinting under the glare of the yellow light.

“You’re staring,” said Sang-woo. Gi-hun realized he was, his eyes raking over the tiny apartment like he could solve all of Sang-woo’s secrets.

Gi-hun dropped his head, cheeks flushed. “Sorry. I just – you don’t actually live here, right? You can’t. I mean, why would you?” He pointed to the walk-in closet, which spilled clothes like intestines unspooling. “I never pegged you for the type of guy to live like this.”

“So what if I do?” replied Sang-woo. “Would you leave me? Like all the rest?”

“…Woah. Where did that come from?”

The foundations of their newly reestablished connection were faulty, sure, but Gi-hun hadn’t expected for it all to fall apart this quickly. If he were being honest with himself, it left him reeling, and sobered him up more than the water already had.

Sang-woo was such a brutally volatile person. Even years later, when age and money and the high praise of his humble hometown ought to have beat that flaw out of him, he still exuded his emotions like a disease. Everything just ... seemed to bleed out of him, no matter how hard he tried to bury it all six feet under his carefully crafted pretense. Gi-hun shouldn’t have been surprised. This was Cho Sangwoo as he remembered him best – difficult, frustrating, so stuck inside his own head that not even the hottest guy in the world could hope to draw him out.

“Do you want to leave?” Sang-woo pressed. It was phrased like a test.

Gi-hun felt his temper flare. His eyes blazed when he met Sang-woo’s unflinching gaze. He wasn’t in the mood for whatever mind games Sang-woo wanted to play. Not when the wounds of Eun-ji had yet to form scabs. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “What, am I not allowed to look around? I’m curious, that’s all. You can’t blame me. This isn’t exactly what I expected.”

“I didn’t bring you here to judge my room, hyung.”

The affectionate title sent an involuntary shiver rippling down Gi-hun’s spine. It had been so long since he’d heard him say that – hyung. In that thick, gravelly voice of his too, the one that had his insides squirming.

“Then why did you bring me here, Sang-woo-ah?”

Sang-woo’s fingers found the top button of Gi-hun’s shirt. He slipped it loose.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Gi-hun knew.

Of course he knew.

“And here I thought you were serious when you invited me over to talk,” he joked, but if Sang-woo heard him, he showed no sign.

Each button slipped itself free under Sang-woo’s precise fingers. Soon Gi-hun was bare and shivering in the stale air that permeated his apartment. His shirt was tossed to the floor, joining the careless array of cups and empty bottles. Forgotten. An afterthought. Just like me.

He tried not to linger on that realization as he reached out for Sang-woo’s suit to return the favor. He caught his hand before he could undo the first button.

“It’s fine. I can undress myself.”

Gi-hun recoiled. “Yeah. Of course. Of course you can.” He wondered if Sang-woo could hear the hurt, red and throbbing like an infection, flared out across his voice.

If he did, he didn’t care.

It was difficult not to feel wounded with how mechanical, how detached he was being – as if Gi-hun wasn’t really Gi-hun at all, but someone else, someone who didn’t matter. Someone who would be gone by morning. Someone who would leave, because staying was never an option.

But this was Sang-woo: the man who’d once been a bullied boy not yet ten, who had clung to his arm like a lifeline when kids came to crush his glasses; Sang-woo, who’d kissed him beneath a star-studded sky when they were seventeen, and who had begged for his touch while they lay sprawled across Gi-hun’s bed; Sang-woo, who when he’d found out about Gi-hun’s impending marriage, had been so cold, so bitter, in ways Gi-hun could never quite comprehend; Sang-woo, who was so sensitive and volatile, even if he'd rather die than admit to such an immense, all-consuming character flaw.

This was Sang-woo, who never felt like he was enough. Forever lacking. Always chasing something. Success. Money. Praise. The whole nine yards.

This was Sang-woo.

And yet, somehow, the man before him was anyone but.

When his suit was undone and had joined Gi-hun’s upon the floor, Sang-woo reached over to a half-open drawer in his side-table and pulled out a bottle of lubricant.

“Lie back.”

Gi-hun blinked.

The meaning lost upon him.

Until –

“Already?” His eyes widened, shoulders tensing, and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself, as if Sang-woo was suddenly revoked of any right to see his body.

Sang-woo tilted his head.  “Change your mind?”

It was almost humiliating how Gi-hun’s immediate answer was, “no – no, of course not. But I’m still …” He gestured vaguely down at himself. Sang-woo’s odd, unsettling behavior, combined with the drunken askew tilt to their situation, had done his arousal no favors.

“That’s fine. You’ll be hard soon enough.”

Gi-hun could hardly believe what he’d just heard.

This was Sang-woo – the man who’d once relished in making him come undone, his touch practiced and patient. Sang-woo, who he had sometimes thought of (guiltily) when making love to Eun-ji, because with her it just wasn’t the same.

Suddenly, Gi-hun felt suffocated by his shitty apartment, with its cluttered display of bottles and snuffed cigarettes that spoke of lonely nights and lonelier encounters. “Oh, yeah,” he jeered, unable to bite down on his mockery. Thank you, alcohol. “Yeah, because that’s what really gets me going – the guy I’m about to have sex with saying I’ll be hard ‘soon enough.’ Wow. This is going to be the best sex of my life, I can feel it. Tell me, Sang-woo-ah, have you ever heard of foreplay? Or are you too repressed to even know the meaning of the word?”

Sang-woo sighed. “Where are you going with this, hyung?”

That was a good question. Truthfully, Gi-hun didn’t know. He licked at his dry lips, ducking his head to avoid the unpleasant burn from Sang-woo’s eyes. “You’re different. And you’re acting so …”

“So? Say it.”

“So distant.” And with that admission came a tidal wave of sadness. It crashed down over Gi-hun. Nearly knocked him off balance. It would be so easy to drown if he allowed himself to sink beneath it.

But Gi-hun had always been an expert at staying afloat. The slow and gradual submersion of his marriage hadn’t changed that.

Sang-woo couldn’t, either.

 “It’s sex, hyung,” said Sang-woo. His tone was flat. “It’s not supposed to mean anything.”

“Of course it means something,” Gi-hun choked. “It always means something. Especially if it’s with you.”

Maybe they sought different things from sex. That was fine. Gi-hun would never be the type of man to enjoy a one-night stand, not like his old coworkers who wore conquests on their belts like medals of honor, but he could at least respect that what didn’t work for him might work for someone else. Whatever Sang-woo was trying to get out of this, though, went beyond an encounter without strings attached. This wasn’t just the prelude to a meaningless fuck; this was so much emptier, shallower, sadder than it had any right to be.

Gi-hun needed Sang-woo, but not like this.

Never like this.

“The hell is your problem?” Gi-hun snapped. “You’re treating me like I’m just some – some stranger you picked up at a nightclub.”

“Aren’t you?” retorted Sang-woo. It was almost gratifying to see his cold, uncaring pretense drop. A flicker of anger, like the spark from a match, flashed across his face. “Face it, hyung, you’re as much a stranger to me now as I am to you. You have been ever since you married that woman.”

“Oh, yeah, and whose fault is that I wonder? You’re the one who ran away. Not me. You. You always do that, Sang-woo-ah, you run, even when you don’t need to.” Gi-hun narrowed his eyes. “Even when there’s nothing to run from in the first place.”

Sometimes, Gi-hun wondered what life would have been like if Sang-woo stayed. Would they have eventually put a label on their tumultuous relationship? Would Sang-woo have one day said, "I love you"? It never paid to dwell on what-ifs, but still, often, at the stroke of midnight, while Eun-ji snored softly beside him, and sleep evaded Gi-hun’s senses in favor of the fuzzy haunts of a night he wished to forget, he would close his eyes and allow his mind to wander.

Sang-woo was always happy in his daydreams.

Always smiling.

Always home.

“Hyung.” A warning.

“No.” Gi-hun forced himself out of the memory. “If we’re going to do this again,” he gestured between them, “then it needs to be something … more than what you do with all your other flings.” His voice softened. “You were my best friend, Sang-woo-ah. You still kinda are, which is pathetic, I know, given we haven’t talked in so long. But it’s true. And I don’t … I don’t have anyone now. Not my kid. Not my wife. Not even you.”

And I thought I could always count on you. No matter what.

Sang-woo said nothing - frozen in place, like a deer caught in headlights. Maybe Gi-hun would have found him a tad ridiculous, half-naked and staring like a viper coiled atop his bed, but he didn’t have the heart to feel anything other than numb. The dawning realization of all he’d lost was nearly enough to drag him under. To make him sink.

“I need you,” he murmured. “I always needed you. I never stopped.”

He would’ve been fine if they had just stopped sleeping around. It hurt, losing him in that way, but Gi-hun had always valued their friendship more than anything else – more than the sex, or the vague potential for something more, or whatever strange, self-servicing dynamic they’d ended up creating for themselves. But no. It wasn't just the sex. Sang-woo had severed every thread between them. He’d sought as much distance as possible. Ignored every text or call Gi-hun sent him, avoided the places they used to haunt like the plague. As if he were suddenly too good for Ssangmun-dong. Too good for his best friend.  

That had hurt more than their pseudo-breakup.

That had nearly drowned him.

“I want to pretend we’re young again,” Gi-hun said, the plea hoarse and thin in his throat. “I want to pretend that we’re – that we’re young and stupid, and like no time has passed at all. That’s what I want tonight. No, uh, that’s what I need from you tonight.” He threaded a hand through his hair and looked down at his lap, burning hot from embarrassment. “So, please. Can you just … can you not be such a fucking asshole for once, and do that for me, Sang-woo-ah? It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you. Promise.”

You’re such a selfish idiot, Seong Gi-hun, his brain unhelpfully hissed.

Gi-hun was obliged to agree.

He didn’t have the courage to meet Sang-woo’s gaze, though he could feel the way he looked at him – cold and hot at the same time, pleasant and unwelcome in stark contrast. The air between them was full, not unlike the start of their rendezvous at the bar, but at least then there’d been the background hum of music, the surge and thump of crowds and feet to puncture their silence. Now, all that could be heard was the occasional flicker of the lights. Sometimes, the honk of a horn caterwauled outside, followed by the angry, barely audible scream of a man high on road-rage. Gi-hun felt terribly, terribly alone.

“Maybe I should go,” he finally managed, dragging the words out by force. This had been a stupid idea. This whole night had been one stupid idea after another, actually. Gi-hun felt shame color his skin. “I, uh – I’m sorry. It’s a weird time for me, I shouldn’t put all that on you, just – sorry. I’ll see you around, yeah?” What a silly thing to say, he thought dimly. Gi-hun knew he wouldn’t.

He was reaching for his discarded shirt when Sang-woo’s hand caught his wrist.

“Hyung, wait.”

The touch was gentle, yet firm. Gi-hun’s stomach flipped.

He turned to meet Sang-woo’s eyes. His pupils were blown wide, dark brown irises flecked with something Gi-hun couldn’t recognize – regret, perhaps, mingling with desire. Or maybe it was nothing at all, and Gi-hun's hope was playing tricks on him. The latter seemed far more likely nowadays. Maybe he'd never actually been good at reading Sang-woo. Maybe everything he saw in him was just a reflection of what dwelled inside himself. Like looking into a smudged, filthy mirror. Maybe he'd never really known Sang-woo at all.

But instead of disappointing him, as Gi-hun had long since come to expect, Sang-woo’s grip loosened, and he allowed his friend’s hand to fall back across his lap.

Gi-hun didn’t realize it, but he’d been holding his breath. He emptied his lungs in one shaky swoop.

“I need that too,” Sang-woo simply said.

And Gi-hun –

Well.

For Gi-hun, that was all he needed to hear.

He leaned in, then, his self-control forgotten, abandoned in favor of chasing something sweeter. Sang-woo’s mouth was cold and tasted of soju, his bristle of stubble a pleasant bite against Gi-hun’s upper lip. Since when do you forget to shave?

Sang-woo’s presentation was usually so immaculate and pristine. He could remember each sex-drunken morning, the way he’d tuck himself away in the bathroom, razor smooth and practiced across his skin; Gi-hun watching fondly from afar on Sang-woo’s bed, chin nicked and bloodied from his own botched attempt. He'd liked to copy him back then — pretend he was just as cool, just as full of potential, with a future just as bright waiting on the horizon. Maybe one day Gi-hun would make something of himself too. Even if that something was nothing more than loved. 

There was a soft bite on his bottom lip. Pleasant. Tingly. Gi-hun whined. Sang-woo pushed a hand back against his chest. The sudden loss of contact was so cruel Gi-hun almost wanted to reprimand him. 

“Don’t do that,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

Gi-hun, dazed, cocked his head. “Huh?”

“I don’t kiss,” Sang-woo said, a little louder this time.

Of course you don’t, thought Gi-hun, snapping down on a frustrated sigh.

“That’s okay,” he said instead and forced a casual shrug. Kissing would always be important to him, but he could go one night without it, especially so soon after his divorce. “Though that does make this a little complicated.”

“Anywhere else is fine, just – not on my mouth.” That made absolutely no sense at all, in Gi-hun’s esteemed opinion, but whatever. This wouldn’t be the first time Sang-woo baffled him with his some insane rule. It was easier to simply play along than to try and unpack what evaded a normal human’s comprehension.

 He kept that subtle roast to himself as Sang-woo shoved at his chest again, sending both of them falling back onto the bed. A curl of pleasure crawled up Gi-hun’s spine at the sight of Sang-woo leaning down over him, his palm coming to rest on his slacks, cruelly close to his groin.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, voice thick. “And I’ll give it to you.”

“I already told you,” Gi-hun replied. “Let’s pretend that we’re young again.”

That you never left me.

Sang-woo hummed, eyes narrowed.

He leaned down, and Gi-hun’s eyes fluttered to a close, instinctively anticipating the rough feeling of Sang-woo’s lips against his own. What he got was arguably better. There was a sharp suck around the sensitive lobe of his ear, a tug, and then a bite. The flesh yielded; a spark of pleasure had Gi-hun pressing his hips hungrily up into the air, just as Sang-woo soothed his tongue over the tender skin, and allowed his mouth to move lower, to chase stubble.

It wasn’t kissing, not quite.

But it felt good.

Fuck.

It felt so fucking good.

Sang-woo dug sharp, small nips across his cheek, into his chin, down over his neck, teeth edging just on painful before smoothing the bites over with his tongue, a brief reprieve from the warm heat of his mouth. When he reached the clavicle of his chest, Sang-woo held himself there, sucking hard, harder still, the air in Gi-hun’s lungs coiling, aching, crushed and sore, but he couldn’t let himself breathe, he couldn’t, until –

A yelp escaped him as Sang-woo tugged up hard at the newly formed bruise. The pain was sharp but delicious, and a memory broke its way to the surface of Gi-hun’s mind – a younger Sang-woo with his teeth digging into the same spot as now, the purple petals of a hickey unfolding beneath his mouth.

Gi-hun let out a shaky breath. His lungs contracted gratefully around the release.

“Again,” he murmured.

He could almost feel the hint of Sang-woo’s tiny smirk against his skin as he obliged.

This was already so, so much better than before. That was a low bar to meet, but still, Gi-hun was thankful for it as Sang-woo lavished him with attention, the kind that felt reminiscent of times when they had fewer worries, fewer responsibilities, and an entire future laid out before their fingertips.

Gi-hun threaded his trembling fingers through Sang-woo’s hair, a curse brewing in his mouth as Sang-woo pressed another bruise into his collarbone, pulling gently at the irritated flesh before easing it over with a swipe of his tongue. The relief was palpable even as it ached with a leftover twinge of pain.

“Is this what you mean?” Sang-woo pushed his free hand against Gi-hun’s neck, fingers tracing the taut rope of his windpipe. “When you say you want me to fuck you like we’re young again?”

“I didn’t say it like that,” Gi-hun breathed, leaning up into the subtle weight of his palm. “But yeah, sure, let’s go with your totally vulgar interpretation. You never were one to beat around the bush.”

The pressure on his throat deepened, his Adam’s apple dipping when he swallowed thickly around the gentle, incessant force of Sang-woo’s fingers. Gi-hun’s back arched. The sharp restriction to his air supply was dizzying. Stars spun behind his eyes. His lungs ached in a deliciously familiar way. Instinct urged him to cry out, though Gi-hun swallowed it down, bit hard on his lip as if that might stop it.

That futile endeavor was thwarted, however, when Sang-woo’s other hand came to rub against his pants. The cry he’d stamped down returned with a vengeance but emerged as little more than a hoarse whine, his cock already half-hard and pressed uncomfortably against his thigh.

“That was a sound,” Sang-woo noted. He sounded vaguely amused. “You’re still vocal as ever, then.”

Gi-hun blushed. Eun-ji had found his noises during sex annoying. That hadn't been the case at the beginning - there'd been a time when nothing and no-one could slot between them, when they'd been enamored by every little quirk or flaw. Deeply, hopelessly, grossly in love. But time had a habit of morphing love into resentment. By the end of their relationship, she'd loathed sex with him, and he'd equally loathed it with her, for no other reason than they'd come to loathe loving each other full stop. And yet even then, even knowing that, Gi-hun had dreaded letting her go. It had felt too much like a failure on his part. Like he was giving up. 

...She'd been so hypercritical of him in ways that were so, so familiar. So much like Sang-woo actually.

Ugh.

He didn't want to unpack that right now. Most especially not during sex.

In an act of defiance, he tried to swallow his moans, right as Sang-woo slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his pants. 

Then again, after everything went to shit, Eun-ji had rarely sought to touch him the way Sang-woo was now. So Gi-hun had (mostly) possessed the self-control with her to keep himself in check. That thought hit him like a spear, the guilt sharp but immediately washed away by another flood of pleasure, all thoughts of Eun-ji dragged out along with it.

Gi-hun sucked in his lower lip, chewed hard upon the dry skin as Sang-woo set a punishing pace, each stroke up his shaft slow and measured, and each pump down fast, edging on painful.

“Sang-woo-ah,” he managed, distantly surprised at how wrecked his voice sounded.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. I just –” Gi-hun winced, a shudder wrenched out of him as Sang-woo thumbed over the head of his dick. “…Wanna say your name. It’s been so long. Since I’ve had a reason to say it.”

He mentioned Sang-woo in passing a lot, actually, whenever the chance arose, but even disregarding that, it felt like years – had been years since he’d been given the opportunity to say it to his face, much less fucking whimper around the weight of it in his mouth, the honorific pitched up high into a pleasurable sigh.

“Don’t stop,” Gi-hun breathed. The pressure around his throat deepened.

Sang-woo frowned. “Why would I?”

Gi-hun didn’t know why he said that, like so many other ridiculous, alcohol fueled statements he’d made tonight. Of course Sang-woo wouldn’t stop. Of course Sang-woo was right here with him, an incredibly real and tangible presence, the sweaty tack of his skin meeting Gi-hun’s own as his hands – one dug gently around the curve of his windpipe, the other on his dick – coaxed at the flames of Gi-hun’s arousal. Sang-woo wasn’t stopping, because Sang-woo needed this almost as much as Gi-hun needed it; almost as much as Gi-hun needed him.

But Sang-woo needed a lot of things. He’d needed a glowing GPA, and a legacy to leave his mother, and the glowing attention of an entire impoverished neighborhood. But he hadn’t needed Gi-hun, not in the way that mattered most.

In the end, all he’d needed Gi-hun for was sex.

That was fine. That was totally fine, absolutely okay. It didn’t hurt. It used to, but it didn’t now. He was over it. More than that – he was now the same.

I can use you too. If the Snake Venom were potent, then it had nothing on that single thought, that solitary realization, as he reached up and threaded his fingers through Sang-woo’s hair. It made him feel powerful. He tugged, and felt Sang-woo wince from over him.

“Don’t stop,” he said again. Gi-hun closed his eyes and buried his face into the firm muscle of Sang-woo’s shoulder. This time, Sang-woo did not indulge a reply. He leaned down, sucked a tender welt into the hollow of Gi-hun’s neck, kept sucking until it bruised, until it burned, until Gi-hun knew he’d be wearing his regrets come the morning in more ways than one.

He could feel that familiar rope stretching itself taut within his stomach, strained to its limit by each rough stroke of Sang-woo’s hand. It would be difficult not to cum like this, especially when it had been so long since he’d last had any real kind of sexual contact with another human being.

His hips stuttered, chasing that inevitable high, the rope threatening to unwind, to snap in two. Gi-hun’s fingers grasped at Sang-woo’s hair, grip loose but abruptly pulled tight as a broken cry was punched out his lungs. He gave a relentless tug back on Sang-woo’s head, the only warning he could manage, and before the coil could begin to unravel itself, the strokes of Sang-woo’s fist came to a startling halt.

It was almost cruel how quickly he stopped, even though it was what Gi-hun had wanted. The pressure on his throat eased, lungs clutching hungrily around the sudden influx of fresh air, and with a torn gasp Gi-hun collapsed his full weight against Sang-woo, his hips still rolling weakly in search of an orgasm.

Breathing ragged, Gi-hun pulled away. He could feel the weight of his dick trapped between his thighs, and the phantom pressure of Sang-woo’s incessant fingers remained like a feather's touch across his neck.

“Asshole,” Gi-hun muttered, though he wasn’t mad. Not really. Maybe a little, for all the years that gaped between them, for all the worthless bullshit that had gone unsaid, piling up beneath his tongue like a landfill. But it was hard to be mad when, for the moment, all he could feel was desire, hot and thick and bubbling in his stomach.

“That’s rich,” said Sang-woo, pulling his hand free. “You’re the one who said you wanted to fuck like we were young again. This was what we did in our twenties, remember?”

“I could never forget,” Gi-hun replied wryly. He rubbed at the tender skin of his sore throat. They’d gone further than this, harder than this, when they were young; when they’d had the energy to fuck for hours on end, and the passion to try a million and one new things, each sometimes scarier than the last. “You were such a freaky college kid, Sang-woo-ah. I bet all the psychology majors would’ve loved to have gotten their hands on you, the perfect little guinea pig!”

Sang-woo scrunched up his nose. Cute. “No less ‘freaky’ than you, hyung.”

Gi-hun hummed in agreement. “Yeah, that’s fair. Though wanna know a secret?”

“Not particularly. No.”

Sang-woo turned away. No doubt fishing for that bottle of lubricant, or a condom, or some other distraction his hands could seize. Gi-hun saw his chance.

He pounced.

He had Sang-woo knocked off his side and pinned beneath him before he could even process the situation that was unfolding. Gi-hun grinned, a tad too proud of himself for his own good, and with a light trace of his fingers, found the steady pulse of Sang-woo’s carotid, small and fluttery beneath his thumb. For someone who talked so big, he always felt so soft and pliable. It was nice to know that not even the hard lines of stress and age could change that.

“Yeesh, you’re boring. Well, too bad, I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

Sang-woo didn’t struggle or squirm, though his muscles were tense, and his breath just that little bit sharper. Even the thrum of his heartbeat had quickened. These were small, subtle things, the kind only Gi-hun could recognize as signs of his own impact. With his free hand, he found Sang-woo’s wrist, and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. He applied the slightest hint of pressure, if only because he could.

“Hyung.” Sang-woo’s voice was low. “What are you doing?”

If Gi-hun shifted close enough, he could feel the strain of Sang-woo’s erection against his pants. How very tempting. 

 He leaned down, so that his lips brushed against the shell of Sang-woo’s ear. “All those times we messed around in your dorm?” he murmured. The shiver that rippled across Sang-woo’s skin couldn’t be missed – not at this proximity. “I was just indulging you. Whatever you wanted, I’d give, no questions asked. I loved you that much.”

It hadn’t been healthy, or beneficial, in the long run. Gi-hun knew that now. But it was the truth, their truth, an ugly, beautiful truth that neither of them could escape from. Sang-woo’s eyes grew slightly wider, the only indication given that he’d heard what Gi-hun had said, before flickering to a close when a kiss was laid to the hollow of his neck.

“Feels good?” he murmured, seeking verbal permission. Sang-woo, frustrating as always, didn’t oblige, though he did allow a small dip of his chin in response. As far as Gi-hun was concerned, consent would always be so much sexier spoken than whatever anyone allowed their bodies to say. But oh well. That would have to do. Stupid Sang-woo and his stupidly bad communication skills, Gi-hun thought, unable to conjure the frustration that he yearned for. He pressed his next kiss lower, this time lingering just over his pulse point. And then lower still, where he knew a shirt would inevitably cover the skin. Here’s good. He sucked until the hickey flowered bright, until he knew it would take a week to heal. Until Sang-woo made a noise from somewhere deep in his throat.

Gi-hun looked up, his own eyes doughy. Soft. “That was a sound.”

“Shut up.” Sang-woo sounded so humiliated. It took all of Gi-hun's self-control, and then some, not to laugh.

“Make me. Oh, wait, that’s right – you can’t. Because you don’t kiss.”

That was a little bolder than perhaps he had any right to be, but Gi-hun took his victory before he could be reprimanded and placed a pacifying kiss to the cusp of Sang-woo’s chest. A wordless assurance that it was all in good fun. If Sang-woo took offense, he didn’t show it – only shifted uncomfortably from beneath him, as if his words had dug deeper than Gi-hun had intended them to.

If Sang-woo wanted, he could easily flip them around. He could have Gi-hun entirely at his mercy with just one roll of his muscles. There was a firmness in his shoulder-blades, a tightness in his abdomen, that Gi-hun had only ever dreamed of having. If Sang-woo wanted, he could reassert his sensitive ego; wrangle Gi-hun so that it was him pushed down into the bed, wrists pinned, knees weak, and have whatever way with his friend that he so desired.

If Sang-woo wanted.

But that was the thing.

What Sang-woo wanted was him.  

That thought was more than a tad distracting as Gi-hun continued his slow, gradual descent, peppering kisses over his chest now, eyes lingering on the swell of his nipples – pink and flushed, areolas adorably small.

He licked a stripe up one, experimental. Sang-woo bucked beneath him. The brief brush of contact nearly knocked the wind out of Gi-hun’s chest.

“You like that,” he breathed.

Sang-woo scowled, forcing his hips back down.

“No, no, no, it’s fine. Don’t do that.” Gi-hun released his hold on Sang-woo’s wrist so that he could slip his hand around to trace the curve of his ass. With a firm push, he had Sang-woo’s hips elevated again. “It feels good. When you move against me. Keep doing that. If you want.”

“It’s not about what I want,” Sang-woo replied.

“Since when has it never been about what you want?” Gi-hun shot back.

Their eyes met. There had once been a time where Gi-hun could read Sang-woo like an open book, knew how to untangle the Sang-woo he adored from the Sang-woo the world was supposed to see. But years of one-sided radio silence had taken that skill and shredded it into ribbons. Now, Sang-woo was as much a stranger to Gi-hun as the strangers he probably picked up at seedy gay bars and took home to bed; now, Sang-woo was an enigma, closed off to all but himself.

It seemed a lonely existence.

If there was one thing Gi-hun and Sang-woo still shared, though, it was memories. Gi-hun could remember the visceral way he shuddered when his neck was kissed, or the slight arch of his back when he swallowed one nipple whole and sucked. Time changed many things, but not that. Never this.

“Sang-woo-ah.”

“What?”

Gi-hun traced his hand down the solid line of Sang-woo’s waist. The pad of his fingertip left shivers in its wake.

“Let me hear you.”

Gi-hun sunk, and tasted skin.

Sang-woo’s nipple was soft in his mouth, at first, but after a few gentle, coaxing laps from his tongue, he felt it rise to a hard peak. There was the sensation of fingers dragging back through his hair, forming a fist that fell heftily atop his head, and a short, muttered curse – the slight arch of his back. Without allowing him a moment to rest, Gi-hun found his neglected nipple and rubbed a soothing ring around the areola, moving closer and closer to his destination with each lazy circle drawn.

Something hard came to push up against Gi-hun’s abdomen. He tried not to smile. But it was impossible once Sang-woo attempted to grind with tiny rolls of his hips, a desperate bid for friction, almost subtle enough that it could go unnoticed.

Almost.

Gi-hun had the good sense not to comment.

He pulled off his chest and replaced the wet warmth of his mouth with his hand, tweaking it harshly between his thumb and forefinger. The sound he wrenched from Sang-woo was thick and heavy. Gi-hun felt his own cock twitch in response.

“You’re so predictable,” he teased. Undiluted affection dripped off his voice. “It’s good to know that there are some things not even a decade can change.”

Sang-woo glared at him, unimpressed. “Having fun throwing my words back in my face?”

“A little bit. Yeah.” Gi-hun resisted the urge to poke his tongue out – that would be too childish, even for him – and turned his attention to his neglected nipple, already erect thanks to his earlier ministrations. He licked around the areola, never quite touching him where he wanted it most. Sang-woo was restrained, still as a statue, as if any slight movement beyond the brief thrusts of his hips would give away just how desperate he truly was. Gi-hun decided to allow him that gentle reprieve to his injured ego. Think whatever you want me to think. I know how you really feel.

Impatient person that he was, Gi-hun soon grew tired of teasing, and took his nipple between his teeth. He was mindful of the slight burn as he nipped down upon it, the graze of his lips a static kiss as he tugged, bit, and finally swallowed, sucking hard at the sensitive flesh until Sang-woo’s hand formed an even tighter fist around the strands of Gi-hun’s wavy hair. It hurt, but only slightly, and only in the best, most tantalizing way. Sang-woo’s hips stuttered. It caught Gi-hun off-guard. Soon he was panting too, a whine breaking around his throat as the friction found his own erection. He pulled away from his chest, hot all over. “Sang-woo-ah.”

“Don’t stop,” he said, eyes squeezed shut. Like he was embarrassed.

“I won’t,” Gi-hun replied. And I won’t leave, either. If you want me to stay, that is. But he had a feeling that wasn’t a part of the bargain, wasn’t what Sang-woo wanted from him at all. So he allowed that thought to go unvoiced, and it stayed where it belonged – at the graveyard in the back of his mind, amid a fleeting, quiet place where all his thoughts about Sang-woo went to die.

But at least he had the here and now.

At least Sang-woo was pliable beneath him.

Begging for more.

Just like old times, Gi-hun thought appreciatively. 

Gi-hun traveled lower, lower still, peppering tiny kisses wherever he could, no inch of skin safe from his mouth. Above his ribs, around his belly button, over the smattering of thin hairs that led down, down, down to his –

The rim of his pants interrupted Gi-hun’s journey. He reluctantly pulled away. Sang-woo had propped himself up onto his elbows, watching the situation unfurl; assessing what was about to unfold behind narrow, cautious eyes.

Gi-hun pattered reassuringly at his inner thigh, reaching around to tug at the hem of his slacks.

“Stop.”

Gi-hun bit his lip, already mentally preparing himself for yet another pointless lecture. “Yeah?”

“I told you. I can undress myself.”

Gi-hun gave an exasperated sigh. “Alright-y then. But hurry up. For someone so hell bent on sticking your dick in me the moment we got to your apartment, you sure know how to take your time.”

“Hyung!” 

“What!” Gi-hun raised his hands and shrugged. “It’s just the truth.”

He’d earned a little teasing. As a treat. Especially about something that ridiculous, that absolutely off-the-walls insane. Leave it to Sang-woo to meet his childhood friend again – at a seedy gay bar in Seoul, of all places - after ten years of obsessive avoidance, before taking him home to his shitty box of an apartment and promising that he’d be hard soon enough. Frankly, Sang-woo was lucky that Gi-hun intended to keep his dirty little secret. Tonight had nearly become a ‘bad sex story’ that made up the stuff of legends, the kind he’d drunkenly rant and rave about to his friends over a bottle or five of soju.

Gi-hun had turned it around, though.

He always did.

Sang-woo was slipping off his pants and boxers, kicked from his feet onto the floor like they weren’t worth the thousands of dollars he’d probably paid. Back to that methodical, detached approach to sex, as if he were merely rowing himself through the motions. You’re scared, Gi-hun thought, sympathy sharp and piercing straight into his heart. Yet another successful read of Sang-woo, his layers of pretense peeling away with or without his noticing – or maybe Gi-hun was just getting better at reading him again, peering down through his second skin and into the wounded truth beneath.

“I wanna blow you,” said Gi-hun, before Sang-woo could reach for the lube again. “If you’ll let me, that is.”

Sang-woo froze. Fingers drumming an irregular rhythm against his bare thigh.

“Well?” Gi-hun hedged.

Sang-woo had always been strangely weird when it came to the prospect of receiving pleasure, even in their younger days. It had been a brief moment of conflict so very long ago, Gi-hun desperate to return the favor however he could, and Sang-woo flinching away from his touch, as if it had burned. He’d never gotten an answer back then, either, but from the little Sang-woo spoke about himself and his troubles, Gi-hun could gather why it bothered him so intensely.

Cho Sang-woo, pride and joy of Ssangmun-dong, pride and joy of his mother’s heart, of Gi-hun’s heart (once upon a time), and with the high expectations of an entire university snapping at his heels —

Cho Sang-woo, who had all that and more, never felt himself worthy. Not of the praise, not of his mom, not of Gi-hun, not even of the warm, simple, physical pleasures of sex.

Sometimes, even geniuses could be stupid.

Gi-hun scooted closer, but not before kicking off his own pants and boxers, a sigh of relief sliding past his lips as he allowed his erection to breathe. When he was close enough that their legs and shoulders were touching, Gi-hun took him in his hand and gave a few languid, easy strokes, just to test the waters.

There was a pause, long and lingering, until Sang-woo seemed to reach a decision. He fumbled for his pants, fetched a cigarette from a pocket (which were shaken free of crumpled betting tickets and receipts yellowed from age, a small detail Gi-hun couldn’t stop his nosy self from noticing) and, with his lighter, lit the cig so it breathed smoke into the stale air of his apartment.

Sang-woo leaned back against the headboard. His chest trembled beneath the weight of his nicotine-spoiled lungs.

“Get on with it,” he said, blowing a plume out the side of his lips.

“Charming,” Gi-hun said dryly.

Though it kind of was, not that he’d ever admit it aloud. The thick cloud of smoke was only heightening his arousal, and with permission granted, he felt his mouth water anew as he gave a few last, leisurely pumps of his fist. 

It took a bit of maneuvering, but he managed to position himself between Sang-woo’s legs, Gi-hun flat on his belly and trapped amid the solid warmth of his thighs. Even if it was slightly awkward, the discomfort was worth it, if only for the view. Sang-woo looked beautiful like this – eyes half-mast, a cigarette propped lazily between his lips, a scarf of grey smoke wrapped around him. Pleasure flitting in electrical sparks across his pinched expression.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the tip. Felt Sang-woo shudder against his mouth.

Sang-woo was large, not to mention thick. It took all his patience, and then some, not to be overzealous. Gi-hun convinced himself to start slow, suckling at the head before diving a little deeper, a little further, eyes pinned on Sang-woo’s staunch expression as he laved his tongue across the slit.

That summoned a reaction. His brow knitted together and his fists squeezed, hard, knuckles bled white. Though he couldn’t see it, Gi-hun could almost imagine the clench of his teeth. The firmly set line of his jaw only became more pronounced as he fought against any physical display, near trembling from the effort of it all as Gi-hun, a little meanly, drew small circles against the tip with his tongue.

He cracked, a gasp escaping him in a coil of smoke. Gi-hun took his chance to sink further, a few inches snug within his mouth now. The head of Sang-woo’s cock poked incessantly at the back of his throat, a constant reminder of what he was doing – of how long it had been – resting heavy above his chin. Woah. Fuck. He remembered this being easier – a lot easier, actually. Either Sang-woo had miraculously managed to grow an extra inch, or Gi-hun was humiliatingly unpracticed. The proof lay in the latter. His jaw ached.

With an uncontrolled thrust, Sang-woo buried himself deeper. A brief burst of panic set Gi-hun’s chest on fire. He tried to swallow around his gag reflex, but the motion of his tongue only coaxed Sang-woo further. Gi-hun couldn’t avoid it. He spluttered, just a little, and fell back, feeling dramatically defeated.

Ugh. What a disaster. He didn’t even want to meet Sang-woo’s eyes, the shame of his newly acquired inexperience hot and obvious upon his cheeks. Gi-hun deliberated for a moment, before pulling himself completely free. His lungs were grateful for the oxygen.

He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Sang-woo’s fingers were at his ear, tucking a few stray, sweaty curls of hair back where they belonged. “Are you okay?” Only then did Gi-hun look up at him.

Maybe he was only seeing what he wanted to see.

But if he looked hard enough –

Concern.

Gi-hun shook himself. Bit back down on the overwhelming swell of a cough. “Yeah, yeah,” he managed, hiding his mouth behind the splay of his palm. “Yeah, no, I’m fine, just out of practice. That’s all. It’s, uh, been a while. Since … y’know.”

Sang-woo stiffened. “You mean you haven’t since –”

“I’m not a cheater, Sang-woo-ah. Of course I haven’t.”

Gi-hun couldn’t blame him for his surprise. He was a little jealous, truth be told. How many men had touched Sang-woo over the years? How many men had sucked hard at Sang-woo’s chest, had left marks in places no-one else would see, had swallowed down his cock with little more than a practiced ease, as if the act was merely instinctual? How many men had Sang-woo fucked, or better yet, been fucked by? The answer was countless. Sang-woo didn’t need to say anything. Gi-hun just knew.

It was difficult not to feel put-off with that thought suddenly looming over him. Gi-hun hadn’t had sex in years, and good sex, well, that went back even further to when he and Eun-ji were still in their honeymoon phase. They'd been ravenous for each other’s bodies back then. Obsessed, even. Unaware of all the little quirks and annoyances that lay in wait for them, when the lust had settled to love, and the spontaneity to routine. But Sang-woo had always expressed himself through fucking. It came to him so naturally that it was a tad scary. Gi-hun relished in the warm, heady release of an orgasm, of course he did. He was a man with red hot urges just like the next.

But sex was made so much better, so much richer for him when shared with someone he loved.

So it was hard not to be jealous of Sang-woo, who fucked his feelings away; hard not to be jealous of the countless unnamed men he fucked those feelings into, until all that remained were the raw traces of their physicality, worn proud and clear and freshly bruised into their skin. It was hard not to be jealous. Gi-hun hated the feeling. It sat in his stomach like a stone.

“But you were at … that bar,” said Sang-woo, lamely.

“Yeah, well, consider it a stroke of luck that we met there, of all places,” Gi-hun said. “That was honestly a first for me. I dunno if I would’ve gone through with it either, if the guy who picked me up was anyone other than you.”

It was a painfully honest admission. But honesty was all Gi-hun had.

“So, yeah,” he muttered. “I’m outta shape. So what. Sue me. We can go straight to the fucking now, if it’s too bad for you.”

“It’s not.” Sang-woo replied so quickly that Gi-hun was made dizzy. He cleared his throat, taking another sip of his smoke to steady out his nerves. “…What you were doing, it felt … good. I liked it. Keep going.”

“Really?” Sang-woo’s praise, so rare and so awkwardly delivered but so, so genuine, had Gi-hun perking right back up. He would’ve hated himself for it if the thrill of his compliment wasn’t a high unto itself. A high greater than any alcohol or cigarette could ever hope to be. “Ah, well. Okay then. Let me just –”

            Never the picture of grace, Gi-hun returned to his task with new aplomb. Maybe this wouldn’t be the best blowjob of Sang-woo’s life, but damn it, he hadn’t been raised a quitter! Trying not to think about how that motto applied to his life in the absolute worst way possible, Gi-hun licked a few long swipes up Sang-woo’s cock. It was mostly for his own benefit, though Sang-woo seemed to appreciate the gesture if the hitch in his breath was any indication. So far, so good. What he lacked in technique, he’d more than make up for with enthusiasm.

            When Gi-hun took him into his mouth again, he forced himself to go even slower than before. Maybe it was his imagination, or mere wishful thinking, but this time Sang-woo showed restraint. Though his hips rocked forward, he allowed Gi-hun to set the pace, never thrusting past what he’d already managed. That was nice. No, that was more than nice, actually.

            That made him feel wanted.

            Throat relaxed, Gi-hun took him deeper, only the slightest hint of his gag reflex flaring to life as he slipped along his mouth, sunk halfway now. He leisurely slid his tongue along the shaft – felt the undercurrents of his veins, the rough skin now wet from saliva, his attention drawn back to the head as he pulled out. Another kiss to his tip, a harsh jerk of Sang-woo’s cock – the hiss of air through teeth as Sang-woo leaned back, cigarette forgotten between his fingertips - and Gi-hun was going in again. What he couldn’t fit, he wrapped his hand around. Each pump of his fist followed the ebb and flow of his mouth, a slow, if somewhat irregular, rhythm that had Sang-woo’s hand tousled in his hair, gripping down like his life depended on it.

            The ache in the back of his throat wasn’t pleasant but Sang-woo made it so much more bearable with all his quiet, husky noises. The sight of him was somehow even better. He had his head tipped back against the bedframe, and his eyes were squeezed shut, like he was afraid to look. His cigarette – forgotten, pinched halfheartedly between his thumb and forefinger. What a waste, Gi-hun thought, annoyed, a disapproving hum swelling in his chest. That didn’t help Sang-woo’s pleasure at all. A wince, a harsh thrust up against the roof of his mouth, and an even tighter squeeze upon Gi-hun’s hair, if that were at all possible.

            Guiltily, he petted at Sang-woo’s thigh.

            …Still. Who lights a cigarette while they’re getting blown? Cho Sang-woo. Pride and joy of Ssangmun-dong. That’s who.

            That thought was more than a little funny. Gi-hun was glad he couldn’t smile around the cock in his mouth. Sang-woo would probably take it for mockery. And he’d be right.

            Blowjobs were wet, and uncomfortable, and weird, but that was okay. Gi-hun was okay. Gi-hun was more than okay, actually, he was great. The pace he set scorched his throat, but each twitch, every tremble of Sang-woo's fingers and uncontrolled thrust of his hips made it all worthwhile, had pleasure coursing through Gi-hun in turn – pleasure that started as a distant hum, the kind that only came from seeing someone you loved act so turned on, but quickly built to a buzzy crescendo, flamed out bright as a star across his nerves. When Sang-woo tugged at his hair, Gi-hun was so lost in the moment he hardly noticed it, until his name was laid like a balm across the air.

            “Gi-hun.”

            Another tug.

A familiar twitch from Sang-woo’s cock.

            Oh. Right.

            He couldn’t resist one last swallow – an action that made Sang-woo gasp, audibly gasp. He almost wanted to lock his hips there, suck him dry, ride him out until he had nothing left to give. But there was more to come, and if he were being honest with himself, the sympathetic throb of his own erection had become a distraction, left neglected between his thighs.

             Sang-woo was panting when Gi-hun pulled himself free.

            “You’re such an addict, Sang-woo-ah,” he said fondly. Then, back up on his knees, he bridged the distance between them and plucked the remnant of Sang-woo’s cigarette from his fingers.

            It was a comforting weight in his mouth, and a welcome replacement compared to the thickness of Sang-woo’s dick. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine hit immediate, washing his skin in that same pleasant buzz he’d felt while watching Sang-woo fight, and lose, against his own pleasure.  

            “What?” Gi-hun rolled his eyes when he noticed Sang-woo’s disapproving gaze.

            “You could ask me for a cigarette, you know. I’d give you one.”

            “Yeah, well. My way is much thriftier.” He blew a grey shroud out his nostrils and breathed it back in through his mouth. The ashy taste sat thickly on his tongue, chasing away the lingering flavor of Sang-woo’s pre. “Saves money. Which is good for me. Do you even look at the price of this crap when you pay? I bet you don’t. Apparently, it’s to stop lung cancer, but who do they think they’re kidding. Just a bunch of rich folks getting richer, while we smoke our way to an early grave.”

            He said it so cheerily, flicking the end of his stolen cigarette as he did so, before snubbing the last traces of life from it on his side-table.

            “Well,” said Sang-woo dryly, “that’s depressing.”

            “Not nearly as depressing as you,” Gi-hun returned.

            Sang-woo’s smile was sudden. Eerie. “You have a point.”

            Before Gi-hun could linger on whatever that meant, Sang-woo was moving on, the bottle of lubricant retrieved from where it had been tossed aside on the bed. “Now can you lie back for me?”

            “Huh. You don’t want me to fuck you?”

            Sang-woo recoiled like he’d been stung. Gi-hun burst with laughter.

            “Relax, Sang-woo-ah. It’s a joke.” He leaned forward, elbows perched on his knees and chin propped upon his laced hands. A suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows was the best taunt he could settle on. “Though you don’t have to be so shy. It wouldn’t be the first time I got to see you that way – ouch, hey!”

            Sang-woo’s hand was on his chest, and he was shoving, the motion so unexpected and fast that Gi-hun was splayed on his back in an instant, left reeling from the abrupt change in position. There was the sound of the cap being pulled, a generous squirt of lube, and the cool, icy sensation of a finger tracing his hole. Gi-hun jolted, another laugh breaking his throat, though this one less confident. More nervous. “Woah, uh, you’re really jumping straight into it.” He thought of how their evening had begun. Anxiety snapped at his heart.

            “Relax,” said Sang-woo, voice pitched low. Soothing.

            It was hard to disobey him when he said it like that.

            He dragged himself lower, Gi-hun left staring up at the waning yellow light, dead moths and their still shadows illuminated within its hollow bulb. It was a sad sight, and one that would’ve been enough to ruin his mood, had Sang-woo’s mouth not suddenly been on his dick, sheathing him up to the base in one fell swoop.

            A stuttered cry escaped Gi-hun. His hips rocked against his will. He propped himself up on his elbows, skin flushed, tacky, just in time to see Sang-woo slip his first finger in, all the way down to the hilt.

            …Okay. Okay, okay, okay. No biggie, no biggie at all, except it was a huge biggie, the biggest biggie to ever fucking – where was that thought going? He had no idea, the jumbled string of panicked words circling off into oblivion, into emptiness, as his muscles contracted around the intrusion.

            Yeah. No biggie at all. This was only his first time getting penetrated in, what, twenty-something years? It wasn’t like he hadn’t dreamed of this more times than he’d ever cared to admit, the sensation of Sang-woo’s long fingers prying deep where no-one else could go, curling up against his prostate, bringing him to –

            A second finger soon joined the first. The squeak that escaped Gi-hun’s lips was so humiliating that he thought he might die. He could almost feel Eun-ji’s disapproval from miles away. But if Sang-woo heard the noise, he was far too preoccupied with his assigned task to pay it any mind. Each expert flick of his tongue or soft, gentle suckle around the tip had Gi-hun lamenting his own technique, fundamentally flawed and underwhelming by comparison.

            He was so wrapped in the heady build of pleasure, starting as static in his toes and working its way up through his veins like an electrical current, when Sang-woo began to thrust his fingers, the drag of his fingertips against Gi-hun’s tight walls a sensation that had his back arching off the mattress. He drew himself out to the rim, pulled his mouth up to the head of Gi-hun’s cock, before thrusting back down and up in tandem. Another wail was wrought from his lungs when a knuckle brushed just shy of his prostate.

            “That’s good. Really, really good. Keep doing that.” Gi-hun scrabbled for something, anything, to latch onto, but Sang-woo had (wisely) tucked his head out of reach. All that was left were the tangled blankets strewn about them both, wrinkled from disuse. Gi-hun tried not to think about that as he buried his fists into the worn fabric, choking around a moan that clawed its way out from the bottom of his chest.

There was a hint of resistance, a slight twinge of pain, when a third finger wriggled its way in, but the discomfort was quickly offset by Sang-woo mouthing up the side of his cock. “Fuck.” It was all he could say, hips jerking, dick swallowed whole once more. The brief bulge in Sang-woo’s throat was almost enough to make him unravel right then and there.

Sang-woo crooked his fingers.

Found the firm, unyielding texture of his prostate.

And with a callousness Gi-hun ought to have expected from him by now, curled his fingertips, and thrust up.

Gi-hun didn’t recognize the cry that breached his lips. It tore its way out of him with a violent force that left his lungs empty. Instinctually, he hooked one leg around Sang-woo’s neck, pinned him there as he met the push of his fingers with a thrust of his own. His vision blurred. Stars swam. There were no words that could even begin to describe the white-hot pleasure that shot through him, so Gi-hun didn’t even try.

Sang-woo kept the pressure on his prostate firm, incessant, until with a distant shake, a belated, tremulous betrayal of his body, Gi-hun realized he was cumming.

Sang-woo swallowed around his cock. One hand pinned his hips down to the mattress, so he couldn’t escape, couldn’t pull back or thrust deeper, despite how desperately his muscles screamed at him to, while the other drew reassuring circles along the tender flesh of his thigh. Sang-woo petted him through the blinding high until he’d given all that he had left to give; until he was boneless - knees weak, thighs jelly, dick oversensitive, completely spent. Gi-hun collapsed back against the bed with a groan, the effort to hold himself aloft on his elbows suddenly far too immense to handle.

Sang-woo gave one last cruel swipe of his tongue before pulling his mouth free.

He lay there for what felt like hours, though could only have been a minute, his breath ragged and torn – no thanks to that cigarette, he thought, with a punctuating ache in his lungs. When the buzzing in his skin had faded to nothing more than a tingly background hum, Gi-hun forced open his eyes. Sang-woo had shifted to look down over him, one hand still situated reassuringly on his hip. A physical anchor back into the present.

He looked so beautiful like this; his hair mussed, lips freshly fucked, concern and desire wrestling for control amid the sharp contours of his face. Gi-hun reached up with his palm and felt along the lines of his cheek. Had there not been an explicit rule in place, he would’ve closed the distance to kiss him.

Stupid Sang-woo and his stupid rules.

“Well?” he murmured, voice reedy, hoarse, sufficiently fucked. “Aren’t you gonna hurry up and fuck me?”

“Are you sure?”

“I dunno if I’ll cum again, but since when have I ever turned down a challenge?”

Gi-hun couldn’t help himself. He never could when it came to Sang-woo.

Old habits die hard, I suppose.

Sang-woo seemed thoughtful. Maybe a tad hesitant. Gi-hun thumbed over the swell of his cheek, unable to suppress a surge of terrifying affection. “I’m fine. Really. Promise.”

That was all it took.

Gi-hun fell back onto the bed, deciding he’d more than earned the right to be lazy while Sang-woo finished his boring prep. A condom, more lube, a quick, obligatory question.

(“Are you clean?”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. Of course I’m clean. Are you?”

“I got tested a week ago. I’m in the clear.”

“What a surprise.”

And then a pillow tossed playfully at his face, which Gi-hun had to regrettably admit was more than a little deserved.)

By the time Sang-woo had lined himself up with his entrance, balanced carefully above him, the reality of their current situation was well and truly sinking into Gi-hun’s brain, digging deep until it was all he could think about, all he could know. I’m with Sang-woo again. The flutter of his eyelashes, the depth of his eyes, the subtle tremble of his upper lip as he pushed his way in – I’m with Sang-woo again. The hitch in his breath, the sweat beading over his skin, the way his hand sought stability within Gi-hun’s own. I’m with Sang-woo again. The brief flare of pain, of resistance, soothed away by a tug on his earlobe.

 I’m with Sang-woo again.

The thoughts circled, stirred, an endless loop that he couldn’t escape, that he wouldn’t escape, even if he wanted to.

I’m with Sang-woo again.

Sang-woo made a helpless noise from somewhere in his chest.

Gi-hun squeezed around their laced fingers.

“It’s okay,” he said. Whether that reassurance was directed at Sang-woo, or himself, he didn’t know.

If he were being honest, he didn’t want to know.

“It’s okay,” Gi-hun said again.

Sang-woo finally bottomed out.

He felt full.

Close to bursting.

“It’s okay,” Sang-woo parroted back. Like repeating it would make it true. That was sweet. Gi-hun smiled. 

 “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

This wasn’t how one-night stands were supposed to go. Gi-hun was remarkably uneducated in this topic, and even he knew that. Flings didn’t look at each other the way he and Sang-woo did now; flings didn’t promise the other that everything was going to be okay, even when it was so obviously a lie; flings did not approach sex as if the act were fragile, built on a foundation of tepid glass, ready to shatter beneath both their feet at the slightest hint of pressure.

This wasn’t a fling.

To Gi-hun, it never could be.

“You can move,” he hedged, noting Sang-woo motionless above him. “It’s fine, Sang-woo-ah. I won’t break.”

Only then did Sang-woo pull himself back, a slow and steady crawl that had Gi-hun squirming, until the head of his cock was caught against his rim. Then, with a snap of his hips, he drove home. Gi-hun gasped, the sensation so sudden it tore straight through him. Sang-woo’s next thrust brushed against his prostate, had Gi-hun’s limp cock jerk weakly, spilling a few drops of clear, pearly fluid onto the bony expanse of his stomach. He whimpered. Fucking whimpered. And Sang-woo –

Sang-woo looked down at him like he’d just made the most beautiful sound in the world.

His free hand came around to thumb at Gi-hun’s soft cock, a desperate attempt to coax him into hardness.  He winced, still far too sensitive.

“Ah, wait, hold on a second –”

Gi-hun reached down and stopped him, covering his fingers and threading them between his own.

“It’s okay. Use me. I don’t mind.”

He would mind, come the morning.

He minded now, actually.

He always would.

But if it meant he could see Sang-woo break apart like this – if it meant he could feel the full weight of him inside and out, if it meant he could savor the taste and smell and sounds of his best friend one last time, before everything and everyone and the entire world was dragged down into shit –

If it meant he could share a fleeting moment with Sang-woo, one pained, final time.

Then Gi-hun would convince himself that it would all be worth it.

Time and time again.

“Sang-woo-ah.” He trembled around his name.

Like it might break him.

Perhaps it already had.

Sang-woo pressed down to breathe against his ear. “I’m close.”

He untangled one of their joined hands and came to trace the delicate curves of Gi-hun’s waist. Sang-woo touched him there not for any sexual gratification of his own, but simply because he could. Simply because affection, raw and undiluted, now welled like blood to the surface of a wound. Simply because he still cared. Maybe. Hopefully. Definitely – yeah, definitely. He had to. In his own twisted, disappointing way. Gi-hun could’ve cried. Would’ve cried. He was crying. Fuck. So pathetic. Tears slipped down his cheeks, wet and silent, pooling in salty puddles at the pouty corners of his lips.

Sang-woo kissed them away.

One by one.

When he shuddered apart, Sang-woo groaned through his orgasm, a sound so unlike him, so unlike anything Gi-hun had ever heard before that it caught him off guard, and suddenly he was orgasming, too, a dry and uncomfortable ripple that shot straight through his dick. He had nothing left to give, but that was fine. Everything was fine. How could it not be fine, when Sang-woo’s hips were stuttering against Gi-hun’s own? How could anything be wrong, when Sang-woo was right here alongside him, kissing hungrily at his face like he couldn’t get enough of the salty tang of his tears? This was all Gi-hun wanted. All Gi-hun needed. All Gi-hun could ever hope to be.

It felt like his orgasm lasted forever, though it couldn’t have been longer than ten seconds. Once it was finally over, Sang-woo pulled out. Gi-hun flinched. He didn’t think he would ever get used to the stark emptiness that followed being fucked. It was a weirdly barren sensation that he was sure would haunt him for the rest of his day.

He struggled to sit upright, leaned his head back against the bedpost, as Sang-woo, wordless, cleaned himself up; condom thrown into the trash, lubricant tucked safely away, redressed himself. Tissues retrieved to swab at the small remnants of cum that lingered on Gi-hun’s stomach. He didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. Only watched, half-amused and half-curious, as Sang-woo wiped away the mess he’d made. Back to being detached. Mechanical. Gi-hun had expected as much. He wasn’t disappointed. Only proven right.

“So much for the no kissing thing, huh?”

Gi-hun meant it as a joke but Sang-woo – who’d been fumbling around a cigarette, smoke already beginning to leak from the head as he lit himself up – didn’t see the humor. He took a deep, deep drag, blew harder than was strictly necessary out his nostrils. Energy was slowly flowing back into Gi-hun’s worn limbs. He swung himself off the bed and found his discarded clothing, tossing on his shirt and slacks, comforted by the hiding of his vulnerability once more, safe from Sang-woo’s flat, unexpressive eyes.

Gi-hun joined him in sitting on the edge of the mattress. He held out his hand. “Can I bum a smoke?”

Sang-woo finally looked at him, really looked at him.

And obliged.

There was a tender fragility to the moment that neither wanted to break, as they sipped on cigarettes in a shitty, ramshackle excuse for an apartment – one man wearing the thin dress of a smile, the other stone-faced, like any emotion might knock him into a hole from which he could never climb out of.

Sang-woo sighed around his cigarette. The cloud that spilled off his lips was mystifying. Gi-hun wished he could drink him in. Drink in the ash and the smoke and the heady traces of nicotine. Feel the brush of his stubble. Taste the lingering flavor of himself upon Sang-woo’s tongue.

“Thank you,” said Gi-hun, finally, when the silence became too much to bear. “Thanks. I, uh. I really needed that. More than you probably know.”

Sang-woo nodded. Forced down another drag.

“Sex is weird, isn’t it?” Gi-hun looked at his own smoke, pinched carefully between his thumb and his forefinger. Ash dripped in lazy flecks from the head. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love it. It feels good. Especially when it’s with you.” He laughed. “You really know what you’re doing, I’ll give you that. But it’s also … I don’t know. Underwhelming, I guess? Like, suddenly it’s over, and now what?” Gi-hun looked to the ceiling, as if the flickering light and the dead moths and the molding roof might grace him with an answer. “Now what do we do?”

“Now,” said Sang-woo, voice hidden behind another smoky spiral, “we go back to normal.”

“Normal?” Gi-hun wrinkled his nose. “Woah. That’s kind of depressing to think about.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Gi-hun didn’t want to go back to normal. Normal for him was a barren room at his mother’s, no money, no job, no prospects, and all his feeble hopes pinned on a win at the races. Normal was terrifying. And yet his normal was inescapable.

“Do you regret it?” Gi-hun misunderstood the question at first, and he was about to reassure him, when Sang-woo added, “your ex-wife.”

“Eun-ji?” Gi-hun coyly arched one eyebrow. “She has a name, you know.”

“I don’t care.”

Gi-hun huffed. “Typical.”

“Well?” Sang-woo looked over at him. “Do you?”

“That’s kind of a loaded question, Sang-woo-ah,” Gi-hun replied mildly. But he sucked another searing shot of nicotine and mulled the thought over and over within his mind, until he knew the answer like the back of his hand; until he finally understood the truth behind it all.

“Of course I don’t.”

Gi-hun didn’t have the courage to look at Sang-woo when he said that.

“Eun-ji and I, we were – we were like oil and water, y’know? We just didn’t mix well in that way.” A realization dawned on him then, perfectly in tandem with the breaking of the dawn outside Sang-woo’s window. “Kinda like you and me.”

They weren’t touching, but he could almost feel the way Sang-woo stiffened beside him. Like he’d just been stabbed. Gi-hun knew what that felt like. But he couldn’t lie. Not to himself. And most especially not to the man who’d once meant everything to him.

“But she gave me Ga-yeong. And I love her, Sang-woo-ah, I love her so fucking much. You have no idea. I never thought I’d be a dad, but here I am. A really shitty excuse for one, but still. She’s the most important person in my life. And I wanna be better. If not for myself, then for her. Always for her.”

She deserved a father who didn’t gamble all their money away. She deserved a father who held down a steady job, who didn’t have to excuse himself to puke in the bathroom whenever the sounds of a single, terrible night came back to haunt him, hidden in the sirens of a police car or hiding behind men in dark uniforms, or kids who sported baseball bats. She deserved a father who not only saw her as the apple of his very eye, but treated her as one, too. Gi-hun would be that for Ga-yeong. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday. Somewhere. Somehow.

Once upon a time, Sang-woo had been the pinnacle of Gi-hun’s entire existence. He’d orbited around him like nothing and no-one else mattered, because back then, nothing and no-one else had mattered; Cho Sang-woo and Seong Gi-hun against the world, laughing and drinking and fucking their time away, until the years blended together into one writhing, unintelligible blur. He used to be unable to imagine a future that didn’t have his best friend in it. A future devoid of the Pride and Joy of his humble hometown hardly seemed a future worth living.

But then the future came, and went, and Sang-woo had drifted beyond Gi-hun’s reach, swept out by currents he could never hope to follow. And Gi-hun, left broken, picked up the pieces of his shattered identity. Alone. He met Eun-ji, and fell in love, the familiarity of her worn scowl a comfort; he had Ga-yeong, so smart and wise for her age, far more mature than a little girl had any right to be; he made new friends, friends he didn’t fuck, friends he didn’t fall deeply, hopelessly, pathetically in love with. And occasionally, when the urge struck, he reached out towards a ghostly figure of his past - a figure who didn’t want to be reached at all.

But that was okay.

Because Gi-hun had moved on.

It was as if Sang-woo could read his mind. “Maybe we were never supposed to be in love,” he said, bitterly.

Gi-hun forced a thin smile. “Maybe,” he agreed. “But I think you were always supposed to be my friend.”

Dawn bled warm and rich behind them.

***

That night, when all that remained of Gi-hun’s presence was his snubbed cigarette, sitting idly in the soiled ash tray perched upon his side-table, Sang-woo didn’t run his bath as originally planned.

Gi-hun’s number hovered beneath his thumb, tapped haphazardly into his phone by someone who’d been in an awfully quick hurry to leave.

("I'm always just a call away, if you ever want to hang out. Grab a drink. Talk shit. For old times' sake.")

Maybe next week, Sang-woo thought.

What he was referring to, he didn’t know.

Notes:

besties the way this one-shot fucking destroyed me. like im broken. i pulled so many all nighters to get this done in time and i still failed SKFDGZH

HAPPY NEW YEAR CHRIS HI IM YOUR SECRET SANTA <3 im so sorry this was a bit late. i kinda took ur prompt and ran a little wild/off-the-walls with this ... oop. but i hope u enjoy regardless, IM SORRY ITS SO LONG FDDGXDFH idk how to be concise im annoying

if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment!! it would genuinely make my day and put such a big smile on my face!

follow me on tumblr @ aleenya ! feel free to talk sangihun w me there 💛

edit 28/02/25 - i return with another sangihun offering in the year of our lord and savior 2025. the irrefutable law of gravity