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It’s hard to tell apart day and night in the confines of the four walls, the only marker of time being the dimming of bright fluorescent lights and whatever’s left of the players’ own circadian rhythm.
Gi-hun can’t sleep, regardless, even if he wanted to. He lies awake, staring at the cool metal of the upper bunk above him, hands crossed behind his head. The light gold of the piggy bank reflects off the shiny surface.
Even after the first two games, a shocking number of people—more than half—had voted to stay. Gi-hun mulls over this fact, runs it over and over in his head like picking at an old scab until it bleeds.
Had he forgotten, too? How bad things were outside the games, that people would voluntarily stay and kill just to have a shot at winning?
He crosses a wrist over his eyes. He really should get some sleep, but he’s all too alert, heart rate nowhere near resting, too mindful of the shadows that crowd around him. One can never be too careful when it comes to these players. Some of them would betray their closest friends and allies in the blink of an eye.
A presence next to him makes him shoot upright in his bunk, legs tangled in the blanket. Gi-hun is poised, ready to fight, but the shape morphs into something familiar in the dark.
“Young-il?” Gi-hun says, squinting. He’s standing next to Gi-hun’s bunk on the stairs, just barely swaying. “Is that you?” He whispers.
Young-il is… interesting. Gi-hun didn’t think much of him initially, just another player desperate to win the games at all costs, another life Gi-hun would have been sad about not being able to save. Then he’d heard about his circumstance, his conviction, watching Young-il tear up as he talked about his wife and child, and his heart softened just a little, the kind of empathy that almost made Gi-hun understand why the truly broken and desperate would be forced into such a situation. The man helped Gi-hun find back his sense of humanity, in a way, made him remember how drastically bad things were like for him before the first game.
“Nnngh…” Young-il mumbles under his breath. When Gi-hun looks closer, his eyes are barely open. He’s still asleep, or at least barely conscious.
When Gi-hun was younger, he used to sleepwalk a lot, and would often find himself suddenly startling awake, staring down the dark hallways of his childhood home. He still remembers that feeling of being plunged into icy cold water. He can only imagine how Young-il feels, being terrified in a new environment, but unable to seek out the comfort he so badly desires out of distrust for the others.
Well. At least Gi-hun’s a safe choice. Better that Young-il come to find him, even subconsciously, rather than another player who’d easily take advantage of him.
Then Young-il crouches down blearily, and with slow movements, starts crawling into bed with him.
“Wait, this is my bed—” Gi-hun protests mildly, but Young-il remains unresponsive to him gently jostling his shoulder. He’s barely able to stay upright, already collapsing horizontally. It’s not like he can really stop Young-il or shake him out of it. He’d be hesitant to wake him, anyway—he wouldn’t want to deprive him of sleep. He’s probably tired from the games and the threat of death. Gi-hun feels oddly guilty, especially with everything Young-il’s already shared about himself.
Young-il makes himself comfortable, slotting himself perfectly into the space behind Gi-hun. They end up curling up together, Young-il’s breath warming the back of Gi-hun’s neck, the sensation spreading down his spine and sending an involuntary shiver all over his body. He’s a little too close. Gi-hun isn’t really used to sharing space after what seemed like forever in solitude.
He really should wake Young-il, but part of him is paralysed, afraid to call to attention this unnatural behaviour, worried that other players might see this as an opportunity to strike, and secretly, well, part of him also misses and craves the warmth of another human person. It’s been well over three years since the last time he’s actually slept next to a living, breathing body, and he’s forgotten what it feels like to share heat, the sensation of skin on skin, a beating heart.
If Young-il wants to… cuddle him, just this once, Gi-hun thinks he’s probably okay with that.
It’s still going to take some getting used to, though. Gi-hun feels too stiff, frozen, afraid to move and wake Young-il. What will he think when he wakes up? Does Young-il sleepwalk often? Is this a frequent occurrence he should be worrying about?
Gi-hun’s mind wanders, and it takes a long time for the nervous beating of his heart to calm to a slower speed. When he finally accustoms himself to the slow rise and fall of Young-il’s chest, he finds himself drifting into slumber.
An imperceptible number of minutes pass, or perhaps it could’ve been hours. Halfway between the state of consciousness and unconsciousness, before falling into deep sleep, Gi-hun is vaguely aware of movement behind him, the rustling of fabric. He is reminded of the heavy presence by his side.
Young-il’s arm is casually slung over his waist, in a gesture a little too intimate for Gi-hun’s liking—is it weird for guys to be doing this with each other? Is it not weird?—and Young-il shifts, fingers shifting against Gi-hun’s waist where the hem of his shirt has ridden up. His fingers are cold and startling. Gi-hun’s face heats just a little at that tiny point of contact, but his mind is sluggish still, unable to make sense of anything except the warm body next to him and how surprisingly comforting it feels.
Then Young-il mumbles, just under his breath, “Baby…”
Gi-hun’s breath stops.
Young-il’s wandering hands don’t stop there. He trails his fingers further up, movements slow like he’s still asleep, sliding up underneath Gi-hun’s shirt, across his navel and the short trail of hair there, beyond the lines of his ribcage and eventually resting over a nipple. His thumb brushes over the slowly hardening nub, and Gi-hun feels a shock of pleasure run through his body at the electrifying feeling.
He is fully awake now, but his mind is a solid block of ice. Between fight and flight, Gi-hun’s body apparently chooses freeze.
Young-il… must still be asleep, right?
Shockingly and with no small amount of shame, Gi-hun realises he’s starting to get hard. His traitorous dick twitches, and the erection tents the front of his sweatpants, just from a little fondling from another man. He’s torn between wanting Young-il to stop and please just go to sleep—and craving more, in the quiet space of the darkness where he can enjoy the touch of another human without care for reason or rationality until the morning comes.
Young-il hands stop moving, resting just over Gi-hun’s chest, and he mumbles something incoherent, barely a vocalisation at the nape of his neck. It sounds like sleep talk. Gi-hun can’t say he knows what to do in this situation, so he stays as still as he can and tries not to panic.
Moments pass, a beat of silence, then three, four more. Gi-hun thinks he’s safe.
Then, Young-il starts rocking against him.
It’s a clumsy gesture, just the uncoordinated movements of someone not fully awake, and oh, fuck, that’s definitely Young-il’s hard dick pressed against the cleft of his ass. Gi-hun barely muffles a startled moan against his hand, pressing the back of his fist to his mouth and biting down on his knuckles. Fuck, it shouldn’t feel nearly as good as it does, it’s not like Gi-hun even likes men, but the friction feels too good, and he can’t contain himself from pushing his ass back against the hot line of Young-il’s dick. Young-il’s movements gain more enthusiasm, and he rocks an unsteady rhythm against Gi-hun. The bed frame begins to creak, just slightly.
“Sweetheart,” Young-il mumbles incoherently again, sleep-addled and almost adorable, if not for his next words. “Just let me… put it in…”
Put it in? Fuck, does Young-il think Gi-hun is his wife??
Young-il’s hands roam over the planes of Gi-hun’s chest, slowly squeezing like he’s trying to cop a feel. Gi-hun—Gi-hun doesn’t have breasts, but he works out, okay, and it’s not like he doesn’t have anything to offer. He arches his spine, pushing his chest into Young-il’s rough, calloused hands, and pushing his ass against his crotch. Fuck, Gi-hun feels like a slutty girl, but he can’t help how good it feels to rock back against Young-il, feeling his dick grow fatter and fatter just from grinding against Gi-hun’s ass.
Young-il squeezes hard over a pec, the calloused pad of his thumb rubbing carelessly over a nipple. Gi-hun chokes back a whine and grasps at Young-il’s wrist, unsure if the gesture is to stop him or keep him there.
Either way, Young-il’s hand moves further south, down over the clothed bulge of Gi-hun’s crotch, and he nearly whites out from the feeling when Young-il squeezes. It’s been too long since he’s had a hand other than his own on his cock, and he’s forgotten the sensation of being touched like this. He’s mostly been with women, and that one time with his roommate in college, but there’s nothing quite like the hot press of Young-il behind him, insistent and dangerous. They really shouldn’t—the guards are probably watching, and there’s hundreds of players around them fast asleep, but feeling like they’re breaking all the rules only makes it hotter, somehow, makes him feel desperate and dirty.
Young-il presses two fingers against the front of his crotch, rubbing in circles over the bulge, almost as if Gi-hun were a woman. It’s probably just muscle memory, and it shouldn’t be enough, but it’s already getting Gi-hun panting harshly into the quiet of the night, his breaths shaky. He’s going to shoot off in his pants like a teenager if Young-il doesn’t stop. “Ah,” he groans just slightly, a bit too loud in the silence, still meeting Young-il’s fingers with little thrusts of his hips. “Young-il, are you—”
Abruptly, the movement stops. Young-il’s tense muscles relax, slowly dropping as if tugged by gravity. He rolls over and his hands fall back to his side of the bed next to Gi-hun. Gi-hun looks over his shoulder and finds Young-il’s back turned to him, and within a minute, he starts snoring lightly. He seems to actually be properly asleep this time.
Fucking hell. A whole night of teasing, and he chooses now to fall asleep? Gi-hun could die of frustration.
He stays awake for a long time, but his erection doesn’t fade, and his heart doesn’t stop beating rabbit-fast. He’s painfully hard, and so aroused his head spins from it—there’s no way he can fall asleep like this, when he’s so wired he can’t even hold back the little back and forth thrusting of his hips against the bed to try and get some friction.
With a furtive, guilty glance at the sleeping figure beside him, Gi-hun shoves a hand into his pants and continues where he left off, a firm grip at the base and stroking upwards, thumbing over the slit of his cock and gasping too loud. Another hand comes up to his chest, trying to replicate the feeling of Young-il’s fingers clumsily groping his chest, twisting and tugging at his already abused nipples, pretending his hand isn't his own. Images come to mind, of Young-il pushing him down, fully awake, holding him by the waist the way he did earlier and stroking him, his clever fingers finding all the sensitive spots to make it pleasurable and getting him off.
The hot friction of his hand paired with his imagination feels too good, and he doesn’t have the patience to take it slow and draw it out. It takes less than a minute of hot, wet, strokes, his head thrown back onto the pillow, and his toes curl as his climax takes over in a heavy rush. Gi-hun rides out the waves of it, biting hard on his lower lip to stop himself making a sound, feeling pulse after pulse coat his fingers wet and sticky, staining his pants.
The crash in the aftermath makes him dizzy from the shame of it all. He feels… humiliated, dirtied, but also like he’s defiled Young-il somehow even though he was the one who came onto him. Gi-hun’s left with a sick taste in his mouth, but the exhaustion quickly takes over the guilt and he feels his eyes closing of their own accord.
Just as he falls asleep, he thinks he imagines a long, startlingly conscious sigh from the body next to him.
When he wakes up in the morning, he is alone in his bed and cold. He looks over to the space where Young-il collapsed last night, but it’s empty.
Gi-hun feels as though he’s woken up from an extremely vivid dream. The reality of the last night starts to look hazy in his head. Could he have imagined the whole thing? He is seriously starting to doubt his sanity in these four walls.
The morning alarm music blares too loudly in his ears, and he feels off-kilter. As the players get up and start swarming towards the entrance for breakfast, he peers into the crowd, trying to look for a familiar face.
“Gi-hun!” He hears a voice call out, and turns. It’s Young-il, bounding over towards him in a jog, smile on his face. He looks calm and well-rested.
“Young-il,” Gi-hun greets, though his voice doesn’t quite come out right. “Do you… are you—” He quickly realises there’s no good way to ask, hey, did you come into my bed last night and grind against my ass, and did you notice me jerking off to the thought of you because it made me so horny I couldn’t sleep?
Young-il frowns. “Are you okay? You don’t look too well. Long night, was it?” He reaches out a hand to touch Gi-hun’s forehead, but Gi-hun flinches away involuntarily at the touch, remembering those fingers burning cold against his skin last night.
Young-il looks startled, pulling his hand back immediately and scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Ah, sorry. You’re touch-averse, aren’t you?”
Gi-hun gapes at him. Young-il doesn’t have a clue. His head spins, bewildered and enraged by being taken advantage of, but he’s honestly somewhat relieved too. He’d been afraid of what to say, how to broach the subject, but if Young-il doesn’t know… Gi-hun sure as hell doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up. Maybe he can let it slide this once. Still, an uneasy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach.
He scrambles for something to say, and eventually settles for a, “Umm, yeah, sorry. Rough night.”
Young-il smiles, pure and blinding. Has he always looked so friendly? “Well, let’s get some of that energy in us, shall we? We’d better queue for breakfast before it runs out, in case other players decide to re-queue and take an extra portion, those gluttons.” He walks away, turning and tilting his head at Gi-hun in a you coming? gesture.
Gi-hun pushes away the sensation of last night’s memory, untethered as it felt to reality, but another thought makes him pause in his tracks.
How did Young-il know the players in the previous squid games took extra food?
Young-il must have noticed or seen something in Gi-hun change, and a blankness comes across his face, just for a split second, frightening and altogether foreign. Chills run down Gi-hun’s spine, his hairs coming on end, but the look is gone as quickly as it came, replaced with a carefully uncertain smile.
Not for the first time in twelve hours, Gi-hun experiences the sensation of feeling like he has no idea who the person Young-il is beneath the mask he wears.