Chapter Text
When Gi-hun wakes up, with tears in his eyes and a hurting stomach, he feels like a ghost. It’s already 10 am, but he doesn’t leave the bed he haunts until 20 minutes later, when he finally gathers enough strength and willpower to drag his limbs across the sheet. In the bathroom, he observes his pale reflection with morbid amusement. He then sets to wash his face and brush his teeth in a mechanical manner, not in hopes that he’ll look better. It’s just to feel a sense of normalcy, to temporarily shield himself from the fact that he’s a dying man with a hollow heart.
He has not planned anything for today. Again, his last lead has turned out to be a dead end, and he doesn’t have enough information to initiate a new investigation. Locked in an impasse, Gi-hun is washed over by a wave of helplessness. He wants to lie down and sleep until days, months, or even years later, until his deep slumber drowns all the whispers in his head.
While debating if he should go back to the bedroom, he spots something unusual through the foggy window. Apparently, the first snowfall of the year arrived during his dreamless sleep. Now, a tiny dot is moving across the expanse of the snowfield, while the wind goes on a rampage and tears at every object it encounters. Gi-hun wipes the window to have a clearer look. Then he sees him.
A muffled scream escapes his mouth as he stares at the man on the other side of his house. Before long, he rushes toward the door, his hand trembling while turning the doorknob. There stands Sang-woo, in his bloodstained suit, with a faint scar over his neck. He looks cold, exhausted, and confused. Gi-hun gently grabs his wrist and drags him through the door.
There is no logical explanation for what is happening right now, and maybe he is trapped in a fever dream, but Sang-woo feels real under his careful fingertips. So real and corporal that he wants to cry. For once, it’ll be happy tears, and perhaps a little hysterical. Throughout the process, the other man doesn’t avert his eyes from Gi-hun’s face. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
“Are you really here?” Gi-hun whispers, not daring to let go of Sang-woo’s hand in case he’ll dissipate into the thin air.
“Yes,” Sang-woo’s voice cracks. “I…”
“You must be thirsty,” Gi-hun declares before running to the kitchen and retrieving bottled water from the fridge. When he comes back, Sang-woo is still standing there, fidgeting as if he’s a kid waiting to be chastised by his teacher. And that’s something Sang-woo didn’t have to experience for sure. Were he another man, were Sang-woo not a specter coming back to life, Gi-hun would laugh at the misplaced look in front of him.
Sang-woo takes the bottle and begins to drink as if his second life depends on it. Within a minute or two, the water’s gone.
“Do you need more?” Gi-hun offers.
“I’m good, and thank you.” Sang-woo throws the empty bottle in the hallway’s trash bin. Ever the model citizen, Gi-hun muses as a faint smile forms around his lips.
“Ok then. Let’s get you cleaned up first,” Gi-hun takes the other man’s ice-cold hand and leads him to the bathroom. His priority is to shed off Sang-woo’s suit, an embodiment of their last fight. Questions can wait.
While Sang-woo’s in the shower, he goes around in his room and rummages through his closet. Fortunately, there’s a T-shirt and a pair of boxers that should fit the other man. After all, they’re about the same size the last time he checked. Both clothes are clean but old, smelling of lavender detergent. The towel and slippers he digs out are brand new, though. He knocks on the bathroom door and calls out to Sang-woo, saying that he’s laying the pile of items down outside the door.
Waiting turns out to be more suffocating than he expected. Gi-hun finds his breaths shallow and fast. He paces like crazy around the house, but with nothing particular on his mind. He checks the grandfather clock in the living room, which is ticking as usual. He then gauges his tablecloth closely, which still bears an oil stain at its corner. His cactus on the sill has turned yellowish for days now, and it’s not getting better. Everything else seems normal as well. If his mind’s playing a trick with him, it truly knows how to replicate his surroundings.
Thankfully, before he decides to knock on the bathroom door to double-check, Sang-woo comes out with tousled hair and a solemn look.
“Thank you,” he says, each syllable slow and heavy.
“I hope that word’s not all you’ve got to say,” Gi-hun tries to lighten the mood and conceal how nervous he is.
To his dismay, Sang-woo looks frustrated all of a sudden. “I don’t know what else to say. Hell, I don’t know anything. I just…it was cold, then it’s not.”
He carefully puts a hand over the other man’s elbow. “That’s ok. Come and take a sit. We have time to figure this out.” That’s not a lie. All he has is time now.
Sang-woo follows him to the living room like a lost puppy. It’s not until he sits down that Sang-woo takes a sit, a few feet away from him, on the other side of the couch. His heart clenches at the sight.
The silence is deafening, so he asks, “What else can you remember?”
Sang-woo shakes his head. “Just darkness. And pain,” he eyes his side, his intention as clear as day. “But that was tolerable.” He offers a weak smile, and Gi-hun doesn’t know if he can prevent his tears from rolling down his cheeks at this rate.
He swallows. “Regardless, I’m glad you’re back. I’m never the one to believe in miracles, but I’m starting to believe now.” His expression mirrors Sang-woo’s; the smile is tentative and small.
Sang-woo huffs. “I don’t think it counts as a miracle. The place I stayed, it’s not heaven. It’s definitely not God who sent me back.”
The few feet between them feel like an endless ocean. Gi-hun wishes he can touch the other man, to reassure both of them. Yet he’s filled with fear; he still isn’t sure if Sang-woo is an illusion out of his desperation. He can’t afford to handle that reality. “What’s important is you’re here. Are you tired? Hungry? I ‘ll order something.”
“I’m good.” Then, something strikes him as his eyes glint with concern. “How long has it been?”
“A little over a year,” Gi-hun replies, then, another attempt at humor, “You didn’t miss much. The world’s still a mess.”
“I suppose so.” The lovable dimples are gone right after they hover over his cheeks. “How’s …my mother?” He sounds both hurt and hoping.
“She’s good, and the shop’s doing well, I just met with her last weekend.” He doesn’t tell him about how much money he gave to her, or the fact that Sae-byeok’s brother is staying with her. Or the tears she shed when she thought he was not looking. He has a feeling that Sang-woo’s not ready for this information, not before a night of deep, long sleep.
Sang-woo’s shoulders are not as tense as before. “I’ll need to see her, but not now.”
“I understand,” Gi-hun says. “There’s a lot to process.”
“That’s an understatement.” Sang-woo sighs. “I have to think of something, a reasonable excuse.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Gi-hun points out. “But regardless, she’ll be happy that you’re back.”
“I know. So,” Sang-woo’s eyes wander around in the minimalist room. “How have you been? What did you tell your mother about all that money?”
Deep in Gi-hun’s stomach, there’s a bizarre, scorching feeling when he’s reminded of how he won the prize and his mother. It sends a shiver down his spine while his throat is too dry to verbalize anything. Before he’s aware of it, his knuckles turn white on his knees, and his eyes are tinted with red.
“Mom passed away before I got the chance to save her. Diabetes.”
The metaphorical ocean between them rises and ebbs. Sang-woo turns toward him, and Gi-hun yearns for the promising physical contact, but he remains there because he’s too weak to move.
“I’m sorry,” Sang-woo says quietly. His tone suggests that he won’t believe it if Gi-hun tells him he’s fine, so Gi-hun doesn’t bother to sugarcoat the amount of hurt inside of him.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it? After my reunion with my childhood friend, he was gone. After I got the money to cover her medical cost, mom’s gone, too.” He cries. For himself, for Sang-woo, for his mother, and for countless souls lost in the game. Sang-woo watches him intently with nonjudgmental eyes. Then he moves forward to where they can take in each other’s breath and wipes his tears away using the back of his hand.
His skin is smooth and warm after the shower, Gi-hun notices. He wishes the hand could linger there for a little longer.
“But I’m here,” resolution fills Sang-woo’s voice when he retrieves his hand. “And I’m here to stay.”
——
For lunch, Gi-hun ordered fried chicken with fried rice cakes. When they come in two huge boxes and Gi-hun sniffs around them dramatically, Sang-woo raises a well-trimmed eyebrow.
“They’re still your favorite?” Sang-woo asks, feigning surprise.
“Sue me,” Gi-hun says with a mouthful of chicken wing. Sang-woo laughs, and it sounds loud and genuine, which sends butterflies to Gi-hun’s stomach. That’s something he didn’t know he’s still capable of until this very moment.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“At least take a bite. They’re so good.” Gi-hun urges the other man. It’s for his own benefit, of course, a selfish gesture to confirm Sang-woo’s earthly presence.
Sang-woo gives in to his pleading look, or perhaps he understands his subtexts. He picks a slice of rice cake out of the box, cuts it in half using the chopsticks in a delicate manner, and stuffs one piece into his mouth.
“There, are you happy now?”
“I’m happy as long as you’re here,” Gi-hun says matter-of-factly. And that somehow surprises Sang-woo, who stares at him with a piercing gaze.
“You really mean it,” he observes.
“Of course! Sang-woo. I…” Gi-hun sucks in a shuddered breath. “I miss you.” And I dreamed of you, he wants to say, but he fears he’s going to cry again.
Sang-woo puts the bowl down, his voice firm and steady. “For what it’s worth, I miss you, too. I think that’s why I end up at your doorsteps.”
Gi-hun flashes his nicest, widest smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”
The rest of the lunch goes on in a comfortably quiet ambiance. Sang-woo didn’t touch most of the food, but he insists on cleaning the dishes afterward. Gi-hun watches as he bends over the washbasin and applies dish soap elegantly as if he’s tuning an instrument. Despite the baggy T-shirt, Gi-hun can see his muscles move underneath. Under the daylight shining through the window, there’s sweat shimmering on the back of his neck because the heater’s working really well. Sang-woo looks too vibrant to be his imagination, Gi-hun thinks with relief.
“What’re you up to these days?” Sang-woo asks.
“I’ve been writing fictions and publishing them online,” Gi-hun scratches his head. He feels shy for no explicit reason. “Most of them are spooky stories. My therapist told me it’s a good way to retain a schedule and deal with my emotions.”
Sang-woo’s fingers, together with the pair of chopsticks, pause in midair. “You have a therapist?”
“Yeah. I told her I lost people in a car accident.” People I love, he supplies in his mind space.
“Is it working for you?” Sang-woo turns to face him.
“For the most part, yes,” he tries not to wince under the sympathetic and open look Sang-woo throws in his direction. It doesn’t hurt if he’s not completely honest right now. It took him at least 10 months to reduce the intrusive thoughts of Sang-woo dying in his arms into static in his head, and he’s not ready to discuss it yet. The mere thought of it leaves a bitter and foul taste in his mouth.
“Good,” Sang-woo says hesitantly before he turns back and keeps working. When it’s done, he asks where he can take a nap. That’s because, in his own words, he “still needs more vigor to get back on track.”
“I’ll call someone to dedust the guestrooms this afternoon,” Gi-hun says. “How about sleeping in my room for the time being? ”
“Yeah, that would be great.” And that’s one of Sang-woo’s qualities that Gi-hun adores. He gives direct and simple responses no matter how awkward the situation may be, which simplify things for all the parties involved.
But he stops abruptly beside Gi-hun when they arrive at the older man’s bedroom. Gi-hun follows his gaze and spots the whiteboard full of red lines, newspaper, pictures, and names, which hovers above his desk like a storm cloud. How come he forgets about this?
“What’s this?” Sang-woo asks, his eyes wide open.
“I’m trying to find who’s behind the game.” He quickly adds, “The living ones, that is.”
“You’re insane,” Sang-woo shakes his head. “This is too dangerous.”
“But I have to know. Otherwise, all of it will be in vain.”
“What’s ‘it’?” Sang-woo sounds angry all of a sudden. “Nothing’s worth your life!”
“I’m talking about you!” His attempt to refrain from shouting the words out fails miserably. “You gave your life for me. The least I could do was to find the perpetrators. And that,” he holds the other man’s inquisitive gaze. “That’s worth everything.”
Sang-woo’s eyes are also watery by the time he ends the speech. He takes a step forward and hugs Gi-hun tightly, his warmth radiating through the thin fabrics between them. It’s been so long since they’re close like this, and Gi-hun wishes he could imprint the moment onto his brain.
“What you just said means a lot to me,” he says into Gi-hun’s ear. “But we’ll have to talk about this in detail after I wake up. Ok?”
Gi-hun nods and holds his breath until Sang-woo lets go. The other man walks toward the Queen-sized bed and lies down, closing his eyelids after browsing the whiteboard once again out of the corner of his eye. Gi-hun stands at the doorway for a few seconds, making sure that the younger man is comfortably tucked into bed. Before he has the chance to fixate on the other man’s heaving chest, he turns back. He has a phone call for housekeeping to make after all.