Chapter Text
Namgyu wasn’t sure what day it was, what time it was, or how much time had passed since he’d been home.
The day he returned, his landlord wasn’t very pleased to find him sitting outside of his apartment door in his briefs and nothing else, shivering from the cool wind blowing down the hall from the A/C. He looked about half dead, half dying. He was lucky she didn’t question where he had been for the past three to four days…or about how he managed to get almost 3.5 billion dollars. He was lucky she just took the rent money and left him alone.
That was about six months ago.
It’s already been half a year.
Just the thought of how much time had passed made him sick.
It’s been half a year since he was in that dormitory. Since he was playing live or death games and scraping by either by the skin of his teeth or easily enough that he could point and laugh at the players than were struggling.
It’s been half a year since all those rats actually got their way and had everyone leave with their share of the money. How long it had been since he was thrown on the street in front of his apartment complex in nothing but his underwear and some ropes keeping him bound.
It’s been half a year since he saw that smile on his face. Since he got a taste of whatever it was he had in that stupid cross necklace of his.
It’s been half a year since he was face to face with his body, splayed on the bathroom floor, blood still pooling from his neck.
It’s been half a year since Choi Subong died.
He groaned and turned onto his side, his eyes shut as tight as he could make them. He could feel his head pound each and every time he remembered his face. He could remember every detail of it, even after the months he’s been sulking away, the days passing by just like that. He could remember his sharp jawline, the way he’d fidget with his necklace while he spaced out, the way his nails were painted the infinity stones (albeit, missing the mind stone, like the idiot he was.)
Like the idiot he was.
The idiot he was.
God he needed some tylenol.
Just something to get this headache to piss off.
His limbs felt heavy. He wasn’t even going through withdrawal and his body felt like it was, the hot and cold flashes preventing him from actually getting up. He knew that if he didn’t get up, he’d just end up lying there like he’s already dead. Not eating, not going to work (which, he’s on the verge of being fired from, after not showing up for the second week in a row,) not doing anything.
His face flashed in his mind again.
That damned smile of his. So careless, he’d even call it something stupid like mischievous. That’s how dumb his smile was.
He missed it.
He groaned again, that throbbing ache unrelenting. Yeah, he’s getting up.
Once he was on the edge of his bed, his head grew light, even with the persistent pulsating in his skull. When was the last time he ate something? Or drank something that wasn’t caffeinated or just..was water ?
What was he even getting up for again?
His hand came to his temple, rubbing it to try and soothe the ache almost without him thinking.
Right. Pain meds.
He bit the inside of his cheek and forced his body to do what he wanted it to, pushing himself off of his coffin of a mattress and onto the ground. He would’ve collapsed if he didn’t lock his knees once his feet hit the floor.
Dirty clothes and empty cans littered his carpet. He didn’t drink much of anything besides gatorade and monster energy, only managing to grab a bottle of water every now and then. The taste (or lack of, depending on the person,) made him sick to his stomach, for some reason, but he downed as much as he could before almost spitting it all up.
The clothes on the ground weren’t washed, the only washed clothes being either in his drawers (which were borderline empty at the moment,) or in the hamper in front of the dryer (which wasn’t very big.) With the combined mess of drunken soft drinks and dirty clothing, he almost tripped multiple times as he made his way to his bathroom.
Once he was actually in the bathroom, he flicked on the light, the bright illumination only making him squint. It didn’t help much with his headache.
He stepped over a few loose dirty socks before he got to the sink. He leaned over it, suddenly feeling uncomfortably aware of just how bad his hygiene has been the past few days.
Not days. Months. It’s been months. The truth of it all still made him want to throw up.
As he looked up into the mirror, he felt tears well in his eyes.
God he looked like shit.
His hair was unkempt, and honestly very greasy with the lack of care he’d been putting into it. He looked like he was breaking out again. Especially under his neck and near his ears. His eyes still had crust in them from when he’d woken up (about an hour or two ago, it was 9pm.) His eye bags were so prominent it looked like they were actually sunken into his skull.
He looked so, so disgusting. He felt like he was going to vomit.
Everything felt like it was going to make him vomit.
He could feel the bile rising in his throat. As much as he didn’t want it to come out, his body was so weak that he couldn’t really bring himself to do anything about it as he reflexively hunched over the sink, spitting up whatever it was that was in his stomach.
As lucky as he felt that there wasn’t much that came out, he couldn’t help but feel just as sick as he realized it was due to the lack of anything solid he ate.
As he looked back up into the mirror, he just felt even worse. His glasses were askew and there was barf at the corner of his mouth. He felt himself gag again, but nothing came out.
Why was he even in here? To just stand in front of the mirror and feel sorry for himself?
He almost heard someone say ‘yeah, pretty much.’ But it didn’t matter. The pounding in his head was a quick reminder.
He reached out for one of the many bottles that sat next to the sink, grabbing a few and putting them down after reading the labels. Once he found the tylenol, he took out two.
He debated grabbing a water, but opted for just dry swallowing them remembering just how queasy the taste made him feel. Even after he almost threw up again trying to get them down.
Okay. Meds taken. That’s good, that’s an accomplishment. He tried to tell himself that, at least.
His head still hurt.
Stupid fucking pills, don’t do their god damn jobs.
He knew they were going to take longer than a few seconds to kick in, but he couldn’t deny that he was half-heartedly hoping that would be the case. Even if he subconsciously knew that his problems weren’t going to be solved with the click of a button, the tip of a hat or the swallow of a few pills, it was easier for him to get pissed about it rather than accept the truth. A simple truth, but a truth nonetheless.
He hated the truth, that’s what he told himself. He hated it. It’s what got him to the place he’s at.
The truth was that all those people he saw die were actually dead. The truth was what he saw affected him, and in the worst way possible. The truth was that he was traumatized, depressed, and worst of all, lonely.
The truth was that Choi Subong had died. In front of his eyes.
God, everything always rolled back to that egotistical asshole.
As he shoved past the piles of dirty laundry and back into his room, his fists clenched as he grew lost in his thoughts.
Everything was always about him.
He was popular outside of the games. Popular enough for Namgyu to know about him from somebody at Club Pentagon, at least. He was flashy, eccentric, confident, and well known. Those were 4 things that Namgyu was not.
He was introverted. He was quiet, he kept to himself, he avoided getting into other’s business no matter how interesting it sounded. He stayed quiet and just listened instead of talking. Nobody knew of him. By name, at least. He’s been referred to as the “guy with glasses that works at Club Pentagon,” and things similar. He wasn’t known by his name, or some cool alias he came up with himself.
Unlike Thanos.
Thanos, Thanos, Thanos. Thanos this, Thanos that, can he just get a grip?
He sat down at the edge of his bed, his head in his hands and his elbows resting on his knees. He shouldn’t be his main thought right now. There were plenty of other people who died in those games that he knew about. That he watched get shot or he watched get stabbed and die. In fact, he killed someone himself. Why isn’t she on his mind? Why doesn’t he focus on the guilt of killing someone out of pure rage?
Too many questions, too much time to actually think about them. He needed something to get his mind to stop feeling like a fucking funeral home.
He’s got plenty still.
He hoisted himself up again and stepped over the hills of shirts and pants to his dresser, where pill bottles and bags of cannabis were splayed out carelessly. He always told himself he’d put them up some way or another, so that there wouldn’t be such a risk of getting caught with them, but he never had the energy.
He picked up bottle after bottle, skimming over the labels (that he put on himself.) He needed something strong. Something that could make him forget about almost if not everything—every one he’s been thinking about. Nothing on his dresser looked or even felt strong enough, considering he’s tried every single one of them.
That’s when he saw it.
It looked purposefully hidden from immediate sight, pushed behind a barely translucent flower vase (the flowers inside having died a while ago, sadly.) The slight glint of the necklace was unmistakable. Even so, he prayed it wasn’t what he thought it was. Even as he pulled out from behind the vase, he prayed and prayed that it wasn’t what he thought it was.
He only accepted the truth once he held it in his hand, the texture of the beads feeling rough and familiar against his palms.
The cross necklace.
Choi Subong’s cross necklace.
Hesitantly, he went to shake it.
There were still pills inside.
He had never dared to touch the thing once he stepped foot into his apartment again, tossing it onto his dresser and rarely looking back at it, much less looking for it. The last time he could remember actively searching for it was in a horrible episode that he doesn’t want to remember. But he does remember he refused to take another pill out of the cross, leaving whatever was inside to (hopefully) end up not safe to ingest anymore…somehow. He wasn’t sure how long those things lasted, they weren’t his.
They were Subong’s.
He could imagine the look on his face whenever he would take one. The way he would try to be secretive about what he was doing, despite doing a rather bad job, considering he would hold the cross out in front of him rather than behind his hands or something. Namgyu always thought he was stupid in that sense, and in many others.
He remembered the color of the last pill the two took. He took the blue one, Subong the yellow.
For some reason he could feel his fingers shaking as he opened the cross. He felt like he was opening a coffin with the way it opened.
There were about 5 of the pills left, the color’s varying from red and blue to yellow and pink. He felt his chest clench. This felt way too nostalgic. The rush of emotions from just looking at the pills felt almost pathetic, in a way, but he didn’t have a reason to stop the tears from welling. It’s not like there was anybody there to make fun of him for it, unlike before in the dormitories.
He had cried once or twice while sober, his mind racing with thoughts the he both wished he could remember and was glad he didn’t. He did remember, though, how he was beckoned down by Thanos with a quiet whistle and an inviting hand down. Once he was down and on the same bunk as the rapper, he was wiping at his eyes furiously, trying to hide the emotions he’d been burdened with, only to get flicked in the forehead.
“Quit crying,” He had said, a cheeky grin on his face. A grin that radiated nothing but chaos and carelessness, even at night. “Think about all your gloomy sad bullshit when we’re out, okay boy? ”
God, fuck, get a grip.
He popped one of the pills, biting down on it and letting the bitter, addicting flavor spread across his tongue. He couldn’t help himself from chewing the rest of the pill instead of swallowing it like he used to. He felt desperate for the high to kick in as soon as possible. Faster than the Tylenol, preferably, which was still taking its sweet time getting to his headache which had yet to cool down.
He felt lucky that whatever the fuck that purple haired druggie had was stronger than anything he’s ever had before. It kicked in the second he let himself lie down on his bed once more (in the same spot, too. He might as well have an imprint of himself in the damn mattress.)
Everything around him felt light, him included. That headache that had been bothering him for the past…God knows how long, was pretty much forgotten, his mind filled with air rather than thoughts that made his skull throb. He could finally take a break from all that paranoid reminiscing he’d been doing. Somewhat.
He was still thinking about Thanos, despite the way he felt his body drift without it actually moving. His memories were less sad and gloomy than before, though. He was remembering all the little inside jokes the two of them came up with in the games. Specifically one of them that made him laugh to himself.
It came up while they were passing by the little “we’ll get out of here!” group that they despised; the one “run” by 456. While they passed by them, they both caught something player 333 had said.
“You never know when someone could sneak up on you, you know? Especially with this bunch, there’s always betrayal afoot with some of them…”
Before Namgyu could scoff, Thanos snickered.
“Afoot? What about aleg?”
Namgyu, being high as a kite (about as high as Thanos was,) couldn’t stop the snort that left him. That stupid remark led to them mentioning it at least once in every game, every situation, hell every conversation. Out of all the inside jokes, that one was both the unfunniest and funniest one they came up with.
“Ppff…” Namgyu muttered out, his eyes glazed over, staring at the ceiling. “Aleg….what about ahand?”
“Ahead would be useful,” someone chimed in. Someone who wasn’t Namgyu.
That wasn’t apart of what he remembered.
It took him a second (or, rather a full minute,) to completely register that whatever wasn’t just a voice in his head. Well, it was, but to him it sounded like it was right beside him, where he laid on his bed.
That familiar, blinding purple hair was all too familiar for it to be anybody else.