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Gihun's skin is bare beneath his touch, and all of a sudden Inho forgets how to breathe.
He's spread out on an operating table, sterilised only hours earlier and cold to the touch, for Inho's eyes and Inho's eyes only. The tracksuit which would soon adorn his body lays on the instrument table, Inho had ironed it himself.
Goosebumps had rose on Gihun's unconscious form long ago, despite Inho's efforts to smooth them down, if only by a little bit. Generously (too generous for the job he was supposed to be doing), Inho had placed a set of pillows beneath Gihun's head, neck, and lower back. It was the most comfort he would afford the man, though it was still way more than he would ever dream of gifting to anyone else.
Inho was slightly worried he'd began to form an unhealthy bias towards Player 456.
Slowly, his hands roamed each and every inch of unclothed skin they could find, on high alert for any sign of an abnormality beneath it. All they found were moles and scars – Inho's fingers lingered on the ones Sangwoo had created, resisting the urge to feel them with his lips – and he mentally noted the number of which there were.
The hairs on Gihun's legs were present, but short. Abnormally so.
Almost as if they'd been shaved a few weeks ago.
The realisation is almost enough to permanently rid Inho's lungs of oxygen, so he pushes it out of his mind, and powers on.
All of these little details from Gihun's life coming at Inho from every direction get tucked into the back of his mind for safekeeping. Things to look into later, things to ponder on when his bed feels a little too empty in the night.
When he gets to the underwear, Inho feels... uncharacteristically shy. And ashamed of himself, too, that he (and ex-police officer) can't keep up a level of professionalism.
The back of his hand hovers over Gihun's white briefs, fleshes out a mental image of what could be right there, right beneath Inho's hand. There is no weapon, no tracker. No reason to be this thorough.
Going this far for nothing was embarrassing. It made Inho feel perverted, ashamed, and worst of all, unprofessional.
But in the limousine, he'd found a tracker in a tooth tucked towards the back of Gihun's mouth. He had been sure that this level of investigation was necessary. He shouldn't be so disappointed in himself or in his lack of findings.
After all, he would've been even more disappointed if Gihun had ended up sneaking something in that he didn't catch.
For a moment, he stays there. Takes it in. Rakes his eyes over Gihun's unconscious form one last time, practically bare, completely vulnerable.
And internally wishes it goodbye.
Soft white cotton slides easily between his fingertips and even more easily over Gihun's torso, beginning to provide the warmth he had so desperately yet unknowingly craved. Inho has to lean Gihun's head against his shoulder in order to get it on, and he ignores the butterflies he gets while doing so.
Carefully, Inho puts each ankle into each allotted leg hole before pulling the jogging bottoms up completely, covering up Gihun's shiny legs too.
None of the players get socks, Inho knows this. Though admittedly, he had considered implementing them once he began to get the feeling Gihun would return.
It was small details such as those which had kept him losing sleep over the past three years.
Gihun's feet slotted into the plain white pumps without issue – Inho had measured them down to the inch last time he had his hands on him.
He hoped these shoes would provide Gihun that little bit more comfort. They had extra padding in the soles.
Why the fuck did he let himself do that? He didn't know.
Once again, he raised Gihun's torso using one arm snaked around his slender waist, coaxing the man's upper body weight onto himself. Slowly, he slid each sleeve of the tracksuit jacket onto Gihun's arms, shifting the weight onto his other shoulder once he had to swap arms.
Inho considers whether he should zip up Gihun's jacket, or whether he should leave it up to him when he wakes up.
He zips it half way.
Now would be the right time to radio the officer, let him know he'd be bringing Player 456 down. In fact, he should realistically be carrying him through the corridors already, heading towards the main room.
He's not, because he's too busy taking in the sight of him.
Of course, Gihun is no longer naked, his skin is obscured by green and white cotton, but Inho finds that he can't get enough either way.
He imagines taking all of the man's clothes off again, except he's awake in Inho's head. He's awake and he wants Inho as much as Inho wants him. Gihun's hands are sliding up Inho's shirt and his soft breaths are in his ear, and it's so real that it hurts.
A part of him feels like he's letting an opportunity go, watching this offer drift away right before his eyes. But there's another part of him that knows, if Gihun woke up right now, he'd find the nearest weapon and kill Inho without hesitation.
Unless, that is, he saw his face. Looking into the eyes of another human and killing them up close and personal would probably give Gihun some trouble, Inho thinks.
A soft exhale from his nose.
He moves as little as he can while he pulls out his walkie talkie, his movements slow and methodical, his expression carefully calculated down to the T.
His finger is almost hesitant as he clicks the button to begin talking. Even then, he waits a second before he even thinks of speaking.
"Kim Seojun," Inho breathes, opting to use the man's name rather than his title, "I'm coming to deliver player 456 to the main room now. Over."
For some reason, Inho realises his heart is beating faster than usual. Faster than the situation calls for.
A few seconds later, a crackle, and a response. "Yes sir. Over."