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The rain falls down in harsh, relentless sheets. The drops crash against the pavement, creating a staccato rhythm that drowns out any other sound. There is a flash of lightning and Inho counts eight seconds before thunder rumbles.
It’s distant, he thinks. The storm isn’t here yet.
The streets are mostly deserted. Occasionally a car will pass by, sending a wave of water onto the sidewalk, or someone will be seen running to take cover under the awning of a café or convenience store.
Inho pays them no mind.
He walks with the single-minded focus of a man on a mission. He doesn’t yet know where he is going – “to him,” a voice whispers in his head, everywhere and nowhere at the same time – but he knows that he needs to get there as soon as possible.
He isn’t using an umbrella, isn’t even wearing a jacket, but none of it matters now. Not that, nor the rain soaking into his clothes and causing his hair to stick on his head, nor the way that his feet never once slip in the wet ground, nor the way that he can’t seem to quite remember where he was before this urge to go took over his body.
(If he concentrates hard enough, if he tries to look inwards, he’d be able to push past the resistance that the dark presence in his body created. But Inho has never been a man who enjoyed looking closely into himself. Perhaps it knew that. Perhaps that was why he was chosen.)
He doesn’t know how long or how far the walk takes, before he’s hurrying down a street and turning a corner, coming to a stop in front of a building. It is large and decrepit, completely rundown, with a pink façade that matches its name. Pink Motel.
“He’s here.” The voice says and Inho feels a chill down his back that has nothing to do with the freezing rain beating down on him. “Go.” It orders and he never even considers disobeying.
The camera in the corner stops blinking as he walks past it and the heavy locks on the door fall away as he extends a hand to push the heavy glass. His boots squelch against the floor and leave behind puddles of water but he bears it no mind. The place is filthy anyhow; some extra dirt won’t make a difference.
He heads for the stairs and lightning flashes, illuminating his way. This time, he counts six seconds until the thunder sounds. The storm is closer, he notes.
The wooden stairs creak under his weight and he doesn’t try to stop the noise. It doesn’t matter. He knows he can’t be heard.
When he reaches the fourth floor he turns down the hallway and walks until he sees 410. The door is closed, very likely locked. He knows that surveillance is imperative here, that his presence is not wanted and yet it is so easy to ignore that. It is so, so easy to place his hand on the handle and turn it.
Even so, he stops and his hand lingers. He feels his stomach clench as the heaviness inside his head lifts, just for a second, and he understands where he is. (He isn’t supposed to be here. He isn’t supposed to know where he is. But he wants to, he needs to know.)
But then he hears the voice again, “Open the door,” and he can do nothing as his palm tightens around the knob and turns.
The door swings open into more darkness.
Inho can barely see a foot in front of him but then lightning strikes again and brightens the room for him. He observes the messiness of it, the disarray; the cartons of takeaway discarded to the side, the pill bottle left on top of the round table in the right hand side of the room, the red-tinted window on the left.
What draws his attention is the bed and what is nestled between pink sheets.
Him.
Seong Gihun.
Thunder claps outside and Gihun startles into consciousness.
Distantly, Inho notices that it was only four seconds between the light and the sound, but he pays it no mind as he crosses the room in several steps. Gihun seems him move and turns to him instantly but he’s powerless against Inho.
“He always has been,” the voice says, sounding pleased.
To his credit, Gihun tries to lunge for the gun he keeps in his bedside table – (Inho shouldn’t know that. How does he know that?) – but it is of no use. Inho smacks the weapon away, sending it skittering across the floor.
In the same breath, he grabs Gihun’s thin wrist and pins it against the mattress, his body following as Inho clambers on top of him. Gihun struggles, legs kicking up and his free hand bawling into a fist that he tries to connect to Inho’s jaw, but he snatches it mid-air and presses it beside Gihun’s head.
Gihun is about to scream when Inho speaks. “Stop.”
The single command instantly stills him. His body relaxes into the bedding and Inho feels his breathing slow down from where they are pressed together.
This close, Inho can feel how thin Gihun is; his hands almost circle Gihun’s wrists entirely and his bony knees hurt as they dig into Inho’s muscular thighs. Inho can even feel his ribs as his chest rhythmically moves up and down.
Had he always been this skinny? (No. He hadn’t been. Inho knows that, remembers seeing Gihun, slender but healthy, as he fought his way through the games.)
“He needs you to take care of him.” The voice says and Inho find himself agreeing.
Gihun turns his head and finally, their eyes meet.
Whatever Gihun sees makes him recoil, chest stuttering as a gasp escapes from between his lips. “Who are you?” he asks, voice tight, eyebrows pinched together.
Inho doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Indignation rises in him, and anger too. Why doesn’t Gihun know who he is? He should. Inho is going to bear all of Gihun’s burdens, he’s going to accept the consequences that Gihun refuses to… how dare Gihun not recognize him?
His fists tighten around Gihun’s arms and he feels the bones grind together as Gihun winces. He’s scared, had been since he saw Inho, but now it’s sharper, thicker as it coats Inho’s tongue.
Gihun’s fragile wrists are about to snap beneath his palm when he whimpers and the sound makes the heaviness in Inho’s head dissipate. Just as quickly, it returns but he has already loosened his grip and Gihun’s breath shutters.
Inho doesn’t give a moment more.
“You’re going to stop coming after me.” He says, his voice a sharp crack against the silent room and Gihun’s eyes widen as he realizes who is in bed with him.
This time, Inho makes sure to look deeply into his eyes. “You’re going to stop coming after me.” he repeats, the words soft and sweet, and Gihun’s gaze glaze over, bright red flashing through them.
“You will no longer associate yourself with gangster and loan sharks. You will cease your searches for the recruiter. You will stop going after those who run the games.” Gihun grows limp in Inho’s grasp, red swallowing the dark brown of his eyes.
The voice is heard again, “Take him,” and Inho is already moving before it finishes speaking, sealing his mouth over Gihun’s cracked lips.
He tastes like cigarette smoke and minty toothpaste, and he doesn’t struggle as Inho licks into his mouth. But he is too still and Inho pulls back just as lightning strikes, brightening the room and making the tears on Gihun’s face shine white.
Inho tilts his head. “You want me.” He uses his thumb to wipe away the wetness staining Gihun’s cheeks. “You want me.” The voice isn’t entirely his own.
The crimson in Gihun’s eyes flashes, thunder booms and he lifts his head just as Inho leans down, their mouths crashing together. This time, when Inho pries Gihun’s teeth apart with his tongue, Gihun’s is there to welcome him.
He lets go of Gihun’s other wrist and thin arms circle his shoulders. Inho’s free hands roam down, yanking the comforter away, desperate as he searches for more of Gihun’s body to touch. His waist is thin under Inho’s palms and his legs naturally open to cradle Inho’s bulk between them.
Inho pulls away from the kiss to press his lips to the corner of Gihun’s mouth, then his chin, across his jaw and down his neck. Each hot press of his mouth against Gihun’s soft skin draws a gasp from him, a weak shuddery thing as if he is not used to being touched.
“He will be, from now on.” The voice assures Inho and he smirks against the throbbing heartbeat he feels.
His hands move on their own as he rips away Gihun’s pajamas – his modest sweatpants and long-sleeved t-shirt are dropped onto the floor, followed by Inho’s soaked clothing.
When he presses himself against Gihun, their bodies bare, he knows Gihun feels him by the whimper that escapes from his mouth. Inho continues kissing down his chest, biting into the meat of his pec as his hand moves to the space between Gihun’s legs. Gihun moans when Inho finds him wet and open.
(That isn’t how this typically work, he knows. This shouldn’t be possible. And yet it is. Inho has denied himself his pleasures for long enough.)
When he enters him, Gihun bucks up, hand clamping onto Inho’s hair, and that grip only tightens when Inho’s mouth closes around his nipple. Gihun throws his head back, gasping, chest moving up and down in rapid movements.
Inho’s palms find their home in Gihun’s hips, feeling the soft skin and how they fit perfectly, as if the entirety of Gihun’s body had been made for him.
He was, Inho thinks. He was made for me and I’m only taking what is rightfully mine.
Gihun is warm as Inho moves back and forth, hips slamming against his, the only sounds in the room aside from their whimpers and groans being the rain still beating heavily against the window.
Inho leans down to once again press a kiss against Gihun’s collarbones when lightning strikes again. He only has time to angle his head towards the soft neck near him when thunder rumbles. Inho knows the storm is getting closer to them but he can’t find it in himself to care. His pace picks up, his grip on Gihun’s hips tightens and Gihun’s moans become louder as Inho chases his own orgasm.
Nothing matters right now. Only Gihun and his sinful body and his tender flesh. Inho wants to tear him apart and live inside him, wants to remove his heart from his chest just so he can be the one to hand it back to him, wants to have Gihun to deeply and completely that no will ever be able to tell where one ends and the other begins.
The rain falls harder against the glass and Inho is nearing his peak, knees braced against the mattress as he keeps moving, Gihun’s warmth sucking him deeper every time he pulls back.
Without thinking, without prompting, he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth into Gihun’s neck. Gihun shudders and gasps as blood fills Inho’s mouth. He drinks it down and his first thought is that the blood is sweet – just like that loan shark said, he realized and the rage he feels at the thought nearly blinds him.
It makes him clench his jaw, more blood gushing out and he can only drink it down in gulps as if he needs to live. Gihun’s grip on his hair falters and his legs grow heavy next to Inho’s waist and Inho can feel the staccato of his heart getting slower.
Lightning fills the room, so sharply that for a second the world is only pure white.
Inho finally stumbles over his peak, his orgasm slamming into him like a tidal wave. He groans into Gihun’s neck as he empties inside him, his mouth still covered in his blood.
Thunder booms, loud enough to shake the foundations of the Pink Motel.
Gihun grows completely still.