Chapter Text
Thanos. Is. Not. In. The. Fucking. Mood.
If he said last night was bad, he’d be lying. Last night was catastrophical. He’d gotten screwed over by the dealer — fucker sold him the same coke for double the price, excuse being, “I don’t have many customers these days.” As if Thanos had that kind of fucking money. He ended up drugless at the club with his roommate Semi, only to lose her in a sea of wasted bodies after ten minutes. Made out with a boy who laughed in his face when he asked him back to his place to fuck. And, of course, he got into a fistfight. For what? Who fucking knows. Some stupid, shitty reason. He got a black eye and a split lip, got laughed at and blue-balled, and the cherry on top: absolutely no drugs in his system for more than 6 hours.
So right now, with something that sounds like weights being dropped right outside his door, Thanos is absolutely, 100%, not in the fucking mood.
He sits up, his head pounding like Thor is hammering on it with Mjolnir. His black eye is aching, swollen and probably blue by now, barely letting him open his eye. Dizziness creeps up, and a quick urge to puke crawls up his throat. He swallows it down, because right now, puking would be so fucking inconvenient. He throws on some boxers because, for reasons his drunk self three hours ago thought were brilliant, he’d stripped completely and jerked off until passing out. Now, fully clothed-ish, he stomps to the door, unlocks it, and rips it open. He doesn’t care who’s out there. He doesn’t care about anything. Right now, he just needs quiet.
The eyes that meet him are cold and narrow. The pale figure stands frozen in the hallway, staring back at him like he’s the one who interrupted his night. He’s holding a moving box, arms tense around it.
Ah. Right. The new neighbor the landlord mentioned a few days ago. His previous next door neighbor had gotten evicted after she had missed rent due for the fourth time in a row. Even Thanos himself isn’t that forgetful.
Still doesn’t explain why the guy is moving in at—what? Three? Four in the morning? Who the hell does that?
“Want something?” the man says suddenly, cocking an eyebrow.
Thanos sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Uh, yeah… could you please not make such loud noises? I’m having a rough night.”
The man blinks once. Slowly. Then he shifts the box in his arms and leans ever so slightly forward, like he’s examining an insect.
“A rough night,” he repeats, flat. “Right.”
Thanos doesn’t appreciate the tone, but he also doesn’t have the energy to start round two of last night’s ’fistfighting adventures’.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “So maybe just—keep it down?”
The neighbor tilts his head. His expression doesn’t change. “I wasn’t aware boxes made noise.”
“It’s… not the boxes,” Thanos snaps, gesturing vaguely at the hallway. “It’s the thumping. The banging. Like someone’s training out here.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Oh,” the man says softly. “That.” He doesn’t explain further.
Thanos squints at him. “…Okay, well. Whatever ‘that’ is, can it not happen at four in the fucking morning?”
That’s when the guy scoffs. Just—scoffs. One last big, fat L to slap onto Thanos’s already hellish night. A rude-ass next-door neighbor. Great. He wants his old one back — even though she was ninety and had dementia. This is unbelievable.
His head pulses in irritation and heat, like anger is physically boiling under his skin. He is so fucking pissed off.
“Just quiet the fuck down, boy!” he snaps. He swears a vein is about to burst right out of his forehead.
The boy just stares at him. Then, slowly — slowly — drops the box he’s holding next to the rest of his shit. It lands with a loud, deliberate thump.
He’s doing that on purpose. He has to be.
Thanos cannot deal with this. Not tonight.
He slams his door so hard the frame shudders. Kicks over the coat hanger he never uses anyway, making it clatter and crash on the floor. Then he punches the wall with his already bruised fist, leaving a smear of blood across the dirty wallpaper.
Pain shoots up his arm. He yells — loud, raw — then storms off to his bedroom. He crashes onto his bed without even bothering to check if he landed on his phone, a charger, or some other sharp object that’s absolutely going to piss him off in five seconds. The mattress squeaks under him, loud enough to make him want to scream again.
His knuckles are throbbing. His head is pounding, again. He drags a hand over his face, smearing sweat and dried blood. And then finally just falls asleep.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
”Well, I kinda yelled at him…” Thanos says, a little defeated as he puffs on his cigarette.
Semi’s eyebrows lift up in surprise, ”You did what?”
”But he’s the one who started it, right?” Thanos sighs for what feels like the 50th time this morning, taking another long drag and slowly letting it out, letting the nicotine burn his lungs. Thank the angels Semi had ran to the store to buy him a little care pack. Which, in her terms, meant a pack of Marlboro Reds, a slightly battered all-boys magazine, and some green nail polish because he’d run out. Still, it’s enough for him to at least feel a little better today.
“Thanos… let me get this straight,” Semi says, trying not to laugh. “You ripped the door open, scolded him for ‘moving in too loud,’ and yelled at him?”
He groans into his hands. “You’re making me sound like the biggest asshole in this apartment complex.”
“You are the biggest asshole in this apartment complex.”
…Well. Yeah. He really has nothing to say to that.
He lazily stares at the ceiling, head still pounding from the hangover, knuckles sore from earlier. Smoke curls lazily from his mouth, drifting toward the sunlight slanting through the blinds. He curses himself for not closing them all the way the night before.
Shit. Maybe he should… make it up to the new neighbor. He could maybe try to put himself in the guy’s shoes… But he doesn’t really do all that crap.
“Alright.” He says, stubbing the cigarette out with a shaky hand. “Let me go talk to him.”
Semi’s eyebrows practically shoot off her forehead. “What? Now?”
Thanos nods. “Yeah. Go… apologize.” The word tastes so sour and foreign in his mouth he practically gags on it.
Semi just stares at him, “You? Apologize?”
Thanos swings his legs off the bed, ignoring her. “It’s damage control.”
“You punched a wall,” she mutters.
He rubs his face. “Yeah, so it’s double damage control.”
Semi watches him wobble to his feet like a newborn baby deer. “Thanos, you’re still drunk.”
“And hungover. It’s a multitasking day,” he says, waving her off as he reaches for his hoodie. He grimaces at the dried blood on the sleeve. Whatever.
Semi squints. “Do you even know what you’re gonna say?”
Thanos pauses. Thinks. Then shrugs. “Something… neighborly.”
Semi groans into her hands. “This is going to be a fucking disaster.”
Thanos pushes his hair back, tries to look less like he crawled out of a dumpster, and heads for the door. “Wish me luck,” he mutters.
“No,” Semi says immediately. “Luck won’t save you.”
He ignores her and steps into the hallway, heart thudding, knuckles throbbing. Time to go face the guy he screamed at last night. Terrible plan. But he’s committed now. He’s gotta do it.
He makes his way down the hallway, each step dragging like he’s walking toward an execution rather than a door. The closer he gets, the heavier the air feels. The guy’s door stands there—plain, beige, boring—yet somehow it looks like it’s glaring at him.
Thanos rubs a palm on his jeans, sucks in a breath, and knocks twice. The moment his knuckles hit the wood, regret punches right back. “Fuck,” he hisses under his breath, the bones aching from yesterday’s outburst. Silence swells on the other side. No footsteps. No shifting. Nothing. He knocks again, softer this time—three hesitant little taps that feel pathetic the second they leave his hand. Still nothing. So he presses the doorbell. Not gently. The sharp buzz echoes down the hallway.
He waits.
Nothing.
Alright. Maybe the guy’s not home. Maybe this is a sign from the universe telling him to give up and crawl back to his own apartment. Thanos sighs, shoulders sagging, and turns to leave—
—but then the sound of metal scrapes faintly behind him.
He freezes and spins back around just as the door cracks open. Barely. Just enough for an eye to peek through. Then it opens a bit more, slow, cautious, like the person behind it thinks Thanos might bite. It’s him. The pale guy from last night. Standing completely still, expression carved from ice. Those same narrow eyes rake over Thanos, unimpressed, suspicious, tired—he can’t tell.
“Oh—hey!” Thanos blurts, lifting a hand in a small awkward wave that instantly feels stupid. His heart thumps unevenly in his chest. The guy just stares. Unmoving.
Thanos swallows. He should keep talking. Fill the silence. Maybe soften the glare this guy is drilling into him.
“So, about last nigh—”
Slam.
The door snaps shut with enough force to rattle the frame. Thanos jerks backward, nearly stumbling. For a second he just stands there, blinking at the beige door inches from his nose. His pulse spikes. His mouth hangs open. Holy shit. He drags a hand down his face. Okay. This is… definitely going to be harder than he thought. He faintly hears Semi laugh out loud from within his apartment.
Over the next few days, Thanos makes a very deliberate, painfully un-Thanos-like effort to make it up to Namgyu. (He only knows the name because the landlord can’t shut up about “responsible tenants,” which makes this whole humiliating mission feel even more ridiculous.)
Attempt #1: Cigarettes
He tiptoes down the hallway one morning, bleary-eyed, and drops a fresh pack of Marlboro Red Longs in front of Namgyu’s door like a peace offering. He even steps back, squints, and nods to himself. Nice. Thoughtful. Mature. Almost heroic. A few hours later, he returns from a shift at the 7-eleven, and the pack is gone. For a glorious thirty minutes, he struts around his apartment. “Progress,” he mutters, taking a long drag of his own cigarette, imagining Namgyu happily puffing away and probably thinking he’s got the best neighbor ever now.
Then the next morning, he drags the trash out—and there it is. The exact same pack. Crushed. Wet. Mocking him. He stares. Hard. Jaw tight.
L. Massive L.
Attempt #2: The Post-It Note
Next, he tries something subtler. He finds a neon pink post-it—the only color Semi had in her bag—and scribbles with furious concentration:
’Sry I yellt. Was hungovur. Don’t h8 me.’
The letters are crooked, ink smudged, written by a man who has never apologized and doesn’t exactly know how. It’s pathetic. And perfect. He sticks it onto Namgyu’s door and walks away before he can overthink it. Later that night, he comes home from an unsuccessful drug run and sees it.
The same post-it is now neatly folded into a tiny square… and stuck smack in the center of Thanos’ door.
No writing added. No insult. No passive-aggressive drawing. Just returned to its sender. Thanos stares at it, mouth slightly hanging open.
Another massive L.
Fuck.
Another day Thanos decides maybe subtlety isn’t the answer. Maybe he needs presence. He knocks on Namgyu’s door, slow and polite, waits patiently. Heart thumping, sweat prickling at the back of his neck. Silence. Not even a creak. Not even a hello. He tries again. More confident this time. Three loud, deliberate knocks. Still nothing.
He huffs. “Fine…”
Turns to leave, but as he steps back… he hears the faintest click.
The lock.
Namgyu has locked him out without even opening the door.
Thanos feels like crying.
The amount of attempts he’s made is beyond humiliating. It’s tragic. Pathetic. Downright embarrassing. By the end of the week, Thanos is wrung dry—no more ideas, no more pride, no more hopes that Namgyu might magically wake up one day and think, ’hey, maybe my neighbor isn’t a total asshole.’
He’s done. He taps out.
It’s a sad, slow Sunday. The hallway is quiet. The apartment is messy in a comforting way. Semi’s at work—thank God. The girl is the only reason either of them can afford to live in this building. She works double shifts, studies to become a lawyer, and still somehow keeps this place running like a ship while he… well, he exists. Loudly. Occasionally helpfully. Mostly not.
She’s a smart girl. One day, she’s going to be making bank and he’s going to be right there, clinging like a barnacle. Lawyer / best friend / future sponsor. A beautiful plan.
He sprawls across the couch like a dead fish, staring at his phone, scrolling endlessly through Instagram. His thumb moves on autopilot. Influencers. Food. A cat. A meme. Someone’s vacation. More food. More cats. A guy who’s too hot for his own good. A girl promoting protein powder. A selfie taken in lighting he could never replicate. Nothing registers. Nothing really matters.
He takes another long drag, cigarette hanging between two fingers, smoke curling like lazy ghosts above him. The sun leaks through the blinds in thin stripes, slicing the room into bright and dim patches. He blows smoke upward, watching it drift into the beams of light like it’s trying to escape. God, he’s exhausted. And bored. And maybe a little heartbroken over a man who has spoken exactly zero words to him past a door slam.
He groans, letting his head tilt back against the couch. His hair sticks to his forehead. His bruised eye throbs. His whole body feels tender.
He glances at the clock.
Shit.
Wasn’t he the one who was going to take the night shift at the 7-Eleven tonight?
Honestly… he’s not even that surprised by his forgetfulness anymore. His brain has been operating on about three hours of sleep, a black eye, and almost a full pack of cigarettes. He drags himself upright, rubbing at his bruised temple. A night shift alone. With fluorescent lights and the faint smell of microwave burritos. Fantastic.
It’s kind of calming, actually.
He throws on a hoodie, grabs his vape so he can secretly smoke inside without anyone noticing the smell, and jogs to the 7-Eleven.
The store is empty, except for his pissed-off coworker—he can’t even remember her name—scowling at him, hard. “You need to come in on time,” she snaps. “I had to work overtime because of you.”
Thanos shrugs, ”Chill out, girl.” He mutters, puts on his work clothes, and clocks in.
He’s tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. He slumps down by the register, jams some rap into his headphones, and lets the beat drown out the fluorescent hum of the store. For a while, it’s normal. Customers drift in—some pleasant, some insufferably silent, some chatty. He zones out, half-listening, half-dreaming about lying on his couch with a cigarette in hand.
By 3 a.m., the store is dead. Thirty minutes without a customer. He stares blankly at the door, almost drifting off in his chair. Almost.
All that’s left is the soft hum of the fluorescent lights, the faint scent of old coffee and cleaning spray, and the distant, muffled sounds of the city at night. It’s boring. It’s empty. It’s… almost peaceful.
Until the bell dings again. Hard.
Thanos opens one eye, just in time to see the customer’s back slinking through the aisles like a cat. He rips a headphone out, sneaks a puff from his vape tucked into his sleeve, and leans back, closing his eyes again.
He hears faint groaning. Something clatters. A bag rustles. Maybe a drunk college kid. Whatever.
He relaxes slightly as the footsteps approach the register…
And then he sees him.
Not on his night-shift bingo card. Not even close.
Namgyu.
Hair sticking up and ruffled. Eyes so red, pupils blown wide, they almost swallow the brown of his irises. Hands clutching a chaotic assortment of snacks—candy, chips, cookies, a cola bottle teetering on top.
Mesh shirt, black tank underneath. Smudged black eyeshadow under his eyes, faintly accentuating the dark circles, making him look… messily perfect. He’s breathing hard, fumbling with his pile of goodies.
Fuck. He looks… kinda good.
“Itchy…” Namgyu slurs, eyes glued to his precarious snack mountain.
“Holy shit… you’re fucked up,” Thanos says, concern creeping into his voice as he starts scanning the items Namgyu has dropped on the counter. “You okay?”
Namgyu’s gaze flicks around: first to Thanos, then up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. His hands rise in front of him, fingers spread wide, and he murmurs a shaky, awed, “Wow…” at the movement. “Why… am I so light?” he mutters, voice small and disbelieving. And then—slowly, groggily—he smiles. A real smile. One that feels unpracticed, almost fragile.
Thanos freezes for a beat. He never would’ve expected to see that side of him. "What happened to you?"
“Guy… club… Yellow Elephant. It dissolves nice, though.” Namgyu says, like it’s the most logical statement in the universe.
Fuck. He’s tweaking.
Thanos’ brain clicks. The little elephants… the tiny dancing shapes on the little tabs. LSD. Of course. Shit, he is so not prepared to babysit a fucking human kaleidoscope at 3 a.m. in a quiet 7-Eleven.
“Hungry,” Namgyu suddenly says, clutching his stomach and hiccuping.
Thanos sighs, running a hand over his face, trying to calculate the chaos. “…Okay. Come over here.”
Namgyu blinks up at him. “Where?”
“Here.”
“Who?”
Thanos almost laughs. Unbelievable. How does this just happen? For fuck’s sake…
He steps around the counter, reaches for Namgyu’s wrist. Namgyu flinches, whines softly, hiccups, and lets himself be guided. Thanos leads him gently to the back of the counter, careful not to jostle him too much. It’s a warm summer night. He thinks Namgyu won’t be cold.
Never mind. He’s shivering.
He pulls off his hoodie and hands it to Namgyu, who immediately clutches it to his chest like it’s another pile of snacks, eyes glued to the fabric. Shit. Maybe there’s too many colors. Bright little stickmen, scattered across the white surface, just standing there. Definitely not LSD-safe. Namgyu giggles softly, still staring down at it, utterly mesmerized.
“They’re… they’re fuckin’ dancing!” he blurts out, voice high and shaky, hiccuping mid-laugh.
Okay. Thanos has had about enough.
He grabs the hoodie from Namgyu, straightens it out, and helps him slide his arms through the sleeves. Namgyu sits down on the nearest chair, still staring at the sleeves like they’re some kind of magical artifact. Now Thanos is shirtless in the middle of his shift, wearing only the 7-Eleven apron.
The bell dings.
Namgyu’s head snaps toward it. A customer steps inside, eyes flick to the register, raises one eyebrow… and he promptly exits.
Fuck.
Thanos buries his face in his hands. Three more hours. His shift doesn’t end until 6 a.m. Three hours of this. Okay. He needs to gather himself. Hydrate the boy. He glances at the pile of snacks Namgyu had dropped and pops open the cola, not the best liquid, but it’s at least something. The fizz hisses. He holds it out.
“Drink,” he says, firm but calm.
Namgyu blinks up at him, head tilting, pupils huge. He stares at the bottle. Then, slowly, he takes it. Hiccup. Sips. Hiccup. Sips again. He stares up at Thanos’s.. hair? His eyes becoming more and more entranced by the color as he reaches a shaky hand up to gently thread his fingers through the strands. Alright, he’s gotta keep the guy occupied.
Then it hits him—Semi. That one time she’d put on those kids’ sensory videos of fruit dancing while he was high on shrooms. Somehow, he’d actually enjoyed it. That should probably keep him entertained for a while.
“Why are you purple?” Namgyu mumbles, eyes wide, studying him like he’s some weird insect, his hand still in his hair. “You’re… so purple.”
Thanos chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “Thanos is purple.”
Namgyu tilts his head, still staring. “Thanos’s music is good.”
Thanos freezes for a second. His eyebrows shoot up. Namgyu… has heard his music? Shit. That’s unexpected. He only released his first official album three months ago, outside of the underground shit he used to rap. He digs his phone out of his pocket, thumbs through the apps, and finds the video. Bright colors, bouncing fruit, goofy little tunes. He hits play and hands it to Namgyu.
Namgy’s hand immediately takes the phone. Eyes wide, pupils blown, he stares at the screen as if he’s witnessing the second coming of Christ or some shit. His mouth opens slightly, a soft, awe-struck “Whoa…” escapes him.
Thanos leans back a little in a brief moment of relief. At least for now, the kaleidoscope is contained. At least… temporarily, right?
Turns out Thanos was right.
Two hours shirtless in a cold 7-Eleven, trying to act casual whenever a suspicious customer wanders in. Namgyu is still glued to the baby video, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, murmuring soft “woah…”s every few seconds.
Until—
“Fuck.”
Namgyu swears, voice high and shaky. “Everything’s… spinning…”
Thanos’ head snaps toward him. His face is pale, his eyes glossy and unfocused. Oh, fuck. He knows exactly where this is going.
He hustles Namgyu toward the employee bathroom. Namgyu stumbles slightly, hiccuping, and mutters something about 'the floor moving.' Once inside, Thanos positions him in front of the toilet and holds his hair back as Namgyu empties the contents of his stomach. He rubs his back soothingly, calming him as gently as he can. Hopefully he’ll sober up a little now.
When it’s done, Namgyu slumps against the wall, breathing heavily, still pale and trembling.
He glances around the small room, then up at Thanos. “What—where the fuck…” His voice trails off, bewildered.
Thanos runs a hand over his face, utterly drained. “…You just… threw up in the employee toilet. Sit. Breathe. Water.”
Namgyu nods slowly, waiting as Thanos steps away to grab a bottle of water. When he returns, Namgyu’s sweating, fanning himself lazily with one hand like it’s actually going to help.
“Why the fuck are you here?” he mutters lowly, voice hoarse, as Thanos hands him the bottle. Namgyu unscrews the cap with shaking fingers, taking a tentative sip.
“Well… you wandered into our 7-Eleven, high as hell. Had to help you out, no?”
Namgyu sighs, taking another careful sip. “…Thanks.” It’s so low, Thanos almost doesn’t catch it.
He tries to stand, wobbles, and promptly falls on his ass.
“You’re still high. I’ll help you,” Thanos says, reaching out a hand.
Namgyu eyes it suspiciously. His gaze drifts up Thanos’ torso. His eyes widen. His ears flush red.
Oh. He’s flustered?
Thanos smirks faintly to himself. Could have fun with this… but right now’s not really the time. Not when Namgyu is still two seconds from toppling over again.
Thanos grits his teeth and gently guides Namgyu to the chair, making him sit carefully. Namgyu leans back like a ragdoll, exhausted eyes.
Another hour passes.
Thanos and Namgyu sit in silence, the fluorescent lights humming above them. The chaos of the night has faded, leaving only the soft sound of Namgyu’s steadying breaths and the faint hiss of the freezers in the corner.
If Thanos knew what to say, he’d say it. Something clever. Something reassuring. Something that wouldn’t sound half-assed. But he doesn’t. He just sits. Namgyu shifts slightly in his chair, hugging his own arms, eyes on the floor. He glances up at Thanos once, then quickly looks away, cheeks pink. He doesn’t speak, but the look—some kind of apology, exhaustion—says enough.
Eventually, Namgyu dozes off, his head lulling to the side. Honestly… it would be kind of cute if it weren’t for the absolute chaos of the situation.
When the next coworker walks in, he gasps. “What the fuck happened here?”
Thanos doesn’t even have the energy to explain. He just hoists Namgyu onto his back, the weight settling heavily but steadily against him, smelling faintly of sweat and some kind of liquor. He starts the slow trek back to his apartment. Once inside, he gently sets Namgyu down on the floor. Surprisingly, the boy hasn’t stirred. Thanos searches Namgyu’s pockets for his keys, opens his door, and pauses for a moment, heart thudding. Curiosity flickers, he’s never actually seen what it looks like inside.
When he turns on the light in the hallway, a skinny black cat darts forward, chirruping softly, then backs away shyly when it sees Thanos in the doorway. The smell hits him: warm, comforting, a faint trace of sea breeze that settles around the room. He exhales, letting himself relax for a fraction of a second.
Carefully, he hauls Namgyu onto his back again and carries him to the living room. A gray couch sits in the middle of the space, surrounded by stacks of moving boxes and scattered belongings. Some paintings hang lazily on the walls, skewed just slightly, and a big TV leans against the far wall. Thanos eases Namgyu down onto the couch as gently as possible. Namgyu doesn’t stir, still lost in deep sleep. The small black kitty hops onto the coffee table, sniffing its way toward Namgyu’s calm, sleeping face. It chirrups softly, then carefully curls up on his chest, pressing its tiny body against him.
Namgyu can’t be left alone like this—what if he like chokes on his own puke or some shit? The disastrous events flick through Thanos’s mind as he watches the boy. He can’t have that. Carefully, Thanos pads into the bedroom, doing his best not to linger or perv, just grabbing a couple of pillows. One goes under Namgyu’s head, propping him gently. The other Thanos tucks under himself. He eases down onto the fuzzy rug in the living room, feeling the weight of the night in his shoulders, and finally lets himself relax.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Fuck.” He groans. His hand snakes up his chest, shaky, instinctive—searching. He finds Axl curled there, warm and vibrating with a soft, loyal purr. His favorite little baby man.
He drags his fingers through Axl’s short fur. The cat lifts his head, blinks his big blue eyes at him, and gives a tiny chirrup that feels like a drill in Namgyu’s skull. He winces. His head pounds. Not the fun kind of headache, not the post-club tired kind—this feels like his brain is trying to escape through his eye sockets. When he forces his eyes open, everything is so blurry he genuinely thinks he might be seeing his own cataracts.
He groans again, shutting one eye, trying to piece together last night. The club. The music. His boss tapping his shoulder, pushing him toward some dude to give him a lap dance because “this is a high paying patron.” The bathroom. A strip of tiny, colorful… animals? The guy placing one on his tongue like it was candy.
But after that there’s nothing. Just a blur of neon and heat and panic. He remembers the bright lights of a store… Purple. So much purple. And… little dancing fruit? Why the fuck would fruit be dancing?
He tries sitting up. Bad idea. The world swings sideways, his skull throbs so hard he thinks he hears it echo. Axl digs his claws slightly into his shirt in complaint.
Namgyu mutters, “Sorry, baby,” and tries again, slower this time, gripping the couch cushion. His mouth tastes like metal and vomit. His clothes smell like sweat, smoke, and… He’s wearing a hoodie that is definitely not his.
It’s white, with bright little stickmen splattered across it. Violently cheerful. Offensively cheerful.
Namgyu runs a palm down the front of the hoodie, wincing at the texture against his oversensitive skin. His brain does a slow churn—like a boot sequence from a computer that absolutely should’ve been replaced years ago. This is not his hoodie. He would never buy something this obnoxious. Which means…
His breath gets caught in his throat.
He knows this hoodie.
Namgyu’s brows pinch together. His brain does a slow, painful pirouette as he drags his gaze around the room, searching for any sign of how this thing ended up on his body.
And then he sees it.
His heart stops just for a second as memories from the night before come spilling back to him. The purple blob of a person. The concerned eyes. The hands helping him, holding him, guiding him. Water. Soda. Pillows. His hair held back as he threw up.
Still does not explain why the fuck Thanos is half-naked on his rug on the other side of the coffee table.
Namgyu sighs, sinking back against the couch cushions, trying to keep his head from spinning violently. He’d been avoiding Thanos for a while—dodging the man’s shitty, dumb attitude, and the half-hearted, awkward attempts at apology.
It had been… amusing, to be honest.
Watching Thanos take L after L at his hands. The little post-it note folded and left back on Thanos’ door. The failed Marlboro peace offerings, he doesn’t smoke Marlboro. Idiot. Namgyu smiles faintly at the memory. He’d keep teasing the man if he wasn’t utterly, completely exhausted.
Their first meeting had been so stupid.
Namgyu had been tired after driving for over an hour in his shitty old Honda, the same terrible songs blaring on the radio—songs he couldn’t switch off because, of course, the stereo was broken. He’d been hauling boxes, careless about the noise, when the overwhelmingly tall, broad, purple figure had strutted out of the apartment in nothing but underwear. Namgyu had recognized him instantly.
Thanos. The underground rapper. Or, more accurately, the underground rapper Thanos used to be back when Namgyu was about 17.
Namgyu had loved Thanos’ raps when he first saw him perform—young, excitable, and maybe a little naive. Thanos had rapped flawlessly, roasting the other guy on stage, and Namgyu had been captivated. And seeing the man in person, three years later as his new next-door neighbor, so unexpectedly… was fucking scary, to say the least. But when Thanos had cursed at him, all his carefully held-back inhibitions flew right out the window. He was too tired to care, too wired to think. He just wanted to piss the man off. And god help him… job well done.
He runs a tired hand down his face, rubbing at the lingering ache in his skull, before deciding it’s actually time to get the fuck up. Two in the afternoon. Monday. God, he used to hate Mondays. But these days are pretty chill. No work until Thursday—when he’s going to be working his ass off in the VIP rooms. Literally. It’s a little scary, thinking about how no one is going to be keeping watch. The patrons could do whatever they wanted with him if they felt like it.
But… whatever. He’s handled worse. And the pay’s good. Really good.
Axl chirrups, hopping onto the counter beside him as he sits slouched on one of the barstools, absentmindedly scrolling on his phone and drinking a juneberry RedBull, not really paying attention to the videos. A tiny smile cracks onto his lips when the little black kitty headbutts his hand, demanding affection like he pays rent here.
“Yeah, yeah, come here,” Namgyu mumbles, scratching behind his ear.
Axl purrs so hard his whole body vibrates.
Namgyu had found him behind the club—half-starved, skittish, but weirdly obsessed with him. Every time Namgyu stepped out for a smoke break, the cat would wobble straight over, tail twitching and everything. Figured, why the hell not just bring the little idiot home? The little thing was already so attached to him. He strokes the top of Axl’s head, fingers brushing over the chipped ear. A permanent little battle scar. The name had come easy—he’d named him after Axl Rose from Guns N Roses, his favorite band. Something about the cat’s blue eyes and raspy, shrill meow had reminded him of the singer. Or maybe he was just high and sentiment that night.
Still counts. He’s been earnestly trying to learn the drums to ’You Could be Mine’ in his studio, though. But Jesus Christ, the intro is hard.
“So, I take it you’re feeling okay?”
Namgyu jolts so violently that Axl launches off the counter like a firework, scrambling under the couch with a hissy little thump. Namgyu drags a hand down his face, groaning. Right. He has a fucking Thanos on his living room floor. Completely forgot about that part.
Okay. Fine. Good. Great. Perfect opportunity to finally get answers.
He swivels around on the stool, eyes narrowing at the broad, purple mass stretched out on his rug comfortably. “…Why are you here?”
Thanos huffs a laugh, pushing himself upright—only to immediately smack the crown of his head on the underside of the coffee table. Namgyu snorts before he can stop himself, burying his grin into both hands.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Thanos mutters, rubbing the spot with a wince. He exhales, posture sinking as he looks over at Namgyu. “I was your trip sitter last night. You took LSD, my guy.”
Namgyu freezes, his eyebrows knitting. The bathroom at the club, the tiny colorful creatures melting on his tongue.
“…Oh.” A beat. “…Oh, fuck.” Clarity hits him like a brick.
“Yeah,” Thanos says, voice rough but almost… gentle.
Namgyu sighs into his palm, dragging his fingers down his face before risking another glance at Thanos.
…God. He’s actually kind of ripped. Broad shoulders, tight waist, that stupid V line peeking out from under his jeans. “And you… felt the need to stay over at my place?” he asks, trying—and failing—to keep the heat out of his voice. His ears betray him, going hot.
Thanos catches it instantly. Of course he does. He smirks, slow and wolfish, eyes flicking over Namgyu with infuriating ease. “I dunno,” Thanos says, shrugging one shoulder. “Like, what if you greened out or some shit. Felt like the necessary thing to do.”
He nods, quick, almost too earnest. “Alright. Thanks.”
Thanos rises to his feet and stretches, vertebrae popping down his spine. Namgyu whips his head away so fast he nearly neck-snaps himself, chugging the rest of his Red Bull.
This guy really has no shame, huh?
He hears the soft thud of footsteps approaching—too close, too deliberate. Namgyu goes rigid on the barstool, back straightening. Why is he like this? Why is he actually nervous? He works in a fucking strip club. Men—creeps and saints alike—shove money into his waistband every shift. But apparently Thanos simply standing behind him is enough to short-circuit every functioning neuron in his skull. Then Thanos leans in, heat brushing the shell of his ear. Low. Warm. Velvety.
“So… might I have my hoodie back, please?”
Namgyu freezes. Because—right. Right. Fuck. He forgot he was wearing it. He yanks the hoodie off, heat licking up his neck as the cold air hits his bare arms. The mesh top from last night. Sheer, glittering faintly. He exhales a sigh. He really needs a tablet.
He ducks into his room, changes into fresh clothes, splashes water on his face until he feels halfway human again, and pops a couple tablets to settle the migraine clawing up the back of his skull. When he steps back out Thanos is on the floor. Apparently, in the five minutes Namgyu was gone, the man had discovered Axl’s feather toy and is now dragging it across the carpet while the tiny black cat tries to catch it like his life defends on it. Thanos is snickering like a child.
“Dude, this lil’ guy is sweet,” Thanos says, lifting the toy just out of claw-reach so Axl has to hop for it. “What’s his name?”
Namgyu’s face softens despite himself, watching Axl flails with his tiny paws. “It’s Axl.”
“Axl?” Thanos repeats, head tilting, eyebrows up in genuine curiosity. Like… genuine curiosity. Weird. “Kinda reminds me of Axl Ro—”
“—Rose?” Namgyu blurts before he can stop himself. “You know Guns N Roses??”
Thanos snorts like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “Dude, you kidding? I was like their biggest fan back in the day. Had a whole wall of posters. Pretty sure some are still up in my room.”
Namgyu blinks, stunned. “Wow.” He sinks onto the couch, arms resting on his knees, watching as Thanos sprawls on the floor with Axl, tossing the feather toy back and forth.
”Look, I know that first time we met I was kind of an asshole,” Thanos suddenly starts, throwing the toy and watching as Axl chases after it, his tone a little low, ”but, just so you know, I wasn’t mad at you or nothing. Just had a shitty night.”
Namgyu’s chest loosens a little. There’s really no bullshit in the words. No ego, no need to justify. He glances at Thanos, sprawled on his rug, purple and ridiculous and completely unbothered, and can’t help a small, wry smile.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“You’ve been avoiding me, though,” Thanos says, tilting his head. “Why?”
Namgyu huffs a laugh through his nose, incredulous that he’s actually about to explain. “Because… it was funny.” Well, that wasn’t the whole reason, but Thanos didn’t need to know that he’d thought the guy was a massive asshole at first.
Thanos stares at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar. Then, suddenly, he springs up and smacks him lightly on the back of the head. “You dick.”
Namgyu can’t help but laugh as Thanos flops down beside Axl, grabbing the feather toy again and swinging it so the cat pounces. “Look at him,” Thanos says, grinning. “Bet you didn’t think I’d be cat-sitting last night, huh?”
Namgyu shakes his head, smiling softly. “Honestly… wouldn’t have made it home without your help.”
Thanos winks, tossing the toy. “No need to thank me, just doing my job as a neighbor.”
Namgyu chuckles, thinking back to last night—the soothing hand on his back, the snacks he so desperately felt the need to eat, the weird color of purple swirling in his dreams later. He realizes something: despite everything, he feels… safe. Comfortable. Even a little warm inside.
Thanos glances at his phone, groaning. “Ah, crap. Homegirl’s gonna murder me if I don’t check in. Time to run.” He stands, stretching exaggeratedly, still grinning. “Don’t burn the place down, alright? And give this little man some extra pets for me.” He ruffles Axl’s head, who chirrups indignantly, and throws Namgyu a teasing wink.
Namgyu feels his chest tighten in that weird, quiet way. “Yeah… I’ll keep an eye on him,” he murmurs. “Thanks… for last night. Seriously.”
Thanos smirks over his shoulder, already halfway down the hall. “Try not to miss me too much, alright?”
Namgyu watches him go, then glances at Axl, who’s still proudly dragging the feather across the floor. He leans back on the couch, letting a slow exhale escape him. It’s quiet now. Comfortable. Somehow, for the first time in a long while, it feels… warmer.