Work Text:
In-ho never minded having Traitor as a name. His new one.
He'd been having... several of these in his life, anyway. His new name after In-ho was Player 132. Then the Front Man. Given to him by the system that'd murdered the man he used to be — In-ho — and made something else, something grotesque, out of the corpse of an honest cop and a faithful husband. The Front Man was everything Hwang In-ho was not.
And he'd adapted well enough. It was, after all, the only choice he had. You either learn to adapt or you die. And In-ho, whoever he became, had always been a fast learner. A survivor.
After Front Man was Oh Young-il, a ghost whose skin felt too alarmingly similar to Hwang In-ho. So alarmingly similar that, if he wasn't careful enough, he might just slip under and never crawl back out.
He wore the skin of Oh Young-il for quite a few days in his new game — the one shared with Player 456. The only difference, for him, was that this time he wasn't 132 anymore. 132 may have survived and won his game back in 2015, but he died after the mask was secured on his face for the first time. When the Front Man became him. The man Oh Young-il was must be someone else entirely. Not Player 132. Not In-ho. But... someone who could pass for In-ho. Someone who could pass for a good person.
Oh Young-il died in the insurgence orchestrated by Gi-hun.
What came back was the Front Man.
After that... after the Front Man...
In-ho had no idea who he was right now. Now was the life he'd thought was impossible for a man like him. Gi-hun didn't kill him. And Gi-hun didn't turn him in after the island was raided. What Gi-hun was doing was taking in a dog who'd maimed and killed far too many and refusing to put it down for... some unknown reasons.
In-ho never figured out what he was doing here — at Gi-hun's place. Why he was living with Gi-hun, under Gi-hun's supervision. I'm making sure you're not hurting anybody again, Gi-hun had said. In-ho remembered the exact words. Gi-hun had said them after he lowered his gun. With In-ho on his knees in front of him that day.
He'd been living with Gi-hun... he'd been living as Gi-hun's pet and Gi-hun's charity project since.
And who he was... what he was...
Gi-hun called him a traitor now. So there's that. A name. An identity. A new one. Not In-ho. Not Player 132. Not Oh Young-il and not the Front Man.
A traitor.
He figured that suited him. And he'd been taking whatever identity the system had thrown at him for years. This... this new one given by Gi-hun was at least something given to him by Gi-hun. Not the game. Not the VIPs. Gi-hun.
At least it was bearable. And it was... true. A traitor.
Yes, said the voices, this suits you.
______________________________
Insomnia and night terror came with survival.
That had always been something he lived with since the game, since Gi-hun grabbed his wrist, refused to let go and said if you're not rotting in prison, you're living here with me, where I can see you.
To be fair, he'd been living with insomnia and night terror ever since he'd returned home to his wife dead that night. It just... got worse. Especially now. In-ho supposed being away from the game, the blood and the violence, allowed for the silence to really creep in. And that... that silence was where it became the most ugly, wasn't it? The scream. The gunshots. The metallic scent and the images of dead bodies that flashed in his mind each time he closed his eyes.
"Can't sleep, huh?"
In-ho didn't flinch. Not really. But he turned to look at Gi-hun. It was night, that was the only thing In-ho knew when time no longer mattered. Gi-hun was on his bed, while In-ho settled for the couch. He'd been sleeping on the couch in Gi-hun's room since the day Gi-hun took him in, like a troubled stray. (And Gi-hun let him stay in his room, with no restraints, like it never bothered Gi-hun at all that In-ho could strangle him in his sleep — you would never have made sure I won twice if you wanted me dead, you would never have done everything in your power to make sure the sole survivor was me, those were Gi-hun's precise words, and a part of In-ho hated that Gi-hun was right.)
"Does it matter?" In-ho heard himself say, and knew what Gi-hun heard was why do you care?
"Matters enough that your tossing and turning keeps me up too, asshole."
In-ho chuckled. He didn't mean to. Asshole, so that was a shiny new name he could add to the list of his many, many ones, he supposed.
"Is this the part you regret not killing or turning me in?" he asked then, shifting slightly until he was properly looking at Gi-hun. It was still dark, but the moon filtering in through the thin curtains at least let him see the outline of Gi-hun's face. Sharp with a touch of exhaustion that hadn't quite yet gone away completely — like he'd been exhausted since that day back in 2021 where the game took from him.
"I don't regret my decision," Gi-hun said, "I've already told you that."
In-ho didn't say anything. For a moment he kept looking at Gi-hun, and Gi-hun kept looking at him. Then, "Get in the bed, In-ho."
It wasn't the invitation that shocked In-ho. Well, it was, but not... not what his brain dwelled on. What was...
In-ho.
"You've never called me that." In-ho certainly did not mean for that to slip. The vulnerability in his voice. The question that, while simple, carried so much rawness.
In-ho, the name, was something intimate. Something that'd been dead for longer than a decade. Gi-hun had never called him that, not after he'd learned about In-ho's identity from Jun-ho. For Gi-hun, it was Young-il, then the Masked Man, then the Front Man, then a traitor. But never...
Never In-ho.
Gi-hun didn't look nearly as taken aback as In-ho did, that much In-ho was certain — even though he couldn't see his own face right now.
"Is that not your name?" Gi-hun asked. It wasn't really a question, of course.
I don't know, In-ho wanted to say. I don't know who I am anymore. The last time he really was In-ho, he was a husband and a father-to-be. What he was... what he'd become... it was not... that.
But here Gi-hun was, allowing In-ho's name — In-ho — to touch his tongue like something sacred. Something good.
"In-ho," Gi-hun said again. And this time In-ho did whimper. Ever so slightly. But a whimper nonetheless. Pathetic and exposed. That mask had cracked a long time ago.
"Come here," Gi-hun added.
And In-ho did. Moving as though his body were possessed and climbing onto the bed. Gi-hun's bed. For the first time. He was never anywhere near Gi-hun's bed before.
Gi-hun scooted over, making room. The blanket was on In-ho's body before his body could react. "It helps," Gi-hun said again, softer this time. Gentler. "Having... someone. Helps you sleep better. That's what I've heard, anyway."
In-ho looked at him. He wanted to say something — no, he thought he should say something. Something sharp and cruel. He was tired, and he... needed someone. Not just someone...
Gi-hun.
In-ho rested his head on Gi-hun's shoulder. Back against the mattress. Gi-hun adjusted the blanket around In-ho's shoulders before making himself comfortable next to him. Gi-hun didn't address the name thing. Didn't address what was happening right now. And In-ho, for some strange reason, didn't either.
The room was quiet. The moon, a silent lullaby. In-ho shifted and snuggled against the crook of Gi-hun's neck when Gi-hun moved and wrapped an arm around him. Shockingly and terrifyingly, he felt safe. Home. For the first time since the game, his own game. Since coming home to his wife dead.
A sob. Small and childlike. Gi-hun comforted him with a tender touch, soothing circles at the small of his back and a faint kiss at the top of his head that he barely felt.
Safe. Home. In-ho had given those up a very long time ago.
Then came Gi-hun.
In-ho moved closer, breathing in the scent of Gi-hun, the scent of safe and home.
Maybe, he thought, he could be that man again. Not Player 132. Not Oh Young-il. Not the Front Man or a traitor. In-ho.
Maybe, with Gi-hun, he could be that man again.