Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hwang Inho won his Games by a hair.

If you ask him, though, he’ll say he won his Games by a hair split perfectly down the middle. A hair of a hair. Unnoticeable to the human eye. Though then again, for him, that’s how it goes. That’s how he operates.

Unnoticeable, untraceable. It’s who he is – it’s how he got here.

Ask most people who have lived through the Games. They’ll say they were lucky or blessed or both. They’ll say they tried to survive, that they played the game and that came with a price. A human price – but still, they’ll correct, they had to. Had to. 

Inho wanted to.

He wanted to. The minute he woke up in forest green, he wanted to. Game after game.

He wanted to win. And he did. And the price was monumental, but it was also nothing: because he wanted to win, he wanted the money, he wanted to save his wife. 

Of his three largest desires, he managed to secure two.

It had been years of Inho carefully watching and running the Games. He was a young winner, he charmed the sponsors, they needed him. He stayed.

He had nowhere else to be. No one waiting on him, nothing to lose – not anymore.

He never told anyone he didn’t save his wife. Working in the Games: remaining nameless, faceless, story-less was imperative. A core value. One Inho accepted with open arms.

He stayed. He ran the Games and watched green meld into green. Year after year. He watched blood spill over and over and over again. He watched winners claim their prize and talk about luck and blessings as if luck and blessings gave people the moral power to murder and kill.

At the very least, Inho knew what he was doing.

By the time Inho watches Gihun’s Game, the surprise is long gone.

But then he’s watching Gihun in his Game, really watching, and the snow that had settled years ago – after Inho won his Game – melts.

There’s something pure about Gihun, something so fresh and new but similar all at once. Inho watches him. Can’t look away, actually.

In fact, he watches him so closely that by the time the next Games start, Hwang Inho has fallen from grace, right next to him.

He’s been watching Gihun for years now: through his Games, through the aftermath; from the front of cars, over his knocked-out body – through the next Games. 

Interested, concerned, these are the words Inho uses to explain why he watches Gihun the way he watches him.

After a while, it all sounds the same: it's a heartbeat, right where his heart should be, one that pulses inky black, over and over and over again.

Obsessed, obsessed, obsessed.

Gihun is the first person Inho talks to about his wife. About why he came to the Games; why he needs to win . Even now, Wife long gone, Inho needs to win. He needs Gihun to know this.

He is the first person Inho opens up to – standing on creaking ice over kilometers of black water below. Inho steps, Gihun steps. It’s how Gihun ended up back here, it’s how Inho knew he would come back. 

It’s why they’re both right here. Right now. With Inho sitting next to Gihun, bedside, in his black and gold apartment, waiting for him to wake up for the sixth time over the course of the day.

The first time Gihun woke up, he strangled Inho before getting knocked out again. The second time, he tried to run (he didn’t make it far).

Gihun has been living variations of escape or death each time he’s woken up. He’s been living variations of running or dying since he entered the Games the first time, and even then: Inho watched. Avid. Hungry.

Obsessed.

Despite the fighting and running, Inho was certain that no, Gihun does not need to be cuffed, he’ll exhaust himself . However, the Masked Manager insisted, his square face and black coat serious and (dare Inho say) worried. And of course, Inho (regardless of his high rank within the Games), agreed. 

Because he can be agreeable. 

Ask anyone.

Ask Gihun.

**

By the time Gihun wakes up, Inho has cleaned half a bottle of whiskey. Sitting. Waiting.

He notices the cuffs, squinting at them, rattling the chains.

“Sorry,” Inho says. “You kept trying to run away or kill me. Or both.”

“Go to Hell.” He groans, wincing as he rubs the side of his head.

Inho smiles, hiding it with a shallow sip. “Glad to see you’re okay.”

“You can’t keep me here.” Gihun replies, sitting up. Inho looks at him, tilting his head to the side. Gihun blinks, confusion and hate are at war in his eyes. He shakes his head, abject and tired. “Just kill me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been directed to keep you alive.”

“By who?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Gihun exhales. “Fuck you.”

Inho leans forward in his seat, resting a hand on Gihun’s knee. “You’ve had a long day.”

Gihun shifts, kicking Inho away from him. His entire body is weak – having a long day is an understatement. He steals a glance back at Inho, blinking, calculating. “I heard you die.”

“You heard someone die,” Inho replies.

“You sabotaged everything – my plan.”

“I did.”

“You killed Jungbae.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Inho exhales, looking down at the lines of grout just below his feet.

He didn’t do friendship. No. The lines of Inho’s life were firm – Great Walls of black and White. Very little grey. Shadowless. 

Through his own games, he kept to himself. Gihun pulled something out of him that erased that. Purposeless hope that glowed still and orange against the pale planes of his face.

Inho sees this clearly.

His eyes trail from Gihun’s eyes to his lips and back up. “If you and Jungbae were the last two players, would you kill him?”

“Of course not,” Gihun replies. “I would never do that.”

Inho nods. “Would Jungbae kill you?”

Gihun swallows, shaking his head no, as in no, no he wouldn’t . But he won’t say it. Can’t say it. 

Inho doesn’t think it matters much; whether Gihun says it or not – believes it or not – Jungbae is dead. His blood is being bleached from purple tile and concrete as they speak. They’ll never find out what he might do, stuck between collecting rocks and shooting marbles.

The reality is simple. Obvious: Inho has seen Gihun’s story before. A million times before – year after year after year. He knows how this goes.

The ending is the same. Every time. It doesn’t matter what someone says, or what they believe. The ending never changes. Never. One lives, the rest die. Money is earned. Life goes on. Checks are balanced, debts are paid. The next year rolls around.

The true cost of 45.6 billion won: a dead best friend, blood (one human’s worth), and at times, most times , your morality. Easy money. Rinse repeat.

Inho has seen it before. Every time.

Gihun has seen it once before. Once. He still believes that people can change, that billions can be forgotten in the face of friendship. Of love.

“Not everyone would do what Sangwoo did. Most people wouldn’t,” Inho says instead.

“Most people wouldn’t do what I did. I was willing to walk out with him.” Gihun replies. “You can’t decide that everyone will kill if they’re given a fortune for it.”

“Of course. However, you also can’t decide that everyone will spare the money for life – their own, or others – if given the chance.”

Inho can see Gihun rationalize his perspective. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve and his face and across his chest. Clear and obvious. Inho can feel the shift.

The Games don’t change. They can’t be stopped. And thinking that they can be is more dangerous than participating. Gihun has learned this firsthand.

“The Games will not change, because people don’t change.”

Gihun clenches his jaw, exhales heavy and cold, resting against the frame of Inho’s bed. He’s wrung out, mentally and physically – Inho can see it, his eyes are exhausted, his chest looks heavy. Revolutions are not for the weak, failed revolutions even more so.

Gihun scoffs, looking down at his cuffed hands. “How are you who I knew, and who you are now. How?”

Inho stares. “I am both.”

“Yeah, right.” He’s picking at the cream white fabric of his button-down shirt. It’s Inho’s, of course. The pants Gihun has been changed into are his as well.

“People often are.” Inho looks down at Gihun’s chest, seeing where his body vanishes under the thick blankets of the bed.

Gihun scoffs. “Killers and Saints in one body?”

Inho’s clothes are too big for Gihun, running loose around his shoulders and waist. If the Games had required Gihun to be in black-tie formal wear, everything would be tailored to fit perfectly. 

Here, Inho is doing what he can to bring Gihun out of the games and back to reality. 

His reality: large, nice, warm. Secluded.

“Before the Games, you were a risky gambler who stole money from your Mother,” Inho replies. “You won the Games and stopped gambling. You gave up millions of dollars helping resolve the debts of your friends.”

Gihun shakes his head, still looking down.

“You were also planning on visiting your daughter, right? Before you decided to come back.” Inho leans forward, forcing Gihun to look at him. “How are you who I saw then, and who I know now?”

“Fuck off.”

“People change easier than you may believe, Gihun. The circumstances people choose to exist in can shape them in unimaginable ways.” Inho stands. “Get some rest. Dinner will be served soon.”

Gihun doesn’t reply.

**

Inho doesn’t check in on the Games, leaving the Masked Manager to run point on the operation.

Gihun’s attempted revolution was cause for an even larger mess, meaning that while another vote needed to take place; it couldn’t with bodies and bullets littering every corner and hallway.

Regardless of what Inho thinks about a revolution. He knows what he feels for Gihun right now: There is no reason to smear death any further in wake of what is happening, and what has happened.

Dinner is served; steak and salad with red wine. 

Inho eats, Gihun watches him eat.

“Your food is getting cold.” Inho gestures with his fork.

Gihun is fisting his fork. “I’m not hungry.”

Inho sets down his cutlery, speaking around a small bite of steak. “Gihun, you need to keep up your strength.” The last thing either of them ate was exceptionally dry kimbap.

Gihun huffs. “Does it matter?”

Inho swallows, chasing his bite with a small sip of wine. “It matters.”

“To who? One of the assholes paying to keep me here?”

“No,” Inho replies. “It matters to me.”

There are several seconds of silence between them. Inho stares at Gihun like they never left the Games. Like they’re still in the arena, sitting on bunk beds, heads huddled together. Keep up your strength so we can make it through this. So we can make it to the end. You and me.

It’s a merry-go-round with a maypole in the center. Inho stares at Gihun like the cool tug of ribbon flying between them, their hands reaching up, helpless, trying to grab it. They run to each other. Ribbon pulled tight. That’s how it should have gone. The two of them.

Inho knows Gihun sees it too: He’s been here before. They both have.

They tangle, hands grabbing green, running, falling.

He sees what Inho sees, Inho can feel it in the air. Crackling, void, warm.

“Then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you lie? Why did you put yourself in the games? Why ruin our only chance out?”

“Gihun –”

“Why – why pretend to be my friend?”

Inho inhales, carefully watching Gihun. “I never pretended to be something I am not.” He resumes cutting his steak. “And I have never lied.”

“Then –”

“I’ve been in the games before, Gihun,” Inho replies, taking a bite. “Just like you.”

“What?” Gihun gawks, disbelief loud in his tone. “And you came back?”

“At the time, it felt like the only way forward, for me.” Inho sets down his cutlery, reaching for his glass of wine. “I had lost everything the second time around. There was no reason for me not to.”

“You lost the money?” Gihun asks.

“No,” Inho replies, looking up at Gihun. “My wife.”

That seems to sate him, he swallows, voice dry. “I – I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Inho smiles. “For what it’s worth, I think we’re in better places now.”

Gihun is resolute for a long time, the only sounds between them being the scrape of Inho’s cutlery against porcelain.

“Would you go back?” Gihun asks.

Inho looks at him over the rim of his wine glass. “Would you?”

**

“And you have him in your possession?”

Inho nods, masked. “Yes, he’s alive, being kept safe for now.”

He’s on call with two of the main VIP’s of the games. Both are masked.

There’s a jovial laugh through the line, the VIP wearing a Bear mask continues, “excellent. I can’t wait to meet him when I arrive.”

“You can’t wait?” The other VIP wearing a Lion mask speaks next. “Get in line.”

“He’s given us quite a show, don’t you think?” Bear asks Inho.

“He has,” Inho replies matter-of-factly. “He is very creative.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Using the riot as a ploy to try and strongarm the Games into ending?” Bear laughs. “I couldn’t look away!”

“Is he gay?” Lion asks.

Inho swallows, eyes darting to Gihun’s character profile folder on his desk. “I’m not sure. He was married, and is now divorced –”

“Oh, what does it matter,” Lion replies. “I could change his life in five minutes.”

“Someone has a thing for winners,” Bear adds.

Lion laughs. “What can I say? I like men who fight for their keep.”

**

By the time Inho is done speaking to VIP’s, organizing events, and aiding in travel plans to and from the island, the lights from within the Games are off.

When he turns on the Games to check, all that is left on the television is the artificial yellow glow from the piggy bank dangling above the players.

Inho exhales, setting his mask on his coffee table.

He turns, seeing Gihun’s dinner, untouched, on his small dining room table.

**

Inho knows what Gihun looks like when he’s asleep. He knows what Gihun looks like when he’s pretending to sleep, too.

He cocks his head to the side, staring at his too-still body. “For every bite you eat, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Gihun shoots up out of bed, hand extended to take his dinner from Inho.

Inho smirks, handing Gihun his newly warmed plate, setting his cutlery down next to him. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Who hired you?” he asks, furiously cutting into his steak. He takes a bite.

Inho sits down in the chair placed next to his bed, clearing his throat. “I was asked to join by a founder of the Games. The person who hired me was the man who did this job before me.”

Gihun nods, chewing ferociously. “What are their names?”

“I don’t know. Anonymity is important here,” Inho replies. “I often remain unaware of the names of my subordinates, as well as the VIP members.”

Gihun stops, chewing slowly, he looks up from his plate to Inho. “What about Oh Ilnam?”

He exhales. “He was an exception.”

Gihun shoves his bite into his cheek. “How?”

“You know how.” Inho crosses his legs, sitting back. “He wanted to play.”

Gihun scoffs, going back to cutting into his steak. “He wanted to feel like he was playing.”

“Correct.” Inho smiles. “He wanted to play his favorite games without the repercussions that come from losing.”

“He helped make the Games, too,” Gihun replies. “Why keep them going if he’s now dead?”

“The Games are bigger than him now.”

Legacy, heritage, culture. A million different words to sort out the grim reality that watching and betting on the Games is often the only real fun Ilnam’s friends have.

Gihun’s eyes flash at Inho, he takes another bite. “How long have the Games been running?”

“Years,” Inho replies. “Nearly three and a half decades.”

Gihun swallows. He looks at Inho’s lips. “Are the Games still running now?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?” Gihun’s eyes are wide, mouth slack. “Do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Inho replies. “I haven’t been watching while you have been here.”

“Why not?” Gihun asks.

Inho uncrosses his legs, leaning forward towards Gihun. “Because there’s no point if you’re not there. It’s uninteresting to me now.”

Gihuns face scrunches, he looks down at his plate. “You were only interested in me?”

“You are an interesting person.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Oftentimes, Inho sees people clearly – too clearly. They’re obvious in their wants, desires, motives. Gihun divested from that, unknowingly, like a puzzle Inho has never seen before. One easily overlooked, intriguing – best solved alone.

“You are, Gihun. More than you may think. Ilnam thought similarly.”

“Don’t say that.”

“He considered you a friend, even in his last moments.”

Gihun shakes his head, chewing his food like it’s gone bad. “It doesn’t matter what he thought about me.”

Inho sits back, crossing his legs.

“Anything else?”

Quietly, Gihun asks, “Why did you do it? Jungbae. Sabotaging everyone’s way out – why?” 

Inho could lie, could lie to himself. The games required him to die for his part in the revolution, so I killed him. It’s true enough, fair enough, logical enough.

Inho needs more than enough. Gihun did that. He made Inho want more. So much more. More than Inho’s had in years. Maybe his entire life.

It’s improbable – he is improbable. Gihun lived, pointless babbling – like water rumbling below ice. Inho stands and listens.

He stops. Watching everything turn pale and white. He can feel it. Death, dying, the smell of blood and the hot press of fresh money – just there , under the glacier of his soul.

It’s a quiet thing. Snowfall on ice.

If Inho looks down between his feet, wipes away the snow, there’s a flash of orange, small and tangible, swimming within the water of his soul. When Gihun inhales and exhales, Inho feels it: flitting gold scales and ribbon fins.

If Inho wanted, he could slam himself downwards, break ice and go up in air bubbles and frigid water. He could. If he wanted to, he always could.

He doesn’t want to stop. He could settle in. They both could. Like this.

Inho isn’t dumb. He understands that the VIP’s will offer Gihun a job, the same way Inho was approached. Soft and sweet, warm around the edges and caramel in the center. Stay. Stay. You can make this place great. Greater than great.

Why did he kill Jungbae? Why?

He holds a thin pool of water in his own hands – delicate magic. If he’s careful, focuses on what Gihun says and what he means. The blizzard stops.

The world turns white with orange sunlight.

A slice of warmth like a goldfish, swimming against his palms.

He was looking at Gihun when he did it.

“It was a calculated move.” He begins. “I knew I had to pick between him and you. I chose you.” Inho leans forward, taking the now empty plate from Gihun. 

“Why did you choose me?”

“I wanted you here, in the Games.” Inho looks up, around his room.

Something like understanding flashes across Gihun’s eyes. “And that’s why you sabotaged everything too, right?”

“Yes,” Inho replies. “I wanted you to see all of this, with me.”

“If you wanted me, I would have gone, Inho. No questions asked.” Gihun says, incensed and drained and beyond the pale of hope and reverie he once held years ago.

I would have gone .

The force of Gihun’s clarity reels back and hits them both across the weight of their chests. It’s so honest, so obvious across Gihun’s face and heart and soul: held in Inho’s palms, delicate, alive, swimming in careful figure eights.

Here is one of the million places they could have gone.

End the games, and get out, another could-have-gone option. Days spent following Gihun around, looking for any sign of the Games. Inho would have liked that – would have loved playing Gihun’s hand across the days, waiting, watching, interested, intrigued.

It would be nice. Summer nights spent on narrow cramped cots in old Love Hotels. All the money in the world between the two of them – never spent on bigger beds, a proper house, better clothes. They would have everything they needed – right there, between them. Rich in hands and lips, gifted summer heat, Inho would thaw.

They could’ve died together, too. Swirls of eight sideways, falling into infinity with each other. Playing an endless chase for the week of something. That's all they are. All they need to be: Something lost, something blackened.

Ash falling like snow.

It’s so obvious. So obvious. Inho exhales sharply. Wondering how he didn’t do this sooner. Wonders how he managed to hold out and play the lamb’s game for as long as he did.

If he knew he could have Gihun, he would’ve killed everyone else off a long time ago.

“Is there anything else you want to ask me?”

Gihun keeps his eyes on Inho. “Have you ever lied to me?”

“Everything I have told you has been true. I have never lied to you. Nor have I ever felt the need to lie to you.” He stands, dishes in hand, walking to the door.

“One more thing.”

Inho turns, hand opening his bedroom door. “Go on.”

“Can we leave the Games?”

“There will be another vote. If the players decide to end the games, we can.”

“And if they don’t?”

Inho smiles, staring at Gihun. “We could watch, or participate.”

Gihun nods, processing, he looks back up at Inho. “Wait.”

Inho takes a step back towards Gihun. “Yes?”

“Don’t leave me.”

Inho grins. “Where else would I go?”

**

Would you go back?

Would you?

They are opposite poles. No and Yes in every language. Past and future, born from the present: tangled together, golden webs coiled tight around the Games. Around victory. Tendrils arrow out through them both, twice. They move and trap each other further.

Gihun sleeps curled in on himself. It makes him look smaller, younger. A fawn. It’s all he is – his soul. Glass and bones and white-hot resolve. If Inho reaches out, he’s cold to the touch. Hopeful yet. Goodness resolute. Innocent , Inho thinks. After all this time, still. Pure.

Inho would go back if Gihun wanted him to.

Do you know what someone with no money has in common with someone with too much money? Living is no fun for them.

How long has Inho been watching Gihun?

Even now, watching him sleep, breathing, heart beating, brows furrowing and smoothing out in the dark.

Maybe this is all they are – all they are ever meant to be.

Goodness, stomach down, crawling desperately forwards with darkness right there. Against every corner, across hallways, under lights. Behind masks. Following, following . Faster, stronger. Inho has been holding knives by the blade since he saw Gihun for the first time. He doesn’t know how to stop. He doesn’t want to stop.

They are bird bones and jagged rocks, vulcanized rubber crying against the soft shell of a white rabbit. Snowfall and ice splattered with coins and blood.

He is a lost dog, rich in meat, starved for love. Nothing could stop Inho now.

Inho stares at Gihun and all he hears is the searing gush of blood. Corpses drained for their worth.

Broken ribs. A beating heart. Gihun’s heart, under his palm. He’s alive.

All the money in the world. And only now does Inho feel rich.

**

Dawn is early when Inho is woken.

The Masked Manager has already seen him without his Front Man mask, so Inho doesn’t bother with it when he lets him in.

“The VIP’s called,” he begins.

“Again?” Inho replies. “Why?”

“They want to come early. They’re eager to meet Player 456.”

“I understand,” Inho hums. “However, he wants to leave, should the games be voted to end.”

It is an understatement. However, Inho doesn’t quite know how to vocalize that by leave , Gihun means to continue the hunt to stop the Games during the off season. Be it by finding the main Sponsors, tracing money trails, or hunting down the VIP’s who watch.

“… I wasn’t aware of that.” The Masked Manager’s square face doesn’t move. Inho is kind of regretting inviting him in – this conversation would have been better had in the Viewing Headquarters.

“When is the vote taking place?” Inho asks.

“In an hour. There are guards confined within the grounds of the game,” the Masked Manager replies. “They are safeguarding every exit. In case a riot breaks out during the vote.”

Inho nods. “If the players choose to continue, Player 456 is likely to return to the Games. The VIP’s will have to wait.”

“They won’t be happy.”

“Nonsense. They’ll have all the more reason to watch if he goes back.” Inho smiles. “I’m more than certain that they will be interested in that.”

The Masked Manager stares and stares and stares .

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Inho replies.

“And will you be returning to the Games?” he asks.

Inho looks behind the Masked Manager to where his Front Man mask is sitting on display. His smile doesn’t falter. “If Player 456 is returning to the Games, then I will be returning to the games.”

**

The vote takes place quietly.

Inho watches from his living room, volume down. It’s nearly split in half. Again.

If he and Gihun were there – it would have been enough to sway the result. But they’re not playing right now. Most of the other contestants rightfully believe the pair to be dead despite the unmoving dollar amount sitting just above their heads. 

Besides , Inho thinks, why stop the fun now?

The Games will continue.

When he returns to his bedroom, he brings Gihun a glass of water. Waking him up with a hand against his back and a knee on the ground, eye level.

Gihun groans when he sits, taking the glass. Inho watches him.

“You look better today.”

Gihun grunts, drinking. He’s sloppy, holding the glass too high. Water catches at the seam of his lips, dribbling down his chin. Inho brushes it away.

Gihun stops, he looks confused.

It’s enough.

Gihun’s still holding his glass of water when Inho kisses him. Still to start, far too short.

Inho pulls away, barely. He’s still close to Gihun – a hair of a hair, untraceable to the human eye, yes. But God Inho can feel it.

Gihun kisses him.

His glass falls, hitting the floor, it shatters across the black tile.

Inho’s hands slide up the bed, resting on either side of Gihun, he pushes himself up, crowding over him. Gihun’s hands grab at Inho’s shirt – he’s shaking, unsure.

Inho tilts his head, presses into Gihun’s bottom lip and bites. Hard. Gihun’s hands tense, grip tight, like he’s pulling Inho into him. Between the pain and pleasure Gihun balances, hesitance gone. 

Inho smiles against his mouth: the Gihun he knows well – lucky, strong, a victor – is revealed with ease.

They are both shaped by immense loss. Some of their own volition. There is nothing quite as cruel. 

Well maybe one thing. 

What's worse is that Inho still wants . He still desires.

There’s a wild animal in him, bleeding out, but still alive. He is still alive.

He shoves Gihun back, care long gone as his foot slides over water. Inho’s got a knee next to his hip, dipping the mattress with their joint weight. 

If Inho can get closer, touch him , run his hands over the expanse of his back. His arms. His hair. If Inho tastes the salt of his neck, diving down to kiss, smelling the rose tint of Gihun’s sweat, then maybe he can get closer. Maybe he can claw Heaven out of him.

Maybe he can reach into Gihun and squeeze his soul so tightly that some of his good graces rain over him.

Bound. It’s what Inho wants. Undeniable tangle.

Gihun’s hands screw against Inho’s scalp and neck and he groans, nails digging crescents over Gihun’s arms. His weight feels so good trapped under him, pressing down into his bed. 

It’s ridiculous. 

Religion shouldn’t feel this good.

They aren’t made of invisible string. There are no soul ties – nothing red, nothing borrowed or blue. 

Inho sighs, Gihun noses at his forehead, gently asking for another kiss.

They are neon signs glowing on stormy nights, intense and hazy. They are blood and bullets, shared and split. They are rushed prayers. Hope unanswered. Love out of necessity. Out of survival. There is you and only you.

Gihun’s hand screws over Inho’s chest, pressing down against his heart, letting it beat in his palm. Inho breaks away, lightheaded, resting his head against Gihun’s shoulder.

He swallows. “The players voted again.”

Gihun stills before yanking Inho away, looking at him. “And?”

“And the Games will continue.” Inho sighs.

Gihun’s breathing hard, his nose and lips are cherry red, he exhales, pushing Inho so hard he falls onto the ground. “Why weren’t we there?” He stands. “Why didn’t you let me vote? I – We could have changed the outcome.”

Inho raises his hand carefully, like he’s scared of Gihun. “I just found out, Gihun. Please.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not ,” Inho urges. “Most contestants want to stay and continue the games. We lost too many people during the riot.”

Gihun shakes his head, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I should have been there.”

“I know. I agree.” Inho places a hand on Gihun’s knee. He doesn’t shove Inho away. “You could have convinced the other players.”

Gihun looks through Inho, like he’s not really in the room. “I have to go back.”

Inho exhales. “We both do.”

“No.” Gihun shakes his head. “You can’t.”

“If you’re going back, I’m going back, Gihun. I’m not leaving you.”

“You ruined everything .”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Inho replies. “I was doing my job.”

“How will I know that you’re not doing your job if we go back?” Gihun asks.

Inho exhales, on his knees now, palms against Gihun’s thighs. He’s bowed down – a dedicated votary, praying. “I cannot perform my job in the Games.” He speaks. “I kept you alive because I wanted you to live.”

“In the Games, I am no different to you, or any of the other players. I’m offered no special protection. Please.” He’s desperate. Desperate. “Don’t leave me here.”

He pleads. Despite the truth that Gihun doesn’t truly have a say in what Inho decides to do – Inho wouldn’t return to the Games if not next to Gihun’s side. He – he’s done it all, for him. There is no other choice because without Gihun, Inho is nothing. Nothing .

What other reason would Inho have to go back – to live – if not for him?

“Okay.” Inho looks up at Gihun. “Come with me.”

Inho bows, exhale shaky. He grabs Gihun’s arm and squeezes. He’s at his mercy, against the ground, hands thrown around his torso. They’ll return to the Games, the VIP’s will watch, Inho will make sure Gihun lives. He’ll make sure even if it’s the last thing he does. 

If not the two of them together, then just him. 

Just Gihun. 

Future and past, yes, sure. Gihun is Inho’s present. Entirely.

And maybe this is why Goodness wins. Each time. Maybe this is why Sangwoo killed himself, and why Ilnam died alone. Because darkness in the face of good becomes bright. Shadows and doubt vanish, even just for a moment.

“We’ll win,” Inho says. “Both of us – as many people as possible. Whatever you want.”

“I want the Games to end,” Gihun replies. “Forever.”

His eyes are open against Gihun’s lap, staring straight ahead. “We can figure that out, too.”

Gihun exhales, exhaustion heavy against his throat. “Okay,” he says, Inho looks back up at him. “Okay ,” he repeats. “We can do this, right?”

Inho smiles, kneeling closer. “We can.”

Gihun starts to get up, Inho holds him down, kissing him.

“Inho –”

“We can do this,” he muses against Gihun’s mouth, kissing him again. Gihun exhales, Inho kisses him once more. Keeping distance. Even now, Gihun is careful, like a rabbit with a foot hopping in and out of a snare. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Inho merely waits for the chance, close and far all at once, hunting him.

Gihun kisses him.

Inho inhales, hands recklessly sliding over Gihun’s shirt. He pries it off him, buttons flying and joining broken glass.

There’s no need to be careful now. Not while they’re returning to the Games. As far as Inho is concerned, he’s got a walk-in closet filled with designer clothes – but his best suit is being held just outside. Green and white. Gihun has one to match.

Gihun’s glaring, soft and needy, he pulls Inho over him, tilting his head and parting his lips. Inho smirks, follows along, squeezes Gihun’s waist and runs a hand down his leg, hitching him closer.

Inho moves, trailing lower and lower, over Gihun’s adam’s apple. Gihun’s voice breaks, groaning. His hand slides through Inho’s hair, pulling him closer.

“Don’t leave, Inho.”

Inho grabs Gihun’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He looks up at Gihun, halfway down his chest. “Where would I go?”

For everything Gihun believes to be true, Inho knows one better: Gihun is a rabbit with its leg already caught. 

**

Their suits are just as they were discarded: sweaty and stained. Inho and Gihun change back, ready to return.

Inho slides into his green track pants, looking over his shoulder at Gihun. He looks away, pulling his shirt off a different hanger. “You asked me if I would go back to my life before the Games.”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t.” Inho turns to look at him, pulling his shirt overhead. “I know that you would.”

Gihun frowns, putting on his white slip-on shoes. “What was it like? Before?”

“Ghosts. Snow so cold my fingers burned hot. Everything I made vanished immediately.” Inho gives Gihun a weak smile. “I had nothing to lose.”

“But everything to gain,” Gihun replies.

Inho nods. “A feeling I’m sure you understand.”

Gihun shrugs, Inho crosses the small threshold between them, grabbing his 456 branded jacket, holding it out for Gihun to slide into. “I regret what I did.”

“You did what you had to do, to survive. There are many people who have done far worse, and regret less.”

“Like you?” Gihun turns around to face Inho. His eyes trail across his shoulders, back to his eyes.

“I held a lot of regret for my choices. I was blinded by the idea of saving what I loved, so much so that I wound up here instead of where I should have been.” Inho smiles, huffing on the exhale, Gihun’s eyes narrow in on his mouth. “I’m sure you understand that.”

“I do.”

Their world is a sideways tilt – an endless balancing act: Tug-of-war seven stories high. Inho could fall forwards, Gihun would catch him. He wants to. Should. What does it matter? They were re-entering the games, death was a near certainty. 

“However, it’s the choices you made threaded together with the choices I have made that brought us here.” Inho grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. He squeezes and Gihun swallows. Inho smiles. “I don’t regret that.”

“Really?”

Inho considers how he watched Gihun the first time – rapt and obsessed. He considers how that never changed, after he won, to right now. “I could never regret meeting you. As unjust as the circumstances are. I fear we would never have met otherwise.”

Gihun hums. “If we met a different way we would be different people.”

Inho leans in and kisses Gihun slowly, hardly letting him speak his last sentence into existence. He presses into him until they’re both plastered against the far wall of his apartment. “Thank goodness for the Games then.”

Gihun laughs, first short and surprised, then slightly more. Inho hums, pulling Gihun open, he kisses more sounds out of his mouth. Drunk off the way Gihun’s joy tastes against his tongue.

Gihun swallows, pulling away, breathless. “Then why?”

Inho licks his lips, nosing closer, eyes lidded and hungry. “The same ‘why’ from earlier? Or a different one?”

“A different one.”

“Go on.” Inho kisses above the collar of Gihun’s jacket.

Gihun runs a hand over Inho’s shoulder, squeezing the junction between his chest and neck. “Why are you so willing?”

“With what?”

“With everything,” Gihun continues. “Coming here the first time, and now again.”

“I could ask the same of you.” Inho smiles.

Gihun sighs. “Answer me. Please.”

Strong walls of black and white turned grey. A goldfish swimming in shallow waters, against his palms.

“I wanted to save what I loved then. I wish to do the same now,” Inho replies. 

“If I didn’t try to return to the Games?” Gihun asks, he sounds worried and breathless. “If I never made it back?”

“I wouldn’t be here.”

Gihun huffs, whatever is funny doesn’t reach his eyes: Gaze resolute as he stares at Inho. “So everything you’ve done – before the games, and after them, to right now, has been out of love?”

“In other words.”

Gihun kisses him.

**

They are opposite poles. No and Yes in every language. Past and future. Player 001 and Player 456. 

Would you go back?

Would you?

Finally, they both answer yes.