Cross, Cigarettes, Friday

Like from a gilded cage, I took your heart—came for your soul.

Thanos stays silent—Nam Kyu feels too much. Silence gnaws at bones, frost creeping up their legs as they sit in Nam Kyu’s dingy apartment. Behind the wall, his drunk father stumbles, bottles clattering, joints cracking, venomous whispers: Nam Kyu, you bitch-born bastard, sick fuck— Thanos says nothing. He dissolves a rainbow pill under his tongue and pretends not to feel Nam Kyu’s forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. Thanos stays silent—Nam Kyu speaks for him. Their legs dangle from a rusted playground swing, once-white sneakers scuffing dirt. Smoke curls from Thanos’ lips, the cigarette a dying ember. The carousel spins—close your eyes, one rotation, two. When he opens them, Nam Kyu is on the next swing. “She was a whore,” Nam Kyu suddenly says, temple pressed to icy metal, hiding tremors. Not from withdrawal, not from the pain of his father’s fists. “Mom. Swore a prince would come take us away.” Thanos wants to stay quiet. He crushes the cigarette, nausea rising. Colors bleed at the edges of his vision—where do the drugs end and Nam Kyu begin? He doesn’t look away as Thanos kneels, the metal cross around his neck cold against Nam Kyu’s lips. “You believed that?” The words escape. A new pill dissolves under his tongue; his grip tightens on Nam Kyu’s knee. Thanos’ home: a mansion, a hollow mother sipping diet shakes, syringes littering his childhood. Nam Kyu. Nam Kyu. Nam Kyu. He repeats it like a prayer—how hasn’t he gone deaf? Nam Kyu laughs—devil. Fingers claw at denim, fever-bright eyes like dystopia. Thanos died long ago; his mother probably stabbed his corpse with a salad fork. But now Nam Kyu tugs the cross, pulling him closer. Serve. Serve every tremor, every exposed nerve. Nam Kyu’s lips part—Thanos jerks back. “My prince is coming Friday,” Nam Kyu announces, lighting another cigarette. The filter burns his fingers. Thanos stays silent. Thanos remembers Friday. Thanos stays silent—Nam Kyu corrects his name like it matters. “Hey, Nam Su.” “Nam Kyu.” “Nam Su.” “Nam Kyu.” Thanos knows. He carves the name into his eyelids, lets the wrong one spill from his lips. Nam Kyu scowls but arches into his touch. Thanos knows—Nam Kyu blooms in ink beneath his collarbones. Nam Su is a last defense against attachment. Thanos stays silent—Nam Kyu cries. A muffled sound. He curls on the bed, knees to chest, tears streaking his bruised face. Thanos stubs his cigarette on the floor, leans against the mattress, watches from below: sweat-stuck hair, translucent drops at the corners of his eyes. Nam Kyu is sick. Nam Kyu is breaking. Thanos is fastidious. He wipes Nam Kyu’s face with a damp cloth, slips him a sleeping pill, strokes his bird-boned shoulders until he sinks into uneasy dreams. Thanos is fastidious. He scrubs the floor clean so Nam Kyu wakes to something pure. Thanos stays silent—Nam Kyu moans. Dark hair fans across the pillow. Thanos’ hands spread his thighs wider, push deeper. Nam Kyu claws his back, hisses, writhes—but doesn’t break. “Quiet,” Thanos says—the first rule broken. He bites Nam Kyu’s shoulder, tastes salt, feels him clench around him. Dry, hurried, no preparation—Nam Kyu chose this pain. Thanos lets him. Nam Kyu grips the cross like a lifeline, leaves crescent marks on Thanos’ neck. Afterward, he shoves Thanos away: “Don’t touch me.” For the first time, fear coils in Thanos’ gut— Because Nam Kyu stayed silent while he felt everything. Thanos stays silent when Nam Kyu doesn’t open the door. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. On Thursday, he walks in—the drunk father forgot to lock it. Nam Kyu lies on the bed, a wet cloth pressed to his swollen face. Blood crusts under his nose; his left cheek is purpled. He doesn’t react until Thanos traces the boot-shaped bruise. “Did he kick you?” The first question. Silence hangs like the cross in Thanos’ hand. Thanos throws a bag of Nam Kyu’s things on the bed—torn jeans, photos, a lifetime of wounds. “Anything else?” Rough. Nam Kyu blinks spider-leg lashes. Thanos’ heart stutters as shaky fingers grip the duffel strap. No questions. Nam Kyu limps to the bathroom, emerges gaunter. “Relax. You’re coming with me,” Thanos says—two more rules shattered: the name, the claim. Nam Kyu calculates: Debt? Payment in flesh? Thanos kisses him instead—rule three destroyed—feels him laugh into his mouth, hiding behind his sleeve. In the hallway, Nam Kyu leaves his keys forever. He tears a page from the calendar. Red letters whisper: Friday. In the taxi, Thanos laces their fingers, rests his head on Nam Kyu’s bony shoulder. Their new apartment smells of glue and cheap plastic. Nam Kyu stays silent. Thanos speaks. “Love you.” Simple. Unceremonious. Nam Kyu yanks the cross, pulls him close—their kiss tastes of blood, salt, and something tender. They won’t heal each other’s wounds. Thanos presses Nam Kyu into the couch, feels him tremble with fever and want. They won’t heal—but they’ll try not to bleed anew.