Chapter Text
i'm so much older than i can take
From the moment he woke, Cho Sang-woo stayed put in the bed he was placed in. He had no desire to mingle with the mass of people gathering in the center of the room; he wouldn't gain anything from questioning other people who were as clueless about their situation as he was. Sang-woo was perfectly content observing his surroundings, perched at the edge of the lofted cot. The people below him were either rowdy and dangerous, or no more of a threat than herded sheep.
He was perfectly content to stay put, that is, until he saw a face that he knew all too well — the face of a man he grew up with and loved dearly: Seong Gi-hun. He was already arguing. What the hell, Sang-woo thought as he gritted his teeth, quit stirring shit up more than it already is. A man who — by the looks of it — looked like he easily could be a gang member or a trafficker, had already started throwing punches and hollering.
And, somehow, Gi-hun managed to throw himself into the middle of the circle. He always needed to be the center of attention: making a scene of himself through either public displays of stupidity or irrational anger.
Sang-woo rested his forehead to his fists, closing his eyes. Gi-hun hadn't changed one bit — he was strutting around the circle, shouting that the man he intentionally threw himself in between was trying to kill him — so fucking dramatic. Sang-woo could never see himself acting so rash, but he knew Gi-hun could flaunt himself to his heart's content. If anything, Gi-hun's presence was more of a motive to keep a low profile. Afterall, Sang-woo had been actively lying to the man on and off for the better portion of two years.
Unfortunately, once the concealed guards in the most ridiculous jumpsuits and masks Sang-woo had ever seen came out from behind the doors, insisting they should put their blind trust in them, Sang-woo grew agitated. What was the catch? Sang-woo joined the crowd, and to his own surprise, spoke up.
"I don't trust a word you've said to us," Sang-woo said, tone level and eyes calculating, "enticement, abduction, confinement? After all this, you expect us to just ... take your word for it? You've committed multiple crimes on a massive scale." Sang-woo took a breath, looking at the people enclosing him in a maze of the crowd, before continuing. "Give us one good reason why we should trust you."
Gi-hun was so riled up from running around from the dick in the pajamas labeled with 101, he didn't even recognize his friend's voice. Without the accompaniment of a face, as the name of none other than Cho Sang-woo was announced, it took a moment to process. Gi-hun squinted, open-mouthed at the screen. It was true. It was him.
And the moment Gi-hun realized it his knees almost gave way from under him.
Sang-woo looked to the floor, neck prickling as the front guard listed off the reasons that brought him so low to be desperate enough to take part in some backwards scheme that he was stuck in. Gi-hun must know now. He had a sick feeling in his stomach as the videos began playing. That was recorded? Beads of sweat broke out on the bridge of his nose, causing his glasses to slip. Of course it fucking was.
It almost seemed like fate had brought them together again, no matter how far Sang-woo tried to flee from their home, Ssangmun-dong — no matter how far Sang-woo tried to flee from his past, and from Gi-hun. Of course, Sang-woo didn't believe in philosophies as silly and childish as fate, but he could not catch a break from it. He knew that the moment they were free, Gi-hun would be on his ass trying to pry out of him what the hell happened.
Sang-woo couldn't bear to have that conversation with Gi-hun; that's why he kept pushing it off for so long.
He couldn't bear to admit he had been as senseless as they come. If there was anyone worthy of being the pride of Ssangmun-dong, it was not Sang-woo. Sure, he could slip money right from under his clients noses — eventually start racking up thousands until they became millions — and even if none of it was clean, he still gave back twice the amount he stole. He knew he was smart enough to manage it, he just slipped up once.
But once is all it takes. Just once leads to being trapped in a compromising position, opening yourself up to bribes and blackmail; and before you know it, whatever dark and dirty secrets you have are cocked and loaded, ready to be shot on blast.
Sang-woo should have expected he would get caught. He was too full of himself to realize he was capable of slipping up and making a mistake. There wasn't a single thing to be prideful about within himself. He was a fraud. He had been one his whole life. That was the conversation Sang-woo feared the most.
But if he never planned on having the conversation, then he was wasting energy on wallowing around and panicking for nothing. Sang-woo used to be comforted in prospect of Gi-hun thinking he was someone worth admiring, it gave Sang-woo a sliver of false hope that it was true, so he had no problem deceiving the man. Seong Gi-hun was oblivious as they came, it would be unrealistic if no one took advantage of him. And it wasn't like Sang-woo's goal was to intentionally harm the man ... more or less maintain a level of self-preservation through the man's optimistically hazey perspective.
Growing up in the poorest neighborhood, constantly being the butt of the joke, and having no clue when to shut his mouth taught Gi-hun nothing other than how to fight scrappy. He was oblivious to people's true nature. Sang-woo used to think it was a useful skill — a useful mindset — one worth cherishing, but in a place like this, Sang-woo knew it would get his friend nowhere.
They went to a middle school with a strict uniform code, but neither boys had seen such unity within a group. Everyone wore black — there was no differentiation in shade or pattern — black suits, black dresses. Even those who differed greatly in size and shape, the black looked the same: it sucked in everything around it.
The only exception to the black was the white. Everyone looked like they were wearing cloaks darker than night, itself. Sang-woo's mother had a white ribbon tying back her hair, and — as the eldest, and only son — Sang-woo wore white stripes of fabric over his left arm.
Gi-hun had never been to a funeral before; he didn't understand the significance of chief mourners. He had never known anyone who had died before.
Oh Mal-soon chided him, telling her son to lower his voice and stop asking so many questions. Just be with your friend, she said quietly before ushering him inside.
Oh Mal-soon stood behind Lee Bo-bae, protectively gripping her arms and rubbing them every so often, as she nodded to the guests. Gi-hun hurried off to the corner Sang-woo stood in, staring blankly at the people entering the building.
"I wonder what we look like from above," Gi-hun asked aloud, not necessarily expecting an answer, "dressed like this, all in black, and all close to each other."
"Why?" Sang-woo asked, voice level. "Nothing looks down on us."
"That's not what I meant," Gi-hun said, "and, why do you say that?"
"What is there to look down on? And where would something do such a thing from?" Sang-woo shot a sideways glance at Gi-hun.
"I was just thinking ... maybe if we were wearing white, we would look like sheep?" Gi-hun giggled, an embarrassed flush warming his face. "Maybe chickens? If someone saw all of us from a plane, I mean."
"Planes don't fly low enough to see people, Gi-hun. Only when they take off. We're nowhere near an airport," Sang-woo sighed, leaning back against the wall. "You can't make out anything this size from the height they fly at."
Gi-hun shrugged at Sang-woo's response, wondering what it would be like to be so high in the sky — away from their small neighborhood, away from the city of Seoul — and have the power to go anywhere. Gi-hun wondered if he had the ability to do so if he could ever convince his friend to come with; even as cold as Sang-woo remained, Gi-hun could see the pain etched into his brow and in the tight way he clenched his jaw.
He couldn't figure out how to voice any of the thoughts in his head; Gi-hun settled to remain silent and take a note out of Sang-woo's book. He worried if he said one wrong thing, he could send the younger boy into a fit. Gi-hun couldn't predict how his friend would react, as he couldn't even gauge how he was feeling.
While Gi-hun hummed, thinking to himself, Sang-woo stared at his shoes.
We look like ants, he thought through the clouds keeping his head foggy, we are ants.
Sang-woo wondered how many ants he unknowingly squished as he walked to and from school, alone. In his short lifetime, probably fifty, he concluded. People were no different than ants, and could be swept from existence just as easily.
Sang-woo looked up from his shoes and watched his mother. She was clinging close to Gi-hun's mother, greeting each guest warmly; neighbors bowed and expressed their sympathies before they were directed to place their condolence money on one table and flowers on another. The gifts enclosed the small vase that contained his father's ashes, that sat before a collage of photos taken of the rare moments his father smiled.
Many of the guests ate food, hugged each other, and played cards. The lull of voices ached behind Sang-woo's brow; the contrast of pale blue envelopes, golden frames with green gems, sparkling glasses of wine, the bright crimson and yellows of the floral arrangements, and the dark overcoats everyone wore made his head throb even more. White, cotton cloth, decks of cards, bundles of chrysanthemums. Crimson.
Cream and crimson, and grey gravel.
Grey gravel covered in crimson, soaked in it, as he tumbled down the stairs on the side of their apartment building. Drunken, yelling, kicked out again. His mother was inside, yelling for her only son to shut the door, but he was busy contemplating pushing the man who failed him — a fleeting thought — to rid their lives of him together.
He tripped before Sang-woo could even consider the thought.
A limp body bent in ways Sang-woo never thought possible, and skulls crack easier than one would imagine. Not as easy as an egg, but close to it; shells and skulls fracture similarly.
He wasn't that close, but it felt closer when he closed his eyes. He only heard the sound of it then the red pooling below through terrified, half-shielded squinting eyes.
He wasn't close.
But he was close enough.
His mother didn't see it.
Sang-woo wished he hadn't. But he never listened.
He blinked away the recent memory, eyes dry and unfocused as he came back to his surroundings. It was a time of mourning and of celebration, but Sang-woo felt neither were appropriate. He turned to Gi-hun, whose eyes were wide, and mouth open — preparing to say something, but Sang-woo cut him off, "Come outside with me?" Please.
Gi-hun shut his mouth quickly, teeth clicking as he nodded his head.
Sang-woo hurried around the corner behind one of the displays set up, and he led Gi-hun out the back entrance. His hands and legs had been tingling the last thirty minutes, and he was certain the stiff atmosphere of the building had something other than oxygen in it. His lungs were stuttering by the time he made it outside, fresh air and summer blossoms bringing him some clarity.
"Here, Sang-woo-ya," Gi-hun was behind him in a second, "sit down, sit down."
"Okay," Sang-woo responded numbly, letting Gi-hun lead him to a bench pressed up aside the building.
"You okay?" Gi-hun had a hard time reigning in the frantic squeak of his voice.
Sang-woo couldn't find it in himself to speak just yet, but he gave his friend a nod to ease his concern.
They listened to birdsong, breathing in the warm summer air, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bench.
Sang-woo lost track of time — he often did when he was with Gi-hun — and was suddenly aware that their mothers may be searching for them. "Gi-hun," he started, but stopped when he looked at his friend, "what?"
Gi-hun was shaking his head, eyebrows pinched. "I'm ... sorry, Sang-woo."
The bubbling pit of stress that sat in his stomach the majority of the day, and kept him from eating breakfast, lurched. He kept forgetting why he was even there — what had happened. "Don't be," Sang-woo said quietly.
Gi-hun looked at his face for answers. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"I hated him," Sang-woo said bluntly, so sudden he almost clamped down on his tongue as he spoke.
"I ... oh," Gi-hun faltered, blinking dumbly at his lap. He knew why, and Sang-woo was sure Gi-hun knew that his father's last moments were brought about during a spat of his own, but even then he was taken aback by Sang-woo's answer. "I know, it's just ... you seem sad."
Sang-woo was quiet. Was he sad?
"And I didn't know what to say," Gi-hun admitted.
He shouldn't be.
"I know," Sang-woo said softly, because what was there to say other than sorry? His friend was just being polite; it was all he could offer. "It's okay."
"If you aren't sad-" Gi-hun chewed on the inside of his cheek, cracking his knuckles together, "-are you happy, then?"
"Are those the only two emotions people are capable of having?" Sang-woo instinctively snapped, but his voice was lacking the blow he had intended to deal.
"No," Gi-hun shifted uncomfortably on the bench, "I just want to know what you're feeling. I can't guess."
"Oh ... I-" Sang-woo paused; he looked back and forth from his still knees to Gi-hun's, knocking against each other anxiously. It was a good question. What was he feeling? Sang-woo wasn't sure. Maybe he felt nothing.
Gi-hun patted Sang-woo's knee, trying to encourage him as he kept his eyes fixed on his friend.
The night his father fell from the stairs felt like a fever dream, much like when Sang-woo got sick the year a flu ran rampant throughout their neighborhood. He couldn't tell a waking moment from a resting one. The likely result of Sang-woo's last thought was what happened: his father's death. He had wanted to push him. He got what he wanted. Right? It didn't make sense for him to feel so sick and empty.
Gi-hun took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes — everything a dark orange as the sunlight lit up the back of his lids. He kept his hand on Sang-woo's knee just so he wouldn't forget Gi-hun was there, and more importantly, that he was staying.
Sang-woo's throat grew tight when he heard Gi-hun sigh. Even if Sang-woo tried to explain that to Gi-hun, he wasn't sure he would understand. Sure, Sang-woo felt sick and empty ... but he felt safer. He was less afraid to be home, he should be happy. Sang-woo wasn't sure he even understood.
"Yes," Sang-woo blurted before his brain could even catch up with what his mouth was doing.
Gi-hun jumped at the sound of Sang-woo's voice, quickly turning back to his friend. "Yes, what?" He asked, keeping close attention to the twitches in Sang-woo's face.
"Yes..." Sang-woo's lip trembled, feeling a hole in his chest open up in the place of a man who he was sure sorely hated both him and his mother — a place that never held love to begin with, "I am happy."
Gi-hun rested a tender hand on Sang-woo's shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. "Then, I'm happy too."
"I'm happy he's gone," Sang-woo said in a wavering voice, almost as if he was trying to convince himself.
"Me too," Gi-hun agreed again, carefully.
Sang-woo sniffled, and tucked his head away in the safety of his friend's neck. Gi-hun's chest ached as Sang-woo leaned into his touch, he continued to cradle his friend.
The two boys sat outside as the funeral proceeded.
There was no forty-ninth day of rite. Instead, the night the funeral ended, Gi-hun and his mother joined Sang-woo and his mother to set one final fire. Rather than continuing the ceremony for Cho Sung-yeol, they burnt Sang-woo's father's clothes and belongings so his spirit had no lingering regrets.
As the last embers of Cho Sung-yeol's favorite, striped-shirt flitted up into the air, Sang-woo and his mother let out a breath they had been holding for years. Gi-hun held Sang-woo's hand, and Mal-soon held Bo-bae's ... they would get burned no more.
The moment Seong Gi-hun had the opportunity, he chased Sang-woo down to the starting line.
Gi-hun was blabbering, but Sang-woo was busy looking all around them: they were ushered into a big, sooty room ... it was open, too. Seagulls.
The cries of seagulls were one of the many red flags Sang-woo observed. They were far away from home. The smell of salt and the echoes of seabirds caused Sang-woo to grow weary. Gi-hun kept talking to him, but Sang-woo wasn't hearing him. Why didn't he understand? The dreaded conversation Sang-woo had been avoiding with Gi-hun seemed irrelevant in that moment.
It was the last of his worries.
Something wasn't sitting right with Sang-woo.
Gi-hun was all street smarts, but Sang-woo didn't even think the gravity of their current situation would translate through his thick skull. Gi-hun was still talking, still running his mouth, still grabbing onto his arm, still looking at him — desperate for a response from Sang-woo.
"Gi-hun, we'll talk later," Sang-woo said quickly, shooting a quick glance behind him — observing the masses of people clamoring through the green, double-doors.
"Right, right, you know best," Gi-hun said with a laugh, bumping his fist into Sang-woo's shoulder, "there's a lot of money involved now, isn't there? Eyes on the prize. That's that big brain of yours, Sang-woo-ya. The pride of Ssangmu-"
"Hyung," Sang-woo said tersely — the word feeling foreign in his mouth — and grabbed the Gi-hun's arm, "let's talk later."
There was one word going through Sang-woo's mind: elimination.
What that meant was unknown to Sang-woo, but a sick feeling was growing in his stomach.
Even with the apprehension and forethought, nothing could have prepared Sang-woo for the cracking sound of the first shot that fired. A canon. It wasn't even a gun, it was a canon.
The loudspeaker announced: Player 324 has been eliminated.
It was not the first body Gi-hun had seen.
Gi-hun hadn't seen a body since his co-worker died in his lap during the riots.
It was not the first body Sang-woo had seen.
Sang-woo hadn't seen a body since his father's laid lifeless at the base of their apartment complex's stairs.
And it would not be the last.
They were about to see more than they could have ever imagined.