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Summary
Thanos cracks an eye open, glancing down at him, and—fuck, his stare is just as lazy as his tone, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something too knowing.
"You tryna be subtle, or you just hoping I won’t call you out?"
Nam-gyu clenches his jaw, but that heat curling in his gut just tightens, burning slow and thick. Nam-gyu should pull back. Shrug it off. Say something to save face.
But instead, he pushes his luck when Thanos asks again.
"You're touchy as fuck when you're high, y'know that?"
"And?"
OR
Thanos and Nam-gyu, slumped together on the floor of Nam-gyu’s apartment, get just fucked up enough on drugs to make a mutual decision. One that, after some back-and-forth, they both acknowledge is undeniably, spectacularly stupid as hell.