He Asked For No Pickles

low effort 457 doodles

reblog if you love Hwang In-ho

hold your breath and count to 1,000,000 if you don’t love Hwang In-ho

“I will betray you”

“If you do you will betray yourself at the same time”

“Yes… yes i know”

I found the perfect reference

Okay but… I can’t stop thinking about the three of them—Junho, Inho, and Gihun—just accidentally sharing a bed after everything.

When the island was infiltrated, everything went to hell fast. Gunfire, chaos, screaming—then the bombs.

Junho would’ve died. He knows that.

But Inho got to him first.

He doesn’t remember the explosion itself—just Inho’s body crashing into his, shoving him down, wrapping around him like a shield. The sound tore the world in half, and when it cleared, Inho wasn’t moving.

The burns go straight down Inho’s spine.

Getting off the island was a blur. Gihun helped drag Inho onto the boat, Junho still in shock. Inho came in and out, screaming, sobbing, trying to fight them off. It took hours to treat him—if you could even call it that. They had no real supplies, just water, gauze, painkillers that weren’t strong enough.

Gihun's hands shook as he cut away the charred fabric from Inho’s back. Junho held him down—because someone had to—but he couldn’t meet Gihun’s eyes.

They hated him.

Gihun remembered the Mask. The cold voice. The games. The gun in his hand.

Junho remembered the betrayal. The distance. The man who stopped being his brother.

But all of that cracked, violently, when Inho started screaming. Not just noise. Screaming. Gut-wrenching, helpless. The kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper than the burns—like his soul was breaking open.

And suddenly, none of that hate mattered.

Junho’s grip tightened, and not to restrain him—just to hold on. Gihun didn’t speak, didn’t flinch, just kept working, dabbing antiseptic, whispering, “I’m sorry. I know. I know.” Like a prayer.

Inho thrashed. Cried. Begged someone—anyone—to stop. Sometimes he muttered Junho’s name like a child calling for their mom. Sometimes he screamed for his wife, dead and long gone.

They lost track of time. Hours, probably. By the end, Gihun’s face was soaked in sweat. Junho was silent, lips bloodless, knuckles white. Inho was trembling like a leaf, half-conscious and spent.

They didn’t even talk about where he would sleep.

There was only one bed—Gihun’s, barely a double, with a worn mattress and thin blankets. It wasn’t a decision so much as a necessity. Inho was shaking now—not screaming anymore, but trembling like he might shatter. From the burns. From the pain. From the fact that he was still alive. From the fact that his brother and Gihun—who had every reason to leave him behind to die—had chosen not to.

They wrapped him in the blankets, careful not to brush the scorched skin along his back. Inho didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. The tremors wouldn’t stop.

Junho stared. Gihun crouched nearby, silent. It was obvious they weren’t going to fit. Junho mumbled something about taking the couch. Gihun nodded like yeah, of course, he’d take the floor.

But Junho didn’t make it far.

He sat down, leaned back against the wall—and then just looked at Inho. At his bandaged back, his cracked lips, the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Junho could still hear it—his screaming.

He could still feel the way Inho clung to him, even while fighting him. So Junho stood up again, quietly. Walked back to the bed. He didn’t ask. Just pulled back the covers and slipped in beside him, moving slowly, cautiously, like the memory of what had just happened might reach out and bite him.

Inho didn’t react—at first. But his shaking slowed just a little.

And that was enough.

Gihun stayed frozen for a moment, watching. He was so tired it felt like he was floating. His whole body ached with everything they’d been through. He told himself he’d stay on the floor. That this was for them, not him.

But then he was moving too.

He told himself it was practical. Inho needed warmth. The room was cold. This was just... a medical decision. He was helping. For Junho.

He was lying to himself.

Inho whimpered in his sleep as Gihun slid in beside him. A soft, cracked sound—like pain trying not to be heard. And then his forehead found Gihun’s neck, instinctively, like a child in the dark.

Gihun flinched. Didn’t pull away.

Junho, curled on the other side, had his face pressed into Inho’s hair now. Not speaking. Barely breathing. Just making sure he was real. That Inho hadn’t vanished into smoke and ash and screams. Gihun’s eyes opened, heavy-lidded, and saw Junho’s face twisted in something too fragile to name. Grief. Hope. Fear.

So Gihun reached over and wrapped an arm around him, too.

No one said anything. No one needed to.

Three men in a bed far too small, holding each other in the dark. Sharing heat. Sharing forgiveness.

They left all the hard conversations for the morning.

how it started:

how it's going:

when we were kids, we would play just like this,

and our moms would call us in for dinner.

but no one calls us anymore.

this parallel is scaring me because if it was done on purpose then I fear there's a possibility that in season 3 we will see a fight between gi-hun and in-ho (like gi-hun and sang-woo in the final round in season 1) where in the end gi-hun refuses to kill in-ho (I doubt gi-hun will outright forgive him, but maybe he will try to tell in-ho to go home to jun-ho, that it doesn’t have to end in death) and when gi-hun tries to offer his hand to help lift in-ho up, in-ho will pull the same stunt sang-woo did and kill himself to maybe save gi-hun or jun-ho. something about "small sacrifice for the greater good"

:(