Work Text:
Hand over mouth.
He breathes slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. Crawling further into the corner he is sitting in, hugging a hammer to his chest. Someone knocks on the door, and he flinches, but picks himself up quickly. He does not intend to open. Knows that it makes no difference either way. His wildly staring gaze refuses to leave the red, old-fashioned telephone that stands opposite him in the corridor outside his bedroom.
He takes a deep breath and waits for the door to give way. Waiting for the bang, but it never comes. Instead, a loud, piercing sound.
Tears well up in his eyes.
The phone rings.
…
It's cold.
The window to the small flat on the third floor is wide open. It's snowing outside.
Ranboo's sitting on the floor. In his lap is a box containing seven cassette tapes. It's not a particularly heavy box, but the sheer importance of it weighs on his thighs. On the floor in front of him is a cassette player. He'd never known how to use it. He's never needed to before. But now he's printing in the first cassette tape. The one labelled "Beginning".
He presses play, and leans back.
Silence. For a few, long seconds. And then, a voice.
"Hello?"
He quickly straightens up again, leaning closer to the tape recorder. Listens more intently.
"Hello?"
The same voice. A young guy, if he'd guess. It sounds frazzled, almost scared.
A few seconds later there's a thump, and then a barely audible clicking noise. He waits a few more seconds, and then a few more, and then more until the tape is over. But there's just silence.
Puzzled, he takes out the tape again. Turns it over, looking for another label. But he finds nothing. Only 6 letters, written in red. "Beginning".
"Yeah, great beginning", he mutters to himself and sweeps away a cloth with his hand to make room on the far too messy floor. Then he carefully puts down "The Beginning", and picks up the next tape from the box. On its label it says only the number 2, written in the same red color.
The tape starts the same as the previous one. A young man's voice.
"Hello?"
He exhales through his nose. Leaning closer again, absentmindedly rubbing on a stain on his hoodie.
"Hello?"
He snorts to himself, and almost has time to press stop and give up for the evening when it happens.
"Who the hell was that?" The voice now sounds even more sharp. "Who the hell was laughing?"
For a moment, he's too stunned to move. Then he picks up the tape recorder and holds it at eye level.
"Hello?"
He really does not expect an answer. In all probability, it was just weird timing. But he does not intend to take any chances.
“Yes, hello, who are you? Why are you calling me?"
"No way", he mutters to himself. "No fucking way." He hesitates a few times, opening his mouth only to close it again. He licks his lips.
"Can you hear me?"
His words are now met with silence. A few seconds pass, and then a gasp is heard, quickly followed by a familiar thump and a click. He waits, but there's just silence. The tape ends.
He exhales, a long, slow sigh. Puts down number two next to "Beginning".
This time, he doesn’t put in the next tape immediately. He stares out the window for a while. Trying to remember why it's even open, and shaking his head slightly to himself. He's so tired. The room is so messy. He turns his gaze to the tapes again.
Number 3 starts the same as usual.
"Hello?"
Shaky voice. Terrified, he realises.
"Who am I talking to?"
"Tommy", the voice answers after a few seconds, confused but no less scared. "You're talking to Tommy." He's silent for a moment. So there is no longer any doubt. He stands up, carries the tape recorder with him.
"Why are you so scared, Tommy?"
He realizes his mistake as soon as he has uttered the words. Idiot. Tommy catches his breath.
"What the hell do you mean?" He speaks quickly and hysterically. "Why the fuck have you called me ?!" He pulls his hand over his face and curses himself for opening his stupid fucking mouth. He's just going to explain when Tommy speaks again.
"Are you the one following me?"
And he falls silent again. Stands completely still at his place in the hall.
On a small coffee table next to him sits a folded piece of paper. He picks it up. Studies the wrinkled corners, the fading yellowish paper. He turns it over a couple of times before putting it in his pocket. Then he turns around and crosses the room, sits down next to the cassette tape box again.
"No," he tells the tape recorder. "No, I’m not." But even to his own ears, it sounds like he's lying.
"Please.” The voice is desperate. "Please, leave me-" He interrupts himself. In the background a thump is heard. Not long after, a click. This time he is ready, and does a quick job of changing bands.
"Hello?" Number 4.
"Hi, Tommy," he says, looking around his apartment. Suddenly he notices how dark it is. The doorway to the bathroom is gaping, wide open.
"Hello? How do you know my name? ” Tommy's voice prevents his thoughts from wandering.
"It's me," he says, trying to calm the other boy’s rising panicked voice. He stands up again, and starts walking back and forth in the apartment. "We just talked a few minutes ago."
"What are you talking about? I haven’t fucking spoken to anyone in hours? ”
Ranboo’s pacing comes to a stop. His mouth falls open.
"What do you mean?"
Tommy does not calm down.
"What do you mean? Why are you ...” The next time he speaks, it's in a low whisper ’only . "Are you him?"
"Who?" He says.
"Him."
And then the thump comes again. But no click. Not yet. Instead, he hears someone breathing. Quick, deep breaths, as if the person has just done something exhausting. He waits breathlessly. The seconds tick by slowly, one at a time. Tick, tick, tick.
Click.
Disappointed, he starts walking again. He puts the tape recorder down on the floor and makes a turn around the dimly lit room. He stops at the window. Suddenly notices how cold he is. He leans out, just about to grab the handle to close it, when he notices a stain on the windowsill. A maroon, small mark, about the size of a golf ball. He's sure it wasn’t there the day before. But he cannot for the life of him remember how it got there.
He doesn’t let himself think about it too much. He’ll probably find the explanation in due time. Right now he just wants to focus on getting the window closed before he freezes to death. With the window properly closed, he goes back to the box in the middle of the room. He lays down number 4 in the pile, and inhales. He’s halfway.
He hits play for the fifth time, and prepares.
"Hello?"
"Hello." He says nothing more. Breathes in the silence for just a few moments, before.
"Who is it?"
This time he hesitates, unsure of what to answer.
"No one in particular," he says, but soon realizes that this is not a good answer either. Not for Tommy. Frightened, desperate Tommy.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His voice is once again reaching hysterical, the voice he’s used to talking to. "What do you want from me?"
"I want to help you." That’s the fastest answer he’s given so far. He realizes that he means it.
Tommy sobs and something rustles on his side of the phone. It sounds like the sound of someone moving, as if trying to stand up. He's holding his breath. But then it happens. A gasp, a thump and a click.
He closes his eyes. Then he drops the tape recorder on the floor where he stands and throws his hands over his eyes in frustration.
He stands there for a few seconds, just breathing, trying to recover. Slowly walks out into the kitchen and picks up a glass of water, sits down at the kitchen counter. In the sink is a dirty plate. He wonders in passing how it got there. He can’t remember eating anything lately. Then he raises his hand and sips the water.
He returns to the box to pick up the sixth tape, and sits down again next to it. Returns to the mystery that is Tommy. He tries to think, tries to figure out a way, something to say that can make Tommy trust him.
"Hello?"
"Hello."
He fiddles with the stain on his hoodie, trying to get rid of it with his bare hands. Bites into his lip.
"Yeah, who’s this?"
His hand grazes something in his pocket. Pieces of paper.
"It's me." Slowly he pulls it out of his pocket. Taking his time as he unfolds it, bit by bit. 5 words, written in the same red color as the labels on the cassette tapes. "How much can you remember?"
The sound of Tommy's voice suddenly fades and becomes background noise, replaced by the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. He puts out a hand to steady himself, is sure that if he had not already sat down he would have fallen to the floor. He stares at the note, following the shape of the letters with his eyes. The words seem to stare back. He gets up carefully, and not taking his eyes off the paper, he makes another attempt to get to the kitchen. But now his foot catches on something in the mess on the floor, and he stumbles. He looks down. There, wrapped in a red cloth, lies a hammer.
Suddenly he feels a splitting pain in the back of his head and he has to bite down hard FÖR ATT INTE not to scream. His head throbs and he gets the feeling that someone, or something is screaming in his ear for a few seconds, before it subsides and turns into a dull ache. He’s vaguely aware that Tommy hasn’t been talking for a while, and suddenly he just wants everything to be over, does not want to spend a second more than necessary listening to the cassette tapes. He throws out number 6 and pushes in the last tape, not even checking the label, which this time consists of six letters instead of a single number.
He presses play and waits anxiously, hugs the tape recorder to his chest, and starts walking around the room. Back and forth, from kitchen to living room, around in circles. He doesn’t let himself stop until he hears it.
"Hello?"
His feet come to a stop. He’s standing face to face with his own bedroom door.
"Tommy.” He tastes the word. Pronounces each letter with caution now, aware that this is the last time they will ever speak. He looks at the bedroom door, unsure of how to behave.
"Hello? Who is this?"
It must have darkened over the years. He can remember what it looked like when he first moved in. His door was white. He's pretty sure it's white. This door is not white.
"Hello?"
He lowers her gaze a little. Notices the strangely spotted pattern on the door. Wondering absentmindedly what kind of designer would think that looked nice. Slowly extends his hand to trace the pattern with his fingers. He frowns.
“Who the hell is calling me? How do you know my name? ”
He snorts.
"Calm down, Tommy." His finger is met with something warm. Slightly wet.
"Who are you?"
Slowly, he squats down, following the red color all the way down to the floor. Only now does he realize that his socks are wet. He pulls back his hand. Hesitates for only a moment before he leans forward and smells it. Metallic. Sweet.
"If you don’t fucking answer me, I’ll hang up!"
Tommy's voice has risen an octave. He’s stuttering and his words almost flow together. He stares blankly down at the floor.
"Do you know what I think, Tommy?"
He gets up, wipes his hand on his already red-spotted hoodie. Realizes he'll have to throw it away after this. Shame.
"No?"
He takes a step, follows the trail of small, dark drops. Carefully avoids stepping in it. Doesn’t want to ruin the beautiful pattern they form on the dull wooden floor.
"Tommy." He looks out over the room. Over the TV, with old DVDs of movies he’s never seen. Over the bookshelf overflowing with books he’s never touched. He walks past the kitchen that was never his. Pushes away the hammer and the bloody rag with his foot, as he looks over at the closed window, and the blood stain on the windowsill. Only now does he begin to feel the stench.
"What?"
He follows the trail of blood all the way to the bathroom. Stops right where the drops turn into long elongated tracks, as if something has been dragged. He stares into the darkness. He knows what's there now. No need to even turn the lights on to check.
"I think I am him."
A gasp, a thump of a hammer hitting something solid. Time stands still.
He's laughing now. Knows what's coming. Remembers. He closes his eyes and listens. And just as expected. In the tape recorder's half-witted quality, his own, low laughter plays.
Click.