Work Text:
Song In-ho plays for Gi-hun:
Moonlight Sonata 1st Movement - Ludwig van Beethoven, Marioverehrer
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“Or, were you going to kidnap me?”
Yes, he was. That’s exactly what Gi-hun had been hoping to do.
Tugging his wrists against the rope biting his skin, Gi-hun huffs out an agitated grunt. The sound comes out muffled through the rag wrapped between his lips and tied tightly around the back of his head. Mouth forced open by the gag, he feels it chafe at the corners despite the majority of it soaking up the moisture of his drool. Head hanging limply forwards, he wouldn’t be surprised if a string of it was escaping.
Pulling at the restraints harder, arms wrapped behind the wooden chair he was bound to, Gi-hun tilts his head up in an attempt to utilise the entire strength of his upper body. Wrists overlapping behind the wood, the rope cuts deeper into his skin the harder he struggles, burning it, and another grunt is huffed out, louder this time.
Gi-hun can’t see, his eyes covered and lids pressed flush by something just as thick as the material gagging him. In a last ditch attempt, he tries to kick out his legs but notes that they are bound to the chair too. Thighs parted, every limb secured, Gi-hun halts his struggle dejectly. He understands immediately that he’s fighting a losing battle; wasting his energy right at the very beginning would be fruitless.
Right at the beginning of what? That’s the question.
Relaxing his frame and willing his breaths to settle, Gi-hun tunes into his remaining senses, noting that it’s the only thing he’s got. Without his sight, his touch, his ability to speak, he concentrates hard on attempting to slow down his pulse too. It beating loudly in his ears, he focuses on his scent instead. Nostrils flaring, the air around him smells damp, unpleasant, a sign that his location was somewhere uninhabited – a place forgotten about, never frequented. There’s a chill prickling at the little skin he has exposed, crawling up the back of his neck. It feels like he’s outside, but that can’t be right, surely?
It’s disorientating, confusing, the fog from the limousine still cloying at his brain and Gi-hun wonders briefly for a moment whether he is dreaming. Though, that train of thought is immediately derailed the moment his ears detect slow and measured footsteps from somewhere begin to sound in front of him. The owner’s shoes make contact with something which sounds like concrete and Gi-hun hears it, feels it, the sound bouncing from the walls. He isn’t outside. But, he isn’t exactly inside either. A derelict building, perhaps?
As those footsteps sound louder, his visitor coming closer, Gi-hun racks his brain for abandoned locations across Seoul – somewhere, anywhere – to help him figure out where he could be. Another tug at his ankles, another grunt. What would it matter anyway?
“Are you really surprised?” A voice. One he’s heard before.
The man who called him a horse. The man he’s been looking for. No longer hiding behind a speaker, but instead, hiding behind layers of restraint. A blindfold. A gag. Gi-hun tries to scoff, but it comes out strangled.
“Is it too tight?” The silky voice comes again, soft yet still devoid of any emotion Gi-hun can decipher. “I wasn’t too sure when I tied it. Tell me if it is.”
He hears the smirk laced through the man’s words, the stupid joke not surprising Gi-hun at all. Though, it does annoy him. Chest rising deeper, Gi-hun can feel the agitation bubbling up inside of him, the rag between his lips becoming damper with every exhaled breath. He wants to bite down on it. He wants to wake up.
The loud scrape of another chair being dragged across the concrete cuts through the silence of his stolen speech and Gi-hun continues facing straight ahead. A gentle creak as his captor takes a seat, he feels the man’s knees brush his own, understanding now that he has taken a seat directly opposite him. Opposite, yet close.
Clearing his throat, his captor speaks again. “I expect you know who I am.” Another creak of the chair and Gi-hun visualises the faceless man to be slouching against its backrest, posture relaxed. Unfazed. “I thought it would be nice for us to go somewhere more private to continue our conversation.”
How accommodating. Gi-hun would snarl if he weren’t gagged. Instead, he remains still, attempting to try and appear just as untroubled, communicating his defiance in the only way he possibly can. The relentless pressure of the rope holding him down, fixing him in place, begs for Gi-hun to recognise that this is not a dream at all. He supposes for a moment that being forcibly splayed wide open in the most vulnerable way would be more palatable to be a reality anyway, because if he were dreaming, what would that say about him – about his subconscious?
“You seem so relaxed.” The man mumbles and Gi-hun wants to smirk.
A few seconds of silence pass, his breaths slipping through the cloth slow and deep as he fights to maintain his composure; how infuriating, how embarrassing, to be blind-sighted by his own plan. His captors' breaths are just as quiet and for a long moment, the sound of them both breathing is the only thing which he can hear.
Until, a sudden loud and deafening gunshot fires from near and Gi-hun’s entire frame jolts abruptly with a huff of surprise and, if he were honest, a little bit of fear. The bullet hits the ceiling above before its casing scatters against the floor from somewhere nearby, the gunshot still reverberating around him. Clenching his toes, fingers twitching behind his back, Gi-hun’s suddenly glad for the restraint. Yes, it deprives him of his freedom but on the other hand, it camouflages the one thing his captor cannot restrain – his resolve – because right now, Gi-hun feels it crumbling slightly, a tremor of nervousness beginning to wrack his frame and he’s glad the ropes disguise it.
Gi-hun isn’t scared of the gun. But, the knowledge of the gun itself, paired with his limbs being bound and restrained, causes a knot to begin twisting in his stomach. His inability to see where the gun was being pointed or how close it could be – the element of surprise was a cruel addition. If Gi-hun had thought the Recruiter was crazy, unhinged, then what was his captor?
This time, Gi-hun suddenly realises how helpless he truly is.
He feels his lips quiver just once around the gag and he knows the Frontman can see it. Brows furrowing slightly under the blindfold, the material drags at his skin. He hears the man hum lowly, pleased with his own efforts despite Gi-hun’s attempt at remaining unphased.
“That’s more like it. I’ve had enough of you running around thinking you’re invincible.” Another creak from the chair, Gi-hun suspects the man is leaning forward now. Tone dropping an octave, he continues with a threatening edge, “of thinking you’re untouchable.”
A sharp inhale through his nose and the gag feels suffocating now. A slight ache throbbing at his jaw, his wrists, his shoulders – the restraints tied so tight. Gi-hun rolls his ankles, testing once more the extent of his range of movement, but there’s no give. No grace for his comfort. Drool pooling at the corners of his mouth. No grace for dignity.
“I was hesitant to say this in front of my driver, as you can imagine.” His captor continues, his knees bumping Gi-hun’s once more. “But you’ve been causing me a little bit of trouble, Gi-hun.”
An unexpected gentle sensation of fingers begin tracing the edge of his jaw and Gi-hun flinches abruptly, snapping his head away from the contact with a defiant huff. Verbal provocation, he can take. However, physical touch… that’s too invasive. Strung up and unable to recoil, the touch feels violating. But, those fingers come again, rougher this time and clamp down firmly into the sensitive skin. Twisting Gi-hun’s face forward, thumb and fingertips digging hard into his jaw and Gi-hun assumes he’s being forced to face the man in front of him.
Like scolding a child, an uncomfortable reminder of who holds the control, the man’s tone is firm, final. “And it needs to stop.”
Unable to speak, to retaliate, Gi-hun pants through the sharp pain throbbing beneath the man’s fingertips but doesn’t pull away this time. Although perturbed by the man’s touch, he can’t back down now; he knows he is getting closer to achieving his mission because people have started dying again. Mr Kim. The Recruiter.
Who’s next? His mind taunts.
The Frontman forcibly manoeuvres his head from side to side as if inspecting all angles of his face, tutting quietly and Gi-hun grunts through it. Infuriated at being manhandled, furious at being patronised, nauseous over being touched. The volatile combination churns away inside of him and scorches away any final remnants of the hazy fog from the limousine, his mind now clear and sharp with only one thing: disgust. He feels it needling at his skin and the inability to reach out and shove his captor away only heightens that prickling heat within.
Unexpectedly, the Frontman’s grip softens as he tilts Gi-hun’s chin up slightly and exposes his throat. “You look like a butterfly.” The man whispers chillingly, a breathy edge to the statement. “Its wings pinned. Its beauty preserved.”
The unanticipated compliment is haunting, unsettling, and Gi-hun thinks it doesn’t sound like a compliment at all. It feels perverse, sadistic, a promise of what’s to come. A visual of a hobbyist craning over a desk flutters behind his lids, their lamp emitting a warm hue over the lifeless insect, pins puncturing quietly through the wings and Gi-hun swallows hard.
Those fingers release his jaw and tug once or twice at the material of the gag wrapped flush against his cheek. “Should we take this off?” Another tug, Gi-hun’s head swaying pathetically with it. “It’s not so fun talking to myself.”
The urge to snap his head to the side and bite the fingers that keep taunting him feels overwhelming but he knows he couldn’t if he tried. Not whilst the gag was still in place. So, he takes another breath in, the dank air slipping through the small gaps the rag allows and oxygenating that fire inside. Relaxing his muscles reluctantly once again, Gi-hun allows himself to become malleable, pliant – a hobbyist’s perfect butterfly.
A silent acknowledgement of his compliance, the chair in front of him creaks again as if its occupant is tilting to the side to retrieve something from their pocket.
“Keep still.” Is murmured quietly, the voice unexpectedly close and Gi-hun stiffens in response.
The sensation of cool metal slipping slowly underneath the rag still flush against his cheek causes his breath to hitch in his throat, flames temporarily suspended, and the Frontman repeats again as if deep in concentration, “keep still.”
A knife, Gi-hun’s mind concludes and he holds his breath, anticipating the sensation of pain to follow. The blade sharp, the man holds his chin firmly with one hand as the other yanks the knife against the cloth and the loud slice of the fabric cuts through the silence.
A sudden release of pressure from the material, Gi-hun spits the severed damp rag out of his mouth, gasping, his lungs pulling in as much air as they can. His mouth is so dry that every inhale feels like sandpaper and he smacks his lips, running his tongue desperately around every crevice of his mouth. His captor slowly removes the rag that has pooled around his shoulders, careful enough as to not disturb the bob of Gi-hun’s head as he is panting.
“Water.” Gi-hun croaks out instinctively and he is surprised when his request is granted immediately.
The plastic rim of a bottle is pressed gently against his chapped lips and Gi-hun tilts his head back, welcoming the relief of fresh water. It wets his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and he can feel the sizzle of it dampening his rage. A bead of it escapes his lips, the water trailing down his chin and his captor wipes it away with his thumb. The gesture is too intimate, too thoughtful, and Gi-hun flinches away from the man’s touch again.
“I'm not going to hurt you.” The Frontman speaks gently as the bottle is withdrawn and the sound of it being settled onto the floor below comes from somewhere to the left of him.
Gi-hun licks his lips, the skin there feeling dry and tight. The moisture stings at the corners of his mouth from where the gag had chafed and he opens and closes his jaw wide, stretching the muscles there. Another quick inner sweep of his tongue and this time, he registers the sensation of cool porcelain. The tracker.
Biting back a smug smile threatening to surface, his thoughts suddenly begin to race and he mumbles out distractedly, “then why am I here?”
It's not that Gi-hun doesn't want the answer, it's just that he doesn't really quite care much at this moment. Not now that he's reminded of his tracker. Asking the question, starting a conversation, he attempts to delay whatever torture the Frontman has planned for him. Perhaps Jun-ho will find him in time – find them both. He wonders if Jun-ho will bring their men too.
Pulling Gi-hun away from his fantasy of escape, his captor takes the bait. “For the same reason I imagine I would be if you had been successful in your attempt at kidnapping me.” The reply comes cooly, the words sounding further away this time. “I need you to stop what you're doing. It’s not going to work.”
Although anxious, Gi-hun feels that smouldering defiance still attempting to scorch at the dread trying to blanket it. Head bobbing with a singular exasperated laugh, he retorts sarcastically. “That’s almost convincing.”
Footsteps sound again quietly beside him, his captor seemingly beginning to circle around his bound frame and Gi-hun keeps his face fixed forward. His tone is more confident now, more cocky. “I'm obviously a threat, or else you wouldn’t have tied me up like this. Blindfolded me, so that I can’t see the coward that you are.”
“Oh, Gi-hun.” The Frontman sighs. “You're not here because you have to be.” The voice, now sickly sweet, comes from behind him and the warm breath ghosting the shell of his ear makes Gi-hun shiver unexpectedly. Continuing, the breath comes again, “you're here because I want you to be.”
Limbs twitching involuntarily against the rope, Gi-hun pushes out through gritted teeth, “is that so?”
An amused hum comes as the reply, the low rumble vibrating by the other ear this time. “It is so. I allowed you to be here.”
The statement hangs in the dank air, the words taunting and Gi-hun suddenly wonders who gave who the permission; an invitation extended, Gi-hun had penned his RSVP in block capitals with nothing but a measly pistol. He wonders with fleeting embarrassment whether that was the gun which the Frontman had just shot a round from. Swallowing again, Gi-hun realises that it probably was. Taunted by his own gun, captured by his own net, the tables have been turned and Gi-hun suddenly realises the very real danger which he may be in if Jun-ho doesn’t come soon.
Deflecting, needing to keep the conversation going, Gi-hun retorts, “that’s very generous of you. I’m sure you have more pressing things to be doing, after all.”
“It’s alright.” The reply is soft. Fingertips trail gently and briefly through the hairs at the nape of his neck and Gi-hun scrunches his eyes shut beneath the material tied tight, his earlier unease over the Frontman's touch returning. “I cleared my schedule for you.”
The man’s choice of words crawl around his brain like an insect, burrowing and nestling, crudely invading every crevice.
I cleared my schedule for you.
Not, for this. But, for you.
Like an unwilling host, Gi-hun feels the invasion of the Frontman’s confession settle uncomfortably within, burying deep as if making a home. It feels personal, and Gi-hun supposes that it is, really. Curling his fingers as much as the restraints allow, his subconscious taunts him in tandem with his captor; Gi-hun had been anything but unwilling. He had been chasing the current successor of this hunt – running blindly, in fact. A promise made, a threat growled down a phone call all those years ago. That, was the beginning.
Despite the blindfold robbing him of his sight, Gi-hun sees it now: this, might be the end.
“If you’re not here to hurt me.” Clarifying, mouth turning dry, tongue weighing heavy. “You’re going to persuade me to stop.”
Gi-hun isn’t asking, because he knows. He knows what these people do – what lengths they go to – to keep the secret of the games underground. Russian roulette, bombs planted under the body of a car, he wonders with a prickle of sweat what the game-maker has in store for him tonight. Will the torment be psychological? A reminder of his failures incanted over and over by the voice that haunts his nightmares. But, instead of it echoing inside of his head, the voice will spit the insults into his face and Gi-hun’s head will flinch back with every blow.
His captor’s silence, the suspense being drawn out, makes Gi-hun believe his suspicion may be true. Though despite that, his skin still feels hypersensitive; he is acutely aware of every occasional gust of wind sweeping through the space he’s confined in, every scrape of his clothes dragging across his frame with each nervous twitch that racks his body. Heartbeat thrumming with anticipation, he waits with baited breath for the sensation of the cool metal barrel of his own gun being pressed confidently against him. He waits for the sharp point of the blade he knows the Frontman has to pierce into his skin, teasing at first, before it splits the surface and warm blood oozes from the negotiation.
“If we’re being honest, I’m not sure if I’d be able to.” The reply comes eventually and it sounds faraway, not just in tone but in volume too and Gi-hun realises that the man has stepped away.
As if his captor is retreating, Gi-hun’s mind begins to spin tumultuously, that earlier fear materialising into a cold chill now. Where is he going? Is he leaving? Breaths deepening, panic creeping up his spine, muscles tightening further. Are others coming instead? “Wh–”
“But,” echoes loudly across the space, interrupting Gi-hun’s inner turmoil. “I know you wanted to meet me, you said so yourself.” Gi-hun whips his head in the direction of the man’s voice, clinging onto the words and suddenly feeling the weight of the restraints even further. “And I wonder sometimes–”
A rustle of something in the distance, “in all your stubbornness, whether it would be better for you... No, better for the both of us, that if you’re going to continue pushing this–” Another rustle, the man seemingly occupied with something. “Prodding it. Poking at it…”
Then you’re better off dead, Gi-hun finishes the sentence in his mind with a lump forming in his throat, it threatening to gag him just as tightly as the material moments before. Yes, he knows the Frontman had assured him that he wouldn’t hurt him, but Gi-hun knows that the man isn’t above allowing others to fulfill his dirty work. Heart beating louder, he waits for the end of the sentence, tonguing nervously at his tracker.
“That it would be better if we could, at least, understand each other a little more.”
What?
Gi-hun’s mind suddenly stops spinning and the confusion reverberating deep inside accidentally spills from his lips. “Wh– what?”
The shuffling Gi-hun hears in the distance stops abruptly and the Frontman’s steps reappear, signalling his return to Gi-hun’s frame. Relief, unexpectedly, washes through him and a sudden desire surfaces to have the man back into his personal space – have him near. Because, if the man who has promised not to hurt him is close, then that must mean he is safe. Twisted logic, Gi-hun knows, but it doesn’t shake the desire to rock his frame forwards, scoot his chair closer to his captor; keep the man’s focus on him, keep him talking. Keep him busy.
“Your recruiter already tried this.” He tilts his head, a slight curiosity over the intentions behind the Frontman’s earlier statement emerges at the back of his mind like an itch. Though intrigued, disobedience rules out. “I’ll save you some time, though. It didn’t work.”
The chair in front of him creaks again and Gi-hun feels the brush of the man’s shin against his knee as he crosses his legs. “What was that?”
Silently pleased that he’d recaptured the Frontman’s attention, Gi-hun smiles, though not kindly.
“He told me his story.” A pause and he cranes his head back smugly. He swears he can feel the weight of the man’s eyes fixed squarely on him. “Before he shot himself.”
“Don’t worry.” The reply comes, low and teasing, and Gi-hun can hear the man fiddling with something leisurely in his hands. “I’m not going to do that.”
Gi-hun wonders what the man is fumbling with. He hopes it’s the knife. Tugging his wrists at the restraints again, his chest arches forwards slightly and he hopes the Frontman plans to cut at least one of his limbs free. He’d already cut the gag, after all.
“What a shame.” He mutters out whilst shuffling once more against the rope.
That earlier itch in the back of his mind begs for attention, its intensity building. The Frontman’s motives, so far, appear to be not too dissimilar to his own. If Gi-hun had been successful in his own attempt at kidnapping the Frontman, then he knew that killing him wouldn’t have amounted to anything. Neither would holding him hostage and demanding that he stop the games. That suspicion had been proven right as soon as he’d stepped foot into the man’s limousine.
It was evident from their conversation that the man’s philosophy about human nature and humanity itself was something Gi-hun didn’t understand. But, what he did understand, is why an individual willingly orchestrating the games would think like that. Gi-hun believes the man to be incomprehensible and he all of a sudden realises that the feeling must be mutual.
Lost in his thoughts, his captor’s earlier sentiment about attempting to understand each other echoes through his mind and Gi-hun suddenly realises just how long it’s been quiet between the two of them.
“What are you doing?” He mumbles.
He hates how small his voice sounds, but, what he hates more, is the reply.
“Just looking.”
Slightly ragged, the man clears his throat afterwards and it makes Gi-hun’s heart thump hard once in his chest.
The weight of the Frontman’s stare presses heavier now, pushing him further into the restraints and Gi-hun feels suffocated by the inspection. He turns his head stiffly to the side and up, inhaling a deep breath in through his nose in an attempt to escape it, to ground himself. But, it doesn’t work. He feels it, the man’s eyes on him, and Gi-hun wants to ask him what the fuck he thinks he's looking at. Though, a teasing voice in the back of his mind, his captor’s maybe, goads, do you really want to know?
“Did you bring me here just to stare at me?” He bites out. “I can feel it.”
“Can you?” Gi-hun can hear the amusement in the man’s tone. “Is it making you nervous?”
Frowning, he feels himself working harder to breathe as he continues to try and snub the prickling unease of being watched so intently. Maybe if he ignores it – ignores him, it'll go away. Maybe it'll stop crawling all over his skin.
But, he can’t. So, instead, he lies through his teeth. “No.”
“Hm.” The Frontman hums before gently placing his hand on top of Gi-hun’s knee. “What about now?”
Gi-hun stiffens immediately in response. The warmth beneath the Frontman’s palm feels stiflingly hot, a stark contrast to the bitter chill of the wind channelling through the building he’s currently held captive in. Why, if the Frontman wants to be understood, is he playing with him? Why is he touching him?
“Why–” he grumbles out, jaw clenched and muscles wound so tight, “–am I here?”
The reply is soft, just like the man’s touch. “I’ve already told you why you’re here.” His palm lingers for a few more seconds before withdrawing completely and Gi-hun hears the sound of him returning to fidget with something again. “May I play you a song?”
“May you play me a song.” Gi-hun intones plainly, still facing away – a little perplexed, slightly annoyed. “I see you and your recruiter have the same taste in taunting. He played a song for me too.”
A click of the tongue before the Frontman speaks again. “I think I liked you better with the gag.”
If he had said it to get a rise out of Gi-hun, well, it worked. On its own accord, his head snaps back towards the man in front, eyebrows knitting together underneath the blindfold. “But then how would you be able to understand me if I can’t talk?” He mocks, enunciating slowly.
The Frontman doesn’t reply for a moment, but he knows he’s still watching. Gi-hun wonders if the man is frowning, or whether he is smiling. He wonders fleetingly what the man looks like.
As if the two of them were sitting opposite a dinner table in a restaurant, he asks curiously out of seemingly nowhere, “do you like Beethoven?”
“What?” Gi-hun huffs out, his surprise evident. Deciding after a few seconds of silence to play along, he continues, “the composer?”
“Yes.” The Frontman replies as if the question was completely normal. “Do you like his music?”
“I don't know, I mean–, I’ve heard of him?” Gi-hun responds quizzically, finding the turn of conversation utterly bizarre.
Almost as if he had said the wrong thing, he hears the man stand abruptly from the chair and Gi-hun doesn’t know what to say to make it right, to make his captor come back. Lips parted in confusion, he twists his head from left to right quickly, attempting to feel out where the man could now be.
“Moonlight Sonata.” The Frontman’s voice comes unexpectedly to the side of him again and Gi-hun turns to face it. He continues, placing one of his hands onto the back of Gi-hun’s chair. “One of his most famous. Do you know why he wrote it?”
Gi-hun tilts his head upwards towards the man who he assumes is now towering over the right side of him, though he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he can see him or make eye contact with him. In a bid to fill in the blanks, a visual surfaces behind his lids as his mind attempts to formulate an image of what the two of them must look like right now. In the scene, Gi-hun is sitting down, limbs bound, blindfolded gaze tilted upwards – just like reality. Though, his captor is leaning coolly against the backrest of Gi-hun’s chair, posture relaxed with a mischievous smile pulling at his lips as he regards Gi-hun sitting below him. Maybe the man is wearing a shirt. Maybe the top two buttons are undone.
“No?” His captor interrupts Gi-hun’s train of thought and thank god, honestly, because where was that going? “I read somewhere that the music expresses the longing of an individual who understands their own life's mission and is willing to pursue it, regardless of its consequences and circumstances.”
“Hm.” Gi-hun scrunches his nose and rolls his ankles against the restraints, suddenly uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with himself. “At least your recruiter didn't spout the philosophical.”
He hears the Frontman sigh loudly as if agitated at the mention of his colleague yet again. “You keep bringing him up.”
A twitch of his lips, Gi-hun wants to smirk. He doesn't know why he asks, but he does. “Jealous?”
Dead silence greets him and Gi-hun hears his own question suspended in the air between them both, as if he hadn't been the one who had asked it in the first place. On the second listen, he hears the undertone of flirtation threaded through the word and he flexes his jaw – embarrassed, irritated at himself – but ultimately, too stubborn to back pedal. So he lets it hang there a little longer. Lets his pulse beat a little quicker.
“No.” The man replies eventually, a seductive quality laced through the word and the sound of it makes Gi-hun involuntarily visualise the scene he had pictured moments earlier.
But, the scene changes in tandem with reality as he registers the man’s fingers uncurling from the backrest of his chair, nudging briefly against Gi-hun’s back in the process. That hand now slides across the wood and the man begins taking slow and measured steps behind him. “He’s dead, isn't he?”
Gi-hun tries to follow the man’s movements with his head, but he can’t. Both hands settle against the top of his chair again from behind and Gi-hun leans his back against them, facing forward.
“You don’t seem to care much about your colleague's suicide.” He grumbles out in front of him, though his heart is not really in it. Because, in the absence of most of his senses, all he can focus on is the sensation of the man's fingers brushing against his back. The breaths coming just above his head. “What, are they all just trash to you too?”
Predictably, ignoring anything relating to his recruiter, the man counters, “aren’t you at least a little bit curious to know why I want to play this for you?”
“Not rea–”
“I think of you when I listen to it.” His captor interrupts, tone low and so quiet that he nearly misses it. Muttering now, as if deep in thought, Gi-hun holds his breath in a bid to hear every word. “Does that surprise you? That I think of you?”
Something in the atmosphere shifts with the man’s confession and Gi-hun suddenly feels as though the air has been sucked out of the space they’re confined in. A flutter in his chest, he hears the breath he’d been holding exhale shakily from his own lips as the tension begins to weigh thicker around them.
He supposes that it’s not news that the Frontman thinks about him because that would make sense; Gi-hun had initiated this hunt and of course the Frontman thinks about it – thinks about him. But, the newly disclosed context is surprising. He wonders how often the man plays the song. He wonders if he listens to it with a frown. He wonders, irritatingly, what the song sounds like.
“No, of course it doesn't.” The man whispers unexpectedly by his neck and it makes Gi-hun jump slightly, eyes scrunching shut beneath the blindfold. “Because you think of me too.”
A pause and Gi-hun's palms are sweating now, his frame completely still. Another whisper, it teases at the sensitive skin just below his ear. “Don't you?”
He feels his bottom lip quiver because his captor is right. Gi-hun thinks of little else.
Night after night, month after month, he thinks about the man who had escorted him home – insulted him, complimented him and patronised him all in the same breath. He thinks about the man’s intentions, not just during that interaction, but also his intentions behind the continuation of the games after Il-nam’s passing. He thinks about what kind of man his captor could be. He thinks about what it must feel like to orchestrate something so heinous yet feel so comfortable with it.
You people are like horses.
Gi-hun wonders now, with a knot in his stomach, whether he was the Frontman's favourite.
His captor pushes himself from the chair he was holding, pulling Gi-hun away from his thoughts, fingers slipping away from his back. Footsteps sound around him as if the man was returning to his own chair and that earlier noise of him fumbling with something comes again.
Picking up the conversation from where they’d left off, either completely oblivious or completely uninterested in Gi-hun's inner turmoil, the man continues, “others say that Beethoven wrote the song for one of his students who he was deeply in love with. Quite scandalous really.”
Gi-hun registers the sensation of what he assumes to be an earbud being placed inside one of his ears and the wire of it accidentally brushes his neck briefly, making him shiver.
“But those that think that, recognise the longing behind the chords. A deep sadness and anguish stemming from an unrequited love.”
Understanding that he was about to be shown the very music which the Frontman has confessed to listening to – thinking about him to, Gi-hun responds slowly, his mouth turning dry. “And you?” He clears his throat. “What do you think?”
Taking a slow step to the left, the Frontman continues softly before placing the second earbud into his ear. “I’d like to know what you think.”
The man places what Gi-hun assumes to be an mp3 player of sorts onto the chair in between his parted thighs and he hears the sound of the device settling on the wood beneath him. A beat of silence passes, his hearing now muffled, and then the Frontman hits play.
The rich and deep melody of piano chords begins to play, its volume loud, providing no opportunity for Gi-hun to hear anything else. The melody is slow and haunting in its composure, the low register of the piano keys being pressed verging on enchanting. He recognises the music immediately in a detached way, understanding the song’s level of infamy. Perhaps he’s heard it in a film at some point – its octaves likely fitting to a scene intended to evoke a feeling of lulling sadness or melancholy.
Lids already closed by the blindfold, Gi-hun takes a deep breath in and relaxes his frame reluctantly. He supposes that it could be worse than being forced to listen to classical music. He tunes into the harp-like higher register, the contrast between the two hands playing both the high and lows simultaneously, and a small part of him can hear the composer’s desperation beginning to build slowly like a torturous, continuous ache. The Frontman’s words, tone deep and resigned, echo through his mind, weaving seamlessly through the chords continuing to play.
“The longing of an individual who understands their own life's mission.”
He wonders how the Frontman feels when he listens to this, thinking of him. Does the man ruminate over his threat, his promise, to stop the games? Does he find himself musing over whether Gi-hun’s quest is futile, but is enticed nonetheless to watch it play out? He imagines his captor listening to this with two fingers of whiskey – he bets the man drinks whiskey – and something twists low in his stomach over the scene unfolding in his mind, but Gi-hun doesn’t know what that feeling is. Is it unease? It doesn’t quite feel like it.
Another breath in and the reality that the Frontman thinks about him to a melody such as this makes him feel oddly restless, unsettled… intrigued. It completely drowns his hearing and Gi-hun almost finds himself forgetting for a moment where he is, the repetitive notes of the piano bordering on hypnotic – soothing almost, in an unanticipated way.
“An unrequited love.”
It can’t be, Gi-hun swallows, shuffling against the restraints, re-orientating himself. But, he hears it, the longing behind the chords. The quiet desperation. That thing that Gi-hun can’t identify tightens further and his lips part slowly on their own accord, breaths now slipping through his mouth.
A warm sensation surfaces, tentative at first, and he registers that the Frontman has touched his knee again. Whisked away by the music playing loudly in his ears, the contact is jarring at first and both of his legs twitch against the ropes. But, if Gi-hun were honest with himself, the touch is not completely unwelcome either; as if anchoring him to the moment, the purpose of this meeting, it feels as though a secret is being exchanged and, although bizarre, he ponders whether this may be an attempt from the Frontman at connecting with him – sharing something with him. Something personal.
Melody persisting, he allows the man to touch him with a protest he doesn't quite have within himself to shout lodged deep in the back of his throat. Because, really, why is the Frontman playing this for him? Downloading the file onto an mp3 player, what was his captor hoping to communicate? The man's hand squeezes gently, as if reminding him of his presence and asking silently, are you listening to what I can’t say?
Gi-hun nods once slowly, because he is listening. The bitter cocktail of resentment, disgust and defiance which he had been brewing is moved to the side – a new glass placed front and centre, and Gi-hun allows the melody to concoct something new. Sadness, he recognises, provides the base. A sense of acceptance, then a splash of affliction joins the mix. Pining, the reluctant kind, swirls around the glass and Gi-hun finds that, although much sweeter, the mixture makes him feel quite sick.
But, that drink is forced past his lips by the composition continuing to play in his ears against his will; chords sounding louder, the composer pressing the keys harder and the Frontman’s hand begins to travel slowly, so slowly, up the length of his thigh. Gi-hun feels his heart begin to thump in time with the melody building, the hand sliding inwards, fingers running along the seam of his jeans. The pace is deliberate, torturous almost, and he feels that ache laced deep within the music begin to ebb and flow within himself too.
The hand stops half way up his inner thigh and his heart skips a beat because he knows the man has returned to looking at him now. Fingers splayed flat over his jeans, that earlier weight of steady observation returns heavier than ever and Gi-hun feels himself working harder to breathe. Imagining the scene of them once again behind his lids, he assumes that the Frontman is leaning forward now, the music providing a sinister edge to the visual. Or perhaps, a quiet part of him muses, a seductive one. A fleeting thought – he wonders briefly whether the man is looking up at him through his eyelashes.
Starting to feel a little overwhelmed, Gi-hun cranes his head back in a bid to alleviate the unmistakable restlessness that is beginning to tingle at what little senses he has remaining. The music, the touch, the visual he's imagining, it’s too much. It’s not enough. As if fermenting, the new concoction transforms into an undeniable, shameful lust low in his stomach. Pooling there, nauseated, Gi-hun wants to stick his fingers down his throat and force it up, spit it out. But, wrists twisting against the rope, he hears his own voice harmonising quietly with the piano still playing in his ears; face the music, you like this.
A disgraceful urge to bark out, either keep going or stop it, dances on the tip of his tongue and he clenches his jaw, biting down on it. Such a sensitive area, Gi-hun reasons, it’s completely rational and normal to feel a flutter of arousal when touched in such a place. The middle ground utterly frustrating, he doesn’t know his captor’s intentions, nor what the man wants. Gi-hun doesn’t know what he wants either. Another gentle squeeze of his thigh comes and it would be a relief, he sighs out shakily, if the Frontman decides for him.
As if his captor had heard him, that hand returns to sliding smoothly up his thigh again – more confident this time – and Gi-hun feels himself suck in a sharp breath through his teeth. Is he really going to allow this? He wants to plead for it to stop, but he jerks his hips accidentally. He wants to beg for it to continue, and he frowns purposefully. Disgusted, exhilarated, confused, he snaps his head to the right, away from the man he knows is staring at him and clenches his toes inside of his trainers.
He feels his jeans become tighter the higher the hand travels and it's mortifying because he knows the Frontman can see it, is watching it. The material of his jeans feels just as restricting as the ropes and Gi-hun wants to moan, to complain. But, at what, he doesn't know.
What he does know, is that he's breathing even heavier now and he's grateful for the music so that he can't hear it – can't hear whatever sly remark his captor would probably whisper in response to Gi-hun's shame, the man's fingers mere centimetres from it. Shoulders sagging from the effort of breathing, he feels the angle of the man's hand change as if readjusting his own position. Gi-hun swallows hard because it feels like a commitment – an effort made to touch him better.
Is this what the Frontman had planned all along? The thought of it makes his stomach churn, makes his hips squirm. Part of him doesn't want to give the man the satisfaction, but, Gi-hun aches to be satisfied. He aches like the composer pressing the keys, aches like the Frontman has silently admitted to too. Does his captor touch himself like he's touching Gi-hun now when he listens to this song?
He can't hear it, but he feels it, the low groan climbing up his throat and slipping from his lips. It's fucking disgusting and Gi-hun's so hard for it.
Fingers lace through the hair at the back of his head and he realises that the man is sitting to the right of him now. The Frontman's left hand tangled through his hair, the right dangerously close to his arousal and Gi-hun feels cornered, trapped, the man's position more stifling than the restraints. He pulls at them, gritting his teeth and a soft breath is exhaled across his face. The man is close, eyes dissecting him, and Gi-hun doesn't know what to do. So, he leans into the hand caressing his head, licks his lips and not so reluctantly, lets the Frontman watch.
He wants to blame the music. He wants to blame his touch deprived state. He wants to blame that part of himself which the games broke. But, he knows deep down that there's always been something within himself that, under specific circumstances, is willing to chase the thrill of a dicey bet. High risk, high reward, and right now, Gi-hun is throwing his chips onto the table.
Another deep breath against his face, as if his captor is preparing himself, and the hand resting on the inside of his thigh finally touches what Gi-hun is aching for. A strangled moan that had been lodged deep within his chest tumbles out and the fingers in his hair tighten in response to the sound Gi-hun knows he allowed to escape. He arches his hips shamelessly into the Frontman's touch, the friction electrifying.
The song loops and Gi-hun hears it differently now. The hypnotic desperation in the chords plays loudly in his ears as the Frontman works him slowly over his jeans. He rides the man's touch with his hips, legs spread by the restraints, inhibitions drowning completely in the music. There's no point otherwise in fighting it. He wants it, the Frontman wants it, and though dubious at best, Gi-hun knows he wouldn't stop it even if he could. But, subconscious barrelling through, his tongue finds his tracker, and oh god, what if Jun-ho comes now?
The thought of it causes him to swear, whether from arousal or panic, he's not entirely sure at this point. Mind hazy from lust, senses electrified from pleasure, he curls his fingers into fists behind the chair.
The breaths against his face feel more concentrated now, heavier, ghosting squarely against his lips and Gi-hun wonders if the Frontman wants to kiss him. Lips parting, he inhales the man's breaths into his own mouth and they breathe together, noses now bumping. The fingers in his hair, the hand stroking him steadily, their close proximity feels erotic, intimate, and Gi-hun aches for the man to either work him faster or unbutton his jeans. The grip in his hair loosens a fraction and Gi-hun knows it’s a test – leverage for him to pull away or press closer – a silent offer, an illusion of choice.
He does neither, instead teasing the man in return in the only way he can by refusing both. He wonders if the Frontman is aroused, or whether he's quite simply just playing with him; dismantling that defiance that Gi-hun has suddenly lost sight of, relishing in his submission.
An exasperated huff tickles at his lips before his captor ducks his head down. Right hand still working him torturously slow, he feels the man's lips trace softly by his neck and Gi-hun bares his throat further for him, desperate for more stimulation. Breath hot and wet against his skin, the man untangles his fingers from his hair and pulls the earbud out. Yanked back into reality, the melody only playing in one ear now, Gi-hun can hear himself panting loudly and it's absolutely mortifying hearing himself like this.
“What do you think?” His captor breathes out against his neck and the sensation sends shivers up his spine, limbs trembling against the restraints.
Breath catching, the push and pull of embarrassment and arousal disorientating, he growls out, “I think you're sick.”
But, that doesn’t stop the scrunch of his eyes under the blindfold, the rocking of his hips, the heaving of his chest.
Unperturbed, still stroking, the man whispers again, “and the song?”
Without giving him a chance to reply, the man mouths at the sensitive skin of his throat as if temptation has sunk its claws into him too and Gi-hun bites out another swearword, chest arching forward from the chair, his head falling back.
“Stop looking for me.” Is mumbled out half-heartedly in between another wet swipe of tongue.
“I will.” Gi-hun counters with a breathy edge, suddenly hyperaware of who's touching him. “If you stop the games.”
The man chuckles lowly in response against his neck and exhales a long, drawn-out sigh before squeezing his erection just once over his jeans. Gi-hun’s upper torso jolts against the restraints from the sensation – so overstimulated, yet not stimulated enough. His whole body feels overly sensitive, a desperate yearning prickling at his skin and it makes him want to whine out in frustration. It should feel wrong, he knows, having his captor's hands and mouth on him like this.
Cock aching, the Frontman in no hurry to take him to climax, it's wrong that he wants to know if the man is hard too. It's wrong that the mere thought of it suddenly makes his head spin and his hips stutter. It's so wrong and Gi-hun doesn't understand it. Doesn't understand the man who's pleasing him. But, he craves more of it nonetheless.
The Frontman halts his ministrations on Gi-hun’s neck, face turning to look down at his hips and the man’s soft, tousled hair tickles at his throat. For some reason, it makes the Frontman seem more human; a faceless figure with soft hair, a deep voice, firm hands–
Firm hands that are pulling Gi-hun apart bit by bit, minute by minute and slowly working their way at the button of his jeans.
“Oh go–”
Gi-hun’s pained moan is interrupted abruptly by a sudden, loud blare of a car horn and both men jump, startled.
Those hands retreat immediately and the loss makes Gi-hun ache even further, the heat just trailing across his skin now doused in a cold chill. “Wha–?”
“Your men.” Gi-hun hears the Frontman stand purposefully and the chair he must’ve been sitting on scrapes loudly across the floor to the right of him. “They’re not far.”
Snapping back into his stoic composure, his captor clears his throat and pulls his chair away from Gi-hun’s frame before the noise of hurried shuffling begins to sound around him and Gi-hun twists his head from side to side – perplexed, confused.
“Wha–?” He repeats, speech almost sounding slurred.
He registers the man pulling the second earbud from his ear and the music is ripped away immediately, disorientating him further. “They’ve followed your tracker.” The Frontman murmurs distractedly, now fiddling with what Gi-hun assumes to be the mp3 player.
A pause, and Gi-hun breathes out quietly, hips still arching embarrassingly on their own accord. “You knew about that?”
The Frontman doesn’t reply, instead halting his movements and Gi-hun can feel the man staring at him again. The silence is so loud. Gi-hun feels so needy. The only thing that he can hear is their laboured breaths, slowing down together, as they continue to regard each other.
“Let me see you.” He mumbles, breaking the silence.
A deep sigh sounds in front of him before the Frontman returns to, what sounds like, gathering items into a box and Gi-hun wonders what on earth he could be doing. Weighted objects slide around the cardboard of the box he feels being placed on top of his parted thighs and his head snaps down as if to look at it. His captor’s breaths come again across his face and Gi-hun tilts his face back up slowly, knowing the man is close.
“I’m sure you will.” Is spoken softly near his mouth and he feels his own tongue dart out as if to taste the words.
Footsteps retreat, bouncing from the walls and Gi-hun lets the man leave without protest – without saying goodbye. Nerves still buzzing, lips parted in disbelief, Gi-hun wouldn’t know how to bid farewell anyway.
~*~
Ropes coming undone, Gi-hun untangles his limbs from the restraints Jun-ho and Mercenary Kim are hurriedly untying. His muscles are stiff, so tight, and he fights the urge to stand from the chair and stretch them out. Needing to know what was inside the box that the Frontman had left for him, Gi-hun removes the lid slowly with baited breath.
“I can’t believe they just left you here, are you hurt? What happened?”
Gi-hun registers the voice of Kim speaking to the side of him but it’s muffled, faraway, because Gi-hun’s not really listening. Heart pounding, his eyes scan the contents of the box.
His gun. A singular red rose. The mp3 player, the headphones wrapped tightly around the device. Fingers trembling, Gi-hun slides the gun to the side of the box to pick at the item underneath.
A green and white player number patch, its embroidery stained with splatters of aged, old, brown blood. His eyes zone past the blood, instead, widening at the number stitched into the material.
132.
~*~