Two Dead Men

Gihun had thought he was dead. If not in the moment the light turned red, or the moment the gunshot whipped the air, then when the workers had lifted him top and tail and dropped him into that box like so much dead meat. Gihun had thought, ah, this is really it this time, and passed out.

Only now he was waking up again. Too sore to be the afterlife – there was a dull ache in his left shoulder, and the whole arm felt heavy, immovable.

He opened his eyes. The light was dim, but Gihun could see the bold, flat colours of a mural on the ceiling. He realised, as he looked at it, that the artwork was obscene.

He sat up. The dull ache became a sharp protest, and Gihun’s right hand went to his shoulder automatically, protectively. He was still in his player’s uniform, but the t-shirt had been slashed open at the shoulder. There was a neat bandage over the wound there. It hurt, but it wasn’t unbearable.

Someone had treated him. He should have been dead – even if one worker had missed, another should have finished the job – but he was alive. Still breathing.

For a moment, Gihun dared to hope that rescue had come. Junho had come through at last.

But when Gihun tried to get off the bed – the ridiculously wide, soft-sheeted bed – he realised that wasn’t the case. He was chained by a cuff around his ankle, the other end latched to the leg of the bed.

Not rescue, then. He was still a prisoner.

Gihun got himself onto the floor, and he tried to lift the corner of the bed to get himself free. But whether it was his injury, his recent proximity to death, or simply the weight, he couldn’t budge it.

Gihun sat back, panting. The colours on the walls seemed to pulse in time with the pain in his shoulder.

He was still a prisoner, but somehow that seemed right. He wouldn’t want to be rescued and miss seeing things play out to the end.

Someone had thought they didn’t want to see him die before the end, either. That was why he was alive.

Gihun crawled back onto the bed, and he collapsed there. He waited. They would show themselves soon enough.

---

Time passed. Gihun didn’t quite doze, thinking about the others and who had made it through the last game. They’d think he was dead. Well, that was alright. His death could stretch their lives a little longer.

He heard the door open before the change in light registered. Someone had turned on a chandelier; when Gihun opened his eyes, the murals on the walls were lit in an assault of colour. He lifted his head, peering toward the doorway. Jerked upright when he recognised the silhouette.

They stared at each other. Or Gihun stared, as if staring would enable him to see through that mask to the flesh-and-blood human beneath it. Even if he couldn’t see the man’s eyes, he could feel the weight of his consideration.

‘Why am I here?’ Gihun said. Part of him wanted to throw himself at the Front Man, rip the mask from his face and beat him with it, but he was aware of the vulnerability of his own body, so recently battered. Besides, he was chained, and the Front Man was armed. There was nothing Gihun could do like this. ‘I should be dead,’ he said.

‘You are dead.’

For a moment, Gihun questioned himself. ‘I don’t feel dead.’

‘In every way that matters,’ the Front Man said, ‘you are dead.’ He let the door shut behind him, and he approached the bed. ‘No-one is coming for you. No-one will miss you. You had your chance. You threw it away. On this.’

The Front Man leaned forward, and he pressed a gloved finger against the bandage on Gihun’s shoulder. Gihun hissed as the pain stabbed through him; he tried to breathe through it, not to be cowed. The Front Man’s face was so close that Gihun could almost see his eyes through the mesh visor.

The Front Man twisted his finger deeper; Gihun couldn’t help the groan that escaped him. He hit out instinctively, trying to push the Front Man away. The Front Man barely seemed to notice. But he did pull his hand back, and the haze of pain that had filled Gihun’s mind began to ebb.

Then the Front Man shoved him roughly back down on the bed, one splayed hand pressing on his chest.

‘You’re dead,’ he said again, and Gihun thought he was the one who must have been confused. ‘What happens now happens to a dead man.’

‘Is something happening now?’ Maybe Gihun had been kept alive to torture. Because he dared try to rebel, the Front Man would deny him a quick death. ‘You don’t patch up a dead man –’

‘Shut up.’ It was hard to judge tone, behind the mask, but the Front Man stretched his fingers, and Gihun was aware how close that hand was to his throat.

He swallowed.

The Front Man swung his body up onto the bed, so that he was on top of Gihun. There was no way, in his current position, that Gihun could have pushed him off. Somehow, his body was hotter than Gihun had expected. There was a person underneath the costume.

The Front Man slid his hand higher, to the base of Gihun’s throat. Gihun squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for what was to come. The Front Man had decided to kill him himself, that was all. The bandage was because he hadn’t wanted Gihun to die in the meantime.

But rather than strangle Gihun, the Front Man found Gihun’s nipple with his other hand, and twisted through the fabric of his shirt.

Gihun yelped; he kicked out but he couldn’t shift the Front Man’s weight. He was aware of his solidity then in a different way: not just a person, but a man. A man who was a threat.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

The hand left Gihun’s neck and moved to cover his mouth, a firm leather seal. The Front Man leaned closer. ‘What did I say?’

Shut up. Shut up, Seong Gihun, don’t let that mouth get you in worse trouble than you’re already in.

But he was already in this trouble. The Front Man’s free hand snaked down his torso, slipping under the fabric of his t-shirt. He stroked Gihun’s abdomen, disconcertingly gentle. Gihun might have felt sick if he hadn’t felt so confused. He understood what he was being threatened with, but he couldn’t understand it happening to him. Sure, he’d done alright when he was younger, but he was firmly settled into middle age now, and no-one looked at him like that any more. So it didn’t make sense, even to mess with him. The hand slipping into his trackpants didn’t make sense.

Gihun let his eyes drift back to the ceiling. As if not looking at the Front Man might mean this wasn’t happening. As if the obscenity of the artwork wasn’t a reminder. He could feel the dampness of his own breath on the leather pressed against his mouth. His shoulder ached. If he concentrated on those things, could he avoid thinking about the hand fondling his dick? He didn’t need to think about how long it had been. If his blood began to stir, it was only that.

The pressure over his mouth eased, and the hand patted his cheek, as if to get his attention. It surprised Gihun – a pat, not a slap. A slap might have made more sense.

Having got his attention, the Front Man straightened his back, knees still tight against Gihun’s hips. He began to remove his coat, and Gihun wondered idly if the gloves made that more difficult. It was a stupid thought. He may as well wonder what the Front Man ate for breakfast.

The coat was held out in one arm and dropped to the floor. Underneath was more black. God forbid the man wear a colour – Gihun wanted to laugh, which was probably a sign that he was freaking out. This shouldn’t be happening. The Front Man should sooner have held a gun to his head than climb on top of him. Undoing his belt, which had to be hard in gloves. Gihun didn’t know why he didn’t just take them off. Take the mask off.

‘You’ll do that,’ Gihun said, ‘but you won’t take the mask off?’ As if it would make a difference, to know the face of the man doing this.

Well, it would make a difference. Hadn’t Gihun wanted to rip that mask off at the end of this? The way he’d pictured, where Junho and the others had arrived to back him up ...

That wasn’t the end Gihun had met.

The Front Man slid the belt free, and he held it in both hands. For a moment, Gihun thought he would strike him with it.

Instead, he bent over and he pressed the leather of the belt over Gihun’s mouth, until his lips were pressed open. Gihun tried to push him away, but the Front Man would not be put off; he pushed his thumb into the bullet wound in Gihun’s shoulder. The pain was bright, incandescent. Gihun made himself go limp. After a moment, the Front Man withdrew the pressure.

‘That’s better.’

Gihun blinked up at him. He was damp with sweat, the ache in his shoulder insistent. The Front Man resumed looping the belt around the back of Gihun’s head. It was humiliating, but Gihun couldn’t keep fighting back. The leather cut into his lips, the rough side dry against his tongue.

The Front Man pulled the buckle closed over Gihun’s throat.

Gihun hated him. He could have freed himself, but he kept his hands at his sides like a coward, because he didn’t want to be hurt again. He would let the Front Man do whatever he wanted to do, because he didn’t want to be hurt again.

Well, what the Front Man had planned probably would hurt. Just not as badly.

They considered each other, the man in the inhuman black mask and Gihun, who was beginning to bleed through his bandage and thus was definitely human. Now the Front Man was undoing his own trousers, the button and the fly. Gihun didn’t want to look but his eyes flicked downward. He would have liked it if the Front Man had a small dick.

They hated to admit they were human, here. The masks, the hoods, nothing to distinguish them from robots. Except Gihun could feel the heat of the Front Man’s body where his legs wrapped Gihun’s. And the Front Man was exposing his humanity now, wasn’t he? Getting his dick out.

He should have worn a condom in advance. A black one. Gihun almost giggled, thinking that, but it was hard to laugh with a belt in your mouth. Maybe he should pull it loose, so that he could laugh at the Front Man’s dick. Maybe that would make him mad enough to finally kill him.

But Gihun didn’t. It wasn’t anything to laugh at, anyway. Except the Front Man did look stupid with the mask on and his dick out. Just take it off, Gihun wanted to say. Be a man and admit what you’re doing.

He wasn’t hard yet, but interested. Fucking obscene. Gihun couldn’t take his eyes away. Maybe one day he’d need to pick the Front Man out a lineup. He’s yea tall and his dick bends to the left.

The Front Man leaned over Gihun, his weight on one arm. With his free hand, he fumbled with Gihun’s trackpants.

Gihun squeezed his eyes shut. But it wasn’t what he expected; the Front Man grabbed his dick, yeah, but together with his own, encircling them both in one leather-clad hand. Gihun was surprised into opening his eyes again. But of course, the mask told him nothing.

He closed his eyes again, frustrated by the responsiveness of his own body. Of course it responded; Gihun could hardly remember the last time he’d had sex. And it wasn’t bad, exactly. If he kept his eyes shut, he could imagine this was someone else. Someone he wouldn’t have minded being jerked off with. Of course, everyone he could think of was dead, and that wouldn’t have explained the leather in his mouth. He was going to ruin this belt.

But maybe the Front Man wouldn’t care if he removed it now. Gihun was going to remove it; the edges of his mouth couldn’t stand it. He let his eyes flicker open, as he lifted his hand to his face. He undid the buckle and tugged the belt free. He wanted to see the Front Man’s reaction, if he reacted.

But he didn’t. The Front Man kept up the steady movement of his hand, pressing their dicks together. Gihun couldn’t know if he was looking at anything at all. He could hear his breath through the mask, distorted by it.

Gihun wanted to take it off. He should be able to see the person doing this. The urge was no longer even driven by anger – he was angry, but the anger was muted.

He lifted his hand, as if this were some moment of tenderness, a man wishing to stroke his lover’s face. But the Front Man must have had his eyes open after all, because he stopped to catch Gihun’s wrist in his hand. The damp leather pressed firmly on Gihun’s wrist bones. Gihun had the sudden thought that the Front Man could snap his wrist like that. The wave of fear that crested in him should have done for his hard on, except that arousal had done something to his brain, turned his reactions upside down.

'What’ve you got to hide anyway?’ Gihun said. ‘You should at least have the guts to show your face.’

‘Do you want that?’ the Front Man said, voice like a promise.

If the Front Man let him go and walked out now, Gihun would still have to get himself off.

The Front Man pressed Gihun’s hand back, until it hit the pillow on the bed behind them.

‘Don’t you know,’ he went on, ‘whatever you think you want is only going to make things worse for you?’

As if in a dream, Gihun raised his other hand. The Front Man grabbed that one too, and held it down beside the other.

‘Can this get worse?’ Gihun said. ‘I’m a dead man, aren’t I?’

The Front Man made a noise of agreement. And then he let go of Gihun’s hands and shoved him around onto his front. It was uncomfortable, requiring Gihun to twist round, and the belt buckle dug into his neck. Gihun lifted his head to try and settle more comfortably – the Front Man noticed, or he just decided on a better use for the belt, because he took it back. Now he wrapped it again around Gihun’s wrists, tying the ends loosely rather than buckling it. Gihun could feel the Front Man’s erection crushed against him. The belt was loose enough that he could have wriggled his hands free – but he wasn’t going to. Because of course things could get worse. There was always a worse, in this place.

The Front Man yanked down his trackpants and underwear, and the air hit Gihun’s bare ass. He tensed through his whole abdomen. Then forced himself to release some of that tension, exhaling. He’d had his ass played with enough that he knew how to make things easier on himself. His ex had been kinky like that.

But it was still different, messing around with your wife. It was different.

He felt the Front Man grab his ass in both hands, squeezing a little, before he ran his hands upwards. Gihun held his breath, holding back the part of himself that just wanted out. Those hands went on to lift his hips, so that Gihun was forced to get his knees under him. Just endure it, he told himself. He’d humiliated himself before in these games. Treat it like another game. First one to come dies.

He didn’t laugh. The hands left him temporarily, and he heard the rustle of plastic. He didn’t laugh then either. Because if the Front Man wasn’t going to fuck him raw, that was at least one mercy.

The hands returned to grip his ass, and Gihun knew what was coming. At first pressure, and then pain, as the Front Man began to press his dick into him. Gihun did his best not to fight it, to bear down and not clench up. Clenching up make it worse. But it was hard because he wanted to resist, and it hurt as if he were being broken open.

And the Front Man kept pushing in. His dick hadn’t looked that big, but it felt big being shoved into him. All the way in. Gihun wanted to squirm, to wriggle away. He let himself be speared. His breath came in ragged gasps, but his own dick hadn’t softened any.

The Front Man paused, balls pressed up against Gihun’s flesh. Then he dropped his weight, lining his body up against Gihun’s so that his chest was against his back. He jerked his hips back and thrust into him, solid and violent.

Gihun let out a grunt, and the Front Man thrust forward again. His hand by Gihun’s head clenched, before he grabbed Gihun by his hair and pressed his head into the pillow. Kept plowing Gihun’s hole, so that the ache of being stretched out began to dull. Instead, came the pressure of Gihun’s building arousal. It was shameful, to be shoved down with his ass wrenched open and his dick the harder because of it. It would have been less shameful to be dead. If only he could forget who was doing this to him. If only it were someone else; some known man whose breath he could feel on his skin, without feeling torn apart like this.

The Front Man let go of his hair, and moved his arm to encircle Gihun’s chest, hand at the base of his throat. He adjusted the angle of his thrusts, and Gihun’s legs collapsed, so that the Front Man was fucking him flat against the bed. At least the position provided some friction to Gihun’s own dick; it was shameful and it was a relief at the same time.

He'd forgotten the pain in his arm, by then. He’d forgotten the pain of being wrenched open.

But he didn’t forget what this was. Gihun had come here to destroy the games, to bring this man down. And now he was having his face rubbed in his own failure.

Maybe he deserved it. Maybe this was his punishment. That was what the Front Man meant this for, wasn’t it? He wanted to punish Gihun for ever thinking he could break the system.

The system would break him instead.

The Front Man would break him.

The Front Man’s thrusts became less rhythmic; at last he filled and held himself inside Gihun, his arm tight against his chest, mask pressing into Gihun’s shoulder. Gihun could hear his breath shudder, echoing through the mask.

‘You’re done?’ Gihun said. His voice cracked. He was aware that he himself wasn’t done, but he didn’t intend to draw attention to that.

The Front Man didn’t answer, but sat back, pulling out from Gihun’s ass. Gihun felt sickly hollow. If the Front Man would hurry up and leave, he could finish himself off. But then what?

Gihun didn’t lift his head, but he felt it when the Front Man climbed off the bed, and he could hear it when he tossed the used condom into a bin. He didn’t hear him leave.

Gihun pushed himself up on his elbows, and turned his head to see that masked face still directed toward him.

‘What?’ he said. ‘If you’re done, get out.’

If there was a reaction, Gihun couldn’t see it. Except that after a moment, the Front Man did turn, and he let himself out the room where Gihun was still trapped.

When he was gone, Gihun collapsed down onto his side, away from the door, injured shoulder in the air.

He put his hand onto his rock-hard dick, and jerked himself the rest of the way off.