Work Text:
Gun always longed to touch a woman.
Partly because he had never had physical contact with anyone other than his treacherous mother, and partly because men always made him feel nauseous – all of them were as repulsive as the reeking filth in a prison cell.
Perhaps, a woman would bring him the sensations he had been yearning for all this time.
Women didn't possess rough, scar-riddled skin. Theirs was soft, smooth, flushed with pink, and brimming with life.
Women didn't exude that distinct stench of men – a pungent mix of body odor and heavy sweat after grueling labor. Instead, they carried a faint, strangely soothing fragrance.
Women weren't brutish; their existence wasn't defined solely by fighting. They're elegant, gentle, always knowing how to resolve matters without resorting to violence.
Women had emotions, but they used them to anchor themselves, rather than letting those drag them down.
Gun wanted that. It sounded absurd, but just once, he wanted to experience living in a woman’s world – a world vibrant with color and brimming with peace – rather than this decaying, brutal menagerie they called a prison.
"What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?"
A warm, masculine voice pulled him from his train of thought. Goo was nestled in his arms, cheek pressed against Gun’s chest, blonde hair spilling over his forehead, obscuring his eyes and long lashes.
"Are you still pissed that I broke your arm? It's just a spur-of-the-moment thing. I already apologized, didn't I?" He feigned remorse, one hand gently tracing the skin beneath the stark white bandages, the other resting against Gun’s gaunt cheek. "How about I whip up something you like tonight? Whatever you want, cutie."
His body carried the scent of vanilla and some unknown expensive cologne – a pleasant fragrance identical to the women Gun had occasionally brushed past.
His skin's firm, yet surprisingly soft in certain places. No scars, no blemishes left behind from brawls.
He enjoyed fighting, but only threw hands when necessary.
He had emotions, but kept them deeply hidden, only letting them slip when a blade's at his throat, when danger's imminent. When he looked at Gun.
When he looked at Gun.
In those moments, Goo’s eyes would gleam with something inexplicable – the light brown of his irises flaring up, so deep and intense it was suffocating. His cheeks would flush, his lips curling into a smirk, and Gun’s name would escape his mouth like a breathless sigh:
"Gun..."
He loved that.
"Are you actually mad? I thought you're into it. When you got your arm broken by... what's his name again, ah, Daniel, you were smiling for a whole week. You weirdo." He nuzzled his head into Gun’s chest, clinging to him like an affectionate puppy.
"Cut the crap, you lunatic. Who cares about your lucky shot breaking my arm? I want you to cook tonight. If I step out with this crippled arm, people'll laugh in my face."
"Aww, I’ll go cook right now then. You're so cute when you sulk." He poked Gun’s cheek with a finger, then skipped off to the kitchen, his footsteps pitter-pattering against the cold tiles.
Perhaps touching a woman wasn't that important anymore, Gun thought, gently resting his hand over the bandages Goo had just caressed.
Prison was maddeningly dull.
Gun’s days passed as if pre-programmed. Open eyes at the morning bell. Work out. Eat breakfast. Read a few pages of some book or skim through crumpled newspapers. Work out. Eat lunch. Rest for a few minutes. Community service – something the guards would gladly let him skip, because no one wanted to provoke him, and because nearly all of them revered him. But Gun did it anyway, out of habit. As a way to maintain his sanity.
Then, work out again. Shower. Eat dinner. Work out some more. Read a few more lines, and finally, lights out.
Every day's a relentless chain of meaningless actions. No climax. No thrill. No blood. And that's exactly what frustrated him the most.
He craved the sensation of crushing someone beneath his hands. He hungered for the metallic tang of blood assaulting his nose, the erratic breathing, and the look in his opponent's eyes just before he delivered the finishing blow. He longed for that cold crack from his ribs – the sound of splintering bone. He even missed the moment of collapsing, only to be dragged back up to continue the fight, until one of them stopped breathing entirely.
He missed that feeling. The feeling of a beast locked up for far too long, frantically bashing its head against the iron bars to break free. A punch to the face. A kick to the gut. A sword piercing through flesh.
...a sword piercing through flesh.
It had been six months since Gun last tasted that sensation. He had to get three fake teeth implanted because he had used his mouth to bite down and block a sword strike. Those three teeth were the only things left to remind him that the fight had even happened. Was he happy then? Why couldn’t he remember anything about that fight?
His shoes and pant legs were stained red. It wasn't blood. It was kimchi and some thick, gooey mixture that reeked of nauseating spice. Right in front of him, a kid was facedown on the cafeteria floor, having just tripped and spilled his entire food tray all over Gun.
Murmurs immediately erupted around them.
"This guy is dead meat."
"We've got a good show today."
"He'll be lucky to live past tonight."
Other prisoners snickered, buzzing with excitement. They waited to see how Gun would react, as if watching a provoked lion in a circus.
And they weren't wrong. He was angry. Not exactly over the filthy food, but because his hands had been itching for a fight all week. This prison was making his blood stagnate. The brat kneeling on the floor was the perfect excuse to vent that frustration. Just one punch, something light, just to entertain his hands.
"Get up," he ordered. The kid scrambled to his feet, limbs trembling violently.
"Look up."
The boy raised his head. A youthful face, pale as a sheet of paper. Light brown eyes, dyed blonde hair slicked back with its natural black roots showing. A few strands fell across his forehead, drenched in sweat.
"Please, I’m begging you. I’m sorry, it’s my fault... I’ll do your laundry, I’ll shine your shoes... please, I don’t want to die..."
He couldn't even stand anymore. He collapsed to his knees, pressing his hands together as if in prayer. His eyes were red, tears streaming down his face. A few strands of hair drooped down, half-obscuring his gaze.
A strange sensation welled up in Gun’s chest. Shortness of breath. A heaviness in his heart. He no longer had the desire to strike.
The kid kept groveling while the cafeteria remained loud with laughter, chatter, and pointing fingers. Even the guards were unsure whether they should intervene.
Gun – the center of attention – remained completely still.
"Get out of the way."
"H-Huh...?" the kid stammered.
"I said get out of the way. Are you deaf?" He repeated, his tone flat and icy. Stripped of any killing intent, devoid of any anger.
"Y-Yes, sir! Thank you! I owe you my life!" The boy frantically scrambled to the side in a panic, bowing his head as if he had just been granted a royal pardon.
Gun strode toward his table, his shoes and pant legs still coated in filth. He ate slowly, in silence, entirely unbothered by the whispers that continued to echo throughout the room.
That kid was still crying – eyes bloodshot, tears yet to cease. But his face... it seemed more vivid than before. He was no longer terrified, and he glanced one last time at Gun as if he were someone truly magnificent. Even though Gun had been on the verge of killing him just moments ago.
Gun froze for a second. There was something strangely familiar about this. He felt as though he had seen this exact scene somewhere before.
That night, Gun had another nightmare. There was a blonde-haired young boy lying at his feet, drenched in blood. When he bent down to check, he found that the boy was dead.
Why couldn’t he remember who that person was? And why couldn’t he stop thinking about him? He felt a profound sense that he had lost something incredibly important, but no matter how hard he thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, he simply couldn't remember.