Work Text:
등잔 밑이 어둡다
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Rust and resonance
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2009, two years before the Dragon motors protests.
Eleven years before the 33rd squid game.
To Seong Gi-Hun, something about the garage always felt heavier at the end of a closing shift – like the sweat and strain of the work day had settled in the rafters and decided to stay there. Dragon Motors didn’t shut down as much as sag under the weight of oil fumes and fluorescent lights, a creaking beast laying down to rest. Gi-Hun rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to think about how many late shifts he’d worked since he started.
Or how many of his overtime hours had never been paid.
Three experienced workers could clean and close the workshop in 45 minutes, but the boss didn’t give them more than 30. Because of course, those extra fifteen minutes would drive the company to ruin.
Despite the chill creeping in from outside, the air around him still held the lingering heat of machines that had run too long. Fortunate, in a way — since the zipper of his jacket had snagged on a broken thread and refused to close.
He tugged at it, grumbling profanities under his breath, before beginning the end of shift routine: check the tool drawers, lock the cabinets, make sure nothing was left out that the boss could yell about in the morning. Mister Pyeon had a military-like radar for sins committed after hours, though Gi-Hun remembered even his officers in the army being kinder.
Jacket hanging half open, he bent down to pick an abandoned pipe wrench off the ground and was met with a loud crack. Not a gentle pop, not the normal end of day stretch, but a crack like rusted hinges giving out.
He hissed through clenched teeth, straightening carefully. God, his back. He wasn’t even forty yet but his joints made him feel like a man nearing sixty. Every time he crouched under a chassis or twisted to reach a bolt some designer had put in the worst possible place; something inside him protested.
A dull ache settled into the small of his back, a reminder.
Men who slowed down got replaced.
Men with backs like his got quietly handed fewer hours until they got the message.
At Dragon Motors, you kept the pace or got replaced. Because there was always a kid in his twenties willing to work for less, lift heavier and never complain.
Gi-Hun had been that kid once.
Now he rubbed the stiff muscles above his hip, looking around the empty garage. The workshop felt too big without the others – their laughter, movement and footsteps. Just Gi-Hun and the lingering hum of engines. His friend Jung-Bae usually offered to help him close after clocking out, but last time he did that they were both put on cleaning duty for two weeks.
“You two think this is a social club?” Mister Pyeon had snapped. “I’m not paying for any goddamn extra injuries.”
As if teamwork was some novel, subversive idea.
That didn’t stop Jung-Bae from hovering near the entrance after closing time however. Pretending to look in his bag, fiddling with the vending machine, smoking. Whenever Gi-Hun finished up, his friend somehow always had a cigarette or a bag of chips for him.
Gi-Hun’s watch read ten minutes past when his shift was supposed to end, because of course it did. Another sliver of unpaid time he’d pretend not to notice. He kicked a stray bolt across the room with his boot. It clattered, sound echoing, it was his little act of defiance. Because if the boss heard a noise like that, god help them all.
Despite the ache in his back, he continued closing for another fifteen minutes. Turning off all the appliances, tidying, locking the doors and windows. Double and triple checking.
Because it was always the workers’ fault, wasn’t it?
The electricity bill, missing gloves, a shipment being late. Hell, if the president of the country got a runny nose mister Pyeon would probably find a way to blame them. The man walked around like the entire company was one bad decision away from bankruptcy, and Gi-Hun suspected he wasn’t wrong. But he also suspected it wasn’t because the workers wanted extra lamps when they wrote reports.
Satisfied, Gi-Hun grabbed his bag and headed down the hall towards the break room to wash his hands and peel the soaked boiler suit off his body. He shuffled forward, boots clacking against the tile.
Until a sound startled him.
A faint hum, drifting out from the break room.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing. Someone had left the goddamn radio on again, fantastic. Their boss would lose his mind if he knew even a single spark of electricity was being wasted on something non-productive.
Gi-Hun marched towards the break room, ready to blame someone – until he reached the door, and froze.
Because it wasn’t a radio, he recognized that voice. A voice that clocked out from his shift an hour and a half ago.
It was Jung-Bae.
And he was singing.
He could see his friend through the crack in the door – half out of his coveralls, undershirt clinging to his back, hair pushed up by the little headband he wore when working under cars, a smear of grease on his cheek.
An ordinary working man, but his voice was anything but. It didn’t belong in that little room under the flickering fluorescent lights, in the run down workshop. It was soft, yet certain, lacking any pressure to perform. Rich, rounded notes floated from the door, not trying to impress, wrapped in life and warmth. Jung-Bae swayed from side to side, shoulders relaxed in a way they never would’ve been if he knew someone was looking.
Gi-Hun couldn’t make himself move if he tried, wrench hanging forgotten between his fingers. Something bloomed in his chest, the kind of heat that made him weary by instinct. The kind that felt forbidden, unmanly.
Still, he stood there listening like an idiot. To this private, intimate little concert. God, he felt like a voyeur.
He’d heard Jung-Bae sing before – at noraebangs, at an afterwork with their coworkers when someone shoved a flask of soju and a microphone into his hands – but never like this. Never without bravado and alcohol, never without noise and laughter to drown it out.
This was something else entirely.
The kind of singing that made Gi-Hun feel comforted and lonely all at the same time. That warm, unguarded voice settled in the space between his ribs where all the aches of work and life lived. It pushed the pain in his back aside, filling every empty, hollow crevice.
A foolish thought flickered into his mind, uninvited:
What would it be like to fall asleep to that voice every night?
To have it drift over him in the dark after a long day, soothing parts of him he’d never admit ached. A voice warm enough to keep the nightmares at bay, soft enough to cushion his stiff joints.
Gi-Hun was suddenly aware of his heartbeat, of the redness crawling up his neck and settling in his ears.
What would it be like to come home, exhausted and aching together, to a tiny apartment that didn’t judge them. To hear Jung-Bae’s voice drifting from the next room. Something gentle, steady –
– safe.
It startled Gi-Hun so harshly that he jerked. But he didn’t know if it was because of the thoughts themselves, or because the gates of hell didn’t open to swallow him because he’d dared think them. It was like stepping onto thin ice, and discovering it wouldn’t crack.
… And then the wrench slipped from his hand, crashing down on his foot with a loud, humiliating thud.
“AH–! FUCK!” Gi-Hun howled, clutching his foot and doing a one legged hop with no dignity whatsoever.
Inside, the singing stopped.
Followed by a clatter.
A chair scraping.
A muffled “shit!”
And then the door slammed open so hard it nearly tore off the hinges.
Jung-Bae stumbled out, undershirt half-tucked, coveralls hanging around his hips, hairband sliding down one temple. “Who’s there? What’s happening—Hyung?” His eyes bulged. “What’re you doing?!”
“I’m fine!” Gi-Hun squeaked, he’d never made a sound that high before.
“You’re hopping.”
“I’m not hopping,” Gi-Hun hissed, while hopping. “I’m just… strategically redistributing the pain.” Another hop, another bolt of agony. “Shut up.”
Jung-Bae was already crouched in front of him, calloused hands hovering near Gi-Hun’s ankle but not touching, as if touch might break something delicate. Gi-Hun almost toppled right into him.
“What happened?” Jung-Bae demanded. “Did something fall? Did you fall? Is it your back, did the damn shelving collapse again—”
“It was a wrench,” Gi-Hun ground out.
Jung-Bae pointed at the heavy, red pipe wrench on the floor. “This one?”
“No, a different wrench that’s now invisible. Yes, that one.”
“Hyung… why were you holding a wrench in the hallway?”
Gi-Hun’s brain went blank.
He felt caught—caught doing something he didn’t have a name for.
Caught with a feeling he didn’t want to explain.
He could lie.
He could deflect.
He could say he found the wrench, or needed it, or that it teleported.
Instead, he blurted, “I was… inspecting it.”
“In the hallway?”
“Yes.”
“Halfway out of your boiler suit? With your bag over one shoulder?”
“Yes.”
“While staring directly at the break room door?”
Gi-Hun’s ears ignited. “Things happen! It’s a free country.”
“A constitutionally sanctioned hallway wrench inspection.” Jung-Bae snorted. “Got it.”
Gi-Hun opened his mouth in search of dignity and produced only, “Yah! Shut up.”
Jung-Bae snorted harder. “Unbelievable.” He straightened, stretching his back. “Come here, let me see your foot.”
“No.”
“Hyung—”
“It’s fine!”
“Gi-Hun—”
“Oh, now you’re dropping honorifics?” Gi-Hun snapped. “I’m your elder.”
“You’re ten months older. And you were hopping like an injured flamingo.”
“It was strategic redistribution of—”
“You impossible bastard. Sit down before you break something.”
Gi-Hun tried to muster a scathing retort, but when he shifted his weight, the pain flared and his boot slid across the tile. His yelp caught in his throat—because everything suddenly steadied.
Jung-Bae’s hands wrapped firmly around his forearms, steadying him, lowering him gently to the ground. His ears, neck, and cheeks were scarlet. For a moment, the pain was muffled by the warmth of those hands through the layers of his coveralls. Everything in Gi-Hun’s body went taut.
Since when had he ever noticed Jung-Bae’s hands?
They were just hands; grease-stained, practical, meant for work. So why did they feel like they were made of electricity? The height difference shoved Gi-Hun’s face near the top of Jung-Bae’s head. He inhaled instinctively.
Motor oil.
Smoke.
Cheap soap.
There was nothing special about any of it, yet Gi-Hun’s pulse jumped like he’d been struck by lightning.
He cleared his throat, rubbing the spot on his arm where those hands had been. “I said I’m fine, Jung-Bae-ya.”
“You always say that,” Jung-Bae muttered. “Just let me look. Is anything broken? Can you bend your toes? Try wiggling them—no, wait, that’ll make it worse.”
Gi-Hun scowled. He wanted to snap back. He wanted to tease. But beneath the throbbing pain, something more fragile sagged inside him. A part of himself he’d been trained to swallow down. The part that believed no one would ever take care of him without being asked.
The part that didn’t know what to do when someone did.
“Will you relax?” he snapped instead. “I didn’t drop it on my head.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Jung-Bae said, brushing dust off Gi-Hun’s coveralls in brisk, efficient sweeps. “Besides, I can tell you’re lying.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Your ears are red. They’re always red when you lie.”
Gi-Hun nearly died on the spot. “They’re not! It’s—pain.”
Jung-Bae rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue. He carefully removed Gi-Hun’s boot, hands steady and deliberate. His fingertips pressed lightly at the swelling around Gi-Hun’s ankle, and the sensation stamped straight into Gi-Hun’s pulse.
For a few breaths, neither spoke.
But the silence wasn’t heavy.
Not cold.
Not lonely.
It simply settled between them like something earned through years of working side by side.
Then Jung-Bae’s hands froze. His gaze flicked to the break-room door.
To the chair he’d knocked over. Back to Gi-Hun.
Recognition lit his face like a fuse.
“…Hyung,” he breathed, voice tight. “Did you—?”
“No!” Gi-Hun blurted.
“You were standing right there—”
“No. Well, yes—”
“And the door was open.”
“Barely open.”
“And you were spying—”
“I wasn’t!”
Jung-Bae blinked at him, betrayed and mortified. “You heard me, didn’t you? Oh my god.”
“I wasn’t spying or listening—I was inspecting! A wrench!” Gi-Hun gestured wildly at the floor. “Remember the wrench?”
“I knew it!” Jung-Bae shot to his feet, pointing at him like an outraged prosecutor. His other hand covered his face, which was now the shade of a boiled crab. “Fuck, hyung! Why didn’t you say something?! Knock, cough, throw something, anything!”
“I DID throw something!” Gi-Hun snapped, jabbing a finger at the wrench.
“That doesn’t count, you clumsy bastard! How long were you standing there?”
“Not long.” Gi-Hun lied. “Just uh… long enough to realize you weren’t the radio.”
Jung-Bae made a noise like someone had kicked him in the shin. “The radio? How could you mistake me for the radio? Hyung, I wasn’t even warmed up.” He began to pace around in an angry circle. “That was hardly singing. More like – like throat clearing. I was pitchy, the acoustic sucked. I wasn’t ready for someone to hear it–”
“Pitchy?” Gi-Hun scoffed before he could stop himself. “You call that pitchy? My soul ascended!”
Silence.
Utter silence.
Every neuron in Gi-Hun’s brain was kicking itself, screaming "why did you say that out loud?"
Jung-Bae froze mid-pace, staring with wide, stunned eyes.
“I– I mean… ascended out of panic! Pure agony. You sounded like a forklift, obviously.” Gi-Hun blabbed.
“Hyung,” Jung-Bae whispered, “please stop talking.”
“You started it.” Gi-Hun tried weakly.
“You started it, standing there like some sound-pervert.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Sure, mister wrench inspector!”
“Kill me now. Drop the wrench on my head I swear to god.” Gi-Hun groaned.
“No.” Jung-Bae snapped. “You’re staying alive and suffering with me.”
“You’re being very dramatic for someone who sings like that.”
“LIKE WHAT?”
Gi-Hun’s heart lurched, and he backpedalled so hard he might’ve rolled his ankle again if he wasn’t sitting. “Like… noise. Sounds, whatever. Thought a pipe had broken.”
They glared at each other, both flushed, both breathing too fast – every pore dripping with embarrassment.
Then Gi-Hun blurted the only deflection he could think of.
“Why are you still here, anyway?”
Jung-Bae’s mouth snapped shut. “What, I’m not allowed to be at work now?”
“You clocked out almost two hours ago.”
“So?”
“So, why aren’t you home?” He pushed, doing anything to get the attention away from himself.
“I.” He wiped sweaty hands on his thighs, looking anywhere but Gi-Hun’s face. “I was finishing up some things.”
“Finishing what?”
“You know, stuff.”
“What stuff, Jung-Bae-ya?”
Jung-Bae managed to look even shorter than usual, shoulders curling in on themselves. “Thought I’d grab a drink from the vending machine.” He said with about as much conviction as Gi-Hun’s squeaking.
“You hate the vending machine. You call it a box of betrayal because the chips are always stale.”
“It’s the truth!”
“So what were you doing singing in the breakroom?”
“... I thought you’d need a ride.”
Another teasing word and accusation already sat in his mouth when Gi-Hun heard Jung-Bae speaking. His voice went from high-strung and energetic to soft and mumbling in an instant.
“What?” Gi-Hun blinked.
Jung-Bae waved dismissively, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Forget it.”
“No. No, I just–”
“It wasn’t… I mean… look, Gi-Hun.” Oil and dirt smeared down his cheeks. “Your back has been bothering you for weeks, it’s cold outside, and I know you walk home every day to save money. And if I’d said ‘Hyung, let me drive you home’ you would’ve refused.”
Gi-Hun knew it was true, but his idiotic mouth still insisted: “I wouldn't."
“You would. You never let anyone help unless you’re already dead on the floor. Even then you’d apologize for being too heavy. Remembering when you sprained your back trying to lift that motor block?”
“It was just a little sprain.” He grumbled.
“You crawled to the break room so mister Pyeon wouldn’t see you.”
Gi-Hun looked down at his swollen foot, wringing his hands. His chest was unbearably warm and he must’ve looked sunburned.
Jung-Bae’s whole face softened, and he sat down by Gi-Hun’s side. “So I figured I’d stay… and pretend it was because of snacks, or work stuff. That way you wouldn’t make a fuss.” He tugged off his headband, tossing it into a corner. “Didn’t expect to have the most embarrassing evening of my life because I got bored waiting.”
Gi-Hun swallowed, transfixed by Jung-Bae’s hands, how they fidgeted, how they’d felt on his arm. “You’re so stupid.” He muttered.
“Yeah.” Jung-Bae sighed, voice gentle. “But you’re my friend. What else am I supposed to do?”
Unspoken words hung between them, in that no man’s land people like them weren’t supposed to cross. Four words that weighed more than the wrench on Gi-Hun’s foot.
I care about you.
Silence draped over the corridor like a blanket. Comfortable and heavy all at once.
It was Jung-Bae who broke it.
“Did you really think it was that bad?” He asked, voice small in a way Gi-Hun didn’t know if he’d heard before.
“Think what was bad?” Gi-Hun tried to stall.
“My singing.” He shifted where he sat, coverall slipping further down his hips. “I know it was rough. I hadn’t warmed up, the acoustics in there are shit and–”
“It wasn’t bad.” Gi-Hun blurted. Because the only thing worse than his own discomfort and emotions was the idea of Jung-Bae talking down to himself.
Jung-Bae turned his head. “Really?”
Feeling Jung-Bae’s eyes on him suddenly made the wall very interesting. “I said it wasn’t bad.”
“You said–”
“Well I lied, okay?I liked it. It was… nice. Didn’t know you could do that.”
“It was nice?” God, the hope in Jung-Bae’s voice was enough to make his heart flutter.
He flailed for words that weren’t too soft or unmanly, not enough to give him away. “Nicer than the radio static, happy?”
“...a little bit.” Jung-Bae murmured.
“Shut up.” Gi-Hun said again, shoving his friend’s shoulder.
“You shut up.” Jung-Bae shoved back.
“No, you shut up.”
“Hyung, I will step on your swollen foot.” He rose to his feet, holding out a hand. “Come on, let’s get you to my car.”
“It’s fine.”
“Stand up or I’ll throw you over my goddamn shoulder. I was a marine, you know!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
With that, they both burst into giggles, as Jung-Bae dragged Gi-Hun upright. It became immediately apparent that reaching the car would be a mission. There were three main problems:
Gi-Hun was too tall.
Jung-Bae was too short.
And physics existed.
Gi-Hun leaned on him anyway.
Jung-Bae grunted, trying not to have Gi-Hun flop over him. “Fuck the laws of motion and gravity. Why are you built like a collapsing lamp post?”
“I’m tall,” Gi-Hun said defensively.
“Unwieldy, more like.”
“You’re just tiny.”
“I am perfectly average for a Korean man!” Jung-Bae spluttered.
“Tiny.”
“One more time and I’ll drop you.”
“You are ti– OW! You hit my kidney!”
“Then stop leaning like a drunk giraffe!”
They made their hobbling pilgrimage to the parking lot, before Jung-Bae had to go back in and fetch both their bags and lock up the place. By the time they got to the car, they were both gasping.
Jung-Bae dragged the passenger door open, pointing with all the sternness of a drill sergeant. “Get in before gravity finishes you off.”
“My hero.” Gi-Hun rolled his eyes, gritting his teeth and maneuvering into the seat.
“Hurts that bad does it?” Jung-Bae frowned as he took his place, hearing Gi-Hun’s hiss of pain.
“A little bit.” A thought snuck into his brain. “You know, if you wanted to make it hurt less… maybe you could–”
“No.” Jung-Bae snapped.
“You could sing a little.”
"Absolutely not.”
“Come on, do it for my poor foot.”
“You’re emotionally blackmailing me with your injury?” Jung-Bae demanded.
"Absolutely."
“Hyung, no.”
“But you were happy when I said I liked your voice.”
“Seong Gi-Hun, I will crash the car with both of us in it.”
For the first time that day, Gi-Hun smiled. Really smiled.
Jung-Bae slammed the door shut, starting the engine with more force than was needed. As they left the Dragon Motors parking lot, driving onto empty, dark streets, the radio flickered to life. Soft static, an old ballad drifting through the cheap speakers.
And after a moment.
Perhaps it was Gi-Hun’s imagination…
… but Jung-Bae began humming along.
Gi-Hun forced himself to stay still and silent, afraid that any sudden movement would make his friend stop. So he leaned back his head, closed his eyes, and let that warmth settle back in his chest.
The pain in his foot dulled.
The cold outside melted away.
And for the length of that short drive… the world felt a little less cruel.
When Gi-Hun crawled into bed that night, the last thing he heard was the sound of Jung-Bae’s humming, nestled in between his ribs, refusing to leave.