Meeting Student!Gun Park for the First Time
G/N. 3.2k. Remember when Gun wanted to get his GED? Well. Stranger to~ Masterlists
"How old are you?"
"20."
Press X for doubt, you think, and that's the exact meme you send over on chat.
"20 like 20 or 20 like you're mid 30s and planning your mid life crisis 20?"
You know you're being rude and making a terrible first impression. It's the first day of a new school year, of a new school in fact, and for some reason the class is held on video call and you're all forced to pair off with a classmate for an icebreaker introduction.
It’s already cringe worthy and awkward enough, icebreakers must have been created as a form of torture. To add insult to injury, you're sure this guy is bullshitting you.
"I'm 20." He deadpans.
Momentarily, you’re stunned into silence. It stretches almost a tad too long before you manage to choke out, “My bad. Sorry."
Wow. You're torn between thinking that's a rough 20, this guy has easily got 40 years under his belt and oh no, when is your puberty and hormones gonna kick in like that.
And that's also the exact moment this 20 year old Gun Park takes a drag on a cigarette and you decide that it's definitely a rough 20.
"So what do you do for fun?" You probe, and you have the distinct feeling he might say something like alimony, planning his third marriage, investing in the stock market - whatever someone in their 50s might say but-
To your surprise and glee, his body language turns shifty.
He likes to game he says, like it's a dirty little secret. Amongst other things. Mentions something about training and martial arts and you fight to keep a straight face as it turns out you were also right about investing in shares and the stock market.
Gaming, however, is what you latch on to.
"Cute. I bet I could kick your ass."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yes."
And this is how you ended up at 4am on a school night, playing Tekken with your new classmate and getting your ass kicked.
"One more!" You screech down the mic, after the KO sign appears on screen, mumbling something about cheating and how if you can time this combo just right-
There's a huff of laughter coming through your tinny headphones and an amused "Fine."
.
.
Dark circles under your eyes grow. It's been a week of straight losses.
You blame the sleep deprivation on Gun Park, though really you have your own stubbornness to blame.
He never tends to say much during the gaming sessions apart from the odd expletive and you rant enough after each of your defeats for the both of you.
Sometimes this will earn you a chuckle and he will snidely add that you asked for this, you were the one who was supposed to kick his ass. This would piss you off enough for another game or three in the hopes of defeating him and getting to gloat.
Which unfortunately has not happened yet.
With a sigh, you hope your camera quality this morning is bad enough and pixelated enough that your poor sleep habits don't show.
You scan over your classmates, the few that have their camera turned on and find him.
Gun looks completely fine. He looks completely fine in what must be 4k and ugh, you scrunch your nose up in annoyance.
You keep an eye on him through the class. Observe how he's usually paying rapt attention, scribbling and typing up notes every now and then.
It's impressive how studious he is.
In comparison, you're daydreaming. Thinking about lunch, other combos or characters to play to counter his own when you catch on to the back end of a sentence as your teacher mentions ‘this’ is something to pay attention to as it will be on the pop quiz.
Huh? You blink a couple times. What is ‘this’? Unfortunately she swiftly moves onto another topic.
You type out a direct message to the only person you know.
You: I missed that, what did she just say?
Gun: You should have been paying attention.
You: Fuck you man!
You see his eyes dip to the bottom of the camera screen, briefly moving as he presumably reads your message.
He smirks.
That night he kicks your ass again.
Then as consolation, reveals what will be on the pop quiz.
.
.
If Gun looked like that in 4k, nothing could prepare you for how he looked in real life.
You're setting up your laptop and notepad in the classroom, the first actual in-person session, when someone takes a seat next to you.
Initially you feel a surge of irritation that they could have sat anywhere else and chose to sit next to you, then you look at the offender and-
Hold on.
You double, triple-take-
Is that?
It must be.
Shit.
It's fucking Gun Park.
You don't entirely regret your initial comments on his looks because this guy definitely does not look 20 but goddamn he looks-
He chooses that moment, when your jaw is on the floor, to turn to you and give you a nod of acknowledgement.
"Y/N."
"H-hi." You manage, and even to your ears it sounds like a simpering fool.
He must have thought so too if the quirk of his lips is anything to go by.
The cherry on top is that you expected this guy to smell like stale smoke, instead all you get is fresh laundry and something faintly dark and heady like leather and cedarwood.
Fuck.
Control yourself, a disapproving voice in your head says. Even that sounds vaguely like Gun.
It does nothing to stop your wandering gaze, peering at him in your periphery when you think he's not looking.
After you have taken your chance to not so discreetly run your eyes up and down his form, the only thing that makes you feel better is his hair. Because yeah he might be hot, but holy shit that must be a gallon of hair gel in there.
.
.
The other thing, as it turns out, that makes you feel a lot better is that he doodles.
It’s utterly charming.
Someone like Gun Park doesn't look like he doodles, but in between lines of his chicken scratch (seriously, who can even read that), there's little stick figures.
Maybe all the time you thought he was being studious he was just drawing-
Wait. You squint at the picture.
Is this guy for real?
"Are they fucking?" You whisper, using your pen to point at the page.
He doesn't answer straight away. There's a moment of surprise as he reacts like this is another secret of his he has unwittingly let you in on before his nostril flares and his eyes narrow and you grin in response.
Your grin grows when he grits out an answer. "No. Fighting."
He doesn't call you a dumbass but you can hear it loud and clear tacked on at the end.
"Whatever, pervert." You counter. You guess if you squint even harder then you suppose they could be fighting. Although the way one is lying on top of another is very suggestive. You don't hesitate to point that out to him.
Gun closes his eyes and counts to ten.
.
.
Even without a seating plan, one forms.
Places taken by chance on the first day becomes a regular arrangement.
You exchange a few words with your classmates, familiarise yourself somewhat with their names and faces. Pieces of their backstory, why they're here studying for a GED but take your spot next to Gun regardless.
No one really talks to him, you've heard them saying he's menacing and intimidating. Yet when your first encounter of him was mistaking him as someone about to hit mid life crisis, how intimidating can he really be.
Besides, he still doodles his lewd figures that he insists are not in any way shape or form comprising sexual positions. So no, you don't find him intimidating at all.
.
.
Gun, as you have come to know, is a man of few words. He is also unsurprisingly not great at literature.
What you don't yet know is he likes to say what he means and mean what he says. His patience only extends to The Art of War, so all the flowery prose and poetry only serves to irritate him.
If Gun glared at you the way he's currently glaring at the textbook, you think you may either burst into tears or burst into flames.
Luckily you do neither of those things but you do take pity on him. Leaning over, you ask him quietly if he needs help.
He doesn't respond but the pen he's clutching in his right hand snaps in half.
Alright then.
Half an hour later, when the class empties out you ask Gun to follow you to the library.
He hesitates, and you add "if you've got time" to give him an out. In the end he doesn't take it and trudges obediently after you.
You very quickly learn that he really doesn't like literature. You're explaining and working him through the analysis and also mildly offended at the bored look on his face.
"This is a waste of time," he interjects and there's a sullen undercurrent to his words.
"Just memorise the analysis then." Exasperation tinges your tone, "That's all you need to do to pass."
He arches a brow at your words.
"They're testing your memory. So just remember what our teacher says."
There's an angry air of resignation as Gun nods, and you slide your notes over for him to copy.
.
.
Not long after, you have your first minor evaluation on the literature material.
You notice during the test that while the vein in Gun’s temple is prominent and he’s clutching his (new) pen tighter, there’s barely any pause as he fills in the answers.
A few days later, the graded papers are handed back. There's a sigh of relief from Gun.
He gives you a smile, small and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corner.
"You owe me one," you tell him jokingly though he takes it to heart and gives you a stern nod.
.
.
Gun repays his debt, with a coffee.
He places the paper cup on the desk in front of you. Logo of the coffee house to the side but still visible. It's new, expensive, and there’s regular lines around the block.
Of course it would be from there.
The issue is, who repays a debt with an espresso. He didn’t even ask for your drink of choice!
"Thanks for this thimble of coffee," you remark as Gun sniffs in distaste at your comment, placing his own matching cup in front of him and saying something about how it's the best untainted way to drink it.
Of course he would also be a coffee snob.
You tell him you usually like it with a bit more cream and a lot more sugar and he mutters that you sound like Goo.
You think that's an insult.
"Well, at least Goo has good taste," you snipe back with a grin.
Gun closes his eyes and counts to ten.
.
.
You: Are you doodling or actually writing notes?
You: Cos on camera you look very studious but I’ve seen your notepad
Gun: None of your business
You: Still drawing your disgusting pornographic stick men then
Gun: They are not-
Gun: Whatever
.
.
You: Ok, maybe that espresso wasn’t terrible
Gun: I know
You: Who’s Goo anyway?
Gun: …
Gun: No-one
You: Suuuure
.
.
You: Tekken tonight?
Gun: Aren’t you tired of getting your ass kicked?
You: >:(
.
.
You: Do you wanna go over the new lit material in the library this week?
Gun: Ok
.
.
Gun: Thanks for your help
You: :)
.
.
Gun: You’re tired. You should game less.
You: Spoken like a coward!
Gun: Dumbass
You: Hey!!
.
.
Gun: I’ll bring you an espresso tomorrow. You need it.
You: Does it have to be an espresso?
Gun: Yes
You: …Thanks
.
.
To anyone else, the figure standing in the doorway is just smoking. To you, it suspiciously looks like they’re waiting.
It's not a crime. Gun Park can wait for whatever or whoever he wants.
What really throws you off is his smoking. You've seen him casually take one single drag before throwing the whole cigarette away. Even to you, it seems like a waste.
However, this time he smokes one all the way to the filter before stubbing it out. Then does the same to a second, and third.
Strange, very strange.
You approach him. Taking gentle steps, in case he might get spooked and bolt which is really a ridiculous notion for someone like him. Nevertheless, you keep your footsteps light, yourself clearly in view and you wander over to him.
"Hey," you say, with a somewhat forced smile. He doesn't acknowledge your greeting apart from a brief nod.
"... Everything ok?"
It's a perfectly normal question to ask but a vastly bizarre one for Gun. He doesn't look like the type of person where people casually enquire about his well being.
He must have thought so too if the look he gives you is anything to go by.
In response, he stubs out his cigarette (his fourth!) then asks, stilted and stiffly, if you want to come back to his for a game of Tekken.
At least that's what you interpret as he seems to be crazy cryptic.
"Are you interested in Tekken?"
"...Yes." You wonder what on earth this question is because did you hallucinate all those games you played together?
"Then meet me. After class."
"Where? Here?"
"No. At mine."
"Where's that?"
"..."
He gives you another look, as if you're the one trying to coax a secret out of him despite him offering.
Gun dips forward, murmurs quietly into your ear his address and some vague directions like it's highly confidential information.
You nod along, thinking what is with this guy.
.
.
So firstly, what the fuck.
Then secondly, what the fuck.
Don't think you hadn't noticed the designer brands Gun wears. If they're fakes, they're very convincing fakes. But you're almost certain they have got to be counterfeit when he brought you over to a junkyard claiming this is where he lives.
You've seen films like this. Granted, it's less in a junkyard and more in the middle of nowhere in America where college kids meet their gruesome ends in fantastical ways.
You never thought this would happen to you. You have sorely miscalculated.
Is this Gun Park (if that even is his real name) going to butcher you and leave your body on top of a pile of scrap metal in the corner?
Instead of a night of gaming where you’re the one KO-ing him, he’s actually the one that’s going to chase you around wearing a mask and wielding a knife or axe?
"You’re here. Come in," Gun says, opening his front door just as your inner monologue begins to truly spiral out of control and you're considering doing a runner.
"Eh?" You grunt like an idiot, not noticing when the shack appeared nor when you stepped onto his porch, or the side eyes Gun had been giving you.
He gives you another look, likely regretting inviting you at all, and leaves the door ajar for you to either enter or turn back and go home.
.
.
"This is... nice," you lie, through the skin of your teeth.
Gun sees cleanly through your white lie and exhales a huff of amusement.
It's sparse. Peeks of luxury here and there - the extensive PC gaming rig, the entertainment system and consoles, to name a few.
Apart from that, it's barely a home.
"Take a seat." He offers, and it sounds more like an order. Obediently you sit on his sofa, feeling very much a guest.
"You're not in danger," he says, bemused at how awkward you are in his domain, how tense you hold yourself.
'That's exactly what a killer would say,' you think and when you hear a low chuckle, you realise that you said it aloud.
"Don't worry," Gun reassures and it doesn’t really help before he strides off to somewhere in his house and leaves you sitting alone.
He returns back minutes later as you’re in the middle of admiring his entertainment set up and going through his vinyl collection (because obviously someone like Gun has vinyls) with a coffee for you that looks much more milky and to your taste than the usual ones he offers.
“Thanks.” you take your drink and return back to your seat.
Taking the first sip, you finally manage to relax. Sinking into a sofa that is much more comfortable than at first glance and you take in your surroundings a bit more.
Sort of. You actually take in Gun Park more.
He’s casual, in a way you have never seen or even considered. Dressed in a t-shirt and grey sweatpants, hair floppy and the only styling is done with his hands running through his hair now and then to keep it back.
Even during the online classes, he is usually dressed up in an open collared shirt.
If you thought he was hot before, it’s nothing compared to now. There’s an air of domesticity, the drink he made for you cradled in your hands, and the distinct feeling that not many people have had the luxury to see Gun in his natural habitat, so intimate and vulnerable.
You wonder if this is how he looks all those nights you’ve been gaming together.
You catch his eyes, having been caught checking him out and he raises his eyebrows at your blatant staring.
Blood rushes to your cheeks as he chuckles into his own espresso and takes a sip.
.
.
"Holy shit, I won!"
You're familiar with the KO screen. What you're not familiar with is being on the side of victory. You're usually a hair trigger away from rage quitting, from throwing a tantrum down the mic.
Finally. All your hard work has paid off. Time spent thinking of combos, attacks and defences (which would have been better spent studying) is coming to fruition.
You peer over to Gun, expect the controller he is clutching to maybe have been crushed into pieces with his freakish strength. Expected nothing except for a vein throbbing on his temple.
What you do find is-
Gun looking at you, fondness in his eyes. He's taking in your grin, letting your gloating slide.
Doesn't do more than roll his eyes when you perform a victory dance of sorts around him.
And when you get in his face to tell him that you're the winner, you're the best-
(More words are on the tip of your tongue but your gaze drops to his lip, drawn to the small smile he wears.
It sinks in.
The patience he has, the attention he gives, the way he has opened his home to you.
From the very first meeting, the even-handed way he has dealt with your insults, entertained you to the early hours of the morning on Tekken.)
Gun reaches out, tugs your hand and pulls you into his lap and agrees.
"Yes. The best."
You think it's a lie, an embellishment.
But the way he holds you - tender and precious, and the way he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours - soft, like you might break - can't be anything else but the whole truth.
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