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Win or lose, their post-fight rituals are unshakable. After the celebratory or conciliatory drinks have been paid for and gulped, the cigarettes smoked, the handshakes and shoulder punches, they retreat to the van. San sets up shop on the hard wooden bench, armed with a cheap cosmetic mirror and their cheaper first aid kit. Wooyoung sits on the mattress of the fold-out bed and counts their winnings. It's silent except for the soft, assured flick of paper bills and muffled sounds of the night outside.
The damage isn't bad tonight. The bruising is extensive but it'll take care of itself. San's lip is busted again, but that's not really a new injury, just an old one that keeps getting reopened every night, be it in the fight or by Wooyoung. All told, by San's standards, it's been a good night. He's had way worse ones—there's an empty pocket in his upper gum where a heavyweight knocked out one of his molars three months ago. Dentistry is low on their list of priorities, so he swills hydrogen peroxide every night and tries not to worry when he spits out blood.
It seems to have been a good night by Wooyoung's standards too. He sits like a cat on their shitty bed and sorts tonight's winnings into neat stacks. His own inventory completed, San watches Wooyoung count—a lick of his thumb, a bill sorted, a lick of his thumb, a bill sorted.
"You know that stuff's probably nasty right?" San says.
Wooyoung says hmm? but doesn't look up from his work.
"You shouldn't lick your fingers after you touch it, it's gross."
Wooyoung sniffs. Again he doesn't look up.
"Whole van's gross."
Can't argue with that. San replaces the mirror and unused first aid kit and flops back into his spot. He pulls off his tank, balls it up, and tosses it in the direction of the driver's seat.
Abruptly Wooyoung drops the last bill into its proper place and claps his hands.
"Well, that's that," he says, and he looks up at San. "So, are you dead?"
Wooyoung's got a pretty face. It causes them problems sometimes, because people don't generally trust pretty faces down here, or else they assume those faces are for sale. San's had several guys ask what his little piece is worth, which is sort of funny because, if you think about it, of the two of them, Wooyoung's much more the pimp.
"Not tonight," San says. He starts palming himself, grinning tiredly when Wooyoung's eyes track the motion of his hand.
"You wanna know how much?" Wooyoung asks.
"No," San says.
He never does.
With a roll of his shoulders, Wooyoung climbs off the mattress and goes to where they keep the liquor. The flask gleams as he brings it to his mouth. San watches his throat work each time he swallows. He swallows too, against a dry throat, and pulls at his dick through his pants. Wooyoung saunters to where San sits, flicking open the rest of the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease. He drops to his knees and insinuates himself between San's spread legs.
"Well puppy?" he says. He lays a hand on San's knee, cushions his cheek on it as he stares upward.
San unzips his fly but doesn't do anything else.
"Well what?" he asks. Playing dumb.
Wooyoung smirks.
"You've been staring like you wanna come hump my leg," he says. "Like a real puppy."
San snorts.
"I think that's more your style, baby."
Wooyoung laughs, showing teeth, and traces his finger up San's inseam. Gooseflesh down San's spine.
"Maybe," Wooyoung purrs. "So what's the plan, big boy?"
San has no suggestions; as a rule, he wants what Wooyoung wants. His dick twitches as Wooyoung nuzzles his face against the bulge in his pants, and he sags back against the wood-paneled wall with a sigh. The exhaustion is finally hitting him. It's tempting to just close his eyes and let Wooyoung warm him into slumber.
Wooyoung doesn't like cockwarming. Besides, he's bad at it: impatient, fidgety, overeager for attention.
Wooyoung presses a delicate little kiss to San's dick through his clothes and then gets to his feet. A jerk of his head as he walks backward to the mattress. San's muscles scream in protest as he obeys the summons.
With a loud sigh, Wooyoung drops into the stacks of money he just sorted and sprawls, limbs everywhere, head lolling in a way that puts his throat on display.
"You're going to have sort all that again," San says. He kicks Wooyoung's right ankle to the side, making space between his thighs that he can step into.
Blue and red and green and gold bills. The brown of Wooyoung's skin, his black hair. He pouts up at San and hooks a leg behind his knee.
"You worked so hard, Sannie," he purrs. "Don't you want a reward?"
San climbs onto the mattress, in between his legs. Wooyoung pushes at his shoulder, grinning and playful, and San catches his wrist and shoves it down again. Those neat stacks of bills are sliding into a mess under their weight. Wooyoung smells like the ring, all sweat and blood and liquor and grease. San drops his face into the warm hollow of his neck and inhales. He smells like violence. Sex too, or maybe that's just his own anticipation coloring things.
Something in his chest pulls and seizes as he gets his hands on Wooyoung's fly. Wooyoung's fingers are tangling with his, and he nearly knees San in the balls as he wriggles out of his pants. San rubs his ribcage where it aches. He might have to rescind his earlier assessment of his injuries.
But Wooyoung is naked underneath him except for that ugly open shirt—it's silk, slippery-smooth to the touch, and San would tear it off him if he didn't know that Wooyoung would deduct the cost of its replacement from his cut without hesitation.
"You haven't kissed me yet," Wooyoung says.
San traces his fingertips over the bulge in Wooyoung’s throat, up to his mouth. He taps his lips twice.
"Yeah," he says, "'cause I know where this has been."
The cheap plastic fan running full-blast by the curtain isn't enough to cut the heat, and they're both pouring sweat by the time he rolls Wooyoung onto all fours. He makes up for the lack of foreplay with a disgusting amount of lube, and when he pushes his dick inside him, Wooyoung is as wet and tight as a girl. San tells him so, and he wriggles under him, rubbing his cheek on the money trapped under his face. The one thing Wooyoung likes more than turning a profit is feeling trashy.
Hard to get trashier than this.
"Hold still," San tells him, and when Wooyoung keeps squirming, he slaps his ass hard and wrestles his shoulders into place. "I said hold still, Jesus—"
It's a game, all of it, the squirming, the spanking, the manhandling. Wooyoung responds well to force, and force is one of the only things San really excels at—force and following directions. Sometimes, when San trains, Wooyoung deigns to stop by and watch him pummel their scarlet punching bag, and between rounds, San can look over and find his minder absently palming his dick through his stupid tight pants, lips parted and a hungry look on his face. Like he wants to be the thing San rips apart every night. Like San doesn't do it all in Wooyoung's name.
San slam-fucks him and bites through his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Underneath the roaring fan, the slap of his balls on Wooyoung's ass, Wooyoung's slutty little moans, fuck you're so big Sannie—
He scrabbles at the mattress and bunches up handfuls of money, one hundred won, two hundred, three hundred, crinkling in his sweaty fist, fuck, he's going to come on that money, money San earned with his fists, and Wooyoung will come on it—
"Who made you all that money?" San pants.
"You—ah—you did—"
"Who's making you rich, baby?"
"You are—fuck—!"
"What do you say?"
San grinds hard into his sweet spot and watches with a savage delight the muscles in Wooyoung's back flexing as he moans.
He spanks him. Wooyoung yelps, high and sharp.
"I said what do you say."
"Thank you," Wooyoung gasps. "Thank you thank you thank you—"
He pants it into the money.
"Thank you for what."
"Thank you for making me—and—oh my god—fucking me so good, you fuck me so good, Sannie—"
San rolls Wooyoung onto his back and gathers his face in his hands to kiss him sloppily on the mouth. The kiss tastes like their liquor and the money underneath them, the paper bills that are stuck to Wooyoung's sweaty skin. Fiery-filthy. The pressure of the kiss makes the bruises on his face ache all the way into his gums, his skull. Wooyoung clutches San's jaw, his hair, the back of his neck, and nails dig into flesh and rake over his shoulder blades when San starts fucking him again.
Quick. Sharp.
He grabs the edge of the bed to anchor himself, and Wooyoung reaches back too to wrap his fingers around San's wrist. He pushes his other hand flat against the lowermost part of his belly, like he's feeling for the bulge of San's dick inside of him. He keeps up a steady stream of profanity as he meets San thrust for thrust, feet braced against the mattress. He's flushed from his forehead to his sternum, all damp eyes and fuck, fuck, just like that Sannie, puppy, fuck…
Sweat builds everywhere their skin touches, and the pain in San's ribs is building too; he's almost breathless with it, and the panting hurts more, but he forces his body through its paces the same way he forces Wooyoung through his. He shakes Wooyoung's hand off his wrist and grabs his hips, and Wooyoung yells as San starts to fuck him harder, pushing them further toward the edge.
A fight, a brutal one, dislocations and shattered bones, where the only way to make it stop is to end it, and afterward you spit blood and shards of teeth.
That's what it's like, doing this.
San spits on Wooyoung's face, his whole body wrenches with pain, and a second later his orgasm hits.
He slumps on top of him after, chewing his earlobe and the side of his neck as he tries to bring his pulse down. Wooyoung pets his hair, his scratched-raw back. Every few seconds San's softening dick twitches and pulses where it's still buried inside...
"Hey." Wooyoung pulls San's head back to look him in the eye. There's a wet spot on his cheek where San's spit landed. Wooyoung wipes it and smears it on San's forehead. He says, "Hey, don't fall asleep, you're not done yet," and guides San's hand to his still-hard dick.
Grimacing, San eases his own dick out of him. He pushes himself up on shaky arms just enough to crawl down the length of Wooyoung's body. Even that much movement hurts.
But here's Wooyoung's dick, flushed dark and pretty where it rests on his belly, his balls heavy with arousal, San's cum leaking out of his abused hole. San presses his thumb there for the hot give of it and licks a stripe over Wooyoung's balls. A sigh from above. San starts sucking them, and as he pulls at his rim with his thumb, he reaches his other hand up for the head of his dick. Wooyoung whimpers. Fingers tangle in San's hair. Pinpricks of pain all over his scalp.
"Attaboy…"
The skin is tender and delicate under his tongue. Wooyoung's thighs shake with each pull of San's fist on his dick.
"You're mad at me, huh," he breathes. "That's okay—take it—shit—" this as San squeezes four fingers into his hole, and he's obscenely wet inside, cum trickling between San's knuckles— "take it out on me, it's okay, issokay puppy, be mad, issokay—"
San presses a sloppy kiss to his taint and rests his forehead briefly against the inside of his thigh. Wooyoung smells like salt here, salt and warmth and sex.
His breath pulls knife-sharp in his ribs. It's the pain, which makes it too hard to talk, that saves him from asking how, after this much time, Wooyoung can still get him so wrong.
#
Disposable wipes. Warm water sucked out of crinkling plastic bottles, chased with the last of the liquor. San flops onto his back on the mattress, ignoring the wet spots, and clutches the nearest pillow to his chest. The soft pressure helps with the pain a little, or at least it seems to.
They've swapped places. Wooyoung is on the bench that San occupied an hour ago. He threw off his sweat-stained shirt and is now wearing boxers and one of San's tank tops—it's slipping off one brown shoulder, and even in his current state, San wants to maul him. It's his baseline state of being.
Spread out in front of Wooyoung on the floor of the van are their winnings, significantly worse for wear after the miles put on them.
The lick of a fingertip, a bill sorted. Lick and sort. Lick and sort.
San makes a noise of disgust. Wooyoung looks up. He hasn't asked about the pain that San is obviously in, but he eyes the pillow with a look that San decides is sympathy.
"I still think that's nasty," San says.
Wooyoung smirks
"Well, it sure is now," he says.
And another bill lands on its stack.