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The fighting ring was filled with smatterings of blood in various states, dry and fresh, old and new. Vegas was familiar with the sight of bloodstains. But this was his first time here, in this setting. The sound of fists hitting flesh, grunts of pain, shouts of victory left him with a unique response.
A part of him took immense satisfaction of the brutality before him. Of the men below attacking one another relentlessly, forcing the other into submission, or all the way to unconsciousness if they weren’t smart enough to know when they were done for.
The other part, one he fought and pushed back into a dark corner, was far too cognizant of his father sitting beside him. Of the destruction his own fists would readily lay against Vegas. Had his father placed any bets on the fighting tonight? If he had, and it didn’t go in his favour, the end to his evening here didn’t bode well. They were in the public eye, maybe that would help. Maybe.
Vegas’ attention was pulled from his inner thoughts, from mentally bracing himself for how the night would go, when the mat was cleared and two new opponents stepped out. Notably, one of them was a teenager, similar height to Vegas and going up against a man in peak condition in his mid-twenties.
The kid was doomed. That was Vegas’ first thought when the participants paired off. He couldn’t be much older than Vegas, maybe a few years at most. He wasn’t ripped, an obvious sight clad only in boxer shorts and worn hand wraps as he was. The other man had half a foot of height and was above his weight class. That was the draw of this particular underground ring their family managed; weight classes were thrown out the window in favour of pairings the organizers thought would be good entertainment. Clearly, the organizers had overlooked this match.
As the bell went off and both fighters went into motion, it only took the first thirty seconds for Vegas to realize he might have been wrong in his initial assessment.
By the jeers around him, no one else had caught on. But Vegas knew. He knew another predator when he saw one, especially one confident in their victory.
The boy’s movements were measured, controlled and didn’t waste energy. He was watching his opponent, keeping out of reach and letting the other play his hand while avoiding blow after blow with a skilled footwork. His lighter build also meant he was faster, and he used it to his increasing advantage.
Vegas knew he was done analyzing his opponent when he finally struck out. A vicious cross hook that landed straight to his opponent’s nose. Vegas could see fresh blood spill, the audience around them got louder, fed by the violent sight, and tears come to the older man’s eyes. Not a match-ending blow but devastating to the other’s composure and ego.
The next series of exchanges was where the boy finally took some hits, but for each one he took he laid out two more and with much more debilitating effects. The two worst by Vegas’ estimation were a liver shot and side kick to the calf that knocked his opponent to the ground.
Vegas expected to see him pummel in then when the latter brought him to the ground, and he was pleasantly surprised when he jumped back and waited for just the right moment. It was a smart move because Vegas doubted he’d be able to overcome the older from the ground, based on the sheer size difference. Instead, as the other man rose to his feet with a growl, the boy doubled down, raining down a series of strikes followed by an elbow strike to the temple.
The older man dropped like a sack of potatoes. The sound echoed in Vegas’ head as the crowd erupted. It wasn’t entirely happy cries; the betting that went on at these events were intense. And Vegas estimated that many were losing out on this outcome and pissed for it.
The boy’s face was impassive with his victory, disappearing with little fanfare as some grunts came out to carry out his still limp opponent. It could have been a killing blow for all Vegas knew, but the boy seemed unphased by that possibility.
And for the remaining fights, that was all Vegas could think about. The boy certainly wasn’t the only teenager fighting here tonight. Bangkok was a vicious city and sometimes these fights were the only way for the young and unfortunate to survive. But he was the only one that watched the chaos around him with a baby face and eyes filled with darkness. The latter called to Vegas in a way he didn’t quite know how to put words to.
As the final match of the night wrapped up, his father’s heavy hand landed on Vegas’ shoulder, then he was trailing behind his pa obediently, only sparing a quick glance over his shoulder for where the older boy went following his victory.
They stepped into a private meeting room off to the side, his father exchanging gruff greetings with the underground match facilitators. Vegas kept his arms crossed defensively in front of himself, watching the men in the room.
Vegas didn’t know why his father had wanted him here today, so he tuned into the conversation to try and parse it out, not wanting to be caught off guard.
“That wily kid just lost me some good money,” One of the men, not the one in charge, bemoaned.
“He’s not one of yours?” Kan asked, voice neutral.
“Tch,” The organizer shook his head. “Nah, unclaimed that one. I was expecting him to be dead months ago. But he’s still kickin’, clearly.”
One of the second-in-commands zeroed in on Vegas’ presence then. Why Vegas would never know. But he’d curse him for it later.
“You watched that match closely, Khun. You think the kid’s worthwhile?”
Vegas eyed his father warily for a quick moment, not happy about the attention on him, even as he adjusted quickly. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, leaning back casually as he tilted his head in consideration.
“I had doubts. But obviously he is. Especially if he’s been here for months like you said, unclaimed but clearly winning.” Vegas answered in a casual, considering tone. He tried to keep the opinion neutral. The slight narrowing of his father’s eyes, and the twitch of his right pointer finger told him he hadn’t done well enough. Fuck.
Their following talks didn’t last long before the organizer offered attending the club nearby for drinks to Kan who accepted with a smarmy smile before declaring he needed to get something done first.
Before Vegas could even attempt at a way out of it, he was following his father down a darkened hallway and into a room that clearly was used as one of several prep rooms for the fighters here.
The second the door closed behind them, pain flared and spiked across Vegas’ cheekbone followed closely behind by the harsh impact of his body against the door. His father was talking, spilling vitriol directed at Vegas that the teen wasn’t able to parse out, his head still ringing from the first blow and the ones that followed.
Insults worked their way through though. Then Vegas lost his footing when his father backhanded him, he wasn’t usually so direct about damage to his son’s face, and Vegas tilted, head making loud impact with the doorknob before he collapsed in a heap to the ground. Not unlike that fighter from earlier.
Through it all, Vegas didn’t make a sound. Not a grunt of pain, a plea for mercy or a sound of discomfort escaped his lips. But his breath left him in a rush as his forehead made contact with the unforgiving metal and the world went dark.
When Vegas managed to blink his eyes open again he caught his father’s disapproving gaze above him before the man wrenched the door open, shoving Vegas’ limp form along the floor with it before disappearing and slamming it behind it.
Vegas’ breath hitched the second silence fell, swallowing heavily as bile tried to come up. He needed to get up, grab his phone and contact his head guard to come collect him. But the sharp, biting pain and wet feeling on his forehead and going down his face had other plans.
The world went dark again.
Vegas pried his eyes open and instinctively flinched back when he found another face so close to his, bracing himself for another blow. He’d thought the man was done, would go off to get drunk and Vegas would make his way back to the minor family manor when he’d be well imbibed and either passed out or spending the night with some of the family’s escorts.
A soft voice registering in his sluggish brain was what told him it wasn’t his father back to taunt him some more. The lack of pain following his poorly discussed flinch was the next giveaway.
Words finally started to filter through as Vegas blinked blearily, trying to get his vision to focus.
“Hey nong, you’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you, I need to move you though, kay?”
The casual speech and slightly accented central dialect were unfamiliar but vaguely comforting somehow.
Vegas finally let out a groan followed by a grunt of protest when unfamiliar hands touched him. They didn’t go straight to pick him up however, instead first touching his arm. Vegas forced his eyes open again at the touch, his tongue heavy as he spoke. “Go...way.”
Or at least that’s what he tried to say. He didn’t know if it was his ears ringing or his actual speech, but he wasn’t sure it came out right. But the point remained. It was bad enough someone had found him where Vegas’ father had left him after taking out his anger on him, although Vegas was still at a fuzzy loss as to what exactly he’d done to piss the man off so badly. He'd been on good behaviour. He’d only spoken when spoken too. He’d played his role as a respectable heir. What had he possibly done? But Vegas knew he’d done something. That’s all that mattered.
“Sorry nong. Might not have much of a conscience left but can’t leave you alone like this. Between those richy rich clothes and jewelry and this...wouldn’t end well for you.”
The stream of explanation, more like a stream of the other’s conscious thought as well as the...youth? to the voice was what finally made Vegas open his eyes again and actually register who it was with him.
He pried his eyes open to focus on the baby-faced teenager from the fighting ring. The older boy’s lip was split but already clotted from where he’d taken a nasty jab in the earlier match, but there wasn’t any other bruising visible.
“Is you,” Vegas mumbled, unintentionally voicing his thoughts.
The boy blinked at him, cocking his head as he seemed to take Vegas in more consideringly. Vegas couldn’t fathom what thoughts were passing through those dark eyes as his own closed again when another wave of pain passed through his skull and reminded Vegas that he had a bleeding gash on his forehead.
“I remember you...you were up in the VIP area...” Vegas barely registered the boy’s murmurs this time, mostly because the other was definitely talking to himself. “What kind of trouble...never mind.”
A hand landed on Vegas’ shoulder, and this time Vegas managed to hold back his flinch, his muscles only tightening in response.
“Hey, I’m going to move you now, ok nong?”
It honestly hurt to think at this point, and Vegas couldn’t find it in him to tell the other to fuck off properly. Taking his silence as an answer, Vegas felt himself be moved, the older maneuvering him with an ease that quietly emphasized his strength.
Then he was staring into warm brown eyes pinched with...some emotion Vegas couldn’t parse out right now. He felt something warm and damp along his forehead, then his face.
He watched the other’s focused expression, eyes opened to slits. Why, he wondered, why in hell was this stranger treating Vegas with kindness. And in this kind of place?
“Why indeed,” The older teen mumbled to himself. Had Vegas spoken? He didn’t know. The fuzziness in his head was getting worse again.
The boy shifted in and out of his sight, clearly grabbing things from somewhere nearby. A first aid kit maybe. Then his eyes drifted closed and didn’t open again for a while.
The next time Vegas woke up he was alone, an unopened water bottle next to his phone and a thin blanket covering him. He forced himself to sit up with a groan, taking his time as the world swam around him. As he grasped his phone, the slightest of sounds told him that maybe he’d been wrong in his initial assessment of being alone.
He just barely looked in time to see an increasingly familiar figure standing then slipping out the door. Vegas eyed it consideringly. If he weren’t so fucked up right now, he’d be going after the older boy. To do what who knows. Certainly not to thank him. Theerapanyakuls didn’t thank people. But he wanted to follow him and couldn’t deny the urge.
Mentally shaking his head, because the physical act might send him to his knees, Vegas started to move on autopilot. He grabbed his phone and entered in one of his speed dials. Once Nop was on route, Vegas picked up the bottle and took a thoughtful drink, turning over thoughts of the older boy in his head.
He prodded carefully at where his forehead had been split, but found the blood cleaned away and bandages covering it. Protected and watched over him...then gone like the wind. Who the hell acts like that, Vegas wondered to himself. There must be a catch, no one helped someone else out of the kindness of their heart, or whatever inkling of a conscience he could vaguely recall the other rambling about.
For now, though, Vegas just wanted to get home to his room to hopefully recoup in peace. And if he was lucky for once, he’d make it out of here without anyone else spotting him and the state he was in. Even if he wondered where the enigma of a teen had disappeared off to.