Chapter Text
The staircase creaked under their weight, dingy and even dimmer than the parlour they’d just been led through. Romance and Jinu shared an almost nervous glance as they descended into the darkness, while six pairs of footsteps thudded in an uneven rhythm against creaky wooden stairs.
So this is how I die, huh? Romance thought, only half-kidding. Baby had a ‘genius idea’, which inevitably meant the five of them were spending their night being dragged out of the comfort of their fraternity house and into the streets of California. A shared first language and vague common interests had banded the five of them together back during pledges, and unfortunately that meant they were bound by Alpha Theta Saja code (and threat of violence) to tag along for Baby’s schemes. It all started two hours ago —
“It’s a knockout tournament!” Baby had grinned like a maniac, slamming his hands down on the kitchen island to punctuate his out-of-context greeting, “A fight club, super hush. I got us on the list!~”
“What does that even mean?” Jinu asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh my god you’re so–“ Baby didn’t even finish his sentence, “People sign up and beat the shit out of each other, other people show up to bet on it and watch it go down. Like those MMA leagues on TV, but less structured and way less legal.”
“So your Saturday plans for us involve… getting arrested?” Romance raised an eyebrow and plopped himself on one of the stools. Abby shifted from where he was leaning on the counter to stand behind Romance’s seat, arms snaking around his waist.
“This league’s never got busted, not once. It’s been running for like, a decade now or something. Rumours are they’ve got someone paying off the cops, but you didn’t hear that from me!” Baby put his hands up, like he was surrendering to a mugger. The other four shared a deadpan look. As if the rest of them would have any other available source of insider knowledge on their university’s rumour mill and the bullshit it produced.
“What’s even the point of it?” Jinu questioned, opening the fridge. It was about as woefully empty as one would expect of a pledge house full of 20-something-year old fraternity brothers. There was some beer in the door and a bottle of mustard in the back corner.
“Yknow, you’re asking a lot of fuckin’ questions today,” Baby huffed, leaning over to poke Jinu’s nose and pulling away before he could be swatted at, “The point is to watch hot muscular people beat each other to a pulp, dumbass! Duh!”
“I reiterate: what’s even the point of that?”
“Because it’s hot and it’s fun! Jesus christ you fucking stick in the mud, live! a! little!” The final three words were punctuated by claps. Obviously someone had a little too much caffeine this morning.
And somehow, the bickering had led to them standing in the alley behind a dingy tattoo parlour on the other side of the city. The guy who opened the back door for them looked like a thug, to put it mildly. Ink snaked up his pale forearms, his neck, all the way behind his ears and up around his shiny bald head. Designs too intricate for Romance’s eyes to properly decipher when he was lit from behind, the man stood glowering down at the five of them through a pair of blackout sunglasses. Dude was even wider than Abby. A single glance over their group and they were led inside, through empty booths and a poorly lit hallway, to the stairs they now stood at the bottom of.
“Down that hall, make a left when you hit the neon sign. You’ll see it.” With that, a pair of heavy footsteps was ascending the stairs again, and the doorman left them behind in the darkness. Mystery was the first to follow Baby’s lead as he skipped ahead, hands in his pockets and looking entirely too relaxed given their current unfamiliar and very dark surroundings. Seriously, would it kill someone to turn on a light?!
Apparently not, because as soon as they turned the corner by the flashing pair of boxing gloves, the room lit up enough to make Romance squint.
The basement was way bigger than he expected; Romance had honestly expected to step into a dingy cellar with a couple fold out chairs and a group of university students standing in a circle. It was like a windowless warehouse, still a little dim but bathed in enough colourful light to see properly. The door was in the corner, beside a set of old bleachers. There were burn marks and graffiti and paint decorating the seats, but despite their dingy appearance they held up more than enough to support the crowd of people sitting on them. The rest of the room was just a sea of heads, not quite packed like sardines but pretty damn close. It was crowded enough that they couldn’t avoid brushing against strangers as they followed after the blur of teal hair that immediately made a beeline for the bar.
In the middle of the room was a black boxing ring, in significantly better shape than those bleachers. Someone had obviously shelled out a pretty penny on it. It was lit up by a bright yellow spotlight, a beacon among the shifting rhythms of coloured party lights over the crowd.
A can was shoved into his hands, and instinctually his long fingers wrapped around the condensation-coated surface. Abby grinned down at him, his own beer already cracked.
“How do you already look bored?” Abby spoke, leaning down to be heard over the crowd and the sound of some english rock song thrumming through the speakers behind the bar. And maybe to brush his lips against Romance’s ear, just to feel the shiver it elicited.
“This is just my face, asshole,” He retorted, tilting his chin up until their faces were close enough that he could feel the way Abby’s breath hitched against his own lips. Romance shot him a glare with absolutely no heat behind it, resisting the urge to grin. Or close the distance.
Boyfriends wasn’t quite the word for them. But neither was friends. Fuckbuddies didn’t seem accurate either. They were something, that was for sure. There wasn’t quite a need to put a label on whatever they were doing, not yet anyways, but Romance had a feeling – or maybe a hope? – that he already knew where they were headed. The way Abby’s hand came to rest on the small of his back as the five of them pushed towards the bleachers, the way their knees bumped together when they sat down, the way his lips traced reverently over Romance’s skin whenever they spent the night together and the way they breathed each other’s names against bruised skin as if whispering prayers.
They worked perfectly fine without a label. But one day Romance would like to put a name to that feeling that bloomed in his chest every time he woke up to Abby still in his bed after a night of fooling around, tangled in the duvet and snoring like a lawnmower.
“So what’s the deal?” Romance forced himself to stop thinking about him and Abby, before he started to seriously regret wearing such tight pants. He cracked his beer as he settled on the top bleacher, his back against the brick. Abby settled into the seat on his left, Mystery to his right, while Baby and Jinu just barely squeezed into a spot one row down that really wasn’t big enough for two people. But they managed, to the annoyance of the woman next to them. She managed to convince her friend on her other side to shift down a bit after a minute of glowering, realizing that they had no intention of being respectful and giving her some personal space. Romance resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to Baby to piss people off at a fucking fight club. One of them was gonna end up with a black eye before they left.
“Whaddya mean?~” Baby turned himself halfway, sitting sideways to look over his shoulder as he leaned his back against Jinu. He paid no attention to the other man’s annoyance.
“Is it an official league, is it co-ed, how longs it go, what’re the rules? Y’know, what’s the deal?” Romance pushed, waving his free hand as he took a sip of his beer.
“Love that you casually threw ‘is it co-ed’ in there as if that’s not definitely your main question,” Baby reflected dryly, “You just wanna see a hot girl punching people!”
“Duh. I’d also like to see a hot boy punching people. It’s the only reason I showed. Answer the question.”
“You’re a pervert.” Abby snickered, and Romance elbowed him in the side. As if he wasn’t just as bad.
“It’s not… Technically.” Baby’s grin and his vagueness are more than enough to pique his interest.
“And what does that mean?” Jinu seemed much less excited by, and much more exasperated with, the cryptic nature of Baby’s words. Or maybe he was still bitchy about being used as back support.
“There’s usually two sections separated by gender, and then the winners of each one fight each other at the end for the championship. Not a ton of women participate, but there’s enough to get five or six fights. Usually. But apparently last year, some newbie showed up and swept the floor with the women's league. She was up first and didn’t leave the mat until the end of the tournament! She won the fuckin’ championship too, I heard she was coughing up blood by the end of it!~” He sounded way too excited about that, “Might’ve just been from her mouth though. I heard she spit out a tooth.”
Jinu looked on in horror. Mystery’s face was obscured by his bangs, as usual. Romance and Abby looked like they’d just won the lottery. Baby didn’t give any of them a chance to say anything.
“And so they’ve changed the entire way they run it this year. It’s not a ‘go till you drop’ anymore, the matches are more structured so it’s like, two go and then two go and then the winners go. Whereas before it was just winner goes against the next on the list.”
Sounds like the newbie did them a favour. That old system sounded kinda shit.
“And there’s now no separation in the divisions because there’s only like, five girls this year. Fights are being done by weight and muscle mass instead or some shit, I don’t actually know. Either half of the participants just so happened to be in the same graduating class and have gone off into their working adult lives, or they’ve all chickened out!” Baby took in a deep breath after finishing his ramble, the glint in his eyes practically predatory as he spoke about the violent rumours. Maybe that kid had a couple issues. But he was entertaining and didn’t get arrested more than once a year, so Romance was happy to call him a friend and a fraternity brother despite his… fascinating interests.
“I need to see that,” Abby breathed out, a grin still painted across his face, “They’ve gotta start off by introducing the champion from last year or something, right? We’ll obviously know who she is, right?”
“Jesus, why do you sound so excited?” Jinu’s voice was equally breathy, but where Abby’s dripped with excitement, his was tinted with fear and concern.
“I wanna know too,” Romance raised a hand, fighting back a smile when Jinu dropped his face into his hands.
“No clue. But probably, I mean—“ Baby was cut off by the screech of a mic. The lights dimmed, except for the spotlight that now shone directly on a woman who had materialized in the centre of the ring. Her sleek black hair was pulled into two low buns, and sequins glinted in the light amidst the embroidered flowers that decorated the sides of her green tube top.
“Hello hello hello everyone!” Her voice rang out with just a hint of a familiar accent, barely enough to catch if you weren’t looking for it. She was definitely Korean, “Are we excited for the start of another season of spectacular fights?” The cheers from the crowd were enough of an answer for her.
“Wow.”
Romance was momentarily distracted by Mystery talking for the first time that night. Maybe the first time all day, if he thought about it. Even with his bangs in the way, Romance could see the way his attention honed in the woman in the baggy pants as she hooted and hollered into the microphone, working the crowd up till their cheers nearly eclipsed her own commentary. She was like an idol on stage, easily capturing the attention of the room as she hopped around with an almost effortless natural rhythm. The crowd was enamoured, and Mystery seemed to be the most intensely interested of them all.
“Oh boy,” Abby commented, snickering a bit, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen him even look at another person for more than three seconds. That includes me!”
“I never want to stop looking at her.” Mystery muttered, dead serious. It was enough to make Romance bark out a laugh, but even he didn’t know whether it was amusement or disbelief behind the sound. Romance hadn’t felt anything in the past minute to indicate they had been launched into another reality, but maybe the sensation was just that subtle.
“Baby. Did you drug his beer?” Jinu asked, eyes widening with what looked like genuine concern for Mystery’s wellbeing.
“He’s not even drinking beer! He’s not drinking at all! He has a water bottle!” Baby gestured to the plastic that was now crinkling in Mystery’s hand as he clutched onto it for dear life.
“I think it’s just love at first sight,” Abby said, his tone a bit incredulous. Mystery was ignoring them now, completely entranced by the woman who was skipping around the ring.
“Sounds like you’re all about warmed up, and I’m seeing the signal that our fighters are too! So let’s get this show on the road! My name’s Zoey, I’m gonna be your ring master so ya better get used to my yapping! Welcome ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between, to the first K.O tournament of the year!”
The music that had been completely cut off when the announcer — Zoey — first started speaking came spilling into the room again, quiet enough that her voice still boomed above it.
“We’re about ready to get on with our first pair, but I think we’ve gotta let last year's champion have a little victory lap before she fights for the title again. Whaddya say folks?”
For the first time, Romance joined in on the cheering. She was talking about the woman Baby mentioned, right? She had to be. Beside him he heard Abby cheering just as loud, nudging him with his elbow as if Romance wasn’t also right there to hear what Zoey said. Baby and Jinu were both looking at them like they’d grown second heads.
“Can you not make my ears bleed?” Baby punched Romance in the thigh, much harder than necessary. Violence was much less hot coming from that twerp. Romance just stuck his tongue out in response.
“I think that’s a yes!” Zoey laughed into the microphone, and Romance watched as the crowd parted like the red sea on the other side of the room. It was too dark to see anything except a very tall silhouette walking through the center with all the confidence of a woman who showed up and cleaned house as a mere rookie. Zoey met her at the ropes, lifting the top one just enough for a head of wildberry pink hair to duck beneath it with an almost inhuman grace. She stepped into the spotlight properly, face lifted in the direction of the bleachers, and met the cheers with a proud smirk and twinkling eyes. Zoey skipped after her with an impossibly wide grin.
Romance felt like his heart was gonna stop in his chest. He would’ve bet his life savings that it had already, if he couldn’t hear the blood pumping through his ears.
She was tall, maybe even as tall as he was. Long, slender legs rippled with muscle, visibly tensing as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She raised a hand in a greeting. Romance almost choked, on a laugh or a gasp, he didn’t know which. Her underarm hair was dyed pink. Never in his life did he think he’d find something like that hot, but there was clearly a first time for everything.
His eyes continued to wander. Covering nearly every inch of visible skin on her limbs and torso were tattoos, thick black lineart and heavy-handed shading. American traditional, Romance vaguely remembered from that time Abby had been so sure he was gonna get a tattoo, only to chicken out and barely survive getting his lobes pierced instead. Romance had to drag him back to the car while Abby looked like he was about to faint.
Her hair was tied back into two tight braids and twisted into a bun. From the size of it, Romance could only guess how long her hair would be when it was down. And by god, she had abs, Romance could easily count six defined muscles even beneath the layer of fat and skin on her stomach, shifting with the movement of her core as she sauntered around the mat to greet the room. He couldn’t tell if his fingers would sink into the soft skin if they stopped to rest at her waist, or if they’d simply hit hard and cool marble that had been perfectly carved to resemble his own personal Galatea. A piece of art manifested into a being of flesh and bone upon hearing his desperate prayers, perfection incarnate now real and alive and so close, so not close enough.
Yeah, he was gone. The moment the literature references started, it meant his brain had thrown itself right off a cliff and there was no climbing back. He was as bad as Mystery.
“Give a warm welcome to Gumiho!”
A stage name, obviously. Beyond the mythological allusion, he simply doubted anyone would be using their real name to sign up for a thing like this. Being an announcer was one thing, fighting was another. Romance’s mind wandered as the cheers grew to a deafening roar, drawing up vague images of old art depicting beautiful women with nine tails and fox ears, never as benevolent as their similar counterparts spoken of across east asia. A gumiho was violent, predatory, dangerous. Tempting. It was almost too fitting. Because even though he could see the tail flicking, feel the hunger in her eyes, he still wanted to step closer. Even if it meant her perfectly manicured nails would punch right through his ribcage and rip his heart from where it was now beating wildly behind his sternum. He’d die happy with his blood on her lips. He would gladly let her consume the organ, the same way his desire for her already had, if only to have something, anything, that might bind him to such a creature for all eternity. It – He – had always only ever been hers to do with what she pleased anyways.
‘Gumiho’ was in a black sports bra and a pair of black volleyball shorts, low enough to show off her belly button and with a zebra-print pattern on the waistband. Her hands were wrapped in bright pink bandages in preparation for the beating they – and her opponents – would inevitably take. Her knuckles looked like they’d been padded just a little extra to lessen the damage. And by god, her face. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through his veins, or the smoke wafting around him, maybe his head was getting fuzzy and the alcohol was starting to affect him. But she was the most beautiful person he’d ever laid his eyes on. Thin arched brows dyed pink, long dark lashes, slanted eyes with either pupils blown so wide, or irises so dark, that it looked like her eyes were black from where they sat on the bleachers. She had high cheekbones and a long neck and a defined jaw that made him want to brush his lips along every soft curve and sharp edge. Her face was set in a smug smirk, as if she’d already claimed this year's championship.
He was gone.
Zoey hopped to stand beside her, keeping the mic away from her mouth as the two of them spoke briefly. The smirk softened into a more genuine grin. Friends? Something like that, judging by the way they bumped their shoulders together as Zoey presented her with the microphone. Romance was waiting with bated breath for the sound of her voice.
“You all sound excited about something!” There was a teasing lilt to her sultry voice. It was low and a little husky, rumbling in her throat like an earthquake ready to knock Romance to his knees. If the distinct features, the angular eyes and monolids and the soft curve of her thin lips, weren’t enough of a giveaway, she had the same nearly imperceptible accent as Zoey. Romance resisted the urge to punch the air in victory. He had an opening, a tiny one, but it was something. Which was great, because if he didn’t walk out of here with that woman’s number tonight, he’d surely die, “This is a bigger crowd than I’ve seen in years, there must be something interesting you’re itchin’ to see.”
She laughed, smooth and sweet into the mic. The cheering increased in volume at her teasing.
“Well, guess I better not take up any more of your time, not with talkin’ anyways. Enjoy the show, don’t let any blood splatter on you, and don’t call an ambulance unless you wanna be the scapegoat!” She pumped a fist into the air, and the laughter he could see shaking her shoulders was unfortunately inaudible as she moved the mic away from her mouth and handed it to Zoey. It was mirrored in the crowd, but none of them was the voice he wanted to hear.
“I need her.”
For the first time since Gumiho had stepped under the rope, Romance remembered he was there with other people. He glanced over at Abby, who was staring in the direction of the ring with the same awestruck expression Romance was sure had just been on his own face.
“Yeah, same page.” He breathed out, glancing back towards the ring. When he looked back, Abby was staring at him with a grin that he quickly returned. It was like a moment of unspoken agreement, a vow that passed like electricity between all the places their shoulders and thighs touched. A silent understanding.
Whatever it took, they were gonna make her want them as bad as they wanted her.
‿‿̩͙ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿
There wasn’t a thing in the damn world Mira enjoyed more than an adrenaline rush.
She'd never craved something quite the same way she craved that delicious sensation of her adrenal glands firing off in rapid succession, burning muscles and heavy breathing and a ringing in her ears that drowned out all her thoughts. She wanted nothing more than to feel fire flooding her veins and capillaries, electricity dancing beneath her skin, a quick pulse thrumming in her wrists and her neck and her ears. As much as she needed oxygen, Mira needed to feel that sense of fear and excitement blending into their own intoxicating cocktail until it left her higher than any drug ever could.
It was the only thing she could let herself want without the flutter of anxiety dampening the pleasure. So she spent her life chasing it.
Parties and fights and contact sports. Skateboarding and surfing and skidding down icy hills on cheap dollar store sleds. Sunrises in unfamiliar beds and needles through her cartilage and ink punched into hypnotizing designs across her skin. Mira’s life was far from boring, and her infamy in underground fighting was just her newest fix.
Illegal as it was, she was less likely to get arrested here than in the bars and alleyways she typically fought in. This was what she explained to Rumi, who had been horrified upon learning exactly where the bruise on her best friend’s cheek had come from. That first instance of stepping into their apartment after a tournament had been a whole year ago, though it didn’t seem nearly that long.
Now here they were in the same change room, Mira lacing her sneakers while Rumi wrapped her fists in her own royal purple boxing bandages.
“I can’t believe you roped me into this.”
“I can’t believe it took you so long to agree to it!” Mira retorted, grinning as they locked eyes in the mirror. Amusement danced over Rumi’s face, “Admit it. You’re so excited.”
“Maybe a little,” Rumi’s grin sharpened. She tugged on her own enormous braided bun, violently, in order to ensure it was well held in place, “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”
Mira and Rumi devolved into a fit of cackles. Along with Zoey, whose cheery commentary was muffled through the layers of concrete despite its volume, they had spent most of their youth being violent alongside each other in some way, shape, or form. The other two girls may not have been the delinquent Mira was, but they weren’t the squeaky clean students their reputations declared either.
From the moment they’d met, round-faced and stubby legged in that dumb little children’s martial arts class all their parents happened to see a flyer for, they’d been inseparable. Mira’s first detention had been for a swift right hook, delivered to the cheek of a stupid boy in the grade above them who tried to take Zoey’s favourite snack out of her lunch. The next day, when a glitter bomb went off in his locker and lit his math textbook on fire, Rumi made sure the teacher was facing the opposite direction before she started smirking. Zoey spent the rest of the year slipping notes in his locker, slowly dismantling him with the most soul-crushing insults a junior high student could come up with. He transferred schools a month before his graduation.
That’s just how the three of them worked, in perfect tandem.
Even if Rumi and Zoey didn’t chase the feeling of epinephrine flowing through their veins in the same way she did, they were always there ready to lock arms with Mira and tag along on her shenanigans when she felt that familiar itch clawing at her throat.
Even if they were a bit less than fluent in english, when Zoey decided she was going back to the USA for university, Rumi and Mira were right there with language lessons already planned, their acceptance letters and passports in hand.
Even if hospitals gave Mira the heebie jeebies and Zoey was technically supposed to be at her fathers fourth wedding, when Rumi sat in the hospital for weeks hooked up to wires and machines, slowly healing from the remnants of burning metal shrapnel cutting into her skin, Mira and Zoey were there 24/7 with pjs and sleeping bags, falling asleep to the beeping of a heart rate monitor.
They were there for each other. That was the end of it.
And here they were again, shoulder to shoulder on a new venture. It had taken a bit more convincing than usual, but the sight of Mira bloodied and holding a makeshift championship belt had lit an interest that could only be satiated with some sort of direct involvement. With no interest in bruising up her own knuckles beyond friendly sparring and life-threatening situations, Zoey wormed her way into the announcer position while Mira and Rumi trained their tits off at the gym where she’d originally met Keith, one of the organizers whom she now considered a friend. The ‘season’ lasted the same amount of time as the school year, September to April. Most of the participants were students looking to blow off steam, with a couple graduates and older adults occasionally sticking around until they got too injured or too tired to keep fighting once a week for over half the year.
Mira didn’t know how long she’d keep at this, but she knew she was gonna make the most of it while she was here. She’d become a legend, as long as this little club thing kept on going she was determined to be remembered. She’d succeeded already, but that bottomless pit still echoed with calls for more. She had no choice but to feed whatever beast was clinging to the cliff walls.
She glanced in the mirror, the familiar crack of her knuckles breaking the change room's silence as she pressed her fist into her palms in a rhythmic, calming motion.
“If we end up against each other, you better not go easy on me,” Rumi joked as they locked eyes again in the mirror.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mira retorted, grinning, “If I’m gonna lose to anyone, I’d be the least miffed it it was you.”
“Miffed?” Rumi scoffed, “Are you ever gonna stop picking up that weird english slang?”
“Nope!” Mira popped the ‘p’, answering the rhetorical question. She bumped her shoulder against Rumi’s as she walked towards the door, “Wish me luck.”
“Break someone else’s leg,” Rumi clapped her on the back as she walked by, snickering, “but not really.”
“No promises,” Mira winked before opening the door. The hallway was empty, save for Keith – playing bouncer for the night – standing by the door ready to open it for her. She fell into stride, a blank expression settling on her face.
“Kick some ass, Pinkie pie,” Keith gave her a little smile, fist bumping her when she stopped in front of the door.
“You know it.”
The sound of Zoey’s voice, the crowd's cheers, they all increased in volume as Keith pushed the door open and Mira felt that familiar excitement spark in her veins, crackling like the collision of flint and steel searching for a dry leaf. The loser of the first match was being dragged off by who she assumed was a friend, or maybe a coach, blood dripping from a nasty split in his bottom lip.
“That was a hell of a start folks, but you better be ready to get even more pumped up!” Mira could see her balancing on the ropes as she approached the ring, “Next up, we’ve got the reigning champion Gumiho, up against bright eyed bushy tailed newcomer, Bezel!”
From the other side of the ring, a man about three inches shorter than Mira ducked under the ropes at the same time she did.
“Shitty luck you got,” Mira smirked, feeling his hand clasp tightly around hers as they shook. He squeezed, hard, the muscles of his hairy forearm visibly tensing with the motion. As if he were trying to intimidate her with his grip strength. What a fucking loser.
“I wouldn’t call it that.” He retorted curtly, his face much less amused than Mira’s. He still tried for a grin, but it came off much more like a grimace, “Beating a champion is a great way to start off.”
“Oh believe me. I already know.” Mira leaned down, purposefully highlighting their slight height difference, before clapping him hard on the shoulder and she turned to walk to her corner. The crowd was a blur outside the boundary of the spotlight, shifting like dark ocean waves beneath multicoloured lights as they roared their approval.
Three rounds, five minutes each. No biting, clawing, castrating, or gouging. No blades, bullets, or blunt objects. Everything else is fair game. Mira didn’t even have to listen to Zoey’s recap of the rules as she hopped onto the makeshift stage beside the ring, mic in hand. It was an old pool table with a milk crate atop it, where she could stand above the crowd and comment on the match.
Mira gave a wave to the endless sea of people as she popped in her mouthguard, smiling like she was a kid who just got their braces off despite the huge chunk of plastic wedged between her jaws. It was the only piece of protective equipment allowed besides the hand wraps. Then her back was to the corner, adrenaline thrumming through her veins, and she felt herself aching for the sound of a bell that never seemed to come fast enough.
Finally, it dings.
Fights were always a blur of pain and swings and the taste of metal. Mira acted on instinct, letting her mind go silent as she danced around her opponent in a violent duet. They circled each other for a moment, before Mira struck out with a leg her opponent definitely didn’t expect to be able to reach him. But it did, connecting hard with the side of the face and sending him stumbling. She carried the momentum through as she hit the ground, shifting her weight to the foot that just connected with his face so her other foot could come up to kick him in the middle of the chest. It sounded distinctly like Mira had forced the air from his lungs, an almost pathetic wheeze escaping his lips as he stumbled backwards.
“What was that about beating a champion?” Mira taunted, settled into a lazy stance with her fists raised. She waited for her opponent to regain the balance he was desperately clawing for, watching as he clutched the ropes hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
“Someone needs to put you in your fuckin place, you egotistical bitch,” He snarled, already red in the face. He lunged forward like a rabid animal. Any technique he had previously shown was gone now, flame doused in an instant by the wave of rage that easily overshadowed his training – if he even had any. Mira’s right fist shot out in rapid succession – one, two, three, and then on four she could feel that familiar, satisfying crunch beneath her knuckles. Even through the wraps she could tell; the shifting of cartilage, the way the skin molded to her fist was unmistakable. Blood gushed from his nose, splattering on Mira’s fist and face as she pulled back.
“If someone’s gonna do it, it definitely ain’t gonna be you,” She retorted. Sacrificing her defensive focus to speak was worth it, even as the sting of a badly balanced right hook hit her in the cheek. She grabbed the wrist and took advantage of his stumble, flipping him over her shoulder. The thud of his body on the mat was almost sickening, it sent electricity buzzing through Mira’s ears as he looked up at her with about as much focus as a baby bird peeking from an egg. She let his arm drop and backed up, barely bothering with a defensive stance. She didn’t even know if he’d be up again, and there was still a minute in the first round. There was no countdown. If he decided to drag himself to his feet, he could keep going until Keith or Zoey decided it was time to TKO him, or until Mira actually knocked him out.
Whether from pain, or in an attempt to avoid more humiliation, a triple tap on the mat signalled his forfeit. Zoey was back in the ring in a flash, and those short fingers elongated by bright green acrylics wrapped around Mira’s wrist. She took care to avoid the blood, and had to stand on the ropes so she could actually hold Mira’s long arm up high enough for her liking.
“Fight number two goes to Gumiho, with a tap out in the first round,” Zoey’s grin was wide and proud, not even bothering with an attempt to hide her favouritism, “What a start to your second championship season.” She didn’t speak into the mic the second time, leaning a bit closer and elbowing Mira in the side as her sneakers hit the mat again. Speaking as if the belt was already hers even as she stepped into the ring for the first time in half a year.
“Damn right it is,” Mira’s smile was so wide it made the apples of her cheeks ache. That perpetual hollow in her abdomen was now thrumming with electrical pulses, bouncing around her ribcage in tandem with the beating of her heart. The echoed yowls of starvation quieted, the beast momentarily satiated. Her fingers tingled, her knuckles ached, there was probably a bruise already forming on her cheekbone where her opponent had managed to get his single strike in. And she loved every second. She hooted and hollered along with the crowd at her own victory, fist-pumping the air as Bezel was dragged off.
“Our third round is another newcomer, maybe this one will do a little better!” Zoey drew a laugh from the crowd, and when Mira looked over her shoulder a wink was shot in her direction. She snickered under her breath, grabbing her water and ducking beneath the ropes again. She waited just a moment, long enough to hear Zoey announce ‘Trix’ and a name she didn’t care to pay attention to as the next pair. She screamed along with the rest of the crowd when Rumi’s sneakers hit the mat, before turning to rush through the crowd while Zoey did her pre-fight formalities. And the fighters maybe did some shit talking. Or fighter, in this case, since Mira knew Rumi was too mature for that unless it came to her and Zoey.
This was her longest break of the night, while the rest of the first round pairings went up against each other. Her time between fights would get shorter and shorter until, hopefully, she was faced with the semi-finals and finals back-to-back. If she was gonna get any alcohol in her during the night, it had to be right now. When she would be able to sober up with enough tobacco and cool night air before her next fight. So instead of heading for the change rooms, she went for the bar. The crowd parted to form a path for her almost instantaneously, her grin widening as she greeted familiar and unfamiliar faces alike. Fighters didn’t make a habit of wandering through the crowd. Mira was an exception, mostly because she started doing it before she realized the fighters avoiding the crowd was even a thing. So whether it was genuine interest, or simply the novelty of actually interacting with the stars of the show, she always drew attention.
She didn’t recognize the bartender tonight. They exchanged basic pleasantries as Mira ordered herself a rum and coke, but she didn’t bother with the friendly banter. It lined up well, considering when she turned back around with a bright red solo cup clutched in her fingers, she was watching the back of Rumi’s head as she walked to her corner. She was up against a woman Mira now remembered from last year, someone with a similar build to Rumi’s. A bit taller and less muscular, and she hadn’t changed much from the looks of it.
You’ve got this in the bag. Mira tried to telepathically send the message through their totally real best friend bond as she approached the ring again, barely having to actually maneuver her way through the crowd. She hit Zoey’s makeshift podium and climbed up to crouch beside the crate with her drink in hand. She felt Zoey’s hand pat the top of her head, as if Mira was a big scary doberman sitting beside her at the park or something. Mira snickered as she sipped her drink.
“Kick her ass!” Mira shouted, narrowly avoiding spilling her own drink as she punched the air. She was long past being a good sport. She was here to win, and if she didn’t, Rumi had to. That was just how things were gonna go, or Mira would be grumpy. Simple as that.
She still felt Zoey nudge her in the side of the thigh with her foot, even though she had to turn her face away from the microphone to hide a laugh at the exact same time. As if she could talk, with her snarky little comment about Mira’s opponent.
They barely scratched the surface of the second round when Rumi landed a particularly nice hook that sent her opponent thudding like dead weight onto the mat. Mira grinned against the rim of her drink, barely managing to hold in her excitement until Zoey had hopped over the ropes and confirmed what she had been sure of the second she saw Rumi’s flawless form.
“And that’s our first knockout!”
Mira immediately jumped up and screamed. She was cheering so loud she could feel it tearing her throat, but she didn’t care in the slightest. If she had any of her drink left, she absolutely would’ve dumped it on the crowd below as she fist-pumped the air. She could see Rumi’s eye roll from where she stood, and all she did was wave happily in response. She felt like a proud mother.
“You’re doing great sweetie!” She cupped her hands around her mouth to amplify her words, and the three of them folded over in laughter.
“Shut up M- Gumiho!” Zoey wheezed into the mic, catching herself just in time. It just made Rumi and Mira laugh harder, “I can’t comment on shit if I’m laughing, you bitch!”
“I love you too!” She held up a finger heart and blew Zoey a kiss. Zoey snatched it out of the air and winked as she pressed it to her cheek. Rumi rolled her eyes again.
‿‿̩͙ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿
“I think I’m in love with her.”
“Ditto.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Baby groaned from where he crouched against the brick wall, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “I will leave you out here.”
“You can’t do that to us,” Romance pouted, taking the joint Abby offered him. The moon illuminated the alleyway in light nearly bright enough that you would think it daytime if not for the dark sky.
“Wanna bet?”
“Besides,” He continued on after his hit as if Baby hadn’t interrupted, blowing smoke up towards the stars around his words, “We’re a pair of functioning adults, we could get back in. Go sulk alone, we’ll be busy figuring out how to woo our future wife,” Romance stuck his tongue out at Baby, who looked about ready to throw them into the dumpster at the end of the alley.
“I like the way you think, sweetheart,” Abby slung an arm around his shoulder, nosing against Romance’s cheek. Baby made fake gagging noises in the background.
“For such a big guy, you’re a real lightweight, y’know that?” Romance commented, fighting off a grin as he took a small hit and blew the smoke in Abby’s face. He snapped his jaws at it, like a dog chasing water out of a hose.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” Romance snickered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then holding out the joint between his fingers and keeping it steady as Abby’s lips closed around it. The only time they really indulged in PDA was times like this, when they were intoxicated to a concerning degree and mostly hidden from the actual public. Another one of those lines in the sand of their relationship, a byproduct of some immature desperation to avoid ‘changing’ their friendship. As if it hadn’t been changed since the first time Romance blew him in the bathroom at a sorority mixer.
“Ugh, you two are disgusting. Go back to talking about the chick.”
“Oh my god,” Romance’s words were punctuated by an offended gasp. Abby let out a snort, coughing a bit on the smoke that trickled from his nose, “that’s been it all along, hasn’t it? You’re homophobic!”
“God, seriously Baby? It’s 2025, get with the times,” Abby joined in, shaking his head in mock disappointment. But Baby was too used to that joke at this point in their friendship.
“Not usually. You two are the exception.”
“Oh fuck off!” Romance cackled, kicking him in the shin. In response Baby grabbed his ankle and tugged with a devious smile, nearly sending Romance – and by extension Abby – tumbling to the ground directly on top of him. Their scuffle ended after a few more half-assed hits, when Baby finally decided he didn’t want two men who weighed probably about 400lbs combined to come crashing down on top of him, and the three of them completely devolved into laughter.
By the time they calmed themselves down, Abby had slid down the wall to sit on the ground. One arm came to wrap around Romance’s calf, leg held in the crook of his elbow as Abby’s hand came to rest just above his knee. Clearly he wasn’t thinking about keeping the ass of his jeans clean, despite their light colour. Romance knew he’d be the one listening to his bitching later.
“Get off the ground, you dope,” Romance patted his head, snuffing out the finished joint against the brick wall and tossing the filter on the ground. It landed by the toe of Abby’s shoe.
“Nope. Comfy.” Abby leaned his head against Romance’s thigh, “Baby. Cig me.”
“I’m not kissing you if you taste like tobacco,” Romance warned, an empty threat. The way Abby didn’t even hesitate to take the cancer stick Baby offered only solidified that.
“Yes you will, you’re half a beer away from asking for one yourself,” Abby retorted, looking up and sticking his tongue out at Romance. He shifted his leg, bumping Abby with his knee as much as he could when it was being clung to.
“Shut up, smoke your death stick,” He said, blowing a raspberry down at the stupid lightweight. Before Abby could retort, the door beside them flung open, the locked one that they hadn’t come through. No one immediately stepped out, but a familiar voice came echoing out, laced with laughter.
“You have lost all ground in terms of bitching out my poor decisions, Rumi!” Gumiho stepped out into the alley, still looking over her shoulder at whoever ‘Rumi’ was, “You’re officially an accomplice!”
Obviously the door led to some private hallway for the fighters. The specific fighter in question was either ignoring, or simply unaware of, the presence of the trio in the alley. She was busy, shuffling around as she propped the door open with a can of paint. A ribbon of golden light flowed out and faded as it approached the street.
Her eyes settled on the three when she turned around, a pink bedazzled case clutched between her fingers. She gave them a nod of acknowledgement, moving to lean against the brick on the other side of the alley. It was mostly silent, the sound of music just barely echoing from the cracked door. Romance glanced at his phone. 11:00PM. He vaguely remembered Baby mentioning an intermission just before they stepped out halfway through a fight, since neither opponent was of any interest to them. Gumiho had cleared her second fight in a round and a half with another technical knockout, and Romance and Abby spent the rest of the matches off in their own little world, fawning like lovelorn teenagers.
Romance felt Abby’s arm loosen around his leg, and watched from his peripheral as he shifted to stand up beside him. He resisted the urge to snort, knowing as he tucked a thumb in his pocket and leaned back against the wall that he was truly no better. A piece of his brain couldn’t help but long for this gorgeous fighter to think he was cool. It was a foreign feeling, the desire to impress. But it burned deep in his soul, aching for some sort of acknowledgement.
click. Her long fingers moved to open the case with a lazy precision, picking out a cigarette. It had a pink filter. There was something about these tiny details, the rhinestones and the personalized cigarettes and the tiny charm he could see hanging off the phone tucked into the waistband of her shorts, that incited a burning curiosity in his gut. It made him want to ask about them all, learn about them, learn about her. He wanted to know every tiny detail about this enigma of a woman across the alley, wanted to memorize it all, wanted to burn it into the folds of his mind. God, he was going crazy. He watched her flick open a heart shaped lighter – Romance was pretty sure it was a designer brand, but the name was escaping him. He was far too focused on the way her lips closed around the filter, inhaling as she held the pink flame to the end of her cigarette. The way the muscles in her jaw tensed ever so slightly as she took down the smoke, clicking the lighter closed. The way her head tilted back to rest against the brick, eyes fluttering shut as the relief of nicotine flooded her lungs. Romance had to bat away more than one perverted thought. His pants were too tight for that shit tonight, he was not gonna embarrass himself.
“I’m headed in. Don’t be too long,” Baby rose from where he was crouched, his lips pulled into a slight smirk, eyes twinkling. He was back through the door before Abby or Romance could argue, leaving them alone with the woman they’d spent the better part of tonight obsessing over.
Romance’s mind raced for something, anything, to say. They had until Abby’s smoke was done; neither of them had a pack to continue excusing their presence in the alley, and the actual smoker had just abandoned them to a quicktime event.
“So.” Abby started, clearing his throat. Romance glanced over. His long pause told him that the idiot had absolutely nothing to say, he was just too drunk to resist the impulse to say something. Romance was overcome with the urge to whack himself. Or Abby.
From across the alley, it was like the fighter had just remembered they were there. She had been looking towards the street, lost in her own thoughts and watching the odd car roll by. She turned to them with a blank, but not unkind, stare, eyebrows raising almost imperceptibly as if to urge Abby to continue. He did not.
“So…?” She repeated when Abby didn’t say anything, raising her eyebrows a little further. Her voice was low and smooth, a little hoarse. Probably from all the yelling she’d been doing from where she had sat crouched like a beautiful gargoyle on the announcer’s podium.
“You got any plans after you’re done kicking people’s asses?” Romance butted in. Abby had already fucked up their chances of having more than ten seconds to think of what to say, so. What else was there to lose?
That was obviously not what she’d been expecting. Her eyebrows shot as far up as they could possibly go.
“Probably going back home and sleeping…? Finals don’t end until 1:00am, not exactly much time to do things afterwards, y’know?” She flicked away the ash of her cigarette, but her tone wasn’t annoyed or even exasperated. It was almost… amused?
“How about this coming Friday night?” Romance grinned, “Our frat house is having a homecoming thing. Could get you tickets to the game too, if you wanna see this guy kick some ass on the football field,” He jerked his thumb towards where Abby was taking the tiniest puff imaginable of a cherry that was getting a bit too close to the filter. He made no move to snuff it. Gumiho let out a low whistle, seeming to legitimately consider it.
“I haven’t been to a football game since…” She trailed off, obviously muttering to herself more than anything. Her eyes flicked between the two of them, such a dark shade of brown that her iris and pupils blended until they were just bottomless black dots in the darkness of the alleyway. She seemed to be considering something in her silence, or maybe sizing them up. Romance got nervous for a moment, worried that they may not pass the test, until she spoke again, “Can you get me three tickets? I’ve got a couple friends I think would love to tag along.”
Oh, Mystery was gonna be indebted to them for life. There was no way she wasn’t talking about the announcer and that purple-haired boxer, right? Romance noticed that most of her cheers had been concentrated to her matches, and the three of them sat together on the podium when they weren't fighting.
“Of course,” Abby jumped in, grinning, “We’ll get you whatever you want, babe. Just say the words.”
The boxer’s nose immediately scrunched up a bit, a half-hearted glare pointed towards the source of the pet name. But even in the dark of the alleyway, Romance could see her pale cheeks lighting up a bright pink.
Bingo. That had to be a good sign, right?
“Babe? You really think we’re at that point yet, beanie?” Gumiho retorted, taking a deep inhale from her cigarette.
“A man can dream, right?”
She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat as the smoke trickled from her nose, a seeming attempt to bite back a cough. Or maybe a laugh, the hopeful part of Romance’s brain supplied.
“You’ve got guts,” She muttered to herself, shaking her head. Her lips were quirked into the slightest smile, but he caught it. Romance wondered if it really was that much of a rarity for her to get hit on like this. On one hand, he’d expect her to have a crowd of groupies. On the other, he wasn’t exactly surprised that men were weird about a woman who beats people up for fun.
That was fine. More for them.
“Or you’re just stupid.” She finished, snuffing out her cigarette on the brick behind her.
“Love makes a man do stupid things.” Romance butted in, grinning. The fighter looked between them, some indiscernible thought process occurring as her eyes flicked back and forth a few times. She pushed herself to stand up straight with a short laugh.
“Add crazy to that list, I suppose,” She retorted, smirking. Then she held out a hand, palm up, “Hand.”
They rushed to slap their hands down first. Abby was smug about being faster, until he realized it meant Romance’s palm was the one on top as Gumiho apparently summoned a pen from thin air, which she used to scribble a series of numbers on the skin in pink ink. He could feel his cheeks start to hurt from how wide he was smiling. Take that, dickhead. Romance had to stop himself from wincing when he felt his toes get stomped on, as if Abby could sense the insult.
Fuckin’ brat. He stomped on Abby’s foot in return.
“We’ll meet you guys somewhere before the game. Let me know where and when.” With that, she was slipping back through the door and letting it click shut behind her, cutting off the stream of light.
‿‿̩͙ ༺ ♰ ༻ ‿̩͙‿
They stood there in the alley, dumbfounded.
Abby was the first one to snap out of it, letting out a yelp and tossing the melting cigarette filter to the ground. He shook off his hand, hissing dramatically.
Now brought back to reality, they slowly turned to look at each other, blinking a few times.
“Did we just…?” Abby spoke first, and Romance nodded.
“Yeah. Yeah I think we did.”
“Fuck YES!” The yell Abby let out was way too loud for what time it was, but he had never been great at controlling his volume to begin with. He punched the air in victory, a grin splitting his face. Romance literally winced, before whacking him on the arm. Abby proceeded to rub the area despite the fact that the hit barely stung, pouting dramatically.
“Shut the fuck up, oh my god!” Romance wheezed out, leaning back against the wall. He had to fight to keep pouting, but it wasn’t even a minute before he broke. He just couldn’t help it, not when Romance’s melodic laughter was bouncing through the alleyway. It was just too contagious.
“You don’t think she heard that, do you?” Abby whisper-yelled back, clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the laughter that followed. Romance’s only answer was to wheeze again, struggling for air between laughs.
They took a minute to calm down, leaning against each other for support they didn’t really even need. Abby just liked touching him. Obviously sexually, but also just. The random shoulder bumps when Romance wanted his attention, or the way he would put his legs across Abby’s lap when they watched movies. He liked touching Romance, probably too much. He tried to keep his hands to himself in public, he really did.
He had no clue if Romance wanted people to think they were a ‘thing’. Abby had always been a blunt person, the type without social fear or shame. But when it came to their relationship, there were quite a few questions that he refused to ask. Because for the first time in his life, he was scared of the answer. What Romance wanted from… them, whatever they were, that was possibly the most terrifying one of all. When they first started hooking up, it had been just that. And Abby was perfectly fine with it, seemed like the ideal solution to his complete inability to keep up with hookups. He always forgot to save contacts and mixed up names, which usually pissed people off a bit. Romance was already around, he already knew his name and had his number because he was his best friend; having sex sometimes wouldn’t make things weird! And it didn’t, it still hadn’t. But that didn’t mean things hadn’t changed. The closer they got, the more the lines between friendship and sex and something neither of them knew how to acknowledge blurred, until they were spending the nights in each other's rooms and wearing each other's clothes and kissing even when they weren’t having sex.
There was a part of his brain, he didn’t know yet if it was the rational or the insecure part, that was telling him it was just Romance being smart and taking advantage of having someone to do these things with at all. And that was fine! Abby didn’t think he was taking advantage, like, taking advantage of him. Just like… Romance was a touchy person. Even when they were strictly friends, Romance would sling an arm around his shoulder while they walked, grab his arm or his wrist or sometimes even his hand to drag him somewhere, lean into his side when they watched movies on the couch. Maybe it wasn’t that he liked to kiss Abby specifically, maybe it was that he liked kissing and their situation just made Abby a convenient outlet. Gay guys in fraternities are typically pretty rare, for some strange reason.
Obviously most of their frat had a vague idea that they were fucking, and aside from the occasional biting comment that seemed to have a bit too much genuine venom behind it, they were basically fine to be as touchy as they wanted in the house.
Outside the house, it was more a worry of if Romance wanted to be perceived as ‘off the market’. He wasn’t particularly concerned about their safety, or maybe it was just that he was confident that the two of them would be able to protect themselves if anything ever did happen.
He really tried not to get into fights often, at least in adulthood. Blood and injuries always became a hassle, and he didn’t like the feeling of pummelling someone into the dirt anymore either. But sometimes he didn’t have a choice, either because someone was being violent to him or to someone else who couldn’t defend themselves. And those few incidents had been more than enough to earn him a reputation as someone people didn’t wanna piss off.
Abby didn’t care to focus on rumours. Actually, he hadn’t even known there were any until the first time he and Romance met, where the latter was immediately shocked to find he wasn’t some sort of delinquent.
“You’re a lot more chill than I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“People go around calling you scary. The scariest thing I’ve seen so far is those ugly patterned shir- hey, HEY! Don’t hit me with MY pillow, you fucking-”
Abby snickered a bit at the memory, shaking his head when Romance looked at him with questioning eyes.
“Nothin’. Was just thinking about first year.”
“Ew, why would you want to do that?” Romance joked, nudging him in the side. Abby returned the gesture.
“It wasn’t all bad!” Abby retorted, fighting off a smile. It was when they’d met, after all. The entire rest of the year could’ve been total shit for all he cared, that event enough would make it special in his mind.
“Yeah. I guess not,” Romance admitted, enough sentimentality packed behind his words that Abby could just tell he was thinking the exact same thing. He leaned down ever so slightly to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Lets go back inside and brag.”