Chapter Text
A torso drenched in sweat withered underneath Khabib’s calloused palms. He didn’t know who it was, but he held the body with utmost care. The form he held felt unreal; it was packed with lean muscle, yet he didn’t know why he treated him like something made out of thin glass; he sensed that body was something important to him.
He held it close.
A grounding scent of cedar-wood clung on the skin, reminiscent of forest air as if it was there minutes ago – laced subtle with floral jasmine.
The figure beneath him carried quiet strength rather than being intimidating; it was beautiful. Khabib let his fingers map out the figure’s broad shoulders, as it fell and rose from his touch. Then, he let his fingers slowly trail down towards the body’s lower pecs and out of curiosity he pressed down on its rosy flushed tits, earning him a muffled whimper from the receiver.
He could tell from the choked-out voice it was a man but somehow that little sound sent a shiver through Khabib’s lower half. For a moment, he wondered how someone built like this could feel so fragile under his hands. A body meant for taking hits and bruises reacted differently to gentle touches in ways he didn't expect, and for some reason he felt like protecting that softness.
Khabib took note that the man under him trusted him. He did his best to remain calm even if he flinched from his warm careful hands. That trust was something meant to be earned not given at random, so he must know him.
Who was this man? Khabib had no idea, but he felt the need to worship the body that was presented in front of him. He studied the man once more, taking his time this time. When his gaze lifted towards the man's face it left him speechless.
The man's face was covered by his elbow and partially by his spiked unkempt hair. The only thing that wasn’t covered was his bruised mouth as his lips caught his teeth whenever Khabib leaned in, causing the mattress to sink while he placed kisses across his feverish body.
He seemed oddly similar to someone Khabib knew in the cage, but he was never this close with his opponents before. There were only a few fighters that he would hang around outside the match. He held great respect for them, since they were stronger men built on years of discipline; nothing similar to the man he held. Khabib would remember crossing a line like that. He was sure he never did.
“(fuck) Blyat– Khaba” the man cursed in Russian, as he pressed his elbow deeper into his pale skin.
Suddenly, everything made sense; It was one of his dreams again.
It’s here to torment him and he fucking hated how he enjoyed every minute of it. Still, it was a dream, a wave of relief hit him. All of the feelings he had bottled up for weeks he could finally let it out now without any consequences.
No one is here to tell him otherwise.
“Isu” Khabib said, grabbing Islam’s forearm and pinning it with Islam’s other unoccupied arm.
“I wanna see your face.”
Islam in response, clumsily tugged his hands away from Khabib’s grip. “No brother, I make weird faces and–”
He was interrupted by a gentle peck on the lip that Khabib used in order to silence him.
“Stop saying nonsense,” Khabib said softly. “I like seeing your face. It's…” he paused briefly thinking of the right words– at that moment he remembered it was all a dream. He can say whatever he wants. “It's pretty.”
Islam erupted into a deep laugh. “What?”
Khabib stared blankly at Islam, watching his infectious laugh get to him. He somewhat forgot how Islam laughed. It was ever since that incident he stopped smiling. Not anymore. He always thought Islam laughed straight but he didn’t. It was curved and uneven, yet somehow that made it even cuter– unbearable to look at for too long. He let his gaze linger below the younger man’s face, recollecting his thoughts once again.
“Khaba… you know I’m bad with compliments” Islam said, his voice rough, still caught up in the remnants of his laugh.
Khabib let out a sigh and grappled both of Islam's thighs and positioned them between his hips. He wanted to fuck, take an advantage of this dream, yet this dream wanted him to suffer even more; it made him realize he can’t escape the truth through this type of fucked up way of coping.
“How many times do I have to tell you this? it's the truth, take it whether you like it or not”
He locked his eyes with Islam, hazel-green, and piercing.
Islam didn’t laugh this time. He just looked at Khabib. His expression slowly softened in a matter of time. He offered something warm, confronting just from looking at his face. Khabib caught a little crooked smile plastered across his face, though it lasted for a bit; Islam looked away, shy, confused if he should keep that smile.
It hurt how his words had an effect on him.
Khabib knew that praises made Islam uneasy, he felt like he didn’t deserve them, but Khabib wanted to make him feel like he does.
He deserves all of it.
Maybe if he gained some sort of confidence he could tell the real Islam that, and maybe things would go how it used to be. Not the ones in his dreams, the one who doubted himself and carried the weight of his suffering to himself. He hated how he couldn’t say the stuff he could say in his dream to Islam.
It was for the best; he didn’t want Islam to go spineless.
“Shit–” in an instant, Islam held Khabib from the back of his shoulder blades, his nails digging into the flesh that remained there.
The older man woke up to the sound of someone uttering swears. He gripped his blanket for a quick second and tossed it over towards the corner of his bed. Across the room, the clock abruptly begged for attention, forcing Khabib to gawk at it for a good 10 minutes while he watched the red lights from the clock flicker.
Then the sound came again, pulling him out of his subconscious state.With a tired body, he lazily made his way over to the sound, clearly upset. It was probably some burglar breaking in, like usual. Once he found out what was going on he would go take a quick shower and change from his spoiled shorts, and probably go back to sleep; that is if he could continue where he had left off from his dream.
He heard another curse echo from the kitchen. This time louder than before. Whoever it was, they seemed really frustrated.
There he found his training partner, his white gi shrugged loose, sweat glistened on his exposed chest and toned abs. It looked like he just finished training, though not in a good state. His head hung low at the same time he moved with a slight limp.
Khabib wanted to ask if he needed assistance or if he was okay, but he just stood, watching the man tremble a bit akin to a frantic deer while he struggled to grab an ice pack from the tiny freezer next to the fridge.
He was a stubborn kid, thinking he didn't need any help; Khabib was there to help, granted that he asked.
He took note of the way Islam pressed the cold object deep into the skin of his injured leg, as if pressing it harder would make the pain go away.
His guilt ate him away with every passing second. Watching him felt like something important was taken away from him. It was a weird feeling he didn't quite understand; he didn’t want to.
The bruise bloomed angrily a yellowish purple color compared to the rest of the pale skin on Islam’s leg. From looking at his body, it appeared he earned a few more from training as there were more spots of skin that were coloured in the same shade, though it wasn’t as bad as the one he was tending to right now.
Islam could take it.
He isn't weak. Islam was the strongest type of fighter Khabib met. He doesn’t break like the way most fighters do– almost unhuman if you asked him.
Whenever he broke, he would somehow manage to get back up. Islam would brush it off like nothing had happened and be eager to return to training, but then Khabib’s father quickly caught on to his condition and told Khabib to somehow stop him from coming back to their gym. It was hard to stop him from training, though it was worthwhile; he could spend more time with him.
He would always get up from his bed when Khabib left the room and do a bunch of pushups or any type of exercise that just required your body weight. Afterwards, when Khabib returned, he would go to bed, trying his best to keep his breathing steady, as if he didn’t do anything.
Islam was a funny boy, thinking he could fool him. His little attempts were amusing, the type that warmed his chest, rather than filling it with annoyance. He hates to admit but he missed the times he spent with Islam, whether it be training with him, scolding him, or just talking with him. He was much more open then, when Khabib used to ask. Now that Islam is much older, silence was the only thing he offered.
Khabib’s thoughts scattered when he noticed Islam’s mouth slightly twitch, as if he was bracing himself to say something he might regret.
“Khabib, Umar is looking for you,” Islam said, fingers twitching even more.
Hearing his own name on Islam’s tongue never sounded foreign– apparently now it did. He said it in a manner business men would exchange names, not the way partners or brothers would.
Islam didn’t wait for an answer. He let out a shaky breath, fixed the position of the ice pack, eyes glued on it, refusing to look back at Khabib.
Khabib’s instincts yelled to touch him, do something– do fucking anything, yet he stayed still, hands clenched at his sides while he eagle-eyed him. He tried his best to get a view of Islam's face, yet he buried his face deep in his elbow while his right knee was propped up to hold his position.
The older man tried to say what happened, are you okay? But his mouth failed to move. Those words weren’t just words; they felt too fragile to utter. Instead, he said something that was even colder than he expected himself to say.
A single word.
“Alright.” he muttered under his breath.
He half anticipated Islam would at least look at him. Islam didn't even want to acknowledge his existence, which hurt him in a way he didn’t dare to name out loud.
It left a sour aftertaste.
He was certain if he even tried to help or ask Islam there was no point. He would ignore Khabib like how he did right now– humiliate him even further.
In the following moments, Khabib couldn’t handle the awkward silence that lingered in the air between them.Watching Islam in such quiet, angry and hurt, felt wrong. He had grown quite accustomed to the younger man’s loud laughs and playful smiles. This version of Islam seemed to no longer exist anymore, living only in his surreal dreams.
Khabib left the cold kitchen room before it could get to him even more than it already had. He grabbed a few of his belongings off the table, stuffed it in his duffle bag and headed to the gym with a new pair of shorts he wore.
He thought if he did something other than sleeping, the thoughts would go away. He was very wrong.
His thoughts about Islam followed him all the way to the gym.
He loved him.
Too much.