#on the ropes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hier--soir · 9 months

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on the ropes

pairing: boxer!frank castle x f!reader summary: a dive bar, a stranger in an alley, and a punch to the kidney. warnings/tags: [18+ MINORS DNI] boxer!frank au, explicit descriptions of violence, blood, injury, creepy men at bars, harassment, angst, anxiety, hints at trauma regarding violence. word count: 6.7k main masterlist a/n: a little boxer frank castle series that i’ve been playing around with for a minute now. i have fun writing it, so thought i’d share x

“Millie, what the fuck?”

A body jostled roughly into you, and you stumbled forward with a huff, casting a disgruntled look over your shoulder.

“What?” your friend stared at you. The room was dark, but the shadowy yellow light did little to hide the way she batted her eyelashes in an awful attempt at faux innocence.

“You said we were going for drinks,” you spoke slowly, arms raising to fold tightly across your chest. Your eyes darted around the room, taking in the less than desirable company.

The bar she brought you to was crowded. Packed to the brim like a tin of sardines, full of men gripping bottles of beer and shouting to be heard over the god awful music. The second you walked in with Millie and her brother, you’d known something was amiss.

Normally when Millie invited you out it was for cocktails or a bottle of wine, and often at chic rooftop bars that you could hardly afford to be in – never a dingy dive bar with sticky floors and pictures of shirtless men covering the walls.

They were framed, at least—the pictures—denoting a clear sense of veneration and pride from the owner. Covering almost every square inch of the walls around the bar, depicting sweat covered men. Some bleeding, some flexing their biceps; some holding another man in a headlock. Your stomach rolled each time you dared to glance at the décor and caught sight of blood or bruising.

“We are having drinks,” Millie responded sheepishly.

On cue, her twin brother, Ed, wandered back from the bar and handed you a glass of rosé. He looked decidedly casual, wearing a soft pair of shorts and a thin white t-shirt. A backpack rested on his shoulder. You narrowed your eyes, wondering why you hadn’t questioned his outfit at all until that moment.

“I don’t know if it’ll be any good,” he frowned. He had the type of voice that made it sound like he was always on the precipice of clearing his throat. “It’s the only wine they had.”

You scowled, looking back to his sister with raised eyebrows. Ed nursed a glass of water while he peered around the bar, sizing up the men stationed across the room.

“Okay,” she grimaced. “Look, I knew if I told you earlier you wouldn’t have come, and I need you here for support!”

“Support for what?” your voice had risen to a mouse-like squeak at that point. Inside of your chest, your heart had begun thrumming a little faster, and the echo of it rushed faintly in your ears.

“I’ve told you before,” Millie tried. “You know, about Ed doing these boxing games?”

“Boxing match,” Ed corrected quickly. Your eyes flicked between them, and you stayed silent, praying that she wasn’t going to say what you thought she was.

“Boxing match,” she remedied easily. “And so tonight is actually his first big fight, and he wants me here of course, and I want you here—”

“Millie,” you gaped. “I don’t do blood, seriously, I can’t. This—this is not my sort of thing, and I-I’m sorry but I don’t particularly care to see your brother beat someone up.”

“There won’t be any blood!”

“Well, there probably will be blood.”

“Ed,” Millie hissed. “Not helpful.”

He held his hands up and sent an apologetic smile sizzling in your direction. “C’mon, kid, this is my big break! You’re practically family; we need you here.”

You stared for a second, silently willing the racing cogs in your brain to slow down so you could think. Not for the first time, you realised how alike the twins looked. Even in the dim bar, their choppy flaxen hair shone where it streaked across their foreheads, and their soft almond shaped eyes held you in their gaze, like a mother held a crying child. So comforting, and so fucking encouraging.

Trust us, their eyes sung. Stay with us.

They reminded you of the twins from The Shining, using their silent benevolence to lull you into a false sense of security before you ultimately met a grisly demise.

God damnit.

“So what, it’s like some kind of fucking Fight Club?” you asked slowly. “Is this even legal?”

The siblings shared a quick look before Millie gripped your elbow. “You don’t need to worry about that. There’s a ref, and coaches – it’s safe.”

“Jesus Christ.” Her words didn’t reassure you in the slightest. You took a large gulp of your wine, lips puckering at the acidic taste. They watched on warily, awaiting the news that you would be leaving, going home to curl up in bed with your cat and watch re-runs of I Dream of Jeannie. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Couldn’t bring yourself to disappoint two of your closest friends.

“I’ll stay,” you vowed begrudgingly.

Millie whooped, the wine in her glass sloshing dangerously close to the rim as she raised her hands triumphantly in the air. The sound garnered a few looks from men around the room, and you shrunk away at the attention. They all seemed to be at least twenty years older than you and Millie. Adjusting your feet on the ground, you downed the last of your wine and tried not to gag as it slid down your throat.

“I just need a minute, though,” you exhaled, discarding your empty glass onto the closest table. “Need to get some fresh air before whatever is about to happen, happens.”

“Okay but don’t be long,” Ed fiddled with the strap of his backpack. “We kick off downstairs in 20 minutes.”

You gave him a quick nod, and for a second you tried to picture him throwing a punch. When you found yourself unable conjure the image in your mind, you turned to walk outside.

The bar was tucked away in a side street, and the only way in or out was nestled twenty metres down a dank alleyway that reeked of something metallic. A red neon sign buzzed above the doorway, and worked as the only indicator that the location was a place of business. The low electric was somewhat comforting, as you took up a spot on the opposing wall.

New York in early March was no more delightful than if it had still been the middle of Winter, and you shuddered at the press of cool bricks against your back. A cool wind rushed past you, snaking underneath the gaps in your clothes and whispering cruelly against your skin.

Nonetheless, you’d always enjoyed the cold. Any excuse to layer clothes until your skin was warm and pleasantly itchy beneath knitted material. Friends chastised the way you left your window ajar all year round; didn’t understand when you explained that you can’t sleep unless there’s a slight breeze. The chill was a welcome reprieve – something familiar to greet you as you stepped out of the bar. Having to warm yourself up always felt kinder and more loving than having to cool yourself down. Hot chocolates and weighted blankets in Winter were a heartfelt embrace, while ice cubes and swimming in Summer were futile efforts.

Cold air, you cruel mistress. I will never be able quit you.

Your phone buzzed every few moments, displaying the latest update in an incessant stream of texts from your roommate about how the radiator in your apartment was playing up again. A frustrated huff escaped your lips, and you put it away without responding.

There were a few men out there, cigarettes dangling between chapped lips as they shared mumbled, gruff conversation. For a moment, you wished you had one. To light a fire in your throat, to bring that heartfelt embrace. You shoved the thought down, reaching for a piece of gum in your purse instead. Numb fingers found the small cardboard packet after a moment. You fumbled with the wrapper, struggling to get it open, until a low voice gave you pause.

“You here alone?”

Your fingers froze, the piece of gum tumbling back down into the dark abyss of your bag. Suddenly you were hyper aware of a presence standing much closer to you than before. Cigarette smoke swirled in the air, seeping out of the burning cherry and drifting past your face. You resisted the urge to inhale.

The guy was lanky, with greasy hair and a word tattooed across his neck that you couldn’t quite make out. “You a mute or something?” he chuckled unkindly. “I asked you a question.”

Your eyes flashed up to his, frowning. The conversation amongst his friends died down, and you could feel them watching your interaction, quiet chuckles leaving smirking mouths as their friend hovered over you. If you just closed your eyes again, you were sure you could imagine you were at home in your bed; that you’d left the bar like you wanted to, could feel the warmth of Cynthia curled up and purring against your calf while Barbara Eden and Larry Hagman chattered away in the background.

“Hey,” he groused, taking a step closer. “It’s not polite to ignore someone when they’re tryna be friendly.”

The calming image disappeared, gone in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“Is that what you’re doing?” you steeled yourself, squaring your shoulders and attempting to pretend as though your stomach was churning inside of you. “Being friendly?”

“Oh, so her highness does speak,” he leered, lips pulling back to reveal a crooked smile and a missing tooth on the left of his mouth. “This isn’t a good area y’know? Bad idea for a thing like you to be out here all own.”

“I’m not here alone,” you muttered, flattening your back further against the wall.

“No?” he raised an eyebrow. It had a slit in it, a puckered white scar marring the skin beneath his hair. “You look pretty alone to me, doll.”

“I’m n-not,” the words rattled out of you. You focused on inhaling slowly, letting the crisp air expand your stomach, but another stilted exhale spilled out anyway. “In fact, the guy I’m here with will knock out all the teeth you have left if you don’t leave m—”

“Is that fucking right?” he interrupted, advancing a step closer. Your heart thundered in your chest, blood thundering in your ears. Your lungs tightened, all thoughts of breathing techniques evaporating in your mind as panic slowly took over. His friends were still laughing. The hand holding a cigarette lifted toward you, the burning end suspended dangerously close to the bare skin of your chin.

“Johnny, why don’t you fuck off and leave ‘er alone?” a rough voice cut through the alley. You flinched at the sound of it, but didn’t take your eyes off the man.

“Mind your business,” he snapped in response. Spittle struck your cheek and you cringed as it settled on your skin.

“I mean it,” the voice came again, from somewhere deeper in the alley, to your right. “Get the fuck outta my sight or you won’t like what happens.”

The man—Johnny—spared a glance in the direction of the voice, and only then did he hesitate. The smirk on his face drooped, mouth hanging open as he fumbled for something to say, boots scuffing against the ground as he took one hasty step away from you, and then another.

“Hey man,” he said in a low, wary voice. “I didn’t realise. No harm done, alright?”

“Not yet,” the voice responded plainly.

Johnny gave a short nod, dropped his cigarette onto the ground and stamped it out with the tip of his boot. His friends weren’t laughing anymore. With a jerk of his head, he led them back inside, and only when they were all gone did you allow your shoulders to relax. A dull ache had started up behind your left eye.

You scraped trembling fingers against the brick on either side of you, finding solace in the way the coarse material snagged against your numb skin. But a shuffling sound to the right made your ears prick up, and your head darted in the stranger’s direction. The man walked closer to you, almost entirely obscured by shadows. Your eyes strained, trying to see him clearer, but he leant against the wall and kept his head trained straight ahead at the closed door of the bar. Faded orange letters on the door read Hasta La Muerte.

A grey hood was pulled up over his head, working as an accomplice with the darkness to obscure his facial features. But he was tall, and broad, that much was evident, and the red glow of the sign exposed the bare skin of his hands. Faded purple and blue bruises blossomed over the hills of his knuckles, small cuts and scabs decorating the spots where thin skin covered bone. The chill on your skin seemed spread through your insides at the sight of it; wariness filling your stomach until your muscles clenched tight, bracing yourself for another antagonising encounter.

“He’s right.”

His voice sent a shot of heat through your chest, eviscerating the cold until you could feel your palms warm, sweat beading across your skin.

“What?” Your voice was quieter than you cared for it to be. You felt so small, suddenly.

“Place is a shithole,” he gestured loosely at the bar entrance. “Filled with scumbags. You shouldn’t be here.”

The stranger made a step to move inside, hand raising to push open the door.

“Not safe for a thing like me?” you emphasised the word with a curl of your lip, vaguely unsure what had inspired you to continue an interaction that had already ended.

But you did know that Johnny had made you feel so powerless, like an ant he could squash beneath his boot if he felt so compelled. Whereas this man was entirely uninterested – he almost seemed bored with the whole thing. And it spurred something inside of you.

His stance tightened somewhat, and you watched him roll his shoulders back slowly.

“Yeah,” he spoke, still facing the door. “Something like that.”

You couldn’t pinpoint what compelled you to speak again. and if you were to retell the story, you were sure you’d be ashamed of yourself for pushing, for not letting go and simply thanking him. But maybe that was the thing – maybe it was because he had saved you from that guy, whether it came from a place or care or not. Or perhaps it was because he spoke quietly, didn’t raise his voice. Something about him seemed trustworthy… safe.

“Why are you here then?” you rushed out. Heat soared through your face as he paused, head tilting to the side to spare a glance in your direction. “If it’s as bad as you say.”

As he moved, the glow of the sign lit up his profile. You stilled, eyes widening a fraction as you caught sight of his face for the first time. He watched you out of the corner of his eye, and didn’t speak for a moment.

A mottled purple bruise shone beneath his cheekbone and travelled across the bridge of his nose. His jawline was sharp, the muscle underneath the skin twitching as his teeth clenched together. He still didn’t move, allowing you a moment to rake your eyes over him, to devour the imperfections and discolorations of his abused face. Almost as if he wanted you to see – wanted you to know that his warning wasn’t made up of empty words.

You were no stranger to violence, and all the ways it could manifest. Painfully familiar with the way blues and reds and purples and yellows could discolour skin until natural hues were all but gone. Well acquainted with discerning the difference between an injury inflicted by oneself or another, if only you looked closely enough. It was something you’d grown up considering—the juxtaposition between defensive and offensive wounds, and the way one chose to hide or not hide them.

The way he moved was so nimble, so quiet. That hood was tucked up over his head, and yet hands were bared to you, exposing himself in a way that said this is what I will allow you to see; this is what I can control.

And somehow, amidst the brutality of it all, he was handsome. Dark eyes—so dark they almost seemed black under the humming red glow—and a strong, crooked nose with a bump along it, as if it’d been broken at some point and never reset properly. He looked fierce, and maybe not as safe as you’d first thought.

You swallowed thickly.

“Pays the bills,” he clipped. You let a noncommittal hum vibrate inside your mouth. He works here.

It made sense, you supposed, that he was a bartender. It matched his rough exterior; gave clarity to the guys from before being so cautious of getting on his bad side. You pondered how his face had gotten so fucked up; considered that maybe a patron had gotten out of line recently, and had perhaps taken a swing at an innocent hospitality worker.

It was almost comical, the lengths your brain went to in order to rationalise his appearance.

“I actually live pretty close to here.” Why are you still talking?

“Is that your way of inviting me over, sweetheart?” His shoulders shook with a short, silent laugh. “I’m flattered.”

“What?” you stiffened, gaze darting to his torn knuckles once more. “No, no. I’m just—I’m saying I know the area.” He caught the movement of your eyes and tucked his hands into his pockets after all.

“Well, if you live so close,” he said. “You should go home.”

A short, indignant scoff rushed from your nose. “I can handle myself,” you muttered unconvincingly.

“Oh yeah?” he snorted, demeanour shifting into something that bordered on incredulous. All nerves you’d once felt seemed to have vanished, and yet you were painfully aware of how his stature dwarfed your own. You swore you saw him roll his eyes, perhaps taking note of the same thing. “My bad, hot shot, I’ll stay out of your way next time.”

Your phone vibrated in your back pocket, and you tugged it out quickly. Millie’s picture lit up the screen and then disappeared, and your eyes darted over the notifications.

meet me downstairs

it’s about to start. where are you?

please don’t tell me you left

“Go home,” he repeated finally. Tone softer this time. “This isn’t the place for you. I mean it.”

You looked up from your phone. He had turned his head almost entirely, giving a full view of his face. Short dark hair peaked out from where his hood had fallen back an inch. His face looked solemn; lips pressed together tersely.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly. “Maybe I will.”

With one final look in your direction, he pressed his hand firmer against the door and stepped inside, leaving you alone with the cold air once more.

You gave it five minutes before you followed him inside.

Tacky stairs led to a large basement. To floors and walls made of concrete slabs that brought an extra iciness to the space. A chill that was eradicated, however, by the sweat and body heat that emanated from the mass of men crowding the room, jostling against each other as they shouted and yelled and geared up for the show.

Animals.

Excited chatter drowned out the low, droning music that played from speakers in each corner of the space. You spied men handing each other cash, speaking in hushed tones, placing bets on what was about to happen. You wondered if anyone had bet on Ed. Tried not to think about the possibility of them betting on his opponent.

Millie was front and centre, standing beside the ring with a shorter man that you didn’t recognise.

“Where the hell were you?” she asked, handing you a fresh glass of the sickening wine. “It’s about to start.”

“I told you,” you raised the glass to your lips, glancing at the bald man hovering by her shoulder. “I needed some fresh air.”

“This is Rodge,” she followed your gaze, introducing you quickly. “Ed’s trainer.”

You shared a polite nod, but no words were exchanged. Rodge’s eyes were trained on where Ed stood, hopping up and down on the balls of his feet and stretching his arms. A navy mouthguard rested behind his thin lips, matching the shorts he wore. You’d never seen Ed shirtless before, and he was lean, almost as lanky as you’d expected him to be. But he had a sleeper build of sorts. Clear firm lines of muscle protruded through the skin of his arms and stomach, hinting at a strength that you’d never expected him to possess.

“Have you seen him fight before?” you asked.

“Loads of times,” she nodded. “He’s got this, don’t worry.”

You nodded absentmindedly, attention stolen by a tattooed man dressed in black entering the ring. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and your fingertips tingled sharply, as it they’d each been pricked by a small, invisible needle. He raised a hand, and the crowd quietened a fraction, all eyes turning to him. Silently, he motioned to someone on the other side of the ropes. And with a sinking feeling in your stomach, you watched Ed’s opponent step into the ring.

He had his back to you, but you allowed your eyes to trail over his figure, sizing him up in an attempt to gage how much of a risk he posed. He was dark haired, and he looked strong. Stronger than you cared to admit. Small black shorts clung to his upper thighs, but his torso was bare, and very little of his body was left to your imagination. His back was broad, the muscles in his shoulders shifting with every movement he made. A few scars littered his bare skin, defacing otherwise unmarked flesh.

The dark-haired man stretched his arms over his head, bending them this way and that, flexing the muscles in his biceps and triceps as the crowd jeered. His physique was different to Ed’s.

Where Ed was discreetly muscular, this man was imposing. He stood a few inches taller than Ed, and was obviously a decade older, showing a clear advantage. And then as he lowered his arms and flicked his head to the side to listen to what his coach was saying from outside of the ring, and you caught a glimpse of his face.

Crooked nose. Bruised cheekbone.

It was like you’d been punched in the stomach yourself.

You glanced uneasily at Millie, but she had her eyes solely on Ed, fists clenched by her side as she muttered inaudible words of encouragement. Movement in the ring drew your attention once more.

It can’t be. He was a bartender, for god’s sake. Or… you had just made that up in your head and decided it was true.

Pays the bills, he’d said. But he’d never said what exactly he was doing to make money.

“Shit,” you breathed, hands shaking as the man from the alley turned to face Ed and you saw him in all of his glory.

With bated breath, you watched the two men meet in the middle of the ring and knock their boxing gloves together. And then before you could prepare yourself, it had begun.

Ed threw a punch instantly, the force of his glove whipping the man’s head to the side. Millie let out a shrill whooo and you flinched, stomach coiling as he retaliated, delivering a heavy blow to Ed’s ribs.

He grunted, stumbling back from the force of it. It seemed like he wasn’t expecting such a fast response, and in his surprise, failed to block the next two punches sent his way. First to his ribs and then a quick second to the side of his face. A lump formed in your throat, and nausea twisted inside of you as blood and spittle flew from Ed’s mouth, painting the mat like a Jackson Pollock. For a moment you feared you might truly be sick.

The blood didn’t deter the man, who advanced on Ed like a predator, caging him in against the ropes. He didn’t let up for a second, delivering punishing blows wherever he could find a gap in his opponent’s defence.

“Come on, Ed!” Millie hollered, and your head snapped to the side. Her eyebrows were drawn tight in the middle of her forehead, mouth hanging open anxiously.

As if he could hear her, Ed propelled himself forward, colliding with the other man. They grappled for a second, both searching for purchase, but Ed had his arms wrapped tightly around the other man. What the fuck?

“What’s he doing?” you asked, but nobody could hear you over the roar of the men in the room. They clambered around the platform from all angles, getting as close as they could. Spit flew as they shouted profanities at the fighters, faces reddening as they bellowed with all their might.

Rodge yelled something inaudible at him, but Ed persisted, planting his feet on the ground and pressing his chest against the other man’s. And then the man’s body jolted to the side and he was stumbling to the ground, a loud grunt echoing through the room as he held a gloved fist to his waist. The referee shouted and everything stopped for a second as the man rested on the mat. Cold dread flooded through your veins as you noticed the way he glared at Ed. Even in the light, his eyes seemed black. The men around you were roaring, and harsh boo’s reverberated off the walls of the basement.

“What the fuck just happened?” you asked breathlessly, looking to Rodge for an explanation.

“He punched him in the kidney,” Rodge ground out, arms folded across his chest. He seemed to be glaring at Ed as well, although you couldn’t tell if that was just his face.

“Okay so?” you questioned cluelessly, eyebrows raised. The man rose slowly and walked to his corner of the ring, where someone held a water bottle to his lips.

Rodge ignored you, stepping toward the ring where Ed was waiting for him.

“He can’t do that.” Millie told you anxiously, staring wide eyed at her brother. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

It appeared as though the words Rodge had for Ed were of a similar sentiment, based on the way he was cowering under the bald man’s glare. Blood dribbled out of his nose in thin lines, and he wiped them away with his glove, leaving a crimson streak smeared across his cheek. You held your breath and looked away.

After thirty seconds the men gathered in the middle of the ring once more, and you attempted to quell the anxiety that swelled inside you. But as much as you internally begged for it to end, the second round began and the sound of gloves smacking skin hit in your ears. And you couldn’t bring yourself to not look.

Because, god, it was a sight to behold.

The dark-haired man was back on his feet, and he was furious.

He moved quickly, twisting and ducking around Ed, never giving him a moment of respite as he sunk his fists into his flesh. He found all of his weak spots and targeted them in a second, attacking with finesse, and knowing all the right moments to pull back and block Ed’s futile attempts to return a punch. He was too fast, too agile, too big. And when he struck, it was brutal, every single time.

Sweat seeped through the thick material of your shirt, sticking it to the skin of your back. Everything was too hot, too loud. You felt lightheaded as you watched Ed take another hit to the face, blood spurting as his head jolted to the side.

It was disgusting, he was disgusting. It was animalistic, it was brutish. And yet you couldn’t stop watching him.

Sweat shone on his shoulders as he moved, shimmering under the harsh white light dangling above them. You could hear him grunting through the black mouthguard covering his teeth; could see how the corded muscles in his abdomen clenched and shifted beneath his skin with every movement of his arms. It was painfully mesmerising.

Ed’s body hit the ropes and bounced back towards the man, and a gloved fist met his already bruising ribs. The air rushed out of your lungs, chest aching as if you were the one who’d been struck.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you said, but Millie didn’t hear you, too busy shouting mindless instructions at her brother.

Sucking your lips into your mouth, you looked back just in time to see the man swing his fist upward into the bottom of Ed’s chin, snapping his head back. And when he fell, intercepting the mat with a sickening thud, he didn’t stand back up. A harsh, guttural shout came from the man’s mouth, so loud it felt like your body vibrated. Whether it was a triumphant battle cry, or a sound of exhaustion, you weren’t so sure, but you didn’t take your eyes off him as the referee counted eight seconds and then gripped his forearm, raising it in the air to signal him as the winner.

A deafening cacophony of sound rose from the crowd, louder than you’d heard it all night. Praise mixed in with heckles of abuse, and yet the man stared into the crowd as if it were all below him. His chin was raised in the air, blank eyes gazing into the swarm of people, flitting from face to face as if he were still trying to process the victory. It was nonchalant, as if the entire thing was no big deal to him. As if he hadn’t just beaten someone to a pulp. And then suddenly, those dark orbs were on you. Your entire body stiffened, eyes widening as you held his gaze. His eyebrows quirked into a soft frown, chin lowering as he squinted a little, perhaps trying to determine whether you were the same person from the alley or not. But his gaze shifted away just as quick, and you relaxed somewhat, relieved to have escaped the intense scrutiny. His glistening chest heaved with breaths of exertion, and you watched as he gave a single jostle of his fist in the air, before turning to exit the ring.

Rodge led Ed out a side door, Millie rushing behind them with his water bottle gripped between her slim fingers. The red colour of her acrylics shone against the black plastic. You stumbled behind them as fast as your feet would carry you, but your body felt light, stomach shifting inside you like you were on a boat, a feeling that had you swaying from side to side; set aimlessly adrift in the teeming crowd. Like a small fish against a strong current, you wormed through thick arms and tall torso, finally slipping towards the door tucked so discreetly against the back wall. When you plunged through it, and the door had clicked shut at your back, you found yourself alone in a long hallway.

A multitude of closed doors decorated the path ahead, worn silver handles shining below the brassy light on the roof, taunting your uncertainty. Soft murmurs rose from somewhere in the distance, but boisterous cheers still rang in your ears, and you couldn’t pinpoint the exact location of the voices. An image of Ed hitting the mat swum through your vision and your first step faltered, palm colliding with the wall in an effort to steady yourself.

Your throat was thick as you swallowed, but the ball of anxiety stayed lodged in the top of your chest. You began to walk, ears pricked in hopes of recognising a familiar voice as you passed by the first set of doors. Millie or Ed—hell, even Rodge would do.

You’d only made it a few steps when one of the doors smarted open, the hinge creaking painfully loud. The expectation that Millie was about to step out and greet you brought a welcome relief flooding through your veins, and your shoulders relaxed somewhat.

“Thank god,” you muttered.

And then stopped short, feet planting on the ground as the person fully entered the corridor.

Definitely not Millie.

Not for the first time that night, you were struck by how large he was. In fact, it was probably the hundredth time the thought had crossed your mind.

One hand gripped an ice pack to his waist, right where his kidney sat, and the other rubbed a small towelette across his chest, absorbing the sweat that still shone across his pecs. A pink mark covered his unbruised cheek, a stinging reminder of Ed’s first punch. Black, unruly eyebrows twitched in recognition, and the hand gripping the towel paused as he assessed you.

“What the hell are you doin’ down here?” he bristled. His voice was deeper than it had been earlier. Rougher.

You didn’t respond for a moment, eyes glazing over as they flicked in a constant loop from his face to his bare chest, his arms, his thighs. His bicep flexed as his hand tightened around the ice pack.

Jesus Christ, you thought. Get a hold of yourself.

“M’serious,” he griped. “If someone finds you down here when you’re not supposed to be, you’ll get your ass handed to you.”

He was more intimidating now than he had been earlier. Expression frustrated—almost pissed off—as he stared at you. It was a stark contrast to the interaction in the alley, where he’d kindly but firmly told you to get the fuck out of here.

The memory of Ed hitting the mat reared its head once more, and you flinched.

The ball of anxiety seemed to grow another inch, inspiring a low throbbing sensation behind your sternum. It screamed at you, pounded against your bones and hollered, you don’t know this guy, what the fuck are you doing? Sweat dampened your palms, and you allowed your eyes to dart down the hall over his shoulder, just for a second, before looking back at his face. Where the fuck is Millie?

Something shifted in his demeanour then. His eyebrows softened a touch, the corners of his mouth relaxing.

“You okay, hot shot?”

Heat soared through your belly at the nickname.

“Uhh,” your voice was a higher pitch than normal, and you cleared your throat quickly. “Yeah, yes, ‘m good.”

He nodded once, face unreadable. “Did you see it?” Black eyes watched you closely.

“Yeah,” you wiped your palms on your jeans. “Yeah, I saw.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

The tip of a pink, wet tongue slipped out of his mouth to swipe along his lower lip. So fast you almost missed it. Your face felt hot.

“And what’d you think?”

You thought you could see the smugness in his eyes. The way his chest puffed out a little, knowing you’d seen his victory. You hated how pleased he seemed to be with himself… almost as much as you hated yourself for noticing how soft the inside of his elbows looked; for wondering what the sweat on his neck tasted like.

“I thought it was awful,” you told him truthfully. His smirk faltered a little, the spark in his eyes dimming as he stared. “I… I didn’t want to be here.”

He contemplated your response for a moment, eyes shining curiously as they ticked down your body, giving you a swift once over before flashing back up to your face. You shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.

The bag of ice crunched in his grip as he readjusted it against his side. For a split second he cringed, lower stomach tensing as he modified his footing, leaning most of his weight on his other side. The sight of his pain intrigued you. It had such a flawed, human quality about it. Something as real, as universal as hurt seemed to bring him back down to earth – to the same lowly reality that normal people lived in; ones who weren’t made of brick and couldn’t throw their fists with a god-like agility.

For as long as you could remember, you’d believed that any person who made the cognisant choice to inflict violence, was dangerous. And yet, your feet didn’t move. Couldn’t bring yourself to side-step his broad figure, to dash down the hall and bang on the doors until a guardian angel in the shape of Millie appeared. Because after a few short moments alone with him, away from the crowd and the bright lights and the fighting mat, you remembered why you didn’t feel the need to. Safe.

“But you stayed,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. An indisputable fact. Indeed, you had stayed.

“Call it morbid curiosity,” you muttered, scuffing the tip of your shoe against the ground.

He opened his mouth to respond, but you were already speaking. “Do you know if Ed’s okay?”

“Who?” he frowned. Your face mirrored his, confusion zapping through your body. However, the train of thought was interrupted by the door swinging open, and another man’s head dipping into your line of sight.

“Alright, we gott—” the man cut himself off, mouth hanging open as he caught sight of you a few metres away. “Oh.”

He was tall, taller than the boxer, with dark skin and black hair shaved short. Lips peeled back to reveal teeth, and you realised he was smiling at you. A polite, comforting smile. You recognised him from the fight; standing beside the ring, holding a water bottle to the boxer’s mouth in between rounds.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, gaze darting between the pair of you before landing on his friend. “But we need to talk.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of the words but didn’t tear his gaze away from your face. A splotchy, deep red mark had formed on his side of his stomach, hinting at how hard Ed must’ve punched him.

“’M Frank,” he said abruptly.

You blinked.

Frank.

Frank, Frank, Frank.

A name to put to the violence.

The man in the doorway glanced curiously at you, his eyes soft. After a long stretch of silence, in which you did not respond, and did not offer your own name up, a low scoff erupted from Frank’s mouth and that almost familiar smirk slid back across his lips.

“I get it,” he let out a low chuckle, a sound that echoed a simmering tone of disappointment. “Can’t go around giving your name out to just any scumbag.”

You cringed at the word choice. But as you went to defend yourself, to tell him your name, to say anything, he had already turned his back, readjusting his ice pack as he disappeared through the doorway.

It banged shut behind them, a whoosh of air rushing into the corridor with the movement. Alone once more, you took a steadying breath. The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered once, a low hum emanating from it, and then a faint tap tap tap. You glanced up to see a small, black moth flapping it’s wings in earnest, repeatedly knocking against the warm glass of the bulb.

And then that soft, lilting voice was calling your name. You saw the blonde hair first, then the acrylic nails.

“Millie,” your feet carried you down the hall to where she stood, hanging halfway out of an open doorway.

“C’mon,” she hurried back inside. “We’re taking Ed to the hospital. They think he might have a concussion.”

You caught a glimpse of him inside the room. Rodge was wiping a damp cloth over his face, trying to clean away splashes of dark blood that stained his chin. Vacant eyes burned a hole into the ground, and the corners of his mouth turned down as he murmured something under his breath. Millie crouched to rest a sympathetic hand on his knee.

You spared a final glance down the hall, to the spot where you’d stood with Frank only moments before. Perhaps you were curious to see if he’d reappear – if he’d stalk back out and demand to know your name after all. But he didn’t, and you could hear Ed beginning to cry. So you did what Frank had done; turned your back, and let the door close behind you.

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