young islam x young reader
fluff: shy friends to lovers
authors note: this picture is sooooo cute i had to write a fic about it so i did reader a cousin of khabibs that works at the gym and slowly gets to know shy islam :)
The gym smells of cleaning products, trying to mask the smell of sweat but the smell of sweat always seems to take over. Almost like effort that's soaked into the walls over years. Your uncle, Khabib's father, runs this place with the kind of strictness that makes grown men flinch. You've learned to move through it quietly, efficiently, like you're part of the equipment. You're here because family helps family, because your uncle needed someone to manage the gear, keep inventory, make sure the fighters have what they need.
You've been working for your uncle for a couple of weeks now, still seeing new and familiar faces each day. You have started to become comfortable. Today you saw a new face that captured your eyes. He stands tall and focused, stern on the drill ahead of him. Maybe it was his back muscles peaking through his shirt, or maybe the dark hair and eyes paired with furrowed brows that express his intense focus.
He's certainly not the loudest one here. That's Khabib, your cousin, who moves through the gym with the confidence of someone who already knows he's going somewhere. He is different. Quieter. He hits the bag with this focused intensity that makes you pause while you're counting out hand wraps. His technique is clean, economical. No wasted movement. Between combinations, his face settles into something serious. He can't be more than sixteen, maybe seventeen—around your age—but he carries himself like someone much older.
"You staring at Islam?" Khabib appears beside you, grinning in that way that means he's about to embarrass you.
"I'm working," you say, shoving the wraps into his chest.
"He is shy one," Khabib says, switching to Russian, then back to English like he always does. "Very serious. Always training. You want I introduce?"
But he's already walking over, and you want to disappear into the floor. Islam sees Khabib coming and his shoulders tense slightly, like he knows something's about to happen that he won't like. They exchange words in rapid Russian, and then Khabib gestures toward you, and Islam's eyes flick in your direction for maybe half a second before he looks away.
You walk over because standing there would be worse.
"This my cousin," Khabib says in English, probably for your benefit. "She help my father with gym. She is good, very organized." He brings his hand onto Islam's shoulder. "Islam is best wrestler. Very humble. Too humble." He laughs and walks away, leaving you both standing there.
Islam looks at the floor. At a bag, a wall, even the ceiling. Anywhere but at you.
"Hello." His voice is quiet, accented. He shifts his weight.
"You've been training long?"
"Yes. Long time." He nods, still not meeting your eyes. "Since small."
The silence stretches out. You can feel him wanting to escape, can see it in the way he's angled slightly away from you, in the tension in his jaw.
"Yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."
"Is okay." He risks a glance at you then, just a quick one, and you catch something in his expression maybe it's curiosity buried under layers of discomfort. Then he turns back to the bag, and you take it as the dismissal it is.
Over the next few weeks, you see him every day. It's impossible not to—the gym isn't that big, and you're always there, organizing equipment, wiping down mats, helping your uncle with whatever needs doing. Islam trains like it's the only thing that matters. Early morning, late evening, whenever you're there, he's there too. Sometimes with Khabib, sometimes alone. Always focused.
You start to notice small things about him. The way he tapes his hands, how he drinks water in small sips, the fact that he's always the last to leave, even after your uncle locks up the office.
He doesn't talk much to anyone. Khabib encourages him to talk more, but Islam still stays quiet, especially around you. When you pass him equipment, he takes it with a quiet "thank you" and avoids eye contact. When you're in the same space, he seems hyper-aware of it, keeping distance like there's an invisible boundary he's afraid to cross.
But something slowly you notice things start to shift. It starts small. You're restocking the first aid supplies one afternoon, and he's wrapping his hands on a stool behind you. You glance over your shoulder and notice he's struggling with the wrap, trying to do it one-handed.
"You need help?" you ask.
He freezes. Looks at his hand, then at you. "Is... okay."
"It's not okay, you're going to wrap it wrong and hurt yourself." You walk over before he can protest. "Give me your hand."
He doesn't flinch or show any visible discomfort, but you can tell he is hesitating in his head. He extends his hand. It's larger than yours, calloused, the knuckles slightly swollen. You take the wrap and start over, doing it the way your uncle taught you—firm but not too tight, supporting the wrist and thumb.
Islam watches your hands work. You can feel his eyes on you, and it makes heat flush to your cheeks and the back of your neck; you try to keep looking down so he won't notice.
"You know how to do this good," he says quietly.
"I've wrapped a lot of hands."
"Yes. I see you. You work hard here."
It's maybe the longest sentence he's ever said to you, and you glance up to find him actually looking at you, not away. His eyes are dark, serious, but there's something softer in them now.
"You work harder," you say. "You're always here."
He shrugs slightly. "I must. If I want to be... like Khabib. Like the best. I must work more than everyone."
"You're already really good. I've watched you train."
His ears go slightly red. "You watch?"
"I mean...I'm here. I see everyone train."
"Yes. Of course." He looks away again, but you catch the smallest hint of a smile before he does.
You finish wrapping his hand. "There. Better?"
He flexes his fingers, testing it. "Yes. Thank you."
After that, things are different. Not dramatically—Islam is still quiet, still shy—but the wall between you has a door in it now. He starts nodding to you when he arrives at the gym. Sometimes, when you're organizing equipment, he'll help without being asked, handing you things or moving the heavier bags. His English is still broken, but he uses it more around you.
"This go here?" he'll ask, holding up a medicine ball.
"You need help with this?"
Small exchanges. Nothing profound. But they accumulate like snow, building into something more substantial.
Khabib notices, obviously. "Islam talk to you now" he says one day, grinning. "Before, he never talk to girls. Very shy. Like baby."
"Is good! He need friend. He is always so serious, you know? Always thinking about training, about being perfect. He need someone make him... how you say... relax."
"I'm not trying to make him anything."
"I know. Is why is good." Khabib's expression softens slightly, becomes less teasing. "He is good person. Very loyal. Very kind, but he don't show easy. You understand?"
You do understand. You see it in the way Islam helps the younger fighters when your uncle isn't looking, adjusting their technique with patience. In the way he stays late to help clean up without being asked. In the careful way he treats everything, like he's afraid of taking up too much space.
The bonfire happens on a Friday evening in late autumn. Your uncle organizes it occasionally—a rare break from the strictness of the gym, a chance for the fighters to bond outside of training. It's not mandatory, but everyone comes anyway.
You help set it up, gathering wood, arranging logs in a circle for seating. The sun is setting, turning the sky orange and purple, and there's a chill in the air that makes the promise of fire welcome. Fighters start arriving in groups, talking in Russian and broken English, their voices carrying in the quiet evening.
Islam arrives alone, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain. He scans the growing crowd, and you see the moment he spots you—the slight relaxation in his shoulders, like finding something familiar in unfamiliar territory.
You wave him over. He comes, but slowly, like he's not sure he should.
"Hey," you say. "You can sit here if you want." You gesture to the log beside you.
"Is okay? You are not saving for someone?"
He blinks, processes this, then sits. Not close, but not far either. A careful distance.
The fire gets going, and your uncle says a few words about discipline and brotherhood and the importance of the work they're all doing. The fighters listen respectfully, then the atmosphere loosens. Someone brings out a guitar. Someone else starts telling a story that makes everyone laugh. Food comes—bread, cheese, some meat. It's simple but good.
Islam doesn't talk much, but he's present. He accepts food when it's offered, laughs quietly at the jokes he understands. You're aware of him beside you, the way the firelight catches on his face, making him look older and younger at the same time.
"You are cold?" he asks at one point, noticing you pull your jacket tighter.
He shifts slightly closer. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. "Fire is not enough," he says. "Is too far."
"Yeah, well, if I sit closer I'll smell like smoke for a week."
He smiles at that—a real smile, not just a polite one. "You will smell like fighter then. Like all of us."
"You guys don't smell that bad."
"Khabib smell bad," he says, deadpan, and you laugh.
The evening wears on. Fighters start to drift away in groups, heading home. The fire burns lower. Your uncle leaves, trusting Khabib to make sure it's properly extinguished. Khabib is on the other side of the fire, deep in conversation with two other fighters, gesturing animatedly.
You and Islam sit in comfortable silence. The fire pops and crackles between you and the others, creating a pocket of privacy despite the presence of people nearby.
"Can I ask you something?" you say.
Islam glances at you. "Yes."
"Do you ever get scared? About fighting, I mean. About whether you'll be good enough."
He's quiet for a long moment. The fire reflects in his eyes. "Every day," he finally says. "Every day I am scared."
"Yes." He picks up a small stick, turns it over in his hands. "I am scared I will fail. That I work so hard, and it will not be enough. That I will... disappoint. My family. Khabib father. Khabib." He pauses. "Myself."
"But you're so good. Everyone can see that."
"Good is not enough. Must be best." His accent gets thicker when he's emotional, you notice. "Is very... heavy. This feeling. Like I carry something all the time, and I cannot put down."
You recognize something in his words—the weight of expectation, of trying to prove yourself in a space that doesn't easily make room for you. "That sounds lonely" you say quietly.
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and there's surprise in his expression. Like he didn't expect to be understood. "Yes" he says. "Is lonely."
"For what it's worth, I think you're doing amazing. Not just the fighting—the way you work, the way you help people. I see it."
His expression does something complicated—softness and pain and gratitude all mixed together. "You see me" he says, and it's not a question. It's a realization, and it sounds like it means more than the words themselves.
"Yes" you say. "I see you."
The fire crackles. Across the way, Khabib laughs at something, the sound carrying in the night air. But it feels distant, like it's happening in a different field from this one, this small space between you and Islam where something is shifting, changing shape.
"I see you also," Islam says quietly. "When you work in gym. How you are... kind. Patient. You do not need to be there, but you work hard anyway. You care about this things being right." He's looking at the fire now, not at you, like it's easier to say this without eye contact. "When I train, sometimes I look to see if you are there. And when you are there, is... better. I train better. I feel less..."
"Yes. Less lonely." He's still holding that stick, rolling it between his fingers. "Is strange. I do not know you very long, but I feel... I feel like you understand. Things I do not say."
Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "I feel that too."
He turns to look at you again, and the firelight makes shadows dance across his face. He's so young—you both are—but there's something ancient in this moment, in the way you're looking at each other. Like people have been having this exact realization by fires for thousands of years.
"I am not good with words," he says. "In Russian, maybe better. But in English..." He shakes his head. "But I want you to know. You are... important. To me."
"You're important to me too."
The distance between you feels suddenly very small and very significant. You're aware of every inch of space, of the way the cold air touches your left side and the warmth from him touches your right.
Islam sets down the stick. His hand rests on the log between you, and you can see the scars on his knuckles, the calluses on his palms. A fighter's hand. You think about all the times you've wrapped those hands, the trust it takes to let someone do that.
You move your hand, slowly, until it's resting near his. Not touching, but close.
He looks down at your hands. Then carefully he moves his hand until his pinky finger touches yours.
It's the smallest contact. Barely anything. But it feels like everything.
"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah" you say. "This is okay."
He shifts his hand slightly, and now your fingers are overlapping, and then he's turning his palm up and you're sliding your hand into his, and he closes his fingers around yours with a gentleness that makes your throat tight.
His hand is warm and rough and solid. Real.
You sit like that, hands linked between you, watching the fire burn down to embers. Across the way, Khabib and the others are still talking, oblivious. The night is cold and getting colder, but you don't feel it.
"I do not know what I am doing" Islam says after a while. "With this. With... you."
"But I want to... try. To know. If that is okay."
You squeeze his hand. "That's okay."
He squeezes back, and when you glance at him, he's smiling now.
"We should probably help put out the fire" you say eventually, though you don't move.
"Yes. Probably." He doesn't move either.
You sit there a little longer, hands linked, watching the embers glow. Tomorrow you'll both be back in the gym, back to the routine of training and work and your uncle's strict rules. But something has changed. Something has been said without words, acknowledged without announcement.
When you finally stand, Islam keeps holding your hand for an extra moment before letting go. His fingers slide away slowly, reluctantly.
"I see you tomorrow?" he asks.
"Good." He says it simply, but you hear everything underneath it.
Khabib notices you both approaching and grins knowingly, but for once he doesn't say anything. Just gives Islam a look that makes Islam's ears go red again.
You help put out the fire properly, making sure every ember is dead. The smoke rises into the night sky, disappearing into darkness. When it's done, everyone disperses, heading home in different directions.
Islam walks part of the way with you, even though it's not on his route. Neither of you talks much. You don't need to.
At the corner where you split off, he stops. "Thank you" he says. "For tonight. For listening."
He nods, then hesitates, like he wants to say something else but can't find the words. Finally he just says, "Good night."
You watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. Before he turns the corner, he looks back once. You wave. He raises his hand in return, then disappears.
You walk home with your hand still warm from his, with the smell of smoke in your hair and something new and fragile and promising in your chest. Tomorrow there will be training, work, the familiar rhythm of the gym. But underneath it all, there will be this—this quiet understanding, this beginning of something neither of you can quite name yet but both of you want to discover.
In the morning, when you arrive at the gym, Islam is already there. He sees you come in and his face does that thing—that smile that's just for you. You smile back, and it feels like a secret language you're both learning to speak.
He's wrapping his hands, and he's doing it wrong on purpose.
You walk over. "Need help?"
"Yes," he says quietly, holding out his hand. "Please."
And when you take his hand to rewrap it, his fingers curl slightly around yours, just for a second, just enough.
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