PART 2 is finally out sorry i was being lazy
pt 1. link: https://www.tumblr.com/ivoryruin/822637479834370048/young-islam-x-young-reader-fluff-shy-friends-to
young islam x young reader slowburn
The next few days settle into a rhythm that's familiar but also has a strange feeling of new. The gym still smells like sweat and rubber, your uncle still runs drills with the same strictness, Khabib still trains like he's fighting for his life. But underneath it all, there's this current running between you and Islam that makes everything feel different.
He's careful about it. You both are. Your uncle doesn't tolerate distractions, and the other fighters would notice if Islam suddenly became less focused. So you keep it as small as you can. A glance held a second too long when you pass him a water bottle. His hand brushing yours when you hand him fresh tape. The way he positions himself during water breaks so he's in your line of sight, like he needs to know where you are.
Sometimes you catch him watching you while you work—organizing equipment, wiping down mats, checking inventory. When you look up, he doesn't always look away anymore. Sometimes he just holds your gaze for a moment, and something passes between you that doesn't need words.
"You are distracted today," Khabib says to Islam during a drilling session, loud enough that you hear it from across the gym. "Where is your head?"
Islam's ears go red. "Is here. I am focused."
They reset, and Islam attacks the drill with renewed intensity, but you see the tension in his shoulders. The weight of trying to be perfect while carrying something else inside him.
During the afternoon lull, when most fighters have left and your uncle is in his office, Islam finds you in the storage room. You're counting hand wraps, making notes on what needs to be reordered, when you hear footsteps behind you.
"The heavy bag," Islam says. "Is making strange sound. You can look?"
You turn. He's standing in the doorway, and there's nothing wrong with any of the heavy bags. You both know it.
"Yeah," you say. "I can look."
He steps inside, and suddenly the storage room feels much smaller. It's cramped in here—shelves of equipment on three sides, barely enough room for two people. The single bulb overhead casts harsh shadows.
Islam closes the door halfway. Not all the way—that would be too obvious—but enough to give the illusion of privacy.
"Which bag?" you ask, even though you know.
"I..." He stops, runs a hand through his hair. "Is no bag. I am sorry. I lie."
His hands flex at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. "I just want to... I need to..." He switches to Russian, frustrated with himself, then back to English. "I want to be near you. Is stupid. We see each other all day, but is not same. Is not..."
"Yes. Private." He finally looks at you. "I think about you when I train. When I should think about technique, about opponent, I think about you. Is problem."
"I do not know." He takes a half-step closer. The storage room doesn't allow for much distance anyway, but now you can see the small scar above his eyebrow, the tired shadows under his eyes. "I never feel like this before. Like I want two things that are... how you say... opposite."
"Yes. Conflicting. I want to be best fighter. Want to make everyone proud. But I also want..." He gestures helplessly between you. "This. You. And I do not know how to do both."
You set down your clipboard. "Maybe you don't have to choose."
"Khabib father say fighter must sacrifice everything. Must want nothing except to win. If you want other things, you are weak."
He considers this, his brow furrowed. "No. I feel... more. Like there is more reason to be strong. Before, I train because I must. Because is what I do. But now I train and I think—I want to be someone who is good enough. For this. For you."
Your throat feels tight. "Islam—"
"Is too much?" he asks quickly. "I say too much?"
He exhales, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. You're standing close enough now that you can feel the heat coming off him, can smell the faint scent of the gym soap he uses. His hand lifts slightly, like he's going to reach for you, then drops.
"Can I..." he starts, then stops.
"Can I touch you? Your hand?"
It's such a careful question it makes your chest ache. "Yes."
He reaches out slowly and takes your hand in his. His palm is rough with calluses, warm and solid. He looks down at your joined hands like he's trying to memorize the sight.
"Is good," he says quietly. "When I touch you, is like... everything is more quiet. In my head. All the noise, all the fear—is still there, but is more quiet."
You squeeze his hand. "I feel that too."
He smiles then, small and genuine, and you realize how rare his smiles are. How much it means that he gives them to you.
The door creaks, and you both step apart instinctively. One of the younger fighters pokes his head in, looking for tape, and Islam is suddenly all business, helping locate what's needed, his face carefully neutral. But after the fighter leaves, Islam's eyes find yours again. Immediately, you both laugh it off, discussing how close you were to being caught and how scary it was. Those kinds of moments make you feel more connected to him in some way; sharing something with him makes you feel excited but nervous inside.
Two days later, you find Islam sitting alone at the edge of the gym, in the narrow space between the building and the fence where fighters sometimes go to escape. It's late afternoon, and training has been brutal—your uncle pushing everyone harder than usual, correcting every small mistake with sharp words.
Islam is sitting on an overturned crate, his head in his hands. He doesn't hear you approach until you're right there.
He looks up, and you can see the exhaustion in his face. Not just physical—something deeper. "Hey."
"Yes. No. I do not know." He gestures for you to sit, and you settle onto the ground beside the crate, your back against the fence. "Today was bad day."
"My uncle was hard on everyone."
"He was right to be hard. I was slow. Sloppy. My mind was not there."
He looks at you, and there's something almost helpless in his expression. "With you. Is always with you now. I try to focus, I try to think only about training, but then I see you across gym, or I remember something you say, and I lose focus. And then I make mistake. And then Khabib father yell. And I know he is right to yell, because I am not giving everything."
"You're giving everything, Islam. I see how hard you work."
"Is not enough if my mind is split." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Before, was simple. I wake up, I train, I sleep, I train more. Was hard, but was simple. Now is... complicated. I want to be with you. I want to know you more. I want to..." He trails off, frustrated. "But I also want to be champion. Want to make my family proud. Want to prove I am good enough to be here, training with Khabib, learning from his father. And I do not know if I can have both."
The words hang in the air between you. You can hear the sounds of the gym behind you—the thud of fists on bags, the squeak of shoes on mats, someone counting in Russian.
"What do you want me to say?" you ask quietly.
"I do not know. Maybe I want you to say is okay if I choose training. That you understand." He looks at you. "But I also do not want you to say that. Because I do not want to lose you."
"You're not going to lose me."
"Because I'm not going anywhere. I'm here every day anyway. I'm not asking you to choose between me and training."
"But what if I cannot do both good? What if I fail at fighting because I am thinking of you? Or what if I hurt you because I am always thinking of fighting?"
You're quiet for a moment, trying to find the right words. "My uncle says fighters have to sacrifice everything. And maybe that's true for some people. But maybe... maybe having something to fight for makes you stronger. Not weaker."
Islam shakes his head. "You do not understand. The level we want to reach—Khabib, me, the others—is not normal. Is not like hobby. Must be everything. Must be obsession."
"Then you know why this is problem."
"No," you say, and there's more force in your voice than you intended. "I know why you think it's a problem. But I've watched you train for months now, Islam. I've seen you before and after. And you know what I've noticed? These past few days, since the bonfire, you've been training harder. More focused, not less. Like you have something to prove."
He blinks. "You think so?"
"I know so. Khabib said you were slow today, but I watched you. You weren't slow—you were overthinking. You're so worried about being distracted that you're distracting yourself."
He processes this, his brow furrowed. "Is... possible."
"You're allowed to want more than one thing, Islam. You're allowed to be a fighter and also be a person who cares about someone. Those things don't have to cancel each other out."
"Khabib father would not agree."
"Maybe not. But you're not Khabib's father. You're you."
He's quiet for a long time, staring at his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "I am scared."
"Of failing. Of not being good enough. Of disappointing everyone." He looks at you. "Of losing you because I am too focused on fighting. Or losing fighting because I am too focused on you. Of... everything."
You reach up and take his hand. He lets you, his fingers curling around yours automatically. "Being scared doesn't mean you're weak. It means you care."
"I care too much. About everything."
"That's not a bad thing."
He makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "Feel like bad thing."
You sit there together in the narrow space between the building and the fence, holding hands while the sounds of training continue behind you. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the ground.
"I do not want to lose you," Islam says finally. "Even if is hard. Even if I do not know how to do this right. I want to try."
He squeezes your hand, and some of the tension leaves his face. Not all of it—Islam carries tension like other people carry wallets, always there, always present—but enough that you can see the person underneath the worry.
"We should go back," he says. "Before someone notice we are both gone."
"One more minute," Islam says.
Khabib corners you three days later, after training has ended and most of the fighters have left. You're in the office, updating the equipment log, when he walks in and closes the door behind him.
"We need to talk," he says.
Your stomach drops. "About what?"
"You know about what." He leans against the desk, arms crossed. His expression isn't angry, but it's serious. "You and Islam."
"I am not stupid. I see how he look at you. How you look at him. How he find excuse to be near you all the time." He pauses. "How he smile now, sometimes, when before he never smile."
You set down your pen. "Are you mad?"
"No. I am worried." He runs a hand over his face. "Islam is my brother. Not blood, but brother. We train together since we are small. I know him. I know how he think, how he feel, even when he do not say."
"He is best wrestler I know. Best training partner. He has... how you say... potential. To be great. Really great. But he must focus. Must give everything to training. My father say this all the time—fighter who is distracted is fighter who lose."
"Islam isn't distracted."
"He is different. Since bonfire, since he start spending time with you—he is different. Sometimes is good different. He train harder, like he want to prove something. But sometimes I see him, and his mind is far away. And I worry."
You meet his eyes. "What do you want me to do?"
"I do not know." He sounds genuinely conflicted. "Part of me want to say—stay away from him. Let him focus on training. Is most important thing. But other part of me see that he is happy. First time in long time, he is happy. And I do not want to take that away."
"I'm not trying to distract him, Khabib. I'm not trying to take him away from training."
"I know. I know you are good person. Is why my father let you work here, why he trust you. But Islam—he feel things very deep. When he care about something, he care with everything. And now he care about you. And I worry what happen if he must choose."
"He doesn't have to choose."
"Maybe not now. But later? When training get harder, when fights get more serious? What happen then?"
You don't have an answer for that. The truth is, you've thought about it too. About what happens when Islam's career takes off, when he starts traveling for fights, when the stakes get higher. About whether what you have now can survive that.
"I can't promise you it won't be hard," you say finally. "I can't promise there won't be complications. But I can promise I'm not trying to hold him back. If anything, I want to help him be better."
Khabib studies you for a long moment. "You care about him."
"Really care. Not just... playing."
"I'm not playing, Khabib. This is real for me."
He nods slowly. "Okay. Okay, I believe you." He pushes off from the desk. "But you must understand—if he start to fail, if his training suffer because of this, my father will not allow it to continue. He will make Islam choose. And Islam will choose training. He must. Is his dream since he is small child."
"So you must be careful. Both of you. Must be smart about this." He moves toward the door, then stops. "But also... I am glad he has you. He is always so serious, so hard on himself. Is good that someone make him smile."
After he leaves, you sit there for a long time, staring at the equipment log without seeing it. Khabib's words echo in your head. He will make Islam choose. And Islam will choose training.
You know it's true. You've always known it, really. But hearing it said out loud makes it real in a way it wasn't before.
The cut above Islam's eye is still bleeding when he sits down on the bench. It's late—past nine—and the gym is empty except for you, Islam, and one other fighter who's wrapping up his training in the corner. Your uncle left an hour ago, trusting Khabib to lock up, but Khabib had to leave early for a family obligation.
"Let me see," you say, kneeling in front of Islam with the first aid kit.
"Is fine. Is just small cut."
"It's not small, and you need to clean it before it gets infected." You tilt his face toward the light. The cut is above his left eyebrow, about an inch long, still oozing blood. There's another bruise forming on his cheekbone, and his lip is split. "What happened?"
"Sparring. I was not fast enough."
"You're exhausted. You've been training for twelve hours."
You clean the cut with antiseptic, and he winces but doesn't pull away. His face is a mess—not just from today, but accumulated damage from weeks of hard training. There's a scar on his chin from last week, another on his temple from the week before. His knuckles are perpetually swollen, his hands a roadmap of small injuries.
"You need to rest," you say quietly.
"Cannot rest. Competition is in six weeks. Must be ready."
"You'll be ready. You're always ready."
"Is not enough to be ready. Must be perfect." His voice is flat, exhausted. "Must be better than everyone. Better than last time. Better than yesterday. Always better."
You finish cleaning the cut and apply a butterfly bandage to hold it closed. His eyes are closed now, his face tilted up toward you, and you can see the exhaustion in every line of his body.
He opens his eyes. They're bloodshot, tired, but still focused on you with that intensity that makes your breath catch.
"You're going to be great," you say. "You already are great. You don't have to destroy yourself to prove it."
"I know. But maybe... maybe you can be great and also take care of yourself. Maybe those things don't have to be opposites."
He reaches up and catches your wrist, gently, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. "You take care of me."
"Before you, no one did. I did not let them." His accent is thicker when he's tired, you've noticed. The words come slower, more careful. "But with you is different. You see me—not just fighter, but person. You see when I am hurt, when I am tired, when I am scared. And you do not think is weakness."
"Everyone else think so. Even Khabib. He is my brother, but he think fighter must be... how you say... invincible. Must never show pain, never show fear. Must be machine."
"No. I am not." He's still holding your wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "With you, I do not have to be."
The other fighter calls out a goodbye in Russian and leaves, and suddenly you're alone with Islam in the empty gym. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows, making the space feel bigger and smaller at the same time.
"Does it hurt?" you ask, gesturing to his face.
"Yes. But is okay. Pain mean I am working hard."
"Pain means you're hurt."
"Is same thing, in fighting."
You sit down beside him on the bench, and he shifts to make room. His shoulder presses against yours, warm and solid. You can feel him breathing, can feel the exhaustion radiating off him.
"I talk to Khabib" he says after a moment. "He tell me he talk to you."
"He is worried about me. About us."
"He think I will lose focus. That I will fail because I am thinking of you instead of training." Islam turns to look at you. "He is not wrong to worry. I do think of you. All the time. Even when I should not."
"I do not know. Sometimes I think yes—is distraction, is weakness, is thing that will make me fail. But other times I think..." He pauses, searching for words. "Other times I think you are reason I am strong. That I train harder because I want to be person who is good enough. For you. For this."
"You're already good enough."
"Not yet. But I will be." He says it with such certainty that you believe him. "I will be champion. I will make everyone proud. And I will do this while also being with you. I do not know how, but I will find way."
"I know is hard. I know there will be times when training must come first. When I must travel, when I must focus only on fight. But I want you to know—you are not distraction. You are not weakness. You are..." He struggles with the English, frustrated. "You are part of why I fight. Part of what make it matter."
Your throat is tight. "You're part of what makes it matter for me too. Being here, helping with the gym—it's different now. Better."
He leans his head against yours, careful of his injuries. You sit like that for a while, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, in the empty gym with its smell of sweat and rubber and years of hard work.
"We should go," Islam says eventually. "Is late."
"One more minute?" you say.
"Yes, one more minute." he agrees.
The second bonfire happens three weeks later. It's colder this time—proper winter settling in—and the fire burns higher to compensate. There are fewer fighters this time, just the core group, the ones who train year-round without break.
You arrive with Khabib, and Islam is already there, helping to build the fire. He sees you and his face does that thing—that softening that's just for you. You're not hiding anymore, not really. Everyone knows, or at least suspects. Your uncle hasn't said anything, which you take as tacit approval, or at least tolerance.
Islam makes space for you beside him without being asked. You sit close, your shoulders touching, and no one comments. It's accepted now, this thing between you. Part of the landscape.
The fire catches and grows, and someone passes around food. The conversation flows in Russian and broken English, stories about training, about upcoming fights, about fighters they admire. Islam is quieter than the others, but he's present. His hand finds yours in the space between you, hidden by the darkness and the angle of your bodies.
"You are warm enough?" he asks quietly.
Khabib is across from you, talking animatedly with two other fighters. He catches your eye and nods slightly—not quite approval, but acknowledgment. Understanding.
As the evening wears on, fighters start to drift away in pairs and small groups. The fire burns lower. Islam's thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, absent and constant.
"We should walk" he says eventually. "I want to talk to you. Away from here."
You follow him away from the fire, into the darkness beyond its circle of light. You can still hear the others talking, but their voices are distant, muffled. Islam leads you to a spot where you can see the stars, where the cold air bites but the sky is clear.
"I want to tell you something," he says, turning to face you. "And I want to say it right, but my English is not good enough for what I feel."
He takes both your hands in his. "Before I meet you, I know what I want. I want to be fighter. Want to be champion. Want to make my family proud, make Khabib father proud. Was simple. Was clear. I know exactly what I must do, and I do it."
"But then I meet you. And suddenly is not simple anymore. Suddenly I want other things too. I want to talk to you. Want to know what you think about things. Want to make you smile. Want to..." He struggles. "Want to be person who is good enough for you. Not just good fighter—good person."
"Islam, you are a good person."
"I am trying to be. You make me want to try harder." He squeezes your hands. "Everyone tell me that caring about you will make me weak. That fighter must sacrifice everything, must want nothing except to win. And I think maybe they are right. Maybe I should focus only on training, only on fighting."
Your heart sinks. "If that's what you need—"
"No. Listen." His voice is firm. "I think about this a lot. Every day I think about it. And I realize—they are wrong. You do not make me weak. You make me strong. When I train now, I train with purpose. Not just because I must, but because I want to be better. Want to be man who deserve you. Who can give you something worth having."
"Not yet. But I will." He pulls you closer. "I will be champion. I will fight in big organization, will make money, will make name for myself. And I will do this not instead of being with you, but because of you. You give me reason that is bigger than just winning. You give me reason that matter."
The cold air makes your eyes water, or maybe it's not the cold. "You matter to me too. So much."
"I know. I feel it." He touches your face with one hand, gentle despite the calluses. "I am not good with words. In Russian is easier, but still not easy. But I want you to know—you are important. Most important. And I will find way to do both. To be fighter and to be with you. I promise this."
"You don't have to promise—"
"I want to promise. I want you to know I am serious. This is not... how you say... temporary. Is not just because we are young and is exciting. Is real. You are real to me."
You reach up and cover his hand with yours, pressing it against your cheek. "You're real to me too."
He leans down and rests his forehead against yours. You can feel his breath on your face, warm in the cold air. "I am scared," he admits quietly. "Scared I will fail. Scared I will disappoint you. Scared I will not be good enough at fighting or at this. But I am more scared of not trying."
"Then we'll try. Together."
You stand like that for a long time, forehead to forehead, hands clasped, breathing the same cold air. In the distance, you can hear the others at the fire, their voices carrying in the night. But here, in this small pocket of darkness, it's just the two of you.
"We should go back," Islam says eventually. "Before they notice we are gone too long."
He pulls you into a hug then, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, steady and strong. Can feel the warmth of him cutting through the cold.
"Thank you," he says into your hair.
"For seeing me. For not giving up when I was too shy to talk. For being patient. For making me believe I can have more than one thing." He pulls back slightly to look at you. "For being you."
"I mean it. You change everything. Make everything better. Make me better."
You reach up and touch his face, careful of the healing cut above his eyebrow. "You make me better too."
He smiles then—a real smile, full and genuine—and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger, lighter, like the weight he carries has been set down, just for a moment.
"Come," he says, taking your hand. "Is too cold. We go back to fire."
You walk back together, hand in hand, and when you rejoin the group, no one says anything. But Khabib catches your eye and nods, and there's something like approval in his expression. Like he's decided that maybe this thing between you and Islam isn't a distraction after all. Maybe it's something else. Something that makes Islam stronger, not weaker.
The fire burns down to embers, and eventually everyone disperses. Islam walks you home like he did after the first bonfire, but this time he doesn't let go of your hand until you reach your door.
"I see you tomorrow." he says.
"Good." He squeezes your hand once more. "Sleep well."
You watch him walk away, and this time when he looks back, he's smiling. You wave, and he waves back, and something in your chest feels settled. Like you've both decided something important without having to say it out loud.
Tomorrow there will be training. There will be the familiar rhythm of the gym, the weight of expectations, the constant push to be better. But underneath it all, there will be this—this quiet certainty that you're in it together. That whatever comes next, you'll face it side by side.
