here in the streets so mechanized @nyheartbreak - Tumblr Blog

drunken confession and hijacked affairs

masterlist - concept

lucas reyes x original female character. 10k

Read on AO3

pining, angst and hurt/comfort, blood and injuries, lucas is a bit of an asshole, slightly bit ooc too (sorry), implied/referenced alcohol abuse and addiction, age difference, sexual content, not canon complaint, set in hong kong because i say so, no yn- more like a fleshed out ofc written in 2nd person pov, i don't think this reaches the potential i wanted it to have but i ran out of gas and this is it.

The truth is, besides keeping each other company at night, you barely know each other.

+

Befriend is not really the proper word, given all the circumstances, but it’s the one that you choose. You like the sound of it, the way it hits— the pulpy kick of a cigarette puff after a long time. You befriend him not by chance, or maybe yes. The way things in Hong Kong just kinda happen. Out of necessity.

It’s late, later than you usually get home. He whistles off some dudes that were starting to creep on you as you made your way through the narrow alley that connected Fa Yuen St to your tower. Not a good idea to roam around in this area at this time of the night, kid. By the way the three men had run off, you should have been scared of him too.

You only let him walk you home because you had already seen him around the neighborhood— the fact that the fear and the isolation in your veins have you doing things you usually wouldn't do otherwise, is a completely separate thing. You always made sure to never look at him too much when you saw him on and about Hua's bar, somehow afraid that he was going to catch your gaze, even if he was passed out half the time— you just liked the sight of him, the messy blonde of his hair dragging all the attention, his broad frame trying to squeeze himself in tiny places.

He does not seem drunk tonight, you deduce that from the harsh frown on his face, half hidden by the smoke of the cigarette that dangles from his lips. You don't know if the curl of his mouth is that or a mocking smirk.

When you are about to tell him thanks once you are by the entrance of your building, he beats you with a don’t take that alley again before he turns and leaves. You go to bed a little shaken up and you don’t see him again for another two weeks, though you find yourself paying more attention, in case he magically appears around the corner. Just something to do, really.

The second time you bump into him he scares the shit out of you. Hiding in the same spot he saved your ass the last time. Told you not to take this alley. You want to protest you always take this alley after work; and besides tonight it is not late, the sun has just hidden and the market is bustling with people. You want to tell him that a few days ago, you saw the guys from the other night and they had scurried off at the sight of you. Like he had marked you. But you don’t, because there’s that amused smirk on his face again, now more evident, this time for catching you off guard. You pretend you don’t like it.

He walks you to your building’s entrance again and by the fifth time this whole… routine happens, he grabs your forearm and takes you to a small cha chaan teng instead. Buys you a bowl of wonton soup and tells you to eat. He doesn't buy anything for himself but a beer and occasionally steals some food from your plate. You let him. Your knees brush slightly underneath the table and you get a bit dizzy from the contact.

You are not used to the bluntness in the way he does things. And maybe it’s because of that you end up on a surprisingly lonely Star ferry in Victoria Harbor as night drags, slowly as it can in a place as bright as Hong Kong. You think again about how this is something you would have never done back home, under any circumstance. But you are really lonely to even think straight and he is a 6 '3 guy with whom it is surprisingly easy to not have a conversation— very easy on the eyes too, but you don't want to ruin the moment with that.

That’s the first time you tell him your name. Him sitting a few seats behind you, you turn your head from your spot at the rail overlooking the skyline. The blinding lights in Central fall on his face and he looks as if he is thinking if this is worthy or not.

I’m bad news, kid. He shouts over the wind and the rush of water, voice rough with exhaustion. Still, you can feel his eyes burning the nape of your neck long after the moment ends.

A few hours later, on the dark threshold of your building, he places a piece of paper on your shoulder and writes down his number. His handwriting is as messy as you would have imagined. Lucas. He tells you that if one day he isn’t there, you should text him you got home safe. He reminds you, yet again, before he watches you disappear behind the elevator doors, to take the long way home, it’s safer. You should trust him on that.

You came to Hong Kong to start a new life, is this the one you wanted? In a weird half-friendship with the washed-up guy that you are kinda scared to ask what he does for a living? One who can make triad gangsters flinch with just a look? You’re not sure when it was that the answer has started to shape into a yes. You are no picture of innocence either; if you look back you’ll see your past dragging behind you like an ugly, chained ghost. So maybe the answer has always been yes.

So the next day, when he isn’t there, you do take the long way home, text him you got home safe. It doesn’t really surprise you when he leaves you on read. But it’s a nice sensation he is looking out for you like this, weird and unprompted as it is. You trust him. You don't know why, but you do.

From then on, you start to hang out. If you call drinking together and roaming around in silence at night after the bar closes some kind of friendship in a lonely city. He never asks why you chose this place and you don't mention the bruises he wears on his skin like another set of clothes. You really don't want this to end, you really don't want to spook him off.

He has a good amount of years on you. It's not noticeable, not crass. You think you look good standing side by side. There’s something about the shape of you next to his tall, massif frame that tingles the way of a drunken haze. You like the view of it a bit too much, you and him and the city, unexpectedly put together like a collage made from magazine cut-ups and spreads, torn from context. When you are alone, you have the bad habit of always conjuring up glimpses of the two of you reflected in shiny buildings and subway windows. It plays out before your closed eyes like a fragmented, smeared image. You wonder if this rearrangement makes any sense at all.

You mostly avoid crowded places but when you find yourself walking through one, especially full of tourists, he always complains about people using their phones for everything. Doesn’t like it when they watch the world through their cameras. You smile slightly at his rants, how he runs out of gas halfway through and the two of you just start laughing because it doesn’t really fucking matter. At the end of the night he always waits for you while you pet the stray cats on the street, pays for everything despite you insisting you have the money. You let him too.

You know he isn't the kind of expat that lives in a fancy apartment in The Peak or visits the organic grocery store, but sometimes, on the subway on your way to work, you see men similar to him. Not the bruises. Maybe the same accent. The eccentric outfits. Sometimes the blonde hair. And they are always the CEO or the COO of some niche American mega-successful start-up who dresses like that and takes public transport to prove to the world that they don't really want to live that luxuriously. They don't compare to him at all.

So, how long do you get to stay? You ask over food one day.

Long enough. He gives you a tight-lipped smile after he sucks the soy sauce from his fingers and changes the subject.

He has bad manners to eat. Has a problem with staring too, studying your face as if he could read you whole in just a few seconds— he stares but he never asks, because asking means being asked back. And sometimes he vanishes in his own world for a few minutes, right arm spread in the booth you are sitting, dark eyes lost in an inconclusive spot on the table, and you notice it's during those times, after he snaps out of it, that he reaches for the next drink rather quickly.

He is half drunk all the time, which is… concerning but you have been drinking a lot too. You are hovering in that blur between recreational drinker and alcoholic. The circumstances scream the latter, and on the occasions you forget you stopped going and escaped to another country, you think you should really tell your therapist. About what first, you wonder. So many things. So, since it's easier and tremendously cheaper, you lie to yourself and label it as a line you are a bit too self-aware to cross.

Many times, you dwell on what tether keeps him by your side. Boring beyond repair, you don't go out, don't have any friends, don't do anything remotely interesting with your time. You’ve got nothing to offer but the silence between you. Yet he sits there, no performance, no expectations of you but that of your presence. He keeps by your side like he won't judge the decisions that lead you up to that spot next to him, and you won't judge his. It feels a little bit like grace.

You start sleeping in late, drag yourself out of bed, and arrive a couple of several minutes late to your lessons, yawn all the way through them as the students complete the grammar drills you found online— the ‘agency’ hadn’t exactly hired you for your skills but rather for your quick and cheap predisposition to say yes— and while it puts a roof over your head, it doesn’t stop you from feeling like a fraud. Another way to lie to yourself. Anyway, you are pretty sure they’ve got some shady business on the side, so that sort of makes it even.

You go through your day with fatigue weighing down your bones, and all you can do and want and hope and beg is that he’ll be waiting in that alley at the end of the day. That he didn’t vanish or get bored. It’s a bit annoying to be this achingly lonely, but the hunger grows from deep inside that spot where your breastbone meets the last of your ribs. You don’t think you want to go back to whatever came before him.

You are disappointed when he isn't there. Which happens more than you like to admit. On those days, you get into your apartment and you stare at the ceiling wondering where he is. What he is doing. You think those are the days he referred to when he said I'm bad news, kid.

Though you especially like the days when you forget to text him— the nights when you arrive way too tired or with other stuff in your head. The first few times, he doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. When he brings it up later, in passing like it’s nothing really serious, there’s that edge on his face, that purse of his lips, that tells you he didn’t rest easy until he knew you were okay. That is, if you are reading it right, you aren’t sure. Maybe you are imagining it.

But then he gets wasted again, and he is all over you like he didn't even try at all.

***

A couple of months in, your relationship kinda changes. Not like you would think it would. It never really occurred to you that you might need him like this, that this is something he could do, that he might do for you. The truth is, besides keeping each other company at night, you barely know each other.

You go to work on a random Tuesday morning and find a ransacked building instead. If you really think about it, it makes sense. Nothing is left, not even the whiteboards. The faded sole of your sneakers step on yanked wires and scattered sheets of paper in what used to be a room crowded with desks. It's like it was never even there at all, and there's a part of you that wonders if you made the whole thing up.

The not-shock of it leaves you sitting on a bench at the Promenade trying to come up with a plan. You still have some money saved up, if you are careful enough it should get you through a few weeks without having to worry much before— fuck, fuck fuck. Your visa’s about to expire in a month and you forgot all about that, too. So you are fucked. You are utterly, completely fucked.

It’s still daylight when you order your first gin and tonic, hiding in the back of the nearest dark bar you could find. A couple of hours later, around the time you are supposed to be arriving home from work, he sends you a where u at?, (his first text ever! yay!) You send him a pin, block your phone, and hide your face in your hands. You bite back the scream.

Lucas finds you drinking your little money away, paranoid that somehow due to this little incident at work, someone's going to find you and deport you for being part of an illegal network and you will have to go home with your tail between your legs and hide for the rest of your life under a giant rock.

You hated that job but it was something to do, a somewhat steady thing— you think that the only steady thing in your life is him but you don’t say that out loud because you don’t want him to make fun of you. Now you'll have to find something else that you hate and it won’t even be enough because they will kick your ass in a few weeks. You could stay under the radar, take kitchen jobs or whatever comes your way, but knowing yourself, your paranoia will get you caught in the blink of an eye.

He listens intently to your ramblings, and in a move you don’t see coming, he grabs by the pit of your arm and lifts you from the stool. Up you go, come on.

You watch him toss a few bills and push you toward the exit.

You don’t know where he takes you, you know you are in a busy market, maybe at Central? It feels like that strange, murky edge where the glass towers press up against what Hong Kong is slowly ceasing to be. You vaguely remember falling asleep on his shoulder on the Tsuen Wan line as he talked, rather intently, on the phone. Your heart beats loudly in your chest as you squeeze through the crowd. When he notices you lagging behind him, he reaches back, takes your hand, and places it on the crook of his arm, leading the way.

He stops by a food stand and sits you at a small, wobbling table. You are so drunk that by the time you get used to a new situation the one before slips through your fingers. So you fixate on him, like you have been doing for months, and watch him go to the cart and point at the fish balls.

Do you trust me?

What?

Even though you’ve noticed he is fidgety— checking your surroundings from time to time on your way here, now his long leg bouncing up and down making the already unstable surface tremble even more— he lets you think for a second, eyes steady on you. Gives you time. And you look at this man, this half-feral man you have had the most contact with in the two years you’ve been here. He is… peculiar. But he hasn't necessarily done anything weird, or hurt you. Never. You trust him. What else can you do?

Yea— you clear your throat, straighten up, messily. You want the words to come out right, not slurred. Yes, I trust you.

Lucas makes this face then, it's something very small. Like a fleeting, somber wince, his eyes impossibly soft, like he would have rather heard the opposite.

Give me your passport. Oh. What is going on? You blink a few times. I promise I'm not going to fuck you over.

Your heart pounds a little faster but you still go through your bag in search of it. You hand it to him and he meets you halfway, your fingertips touching at the exchange.

I'll be there for a few minutes. He leans forwards on the table and points discreetly to the building on the next block, crossing the intersection. A modern, bestial building cramped in perfect synchronicity between the other old bestial buildings. Please don't come looking for me. I need you to stay here and eat. I promise I will be back, yeah?

This time, he doesn't wait for your answer. He takes one last good look at you and walks away. You watch him get lost in the sea of people, the street now even more crowded as night begins to deepen.

You wait for a long time. The more you do, the more you spiral that the triads are going to snatch you from your seat and sell you somewhere and he will keep your passport as a souvenir. But he wouldn't do that to you, right? You had meant that, I trust you. You repeat like a drunk mantra; I trust him, I trust him, I trust him. I trust this crazy bleached blonde guy with a questionable background.

The curry fish balls go cold on your plate and when he finally emerges from the crowd with a smile on his face, you instantly feel bad for doubting him.

You didn't eat. You don't know what to say but you can see in his face he has noticed the fear in your face. Come on. Let's get out of here.

This time he walks behind you, with a careful hand on the small of your back, guiding you again. When the streets get quieter, you finally ask.

Are you going to tell me what you did with my passport?

Your visa— He hands it to you. I bought you more time to keep looking for yourself or whatever you are doing here, kid.

What— how? Just like that? What do I have to do?

He squints at your question, and then shakes his head.

Nothing. Someone owed me a big favor. Everything seems to be occurring way too quickly for your poor quaggy brain, so you just stand there, looking at him as you try to process it. This gesture he didn’t have to make at all. Don’t worry, it’s legit. But—

He stumbles back with the force of your hug, wide-eyed and caught off guard.

Hey. Hey. You notice he isn’t sure what to do, you have thrown your arms around his neck and you are hugging him so hard. Maybe you are crying a little too. But he just gave you another chance, so you don’t let go, this is your thanks.

Eventually, you feel him melt into it, his strong arms slowly curling around you, so that you are suspended in air, the tip of your feet barely touching the floor. You’ve had contact before. Small things, brushes of your hands when you eat or your shoulders touching when you stand too close at a subway station. This is different. This is your whole body against his, warm and solid. He feels like one of the monumental high rises that make this whole city.

He hugs you as if the thought of you leaving after all these months together makes him spiral a bit, as if he can’t let you go that easy. It’s a miracle you haven’t lost your head for good already. He even lets himself bury his nose in your hair, his scruff beard tickling the side of your neck, you even think you can feel his lips there, on the verge of kissing that spot under your ear.

He lets you go suddenly and you step back on your feet rather ungracefully. Both of you take a few seconds to kinda reorient yourselves. Your face burns, and you feel dizzy, too, a little out of breath. He looks to the side, clearing his throat as he digs the cigarette pack in his pocket. It takes him a few tries to light them up, hands shaking a little. Neither of you know what to say but he takes a long drag of the two Lanzhous and hands one to you. The filter is warm, a little damp from his lips when you take it to your mouth, you close your eyes to enjoy it. You sniff, quickly wiping away the trace of tears, and give a shaky inhale.

The two of you take the Central Mid-Level walkways to nowhere in particular. You’ve always liked this place, especially late at night; the maze feeling of it despite its straightforwardness, its way of placing you in this sort of interurban limbo you already feel within yourself. Not on the ground, not on the air, you are somewhere in between. You've always been somewhere in between.

So he indulges you. The drunkenness in your body dissipates little by little as you glide smoothly through the city, but he keeps close, in case you need his arm to steady yourself. You watch the people, the city around you. Strips of light distinguish a building from another. Thousand small, bright boxes of different lives lit against the dark edge of the sky. Both of you cling to the neon like a lifeline.

Can I ask how—

I don’t think you should.

So you don’t.

***

Hua gets you a part-time gig; bartender-slash-occasional hostess in her bar. It's a cozy, small local spot, with its usual not-so-big-crowd and a couple of office guys crashing on Friday nights. The deal is simple: you help her to get out early and take days off and in return she feeds you and you get enough to pay for your room. You don’t need much more than that.

Because you see Lucas more often too, and you have grown quite addicted to that wink he gives you after you serve him a drink.

And then, one day, like most things happen to you, you emerge from the kitchen, on the last hour of your shift, with an exploding headache and swollen feet, and your heart just drops when you see him. He, whom you haven’t seen in a week, arms on the back of the booth (your booth! the one you always sit together!) whispering to another girl’s ear, both so awfully close that if either moves just an inch, it would turn into a kiss.

Hua slides a drink your way with pity on her face and you make sure to take your penance by taking a seat at the bar. Which also comes out of pettiness. You want him to see you there, like you don't give a shit about what he does. You gulp the whiskey down gladly and then three more, going over and over the uselessness of being this jealous when you two are nothing at all. When he is some kind of ominous criminal for all you know— right now, you even despise the fact that he bailed out.

You know you should leave, find a spot to scream all the anger galloping through your veins. Hit a fucking brick wall or something. Yet you remain stuck, watching from the corner of your eye like a masochist.

When you finally gather up the strength to command your legs to stand up and get the fuck out, he is getting up, the girl clung to his shirt. When he passes by your side, he leans down and whispers in your ear a quick sorry, I’ll see you tomorrow, as he pinches the fat of your hips. Sorry! What a fucking nerve. You stumble back home trying to hold back the tears— they fall either way, but not because you want them to.

For the next three days, you find yourself caring so little about things. You go to work, then take another route back home. You go back to your life before him. By the fourth, he is knocking on your door and squeezing past you to enter your small flat. Despite how angry you are and how you think you can definitely smell her on him, you have to bite your cheeks from the hard brush of his body against yours.

Come on. Let's go out. Let’s do something. The mattress creaks as he plops down on your bed. You think about how he has never been up here— he always stops before the building steps— and now your tousled bed sheets will have his scent.

Not feeling like it tonight.

Alright. We can stay here. No problem.

Not feeling like having company either.

You move around the reduced space, unsure what to do. Your half-made dinner awaits you in the kitchen, but now you don't have any appetite. You are drawn to him, laying there like it's nothing. You watch him intertwine his fingers behind his back, making his—already short— shirt ride up a bit. You think, fuck him fuck him fuck him.

Okay. Just tell me.

Like it would be so easy.

Fine. Let's go out.

You harshly slip into your shoes by the door, the stuck heel tab digging into your Achilles heel. You open the door with more force than you intend to. Long legs, small apartment, he is quick to reach you once he is up from the bed, snatches the door from your hand, and closes it, the slam makes you wince slightly.

His broad frame fills the narrow space of your cramped entryway, trapping you between the wall and the door. You barely stand his stare, studying your face. Breathing shakily, you fixate your sight on his chest, too angry and stubborn and petty to meet his eyes.

Something’s the matter with you.

Do you seriously want to keep pissing me off? You snap, glaring up at him beneath your brows, your back pressed so hard against the door that you could slip through it like an apparition and disappear in the humid air.

Oh, there you are. Talk to me.

I don't have anything to tell you.

I'm the one who disappears, not you.

You scoff a sardonic laugh.

You want to ask was she a good fuck? But you are not brave enough to reap the consequences. You don’t even think you can get the words out. He squints his eyes and moves closer, voice low and twisting.

I didn’t think shy girls like you did jealous.

You don't know anything about me.

Clearly. There's a small movement of the corner of his lip that could mean amusement or mocking. You aren't sure. You never know how to read him, you are sick and tired. So you shove him. If he wants toxic, he can have it. If you want a fight, you will get yourself one.

Keys still in hand, you press— hard, against his chest, pushing him. His back makes a dull noise on the opposite wall and he laughs like you are telling him a joke. But then you just… keep hitting him, punches landing on his chest as he giggles about how your fists are not capable of doing any damage to him but the frustration blinds you.

He doesn't even flinch, not at least until he sees you so out of it.

Hey. Hey. Hey!

His laugh is gone. His voice drops back to that husky, warm, definite tone, the one he used the first time you met. His long fingers coil around your wrists softly, but there’s something in you that has fractured. Your eyes well up with hot, bitter tears and all that’s left inside you is this quiet, raw disappointment. Not only at him, but at— fucking everything. Yourself mostly. And in all the fucking frenzy, the heat of the tussle, you burst open both your noses with an unfortunate jerk of your head against his.

Jesus, kid!

Fuck!

You didn’t know that a broken nose could hurt this bad. His eyes go wide, blinks away the pain, and then at you, surprised and confused rather than angry. The air vibrates with the aftershock and you don’t know if you should laugh or cry harder. Maybe you should do both. But all you can see is the red blossoming on his shirt— today of all days, he wears white. God, you hate him. You don’t think you realize that your fingers reach out, brushing lightly over the droplets of red, trying to smudge the stain you left. You give up after a few tries, because the warmth he radiates it’s blinding.

You both stay there for a few, charged seconds.

You got us both pretty fucking good, huh?

He pinches the bridge of his nose, already swelling beneath his fingers. You know that if you look in the mirror, yours must be worse; your blood is warm, trickling softly down your chin until the metallic taste hits your tongue.

Yours is definitely worse. He confirms, and your lips curl into a smile before you can stop yourself.

The two of you take Nathan Road and wander north. You replay the fight as you watch the night lights reflect on the shop windows. Shame coils around your gut and if it wasn’t for him walking a few steps behind you, lingering gaze on your back, you would surrender to it.

When he has had enough, he hooks a finger in your back pocket and pulls you to him. Places a warm hand on your arm and makes you take a turn on Saigon and then on Temple Road. You follow his lead with no protest. Above your heads, thousands of tiny Hong Kong flags blow softly in the evening breeze. There’s barely any traffic, the quiet street only for the two of you. In a place like this, it's a difficult thing to find.

For a long while, you end up sitting on the dirty, warm concrete, under the tarpaulin of a closed shop. From this angle, it seems you are caged by huge buildings, trapped by the tangled electrical cables that go from tower to tower, everything shining bright against the foggy dark.

It's a hot, humid night, and you are annoyed by the sweat on the back of your head. Your nose throbs, and you can see the bruises forming underneath his eyes. You have been passing the whiskey bottle as a peace offering, letting the silence stretch. On the opposite sidewalk, sleeping red taxis are parked in line along the curve. The neon signs that are still on reflect on the grey roofs, making soft silhouettes on the street. There’s a tranquil song playing somewhere in the apartments that surround you. A wave of drowsiness spreads through your limbs, heightened by the heat of him, pressed tight by your side.

I went to this show when I was, I don't know. Twelve, thirteen maybe? It was called Architecture of Density. And there were all these pictures of some of the high-rises here in the city. Close ups. I remember feeling a bit short of breath watching the small rooms, even when I was hundreds of miles away. You let out a big, shaky breath, a bit embarrassed by letting out all of these to the man you were angry not even an hour ago for fucking other girls. It’s fine, he is 6ft tall, right? Sometimes, when I take the bus, I look out the window and try to guess which were the ones in the photos. I still have to find one.

So. I take it you didn’t become a Buddhist and come here to find yourself.

You shake your head.

I’d have gone to Thailand for that. He breathes a short laugh and then takes another sip. Things back home got a little harder than I could take. I stole some money and I came to the first place that I could think of.

You came to hide you and your shame in the density of the city.

You did choose a pretty harsh place to disappear. Thailand is way easier. Trust me.

I like to make things difficult for myself.

Oh. I can tell. You don’t just break my nose because you are bored.

You deserved that.

Yeah. he swallows. I know.

You watch him look ahead, eyes lost on something far away, but you both stay quiet. You are grateful he doesn’t rush to explain himself, you don’t want to hear the details; your imagination has proven to be quite cruel, you don’t need it from him either.

She got me a fight for tomorrow. Oh. Where did you think all these bruises come from? I'm not exactly the next tech genius in disguise.

Maybe from shy, jealous girls like me?

He shakes his head, laughing.

Shy, jealous, and resentful too.

I mean. I imagined a lot of things but I guess underground fighter just— skipped my mind.

There are so many questions in your head right now, you obviously ask the one you know he will say no to.

Can I see it? The fight?

No.

I think you owe it to me.

You don’t think this is even? He points at his nose.

Not really.

No fucking way you are going.

***

At the entrance, a rough-looking guy in a black loose shirt looks you up and down without any sort of reservation. You swallow down the dread and tell him the password; he mumbles something in Cantonese you don’t catch before he stamps the inside of your wrist with a small, red 雞. You are tempted to pass your finger over it, but the ink is faint, already used up on many wrists before yours and you don’t want it to disappear, so you just stare at it as you go in.

The stink of sweat and gasoline and cigarette smoke hits your nose as you make your way down the stairs. Seep steps, you steady yourself with a hand on the tiled wall, your palm dragging past layers of old flyers— call girls, appliance repairs, deliveries, rock bands, you name it. The narrow hallway is barely enough for one person, and you have to squeeze against the musty wall to let people pass, most of them just pushing past you.

The growing murmur of an excited crowd increases, and you finally arrive in a wide, low-ceiling basement. Illuminated in key places, it lets darkness reign where it needs to. The floor is slick with humidity and God knows what else. Strangely, you don't feel scared as you should— the vibration of the bodies packing in tight around a makeshift MMA cage made of badly welded metal mesh and duct tape, throwing hoarse screams at the two men beating the shit out of each other on the concrete floor, somehow doesn't feel strange.

You keep to the back and wait.

You don’t even see them dragging the two bloodied bodies away but you can feel the shift in the air before you see him. There are no announcements, no bell, nothing. His opponent steps into the ring first, all dressed up for the part— boxing shorts, wraps on his hands, the whole look. And Lucas—bare-knuckled, cargo pants, and the bruise you left on his nose. It really shouldn't be as terrifying as it feels, but there's something on the way the lone, warm bulb that hangs over their heads casts a dangerous shadow over his eyes.

The other guy circles him as they wait for the signal, grinning like he will finally be the one who beats the cocky expat.

It’s not an easy fight. You can see it in the heavy slump of his shoulders when they pull apart for a few seconds before crashing into each other again. You find yourself digging your nails into your sides every time he welcomes a brutal punch, you try not to flinch. You don't remember having this much adrenaline coursing through your veins in a long time, if you ever had. You know you won't be able to sleep for a week, too many details to remember and obsess over.

You make sure you watch it all, every wince and hiss of pain, each curse under his breath, and the bloody spits on the ground. The small, sharp smirks of victory, too, the ones that slip when his fists land just where he meant them. You can't pretend it doesn't make you feel— alive, if that can be the word. To watch him give and receive. The blood, the bruises, the grit. It makes your ears ring.

The two of you lock eyes the moment they raise his hand in victory and it rattles you how unreadable he is in those few seconds. You can't tell if he is angry that you disobeyed, that you put yourself in danger just for the sake of it, or that you saw that blood drunk shake of his head as he wrapped his legs around that guy's neck and just squeezed, like killing him would mean nothing for him but a little intent.

It hadn't taken too much money to convince Hua to give you the location of the fight when you asked her if she knew something about it. She had warned you to keep your head down, not draw too much attention to yourself. Made you place a bet too, so you didn't seem like such a fish out of the water.

You threw the last of your savings on him. And it paid off.

Are you out of your fucking mind?

He hisses the words as he drags you to a back alley, shoving you between a pile of boxes and a garbage container so the two of you are hidden from the curious eyes of the lowlifes that lurk around these places. He is more than pissed and he crouches to your level, forcing eye contact so you don’t avoid his scolding stare. It feels a little condescending, but you figure he has earned that tonight.

I had a bet. I came to see it through.

You— Your little criminal past is nothing compared to what the people who come here have done.

He wants to sound harsh but his voice is laced with panic. His fingers dig a bit too rough on your arms.

It’s fine—

No. He cuts you off. Looking at each side of the alley. This is not a joke.

You watch him clench his jaw, shake his head. He lowers his head and places his left hand on the wall next to your head, supporting his weight on it. He looks at you for a few long seconds, the smell of rotten fish from the nearby market reaches your nostrils.

You are brutal. You choked him like it was nothing. Where did you learn that?

Passing his hand— bruised, filthy, blood caked into the creases of his fingers, his or the other guy's, you don't know— through his face, an incredulous laugh escapes him.

God. Are you on drugs?

You might as well be from what you saw.

He breathes long and shaky, like he doesn’t have time for this. You can see in his expression how he resigns, tired, and steps back. On the way down, his hand brushes against the belt of your jeans. Both of you lower your eyes to the small action, illuminated by the residual neon lights of faraway signs. He hooks a finger in one of the belt loops and drags you closer with force. He goes back to wearing that harsh look on his face again.

You shouldn’t have seen that. And you shouldn’t be here.

Nothing happens then, he has another fight to go back to. This time, he is more angry, he hits harder. Wins faster.

You get him into a taxi as best as you can, he is tender all over and keeps muttering quiet, stubborn protests that he can stand just fine, but still lets himself lean against you. Not even an hour ago he was an inch away from killing someone, now the heat of his body by your side feels like lead, sinking you with him.

He gives the driver his address, not yours.

The tong lau has peeling walls and no working elevator. The smell of fried oil and humidity reaches you before anything else. Though he doesn’t live too far up, he hands you the keys mid way and tells you to go on, open the door for me, that he needs a minute to catch his breath. You do that, and when you come back for him, you catch the edge of a smile as he sees you.

You don't pay much attention to it right away but his loft is no different, a mattress on the floor, just a few, rather impersonal things scattered around. He manages to take a few more steps and plops down with a loud groan on a lone chair. The adrenaline has run off and you wonder if the crumbled Dior gift bag with the money he won is worth all this damage.

The bruise on his right side and the gash on his shoulder are the ones that worry you the most but a quick rummage through his bathroom and kitchen tells you he doesn't have much to tend to them. Despite his protests, you slip out again to find a pharmacy. Antiseptic, gauze, some topical, and hot pot for later, too. You hurry back to him to find him fresh from a shower on the bed, drinking straight from a bottle. Small rivulets of watered blood trail down his arm.

It's the best medicine.

After that, his gaze follows your moving frame around his empty house as you get ready to patch him up, not saying anything. You give him a few painkillers— which he also drowns with booze— and before you start, he gestures to the drawer of an old nightstand. Smoke.

You open it and search through the mess— an old, torn paperback, tangled earbuds, a cracked phone, dry mini bottles, and a few loose coins. You find the cigarettes beneath all that, but your eyes linger on the crumbled box of condoms that’s in there longer than necessary. You take the pack and close the drawer a bit too quickly, trying to control the heat rising in your face.

He lights one up and you take a long gulp of the bottle he was drinking from before you start.

It relaxes you but it doesn’t stop your hands from trembling as you clean up his shoulder— a nasty trip against a loose metal wire from the ring had ripped the skin. Not deep, but long and tender, his final opponent had been guilty of that too, hammering on that spot again and again.

Did you really place a bet?

Yeah. On you.

Why?

Why not?

He exhales, glancing away. You are being difficult, but so is he. There’s a beat where you see him debating with himself whether it’s worthy to keep playing this game. The night has already dwindled. It’s no use. You both know it.

I pissed off someone I shouldn’t have. Someone powerful enough that I can’t go back home now. I came here on an Indian merchant ship. On a Maersk container. I stopped in Thailand for a couple of years and ran out of places to hide.

Want to make it a competition? Saddest origin story?

He breathes out a small laugh and winces from the pain. He takes the bottle from the nightstand and takes a sip to pass it through.

You shouldn't have been there. I meant that. I've got a price on my head and I don't want you— his pause is not charged with anger but rather, an affection he has taught himself to keep at bay. It makes you feel a little guilty. You can’t find anything to say so you just nod, looking down. He nudges your knee with the bottle, wordlessly offering it to you again.

You win. By the way. My sad story is way too standard. You say before you take a sip. He smiles, easy and a bit drunk, and you feel his thumb brush lightly over your knee.

The antiseptic and his blood taint your fingers red as you press a gauze against the gash, the color similar to the stamp on your wrist. You fix it as you can with a few drops of glue and a ridiculous amount of steri-strips. He reassures you it’s a better job than he could have ever done.

The next part is rather quiet. You take the Tiger Balm out of the freezer and warn him it will be cold. You sit by his side again, but now you tuck one leg under the other, allowing more movement since you have to work all over his body. He smiles lopsidedly and tells you he can’t feel a thing but hides the hiss of pain when you glide it over the angry red-purple skin.

The air ignites with the smell of menthol and cigarette smoke. A few, lonely motorbikes on the street disturb the rhythm of an otherwise calm night. Your fingers begin to burn, from the balm or the fact that you are touching him, his scarred bare skin, the coarse hair on his chest. You won't lie and say you aren't enjoying it, the reaction of your body is damning. He must feel it too, because you can feel a deep humm growing from his belly when your fingers rub some of it on the nasty one on the side of his stomach. You look up to find him with his eyes shut, his face twisting in an aching, searing expression.

Am I being too harsh? I can stop—

No. No. You are go— good. He mumbles, and as he shifts slightly on the mattress, the side of your hand accidentally brushes against the crotch of his bright blue basketball shorts. Your heart stutters and a hot flash blooms from your stomach to your face. Oh God, is he—? Your fingers flinch but you don’t pull up, you hold your hands slightly up like you are the perpetrator of a crime. When your eyes flutter back to him, you catch a genuine look of embarrassment on his face.

Goddammit. Sorry— Som— sometimes after a fight I get hard and now, your fucking— touch— he struggles. You haven’t seen him this flushed in… ever. Your skin tingles.

You did seem a little high when you knocked that last one out.

You had seen that, the way his eyes went blank slightly in the last victorious second. How he licked the salt of the sweat on his lips with a heaving chest, like he is doing now.

It builds up. It starts to get to me. He points to his head, then to his dick, then to you. I swear I'm not trying to—

The groan he lets out resounds loudly around the quiet room, so deep and velvety the window glass must have felt it too. Your fault, really. You blame it on the way the vodka hits you all at once at his confession. It being the soft placement of your hand on top of him, hard and tense. You are barely there, hovering. Everything so, so still you feel like being possessed when you feel it twitch underneath. Lucas breathes out a silent, shaky curse as you dare press a little through the fabric, testing. That’s the moment his hand flies to catch your wrist.

You don't— you don't have to do that if you don't want to.

There's a serious strain on his features now, looking at you hard under all that pained physical yearning he is going through. He is in pain and you owe him.

Do I look like I don't want to?

He throws his head back, a bit harshly because the dull thud makes the wall vibrate. He gets so still, eyes closed as he adjusts to the feeling. The grip on your wrist loosens but it doesn't disappear. There aren’t many thoughts circling through your mind, and you think it’s better like this, before you start second-guessing this whole thing. You take the chance to drag the heel of your hand up against it.

Please. It's barely a mumble, slips past his closed lips like a long-forgotten imploration. You answer it.

Your fingers reach up, seeking the edge of his waistband, dragging it low until he is out. Red and swollen. You wrap your hand around his base, watching every twitch of his face, and feel the force of his hips pushing up against your touch. Everything else is forgotten to the point you can’t even feel the burn of the balm on your fingers anymore, you can’t even tell where you are. You breathe out together, and he lets go.

You try hard to control the squirm of your own body as you work him up slowly, but it's useless, so you lean forward and make sure the heel of your left foot is pressed firmly on the hard seam of your jeans against your core.

You put your palm up in front of his face before you continue and say;

Spit.

I will admit it feels nice to have another set of hands after a fight, kid, but you are going to kill me.

You spit too, after he does.

In the middle of it all, you begin to wonder if this is a good idea, you even slow down, afraid that you are going to kill him like he said. With the fight and the strong painkillers you gave him and the fact that he isn’t exactly a young guy, smokes too much, drinks too much, you are scared his heart might give out if he cums too hard. Because he will cum hard, by the way he is purposely holding himself over and you are, a bit on purpose too, dragging it as you rock yourself on your heel.

Is this alright? Do you want me to—

You are great. I just— I might have done a bit of coke while you were gone, he says casually between groans and half-muttered moans.

Jesus, Luke— do you want to kill yourself?

What did you call me?

You don’t like Luke?

No. No. Itsso— sounded real— ah. Nice.

Lucas slides his hand up from your knee to the back of your thigh, drawing you closer. It’s the only thing he can do, rendered useless under your touch and the ache of his body. It certainly helps with the pressure you’ve been building yourself and you pulse hot and desperate, the motion draws a dense moan out of you, escaping unwillingly from the back of your throat.

It only takes that to get you both up there on cloud nine.

You feel the force of his orgasm on the way his fingers delve harshly into your skin, blood vessels itching as he keeps the force there and doesn’t let go. You’re anxious to see the mark it leaves. You keep stroking him softly through the aftershocks, thick ropes of white adorning the happy trail on his stomach.

A second later, he is out cold.

His fingers, still resting on your wrist but now more lax, allow you to slip your hand away. You wait a few seconds, adjusting to how the urge coils low in your stomach, shameful and thrilling in equal parts. You swallow it down and bring your fingers to your mouth, slowly, taking the time to allow this for yourself. You place the pads on your lips and you inhale slowly before wrapping your mouth around them. You think you can see a faint smirk on his face but it must be the old, flickering bedside lamp by your side.

You clean him up, finish soothing the balm over the rest of his bruises, and then lie down beside him. You stare— you want to make sure there’s a steady rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath like he might vanish on you any moment now. You watch until your eyes grow heavy with sleep.

You dream of dried blood and back home and him all twined together.

He sleeps all day and you do too. The tense, adrenaline-fueled hours dissolve into a softer morning, the bustling city outside blissfully unaware of the way he pulled you closer mid sleep— arm slung low around your waist— and how naturally you leaned into it.

By the time you wake, just before dusk, the nylon mattress sticks to your body, the sheets have slipped off, crumpled and wrinkled beneath your feet. You sit slightly up, careful not to disturb him, to check on him. His skin glistens with sweat as he breathes softly through open lips, purple skin around the worst of his bruises still slightly swollen, but otherwise, he seems alright.

You should wake him up and give him another set of painkillers, maybe some food too— you remember you left the hot pot on his empty fridge. But his hand, huge and calloused, rests warm and heavy against your ribs beneath the fabric of your shirt, anchoring you to his side. You lie there a couple more minutes, fingertips grazing lightly across the cut in his shoulder, some blood has seeped through the porous material, followed the threads of fabric, creating intricate red weavings on his skin.

Eventually, since sleep won’t come anymore and staring at his tired face starts to feel a little creepy, you sneak out of his grasp and take a walk around his apartment.

It's more spacious than yours, emptier. The space between his room and the kitchen feels like it's meant to stay hidden in the darkness it's in, the dim light of the hiding sun doesn't reach it. It lacks mostly… everything but the few pieces of furniture he has are old, probably from previous owners. Broken things someone left behind he never bothered to change.

You stop by a chipped hardwood cabinet, tall and haunting in the lonely space. Some of its doors are missing, dust settled on its surface. You pass your fingers across the brass handles, faded from years of use. You figure this has been here for at least 60 years. It makes you a little sad how something once so proud can be left to fade.

It's inside this that you come across it. You can't help the curiosity. Since you are a little girl you've always liked to go through drawers that weren't yours to open. Like the time you found a notebook with your grandmother's handwriting, it held more secrets and ugly thoughts than you were able to comprehend at the time, it scared you so that you closed it halfway with a pounding heart and pretended you never found it. You never told anyone about that.

You don't question his decision to bring this with him, you have brought worse things yourself.

He finds you leaning over the wood, his service portrait in your hands. It should be a shocking plot twist but you have stopped reacting to those accordingly, or maybe you expected it.

You feel him behind you, the heat of his body caging you, though he doesn't reach out to take the picture from your hands like you think he would. He gives you time to study his clean face carefully, his stoic expression of duty, and the imposing flag on the back. It takes no genius to tell there's an abyss between the man in the photo and the one you patched up last night.

You know, it's rude to go around people's stuff.

I've always wondered what you looked like with your natural hair.

I look like any other brunette guy in the world.

That's a lie. He has a special face. He is younger in it, mid 20s probably, no blonde hair. You know by this picture alone that he was probably a real heartthrob back in his past life, the wanted popular guy. It makes you irrevocably jealous. You let the pointy edge of the photograph dig on the pad of your index finger. You decide to leave it where you found it, in the middle of an empty drawer, and then turn around, as you can, because he doesn't exactly grant you any space to move.

For a hunted-down man, you definitely picked the wrong look.

What? You don't like the blonde?

You should definitely take care of those roots.

Do it for me.

That takes you a bit by surprise, at how fast he says it. As if he is trying to stretch last night as long as he can. You accept the offer gladly.

In the next half hour, roughly the time it takes to walk to the Watsons by his building and buy what you need, you find yourself in his bathroom. He, sitting shirtless on the edge of the tub. I’m not risking any of my lovely shirts. You, standing before him as you apply bleach to his roots. Hooded, hazel eyes roam your face as you work, and you can feel his hands hovering just behind your thighs, not touching, but there, just in case. Sometimes you lean back casually, like you are checking your work, just to feel how close they are.

When you are done, he says:

Let me do you.

Ha. I'm not going platinum.

Come on. At least a streak. Like here. He raises his hand and touches a strip on the side of your head, from your temple going all the way down to your neck. I’ll make it look cool, I promise.

You accept only because of that touch.

He is too tall, so instead of having you sit, he sets the bowl of bleacher inside the sink and places you between him and white, tarnished porcelain. A puckish smile spreads across his face as you hand him the tint brush and you instantly regret it. Now, it’s your turn to watch him work, focused, tongue peaking out between his lips as he carefully drags the bristles through your hair, like he’s afraid of fucking it up. It’s so endearing, he teases; what’s that look for? I did my own hair before I met you, you know?

You heat up the hot pot and as the night deepens, the glow of the TV illuminates your faces while you share a cigarette. The smoke, mingling with the scent of the food dissipates the chemical smell of the bleach on your heads and you know that someday, if you ever catch that tangy sweetness again, it will bring you back to the comforting darkness of this room, the neon sign across the street, it's light faded by the distance.

The two of you, sitting side by side as you eat and smoke, you cross-legged on his mattress, him legs spread on a small plastic stool, watching a martial arts movie on an old CRT television you are pretty sure it shouldn’t be working, but that somehow has picked up on what must be the last standing analog broadcast in the whole city.

His cigarette still dangles from his lips as he washes your hair first, and then its last ashes flick to the ground as he makes you laugh with the rough— on purpose— drying of it. He bends his knees a little— not without a grunt of pain— to get eye level with you. His fingers skim over the wet strands as he observes his work. Not bad at all. Suddenly, it all catches up with you, and you look down, full and flushed. His fingertips follow the strand of hair to its end, where he cups your face and lifts your gaze back to him.

Still shy around me? He murmurs low, his beard tickling you as he places a soft, fleeting kiss underneath your ear.

Shut up and turn around. I don't want your hair falling out.

Uh. Bossy.

A few minutes later, you both stand by the mirror with your hair wet, admiring your new looks. You move your head to the side, liking how the blonde streak highlights your features. It makes a nice combination with his, too. Makes you look like you belong in a movie about globalized heartbreak and compulsions.

The reflection shows you a few loose drops of water falling down his neck, disappearing into the curve of his clavicles. The collar of your cotton shirt clings damply to your skin. It feels so awfully… domestic. There’s a twinge of fear in your chest that it might end too soon.

He speaks then, his voice commanding your attention.

I keep thinking. About what you told me about the city— that thing about the density…

Architecture of density.

Yeah. That. You meet his gaze through the mirror. Your hands shake; he remembers. You are weirdly in love with a city that doesn't want us here. And I keep thinking… I would have gotten you permanent residency if I had known.

The words land hot and heavy on your stomach but in the way self-sabotage grows wild from your gut like weeds, you open your lips to say something.

I would have. No hesitation.

He repeats, cutting from the root any doubt or counter argument you might present. You swallow hard. He is watching you now. Not through the mirror. Head turned to the side, hard eyes dragging a line from your profile down your neck. Tears prickle on your eyes and you bite the inside of your lip. He can read you better than you'll ever read him.

The unexpected kiss knocks you a bit off balance. He is so big, so eager, you fall backward against the door frame from the force of him. You place both your hands on his neck to ground yourself and reach out to tug on the wet strands at the nape of his neck. He lets out half a moan, half a wince— probably from pulling a bruise, still, fingers crawl underneath your shirt, his calloused thumb drags across your cheekbone as his teeth catch your lower lip, rough and desperate, like he can't hold himself any longer. Like this is the final truth he can't say out loud.

You want to tell him you'd keep on patching him up after every fight, that you don’t mind your fingers tainted red. But his next kiss comes fast and wet. He doesn’t give you time, and you are thankful for that. You let the kiss speak your truth too.

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Thank you for getting all the way down here and if you liked it, I would really really love to hear your thoughts <3

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