Using my GMT time zone privileges to post a little earlier than usual. Here are the boys in a little diner. We are getting so close to the scene I’ve built this ENTIRE story around 👀👀💛
“Baby?” he asks. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Carlos says, a heat rising in his cheeks at how easily TK has seen him. “This is just, uh…probably the most amount of total strangers I’ve ever kissed someone in front of.” TK grins.
“Yeah?” he asks. “Wanna do it some more? Anyone says anything, I’ll punch them in the mouth for you. I’m a boxer, you know.” Mischief settles deep in TK’s expression, makes him look younger, accentuates the wildness in him, the boldness. He leans back from Carlos slightly, reaches across himself to pinch his own bicep. He makes a face of exaggerated approval at what he finds, pursing his lips, giving a nod. He looks like a douchebag, and he knows it. There’s a spark in his eyes that could rival the sun. Carlos laughs, and tumbles deeper into love.
“You’re a complete dork,” Carlos laughs. He reaches out, emboldened by TK’s confidence, by his lack of shame, and gathers a fistful of TK’s hoodie in his hand, right at the collar. He pulls TK closer, relishing the way TK laughs softly as he goes. Carlos only closes his eyes when TK’s lips are against his once more, and they sink into one another as the din of chatter around them fades further into the background, mingling with the acoustic music and the push and pull slide of the front door opening for new customers. TK tastes like the peach iced tea sitting half finished at his elbow, and Carlos doesn’t think he’s ever felt this free before. His heart soars with it, so full it practically aches.
It’s Carlos who breaks the kiss this time, biting his lip against the notion suddenly stirring within him – that a blowjob in the bathroom might not put too much of a dampener on their performance in their respective fights tonight. And TK is watching him, smiling warm and small and expectant, brow arched as if he can read Carlos’s mind, as if their hearts and their bodies pulse in tandem now, like some unseen barrier between them has simply been felled.
But then TK’s eyes slide from Carlos’s face, snag on something over his left shoulder, and TK’s whole expression slips.
Carlos opens his mouth, stomach lurching downwards. The worry barely has time to hit. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, but doesn’t have time to say TK’s name.
“Well,” comes a voice over his shoulder. “Hey there, stranger.”
No pressure tags below the cut 💛
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Prologue // Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three //
Harry Styles is an amateur boxer living with his high school sweetheart, Louis Tomlinson, both of them trying to pay the bills and realize their dreams. A lot changes when Harry gets a shot at going pro and living the high life, giving Louis a chance to live a dream he never knew he had. Through all of the hectic new things coming their way, the one thing they can always count on to stay strong is the love they have for each other.
It’s the Boxer!Harry au you all have been waiting for :)
And so we begin! There is no set posting schedule for this, just as I finish and edit new chapters :)
Credit to the wonderful @styleandsin for the adorable manip.
“We got you a fight,” Van Ness says, slapping the contract down in front of Burr, “new guy. Unbeaten as an amateur. Don’t know much about him, trying to find his videos online. You’ll be his debut.”
“They’re giving me an amateur?” Burr tries not to sound sullen, but he thought after his last fight - a one-punch KO in the second round - he’d get somebody with a bit of name recognition. Not some - he glances at the contract - Alexander Hamilton, whose amateur record was admittedly impressive, but who had yet to come into the big leagues.
Whatever. A paycheck’s a paycheck. Burr’s still got the title shot in his sights, and if he has to tear through some amateur on his way, so be it.
*
They find a few videos of Hamilton’s fights, and Burr scrutinizes them carefully. The kid’s got decent footwork, switching stances constantly, good about using his angles. But he opens up quick, exploding all his energy in the first flurries. He has a good number of knockouts, but in the fights where he goes the distance, Burr can tell he gasses, hands dropping, going flat-footed instead of balancing light on the balls of his feet.
He can work with that.
Burr redoubles his cardio, running, biking, throwing himself into whatever hellish workout Van Ness concocts.
He spars, too, finding guys in the gym whose style mimics Hamiltons’. Circling in the ring, gloved hands up, he imagines it’s Hamilton across from him, trying to predict what he might do, anticipating it.
He wins more of the sparring rounds then he loses, and as the fight draws closer, Burr feels confident.
*
He arrives in Vegas several days before the fight, ready for the pre-card circus, media and open workouts. Not that Burr’s the main fight - he and Hamilton are on the undercard, not even close to the main event - but it’s still a big card, a huge main event, and Burr’s excited to be on it. It’s a good opportunity, and he’s riding a five-fight win streak (over less than stellar opposition, but still, a streak’s a streak), and he thinks, with a flashy enough finish, he might have a case for a title contender fight, if not the title fight itself.
*
Burr’s returning from his last workout - light, more to keep his muscles warm than anything else - when he sees a man across the hall. Latino, with longer hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. His back’s to Burr, which gives Burr a great view of the man’s ass, shown off to the fullest extent in his workout shorts, and then the man turns and Burr almost curses out loud.
He’d been checking out Hamilton.
His hair’s longer than it had been in the videos, which is why Burr hadn’t recognized him immediately, but the features are the same. Fuck.
Burr looks away, embarrassed, as if Hamilton could somehow read his mind. He walks away as quick as he can, and pretends he doesn’t hear someone calling after him.
*
Burr doesn’t seen Hamilton again until weigh-ins. Hamilton weighs in first, and though Burr’s backstage and can’t see it, he hears the cheers and applause that suggest Hamilton made weight.
Burr’s name is called, and he walks out to his own cheers, quickly strips down to his shorts - not risking keeping anything on that might put him over the weight limit. He steps onto the scale, hears the number read out - 155 on the dot - and steps off to his own round of applause. He looks across the stage and sees Hamilton waiting for the face off.
Burr usually keeps his face offs professional, never feeling any real malice for his opponents - it’s just business - but that’s gotten him nowhere, so he strides up to Hamilton, forehead against his, hands raised.
Hamilton doesn’t miss a beat, presses back into him, and talks, low enough that only Burr can hear.
“So you’re the big bad Aaron Burr huh? Don’t look like much to me…”
“Glad they gave me some pansy-ass amateur,” Burr responds in the same low tone, and then he feels Washington’s arm at his chest, keeping them separate, and he finally looks at Hamilton. His hair’s pulled back, and he’s shirtless, and Burr can’t keep his eyes from going to Hamilton’s chest, his abs, every muscle pulled in taut definition from his weight cut.
Burr swallows the decidedly out of place desire, locks eyes with Hamilton, a final challenge, and absolutely does not think about how stunning his eyes are.
*
Burr re-hydrates, enjoying his first proper meal in weeks (weight cutting’s what he likes least about the sport - punch him in the face any day, just don’t take away the carbs). He lays back on the hotel bed, visualizing the fight for the hundredth time.
It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally does the sleep is fitful. It always is, the night before a fight. Before walking into the lion’s den.
*
Burr walks out to applause that sounds thunderous. He doesn’t know what the gate for this event was, but the crowd’s easily in the thousands, probably the biggest crowd he’s ever fought in front of. He shakes his arms, trying to stay loose. His hands are tightly wrapped inside his boxing gloves. He stops in front of Van Ness, who pops his mouth guard in, undergoes the final check of his gloves, and then enters the spotlit ring.
His world narrows down to the ring, the noise of the crowd fading out, all his focus on Hamilton as he enters the ring.
It’s just business, but for now, as the referee steps out and the announcer begins, Hamilton’s his enemy. One more mountain to climb.
They step closer to one another. The ref speaks into the microphone the announcer holds out.
“All right guys, have a safe fight, and protect yourselves at all times. Touch gloves if you want.”
To Burr’s surprise, Hamilton extends his gloved fists. Burr taps them lightly. Hamilton gives a little nod, and Burr nods back, glad his antics at the weigh-ins didn’t sour this face off.
The bell rings.
*
Hamilton starts fast, like Burr had expected, throwing several punches in quick succession. Burr dodges several, though one glances off his chin, not full power, but he feels stupid for being caught like that. He fires off his own series of punches, feinting high then dropping his body, catching Hamilton in the stomach with a hard blow. Hamilton doubles over for a moment, then straightens, moves.
Burr continues his strikes to the body - that had been part of the game plan, wear him down his body shots early, which would pay dividends later one as the fight progressed and the shots made themselves known.
His focus lets up for a second, and Hamilton catches him with a hard right hook, rocking Burr’s head back. He hisses through his teeth, low, straightens, drives in with an uppercut that catches flush on Hamilton’s jaw. The crowd screams its encouragement, savage, and Hamilton falls, almost in slow motion.
He gets back up though, almost immediately, dives back in, and the men clinch up, driving into on another with short, inefficient strikes.This close, and he can hear Hamilton’s heavy breathing, which he takes as encouragement, Hamilton’s bruised body having increasing difficulty taking in air.
He drops Hamilton twice more, but each time he gets up. Hamilton’s movements slow, become more obvious, sloppy as he gasses, and Burr picks him apart.
He lands several shots that should have finished him, one knocking Hamilton back against the ring, and Hamilton’s head lifts, eyes meeting Burrs’, and he sees only determination as the other man pushes off the ropes and charges again.
*
He doesn’t finish Hamilton, which is disappointing, but he picks him apart in the final rounds, and when the final bell rings he throws his hands up in victory before it’s officially announced.
The scorecards reflect it, and Burr walks away with another W on his record, having handed Hamilton his first loss. After the announcement, Hamilton shakes his hand, graceful in defeat.
“Congratulations,” Hamilton says.
“Thanks,” Burr replies.
*
He watches the rest of the card, goes out to dinner, after, face already starting to swell. He’ll hurt for the next few days - Hamilton had landed some decent shots - but he’ll be back in training soon enough. He’d seen Washington after the fight, and he had teased a title elimination belt with Jefferson. Big things on the horizon.
He’s tired and when he finally makes it back to his hotel room he’s surprised to see someone waiting outside it.
He’s more surprised when the figure comes into view, and it’s Alexander Hamilton, one eye blackened and already swelling, hair still in the braids he’d worn for the fight.
“Can I help you?” he says, confused. Hamilton’s dresses in a t-shirt and jeans, and he looks good, despite the black eye.
“I want a rematch,” Hamilton says.
“Talk to Washington, not me.”
“Already did. He said no.”
“There you go.”
“Look, Alex, no offense, but I’m gunning for the title, not to beat up on amateurs.”
“Then train me.”
“What?”
“Let me come by the gym. Get some pointers. You could clearly teach me a thing or two.”
Hamilton’s looking at him now, and it makes Burr uneasy. The look is knowing, and far too intimate for two strangers.
“We’ll see.”
“Give me your number, at least.”
Burr sighs.
“Fine.”
They exchange numbers (well, he gives Hamilton his, and Hamilton immediately texts him), and Hamilton departs, leaving Burr to lay starfished on the too-big hotel bed, smelling like Biofreeze and Tiger Balm, trying to process the day.
*
He flies home the next day, takes several days to recover, and then is back in the gym, business as usual. Except - except, well, he finds himself still watching Hamilton’s fights. He finds the video of their weigh-in online, freezes it at the moment when he charged forward. The freeze-framed image is Hamilton, eyes intense and gleaming. And those fucking abs.
Maybe he screenshots it. Maybe.
*
He finds Hamilton’s Facebook fan page, where there’s some really…flattering promotional pictures. Burr likes the page but not the pictures. He doesn’t want to be creepy.
He gets a text all of fifteen minutes later.
I see you liked my page.
He gets another notification - Hamilton just liked his page, too. And a photo. And another photo. Another.
I see you liked mine, too.
You’re pretty talented. There’s a lot to like.
Burr stares at that text for way too long, as if trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphs. He gets another text.
Shit, sorry. You’re a good fighter, I mean.
Thanks.
This is where you say ‘you’re a good fighter, too.’
Your left hook is sloppy. You wind up too much. Easy to spot.
Asshole.
Just telling the truth.
*
They text a lot and Burr can’t tell if it’s flirting or if maybe this is just how people text the super hot guy they beat and now want to…
Well.
*
Burr wakes up to read a text sent at like 2 am.
I’m in town next week. Still want to train?
His stomach flutters a bit at the thought of seeing Hamilton again, even if it’s just business. He writes back.
Sure. I’m happy to whip your ass again.
Buy a guy a drink first, geez.
Okay, that’s definitely flirting. Naturally, he freezes up and doesn’t respond.
*
Hamilton meets him outside the gym before it’s even opened. It’s a weird familiarity, they’ve texted a fair amount, but this is the first time he’s ever been in real proximity to Hamilton without their fight looming over him. It’s weird, so Burr quickly suggests they get into the ring, do a little light sparring.
“Winner buys drinks?” Hamilton says, smiling, those eyes on him. Shit.
“Winner buys drinks,” Burr echoes. His throat’s suddenly quite dry.
Every time I’ve felt something with someone that I thought I might love, I set them up with the same words. I’ve sat in 8 couches, benches, porches and car seats, and I’ve held 8 sets of hands, and when I felt ready each time, I slipped in – jokingly or otherwise – that I’m a lot to handle. There were of course 8 different responses which included; ‘I bet you are’ featuring one blonde haired eye roll of a teenage boy grabbing my ass, a ‘well good thing I like high maintenance girls’ from a retired football prodigy, and a ‘well let’s hope you can handle yourself’ from a mistake in my freshman years. The thing is I say it because I mean it, because the responses are always telling of character, and I guess because some part of me is hoping it will drive something from someone that didn’t make my skin crawl.
It wasn’t until I was three years older than the last time that a man with rough knuckles and a soft heart said that it was a good thing he had two hands. It was softly spoken through small smiles and wandering fingers between sheets of black and white, and there was very little to be said afterward. It began in the end of winter of my third year of college; the first time I saw him, I knew he would linger on me. I’d just gotten to a house party thrown for Jenna’s birthday and I saw him from across the room, his face was covered in smoke from the place he sat on the soft worn couch. He was so tall that even sitting he dwarfed most of the people near him, his too long legs pulled in close, his knees higher than the small table in front of him that held drinks and ashtrays. He was maybe 6’2 but he didn’t make himself big or small, just comfortable, and as the smoke unmasked him his hazel eyes fell on me, and my brown ones on his, and I knew I was screwed.
Jenna was still talking to me as I played ‘who’ll be the first to break eye contact’ with him when his left eye dropped to a wink and I couldn’t fight the flush that sent through me, I broke and looked down, only to look back up and see sweet eyes and savory smirk still studying me. Suddenly too warm to continue pretending with Jenna, I excused myself with the promise of getting drinks for us, and strode out of the room.
I stood up from in front of her bedrooms mini fridge after letting myself in, the rest of the guests loitering around her student house that smelt like ramen and take-out, trying to organize some game of beer pong that would only result in a stained rug and a naked mile. The cold beer brought my temperature down, and I sensed his presence behind me for a moment before he made himself known, clearing his throat and mumbling a “where has Jenna been hiding you” as I turned around to face him. Turning around to face him I could tell he might be expecting some sort of fumble of surprise on my behalf, grinning mischievously like a school boy who’d snuck candy into class. “History” I responded, quirking an eyebrow in mischief of my own to be answered by his lit up eyes, searching but unable to detect a missed beat from me. He took a small step towards me, my hips hitting the top of the mini fridge as I tried to take a coy step back. “Should really switch my major then I suppose” he smiled.
The thing about my first encounter with Luke was that every move, every shift, and every expression – it was an obvious façade, and he was sure not to hide that. He was putting on to see if he could get a blush or stumble but he wasn’t looking to make me feel trapped, he’d always enjoyed pushing me to fluster and then pulling me back to his warmth. His kind eyes and posture gave it away this time; leaning into me but keeping his feet a little farther back, able to shift if there was even the slightest hesitation from me, his smile not leering but charming and kind – even in a smirk. It affected me that he could break down my defenses with just a smile- an ease to him that buried any nerves I’d had, everything with him always felt natural. As if it was natural to lean back until I was sitting atop the short fridge, legs dangling in front and answered, “if you think you can handle it, sure”. His eyebrow quirked higher and he faltered for a moment with a chuckle before collecting himself, it became a game early on between us – bluffs and smirks and neither of us wanting to be the first to break.
He shifted in close after that, and instead of making a weak attempt at a pick up line or suggest we leave together he leaned into my ear, trailed one hand to rest on the other side of my neck, and the other on my hip, and whispered with warm breath that tickled my ear “the guy behind me in the jersey is picking his nose”. My breath had picked up as soon as he leaned in – as soon as I’d caught the scent of cinnamon and honey; it caught when he put his hands where I didn’t even know I wanted them; then he pulled away just as slowly and cautiously as he pulled in. Keeping his eyes on me while mine subtly dragged behind him to the football player who thought no one was looking. I breathed out, lightly laughing at the way he’d compromised our tension with lightness, letting my eyes stay on the jock for an extra beat and when my eyes trailed back to the boy with hazel eyes in front of me, he had his smile on full watt display and we exchanged a few more light chuckles. And that’s when I knew. I knew we’d be friends. I knew he was kind but not a pushover, critical but not cruel, respectful but adventurous, I knew I would have a million things to learn about him. Most of all, I knew I could love him.
We’d spent weeks together before we spent nights together, just talking and laughing and blooming all summer. It felt right, like puzzle pieces that had spent ages in the wrong boxes finally fitting where they belong. Even when we fought, which was more seldom than anything I’ve known, we knew there was no one else we’d rather fight with than each other.
There was something about the two of us together, staying in and listening to the rain and dancing in his bedroom using sheets for clothes and pillows for sacred secret trading grounds. We could spend hours together doing nothing but drinking tea and pretending the floor was lava. We could spend hours anywhere, doing anything. I’d never know what I was in for if we were going out, I’d get in the car, take off my shoes, throw my purse in the boot, and cross my legs under me while he’d pull out of my driveway – always demanding to drive after one tiny incident including my “wild” driving and a pothole. We would always decide that if we didn’t feel like doing anything or being anywhere we would just walk or bus or drive around town until he would decide on something spontaneous without giving me any hints, or until we were tired or hungry. We were wanderers, going up and down streets we didn’t know, making up stories for the people who’d lived in the houses we passed. I could go on forever about this part and all the things we were and did, but I won’t.
Luke is a boxer; titles, belts, and medals covered a whole wall of the old gym he trained at, sponsors had built new additions in, added new change rooms, and paid for state of the art machines, but I’d never seen him use any of it. He’d loved change for as long as I’d known him, always suggesting somewhere to go in the middle of the night, and spontaneously deciding to paint his room every few months but Luke never used the machines.
His downfall wasn’t in the ring, but rather boxing when he wasn’t in one. He’d won a big title that televised nationwide, and suddenly he was all over the news and magazine covers, the attention from the media shook him; it made him nervous, but he liked change and taking me all over the country to see sites. It was all obviously because of his talent, but his looks didn’t hurt; bright hazel eyes, strong jawline, a sweet charming nature, and a body lined with tattoos – he was a catch, Luke was my catch. Suddenly fitness magazines weren’t the only covers he was doing and his name got bigger, and word about him spread, and he started doing interviews on talk shows and appearing at clubs at a celebrity guest.With cameras in our faces, two senior college kids couldn’t hope to last, they’d shout things at us from across the street and they only had to touch a nerve on the topic of me for Luke to turn against them – forgetting I was there and starting a brawl in the middle of Main Street once or twice.
Things started to spiral downward when the cold of fall crept in, when we changed like the leaves and our love became something like having a gun hidden under my pillow that wasn’t mine. I was protected, taken care of, attached to him, and never alone, but I could never be sure if something would go wrong or someone would get hurt. It would keep me up at night, every time my bed shifted I wondered if we would wake up together, I’d run through the list of all the people who would want to take it from me, of all the people it belonged to before it came to me and might come back for it, who could be hurt if either of us made one wrong move. Sure, I loved the way we felt, sleek and soft and certain, but what was it worth for all of the nights I kept awake rolled onto my side with hands against soft sheets convincing myself we’d both truly be there in the morning. I wanted to believe he was as good as he said, that others would start things that he was too strong not to finish, meaning to or otherwise. But the gun sat beneath my head and ideas of danger shot into my mind, conclusions and cold nights left my clothes smoke filled and throat tight.
Two incidents that both included him attacking paparazzi later and I was no longer willing for us to be in public together, that’s when the spiral picked up speed. I wouldn’t go out with him unless we were meeting somewhere and leaving separately, and instead of agreeing to take his personal life away from public view until things calmed down, he’d go out without me with new friends and fans. Things happened so fast, between his winning that fight in the fall and the end of us had only really been about 3 weeks. But it was the last week that finalized our inevitable break; seven days filled with him stranding me at bars with no way home, standing me up on date nights where I’d spent hours to get ready, and (the last straw) a call from the police asking me to collect my boyfriend from the station after he’d started his third bar fight of the night. I suppose they’d only let him get away with two on Halloween.
Luke was good through and through until the bitter end that night, he was quiet when I’d yelled and cried at him and when I told him we should take a break; he understood what was happening and why and I knew he knew how out of control things had gotten. When I’d told him, I was almost expecting that he would be intolerable, but instead he was the calmest I’d seen him in months; he’d wordlessly put his hand on the side of my face, wiped away my tears with his thumbs, closed his eyes, kissed my forehead, and grabbed his jacket, leaving me alone in my apartment to wonder who would fix him if I couldn’t.
He’d gotten worse after that, there were a few weeks when all I’d wanted was to call him and tell him I was scared for him, to ask him to get out of the crowd, for himself, for me, but I couldn’t.
Luke had gotten better after those weeks; he’d checked out of all his bookings and taken some time off, stopped going out and making a fool of himself and me with all the girls he’d rebounded with. The fights stopped once he stopped going out, he kept things low-key enough that the paparazzi eventually eased up and then he went back to boxing –that’s what Jenna told me once I’d moved in with her. They’d remained friends and I understood why, she had to hold on him, she had to make sure he wouldn’t lose everything – especially when it seemed that he was losing himself. I’d felt odd the first time I’d come home to her yelling at him over the phone, begging him to sort himself out and then hanging her head once he’d hung up on her. I saw the frustration on her the same way I’d seen it in myself.
It was hard to move on from something that made me feel complete, like I was forcing myself to miss something that was never truly lost. I thought of him always, his memory like dried gasoline on my shoes, even after everything had settled and some time had passed, there were still times when thoughts of him had infiltrated every sense of mine until I didn’t know if the scent was his or became mine somewhere along the way. It was almost debilitating when it began, seeing paparazzi pictures of him with two dark eyes and a bloodied nose would leave me hallow – unable to deny the headlines worsening after our split.
I wanted to tell him all of this, I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t tell if the after outweighed the before, that I didn’t understand how it would take days of effort to push him to the back of my mind but it would only take the smallest scent of something familiar to knock me back to those black and white sheets. But I couldn’t tell him, not just because I didn’t know myself, but because but he was like smoke, gone too quickly once the flames were out, nowhere to be seen but everywhere to be felt – and always lingering in my clothes and lungs.
Time felt like it was going slower. Days would feel like they were taking weeks to pass, seconds would tick like hours. It felt strange to sit, as if I didn’t know which side to lean or drift too because I’d become so accustomed to him next to me, to sinking into his arm around me. Standing felt wrong too, like the space at the bottom of my spine was always missing a presence, a hand, some warmth, him. So I was always on the move, never standing or sitting for more than a few minutes, never stopping unless I was crashing and even then it was quick to sleep quick to wake, running to keep myself busy, always on the go. I’d tried not to think about these things but they would follow me everywhere, like a fresh wound that touched salt every time I stayed still for more than a moment. It was as if I was grieving a whole part of me that had shut its windows and locked its doors when he’d walked away. Loving him changed me, but I think loving someone makes you like that, makes you feel different about things you thought you were, and knew, and trusted. Loving him meant that even though it was hard, I knew a part of me would always forgive Luke for his mistakes, and he would forgive me for mine, and even though we were farther apart than we had been since that February, I knew we would still look for each other.
The next time I’d seen him was at a New Year’s Eve party at Jenna’s parents’ house, and while it was hard for me to visit those places that knew us both together, we’d all earned a celebration and I really hadn’t thought he would come. As soon as I’d walked in, he’d been there, leaning on the wall dressed in black skinny jeans a white t-shirt and his warm leather jacket talking to some guy who looked fresh from a Wall St. douchebag commercial. I could tell just from his stance that he wanted out of that conversation, I could tell by the way he tapped his ring against his beer bottle with no real rhythm and how his eyes kept darting away, looking for someone to help him get out politely. It was those darting eyes that fell on me after I’d spent two obvious minutes staring at him with a dropped jaw and eyes the size of saucers from the foyer across the floor, and the house full of people suddenly felt still and empty save for the two of us.
He’d looked so much better than I’d seen him that night in my apartment, his eyes were hazel again, his cheeks were no longer sallow and his t-shirt fit tightly around his biceps and tucked into the jeans at his narrow hips. He’d looked like my Luke, familiar and warm, and I was suddenly reminded like a car hitting a brick wall that I didn’t get a Luke anymore, I got the man who now looked back at me like I was a ghost. I could see the shock on his face, I could almost hear his lungs hallow out because mine made the same noise, and all at once the room was moving again around us.
Un-paused and suddenly finding my feet, I made a break for the back garden, walking quickly and avoiding eye contact and brightly coloured streamers. I knew he would follow me once the shock wore off, but I’d need some crisp air first. I’d let him go, I’d lost a love and a friend, a fact that hit close when I realized I didn’t even know he would be there that night. But he was in that house and he was hot on my heels.
The party went on and I sat on some stones at the back of the garden quickly before my shaking legs could give out, and he approached. “Can I sit?” He mumbled so lowly, that I’d have missed it if I wasn’t looking for it (except of course I was looking for it). I gave him a nod to answer without looking at him and his eyes bore into the stone next to me, they were freezing to sit on, but I couldn’t feel a thing. Moments later we were sitting side by side, staring over the yard from its end and looking into the house of people who continued on with their party, and I wished things could be that simple again – that we could be those people again. Wordlessly –with both of us I’m sure trying to keep it together in case one of our hearts exploded– he took the small bottle of whiskey from his pocket and passed it to me like a peace offering, as if recognizing our awkward situation and trying to diffuse it with a sip of something strong.
I broke the seal with the ghost of a smile on my lips and took the first swig trying to convince my body to unclench and relax, unable to tell if the burn of my throat surpassed the burn that seemed to start at my heart and radiate outwards. We passed it between us in silence, sometimes taking sips, sometimes gulps, it was as if we had forgotten there was ground beneath us to rest it on. We just kept passing, sighing into the bottle, sip, closing our eyes, sigh, pass, sigh, close, sip.
A third of it was empty before we started to speak; maybe we were too sober before to say something or maybe all the thoughts that swam within us were drunk enough now to tumble out. Passing the bottle to me he whispered “it’s too cold” under his breath, but although the stones beneath us were cold, the air was comfortable for December chilled enough to need a jacket but not bitter or seething into my bones just yet. But I knew what he meant, I’d felt the cold since he’d left my apartment in the fall. I didn’t respond to him, I didn’t want to know how cold he was, if it was a type of cold that had made him want to reach for a sweater or a someone. But part of me wanted him to know that I was just as cold, wanted him to wonder what I wish I could reach for, “I’m as cold as space” I slurred back. If his words could exist in 100 different ways so could mine I thought stubbornly. I could see his face from the corner of my eye go from drunk and chatty to deep and contemplative, and I wondered if it was okay to want to smooth out his furrowed brow with my fingertips.
We were drunk, in a comfortable daze and it somehow felt okay, as if not talking but being together was a good enough compromise. I kept my gentle smile and brought the bottle back to my lips, realizing how much we’d drank when I had to tip it farther up than expected to get to the liquid. One sip taken and I held it out for him to take, my eyes unmoving from in front of me, I’d been to that party before with the same people countless times, but it was something familiar to look at and was safer than looking at him.
For the first time since we sat he turned to look at me, but I refused to meet his gaze – no matter how drunk I was I could read his eyes the same way he could read mine, and it wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. Instead of carefully taking the bottle from each other like we had been – an unspoken agreement to navigate through new boundaries – he reached for it by putting his hand over my own. Not quite flinching but realizing he had no intentions of moving I let my hand slip beneath while his fingers tightened on the bottle, his eyes still unmoved from the side of my face while his gravelly voice murmured “I think you kept me warm so well, I’ve forgotten how to do it”.
I wanted to cry, my hands shaking as soon as I registered his words. Why couldn’t we just keep not speaking? Why couldn’t we sip and sigh and try to pretend like it didn’t matter that we hadn’t spoken in months. Talking could end in punctuation, so why couldn’t we just stop before it got that far? It was because we were drunk, saying things we shouldn’t say and doing things we shouldn’t do, starting with him reaching again for my hand that held my knees to my chest closely. Just when I thought I could let him hold me, I’d dropped it down to the stone I sat upon as I turned my face to the opposite side before any tears could fall. He’d had time to hold my hand and he spent it without me, he made choices that kept us apart. He’d wanted it all and wanted me waiting for him to pull me in, or for me to pull him out whenever he needed me.
People never remember memories exactly as they are, they’re always tainted by some emotion or subconscious; we both could have done better at the end. The beginning of us, and most importantly the majority of us, was something I couldn’t paint with anything near dark or dull. I wouldn’t change for anything the time we’d spent together, the nights spent walking, the hours laying on his couch with my head on his chest, listening to the perfect harmony between his heartbeat and his voice, trying to pick which I’d loved more.
‘I don’t…’ he said, his voice laced with hurt and worry as his hand fell to his side palm up, as if he was hoping mine would fall into his. I knew he looked at me like he was trying to figure out something to say, something to fix things or make this better, I could see it once I was collected enough to face the house again and my eyes had been dried by my sweaters sleeves. I could see from my peripheral his eyes darting around my face in the same way they darted around the room he stood in many minutes ago until they fixed on the corners of my own and remained there. There was a few beats before he spoke again “remember when we used to say home” he’d said “… and it didn’t mean your place or mine, it just meant somewhere we were together” he spoke the words quickly but said home slow as if he knew it would trigger something in me “do you remember?” he asked, his eyes still baring into my profile. Of course I remembered, but if this was his attempt at punctuation it would feel less like a period and more like a bullet and I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
I didn’t want to think about how being together had changed everything in seven months, how it made me feel about him and us as not just people but a place where we were both safe and loved regardless of if we were under my sheets or in a café downtown. I didn’t want to think about all the ways that home became lonely or all the times I felt it slipping away from me. Mostly, I didn’t want to think of how cold the autumn was without it, without him. So I pulled a small smile onto my face and finally came to look at him for the second time that night, noting that my memory hadn’t served him nearly well enough. His brow furrowed deeper, his eyes searching every inch of my face quicker than before dashing back to my eyes every few seconds, like he was frightened I would turn away at any moment and he would miss something.
‘I think we’ve had too much’ I spoke slowly and softly with all the lightness I could muster and gently lifted the bottle, shaking my head slightly, hoping it would be enough to throw him off the topic while I tried to focus on how the air was getting colder instead of his familiar scent. I could already feel myself forgiving him, loving him, wanting him again, but I was so unsure if I was ready for that. I knew what happened between us wouldn’t happen again, and that the situation was random at best, I just wasn’t certain I was ready to pour my heart out half-drunk in Jenna’s parent’s backyard, sitting next to half dead peonies. I thought it’d worked until his forehead was suddenly firm against mine, it was sensory over load; eye to eye, skin to skin, breath to breath and just like in that room I’d walked in, there was a suffocated pause. I wanted to force my eyes to close tight shut until he was gone again, to keep him from reading me the way I knew he was, but something in his eyes held me in place, part of me willing him to say something, the other part of me willing him not to.
After a few beats, his eyes changed from searching to familiar, as if he was asking me to recognize him, things changed but we didn’t, we were still ourselves, ‘okay’ he murmured as he pulled away from me and anything I thought he was going to offer me. Raking his hands over his face and nodding to himself while my eyes flew back to the house as I swallowed the last sip of the whiskey with trembling hands – trying to assure myself I’d made the right call. I’d felt the loss with renewed freshness as soon as he’d pulled back. I’d felt bad that there was a chance he’d seen me desperate for him but stubborn enough not to do anything about it – or maybe he thought he misread me, a bigger blow to our connection than my being stubborn.
When I’d brought the bottle back down, I’d stared down at it, imploring it for answers. “I should go” I whispered, eyeing the recycling bin by the door, standing before he could say anything else and desperate to sort myself out before the tears could return. It was my intention to stand and walk away quickly but as the fresh air hit my swimming head I’d stumbled a bit, Luke’s hands instantly outstretched to steady me but I’d stepped away from them before they could touch me and he’d let them fall back to his sides, defeat all over his face. I wondered idly as I walked to the bin if I should cab and put myself to bed, or just pass out in the guestroom that had been meant for me, I’d have to figure it out soon before the alcohol really hit, and mentally prepared for the exit I’d have to make before the countdown, trying to piece together an excuse in case Jenna caught me.
Now when I say that I am a lot to handle, I would mean it even more than I did before because I knew that seasons change, and even when I missed him, I would always know him, and know that he’s out there, and even though we’re farther apart than we had ever been, I knew we would still look for each other in the rain, and clothes, and candles, and colours. The thought alone is a lot to handle.
Of all these things I knew, I had known only one more. When I walked out of that front door, I hadn’t heard it close directly behind me. I felt the smoke weaving its way back through my heart and my clothes when I heard him follow me for the second time that night. We stood in a comfortable silence, that felt more familiar than the strained air we’d felt in the back garden, him silently beside me, leaning on one of the decorated railings while I tried to decide if I should call a taxi, if I could leave without saying goodbye to Jenna, if I could go on loving him without having him, and every answer came through negative.
I heard the countdown being chanted inside and looked over to him, unsurprised that he was already looking at me with vulnerable eyes, and reached a hand out to him. His fingers quickly threaded through mine as if he was surprised or worried I’d change my mind, and our hands gripped each other’s tightly, for the first time since that Halloween our eyes were no longer ambushing each other’s with raw emotion like two exposed nerves, but instead meeting in solace and understanding.
“TWENTY” we’d heard boom from inside, but tears were pooling in my eyes and I couldn’t stop it from happening again. I couldn’t stop my heart from pounding, or my hands from sweating, or my breath from speeding up around him. I couldn’t stop feeling at home with him just by looking at him, I couldn’t help feeling at home for the first time since fall the moment I saw him in that foyer. The way I’d lost my breath the moment I’d seen him, it felt like all the ice that had sat in my lungs for months was expelled, the warmth of home felt nice.
Suddenly he’d enveloped me in his arms, his scent surrounding me while I quietly coached myself to stop crying. “I know, I’m sorry, I know” he repeated over and over, sincerely, rubbing my back with one hand and cradling my head with the other and kissing the crown of my head.
“FIFTEEN”
“Don’t go” he whispered in my ear, “stay here, I’ll go, I’m sorry” but as he pulled away, my dried eyes couldn’t leave his, and my hand reached out to hold his again, not letting him stray any farther from me. I couldn’t let it happen, I couldn’t lose him again. He was my home, and I couldn’t go another season, another moment, without him.
“Wait”
“TEN”
His eyes were soft but uncertain, and I could tell he didn’t know what to say. I tried to look at him the way he looked at me in the yard, familiar. I wanted him to be sure that what he saw in me was no mistake or hesitation, that I was stubborn but not stupid, that I could love him again if he’d let me. “I just” I stumbled, the words tumbling out quicker than I could catch up to them, he had to know I was with him, in just as deep as he was, “I just want to go home”
He nodded quickly, tears falling from both of us as he brought me back into him, kissing me as he invaded every one of my senses, kissing me through the soft wet tears and moments when we were smiling so freely it was nearly impossible too.
“FIVE”
And I felt it then. I felt like for the first time in months, I was where I was meant to be, and even when everything wasn’t perfect, it would all be okay if I was holding him that close.
“FOUR”
I knew that our love existed in a way that maybe didn’t exist to anyone else, maybe no one would know what this was like but us, I knew that even when I hated him I loved him, and I knew that there would only be people who could try to love me the same way, but all without feat.
“THREE”
Because to someone else we’d be somewhere in the world. We’d be in a café or bed or shop, but to each other we were a somewhere.
Happy Wednesday to everyone, but especially to my angsty boxing boys (four scenes left, only four scenes left 😬)
“It’s me,” he says, speaks it into the darkness. TK hasn’t turned the light on, probably didn’t want to risk Carlos’s father seeing the strip of it beneath the bedroom door. Neither of them wanted him found, but the thought of him sitting here in the shadows for so long makes Carlos’s heart ache.
“I know,” comes TK’s reply. Carlos takes this as his cue – as his permission – to step fully into the room.
He doesn’t turn the light on yet. TK has the right idea. His father is probably gone by now, seemed satisfied more than suspicious, but still there’s something dangerous slung in the air around them, so Carlos lets the light from the hall ease the shadows in the bedroom, the light low, straining to touch TK’s back.
He finds TK at the window, staring outward. In the dark like this, the chances of him being spotted from the street are low. If anyone did glance over and catch sight of him, Carlos wonders if they’d see him like Carlos does, if it might prompt a sort of sadness – even to a passing stranger – to see TK huddled in on himself like this. His shoulders are high, his arms wrapped around himself. His legs are pressed together, all of his weight on the right side, a slant to his hips that only adds to how defeated he looks. Carlos has seen him ready to fight, ready to run, ready to push Carlos against his car and drop to his knees in a technically public place. Right now, he looks ready to give up. The spark in him is still there, but when he turns to cast Carlos a fleeting glance, it looks more like it burns him than shines.
No pressure tags below
@carlos-in-glasses @carlos-tk @birdclowns @wandering-night19 @wtfuckevenknows @welcometololaland @lutavero @lightningboltreader @lemonlyman-dotcom @louis-ii-reyes-strand @heartstringsduet @thisbuildinghasfeelings @catanisspicy @chicgeekgirl89 @tarlosmalec @herefortarlos @taralaurel @redshirt2 @goodways @paperstorm @im-overstimulated-and-im-sad @freneticfloetry @inflarescent @sanjuwrites @rosedavid @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @whatsintheboxmh @inkweedandlizards @orchidscript @sznofthesticks @liminalmemories21 @jesuisici33 @tarlosluvr @rmd-writes @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @bonheur-cafe @alrightbuckaroo @heartstringsduet @three-drink-amy @sugdenlovesdingle @detective-giggles @fitzherbertssmolder @guardian-angle22 @chicgeekgirl89 @velvet-ink and YOU if you wanna play and you’re not tagged (feel free to tag me back, I always wanna read!)
A whole 24 hours late but here we are! Thanks @strandnreyes @orchidscript @freneticfloetry @paperstorm @carlos-in-glasses @birdclowns @alrightbuckaroo @carlos-tk @heartstringsduet @louis-ii-reyes-strand and @tarlosluvr My bestest baby, Boxing Fic, hit 100k yesterday and I am ecstatic honestly. The boys, on the other hand…
“I don’t…” Carlos starts. “I don’t know what you want me to say right now.”
“I know what you are,” TK says, voice low, the aching strain of it like an impending car crash, like wheels that can’t find purchase on the ground. “I wanna know who you are. And I want you to say it to my face. I-I’m pretty sure I deserve that. At the very least, I’ve earned it.”
“TK—“ Carlos starts.
“Just tell me,” TK cries.
An open tag. Latecomers, people who missed the game, people who slept through Sunday, I implore you to share belatedly!
I’m very tired so my seven sentences will be a day late and I will read all your snippets tomorrow when I wake up because I love you all and I’m so excited to read your words, BUT FOR NOW, I’d like to share my boxing fic progress before I crash for the night 🥊
