OLIVIER FONTAINE (FR) VS. KEREMÂ DOÄULU (TR)
When Kerem had first seen the name of who he was fighting, the only thing that he really knew about the man was that he was French. But as he got into the rink, he was able to put a name to the annoying man who made his way into a Turkish bar. And while Kerem already wasnât a fan of the French, there was a special hatred that he had for those who annoyed him. From his end of the ring, he analyzed the man, height, weight, trying to get a sense of how he fought. It was his first time in the ring, the first Turk to fight, the first Turk to actually show what a threat they were.
And he was ready, waiting, analyzing.
He wanted the Frenchman to make the first move, to get an idea of how to adapt.
Olivier heard the crowdâs roar, feeling their vibrations through the sprung floor of the ring and that sense of dread was sitting in the pit of his stomach, churning and gurgling. This time last year had been the catalyst of a time in his life heâd been unable to control. Kerem stood there tall and ready and even he couldnât deny that this was going to be a fight that could very well be the end of the upward spiral heâd been on recently. Would this be downward of where heâd got? He sucked in a shaky breath but kept his body strong and mind collected.
Last year heâd been cocky; this year he remained reserved, quiet and focused. There were no parting words, as he looked out of the ring and found one pair of eyes, offering a real smile. The only person whoâd been able to get through that wall recently and then he was centred. He remembered he was in the ring to prove something. For the French and for himself.Â
He began to hop from one foot to the other, rolling his neck and shoulders. If he wanted to become an assassin, he needed to prove he was ready and what better time than now? So with a grunt, he turned to face Kerem, standing tall, chin jutted and grinned.
The only thing heâd give away. And then the bell rang, making him take a step forward.
Olivier didnât want to talk - in truth that was something that Kerem appreciated. He hated people who talked in the ring. It was annoying, distracting, and he never actually answered them. The Turk could appreciate the fact that he wasnât trying to distract him. Not enough to think that the Frenchman was worth something, but enough that he wouldnât have to be annoyed and tuning the manâs voice out the entire fight.
The man took a step towards him, and Kerem made a side step. Slow. Calculated. Moving enough that he would be able to get an idea of how the other man moved. How the other man fought. He kept moving slow, planning on circling the ring if he had to. Just to get the other to attack.
That side step said more than it should have, Olivier, noted, letting eyes of stormy seas watch with impenetrable concentration, huffing a silent grunt under his breath. The way Kerem held himself told Olivier enough, the man was trained, and smart enough to not directly seize his competition on the first bell. At least not before making decisive moves. Clever. But the man he was opposed to was someone who watched people; it was his job, to calculate oneâs moves before they could have an upper hand. To protect, even if that meant his own life was forfeit, and Olivier decided at that moment, that all those skills heâd learnt, could be useful in this situation.Â
He faked a left, eyes now alight with something new. That darkness swirling and tumbling. Heâd tried his hardest to keep a reign on it, always managing to slip through the cracks of his foundation, but now there was no need for such a leash. So he let it rip through him as a volcano did with lava.Â
He took a step forward, closing the space within two steps before delivering his first attack.
Knee dipping until he swivelled on the ball of his foot, teeth gritted as the force came directly from his hips until knuckles collided with the male. Jab, jab.Â
He grunted with the first sign of power. But had he been too quick? He calculated once more before he swiftly jumped back to allow him space. Close proximity was not always oneâs friend in the grin. And right now, he wanted to see the Turk fall.Â
Wanted that victory. For himself. And for the French
The fake, the jabs, the hook - the came fast, they came hard, and the Turk was positive that there would be bruises later. But that was why he had come, and while there was some stinging under his skin, taking in what he knew was more important.
And there was a flash of anger in the other manâs eyes - and that was something that Kerem would be able to use to his advantage. Fighting angry meant that the man was more prone to mistakes. And mistakes were what Kerem wanted most to take advantage of. Something to look out for.Â
But for now? It was time for Keremâs opening move.Â
He mimicked the manâs fake only going right - assuming that like him Olivier was right handed and more prone to going that way before jabbing into the manâs ribcage with his left hand, and then a hook to the head with his right. He stayed close, figuring that with them both being large, itâd be harder for the Frenchman to tell what to do if he were close. He was still learning, analyzing, but he wanted to see the French man bleed.Â
He wanted to remind everyone that the Turks were not to be underestimated.
Each hit reminded him of why he was here.
Each hit was like a memory of his past coming to haunt him, and he used that pain, those memories to push himself forward. He winced, brows furrowing as a sheen of sweat began to form, trickling down his neck until he looked like a shining mess beneath the lights of the fight club. It was fucking warm in here.Â
But he was taking too long, waiting out his game. Olivier could appreciate that in Kerem and would have usually been taunting by now. So he opened his mouth, unsure if he wanted to speak, keenly aware he didnât want to jeopardize the mind set he was currently in.
âYouâve got something to prove and so do I, so how about you start fighting.ââ Olivier barked, and he set his face into one of pure death. Eyes alight and burning. He wanted to see the other fall, wanted this to be a way to prove what he capable of. So he jumped forward again.
This time his hook came swift and fast, pushing all of his power behind his right arm as he made one more connection, grunting with the excretion. Wanting to inflict as much pain as he could. This was what he needed. Wanted. Lived for.
To break those that challenged him.
ââThereâs only one thing guaranteed in life, Kerem, none of us get out alive.ââ He joked, bouncing from one foot to the other. ââMight as well get in the game, if you plan to win.ââ
So he was a talker. That was a shame. And truthfully Kerem had forgotten how annoying this manâs voice was. Assuming he knew him. Assuming he knew what Kerem wanted from the ring. Assuming they were the same. It was enough to make Keremâs blood boil. He took a breath - he could get angry after the fight - and attacked.Â
He appreciated the fact that Olivier seemed to jump before his attacks, it was predictable, and it let him dodge the hook - it might have connected, but nowhere that would actually cause damage. Kerem used his foot to hook the French manâs leg out from under him as he punched up, aiming for the jaw.Â
âKeep the philosophy out of the ring, Socrates,â he muttered at the man.
That ticking in his brain, the one heâd felt before he got into the ring came into place. Like time was running out, the crowd then began a blur, their sounds nothing but a low thrum in the background as he zoned in. His ragged breath was now the focus as he calmed himself, prepared for what was to come.
One second passed. Breath.
That attack had taken him by surprise, such a bold move, but not enough for him to have not been prepared. The hit connected, searing pain haunting Olivierâs face. But there was an ache in his knee, last yearâs dislocation was telling him that his body still remembered even if heâd healed and he realised Kerem had known that. Stumbling backwards, he managed to keep upright but now he saw red.
Real red. He attempted to flex his jaw, pain shooting through with so much pain he wasnât sure there were words. Fuck. Eyes watering, something he didnât want Kerem to see but was unsure how to keep it away without turning his back on the other; which he would not fucking do. There was drool slipping from his open mouth as he realised that heâd taken a stronger hit than heâd intended to take. And in that, he looked to Kerem with wild anger.Â
He moved forward, quickly, precisely just as heâd be trained. And he went in with all the force that he could muster. He landed it on his cheek, followed by another. Then another. He was for the first time, on fire. He moved like he was made for this an he felt it in his bones.
Five hard back to back hits he managed to land. One, two, three, four and finally came the fifth. And with that, he heard the crunch beneath his fingers and inside he felt that love for the pain he inflicted. That need to cause pain had just been buried and right now, drooling and in pain.
He wanted to watch him fall to his knees and beg him to stop.
The crack in his nose, the blood spilling into his facial hair, it was enough to make him angry. Olivier was getting wild, which was good for him, but the broken nose was something that Kerem could worry about later. Taking a breath through his mouth, he knew that he needed to channel his anger.Â
Luckily Kerem didnât get red hot when he got angry - he got ice cold. And in that coldness, he knew that Olivier was going to run out of energy, he was doing too much at the start, and nobodyâs stamina was good enough to keep that up an entire fight. If he wore the Frenchman out, well that was going to make winning a whole lot easier.Â
Kerem just had to last until then. But if he was anything, he had learned to last.Â
The Turk had staggered back with the attack to his face, but he didnât fall, regaining his balance as Kerem realized that Olivierâs knee was actually a problem. A weak point. Something that he could easily exploit if the opportunity arose again. He purposefully didnât wipe the blood from his face, letting it run acting as if Olivier hadnât bothered him at all. It would annoy him, it would make him angrier, careless - easier to beat.Â
Slowly, he circled the ring again, watching Olivier before an idea hit him. He could easily attack again, but it would be more fun to lure him into a trap. Kerem stopped, across the ring - hoping that Olivier would charge, his anger would miss that it was a trick. He pretended to be dazed - with the plan to be when Olivier came, too fast too stop, his fists going, he would sidestep at the last minute and trip him, using all of that momentum to get Olivier face-first on the floor.
This motherfucker didnât seem to feel pain? If that was normal, heâd really chosen the wrong career path and the festivities that came with it. If you could call this ordeal festive. Olivier looked out to the ground, but with the dim lights realised very quickly he was met back with startling darkness and he was grateful for it. Eyes. Faces. That would make him think outside of the ring and in this very moment, he didnât need that.Â
He turned his eyes carefully back to Kerem.Â
The way Kerem circled him should have made him feel like prey. But for once he took it in his stride, watching with fearless intrigue, mimicking the other mans actions for a moment. In through his nose, out through his mouth. It was how he kept that rampant violence from bursting out of the seams. It took only a few moments, for him to watch Kerem with such concentration that he lunged with everything in him. He wanted to go in while the man was still sizing him up.Â
Heâd wanted to land another blow.Â
But unfortunately, that was not the case.
Olivier had acted just as Kerem had predicted - rushed towards him, and into the side of the rink where Kerem got a good kick at his bad knee again. He wanted it to be enough to keep the Frenchman from getting up again. But he wasnât sure if it was, if playing in that old injury was going to be enough.Â
He tasted blood in his mouth - leftover from the multiple punches to the face, and Kerem knew he was ready to finish it. Olivier was still wild, that much was clear, but get him fully on the ground, and he could be done.Â
But he had been thinking slightly too long, the Frenchman had an opening, and Olivier took it.
The pain that seared through his leg was enough to make the man bark out in pain, for a few seconds he pushed back until he hit the edge of the ring, a grunt. Followed by another, and then finally he managed to place his leg to the floor. He looked up with that fury, realising that the man knew they were going for an old injury. Knew that he planned to play that way. With each passing moment, he grew more and more angry. More and more willing to cause damage.Â
This time he wasnât going to make that mistake again. He jumped back, throwing his force to push him further backwards from the onslaught of attacks that came. He dodged left, right and circled back before he felt the connection again.
He skirted around the outside, light on his feet now. That mocking smile returned.
Fuck. This guy moved with his weight, it was behind each impending attack and Olivier internally began to look for his way back. He needed to come up to the side; he noted that he sometimes dropped his arm when he swivelled for a hit. And as he watched, he counted the seconds
He only had two seconds. And heâd make sure they counted.
He dove in again, a little to harshly as he managed to score another solid jab to the mans ribs. A sickening grin taking over his face, a man alive with madness as he felt what he was inflicting. What he was enjoying. And it took only moments before Oliver through an uppercut followed by a roaring hook.Â
He was proud of himself, hoping on one leg when he could.Â
Still, the pain in his jaw only magnified, the drool obvious now as he walked in the ring. It was dislocated, and his leg which had been the first primary attack was beginning to climb up his leg which he noted.Â
Then he found him opening, faking a jab and swinging around until he was directly behind Kerem, hooking his arm around his throat and pulling as tight as he could. It was a fight, a struggle and he counted in his head as he squeezed tighter and tighter with each passing moment; he wanted to see him go to sleep.Â
Olivier thought maybe in that moment, he might just have this. But something shifted, until the felt the crack against his face. ââFUCK.ââ
There was pain. So. Much. Pain.Â
His ribs, his jaw, it was like everything he had been forcing himself to not to feel all broke through at once. Blood spilled into his mouth as he realized that a tooth had been knocked out. And that he couldnât breathe.
Why couldnât he breathe?Â
A few moments later he realized that it was the Frenchmanâs arm around his neck - and there was a limited amount of time Kerem had before he was out. And he wasnât going to let that happen.Â
He couldnât let that happen.Â
A few more precious seconds passed as he figured out what to do, and black spots were forming in front of his eyes when he acted. His head pounded back into Olivierâs and it was just enough to get the manâs grip out of him. And that was all that Kerem needed. Taking a large breath, he reached back and caught the Frenchman, flipping him over him so that he fell to the ground, hard. And just to make sure it was over, that Kerem was truly done he stopped on his head. Twice. Once in the jaw, once a little more up. Just to be sure that he would stay down.
And he watched, making sure the man wasnât moving, that he wouldnât get back up. And he spat on him - his spit more blood and the tooth that had been dislodged from the back of his mouth landing on the manâs cheek. Kerem smirked.Â
