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“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 his old fights online. Washington found him on his Contender series, offered him a contract on the spot. 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 that landed him in the top 10 rankings - he’d get somebody with some 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. He knows he’s not Washington’s favorite fighter on the roster, but this is downright insulting.
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 videos of Hamilton’s fights, including his flashy head kick KO that landed him the professional contact. Burr scrutinizes the videos carefully. The kid’s got decent footwork, switching stances constantly, good about using his angles. He’s got a background in kickboxing, won several fights in some small leagues there. Still, Burr’s not worried. He’s noticed several weak spots - Hamilton opens up quick, exploding his energy in the first flurries, and doesn’t have much of a ground game. He has a good number of knockouts, but in the fights where he goes the distance, especially against guys with wrestling or BJJ backgrounds, Burr can tell he gasses, hands dropping, going flat-footed instead of balancing light on the balls of his feet, unable to avoid the takedowns.
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. Hungry.
*
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, although they are the headliners there - 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. Burr thinks that with a flashy enough finish, he might have a case for a title elimination fight next.
*
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 is to Burr, which gives Burr a great view of the man’s ass, shown off to the fullest extent in his tight 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 see 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, as expected - 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, like the two have some score to settle.
Hamilton doesn’t miss a beat, presses back into him, and talks, low enough that only Burr can hear.
“So you’re the badass Aaron Burr huh? Don’t look like much to me…”
“Glad they gave me some weak-ass amateur to warm up on,” 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 into 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 rehydrates, 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, the stadium reverberating with his walkout song (Queen’s Another One Bites the Dust, incredibly overused, but Burr doesn’t mind, he’s sending a message here). He doesn’t know what the gate for this event is yet, but the crowd’s huge, certainly 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 MMA gloves. He stops in front of Van Ness, who pops his mouthguard in, smears Vaseline over his brows and cheekbones to help lessen any bleeding that might occur.
“You got this. Remember your training,” Van Ness says, and Burr nods. The plan is simple, to wear Hamilton down with body shots, hasten his exhaustion, look for every opportunity to take him down.
Burr nods, and Van Ness claps him on the shoulders. Burr turns then to the official, lets him check his gloves, his mouthpiece, before finally stepping into the cage.
His world narrows down to the ring, the noise of the crowd fading out, all his focus on Hamilton on the other side, back against the fence, shifting from side to side, impatient.
It’s just business, but for now, as the referee steps out and the announcer begins his spiel, Hamilton’s his enemy. One more mountain to climb.
They step closer to one another, eyes meeting. 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, to wear him down with body shots early, a move that would pay dividends later on 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, almost immediately, dives back in, and the men clinch up, driving into one another with short, inefficient strikes. Burr controls the movement, drives Hamilton back against the cage. 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. Burr locks his arms under Hamilton, and quick, before Hamilton can adjust, sweeps his leg, managing a takedown. Hamilton pulls guard immediately, wrapping his legs tight around Burr’s waist, already throwing strikes from his back. Burr pressures forward, chest against Hamilton, landing his own short punches. Each time he feels Hamilton shift, trying to improve his position, he counters it, adjusts his own weight, smothering. He’s not causing much damage, here, but it adds to the exhaustion - from the bottom, Hamilton has to work harder. And Burr’s ground game is miles ahead, he’s sure, so he’s less worried about Hamilton pulling a submission from this position - though he keeps the thought in his mind, of course. Burr continues to pressure forward, manages to break Hamilton’s guard, move to side control. He’s laying on the ground and pound when the bell rings, signaling the end of the first round. They break from their position, head to their corners, and Burr sits on the stool while Van Ness presses ice to his chest, offers advice that Burr only half processes. He’s tasted blood, knows he won the first round, and is ready for the second, for the third.
The second round is more competitive - Hamilton manages to avoid his takedown attempts, lands several good shots, even knocks Burr down once. The crowd is wild, a distant, screaming echo.
The third round, though, is all Burrs. The body shots he’d landed in the first round pay their dividends, and it’s clear Hamilton’s gassed - his hands lower, his punches become more mechanical, easier to read. Burr lands several shots that should have finished him, knocking Hamilton’s head back with a fury that the crowd screams back to him tenfold, but Hamilton only smiles, shakes his head, and walks forward. Their eyes meet, for a moment, and he sees nothing but determination in Hamilton’s brown eyes.
He doesn’t finish Hamilton, which is disappointing. There’s a common saying, in most martial arts - never leave it in the hands of the judges - and Burr tries to abide by that, but sometimes, the finish just won’t come. Especially not when your opponent has a chin like cement - Burr’s still not sure how his final shots didn’t finish him, why the fool kept walking forward. Still, when the final bell rings, he throws his hands up in victory, like he’s already won.
He does win - the judges gave him two of the rounds, and Hamilton one - 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 throws his arms around Hamilton, slaps him on the back, a common display of good sportsmanship, except this close, he realizes Hamilton smells good, even through the blood and sweat. Burr quickly steps back, turns to his team, and smiles for the camera.
*
He watches the rest of the card, goes out to dinner, after, face already starting to swell. He’ll hurt for the next week or so - Hamilton had landed some decent shots, and it shows - but he’ll be back in training soon enough. The night had really gone perfect - Washington had called him, after, told him that his and Hamilton’s fight had been awarded Fight of the Night honors, which meant a sizable bonus for them both. Better still, Washington had teased a title elimination bout with Jefferson next. 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 dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and he looks good, despite the black eye. Burr’s tired from the adrenaline dump, a post-fight exhaustion that always feels strange, except now his heart’s beating fast.
“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 your 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.
His dreams that night are strange. He’s fighting Hamilton again, grappling him again, sweat-slick and pressed against him, Hamilton squirming, legs wrapped around him, pulling back, looking at him with those dark intense eyes, then --
Burr wakes up with the sheets in knots. He groans out loud. He’s fought for years, grappled for longer, and he’s no stranger to the savage intimacy of fighting. But he’s never eroticized it, not like this, he’s always kept his business and pleasure separate.
He shifts, and his body awakens into a hundred aches and bruises. He sighs. Didn’t even get to finish the damn dream.
*
He flies home the next morning, takes several days to recover, and then it’s back to 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. And your ground game sucks.
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. He freezes up and doesn’t respond.
*
Hamilton meets him outside the gym before it’s even open. 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.
It's easier, like this, in the ring, staring Hamilton down. Fighting, Burr knows how to move, how to behave, and there’s no need to talk, to worry about saying the wrong thing. He smiles at Hamilton from across the ring, baring no teeth, only the rubber mouthguard, and Hamilton smiles back and then…winks? It’s so quick Burr isn’t sure he saw it, and there’s no time to wonder about that anyway, because the buzzer dings, signaling the start of their sparring round, and Hamilton’s already coming forward, one hand extended.
They touch gloves.