Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s an irreplicable atmosphere to the place. The air is sticky and humid with sweat and vapor, feels like it clings to your lungs with every step into the crowded space. It’s a derelict, nondescript warehouse, with no source of ventilation besides the meager windows, high up on the walls near the ceiling, each holding a fan that seems to rotate at an abysmal speed out of sheer spite. It’s not too bright, with only a few fluorescent tubes dousing the place in a sort of post-apocalyptic bleakness. The walls are deeply corroded, rust cascading down in bronze rivulets down the once-pristine, white-coated metal; condensation giving them a sickly sheen. It’s nothing if not a prime fire hazard, and even though it’s not the usual meeting location, no one seems to pay any mind to that.

It’s a Thursday night, which means that tonight, the floor is getting painted red.

This particular club wasn’t too keen on outsiders. Not like any of them are. But for every Thursday night event, they let a few, handpicked messengers spread the word around town. The point is to recruit as many naïve, unsuspecting newcomers as they can. They specifically go looking for that irritating kind of kid who thinks they have a “fighting spirit,” the kind that thinks they know their way around a fight just because they’ve won one or two brawls against their friends. Believing they’ve got what it takes, they decide to show up. But once these newcomers enter the ring, odds are they’re leaving with more than just broken cartilage and a mosaic of blood caked to their skin.

Thursday nights are the purge. It’s somewhat of a necessity, a ritual. They’re making sure none of these small fries ever wants to step foot inside a fight club ever again. And though there’s no fixed rule that states that they can’t come back to try their luck, it’s an unusual occurrence for them to do so. The rare rookie who manages to defeat a member is instantly considered for initiation. It’s a cycle, like razing the ground to allow new crops to grow. It keeps things fresh, exciting, bloody. Makes the spectators stay on their toes.

The moon is high up in the sky when Denji arrives.

Better late than never, he thinks to himself. Though the temperature is dropping, he’s lightly dressed. He knows that the place is going to be smothering, he’s been to events of this kind before. And given that he’ll be stepping into the ring, he’ll be losing the shirt sooner or later.

The dude at the entrance stares him down. Tall dude, broad shoulders, arms crossed. The image is so predictable it almost makes him laugh. But he needs to get in the place, so instead, he levels an equally unimpressed stare at the bouncer, expecting the same question they always ask. When the man stays silent, he opens his mouth.

“Password is ‘teeth’. I was recruited by Yoshida to fight tonight.”

The man remains quiet, and once again regards him from head to toe, disapproval in his eye. After a moment, he pulls out a felt-tip marker and takes his arm, emblazoning Denji’s wrist with the number 33 in deep red. “You’re up in about an hour,” His deep baritone announces. "Try not to get yourself killed." No more words are exchanged. Soon enough, he’s inside the warehouse.

To say the place was jam-packed would be an understatement. He’d been told this club was one of the biggest, so a crowd had been expected, but the swathes of people lining the grimy floors were astounding. The resulting heat from the mass of onlookers was already suffocating, which reassured him about his attire. The stench of sweat, humidity and bloodshed makes it all the harder to breathe. Denji thinks it’s probably going to be a long hour, and as he starts to make his way through the crowd, he spots it.

The ring, if you could even call it that, consisted of the only clear floor space in the entire building. It wouldn’t have been hard to find it, given that everyone is standing in a way that lets them see the clearing and keep an eye on the action. At the very edge of the clearing are some of the upcoming fighters, sizing each other up and some of them trying to get potential opponents riled up, all while following the developments of the current match.

It’s not looking good for the obvious newcomer, who although possessing a decent musculature, has already got a black eye and a nosebleed. His opponent is a tower of muscle, unyielding and relentless in his attacks. Both their chests are exposed, as is required of them, as they fight with knuckles and feet bare. The new kid is currently guarding his face against the other’s barrage of blows, which are instead besieging his arms. On his wrist is the number 23. His attacker takes the chance that he’s overly focused on defense to deliver a bruising kick to his ribs that finally sends him tumbling to the ground. From there, it’s obvious that the bout is nearly over. The kid coughs up blood and struggles to stand up. The concrete is starting to acquire that glossy, crimson lacquer that sets these nights apart. The crowd jeers and laughs as money is exchanged. More fresh blood bites the dust.

A couple of men drag the loser out of the ring, and if anyone had been paying attention, they would’ve noticed that he was immediately thrown out of the building itself. Besides Denji’s keen eye, not a glance is spared in his direction – the loser would never be seen in the club’s events ever again, anyway, not if he had an ounce of common sense or self-preservation.

Denji settles about a row from the edge, intent on watching what he presumes is the 24th match of the evening. To his side, he hears a distinctive voice call out his name. Turning his head, he’s met with the uncanny, empty black eyes and eerie smile of one Yoshida Hirofumi. He’s as jarring a sight as ever. Yoshida is clad in a white jacket and somehow doesn’t seem to be breaking a sweat despite the sauna-esque ambience. What a weird fucking dude.

“Oh, hey,” comes Denji's curt reply.

A summary of prior events: Denji'd been in an alleyway, deep into the night, fighting off yet another fucker sent by the yakuza to collect his debt. Disguising himself in the shadows, Yoshida had been on the hunt, and ended up becoming an uninvited witness. After all, it was in the grimy corners of the city that the most exciting prospects flourished. So, after the fight was over, he'd asked him, "Do you like the thrill of it? Does it get your blood pumping?"

Denji, normally a deeply untrusting individual, still doesn't know why he struck up a conversation with him that time. And it's funny, how neither of them had realized they were seniors at the same high school until then. They'd never noticed each other before in the hallways, not really having any reason to. But a few days later, Yoshida was standing outside his classroom, and invited him formally to the purge. He hasn’t really gotten to know much about the enigma that is Yoshida, though he feels he could probably befriend the guy if he tried hard enough. If Denji was being frank, he wouldn’t have thought that this lanky, emo-looking fuck could’ve been into fighting this much, so that factor had already been a surprise. He hadn’t seen him throw a punch yet. But by taking one look at his weathered eyes, you could tell he was keeping some twisted impulse at bay. He hopes he can see the guy let loose tonight.

“I didn’t think you were gonna make it, honestly,” the guy in question grins, the menace undiminished.

“Yeah, well. Didn’t have much to do. Doesn’t hurt to come and see,” Denji pointedly tries to keep his eyes averted from the other’s. Instead, he chooses to nonchalantly stare at the ring, in which the next match has already started.

“You really think you’ll win?” This might have seemed like a taunt, but the lightness in Yoshida's tone made it clear he's being genuine.

This time, the confrontation seems to be a lot more balanced. Two men with a similar build, tall and broad, are going toe-to-toe with close quarter attacks. The crowd surrounding them is starting to quiet down, paying minute attention to each move. The odds are split evenly down the middle this time, but the floor is still likely going to be accruing a bit more blood.

“I mean, I think so. ’s not many fights I’ve lost.”

Being a dog at the service and mercy of the yakuza meant he had to learn to defend himself early on, with or without a weapon. He likes to think that what he taught himself was still respectable, if it's managed to keep his extortionists at bay. Sure, he may be scrawny, but knows he can hold his ground easily. His injuries have never warranted a trip to the ER, so it’s clear he didn't come to the purge out of some masochistic desire. No, Denji came to let off some steam. He’d much rather unload onto some rando than speak about his miseries out loud. The sonorous crack of a nose against a fist is a universal language. 

One way or another, he’s sure that what he’s picked up on the streets will be helpful tonight, and if he needs a bit of extra fuel behind his punches, Yoshida had told him there’d be a cash prize for any victorious newcomers, so there was that. He sure as hell wasn’t going down that easily.

“I see. Who do you think you’ll face off?”

Denji appraised him for a moment. “I was gonna ask you about that. Do you think they’ll make us fight? You and me, I mean.”

One of the contenders, the unmarked one, misses a hit, and his counterpart takes the chance to jab him on the cheek, to the satisfaction of the crowd. An amount of blood and part of a tooth stream out of his mouth, and from then on, his focus is lessened. The sharpness he maintained at the beginning of the match evaporates in the blink of an eye. If he doesn’t get his act together, chances are he will be on the ground soon.

Without blinking, Yoshida chuckles. Creep. “No, it would be against the rules. Since I recruited you, that means we can’t fight each other,” He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Because we know each other, even if briefly, we could’ve scripted how the fight would go. And the main allure of this club is the unscripted, frenzied revelry of two strangers beating each other to a pulp. Wouldn’t wanna ruin the fun, right?”

Even if he doesn’t understand the big words Yoshida uses, Denji can see how that makes sense. Especially in this type of show, which is meant to weed out the wannabes. What would be more pathetic than a newbie tricking and scheming his way to the top? It was smart to set this kind of precaution in place.

Speaking of newcomers, the one currently in the ring is not letting up. Where the odds were evenly divided a few moments ago, they are now notably skewed in his favor. A rarity, given the fact that the established members enjoyed supremacy in nearly every showdown. The audience is enraptured. Perhaps a new member would be joining before the clock hit midnight.

“Yeah, makes sense. Don’t know who they’re gonna make me fight, honestly. Could be any of those guys, maybe it’s someone I haven’t seen yet. I’m ready for whatever,” He makes sure to maintain eye contact as he says that last part to show he's serious.

“Glad I brought you on then. You’re just the kind of crazy we need,” He smiles, then turns towards the ring. “This may sound dumb to you, but just a heads-up: Over here, we all go by nicknames. So, you should call me Octopus when we're here. Don’t ask, it’s simply how things go.”

“Octopus? What kind of a fucking name is Octopus?”

“See, I just said not to ask. Everyone chooses a name upon initiation. It makes it easier to keep track of matches. Imagine having to write a bunch of full names in kanji every time.” He says it with the level-headed calmness that seemed to be his permanent emotional state, only betrayed by the cold fury flashing beneath his eyes. Denji isn’t really fazed.

“Well, what’s this asshole’s codename, then? The one getting his shit handed to him?” Denji asks, out of curiosity if nothing else.

“That’s Madoka. He chose his own name as a codename, but it’s fine ‘cause it’s easy to write. Same kanji as yen. He might be out of commission soon, though, by the looks of it.”

“Oh. Sheesh,” His eyes drift to look at Madoka, who’s losing his balance. He looks two seconds away from fainting. “Feels like this match is already over.”

And then, Madoka does just that, hitting the ground with an audible thud, the echo of which came in as a chorus of ‘oohs’ from the onlookers. It seems Madoka wasn’t cut out for it tonight. Unlike the last loser, he isn’t thrown out. Instead, he regains his balance and blends back in with the crowd, trying to patch his injuries as his opponent is congratulated. The winner unabashedly collects his cash prize from the people who bet on Madoka. He wasn’t too broad-shouldered, but was still well-built, sporting a distinctive topknot that bizarrely stood up at a near-straight angle on the top of his head, defying gravity altogether.

“This one is gonna get initiated soon,” states Yoshida, matter-of-factly. “He, too, will get to pick a name.”

“Should be Onion, he kinda looks like one.” Denji quips, but Yoshida doesn’t really respond. Buzzkill.

After the commotion of what was the first rookie win of the night, the matches continue. In most of them, it’s clear who’s going to win, but a few others have the audience on the edge of their metaphorical seats. No other rookie has proven victorious, though, and it seems likely that it will stay that way. As each fight has progressed, Yoshida has diligently informed Denji of the names of each member that participated in the brawls, as they assess each match from the very edge of the ring.

For the twenty-ninth fight, Yoshida himself steps into the ring, and Denji gets to see the Octopus make quick work of an unnamed girl (Didn’t think they allowed them here, he thinks), who seemed strong enough to hold her own but evidently underestimated Yoshida’s prowess. He has her on the floor in less than thirty seconds, using a quick succession of uppercuts, dodges, kicks, and slams, and her surprise is spelled out on her face. She seems unscathed, the red on the shirt she’s been allowed to wear coming from the residue on the ground. Denji makes a mental note not to fuck with Yoshida after this. Yoshida definitely knows how to snap a neck.

Soon after, the thirty-first match starts, and Denji can’t notice the heat festering in the warehouse anymore. He’s too invested, and too excited for his own showdown that’s inching closer by the second.

It’s then that he catches a glimpse of him for the first time.

A man, clad only in shorts that seem straight out of a Rocky film, emerges from the opposite side of the crowd to stand on the ring’s edge. It’s a given that he would draw attention in any room. He appears to be just a bit taller than Denji, but much more thickly built than him, with a set of washboard abs and wide arms. His tan skin pairs interestingly with his hair, which seems as if it’s naturally slicked back. It’s sharp around the edges and dyed a deep blue, a close match with the tone of his eyes. Two almost elvish ears form the scaffolding for a collection of rings and studs that pierce them. A frown and a faraway gaze indicate that he’s seemingly indifferent to the match that’s starting. On his neck rests a set of tattooed gills, and his left bicep hosts a jagged keloid scar, a silvery protrusion that adds to the already sinuous relief of his body. His right bicep is adorned with an arrangement of ink that makes up the shape of a shark’s fin poking out of the water. Strangely, his nails are long and sharp, claw-like. He hasn’t been looking at him for more than a handful of seconds, but Denji has been given the impression that the man is untouchable, unreachable. It’s the first time he’s felt intimidation this entire night, and secretly, he hopes he gets paired up with him for his fight. That would really get his blood rushing.

“Who’s that guy?” The question escapes his lips before he’s had time to activate his brain-to-mouth filter. Well, fuck.

“Caught your eye? That’s Beam. He also goes by Shark in the club. He’s probably one of our strongest members. Didn’t think he’d show up tonight, he rarely attends on Thursday nights.” Yoshida has a glint in his eye that Denji decides not to read into.

“Is he a pro or something?” Denji presses on.

“No, but everyone knows that’s his ambition. He’s aiming to enter the national boxing leagues, and if you want my opinion, he’s more than qualified to.”

Huh. Denji wants to fight him even more now. Imagine if he managed to defeat a pro-hopeful. That would be quite the way to stroke his ego. But who knows, maybe the big-shot doesn’t want to get in the ring tonight.

As the time for his match approaches, Denji keeps stealing glances at Beam, who isn’t even paying attention to what’s happening. It seems like he’s submerged in a world of his own. If he’d maintained his gaze focused a little longer, he’d have met a glance echoing his own from the other side.

When his time arrives, Yoshida wishes him luck, and he enters the ring. A multitude jeers, but none seem interested in joining him. He decides to kick off his shoes and take off his shirt in the meantime, cracking his knuckles in preparation. After a moment of tense expectation, the unmistakable volume of Beam steps forward.

The crowd erupts. Beam had rarely attended the purges, which is the same as saying he’d never participated in them before tonight. Within the club, everyone claimed he only bothered to fight members who he knew matched or outclassed his strength. He was a force to be reckoned with, who may not be a hulking mass of bruteness, but still cleared the floor in nearly every match. It was rumored he trained day and night in a multitude of martial arts and fighting techniques – rumored, because he rarely was up for conversation. His sharp glares and sharper teeth kept most people at arm’s length. Either way, his track record didn’t lie. It appeared that he exclusively communicated through violence, making him a rightful holder of the name 'Shark'.

Denji is stunned. Suddenly, he’s facing the person he wanted to fight the most. It’s the first time in a while that he’s felt so invigorated. Even if this man who has predator written all over him leaves him bloody and bruised, he’s gonna make it worthwhile. No matter what happens, he’ll give it his all. It’s showtime.

In the center of the ring, the makeshift referee yells out “Thirty-third fight, start!” with a sharp voice that slices through the dense air. The expectant crowd inches infinitesimally closer, contracting the area Denji and Beam are facing off in. Murmurs along the lines of holy shit, it’s actually happening and rest in peace, kid emerge, seemingly from everywhere at once.

Denji sets himself in an offensive position, legs wide and arms en garde. On the other hand, Beam appears to remain at ease, no hints of aggression showing on the façade of his body or face. A stone-cold poker face crowns his features, no teeth or gums showing. Denji swallows.

He registers the kick a few fractions of a second too late, noticing it when the shooting pain making ripples through his ribcage makes itself apparent. It’s unclear if he’s cracked a rib, but the sheer impact is enough to make him entertain the possibility. It gets harder to breathe. When the realization dawns on him, he’s gripping a calf, attempting to sabotage the balance of the body it’s attached to. He maneuvers to spread the leg to the side, but it’s futile. Beam has already straightened himself, setting both feet on the ground, and lunges right to his face.

Denji ducks, narrowly avoiding the blow, and takes the chance to throw an uppercut right to Beam’s chin, the satisfying crack of the taller man’s jawbone reverberating through his knuckles. It’s then that Beam snarls, revealing row upon row of sharp teeth to him. Teeth that, Denji’s only now noticing, are identical to his own. Huh. Who would've thought.

A startling, unexpected force has him choking, unable to breathe altogether. He can feel the imprint of a fist like a ghost on his neck, centered right on his Adam’s apple. He swings, misses, and is assaulted again, hearing rather than feeling the snap of cartilage, and perceives a warmth trickling down his nose. Fuck.

Still, he doesn’t waste a moment, getting close in Beam’s space and outstretching his arm. The skin beneath his fist gives, and he’s hitting the man’s cheekbone directly, with force. Beam turns his face, spitting blood to the ground, and nearly stumbling before retaliating with a corresponding blow. Denji imitates what Beam did moments ago, the surface of his foot striking the side of the other’s body. It’s been a bit over a minute since the match started.

It doesn’t look like Beam’s felt the hit at all. He’s not even grimacing. Denji’s attention dissolves when he feels his already-fragile nose twist under the force of Beam’s forehead. It’s as if it’s made out of concrete rather than bone. The fluid dripping down to his lips is thick and viscous. His vision blurs, and he takes a moment to try and put his nose back in place. He learned long ago that the faster he fixes an unaligned nose, the easier the healing will be. The pain rips through him. When he opens his eyes, Denji is expecting further punishment from Beam, but his opponent is (thankfully) merely assessing him from a few paces away.

Once his vision regains focus, he puts effort into ignoring the pain coming from multiple areas in his body, and recalls the pure thrill he felt when he first saw Beam across the ring. He wants to get in his face and show that he’s a worthy opponent. He needs this to be a worthy fight. This isn’t going to go the way the crowd expects. Even if he’s defeated, he won’t be the club’s laughingstock.

Taking advantage of the momentary pause in Beam’s attacks, he decides to observe his opponent’s stance, look for hints of what he’ll do next. He aims for a high kick and is swiftly blocked, but his foot still hits Beam’s temple. He follows this with a swift barrage of swings – most of which connect, to his delight. He steps back once more, not allowing the proximity to become an advantage for his opponent. He dodges more precisely now, feeling the quick changes in the air from where the blows would’ve landed. They start a tightly choreographed dance of brutality. Beam’s expression remains inscrutable, but Denji notices his pupils are blown.

Denji turns his feet, elbows, fists, knees, and forehead into weapons. So far, he’s landed a good thirty hits on Beam, almost the same as his opponent has landed on him. He starts to think he might have an advantage when any preconceptions he had about the fight are thrown out of the window. A dizziness suddenly overpowers him. At some point, Beam had quickly gotten behind him. Without an instant of warning, two strong arms are wrapped around his midsection, caging him in. He feels a current of warm air down his neck. 

It’s quick. His point of view is lowered as he feels the body behind him twist into the semblance of an arch, and then he’s being lifted, without a hint of strain, above and over Beam’s head. He only manages to understand what happened when he lands on the concrete hard on his back.

Beam had pulled a fucking suplex on him.

By this point, a couple of teeth have loosened, and his nose is on the verge of a hemorrhage. Beam, on the other hand, barely has a few bruises on his face and legs. Yet the floor remains conspicuously clean of his blood. Aside from a few drops, the fresh varnish is all Denji’s.

He does his best to get up, but his limbs fail to cooperate and he falls back to the ground unceremoniously. It’s clear: The match is over. Well, at least his spine isn't fucked.

The announcer declares Beam as the winner.

Ruby and carmine have accumulated into a small lake under Denji’s head. None of the other matches had been this bloody, and he thinks if he wasn’t anemic right now, he would’ve felt a twisted kind of pride at that. He’s lost so much blood. This fight is gonna give the people at the club something to talk about for sure, though he knows he’s about to get kicked out, so he won’t be there to witness it. But maybe Yoshida will tell him about it.

He expects the gofers who have made it their duty to expel the defeated into the congealed night to come any second now. Rather than that, he feels a large, clawed hand on his shoulder. It’s the same hand that beat him to this tender state, now outstretched and heavy over his body. Yet, he doesn’t register this fact, too out of it to make the connection. He thinks he feels a shadow looming over him, gently shielding him from the light overhead. Through the haze of agony, he thinks he hears a voice. It's a deep timbre that has a subdued edge to it. “Hey, are you okay? Can you stand?”. The words rattle around his head for a moment. His consciousness caves in, and his vision turns black before he can articulate a reply.

———

When he comes to, he’s sitting in a cheap plastic chair near what he thinks is a corner of the warehouse. It's one of the few spots devoid of people, where club members can patch themselves up if necessary. He feels large, gentle hands wrapping his head with gauze, and the throbbing, shooting wave of pain comes back in full force. He’s got his shirt back on, at least. He groans out in agony, and finally opens his eyes.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight. Beam, the Shark, is patching him up with a gentleness befitting a nurse. He does a double take, in disbelief that this is the very same monster who’d just beat his ass and broken his nose inside the ring. What The Fuck. The sight is too bizarre, and the fact that he’s currently anemic makes it all the less believable, as if the scene was just an aftershock of the damages he’s sustained.

“Awake?" The Shark in question seems overjoyed, flashing a smile brim-full of those antagonizing sharp teeth. "Amazing!" His pupils are blown again. Denji vociferates in complaint.

“My fault. Didn’t mean to hurt you like this…” Beam appears to speak in half-finished sentences, rubbing his own nape in genuine embarrassment. “Drink this. Feel better.” He materializes a painkiller and a bottle of water, handing them to Denji like a peace offering. Denji's pride screams at him not to drink it, but his nose aches for relief. He swallows the pill with bitterness.

What. The. Fuck.

This guy is acting… Kind? Wasn’t he supposed to be, you know, this monolith of a man? Unapproachable and scary? Like a damn shark? And now, he’s here out of his own good will, patching Denji up after making purée out of his nose? Something’s off about this guy, and Denji isn’t here for it. At all. Fuck this.

“Get the fuck off of me,” he lashes out, not bothering to conceal the venom in his tone. “Why are you taking care of me? I’m supposed to be getting kicked out. I don’t need your help.”

Beam flinches. He seems dejected, for some odd reason. Picture it – the man who unquestionably destroyed him moments prior, now shrinking in on himself because of the reply he's just received. It’s so goddamn ridiculous. “Wanted you to feel better. Make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me? Listen, I don't know what the fuck you think this is, but I know what I signed up for. ‘s not like I need to be taken care of, I’m not a goddamn brat. I lost, that’s on me. Now get off.” Blood jets out of his mouth.

Beam relents, taking a step back and letting Denji stand up on his own. “Sorry. Lost a lot of blood,” He tries again, this time keeping a bit of a distance between them. “I feel bad. You were amazing. I'll buy you ice cream.” The words are said with uncertainty, nervousness.

Denji wishes he was still knocked out, just so he didn’t have to hear this shit. The man is now praising him? The loser of the match? And not only that, but he's offering ice cream as a consolation prize. Fuck Yoshida for bringing him into this, for real. He reacts before he can think, staggering to his feet and jabbing him with an uppercut to the cheek. Beam stumbles back a little, nearly dropping to the ground with the sheer force of it, and briefly chuckles.

“I’m getting the fuck out of here. Leave me alone.” He points a finger at him in warning, and grips the chair he was sitting on for support. His vision starts to spin again.

“Wait! I'm sorry." Beam switches back to shy. "My next fight... Come. For free. I want you there.” The desperation is barely concealed.

"Why? Just fuck off, man. Don't talk to me again." Denji turns around and tries to make his way to the door. He doesn’t make it three steps before he’s falling again, and this time, he’s forced to accept Beam’s help when he catches him in his arms.

Strangely, he's cool to the touch. The contact against Beam’s bare chest is an instant balm to the suffocation permeating the room. He doesn’t let go until after a few seconds, if only because it feels like he has an ice pack pressing against his wounds. In this fleeting embrace, Beam takes the chance to whisper something that Denji certainly wouldn’t have caught if they weren’t literally pressed together.

“Come to my fight. It’s my only wish.”

Denji doesn’t know what to say to this. He simply separates himself and tries to walk on his own again. “You’re weird, man,” is all he manages. After steadying him, Beam walks with him to the exit, making sure that he’s regained his footing before letting him leave. “Good night.” It’s said with a slight abruptness, as if there’s something caught in his throat. Denji doesn’t answer.

It’s already past midnight, and the crowd has thinned out by now. The purge is reaching its conclusion. Yoshida is right by the exit, presumably waiting for Denji. Just as he’s starting to wonder where the bastard might be.

“Crazy night, huh?”

“Why’d you leave me with that Shark freak, huh? I thought you had my back over here,” Denji protests, as Yoshida helps him walk down the street to the metro station. He has no choice but to make his ER debut tonight. His nose is killing him.

“In my defense, the guy latched onto you and wouldn’t let anyone get close,” Yoshida at least had the decency to look apologetic, though his smile didn’t waver. “He took you away himself and refused to have you expelled. No one was willing to contradict him – not after the number he pulled on you.”

Well, fuck. Just what does Beam want with him?

“He was acting weird with me, saying he wanted to go out with me… Dude, he fuckin’ broke my nose. And I’m not even into dudes like that. It makes no fuckin’ sense.” They’re a few blocks from the station. He knows he’d already have fainted if he hadn’t taken that painkiller, but he’s still agonizing through it all.

“That’s not like Beam at all. He’s barely talked to me at all, and I’ve known him for over a year,” They’re picking up the pace. Yoshida’s voice somehow remains as impassive as ever, not betraying any sort of emotion. Denji doesn’t need to look in his direction to know that he’s got that dull smile plastered on his face like it’s drawn on with a marker. “Must’ve found you interesting. You know, love at first sight and all that.”

“What the fuck, man?” Denji's taken aback by the implication. “Don’t say shit like that, the dude’s weird as hell!” He shakes his head, only to be met with more shooting pain.

Yoshida shrugs. “Well, he did ask you out…”

Denji wants to slap this fucker so badly. He tries to justify himself, but he doesn't know if it'll work. “He said he wanted to buy me ice cream, and invited me to his next match. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

A grin. “You go? You’re basically his plus one at this point.”

He’s been humiliated enough times tonight. He decides to pay no mind to whatever Yoshida’s reading into. “Fuck off, for real.”

Sure, Beam may have caught his eye for a few moments, but it’s only because he looked all cool and intimidating, and that's a spell that was broken the moment he felt those claws on him. He doesn’t think he wants to see the guy again, really. No way in hell. The way he acted back there was beyond weird. It’ll probably take a miracle for him to cross paths with the guy ever again.

And, to his absolute dismay, a miracle does absolutely take place. Because next Wednesday, Yoshida approaches him at school as he’s eating lunch and hands him a VIP ticket for what seems to be a semi-professional boxing match on Friday night. This one is in an actual ring, with an actual referee. And probably an AC system too. The fight is billed under the absolutely obnoxious title, “OCEAN GIANTS RUMBLE!” The names on the ticket? Shark vs. Octopus. 

Fuck.

Yoshida heckles him into going. Saying some bullshit about “supporting your friends” and all that. “Since when are we friends?” Denji tries to rebuke. You talk to a guy twice and watch him get beaten to a pulp and suddenly you’re friends? “Since I carried your ass to the hospital.” Well, he got me there. Denji wishes he had just stayed quiet. It doesn’t help that he’s still recovering from his nearly-broken nose. He resigns himself and accepts the invitation.

“Fine, gimme that.” 

He’s going only because Yoshida helped him out that night. Not because the other guy’s there. Nope. Matter of fact, he won’t even look in the guy’s direction. He’s keeping his eyes trained on Yoshida and that’s it. He won’t say anything but “Go Yoshida! Beat his ass!”, he’ll cheer a bit, and go home. No attention at all will be paid to the Shark freak, with his blue hair and sharp teeth and huge muscles. Nope.

He closes his eyes. Just what the fuck had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Text

As the doors open, a gentle breeze makes its way inside and cuts through the humid heat. The late-night weather is always a blessing when you’ve spent the last few hours crammed in a packed metal building with minimal ventilation. And even though his body perceives it, the sensation isn’t being processed by his brain at the moment. Because currently, he’s freaking the fuck out. 

Yes, he knows better than anyone that fights of this kind aren’t supposed to be a display of friendly intentions. He’s more than aware that this is an environment where pure, unfiltered bloodlust is consummated, where nobody holds back and every bruise becomes a heirloom, a testament to the glory of battle. It’s telling how he has made a habit out of leaving people with more than just acute blood loss and some broken cartilage every time he comes to the club. He has never known restraint inside that ring, and tonight sure as hell wasn’t the exception, so why is he losing his mind over it?

Get your shit together, Beam!

There’s no reason for him to feel guilty over winning a match, especially when his track record has been impeccable thus far. Beam should feel a fair amount of pride and trust in his own skills, never guilt. His thought process had been tampered with to the point that he couldn’t bring himself to join the crowd’s celebrations, instead immediately succumbing to his opponent’s side. For some uncanny reason, he took responsibility for the situation. He patched up the other man as best as he could, when in any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have interfered with his opponent’s fate. He handed him a painkiller, and a few words of encouragement that honestly might have sounded odd when coming from the guy who beat him senseless a few minutes ago, but still. The praise that left his mouth wasn’t any less genuine for it. 

God, he's not fooling anyone. If Beam’s being honest with himself, things started to fall apart much earlier. To be clear, he had little interest in showing up in the first place, only coming because that Octopus guy had insisted that the pool of newbies would be full of surprises this time around. Up to that point, he hadn’t even bothered to attend the purges, considering them a waste of energy. Why would he want to see a bunch of wannabes get their shit handed to them, when he could be training instead? Not to mention, these sessions seemed to be nothing more than an excuse for the more mediocre fighters in the club to get an ego boost and leave feeling like they’re less of a failure. Either way, something about the way Octopus said it had compelled him. He’d been very diligent in his training this week anyway, so why not come and see the bloodshed?

He'd been taking it slow, looking at the developments from the sidelines, and he'd actually been kind of impressed at some of these newbies. None had been interesting enough for him to take on. But, as soon as he decided to get closer to the ring and stepped into view of the other side of the crowd, he instantly understood what that freak had been talking about. The prime example of Octopus’ promise. How could he not have seen him? It would’ve been impossible even if he tried.

Blessedly, in front of Beam’s eyes was the image of a challenger. Nonchalance in his posture, an air of aloofness to him that veered on intimidation. That actually made little sense, because the guy was shorter than Beam by almost a head. He wasn’t very broad either, having a fairly lanky frame with a small amount of muscle development, at least from what was visible in his arms. Beam would’ve typically been unimpressed by the sight, but there was a strangeness in the other man that beckoned him. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it was there, an undercurrent of mystique that was simply impossible to tear his eyes away from.

Calling to his attention was disheveled hair the color of sand, its strands oscillating between soft and spiky, covering the man’s forehead almost down to his eyes. Eyes that were a shade he’s not sure he’s ever seen before. It was as if someone had encapsulated the sight of a gilded treasure emerging from the dunes, shades of sallow and brass fused to perfection. Of course, Beam didn’t have the vocabulary to describe them that way, but their impact stayed with him. Once he caught sight of those, the windows of a soul, he wished for them to lock onto him. He wished it could be his reflection that emerged from those gold-bearing sands.

Beneath his right eye was a strange scar, almost like he’d avoided an attempt to gouge it out. Other than that, there were no discernible marks on his body. That is to say nothing of the teeth – a perfect mirror image of Beam’s. Serrated edge after serrated edge lining his mouth in a stable formation, signaling the same sharpness and brutality in his bite that he himself possessed.

He was clad in a white T-shirt made of thin, cheap, lightweight material, with the image of some monstrous-looking man wielding a chainsaw and words in English he couldn’t quite read, but he was pretty sure one of them said “TEXAS.” When he moved slightly, the material made his ribs visible. The hem of the shirt managed to cover the waistline of his untorn jeans, which were cuffed up slightly to reveal his ankles. Concealing his feet were an eye-catching red and cream-colored pair of sneakers Beam wouldn’t recommend to wear out in the fight club, lest they make him a target outside of it, but this man didn’t really seem to care. His weight rested on only one of his feet as he consumed the match in front of him, not mesmerized but not indifferent either.

Mentally, Beam sunk to his knees. What was this man? He struck such awe, such admiration in him with a single sighting. It's behavior he's never exhibited in his life, he thinks. He’d never been turned so weak by someone just by laying his eyes on them. Why did this man have to be so intriguing, so eye-catching, so alluring? And despite his slenderness, there wasn’t an ounce of frailty in his demeanor. On the contrary, everything about him was a silent invitation calling his name, daring all to try him. And Beam wasn’t one to back down from a dare.

He spent the following minutes paying absolutely no attention to any of the matches that were going on, not bothering to hide his boredom, instead using that to his advantage to keep stealing furtive glances at the object of his captivation. It caught Beam off-guard when he blinked, and then the body he’d kept his eyes trained on was standing in the center of the ring, awaiting the emergence of an opponent. He hadn’t even heard the match being announced. The crowd was bating its breath, and so was he. Chance appears to have dealt him a lucky hand. Without a moment to spare, before he lost the opportunity, he strode into the ring, sealing his fate with a step forward.

And that’s how it came to be that now, he’s standing alone in the gates of the warehouse, replaying everything he’s gone through in the past fifteen minutes and chastising himself for this entirely out-of-character behavior. Why did you offer him ice cream!? Now he thinks you’re fucking weird! Never, in his nineteen years on this Earth, has he done anything of that caliber for someone, never gone out of his way to be nice to a person just ‘cause they’re mysterious and cool, and much less for a man that he’s known for less than the length of a primetime TV slot.

And yet… Could you blame him? There’s a first time for everything, and now Beam thinks he may or may not understand what people mean with “love at first sight.” Even if it's not romantic, he’s definitely entranced by this man. In this case, though, he thinks it might’ve been love at first fight. He may have been entranced by the sight of him, but it was inside the ring that he was truly sold on the man. His movements were mesmerizing. Though it’s obvious they had an amateur flair to them, that aspect only added to his general charm. It was a very different fighting style to Beam’s own, the other’s being self-learned and organic, in comparison to the calculated moves belonging to the established techniques he trains day and night. And when you take into account the effect those eyes had, after they’d been without a doubt centered on him as he’d wished…

What good would it be to deny it? He’s gone through an overwhelming amount of revelations in an extremely short amount of time, and though he’s already acclimated to it, his body’s taken a beating as well. It would only strain him further to repress these feelings in the way he represses all others. He can admit the fact that he’s, at the very least, interested in… wait. Wait a moment. What was the guy’s name again?

Did I seriously forget to ask what his name was!?

All this time, he’s been musing and reflecting on a man whose name he doesn’t even know. Not once in those fifteen minutes they were interacting did he even think to ask for a name.

Beam is really making a case for his lack of intelligence tonight.

That is, until his last remaining dredges of intellect unionize and decide to bring a brilliant idea to his head. Don’t they have a club meeting tomorrow? Octopus is supposed to be coming too. He’s investing every ounce of his limited brainpower into formulating a plan. He’s gonna ask Octopus the guy’s name tomorrow at the weekly club meeting, then he’ll look for him, ask him to hang out, and everything will be okay. He’s got a purpose now. Great idea, Beam!He’s a genius. Sharks are supposed to be smart, aren’t they? He’s starting to believe he himself is, too.

Following that train of thought, he smiles to himself in confidence, finally stepping outside the warehouse and letting his body be enveloped in the breeze as he gazes up at the sky, sending his hope to the stars. 

———

“Denji.”

“Huh?”

“The guy you fought last night. That’s his name.” Two unblinking eyes like voids are boring a hole into his skull as this information is dispensed.

Denji. That's unusual. It’s as interesting as the rest of him. He feels himself sigh involuntarily.

“Ah, thank you.” He cuts off the conversation as promptly as he can, starting to turn away when he hears that voice start again.

“Caught your eye, huh, Mr. Shark?” It’s said calmly, but the undercurrent of mischief that the words carry make Beam feel embarrassed. He can’t stop his ears from burning as hot as the blood he’d drawn out of his opponent — out of Denji last night. He turns right back, determined to put a stop to this insolent fucker. Who does he think he is, intruding in Beam’s thoughts? The one or two thoughts that his head does manage to produce are none of his business! 

“What do you care, Octopus bastard?” Beam miserably tries to hide his flustered state, only to sound like a dumb teenager deflecting crush allegations – wait, that’s exactly what he’s doing right now. Fuck.

“Hmm, just curious. You’ve never asked about your opponents before, let alone patch them up after you broke their nose, so I wanted to know.” This asshole! Beam is suddenly feeling the urge to perform dental extractions on the fucker with his bare fists. He knows he’s doing this shit on purpose. It doesn’t matter that they’re about to start a meeting, or that there’s other members of the club here already. He’s willing to defend his honor, and Denji’s honor while he’s at it. Why would him taking interest in such a cool guy be amusing? It’s his problem and his problem only!

“Shut up! I'll wipe that smile off your face!” He takes the most intimidating tone he can muster. He hopes it’s as effective as he thinks it is.

“Oh? Didn’t think you’d get this worked up. My bad.” It does not sound like it’s “his bad.” He’s also unfazed by Beam’s attempt at intimidation. Fuck it. He’s beating him down right here. Immediately. In front of everyone. That’ll teach him.

He raises his fist, instantly docking Octopus in the nose. He feels the same kind of crack beneath his knuckles as he did last night, but none of the guilt that came with it. He doesn’t break it, the force being enough only to dislocate it slightly. A cosmetic adjustment, if you will. Octopus actually backs off slightly now, holding a hand to his nose and swiftly cracking it back in place. He raises a finger at Beam.

“I get it, big guy. You wanna beat me up for intruding in your business, alright. But let me just say one thing: it was me who brought Denji in last night.”

The revelation makes Beam stop in his tracks. So this freak knows Denji? He’s not sure why envy is creeping up his skin.

“You… you did?”

“Yeah. Matter of fact, I brought him in precisely because I thought you might want to fight him. But holy shit, did you take that and run with it.”

The rage-slash-embarrassment returns. His fist raises again.

“Hold it!” The damn mollusc deflects, trying to diffuse the situation. “I have a proposition for you. If you really wanna beat my ass, why not do it so he can see?” A sharp grin punctuates the offer.

“What?”

“It’s simple, Sharkboy. We’re having a club meeting in a few minutes, aren’t we? We’ve been in need of extra cash lately. So why not get a real ring and host one of those semi-pro fights next Friday? The names on the ticket: you and me,” Octopus motions to the space between them. A slender hand tucks some hair strands back behind his ear, revealing a glimmer in his eyes. His smile only widens as he adds, “I’ll make sure to give Denji a VIP ticket, since he goes to my school.”

Turns out this fucking Octopus is much more of a genius than Beam. Just as he was starting to think he might be getting a little bit smarter. Damn it. Octopuses are indeed smarter than sharks, out in nature. But he’s gotta hand it to him, that’s quite the bulletproof plan. And since he’d asked Denji to come to his next fight, this was the perfect chance to impress him and catch his eyes. Despite his intense and already wounded pride, he has no choice but to agree. He pushes his animosity to the side to try and express gratitude.

“Uh…” The words are stuck in his throat. “Uh... sounds good. Thank you. I guess.” The words sound downright pathetic the moment they leave his mouth. Well, whatever. It’s all for Denji’s sake, he reasons.

Octopus gives him a crooked grin. It looks almost fabricated, but he does look satisfied with himself. “Cool. Glad you agree. I’ll get you back for hitting my nose, though.”

The would-be threat flies right over Beam’s head. His mind is back in Denji mode, completely devoid of non-Denji thoughts. All he can think about is the possibility of seeing Denji again. And now he knows his name. His name! It rolls off the tongue so smoothly that he can barely say it without feeling overwhelmed. This newfound attention that’s been cascading out of him finally has a recipient to which it can and will be dedicated. That line of thought is entirely unlike himself, and yet he can’t even pretend to want to put a stop to it. Like the sun, the thought of Denji is too nourishing, too bright, too intense. The glimmers of light that catch in the ocean waves are telling a story he may or may not be familiar with. 

It’s my only wish.

———

A brisk step after another punctuates the pavement like an ellipsis…

It’s a little past five, if the swarm of salarymen populating the streets is any indication. Of course, a lot of them are staying at the office, abiding by their senses of duty or discipline or something like that. The lucky ones get to start their commute, train after train crammed with exhausted people aching to get home, or excited to go to karaoke, or ready to dine out. There’s no scarcity of things to do in Tokyo. It’s the den of chaos, the labyrinth of entertainment, the Pandora’s box of leisure. Many of these tired workers don’t mind putting in a bit more energy to end the day on a fun, invigorating note, to keep themselves going the next day. The possibilities for recreation in this city never run out.

But this one brat didn’t seem to get the memo. The aggressive flair to his walk, the bandages on his forehead and the strip of plaster on his nose are enough evidence to suggest that he’s been looking for the most wicked and visceral kind of entertainment. As his steps quicken, the mass of bystanders splits for him, not unlike how cars make way for an ambulance during rush hour. At once, they’re ensuring they don’t get in the way of this walking threat, while encouraging him to get as far away from them as quickly as he possibly can.

At least, that’s what anyone from an outside perspective would register.

Inside Denji’s mind, an orchestra of alarms is refusing him even an ounce of peace. A thousand thoughts are crossing his tiny brain almost simultaneously. If he wasn’t going through such distress, it would probably be pretty funny. But no, things along the lines of Fuck, what if I lose my ticket? and What if this is just a damn prank from that emo freak? and Where even is this shitty venue anyway? and Do I have my keys on me? are taking up his entire brain capacity, overlapping and mixing with each other into a massive Katamari Damacy ball of anxiety. If he trips, it may just destroy the cosmos. 

He doesn’t understand why he’s so nervous. He’d been told during his stay in the hospital to avoid overexertion, but he didn’t really understand that big word, so it made no difference to him. He simply put on a dragonesque smile and nodded nicely at the nurses, a halfhearted, unstated promise of I’ll be a good boy. As if. Who the fuck do they think they are? It’s beyond ridiculous of them to expect Denji to obey them, really. Denji lives his life the way he wants to. It’s the one thing he’s learned from being manipulated and thrown around like a rag doll throughout his entire eighteen years of existence. He isn’t obligated to obey anyone anymore. He’ll stand his ground no matter the cost. Though, it’s that very mindset that landed him in the hospital in the first place. 

It definitely wasn’t because a brutish, bloodthirsty shark who looked at him with the most ridiculous puppy eyes he’d ever seen decided to dye the floor with his blood and now he’s about to see him fight and—

No. He’s not doing this right now.

He’s absolutely not thinking about that man right now. He’d drilled it into his own head before, he’s merely going to the fighting ring to serve as support for his… friend, he guesses? Well, whatever Yoshida is to him, he’s there to support that. Part of it is out of genuine respect for the guy after taking him to the hospital after the fiasco last Thursday, and another part is out of genuine fear that the guy will use that crushing defeat to blackmail him in the future. Well, who’s to say he’s not using it against him right now? He’s literally on the way to watch a fight between Yoshida and the very same shark wannabe fucker who defeated him. And he terrorized Denji when he expressed his concerns about that same dude’s weird behavior. He concludes that while Yoshida is a menace against humanity, he’d like to be on that menace’s good side, thank you very much.

That’s it, Denji. Yoshida thoughts only. Think of how his entire face seems drawn on with a Sharpie. Mole and all. Oh god, what if you doodled a mustache on him and suddenly a real one started growing on his face? I bet his hair is 99% ink too. Hah, ink. He really is an octopus.

Denji manages to distract himself from the real reason of his anxiety with this stupid train of thought. He prides himself on how his moronic brain can be kinda genius sometimes, how quickly he can distract himself from the most apocalyptic of thoughts. Though in the depth of his mind, he knows it won’t be long before he’s forced to confront the source of his maladies, and so a mild weight settles on the pit of his stomach for the duration of his trip.

When he arrives, the sun is reaching the horizon. Unlike last week’s warehouse, this seems to be a legitimate establishment meant for fighting events, so there’s no metallic door with a bouncer in front. It’s tall for a single-story building, the façade somewhat resembling that of old-school cinema theaters, featuring billboards with upcoming events. It’s got automatic glass doors that Denji simply waltzes through. There’s not much inside: a wide corridor leading to a ticket sale window, and an entryway to the side that’s blocked by a metal detector and two guys Denji assumes are security guards. Since he already has a ticket, he bypasses the ticket booth and walks over to them. Same old staredown as last time. It’s getting a bit clichéd by now.

“Yeah, yeah, here’s my ticket.” Denji doesn’t give them the chance to get a word in, presenting the fluorescently-tinged ticket he was given on Wednesday to the pair. The bastards seem to be caught in disbelief, raising their barely-there eyebrows at the piece of paper and then each other, holding the ticket up in the air and exchanging glances that appeared to contain encoded messages.

“How’d you get one of these, kid?” The slightly shorter man to the right is closely examining the ticket, checking for signs of forgery. “These aren’t for sale.”

“Yosh– I mean, Octopus gave it to me. I’m a friend of his.” His expression remains relaxed, though he’s getting more and more annoyed by the second. He hopes the damn match is worth this trouble.

The one inspecting the ticket points something out to the other, and he starts to looks doubtful. Can they hurry the fuck up?

“You sure it was Octopus, kid? Says ‘Shark VIP guest’ here.”

A bead of sweat appears on Denji’s brow. He’s not sure what to say, or how that even happened. Unless… A possibility intrudes in his mind, but he pays it no mind for now, instead focusing on finding an excuse to give to these fuckers so he can get in already.

“Bastard probably mixed up the tickets and gave me one of the other guy’s. He does look like he’s zooted half the time.” His excuse-making game is still in top shape, it seems. Luckily, the blockheads’ reaction confirms that, given how they laugh a bit, shrug, and then grant him access.

Whatever. He’s in. What now?

He walks down a short hallway to the audience seating area. The inside of the venue is extremely different to that fucking disgusting warehouse. He doesn’t have much reference for comparison, but this place looks legit. Good lighting, an actual area for spectators, an AC running (thank god), and an actual ring . If last week’s fiasco had taken place here, he thinks he probably wouldn’t have been humiliated as deeply, and maybe he could’ve had a chance at actually defeating Beam. But whatever, it’s no use crying over spilled milk. Plus, it’s not like Denji to shoulder the blame on the circumstances. He lost, that’s it. He makes his way over to a seat in the VIP section, which is in a more elevated part of the venue that has a perfect view of the ring. It’s fairly deserted, except for this one guy who he knows he’s seen before.

A closer look at his head and the memory is playing back in his head. He can’t see much of him from the back, but it’s enough to confirm his identity: Shoulders not too broad, but still pronounced, an unassuming presence looming like a silent threat, jet black hair reflecting the lights overhead. And the most bizarre, defining feature sits atop his head: a knot that’s standing at a very sharp angle, in a way that doesn’t look natural at all. Yeah, no doubt about it. It’s the guy who joined the club after winning last week. As soon as he recognizes him, Denji blurts out:

“Hey, you’re that onion-looking dude from the fight club!”

This man whips his head around, with his eyes wide open and looking deeply affronted, as if by uttering those words Denji had personally murdered everyone he holds dear. He holds his hands up to his hair, running them through the topknot. After realizing what Denji means, he stands up, walks towards Denji and, without a single regard for his already-injured state, delivers a bruising punch across his cheek that sends him tumbling backwards.

“Woah, woah! What’s that for!?” Denji exclaims. Not my fault, he fuckin’ looks like an onion!

“You can’t fucking talk about that out loud here,” The guy whisper-screams, evidently shaken by Denji’s loudness. “You’re gonna get the club found out. Scum like you is the reason why they should stop doing those purge nights.” He’s furrowing his brows, now less agitated but still looking like he can go for a round or two.

“The fuck’d you just say!? You wanna go in the ring and settle this right now?” Denji bares his teeth. He’s supposed to simply be a spectator tonight, but his current so-called “fragile” state has given him an itch he’s not been able to scratch for the past week, so he wouldn’t mind landing a few punches against this fucker’s face.

It’s then that a sudden realization flashes through the taller man’s eyes, causing him to lower his guard momentarily. The crease between his brows dissolves, giving way to a pensive expression. Then, his mouth opens, cautiously. “Aren’t you… the kid who went up against Beam?”

“Huh!? Oh… Oh yeah. That was me, I guess.” Denji’s mood does a 180 degree turn mid-sentence, going from a venomous confrontational tone to mild curiosity, interested in seeing what the other has to say. It’s likely he’s gonna want to talk about the fight – just the topic he wanted to avoid – but whatever, he’ll indulge the guy. He has nothing better to do for the twenty or so minutes before the bout starts, so fuck it. He’s kinda bummed they’re not gonna fight anymore, though.

“How did I not realize sooner? You put up a great fight. My name’s Hayakawa Aki, pleased to meet you.” A normal person would get whiplash at how quickly this Hayakawa dude shifted gears as well, putting on a cordial and well-mannered attitude. 

“Name’s Denji.”

They exchange a short but firm handshake, one that serves as a measure of both men’s strengths. Judging by that gesture, it’s obvious that neither is weak in the ring. If they were to face each other, they’d probably go toe-to-toe. It’s hard to tell which of the two would be victorious. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you again, the way the match wrapped up last time. Are you here to study the enemy?” He’s not entirely clueless, but Hayakawa seems to be under the impression that Denji wants a rematch with the Shark freak. Hah. As if Denji would ever willingly invest time or brainpower in thinking about that Jaws weirdo. 

“Nah, I’m here for Octopus. Guy goes to my school, gave me a ticket.” Denji pointedly avoids mentioning anything related to Beam. It’s for the best that he doesn’t.

Hayakawa gives some non-answer along the lines of “Huh, that’s interesting,” picking up on the context clues and seemingly not really up for conversation. Denji was counting on this guy to entertain him for a bit until the match started. Whatever, he seems like a boring guy either way and he was rude to him for no reason. Jerkface. 

———

Mere minutes remain until the match. The air conditioning is set at a temperature that could only be described as assaulting, more so when you’re only wearing shorts and nothing else. Except for the dull murmuring of the crowd outside, not much can be heard in the backstage room. That is, until Beam perceives soft pacing approaching the bench where he’s preparing.

“You ready?”

In comparison to Beam, Octopus is downright lanky. His arms lack volume, his musculature, although well defined, is not all that prominent, and his legs look like they could give in at any moment. But that’s all the more to his advantage. Whatever intimidation he may lack in his physique, he more than makes up for with his fighting ability. The way his opponents consistently underestimate him plays right into his strategy, allowing him to assault them with sudden blows that always leave them reeling. This litheness that may initially appear as a drawback in fact amplifies his speed and precision when on the offensive, and when combined with his defensive prowess, he proves to be a potentially deadly combination that’s on the same level as Beam. The anticipation is already turning into potential energy in Beam’s muscles.

“Yeah, I’m ready. You?”

“Same here. You already know this isn’t gonna be scripted, but I wanted to set a few ground rules with you so we make it out in one piece.” This is probably the most serious Beam has ever seen Octopus in the year they’ve been acquainted. No creepy smile in sight, only a flame of determination in his focused gaze. He had the poise of an assassin, unflinching and committed to carrying out their job. If Beam had the curiosity and wits for it, he’d probably be wondering if the guy is really using all this combat training to become a hitman. Instead, his mind goes back to what Octopus is saying, nodding as he outlines what will and won’t be considered fair game in the fight. No biting, no hits below the belt, no kicking, no headbutts, no elbows, no vital areas… Nothing out of the ordinary for a semi-pro match, though if they were in the club they would definitely be watering down their potential, or making the match too easy. They know either of them can handle each other at their maximum, and have actually faced each other in such conditions before. But they’re doing this to conform to the semi-pro standards, and for their own safety. Plus, were there to be any pro recruiters out there in the audience tonight, they wouldn’t want to alienate them, especially in Beam’s case.

The audience. Hold on… What’s so important about the audience?

Octopus is mid-sentence when the realization hits Beam. How could he have forgotten about the very real possibility that Denji might be out there, mere meters away? The possibility that Octopus’ wild plan actually worked, the possibility that Denji actually came to see Beam in a match with his own two eyes, the possibility that Denji will praise him. For the brief instances in which this train of thought washes over him, he’s entranced, ecstatic. But once he lets a moment pass, the fantasy’s over.

What if he didn’t come?

It’s then that Beam’s focus noticeably takes a nosedive. The tenacity in his gaze has been replaced by an erratic meandering, and now he’s fidgeting with his massive hands in a way that would look hilarious to some and adorable to most. This decimation of Beam’s composure happens in the frame of three seconds, and Octopus is forced to stop his own rambling to make sense of what he’s witnessing.

“Shark? Hello? Did you hear what I’ve been saying?” A hand is waving in front of Beam’s face.

Instead of answering, Beam turns away from him, tilting his head up towards the light. A slight sheen coats his eyes, and the bare fluorescent tube distorts inside it. “You think… You think Denji came?” The movement of his hands betrays a symphony of nerves.

Octopus could have taken the chance to harass him further over his eccentric behavior, but perhaps in the spirit of professionalism and camaraderie, he displays restraint and honesty. He shrugs as he says, “I don't know, but I hope so. I gave him the ticket, so he should come out of courtesy, at least.” He claps Beam on the back and snaps him out of his reverie. “Now, let’s go over this again. Did you hear what I said about the ropes?”

———

A booming voice takes over the speakers inside the venue. A short and bulky man paces around the ring eloquently, holding a microphone as he states: “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome! Tonight, we have a killer match for you all: A showdown between the deep sea’s most skilled hunters! Two promising young fighters are facing down in this ring tonight to settle, once and for all, which of these hunters is indeed, the best! Are we ready, ladies and gentlemen!?” A generic fanfare soundtracks the announcement, in a halfhearted effort to pump the crowd up. It works anyway. The place is pretty full for a semi-pro boxing match, with only a few empty patches in the crowd. Seems the sea monsters motif was a successful gimmick. The fight club’s gotta have to take note of that.

The place is now dimly lit, with the exception of two huge spotlights centered on the ring and an assortment of colored lamps projecting an ambiance of anticipation all around the venue. “Alright, folks! This bout will last around twenty minutes, with five rounds lasting four minutes each. That being said, our fighters tonight are some of the most exciting names in the scene, so it’s bound to feel longer than that! Are you ready to meet the beasts!?” Another wave of cheering. “As you know, the ocean is a world full of mystery and intrigue to humankind. Inside it live all sorts of creatures, some frightening, some awe-inspiring, some deadly. And just like tonight’s fighters, some of them are all at once!” At this, the crowd is hyped. “Alright! Our first contender! He’s one of the smartest, quickest, deadliest hunters in the sea! His arms are long and slender, but they’re as precise and powerful as tentacles! Standing with a record of 3 wins and 1 loss, and 2 wins by way of knockout, make some noise for… The Octopus!”

Yoshida emerges into view from a door to one side of the ring, walking down a hallway that splits the audience in half. He’s cast in a bright yellow light that follows him as he maneuvers to enter the ring. A purple glove is raised to the audience in a subdued greeting, as if Yoshida’s reluctant to even acknowledge they’re there. His trademark grin never falters, though. He’s clad only in black sneakers and shimmering boxing shorts, the exact same shade as his gloves, both of which look comically large in proportion to his thin frame. Once inside the ring, a nonchalance covers his stance and his features, adopting a demeanor that betrays nothing of his intentions. It’s an expression chiseled through years of underground fighting, of throwing himself at the wolves and being torn apart time and time again, of rebuilding himself in secret, of hiding menaces in serenity. 

And above the enraptured masses, though he can theoretically witness everything around him, Denji is trying to make his eyes so hyper-focused that he can blur out everything but Yoshida from his sight. He came with a singular purpose, with a declaration of friendship, or at the very least, gratitude, to the guy who made sure he got to the hospital safely last week. He’s making sure nothing and no one else gets in the way of being a good friend. He’s gonna be the best friend this country has ever seen. Everyone’s gonna want Denji to be his friend after tonight. Just you wait.

That honorable and chivalrous mission he’s set himself on gets derailed after just a few seconds. He’s probably going to beat himself up over it for the rest of eternity, but his eyes move on their own when that second spotlight turns on. Damn human light-seeking instincts. As soon as the traitors he has for eyes detect the blur of blue emerging, he immediately closes his eyelids. If that’s what it comes down to, he’ll deprive himself from his sight, he’ll perceive this fight exclusively with his ears if it means he won’t be… distracted.

Unfortunately, that plan of action is also sabotaged promptly. He’s trying to relish in the darkness, in the endless empty realm behind his eyelids, with his hearing sharpened to the maximum, when the damn announcer’s voice starts booming through his eardrums.

“Here he is, our other contender tonight! A body so flexible it’s like it’s made of cartilage, row after row of sharp teeth, and a voracious appetite! For violence, that is.” A chuckle. “Sound familiar? If the Octopus is brains and strategy, this one is pure brawn and strength! With an astounding record of 5 wins, 0 losses, and all 5 wins by way of knockout, please welcome! Beam, The Shark!”

As if this introduction wasn’t grating enough, the crowd cheers even harder than they had for Yoshida. Holy fuck. His eyes open involuntarily, as if to balance out the sound overload with a visual feed. And that’s a huge mistake, because immediately his vision is taken hostage.

This man is, somehow, looking even flashier than the last time he saw him. His hair is the visage of waves retreating from shore, tan forehead crowned by strands like the very ocean. Not any less eye-catching are the blue trunks emblazoned with the word ‘shark’ in a metallic finish on his thigh, and a fairly minimalistic depiction of his namesake to match. The light once again catches in his serrated teeth, fully displayed in a smile halfway between menacing and enthusiastic. And those eyes that he’d so desperately wanted to have focused on him before, are now keeping his own eyes hostage. It’s inexplicable, given how much distance there is between them right now. But he can still see the deep hue with clarity. Denji needs to turn away before this man reciprocates the eye contact. If that were to happen, it would definitely kickstart the Apocalypse.

So he blinks, and Beam is already inside the ring, staring Yoshida down. The announcer has been replaced by a referee, who says some shit about rules or whatever, but he really isn’t listening right now. So before he regrets even coming tonight, he shifts his attention to Yoshida, and destines every ounce of concentration he has towards keeping it that way. 

The referee makes sure both of them have their mouthpieces on, before allowing them to bump fists in a show of camaraderie. Immediately, they retreat to their opposing corners. 

A loud bell indicates the beginning of the first round.

“Fight!”

Chapter Text

The ring gleams kaleidoscopic, like a rare gem in the glare of the spotlights.

Awash in hues sapphire, opal, and ruby, the two bodies in it had wasted no time in closing their distance. Their movement had been an ignition, a spark that engulfed the venue in the flames of adrenaline, quickly turning into a swift exchange of blows and dodges, a waltz of violence with no pause. After a demolishing first round performance from Beam, the tension has almost boiled over, and as the second round is starting to heat up, the venue is truly erupting in glee. 

From his arguably disadvantaged viewpoint, Denji has been watching the fight unfold undistracted. His mind is silent as his eyes precisely track swing after swing. He knows he’s not cut out to be an announcer or commentator of any kind – so he relegates his brainpower to processing the fight like the primetime visual entertainment it is.

For the past minute or so, Yoshida has been bouncing his way across the ring, deflecting each of Beam’s attempts to hit him. At a crucial point when Yoshida hesitates, Beam closes the gap and delivers a quick combination of blows, all of which impact Yoshida’s gloves, which are guarding his face in an attempt to deflect. Yoshida almost looks taken aback, if not for the eternal expression of coolness he keeps on like an unshaking mask. But Yoshida’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and then, he’s on the counter-offensive.  

By the way Yoshida’s moving his body, it’s clear he’s been putting his brain to work, because he’s been able to predict every deflection and misstep Beam is making. Having a baseline fighting style is one thing, but to fully adapt it in real-time depending on your opponent… That’s a skill not many fighters can boast about, especially not at the semi-pro level.

Yoshida deals a quick blow that manages to connect hard against Beam’s chin. The Shark can only grit his teeth and swiftly duck out of Yoshida’s reach, if only momentarily. There’s a dangerous glint in his eye, as he once again approaches his opponent with clear intent.

All the way from up there, Denji can’t hear Beam’s slight grunts, or Yoshida’s defiant hisses, but he can taste the danger in the air, a coppery tang he’s long been acquainted with. His fellow spectators are split, some watching with bated breath and others voicing out their excitement, filling the space with remarks that echo throughout it. Denji’s one of the quiet ones: he's been all but enraptured by the sight laid out some meters below him, like it was a spectacle much grander than it is. 

Not that he’s able to make a comparison, anyway, but the fighting spirit of the both of them belongs on a much more ambitious stage, maybe on live TV or a grand stadium. Denji can envision it already – Yoshida and Beam in their sponsored attire, millions of yen on the line for each of them as they’re watched by thousands across Japan. It’s a dream he can almost confuse with reality. But right now, a much starker but no less eye-catching reality, is unfolding beneath him.

Much like how a pair of jaws forcefully opens and closes, Beam always strikes with a purpose. He doesn’t mince his moves, nor does he hesitate in his precision. He enters the ring and instantly, a beast is unleashed. Beam’s approach leaves no room for mercy. Though he’s trained himself for years, honing his skills to near perfection, he is still such a wild visage inside the ring that it almost seems as if he’s fighting purely by instinct. In an instant he bruises Yoshida’s temple with a short, powerful, point-blank blow that has the audience in a frenzy. 

It helps that Beam has always thought Yoshida had a punchable face.

Denji watches almost in a continuous trance. The distance allows him to escape from the warlike tension brewing between those four ropes. What is unfolding inside that small space is tenfold what the audience can perceive. The intricacies in their gestures betray an aggression that is a hair’s width away from spiraling out of control. A thinly veiled desire for destruction is driving each of them forward. The referee can sense it, though, by the way he’s skirting around them, knowing he’ll need to intervene sooner or later. 

Beam has now unleashed a flurry of punches that make Yoshida stumble and attempt to dodge, only for Beam to meet him halfway and continue his assault. Yoshida grits his teeth. Evidently, the defense he put up isn’t nearly enough to contain Beam’s sheer brutality. He seems to be putting the weight of a building behind those punches, and it’s hard to tell how much more Yoshida can take. They’ve managed to stay near the center of the ring for most of the match so far, but now Beam has Yoshida cornered against the ropes, hitting him once, twice, until the leaner man needs to duck and dash to escape his wrath.

Yoshida’s pale back is flushed a vivid pink, and his sweat is making his hair stick to his nape. Beam catches right back up to him at the center of the ring, and the two of them land a hit on each other at the same time. The distance between their faces hasn’t gone beyond a foot, enabling them to read each other perfectly. Outside the ring, they may be on the edge of camaraderie, but inside it, they know this is warfare. They see each glare, each bead of sweat coating their brows, and they act accordingly.

Beam ducks and throws another short punch, but instead he’s caught by Yoshida in a tight embrace, both arms locking around his ribcage and his chin to the shorter man’s shoulder. It’s the kind of gesture that, if read into too much, might give weight to that one feminist saying that goes, “Men construct intricate rituals which allow them to touch the skin of other men.” Of course, not that Beam or Yoshida are the kind to read too much into that kind of thing. They know some grazing is to be expected.

Denji, however, is the opposite. Though it’s not the first time he’s seen it happen during the match, he’s still shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He’s repulsed by the idea of being in close contact with a man – even if it’s within a fight. He’s had to learn to distance himself as much as possible when engaging an enemy, not only because they may be concealing weapons, or to protect his vital organs, but also because he doesn’t want to smell like the sweat or blood of another man. He almost feels his stomach upending at the thought. 

And despite himself, he finds himself recalling how he felt when Beam was holding him that time. Somehow it didn’t immediately activate that very fight-or-flight response. His reaction wasn’t visceral – it came delayed, when the realization of what was happening hit him. But for a few seconds, it was almost like his body was responding to the care embedded in Beam’s touch. Against his will, he wonders what would’ve happened if he would’ve just indulged in it. Maybe he would’ve found he didn’t hate it as much as he thought – and that’s what would have him breaking out in a cold sweat.

Freeing himself from those intrusive thoughts, he blinks, and the two men have been broken up by the arbiter, (thankfully) no longer embraced. Instead, Beam is once again trying to force Yoshida into the corner. They match each other in agility, but not in brutality. It’s been clear from the start which of the two packs the stronger punch. Yoshida’s advantage has been his intellect and his strategy, but he may need to switch gears soon if he wants to get the upper hand.

A sudden ringing breaks them out of reverie. The arbiter blows his whistle, and signals each of them to go back to their corners. As it stands, Beam is winning: with two rounds and thirteen hits under his belt, it’s a remarkable performance for a semi-professional match. Yoshida isn’t far behind, though, boasting a total of ten hits across both rounds. It’s a toss-up at the moment, but given the total length of the match, it won’t be long before a clear winner is ascertained.

Not having a team to speak of, two assistants provided by the fight club have set up cushioned stools for them to sit on, get hydrated and ponder their moves for the next round. Yoshida is looking in Beam’s direction, features sanded back down to his usual sinister smile. In the other corner, Beam sends a mean glare back, teeth bared without a hint of amity. His heart galloping in his chest, all he can think of is the image of Yoshida’s face streaked with his own blood.

After a minute, the referee blows his whistle again, announcing the beginning of the third round. Yoshida and Beam immediately throw out a punch at the same moment, crossing their arms in beautiful synchrony. From there, it starts to unfold in a way much like the second round did. Yoshida focuses on analysis once again, while showing his flexibility – both physical and mental – in the ring. His mind is a constantly shifting jigsaw puzzle, changing shape on a whim. Beam, once again, doesn’t mince his moves. He lacks an internal monologue – he quite literally speaks with his fists, and it most definitely shows.

This time, however, Yoshida is moving in a way that has Beam caged in the center of the ring yet again. It’s like he’s waiting for the chance to corner him and deliver his revenge. Their dodging game is still in top shape. Ducking and deflecting like crazy, Beam is trying his best not to be locked in, but Yoshida doesn’t let up. They’re moving in circles now as they continue their mutual quest for control.

Beam’s muscles expand and retract with a smoothness and a naturality that recalls that of the waves. On the other hand, Yoshida has a stealth to his moves that lends them an unexpected quality; always coming out of left field with his attacks. Beam really doesn’t expect him to repeat an approach, not with the way he’s proven how easily he can match his pace and deliver surprise after surprise. It’s been an exhilarating match, one that has truly drawn out the predator in Beam. 

Yoshida hits him in the cheek with a suddenness that has Beam stumbling back, right out of the self-imposed circle they’d been limiting each other to. He refuses to hit the ropes, and yet Yoshida is right back in his space, trailing right behind him. Beam is covering his own face, and yet Yoshida doesn’t let up. One, two, three blows he manages against his temple, and the bouncing ropes put Beam right back into his grasp. 

It’s almost humiliating for Beam to be taken off-guard like that. However, the attack doesn’t stop there, as Yoshida tries to embrace him once again to prevent him from leaving the edge of the ring. The arbiter is forced to step in and briskly separates them. Beam makes sure to infuse as much anger as he can into the glare he sends Octopus.

Yoshida has taken the upper hand at last. Beam is not happy at all about this, but the crowd seems marveled. A chorus has started to chant Octopus’ name, and it irks Beam even more.

Temporarily remembering why he’s here, Denji stands up and joins the crowd’s cheering for Yoshida. Beside him, Hayakawa, forgotten throughout the match, looks at him disapprovingly, like a father silently scolding his unruly child. They’ve only met a little while ago, but the effect works all the same, and it has Denji scurrying back into his seat as quickly as he got up. It definitely shouldn’t have worked this quickly.

Ears bitterly ringing with the bastard’s name, Beam moves ahead. But instead of earning his revenge, he finds himself battered again by those purple gloves. His footing starts to get more desperate, even more primal than it was before, as he tries to leave Yoshida’s cruelly spun web. The rest of the round rushes by, as he prioritizes dodging and deflecting as well as he can before he can even figure out how to get a punch in. He’s never been the analytical type, after all.

Before he can think of something, Yoshida has been named the victor of the third round.

Another ding, another sip of water, more sweat dabbed off with a towel, and they’re back in the center of the ring. He can’t hear any cheering, can’t see anything but the man in front of him, can’t feel anything but the force barreling its way out through his muscle fibers. For all that he’s felt assured of himself, for all the training he’s rigorously put himself under, for all the blood his knuckles have tasted, this feels humbling. It feels like he’s had a rug pulled out from under his feet, and now he’s free-falling to an inescapable demise. 

The fourth round wraps up exactly like the third. Beam sweating more than may be humanly possible, Yoshida calm and smug, finally reaping the results of his strategy and his determination. Beam may just be on the precipice of his first ever loss, and it feels like he’s swallowed a mouthful of arsenic. He doesn’t know if there’s a way for him to win at this point.

From his vantage point, Denji can’t help but grimace at Beam’s downfall. Sure, he came in with a pointed resolve to ignore the guy as much as he could, but for some reason he can’t help but feel bad for him. Though there’s a primitive and vindictive part of him that’s glad to see the guy who beat his ass get his shit handed to him, he still feels deflated to see this marvelous, glorious fighter reduced to a jittery, unconfident mess. Almost like seeing a wild animal turned tame by a cruel hand. Denji has the feeling that he’ll leave with a sourness in his mouth if Yoshida takes the prize. Gotta love stupid fucking human empathy. 

The match still has one round left, and Yoshida and Beam are tied. As it stands, there’s a very real possibility that Beam can rebound and take the prize home. There’s got to be something that triggers him into throwing everything he has into the fight, something that reignites that fire beneath his skin. His streak, his fate, his aspirations as a professional wrestler lay on that victory.

And then, as they’re standing face to face before the round starts, Yoshida lights those embers himself with a single phrase.

“Your chainsaw massacre boy has been chanting my name all night.”

Unblinking, unbreathing, Beam lets the words tumble about in his head. His brain acts like a fine sieve, processing what was just said. And at the crucial moment the bell rings, he has the epiphany. He remembers – Denji is in the audience tonight. Denji is in the audience tonight. How could he ever have forgotten?

That does the trick. 

The swings that come out of Beam then are an incarnation of the beast he’s named himself after. His flesh and blood are possessed by an ancient danger, a chaotic force that only manifests itself in the mirth of carnal savagery. Bones singing with ancestral joy, Beam almost forgets that he’s not in that dingy warehouse anymore, catches himself almost committing infractions that could very well ruin every one of his career hopes.

Beam laughs like an animal. He can almost taste the blood he craves. Yoshida’s skull rattles against his fists, teeth vibrating even with the mouthguard in. He cackles even louder with each blow. He wants to draw as much attention as he can, if only to make sure everyone is watching as he decimates this pathetic excuse for a predator. He wants it to be known – he’s the fucking apex here. His name will be known, will be feared. Nobody takes down the Shark, especially not a fucking Octopus.

The referee almost tears him from Yoshida’s body, which is almost limp from the attack – it felt more like a mauling, really. If his brain wasn’t on overdrive from the adrenaline and the bloodlust, he could’ve heard the startled shrieks from the audience. It’s clear they weren’t expecting such a brutal comeback from Beam. From his seat, Denji smiles to himself in quiet satisfaction. That rebound is something to be proud of.

Yoshida can barely stand, his body still in shock. All it takes is another blow to the head for Beam to knock him out at last.

The round doesn’t even last thirty seconds.

The crowd erupts in a rapturous fanfare. They’re shocked, that’s a given, but there’s obvious recognition for Beam’s efforts under the wonder. Beam feels like he’s taken a bite out of the moon. And as he’s crowned victor, in the midst of his saccharine glory, his eyes finally catch Denji’s.

He finds it’s a sight he doesn’t ever want to tear them away from.

Chapter Text

A rapturous joy has taken control of the venue.

Denji feels an earthquake wreaking havoc under his feet, the kind that cracks and splinters the ground with every movement. The excitement rippling through the air makes the crowd seem much larger than it actually is. Between the increasingly hectic cheering, the flashing victory lights, and the booming announcement on the speaker, the scene around him is nothing but pure sensory overload. 

Yet, Denji isn’t focusing on any of it. Instead, he’s found himself taken hostage by a faraway gaze that holds unmeasurable depth. In spite of the distance, he is more than aware of who those eyes belong to. And despite everything he’s drilled into his own skull, he can’t look away. The fanfare and the spectacle have been washed away, taken like insignificant grains of sand by the waves at the shore, leaving the two of them alone if only for that instant of piercing contact.

The moment is broken with a blink, and Denji finds himself now confronted by the image of an overjoyed Beam. Having removed his mouthguard, he’s flashing a smile that would seem predatory were it directed towards anyone or anything else. Denji doesn’t know what to do about the warmth that spreads through him at the sight. Is it embarrassment? Is it pride? It’s definitely pride – after all, he just saw an insane performance from him in the ring, and witnessed him claim a rightful win against all the odds. Without noticing, Denji is already reflecting Beam’s grin right back at him. Beam throws up his fist and the audience goes wild.

Not long after, Beam is taken to claim his prize. Denji is thrust out of his little isolation bubble and back into a frenzied audience. Next to him, Hayakawa seems as close to happy as a guy like him could look. If anything, it’s an expression of respite, and the line between his brows seems to have softened a bit. Beam winning means he’s probably won a few bets, so it figures he would take the stick out of his ass for once. Sitting back down, Denji decides it’s his best chance to strike up a conversation with him.

“What’s got you so happy, Mr. Onion?” Denji can’t help the upward tug of his lips.

“Stop calling me that, you filthy brat.” There’s a scarce amount of venom in the words.

“Oh man, lighten up! It suits you.”

Hayakawa rolls his eyes, the stuck-up asshole. Looks like that stick is still all the way in.

“If you want to know so badly, I’m just relieved that Beam won the match. You seem pretty happy about that yourself, considering you didn’t even come for him.” It’s the kind of remark that Denji really could do without right now. Particularly after having just shared a… moment with the man himself.

Denji deflects. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re not fooling anyone. Beam won you over, didn’t he?” Hayakawa’s inquisitive tone has Denji on edge in ways he can’t really explain. There’s no use in denying it, though.

“I mean, wouldn’t anyone be super shocked at how that went down? The dude was plain cool,” Denji crosses his arms and definitely doesn’t pout. “I have to give credit where credit is due. Code of honor, and all that.”

“Code of honor, huh? Didn’t know scum like you even had that.” 

“Hey, not cool!” Denji makes a show out of seeming wounded by his words. “You make it so hard to like you, man. I swear I’m trying here.”

Hayakawa’s lips draw a broader line – still nowhere near a smile, though. A good sign either way. Denji tries to test their conversational boundaries once again, but he’s interrupted by the speakers coming back alive with the voice of the match’s announcer.

“Alright folks! After witnessing his magnificent fighting prowess, let’s hear a few words from tonight’s victor, the Shark!” The announcer is standing in the center of the ring. Next to him is Beam, who is now sporting a gold-plated medal that’s much flashier than it needs to be.

The announcer promptly passes him the mic, and then the venue is filled with a voice Denji shouldn’t be finding this comforting.

“This is for you, Denji. You helped me win. Thank you. Good night!” Short and to the point, as expected. It’s well known that Beam wasn’t among the verbally inclined. Denji’s clapping along with the crowd before the words themselves sink in.

Denji…

Wait. That’s me he’s thanking!

Denji thinks he might be going crazy. What’s crazier is the way Hayakawa is looking at him, with eyes blown wide like he just witnessed the sun disappearing from the sky. Denji stares right back, probably looking just as crazy as him. If neither of them blinks, the intensity of their stares will probably cause a rift in the space-time continuum.

“Did you hear that, Onion?”

“Sure did,” He sounds distressed. “And that’s still Hayakawa to you.“

Neither of them is poised to move. Denji wants to keep asking things, milk the interaction to get some answers, ‘cause his brain sure as hell isn’t giving him any.

So, he proceeds to word-vomit everything that's going through his mind. “What does that mean, ‘you helped me win’? What the fuck’s going on? I never even told him my name!” He’s pretty sure his voice cracked several times as he spoke.

“Well… Guess you won the Shark over too, kid,” Hayakawa’s now lighting a cigarette, despite the no smoking signs plastered all over the venue. He seems like the kind to not really give a fuck about that, whether from some put-on edginess or a true disregard for civility. Denji’s convinced the guy is simply an all-around asshole.

“Huh?” Denji blinks once, and he puts all of his confusion into that single blink. Hayakawa gets the memo, if his long-suffering sigh is anything to go by.

“Just go talk to him. Do I seem like an oracle of the future to you? I don’t have all the answers.”

 “Man, do you really have to be an asshole all the time ? It’s like you get paid to be a pain in the ass, I swear.”

Another pull of his cigarette. “That’s a trade secret.”

“Ughhhh. You suck.”

Denji can’t stand the guy, really, but he figures he has a point. Beam is probably backstage right now. Hopefully, he can coax some answers out of the guy. Best case scenario, Beam tells him it’s nothing more than a courtesy after their shitshow last week. Worst case scenario, it all comes crashing and burning down and he doesn’t have to interact with Beam ever in his life. Would that really be that bad, in the end? As it stands, Beam isn’t anything more to him than a glorified stranger. An unjustly glorified stranger, at that. He was beaten to a pulp by him. He doubts a man who bashed your nose in can be much of a friend.

Whatever. Pathetic ruminations aside, he’s noticed everyone else is standing up to leave, so this is definitely his cue to try and get backstage. He doesn’t even bother giving a farewell to Hayakawa, and instead rushes towards the first exit he can see before the masses of people make it impenetrable.

From there, it’s a race to find the first security person to flash his VIP ticket to and ask where the backstage area is. He finds one in seconds: Another fuckin’ blockhead who looks him up and down with disdain, like Denji’s just crawled out from a gutter. Another deep sigh. Is anyone he meets physically capable of being nice to him?

“Go through that door and walk down the flight of stairs. Third door to your right.”

Not wasting a moment, Denji mumbles out a “thanks” and makes a beeline for the staircase. Upon descending, he’s greeted by a bare-bones hallway lit by bare fluorescent lights. The underground level seems much dingier than the venue itself, but hey, it’s not like this place deemed itself to be the epitome of luxury. Sure enough, though, he finds the damn door. But before he can even think to knock, he has the twisted luck of running face-first into Beam himself. Specifically, his… very prominent bare chest.

Well. That’s definitely a way to start a conversation. 

He takes a step back, wishing he could just run out of the venue and never look back. Instead, he picks up what’s left of his decency and musters the courage to look Beam in the eye. What he finds is that the other man’s face has been tinged with the colors of surprise. In a few milliseconds, it blooms into the image of joy, complete with a smile much like the one he was gifted a few minutes earlier. Except now, Denji’s eyes can trace every peak, every jagged edge, and even the pink of his gums peeking from under the edges of his lips. From this close-up, he can also see the hint of a blush, a burgundy tone to his skin that’s threatening to take over; and the full depth of all the tones of blue in his eyes.

These are dangerous observations, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that there’s a hypnotic allure to Beam. He commands a particular energy, a gravity, when he enters a room. He’s the kind of person people fear instinctively. To see him warped into something else entirely, almost rendered harmless when in the presence of Denji… It’s hard not to find himself affected by it.

The Shark opens his mouth. It’s not hard to guess what will come out of it.

“Denji!” An overexcited enunciation of his name bounces off the walls of the hallway. “Why are you here!?” The eagerness in his voice is directly proportional to the volume of it. That idiotic smile is still plastered on his face.

“Uh… Hi,” Fuck. Fuck! Denji kinda did not plan out what he was actually gonna say. Coming down here was a spur-of-the-moment thing. 

“You know, just… Wanted to say congrats on winning the match. That last round was crazy.” It comes out in the stilted way one would talk to an estranged friend after years of silence.

Beam hasn’t given any indication that he’s picked up on Denji’s discomfort. If anything, he just looks unreasonably happy to be here, next to Denji, in this unsightly corridor in the underbelly of the venue.

“Think so?! Thank you! So glad you came!” He’s downright giddy. It looks like if Denji was any closer, he’d pull him into a hug right then and there. Denji can tell he’s trying his hardest to keep his arms to his sides. 

“I had a VIP ticket. It would’ve been kinda rude not to come,” Denji’s sheepishly rubbing at his nape now, looking anywhere but Beam’s face. Or body. It’s all so awkward it physically hurts him. There’s so many things he wants to ask, but can’t find a way to actually lead the conversation in that direction. So he fills the silence with the first thing that comes to mind. “Yoshida gave it to me, by the way.” 

At the mention of Yoshida’s name, Beam’s smile dims just the slightest bit.

“Nice of him.” Beam says with a tartness that almost sounds like jealousy.

“Yeah. It said your name on it, though,” Quick save from Denji. “That’s why I was able to come down here, and all.”

“Oh,” A wave of relief washes over Beam, and then he’s smiling just as bright as before. “So glad you came, Denji. Can’t thank you enough.”

“No problem, dude,” He turns his gaze back upwards, to peer into Beam’s face again. “I wanted to ask you one thing, though…” 

“Yeah?” His eyes are flooded with expectations.

“Why did you dedicate your win to me? I mean… It’s not like I did anything. I was just… here.”

Beam doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his expression turns pensive, like he hadn’t really put a lot of thought into it before. After a moment of deliberation, he simply nods. “Was enough for me. You being here… gave me that push I needed,” It feels like his eyes could start sparkling. “So, I dedicated it to you. You motivate me, Denji.”

There it is – that earnestness, again. The same unwarranted tenderness from their first meeting comes back in full force. The words pour out of him not as a confession, but as a simple admission of fact. And yet, there’s a weight to the words that pins Denji right where he is. It’s the kind of statement you’d best tread carefully around. But then again, Denji isn’t exactly known for acting gracefully.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t even know me, man.”

It comes out harsher than intended, and he can tell by how Beam immediately flinches at the words. His smile falters, and his face tilts downwards. 

“Ah… Right,” Beam tries to keep his tone light. “Don’t know you. But would like to.” 

Like quicksand, Beam's words sink Denji further to the ground beneath him. It’s as hard to move as it is to stay still. There’s a misplaced sense of tension in the space between them, and Denji would be lying if he said it wasn’t driving him crazy. He doesn’t think there’s an easy way out of this. No one forced him to go talk to Beam. Though he technically could blame this on that Hayakawa jerk…

His mind is twisting and folding in on itself, seconds away from becoming an escapeless maze, when Beam pipes up again, a tender concern coloring his voice. “Your nose,” he says, like he’s noticing the state of it for the first time. “Still hurt?”

Stupidly, Beam places his fingers to one side of it before Denji can even reply. The pain ripples through the cartilage once again, in an echo of what happened a week ago. Denji winces terribly, and a matching scream leaves his body. “Ow! Dude! Of course it still fuckin’ hurts! Don’t touch it, man!”

The reaction is instantaneous. “Sorry,” Beam shrinks in on himself again, that kicked puppy look returning to his features. “Should’ve known.”

Amid the haze of pain, Denji can’t find it in himself to give him flack about it. “Don’t stress over it. It’s cool now.”

Neither of them knowing what to do next, they are submerged in the uneasy stillness of the moment. Denji, not one for introversion, finds an insatiable itch worming itself beneath his skin at the silence. He turns his head again to assess the empty hallway, searching for a distraction – anything would do. Beam, from what he can tell, is still standing smack-dab in the middle of the doorway, his huge frame obstructing practically the entire thing. His eyes are still fixed on Denji, who can feel the regret radiating off Beam in waves. 

Can you die from awkwardness? Denji sure wishes he could. He opens his mouth to try and dissolve it.

“For real, Beam. Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Brooding over something you can’t change. The past is the past.” That’s all it takes for Beam to smile again. It’s like nothing can bother this guy, not in the long term anyway. It’s a handy bit of information that Denji archives instantly.

“By the way, Beam. How do you know my name?” He looks Beam dead in the eyes. The hue of pomegranate in his cheeks is now blending into maroon. It’s clear he’s caught him off-guard – the expected reaction. In his mind, Denji grins victoriously. Beam is ridiculously easy to toy with.

“Uh…” A pause. He shuts his eyes like he’s asking God to intercede. “I… asked Oct— Yoshida for it.”

Denji’s interest is piqued. Something about the whole situation is starting to make sense to him. Even though Beam had vaguely invited him to ”his fight” last time, it now makes a lot of sense for tonight’s match to have been against Yoshida. That nagging instinct that had bothered him when the bouncers checked his ticket was now blooming into a realization. The bastard had planned this whole spectacle just so Beam could impress Denji. And it had worked. Fuck.

“Really? Didn’t you hate the guy’s guts? Sure seemed like it on the ring,” Denji prods on. He didn’t expect to get so many answers with such scant words. Beam probably would look like a deer caught in the headlights right now. But he’s a shark, so the comparison doesn’t really track. Whatever.

“His idea.” Beam comes clean. “He wanted you to see us fight. I also almost broke his nose.”

“You what?!”

Without meaning to, Denji laughs, and it cuts right through the awkwardness between them. The rhythmic noise echoes down the hallway, and once Denji regains his bearings, he notices the dumbfounded expression on Beam’s face. Whether it was owed to the swift change of ambiance or to the almost goofy cadence of his laugh, Denji will never know. 

Unexpectedly, Beam laughs right back, a strident sound like glass punctured by concrete. It’s a noise Denji has heard little of, but wouldn’t mind growing used to. 

“Yeah, cracked it out of place, like wham! ” Beam practically boasts. “He deserved it. Was sayin’ weird things about you!” 

“Oh? Like what?” Denji’s hackles rise at the implications, but he disguises it with a cocky smile. What exactly had Yoshida been running his mouth about…?

“Mm… won’t tell you.” Beam’s tone is deep. He inches infinitesimally closer, and his downcast glance catches Denji off-guard. It feels like a continuation of the moment Beam caught his eyes all the way from the ring. It’s far too intimate for two practical strangers. If Beam had been a girl, this would definitely count as flirting. Is it flirting? He prays to every deity that it isn’t.

Beam lays a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We can still go eat ice cream if you want.” If Beam had any nervousness before, no hint of it is now showing in his eyes. He’s resolute and straightforward. Denji is honestly impressed. Would it really kill him to go have ice cream with the guy?

“I’ll think about it,” Denji fires back. “Maybe talk it over with Yoshida first, since that seems to be the trend.”

That quip earns him another taste of Beam’s glass-shard laugh. “Have mercy, Lord Denji.” Denji’s eyes linger on his lips for no reason. 

The place has been charged with some sort of current. Denji can’t help but want to scurry away from it before he gets electrocuted. Even though he’s enjoying himself far too much in this little back-and-forth, he can’t allow it to last. So he moves to end the encounter before it gets a chance to decay.

“I’ll try,” With more difficulty than he’d ever admit, he lifts his gaze back to Beam’s eyes.

There’s something in Beam’s expression that seems precious, glinting like a treasure that’s rarely put on display. Denji pointedly doesn’t commit the image to memory, lest it become engraved in his eyelids for the foreseeable future. So instead, he holds up his fist for Beam to bump.

“I'll take you up on that ice cream. But you're buyin’.”

Beam nods emphatically. “I keep my promises.” Denji's response is wrapped up in a smile.

“Guess I'll see ya 'round then, Beam.” It’s as much a farewell as it is a promise.

———

The penumbral wind is licking Denji’s elbows. His guts are tangled in intriguing ways. He stomps down the sidewalk with the speed and ferocity of a hundred hounds. 

As with most times he appears in public, Denji attracts glances both frightened and dismissive, like the vermin he’s always been likened to. He wishes he could say it doesn’t bother him anymore, but for some strange reason lately, he’s been paying more attention to his presentation. He even surprised himself when, in preparation for tonight, he spent the entire day ensuring that he looked his absolute best. 

The few personal effects Denji had ever splurged on had been finally given the spotlight. Perfume he’d never really had an excuse to wear suddenly found itself under his neck. He’d dusted off some limited-edition sneakers and slipped them on. His usually disheveled hair had been brushed to near-perfection, though he knew it was bound to tangle eventually. The extent of his preparation had even included practicing his smile in front of the mirror. Looking at him, you’d think he had prepared himself for a date. If you were to ask him that, you’d be begging to taste the pavement.

That is, unless your name happened to be Yoshida Hirofumi.

Two days after the fight, he found Yoshida in the hallway. He’d only suffered a minor concussion, which meant he was back at school and operating at full capacity. The first rule of interacting with Yoshida is to never trust the guy. Ever. He will find a way to slither through your skin and down into your bones. He could find employment as a master manipulator if he had the ambitions, the kind that could have any globally relevant regime at his beck and call. The world should be occasionally thankful that Yoshida has been safely constrained to underground boxing. But Denji, idiot that he is, forgets that sometimes. He is too easily led on, too easily made to believe certain things that may or may not be distortions of reality. 

So it had been agonizing when, in an act of foolishness, he’d confided in Yoshida, only to be backstabbed — no, blood-eagled by the guy. He told Yoshida everything that happened between him and Beam that evening, and Yoshida almost laughed in his face.

“By the way, why the fuck did you set up the fight? What are you up to here?” It had probably been a hilarious confrontation to Yoshida, but Denji was truly incensed.

“Relax, Denji. I simply saw an opportunity and took it. Seems like it all worked out.” His reply wasn’t any less cryptic. Maybe relying on the guy to be the middleman in his communications with Beam had been the root of the problem. Though the way Denji’s tongue takes flight with all his secrets was also to blame. Fuckin’ lack of filter.

“So, you want me to set up your date?” 

“Who is going on a date?”

“You and Beam,” Yoshida always saw right through his shit. “Or had you forgotten?”

It was dangerous territory Yoshida was treading, and yet he sounded as unbothered as if he was commenting on the weather report. Denji nearly ground his teeth to dust, and restrained the urges that were emerging in his mind. 

“You’re a traitor, you know that?” 

“I try not to be.” That was a lie and a half. Before he could respond, Yoshida was gone with an all-knowing smile.

In any case, Yoshida ended up orchestrating things for the both of them, again. When he let Denji know about the plans, he made sure to do it in the most annoying way possible. “It’s all set up – the date is Thursday after the next.” The placement of the word date in that sentence was absolutely intentional. Yoshida sure had balls. Denji made sure to bash them in as thanks.

Despite Yoshida evidently working to Denji's benefit, he will continue to act like Yoshida did him a grievance instead of a favor. His pride will always be the last thing to fade.

After what feels like an eternity, he slides down the sidewalk and closes the final stretch to reach his destination. He’s faced with the monolith that is Beam standing a few paces behind the ice cream stand. He's early, as expected. Denji thinks he shouldn’t be surprised by Beam’s choice of attire, but somehow he still is. A pair of shark-print swimming trunks, some open-toed sandals, and… That’s it. No shirt – again. The sight makes something foreign coil in between Denji’s ribs.

From what Denji can tell under the twilight glow, Beam’s expression is closed off and on guard, completely out of place with the mellowness of their surroundings. He looks like he’s expecting to be attacked at any moment. That is, up until the moment he spots Denji from a few meters away, and all his walls fall down. He’s all smiles and twinkling eyes and open arms as he beckons towards him.

“Denji!” A much too loud exclamation of his name has become Beam’s trademark greeting. “You came!” As soon as Denji’s within reach, his arms quickly outstretch towards him in a near-hug. Denji pushes away from him instinctively, but somehow his hand finds itself on Beam’s chest. To his surprise, it’s softer than he thought it would be. And warmer. At once annoyed and flustered, he tries pulling away even more avidly, but he fails. Beam’s just too damn strong.

“’Course I did. Why are you so damn excited?” He’s rolling his eyes. Beam is unfazed. One of his hands still lays heavy on Denji’s lower back. 

“You're here,” Beam’s smile should be contagious, but Denji is presently waging war on a thousand demons in his mind. “Happy you made it. You smell nice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Denji deflects, as he is finally freed from Beam’s grasp. He quickly puts some distance between them. His gaze tries to wander but keeps falling back on his chest. Denji injects faux-annoyance into his tone as he asks, “Do you really have to go everywhere without a shirt on?”

“Why not? Breeze is nice,” Beam says this as though they were at the beach during a sun-hammered day, and not out in the evening cool of Tokyo. The unwavering smile on his face has a teasing edge to it.

Denji scoffs and tries his best to sound nonchalant. “People are gonna be staring, y’know.” 

Beam’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. It feels like he’s conjuring up a challenge. “Jealous, Denji?” 

Now, Denji knows those words shouldn’t affect him at all. It’s all playful banter, after all. Yet tonight, it seems Beam is finding a loophole through every one of Denji’s expectations. All Denji can muster is a, “Shut the hell up,” as he rips his gaze away. “Let’s order already.“

“Cold, Denji?” Beam asks, ever perceptive.

“What d’you think, dumbass?” His shivering gets more obvious, as if on cue. Beam just smiles again, that undercurrent of mischief still in his grin. 

“If you’re cold, I know how to make you warm,” Beam replies, and gives away exactly how he’s gonna achieve it — by spreading his arms again. He’d just half-hugged Denji a minute ago, damn it.

Stubborn to the bone, Denji doesn’t respond. He shoves down the cold and instead turns to check out the flavors on display. Every flavor looks delicious, and Denji’s sweet tooth is immensely interested. It really had been the perfect place to go. Denji wouldn’t have known what to do if he’d had to sit still in a restaurant facing Beam instead. He’s not really built for courtesy or etiquette, and from what he’s gleaned, neither is Beam. He would’ve ended up getting kicked out or ditching Beam halfway through. It would’ve been disastrous. Then again, he doesn’t know why he’s thinking of the scenario in the first place. This isn’t a date.

After sampling a few flavors, Denji settles on a strawberry shortcake cone. Beam excitedly yells, “Vanilla!”, so that’s exactly what he gets. No toppings, either. Just a plain vanilla cone. It’s so ridiculous that it almost makes Denji burst out laughing. To make matters worse, as soon as they get their cones, Beam starts biting the soft-serve. No licking, just chomping away at the thing. Denji is simultaneously horrified and amused – to the point he can’t hold back the cackle anymore. 

“Why are you biting it? Calm down, dude,” Denji tries, yet Beam shows no signs of stopping. It’s downright childish, the way Beam is wolfing it down. Isn’t he getting brain freeze? Denji can’t stop laughing, but starts licking his own ice cream before it can start to melt down his hand.

 “Sweet,” Beam says between bites. Melted ice cream is starting to drip down his lip, and it spurs Denji to use a thumb to stop it. Inadvertently, he’s holding Beam’s chin for a second. It stops Beam in his tracks completely. And then Denji licks his finger clean without a second thought. Beam is gawking at Denji, his pupils blown to twice their size and his brain shorted out.

“Hmm, it is pretty sweet.” Denji expected it to taste like regular vanilla, but for some reason, it tastes sweeter on his tongue.

Denji continues to devour his own cone, not sparing a second glance at Beam. A shiver that is completely unrelated to the cold creeps up Beam’s spine. An indirect kiss was the last thing that Beam had expected to happen in this… non-date. He stubbornly reminds himself, it’s not a date. There’s no reason for it to be. They’re just getting to know each other a bit. And yet, he’d tried to get his hair the nicest it could be, and made quite the effort to look presentable. He’s not sure how well he did on that respect, but at the very least he hadn’t shown up barefoot. 

Denji drags him out from the spiral he is succumbing to with a question. “Are you really called Beam?”

Beam nods mechanically. It’s a question he’s gotten often, but one he rarely dignifies with a response. “Only name I have.” To think of explaining everything that led up to him taking up that name gives him a headache, so he settles for the least complicated truth. Denji isn’t satisfied, though.

“Really? So, on your IDs and all that, it just says Beam? How do you even write that?” Not that Denji knew how to read that well in the first place. It’s something he’s still struggling with. Though Beam doesn’t know any of that yet.

“My old name... It’s a secret.” 

“Why?”

A deep sigh. He knows his face is crestfallen from how Denji gets a bit unsettled. “Or, uh, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Sorry I killed the vibe.”

Beam shakes his head. He figures that for Denji, he can make an exception. “Come.”

They’re still standing in front of the ice cream stand, and though there’s barely anyone around, Beam would prefer to have a bit more privacy. He starts walking, and it takes Denji a few seconds to follow.

“You don’t have to tell me, it’s okay.” It’s clear Denji is genuinely remorseful. Beam turns back to look at him, and gives him a gentle, closed-lip smile. Beam's eyes close slightly when he smiles like this. He hopes it reassures Denji. It does.

“My family never gave me anything.” Beam knows it’s a somber topic, but he’ll give Denji the truth. “Kicked me out. I had to fight for everything I have. So my name… It’s just Beam now.”

Denji doesn’t say anything for a while, feeling the drop of melted ice cream running down his hand. He figures it’s only fair that he opens up too. “I get that, dude. I don’t really have a family, either.” Beam is looking right into his eyes, and he has to turn away for a moment. “Grew up mostly in the yakuza and all that. ’S where I learned to fight, y’know.”

Denji says it casually, but the reaction that elicits from Beam is anything but. At the mention of the word yakuza, Beam tenses up every muscle in his body. Denji knows it sounds rough, and living through it truly was, but he's never expected anyone to really care about it.

“You what? ” Beam’s voice is the deepest Denji’s ever heard it, a swirling darkness under the words. 

“It’s all good now, don’t worry,” he lies. Denji knows full well that, although weakened, the yakuza’s tendrils still have a hold on his life. The debt, and more importantly, their control tactics, are things he’ll never truly shake off. But Beam doesn’t need to know that. It’ll only get him involved in shit he has no business in. Yet his teeth remain bared.

“No. Not good.” He takes a step closer, Denji sensing the rage emanating from his body. It’s similar to the way he behaved on the last round of his fight with Yoshida, an animalistic edge to his movements. “Will walk you home. Need to know you’re safe.”

“Come on, Beam.” Denji tries to brush it off. “Didn’t you say I was good at fighting earlier?”

Beam isn’t taking it at all, instead doubling down on the offer. “Don’t wanna see you hurt. I’ll protect you.” He’s eyeing him with a territorial gaze. Denji doesn't know why Beam cares about him so much, despite knowing so little about him. It’s the first time anyone’s felt that way about him. It's a mystery that he'll keep to himself.

“You’re so weird.”

“Not weird. Care about you.“

“Yeah, that’s pretty weird, dude. But alright. You can walk me home, or whatever.” His eyes don’t let go of Beam’s. And like that, the rage emanating from Beam is gone. He still doesn’t seem all the way content, but it’s better than whatever he had going on moments ago. 

The ice cream has been largely forgotten, so now there are two sweet puddles on the floor and near-empty cones in their hands. “Shit! My hand is all sticky now, fuckin’ gross.” He grimaces at the tacky feeling between his fingers. “Well, at least it didn’t get on my shoes.” His idiotic complaint dissolves any last dregs of unease puncturing the air. Beam finds himself smiling, a little disgusted himself at the sweet scandal on his hand.

Not one to waste food, Denji takes up the challenge of devouring what’s left of his cone as fast as he can. Beam does the same, sharp teeth puncturing the waffle easily with a satisfying crunch. Upon finishing, Beam saunters back to the ice cream cart to ask for napkins. It’s the best they can do for now, though the idea of licking his own hand clean lingers in Denji’s mind. 

They start walking, idiotic banter fueling their steps. They somehow end up in a skate park, which might be one of the few places in Tokyo where they have a chance at fitting right in. Nobody there would look twice at a blonde delinquent and a shirtless guy in sandals. It’s the perfect spot to just hang out. Take that, Yoshida! See if you can top this! Denji thinks, fully proud of their discovery. They sit down a fair distance from the skate pit. Denji doubts any edgy skater would want to bother them, what with Beam’s tattoos and mean scowls, but it’s honestly best to play it safe. They’re just chilling, anyway.

“So why are you Shark in the ring?“ Denji had the question in the back of his mind ever since Yoshida told him about it. Beam ponders the question for a long instant, looking at the moon greeting them from above.

“Sharks take what they want. When they want. And I want it all.”

It’s a response that would sound edgy or try-hard if anyone else said it. But somehow, it makes perfect sense to Denji. It’s a pretty cool name, in all honesty. It resonates with him, even.

“Woah, dude. Pretty ambitious, are you?”

Beam shrugs with a gentle smile still on his face. It feels nice to have his wishes recognized for once. “People don’t care. Just want me to win. ‘Cause of bets and money,” he vents. “Nothing else. Me… I want to be the best.”

“I figured you weren’t the money-hungry type. You obviously care about your skill.” Beam is still looking at the moon. The blueish hue on his darker skin is an interesting landscape. “Did you ever go to school?”

At that, Beam does turn to look at him with a slanted glance. “Didn’t finish. Had to leave.” Denji understands the subtext, so he doesn’t really prod further. He's learned from his previous mistake. A rare occurrence with him, really, but tonight seems to be full of exceptions. 

“Gotcha. I actually didn’t start school until like, last year. I can barely read, dude.“

Blessedly, Beam doesn’t get on the defensive again upon hearing his admission. Of course it’s linked to the yakuza’s involvement in his life, but just as Denji didn’t prod for details, Beam doesn’t feel inclined to comment on that either. That isn’t to say he stays silent, though.

“Can’t read?” There’s a teasing edge to the words.

“Dude, you can barely speak!” Denji shoots back. Beam doesn’t seem to take offense. “You speak with your fists.”

Beam shrugs and smiles. “True.” 

“Speaking of… Wanna go for a rematch?” The teasing smile remains. Beam catches on.

“You sure?”

Denji dials it back a little. “Yeah! I mean. Obviously not a serious one, though. I’ve already been to the hospital twice, now. The nurses hate me.” The plaster still on his nose tells Beam everything he needs to know about that. And yet, in Denji’s eyes is a glimpse of the fighting spirit that drew Beam to him in the first place. He’ll do it.

“Fight here?” 

“Sure, why not? Let’s give these skater freaks a show.” They’re both standing up, though none of the skater freaks in question even spares a glance at them. They just don’t care. It would wound Denji’s ego in a different context.

The ‘fight’ is nothing but a dumb assortment of light blows and kicks that might as well be a joke. In all honesty, that’s exactly what it is. Neither of them is taking it seriously, if the laughter echoing through the park is any indication. They’re really taking minimal damage, all things considered. Denji somehow finds himself in the same position he was when Beam pulled that damn suplex on him. And to his surprise, Beam reenacts the thing. The exception is that instead of throwing him with full force, he places him gently on the pavement, like he’s fragile. Beam exaggerates a crashing sound effect when Denji lands, and it just makes both of them crack up even more with how ridiculous the whole thing is.

“Want your revenge?” Beam teases, slightly looming over Denji. Denji just rolls his eyes and punches him in the sternum. It was honestly a pretty legit punch in comparison to the rest of the match, but it’s clearly not the real thing. Beam pretends to get knocked out. “Defeat,” he manages, before his head lolls to the side dramatically. The two of them have ended up side to side, melted on the pavement like the ice cream they’d had, laughing at something only they would understand.

Even now, no one spares them a glance. 

———

By the time they reach the subway station, it’s way past rush hour, but still they are greeted by a sea of black suits and suitcases. Denji and Beam, with their colored hair and their questionable outfits, stand out terribly among the more reserved crowd. The stares are inevitable, and the whispers a given. Doing his best to ignore them, Denji gives Beam a detailed explanation of where he’s meant to be dropped off. Beam waves him off, insisting that he will leave Denji at his doorstep no matter what. To keep him safe, and all.

“Bro, my house is ugly as shit. You don’t wanna go there, trust me.”

“Tuck you into bed.”

“No way in hell I’m letting you do that.”

Their banter feels natural, and though Beam’s way of speaking could pose a barrier, it doesn’t feel that way at all for Denji. It feels like the way two good friends would talk. It’s definitely progress in Denji’s opinion. 

All in all, today’s outing was a success for Denji. He got free ice cream, a lot of laughs, and perhaps most significantly, a new friend. He likes Beam well enough, but it's clear Beam likes him a lot more, ever since their first meeting. Beam elicits mysterious things in him. He knows there’s something else slithering under the surface, something he’s scared to even acknowledge. But that will be dealt with later. For now, he’s content with riding the train with Beam. So content, in fact, that he ends up dozing off. Denji’s head falls to his side and lands on Beam’s sturdy shoulder.

Beam jolts slightly at the sudden contact. When he realizes what just happened, he freezes up instantly. Turning his head slightly so as to not disturb him, he can see how Denji’s ever-exhausted eyes finally find peace. The details on his face are minute, and he wants to memorize them all. Through Denji’s bangs, he can see his forehead, an expanse of unblemished quartz. Against his better judgment, he thinks of how easy it could be to press his lips against the skin, of how easy it could be to run his fingers through each strand of Denji’s hair. But he understands. It isn’t the time for that, and he would prefer Denji to be awake. He would love Denji to reciprocate everything – his feelings, his words, his touches. 

While Denji was barely starting to scratch the surface of his feelings, Beam had plunged immediately to the utter depths of infatuation. It isn’t love, definitely not, but it isn’t just normal feelings of friendship either. It isn’t admiration, it isn’t excitement. It’s richer than that, and he has the clarity to understand that now. But above all, it's a desire to protect Denji that underpins everything else. When Denji mentioned that he had the yakuza after him for most of his life, it upturned everything he’d thought he felt towards him. It beckoned a territorial beast within him that hadn’t found a motive to leave hibernation. 

Looking at him like this only cements Beam’s ambition. All he wants now is to preserve the peace currently engraved onto Denji’s features. His mind is made up – he will continue his training with this new purpose in mind. The fight club can wait, boxing can wait, MMA can wait. 

This is a wish, a promise he will risk everything to fulfill.

Chapter Text

The soft click confirms the door to the classroom is locked.

With a sigh, Denji turns to look at Yoshida, already dreading what he’s gotten himself into. Dealing with Yoshida never gets easier. But as it stands, Yoshida is his only way out of this mess.

“Well?” Yoshida asks in usual, cryptic monotone. The eye that’s not fully covered by his bangs bores into him. “We don’t have all afternoon, Denji.”

Denji lets out a groan, tilting his head to face the ceiling. “I fuckin’ regret this already.” The bastard laughs softly, a syncopated noise that does absolutely nothing to calm Denji’s nerves.

“I take it this is about your little date with Beam, isn’t it?” Yoshida guesses. At least he’s doing some of Denji’s work for him, but it makes him no less obnoxious.

“Okay, first of all, that’s not what it was,” Denji swiftly corrects. “Second of all, would it kill you to stop being so creepy?”

Another chuckle. “So it is about Beam. You’re too easy to read, Denji.”

Another groan. “I mean. Would there be any other reason I’d wanna be locked in a room with your creepy ass? Didn’t think so.”

“Wow, Denji. That hurts. I thought we were friends.”

“Not a chance. You’re just the only asshole who knows what’s going on.”

“Alright, tell me what happened.” A genuine glint of benevolence glazes over Yoshida’s features.

Denji sighs, and as he retells what happened that night, his nerves whittle down into something more manageable. Yoshida asserts his abilities as a listener, sitting quietly as Denji unravels his tale. The way he tells it is only a little exaggerated, even by his standards, but Denji feels the weight on his shoulders lessen once it’s all out in the open. Yoshida keeps a pensive hand on his chin, head tilted skyward as he ponders Denji’s story. At least he’s not making fun of him, as Denji had been expecting. After torturing Denji with long seconds of anticipation, Yoshida simply declares, “Sounds to me like the date was a success.”

“It wasn’t a fucking date!” Denji’s voice bounces off the walls.

“Frolicking in a skate park after eating ice cream, which at one point you practically licked off his lips? Yeah, that’s a date.”

“That’s not… Why would you even say it like that?” Denji’s indignation is spelled out in his face. “I didn’t lick it off his lips, I licked it off my thumb! Mine!”

Yoshida doesn’t seem at all convinced, but by the looks of it, doesn’t have the energy to entertain an argument with him, either. “Alright, Denji. Answer me this: Did you or did you not have a good time with him?”

It takes more than he’d like to admit for Denji to answer honestly. “Yeah, I did. Had a fuckin’ amazing time,” he says, a bitter exaggeration. “So what?”

“If you enjoyed it, then what’s bothering you so much?” Yoshida’s tone is laced with something like kindness. It’s unexpected and… nice, and it makes Denji feel cornered.

“I’m not bothered. I’m completely fine.” Yoshida’s uncanny stare cuts right through the bullshit.

“Denji, if you were fine, we wouldn’t be in–” Imbuing a small amount of exasperation in the gesture, Yoshida waves his hand to signal the space between them. “–this predicament. If you answer me truthfully, I’ll help you out.”

Denji has never wanted it to get to this point, but if it makes him understand what’s going on better, he figures he’ll just have to decimate his ego. And it honestly would just be a waste of time if he’d been locked in a room with this dude just to chicken out. So, gathering all of his resolve in one breath, he lets his walls come down.

“I just don’t know what it means!” Denji is far too loud considering the secrecy he’d desired. “Why does he make me feel… nice like that? People aren’t nice to me like that. I don’t wanna feel like that. Just makes me feel like I’m gonna be stabbed in the back, dude.”

Yoshida has the face of a scientist whose hypothesis has just been proven. He’s still got a hand on his chin, but there’s a certainty to him that wasn’t there before. As Denji goes into nuclear meltdown before him, Yoshida simply sits back and watches, like an observer to the much-awaited conclusion of an experiment.

“It’s scary to make friends. I get that,” Yoshida begins. “But it’s normal to like people, you know.”

“I’ve had friends. This isn’t that.”

“You’re sounding far too certain now. You sure it’s not the first time you’re exposed to the wonderful flame of friendship?”

Oh, Yoshida is most definitely trying to corner him. Denji doesn’t want to give in to his scheming, but in all honesty, he can’t say he’s actually had friends. So maybe that's what it is? But would that mean that Yoshida feels like this for Denji too, since he seems to think they’re friends and all? The thought alone makes his skin crawl.

“I don’t know, man. Don’t know if I could say I have real friends, y’know. I know sure as hell I don’t got any in this shithole.” Denji sounds defeated. He’s resolutely looking at the floor now, not wanting to see himself reflected in Yoshida’s stare. 

“That’s not true. You’ve got me, for one,” Yoshida unilaterally declares, as if friendship isn’t something people mutually agree upon. “And that’s why I’m doing all this for you, Denji.”

Yoshida reaches out his arm and pats Denji’s shoulder, as if to reinforce his point. “Whether Beam is a friend to you or not, that’s for you to decide. But you should let yourself feel things. That’s why we’re alive.” To this, Denji slowly lifts his head to meet Yoshida’s eyes again, and he sees Yoshida at his most honest. He has to take a few moments to let his… potential friend’s words sink in.

And Yoshida has seen how his expression’s changed, because those once cryptic eyes soften at the edges just a bit, and his smile doesn’t falter. Denji sees now that maybe he’s been too harsh on Yoshida, far too standoffish and untrusting. But then again, how else was Denji supposed to act? All he knows is the sharp blade of treason and how it twists deep in your gut the moment you think you’ve found safety.

Maybe that’s what has him so on edge about Beam. It’s the first time in his life he can truly say he’s felt safe around someone. Beam is a beast, there’s no doubt about that. But to Denji, he’s been nothing but kind, and so earnest that it feels undeserved. The way Beam looks at him, like he’s some sort of treasure he’s lucky to even witness, drives him a little crazy. Throughout the course of his life, he’s been nothing but a sole warrior. Maybe it’s about time he learned what it’s like, not to walk down that treacherous path unaccompanied. But it’s not like he can let his guard down that easily.

Denji has his sight fixed on a point beyond Yoshida’s head, clearly taking his time to process the information. With a blink, his gaze returns to the floor, though a sense of understanding has dawned on his eyes. Once again, Yoshida smiles genuinely, a sight so rare it’s like lightning striking twice. Denji decides he wouldn’t mind being his friend if he gets to see him drop the edgy façade more often.

“You’re right, dude,” Denji’s words finally find their way to his mouth. “It’s just hard ‘cause nobody’s acted this way around me either. Everyone I’ve trusted has betrayed me at some point, y’know. I don’t know how to talk about this stuff.” He feels lighter after admitting it, somehow.

“It’s fine, Denji. You don’t have to explain yourself. But it’s also okay to just say things aloud. Helps you process it, and all.” Denji breathes out deeply. He thinks he’s relieved, but he can’t be completely sure. Lack of experience, and all.

“Thank you, dude. And…. ’s my bad for treating you like shit before, kinda. I wouldn’t mind… being friends, or whatever.” It’s a genuine feeling, too. The guy has proven he has his back, even if his methods are a little off-putting. And it really wouldn’t be all that bad to have someone he can come to if shit hits the fan. Yoshida looks pleased with Denji’s response.

“I knew you’d come around, Denji,” He claps his hand again on Denji’s narrow shoulder. “We’re born alone, we die alone, but we don’t have to live alone, too. We’re a social species, you know.”

Denji stares up at his face with interest, like this is new information to him. It kinda is. “For real?”

Yoshida lets out a gentle laugh. Denji can clearly hear the enunciation of each “ha,” a sound like snow crunching under heavy boots. “Yes, Denji. What I meant when I said I saw an opportunity was that I wanted you to feel less alone. I can suss out that kind of thing, y’know?”

Well, isn’t he a nice guy. Who would’ve expected that the strategic genius, the spinner of webs supreme himself would’ve just been looking to make friends? “Y’know, I still don’t trust you all the way, but ’s nice of you to look after me like that. I guess. I’ll take your word for it, though. From now on, we’re friends.”

He holds out his hand with gargantuan effort. Yoshida looks him in the eye as he shakes it with just the right amount of force. “We have a deal, Denji.”

Denji flashes a smile tinged with his usual ferocity. “I’ll hold you to that, dude.” He moves to unlock the classroom door when Yoshida interrupts him with a hand to the shoulder.

“Hold on. I have something for you.”

“Wuzzat?” Denji turns his head just slightly to face him. Yoshida rummages the inside pocket of his uniform coat for an unruly, crumpled up piece of paper, and offers it up with both hands.

“Here’s where you can find Beam, if you’re interested. It’s where we used to train a while back. Figures you should take the reigns of the Beam situation by now.”

Denji takes the jagged thing with a swipe of the hand. He alternates between staring at the paper and staring back at Yoshida. The smudged handwriting on it is messy and childlike, much like his own, which reassures him a bit. “It’s an old warehouse in the industrial district. I can take you down there one of these days, if you’d like.”

It’d have been a good idea to have Yoshida guide him, had he not grown up scurrying around in the underbelly of Tokyo. He’s no stranger to the industrial part of town, particularly not to the more run-down areas of it. He’s sure he’s probably passed by that exact warehouse several times. “Nah, this is good enough. Thanks, though, man.”

A nod is all he gets in response, no more words needing to be exchanged. So, with the paper scrap jammed firmly into his pocket, Denji passes the threshold of the classroom without sparing a glance back.

Seems he has plans for the evening.

———

Sandbags are the fucking worst.

Beam beats into the rubber again, feeling how it plunges inward only to slowly bounce back out. He’s always resented how unfeeling and artificial and dead it feels against his knuckles. To a natural-born fighter like him, there’s no greater proof of your ability than the blood of your adversaries coating your fists. To feel the thrum of their life-force beating beneath their skin, skin that you’ve torn and ruptured to let the stream flow free beyond its confines... Or even better, to have the impact be so severe, so thorough, that it ruptures their bones. Perhaps even an organ. The knowledge that you’ve altered the state of their body is euphoric like few things are. It’s what Beam’s addicted to.

So of course rubber, silicone and plastic all attract his hatred. In this warehouse, nothing can satisfy that urge to tear into flesh, to feast on blood as predators do. Is it an immoral desire? Sure. But isn’t the fabric of this world woven with the threads of tyranny and subjugation? Is it unfair to want to claim a taste of that destruction?

Beam used to train to better himself. To climb his way up to the top. To enjoy undisputed victory. Not for gratuitous carnage, despite how enjoyable it always has been. His goal had been achieved and sustained, yet he continued to train. It never ceased to be a cause for celebration to get his knuckles wet, to hear the sound of bone impacting fractured bone, to spend his prize on fish and shrimp. His motive was no more than self-realization.

Denji single-handedly changed that.

The possibility of becoming a mercenary had always been on the table for Beam. He had the skills, and he certainly didn’t lack the bloodlust, but he was missing a solid reason. He doesn’t need much money to live, and what he did require was easily won in a few nights of fighting. So money wasn’t a factor, and he really wasn’t looking to turn to crime at such an early age. Maybe later, when the pastures weren’t as green, would he take up the chance.

That was before Denji and the fuckin’ yakuza entered the frame.

The entire conversation plays over and over in his mind, a record spinning endlessly for most of his waking moments. The way Denji’s face broke, the way his eyes twitched in phantom reminiscence, showing his resignation to fulfill a truly inhumane fate… It ignited a new kind of rage in Beam. Denji hadn’t wanted Beam to know more, didn’t want him involved so as to not risk his life – as if he wouldn’t have put himself dead-center in the crosshairs of death for Denji regardless. But with that revelation, his skills now hold deep purpose, and his bloodlust now has a perfectly suitable recipient.

Even if Denji doesn’t know it, Beam made an oath that night. A promise to free Denji from his shackles, to soothe his wounds. To envelop him in a warmth that belies Beam’s brutality. To gift him genuine happiness, to make him laugh until an ache blossoms in his sides. And to reach that, he’s willing to destroy every single person who’s wronged Denji, to disfigure them so completely that they need to be identified by their teeth. He will raise Hell by himself if it means Denji will be avenged, if it means he’ll know what it’s like to be loved.

So he beats the damn rubber again, and again, until it’s his own blood caked to his knuckles in thin layers. He imagines the crunch of bone, the squelch of an eye, the sliminess of saliva with every blow. He imagines the feeling of an approaching death, he imagines that the prize he’ll claim is a life. He imagines his total victory over a mountain of bone.

His waking dream is shattered when he hears a repeated clang against the metal doors of the warehouse. His senses, already heightened from training and fantasies of viscera, stand on the very edge. Whoever the fuck it is, they’d better leave immediately. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, he practically stomps towards the doors. He unlocks the deadbolt, unlatches the door and cracks it open. Oh, he’s just aching for an excuse to have his fists meet flesh tonight.

A shroud of derelict streetlight makes up the outline of Denji, alone, right outside his doorstep.

Every ounce of violence drains from Beam instantly. Relief and joy settle in the pit of his stomach. Every fiber of muscle that had been primed to attack is now screaming at him to tackle Denji into a bear hug, but he restrains the urge with immense willpower. What he can’t restrain is the smile and the way Denji's name escapes his lips.

The Denji in question returns the smile. The sight of him does horrible things to Beam: he forgets to breathe, he smiles wider than he’s smiled before in his life, he can’t control his heart rate. It’s a problem.

“Hey, man,” Denji greets back, trying to hide obvious excitement.

“Why… you here?” Beam manages to ask, hoping it doesn’t deter Denji from staying. God, does he want him to stay.

“You can guess who gave me this address,” Denji reveals, and Beam’s mind floods with the image of his sparring-partner-slash-oceanic-rival. “I’m here ‘cause uh…” Denji’s eyes stray below Beam’s face for a moment. “I’m here ‘cause I want you to train me.”

Beam can’t have heard that right. “Train?”

“Yeah, dude,” Denji says. “I kinda suck compared to you, y’know.”

The response that elicits from Beam is almost instinctual, as if his skin had been singed by flame. “Not true!” He makes a show out of shaking his head. “You are strong! Amazing!”

There’s a tinge sitting on Denji’s cheeks that wasn’t there before. “Beam, you don’t have to flatter me, y’know. I’m sure I can be better than this.” He looks at the ground, saying it so sullenly that Beam wants nothing more than to encase him with his arms.

“Not flattery… Truth.” His praise is no less sincere, but Beam understands there’s always room for improvement. He himself is training to be stronger, faster, more ruthless in combat – both in and outside a ring. So if Denji thinks he can be of help, if Denji chose him to train with, who is he to deny him?

“But, can always be better,” he agrees, and Denji immediately lights up. The purest expression of joy Beam’s ever seen makes itself at home on Denji’s features. Heat creeps up his neck at the sight, so he diverts his eyes elsewhere.

“Really, dude? Awesome!” Denji clenches his fist again in celebration. “It means a lot, y’know. I gotta be in top shape just in case someone comes after me.”

Before he can think against it, Beam takes Denji’s bony wrist in his hand. The bitterness that comes from him is so intense it makes Denji flinch. “Will not happen,” is what he declares, tone unwavering and cold. “‘Cause I will protect you.” The hand he holds is dwarfed so easily by his own that it’s laughable. There’s an urge to press his lips to those knuckles, but instead of indulging it, Beam opts to run a finger down the back of Denji’s hand. He almost misses the way Denji shivers at the touch, but it’s the expression on his face that makes him notice. Pupils blown wide, teeth exposed just so, and a deep red in the cheekbones. A moment of silence passes, and as Beam drinks in the sight of him, Denji rips away his hand.

“Alright, dude, calm down,” Denji says, but he seems pretty agitated himself. “Can I come inside now?”

“Yes, come.” Still feeling on edge, Beam nods and steps aside to let him in. The warehouse isn’t massive like the one where they first met, it’s more of a glorified storage unit, but it’s large enough for Beam to live and train in. There’s enough room for a full-sized boxing ring, as well as the standard, run-of-the-mill equipment Beam has come to hate. Beyond the training area, there’s a makeshift wall hiding the place where Beam sleeps and occasionally cooks. It’s really a terrible excuse for a living space, but he makes the most of it. It’s free, after all.

“Woah! This place is stacked, man,” Denji looks around in awe, eye catching on the myriad pieces of equipment. “So this is where the Mighty Shark sharpens his fangs, huh?”

The effect Denji has on him is frightening, because with just a few words, he has Beam smiling wide again. “Yes! My home.” Denji doesn’t seem affected at all by that information, and instead just keeps inspecting the place with increasing curiosity.

On a stool are the pants Beam uses for semi-pro events, the flashy ones that say shark down the leg. Denji recognizes them immediately. “Do you really just have these laying around like this?” Denji grabs the pants and holds them up like they're something precious. “These could be a collector’s item when you’re rich and famous, you know.”

“Don’t want fame or money,” Beam corrects, even if Denji’s word choice illuminates his ego. “Just wanna be best.”

“Yeah, yeah, but wouldn’t it be cool to have people like, fighting over the stuff you wore?” Denji is still a little too excited with the idea. “Like reporters going, oh, Beam’s first pair of boxing pants just sold for a hundred million yen. Wouldn’t that be sick?”

Beam concedes that it would be nice to be recognized, to be someone the public looks to for inspiration. So he nods and says, “Wanna be respected. Would be nice.” It sure as hell wouldn’t be nicer than giving Denji the life he deserves, though.

“You say that as if you’re not,” Denji says, looking perfectly at home perched on the stool. “Aren't you like, a legend in the club?"

Experience has told him that’s not true at all. Newcomers don’t catch sight of him, given how he rarely even goes to events; and the long-standing members all just want to collect their earnings from the few fights he participates in. “Not a legend. People use me for money. No respect there.”

“Whatever, man. Who needs ‘em,” Denji waves off as he approaches Beam. “At least I respect you,” he says matter-of-factly, punching Beam’s shoulder lightly, an afterimage of what he was doing at the skate park. “’S why I’m here.” The admission rolls like an icy stream of water down Beam’s temples.

He turns away slightly, neck and shoulders already alight with shame.  “Gya… ah… Thank you, Denji,” is all he can manage. “No problem, dude.” Denji smiles a tiny sliver of teeth. Beam could die.

“You sure you don’t want even a bit of fame?” Denji insists. “You’d be drowning in chicks, I bet.”

At that, Beam grimaces. “Don’t like ‘em.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Women. Don’t like ‘em,” Beam repeats, almost sounding affronted by the suggestion. 

“Whaaa?” Denji is baffled. ”Why not, dude? What’s not to like? Girls are God’s gift to this Earth.”

The scowl on Beam’s face deepens, like he’s hiding a secret in the furrows of his brows. “Don’t know. I just don’t.”

“Huh… Figures,” Denji shrugs, having the tiniest amount of self-preservation to avoid angering Beam. ”But what about the rest of it? I’m sure you’d have lots of fans.“

Beam considers the question for a moment, then cracks a small smile. “I already have all I need.” he stares straight ahead at Denji, who doesn’t seem to understand. “Huh?”

“You. My fan.” Beam’s understated wit always catches Denji off guard. In the few moments it takes him to process the words, Denji can feel the warm streak of embarrassment climbing up his neck. Beam really used his words against him, huh?

“Oh, fuck you, man,” he barks out, but lets himself smile regardless. He’s swift to change the topic. “Enough chit-chat. When are we starting training?” Denji’s suddenly closer, either disregarding or unaware of any concept of personal space.

“No, no,” Beam lies, desperate to keep Denji next to him. “Can start now.”

“Sweet.”

The ring feels lightly padded against Denji’s feet, with just enough bounce to prevent any fractures. His hands are wrapped in gauze, unlike Beam’s, which by the looks of it had been recently bleeding. At Denji’s suggestion that he wrap his hands too, Beam had just bared his teeth. Gotta love the confidence.

Beam moves inside the ring with intention. It’s the same pattern of movement he saw during his fight with Yoshida, all silent aggression in unsubtle disguise. Denji hasn’t had a proper fight in weeks, so he thinks he might be a little rusty. And despite having gone up against Beam and losing, he doesn’t feel any pressure to do his best. He’s oddly confident tonight – energized, even. So he just bounces, quick on his feet in the way he knows how. 

His mind is focused on a single task: don’t let Beam get a hit in. In Denji’s survivalist mind, it’s always been crucial to maintain the body at an optimal state. The goal is always to make it out of the fight not only victorious, but as unscathed as possible. That’s how he’s made it this far, and that wouldn’t change just ‘cause Beam overpowered him.

Of course, asking Beam to train him was an excuse to get to know him better – including the fighting style that has made him a force in the ring. For all his hubris, Denji can admit there’s clear faults to his own technique. He wants to smooth out the edges, to be able to launch himself at any enemy with guaranteed success, the way Beam does. 

At first, Denji holds up just fine, but it takes him little time to falter. Beam gets him with a hard blow to the cheek, one that has him reliving the purge in his mind. “Fuck!” he lets out, already regretting his decision. The pain burns through his teeth and bones, adrenaline starting to kick in. Beam laughs brightly, and it somehow dulls the pain.

“Lost,” Beam deadpans. “Try again.”

“You fuckin’ fish. I’ll gut you one of these days.” Denji wipes his mouth, relieved to find no blood. He tries to lunge at Beam and misses, misses so badly that he nearly falls face-first. It only makes Beam laugh harder, the echoing kya kya kya bouncing off the walls of the warehouse and furthering his embarrassment. 

They keep the exercise going. It’s frustrating to be at the receiving end of Beam’s wrath again, and though he’s doing his best to dodge, it’s still not enough. After what feels like an eternity of missed chances, painful strikes he knows will bruise, and unabashed cackles, Beam decides they’ve had enough for the night.

Denji does not get a single hit in, but Beam had seemed to be enjoying every one of his movements. It’s embarrassing enough to have floundered like that, and he had felt cruel regret every time Beam’s fist met his skin, but it’s the most alive he’s felt in weeks. He doesn’t know how he’s made it this long without a sparring partner. The moment the brawl’s over, he wants to do it all over again.

“Ah, man, you got me good,” He absently rubs at his cheek, still sore from that first blow. “I’ll do better next time.”

Beam stalls. “Next… time?” He seems legitimately surprised, as if he’d thought this had been just a one-off training session. 

“Yeah, dude! Or, uh, unless you don’t want to—”

“Yes,” Beam interjects, sounding a bit too excited by the prospect. “Can come any time.”

“Hell yeah! You’re the best, Beam.” Denji offers up his fist, and Beam lifts his own to meet it. 

The smile that crawls up his lips doesn’t leave until long after Denji does.

———

They start training three times a week.

It’s a bit of an intense regimen, but Denji had insisted that the more he trained, the faster he’d improve, and Beam couldn’t really disagree with that. There is a lot of untapped potential in Denji’s fighting skills, and Beam has known it since he laid eyes on him. It’s what first attracted him to Denji, and it’s what made his desire solidify once he went up against him. He hasn’t seen much of that brazen, organic fighting style since then, so the packed training schedule may be Denji’s way of compensating for that. Or maybe he just wants to show off.

The first week goes by too fast for Beam’s liking. It had been fun to witness Denji at his rustiest, trying to recover the madness in his gaze. Beam had gotten to coax him out of that stagnant state, and by the last session of the week he could tell Denji was back to normal. That’s when Beam knew he could go all-in with him, without holding back, without regret. So, the second week had them simulating real matches with no guidance from Beam, both of them giving into impulse and raw bloodlust. Needless to say, Denji had gone home with more than a few bandages by the end of the week.

For Beam, the sessions have not only deepened his interest in Denji, but fulfilled an urge that had gnawed at him for years. First there’s the satisfaction he feels from approaching Denji with the movements of a hunter; then, there’s the raw joy he feels simply from being in his presence. So, three times a week, he gets to drink in the sight of Denji at his most pure, at his most feral. It’s heaven-sent.

As for Denji, he’s noticed that his reflexes are already improving. It’d be unrealistic to say there was a genuine difference in body mass and strength in such a short period of time, especially when his diet’s been unaffected. But he definitely feels more dexterous with his fists, more in tune with his spine and his joints. He’s started to develop an actual fighting technique, instead of just winging it mindlessly like he always does. He’s gotten better at predicting attacks, his mind starting to visualize what his opponent might do. Going by Beam’s indiscrete smiles, he’s also noticed Denji's improvement. Every time praise reaches Denji’s ears, the damage sustained by his body starts to fade. He'd be lying if he said that wasn’t part of why he keeps coming back. 

Whenever they have moments of rest between “rounds”, Denji likes to ask Beam questions. He knows Beam doesn’t talk much unprompted, and even when he does, he divulges little. But he’s been curious about him for a long time, especially after they went out for ice cream. Denji would like to construct a mosaic of Beam, a collection of small fragments that can eventually build up the entirety of him. He wants to know as much as he can about this man they’ve named a beast, he wants to unearth his mystery for himself. 

So far, he’s learned about his love for swimming and fish (duh), how he used to have a cat that died to cancer, how he’d like to visit Okinawa again, among other little curious facts. They’ve played “would you rather” countless times, and made each other laugh by coming up with the most absurd justifications for their choices. They’ve bonded over their lack of education, and how they're both practically illiterate. It makes Denji understand what Yoshida had told him about friendship.

Nights with Beam are the only balm on the erupting wound that is his life. He wades through them smoothly, like water. That’s not to say he isn’t exhausted most of the time: he’s going to school in the morning, working in the afternoon, and training in the evening, sometimes going past midnight. It’s an extreme schedule, but he’s not willing to slow down his progress for anything. No matter how late it is, or how excruciatingly tough his day has been, or how exhausted his body is, he always shows up for training. The sessions have become something he looks forward to – to the point where he counts down the hours till the next one. 

But one night, his fatigue is so noticeable that Beam comments on it. Denji is always tired, but he never lets it show during training. His life doesn’t afford him rest. It is what it is. But despite expecting Beam to notice, the question still catches Denji off-guard.

“You… okay?” He is innocuous enough, but Denji can tell he’s holding back a deeper well of worry.

“Yeah, dude, ’m fine,” Denji brushes him off with the most nonchalance he can gather. “Why?”

Beam considers him with guarded concern. “You look tired. Very tired. Not good.”

“Oh, fuck, you think so?” He fights Beam’s concern with feigned surprise. “Nah, I’m all good. Just had a long shift today.” It’s a half-lie, but one he hopes proves effective at deterring Beam’s curiosity. He doesn’t want him to find out about the numerous things he does for a living. But Beam doesn’t relent.

“We should rest tonight.”

He’s tired to the bone, but Denji refuses, not wanting to lag behind. “Nah, dude. Let’s keep going, I’m ready.” A sweat drop is sitting prominent on Beam’s temple, and his brows are still furrowed, but he relents. “Okay.”

So they continue to train. Despite his concern, Beam doesn’t lessen his sharpness or his aggression in the ring. Denji’s movements get more delayed, less focused as the evening progresses. Eventually, his body slumps gracelessly to the floor of the ring. His knees give out beneath him, and the sound of his collapse makes snaps Beam out of the fight-induced trance he’s in. He immediately falls beside Denji, turning him around to examine his face.

His eyes have fallen shut against his will, but there’s no sign of injury. He’s breathing normally, too. Beam’s eyes survey the rest of his body, finding numerous bruises from their previous sessions that have never quite gotten the chance to heal, even with the bandages. Upon noticing them, he feels a wave of guilt crushing him full-force. What Denji had told him about balancing school and work already had him worried, but the things he'd withheld from Beam had only increased his anxieties. To think he’s contributed to damaging his already battered body… He should’ve never accepted the proposition to train him. 

Denji opens his eyes a moment later, looking the most disoriented and scared Beam’s ever seen him – until his eyes focus on Beam, and his expression softens. “Shit, dude… Must’ve hit myself pretty hard, huh?”

Beam moves him into an upright position. “You… fainted,” he says, voice trembling with guilt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleads, unable to look Denji in the eye. For his part, Denji’s confused – he doesn’t even know what Beam did wrong, so the litany is a bit awkward for him to sit through. “Why are you apologizing, man?“

Beam finally looks at him, and the face he wears is one of absolute devastation. He thinks he might even be tearing up. “My fault,” he all but screams. “I just keep hurting you.”

“Huh?!” Denji’s brain can’t parse his words. “Dude, no, I asked for this. It’s fine.”

“Still not okay. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, covering his eyes with his fists. Denji heaves a sigh. This dumb shark…

“Look, I appreciate the concern, dude, but it’s not your fault. I just wanted you to help me be like you. ‘Cause you’re strong as hell. I… get myself into a lot of shit, y’know.”

Beam uncovers his eyes. “Are you… Safe?” Beam tries.

“Can’t say I am. But I’m okay right now,” another lie, “Just trying my best to get through it.”

“Your body is hurt. You fainted,” Beam protests. “Can’t be okay, Denji.“

Denji hates having to explain himself. He hates owing shit to people, hates feeling cornered, and hates false sympathy. But Beam’s been nothing but sincere to him, and genuinely treats him like he’s the best person who’s ever lived. He typically feels safe around Beam, but when everything is raw and exposed like this, he wishes he could be anywhere else. He can’t tell him the truth, precisely because Beam cares so much.

“Uuuugh,” he elongates the groan, as if delaying things would save him from his demise. “Fine. I’m not doin’ the best,” he lifts a pinky to pick at his earwax. “Just don’t wanna talk about it right now.”

Beam takes it in for a moment, then shuts his eyes. It’s not like he has any authority or control over Denji. Except for this one thing. “Okay. But still won’t train you today.”

Denji’s disappointment was expected. “C’mon, man! I’m fine now!" Denji yells. "I’m goin’ home, then. Fuck this.” When Denji tries to stand up, he just ends up stumbling right back down on his ass. Beam would’ve laughed in any other case, but the state of Denji was just saddening. So instead of answering, he positions himself behind Denji – who blurts out a, “Hey, man, what’re you doin’?!” – and asks, “Can I?”

His legs are almost bracketing Denji’s, except he’s leaving a prudent distance between their bodies. He has his hands tentatively hovering over Denji’s shoulders, and that’s when it clicks for Denji. The bastard is offering a massage. He’s tempted to refuse, but fuck, does he need one.

“Yeah, yeah, just get it over with."

“Okay,” Beam’s fingers, irregularly shaped from a cycle of breaking and healing, close in on Denji’s shoulders and gently squeeze. Denji all but screams at the feeling. The pain from knots of muscle unraveling under his skin blends into the most satisfying physical relief he’s probably ever felt. It’s perfection.

Beam’s hands continue to move in circular motions, pressing down with his palm at just the right places. He knows his way around the muscles of the back, probably from having received such massages himself and knowing the areas that get the sorest after training. Denji’s brain has completely shorted out, overcome by the blend of contradicting sensations. All he can think of is how good it feels after the pain, and he regrets not doing this sooner. But then again, how does one go about asking for a massage in a non-weird way?

Before Denji can process anything, Beam is finished. He’s worked magic with just his hands, and it makes Denji curious as to why exactly Beam didn’t take up a job as a masseur.

“Better?” Beam asks, standing up to face Denji again. He looks hopeful for a positive answer, and that’s exactly what he gets.

“Yeah, dude, holy shit. That was crazy. My back feels brand new, somehow.“

Beam is elated. He smiles ear-to-ear, and that darkened red tone that Denji hasn’t seen in a while blooms over his cheeks and nose. “Least I can do.”

“You should open a massage place, seriously. You’re a god with your hands,” Denji pitches, and Beam’s blush turns about three shades deeper. A noise comes out of him that could be described between a laugh and a squeal, and it’s so unexpected it makes Denji flinch.

“You think so?!” The bizarre image of an excited Beam almost makes the rest of Denji’s pain disappear. Maybe it’s the first time someone has praised Beam like this.

“Yeah, dude,” Denji doubles down, but he has to add a little edge to it. “It almost makes up for the fact we won’t train tonight.”

Beam’s excitement dims a little, but the blush remains. “Right.”

It irritates Denji a little to see Beam deflate like that, so he tries to amend it. “I’m kidding, dude. C’mon, help me up now.” Beam is prompt to react, and outstretches a hand for Denji to grab. Despite having regained his bearings somewhat, Denji still stumbles when he stands back up. Beam steadies him with his other arm, and then the instant of contact is over. “Thanks, dude. Let’s get out of here.” 

Beam nods, smiling again, as he proceeds to lead them both out of the ring. He fetches Denji some water. It’s reminiscent of a typical cool down for them, and a meaningless, easy conversation unfolds. And like usual, Beam keeps thinking about Denji long after he leaves.

He wonders what Denji does every day to be so tired, for his body to be so battered. Beam knows Denji’s past is lined with jagged thorns he doesn’t want to touch, so he leaves it alone. But when the possibility that Denji is still being exploited emerges in his mind, it just makes that instinctual rage within him stir. There’s a reason Denji doesn’t want to tell him anything, he just knows it. Since he can’t force anything out of him, he’ll just have to sit as still as he can, and keep up the routine with him. He hopes that by being there beside Denji, he can keep the thorns from sticking too far into his skin.

Instead of searching for answers he can’t have, Beam remembers his oath and punches the sandbag again.

Denji doesn’t come back for their next session.

———

He arrives at the meeting place a few minutes early.

The alley is nearly bare of light. The putrid smells of rotting refuse and sewage assault his nose, and the chittering and scurrying vermin force him to watch his step. The moonlight filters in only where the mass of buildings allows it, a curtain of concrete on either side of the cramped space. A wayward breeze from the nearby port brings the taste of sea salt to his tongue. 

Time and time again, Denji had refused to meet up with them. But the threats kept escalating. They seemed especially aggravated this time: it’d been over a month since he made any sort of payment, and the interests kept piling up. He’d tried to cut ties long ago, yet the bastards couldn’t seem to unlatch their prying jaws from his neck. It always felt like he was being watched, there was never a blind spot they couldn’t reach. He’d told Beam he wanted to train “just in case”, knowing full well it was not a matter of if, but of when. And now, the hour of judgment had descended on him.

Of course he’d kept Beam in the dark. Nobody needed to know about this encounter, especially not him. The aggression with which he’d declared he would “protect” Denji, the pure bloodlust in his eyes… Denji didn’t need any of it tonight. It could put everything into jeopardy, especially for Beam. Stupid fuckin’ shark. Who’d asked him to protect Denji in the first place? He’s never needed protecting, never lost his footing in a fight. It’s why he asked Beam to train him, so he could strengthen himself, to carve his own path in the world. He has no business butting into things that don’t concern him.

He’s pacing around a maggot-infested bag of trash, tiny squirming white bodies feasting under his feet, when he spots the old man. Mustached, wrinkled, and short, with that goddamn fedora that stayed glued to his probably bald head. He’s flanked by two men standing at least two feet taller than himself, slicked back hair glaring under the moon. Denji straightens his back and walks in their direction, with the diplomacy he’s trained himself to have when dealing with the yakuza. He makes sure not to show off the discrete envelope between his fingers, and casts his eyes slightly downwards to avoid prematurely crossing his gaze with theirs.

A heavy exhale. The scent of burnt tobacco. A voice like lead. “You got the cash, Denji?”  

He’s known this voice for as long as he can remember, and it always has the same effect. Denji tilts his head upwards, slowly locking eyes with the man who calls himself his handler. Denji nods, and brings the envelope into view.

“Yes, sir,” he replies obediently as always. He holds it out with both hands, not really in the mood to make this transaction longer than it needs to be. His handler rips it from his hands, unbothered with courtesy, and hastily tears it open. Beneath the scant light, the wads of ten thousand yen bills are colored a dull beige.

Denji looks elsewhere as the man in front of him counts, thick fingers scanning through the bills. They asked for a million yen this time. It wasn’t unusual for them to ask for such amounts, but oh, did Denji struggle to scrounge it up. Nights of no rest and days of skipped school spent working odd jobs, some less legal than others, all so they’d leave him alone. All that money, just slipping like blood-tinted sand through his fingers.

You would need a special kind of stupidity not to know that this isn’t so much a debt collection as it is a racketeering scheme. Keep giving us money, and we won’t kill or sell you. That’s what this is. And yet, he had an inkling of suspicion when he was told this would be his last payment to the yakuza. His somehow ever-increasing debt would be finally paid off, is what they’d said. Even though he hadn’t paid in a month, even though he’d told them to fuck off every time they’d called… His last payment… it felt like there was an omen embedded in that phrase.

The old man finally reaches the last of the bills. With a sigh, he puts the money back into the envelope and tucks it inside his coat. He stares back at Denji, looking all too pleased with himself, and opens his mouth.

“There’s two hundred thousand yen missing, Denji.”

“Two hundred thou– You said to bring you a million!” It couldn’t be. He’d double- and triple-counted the money himself before coming. He’d been sure of it.

“Did you forget about the handler’s fee, boy?” He takes a single step forward. “Or did you think because you’re all grown up now, you don’t owe me any more respect?” 

“No, sir. I’ve never missed a payment before now, you know that,” Denji clenches his fists in frustration. “I’ve done everything, y’know, sold my fuckin’ kidney to pay you. Is that not respect to you?”

“Dogs don’t talk back to their masters, boy,” Another step forward. He’s almost in breach of Denji’s personal space. “An' you know damn well you’ll keep paying me ’til you drop dead!”

Denji bristles. “That’s not what we agreed on. You said this would be the last payment.” It’s hard to keep his composure at this. His naïveté had taken the better of him – things were never straightforward with the yakuza. He knows this. The fuckers always want an excuse to lash out, to ask for more, to keep him fucking shackled and chained like the dog they think he is.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” A bitter chuckle escapes his lips as he lifts a hefty hand to slap Denji straight across the face. “I was testing your intelligence, boy, and you failed spectacularly.” He pulls out the cigarette from his mouth, hot ash still burning, and presses it to Denji’s forehead. A rough, pained noise leaves Denji’s mouth, as he quickly retracts from the old man’s grasp. “Guess I have no choice but to put you down like the filthy, ungrateful dog you are. Boys!”

He should’ve fuckin’ known. 

The two men, who had stood still like statues as their boss did the heavy lifting, spring to life and immediately corner Denji. Not sparing it a thought, he bares his teeth and gets a move on.

“Come and get me then, you fuckin’ pigs!”

The two goons only slightly tower over him, wasting no time to begin their assault. One swings at his chin, the other tries to restrain him. Denji deftly dodges both attacks, and goes for his signature move: A well-charged series of kicks to the balls. It’s foul play, but that’s the beauty of fighting a criminal: nobody cares about the rules. 

Only one of them falls to the floor, clutching his balls. The other is still going strong, aiming for Denji’s throat now, to which Denji retaliates with a blow straight to the solar plexus. The man momentarily falters, but regains his breath quickly and goes right back at it. Denji dodges, curving his lithe body like the wind, and retaliates in kind with quick blows and kicks.

The man on the floor is still wailing, so Denji kicks him a few times until he hears a wet squelch against his foot. No more resistance comes from him. The other idiot seems at a loss, almost taken aback by both Denji’s brutality and his fighting skill. Still, he lunges with a purpose, but Denji wastes no time and lands an uppercut on him. The other man falls without an ounce of grace. Unlike Denji, both of these men are supposed to have received extensive fight training, and yet he’s made quick work of them. He wonders if they would even stand a chance at a fight club purge.

At the instant he has that realization, he feels something cold and slender by his throat. A thickset arm keeps him in place, the blade tracing his jugular. Figures they wouldn’t have come unarmed. The fuckers really got him, now. He figures it’s the geezer – god, he’d underestimated him. Makes sense he’d still have some bite to him. Denji puts his hands up in surrender.

“Nice skill you got there, boy,” The man is so close that his words fall right into his ears. “But ’s nothing you can do if I stab this pretty thing right through your throat, now, is there?” The blunt force starts to tear his skin just so.

Denji replies with his skull. Cartilage snaps behind him, and he’s wrangled himself free in a moment. He twists the man’s wrist sharply, but the knife remains firmly in his grasp. Seemingly undeterred by his broken nose, the man continues to lunge at him down the alley, hoping to entrap him at the end of it. Denji has no issue deflecting thanks to the grueling exercises Beam put him through, and he refuses to let the old man get his way. He kicks upward in yet another attempt to disarm him. 

The grip on the blade is unrelenting. All that indicates its trajectory is the gentle glint of light across its sharpened surface. His handler has some speed to him, but it’s nothing Denji can’t handle. He deftly dodges the swings one by one, refusing to let himself be cornered – until his feet find slippery resistance and he slips.

A gash has opened right under his lowermost rib, and a stream of red has started to seep through his shirt. He receives an ashen grin and it multiplies the ache.

“Do you see now, boy? You’re worthless.” The voice is soaked with dark elation.

Fuck.

Damn his survival instincts. Damn his unnecessary need to rely on his bare fists. He should’ve just gotten his hands on a gun and blown them all to shreds. Little stupid, naïve Denji, trusting the same fucking yakuza that ruined his life. 

There’s another swing of the blade. Again, Denji fails to avoid it. He feels how the blade pierces the skin, how it jaggedly removes a layer from his epidermis, and thenhe feels the pain come. A new slice crowns his right shoulder, blood flowing all the way down his collarbone. He fails to contain a scream, prompting the man to burst into laughter again. “You gonna run now?”

Denji grits his teeth as he tries his best to contain the bleeding on his side. He desperately wants to stay, to prove the old man wrong, to show he can defeat him. He stares wordlessly back at him for a moment. Even under penumbral cover, the rage in his eyes burns like sunlight during a total eclipse. “We’re not done,” he promises, and before the man can get another stab in, his feet take off.

He doesn’t know how he does it, but he opens an escape path for himself. He ducks as fast as he can and in seconds, he’s running out the dark alley. The old man doesn’t pursue him. “We’ll see about that, boy,” he declares, but Denji only hears the echo of his laugh. The sound gets fainter with every frenzied footstep Denji takes; with every shaking breath that Denji desperately tries to control. The stab wounds pulse, seeping liquid that sticks to everything. He tries his best to apply pressure to it, knowing full well how far he is from the hospital. 

His feet keep going until he escapes the darkness. He lets himself slump against a streetlight for a moment. “Fuck!” He exclaims, all of his pain and frustration embedded in a single syllable. He should’ve stayed, should’ve killed the bastard with his own weapon, should’ve put what Beam taught him to use. Now he’s never gonna be fuckin’ free so long as he fuckin’ lives.

The pain tears through him as he tries to get his breath under control. If he doesn’t breathe properly, he will be wasting whatever blood he has left in his body. He has to get himself to the hospital no matter what. He’ll give that old man his fight in due time, he’ll break out of his shackles himself. So Denji continues to run, determined not to die among filth, like the rats running alongside him do. 

Denji continues to run, knowing that no matter how far he goes, the threat will never be too far behind.

———

The calm of the night is pregnant with the stench of fresh death.

The moon has been occluded completely, so the alley is now drenched in absolute black. There’s not even a speck of light that can reflect off of the plastic of garbage bags or the smooth bodies of maggots. The sight is, for all intents and purposes, that of blindness.

Two noises dominate the alley: the high-pitched chiming of bells and the squelching of flesh. The remaining silence is filled by a ragged breath, wet and desperate. It’s the breath of a man dying. A footstep breaks the soundscape, and the man starts to hyperventilate.

“Please… I’ll get him… next time…” he begs despite knowing the injury is fatal. His hands clutch around his throat, torn open and hemorrhaging. He feels his life gushing out of him in a steady, violent stream.

“Just die already. Useless pest.” Another voice swirls in the air like a black fog of neurotoxin. It seeps into the ground and thickens the air. The man removes his hands from his throat. His last words are tenuous and drenched in anguish. “Lord, have mercy—”

He is decapitated in a single strike of the blade, body falling limp in a puddle of blood and filth. The similarly headless bodies of his minions aren’t too far. All three bodies will soon be devoured by the creatures of the night. There’s a metallic sound as a tongue licks the blood off the blade. Then, the contented sigh of someone who’s satisfied with their work. 

The footsteps are clean and unwavering as they abandon the carnage, bells chiming in unison.

The person becomes one with the darkness and disappears.

Chapter Text

A seismic disturbance in his opponent’s ribcage sends him back, as if caught in a whirlwind, and Beam takes chase.

Two, four, six, he counts; half-heartedly beating on the man’s shoulder, his arm, whatever territory he can reach on his chest. He knows that by the seventh strike the man will fall to the floor perfunctorily, as if he’d genuinely lost consciousness. Then, the referee will count to ten, and the match will come to an end. And it’ll be another flawless victory for Beam.

In theory, everyone benefits from this result. His agent will get his cut, his performance will reflect positively on his sponsors, who’ll be more than thrilled to extend his contract, and everyone who bet on him will get their earnings. Beam will have more money that he has nothing to spend on, and his profile will continue to rise. His name will be in every mouth. It’s all poised to be a night for celebration.

Except Beam knows that the match is an entirely artificial unilateral beatdown. It was arranged to be that way from the start. His opponent is more than capable of putting up a fight against him, but his agent wants to build up an underdog narrative so that when his potential is put on proper display, the publicity will be spectacular. So, they had instructed Beam to be brutal in his onslaught, the way everyone knows he can be, but not so brutal that he’ll incapacitate the guy.

It’s that kind of restraint that puts a burden on him. Beam gets no satisfaction from watered-down outbursts that he must carefully choreograph on the spot. Very little about the faux-leather gloves and the mouthguards excites him. But the paying audience makes for a very good incentive, and they’re entranced by him. They’re all looking at him. They couldn’t care less about whoever it is that Beam’s mowing down.

Now that he knows how the professional world moves, how artificial and put-on things truly are, he can’t help but ache for something real. Every match, Beam prays that this will be the day his opponent deviates from the script and gives him the pushback he craves. Then, he would be able to feel that long-gone thrum in his veins once again.

Beam’s ambitions were never quite this grand. He was content with training in solitude, to build himself up quietly and show up on a whim to prove what it had been worth. He fought to prove himself, to earn respect. The boxing league has given him anything but that. His name is said with disdain in locker rooms, in television commentary and on the tabloids. The weight of public scrutiny is numbing. He misses the sweltering fire-hazard of dilapidated warehouses and the pooling blood on the concrete.

On one occasion, he expressed this frustration to his agent. He looked at Beam with the exhaustion of a thousand serfs, and huffed out:

“Why even bother, then? You don’t want money or notoriety or fame, then what is it? What is it that you fight for?”

Many people had told Beam that he was destined for stardom. That he had what it takes to dominate the professional boxing world. But none of them had looked as convinced, as passionate about the prospect as Denji did. Denji was the only one who saw meaning in the possibility of fame.

When Denji didn’t come back in five nights, he knew something was off.

So, he began to search. Anyone and everyone he could get his hands on, he’d ask if they’d seen him. Yoshida had to stop him from entering their school on more than one occasion, insisting Denji hadn’t come there either. He’d gone to Denji’s house out in the slums more times than he could count. He looked for him at the train station, at the skate park, at the ice cream shop. He looked for him at the warehouse where they’d first married their blood.

And as days stretched into weeks with not even a glimpse of his shadow, a pit, beyond any concept of depth or darkness, decided to open in his chest. Sometimes it ached right in his solar plexus, as if he’d taken a critical hit; other times it settled in his stomach; but most often it was in his lungs, paining him with every breath. It told him, like a most cruel whisper, that he’d never see Denji again. It made it impossible to train. It was something he couldn’t punch his way out of.

Had it been the danger that Beam wanted to protect him so desperately from? Did someone finally come to extinguish his flame? Is he tied up somewhere, being starved and beaten? Did Denji simply not want to see him anymore?

No. If Denji had simply not wanted to see him again, he would’ve been very upfront about it. He wouldn’t vanish from the universe without so much as a word. And they both knew it was coming. They both knew it wasn’t a matter of if, but of when.

So, a single conclusion settled like ashes on his mind.

Amid his despair and grief, the night that Denji first showed up at the warehouse was in constant repeat on Beam’s mind. The timidness with which he approached Beam, the understated vulnerability in his eyes; the excitement and vigor as he examined Beam’s space. But above all else, like a premonitory beacon leading him out of the grime, it was their conversation about fame that made itself at home in Beam’s psyche.

“I already have all I need.”

  “Huh?”  

“You. My fan.”

  “Oh, fuck you, man.”

Denji should have never become so entrenched, so deftly woven into what Beam had built to be his life. In such a fleeting moment, he’d become Beam’s purpose. Like passing mist that covers everything in dew. Or a hurricane that tears even the oldest, heaviest trees from their roots. Denji had been just as temporary, anyway. But his aftermath, his absence weighs like the entire Earth is on Beam’s shoulders.

Beam had been delirious with love. With an urge to protect that coated him, overflowed out of him. And he’d failed.

He regretted, more than anything, not getting to know Denji more. Not having gotten the chance to share the infinite well of desire that he harbored within him. The desire to seize even one of the grains of gilded sand that bounced off Denji’s irises and glean his love reflected in it.

He forced himself to move on after a month of strained training and isolation. Yoshida came by often and helped him spar even if Beam didn’t want to. Galgali also dropped in, bringing him meals courtesy of his girlfriend, and tried his best to reassure him. They were the only ones who somewhat knew what Denji meant to Beam, the space that Beam had begun to carve for him in his life. It made things easier, even if it still felt like shards of glass were piercing his lungs.

It had been Yoshida who came up with the idea to increase the number of semi-pro matches the club put together. For weeks, they scheduled and advertised fights at rented venues, while still holding illegal, unregulated matches in secret. Both activities turned out to be very profitable for the club, and for Beam. He shone through in every single match, made a mess out of his opponent and the ring. It didn’t take long for pro scouts to have his name in their mouths.

And then the offer from Master Kishibe came. High visibility, lucrative sponsorships, elite representation across Japan and even internationally. It was a no-brainer to say yes. His stratospheric rise to stardom didn’t take long to happen.

So why is it that he puts up with the spectacle? What is it that he fights for, if everything that stirs passion has been drained from him?

“Denji,” had been his reply to Master Kishibe. “I do it for Denji.”

If Beam couldn’t see Denji, Beam would find a way for Denji to see him.

Wherever he is. If he’s even there at all. The single filament of hope, that Denji’s alive, that he’s well, the prospect of seeing his reflection on gilded sand again is what spurs him on.

Everything Denji had told him that would happen has materialized on his lap. Televised matches. Money. The attention of Japan. Impassioned legions of screaming fans, of which Denji would always be the first.

So let him rise. He’ll rise to the most stratospheric of heights if it means his path and Denji’s will cross again, even if it must be through the frost of a screen.

When he steps out from the ring and onto the backstage, he finally lets the façade drop.

The image he’s cultivated pulls from all his worst qualities: unrestrained, feral, a savage. A beast whose only instinct is to destroy, to tear and shred anything that crosses its path. Sometimes, they’ll make him spit out the mouthguard and bare his jagged teeth, and every time, it throws the audience into a frenzy. Some yell in fear-stricken hysteria, others marvel at the unusual feature. He always takes the chance to peer into the audience, and always finds a new reaction from them. Yet no matter how many times his eyes rove over the audience, he never finds what he’s truly looking for. Not a single strand of gold glimmers in the chaff.

So, the second he’s out of the panopticon of spectacle, his face goes slack. He finds he lacks anger or much of any feeling at all. Usually, he’ll get his share of the earnings the day after the match. And for the rest of the week, he’ll train without the rubber shackles of fiction, until it’s time to put them back on.

Master Kishibe is waiting for him, already enveloped in a screen of tobacco smoke. “Good job out there,” he praises, though his monotone voice doesn’t give it much weight. “You good?” he asks. It’s what he always asks. It’s obvious he never expects an honest response.

A non-committed grunt is all Beam manages.

“Good,” Master Kishibe says. He cuts right to the chase, walking alongside Beam into the locker room. “We just got an offer for a prime-time televised match. The most viewed slot in the country.”

“What amount?” Beam asks.

“10 million,” Master Kishibe replies, not batting an eye as Beam strips out of his show trunks. “And that’s before the royalties.”

“Not money. People.” Beam says, almost exasperated. Master Kishibe should know that Beam doesn’t care about money. The bigger the audience, the higher the chance that Denji’s watching.

“In person, 11,000. They estimate between 30 and 40 million on the telecast. They’ll be advertising heavily beforehand.”

That’s almost half of Japan. It’s a ridiculous number, but it’s perfect for Beam. And the advertising almost ensures that Denji will be tuning in. Beam finds himself smiling at the idea.

“Yes. I do it,” he says without preamble.

Master Kishibe takes a pull from his cigarette and blows. “You gonna put your pants on?”

“Ah… Yes!”

All that’s left is to hope that Denji has access to a TV. And the wish to see him.

———

With trepidation, Aki risks a glance at his watch, all too familiar with the threat that comes with knowing the time. For people as anxious as he is, it’s at once soothing and abrasive to know just how late he is. On one hand, he could be later than he is, but on the other, whether he is late or not depends entirely on the actions he chooses to take at this very instant. And he is also well acquainted with each of the factors that go into that calculation.

Aside from any subway delays (highly unlikely) or his alarm not ringing (even more so), the two main factors that could affect his outcome unfortunately come in a pair. A pair very well-attuned to each other, but not to anyone or anything else. And catastrophically for him, neither of them has even brushed their teeth yet.

Lord, have mercy on his soul.

“Power! Denji! What’s taking you two so long?!” Aki finally exclaims, his patience having long exhausted itself. “What’d you stay up late watching this time?”

The only response they deign him worthy of is a symphony of groaning and yawning, which takes root right where he’s the most irritable. He leverages the ultimate bargaining chip against them. He is left with no other choice. “If you aren’t ready in the next five minutes, there’s no breakfast.”

That seems to do the trick. Aki blinks and the two are clambering their way to the bathroom, fighting over who gets to brush their teeth first. Such a scene isn’t unusual at all in their little scrapbook of a household. It’s a normalcy none of them had experienced until now, but which somehow fit together seamless and magnetic into their lives.

Aki sighs, checking his watch again. Two minutes have passed. Somehow, the two of them have already emerged from the bathroom, teeth sparkling white, and uniforms put together haphazardly. Satisfied with what he’s seeing, Aki unleashes their reward, and they wolf it down in the three minutes they had left.

Perfect. If they keep up the pace, they won’t miss the train, and everyone will be on time. He ushers the two of them out the door, reminding Denji to be thorough with his disguise before they leave. Denji groans in response, evidently disgusted. He never did like having to do it.

But it had been necessary.

The state in which Aki had found him that night had been beyond critical. Limping, dragging his body forward past exhaustion and through sheer stubbornness. His life was a few breaths away from being extinguished. The blood loss had been incomprehensible. A gash below the rib and one near the jugular… At that moment, when Denji’s fate weighed heavy in his hands, Aki was grateful that he chose the path of medicine.

He carried Denji back to the hospital on his lonesome, his lanyard still hanging from his neck. Under typical circumstances, nursing was not an easy job. Having an acquaintance dying in your arms after your shift is over didn’t make it any easier. Throughout his agony, a name fell from Denji’s lips every so often.

Beam.

His survival had been nothing short of miraculous. The staff at the ER at that hour of the night had done a fantastic job. Aki had a barrage of questions for Denji once he was out of the woods. Through Denji’s interrupted answers, Aki constructed a mosaic of Denji that left him unable to think of much else for days. Denji’s had been a life of struggle, solitude and violence that, in certain ways, echoed Aki’s own.

Knowing the details of what transpired that night was the final nail in the coffin.

As a medical professional, and as someone who considered themselves a decent human being, he could not allow Denji to continue to be subjected to such a fate. He quit the fight club and devised a new life for Denji, one that he would provide without expectation of repayment. He’d already done it once before, anyway, so what difference did one more person under their roof make?

All of them know just how important it is to guarantee Denji’s safety. So even if he hates having to assume a falsehood, he does it anyway. Over the past months, the sacrifice had paid off. Denji has enjoyed normalcy for once in his life, and it doesn’t take much to understand he’d do anything to keep it that way.

They march down their sidewalk, promptly finding their way to the station. They take several different routes a week, sometimes splitting up, but never leaving Denji on his own. Denji had once told Aki that it made him feel like a celebrity with his own loyal bodyguards. Aki was just glad Denji had taken it so graciously.

Today, they’re doing the Shibuya circuit, which is why Aki had been in such a rush. It’s their longest route, and their most scenic. Aki had crafted the trips with enjoyment in mind, not just convenience or security. Denji would always light up when he got to see all the screens at Shibuya crossing, or when they passed by the maid cafés, or when he could grab a takoyaki from one of the stalls on their way back home. And in turn, Aki would feel like he was doing things right by him.

Which is why it’s so jarring when, right in the middle of Shibuya crossing, Denji ejects his breakfast all over the pavement.

Power’s rapturous laughter follows immediately, like a gruesome echo. “Look, Topknot! The fool has vacated his stomach!”

He disregards her in favor of rushing to Denji’s side.

“Denji? What’s wrong?” Aki asks, concern evident in his tone. The sight of Denji is a pitiful one: a hand on each knee, spine slouched forward, head tilted down to stare at his own vomit. His shoulders are a carousel heaving up and down. To respond to Aki, Denji raises one of his arms skywards. Aki follows the imaginary trail it projects all the way to a very large billboard and understands immediately.

Emblazoned along the façade of one of the buildings is Beam, clad in bombastic blue shorts, holding up a gloved fist to the firmament. Next to him is a big-shot fighter that’s considered undefeatable; between the two of them is a date for next month.

“Ah, that,” Aki says, bereft of words and much too conscious of his fuck-up. He sighs deeply, his mind already weighing whether he can afford to be reassuring more than being punctual right now. Unfortunately for Denji, punctuality wins this round. “Listen, Denji, I’ll explain on the way. Get yourself together, and let’s keep moving.”

“So, you knew?” Denji says, no small amount of irritation in his tone. “That Beam is some kinda star now? C’mon, Aki, you said there weren’t secrets between—” Another retch wracks through Denji’s body, but only spit comes out. Sweat is coating his forehead, and his skin has taken on a sicker-than-usual pallor. “—us.” Denji finishes, promptly wiping his mouth on Power’s blue jacket. She immediately retaliates with numerous old-timey insults and a slap to the head.

“You’re right, Denji. I’m sorry,” Aki says, trying his best not to let his exasperation leak through. “Let’s just get going. The light’s changing.”

That gets Denji moving but doesn’t do much to alleviate his mood. “So what? You didn’t think to tell me about this?” He admonishes as they cross the road.

“I did. I just didn’t know when the right time was,” Aki tries to justify. “I only found out a few weeks ago, myself. You know I cut off ties with that world,” he says, the ”for your sake” gone unsaid. Aki had assumed Denji wouldn’t want to hear anything that reminded him of his past, so he’d stayed quiet. Clearly, he doesn’t know him all that well yet. “But you’re right. I should’ve come told you.”

Denji just huffs out a “whatever” in response. Contrary to what Aki thought at first, Denji isn’t really one to hold grudges. He’s irritable, sure, but not really vengeful. Though he assumes that grace doesn’t extend to the people who tarnished his life.

“You’re taking us, though, right?” Denji adds, as if it was an afterthought, though the impish smile growing on his lips says otherwise. “To make up for it and all. I wanna see him, y’know.”

Aki sighs, partly out of relief that Denji’s already over it, partly out of exasperation. He knows he can’t really say no.

Before Aki can get a word in, Power pieces together the context and cackles some more. “Does Denji have a suitor? I must say, he has a remarkable musculature!”

Denji and Aki turn towards her, a deadpan “Power,” leaving their lips in unison.

“Oh, you men are sensitive!” Crossing her arms, she points her gaze at anything but them.

“You sure about this, Denji?” Aki asks. “It might put you in danger.”

“I don’t care,” Denji retorts, crossing his arms in a mirror image of Power’s. They’d look so much like twins if it wasn’t for Denji’s concealment. “I want to see him. Y’know, he probably thinks I’m dead.”

Aki relents. “Alright. We’ll go to his match together, all three of us.”

Power and Denji cheer at the same instant, but their mirth is cut short by Aki.  “On one condition.”

“Wuzzat?” Denji asks.

“No more sleeping late watching TV. That goes for you too, Power.”

“Aw, man…” Denji groans, at the same time Power exclaims, “What insolence!”

Another deep sigh exits Aki’s lungs. The two of them are irksome, inscrutable, and sometimes downright inhumane, yet he can’t help but indulge them.

The moment is sharply sliced through when Aki risks another glance at his watch.

Oh, they’re so late.

Three pairs of legs scamper down the pavement with the rhythm of several bullets ricocheting at once, trickling down into the train station and merging with the rest of the noise.

———

Denji isn’t sure which is heavier: his heart or his head.

Aki will probably scold him for the dent his shoes are making on the bathroom carpet, but he doesn’t care. For an unthinkable reason, he has decided to give himself one last look-over in front of the mirror, and this is the only private mirror in the house. It’s not like him to be obsessing over his appearance. Yet, this is the second such exception in his life, and both sprung from the same source. His eyes linger on his new look: deep-burnt hair and uncanny blue eyes. The contacts he’s been wearing every time he’s outside the house have been a nuisance, but not more than the dentures Aki’s forced him to put in over his jagged teeth.

It makes Denji feel inauthentic. Untrue, and in a way, undeserving of Beam’s attention. He wonders if Beam will recognize him at all, then mentally slaps himself at the absurdity of the idea. No one recognizes him now. The name he’s taken on rings a hollow sound, like cheap crystal would. It took weeks of diligent training for him to respond naturally to the name Hayakawa Taiyo.

“Who’s Taiyo?” he’d asked. Aki’s eyes took a cast of gloom as he revealed, “Someone important to me. He’s no longer here.”

  “So what? You’re gonna have me take his place?”

  “Yeah. For a while, anyway. Until it’s safe.”

At first, it felt absurd that Aki would go to this length to protect him of all people. But Denji isn’t any less grateful for it. For the first time, he’s living the life a guy his age should be living. He’s not starving himself every day to try to make the payment for his shitty fucking handler. He’s not corrupting his hands with blood jewels or sewer money. Instead, his greatest worry now is passing his last few exams so he can graduate. He’s looking forward to college. He doesn’t have to fight anymore. Not to live, not to prove his worth.

Seeing where Beam is now… It brings back a sliver of that dread, of the sinister jinx that was unfairly cast on his existence. 

A fuckin’ pro wrestler on TV. Just like Denji had said he should be. It feels like the world’s most targeted practical joke. Denji, nowhere near Beam; Beam, nowhere near Denji, accomplishing the exact goals he told Denji he had no interest in fulfilling. He has fans now, for fuck’s sake. People who pay insane amounts of money just to catch a glimpse of him. Just for him to breathe near them. He got that privilege before all of them, and now Beam’s there, higher than the highest clouds. Denji wants to be happy for him. His head urges him to be. But his heart counters: what of me? What of Denji? A faded mirage with only the lowliest dredges of himself left, forgotten in every way that matters.

Will he be able to look Beam in the eye? Will he care that Denji’s even there? It’s been months and he’s famous now. He’d be completely in his right to have forgotten him, too.

It's a cruel kind of jealousy that he doesn’t know what to make of. He looks at the oversized shirt he borrowed from Aki, and the slacks he doesn’t really like, and the shoes that were once covered and crusted over in his own blood; and lets his heart win, allows the arranged grief to pour into his gut.

A knock interrupts his train of thought. “Oi, Denji!” It’s Power. “We will be late if you don’t rush out of there!”

“Yeah, coming,” he dismisses. Something tightens in the mouth of his stomach. He runs wet fingers through his hair one last time and slings the door open.

Now it’s his steps that are heavy. He’s never quite shaken the habit of stomping his way down the street, classic chinpira attitude in every move he makes. He figures that’s what’s stopped him from being picked on at the new school. His roughness around the edges is what helped his classmates forgive the venial sin of being a country bumpkin. That’s what his story was, anyway.

Power walks with her arm looped through Denji’s. Her strawberry blonde hair naturally lands eyes on the pair of them. Like past versions of him, Power is a natural attention magnet. She doesn’t bother with dentures; she doesn’t bother with much of anything, really. Only recently, after months of Denji covering for her, has she started to fulfill her household chores with diligence. Or her approximation of it, anyway.

Aki’s trailing slightly behind them, cigarette lit as always, his eternal voluntary death sentence. Denji’s grown used to the stench, having associated it with his newfound safety. He finds it comforting now, and any time he smells Aki’s cigarette brand in the vicinity, it feels like he’s not far from home.

As they inch closer and closer to the venue, the crowds they snake and slit through become more and more homogenous. There comes a point where it’s obvious to Denji who’s here for Beam and who’s here for the other guy. Some people are wearing the most ridiculous fuckin’ masks he’s ever seen: The entire snout of a great white shark, that seems like it’s protruding from their frontal lobes, completely obscuring their eyes and part of their head. He wonders how they don’t trip and fall looking like that.

Power laughs openly at them, and Denji joins in. “Fiends, the two of you,” Aki half-scolds, half-quips. He reins them in with a hand on each shoulder. “Let’s stick together, we’re almost there.”

They wade through the crowd, and before he can steel himself, Denji is face to face with the venue.

The difference between this venue and the one where Yoshida lost to Beam is like land and sea. It’s a massive building, imposing though not very tall. Its sloped green roof like a carved crown of emerald. Denji would’ve maybe only seen buildings like this in his textbooks if he’d been paying attention. He and Power let out a “woaaah” in perfect sync, which prompts them to look at each other with mischief in mind. Brats that they are, they follow up with a “Jinx!” that gets the smallest smile out of Aki.

“C’mon, you two,” Aki shepherds them again, leading them towards the main gate. 

There are no bulky bodyguards to face off against this time. Just a couple of nice employees that rip their ticket stubs off and welcome them with a smile. Damn, Denji thinks, this is how you know he really made it. He’s kinda shocked Aki managed to get tickets for this.

The inside of the venue sprawls labyrinthine. It’s even more stunning than the outside. The actual field is bisected by four paths which converge into a square, where the ring has been erected like an omen. A massive Shintō roof floats directly on top of it. Given the fact they’ll be broadcasting live, there’s a bunch of cameras near the ring. It’s the kind of grandeur that one would imagine Beam should elicit. The knot in his gut tightens again.

“Doesn’t this bring back memories, Aki?” Denji quips, denture-clad teeth clacking uncomfortably into a grin. He elbows Aki despite himself. “Or should I say, Onion?”

Aki makes a show out of rolling his eyes back, clearly already pissed at being unable to smoke inside. “I’m surprised you’re bringing that up now.”

“Can’t help it,” Denji says, fighting back a chuckle. He turns to his sidekick, “Powy, did you know I almost kicked Aki in the b—"

Aki interrupts the sentence with a sharp strike on the back of the head. “Ow!” Denji yelps, Power cackles. Onion asshole.

“Behave. Let’s focus on getting to our seats.”

“Yes, dad,” Denji mocks.

They’re still ensconced deep in the crowd, which tries its best to filter steadily into the rows of seats. Shark head after shark head gives Denji whiplash. He can’t believe the sheer amount of them there are. They’ve got to have eyeholes or something. Some of the fans are wearing a mass-produced copy of Beam’s trunks, emblazoned with a bold shark in block Roman letters. It’s enough to send him into a tailspin, but he doesn’t let himself go there. Not yet. If he’s gonna go into crisis, it better be over Beam himself.

He’s never heard about the guy Beam’s fighting, but he’s attracted an unusual crowd. Just like how Beam’s fans are wearing a shark head, his supporters are wearing a skeletal kind of hat, triangular and horned. It’s gotta be a nightmare to sit behind one of those guys. The whole costume thing is a big contrast to how he’d expected boxing fans to behave, but it seems both Beam and this guy are an exception to the rule.

Fuck, the thought of that stings.

Finally in their seats, he turns to Aki again to ask for the time. It won’t be much longer until the moment of truth.

Restless, he entertains himself by licking the insides of his fake teeth, wonders if he’ll have to rip out the dentures just for a chance to get recognized. At surface, he figures that’s how a rabid fan desperate for attention would act. Doing some outlandish act out of the need to create memorability. But the difference between him and those pretenders is Beam would pay attention to him.

The lights begin to dim, and Denji’s heartbeat quickens. The TV crew starts to perform their broadcast tests and taking some B-roll of the audience before things get started. Some sort of high-energy soundtrack begins to play over the speakers. The anticipation in the room is a low-rolling heatwave. It’s only a matter of seconds, now.

Soon enough, the announcer’s booming voice comes to the forefront. “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Ryōgoku Kokugikan! We are broadcasting live nationwide through NHK, making sure all of Japan sees the glorious match we have for you today!”

The crowd roars, an outlet to unleash that pent-up excitement finally made viable.

“This is a much-anticipated face-off that has the potential to be legendary. Let me introduce our fighters!” The announcer remains unseen to the public, possibly locked behind a booth somewhere backstage, but his voice is as lively and entertaining as if he were standing smack-dab in the center of the ring.

“This is no small fry. A seasoned veteran, master of his craft in the heavyweight category, undefeated so long as he has stood in the ring—” a pause, for the guy’s fans to cheer, “Darkness Devil, make your enemies tremble!”

A black metal track pierces through the speakers, frenetic guitars and vitriolic screams a stark contrast to the almost sanctified scenery they bounce against. From one of the paths emerges a monolith of black. A void-like robe obscures every inch of skin from the neck down, and down his back flows long hair like a raven veil. The only speck of light is a white skeletal mask, exactly like the ones his supporters wear, though grander. The cameras catch the details of the symmetric white embroidery on the robe, two gnarly, bony bodies sustaining a totem of skulls. There’s no way to see the man’s appearance until he reaches the weigh-in area, which is when he rips off the entire ensemble and lets his visage be revealed.

When his face is uncovered, the cheers crescendo. He’s a tall, muscular man, his skin a deathly pale canvas for many inscriptions. Both arms are tattooed – his left, an image of corpses subjected to eternal damnation, disembodied arms and hands trying to claw their way out of hell; his right, a sequence of the moon as it waxes and wanes. His left shoulder bears the mark of a three-clawed laceration, and his right pectoral has the image of the skull his fans are wearing. Down his sides is a mirrored crisscross pattern that if one were to follow with a blade would completely disembowel him.

The song continues its rampage as Darkness Devil surveys the audience like a beast about to feast. His eyes are fangs that pierce into all that he sees. An almost primal fear takes over Denji’s senses. There comes a point where the cheers start to sound more like screams. Denji looks over at Power and is shocked to find her sweating profusely. Aki is similarly wary, eyes fixed on the man. Even the announcer seems spellbound. It doesn’t seem like his stage name is an exaggeration. Everyone can feel the dread surrounding this man.

Long seconds pass, and the spell is broken. When the announcer recovers his composure, so does the crowd, but Denji is still freaked the fuck out. “Let us begin the weigh-in for Darkness Devil!”

The man steps onto the scale, and the referee announces his weight at 102 kilograms. A beneficial condition for a heavyweight fighter, although his speed and reflexes could be compromised by a heftier bulk. Denji tries his best to avert his eyes from the man, sorely wishing that Beam could come out to rinse his mind.

Darkness Devil is instructed to step aside as his opponent makes his entrance. As he waits, two assistants rapidly begin braiding his hair close to his scalp.

“Alright, folks! Our other fighter tonight is a rookie that has blazed through the ranks. He’s been the talk of town for months, and his meteoric rise has led him here, to a glorious television debut! His fangs tear skin and bone, please welcome, Beam the Shark!”

From the other extreme emerges a solid frame of blue. Beam’s robe is not as nearly as ornamental as Darkness’s. The only detail Denji can see is a golden trim down the edges and on the sleeves. His skin is as tan as ever, and his deep blue hair contains the abyssal depth of the Pacific Ocean. Denji wishes he was closer so he could see that same profundity in his eyes.

Beam weighs in at 97 kilograms. More optimal than Darkness, yet those scant five kilograms could make a difference in the ring. They face off, and Beam seems completely undeterred by Darkness’s presence. Darkness is a few inches taller than Beam, and when he realizes this, he snarls a wild grin into Beam’s face. In the past, he probably would’ve shot back with his own feral expression. Now, Beam just stares straight ahead.

Weigh-in complete, they each get their mouthpieces in and slither onto their respective corners. They each get some last-minute stretches in as the announcer builds up every last bit of hype he can. “Will we witness history tonight here at the Ryōgoku Kokugikan, ladies and gentlemen? Will the veteran maintain his claim of glory, or will he be torn apart by the Shark’s fierce teeth? We shall see in just a moment!”

The referee is almost dwarfed by the two men as he instructs them to fist-bump. Beam does so perfunctorily, which makes Darkness smile. The entire venue buzzes with anticipation as the referee, the announcer and the bell all signal the beginning of the match simultaneously.

“Fight!”

Chapter Text

In another world, such a match has no reason to exist.

In another world, they are on such different scales of power that the mere suggestion would be laughable. Darkness Devil would decapitate the Shark with a mere thought, limbs and head fed to the sweetly rotting pit of the underworld, and that would be that.

But in this world, they share the limitations of a human vessel. In this world they are constrained in this ivory cage, ruled only by the law of fist. In this world they can make each other swollen and rabid. Here, their sweat can melt under terawatt lamps and their blood can mingle, get tainted with the murk of each other. And Darkness can never say no to that.

Despite initial unease in those first few rounds—testing Darkness’s give, putting it all into defense—the Shark kicks into overdrive in the fourth round, jumping from murky water to latch onto prey larger than himself. Purple blooming around the ribs, temple vein throbbing, the Shark sees no more reason to hold back, and so a complete and utter rampage is unleashed. Darkness is forced to duck to avoid his height being taken advantage of—uppercuts come a dime a dozen, and the referee is nearly victimized.

Darkness’s attempts at curdling his resolve in the following rounds are consistently unsuccessful, because the Shark has gotten his timing down to the microsecond. The price for Darkness’s failure? A knockdown—his first in years. Pathetic. The reaction from the crowd is unseemly, a self-perpetuating echo of horror and awe. There is no way to hide his distaste, not with the black mouthguard peeking between his lips. Withstanding the humiliation of a ten-count is enough to reignite Darkness’s bloodlust. It will not happen again.

And that is how he wins back the sixth round, the exact way a reigning champion should. With the perfect cocktail of strategy and violence; encroaching into the Shark’s space without faltering, reconquering the territory he had lost. But it turns out to be less a reconquest and more of a territorial dispute—the Shark refuses to hand over the advantage.

When Darkness lands a combination, the Shark responds with the equivalent of a mandible bite; when the Shark misses a blow there is no gap for him to try it again, as Darkness already has landed one of his own. If Darkness is about to push him to the ropes, the Shark has the foresight to duck or deflect, in one occasion managing to trap Darkness instead, battering him against the ropes until the referee steps in to break them up. Only once things are like this, once the shares of brutality are split right down the middle, can blood really start pumping.

What sets the Shark apart from the chaff, from every past fight, is the way he holds no preconceptions. He fights as he would fight anyone. There is nothing special about Darkness in his eyes. Maybe that’s what’s throwing Darkness off, what’s melting off his facade: he can’t get to him. The Shark can’t fall back on his demeanor or his reputation when his blows get sloppy. His fists are his testament, the sole tool with which he has chiseled his destiny. With each impact that ripples on Darkness’s face, every bruise he elicits on that monument of a body, the Shark is chipping away at a legend.

Three-minute intervals of bloodlust intercut by a few seconds of water-sipping and faces patted dry. It‘s hard not to swallow time like that, mired in the cycle of violence. The rounds stack up, and in an instant they’re wrapping up the tenth round, still locked in an impasse that neither is willing to break. Darkness has shown his ferocity at every turn, but after a barrage of headshots there’s been a slight delay to his reactions that hasn’t quite shaken yet. It is then when the Shark closes in, puts him against the ropes and lets his fists sing until the bell tells him to stop.

Two more rounds. Six minutes and some change. That is everything his legacy rests on. If he doesn’t snap out of it, Darkness Devil will be dethroned.

As if he’d ever let that happen.

The eleventh round kicks off with a visceral assault from the Shark, landing three headshots in quick succession that nearly topple Darkness again. Instead of diving back into the Shark’s personal space, he skirts around him, beckoning the Shark to be the one who breaches the boundaries.

From there, Darkness begins his counter-attack. A well-placed hit to the stomach has the Shark sputtering, all but spitting out the mouthguard. It is followed up by a combination of jabs to the ribcage—the Shark’s weak spot, the one he can defend the least. Given Darkness’s height advantage, it’s not hard to reach—he barely has to outstretch his arms to get there. It’s the place he has landed the most hits overall, a get-out-of-jail-free card that has yet to fail him. Then finally, once the Shark uncovers his face in expectation of a third body attack, Darkness lands a hit square on the chin, having finally climbed his way up to the prize.

The crowd goes wild once the Shark finally stumbles and hits the mat; his first time doing so in all thirty-something minutes of their bout. The referee ducks above him, loudly counting the seconds until he's back on his feet, not stopping until the Shark has confirmed he’s good to go. Only then does Darkness get a clear view, taking in just how much he has battered that body. The blood bursting through his forehead and dripping viscously down his nose and eyelid, the bruises that recall hydrangeas in bloom. There would be no greater reward than to tarnish it completely, to render it out of commission for good.

There is so much Darkness could take away from him.

Once he’s within range, the Shark wastes no time in reaping revenge. He even switches his stance mid-barrage, flipping Darkness’s calculations over, eliciting a salacious little chuckle from him. Humorous creature. Darkness tackles again, finally trapping him against the ropes, letting everything out. He’d been maneuvering the whole fight just to savor the sweetness of an ensnared foe. Both fists alternating, blow after blow rattling his head, scrambling whatever idea might be bubbling within. It’s delicious, but all too fleeting. He doesn’t get more than a dozen seconds of it before the referee is stepping in again, freeing the Shark from his confines.

The Shark is sluggish once he re-emerges, failing to land every hit—a mirror image of Darkness a few rounds before. Darkness goes for the body again in a slight show of mercy, not wanting to concuss the Shark too early. The fight is still thoroughly enjoyable, and so long as he gets what he needs, Darkness sees no reason to stop it. He squeezes the remaining seconds of the round with yet another knockdown before the bell freezes everything. The round is incontestably his. As it should be.

Finally able to perceive the crowd, Darkness smiles. There is always a degree of agony mixed within the praise, and this time it comes from the Shark’s camp. He soaks it all up, crown recouped if only for now. The water that washes his throat tastes of blood.

Darkness takes the moment of rest to give a silent signal to his team. It’s a well-oiled procedure, a failsafe in case the worst comes. No glory is too large to be taken away, none but Darkness’s own. They silently nod, and once he’s back on his feet, they scatter to begin the preparations.

The final round commences and Darkness tears into the Shark without abandon, a beast digging its fangs into the tender neck of prey. He’s as light on his feet as he’s ever been, taking the Shark on a pauseless chase around the ring. The momentum he’d built in the last round carries over, slicks his movements, makes the fibers in every muscle release with explosive potency. His prey is staggered, punch after unsuccessful punch thrown almost carelessly. Darkness likes it like this, when they begin to lose reason, when the adrenaline has worn off and all they can do is try. Try, because they will not succeed. The match is close to over. There is no way to salvage this.

Darkness pushes him to the ropes once again, but instead of the expected entrapment, the Shark bounces off of them and all but throws himself onto Darkness’s body. The pummeling his face and body receive simultaneously is unbelievable. Had his team given him something when Darkness wasn’t looking? Next time he gets a visual on his face, he hunts for the dilated pupils, for the quickened breath, and finds nothing.

No, this is not doping. This is the instinct of war.

———

A minute on the clock remains.

Every one of Beam’s cells is nourished with embattled oxygen with every pulse and every inhale. His world is narrowed down to his fists and their target. He has lost count of how many hits he’s landed. The man in front of him sneers behind his gloves. He follows a sequence of chest, chest, head, ribs, chin; then he goes southpaw to throw a left hook to the head again. Blood is running freely down Darkness Devil’s brow bone through to his temple and finally his jaw. A grin of black plastic is nothing but an incentive to go wilder, to finish it.

And so he does. It takes one blow to the side of the jaw to bring Darkness Devil down at last. His knees, bastions of fortitude, finally seem to buckle under the weight of all one hundred and two kilograms of him. His toppling is the fall of a great mountain, the roaring of a landslide, the demolition of an oppressive wall. The echo of Darkness Devil's defeat is heard by all. And for that singular instant, when gravity reaps what is hers, sound exists in a vacuum. Nobody can hear any other person's breathing. There is no music, no blaring over the loudspeaker, no shutter of cameras. Only the crumbling of a monolith.

And then, everything erupts. Geysers of gushing saliva make their way into the air, absolved of tension. Guttural voices crawl out from windpipes, both in celebration and in condemnation. No doubt, some people have fainted, unable to process what they had just witnessed. History—not only for Japan, but for heavyweight boxing as a whole. That the name of Beam will complete its ascension is no longer a certainty, but a truth that time will surely reinforce. Darkness Devil, heavyweight champion, the name most feared and revered in his category, has been defeated for the first time.

The announcer's voice takes eternities to return. “Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice comes out strained, surely in disbelief himself. “History has been rewritten here at the Ryōgoku Kokugikan! Please, your most vigorous round of applause for your new champion… Beam the Shark!” Every vowel comes out elongated and drenched in spectacle—the only way a victor’s name should be called. Still, his request is redundant. Unneeded. The tidal wave of sound that swallows the venue is deafening. It is of a magnitude appropriate for what has just happened.

Beneath the sanctified Shinto roof, smack-dab in the middle of the ring, Beam stands alone. Unmoving, untouched by the surrounding shock. No outstretched victorious arm, no smile so sharp it’s a threat, no relishing in glory. Not yet. From the moment his victory was decided, he’s been scanning the seats with single-minded focus. One casual observer will read it as a sober moment of incredulity. Another, as humility; taking a moment to soak in the admiration of those who brought him to this moment. Neither will be correct, but it doesn’t matter. Because a moment later, Beam jumps onto the ropes, a winning smile plastered on his face. Caked in a titan’s blood, his fist has renewed its worth as it finally points to the firmament.

“What a marvelous performance! What an unbelievable outcome! I can hardly believe it myself!” No words the announcer can come up with can really encapsulate the scene. It’s the kind of story that parents will tell their children with no need for embellishment. A venue worker passes a microphone to Beam’s assistant, who in turn relays it to Beam. “Let’s hear some words from our victor! The stage is yours, Beam!”

The microphone feels like lead in Beam’s hand. With the heat of millions of eyes on him, he struggles to find relevant words. Nothing new there. But with a heart emboldened by adrenaline, he lets the dam open anyway. “Ah, thanks so much! Everyone supporting me, thank you. Wouldn’t be here without you.” The classic open—humble, reverential, what the media loves to hear. Then, he pivots to what has been gnawing at him since before he stepped on the ring. The very reason he took on the match. Staring straight at the main camera, solemnity coats his tone as he speaks. “But wanted to say, there is one person watching—I hope so—and want to acknowledge. You are the reason I kept boxing.”

The crowd makes the kind of sound that a sight of a kitten would elicit. “Wherever you are, thank you.” Beam steps away from the camera, and stares back at the crowd. “The devil is defeated!” In these words, he recovers his usual vitality. “Today, we made history!” Now, he unleashes the kicker, the part that will really drive the crowd wild. He rips out his mouthguard, letting every possible source of light concentrate on the jagged peaks, and growls into the microphone. The sound of a beast. And it echoes in every corner of the venue from the mouths of his every fan.

Fist outstretched one last time, Beam bids a hasty farewell and hands back the mic. But there is no world in which he’ll take this sight for granted. In the midst of the frenzy, he gives the audience another once-over. Takes in their faces, commits the overjoyment, the pride to memory. But he also searches, sifts through feature after feature, to no avail. There is not a single person that resembles his target.

There's something off, though. As if a switch had been flipped, every expression he lands on is no longer jubilant. Wide, open mouths; some covered hastily by hands, some left to hang and vociferate, unable to be contained. The symphony of admiration has been truncated; replaced instead by a solitary chiming of bells. Melodious, almost playful, like the wind of spring sneaking up behind him.

When Beam turns around, a blade is plunged somewhere below his ribs.

Enough adrenaline still courses through his body to prevent him from feeling it, at least in its full devastation. But there is no mistaking what is happening. A pause in Darkness’ movement allows the blood to rinse his skin, allows for red to taint the ring; lets the dermis and fascia and peritoneum come apart fully before advancing another inch. It is a jagged movement, and now Beam can feel it, right as it approaches his intestine. Feels the searing hot agony that comes with slow-motion disembowelment.

“You thought you’d won?” That voice, necrotic and festering, cuts just as sharply as the blade. It comes condensed with their proximity, so as to ensure only Beam can hear it. “Nothing can escape me. Let alone defeat me.”

Beam bares his teeth, growling and screaming with the savagery that is his trademark. He lunges at Darkness, undeterred by the existential threat posed by his weapon. He is losing tremendous blood, but a rage so deep it lacks a name propels him forward. Gloves removed, he can freely attack Darkness’s face; clawing at his eyes, his vascular neck, any skin he can get his hands on. Darkness Devil lets Beam get his fill, indulges his tantrum for the briefest of moments. No words are exchanged in those seconds, only credentials of inhumanity. In the edge of the ring, swathes of men in suits do not intervene, letting pandemonium consume the venue.

“Even the sun lives suspended in darkness,” comes the slithering whisper, every ounce leaden. Now, it’s Beam who doesn’t move. It is not defeat to know when to stand down. That’s not to say he takes it quietly; he’s as close as Darkness allows, up in his face, guttural noises exiting him, equal measures defiant and suffering. Darkness extracts the knife and plunges it again, creating a symmetric path of wound on the other side. “Once you’re marked up like this, gutting you will be no issue.”

If Beam is to be put down, let him be put down as a beast. Savage and untamed to his very core.

The knife is dislodged from Beam’s peritoneum. Beam’s body has sprung a river of smoldering crimson; he has no choice but to reunite with the ground. Gravity does the work for him; he slumps to his knees and finally, to his side. “You…” Beam growls in between bursts of blood. “I’ll kill… you…”

Darkness Devil makes a final incision that tethers Beam to where he is. A final declaration of supremacy.

There is something in the way Beam breathes, ragged and unpredictable, that resembles the ebb of the tide. His lungs contract as the waves leave the shore, its millions of grains left only with the lick of their trace. His sight follows a dotted line right to where Darkness’s schadenfreude takes form—that sickening smile, there solely to deepen Beam’s anguish. The erratic beating coming from his own ribcage has rendered Beam mostly deaf, so it is the slightest quiver in Darkness’s expression that tips him off. His eyes dart away from Beam, regarding the world beyond the two of them for only a moment, just to return with quadruple the venom in their depths.

“Your hero,” Darkness mouths, but Beam can’t hear. “Came too late.”

Beam adjusts his line of sight within his capabilities, still pinned where Darkness has impaled him. A majority of the seats have emptied out in the panic, but even if they hadn’t, Beam would've been able to see without issue what had drawn Darkness’s eye.

Just beyond the border between the ring and the venue is a young man being restrained through his rampage. Arms like crowbars hold him down, but still he writhes and screams in a way that echoes Beam, as though he was sharing his pain. Between the distance and the agony, Beam can't make out the face, but he has only seen body language like that once before.

A singular strike of lightning blows the last scraps of his lucidity into overdrive. He can finally hear it, that voice—the gravity of it rivaling the very Earth’s, drawing Beam into it with might. The syllable crosses the air through to his eardrum with complete clarity.

“Beam!”

Denji.

There is a wet squelch as Beam slides up the blade to get a better look. When their gazes cross, understanding comes in a single strike. Deep blue eyes, much like Beam’s own. Black hair, like Beam’s would be had he not dyed it. These are unfamiliar features, but the rest of his face? The nose bridge, the way his eyes droop on either end, the deep bags under the eyelids, the distinctive shape of his lips. An expanse of untouched marble that not even Beam could hope to touch.

He refuses to believe it, that first moment. After all, it could be his mind giving him a parting gift; the last thing his neurons produce before they fizzle out like supernovas.

“Denji,” Beam gurgles, still holding his gaze. “It was not… in vain…”

“Beam!” Denji is the image of despair. “Don’t you fucking dare!”

Above him, Darkness Devil groans, a sound that could almost pass for human. “Enough,” he says, removing his blade from where it skewers Beam's spleen. Not even Beam’s exsanguination seems to bring him pleasure anymore—that sickly smile has been wiped clean off his face. He leans close, to where he’s almost touching Beam’s lips. “Death will claim you soon. And he is next.”

Darkness retreats but Beam cannot hear it. He is now not more than an avenue of blood; his quickened heart rate only draining him faster. He cannot allow Denji to be touched by this poison. With suddenly unearthed force, he crawls to catch up with Darkness, eye level with his ankle, and bites.

Beam’s jagged teeth easily take hold of the skin, penetrating layer after layer of dermis, ligament, joint and muscle until they claim cartilage and bone. Once his prey has been caught, there is only one thing for Beam to do.

Darkness Devil falls to the ground for the second time today. Not even he can contain the agony that rips him apart.

Trapped in Beam's jaws is a severed Achilles' heel, atrophied and forever tense, never to be used again.

The knife clatters somewhere, unseen by Beam. There is not much more time. He takes another look at Denji. Even in disguise, there is no sight he would rather have as his last. There is a tension in his face that lets him know he is smiling like an idiot, the way he always does in Denji’s presence. He wishes he could understand the expression in Denji’s eyes, could see the tears that have tainted his face. But things are blurring by the second. And even when everything has turned indistinguishable, when it all blends into a singular shape, he will have the satisfaction that it was all for something. That his life had fulfilled its purpose.

Beam succumbs to the most primal darkness, and all is silent.