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You’ve been managing the boxing gym for a good few years, long enough that you’re pretty accustomed to the controlled violence in the ring. You’ve seen these men (and the few women) who frequent your workplace all bloodied up at each others’ hands more times than you can even count.
You’re no stranger to a gaping wound on someone’s forehead or a stream of blood flowing over a cheek. You’ve mopped the sticky red substance off the floor of the ring on several occasions.
There is, however, one boxer that makes your stomach churn every time you see him sporting an injury.
A bit short and slight, lightweight class boxer Kim Hongjoong has become a good friend to you, and he's the one athlete that you can’t stand to see in the ring, in spite of the fact that he’s so passionate for his sport.
Hongjoong had first waltzed into the gym some three years ago. When you first saw him with his somewhat eccentric style and brightly colored hair, you initially thought he was in the wrong place. Until you saw him fight, that is.
What Hongjoong lacks in size he makes up for in grit.
Whenever he fights, he glides across the ring like a gazelle, barely seeming to break a sweat as he dodges his opponents strikes. He boxes with a certain swagger, the same kind he carries in his day to day life.
The only problem with Hongjoong is that he never knows when to give up. Even if it’s clear he’s going to lose a fight, he keeps going until his lips are swollen and his face is bruised dark shades of purple, until he's beaten to a pulp and gasping for air. You can’t remember the last time you saw him without some kind of injury.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Hongjoong singsongs as he strolls into the gym like he does nearly every day. “How’s it going?”
The boxer wears a big smile on his face, his eyes wide and glossy and the corners of his mouth curled up in the most charming way. His sunny disposition stands in clear contrast to the faded shiner around his eye.
“Good afternoon, Hongjoong,” you greet back. “I was wondering when you’d finally show your face around here.”
“Sorry I’m late. I decided to dye my hair for the fight tonight.” He grins that signature grin, giving you a little pose as he shows off his new look. “What do ya think?”
Gone is his fading blonde, replaced by a bright, almost blinding red, the color of a stop sign or a fire hydrant.
“It’s nice,” you reply, “It’s no blue, though.”
“You’re never letting that blue go, are you?”
“Nope.”
He tosses his duffel bag down, rifling through it until out come his gloves and his bandages. You watch as he wraps his hands, cotton flexing over his strong yet delicate knuckles. He bites his lip as he concentrates, and his newly red locks fall over his eyes.
“That dye is gonna bleed all over once you start sweating, you know,” you remind him as you eye the red that’s so fresh you can practically smell the dye.
“I know.” He glances up at you. “It’ll blend in with the blood.”
You grimace at his words and the fact that even he himself knows that he’s probably going to end up bloodied by the end of the night. Because of course he knows. He’s the first one to realize when he’s gotten himself into a losing battle, but he doesn’t ever give up because that’s just not who Kim Hongjoong is.
Hongjoong is not a quitter. There’s something inside him that tells him to keep going even when the prospects look bleak. That’s how he wound up here despite all the people who told him he doesn’t have what it takes to be a fighter.
Hongjoong is the most hard working athlete in your gym. He’s here like clockwork every day, long before any of the other boxers arrive, and he stays later than them all.
It’s that tenacity that draws you to him, yet it’s the same quality that makes you fear for his well being.
You keep yourself busy while he warms up, though you periodically glance at the man like you often find yourself doing these days.
Behind Hongjoong’s rough exterior is a very charming young man. You like the graceful slope of his thin, pointed noise. You like the way his lips thin out and curl up as he smiles. You like the glints of joy in his expressive eyes when he’s doing what he loves.
You like him.
It’s hard to admit to yourself, but you like him a lot.
You make up a million excuses as to why that doesn’t make sense, why it wouldn’t ever work, if only to guard your own heart from the pain of rejection. You’re not his type. He’s too busy to date. You don’t want to risk losing a friend. Because of these reasons, you keep your little crush to yourself, your own little secret.
You quietly do your job, your eyes always wandering over to his form, as if they move on their own accord.
Hongjoong trains for hours until fighting time grows nearer.
Your gym is probably the biggest one in town, and in addition to being a hot spot for training athletes, some small-time fights are held between boxers every week. Hongjoong is one of those amateur boxers. He hasn’t made it big yet, but he swears he will.
People begin to flood into the gym. Some are fighters. Some come to watch.
You check the roster and find that Hongjoong’s fight is first up, which makes you abandon your work at your desk to go out to stand by the ring. No matter how much it pains you to see him being beat on, you wouldn’t miss one of Hongjoong’s fights for the world.
You see Hongjoong hyping himself up in the corner of the ring, your eyes drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
When it’s time to fight, he sheds his robe, revealing his bare torso. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his lean, sinewy muscles. He’s just so attractive.
Finally, when both fighters are ready, the referee blows his whistle signaling the beginning of the first round. The two men start their dance, shuffling on light feet and looking for an opening.
Hongjoong is the first fighter to throw a punch. He sends a gloved fist sailing, to which the other fighter ducks. Hongjoong retreats before his opponent can strike back.
You watch with all the anxiety building in the pit of your stomach for someone to land a punch. It always seems like the first blow sets the tone for the rest of the round. Naturally, you’re hoping the one to lead will be the fiery-haired young man.
Finally, the first punch makes contact with flesh, and it’s landed by the opponent. You mutter a “fuck” under your breath.
It seems as if the fight goes on exactly as you feared it would. You were praying for a quick win from Hongjoong. Instead, it drags on round after round, Hongjoong getting his ass handed to him.
You can’t help but physically wince every time he’s hit.
By the time the second round is over, Hongjoong is beat up pretty badly. He leans against the ropes and spits a mouthful of blood to the floor, saliva mixed with bright red dribbling down his chin.
“You should just give it up,” you find yourself saying to him.
He peers at you from above, that angelic face hanging over you like he just descended from the heavens. “And why would I do that?”
You want to tell him it’s because you can’t stand to see him hurt, instead you joke, “You’re getting blood all over my ring after I just mopped this morning.”
He just shakes his head and chuckles, turning away from you as he readies himself for the last round. As soon as he’s not looking at you anymore, your forced smile turns back into a frown.
The final round starts, and you find yourself having to look away. You can’t take it, watching him suffer. When he lets out a cry of pain, your stomach turns, and it suddenly feels as if you might be ill.
The fight finally ends as expected, with Hongjoong’s limp body on the floor of the ring. The referee counts to ten, and the match is called.
While the other fighter is celebrating, your friend is a pathetic puddle of a human. You move to the edge of the ropes, peering out at him. His eyes find yours, and he sighs.
“Don’t give me that look,” Hongjoong croaks.
“What look?”
“That disappointed look you have every time I lose.”
“I’m not disappointed.” You’re sad. You pull yourself into the ring, reaching out a hand toward Hongjoong. “Get up. I’ll help clean you up.”
He tosses his gloves off, abandoning them near his corner, atop his robe. Then he grabs your arms, letting you help pull him to his feet. You force him to sling his arm around your shoulder and lean against you as you lead him toward a chair.
“Sorry I’m getting blood and sweat all over you,” he apologizes as he limps along, body pressed into your side.
“And hair dye,” you remind him. “Not that I mind.”
He laughs softly and nods. “And hair dye. It did blend in with the blood like I said it would, didn’t it?”
You ignore his comment, and command him to sit in the chair not far from your desk. You fetch a first aid kit and go to begin your work.
With a gentle hand, you dab the blood off his nose, lips and chin. The gore stains the cloth. As you wipe at his softly parted lip, you feel his eyes heavy on you.
“What?” you ask, making eye contact in a glance.
“Nothing.” He averts his eyes. “I just wanna say thanks. For caring, I mean.”
“Of course. We’re friends.” Well, you care about him in a more than friendly way, but you’re not planning to let him in on that fact any time soon.
You set the rag down and pick up bandages, turning your attention toward the gash around his eye. You close it shut with the medical tape.
You wish you could tell him to put the gloves down, to get a normal job and stop fighting like he’s invincible. At the same time, you could never request that he quit the sport he clearly loves so much.
If only you could care a little less about him. But whenever you see those shiny, kind eyes, you know he’s not going to release that grip he has on you any time soon.
You look down to rummage through the first aid kit and suddenly you feel Hongjoong’s fingers under your chin, and he’s raising your face to look at him.
“Let me tell you something,” he says with a smirk. Your heart pounds in your chest at the contact. “I’m gonna win the next fight for you. Mark my words, I’m giving you a win.”
“Okay,” you choke out, your words coming out much more strangled and less confident. You pray to God he doesn’t notice the effect he has on you.
He drops his hand and rises to his feet. “And with that, I’m hitting the showers.”
“Wait! Hongjoong, I’m not done!” you call after him.
He simply waves you off, disappearing into the men’s locker room, to which you scoff. That man is impossibly stubborn, but he’s also thrilling and charming and gorgeous and everything you’ve ever dreamed of.
You think about the feeling of his strong hand on your face and his promise to win a fight for you. You smile, and a blush tinges your cheeks.
That Kim Hongjoong is going to be the death of you.