Fight or Flight
Flashback
It was Barty’s tenth birthday; he’d been sitting at the table with his mother eating the cake she’d baked for him, when his father called him from the other room. He excused himself from the table, although his mother followed him closely.
“Yes, father?” His voice was small, timid. Barty had always been afraid of his father. “Follow me,” His father’s voice wasn’t happy, but it didn’t have any tone of anger or disappointment. Barty followed his father to the garage, a tall blanket-covered item stood near one of the corners. His father stopped a few paces from it, looking at him expectedly. Barty grabbed the sheet, tugging it off. A punching bag stood in front of him, red and brand new.
“You’ve been asking for one for years, better make use of it. Close your mouth.” His father said curtly. Barty’d been staring in awe, his father got him something he wanted? He had gone to put his arms around his dad in a thankful hug, only to be stopped.
Of course, boys don’t hug their fathers. That was a moment of short happiness over.
Present Day
Barty was 17, fresh out of high school. He was training in the overwhelmingly hot boxing gym, having begged his dad to let him start professionally and get lessons with a real person. His pale, inked skin shone with sweat, his black tank top sticking against his skin as he punched. The gym didn’t have many people come by, so when the door opened Barty was naturally curious. A dark-skinned boy with blonde decorated dreads had walked in, a cut up and slightly cropped tank top hung loosely from his body while loose and wide black jeans hung from his hips. He seemed rather out of place. The boy looked around; curiosity painted on his face. Barty was close enough to his break, pulling off his gloves.
“You lost?” he asked him, grabbing his water bottle and wiping sweat off his forehead with the bottom of his tank top. The boys' dark eyes lingered on Barty’s exposed abs for a mere moment, then looked up to meet Barty’s bright green eyes.
“No, uh, how much would it cost to start training here?” he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Barty raised his eyebrows, this guy wanted to train here? “Not that much, why? You looking to start training?” Barty was unwrapping the muscle tape from his hands, looking up at him.
The blonde shrugged “I dunno, maybe. I don’t fancy getting my teeth knocked out though. I could be a medic; I have first aid training.” He took his hands out of his pockets, picking at his nails and looking at his hands.
Barty sighed; the owner wasn’t here today but it was worth a try. They were lacking in healers.
He lounged over to reception, plucking a form from the unmanned desk and handing it to him, receiving a curt ‘thank you’ in response as the slightly taller boy sat. Barty watched as he wrote his name “Evan Rosier? You French?” he asked, walking a bit away and sitting on top of the front desk.
Evan nodded, not looking up from the page. “Yeah, I don’t speak much though. Ironic, I know,” Barty just shrugged “I’m Russian and I’m not fluid in it yet. My dad gets all pissed when I don’t understand him,” He sighed, leaning back on his hands. “We went to the same school, right? We had a couple classes together over the years, yeah?”
Evan paused his writing, looking up. “I knew you looked familiar, you’re that rich dick who got shit-faced every other day,” Evan grinned, continuing to fill out the form.
“I wasn’t shit-faced every other day, I was shit-faced every day.” Barty retorted “Glad that’s what you think of me,” A stupid grin on his face.
Evan hummed in response, finishing the form and handing it to Barty as a playful smile painted on his lips. Barty scanned over it and looked up at Evan “I’ll give it to the boss, and you should receive a call in a few days or two, goldilocks,” Evan’s eyebrow raised at the nickname. They’ve known each other for less than an hour, though he didn’t say anything against it.
✭✭✭
Barty had an upcoming fight this Saturday, and Evan had just been welcomed to the work. Luckily enough for them, Evan was Barty’s personal medic; thus, a relationship began to form. Barty was sitting in one of the back rooms, wrapping the tape carefully around his hands, when Evan wandered in. He looked bored, leaning against the wall as he watched Barty wrap his hand. “Why do boxers use that shit? Isn’t it uncomfortable?”
Barty looked up at the question and shrugged “Kinda, but it adds support for the wrist and knuckles. Less injuries that way, I guess,” Just as he finished his sentence, his father walked in. His dad didn’t know shit about boxing until Barty wanted to go pro, so he (surprisingly) took liberty to learn just so he could coach his son. Wasn’t a very good coach, yelling and screaming at him every time he messed up or lost. Barty couldn’t do anything about it, he’d lose the funding for his lessons / fights if he spoke up. Tough luck. “Why aren’t you ready yet? They’re going to call you out any second now!” His voice was harsh, ushering Barty to hurry up.”
Barty gave Evan a ‘Help me.’ look before strapping his gloves on. “Yes, father,” He said the word with an indifferent tone, standing up. Evan smiled, amused, at him, following him out the door and into the crowd. He took a seat near the door, ready to follow him back to the back room and patch him up.
After The Fight*
Barty had one, just barely. If he hadn’t have gotten that last punch in, he’d have been dead meat. His lip and eyebrow were split, his nose bloody, a black eye blooming, and his knuckles hurting as his father an Evan followed him to the back room. His dad clenched his fists and took a deep breath, turning to face Barty. “You made a fool of yourself out there, you almost lost!” He hissed through his teeth.
Barty sulked and started unraveling the tape on his hands “Yeah, but I didn’t.” He muttered as Evan brough out a small first-aid kit. His dark brown eyes glanced between the father and son, a little uncomfortable. “Don’t you get snarky with me!” Barty Sr snapped, his eyes finding Evan and taking a deep breath. “I’m leaving, I don’t care if you come home or not. Just be here for the next fight.” And he left without a word.
Evan watched him leave as he wiped the blood from Barty’s face “He’s an interesting character,” He said lightly, just to try and lift the mood. Barty closed his eyes, his chest heaving angrily as he felt Evan’s slightly rough hands against his face. “Yeah, worse when you’ve lived with him for almost 18 years,” He sighed, opening his eyes and looking at Evan’s.
He watched Evan examine his hand and as he smiled and happily announced “No lasting injuries, you’re fine. Although you will have a black eye for a bit. Want me to kiss it better?” He joked, grinning at Barty. Barty exhaled a short laugh, grinning up at Evan. “I would love that, but I don’t think you’d like to kiss my sweaty face,”
Evan raised his eyes in mere amusement “You’d be surprised, pretty boy. You got anything planned after this?” He closed the first-aid kit, waiting for the others' response.
Barty shook his sweaty head, standing up and stretching his back. “Probably just gonna shower quick and hit the bar, fake ID’s work wonders.” He grinned at Evan, heading towards the showers.
“Mm, I know a couple people who are having a party, wanna join?” Evan said “After you shower, you fucking stink like a sewer rat,” He grinned, a joking tone lacing his words. Barty shrugged “Sure, why not?” He said and went to shower as Evan pulled out his phone and sat down.