Chapter Text
He greedily gasps for air, barely managing to stay on his feet. He can’t properly slide his mouthguard back in—his lips are swollen, bloody, and slowly going numb. His coach, standing just beyond the ropes, pats him on the back and fires him up for the fight. Amidst the aggressive stream of words, curses are plentiful, but never insults.
Liming curses his opponent in his mind, calling him every name in the book—filth, scum—though he himself looks like he’s been through hell and back. His ears ring, the coach’s voice blending with the roar of the crowd and the booming commentary from the sports reporters watching from the packed-to-the-brim stands. The harsh white lights burn his eyes, and if he could, he would close them forever. But he can’t afford to. He can’t dwell on his weaknesses, the bruises, the aching organs twisting in pain, or his swollen eyes. He has to stay sharp, to control the situation—just as he must control the boxer standing across from him in the opposite corner of the ring.
He breathes heavily, nodding slightly, barely aware of his surroundings, but he knows one thing—he will leave this fight victorious, as the contender for the world championship title. He’s confident—too confident—but that gives him an edge because the word “defeat” has never crossed his mind. It almost seems like Ming doesn’t even have that word in his vocabulary, as if he doesn’t understand its meaning at all.
He can’t afford to fail. He trained too hard to just collapse and get knocked out. With a trembling hand, he grabs the small cross dangling from his chain, kissing it with tears in his eyes. He believes his father is watching from above, and he has to win for him—he simply has to, so his father can finally be proud of him. He knows he’ll never be as good as him, so he has to try harder, sharpen his senses, use his secret weapons, think strategically, and breathe steadily. He feels the pressure, but he’s motivated to go for gold, to finally turn his dreams—or rather, his goals—into reality.
He slides on his red, sweat-soaked, bloodstained gloves. He takes one last desperate sip from the crushed water bottle before carelessly tossing it toward the crowd. Then, he turns to his coach, grabbing his head and pressing their foreheads together. He says nothing—he only listens.
“You’re the best, Ming. You’re the strongest, and you’ll win. Understand? You’re a fucking winner! The best, the best. Take that bastard down and tear up the ring with him. You’ll do it, why? Because you’re, damn it, the best!” His father’s friend gasps, because at this stage of the fight, there’s no point in wasting time with golden advice. The retired boxer knows that Liming is too dazed to understand anything or form a strategy in his mind, and the only deciding factor now is belief, a huge amount of motivation. Because without it, even the best—like the son of a legend—are nothing. They’re losers of their own minds and weaknesses.
Liming has no weaknesses, he’s been telling himself this for years, and this method seems to be infallible. After all, he’s never lost on this kind of stage.
He opens his mouth, and the mouthguard is shoved in by the person closest to him. He starts to jump in place, poorly, trying to warm up his muscles, trying to pump himself up as much as possible. He hits the ropes, making them vibrate, repeating in his head: “the best, the best” and already knows the spot in the finals is his. He hears the announcement, then feels the referee’s hand on his shoulder, calling him to order and telling him to stand in the center, face to face with his opponent. He doesn’t have to listen to him; he knows the rules by heart, they’ve been drilled into him since childhood, but that doesn’t mean he strictly follows them.
He fights fair, but exceptions do happen. He’s a cynic, often downplaying risks, looking at his opponents with pity, mocking them at every turn. Provocative nudges and clowning around are his trademarks, but only at the beginning of each fight. By the last round, he’s too exhausted to think about jokes or showing off. The crowd loves him anyway, at least a significant part of it, not put off by Ming’s arrogant and haughty behavior.
“Those who can’t keep up, drop out.”
The gong sounds, the timer starts as he gives his equally exhausted opponent a glove tap with fake respect. The Canadian is good, but Liming knows he’s better.
After all, he’s the best, to be precise.
He ostentatiously tries to gauge his opponent, keeping his guard up and dodging increasingly faster blows from the rival. All of his moves are easy to predict, which the brunet uses every time, almost playing with his opponent. He takes a few hits, one, two, three, but they’re not too strong, and most of them miss. He sees resignation in the swollen eyes of the man, even though his own vision is limited, and he’s breathing shallowly. He could end this fight in a matter of seconds, but, as usual, he wants to put on a show so that everyone in the stands and in front of the TVs can see it.
He sets a furious pace, delivering powerful blows to the Canadian’s exposed stomach, and when the man bends over, both hands going to the spot where Liming relentlessly battered him, he lands a precise blow. What an idiot for not protecting his head, the head that supposedly the best boxer in the ring has just knocked out, as the arena erupts in a terrifying scream and cheers for the Thai’s fans.
He bends down, panting, resting his gloves on his knees, listening to the referee’s countdown. He looks at the defeated man, unable to fight, with a sly smile. The sweet taste of victory is getting closer as he hears the eighth second.
He spits out the mouthguard and raises his hands to the sky with a loud roar. After a brief moment, his coach and the whole team rush to him, surrounding him and lifting him up, congratulating him. He feels proud as he sees his photo and snippets of the fight on the massive screen, along with the message that he has made it to the finals.
He doesn’t know who he will face yet, as the other semifinal will take place next week, but at this moment, he doesn’t care. After all, he never lets his battered head be bothered by anyone or anything. Sports are his life, and the title will just be the cherry on top of his perfect and fast career.
He smiles from ear to ear, seeing the screaming fans around the ring. He knows that soon he’ll sleep with one of them, maybe even a few, because these idiots don’t care about his bruised face, ripped body, or bloodied lips. And for Ming, a few more minutes of effort tonight won’t be a problem. He’s earned his pleasure. He’s earned his success.
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The Friday spectacle ends just as he dreamed, as he leaves the arena with his one and only friend, Saleng, with whom he plans to unwind over the weekend in the capital, not sparing drinks or fun.
Because Liming has earned everything he has, including the title he’ll fight for in less than two months.
It’s stifling, it smells like alcohol, vomit, and clouds of tobacco smoke. It doesn’t seem to matter to the drunk Liming, who leans against the wall in the bathroom of some shady club, sniffing every now and then.
The euphoria and excitement fade, replaced by nausea, a severe headache, and muscle spasms. His pupils are as large as saucers, and his whole body is drenched in hot sweat. He’s delirious, hallucinating, and Saleng is nowhere in sight. To be honest, he can barely see anything at all.
He feels worse than he did during the fight. Weakness and exhaustion are bearable only when caused by the will to fight, motivation, sacrifice, and physical activity—but in no way by this much alcohol, alternated with white powder being pumped into his body.
He looks terrible, the worst he’s ever looked, with the scars from the semifinals still visible, all the bruises and scratches. Hardly anyone recognizes him now, especially as he hides his head under a hood, fighting off the urge to vomit and the overwhelming sleepiness. He doesn’t have the strength to enjoy himself anymore; the celebration is over, and he’s simply alone. For someone with such respect, with those skills, it shouldn’t be terrifying in any way. The problem is that he can’t fall into some hole filled with society’s rejects, because he would likely end up on the front pages of tabloids, half-dead, snorting lines, vomiting, or sleeping under a club’s dumpsters in one of Bangkok’s worst neighborhoods.
Athletes can’t do that, especially stars and icons. How would it look if a role model for so many teenage boys turned out to be just a piece of trash?
With a shaky step, he moves away, registering a couple messing around at the sinks. He doesn’t have the energy to comment on it; he was doing the same just an hour ago when he was buzzing, and the party was in full swing. Now, he’s a real wreck, and every girl looks at him with disgust, while his best friend has simply disappeared.
After a while, he finally manages to get outside, almost choking on the fresh, not necessarily clean, but still better air. Still leaning on the emergency exit doors, he fights himself to keep from collapsing to his knees, from falling asleep on the sidewalk. For the first time, he doesn’t care at all; he stops thinking about his career and maintaining a good image. If he could, he’d laugh at what a bit of liquid and a small amount of powder can do to a man, unofficially the best boxer in the world.
He grabs his head, struggling to breathe, and with his other hand, he searches all his pockets for his wallet, anything. He feels an indescribable relief when the plastic rectangle slips between his fingers. Forget the phone, Saleng might have taken it, but at least the bank card is safe, and he’ll be able to pay for a taxi.
He spits on the sidewalk, limping, and nearing exhaustion, he gets to the street. It’s late, and he’s spent most of his money on drinks and lines for his fake friends, those leeching off his fame and money. As it turns out, when it comes down to it, everyone vanishes and forgets.
He waves his hand, realizing he can’t breathe and do something at the same time. True peak. Luckily, a bright orange vehicle finally stops, and he has trouble simply pulling the handle. His hands are shaking, his fingers living their own lives. Everything is living its own life—his mind, his weakening heart, every organ, and muscle spasms. He has no control over anything, and yet he’s always been the one who’s been in control.
He patiently waits for the driver to open the door for him, and when the driver tries to help him sit down, Liming hits him with an awkward punch to the chest. The driver understands the situation and leaves him alone, focusing on his job and refraining from commenting on the behavior. After all, the drunk and high man won’t talk to him anyway.
It takes them a while to determine the address because Liming doesn’t know what to do, and he can’t speak clearly. Eventually, he decides to spend the night at his training hall—it’s closer than his apartment, and he goes there much more often, so it’s easier for him to recall the street name and building number in his buzzing head.
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The journey doesn’t drag on for him because he sleeps through it all. It’s only when the taxi driver nudges him and demands payment for the ride, clearly irritated and disgusted, that he finally makes any move. With pain, he manages to crawl out of the car and grabs the door. He knows that the coach always hides the keys under the flower pot, but he instinctively pushes the door handle and doesn’t need to reach for anything. At that point, he doesn’t even wonder why someone would be at the gym in the middle of the night; he’s just happy that he doesn’t have to bend down for anything and risk falling.
He enters, slamming the door behind him, then heads toward the main training room where the ring is set up. He sees nothing, it’s dark, and the only light source is a bare lightbulb in the coach’s office. Once again, he curses himself for his childish behavior, afraid to even think about the consequences. He unzips his hoodie, trying to hide somewhere between the lockers because there’s no chance of running away after all the noise he made, and he’s too exhausted to escape.
He’s truly worn out, dehydrated, and his brain keeps playing tricks on him. He can’t think clearly when he hears footsteps nearby, then a strange voice:
"Is someone here? I heard everything, I’ll call the police if you don’t show yourself!" the voice threatens, but Liming can’t place it to anyone he knows.
"It’s me... It’s just me, Ming," he gasps, certain that someone will recognize him as the fresh winner, or at least as the son of a legend. Unfortunately, the next thing he feels is a not-too-hard punch to his already battered face, enough to send him crashing to the floor, losing consciousness and his will to live. His mind stops working, the image blurs, and he falls asleep, still unaware of whose fragile fist met his bruised cheek.
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He struggles to open his eyes when the burning in his throat and stomach cramps force him to wake up and vomit directly into the bowl placed beside his head. Only later does he realize that he’s lying under a blanket from his coach, on a small sofa in his office. He’s scared. Scared that his father’s friend brought him here just to scold him from top to bottom, then throw him out on his ass, telling him to find a new mentor. After all, no one wants to admit to being associated with a ruined star who celebrates victories this way, ruining his reputation and health.
He sees the clock on the wall and decides he should hurry up while he still has some time before the first class with the youngest group starts. He can’t get up, but he has to move his ass; he doesn’t understand anything anymore.
Slowly, he unwraps himself from the blanket, trembling from the overwhelming pain in his body. A loud cry escapes his lips as he tries to tighten his stomach muscles, but all his insides rebel, taking their revenge for all the alcohol that destroyed them, for all the fights where he couldn’t protect them from the blows.
It doesn’t take a second before the door to the office opens with force, and a frightened boy tumbles into the room, as if he’d been waiting just on the other side, afraid to be alone with the broken boxer, yet still standing by, ready.
"Hey, is everything okay? God, I didn’t know how to help you yesterday," the boy moans anxiously, kneeling next to the sofa, scrunching his nose at the smell of vomit from the plastic bowl.
"I have to go," Liming grumbles, trying to get up again, but it feels like all his bones have suddenly broken, and his legs refuse to cooperate. "Shit," he hisses, holding his swollen cheek where someone’s fist pinned him down last night. Maybe the culprit is sitting right next to him.
"I’m sorry about that, about the punch," the boy mumbles, fiddling with a piece of the old blanket. "I just got scared, and I came in to grab some documents for my dad. I was just about to leave."
Liming just rolls his eyes.
"It’s fine- Wait, wait... Your dad?" Liming asks, suddenly struck by a realization. He’s sure that if he could, he’d jump to his feet and start running around the room like a maniac. "Mr. Lertwongsa, my coach... is your dad?" he asks, still in shock, finally studying the boy’s face and figure closely.
"Surprising, right?" the boy smiles awkwardly, nervously combing through his black bangs.
"Yeah, a bit. He never mentioned he had a son," Liming mutters, biting his lip and massaging his neck, still shaking his head in disbelief.
"Because he prefers to brag about you," the boy says, not hiding his envy, tucking his chin and nose into his turtleneck, pulling it up.
"I’m not surprised," Liming snorts, then immediately breaks into a cough. He doesn’t even realize how badly his words came out, how out of place they were. "Oh, I’m Liming, but I’m guessing you already know that. The whole of Thailand probably knows," he extends his hand toward the taller, who only widens his eyes and snorts. Liming feels a rising anger and, at moments like this, he completely doesn’t understand his father, who is more proud of someone who’s falling apart, who’s descending and arrogant, than of him—the well-behaved student, the helpful child.
"Uh-huh," the boy replies with a look of pity, then does something that no normal person would dare to do.
"Are you fucking crazy?" Liming growls, furious when the contents of the vomit bowl spill across his face, and the boy stifles a laugh, seeing how the boxing star tries to wrestle the plastic out of his hands or somehow get back up, threatening him for something so disgusting.
"I pity everyone who has to watch you and touch you," the boy sighs, walking out of the room at a slow pace. "Oh, my dad will be here in about fifteen minutes. You better start getting ready and clean up after yourself," he says, grinning slyly as he disappears into the hallway.
"If you weren’t the son of someone so important to me, I’d fucking hit you!" Liming yells after him, with no idea how to untangle himself from this mess, clean up the stinking puke, and pull himself together. No one has ever provoked him this way, humiliated him, or stood up to him.
"It's Heart. Remember, little boxer," the boy clicks his tongue, leaving him alone in this mess.
And Liming feels like he might actually like the boy's character.