Chapter Text
“NOT ONE WORD, NOT ONE GESTURE OF YOURS SHALL I, COULD I, EVER FORGET.”
— Leo Tolstoy
The bright lights shone down overhead, the heat of the crowded room suffocating within the already liminal space of the ring, growing smaller and smaller with each passing moment.
Cheers echoed loud from the compact stadium built just outside of the ring, holding a range of people; from bored, drunken gamblers interested in the underground scene to people with far too much wealth to know anything good to spend it on — suits so clean and polished it seemed as if they didn’t belong here.
And, of course, that was exactly what Gilsoo wanted.
Electric heat radiated from the countless lights in the room, illuminating the center, creating a stuffy and nearly nauseating feeling, rippling through the area. Regardless, it didn’t seem like anyone cared, considerably more attentive to the open cage like structure in the middle of the room.
The mat was soft and squishy beneath his feet, sinking down with each of Suho’s heavy, barefooted steps. His breaths were heavy, palms sweating beneath the thick, heavy leather encasing his hands. A knuckle protectant.
He leaned against the ropes surrounding the ring, scratching and biting into the bare skin of his back — something that he hardly paid attention to.
At his side, remaining on solid ground below was the man himself, patting his shoulder with false worry. In his other hand he held out a large bottle of water, cool to the touch, condensation clinging to the bottle; to which Suho slipped off a glove and took gratefully.
Suho uncapped it, adjusting his mouth guard before bringing the bottle to his lips and tilting it back. Relief flooded his senses as his vision, once blurred slowly began to clear with the hydration. He pulled back after swallowing his fulfilling gulp of water with an exaggerated ‘ah’ just as Gilsoo’s voice flooded his ears, carrying over the volume of the crowd’s shared anticipation.
“You’re doing a good job on drawing out the match, kid, just as I told you.” He shot Suho a lazy grin, the exasperated look in his eyes betraying the words that left his mouth. An expression that Suho was sure he mirrored.
Suho nodded his head, offering a grin of his own back — all teeth, lacking the proper sincerity. “Thank you, sir.”
He glanced back towards the ring, directly at his opponent who was in the opposite corner across from him. He wore a much more ruminative look on his face compared to the relaxed demeanor he held just 10 minutes ago, a man Suho presumes to be his coach beside him. They were sharing words, and from the looks of it the older man definitely wasn’t offering encouragement.
The guy wasn’t entirely terrible, per se, he certainly had talent — but Suho had expected to be handed much more of a struggle. The entirety of the match had been hyped up throughout the underground, poorly edited flyers made in Canva and posted around the gym; the great Seo Junpyo.
A so-called beast (self proclaimed) who’s yet to lose a match against anyone — despite only ever winning once in front of an audience, but you didn’t hear that from him — notoriously known for his supposed swift and quick knockouts.
Before today, Suho hadn’t seen any of his matches, hadn’t known what the boy was capable of; how little it really was. He hadn’t been intimidated by the rumors, more-so intrigued. But now, all he felt was dry amusement.
He’d been analyzing him from the moment he stepped foot into that ring, cocky grin and unguarded posture. Too loose. Too conceited and overconfident. Naive, and blissfully unaware to the rude awakening Suho would soon feed him.
Junpyo’s leading priority was ruthless offense, putting pressure on Suho, forcing him to act and think fast. Something Suho was already used to from engaging in unfair fights during his high school days.
He was strong, that was for sure — maybe even on par with Suho himself. One punch from the dude to the right area would send him reeling for seconds, which would have given him perfect opportunity to knock him out by now. Just as those rumors suggested.
But, there always existed one fatal flaw, no matter how strong the person was. This fact wasn’t an exception to Junpyo.
It was apparent to Suho from the first punch thrown that Junpyo lacked any sort of technique to secure him a solid win in a serious match, his movements clumsy and almost child-like in the eyes of a far more seasoned fighter, trained from the depths of childhood to the unsophisticated man he’d become.
This added immediate support to his theory that these ‘wins’ he’d so brazenly bragged about were just blatant fabrications everyone went along with.
Junpyo was smart, but if he were a smarter man, he would’ve made up for his clumsy movements in defense — an instant neutralizer. But it seemed like he thought of himself too highly to even consider that a possibility. That realization had drawn a smile to Suho’s lips, amused, entirely mocking.
Suho could have knocked him out during the first round; would have without a problem if he had been told to do so.
Realistically, he shouldn’t have even been touched. Those bruises adorning his face and the blood dried to his skin weren’t products of his own mishaps, but rather smaller, carefully constructed victories for his opponent — and in a way, himself as well.
Because with each right hook landed to his cheek, purpled bruises blossoming on his skin, came a perfect opportunity.
Spending time with the infamous doctor of the underground, who for some reason had chosen this dump of all clinic’s to work at in the nation. Rumors floated around like a whisper in the breeze, ones that Suho were entirely certain were true.
Yeon Sieun, an esteemed doctor and graduate from Seoul National University’s arduous medical program, apart of the top 5% of his class. His knowledge and wisdom endless, likely sought after by many suitors, aching to get their hands on that apathetic brain of his.
In other words, he’s really fucking smart. His opportunities had been infinite, and likely still were.
But yet, rather than finding home at a respected and admired hospital, he’d chosen a life of bandaging he knuckles of illegal boxers, and setting shoulders back into place — sometimes even performing the occasional blood transfusion entirely dependent on the severity of the match. But as far as Suho knew, that was as far as his job had ever gone.
Whether at the top medical institution in the country, or a rundown infirmary, it didn’t mean much to Suho. So long as he was still able to sneak glances and hold short conversations with the collected figure.
It’s the little things, Suho thought as he took down one more greedy guzzle of water.
Gilsoo had been speaking non-stop for nearly a minute now, however his words had just been entering through one ear and exiting out the other.
Only tiny bits and pieces reached him, though, fragments floating about his head. ‘Round 4, it’s time’ and ‘finish him now, stop messing around, you’re taking too long.’ Because of course it’s obvious how much better Suho is at fighting than this random one-hit wonder who hasn’t seen true combat a day in his life.
Just as the referee blew his whistle, Suho put the cap back on his water bottle, twisting it tight and pushing it back into Gilsoo’s chest, who’s hands wrapped tight around it as Suho pushed off of the ropes.
Suho glanced back as Gilsoo’s hand shot out once more, gripping his wrist firmly. He turned his head slightly, giving his mentor an almost questioning look.
The man looked much more serious than before, maybe even a bit irritated — impatience festering in his expression. If it had been a few months prior, Suho would have called him intimidating. But now, all he saw was an asinine individual.
It dawned on Suho then that it wasn’t obvious to him that he had just been messing around with Junpyo. That he was actually a bit worried, for whatever reason in the heavens.
Gilsoo had always harnessed a lot of faith in Suho, possibly too much for his own good. He was his star pupil, his cash cow that brought in the most profits. And that was as far as his concern for the young fighter went.
Most of his money made came from the unfair bets made against Suho, in which Gilsoo had already known the young fighter would win.
Each time, without fail, his pockets would grow heavier and heavier — profits that Suho saw sparse amounts of. But he wasn’t complaining. It was enough to keep him floating by, living comfortably without the need to work another job outside of these underground matches.
But these fights were merely past times, a little extra money for his own wants and desires. Come morning, he would be back at his grandmother’s old restaurant, left behind for him to inherit -- waiting tables with a charming, bandaged visage.
He was confident enough in his ability, but that never quelled the restlessness aching in his bones.
“Put an end to this, quickly. It’s good that you drug it out, but you’re beginning to make me look incompetent.” Gilsoo muttered to him, cut short and snippy. His tone dripped with sweet venom, the words anything but foreign to Suho. Then he smiled, let go of his wrist and patted his pectoral before turning and walking back to his seat.
Suho resisted the urge to roll his eyes until his back faced Gilsoo’s front once more, sliding his glove back on with skillful fingers, sticking the velcro back into place.
From across the ring, Junpyo’s cocky facade was back in full force, replacing the former uneasiness during their brief intermission. His busted lip curled up into a smile that now seemed pitiful, beads of sweat clinging to his cheeks, hollowed out by bruises considerably worse than his own.
It was amusing, the entire situation. He couldn’t help the laugh that pulled from his throat, reverberating through his chest.
That little action seemed to hit the wrong spot though, bringing Junpyo down a few hundred pegs.
Junpyo’s smile instantly downturned, forming a deep frown accompanied by a crease in his forehead. His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to the side. “Oh you think this is funny?” He asked, voice lowering significantly, slightly muffled by the guard in his mouth.
Oh, I’m so frightened. You sound like you’re talking through a pillow, get your guards resized. He thought, mildly entertained. What an oddball.
Suho raised one of his eyebrows, a frisky smile playing at his lips. He sniffed, raising one arm to wipe at his nose. “I think you are hilarious, actually.” He retorted, gaze never wavering.
The instantaneous ‘ooh’ that rippled through the crowd was risible, synced up to create one foul melody all aimed towards Junpyo. The talking had died down considerably since the referee blew his whistle, audience now far more entranced by the ongoing interaction.
Unable to help himself, Suho turned to face the crowd, cocking his head to the side. “Give me 2 minutes.” He said without hesitation, causing a ripple of whistles followed by immediate shouts.
Suho turned his head away after offering one of his charming grins, all teeth—pearly canine shining beneath the cheap lights.
And Junpyo? He looked livid, bristling like a provoked cat. He may as well have been one.
He could practically taste the rage simmering off of the other boy, fists trembling and teeth clenching together in a slow grind. “You’re a confident one, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I’m going to shred you to pieces you cunning bastard.” Junpyo spat out.
Suho wiggled his eyebrows, stepping forward with his fists raised in awaiting position. “Are you flirting with me right now?” He asked, laughing softly. “Because if you are, then I hate to burst your bubble because you’re definitely not my type.”
You lack the stature, and the fawn-like appeal, He almost says — but bites his tongue at the last second.
The referee blows his whistle one last time, and that’s it.
Junpyo springs into action, clenching his fists and surging forward, heavy steps pounding against the mat. His arms are extended in punching position, gloved hands drawn loosely to his face.
The little fucker is fast, but Suho’s spent the past 15 minutes in the ring with him, analyzing him. So his predictability becomes clearer by the second, and at the same time so does Suho’s head. His gaze remains trained on the movement, everything coming to a slow stop around him — laser focused.
He can see in real time the way his arm winds back, ready to land a blow. Suho takes the time to spare a quick glance down, noting the way his opponent leans his whole body weight onto his right foot, shuffled out in front of the other, leaving his left unguarded.
A clumsy move, indeed. With just one wrong step he could throw his body mass off balance, and judging by the way his body instinctively leans forward as he goes to strike, it’s already gone to shit regardless.
Rather than remaining still on his feet as he had during the previous rounds, he moves. Because it’s been nearly a minute or bullshitting, and Suho made a promise.
Promises? He always keeps.
At the last second Ahn Suho ducks down, moving off to the side. In his vision, the world around him adapts back to normal speed, and he watches as Junpyo collides with the coarse ropes, letting out a growl of pure frustration mixed with unfiltered rage. Towards him.
His gaze snaps over to Suho, who’s just watching with an unimpressed expression, as if speaking; “Really? You know you’re better than this.”
The embarrassment must be hitting full flesh by now, because he pushes himself off of the makeshift net and launches back at Suho. He jabs — left, rights, all of which Suho easily evades, or blocks with his fists depending on how motivated he feels to lift his arms. He’s wasted far too much energy on this kid so far.
All of Junpyo’s motions betray his quickly approaching overexertion, his chest heaving with each missed punch, breaths spilling heavy from his lips. Not only are his moves still uncoordinated, but they’re becoming sloppier by the minute.
Playing with him for a few seconds longer would be fun, but he’s on a time limit. Not only that, but he’s beginning to get bored as well.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gilsoo turning and speaking in a hushed voice to a man beside him — among one of the others wearing a fancy suit and tie. He looks apologetic, though the micro expressions adorning his face tell Suho he’s becoming agitated as his time draws nearer.
And he’s truly not in the mood to deal with an aggravated Gilsoo, even if he knows he can have the guy on the ground just before the final second.
He’d much rather spend the time after his match in the clinic, too eager to make failed small talk with the cute doctor always on everyone’s mind.
So when Seo Junpyo comes at him for the third time, it’s the final time.
With practiced motions executed with such ease it seems he could do it with his eyes closed, Suho weaves the next punch thrown his way, ducking down and positioning his front hand accordingly, sending his gloved fist upward as it collides with the bone beneath Junpyo’s jaw.
He can hear the soft crack from the force of his punch, piercing through the air between them, but it doesn’t mean much to Suho. Rather than faltering, he abruptly pulls back as the other boys hand comes to attempt to cradle his jaw, a wince dying on his tongue.
Suho watches for all of a few moments before he’s straightening again and winding his arm back, a straight punch sent square to the middle of his face.
The next crack is much louder than the one he’d heard just a few seconds before, reverberating through the air. Junpyo’s head is sent back from the impact, fresh blood beginning to leak from his nose. In the midst of the impact he stumbles back, but doesn’t fall, putting more space between him and Suho.
Sometime during the assault, Junpyo’s mouth guard comes flying out, falling onto the ground with a quiet click.
Suho steps forward.
Junpyo’s eyes, once squeezed shut, flutter open — watery from the sudden pain spreading throughout his nervous system, lit like a fire.
He winds his fist back.
The other boy has no time to react, no time to block (if he even knew how to do that) before Suho’s fist comes colliding with his cheek for a third time, sending his head snapping to the left.
His lips part as a gurgling kind of groan leaves him, and Suho swears that right then he can see shiny white fly from his mouth in tooth form, landing somewhere else on the crimson mat, mixed with droplets of blood — once dry, now wet as his nose continues to drip with crimson.
The force of the last punch finally knocks him to the ground, his head hitting the mat with a loud thud as he collapsed, one that echoes around the packed room that had now grown oddly quiet.
Suho glances up, panting softly. The referee wastes no time. The count begins.
“1,” Junpyo’s fingers twitch, and that is the only visible sign of at least half a consciousness.
“2, 3, 4,” Suho doesn’t stand there in the middle of the ring like an idiot, he doesn’t wait. He never does. Instead he makes his way back to his corner, leaning against the ropes.
“5,” Excitement bubbles through the heavy air, none of which comes from Suho himself, already removing the velcro of his gloves.
“6,” The crowd holds their breath. Suho breathes steadily.
“7, 8,” Junpyo isn’t going to get back up, that’s for certain. Suho knocked him up to the pearly gates, it’d take a few minutes for him to fully recover without the walls spinning.
“9,” At some point within the course of a few seconds, Gilsoo had stood up from his chair, back at Suho’s side. He holds out the half downed water bottle he’d drank from earlier, offering it silently.
Suho takes it without a word, sniffing.
“10.” His opponent is predictably still on the ground. The referee blows his whistle, and the crowd immediately erupts into cheers — some of his name, others just overexcited screams, as if such a victory from Ahn Suho wasn’t a common occurrence to the regulars here.
Suho has time to take a few sips of his water before he’s sitting it down again, making his way back to the middle of the ring as the referee beckons him to come over. He wiped the beads of sweat dripping down his cranium with the back of his hand, grimacing at the sticky feeling left behind.
His hand is taken in another’s and raised high up in the air, voice booming in his ear as the microphones cut on. “AAANNNDDDD AHN SUHO TAKES THE WIN!” It doesn’t seem possible, but at the obvious revelation the cheers grow even louder.
Suho manages his best grin, looking out to the audience, pumping his fist in the air as he takes in deep, exhausted breaths. A part of Suho revels in the brief moment of fame each time, but another part bathes in the murky waters of nausea that builds up with the applause.
His smile falters briefly, before he clears his throat, fixing his expression in record time. He gives a slight dip of his head before tearing his wrist away from the referee’s grip and turning towards Junpyo, who’s still laying flat on his back — glazed over eyes trapped on the ceiling. From here he swears there’s moisture building in them.
Suho bites his cheek, taking a step towards the fallen man until he’s looming over him, cranium tilting slightly to the side. Seeing him now is almost pitiful, the same fighter who had talked so much trash, badmouthing his name left and right during the days leading up to this big, ‘revolutionary’ fight.
For a moment he even feels bad, but the slandering comes back to mind which instantly dissipates any trace of that feeling.
With a deep sigh, he crouches down to the other man’s level, elbows resting on his knees. “Junpyo-nim,” His tone holds about the same amount of respect you would direct towards a learning toddler, sarcastic and mocking in the sweetest of ways. “I’m feeling really generous tonight, so let me give you some free advice.”
After a long moment Junpyo’s eyes move for the first time, slowly sliding over to him. He grits his teeth, the blood still spilling from the corners of his lips, painting the white a faded red. By no means is he thrilled.
But Suho, ever generous, continues on anyway — expression turning serious. “Fix your footwork, it’s really slowing you down. You’ve got about the same level of balance and grace as a baby penguin.” The pause he takes is brief, mulling over his words with faux care.
His tongue pokes against his cheek as he tries his hardest to bite back his grin, however to no avail. He hums, standing back up with a soft grunt. “And next time,” He began, gaze roaming over his beaten figure. “try not to bite off more than you can chew, yeah?”
Junpyo’s eyes narrow, and he begins to shift forward, as if he wants to get up and counter the words with his fists — but Suho doesn’t wait for that to happen, as if it even would.
Instead he turns without a care in the world, collecting his water and bag and handing it to Gilsoo on the other side before climbing out of the ring. The muscles in his arms flex, feet landing on solid ground for the first time in what feels like forever but in reality was likely no less than half an hour.
As soon as he’s out, Gilsoo claps him hard on the back, and Suho winces, teeth clenching. But the elder man doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s my star pupil! Look at that, still haven’t lost your spark. Took him down with just five seconds on the clock.” To the naked eye, he sounds pleased, more than earlier, but Suho’s known him for long enough to the point he can see right through him.
“You’ve made me a lot of money tonight, kid. Good job.” Gilsoo grins, placing his hand on his shoulder.
Sick bastard. Is that all you’ll ever care about? Shrugging the palm off his shoulder, Suho merely sighs and takes his towel, already slightly damp with his sweat, slinging it around his neck.
Gilsoo on the other hand doesn’t pay his attitude any mind, taking out his phone as soon as it pings and reading over a message before looking back up at Suho. “Sit tight in the locker room while I get your cut for tonight, then head to the clinic to get checked out.”
That’s all he says before he’s disappearing into the crowd, leaving Suho to be surrounded by random strangers who all know his name—congratulating him on his win, complimenting his techniques.
But he isn’t even listening to them. Isn’t even in the present moment enough to fully recognize that they’re standing right there.
The only thing in his head are Gilsoo’s last words, repeating over and over again.
Visit clinic. Get wounds checked. See Sieun. Clinic. Visit. Sieun.
The giddiness that instantly courses through his veins would be embarrassing, should be — if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d get the opportunity to brag about his win to Yeon Sieun, giving himself a better image — even if the man showed no care in the world for his boxing achievements.
Quite frankly, Ahn Suho lied just a little bit earlier. All the nausea and ill feeling that comes with the illegal fighting vanishes into the void, no longer mattering when it comes to the doe-eyed doctor who he so desperately wishes to impress. Who he wishes to just pull one smile from.
He’s sure it’d be beyond the word beautiful. Extravagant, even.
...
It takes a bit of time before Suho is able to make his way through the group of people accumulated around him. Between countless forced smiles and ‘thank you’s he stopped meaning after the fourth time, he finally finds himself in the locker room.
Compared to the chaos just outside of the room, it’s quiet except for the distant chatter several feet away from the door. Whatever went on outside wasn’t his problem anymore, not right now.
He walked up to his locker, opening it and taking out the spare towel he’d set in there earlier that morning. The damp one is pulled from around his neck, thrown into the dirty laundry basket against the wall to the left of him, a few feet beside the door. Then he uses the clean one to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
Suho winced as the material pressed against the fresh bruises blooming on his skin, brows furrowing with brief discontent.
He reached for a plain black t-shirt, pulling it on over his head and half heartedly smoothing the wrinkled fabric down. The shirt clung to his sweat-slicked body, but he ignored it in favor of finally sitting down on the bench in the corner of the room.
Turning his body, Suho lowered himself down onto the long surface of the bench, a heavy sigh pulling from his throat. His palms rested on his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling, crossing one ankle over the other, cheeks puffing out as he whistled into the empty room.
In the midst of his wait, his mind wanders back to Sieun—what he could be doing right now, if he had been somewhere in the room during his match (highly unlikely), if he had any other boxer in his small office.
Suho’s mood instantly sours at the thought.
He hates how quickly the heated jealousy begins to insistently nip at his heart, burrowing deep into his skin at the very thought of any hands other than his own on Sieun’s skin; at the thought of even Sieun’s hands on anyone else.
And he knows that just isn’t fair, after all it’s his job as their officially-unofficial doctor. He knows that Sieun isn’t even his. But he still can’t deny the acidic taste it leaves in his mouth.
He rolled his eyes, turning his head slightly to the left and letting himself fall completely limp. Get these thoughts out of your head, Suho. The guy hardly knows you, you hardly know the guy.
Suho still remembered the first day he’d met him, which had conveniently been his first day at the ring as well. It had been quieter that day, slower.
Fewer matches had occurred than usual, which created the golden opportunity for Gilsoo to show him around the place that he would spend the rest of his life at—Gilsoo’s words, not his own (to this day, he’s unsure if the man had been serious or not).
The young doctor had been in the midst of piercing an IV through another’s skin, pumping saline directly into his bloodstream, focus unwavering despite the distraction. The man’s face had been scrunched up, lips pressed tightly together. He had been as pale as a ghost, full body tremors wracking his body.
“Nerves,” Sieun had said without looking up when Suho and Gilsoo had walked through the door, voice level and calm. “Even the toughest of fighters have their weaknesses. Needles, more often than not.”
There was a brief pause. “To avoid such a fate, ensure that you always remain hydrated.” The words were said so blankly that the joke had flown right over his head.
At first, Suho had been at a loss for words at the sight of this supposed licensed doctor. He looked to be the same age as him, if not younger. That fact threw him completely off his guard, alternating between conflicting emotions of confusion and curiosity.
Not only was he young, but unfairly attractive as well. Unnaturally so. A rare gem, a beauty. Suho could say with unshaken confidence that this man was the prettiest person he had ever seen, primary attribute coming from smooth skin accompanied by a silently intimidating intellectual demeanor.
His complexion, however, stood out the most. Pale, so much to the point Suho would have assumed him to be sickly if not for the unbearably adorable plushy fullness of his cheeks.
He had only noticed he was staring when the doctor had swiftly pulled the needle out of skin, catheter secured in the boxers vein. He’d lifted his gaze after unwrapping and sliding off the tourniquet on his patients arm, setting it on the crash cart that stood on its wheels just a few inches away from his main work space.
Suho swore he could feel his heart stop.
Eyes.
Deep brown, unassuming, so dark they bordered on black in the fluorescent light—steady and unflinching as they met his own. Not sharp, not cold as one would assume, but warm, unmistakable. Breathtaking.
Sieun’s face had remained neutral, expression carefully composed, yet his irises betrayed him, holding far too much emotion for someone who looked so detached. There was a quiet awareness there, observant and patient, as if he was constantly taking the world apart and putting it back together in his head.
For a split second, they almost seemed to sparkle. Not in any obvious way—no smile tugged at his lips, but the light caught in his gaze all the same, reflecting something alive and restless.
It was the kind of look that made Suho feel seen, thoroughly and entirely, like Sieun could read the hesitation in his posture and the way his breath had stalled without needing to ask a single question. He wasn’t sure if that realization comforted or discomforted him.
Those eyes lingered on him for only a second longer than necessary but to Suho, it felt like forever. It was enough to knock the air from his lungs, enough to make him lose his train of thought entirely. An immediate distraction.
So much so, that he had forgotten to respond.
Gilsoo nudged his shoulder with his own, and Suho snapped out of his haze instantaneously, begrudgingly turning his attention to the older man beside him. A man who looked far too amused by himself—or by Suho, the latter more likely than not.
Think! Think of something to say! It’s not usually this difficult.
He turned his head back towards Sieun, opening his mouth to speak. “I’m not really scared of needles.” He’d sputtered out stupidly, mentally smacking himself up the skull as the words came out, timid and unsure.
Even Gilsoo had seemed baffled with his answer, a light and airy chuckle slipping from his lips. But Suho couldn’t hear him, too focused on the god-like being before him, disguised as a human.
Sieun stared at him for a moment longer, expression betraying no clear emotion for Suho to latch onto. He was silent for several moments, before one of his eyebrows raised. “Okay.” He’d said, before pulling his latex gloves off and turning the other direction.
Awkwardly, Suho had gawked after him for a second longer before being pulled out of the room to continue on with the rest of the tour. But of course, he couldn’t focus. Not with the man still fresh on his mind.
“I wouldn’t even try it if I were you.” Gilsoo had told him once they were far enough away from the medical wing.
Suho’s head whipped around with the speed of lightning. “I didn’t—“
“I could see it written all over your face.” He interrupted.
And to that Suho had no real response, just averting his gaze.
Gilsoo continued. “You’re not the first person to have gone all googly eyes for Yeon Sieun, and you certainly won’t be the last. Friendly piece of advice for ‘ya; let it go, kid, it’s just a crush—it’ll pass.” Then he had slung his arm around his shoulder and ventured on, pulling Suho along like nothing had happened.
And sure, to him nothing had happened — nothing would happen, maybe. But to Suho? It was so much more. Besides, Suho had never been a quitter. That was one of his more redeeming qualities.
As he recalled the moment he couldn’t stop himself from physically cringing, hand coming up to run through his damp hair. It had been a handful of months since their first interaction, and since then Suho had found every excuse in the book to go visit the hospital wing. To go visit Sieun.
He’s completely sure that at some point the shorter had picked up on his intentions with how often he came for the most trivial things, like minor scratches and scrapes. So, he had changed up his tactics.
Purposefully letting himself be hit during matches and sparring sessions, training without his gloves so his knuckles would bruise, split open and bleed. Anything that he could do without costing Gilsoo money.
And as of now, it was working. So in his books, the unnecessary bruises and swollen eyes were worth it.
In that moment the door clicks open, and in an instant Suho is sitting up again, turning his body to face the locker rooms entrance. His hands rest in his lap, balled up into loose fits.
Gilsoo slips in through the crack in the door, letting it fall shut with a loud thud that echoes through the room. Suho doesn’t flinch as the hinges scrape against the wall, a sound he’s come to familiarize himself with over the few months he’s been here.
Despite the profit Gilsoo makes running this place, he still refuses to fix that small installation issue, Suho dully notes.
He watched as the man made his way over to him, hand stuffed into his pocket to retrieve something. He stops directly in front of him, running his free hand through his hair, pushing the exaggeratedly gelled bits off of his forehead.
“Nice work today, Ahn.” A white, sealed shut tight envelope is handed out to him—his name on the back of the parchment. “You did phenomenally after you let go of the childish games.” Gilsoo gives the boxer one of his usual endearing smiles, the premature wrinkles adorning his forehead deepening with the action.
The act doesn’t really fit someone like him, he’s come to realize. He just looks wrong whenever he does so, as if he were a manipulative child convincing his mom to buy a chocolate bar he’d snuck into the shopping cart.
Suho just nodded his head to Gilsoo, reaching out to take the paper envelope from him. He held it in his hands, turning it over to examine and test the weight—which seems to be considerably lighter compared to that of his last match.
But he doesn’t think much of it, flipping it back over and tearing at the poorly made seal, ripping the paper at the top and peeking inside.
The cash is in a stack, some bills worn down while others are in pristine condition. The count is in 10’s and 20’s as it usually would be, sometimes with the occasional $50. He turned the envelope down, the wad falling out into his open palm.
He sets the torn envelope off to the side, beginning to thumb through his earnings, counting quietly beneath his breath.
On the other side of the room, Gilsoo leans up against one of the vacant lockers, pack of cigarettes in his hand. He slid one out, bringing his lighter to the bud and flicking it on, positioning it between his lips. He takes in a deep drag just as Suho looks up.
“Is that it?” He asked, gaze locking onto the man in front of him, unable to keep the quiet exasperation out of his tone.
Twenty over a thousand was what he had counted twice, mild confusion spreading throughout his being. It had been a busy night tonight, half of the stadium filled with viewers so wealthy they could drop ten grand without having to worry about something as trivial as a dent in their pockets.
Suho refused to believe that what he was handed was all he had earned. And it probably wasn’t, Gilsoo had likely just kept a majority of it for himself.
The deal when he had first began to fight beneath Gilsoo’s jurisdiction was that he received 40% of his cut for each win, but even then he knew he should have received much more than what was given.
He wasn’t an idiot. Many believed Suho to be lacking in knowledge when they first met him, brawn over brains, but by no means was he dense. In reality, it was quite the opposite.
Gilsoo pulled the cigarette out from between his lips, tilting his chin up and blowing the smoke off to the right. The smoke detectors hadn’t been set up yet — which in itself was incredibly dangerous, but he’d always been cheap — so he could get away with things like this for the time being with ease.
A hum pulled from the elder’s throat, closed mouth grin spreading across his face as he chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
Suho had to resist the urge to stand up and punch the smirk right off of his face for good, setting the bills down on his lap. It hadn’t been like this at first, a tactic Gilsoo used to get him to stay — and it had worked. But the longer he stayed the more he was ripped off.
For whatever reason, Gilsoo seemed to believe he wouldn’t have noticed. And if he wanted to, he could have fought the other on this matter. Forced his full pay one way or another. But the effort wasn’t something he was willing to put countless time into.
His gaze turned expectant, and when it became clear that Suho wasn’t going to just drop the topic, Gilsoo spoke, sounding almost annoyed. “Yeah, that’s it.” There was a brief pause in which the man leaned forward slightly, daring. “Is there a problem with that, Ahn?” He flicked ash off the bud of his cigarette onto the cool ground below.
Yes, Suho wanted to say. There’s a huge goddamn problem, and it begins with you and your stupid fucking face.
But he bites his tongue at the last moment, jaw clenching, teeth grinding together uncomfortably. He ignores the distant ache in his jaw, likely from being punched by Junpyo earlier. Glancing down at his lap, Suho just shook his head.
“No, there isn’t a problem.” He gritted out, taking the money and sliding it back into the envelope.
He couldn’t see him, but he could hear him shuffling around as he straightened up. The sound of a boot scuffling against ground reached his ears as Gilsoo put out the rest of his cigarette, kicking it off to the side without a care in the world.
Suho grimaced, the smell wafting into the air — clinging to whatever it could reach.
“Good.” The man offered him a smile too condescending to appear genuine, stepping up to pat his shoulder before moving towards the door and flinging it open, stepping out of the room.
As the door slammed shut, Suho sat unmoving on the bench, the sound echoing off of the walls.
He held the envelope loosely in his hands, staring daggers into it — as if the parchment would suddenly burst into flames if he looked hard enough. Of course, that wouldn’t happen. So, he just stood back up.
Suho pulled open the door to his locker once more, retrieving the bag that was hung up on the small knob in the middle of the small and cramped space. He took it off, unzipping the front pocket and dropping the envelope in before slinging it over his shoulders.
The former sullen mood he’s in dissipates into thin air once he remembers where exactly he’s headed next, replaced with a giddiness that only one person could cause.
No more does Gilsoo and his money laundering tricks plague his mind, replaced with the thought of a certain doctor awaiting his presence. Or not? Suho would like to think of it that way.
He exits the locker room with his hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts, bright red with black accents and his name embroidered onto the hem. After just his second match, Gilsoo had given them to him — proclaiming him as his newly esteemed fighter.
The fabric was comfortable, loose against his skin — and the color was something he liked, so he couldn’t find it in himself to complain too much about it. In addition to that, when he’d received it the hype of Suho’s new arrival hadn’t yet died down, nor had the excitement he’d felt. Receiving that article of clothing had been his break, his trademark.
Now it just felt heavy, tying him down to a life he was slowly learning more and more about against his will. And with each new piece of information fed to him, his daydream was slowly collapsing in on itself, falling apart at the seams.
The hallways are cold once he gets out of the main area of the arena, air no longer stuffy and filled with warm bodies. It’s a relief spreading through his chest, humming quietly beneath his breath with each step he takes.
The double doors to the clinic come into few after a few moments, and Suho quickens his stride, coming to a stop just before the door.
He pulls his hands out of his pockets, running them through his hair for the millionth time, flattening any strands that may be sticking out to his head. Next his tongue darts out to wet the pad of his thumb, smoothing it over each of his eyebrows, wincing as he rubs directly over a forming bruise.
Not for a moment does he regret allowing Seo Junpyo’s slimy fists collide with his face, because if they hadn’t he wouldn’t have a reason to be standing here right now. Witnessing his smug expression when he thought he’d actually win was now worth it as he raised his fist, knocking on the door.
Only a moment later does his hand close around the door knob and twist, pulling it open. He’d gotten into the habit of announcing his arrival in that manner, as to not startle Sieun with his entrance if he were in the middle of something important.
When he peeks his head into the room he sees Sieun standing in the corner, mask pulled up over his mouth, a vial of blood in his hand.
He glanced up a few moments after Suho entered the room, his posture seemingly relaxed. But after countless hours spent analyzing his pretty face and odd habits, Suho could see right through him. From the tension in his shoulders, to the wrinkle in his forehead with the slight furrow of his brows. And in a way he looks thinner, maybe even a bit sickly.
Sieun only looks for a couple of seconds before he’s turning his back towards him again, making his way to his cart and slipping the vial into the designated holder on top. He adjusts the collar of his medical coat, clearing supplies off of the medical bed swiftly.
Suho walked over slowly, sliding between the medical equipment, gingerly avoiding it. “What’s wrong, Sieun-ah?” He asked gently. Have you eaten today? Or this week?
“Nothing,” Came the steady response, taking off the bloodied pair of gloves and tossing them into the bin. Sieun grabbed another pair, sliding them on swiftly.
He turned towards Suho’s figure once again, now sat atop of the cot with his hands in his lap.
Suho tilted his head to the side, blinking at him slowly. “You sure about that doc? You look kinda.. off.”
The words were genuine, but the corners of Sieun’s lips tug further downward.
Instantly Suho panics, rushing out his next words. “I just meant—you don’t look bad, it’s just that you look a bit paler than usual.” He finally decides, sweating bullets despite being far away from the heated atmosphere outside. “Have you eaten today?”
The worry that slips into his tone is common whenever he interacts with Sieun. To Suho, it seemed the man never actually took care of himself properly. It saddened him. It made Suho want to do it for him.
No, too far.
“Thank you for your concern,” Sieun says after a moment, words stiff, gaze searching Suho’s. “But I’m alright.”
Then he’s narrowing his eyes at Suho’s face, reaching forward to tilt his chin upwards and run his gloved knuckles over the bruise on Suho’s cheek. The action doesn’t hurt as it would have earlier, maybe because it was Sieun touching him.
His hands felt clammy, his heart pounding for what felt like a million beats per minute and he despite not being religious, he sincerely prays that the other man can’t hear it.
Sieun gives no outward reaction, gaze instead trailing down to his busted lip. “You’re more banged up than usual.” He observed, moving towards where the mini refrigerator is propped up against the wall in the corner of the small room.
Suho scoffed, leaning back onto his palms. “As if you noticed.”
Sieun paused where he stood in front of the mini fridge, hand frozen over the handle. “I did.” He finally said. And Suho’s heart jumped a million times in a million directions, every which way, all at once.
He cleared his throat and opened it up, grabbing a cool gel pack that Suho has come to be familiar with before making his way back over to the man. Suho’s head stays frozen in place exactly where Sieun positioned it, like an obedient puppy.
As if it were routine (and by now it may as well be), Sieun raised his hand and brought the pack up to his forehead, resting directly over Suho’s cranium. The cold seeps into his skin in an instant, chilling his bones — offering a brief sort of comfort.
He tilted his head to the side, holding the ice pack up against Suho’s skin with insistent gentle pressure, the crease in his brows formerly there having disappeared — as if Suho’s presence was enough to whisk away his troubles.
His heart skipped a beat.
Suho watched him quietly, taking in the details of his face up-close. Only when the man’s gaze shifts towards Suho’s again does he look away, but not after holding it for a moment longer and bathing in the way those eyes seem to consume his very being whole.
He cleared his throat, reaching up and gently taking the ice pack from Sieun, fingers brushing against the latex covering his hands.
Suho craved to feel the brush of Sieun’s skin against his own, even if just the lightest touch. He could feel the temperature of his skin radiating off of him, cool to the touch, the thought of getting the opportunity making it so incredibly difficult to not desire him.
He snapped out of it as soon as Sieun drew his hand away from him, resisting the urge to whine out his dismay, the absence of proximity leaving a pit to form in Suho’s stomach.
“Hold that against your face for 20 minutes, it’ll help the swelling go down.” He deadpanned. Then Sieun side eyed him from where he stood, before turning his full body to face Suho. “But I’m sure you already know this, considering how often you take hits to the face.”
Suho hummed, amusement simmering in his veins. He let out a hearty laugh, shaking his head. “Is that meant to be a joke, Sieun-ah?”
Sieun simply shrugged, “Take it however you please, words are always up to interpretation.”
Biting down on his lower lip to suppress his smile from growing, Suho looked away for a moment, gaze roaming over the clinic. As always, it was spotless — hard surfaces practically shining with how polished they were, which should have seemed unreasonable for the nature of the place.
But not when it was Yeon Sieun.
Suho took in a deep breath, before huffing it out heavily through his mouth. “Yah, mind wrapping my knuckles too? They kinda hurt.” He mused, holding out his hands expectantly.
For a moment Sieun froze, staring at him incredulously with one eyebrow cocked up.
Suho just angled his hand towards his direction once more, wordlessly reiterating his words.
With an exasperated sigh, Sieun wordlessly moved away from the counter after opening a drawer and swiping a roll of bandages from it. Despite the obvious reluctance of his movements, Suho took this as yet another win — the second of the evening.
Sieun took his outstretched hand into his own, eyes drifting down to examine the bruising on his knuckles. It’s very little, not enough to be concerned for. And if Suho were to start wearing wraps under his boxing gloves, he wouldn’t even have them.
But nothing could beat this feeling, nothing in the world could make him want to trade this moment.
The soft material of the bandages comes on smoothly, covering his skin comfortably.
Sieun works in practiced silence, movements economical and precise, fingers guiding the wrap around Suho’s knuckles with a care that borders on reverence. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t tug too tight or leave it loose enough to slip. Each pass of the bandage is deliberate, measured, like he’s counting something only he can see.
Suho watches him through his lashes.
It’s ridiculous how aware he is of every point of contact — the way Sieun’s thumb presses briefly against the back of his hand to keep the wrap in place, the faint brush of latex against skin, the quiet sound of fabric whispering as it circles his knuckles again and again. He’s taken harder hits, endured far worse pain, but this? This has his pulse stuttering in his throat.
“You don’t need this much wrapping.” Suho murmurs, voice low, almost teasing.
Sieun doesn’t look up. “You asked me to wrap your knuckles, don’t complain when I do.”
I wasn’t complaining.
Suho tongues at his cheek. “Touché.”
They remain in an almost comfortable silence until Sieun finishes up his work on one hand, turning his attention to the other.
Suho continues to watch him with hearts for eyes, pupils almost certainly dilated a few sizes larger — although he can’t see for himself. He’s tingling all over, putting most of his energy into resisting pulling the man even closer. To feel the press of his smaller body against his, to treat him gently. To feel him shudder as he—
That’s enough, Ahn Suho, comes the more reasonable side of his brain.
When Sieun pulls away Suho looks down at his freshly bandaged knuckles, turning his hands over to admire the other man’s work with a little smile.
“Thanks.” He murmured, glancing up.
For a moment all is silent, before Sieun spoke. “You’re welcome, Suho.”
Sieun’s voice saying his name does something awful to him.
It shouldn’t — it’s just his name, two syllables he’s heard his entire life and countless times from the other man — but every time it comes from Sieun, soft and even and unguarded, it’s given a new meaning, landing somewhere deep in his chest and settling there like it intends to stay every time.
Suho swallows hard.
“For the record,” He says lightly, lifting his wrapped hands a little, “you’re very good at this.”
Sieun arches a brow, finally lifting his gaze from Suho’s knuckles to his face. For a moment he looks amused. “Bandaging?”
“Everything,” Suho replies without missing a beat. The words hit instantly.
For a few long seconds, Sieun just looks at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression — not quite entertainment, but not irritation either. If anything, it’s wary. Like he’s deciding whether to acknowledge what Suho just implied or pretend it never happened.
Predictably, he chooses the latter.
“You should keep those on overnight,” Sieun says instead, stepping back toward the counter to dispose of the used bandage roll. Something Suho’s heard a million times before, but coming from Sieun he’s sure he’d never get tired of it. “And next time wrap your knuckles before a match, even if you’re wearing gloves.”
Suho snorts. “That’s stupid.”
“It’s safe,” Sieun replies instantly. “Which is why as your doctor I’m telling you to do it, just as I would any other patient.”
That earns a laugh from Suho, low and warm, filling the small room. He shifts his weight on the edge of the cot, legs swinging slightly. “You ever get tired of babysitting boxers?”
Sieun pauses. His back is to Suho now, shoulders stiffening almost imperceptibly as he wipes down the counter with practiced motions. “Maybe. But it’s my job, so I won’t complain.”
Suho hummed, nodding his head. “Yeah.”
He leaned back on the edge of the cot, rubbing at his forehead with the towel, ignoring the sting from his bruises. His hands were still throbbing lightly, but Sieun had them wrapped like a pro, tight enough to protect, loose enough not to annoy him.
The satisfaction of seeing his knuckles safe made him grin despite the lingering ache.
“I won my match.” Suho announced, interrupting the quiet. “So… do I get a gold star tonight?” He finally asked, holding up his freshly wrapped fists like a child showing off a finger painting. “I feel like I deserve at least a sticker.”
Sieun didn’t look up. He was busy putting away the roll of bandages, slipping it into the drawer with surgical precision. “No stickers.” He said, monotonous. “You’re not a child, and this isn’t a kindergarten class.”
Though Suho could almost hear a faint edge of amusement underneath, something Suho liked to believe was only reserved for him. “Besides, you always win matches. What makes this one so special?”
Because I won it for you.
Suho flexed his fingers, a proud little grin on his face. He ignores the final question. “That’s fine. But you have to admit one thing. I looked pretty good out there, didn’t I?”
Sieun didn’t even glance up, his focus on putting away the bandage roll with surgical precision. “I wasn’t watching,” He said flatly. “and I don’t have any interest in doing so.”
The words sent a sharp pang through his chest, something akin to disappointment and mild agitation churning in his gut. However that was quickly pushed away. Of course Sieun hadn’t come, he’d been far too busy making his own money.
Suho hummed, tilting his head slightly and murmuring under his breath, “Liar.” His voice was soft, almost lost in the quiet of the clinic, but there was a mischievous lilt to it. And something else, buried beneath layers, something almost hopeful.
Sieun didn’t acknowledge the comment, continuing to pack up for the evening. It was growing later, the sun had long since sunk below the horizon, making way for the moons nightly appearance.
Suho too should be leaving shortly, but not yet — not when he still had a bit of time.
“Hm.” Suho hummed, tapping his wrapped knuckles together. “Will you at least consider coming to the next one then? I’m sure seeing you would help me perform better.” He leaned back further on the cot, swinging his legs idly. “Honestly, I might even throw in a few extra flourishes. Could make it a full-on show for you.”
“I’m sure you do that anyway, you always aim to please.” Sieun replied without looking at him, grabbing his work bag and securing the straps over his shoulders.
“Oh, not all,” Suho said with full honesty, “you’re special Doctor Yeon.” He paused, voice softening around the edges with his next few words. “I’m being serious, though. If you aren’t busy next time, come watch at least a couple rounds? It’d be nice to see a familiar face.”
At those words, Sieun paused, hesitating for a moment. Then his gaze lifted and he locked eyes with Suho for the nth time that evening, and yet again he went quiet at the sight.
He hummed, the sound noncommittal, but not exactly a rejection. Not yet.
“I’m busy.” Is all he said.
Suho tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Mm, okay. Busy. That’s fine.” He let the words linger, leaning back against the cot again, letting the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. The room felt quieter now, the only sound the faint hum of the clinic’s lights and the distant drip from a faucet somewhere in the corner.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Suho’s gaze wandered over the room, taking in the sterile surfaces, the neatly stacked supplies, the faint gleam of the metal tray where Sieun had set the used bandages. Everything was meticulous, exact — just like Sieun himself.
Finally, Suho pushed off the cot and rose to his feet. “Well… guess that’s it for tonight, huh?” His voice was light, teasing, but there was a thread of something softer beneath it.
Sieun didn’t look up immediately. When he did, his expression was neutral, unreadable, but there was the slightest lift of his brow — a small acknowledgment. “Yes.” He said simply.
Suho shrugged, a casual, easy movement. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to your busy schedule, Doctor Yeon.” He cast a glance toward him, grinning faintly, just enough to feel bold without overstepping. “Don’t work too hard, okay? You look like you’re gonna drop if anyone breathes too hard in your direction.”
“Mm,” Sieun murmured, turning back toward the counter, already shifting his bag on his shoulder, signaling the conversation was over.
Suho exhaled quietly, letting his grin soften into something more satisfied. He didn’t need a smile back, didn’t need words — just seeing him standing there, calm and composed, was enough. His heart still beat a little faster than normal, but he let it slide, knowing he’d savor it quietly.
He stepped toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back once. Sieun was still there, looking small and precise in the harsh light of the clinic. Suho murmured under his breath, more to himself than anyone else, “See you next time.”
The door swung open, the night air rushing in to meet him. Cool and crisp, it felt like a reset after the heat of the arena and the adrenaline of the fight. From behind him, he could hear Sieun’s quiet sound of pure exasperation at his words.
Suho slung his bag over his shoulder, letting his newly wrapped hands rest lightly at his sides.
He took a slow breath, letting the quiet of the empty hallway and the night outside wash over him. For a moment, he let himself linger, one last look toward the clinic before turning his back fully and walking away.