Chapter Text
Choso Kamo was not someone who was violent by nature, but rather by circumstance.
That is partially what had led him to this moment: bright hospital-like flurescent lights calling attention to the sweat on his skin; a crowd far too drunk and money-hungry to be anything but roaring; and his fist driving into the skin of another man's cheek.
Somewhere above the noise of joyous — and angry — shouts was a man counting down from 5. As each number shuttered closer to zero, all eyes remained on a tense Choso, and the limp, unconscious form of his opponent.
And then they hit zero, and Choso was thrust onto center stage, arms raised above his head as he was deemed the match's champion.
Choso didn't care much for titles.
His shoulders ached, as did his ribs from where he'd taken one too many hits. Knuckles, surely split, though it was unclear if the blood on his wraps was his own or one of the three men he'd fought that night.
All he cared for was the check awaiting him when he got out of this cheap, psuedo fighter's ring — nothing more than an abandoned parking lot with a hollowed out center, its crowd leering and hollering from various levels.
A hand slapped his back. An envelope handed to him. "$3000, even."
Without the lights burning into his skin, Choso felt blind for a moment, but he didn't need to see to recognize the deep rasp of his pimp's voice.
And okay, maybe "pimp" was a little too harsh (and cliché), but if you saw this man, 'pimp' wouldn't be too far off your radar: a buzz cut with faded sides, dark black glasses worn regardless of the circumstance, and a hulking tall form.
Despite that, he was one of the softest men Choso had ever met — a single father of a son and head of the school PTA. How in the world he had ended up in this business, was beyond Choso.
It was also beyond Choso why he put up with the man's mother hen-ing (if you read between the lines, there was sure to be a glaring red 'daddy issues' sign in flashing lights).
Regardless.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue, "Sorry, manager Yaga. Do you want me to prostrate on my hands and knees or can I get going?" He doesn't wait for a reply, thumb pointing back toward the glorified janitor's closet they called the "locker" room, and feet already moving him through the drunken stragglers who had fallen away from the main crowd.
A few pat his back, thank him for their gambled earnings — seemingly unbothered by the cooling sweat on his naked torso.
Choso didn't have to look back to know Yaga was following. This was their routine: a fight, an exchange of money, Choso announcing that this was the last time, Yaga ignoring him and instead giving feedback on his form, a lack of any sort of goodbye.
Considering they had already checked off two out of five prerequisted steps for the night, Choso didn't pause before reaching for the locker room door, already thinking about the locked-away phone and messages that may await him — which of course meant he wasn't paying attention when the very door he was reaching for was shoved open. Not even his reflexes could save him from getting thrown right on his ass.
Not a great feeling when the majority of your body is covered in blossoming bruises.
In an occasion so rare it hadn't happened since his third ever fight nearly 8 months ago, Choso was laid out on the floor, nothing more than a meatsack; hissing through the pain.
A cuss; angry what the fuck; or click of his tongue were all ready weapons against this idiotic stranger when a white-wrapped hand was thrust into his face. Months of fighting—and an early childhood around his father—keep him from flinching. Instead his eyes trail, registering blue jeans, dark reptilian tattoos bracketing hips and ribs, and the expanse of tight muscular skin before him. Almost against his will—the crackling room around him nothing but background noise—Choso's eyes follow the trail of this body, over the bandeau, collarbones, and smiling lips to amused brown eyes and gold halo of braided hair; two stems that casually swished by hips.
There was that spark of familiarity; of when you know someone but aren't completely sure from where: a collegue? Old classmate? Ex-neighbor? Friend of a friend? Celebrity?
None of those felt quite right, like the knowing that crackled around his ribs and stomach like some rickety pinball machine.
A quirked brow and amused turn of lips, the fingers in front of him wiggle, breaking the trance that had pulled him into its depths. Choso had been staring, for who knows how long. A burning sensation crawled over his cheeks and down his chest and he looked back at the hand, grabbing it firmly and allowing it to hold his weight.
(He does not think of how warm and small the hand feels in his).
Standing, it becomes glaringly obvious she was taller than him. His chin is forced to lift ever so slightly to maintain eye contact—and so he does not miss the wink directed at him.
"Watch where you're going, stud." Her voice, smokey. Her hand squeezing his—they were still entwined.
He cleared his throat, face burning, trying to find the words, but she had already let go and pushed past him.
Only after she's swallowed by the crowd, never bothering to look back, do the words slot together alongside his teeth: "That should be my line."
"Kamo?" Yaga held the door open, waiting, clearly having witness the train crash that had just occured. But if there was one great feature about his manager, it was that he knew when not to speak.
Choso wiped his hand against his shorts as if that would remove the warm phantom touch that still lingered, and moved through the doorway into the damp, dark room: to one side, cheap lockers that could have been fished out of a dumpster; to the other, a mirror, sink, and flyers of upcoming fights; somewhere in the middle, a bench that Choso wasted no time plopping on.
His muscles ached and even at the young age of 23, he felt far too old for this.
Four digits entered with a spin, the locker opened with a creak and Choso was pulling a hoodie over his head and shoving the precious envelope with his earnings from the night into the backpack that tumbled out alongside his sweatpants.
"You did great tonight, son," Yaga said from where he leaned against the sink.
Here they go. Onto steps three and four of the routine song and dance the two of them performed.
"Given, he almost had you with that kick toward the end. How many times have I told you to always be facing your opponents?"
"Tch. I won, didn't I?" His hand digs around for his phone.
Dead. Great.
"I know, I know. I'm just saying for next—"
"Time?"
"—time… Yeah, exactly—"
"No I meant, what's the time?"
"Ah." A shift and fumble in pockets. "2:48."
"Fuck." He was late.
Choso jumped up and hastily began shoving everything in his bag, pulling his hood up, and slipping back into his sneakers. The locker closed with a slam.
Yaga followed him out the door. "I know what you usually say but—."
"I don't want to hear it. Tonight was more than enough."
"Kamo—"
"I don't need—"
"Will you— will you just listen for a moment." Something in his voice finally had Choso slowing his rapid pace to a pause.
They stood frozen at the lip of the parking lot, the flickering street lights and moon casting the area in a soft glow. They had not made it that far, paused and shrouded in concrete's shadow. There was just enough light for Choso to make out the exasperated look in the other's face.
This was a divergence from their usual routine. And so, Choso waited, skin itching with the need for a shower. Hands aching from where he still needed to clean and remove the wraps from his hands and assess the damage underneath.
Instead of coveying any of that, he simply crossed his arms and shifted the weight in his hips: the universal sign of well?
"Like I was saying earlier, you did great tonight." A pause, "And the big boss wants to see you."
Crossed arms fell to his side, "Now?"
"No, no. This Saturday at midnight. And, don't look so down, this is a good thing, yeah?"
For anyone else maybe. For Choso, this had never been his dream, but rather a necessity.
"Yaga," He ran a hand through his sweaty, loose hair, "I'm not interested in fighting longterm, I already told you. I'm only doing this—"
"To get yourself out of debt, yeah, yeah. I heard you, son, but don't throw away a good opportunity." He clapped a hand on Choso's shoulder in a way that was far too paternal to do anything but soften his defenses. "The boss only speaks to fighters when he has something big planned for them. And you know what big means right?"
He did, but he allowed Yaga to have his moment.
"Money."
That was something every fighter here knew: to become one of the boss's favorites meant to have it made for life (or at least until severe injury took you out): first pick of opponents, the best time slots (i.e. not the 9pm or 1am circuit he was currently stuck on), and a giant increase in cash.
That was the problem with this business, once you were in, it was hard to get out—despite the verbal barriers Choso constantly tried to put up, for both Yaga and himself.
Choso rubbed at the back of his neck, looking up at his manager. The hand on his shoulder squeezed, "Just promise me you'll think about it."
He shook out of the other man's grip, tightening his hold on his bag and stepping out into the moonlight.
"I'll think about it," he said, but the truth was, he'd already made up his mind.
By the time Choso finally made it home, it was nearly 4am. With a caution and hesitancy anyone who'd watched him tonight would think him incapable of, Choso slipped off his shoes and backpack, softly padding into the kitchen; the apartment in complete darkness. He muffled a shout when stubbing his toe on the kitchen's doorway and nearly knocked over a forgotten mug, but somehow someway he made it to the fridge without making a ruckus.
The light was nearly blinding, but the cool air refreshing on his skin. He pawed through an empty jar of peanut butter, a single slice of bread, milk, two eggs, and an energy drink before grabbing a water bottle from the small makeshift pyramid — he'd need to go do a grocery run soon.
It helped, of course, that his day job was across the street from the supermarket. The very day job that he would have to be up for in—he looked at the microwave's clock—four hours.
That was probably the only con. Besides that, it was pretty great; a flower shop owned by a married couple who didn't care that he was a high school drop out and didn't mind his irregular hours. They also often sent him home with homemade dishes.
Okay, one more con: it didn't pay well. That isn't to say it paid bad, but not nearly close enough to what he needed.
Hence, his other job. Dangerous, stupid, reckless, and yet the only way he could afford to pay off the six figure debt he owed. Debt he hadn't even known existed until his grandfather had died two years ago.
The last bit of legacy his piece of shit father had left them: years of medical bills.
The only silver lining of it being it meant his old man was dead and gone.
Of course, that left him with his father's debt, the cost of his grandfather's funeral, rent, and everything it cost to take care of—
"God, Yuuji! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Any attempt at quiet was quickly forgotten when, illuminated by the open fridge, the form of his little brother waited in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes like some sleepy ghost.
Choso was quick to set the water down and close the fridge, fumbling for the light switch. They both blinked at the bright light. Yuuji, in his pajamas, dragging a blanket behind him and across the floor. Choso, in his dirty sweats, suddenly all too aware of the blood splatered across his shoes.
He dropped to his knees in hopes of hiding the stains and reached out for Yuuji before he had time to think about it.
"You're hurt…" two little hands grab onto his, petting at the wraps that were bleeding red over his knuckles.
Even at seven, Yuuji was far too perceptive.
Guilt over staining the boy kept Choso from pinching sleep-warm cheeks. Instead, he did what he usually did: reassure.
"This? No-o. Well, a little but it's mostly the, uh, the other guy's." And because he felt himself begin to lose steam, and veering into territory he'd rather not address, a pivot: "Where is Mrs Sato?" He made a show of looking around, before grabbing at his brother, suddenly and with fingers tickling into his sides, "Did you eat her?"
Through giggles and half hearted attempts to get away were exclamations of 'no!' And 'I didn't eat he-er!!' And 'she's in— in—' words lost to their shared laughter. Choso, feeling his mission accomplished, relinquished Yuuji (but not before Yuuji himself got a well placed and STRONG hit to his aching shoulder).
Huffing and with smiles still creeping onto their cheeks, Yuuji kept his hands lifted in ready defense, "I didn't eat her."
"Then where is she? Are you sure she's not in your stomach—"
"Sto-op!"
"I'm stopping, I'm stopping."
Yuuji did not look like he quite believed him, eyes darting from hand to hand—and of course it didn't help that Choso kept making faux grabs at him—but eventually he relented, sitting down in criss-cross across from Choso.
"She fell asleep reading me a story." He whispered as if Mrs Sato could show up and reprimand him at any point. Which wasn't completely implausible. Mrs Sato was their very sweet and very elderly neighbor who treated Yuuji like her own grandson, but she was an old lady at the end of the day (though it never got further than a stern frown).
To Choso, she was a saint. One who very VERY kindly offered to watch Yuuji whenever Choso had "work." Which he half suspected she either thought him a member of the yakuza or a sex worker with the hours he kept and the occasional glance she shot his tattoo. Last week he'd even found a pamphlet on celibacy on his bedside table.
But that's not what really mattered. What mattered was that Yuuji had someone to watch him the 1x a week Choso was busy between the hours of 9 and 3am. Because no matter what Yuuji said (and he had argued, cried, and complained about it) he WAS only 7.
And each time Choso had to ask Mrs Sato to watch him, was another time a coil of anxiety would ravel around him, a fear that she would say it was the last. It had yet to happen, but he was all too aware of the ticking clock. So, instead of waking her up, he stood and guided his little brother to the bathroom, setting him on the counter as Choso got to work.
In the shower, he listened to Yuuji ramble about his day, the butterfly he'd seen, the new friend he'd made at school, the boring meal Mrs Sato had cooked him, all while Choso tried not to groan or shout as he scrubbed at bruised, busted, and bleeding skin.
He didn't think he was supposed to feel THIS tired at 23.
But being the sole guardian of a little boy, and the sole inheritor of a massive pile of debt would do that to a person.
Run by internal autopilot alone, Choso dressed his wounds (allowing Yuuji to help, and internally berating himself that the young boy was so familiar to this routine he seemed almost unfazed), pulled on his loosest pajamas, and settled both himself and Yuuji under the covers of his bed.
The only sign that nights like these got to Yuuji was the way he clung to Choso, even in his sleep. Small hands holding desperately to split knuckles, wrinkling a worn t-shirt, and overall suffocating Choso under the weight of his embrace. Not that Choso cared.
It didn't matter what anyone said, or had suggested to him when their grandfather passed, he would never give up Yuuji.
He just needed to pay off the debt he carried so it would never ever fall onto Yuuji's shoulders.