Blood is copiously dropping from San's mouth; the last jab has hit him right in the jaw. The pain is searing, biting, but he knows he can't focus on that, not yet. He will tend to his body later, in the tender darkness of his changing room, lit only by the dim light of an old lamp. Right now, only his adversary matters.
Focus, Choi San. Focus on his ankles, their angles. Where his weight may shift in his next movements, where his fists are aiming for. Look at his shoulders, their rotation. And dodge the next punch.
Good.
Caught off guard, the fighter can't but take San's right hook in the temple. He flinches, stumbles, then falls. Wooyoung counts. One, two, three. He's out. The Mountain wins. The crowd goes wild; people count their money, satisfied and looking forward to their hungover. Some scoff, disappointed in the fainted warrior, ungraciously dragged out of the earthy ring. Wooyoung hurries to San's side and offers him water. It tastes of metal and dirt. The first sip goes to the ground, forming a small puddle beside the fighter's feet. He caresses the fighter's left arm, right of an old scar on his forearm.
"You look angry. You did good, San."
"Could have done better. Could have dodged the last jab. It almost cost me a couple of teeth."
"Could've, should've. Give yourself a break. You won."
"Yeah. I'm tired. You got the money?"
"We're short a hundred, but yes. Let's patch you up."
Wooyoung always tends to San's wounds, like a caring old mother. His gentle touch never presses too much or too lightly, skillfully knowing what to do and how to help him after a feral fight. San knows all too well he would be lost without Wooyoung. He doesn't know how and when to stop. He doesn't know how to heal on his own. He is the arm of their operation, the muscle. Wooyoung is the brains and the caring heart.
"Thanks."
"You don't have to thank me every time."
"But I do. You're only in this shit because of me."
"And you're only in this shit because of me. It's mutual. So, maybe, I should be the one saying I'm sorry, instead of you thanking me."
San scoffs and stops Wooyoung from his tending job. He takes his hand in his own, kissing it softly. Wooyoung is the only person in the world who can see this gracious side of him, outside of the ring, outside of his kevlar skin.
"I chose you a long time ago. I chose you over my own family. Although I hate every second of this life, I don't regret my choice. I would do it over and over again. You know that."
"It's just that... it's not fair. You're the one taking the toll of it. I just count the money."
"You take care of me. No one ever did, not even my own mother. And we're close, so damn close to being free from all of this. Just a few more fights and we will be able to leave Hongdae for good."
"And where will we go? What will we do? We can't just start a life out of nowhere. I feel like we're stuck here, money or not."
"I promise you we are not. Woo, we are tired. Physically and mentally. Let's go home and sleep over it. Tomorrow it will all be clearer. 'kay?"
Wooyoung nods, looking at the floor. San lifts his chin gently and presses a kiss on his lips. They smile at each other, fatigued and drained smiles, but smiles nonetheless.
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