As he stepped into the ring, he knew he was finished. The and jeering, of the crowds were like the roar of a stormy sea to his sensitive ears, his own fear weighing him down as he was shoved into the centre by unknown and unforgiving hands, his gaze flickering around the audience surrounding the ring. It was suffocating. No escape through the sea of men waving their fists, clutching yen notes and howling at him. He took a moment to glance to his best friend, who watched anxiously from the sidelines, his eyes filled with the terror that the young fighter felt. Kouyou knew this was going to end badly too, and yet he gave a soft cheer of encouragement from the side, ignoring the taunts and the fact that his efforts were wasted.
The kid in the ring snorted to himself, and shook his head, hopping from one foot to another, his fists drawn to his chest as if already he were protecting his body although the match had yet to begin. His opponent would be here momentarily, to beat the living shit out of him, and despite the overwhelming urge to prove the onlookers, the punters, the sons of bitches watching him wrong; he knew that he was indeed going to go down hard and painfully.
And then he heard it.
“Odds, 26-1 on Suzuki! Any takers? Any takers?”
What a way to inspire confidence into him. The fighter known as Akira knew he was going down, his best friend knew he was going down and from the odds shouted out, the entire crowd knew that he was going down. Against Kiroyama, nobody stood a chance, especially not a scrawny kid here for the money. It was the sole reason he remained in the ring, instead of following his hearts greatest desire and fleeing the poorly lit room along with Kouyou. They needed this money, it was the highest priority in Akira’s life. Well, that, and to remain alive once this fight was done.
He had heard about the fight club through the proverbial grapevine. His sort of people, the ones that had chosen the wrong path in life and had ended up in dangerous situation daily had many acquaintances, all of whom were eager to share tidbits of information with him. The yakuza run fight club was a form of entertainment for bored members. In the backroom of a Yakuza bar was the base of a club where those in dire need of quick cash came to chance their lives and hope for victory over a yakuza member in order to earn hard cash. Often, those who participated knew that they were not going to win, and yet they endured a beating in order to receive money for simply providing entertainment. Should the unlikely event of victory fall to the fortunate challenger, they would be presented with cold, hard cash, and the opportunity for a repeat fight, the price double should they win.
Those who would win often took this chance, knowing that the yakuza member that they had beaten would no doubt bear a grudge for his humiliation. However, when one was in such need of money, it seemed worth it, to chance his life against a humiliated fighter in hopes of winning once more. However, those who repeatedly won their fights either became yakuza, or were killed. Or at least, rumour had it.
However, most of the time, the challenger would fail, often thrown unconscious out of the club and their winnings for simply participating tucked into their back pocket as they waited to become conscious in the alleyway behind the club in the cold night air. The defeated would be beaten to a bloodied pulp for the entertainment of the yakuza that didn’t care if the challenger stood a chance or not. Putting their men against desperate hopefuls gave them an ego boost and confidence, after all.
Akira needed the money for Kouyou, and his friend was more important than his physical wellbeing any day. He wanted to win, to wipe the smirks from their faces.
“Presenting the honourable Kiroyama-san!”
Cold sweat ran down Suzuki’s face, his stomach twisting into unpleasant knots as his opponent stepped into the ring and sneered viciously at him. The audience cheered and promised Akira that he would soon be in hell, watching as Hiroyama sized up his opponent and turned to the crowd. “I give him thirty seconds!” He bellowed, raising his fists as a cheer of encouragement rose from the eager crowd. Akira blanched a little, but bit his lips and told himself to keep a confident look on his facealthough his insides were twisted and he felt like he was about to vomit.
He could do this. He could do this. The money at stake was incredibly important, and the consequences of what would happen if they didn’t take this money spurred him to keep his head held high.
“Arrogant, scrawny punk. Do you think you can take me on?” Hiroyama sneered, smirking as Suzuki remained silent, wishing that he had a mouth guard, or something to protect his head. Any man could challenge the yakuza for their entertainment, so he was clad in just black boots, a pair of dark jeans that had seen better days, and a white tank top, the slight muscles of his arms shaking a little in tension as he waited for the fight to begin.
In this particular club, there was just one rule to be upheld, one that both scared and relieved him.
‘No killing in the ring’
It meant that he would escape tonight, no doubt bruised and broken but with his life intact. Yet quite easily he would need urgent hospital treatment once the match ended, and if he was perfectly honest with himself- he really didn’t need that sort of hassle at the present stage of his life. He could fight dirty by all means, fight like a little bitch if he wanted to, and damn he would take the opportunity to. If the yakuza were giving him the opportunity to fight dirty then he could put his honour aside if it meant winning and taking the prize money away. Akira needed this. He wasn’t leaving here until he had proven these fuckers wrong, that he could-
Wham.
The fist to the side of his head had been a shock as he hadn’t heard the call to begin, and stumbling backwards, Akira hissed, raising a hand to his face like a bitch that had been slapped. The crowd jeered, the hands closest to his body shoving him forwards into the centre of the ring once more. “Thirty seconds? More like fucking ten!” Hiryama boomed, his arrogant remark sparking deep masculine cheers from the audience.
Akira spat on the ground to his side, his eyes narrowed to slits. That punch had caught him off guard mid-thought. He’d make up for it, despite the dizziness and nausea running through him, because he was going to show those motherfuckers that he could win.
He leapt at Hiroyama, one leg hooking around the tall man’s ankle, the top of his head slamming firmly into the other’s chest, tripping his bulky opponent backwards and heavily onto the floor with a resounding crash that caused the audience to gasp. Straddling his opponent’s waist, Akira brought back his fist and slammed it hard into Hiroyama’s nose, as he was trying to recover, feeling blood splash his knuckles, his other hand preoccupied with holding down his opponent’s throat to the ground, ignoring the gargling noise. However, the head butt had dizzied Akira further, yet raw determination drove him on to punch Hiroyama’s face three more times, an immense feeling of satisfaction running through his body as his knuckles and hand became stained with blood, and the older man grunted beneath him.
However, his dominance in the fight was short lived. Hiroyama was a big, muscled man at six foot three, the kanji and tigers tattooed onto his arms threatening his strength, and his crooked nose indicating that he had been in more than a few fights before. The way he saw it, this little punk had humiliated him, and he was going to fucking die, rules or not.
Hiroyama shoved a fist into Akira’s stomach, sending the boy reeling backwards, one hand over his stomach as he cried out in pain, the crowd of yakuza members cheering at the return of their hero. None had expected a scrawny kid, barely out of his teens to floor one of their own, and draw blood.
If Akira thought that he was finished before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. He had lost the upper hand, and now he was going to suffer for taking it in the first place. The murderous look in Hiroyama’s eyes as he kicked Suzuki’s stomach with a heavy boot told him that tonight, he was going to die. But… he needed the money. He needed to win! The opportunity for victory had been snatched away from him the moment Hiroyama had gotten over the shock that someone had floored him. Defeat was inevitable, and every person in the room knew it. But the fight wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot.
Hiroyama spat on Suzuki, stamping down on his hand with a twisted smirk on his lips, blood trailing from his nose onto the floor, his less than attractive face sneering down. “Get up, punk. Get up and take your beating like a man.” He ordered harshly. Suzuki reeled for a moment, moving to his hands and knees, looking up to the jeering faces of the audience, and the tears flowing freely from his best friend’s eyes. Kouyou was saying something, something he couldn’t hear over the audience and the sound of blood pounding in his ears.
It didn’t matter. Words were useless now, and the only thing Hiroyama understood was brute force. He needed this money for Kou. He wasn’t going to be kicked down like a dog. The boot on his hand moved and he stood up, stumbling backwards for a moment before he shook his head. Victory had certainly slipped away from him, so why bother getting up? Why not allow himself to be beaten unconscious and get it over with?
Akira had pride. He would fight dirty, but he knew that he wouldn’t win the fight, no matter how much he wanted to- needed to. This fucker would not get the pleasure of a weak opponent. Akira threw a punch to Hiroyama’s face, yet for the trained fighter, it was far too simple to grab his wrist in a large hand and bend it backwards until Akira cried out. “Hear that?” Hiroyama boomed, to the laughs of the crowd. “He cries out like a pussy!” He roared, pushing back Akira’s wrist further until the boy cried out again, a leg brought up aiming to kick Hiroyama in the crotch.
The audience had witnessed one shocking turn of events already tonight- the great Hiroyama floored. Never did they expect two. Hiroyama let go of Akira’s wrist immediately and grunted loudly as the black boot made contact with his groin and he doubled over, roaring furiously like a wounded beast, anger, humiliation, frustration building up inside him. Once more, Akira saw victory within his grasp. He had delivered a blow that had hurt his opponent, and now the chance of victory had glimmered once more.
Yet the terror he felt was overwhelming. Three seconds pause too long and Hiroyama had floored him with a single punch, kicks repeatedly given to his body. Akira wouldn’t escape with his life tonight, Hiroyama would make sure of that. The crowd cheered as their hero rained blows down upon Suzuki’s body, knowing that the humiliation and anger the fighter felt would double the pain for the kid.
Victory had escaped once more. “Get up! Get the fuck up!” Hiroyama bellowed, kicking Akira in the ribs once he had moved to his hands and knees, coughing blood onto the ground, his mind foggy and the crowd a distant noise in the background, a mantra chanted in his head ‘I need the money’ until it had blurred into one word. Suzuki blinked, trying to focus his vision before his blond hair was pulled up sharply, pain searing through his head, his face slammed hard down onto the ground, once, twice, three times until he was a swollen, bloody mess.
He coughed, rolling onto his back, although he knew that this was the worst possible thing for him to do. A boot stamped hard down on his arms, breaking the skin as the steel spikes adorning the boots making cut into him, moving swiftly to his chest and stomach, staining the once white tank top scarlet, creating in a disturbing picture. The boot came to rest one more time on his throat, a spike pressing down hard, beginning to draw blood. Akira choked, his hands trying desperately to wrench the boot off his neck, tiny gasps of air taken in- nowhere near enough oxygen to feed his brain. The world was beginning to darken and no longer could he hear the audience bellow. All that existed in his world was the mantra running faintly through his mind and his consciousness slipping away from him.
“No! Fucking stop it, you’ll kill him!” A voice shrieked, and Akira’s eyes snapped open as the boot was pushed away and his head was rested on someone’s lap, arms resting protectively down upon his chest. The sounds of the ring returned to him at once, and he recognized that the pleading voice was Kouyou’s. “Get out of the fucking ring, girlie!” A voice jeered, the arms around Suzuki tightening a little more. “Fuck you! He’s beaten, don’t you see? Leave him be!” Kouyou’s voice shrilled once more, and Akira felt a rush of affection for his friend. He had quite possibly saved his life, hadn’t he?
The events following were a blur to Akira. He was hauled to his feet and declared the loser, his body swaying and Kouyou helping to hold him upright, the obligatory 10,000 yen thrown at him for participating. It was nowhere near the prize money should he have won but for now… it would do.
The next thing he knew, he was shoved out into the alleyway, falling to his hands and knees and vomiting, while his hair was held back, soothing words murmured from Kouyou, He had been beaten, but they were both 10,000 yen richer although it was nowhere near enough for what they needed.
Kouyou’s tears splashed down onto Akira’s neck, the hands holding him shaking a little. “I’m sorry, Aki… I’m so sorry. I should never have told you about this place, never… I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m…” He trailed off and brought Akira close to his chest, wrapping his arms around him, and helping him up as they made their way home- to an apartment in a less than desirable area of town.
Their home was tiny, but it was a place for them both to stay. Masses of candles lay stacked against one wall in the event that the electricity was cut off, and several bolts and locks were fitted to the door. The furniture of the apartment was sparse. An ancient sofa lay against one wall, a small old fashioned tv resting on a cardboard box. A cheap wooden table and two flimsy chairs lay beside the tiny kitchen area, with poor appliances. In their single bedroom they shared a bed, old sheets and a thick blanket with sewn patterned flowers lay on the thin mattress, beside a small cardboard box serving as a table, and a tiny lamp resting on top of it, two knives soon thrown down on top of it as Akira collapsed onto the bed. Kouyou ceased his pitiful weeping after a few moments and dragged his friend to the bathroom, avoiding looking at the broken mirror and instead concentrating on getting Akira’s clothes off so that he could see the extent of the damage.
“Oh god, Aki, I’m sorry- those motherfuckers…“
“Don’t apologize. I should have won when I had the chance. I should be the one apologizing Kou,” Akira interjected, clinging onto his best friend for support. Kouyou bit down hard on his lower lip, telling himself to be strong and helping Akira into the shower, soon joining him, and helping wash the blood away from his skin with the cold water until the blond was clean, but beaten and weak. There were no broken bones, thankfully, but bruises, swellings and pain racked Akira’s body. They soon both brushed their teeth and fell into bed naked, clinging onto each other with the blankets tugged over them, although there was no intimacy in their embrace.
Kouyou stroked Akira’s hair gently; kissing his forehead and holding him, wishing to god that he hadn’t told him about the fight club in the first place. Akira was too reckless, too stubborn and didn’t think of consequences. As Akira drifted off to his uneasy sleep, Kouyou took a deep shuddering breath and held him close. It was late, three in the morning, but they were both going to need their sleep if they were to carry on with their lives. 
