saxophonic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
saxophonic) wrote2020-12-31 03:18 pm
saxophonic) wrote2020-12-31 03:18 pm
Swing, Sucker, Swing
Title: Swing, Sucker, Swing (yes.)
Summary: Caesar “Iron Wrench” Zeppeli stands to win big…if he could only stand to lose.
Rating: M
Word Count: 3,356
Tags: Caesar & Joseph, Modern AU: Underground Fighting, Violence, Explicit Language
Note: Late entry for CJC Week 2020, Day 2: Fighting/Competition.
Behind him, Caesar let the heavy door click shut under its own weight. The fight tonight came with the rare addition of a semi-private room to prep. His crew spun it like it was a perk, as if privacy was the luxury most desired, but Caesar knew it was to hide “the entertainment” from the eyes of high society socialites paying for a peek of brutality from the comfort of their own penthouses. Every situation has a set of unspoken rules laid into the context. He's used to figuring them out real quick.
Ignoring the furnishings, Caesar dropped his bag on the ground, sunk into a crouch, and began rifling through for his wraps. The voice of his bookie cropped up in his mind as he wrapped his hands.
You've made a name for yourself as the Iron Wrench. People know what you're capable of, now. It's time to double that investment. The hosts want to make good on the night’s odds: 15 to 1 on you. You know there's big money hiding in those pockets.
Throw the fight.
Caesar sneered down at his hand, tightening it into a fist. He hated losing, and until now, the fighters who beat him did so fair and square. Mostly. As fair as a no-holds-barred fight could be, given that one nasty brute nearly gouged out his eye weeks ago. That had been one of the few fights that went from fun to frightening real quick.
Flexing his fingers, he tested the wrap. It felt right, so he used his teeth to finish tightening the knot into place. He started on his other hand, muscle memory taking over as he looped the tape around his palm and fingers.
He heard of his opponent before in passing. Name like a superhero, childish, with a penchant for taunting. Caesar didn't understand the tradition of trash talking during a fight. It seemed like a waste of breath, and by the time he was done, his fists had sent a firm message. Fighters who used their time in the cage to talk usually ended up flat on their back, gasping for precious air, more often than not.
Caesar grinned to himself. If this guy was anything like the others, a real fight would be over in five minutes, tops.
Throw the fight.
But it wasn’t going to be a real fight. Caesar would put on an entertaining show, then lose persuasively. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s swallowed bitter pills before and came out no worse for wear.
Caesar tightened the knot on his hand and stood in the room. Jumping from foot to foot, he started his warm-ups and centered himself in his body. He liked that state of mind, that feeling, when muscle memory took over and his mind focused on the threat and opportunities presented by his opponent. Gone were the days when he needed to stoke his inner fire to enrage himself and ride that ferocity to victory. Anger was a tool he controlled now that loan sharks weren’t sending their goons knocking on his door. No pressing need to win enough money so he wouldn’t have to choose between rent or bills. Each fight didn’t carry that life-or-death struggle to survive another day.
This was just to make a nice cushion. Open up a savings account. Get his credit right. Real adult shit. He only needed to lose tonight. Lord knows he’d lost before, when it mattered a hell of a lot more. And he’d lose again, too.
It wouldn’t be a real loss, not with those odds. A convincing lie.
Something about it didn’t play well with his pride.
The door opened again as Caesar started in on his last warm-up, but he didn’t turn around. “We’re ready for you,” someone said. Caesar grunted in acknowledgement and reached for his bag. “Oh, leave it. We’ll lock the door during the fight and you can use the room after.” So he turned on his heel and walked out.
He followed the person through a series of bland taupe hallways and stairwells that rich assholes seem to love for their working staff. Eventually, they led him through a final set of doors and onto a tiered rooftop. The lower tier seemed mostly reserved for the fight, cage and all. The second and third tiers acted like viewing platforms for the attendees. Caesar assumed equal parts of booze and excitement flowed through the crowds. Some swayed to the music filtering through unseen speakers, others engaged in pointless conversations. No one paid him any attention, which suited him fine for now. He entered the cage to test its strength and found it adequate despite the chain links were probably more for show than actual use. Another prop in tonight’s play.
Well, whatever. Caesar resumed his warm-ups with a few practice punches and dodging an invisible opponent. Out of habit, he spent a few moments getting used to the space available inside the fighting ring. He supposed it couldn’t hurt. It might even help make the whole thing look real. Caesar hoped his opponent was good enough, or maybe just big enough, to convince people.
In the upper tiers, the music stopped. A screech of feedback through the speakers made Caesar wince. Someone apologized into a microphone before a brief introduction to the night’s entertainment. It was time.
Revelers turned toward Caesar and spoke excitedly amongst themselves. The voice ramped up the fight while paying sycophantic compliments to the host before familiar words brought Caesar’s mind back into singular focus. “Tonight, the Iron Wrench makes his first appearance on the Founder’s rooftop to face one of our very own! Here he is, the man, the monster, let’s hear it for Caesar Zeppeli!”
He boxed the air as the crowd applauded him in the odd way people do when they think of themselves as high society. There’s a hesitance to really cheer, like they’ve invited a lion into their parlor to both admire the strength of the creature and fear the claws of the beast. But no matter what the excuse might be for the night, the lion’s a mirror to reflect strength upon the hosts and impose intimidation on the guests.
The realization dawned on him as the announcer rambled on. “One of our very own,” the voice had said. No wonder Caesar was supposed to lose. He’s fighting one of these rich snobs’ sons. Any victory would be seen as a threat, and he’s being paid handsomely to comply. To show off sharp teeth, then roll over and play good lion. It made sense, though it twisted uncomfortably in his gut.
The door to the rooftop opened again and a figure in a robe approached the exit. Caesar rolled his eyes. Better get this over with.
“Making his debut tonight, I’m pleased to introduce to you the Joestar heir who needs no introduction. Here’s JoJo!”
So, Joseph Joestar, heir to the Joestar fortune, wanted to fight Caesar? And the best pseudonym he could come up with was ‘JoJo?’ It sounded like a childish nickname he had yet to outgrow. Ridiculous. Caesar had to resist a sarcastic laugh outright. The best he could manage was a derisive chuckle.
But as Joseph got closer, the amusement shriveled on Caesar’s tongue. Hulking over 6 feet tall, Joseph’s massive arms tested the strength of the shoulder seams of the purple silk robe he wore. Caesar wished he could discount the robe for what it was, another prop for the benefit of the audience. But Joseph’s hands were wrapped like Caesar’s were, and there wasn’t any obnoxious belt encircling Joseph’s trim waist or gaudy chain around his thick neck. Maybe the rich boy wanted to take this fight seriously.
The gates opened. Joseph shrugged off his robe, two men from his little entourage catching it as it slid down his arms. Caesar peeled off his own sweatshirt and tossed it over the cage. One of Joseph’s lackeys ran to collect it as Caesar sized up Joseph from across the cage.
Joseph wasn’t just tall, he was broad across the shoulders and thickly muscled through his long legs. Caesar could imagine him cutting out an underwear model from a magazine and bringing that photo to whatever top-of-the-line trainer his family hired for him. He had that same kind of chiseled body. A physique built to please the eye of its beholder.
But unlike the cardboard cut-outs inside the Calvin Klein outlet, the rigid sculpture of his muscles weren’t limiting him. His movements seemed flexible. Built too big to be gymnastic but those arms had seen some real-world use.
Caesar stopped himself from smiling. Interesting. The bigger they are… yeah, that was it.
He felt Joseph’s eyes on him, sizing him up too. They began circling each other in slow side-steps while the announcer called out for final bets. Then, “You all know the rules! No crotch shots, no bites, no kills.”
The whistle blew. “Fight on!”
Joseph lunged forward in a comically obvious feint. Caesar circled him without taking the bait and they settled into an uneasy dance.
Throw the fight.
Caesar watched Joseph’s face for any trace of a giveaway, like a lingering glance in a direction that might help predict his next move before his body followed through. Joseph, like most other fighters, started in on his trash talk.
“Ooh! Someone’s quick on his feet!” Joseph said. “Lucky for you I missed. Would have been a quick fight otherwise.”
Saying nothing, Caesar scanned Joseph’s body for any signs of sudden movement. There! A twitch of muscle! Caesar ducked a punch before it landed, spinning to kick Joseph’s feet out from underneath him.
“Fuck!” Joseph exclaimed, stumbling once before catching himself. Frustration built behind his light eyes and Caesar refrained from rolling his own.
Typical. You land one measly hit on these all-brawn-no-brains types and they throw a tantrum. Caesar chided himself to make the fight last, and if he couldn’t do that, at least make a knockout look real. Which meant he needed to let the grossly overgrown child in the ring get a hit in.
His chance came sooner than expected, and Caesar turned his body to absorb the force of Joseph’s punch on his shoulder or bicep. Either should be fine.
The world suddenly flipped sideways. He hit the deck, gasping for the breath that had just been knocked out of him, and rolled somersault over his shoulder. Caesar then used his hands to push himself into the air, coming down to regain his footing for a brief moment. Inhaling sharply through clenched teeth, Caesar leapt into an attack, propelling himself through the air with a well-placed jump. His fist was knocked away, Joseph’s forearm blocking the punch. Caesar moved his body on instinct to evade the strike coming towards his head.
They broke apart after a few exchanges of close-quarters blows to resume their wary circling. With the crowd egging them on, Caesar stared into Joseph’s sface and realized two things.
One, there was something to this rich man’s son. Something beyond the beefcake exterior, beyond the entitled brat facade that wants to piss off his parents. Beyond even the attention-seeking efforts of someone who will never have his fill of the spotlight. This was a foolhardy asshole with something to prove.
Two, that asshole was enjoying this charade. And that pissed off Caesar even more.
Keeping his flare of anger in check, Caesar watched for another opening. He tried to keep his face impassive, as unyielding a stone before flesh, but figured surly was better than outright frustration. Rage is a tool, one that can just as easily be turned against him if he isn’t careful to keep propelling him forward.
“We can dance all night, man.” Joseph flicked the tip of his nose with his thumb and licked his lips. “Or we can fight.” He settled his hands in a neutral pose, one that left him ready to attack or block as needed. “But I’m no good at dancing,” he grinned, “and they paid for a fight.”
Caesar scanned his opponent’s body again, this time quicker than before. He sidestepped Joseph’s melodramatic lunge and jab. He cracked his elbow against the back of Joseph’s head before using his foot to trip up Joseph’s ankles, foiling any chance of Joseph avoiding a fall. Insult to injury.
Joseph grunted as he hit the ground, but recovered quickly with a growl. “Come on. You held back.”
Caesar shrugged and brought up his fists, though Joseph’s comment surprised him. He could tell? From the cacophony of the crowd, Joseph was the only one.
“Fight me like you mean it.” Joseph’s frown deepened when Caesar stayed silent. “Come on!” he insisted, raising his voice. “Fight me for real!”
“Keep your voice down.” The words surprised Caesar as they came tumbling out.
But Joseph just grinned again. “Make me.” Infuriating bastard.
This time, Caesar rolled his eyes before starting a flurry of attacks that started an alternating, vicious cycle of strike, block, react, repeat. All in quick succession. All with enough effort that sweat began beading on his forehead.
And Joseph still saw through it. “Stop holding back!”
Caesar bit back a retort, equally surprised and frustrated by his own change in behavior. He wanted to shut Joseph up. He wanted that last word. But he didn’t have time to think about it. He barely had the presence of mind to acknowledge it.
Instead, Caesar used a deft spin and a well-timed elbow strike to Joseph’s kidney to send him gasping and stumbling back to catch his breath for real.
A swift chorus of booing from the crowd broke through the fog of focused anger. Too close to a real offense. A real injury.
Throw the fight.
Joseph came at him with the zeal of a rampaging bear, and Caesar simply reacted.
He caught Joseph’s forearm and twisted it around, but Joseph raised his knee to crush his foot against Caesar’s instep. With a shout of pain, Caesar released Joseph and dodged another stomp from his long, powerful legs. They reached for each other and tumbled to the floor, grappling. Wrestling. Rolling on the hard concrete of the rooftop, they fought without either one ever achieving a clear foothold on the upper hand.
“Stop faking this, !” Joseph gasped as he squirmed out of an ill-fitting chokehold. “I want to win because I’m better than you, not because you got paid to lose.” He grabbed a fistful of Caesar’s blond hair and yanked him to his feet.
Wincing, Caesar leaned into the pull. He gripped Joseph’s wrist with both hands, then pulled Joseph’s fingers back over his wrist while he ripped free of Joseph’s grip. Caesar jumped away. “Shut up!” he snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tossed out a series of punches, his restraint tested to the fullest and precariously ready to snap.
Throw the…
Joseph knocked the barrage aside. “You’re literally pulling your punches.” He pounded his chest with a fist. “Hit me!”
With a roar, Caesar backhanded Joseph across the face. The crack of the impact hushed the crowd. Caesar stood still, fuming and breathing hard, and watched redness slowly bloom across Joseph’s skin.
Joseph touched his cheek with his fingers and examined them. He looked at Caesar from the corner of his eyes, their cool blue color lit up with a wild energy. “Fuck, that’s more like it.”
Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Caesar stopped focusing on how the fight looked and the reactions of the crowd, instead finding a primal satisfaction in the familiar crunch of cartilage under his fingers from a square hit in the face. Joseph’s eyes widened as instinct moved his hand to stanch the blood dripping down his face. Even as he blinked back tears, Caesar could tell he was excited. Almost pleased.
That should have been a warning.
Suddenly, Caesar’s vision swam with darkness, and he realized he was looking up into the night sky. He reeled back. The blood on Joseph’s forehead came from his own face. Motherfucker headbutted him.
Caesar smirked. “You wanna get hit, right? That’s what you said.” He beckoned Joseph forward with bloody fingers. “C’mere.”
Joseph’s arm swung toward his head, and Caesar found himself fighting in earnest. Blocking another blow to the face, he couldn’t dodge a knee to his thigh fast enough.
He stopped keeping track of what had happened and instead let his body take over. Fists flew. Elbows jabbed. Skin bruised, broke. Grappling. He was conditioned for this. Caesar managed to get a hand around the back of Joseph’s neck to hold his head in place for another punch to the face. The heel of Joseph’s palm came toward his chin. Neither blow landed fully.
Cold metal crisscrossed against Caesar’s back after Joseph threw him across the ring so hard he had liftoff. The fence groaned as it moved under the force of weight. Caesar grunted as he hit the ground hard, immediately rolling to evade Joseph’s inevitable follow-up attack.
Was he winning? Was he losing? He jumped up, planting one foot solidly on the ground to pivot into a high-powered kick that knocked Joseph several feet away.
When was the last time a fight was this close?
He darted forward, his breathing ragged as Caesar wound his fist back. Joseph blocked the punch in the nick of time, but Caesar’s endurance was beginning to give him the edge more often than Joseph wrestled the upper hand from him. Caesar would often find himself dodging or absorbing some out-of-the-box move. But as the fight progressed, Joseph’s fancy tricks and surprising combinations came less frequently, and with more desperation.
Suddenly, Caesar saw an opening. Joseph had been guarding himself carefully for a few minutes now, aware of his limits but finally worn down to weakness. Caesar sprang, though his own legs moved slower with exhaustion, and tackled Joseph. They wrestled on the ground, legs and arms entwined like boa constrictors around prey.
Caesar headbutted him, knocking Joseph out and seeing stars.
In a moment, his vision cleared. The area was dead silent. Caesar realized he was still cradling Joseph as Joseph came to. “Motherfucker,” Joseph mumbled like his tongue was moving through honey.
“I won,” Caesar said, still a bit dazed.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Joseph said and rolled out of Caesar’s grasp.
The crowd reacted, and Caesar wasn’t sure where he stood with his bookie, but he found he didn’t care so much. Looking across the arena, Joseph touched his face gingerly in a few places, some that were currently bleeding, some that would be impressive bruises tomorrow.
With adrenaline still coursing his veins, Caesar’s own body felt less than half the pain it should. He struggled to his feet. Then, surprising even himself, he reached down to offer Joseph a hand. Joseph looked up at him, then at his outstretched hand. A beat passed. “Fine,” Caesar snapped. He tried to yank his hand away, but Joseph grabbed it before he had the chance. Caesar pulled him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, you’re heavy.”
Joseph snorted in amusement. “Like I’ve never heard that before.” He wobbled on his feet before steadying himself, then looked at Caesar from the corner of his eye. “Best two out of three?”
Caesar turned away. “No way. I’m getting my money and getting the hell out of here.” He headed toward the cage’s exit.
“Next week,” Joseph called after him. “No crowd. Just us, for fun.” The gate opened from the outside, so Caesar stood with his back to Joseph as he waited for someone to let them out. “I’ll pay you?”
The door swung open. Before exiting, Caesar turned back to Joseph. He looked a mess, sweaty and bleeding, but the corners of his mouth were upturned and his eyes lit up with a bit of wildness. Yeah, that was damn fun, wasn’t it? He’d almost meet him for free just to get the chance to fight Joseph again. “Fine.” Joseph’s smile broadened. Crazy bastard. Caesar left the ring, already considering what he’d do differently next week.
Summary: Caesar “Iron Wrench” Zeppeli stands to win big…if he could only stand to lose.
Rating: M
Word Count: 3,356
Tags: Caesar & Joseph, Modern AU: Underground Fighting, Violence, Explicit Language
Note: Late entry for CJC Week 2020, Day 2: Fighting/Competition.
Behind him, Caesar let the heavy door click shut under its own weight. The fight tonight came with the rare addition of a semi-private room to prep. His crew spun it like it was a perk, as if privacy was the luxury most desired, but Caesar knew it was to hide “the entertainment” from the eyes of high society socialites paying for a peek of brutality from the comfort of their own penthouses. Every situation has a set of unspoken rules laid into the context. He's used to figuring them out real quick.
Ignoring the furnishings, Caesar dropped his bag on the ground, sunk into a crouch, and began rifling through for his wraps. The voice of his bookie cropped up in his mind as he wrapped his hands.
You've made a name for yourself as the Iron Wrench. People know what you're capable of, now. It's time to double that investment. The hosts want to make good on the night’s odds: 15 to 1 on you. You know there's big money hiding in those pockets.
Throw the fight.
Caesar sneered down at his hand, tightening it into a fist. He hated losing, and until now, the fighters who beat him did so fair and square. Mostly. As fair as a no-holds-barred fight could be, given that one nasty brute nearly gouged out his eye weeks ago. That had been one of the few fights that went from fun to frightening real quick.
Flexing his fingers, he tested the wrap. It felt right, so he used his teeth to finish tightening the knot into place. He started on his other hand, muscle memory taking over as he looped the tape around his palm and fingers.
He heard of his opponent before in passing. Name like a superhero, childish, with a penchant for taunting. Caesar didn't understand the tradition of trash talking during a fight. It seemed like a waste of breath, and by the time he was done, his fists had sent a firm message. Fighters who used their time in the cage to talk usually ended up flat on their back, gasping for precious air, more often than not.
Caesar grinned to himself. If this guy was anything like the others, a real fight would be over in five minutes, tops.
Throw the fight.
But it wasn’t going to be a real fight. Caesar would put on an entertaining show, then lose persuasively. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s swallowed bitter pills before and came out no worse for wear.
Caesar tightened the knot on his hand and stood in the room. Jumping from foot to foot, he started his warm-ups and centered himself in his body. He liked that state of mind, that feeling, when muscle memory took over and his mind focused on the threat and opportunities presented by his opponent. Gone were the days when he needed to stoke his inner fire to enrage himself and ride that ferocity to victory. Anger was a tool he controlled now that loan sharks weren’t sending their goons knocking on his door. No pressing need to win enough money so he wouldn’t have to choose between rent or bills. Each fight didn’t carry that life-or-death struggle to survive another day.
This was just to make a nice cushion. Open up a savings account. Get his credit right. Real adult shit. He only needed to lose tonight. Lord knows he’d lost before, when it mattered a hell of a lot more. And he’d lose again, too.
It wouldn’t be a real loss, not with those odds. A convincing lie.
Something about it didn’t play well with his pride.
The door opened again as Caesar started in on his last warm-up, but he didn’t turn around. “We’re ready for you,” someone said. Caesar grunted in acknowledgement and reached for his bag. “Oh, leave it. We’ll lock the door during the fight and you can use the room after.” So he turned on his heel and walked out.
He followed the person through a series of bland taupe hallways and stairwells that rich assholes seem to love for their working staff. Eventually, they led him through a final set of doors and onto a tiered rooftop. The lower tier seemed mostly reserved for the fight, cage and all. The second and third tiers acted like viewing platforms for the attendees. Caesar assumed equal parts of booze and excitement flowed through the crowds. Some swayed to the music filtering through unseen speakers, others engaged in pointless conversations. No one paid him any attention, which suited him fine for now. He entered the cage to test its strength and found it adequate despite the chain links were probably more for show than actual use. Another prop in tonight’s play.
Well, whatever. Caesar resumed his warm-ups with a few practice punches and dodging an invisible opponent. Out of habit, he spent a few moments getting used to the space available inside the fighting ring. He supposed it couldn’t hurt. It might even help make the whole thing look real. Caesar hoped his opponent was good enough, or maybe just big enough, to convince people.
In the upper tiers, the music stopped. A screech of feedback through the speakers made Caesar wince. Someone apologized into a microphone before a brief introduction to the night’s entertainment. It was time.
Revelers turned toward Caesar and spoke excitedly amongst themselves. The voice ramped up the fight while paying sycophantic compliments to the host before familiar words brought Caesar’s mind back into singular focus. “Tonight, the Iron Wrench makes his first appearance on the Founder’s rooftop to face one of our very own! Here he is, the man, the monster, let’s hear it for Caesar Zeppeli!”
He boxed the air as the crowd applauded him in the odd way people do when they think of themselves as high society. There’s a hesitance to really cheer, like they’ve invited a lion into their parlor to both admire the strength of the creature and fear the claws of the beast. But no matter what the excuse might be for the night, the lion’s a mirror to reflect strength upon the hosts and impose intimidation on the guests.
The realization dawned on him as the announcer rambled on. “One of our very own,” the voice had said. No wonder Caesar was supposed to lose. He’s fighting one of these rich snobs’ sons. Any victory would be seen as a threat, and he’s being paid handsomely to comply. To show off sharp teeth, then roll over and play good lion. It made sense, though it twisted uncomfortably in his gut.
The door to the rooftop opened again and a figure in a robe approached the exit. Caesar rolled his eyes. Better get this over with.
“Making his debut tonight, I’m pleased to introduce to you the Joestar heir who needs no introduction. Here’s JoJo!”
So, Joseph Joestar, heir to the Joestar fortune, wanted to fight Caesar? And the best pseudonym he could come up with was ‘JoJo?’ It sounded like a childish nickname he had yet to outgrow. Ridiculous. Caesar had to resist a sarcastic laugh outright. The best he could manage was a derisive chuckle.
But as Joseph got closer, the amusement shriveled on Caesar’s tongue. Hulking over 6 feet tall, Joseph’s massive arms tested the strength of the shoulder seams of the purple silk robe he wore. Caesar wished he could discount the robe for what it was, another prop for the benefit of the audience. But Joseph’s hands were wrapped like Caesar’s were, and there wasn’t any obnoxious belt encircling Joseph’s trim waist or gaudy chain around his thick neck. Maybe the rich boy wanted to take this fight seriously.
The gates opened. Joseph shrugged off his robe, two men from his little entourage catching it as it slid down his arms. Caesar peeled off his own sweatshirt and tossed it over the cage. One of Joseph’s lackeys ran to collect it as Caesar sized up Joseph from across the cage.
Joseph wasn’t just tall, he was broad across the shoulders and thickly muscled through his long legs. Caesar could imagine him cutting out an underwear model from a magazine and bringing that photo to whatever top-of-the-line trainer his family hired for him. He had that same kind of chiseled body. A physique built to please the eye of its beholder.
But unlike the cardboard cut-outs inside the Calvin Klein outlet, the rigid sculpture of his muscles weren’t limiting him. His movements seemed flexible. Built too big to be gymnastic but those arms had seen some real-world use.
Caesar stopped himself from smiling. Interesting. The bigger they are… yeah, that was it.
He felt Joseph’s eyes on him, sizing him up too. They began circling each other in slow side-steps while the announcer called out for final bets. Then, “You all know the rules! No crotch shots, no bites, no kills.”
The whistle blew. “Fight on!”
Joseph lunged forward in a comically obvious feint. Caesar circled him without taking the bait and they settled into an uneasy dance.
Throw the fight.
Caesar watched Joseph’s face for any trace of a giveaway, like a lingering glance in a direction that might help predict his next move before his body followed through. Joseph, like most other fighters, started in on his trash talk.
“Ooh! Someone’s quick on his feet!” Joseph said. “Lucky for you I missed. Would have been a quick fight otherwise.”
Saying nothing, Caesar scanned Joseph’s body for any signs of sudden movement. There! A twitch of muscle! Caesar ducked a punch before it landed, spinning to kick Joseph’s feet out from underneath him.
“Fuck!” Joseph exclaimed, stumbling once before catching himself. Frustration built behind his light eyes and Caesar refrained from rolling his own.
Typical. You land one measly hit on these all-brawn-no-brains types and they throw a tantrum. Caesar chided himself to make the fight last, and if he couldn’t do that, at least make a knockout look real. Which meant he needed to let the grossly overgrown child in the ring get a hit in.
His chance came sooner than expected, and Caesar turned his body to absorb the force of Joseph’s punch on his shoulder or bicep. Either should be fine.
The world suddenly flipped sideways. He hit the deck, gasping for the breath that had just been knocked out of him, and rolled somersault over his shoulder. Caesar then used his hands to push himself into the air, coming down to regain his footing for a brief moment. Inhaling sharply through clenched teeth, Caesar leapt into an attack, propelling himself through the air with a well-placed jump. His fist was knocked away, Joseph’s forearm blocking the punch. Caesar moved his body on instinct to evade the strike coming towards his head.
They broke apart after a few exchanges of close-quarters blows to resume their wary circling. With the crowd egging them on, Caesar stared into Joseph’s sface and realized two things.
One, there was something to this rich man’s son. Something beyond the beefcake exterior, beyond the entitled brat facade that wants to piss off his parents. Beyond even the attention-seeking efforts of someone who will never have his fill of the spotlight. This was a foolhardy asshole with something to prove.
Two, that asshole was enjoying this charade. And that pissed off Caesar even more.
Keeping his flare of anger in check, Caesar watched for another opening. He tried to keep his face impassive, as unyielding a stone before flesh, but figured surly was better than outright frustration. Rage is a tool, one that can just as easily be turned against him if he isn’t careful to keep propelling him forward.
“We can dance all night, man.” Joseph flicked the tip of his nose with his thumb and licked his lips. “Or we can fight.” He settled his hands in a neutral pose, one that left him ready to attack or block as needed. “But I’m no good at dancing,” he grinned, “and they paid for a fight.”
Caesar scanned his opponent’s body again, this time quicker than before. He sidestepped Joseph’s melodramatic lunge and jab. He cracked his elbow against the back of Joseph’s head before using his foot to trip up Joseph’s ankles, foiling any chance of Joseph avoiding a fall. Insult to injury.
Joseph grunted as he hit the ground, but recovered quickly with a growl. “Come on. You held back.”
Caesar shrugged and brought up his fists, though Joseph’s comment surprised him. He could tell? From the cacophony of the crowd, Joseph was the only one.
“Fight me like you mean it.” Joseph’s frown deepened when Caesar stayed silent. “Come on!” he insisted, raising his voice. “Fight me for real!”
“Keep your voice down.” The words surprised Caesar as they came tumbling out.
But Joseph just grinned again. “Make me.” Infuriating bastard.
This time, Caesar rolled his eyes before starting a flurry of attacks that started an alternating, vicious cycle of strike, block, react, repeat. All in quick succession. All with enough effort that sweat began beading on his forehead.
And Joseph still saw through it. “Stop holding back!”
Caesar bit back a retort, equally surprised and frustrated by his own change in behavior. He wanted to shut Joseph up. He wanted that last word. But he didn’t have time to think about it. He barely had the presence of mind to acknowledge it.
Instead, Caesar used a deft spin and a well-timed elbow strike to Joseph’s kidney to send him gasping and stumbling back to catch his breath for real.
A swift chorus of booing from the crowd broke through the fog of focused anger. Too close to a real offense. A real injury.
Throw the fight.
Joseph came at him with the zeal of a rampaging bear, and Caesar simply reacted.
He caught Joseph’s forearm and twisted it around, but Joseph raised his knee to crush his foot against Caesar’s instep. With a shout of pain, Caesar released Joseph and dodged another stomp from his long, powerful legs. They reached for each other and tumbled to the floor, grappling. Wrestling. Rolling on the hard concrete of the rooftop, they fought without either one ever achieving a clear foothold on the upper hand.
“Stop faking this, !” Joseph gasped as he squirmed out of an ill-fitting chokehold. “I want to win because I’m better than you, not because you got paid to lose.” He grabbed a fistful of Caesar’s blond hair and yanked him to his feet.
Wincing, Caesar leaned into the pull. He gripped Joseph’s wrist with both hands, then pulled Joseph’s fingers back over his wrist while he ripped free of Joseph’s grip. Caesar jumped away. “Shut up!” he snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tossed out a series of punches, his restraint tested to the fullest and precariously ready to snap.
Throw the…
Joseph knocked the barrage aside. “You’re literally pulling your punches.” He pounded his chest with a fist. “Hit me!”
With a roar, Caesar backhanded Joseph across the face. The crack of the impact hushed the crowd. Caesar stood still, fuming and breathing hard, and watched redness slowly bloom across Joseph’s skin.
Joseph touched his cheek with his fingers and examined them. He looked at Caesar from the corner of his eyes, their cool blue color lit up with a wild energy. “Fuck, that’s more like it.”
Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Caesar stopped focusing on how the fight looked and the reactions of the crowd, instead finding a primal satisfaction in the familiar crunch of cartilage under his fingers from a square hit in the face. Joseph’s eyes widened as instinct moved his hand to stanch the blood dripping down his face. Even as he blinked back tears, Caesar could tell he was excited. Almost pleased.
That should have been a warning.
Suddenly, Caesar’s vision swam with darkness, and he realized he was looking up into the night sky. He reeled back. The blood on Joseph’s forehead came from his own face. Motherfucker headbutted him.
Caesar smirked. “You wanna get hit, right? That’s what you said.” He beckoned Joseph forward with bloody fingers. “C’mere.”
Joseph’s arm swung toward his head, and Caesar found himself fighting in earnest. Blocking another blow to the face, he couldn’t dodge a knee to his thigh fast enough.
He stopped keeping track of what had happened and instead let his body take over. Fists flew. Elbows jabbed. Skin bruised, broke. Grappling. He was conditioned for this. Caesar managed to get a hand around the back of Joseph’s neck to hold his head in place for another punch to the face. The heel of Joseph’s palm came toward his chin. Neither blow landed fully.
Cold metal crisscrossed against Caesar’s back after Joseph threw him across the ring so hard he had liftoff. The fence groaned as it moved under the force of weight. Caesar grunted as he hit the ground hard, immediately rolling to evade Joseph’s inevitable follow-up attack.
Was he winning? Was he losing? He jumped up, planting one foot solidly on the ground to pivot into a high-powered kick that knocked Joseph several feet away.
When was the last time a fight was this close?
He darted forward, his breathing ragged as Caesar wound his fist back. Joseph blocked the punch in the nick of time, but Caesar’s endurance was beginning to give him the edge more often than Joseph wrestled the upper hand from him. Caesar would often find himself dodging or absorbing some out-of-the-box move. But as the fight progressed, Joseph’s fancy tricks and surprising combinations came less frequently, and with more desperation.
Suddenly, Caesar saw an opening. Joseph had been guarding himself carefully for a few minutes now, aware of his limits but finally worn down to weakness. Caesar sprang, though his own legs moved slower with exhaustion, and tackled Joseph. They wrestled on the ground, legs and arms entwined like boa constrictors around prey.
Caesar headbutted him, knocking Joseph out and seeing stars.
In a moment, his vision cleared. The area was dead silent. Caesar realized he was still cradling Joseph as Joseph came to. “Motherfucker,” Joseph mumbled like his tongue was moving through honey.
“I won,” Caesar said, still a bit dazed.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Joseph said and rolled out of Caesar’s grasp.
The crowd reacted, and Caesar wasn’t sure where he stood with his bookie, but he found he didn’t care so much. Looking across the arena, Joseph touched his face gingerly in a few places, some that were currently bleeding, some that would be impressive bruises tomorrow.
With adrenaline still coursing his veins, Caesar’s own body felt less than half the pain it should. He struggled to his feet. Then, surprising even himself, he reached down to offer Joseph a hand. Joseph looked up at him, then at his outstretched hand. A beat passed. “Fine,” Caesar snapped. He tried to yank his hand away, but Joseph grabbed it before he had the chance. Caesar pulled him to his feet. “Jesus Christ, you’re heavy.”
Joseph snorted in amusement. “Like I’ve never heard that before.” He wobbled on his feet before steadying himself, then looked at Caesar from the corner of his eye. “Best two out of three?”
Caesar turned away. “No way. I’m getting my money and getting the hell out of here.” He headed toward the cage’s exit.
“Next week,” Joseph called after him. “No crowd. Just us, for fun.” The gate opened from the outside, so Caesar stood with his back to Joseph as he waited for someone to let them out. “I’ll pay you?”
The door swung open. Before exiting, Caesar turned back to Joseph. He looked a mess, sweaty and bleeding, but the corners of his mouth were upturned and his eyes lit up with a bit of wildness. Yeah, that was damn fun, wasn’t it? He’d almost meet him for free just to get the chance to fight Joseph again. “Fine.” Joseph’s smile broadened. Crazy bastard. Caesar left the ring, already considering what he’d do differently next week.