Newark, New Jersey, 1972
Ding! Ding!
The crowd, and Kyle's opponent, waited.
Sweat was stinging Kyle already, from the lights and the nerves and the adrenaline.
The first punch needed to be made, and Kyle was running out of time to think.
Instinctively, Kyle threw his fist in a left jab.
"Kyle Broflovski, what a surprise…" Mr Goodall said, as Kyle took his usual seat in the principal's office.
Mr Goodall inspected the scrapes of the scowling, shy eight year old sat in front of him.
"Black eye, grazed knees, cut lip…" Mr Goodall looked up at Kyle with a smile, although he wasn't that amused. "Another fight, I see."
Kyle nodded, wringing his aching hands on his lap.
"And where is the other boy?" Mr Goodall asked.
"With the nurse," Kyle replied, he wished he was there. He needed an ice pack on his eye and something for his stinging lip.
"In a sorrier state than you, I'm guessing?"
Kyle thought about the flushed, sobbing boy curled up on the playground, while the other kids cheered and Kyle felt his anger turn in on himself.
"Yeah, sir, I won," Kyle said dispassionately.
Mr Goodall sighed. "Believe me, son, nobody is a winner in all of this."
Kyle may have felt like one, fleeting retribution for whatever passing comment that kid made that caused Kyle's temper to flare. But now he didn't, he felt sorry and stubborn and an apology would only make things worse.
"This is the fourth time in a two months you've been sent into my office for fighting," Mr Goodall said before he reclined back in his chair. "I don't understand it, Kyle. You're a bright young man, the brightest in your class. Despite incidents like these, you're a friendly boy. Why do you feel the need to fight? To get yourself in trouble?"
"I don't want to get in trouble, sir," Kyle said, voice thick.
"I'm not angry with you anymore," Mr Goodall admitted. "I'm worried and impatient."
"Then how come I'm in trouble?" Kyle asked, balling his fists.
"You could really hurt somebody someday, you could get hurt someday," Mr Goodall replied, a warning rather than an answer to Kyle's question. "Is it really worth it for not being able to control your temper?"
Kyle relaxed his fists, tried to smother the anger under a blanket of common sense.
"Some kids make me angry, that's all," he muttered.
"Why can't you ignore them?"
An uncomfortable pause.
"They shut up quicker if I sock 'em in the mouth."
Mr Goodall chuckled under his breath, finding light comic relief in a less than funny situation.
"I'll have to inform your parents, Kyle," Mr Goodall said. "But just think about what I told you, alright? Maybe it'll make you reconsider giving someone a bloody nose or a bruised eye."
Another quick punch, letting his opponent know why Kyle was praised for his swiftness.
A moment of recovery, enough time for his fist to meet Kyle's face.
But Kyle was faster, dealing two more jabs and an uppercut.
A fifteen year old Kyle Broflovski was lying on his bed, after he had been dropped off by a police car and ushered into his room by his concerned parents.
Their conversation had remained calm and fairly inaudible for about a minute, before panic and frustration took over, piercing the thin walls.
"Well, what are we going to do Gerald?!" His mother yelled. "He's out of control!"
"Then shouting and screaming at him isn't going to make things better!" His father replied, recalling the frequency of which Sheila was losing her temper with her son lately.
"I don't know what else to do!" His mother replied. "He doesn't listen any other way! He's so stubborn-"
"I wonder where he gets that from-"
"Don't get smart with me!"
"Settle down-"
"I can't! We have enough to worry about without one of our boys landing up in jail or worse!"
"That won't happen-"
"How do you know?! He's already been kicked out of high school for his fighting! He can't get a job! He'll fall into the wrong crowd and we may never see him again!"
"You're overreacting!"
"Don't treat me like I'm stupid, Gerald!" His mother warned. "I hear people talk about gangs, I hear them talk about boys who have nothing else to do and nowhere else to go joining gangs and doing business with… with, well, God knows what! I don't want that to happen to my bubbe!"
The spiel stopped, erupting into soft, exhausted tears. Kyle winced, curled his fists and grabbed at the bedsheets beneath him.
He never meant to hurt his parents, unaware that his actions had an immediate impact on them.
"My bright, beautiful son!" His mother sobbed, and Kyle could hear his father trying to soothe her. "I couldn't bear it if that happened!"
"It's not going to happen," his father assured. "I have an idea."
"What?" His mother sniffled.
Kyle turned his head to the small splinter of light at his bedroom door, keeping a closer ear out.
"A buddy of mine owns a gym," his father explained. "He says all different types of young men pass through there, boys who are down on their luck like Kyle-"
"Doing what?"
A deep breath before, "boxing."
Kyle heard his mother's small, derisive huff and smirked.
"Don't you think that would be something he'd enjoy?" His father asked.
"Maybe," his mother replied, trademark stubbornness. "It couldn't hurt."
"I'm thinking it will keep him from landing in more trouble."
A roar from the crowd.
Electricity in emotional fissures.
Prompting Kyle to keep punching hard.
Kyle stared around at the sparsely populated gym with the right amount of compliance and mild, teenage insolence.
"I really think this would be good for you, Kyle," his father said, as they walked through the filters of light streaming in through the windows.
"So I get kicked out of school for fighting and you and ma want me to fight competitively?" Kyle asked, following the missteps in logic.
"No, it's not like that," his father replied. "Your ma isn't really in love with the idea, but it could be a good uh, you know, outlet for you."
"An outlet?" Kyle arched his eyebrow, distracted by the boxers sparring in the ring. Featherweight. Lean, taut and scrappy.
"So you don't get caught up in something troublesome," his father said.
"You and ma think I'm gonna join a gang or something?" Kyle pressed sharply. "I'm not an idiot."
His father sighed. "We know that. Just put our minds at ease, son, okay? See if you enjoy today and if you don't then… Alright," his father raised his hands in possible defeat. "We'll never mention boxing again."
Kyle nodded softly to himself, undoubtedly interested. It seemed, easy, fun, a good distraction from the fact that he had nothing else going for him and no clue what he could do.
"Fine," Kyle turned to his father and answered.
Stay focused, stay focused, stay focused.
A mantra, rhythmic as his bouncing feet, a metronome to clockwork punches.
You promised him you'd win, promised him you'd win, win for him.
'Potential'
All Kyle had heard from the end of his first sparring session to the start of this deciding match. His father had used the word liberally when bragging to his colleagues, his coach encouraged Kyle with the word, and the owner of the gym (and Kyle's promoter) lured reporters in with it...
Kyle had heard it so many times that he had no choice to believe it was true. But he wouldn't get cocky, only for show before the match and only briefly after, under the heady influence of victory.
But now, with a title to his name, Kyle had conquered potential.
Kyle tried his hardest not to shake, although he was still heaving from exhaustion. Still sweating, still bleeding from a particularly nasty hit, still just that lost, scrappy fifteen year old in a gym in Newark.
But that day, that first, life-changing day was two years ago.
"Your new – and very young – New Jersey featherweight champion!" Kyle felt his arm being lifted by the booming announcer. "Kyle 'Breakneck' Broflovski!"
Now, he was a champion.
That realization, along with the raucous crowd and flashing camera bulbs was disorientating, thrusting Kyle into a life he hadn't fully prepared for.
But he wanted it, more than anything.
As he surveyed his opponent, Kyle was reminded that he had the upper hand.
He had gotten in some pretty good punches swiftly, not giving the guy time to even think before he was hit again.
This should be easy.
Kyle had moved out of his childhood home at twenty two and into an apartment of his own. He had lost his title and reclaimed it a couple of times, as there was always somebody younger, leaner, stronger and more driven.
A hobby had turned into a dream had turned into a career.
Kyle was never too disinterested for long, particularly fruitful training sessions, long morning jogs and top-form fights kept him enthusiastic, hungry for more. A bigger apartment, a bigger boxing ring, a bigger fight and a bigger belt.
Still so much work to be done, still so much to achieve.
Kyle let his thoughts run away with his fists that were currently going to work on a punching bag.
"Good hustle, red," an unfamiliar voice rose above Kyle's threadbare panting. "Keep it up."
"Excuse me?" Kyle asked breathlessly, a little peeved, turning his head to the source of the voice.
And Kyle felt as if he was winded, speechlessly drinking in the smirking, tall brunet stranger.
"I said, good hustle," the stranger replied, possessing an enviable cool Kyle wished he had right now. As opposed to sweat and a flustered mind. "It means you're doing a good job, well, you were doing a good job."
With discomfort came irritation and embarrassment, Kyle rolled his eyes.
*Great, can I get back to training now?" Kyle asked shortly.
"Sure," the stranger shrugged, leaning against the wall. "Wait, I know you!"
"Oh, you do, huh?" Kyle muttered.
"You're Kyle Broflovski!" The stranger gasped, before laughing "The featherweight champion!"
"Yeah," Kyle smirked, who needed smoothness when you have fame? "How are you?"
The stranger hummed, clearly not starstruck. "A celebrity in my grandpa's gym…"
"Your grandpa's gym?"
"Yep," The stranger replied. "For thirty years."
"And what's your name?"
"Eric Cartman."
"Alright, Eric Cartman," Kyle smirked, abandoning the punching bag and leaning over the ropes. "Do you usually distract the boxers in your grandpa's gym?"
Eric smiled and stared at Kyle hard for a moment. "No, only the famous ones."
"You didn't recognise me before, though," Kyle pointed out.
"And the redheaded ones," Eric grinned.
Kyle smiled and tried to conceal his blush. He glanced at nowhere in particular, trying to be aloof or cool or however partially famous athletes were supposed to behave around people they wanted to sleep with. Admittedly, Kyle had thought about the possibility, even in such a short, flirtatious space of time.
"What are you doing here, though?" Eric asked. "I haven't seen you around before."
"I've just moved here," Kyle replied.
"How are you liking it?"
"Liking what?" Kyle asked, distracted, his attention being drawn to Eric once again.
"The neighbourhood,"
Kyle nodded. "It's nice."
Eric studied Kyle, before observing, "You're a very succinct man."
"I'm a what?" Kyle chuckled, confused.
"A succinct man," Eric repeated, only slightly condescending. "It means that you-"
"I know what succinct means," Kyle snapped.
"Good for you," Eric remarked. "Most boxers don't."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah, all those punches to the head doesn't really do much good to your brain."
"Really?"
"Yeah," Eric replied. "Something to think about, Kyle."
As if Kyle hadn't considered that.
"But I'll let you get back to training," Eric said, already walking away.
"Uh, okay…" Kyle's gaze trailed after him.
"Bye," Eric smiled as he slipped out the door.
"Bye," Kyle said quietly, unable to focus for the rest of the afternoon.
A cross, a hook and Kyle faltered, stumbling and dazed.
Momentum carefully built and now shaken.
Now that Kyle had moved into a new area, he needed a new route for his early morning jogs.
The few couple of jogs had been exploratory, gauging how far he could go without getting completely lost, figuring out which streets were best to run in…
The area was quiet enough at seven AM. Stores opening, the exhausted night shift and the half-asleep morning shift all looked the same.
The street glowed with the warmth of a blushing, peaking sun, welcoming and inviting.
As Kyle ran at a comfortable pace, he couldn't help but stare at the tall guy walking in front of him. His back was turned, but it was enough for Kyle's neurons to fire and twitch with emotional memory.
Curious, Kyle quickened his pace to catch up to the guy.
Eric.
"Hi," Kyle smiled, panting as he jogged by Eric's side.
"Oh, hi," Eric laughed, Kyle's presence abruptly pulling him out of his sleepy state. "What are you doing here?"
"Running… Jogging, actually," Kyle replied. "You?"
"Going to work,"
"Where do you work?"
"Oh, it's really exciting, Kyle. Steinberg & Bergstein accounting."
"Accounting, huh?" Kyle said breathlessly, suddenly finding it difficult to multi-task. To make decent conversation and jog at the same time. "You, uh, must be good at math…"
Eric's eyebrows furrowed, amused, while Kyle wished the sidewalk would swallow him.
"You're quick in and out of the ring," Eric joked.
Kyle would have snapped at him if he wasn't amused and Eric wasn't so handsome.
"But no, I just do boring office work," Eric said, putting Kyle out of his misery. "No taxes or anything like that."
"My cousin's an accountant," Kyle said before he could stop himself. "Kyle Schwartz?"
Why don't you do yourself a favour and just keep running?
"You have the same name?" Eric asked. "That's nice…"
"It is?"
"Yeah, it's like something that unites your family other than blood."
"Isn't just being related enough?"
"You would think," Eric sighed. "I like to think, but I'm not so sure."
"See, we're getting to know each other!" Kyle smiled, actually kind of proud. "Can I ask why you feel that way?"
Eric looked at the apple pink sky, deliberating.
"You could," he replied. "But I think it's too early in the day. The sun isn't even really up yet."
Kyle nodded, maybe it was too early for such intimate conversation.
"Anyway, I'll tell the guys I work with about your cousin and maybe at the next accountants' ball they can say hi to him?" Eric quipped.
"I'm sure he'd love that," Kyle chuckled.
Eric laughed and glanced down at his shoes, his fresh face slightly pinched with colour and his smile like the prettiest charm on a white gold bracelet.
"Hey, why don't you slow down?" Eric asked.
"What? No, I can't," Kyle replied. "I've got a set pace."
"No offense, champ but I think you started lagging on your pace when you said hi to me,"
Kyle shook his head and laughed under his breath, so close to being smitten.
"Come on, slow down," Eric implored.
"Why don't you speed up?"
"No way," Eric replied, clearly unwilling to be shifted on the matter. "I don't run."
"Fine then," Kyle said, his jog turning into a lackadaisical walk. "I'll slow down. Maybe get you to elaborate on your whole 'blood isn't so thick' theory?"
Eric shook his head with a smirk, but let Kyle walk beside him all the way to work.
Kyle tried to come back, but all he could do was shield his face, strategy out the window.
Indignant roars from his supporters, encouraging cheers from the supporters of his opponent.
But he didn't care.
New strategy.
That guy will tire himself out, and Kyle would derive some energy and fight from somewhere.
Yeah, that could work.
"Does it annoy you sometimes?" Eric asked.
"Does what annoy me?" Kyle replied, he was at the gym and decided to take a break from training. A decision he made as soon as Eric walked through the door.
Now, they were leaning against the ropes. Kyle was hot and drenched in sweat and Eric didn't care.
"How promising you are?" Eric elaborated. "How everybody has you up on a pedestal?"
"No, it doesn't annoy me…" Kyle answered, before adding, "It stresses me out sometimes."
"What, like the pressure?"
"Yeah," Kyle replied. "It wasn't so bad when I was a kid, maybe because it wasn't such a big deal? I had nothing to lose and could blow the whole thing off if I lost. My dad used to make it clear back then that I could quit whenever I wanted."
Eric nodded, gently nudging Kyle to continue.
"The stakes are higher now," Kyle said. "I've got something to lose that means a lot to me. Everyone knows it too, they taunt me with it so I'll perform better, fight better, hit harder, move faster. Don't they think I put enough pressure on myself already?"
"Then why don't you tell them that?"
"There's no point," Kyle shrugged, it wasn't something that bothered him too much, or something he thought about that often. "We'd all be saying the same thing."
"Fair enough,"
Kyle thought about the other remarks Eric had made about boxing, how he looked rather uneasy when watching Kyle train or spar. Considering his grandfather owned a gym specifically for boxing, Eric's reaction to the sport struck Kyle as odd.
"Did you used to box?" Kyle asked.
Eric laughed, incredulous.
"Seriously, did you?" Kyle couldn't help but chuckle when he pressed. "When you were a little kid? Your grandpa does own a gym…"
"Yeah, kind of," Eric replied, not meeting Kyle's eyes. "When I was eight."
"Were you any good?"
"Not really, I was stronger than most kids in the division. But I wasn't fast enough," Eric said matter-of-factly. He turned to Kyle and smiled, "I used to cry and throw tantrums if somebody hit me too hard."
Kyle could hear his supports grow anxious, although it didn't change their raucousness one iota.
And he suspected that the people who had bet on him, and the bookies themselves, were getting a little antsy. He wasn't too concerned.
As he tried not to waver under admittedly impressive crosses and hooks, he felt his opponent grow fatigued.
A reprisal was in sight.
Despite his growing feelings for Eric (still unrequited), Kyle occasionally slipped up.
A victory, too much to drink and a pretty, starstruck girl were the usual catalysts. A combination of all three meant trouble.
She had only asked Kyle to dance as the band slowed down and couples danced contently lazy and stilted. Kyle had drank to celebrate, to relish his victory, quickly turning melancholic when he thought of Eric.
Eric, who was an hour late to the after party.
Eric, who had missed his fight.
Eric, who saw him and would only see him as a friend, and one dance is harmless, right? The obligation of a charming, almost-famous athlete.
The girl dragged Kyle to his feet, pressing him close as they glided around the dancefloor like the more devoted couples.
She is pretty.
Sea foam eyes, sweetheart lip, covetous features. But nothing compared to honeyed irises, a sharp sense of humour and a smile to make Kyle's heart sprint.
Kyle smirked fondly, reminiscently and the girl pressed herself closer.
Lost in translation, despite the distance (or lack thereof) between them.
Kyle blinked, surprised, and daren't move.
Until he saw those adored eyes cut through the crowd, magnetic and commanding his stare.
A thousand emotions welled and vied for Kyle's attention as he stared at Eric. What was the look on his face? Was he angry? Upset?
Kyle was confused and guilty and concerned, and although he knew all of this, he was at a loss of what to say, what to do.
But it didn't matter, because Eric had already turned his back and was walking out the door.
Kyle pushed the girl off of him, navigating his way through the crowd and the people grabbing his arm and saying "Wait, aren't you-" Kyle had disappeared before they had finished their sentence.
He was known for speed, after all. Kyle 'Breakneck' Broflovski.
"Eric!" Kyle called out at the tall, hunched figure.
Stubborn and purposeful, Eric kept walking.
"Eric!" Kyle repeated, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran down the steps.
"What?!" Eric snapped, whipping around and nearly squaring up to Kyle.
"What's wrong?!" Kyle asked, angry and concerned more than scared.
"Nothing!" Eric replied before walking away.
"Then what was with that look?" Kyle demanded, following him.
The rhythm of their entire relationship; Eric an aloof flame and Kyle the relentless moth.
"What look?!"
"That look you gave me when you walked in!" Kyle shouted. "You looked, jealous, betrayed… what was that about?!"
Eric stopped and pursed his lips, his exasperation palpable. "Jesus, Kyle, you want me to spell it out for you?!"
"No! I…" Kyle took a breath before he entered hysteria, regrettable anger. "Just tell me what's going on!"
"If you can't figure it out for yourself then no problem," Eric said resentfully. "I'll just go home and you can get back to that girl in there."
"The girl?!" Kyle shouted incredulously. "Is that what this is about?!"
"Yes, are you really that stupid?!"
"Clearly!"
Eric stared down at the damp, glistening sidewalk, matching the sad glimmer in his eyes. The dark blanket of night time had never been more comforting.
"Why do you care who I dance with?!" Kyle demanded, voice scratchy and overwhelmed. "Why is it any of your God damn business-"
"Because I want to be the one you dance with!"
Kyle balked, clutched his stomach like he had been punched. How many more times was Eric planning on leaving Kyle speechless? Thrown off guard? Every word, every look was an exhilarating surprise.
There was an itch of empathy, overbearing and needling Kyle's heart. An unfair, 'then why didn't you tell me sooner?!' feeling rose in his throat. He wanted to be petty, he wanted to be smug, or irrational, but he was just in awe.
"There! I said it!" Eric cried, lip stubbornly trembling although Kyle guessed everything in Eric was fighting against it. "Maybe that's silly and selfish of me but it's the truth! I like you, Kyle! And I don't know what that means for us being friends, if it makes you hate me or something. But I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want…."
Eric had given Kyle a choice, but he was already walking away.
"Don't walk away, Eric!" Kyle begged.
"Please," Kyle whispered the word when Eric turned around. Confused and beautiful.
"And I don't hate you," Kyle spoke softly, grabbing Eric's wrist and pulling him into something new.
A jab, a swift cross and an exhilarating ripple of cheers from the crowd, as Kyle bounced back.
Adrenaline ploughed through, pain, exhaustion and resignation.
"Why do you like boxing so much?" Eric asked, under Kyle's sheets.
"I don't really like it right now," Kyle remarked.
He was still recuperating from defeat. Mentally and physically. Kyle usually liked to hole himself up in his apartment, or commit to training and sleep in the gym if need be.
Now he had Eric.
After the fight, Eric had comforted him, nursed his wounds, whispered reassurances in his ear and kissed him in private.
Two days later, Eric appeared at Kyle's door with a lewd promise to make Kyle feel all better. Kyle had rolled his eyes, and coquettishly asked "even when my face is swollen?" Eric had kissed him passionately in response and pushed him into the bedroom.
"You did great," Eric comforted, drawing circles on Kyle's bicep. "Just because you lost doesn't mean you're not talented. You were unlucky, that's all."
Kyle smiled lazily, closing his eyes under Eric's airy ministrations.
"So come on," Eric pressed. "Tell me."
Kyle fluttered his eyes open, greeted by the always welcome sight of a smiling Eric.
"My dad told me, when I was still unconvinced about the whole thing, that boxing would be a good outlet for me," Kyle said. "I was always scrappy as a kid, getting into fights all the time. Back then I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and when you're young and in that position, you can get taken advantage of quite easily."
Eric nodded, circle drawing had made way for a gentle, non-committal clutch around the relaxed muscle.
"So I guess it probably saved me… kept me distracted, kept me occupied," Kyle continued. "It gave me something to work towards. I was always competitive too, so I liked that side of it. It's fun, but in a really intense way, you know? Something that you have to take a break from once you've had too much of it."
Eric furrowed his eyebrows and studied Kyle's face, his injuries. A nasty knot on his brow, a bruised nose and a tender, red ear.
"But is the pain really worth it?" Eric asked, running his finger along Kyle's jaw.
"Pain doesn't mean anything," Kyle replied. "Not in the long run."
Eric frowned, unsatisfied with the answer and he turned his back on his boyfriend.
"I hate seeing you this way," Eric said. "Every time I look at you it hurts."
"But I'm fine," Kyle chuckled, a half-truth if anything.
And Eric saw right through it.
"What would make you feel better?" Kyle asked, his sore body climbed on top of Eric for the second time today. "Hmm?" he murmured, butting Eric's cheek softly when Eric still stubbornly refused to look at him.
"This?" Kyle asked, kissing Eric's unknotted brow.
Eric averted his gaze, eyes focused on the ceiling as if he were a symbol of purity connected to the heavens, not to be tempted by the man trying to steer him down a more physical path. Eric's own opposing symbol of lust, smattering him with kisses.
"This?" Kyle repeated, kissing the tip of Eric's nose and eliciting a laugh.
"This?" Kyle whispered, kissing the shell of Eric's ear.
Eric sighed and nodded, unwound by Kyle's talented mouth.
Kyle's hand found Eric's hip under the sheets and squeezed, dug fingers into soft flesh. His teeth grazed the small curve of cartilage, nipped at the pouch of his lobe and then lost track of his lips when they landed on Eric's neck.
They hadn't even entered the second round, yet the outcome was as obvious as their vicious bruises.
Kyle had to hand it to the guy, he fought hard.
But he was going to win this, after all, his beating had paid off.
No matter how much it hurt, ached, stung, he was going to win this fight.
Even his opponent knew that.
It was the perfect night.
Dinner, a stroll and now slow dancing in Kyle's apartment.
Just like Eric wanted.
Kyle smiled to himself fondly.
No matter how much trouble he got into as a child, a teenager, with Eric he had never felt so reckless.
Not caring how fast this was moving, how intensely, how passionately.
Not caring if he was too young, too naïve to commit himself so readily to another person.
He was inexperienced admittedly. Eric had broken the seal on the type of infatuation and dedication Kyle had only seen in the movies.
And it seemed so great, so intoxicating, too good to be true.
"I love you," Kyle whispered, squeezing Eric closer to him.
"I love you too," Eric replied, so natural and easy.
Foolishly and impulsively in love.
A right cross took Kyle by surprise, only urging him to hit harder.
With a determined growl, Kyle retaliated with a jab and then a left hook.
His opponent was stunned, and Kyle took advantage immediately, dealing him an uppercut.
Morning jogs before a fight were always that extra bit special.
The pounding of his feet against the sidewalk, and the crisp air kept him focused, cleared his mind of everything except his fight, and the flushed beauty of a breaking day was inspiring.
Not to mention the kind words and encouragement shouted at him by his neighbours as he ran his usual, beloved route.
Today, however, he was planning to take a detour.
To the second floor of Eric's apartment building, to be exact.
Kyle jogged in place as he knocked on the door, breathless and stinging with sweat.
No answer.
Kyle knocked again, persistent. Even when he heard footsteps nearing the door, he wouldn't let up.
When Eric opened the door, tie undone and hair half-styled, Kyle wouldn't let him get out a greeting before kissing him.
"That kiss tasted a little salty," Eric grinned, amusedly taking in Kyle's sweaty, energetic state.
"Jogging," Kyle explained, panting. "I'm fighting tonight, remember?"
"I know, I'll be there," Eric assured.
"I'm going to win," Kyle said excitedly.
"Again, I know," Eric smirked, rolling his eyes.
When Kyle could taste victory, like the sweat in the air or the blood on his lips, he lost himself.
Lost himself to competitiveness, pride and powerful determination.
And that mindless, disembodied spirt that drove him forward was even more skilled than he was, he often considered.
One final uppercut and his opponent fell.
Kyle stayed light on his feet and wary as the ref counted down to inevitable victory.
Maybe it was the beating he had taken earlier, but Kyle was starting to lose focus, like he had just stepped off a ship and the world was rocking unsteadily.
The deciding ding of the bell and the noise from the ecstatic crowd were an ill-advised shot of adrenaline to the heart. Kyle rose his head and grinned, as his sweaty arm was lifted in the air by the announcer.
He had successfully defended his title.
After the fight, Eric was more concerned with seeing to Kyle's injuries than congratulating him. Until Kyle was cleaned up and sufficiently bandaged, Eric would remain uneasy.
"Does it hurt?" Eric asked, kneeling in front of Kyle and applying some Neosporin to one of his smaller cuts.
"Yeah, a little," Kyle replied, wincing at the bitter sting. "But it's worth it, I won!"
Eric smiled at Kyle, not as excited or enthusiastic as he had been after the first match he had watched of Kyle's, but fond nonetheless. "I know, I'm very proud."
"You should be!" Kyle laughed. He leaned forward despite his sweat, his bloodied face, the overpowering smell of antiseptic and grinned softly, "your boyfriend is a champion."
Still being able to call the belt his own, and with this wonderful man to cheer him on and soothe his injuries, Kyle wondered how he had gotten so lucky. How a life that was destined to go spectacularly wrong had turned out so very right.
"And this is only the beginning, Eric," Kyle continued excitedly, rising to his feet and pacing the room. "The only way is up from here and right now… I feel so confident! I, I want to feel this way forever!"
Eric was smirking at him, but Kyle was serious. He didn't know if was the endorphins or romance or what, but this optimism was intoxicating.
"I'm gonna go all over the country, all over the world even! We could move out of here, buy a place in Las Vegas or somewhere like that! Wouldn't that be amazing?"
Kyle returned to the stool in front of Eric, taking a hold of Eric's wrists and wanting to pull him into this new, fantastic life straight away.
"You don't think that would strike people as a little suspicious if we lived together?" Eric chuckled, albeit cynically.
"We could buy a penthouse and live up there just the two of us!" Kyle answered, a dreamy solution rather than a practical one. "We'd live in luxury and never have to worry about working! We could wake up next to each other and have breakfast in bed. I can train during the day and you could do whatever you felt like, the world is your oyster! And then in the nights when I'm fighting you can watch me, and when I'm not we can go gambling, dancing, drinking"-
"I think all this excitement is going to your head," Eric smiled, nervous and tense, he rose to his feet.
"So what if it has?" Kyle asked defensively, following suit. "It feels great! I'm confident, optimistic, in love… How can I not get a little delirious?"
Eric rolled his eyes and sighed, an exasperated smile on his face. "And I'm happy to see you like this but it's not feasible."
Kyle furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn't an idiot, he knew how the world worked. But when he felt so powerful, so confident, couldn't he just kid himself that he could beat anything?
"How so?" Kyle asked.
"We can't stay up in that penthouse forever," Eric explained, his words pulling Kyle back to Earth. "We can't go dancing or gambling together, or enjoy each other's company like other couples do because we're different. And you know how people who are different get treated."
"Then I'll fight them!" Kyle retorted, voice unbalanced and tone irrational. "I'll fight anyone who tries to hurt you, who tries to tear us apart-"
"You don't think you're the first guy to say that?" Eric chuckled ruefully.
"But I'm different, I could fight and win!" Kyle implored, fingers struggling to keep their grip on his penthouse-high, naïve foundation. "Statistically speaking, I've won more fights that I've lost!"
"But that's boxing!" Eric argued. "This is a whole different kind of battle! And being featherweight champion of Newark, the USA, the world, doesn't mean anything!"
The silence was like a dissipating dream, alerting Kyle to his still stinging wounds. He dropped his gaze to the floor and his tight chest wheezed out a sigh as he sat back down.
"Why have you got to be so hard on this?" He asked.
"I'm sorry, Kyle, I don't mean to be," Eric replied sharply, before kneeling down in front of his boyfriend. "I'm being realistic, and it's because I care about you that I'm trying to get you to see the big picture."
Kyle thought he could fight with anyone and win, Eric was the exception. Not because he was better at Kyle, or right more often, but because Eric was just as relentless as he was.
"You're… You're thinking small," Eric explained softly. The argument forgotten for a simple reality check. "You're thinking us, and that belt, and this amazing penthouse in Las Vegas and that's not the world we live in. Someday we'd have to come down from that penthouse and face the fact that people aren't so understanding."
"But I love you,"
"And I love you too," Eric said earnestly, he pulled Kyle closer to him by the nape of his neck. "Don't doubt that even for a second. Because things are gonna get harder, and we may not be able to have each other the way we want-"
"But when we're in that penthouse we can call the shots," Kyle interrupted, smiling weakly, hoping that Eric would let them have this little moment of fantasy.
"Yeah," Eric grinned. "And it'll be great."
Kyle smiled gratefully, the noise of the people outside blabbering about nothing were drowned out by the colour of Eric's eyes.
"We better get you bandaged up," Eric said, suddenly remembering himself. "There's an after party to attend."
A/N: Anybody care to tell me what this is? A sad story? A happy one? Kyle being so caught up in his sport and his title that he forgets he's living in a time where his relationship would not exactly be welcomed? I don't know, but it was fun to write and I've had this urge to write Kyle as a scrappy, Jersey boxer.
Also, who knows jack about boxing? This girl! But I did some research so I hope the fight comes off as even the slightest bit believable.