2
He slept like a log the night before his fight with Braginsky. Took a long shower. Ate well. He did a session of hot yoga to loosen his muscles and relax himself and relax the racings of his mind. He didn't train much on the morning of the fight. He just went for a run, begging Coach to join him in Central Park. They ran through the gardens and the fountains, and went to the center of the Mall and sat on the edge of the fountain. It motivated Alfred. He had always known that he wanted to win at everything, but he needed a reminder every now and then. Seeing all the people, and imagining them crying his name as he held his fists up in triumph, was perfect. Even as he pushed away the tiny voices in his head telling him to be scared, and warning him. Don't fight him, they were saying. Don't fight Ivan the Terrible.
He spent the hours before the fight in Coach's room, cross-legged on the bed with Lizzie and Coach, talking strategy.
Elizabeta was Coach Gil's best childhood friend and co-owner of the gym, but she insisted that everyone call her Lizzie. Said it made her feel younger than she actually was as she approached her inevitable mid-life crisis. She was kind and ambitious and her boldness rivaled even Coach's, and it made sense that they had been friends for decades. And despite her long hair and undeniable femininity, her name still echoed in the rings of female competition. And she doted on Alfred shamelessly.
He was staring at the bed sheets while they talked. Defenses up, always cover your face, you know the drill. Stay on your toes, circle the ring, dominate it, let him know that it's your ring. Go in every opening you see, jump in and jump out, don't give him any chances. Tire him out, try not to get tired out. If you feel yourself getting exhausted, loosen up and throw him bait. Get out of range. Let him come to you. Don't get backed up against the fence, because he will take advantage.
Remember to love yourself, love your body, protect it. It's the only one you've got, Al, it's the only one you've got.
The stadium was large. The fight had a bigger audience than he was expecting, and it made him excited. He could already hear the screams. Lizzie and Coach left him to his pre-fight rituals. He put on his headphones and blasted the music—Survivor—as loudly as it would go. He wanted to hear the guitar, feel the drums, in his soul. He punched a bag to the beat. The final song to come on was "Eye of the Tiger." He knew it was cliché, but he didn't care. He believed that the moments leading up to the fight were almost as important, if not more important, than the fight itself. It was about getting into his zone, reminding himself what he was here for, how hard he'd worked. He was singing to himself when Coach came to retrieve him.
"You're up, champ," Coach said to him, giving him his jacket. It was his Captain America jacket. He wore it for good luck before every fight. "Don't let 'em down."
"Fuck no."
"You know what to do."
"Fuck yeah."
"What was that?"
"Fuck yeah!"
Coach slapped his back and they walked out to the ring. Before he entered the ring, hopping up and down, rolling his neck, fixing his mouth-guard and his gloves, Coach looked into his eyes and slammed his hands down on his shoulders.
"What're you gonna do out there, champ?"
"Give 'em hell," Alfred hissed.
"What're you gonna do out there?"
"Give 'em hell!"
"Atta boy," Coach said. He put out his fists and grinned his snarky, crooked grin. Alfred pounded his fists against Coach's and let him ruffle his hair. The way he always did. "Don't forget what we talked about, Al."
"Right."
Alfred looked across the ring and saw Ivan Braginsky. Speaking with his coach. A blonde, stone-faced woman who was feet shorter than Ivan and whose glare looked as if it could cut through steel. And there was Ivan. Tall and burly and with an aura about him, an aura that Alfred could see even from this far. He wondered if he had an aura like that, one that made his opponents fear him the way that he was fearing Ivan at the moment, more than he'd ever feared anything. Alfred was brave—at least, he liked to believe he was brave, and he was good at convincing himself that he was brave. But when Ivan unexpectedly looked over at him, that eerie smile on his lips and the vacant glaze over his eyes, he felt terror.
"What're you thinking?" Coach asked him. Alfred must've looked afraid, too. But he didn't want to tell Coach that.
"Remember what Muhammad Ali said?"
"Remind me."
"If you even dream of beating me, you'd better wake up and apologize."
"Go in there and make him apologize to you, Alfred."
"You got it, boss."
Alfred took off his jacket and walked into the ring, where the referee was waiting. As his bare feet touched the mat, and across the ring Ivan did the same, the stadium erupted. Chants of "Hero! Hero! Hero!" combined with "Ivan! Ivan! Ivan!" deafened him. He couldn't hear the pounding of his heart.
They stood in the ring across from each other. Staring at each other. A pair of blue eyes, blue like the sky, and a pair of violet eyes, though they looked more like blood. Both of their bodies etched with scars and stray tattoos. Alfred cracked his knuckles and hummed "Eye of the Tiger" to himself. He couldn't let those eyes get to him. Couldn't let that smile worm its way beneath his skin.
The announcer said their names in his bellowing voice.
"Alfred 'The Hero' Jooooooooones!"
Applause. Cheers.
"Ivan Bragiiiiiinsky the Terrible!"
Applause. Cheers.
"Let's have a good fight," the ref said as they met in the center. Alfred and Ivan looked into each other's eyes again—Alfred had never felt such animosity directed toward him in his life. They touched gloves. As they did, Braginsky leaned forward. He dropped his voice to whisper the words that slipped through that seamless smile.
"Nice to meet you, Alfred Foster Jones. The Hero," he said. The first person to use his full name since Alfred could remember. His mother used to use it when she was angry with him. "I've been waiting a long time for this encounter. I look forward to it."
His accent was rough and heavy, but his English pristine.
"To crushing you."
Alfred couldn't find words in his arsenal to respond. So he pulled out his strongest weapon: his smile. He bared his pearls and gave Ivan the Terrible a wink.
"Same here. Ivan the Terrible."
There was nothing but cruelty in their eyes. Nothing but the desire for victory.
Nothing else exists.
The bell went off. The first round began.
The first round wasn't as eventful as he'd wished or expected. They were simply getting a feel for each other. Alfred did what he knew how to do. He stayed on his toes, he jumped in and threw a few punches and jumped out. He could tell that Braginsky was watching his footwork. So he made sure to switch stances, just to throw him off, every few moments. He took a few punches to the jaw, but nothing serious. Nothing he wasn't ready for. But the crazy wild punches, the stomping, the tricks that Braginsky usually pulled out of his sleeve within the first few seconds of a match, weren't coming. It was as if Braginsky had forgotten the meaning of offense, and was made purely of defense and strategy. His eyes followed Alfred's every move.
But Alfred knew that he hadn't forgotten. He knew that Braginsky was holding back on purpose, playing some kind of game. His smile widened a little each time Alfred switched his stance, and his eyes glistened with each punch he took. None clean, on either end. As was his habit, Braginsky wasn't moving much. He stayed within a three-foot range of the center of the ring. Coach had told Alfred once, when he was getting too into a sparring match, to remember that it wasn't always his job to attack. It was okay to wait for the opponent to come to you.
And that was most certainly the philosophy that Braginsky was fighting with. And Alfred knew it. But somehow, he couldn't stop it. He felt his legs begin to ache already, felt the sweat dripping down his bare torso. He told himself to slow down, told himself to take it easy, but his body wasn't responding to his mind. Every time he glanced up at Braginsky his smile was there, and it put an extra jolt into his steps. He felt that he was moving with perfect form, fluid techniques, but something was off balance. Everything was so strangely quiet.
Until the last ten seconds. Ivan the Terrible decided he wanted to leave a little message.
Alfred jumped into his range and to throw a few quick punches, try to land a clean one before the buzzer went off. He threw a jab—not clean. But Braginsky dropped his guard. Alfred went in for the clean cross, straight for Braginsky's open jaw.
But the hand that Braginsky had dropped came back up.
"ALFRED!"
Ivan the Terrible's hook landed. It shook Alfred to his very core. The pain exploded and his head was ringing so hard that he couldn't hear the buzzer. But somehow, by some miracle, he'd managed to stay on his feet.
Thirty seconds until the next round...
He was dizzy. Lightheaded. Nauseated. His jaw felt as if it had been smashed in with a hammer. He felt the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.
He managed to stumble back to where Coach was waiting, teeth bared and sweat pouring down his pale temple.
"Al, come here."
"Coach..."
"Shh, shut up for a second. Close your eyes. Breathe. Open your mouth, I'm putting water in."
Alfred closed his eyes, breathed, opened his mouth. He swallowed the water. When he opened his eyes, the dizziness had subsided a little bit. Coach grabbed his cheeks and put his forehead against his and lowered his voice.
"You're playing right into his hands. Your movements against anyone else would be fine, perfect, whatever, but not against this guy. You're tiring yourself out, champ. Cool it. Stay on guard. If you let him land anymore hits like that, it's dangerous."
"I won't."
"Look at me, Al."
Coach's brow was furrowed and there was fire in his eyes.
"Be patient. Observe him. Be careful." He squeezed, just tight enough. Alfred swallowed his pride and nodded. "Please be careful. I know that sounds like a load coming from me."
The buzzer sounded.
"Go."
He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and got back up. Hopped a little bit to get back into rhythm, narrowed his eyes at Ivan the Terrible. He was ready. That punch to his jaw was a wakeup call. He calmed down. Moved with the same fluidity, but more cautiously. Kept his defenses up. While Braginsky maintained his small circle of movement, taking a few steps but nothing more.
At least, that was what Alfred expected.
But Braginsky smiled and took another step forward.
And then another.
Alfred tried to back up at an angle, but Braginsky followed him. Suddenly Alfred was exactly where he didn't want to be, where he needed not to be. Backed up against the ring. He knew Braginsky's style well enough to know that he wouldn't try to take him down, wouldn't try to kick, wouldn't try any knees. His fists were all he needed and all he used. So Alfred, now that he was against the wall, didn't have much of a choice. He hunkered down and covered his face. He tried to follow Ivan's fists with his elbows to avoid any major impact. As large and powerful as they were, his punches were deceivingly quick. Alfred had never felt such intense pressure in his life.
"I knew I was going to crush you, you know," Ivan the Terrible whispered. "But that punch last round was supposed to knock you out."
He managed to squeeze in a shovel up into Alfred's side. His breath left him and his knees buckled from the aching pain.
"Now I want to crush you extra hard."
Alfred lifted his eyes for a moment and wished that he hadn't. Because there, that sneer was waiting. Just for him.
"After all..."
Alfred did the best he could to defend himself, but there was nothing left he could do. Those fists were breaking through his walls, making them crumble.
"I am Ivan the Terrible."
When he threw the first hook, he didn't aim for Alfred's jaw like someone else might. He aimed for Alfred's temple.
The entire stadium could hear the crack of his skull, at the very corner of his eye, where Ivan the Terrible's knuckles collided. The pain was so sudden, so intense, so red, that he was blinded. He stumbled and closed the eye that had taken the impact. He was about to fall.
But Ivan the Terrible wouldn't let it end there.
He threw his other fist against the same spot on the other side.
"Stop the fight!"
Coach? Is that your voice?
"Oi, I said stop the fucking fight!"
No, Coach, don't say that! I can keep fighting.
Alfred couldn't see anything. Everything was white. I can still fight, he told himself. I'm fine, he kept saying. I have to take out Ivan the Terrible. I have to be the world champion.
He slumped back against the ring's wall and crumpled. He could still feel himself in the shadow of Ivan the Terrible. He wanted to get out. He wanted to stand back up and fight again. But he couldn't move. He heard shouts, a whistle blowing.
He heard a voice say, "I told you I would crush you, Hero."
"Al. Hey, Al. Can you hear me? Hey."
Coach, what are you doing in the ring? The round isn't over.
He felt a pair of arms around his shoulders and reached up his hand, but he couldn't tell where it was. He tried to say something, and he felt his lips moving, but he wasn't sure what he was saying.
"How many fingers am I holding up, Al?"
Fingers? What fingers? What are you talking about, Coach?
"Someone call an ambulance!"
An ambulance? What? Why? For who?
The white was turning to black.
"Hey, Coach," he finally said, "did I win?"
Arthur could hear the sound of an ambulance from his New York City Four Seasons hotel room. He was sitting at the table, a tray from room service completely cleaned in front of him. Kiku had long since fallen asleep. He had such a strange way of sleeping, Arthur mused. Curled up like a little child, with only the very top of his black-haired head visible from the covers. The smell of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Arthur lit another one and smoked it to get the taste of his meal from his mouth. Then, feeling restless, he began to pace, hands in the pockets of his hotel bathrobe. The ambulance sirens grew louder, blared, and then grew quieter as they disappeared. Arthur was awfully tired.
The first photoshoot of his New York City trip had taken up his day. He was tired and fed-up and irritable and he absolutely hated the photographer. But it was an important shoot, an important campaign, one that Kiku had bent over backwards to get. Arthur almost felt guilty for not being as grateful as he should've been.
But I can't very well help that, can I?
As he paced, he passed by the full body mirror by the bathroom. He paused and looked himself over, perhaps driven by his inherent model's vanity. He pushed the bathrobe over his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. He let his bare body be revealed. He looked at his pale skin, marred by the black tattoos along his collarbone and arms. It was smooth and fair and he hated to look at it because he felt that it should've been smoother and fairer. He ran his fingers through his blonde hair—should it be more blonde? less blonde?—and wished that it were softer. He leaned forward and looked at his lips, too pouty. His eyes, too far apart. His eyebrows, too bushy. His teeth, too crooked, and with that gap in the front. He turned and looked at himself from the sides, from the front, as well as he could from the back.
Too much, huh?
Another pair of sirens sounded as Arthur crushed his cigarette and went into the bathroom. He closed the door and locked it and hoped that Kiku wouldn't wake up. He turned on the sink as high as it would go.
I need to be ready for the second day of shooting tomorrow.
I'm not really ready right now.
He got onto his knees in front of the toilet and leaned forward. He thought about how delicious the room service had been.
He stuck his fingers into his mouth and he puked it all up.
Then he went back out and lit another cigarette, listening to the ambulance sirens fade away.