Bus Stop Boxer – the Eels

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Gravel crunched noisily under Axel's feet, the teen's long legs taking him along the thin trail that led inevitably to the bus stop. He was wrapped up thickly, coat heavy, scarf thick, wound around and around his throat, obscuring the bottom of his face, puffed-steam breaths spilling like smoke over the top of the warm material. He hitched his school bag tighter over one shoulder, glanced briefly down at his watch – the bus wasn't due for an hour.

Great.

The crowd had already built by the time he reached the top of the hill, all of them in their uniforms, rugged up against the biting chill. Snow coated the ground thinly, slushy in places, grey, clinging to the bare arms of the bony trees thickly populating the area. For a minute, Axel stood at the peak, unseen as yet, a foot slowly kicking against the metal of the railroad track that trailed along the countryside, the sky growing dark behind him. His bright gaze inspected the gathering with a critical eye, already picking out which ones were going to be today's fighters. It was easy enough to spot them – some of them had already stripped off their coats, were jumping up and down to keep warm, going through some stretching exercises to make sure nothing got wrenched or pulled, that they wouldn't be limping home because of a stupid mistake on their own part. Others were the centres of their own small groups of admirers… but most of them were there for Axel.

Luxord, looking for him, spotted the redhead from the distance. Raising his voice, he hailed him, "Axel!" He waved eagerly, fingers tightening around the leather pouch he was storing the punters' bets in. "Get your arse down here, you lanky bloody freak, we've got a fight to start!"

Tilting his head back, Axel took a deep breath, drew the sharp air into pained lungs, released it out in a long exhalation, curling into the air and away. "Coming, dear," he called, watching the white ribbons dissipate, voice raw from the cold. Giving the tracks one last kick, he stepped over onto the wooden slats, jumped over to the other side, made his way down the steep hill. His potential opponents were eyeing him off, some warily, others judgmentally. Those that were there only to watch, only ever to watch, nudged each other in anticipation as the redhead came strolling confidently down into their midst. He nodded to them at large. "Morning, gentlemen. Nice day for it."

Luxord met him excitedly, tugged him off to one side, hissing, "We've got nearly a hundred bloody quid, mate!" He punched Axel's arm happily. "Word of you's spread!" Axel rolled his eyes, slinging his bag down and out of reach of any of the creeping snow, Luxord snatching it up a moment later and tugging it onto his own back, looking curiously hunchbacked with it bobbing on top of his own schoolbag. He reached out as the redhead started discarding his long coat, pulled it away and threw it over his shoulder, took his blazer next, the final product being Axel rapidly cooling in his charcoal pants, white shirt and black tie, folding his sleeves back over his elbows, already mimicking the others in bouncing from toe to toe in an effort to maintain the loose heat he'd developed during the walk. Luxord gave him another cheerful punch, for luck, and turned to the assembly.

"Right, gents! All bets are placed, the books are now shut – from hereon, if you change your mind, tough bloody tits, alright? First challenger, please, Axel's ready to go!"

One cocky-looking new bastard – it was always the newbies that held that swagger of 'I couldn't lose even if you cut off my right hand and stuck a clamp around my crotch' – in a foreign-coloured uniform stepped up, unbuttoned his blazer slowly, deliberately, looking the red-haired teen up and down with disdain. "So, you're the famous one, then?" He sounded unimpressed. "The Yankee I've been hearing so much about?"
Axel shrugged impatiently, still hopping from foot to foot, wild spikes dancing behind him. "That depends how many Americans you and your boyfriends discuss during recess, sweetheart. I just come to fight."

Mimicking the redhead, he pushed his sleeves back carefully. "I heard you're a faggot."

"Yuh-huh," Axel drawled without batting an eyelid. "Watch out, I might rape you while you're down." He paused his motions for a moment, gave the boy a careful, analysing once-over, a small smirk appearing. "Then again, you're, uh, not exactly my type, sweetheart. I prefer my men with a little more behind their zippers, you know?"

The crowd sniggered and jeered. The boy flared, fists clenching, eyes widening, an ugly sneer in place. "Let's see who has the bigger balls once you're bleeding on the ground."

Luxord cut in sharply, "The first man to make his opponent bleed loses, instant disqualification. We wouldn't want our mummies wondering why we're coming home all beat up, now, would we? This isn't Fight Club, and neither of you is Brad Pitt, I can assure you. Remember, gentlemen, keep it above the belt, and block your fucking faces, alright?"

"Besides," Axel added, with a toothy smile, "it's not the size of the balls that matters."

A circle scrambled quickly to form, Luxord taking the centre, lifting a small, silver whistle to his lips. The fighters took up their positions, fists ready, and with a shrill tweet, he leapt back, the battle began.

Shoes danced through rotting leaves, Axel's grace lazy and loose, the opponent's movements quick and precise, controlled. The redhead never threw the first punch; never. Not once had he been the one to start the violence – but he was always the one to finish it.

A punch that blew past his face, classic television-style swing, the type Axel could dodge in his sleep, and then three fierce jabs to the gut before his opponent could even blink. Choking ensued, gagging, a breath and then a hard counter-attempt that spoke of athleticism but absolutely no idea of how to fight outside the schoolyard. Axel felt kind, since the guy was so obviously green – rather than simply ducking again, he brought his arms up, stopped the fist a foot from his nose, darted in and around, and slammed his knuckles into the delicacy of flesh between the ear and jaw, sending him jolting to the side. Cheers exploded, along with groans from the anti-Axel's, Luxord keeping uncharacteristically quiet as he did during the fights, never counting his money until it was safe in his wallet.

At this point, another person would perhaps have started taunting the doomed-to-lose opponent, would have sneered, crowed, laughed out loud or just deliberately provoked an enraged attack – Axel, however, was silent, waiting for the boy to recover enough to get the battle back on track. He wasn't doing this for the ego-inflating glory, and as nice as the cash was, he wasn't doing it for that, either.

The boy approached again, cautiously this time, watching the redhead intently, looking for an opening. Exhalations steamed the air, snorted out between teeth. The redhead changed his position, subtly inviting the kid's subconscious to spot a non-existent gap to pounce on, and pounce he did.

It was moments like these that had made Axel as famous as he was in the bus-stop crowd – one moment, it looks like the fight has just begun, that maybe this time, this time, he'll cut someone a break, whether it's because they're good, or because he pities their ridiculous attempts, or just because he's tired of always fucking winning – and then the next, he's smashed his fist into the cheek of one over-confident kid with a chip on his shoulder, and the kid's down, man, he's flat on his back and he is not getting up.

He's not bleeding; he's not unconscious – but for once in his life, he knows what real pain is. The kind that makes you want to burst out crying, run to momma and be hugged and comforted, point a finger and accuse the inflictor of being mean, of it being unfair, he's too rough, damn it. But hell – they signed up for it, right? Was it Axel's fault they hadn't caught a decent punch in all their days?

The difference between Axel and this kid was that Axel… Axel would've got up. He would've kept getting up, over and over. He had – back when he'd first stumbled upon this, back when Luxord was just a spindly kid with a little bit of gambling knowledge, every time they'd knocked him down, he would climb the fuck back up. Didn't mean he always won, not at first – but sooner or later, he ended up getting up just one more time than his opponents could handle. And from there, things had spun out to this – crowds each Wednesday and Friday, money changing hands hot and fast, the gleam in Lux's eyes growing brighter and brighter, and Axel. Axel, fighting, and getting up, and fighting some more.

He didn't do it because he loved it. He didn't do it for the machismo. He did it because he was in a foreign country, because no one here had known him, once upon a time; he did it because he had to prove to them all that he could.

So, they could arrive in their droves, they could strut and primp and swing, and fall, and the difference between him and this kid, the one lying in a daze on the damp ground, Luxord steadily counting him out of the fight with hard glee, was that the kid had nothing to prove. He was too sure of himself to be able to fight against someone as desperate for recognition as Axel. Quietly desperate, but desperate all the same.
And yet, frustratingly, once they all knew his name, it'd suddenly mean nothing.

Maybe, he thought idly to himself, as the cheers erupted once again and the boy was carefully helped up and away, as the hands rained down on his shoulders and the smiles were bright… maybe he'd have to find a new stop someday soon-ish. No good trying to prove yourself to people that believe in you, after all.

There was a whole world to conquer.