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Chapter Text

It was a dark night in Seoul. The wail of car horns and thrumming tires reverberated throughout the hollowness of the city tunnels. Only warm, tangerine-tinged light illuminated the underbelly of the tunnels; it was a buzzing, uncertain light that flickered. These tunnels held secrets. If one were to follow the faint droplets of blood scattered randomly about the grimy concrete of these tunnels, they would stumble upon a gruesome sight.

Underground fighting. The illegal swarm of talented and untalented fighters alike, united by their unanimous passion for the sport.

Or by anger. Or by sadness. Or just for the thrill of it.

It was interesting, the aura of the now-empty environment. A passerby strolling through these tunnels would have no concept of the barbarity that resided there every third Thursday night. To a fighter, trained in the art of human destruction, the lingering energy could suffocate, crushing their diaphragms under the sheer semblance of violence. How beautiful. How pure. How human.

That’s how it was for Seokjin, who was roaming the tunnel with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his navy blue jacket. Each footstep echoed off the tunnel walls, spooking the vermin that lurked there. For some odd reason, it always reeked of moldy rust - maybe rotting copper, after the fights. His head dipped low, black snapback concealing the wicked, satisfied grin on his chapped lips.

He was always the last to leave the scene. He was always the first to arrive. There was something poetic about that, and it stirred deep in the marrow of his bones.
Just like it always had before.

Out of the corner of his eye, Seokjin spotted a slumped pile of something. Curious, he walked towards it to better identify the mysterious object. His chocolate brown eyes widened and a heavy breath hitched in his throat. “Fuck.” He gritted through an exhale.

It was a body. A bloody, battered, probably unconscious body.

The tall, broad-shouldered man approached the seemingly-lifeless body and jabbed it experimentally with the toe of his boot. No whimper, no agonized gasp, no noise of protest at all. With a burdened sigh, Seokjin knelt down on the filthy concrete. He pressed his pointer finger and middle finger under the purplish bruise under the body’s jawline. A solemn pulse was detected, and Seokjin huffed in relief.

“So you’re just concussed, huh?” He knew there wouldn’t be a reply. It was mostly a statement of affirmation, of relief. His gaze averted to the face of the victim; a pool of blood coated his face like a mask, darker in spots where nasty purple bruises formed.

He must be a rookie. Either that, or just some punk who thought he could mimic what he saw in martial arts movies. Fighting isn’t as glamorous as it’s portrayed. It’s real. As real as the blood caked on eyebrow gashes and split lips.

Seokjin rolled the body over and slung a limp arm over his broad shoulders in an attempt to better lift the body off the concrete. With a huff, he pulled the body up to stand. The deadweight acting in opposition with his efforts was a surprising juxtaposition to what he originally thought of the lithe figure. He grabbed the body’s wrist to fashion a secure hold only to realize not only was the hand likely fractured but three fingers were plump, discolored, and oozing.

“Fool. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to curl your fingers into your palm when you make a fist? Breaks your fingers that way.” Seokjin lectured to the lifeless body, shaking his head in disapproval. “You leave your fingers flat against your palm, thumb out or else you’ll break that too.” He walked slowly, laboriously out of the underground tunnel. “Ain’t nobody teach you that before?”

A soft, whispering breeze curled around the delicate pink petals of cherry blossoms. In turn, the entire tree rustled its branches in gratitude. Cherry blossom petals rained down, sometimes spiraling into miniature cyclones before falling to the ground below. It was a peaceful sky, maybe even serene considering the crisp spring air. The sky was that pillow, light blue; the kind always portrayed in children’s books, the kind scribbled into coloring books, the kind that positively gleamed in the reflection of crystal clear waterfalls.

Was that called periwinkle? Azure? Viridian? Or was it so magnificent of a color that it was simply named sky blue?

What an interesting thought, Jungkook pondered to himself as he gazed at the glorious sky with his mouth agape. Do people think about that type of thing? His attention was stolen by the audible ripple of water. Oh, so there is a stream? He stood up and followed the surging song the stream sung, reveling in each flutter of splashes and sloshes against the muddy bank. Nature created such profound music.

The water shimmered, mirroring back the image of the sky above. It looked refreshing, tempting, and the urge to touch it was incredibly alluring. He reached out to dip a hand in the body of water, anticipating the mere contact to send goosebumps up his body.

Instead, it made evident the grotesque bruising and bleeding of his crushed hands, of his broken fingers unable to wriggle in the slightest. His eyes widened into saucers, pupils dilating and body quivering as panic washed over his body. Suddenly the pleasant breeze and surging stream plummeted into nothingness, soundlessness, muted existence. A void. His vision blurred before eclipsing entirely.

Beeping. Frantic beeping. Unnecessary beeping.

“What the fuck?!” Jungkook screamed, hands shooting up to encase his throbbing head. The heels of his palms stabbed into his temples in hopes of alleviating the immense throbbing at his temples. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the f-” He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet.

“Jeon Jungkook-sshi, we need you to calm down. Please, we need your heartrate to stabilize. Please try to calm yourself down. You are okay.” A petite woman in magenta-colored scrubs cooed, her small hands pressed quite firmly to his sternum. It must’ve taken all her efforts to pin Jungkook to the hospital bed. “Please, you’re safe. You’re in a hospital.”

Jungkook’s eyes strained against the fluorescent white light angled at his face. His chest heaved aggressively, clearly revealing the panic and anger swelled inside his body. Palms still jabbed into his temples for fear of releasing the unbearable pressure enveloping his skull. God, it was as if his brain was being leeched of all its contents drip by drip.

“Jeon Jungkook-sshi, please take in deep breaths. Slowly.” The nurse directed him through a process she called ‘square breathing.’ She counted to four aloud, and he was to hold his exhale or inhale until the next count of four. She repeated the process four time, thus establishing the hypothetical ‘square.’ Surprisingly, the silly process was successful. Apparently it was a technique to coax patients experiencing an anxiety attack into a calmer, milder state of mind.

Eyebrows still furrowed and horrible stress lines evident along his eye sockets, Jungkook removed his hands from his head and rested them at his side. With his eyes finally as adjusted as possible, the realization of his current circumstance sunk in. There was a laminated tape around his wrist with his personal and vital information, an IV was affixed to his inner elbow by white medical tape, and there was a heartrate monitor clipped onto his thumb.

“What… the fuck happened to me?” His inner thought was accidently verbalized in a breathy whisper.

“Someone brought you in. You’re in the emergency wing of this hospital.” The nurse replied plainly, pulling up the soft, knitted hospital blanket covering Jungkook and tucking it into the side of the hospital bed. “He said he didn’t know you, but he found you laying in the street unconscious.” Jungkook’s hearing was dull, and he could only hear the nurse’s feminine voice in small, audible waves.

“W-what?” Was it that he couldn’t hear, or was it that he couldn’t make sense of her words?

The nurse sighed. She knew better. Patients waking up from a concussion were usually either extremely irritable, dizzy, confused, had trouble with vision or hearing, or experienced any combination thereof.

“W-what… Why does my head hurt so f-fucking much?” Jungkook snapped, palm of his hand returning to his pulsing temple. The nurse flicked the IV bag to ensure adequate drip of the solution within it.

“You had a moderate concussion, Jeon-sshi. It seems you’ve sustained several cuts and bruises, but nothing severe. There are three broken fingers and a dislocated knuckle on your right hand.” She explained, her disapproval of his profanity evident in the way she pursed her lips, “Now that you’ve woken, you’re cleared for discharge. Do you have someone you can call to drive you home?”

Jungkook shook his head. How did he even end up here? The nurse mentioned something about someone bringing him here? Who would’ve done that? Last he remembered, he was walking alone somewhere… Somewhere secret? Where was he walking somewhere secret?

The diminutive nurse sighed as she tucked a strand of auburn hair behind the shell of her ear. “I apologize, but we cannot discharge you if no one can take you home. You are not able to drive yourself home in your current condition.” Her sky blue eyes flickered over to Jungkook, who was clutching his stomach with a disturbed expression across his face. She clicked her tongue and made her way to the pewter cabinets hugging the perimeter of Jungkook’s hospital room. “You may experience nausea. That is a normal side effect of waking from a concussion. Here is a vomit bin.” She offered him a circular, muted rose-colored bin; the circumference was wasn’t that wide but its depth was reasonable. How gross. Jungkook only accepted it because the stingy gurgle of stomach acid was bubbling up his esophagus.

Why couldn’t he remember what he was doing before… being here? He was walking somewhere alone, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be… It was dark out, right? So probably nighttime. Where would he go alone at night that was so covert? Shit, thinking hurt.

Ugh, his head was pounding in sheer agony. The slightest head movement made him too dizzy. Dizziness heightened his nausea. Nausea made it hard to breathe. Everything was throbbing. Why did everything hurt so much? Why did everything hurt all of a sudden? Toffee brown eyes widened as he identified all the gashes, bruises, and scrapes littering his body. Oh. The pain medication was wearing off. No wonder he couldn’t move his hand, it was broken – no, it was pulverized. He looked vile. He felt vile. One hand, the still-functional hand, curled around the lip of the vomit bin and he heaved powerfully, uncontrollably, painfully as thick, acidic liquid splashed into the bin.

“I can dose another 650mg of acetaminophen in two hours. That’s your next interval.” The auburn-haired nurse explained with sympathetic undertones, completely unaffected by the patient’s vomiting. “It’s probably best you stay here overnight after all. Next to you is a call-button,” She gestured towards a slender object with a large button in the center, “Please press that if you need any assistance. I will be here all night. I will also return in two hours to check on you and administer your pain medication. Please don’t hesitate if you need anything, Jeon-sshi.”

Jungkook nodded, half-listening because everything in his world sucked right now.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Her small hand fished into the pocket of her scrubs. “The man who checked you in left this note for you. Read it when you’re able.” She plopped a crumpled-up, torn-off piece of loose leaf paper onto the ivory blanket and smiled sweetly before leaving.

Jungkook grunted, lips holding a pathetic pout. With pain lacing his every nerve, the movement made to collect the piece of paper was as dreadful as it was cumbersome. He smoothed the crinkles with his thumb and squinted to better decipher the handwriting.

I know what you did. If you want to do it again, call me. I guarantee no concussion.

Bile erupted from his lips with a sharp quickness, barely making it into the vomit bin.

He remembered.

Fight club.

Chapter Text

From the outside, Kim Seokjin’s gym was laughable. It was a shoddy-looking structure painted an unapologetic shade of pink near the outskirts of Seoul, closer to Gwangmyeong than the actual heart of the city. It was precariously hidden, almost intentionally tucked away on the back end of a larger building. Bold, white letters that read ‘Mixed Martial Arts Gym’ decorated the fading pink paint. The iconic image of Muhammad Ali versus Joe Frazier was printed on a slab of plastic and pinned to the building, adding to the ridiculous impression of the building.

The inside of the gym was not luxurious on any account; the interior matched the exterior in terms of simplicity. A nest of black, tattered punching bags dangled by thick chains from the ceiling in one corner of the gym. Dark blue tumbling mats lined the floor of another corner; wall-length mirrors covered most of the walls and tennis balls attached to thin rope drooped from the ceiling. An inglorious, small, nearly dilapidated boxing ring took up almost the entire other half of the gym. It was cramped, but all necessary equipment was not only present, but sufficient.

Seokjin was not an extravagant man, only a practical one.

If the putrid odor of body sweat did not overtake any poor bastard who dared enter the gym, perhaps the deafening sound of Yankie’s Sold Out would be the coup de grâce. Energy pulsated through the walls. That type of electricity was necessary to train, and it was evident in the efforts exerted by Seokjin’s fighters.

It was a Wednesday. Wednesdays were always busy. Fighters lurked in every corner of the gym, some shadow boxing and others sparring on the mats. Most trained individually or with other fighters at the gym; others, like Park Jimin, paid extra for direct, one-on-one coaching from Seoul’s elite boxing coach Kim Seokjin.

Others, like Park Jimin, fought at Fight Club.

“One. One. One-two. One-two.” Seokjin demanded as he held up a strong, stiff, mitt-clad hand. Every time he called out a number, Jimin was to punch the silver Everlast symbol in the middle of the mitt. ‘One’ meant to jab; the jab wasn’t the kill shot, the jab was meant to distract an opponent. ‘Two’ meant the power punch, the haymaker, the knockout. They were components to a process called ‘throwing mitts,’ and it was to improve speed, accuracy, and technique in the striking arts.

Jimin knew if he didn’t strike his coach’s mitt at the exact moment it was called, he’d be smacked across his temple for his negligence. Mitts were not soft. They hurt when they hit.

“One. One. One. Two. One.” Seokjin shouted and Jimin struck the jab, jab, jab, haymaker, jab. Droplets of sweat flung off his body with each sharp jolt. Regardless of how so-called breathable his grey t-shirt was, it was utterly saturated in sweat. His breathing was jagged, encumbered. Keeping composure while throwing mitts was always a challenge. It was exhausting, and Coach always picked up the pace when he saw Jimin’s fortitude falter.

“One. One. Two. One-two-three.”

WHACK!

“Ah- fuck!” Jimin yelped, a reaction to receiving a stern smack to the side of his head from Seokjin’s mitt. He wasn’t expecting the ‘three,’ the famed uppercut. Also, he was convinced he was dying anyway.

“Why can’t you hit those uppercuts, Park?” Seokjin asked rhetorically as he tossed the exasperated boy a clean sweat towel, “Your twos are good, but you gotta hit those threes, man.”

With one squinted eye and a crinkled nose, Jimin rubbed small circles on his temple where Coach hit him. “I’ll get it one day…” He caught the sweat towel with his free hand and immediately swiped the bead of sweat threatening to dribble off his nose.

“Or someone will get you one day-” Coach shot the boy a hard glance. Jimin looked down at his feet grimly.

He knew it was true, it just stung to hear Coach say it. Jimin fought with a different purpose than the other trainees. They fought for fun. Jimin fought, point blank.

“Ay, ay Coach!” A tall, lanky trainee with well-kept black hair jogged over to the duo, “Ay, you gotta call. Someone’s on the phone wantin’ to speak with ya. Dunno his name. Didn’t give it.”

Jimin quirked an eyebrow at Seokjin, draping the now-sweat drenched towel around the nape of his neck. Coach merely shrugged before lifting his chin in a dismissive nod to Jimin, notifying that their session would be on a temporary hold while he handled business matters.

“Kim Seokjin.” He stated plainly and business-like. Truth be told, the gym didn’t receive many calls. Most people interested in training either walked in or were recruited from Fight Club. And, truth be told, Seokjin wasn’t very business-like to begin with. He was just a former prestigious boxer continuing his love for fighting through training stronger, younger bodies. He knew how to bust lips, not make executive decisions.

Which was likely evident by the looks of his self-proclaimed office he was currently sitting in. Just like the main room of the gym, his office was cramped. It was on the second story of the building, which was a tiny loft where he also lived. He sat upon a black fold-up chair with his legs kicked up on his desk and his ankles crossed. The reverb of the boisterous rap music from the gym below hummed through the floor boards.

“Oh, uh…” The caller’s voice was hesitant, perhaps even soft, “Hi, Kim Seokjin sunbaenim… Uh-”

Seokjin cringed. Sure his name was notorious in the fight/martial arts community, but formalities were for civilized men. “I’m sure calling me Seokjin is more comfortable for both of us.”

“Oh, alright.” The caller cleared his throat. “Uh, my name is Jeon Jungkook. You, uh, apparently took me to the hospital when I was unconscious.” Jungkook’s voice remained hesitant but grew in confidence. “You left a note… for me to call you if-if I was interested in-”

“Yes. I did.”

“Oh. Well, I’m interested.”

A satisfied grin curled upon Seokjin’s lips and he planted both feet firmly on the floor. Suddenly, the conversation became less casual. His interested was piqued. He didn’t have many fighters interested in training for a real, true, no-holds-barred fight.

He didn’t have many fighters interested in Fight Club.

“Your concussion didn’t scare you away, huh?” He planted the bait; now he had to see which direction Jungkook would take it.

“N-no. I mean, it sucked. But…” Jungkook huffed, creating a pause in his words.

“You want more.” Seokjin added, knowing damn well how to finish that sentence. That’s what all true fighters want. To hit and to be hit.

“Yes!” Not anticipating such a passionate, involuntary response to erupt from his mouth, Jungkook cleared his throat for the second time in their conversation. “Uh, yeah. I do… How can I do it again?”

Ah, so he swallowed the bait whole. Seokjin’s grin morphed into a sinister smirk, “Here is the address. Gym’s open ‘til eight tonight. Come prepared.” He gave Jungkook the gym’s location and ended the call, excruciatingly content with the possibilities Jungkook could fulfill. Karma was a powerful, wonderful manifestation.

Public transportation in Seoul was abundant but never pleasant. People often blatantly stared holes in others as a source of entertainment, especially if their journey was long. Jungkook was a private person who shifted his feet uncomfortably under peoples’ relentless gazes. He just knew the ajumma in front of him could tell he was heading somewhere taboo. It must be obvious that he was traveling to a gym on the outskirts of Seoul to potentially train to fight in an illegal, underground fighting club.

Or, it was probably paranoia.

Upon arrival of his stop, Jungkook stepped off the last step of the bus, ungracefully landing in a small puddle and ruining his socks. A burdened yet dismissive sigh escaped his lips as he gripped the thick strap of his bag pack on his shoulder. The gym wasn’t too far from the bus stop, but he walked onward with heavy feet. Anxiousness curdled in the pit of his stomach. Why was he so nervous?

Was it nervousness or excitement? The sensation was puzzling. Perhaps he was overwhelmed with the realness of the situation. A man who found him unconscious in the streets and took him to a hospital, offered him an opportunity to train. An opportunity to fight with actual skills. An opportunity to be something.

Jungkook stood in front of the gym with dark eyes affixed to the bold, white letters above the door. If he walked in, there was no going back. No return. He would get hit, beaten, bruised, have bones broken, definitely receive more concussions, among plenty other potentially life-threatening injuries. Every day, every night, pain.

Every day, every night, power. Glory. Money. A sense of purpose.

Catching the snicker before it left his lips, he curled a calloused hand around the door knob and opened it.

The atmosphere of the gym immediately encased him; thick fog of moist, sweaty air and testosterone-laced adrenaline practically suffocated him. Hard bass of a Dynamic Duo song echoed from every corner. Dark brown eyes widened into large saucers as he shamelessly gawked at the various fighters scattered about the gym. People were shadow boxing, seamlessly dodging oncoming attacks and counteracting the offense. On the tumbling mats, a man’s endurance was being tested as a rather large, rather muscular arm constructed around his throat in a headlock; his face was cherry red, clearly depraved of precious blood flow, and his fingers were scrambling for purchase along the constricting force crushing his windpipe. Submissions were a curious component of fighting.

“Ay, who’re you?” An unquestionably American accent demanded.

Jungkook snapped out of his haze, completely unaware how enchanted he was by the authenticity of the gym. “Uh, I’m here to see Kim-uh, Seokjin.” The fingers curled around the strap of his bag pack tightened.

The man nodded his head in acknowledgment and walked off. Moments later, a tall man with broad shoulders and short, dark hair appeared before Jungkook. He was wearing a thick, oversized hoodie that read Puma across the chest and mesh basketball shorts. “Jungkook?” The man asked with zero curiosity in his tone. Jungkook nodded before realizing perhaps it would be more polite to bow. After all, he was in the presence of Kim Seokjin, a famous Korean boxer he grew up admiring.

“Yes! Seokjin?” Jungkook did not anticipate the excitement of his tone to completely ruin his collected composure. Seokjin simply nodded in response. As the loud hip hop music that was playing faded into silence, the apprehensiveness Jungkook felt in the presence of Seokjin surged. He hoped the next song would start soon.

“Why don’t I give you a tour of the gym?” Seokjin finally spoke and the tenseness built up in Jungkook’s shoulders eased.

Any level of discomfort Jungkook initially experienced completely subsided upon completion of the tour. He barely spoke a word the entire time, hopelessly mesmerized by the explanation of each and every piece of equipment, every fighter and their respective style of fighting, every side story Seokjin would tell when sidetracked by impromptu bouts of inspiration. Jungkook’s favorite part was when some other trainees were sparring on the mats and one got caught in a submission; Seokjin ceased all communication and watched the scene unfold, mumbling ques and commands as if what to do to escape the hold was obvious. He was a very knowledgeable man.

But now, Jungkook sat awkwardly in a fold-up chair in a very narrow space Seokjin called his office. His bag pack sat by his ankles and he picked at the dead skin around his chipped fingernails.

“So you’re interested, huh?” Seokjin sat in his own fold-up chair with his legs perched upon his desk once more. Jungkook nodded, vowing inwardly to remain silent unless an answer was necessary. “You do know what is involved, right? Do you know what I expect of you? If you’re to train at my gym, you follow my rules. You train every day. You’re prepared every day.” The conversational, friendly tone from the gym tour dissipated into something much sterner. “And if you’re a fighter, you know… I expect you to work ten times harder. You’re not here to learn mixed martial arts, you’re here to learn to fight. Do you understand?”

Jungkook nodded, dark brown eyes glued to Seokjin’s as the depth of the situation sunk in. Fight Club wasn’t a joke. Jungkook was foolish – no, ignorant, to have fought without training. He was lucky to come away with a moderate concussion. His opponent exercised mercy he knew he’d never take for granted again… especially if he was a fighter representing Kim Seokjin. Now it wasn’t just about power trips and money, now it involved honor and respect.

“Stand up.” Seokjin commanded, rising to a full stance as well. Jungkook stood instantly, spine straight and face forward. He wore a simple white t-shirt and grey basketball shorts, nothing fancy or extravagant.

“You’re a lot taller than I remember. Lanky, too.” Jungkook grew rigid under the unexpectedly scrutinizing eye. Seokjin scanned the boy as he encircled him, one hand buried deep in the front pocket of his hoodie and the other hand placed curiously against his chin. “What do you do? Kick boxing? Muay Thai?”

Jungkook’s throat grew dry. He wasn’t formally trained in anything. He mimicked kicks and takedowns he watched on television. “Uh, I don’t have any formal training.” He murmured, embarrassed. “But I’m a quick learner. I promise.”

The heavy sigh from Seokjin seemed conflicted. What was he doing? Was he really going to train a boy with zero experience to fight in the underground scene? The concept was absurd. The glimmer in Jungkook’s eyes was unwavering and Seokjin pursed his lips in contemplation. For some reason, he could detect waves of potential roll off this boy.

“Are you medically cleared…?” Seokjin stood directly in front of Jungkook, matching the other’s gaze with firm, stern eyes. Only a few weeks had passed since he brought the kid to the hospital.

“Yes.”

A sly smirk etched across Seokjin’s features, “Well, let’s test your aptitude.”

Jungkook did not foresee himself standing in Kim Seokjin’s personal boxing ring, pupils like marbles and body posture rigid as his new coach wrapped off-white boxing tape around his knuckles. He didn’t utter a single word. Apparently those who trained for Fight Club didn’t train with padded boxing or grappling gloves. They fought bare-knuckle. Because Jungkook was such a newbie, however, he fought with wraps.

The canvas that composed the ground beneath his feet wobbled, signifying a third set of feet had entered the ring. His eyes averted towards the figure approaching on his left. For some reason, his senses had been on high alert ever since he stepped foot into the ring. To his surprise, the figure seemed more charming than imposing; a bright, pearly grin greeted him once the figure was close enough. Jungkook’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Was this is sparring partner? This smiley creature?

In a booming, chipper tone unbefitting of the current moment, the smiling figure spoke, “Whaddup?! I’m Jimin.”

Jungkook’s brows remained in perpetually furrowed. His mouth curved into an awkward, lopsided half-smile. The other Fight Club trainee was this guy? How could anyone take him seriously? He was probably some rich kid who had free time to kill so decided to take up fighting. Guys like Jungkook resented, hated, guys like him.

“Jungkook…” He stated his name calmly.

As Coach Seokjin left to fetch his clipboard near one of the ring posts, Jimin leaned in towards Jungkook; Jungkook, in response, leaned away. Either ignoring or not noticing the reaction, Jimin placed an open hand against his cheek as if to whisper something scandalous behind his hand. “Dude, relax. Coach isn’t as intimidating as you think he is. Besides, if you’re gonna be all stiff like that it’s gonna hurt like a millions times more when I hit you. Just sayin’.” Jimin chuckled, dropping his partition-like hand and balling his hands into fists. He lifted them by his face in a defensive Muay Thai stance before playfully throwing a flurry of punches in Jungkook’s direction. “Gotta roll with the punches, man, you know?”

“Stop messing around, Park. I’m evaluating the new kid.” Seokjin’s voice trailed in underneath the ridiculously cartoonish sounds coming from Jimin with each punch in the air. Jungkook stood there motionless, quiet, unamused.

“Oh-ho ho~” Jimin quirked an eyebrow and quickened his relentless myriad of playful punches, “What’cha do, new kid??” He stopped his silly punch barrage to throw a quite elegant kick into the openness of the ring beside the duo. Oh. The kid had skill. Jungkook scanned Jimin as if on instinct, forced to reevaluate his initial impression. “I’ve done Muay Thai my whole life. Kicks for days, bro.” Jimin then proceeded to flawlessly demonstrate four different kick variations.

Coach rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. “Flashy kicks don’t win fights, Park. Talk me about your clinch-work.” Jimin slumped his shoulders and grimaced. The clinch was the quintessence of Muay Thai. After years of training, clinch-work was his weakest attribute. Jungkook covered his mouth with his hand to hide his amused chuckle.

“Soooo, new kid… What’cha got?” Never the downer, Jimin’s mood returned to its previous state of being.

“I-”

“He’s green. Knows how to fight like the pros on TV.” Seokjin interjected as he leaned against the red tape-covered ropes of the boxing ring, an arm draping over the top rope comfortably. “Enough talking. Let’s test your instincts. Spar.”

The mood shifted. The dynamic previously established between Jungkook and Jimin shifted. Everything was crushingly serious; a sharp contrast to the lightheartedness from moments ago. A predatory aura glowed around Jimin. Jungkook intuitively raised up his fists in defensive position. They proceeded to study the other’s stance, head movements, facial expressions, as did all fighters who were unfamiliar with one another. However, Jungkook’s rookie mistake was striking too soon and too recklessly. As he attempted to land a solid jab to Jimin’s nose, Jimin anticipated the attack and reacted on impulse; Jimin dodged the oncoming punch, his own bare-knuckled fist shooting out and colliding with Jungkook’s sternum harshly. The whole process took three seconds to execute.

Air was sucked right out of Jungkook’s lungs. He collapsed flat on his back to the canvas of the ring with a taped up hand clutching the site of impact. His diaphragm spasmed to compensate for lost oxygen in his respiratory system, forcing him to aggressively cough. Jungkook was dazed, in pain, and definitely angry as a result of said pain.

And he definitely didn’t want to see that bastard Jimin’s damn smiling face hovering over him.

“First rule of Fight Club training: if you’re gonna fight, punch first and punch hard.”

Chapter Text

It took Jungkook six months to realize he was wrong about Jimin. He wasn’t a thoroughbred specimen from a wealthy family. He wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He was just an exceptionally average guy from an exceptionally average home who had an exceptional interest in hurting people for fun. “Yo, Tekken got me into fighting. Bruce Irvin, the Muay Thai fighter, you know? He was the man.” Jimin would explain with a gleam in his voice and a twinkle in his eye whenever someone asked what got him into fighting for a living.

But over the past months of rigorously training with Jimin, Jungkook dawned upon the true reason: Jimin had a gnarly temper and competitive attitude, and fighting was the only indispensable outlet for all his fiery energy. Without his outlet, the wild fire within would consume him in a deep, unwavering blaze, charring his insides and incinerating his very being. Jimin was a violent person underneath his bubbly, jubilant charms.

Then again, only violent people shattered their own knuckles over someone else’s bloodied skull, accepting the pain as an invitation to strike harder. Only violent people soldiered through severed tendons and ligaments in an effort to render an opponent unconscious. Only violent people found solace in physical pain, because physical pain was easier to control than mental and emotional pain.

Only violent people fought in Fight Club.

Jungkook realized he was a violent person. He realized that on a Monday, when Seokjin was heckling Jimin because Jimin was heckling Jungkook. “So you’re here because you got knocked the fuck out?” Jimin mused as he rotated his wrist in small circles to alleviate its stiffness. Coach Seokjin smacked the back of the boy’s head and shot him a scornful glare.

“You act as if you’ve never been knocked out. You’re not hot shit, Park Jimin. That’s why you’re here too.” Seokjin quipped, contempt dripping off each syllable. Jungkook remained quiet, as he often did, and noticed the way Jimin acquiesced to his Coach. The Muay Thai fighter’s eyes clouded obsidian, a flicker of an untold story projecting from them. A story Jungkook will forever wonder about; one he somehow felt a connection and a familiarity to.

But here, now, Wednesday night, Jungkook sat with his legs crossed on the floor of Seokjin’s boxing ring. The three of them opted to spend the night getting hammered in the middle of the ring, as was evident in the dramatically impressive mountain of empty, crushed beer cans beside them. A half-empty can of beer in his hand, Jungkook watched with a loose smile as Jimin stretched out his left leg for a toe-touch stretch.

“I hope I fight a boxer.” Jimin extended his right leg and leaned into the stretch, “I’m gonna fake him out with a Thai kick… because you know boxers don’t know how to act with kicks. Then I’m gonna blast him with a spinning elbow!” He tilted his head to glance at Jungkook and proceeded to tap on the hard tip of his elbow, “Blam! Right in the back of the head. He won’t even know what hit him.”

Seokjin, the acclaimed Korean boxer, would have likely snarled if he wasn’t inhaling large gulps of the fermented liquid. Jimin always mocked boxers because they ‘only know how to punch,’ which crawled under Seokjin’s skin and melted his very core. Coach finished the can of beer with a vile belch, crushing the can between his palm and the canvas of the ring’s floor. “I hope you fight a boxer too, you fuckin’ punk. I hope he hits you with that uppercut you can’t seem to figure out.” In Seokjin’s gym, insults were essential to comradery. Tough love, he called it.

Jimin scoffed. Jungkook chuckled.

Tomorrow night was Fight Night. Both Jimin and Jungkook had fights. It would be Jungkook’s rookie comeback; his opportunity to start anew and wash clean his current reputation. He was going to wash the distaste out of peoples’ mouths, and make them regret ever saying his name with pity and spite in their tones. Jimin, on the other hand, was a crowd favorite returning for his fifth fight. He was hoping to carve another victory onto his flawless record.

“Rookie over here could teach you a thing or two about uppercuts. Isn’t that right, Jeon?” Seokjin fished another beer out of the twenty-four pack Jimin impulsively bought earlier that night. He tossed it over to Jungkook, who guzzled down the remnants of his beverage during the others’ banter, before snapping open another beer for himself with a sharp pop.

Beer-induced poor motor skills caused Jungkook to fumble the beer Coach tossed him, “Uh, yeah… uppercuts…” Dark eyes fixated on the now-rolling beer can. He frowned. At this point, that beer can must be so pressurized; if he dared open it, it surely would explode like a volcano.

“Brain damage is supposed to happen after fights, dude.” Park Jimin and his quick-wit bore through Jungkook’s drunken gaze. Jungkook perked up and tilted his head towards Jimin, laughing mostly at himself while Jimin cackled in response to the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Seriously, Jeon, you’ve got one of the meanest uppercuts I’ve seen in years. I knew you’d be a good striker, you’ve got the arm reach for it. You’re quick too.” Seokjin, ignoring the crescendo of laughter booming from his trainees, continued the conversation he started before. He sipped his libation carefully, savoring the flavor of hops on his taste buds. A distinct contrast to his younger counterparts, who managed to chug down can after can fraternity-style. “Talk shit about boxers for being one-dimensional all you want… but when a boxer is good, they’re good. They’re quick. They’re unstoppable…”

Kim Seokjin never dreamt of owning a mixed martial arts gym or training fighters. He never dreamt of lurking the underground fight scene for fighters with potential. No, Kim Seokjin dreamt of basking in the limelight after a victory earned by his own blood, sweat, and tears. He dreamt of lethal striking combinations and fast footwork. He dreamt of having that shiny, gold-plated, bejeweled championship title belt strapped around his waist. He dreamt of being the best.

And he was.

He was the very best Korea had to offer. He claimed countless opponents night after night with his unpredictable fight style. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee were the famous words of Muhammad Ali; Kim Seokjin was those words personified. Being the best, however, was coupled with heavy pressure and soul-wrecking affliction. His motivation crumbled and his perseverance weakened, and he lost. Kim Seokjin, the unbeatable Korean sensation, lost. The fans lost their beloved champion, but someone greater, better replaced him. They recovered.

Kim Seokjin, however, did not.

“You know, a lot of those guys out there don’t know how to fight a left-handed opponent. If we could train you to stand Unorthodox (dominant left foot/left handed), you’d fuckin’ kill.” Seokjin was a glorified tactical forecaster in his own right. He leaned back, the expanse of his broad shoulders pressing firmly against the taut ropes stretched around the ring’s parameter. Blurry, or maybe slightly wobbly, vision watched the two trainees in front of him interact.

Jungkook was in push-up position with two palms and the tips of his black and red Nikes planted sturdily into the ring mat. Jimin was sitting like a posh Victorian-era woman upon the other boy’s table-like back. “Dude, you’re only at nine and you’re having a hard time? So weeaaak.”

Jungkook scowled, voice trembling underneath the unpleasant deadweight on his back. “No dude, gravity s-sucks.” With shaky arms, he managed to complete a tenth push-up. “S-see? I got t-this!” He failed the eleventh attempt.

Jimin was similar to Jungkook in many ways. They were around the same age and could relate to views on popular culture, politics, girls, and the world. Coach Seokjin identified Jungkook as a boxer early on, but Jungkook always thought kicks were more interesting. Jimin did too, so they spent a lot of time together exchanging moves and sparring. With Jimin’s help, Jungkook could execute basic kicks, like the notorious roundhouse and the Spartan-like push kick. With Jungkook’s help, Jimin’s striking combinations improved in accuracy. Their friendship flourished because their fight chemistry was unparalled; Jimin was aggressive and hard-hitting while Jungkook was strategic and quick. They made Coach proud.

But Jungkook wasn’t like Jimin in more open, apparent ways. Jimin was loud, energetic, and reveled as the center of attention. When Coach would take them to Fight Club every third Thursday of each month, he explained it was for educational purposes. They were to study the fighters who appeared, taking special note of fighting style, aggression levels, and if they were victorious. Jimin, however, vanished into the huddled swarm of observers. He claimed he was socializing, but Jungkook knew he was hyping himself to increase crowd interest and his overall popularity.

Jungkook wasn’t like that. Jungkook was reserved, hesitant, quiet, and too shy for his own good; he preferred a low-key existence, not wanting to sweep anyone up in the intricacies of his life. So, as Jimin shamelessly mingled, Jungkook stood with his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, crimson beanie dipped low over his brow, and brown eyes glued to the fighters in the pit.

“Coach, I’m gonna hit the most beautiful,” Jimin plopped back down on the canvas and flicked the aluminum tab on his beer can, “…uppercut on V. It’s going to be amazin-”

“You think your smart ass is going to climb the ranks to fight V?”

“Who is V?” Jungkook inquired, genuinely surging with curiosity. Huh, curiosity felt tingly.

Seokjin averted his attention to Jungkook, who realized curiosity was indeed not tingly but the leg he’d been sitting on definitely was. “He’s the top fighter in Fight Club. He’s from Daegu. Taekwondo powerhouse with nasty kicks. People from all over the country travel to watch him fight. His knockouts are vicious.”

“He ain’t got nothin’ on me, Coach!” Jimin swigged the rest of his beer and flopped back onto the ring mat, spilling small droplets of beer onto the canvas.

Jungkook swallowed the dryness in his throat. The tingling returned, but this time it engulfed his entire body. He could feel Seokjin’s gaze stab daggers into him. He glanced over only to be greeted with a sly grin from his Coach.

Coach always knew what others didn’t. Coach always was the best tactical forecaster.

Chapter Text

The third Thursday of every month was Fight Club. The location was tentative, subject to change at any moment and only conveyed through word of mouth. Nothing was ever written. Nothing was ever documented. Due to a police raid in the squalid lows of Seoul, the previously agreed upon Fight Club location was abandoned. New whereabouts were mentioned in low mumbles by a hooded passerby in front of Seokjin’s gym. Until the current moment, Jimin and Jungkook were unaware of the location.

Tonight, Fight Club transpired in the belly of an unmonitored Yongsan marina. Few cargo ships were docked within the basin. Only two sailboats moored along the far edges of the main dock, resting for the night and departing before the sun peeked through early morning skies.

Only sleeping ships and feral fighters would witness the night’s events.

Fight Club was a unique kind of therapy. It was a dark, dank swell of misfits congregated by a common desire: the desire to live unconfined. Men fatigued of their pathetic, standard lives fought here and found bliss here. Men whose savage appetite befell them fought here and found bliss here.

Some men were curious, appearing out of pure interest; snubbed by their inquisition the moment they were thrown into the fighting pit. They were minnows swimming in shark-infested waters, cowering in fear the moment they realized they swam too deep. Other men were prepared, appearing out of instinct; realizing Fight Club transcended them into a euphoria not granted in their mundane lives. They were the sharks feasting on the minnows, satiated and comforted by the dark depths.

No matter the classification of fighter, in Fight Club, no one drown in these vast, deep waters. Because in Fight Club, these waters were freedom; a deviation from the humdrum cycles of life.

As Coach Seokjin and his two fighters approached the huddled mass of club members, Jungkook swallowed the lump in this throat. He had attended countless Fight Nights since his debut, but tonight was different. Tonight, Jungkook fought for redemption. Tonight, Jungkook fought for glory.

“Five and zero, baby. Five and zero!” Jimin’s boisterous voice pierced the intensity Jungkook was submerged within. Tonight, Jimin fought for popularity. Every Fight Night, the Muay Thai fighter flagrantly hyped himself to the other attendees, promising an undefeated streak that would rocket him to the top tier.

So far, only one fighter ranked top tier: Kim “V” Taehyung. The ultimate fighter.

“That’s right. I’m gonna see two victories from my boys tonight,” Seokjin mushed a palm over the reddish hair atop Jimin’s head like a proud father. “Right Jungkook?”

“Absolutely, Coach.” Jungkook couldn’t fathom how Jimin remained so energetic and lighthearted in a moment like this. His heart was pounding mercilessly inside his ribcage. Still, he managed to grin at Jimin’s crinkled eyes and contagious smile.

A cluster of shirtless, shoeless men formed a circle, officially establishing the fighting pit. A professional eye was unnecessary to discern a true fighter and from an average guy. Fighters stood tall, spines erect and arms patiently restrained at their sides. Normal guys fidgeted as if pondering ways to compensate for insecurity, anxiousness, or inferiority. Fighters hardly brawled with these normal, unfamiliar faces; it was an unwritten, unspoken but well-accepted rule. Anomalies occurred depending on ego.

“First rule: you do not talk about FIGHT CLUB. Second rule: you DO NOT talk about FIGHT CLUB.” The officiator announced, silencing the clamor. It was a rare incidence the officiator was the same person as from the previous Fight Club. Anyone could officiate because everyone who returned for more knew the rules. “Third rule: if someone says stop or goes limp or taps out, the fight is over. Fourth rule: only two guys to a fight. Fifth rule: one fight at a time. Sixth: no shirts, no shoes. Seventh: fights will go on as long as they have to.”

A wave of understanding and acceptance rippled the salty marina air.

No turning back now.

It was a quarter to midnight and several fights has already occurred. Pools of blood splattered the briny concrete of the marina floor. Eventually the blood would be washed away by incoming waves, erasing all evidence of Fight Club. But the purplish bruises, missing teeth in crooked smiles, and torn skin will not be washed away as casually. There was nothing casual about Fight Club.

Jungkook learned that the first time. His carelessness-induced concussion served as punishment. Seokjin was his hooded savior, offering him another attempt at redemption and purpose. He would not let Coach down. He would not let himself down.

His opponent was another mid-card fighter, clearly trained in something but lacking the necessary discipline to reign victorious. At least, that’s what Seokjin whispered to Jungkook when he was prepping for his fight. Motionless in the middle of the fight pit, Jungkook studied his opponent’s movements with glossy eyes. His opponent was cocky and arrogant; it was apparent he had never tasted defeat. Jungkook had. It burned like acid in his gut and singed a hole in his pride.

A wicked, devious smirk curled upon Jungkook’s lips. Time to play.

Time for redemption.

Jungkook lunged forward, abandoning the cautious disposition fighters normally adopted at the start of a fight. There would be plenty of time to survey his opponent’s movements and identify shortcomings. There would only be one time to strike unbridled. The first rule Jungkook ever learned in training: punch first and punch hard. His balled fist collided with his opponent’s cheekbone, knuckles firm and impact unyielding.

Fuck!

Jungkook huffed and retracted his arm on instinct as his opponent stammered backward. This was the first time he had punched someone point-blank without gloves, without tape, unprotected. It fucking hurt. It ached in his very bones. His knuckles were already bleeding. Shadowy eyes flickered towards a wounded, bleeding opponent. His punch split the delicate skin of his opponent’s eye socket.

White, static noise blared in his ear the moment his gaze met his opponent’s; the thundering noise pierced his concentration and something primal inside of him snapped.

His opponent charged towards him, lifting up a solid forearm to block Jungkook’s jabs. Dodging on instinct, Jungkook pivoted on the balls of his feet, arms lurching out to grapple his opponent to the ground. As if anticipating the attack, his opponent blocked the movement with excellent takedown defense. His concentration locked on target, Jungkook hurled jabs at the other man to survey his reaction; the man retaliated with a flawless roundhouse kick, mostly for show but impressive enough to intimidate Jungkook. The man smirked and Jungkook acknowledged the presentation of skill with a small release of breath. The two stood face-to-face, eyes as wide as the full moon above them, and naked chests billowing.

The fighters exchanged blow after blow, caught between a whirlwind of punches, kicks, and takedowns. Jungkook fought most confidently with quick strikes, bringing to fruition combinations Coach had strategically devised. His reflexes responded to almost every move his opponent attempted; he blocked kicks with hardened shins and counterstruck his opponent when the man’s defense was sloppy.

The sharp, bony tip of his elbow smashed into the delicate vertebrae of his opponent’s neck. This was the first high-impact attack in the loutish brawl, earning Jungkook the upper hand. As his opponent crumbled in pain, Jungkook snapped a quick, powerful kick to his opponent’s vulnerable chest; he plummeted to the bloody ground, skull whipping against asphalt and blurring his vision. Like a fierce predator stalking prey, Jungkook pounced atop his thrashing opponent. Romanced by the thrill and intoxicated by adrenaline, Jungkook pummeled hard, mutilated fists into his opponent’s face. Any efforts exerted by his downed opponent to block the onslaught of punches were thwarted by Jungkook’s tenacity.

Eventually, his opponent fell limp. The fight ended. Jeon Jungkook won.

A forceful arm jerked Jungkook off of his opponent; the movement caused him to stumble back onto the concrete. A blitz of sound ransacked his ears, causing him to reflexively cover them with his palms. He suddenly became very aware of the mass of people around him and his own breath. Breathing felt laborious and terrible. Did he stop breathing throughout the whole fight? Brown eyes frantically scanned the crowd as if it was the first time they had witnessed other human beings. His fingers trembled. Warm liquid dribbled down the bridge of his nose. Something in his peripheral vision shifted and he flinched on impulse.

“Relax, Jungkook. You won, dude! That was a hell of a fight, man!” Jungkook could’ve sworn the voice belonged to Jimin, but the overwhelming pain he was in clouded his judgement. “Come on, man. You gotta get up. Other fighters are waiting.” Two pairs of hands lifted Jungkook up off the salty marina ground, one belonging to Jimin and the other to Seokjin.

“Good job, kid. I’m really proud of you.” Seokjin chimed in and Jungkook could practically feel the glimmer in his voice. Still dazed and definitely in pain, Jungkook simply grinned a bloody grin.

As he was chauffeured out of the pit, his murky vision noticed a fresh face in the sea of familiar faces. It was a rather happy face with a bright smile and wide, dark eyes. Dark hair, maybe black, framed a pale face. Jungkook didn’t understand why the strange face seemed to have a calming effect. Perhaps that was the afterglow of his brutal fight, Jungkook rationalized.

But even when his heavy lids fluttered shut, that charming visage remained.

The notorious Park Jimin was in the second-to-last fight of the night. He had been a diligent friend and teammate to Jungkook, dosing the boy in intervals of bottled water as Coach Seokjin cleaned off dried, caked blood off of him with an antiseptic wipe. Jungkook was standing confidently now, albeit avoiding sudden movement, and Jimin could focus his energy and attention on himself. This was his fifth bout in his Fight Club career. He had ambitions that surpassed those of having a good time. Park Jimin wanted to be the best. But in order to be the best, one must beat the best.

Jimin knew the type of fighter his opponent was. He was a Hapkido practitioner who rapidly climbed the Fight Club rankings with his infamous joint locks. Though Jimin and his opponent were of relative size, his opponent looked positively brutish. His opponent stepped into the pit and snarled at Jimin after crudely spitting on the ground. Unaffected, Jimin bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, swaying the weight distribution on each foot like a pendulum. Electric energy calcified his bones and forced his fingers to reflexively curl. He was ready, so ready, to fight.

Much to Jimin’s chagrin, his opponent struck first with a flurry of misleading jabs and disguised knockout punches. Jimin was quick, experiencing the unpleasant sensation of fist on flesh momentarily before instinctively side-stepping the barrage. Continuing the spinning momentum from the side-stepping motion to his advantage, Jimin extended a leg into a spinning heel kick. The spinning heel kick was a staple in the Taekwondo arsenal and was highly effective if accurately executed. Unfortunately for Jimin, his opponent anticipated the attack and dodged effortlessly.

The split second of vulnerability where Jimin’s back was exposed to his opponent was too long. The other man leaped forward, thrusting a blunt, hard knee directly into Jimin’s spine. Audible popping and crackling of vertebrae accompanied Jimin’s descent to the salty marina ground. Jungkook jolted in distress, wanting nothing more than to rush over to his friend and protect him from any further damage. Seokjin, calm and still, clamped a harsh hand on Jungkook’s bruised shoulder.

It was forbidden to interfere in fights unless they violated the rules of Fight Club. No rule was violated thus far.

“Seventh rule.” Seokjin muttered, eyes glued to the barbarity before him. Seventh rule of Fight Club: fights will go on as long as they have to. Jungkook cringed and heat sweltered under his skin. Witnessing his best friend and teammate being brutalized twisted his heart. How could Coach remain so impervious?

Jimin was no longer defending attacks intelligently, clearly beaten into near narcosis. Coffee-colored eyes were glazed over and bloodshot, cracked lips trembled, and movements were sluggish. The moment before slipping into the oblivion of one’s own subconsciousness was tranquil, Jungkook remembered. It was the brain’s way of taming the utter physical pandemonium the body was experiencing. It was a sort of poetic contrast; irony in light of cruelty.

Jimin’s opponent snatched his weakened arm, attempting to isolate and gain leverage on the elbow joint to secure an arm bar. Jungkook’s eyes swelled in anger. If Jimin’s opponent applied just the slightest force, Jimin’s arm would be broken.

“Are you fucking kidding me?! He’s almost unconscious! This isn’t necessary!” Jungkook shouted, the physical reaction of anger causing his own battered body to tense. “Why isn’t he saying ‘stop,’ huh?!” He wasn’t sure if he was angrier at Jimin’s opponent or Jimin himself. The intensity of the fight pit was thick, suffocating.

Jimin went limp, succumbing to unconsciousness before the arm bar reached full potential. Jimin lost.

Seokjin was the first to rush forward, tearing the opponent away with ungodly strength. He knew the rules. The guy did nothing wrong, he was simply fighting. But this was his fighter and the match had ended, so as far as he was concerned, the other man could go to hell. He lifted Jimin’s head off the ground and tucked him into an embrace. Jungkook’s breathe quickened in panic, the sensation causing a rippling shock of pain down his torso. His own pain meant nothing in the current moment.

His best friend not only lost his fight, but lost his opportunity to be the best. Physical pain healed, emotional pain lingered and triggered resentment and regret.

But moments like this happened at every Fight Club. Fight Club was not glorious.

Fight Club was a dark, dank swell of misfits congregated by a common desire: the desire to live unconfined.

Living unconfined meant living recklessly. Living recklessly meant wholly welcoming hardship.

Hardship was pain. Pain was felt in more than one way.

As Seokjin lifted Jimin’s seemingly lifeless body off the bloody ground, Jungkook finally understood the true meaning of Fight Club. This was rock bottom.

Chapter Text

Two months felt far beyond just eight weeks, sixty days, and one thousand four hundred and sixty hours to Jimin. Two months felt like resisting the urge to scratch scabs off multiple festering wounds. Two months felt like a searing, blinding migraine. Two months felt like an eternal damnation in the fiery, rotten pits of Hell.

In Jimin’s mind, two months of recovery from a moderate concussion and several oozy gashes was abhorrent at best. To worsen the circumstance, he still had two more horrid months to endure before he was medically cleared to fight again.

In the time between gazing shamelessly at Jungkook throwing one, two, three mitt combinations with Coach Seokjin and wishing he could roundhouse kick the satisfied smirk off of his fellow Fight Club trainee’s face, Jimin learned to channel his irritation through deep lyrics and 808 beats.

A new fighter in Seokjin’s gym with feathery, bleach blonde hair and a crusty attitude by the name of Yoongi tossed Jimin a mixed tape one day. It was an orange-tempered disc in a cracked, clear case with '90-'00 scribbled sloppily in bold, black Sharpie across the top. Jimin accepted it lazily, more confused by the gesture of the enigmatic man than by the item itself. Each week, a new disc was tossed.

After pestering Seokjin relentlessly, Jimin eventually gained access to the gym’s music. He became the gym’s glorified disc jockey. He played music from the various tapes Yoongi gave him, carefully selecting songs that provoked emotion or thought or other captivating sensations. He learned about Nas, Method Man from Wu-Tang Clan, Tupac, Biggie Smalls, and other American rappers. Then he learned about Korean rappers influenced by them. The experience pulled Jimin out of his dull, envy-laced recovery period and into the all-encompassing realm of rap music.

One day, the mysterious Yoongi tossed Jimin a new tape and didn’t keep walking. One day, he lingered with a Cheshire grin on his face that promised compelling conversation.

Jimin learned quickly that sitting ringside was gross; perspiration showered off fighters in the ring, effectively dampening the air and making the atmosphere humid. The thin, white fabric of his t-shirt clung to his skin in moist globs. He groaned. Unfortunately, he had to suffer through the stickiness to keep score and a time record for those sparring. Seokjin’s orders. Normally, he sat in a metallic fold-up chair in the coolest, most breathable corner of ringside with the stopwatch in one hand, the green spiral notebook with score records atop his lap, and his MP3 player in his other hand. Lately he had been into San E.

But today, Jungkook was late and he missed first crack at sparring with Coach. So he sat on the smooth concrete floor of the gym wrapping his hands and wrists in clothe-like fighter’s tape as Jimin murmured lyrics to himself, one earbud in and the other draped over his shoulder.

“You know, my life felt really whole. Things were good, as they’ve always been. But I think maybe this… loss… was necessary. I think it needed to happen so I could… feel purposeful, you know? Like, not to take things for granted. I get it now.” Jimin mused, mostly verbalizing his thoughts as if to confirm their rationality.

Jungkook glanced up at Jimin through thick lashes, the action distracting him from wrapping tape around his wrists. How random. “You get what?”

“You, Coach. Both of you. You just seem to have a lot of thoughts or emotions or something in your movements, you know?” Jimin leaned back dramatically in the metal fold-up chair he was sitting on; legs outstretched and arms folding behind his head.

His words were met with silence from Jungkook, who abandoned tape-wrapping to divulge all curiosity.

Jimin’s coffee-brown eyes flickered down towards Jungkook, who was sitting on the concrete gym floor with his legs crossed. “I mean, you seem to fight for more than just victory. There’s something else. Something with purpose.”

Again, Jungkook remained silent, aloof, with large, round eyes and a puzzled expression.

“Makes sense, huh?” Jimin chuckled half-heartedly. “Life isn’t about victories. It’s deeper than that. I was missing that…” He shifted his weight forward, causing the chair to creak.

Jungkook breathed audibly through his nose and averted his direct gaze. His mind was frantically searching for appropriate words to say. He dared not speak rashly, for he was neither articulate nor clever. His best friend who lost the biggest fight of his career and suffered a moderate concussion was confessing two months of inner turmoil and angst. Jungkook owed him an eloquent, or at least coherent, reply. His mouth opened as if to respond, but Jimin sat up in his chair abruptly, his ratty yellow Converse squeaking noisily on the gym floor.

“It’s not about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward… how much you can take and keep moving forward.” Jimin beamed as he tugged on the hem of his shirt to encourage air flow.

Jungkook’s stolen opportunity to respond ended in an appalled huff. “All that and you finish with a Rocky Balboa quote? I thought you were making progress, Park Jimin.” He hurled the small, circular spool of hand tape at Jimin in playfully frustrated defiance before leaving. It was his turn to spar anyway.

“Tell me it’s not relevant, huh?” Jimin rhetorically shouted as he swirled the tape spool around his calloused pointer finger.

Jungkook didn’t really know Yoongi. From the information spewed about him constantly from Jimin, however, Jungkook felt like he could write the man’s biography.

Yoongi stumbled into Seokjin’s quaint gym from snooping through business advertisements in the newspaper. There was a modest advertisement for a promising mixed martial arts gym owned by South Korea’s once upon a time ace boxer Kim Seokjin. Locals rated it five stars. Yoongi, an ever-lusting jack of all trades, tore the advertisement off and crumpled it into his pocket.

Lo and behold, the lithe blonde man commenced training with a heavy focus in weight training and conditioning. Prior to his arrival at the gym, the man never lifted weights on a daily basis. It wasn’t until he attempted to bench press twice his weight that he realized he may have bitten off more than he could chew.

Discontent and jaded, Yoongi contemplated quitting until a cheerful, bandage-clad man with a warm presence offered him words of encouragement. So when that same cheerful man grew bitter and solemn, Yoongi reciprocated the encouragement the best way he knew how to: music.

Music was an ethereal existence powerful enough to permeate deep within one’s soul and shred all essence of negativity. Naturally, music connected people. Music connected Jimin and Yoongi, who were lounging at ringside bobbing their heads to the beat of San E’s Rap Circus blaring from Jimin’s overused earbuds.

Only a faint, melodic buzzing survived the distance from ringside to the heart of the boxing ring Jungkook and Seokjin were currently sparring in. Jungkook bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes intent on studying Coach’s every move like a hawk. When Seokjin sparred, the most miniscule distraction marked the end; a mere millisecond focused elsewhere meant a mouthful of fists.

“I don’t hit that hard, Jeon. I’m just sparring.” Coach explained through a sinister grin. His taped fists were balled up by his nose and chin in defensive position. Each strike Jungkook attempted faltered in precision due to Seokjin’s seamless dodging.

“Yo Jungkook! This was the song that played when-” WHACK!

Jungkook tumbled onto the coarse, white canvas and the waxy ring ropes wiggled frantically at the sudden action. “What the fuck, Jimin?!” The words reeked of venom underneath jagged breaths. He grimaced in agony as he clutched his heaving, now-tender chest. He could’ve sworn his sternum popped.

“Oh shit, my bad. You good, bro?” Jimin’s empathy came off a bit impersonal, and it made Yoongi erupt into a fit of laughter. Consequentially, Jimin also burst into laughter.

Seokjin offered a helpful hand to Jungkook, who was still attempting to filter precious air into his lungs on the mat. “They don’t offer this type of compassion in Fight Club, you know. How’re you gonna beat V if some punk like Park can break your focus?”

Jungkook hunched forward once he was plucked from the canvas, breathing labored as he spoke, “I-ah, I’m sorry. All this training is just blending together and I’m not absorbing any of it. I-”

“Aye, I think you need a break, Jungkook.” A surprisingly deep, guttural voice escaped usually-quiet, still lips. “I’ve been tellin’ Jimin about this place I go to a lot. It’s a rap joint. Underground, stuff you know about. Local rappers get together and freestyle. Has good vibes.” Seokjin and Jungkook stared at Yoongi, astonished the man had strung so many words together and voiced them.

Yoongi had a reputation around the gym for being quieter than Jungkook.

“Yoongi raps too!” Jimin chimed, nudging his elbow into Yoongi’s ribs, “We should go, you know, to support a fellow teammate!”

“I liked you better when you were sulking over your concussion.” Jungkook, still sour from Seokjin’s sternum punch, quipped.

“That’s probably a good idea. I’ve been training you too hard since…” Seokjin’s tone faded to a hush as his dark eyes shifted to Jimin, “Go. Take a break from training for a few days. Come back prepared, though, because training is only gonna get tougher.”

Jungkook understood the sincerity in Coach’s words and took them to heart. Seokjin noticed something in Jungkook from the very beginning. He took him in, invested valuable fight knowledge and skill, and most importantly, relied on Jungkook. In turn, Jungkook spent days, weeks, months hitting and being hit; he spent blood, sweat, tears, causing pain and absorbing pain. Jungkook never grasped the concept of why he received all this devotion, but he knew he wanted to make Coach proud.

Maybe that was the purposefulness Jimin was referring to.

“Hah, Coach’s orders?” Jungkook challenged. Yoongi quirked an inquisitive brow at Jimin. Jimin shook his head in response, as if to nullify the depth of Jungkook’s question.

Seokjin threw a dismissive hand up as he hopped off the ring apron and onto the concrete. “Yeah. Coach’s orders.”

Jungkook smiled.

Chapter Text

“This is it. Gorgeous, huh?” Yoongi beamed, arms held wide in an inviting and uncharacteristically jolly gesture. He stood in front of a sleazy, hole-in-the-wall type venue with a barely-flickering, sapphire blue neon sign that read ‘Phobia.’

Jungkook scowled and peered at Jimin with judgmental eyes.

“I know, pretty five-star compared to what we’re used to, huh?” Jimin mused before walking towards Yoongi with a flurry of satisfied claps. With a smirk, Yoongi slung an arm over Jimin’s shoulder and guided him into the venue.

Much like Seokjin’s gym, the exterior of the venue was misleading; it was tiny, shabby, and clad in cracks and fissures. The building was composed of red bricks that were tarnished by rust from the outdated tin roof above. Gum and broken glass littered the surrounding sidewalk, amplifying the danger levels already presented by the crumbling pavement itself. Noise seeped out of the venue and permeated the night’s air. People loitered around the building in gobs, majority of them chain-smoking, slurping down booze, or groping inappropriately in public.

This was the underground rap scene of Ilsan.

Jungkook was captivated by the ambiance. It was loud and obvious. Nothing about the scene was inconspicuous. Then again, nothing about it was taboo.

Not all underground scenes were equal in the eyes of the law.

A trail of dense smoke fluttered in front of Jungkook, causing him to grimace. “Aye man, you got a light?” A tall, lanky man in a Tupac Shakur shirt drawled. The cigarette wedged between his lips wobbled as he spoke. Jungkook shook his head reflexively and the man left with an aggravated sigh.

Jungkook, suddenly very aware his friends had already entered the venue, made a beeline to the entrance. Upon entry, he froze, completely overtaken by the atmosphere, curious eyes wide like saucers and shy hands tucked away in the deep pockets of his faded red hoodie. The interior of the venue was vivacious and colorful, boisterous and torrid. Posters advertising local talent cluttered the walls. There were rappers on stage, but he was too far to decipher lyrics over the resounding beats. He had never seen so many people jammed so tightly into such a tiny space.

Jungkook weaved through the huddled masses and stopped at an opening near the stage. The stage was meager at best, only wide enough to withstand four or five people. The music dissolved into random chatter, making Jungkook suddenly feel self-conscious under the lack of distraction. Where were Jimin and Yoongi? Dark eyes explored the expanse of the venue in search of bleach blonde hair, but instead settled on a mysteriously familiar face. It was bright, lively, and radiating positivity. Where had he seen that before?

His attention was snatched by a loud microphone squeal. Amazingly, seven rappers managed to fit on the makeshift stage. An eerie beat bellowed from the large, rectangular speakers perched on either side of the stage. The crowd exploded in excitement. One rapper stepped out as he performed his verse, working the audience with impeccable stage presence and musicality. His flow was sharp but fluid. Jungkook stood in the heart of the surging crowd with his mouth agape, utterly mesmerized the completely new experience.

An opened 7brau beer bottle was shoved into Jungkook’s sternum unexpectedly. He instinctually grasped the offending object and his posture grew rigid. His peripheral vision caught a glimpse of platinum blonde locks and his tension eased. Jimin, mimicking the action Yoongi had done to him earlier, draped an arm over Jungkook’s shoulder and clanked his own beer bottle against the one in Jungkook’s hand.

“Song is called Prometheus. It’s a collab the top local boys do together.” Yoongi stated flatly before sipping casually from his libation. He pointed the tip of his bottle towards one of the rappers. “That guy there? His name is Kim Namjoon. Local guy from here in Ilsan. He’s a friend of mine, got me into rapping actually. We write lyrics and produce beats together a lot, so we collab pretty often. He’s a good guy. Actually, he’s the current rap battle champion.” Yoongi’s constant head bobs the beat contradicted the overall lack of inflection in his voice.

Jungkook nodded in understanding but did not verbalize a response. He was too enamored by the rappers, the music, the crowd, the venue, everything. Jimin sipped his beer merrily. He was on his second bottle and the music had become very enjoyable. The two gawked at each rapper’s solo verse within the collaboration, impressed by the talent and swooned by their stage presence. Yoongi spat countless facts and trivia about each rapper, the lyrics, and the beats. There was so much talent in South Korea’s underground music scene.

A handful of acts performed over the duration of two hours, effectively rendering the trio intoxicated beyond hope and entertained beyond comprehension. Sixteen contestants ready to challenge Namjoon for his undefeated rap battle championship fought passionately, dwindling the competition to the current four assembled on stage.

Namjoon stood the tallest and was most easily identifiable. Jungkook’s hazy gaze deleted the two rappers standing in between Namjoon and the familiar face that had been haunting his mind all night. Apparently the familiar person was a rapper, and a damn talented one at that.

Every time the man rapped, Jungkook’s mouth ran dry. There was something so enthralling, so genuine, so mysterious about the man.

Yoongi and Jimin were rooting for Namjoon. Jungkook silently hoped otherwise.

Yoongi blinked excessively as he attempted to soothe the blurred edges in his vision to no avail. He was outside the venue after the show with Jimin, leaning against the red brick wall of the venue with a half-full bottle of 7brau in his hand. The matted, bleached locks on the back of head mushed against the rough surface of the wall behind him. Frustrated, he dug the heel of his palm into his eye socket in an aggressive effort to speed up any potential remedy to his eye issue.

“Pabo, you’re drunk. There’s nothing in your eye.” Jimin explained through inconsistent, chirpy giggles.

Yoongi squinted an eye, causing the pale skin of his forehead to crinkle. “You’re drunk too, you little shit.”

He accusingly pointed the neck of his beer bottle at Jimin with unnecessary fervor. Eyes condensed to mere gleeful slits, Jimin’s entirety was plagued with laughter. Through one eye, Yoongi focused on the man in front of him; his chapped lips abandoned their natural pout to form a sweet smile.

Jimin’s laugh was intoxicating, Yoongi concluded. The laughter itself was sweet as it cascaded out of decadent lips, but it was the way his spirit tangoed with pure vigor that was so enthralling to Yoongi. He could gaze at the boy for hours, silently observing every fine detail in bemused merriment; he could listen to that laugh on repeat, conjuring up ways to include it in his latest song.

A lapse of conversation wedged itself between the two. Yoongi swigged the last of his beer before nonchalantly tossing it into the over-stuffed trash can near the curb.

Jimin, seized in amazement, gaped at an idle Yoongi. “You threw that bottle over your shoulder and totally made it into that trash can, like, without even looking or, like, even trying…?”

“I play basketball. So, why do you and Jungkook train… differently from everyone else at the gym?” Tone flat, curiosity leeched out of Yoongi’s words like a drying sponge.

Jimin erected his posture and his features hardened to stone; tension and distress clawed into his brain and left him drone-like. “What do you mean?”

“You do different drills, your conditioning is different…” Yoongi listed the reasons as if they’d been occupying his head since the day he sat down to converse with Jimin. His tired, drunk eyes drank in the still-lingering scars on Jimin’s porcelain skin. “You get severe injuries.”

“Uh…” First rule of Fight Club: do NOT talk about Fight Club. Second rule of Fight Club: do NOT talk about Fight Club. Jimin’s defense system faltered under Yoongi’s concerned gaze, “I’m not supposed to talk about it.” He shifted his feet awkwardly.

Hurt, Yoongi muttered, “Oh.”

Jimin worried at his lower lip. “It’s against the rules.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows furrowed as a gush of melancholy flooded his body. Jimin could feel the other man’s aura deflate, and it provoked a wave of heartache to imprison him. Not five minutes ago, the duo was struggling for air to rush back into their lungs because they were laughing too hard. Now, there was an awkward sadness.

Compelled solely by a moment’s inspiration, Jimin brushed a soft caress down Yoongi’s cheek; the other boy glanced up as if by reflex, heavy eyes shining pleasantly, hopefully, beautifully. Yoongi parted his lips to speak in protest, but Jimin hooked a finger under Yoongi’s chin and pulled him forward for a kiss. Plush lips met chapped lips in something definitely chaste but unmistakably perfect. Jimin couldn’t resist the groan that escaped his lips as Yoongi pulled away.

“Shit, what are you-” Yoongi rasped, but cut his own words off by pressing his lips to Jimin’s once more in earnest. His coarse, lithe hands cupped Jimin’s muscular shoulders to force him impossibly closer. In turn, Jimin cupped Yoongi’s face to deepen the kiss, mind utterly melting under the red hot desire.

Yoongi always daydreamt about the taste of Jimin’s lips, but he never imagined they’d taste like 7brau.

Then again, he never imagined he would have the opportunity to taste Jimin.

“Yo, what the fuck?! Yo, y’all see this faggot shit? That’s fuckin’ sick, man.” A husky man with a dark, booming voice shouted from the front passenger seat of the matte black Escalade driving by. An eruption of cackles accompanied the derogatory remark, followed by several glass beer bottles soaring through the crisp night air.

Jimin tore his lips away from Yoongi’s, stepping in front of the man to protect him from the hail of glass bottles. Four bottles shattered with chime-like chaos on the gum-littered concrete, shards rippling like water droplets from impact. The Escalade skidded off into the night, leaving the smell of burning rubber in its wake.

“Hey!” Jungkook hollered through beer-induced hiccups. He had wandered out of the venue looking for Jimin and Yoongi, but ended up wandering around the sidewalk enjoying the night. The air was cool and breezy and it felt refreshing on his skin after being cooped up in a crowded, sweaty venue. Moments like this were what Jungkook yearned for; they were reminders of life’s little pleasantries. They were a reminder to pause and soak in quietness, stillness, and natural tranquility.

All of which his current profession contradicted.

He turned a corner and his dark eyes widened. Much to his amazement, the mysterious dark-haired rapper from before stood a small distance away from him. An excited grin burst across his face and his heart fluttered. His thick-soled Doc Martens thudded against the ground as he stumbled to regain balance after swaying sporadically as he walked.

“Hey!” Jungkook dumbly repeated.

“Hi…” Curt words were spoken in a strikingly warm tone.

“You’re… I like your rapping.” Jungkook’s attempt at a compliment was overshadowed by his unwitty verbiage. “I mean, you rap well. You’re a good rapper. Sorry you didn’t win the battle.” He felt betrayed by his own brain and frowned as a result. Jungkook sighed, defeated by his own stupidity, and switched the subject. “I’m Jungkook. I feel like I’ve seen you before. What’s your name?”

The other man flashed a pearly grin, his eyes taking on endearing half-moon crinkles. His voice was honey-like as he said, “Thank you, I really appreciate that. I’ll win next time.” Jungkook reciprocated the smile, instantly comforted by the other man’s genuine sincerity.

“I’m Hoseok.” He greeted, and Jungkook’s eyes positively gleamed upon finally knowing the man’s – rather, Hoseok’s – name. “You probably have seen me before… I like fighting. Just a spectator, though.”

Jungkook could feel his blood pulsate in his arteries and his pale skin flush crimson. Suddenly the night felt sweltering, suffocating. He cleared the giant lump in his throat. Everything, all the fuzzy details and curiosity, crashed into him like a freight train. No wonder Hoseok seemed so familiar. He was the man Jungkook stared at as he succumbed to unconsciousness after his redemption fight. At Fight Club. His face was the face of serenity and of calmness that eased the edge off Jungkook’s bloody, battered post-fight body.

“Oh.” Jungkook mustered.

“I’m not talkin’ about it if you’re not talkin’ about it.” Hoseok reassured, sensing an energy shift in Jungkook. “You’re good, though. I like watching your fights.” He figured a compliment may lift the other man’s spirits.

Jungkook chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous habit. “Thanks. I used to suck.”

“Ah, I doubt that.” Hoseok’s voice dripped like honey once more and it made Jungkook flush pink. “You’re a natural.” He cooed in what Jungkook swore was a flirtatious tone. Hoseok smiled as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the grimy brick wall of the venue.

An hour passed and Jungkook could’ve listened to Hoseok talk for a thousand more. Perhaps his drunken stupor quelled his overactive attention span, or perhaps Hoseok was actually as captivating as Jungkook thought. Nevertheless, Jungkook found himself inching closer and closer towards Hoseok.

Jungkook was a spontaneous creature with poor impulse control. Impulsive behavior landed him in the hospital with a concussion, impulsive behavior lead him to Seokjin’s gym, and impulsive behavior compelled him to kiss the gorgeous man in front of him.

A rough hand with purple-bruised knuckles planted itself to the expanse of brick next to Hoseok. Jungkook leaned in, quickly minimizing the distance between Hoseok and himself. The rapper’s words faded to silence and his gaze studied the other intently. Jungkook’s dark, glossy gaze drank in the delicious features of Hoseok’s face before fixating on his plump lips; his own lips parted instinctually, craving and yearning to kiss the other pair. Jungkook’s other hand snaked across Hoseok’s hip, remaining modest over the cotton fabric shirt.

Jungkook’s lips were met with a sharp intake of breath from Hoseok. Jungkook groaned back, sending thrums of vibration down the rapper’s spine. His grasp on Hoseok’s hip tightens as blunt fingernails dig into the cloth barrier. Hunger and greed ransack his every limb and set his nerves ablaze; he never got a rush like this from Fight Club. He hadn’t felt a rush like this in months.

Jungkook tilted his chin to deepen the kiss, but his action was fruitless. Hoseok pressed a large palm directly into the center of Jungkook’s broad chest and pushed him away dramatically. Their lips separated with a wet pop.

“I don’t think-” Hoseok began an explanation for his motives but was interrupted by Jungkook’s lips against his own once more. Hoseok grunted, shoving the other man off with two stern hands and saying, “Get off me, Jungkook.”

Jungkook stumbled back, nearly falling backward from the unexpected momentum. A hurt frown etched across his face.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you like this.” Hoseok asserted through thick huffs of air. He seemed unsure of his own rejection of Jungkook’s advances.

Jungkook sneered, “You’re not taking advantage of me. I kissed you-”

“You’re drunk and you’re infatuated with a stranger.”

“I’m-you’re not a stranger, I’ve-” Jungkook struggled to find a deeper association with Hoseok other than that of a stranger. He had seen this man before. In his mind, Hoseok manifested as something significant, something meaningful. His face was imprinted on Jungkook’s brain, stained in his subconscious.

But in actuality, Hoseok was indeed a stranger. Nothing more, nothing less.

And Jungkook was drunk and impulsive.

“Hey, is there a problem here?” The distinct sound of Jimin’s voice punctured the tension between Jungkook and Hoseok like a needle to a balloon. Hoseok’s dark eyes shifted towards the sound only to see two men, Yoongi and Jimin, rapidly approach him and Jungkook. An expression of concern masked both of their faces, leading Hoseok to believe they knew Jungkook.

“No, no problem here.” Hoseok raised an open-faced hand, eager to convey his innocence in the situation. He didn’t want trouble. “You’re friends of his, right? I think you should take him home…”

Yoongi surveyed the situation with an intense gaze. Hoseok shuffled his feet against the concrete and rested his wrist over the front of his pants; he attempted to conceal the sizeable bulge under his dark denim jeans as inconspicuously as possible. Realization dawned upon Yoongi.

“Y-yeah, let’s get you home Jungkook.” He acceded, grasping the thick, red fabric of Jungkook’s hoodie sleeve and roughly tugging him away.

Jimin lingered in front of Hoseok as Yoongi escorted Jungkook down the other leg of the grungy sidewalk. His drunken, droopy eyes squinted at Hoseok, who remained motionless and mute.

He could’ve sworn he had seen him before.

Chapter Text

Beer hangovers were the worst. Bloated abdomens and throbbing temples made the simple act of breathing daunting, painful. Caring for a hangover was similar to post-Fight Club recovery, and it had become fairly routine for Jungkook: multiple cups of water, ibuprofen, lack of excessive movement, rest. He considered himself to be resilient and responsible with his body. Except a hangover was a resiliency not yet acquired; a hangover was an internal demon gnawing at body parts he couldn’t just throw an ice pack on.

Nasty, fermentation-laden burps gurgled up his esophagus as he slumped forward in his chair, forehead pressed into the wooden surface of his kitchen table and arms encasing his head to mute the neighbor’s dog’s incessant barking. Jungkook groaned dramatically as if to verbalize the exact level of discomfort the constant churning inside his stomach was causing him. He couldn’t remember if he’d puked when he woke up, but he felt sensitive, slightly woozy, and definitely irritable. The silence in his kitchen settled over him like static fog.

A lingering ache nestled above the bridge of his nose forced him to ease the tension off his furrowed eyebrows; he hadn’t realized his eyes were squeezed shut so tightly that the muscles there were fatiguing. Jungkook blinked rapidly, eyes straining to adjust to the thin slivers of florescent light slipping through the cracks of his folded arms. His groan of protest mutated into a disgruntled, shaky exhale.

Suddenly, the loud, electronic beats of G-Dragon’s Crooked permeated the atmosphere. His eyes snapped open as he jolted. His cellphone was ringing from across the room. A harsh scowl wrinkled his face, and he haphazardly peeled himself off the wooden table and out of his chair to silence his phone across the kitchen. His thumb hastily mashed the mute button before his eyes could read the Caller ID, but his shoulders sagged when it read Jimin in bold letters. He had to answer it.

“Yeah?” Jungkook deadpanned.

“You’re such a ray of sunshine early in the morning. I love that about you.” Jimin retaliated coolly, evoking a sneer from Jungkook through the phone. “Dude, it’s almost 10. Where are you? Coach is getting mad.”

“I have a headache.”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “I’m recovering from a concussion. Do you have a better excuse? ‘Cause Coach ain’t buying that one.” He affirmed, his rising indignation evident by the twinge in his tone.

“I’ll go tomorrow. I’m-”

“The hell you will! You’ve got drills today! And I’m cleared to spar today.” Full-blown frustration coated each word, adding a heaviness to each syllable typically non-existent in his usual lilt. “Does this have something to do with that rapper from the venue last night?”

Jungkook would’ve dropped the phone if it wasn’t wedged between his shoulder and his ear, because his fingers were trembling like he’d seen a ghost. His stomach flipped once, twice, thrice and he could feel bile boil up from the beer-stained pit of his gut. The rapper. Hoseok. The mysterious face from Fight Club. Hoseok. The man he kissed last night in his drunken stupor. Hoseok. His face burned, flushed crimson, and thick beads of sweat leaked into one another along the disheveled rim of his hairline.

“Jungkook? Dude, you okay?” Jungkook didn’t hear Jimin’s concerned voice because he had dropped the phone upon realizing he kissed another man. He groped another man. His head spun; the room spun.

Bile stung as it bubbled up, slow and thick like a witch’s brew, before completely catching Jungkook off guard; he heaved powerfully and uncontrollably as acidic liquid splattered all over the tiled floor.

Coach must’ve had an influx of people interested in training as of late, because the gym was teeming with aspiring fighters. Some of the veteran fighters were helping the rookies with their form, others lecturing about proper weight training etiquette. Jungkook paid them no mind as he weaved through the sweaty bodies to reach the back of the gym where the boxing ring was. Normally, he waved or shyly smiled at the other trainees, making a conscience effort to be cordial to his teammates amidst all the punches, kicks, and takedowns. But his brain still throbbed within his skull, eyes still sensitive to bright lighting, and his stomach still weak from nonstop vomiting, so civility was placed on stand-by.

At least, Jungkook rationalized his standoffishness in that way. The way he mushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth to prevent himself from scowling challenged his rationality. He couldn’t stop thinking about last night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Hoseok. How intoxicated was he that he kissed a stranger – no, he kissed a man? How could he let his guard down like that? Jungkook prided himself on his self-control, responsibility, and honor. He went through life quietly, respectfully, and nobly; he restricted his oddities to the confines of his own mind, and only let his demons out to play at Fight Club.

Last night, however, his demons came out to play through the application of those eyes, those lips.

He hated Hoseok. He hated himself. He wasn’t fucking gay.

Guilty by Dynamic Duo blared through the sound system, he noted. It must’ve been something Yoongi recommended. For some reason, that annoyed him. Jungkook briefly made eye contact with Coach Seokjin, who was glaring at him through thick-rimmed, circular glasses behind a clipboard near his office desk; Seokjin aggressively tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the edge of the clipboard to annunciate his irritation with Jungkook’s tardiness. Jungkook averted his gaze promptly, choosing to cast his dismay to a different victim: Jimin.

“Hey look, you finally made it!” Jimin chirped and clapped a large hand on Jungkook’s hoodie-clad shoulder.

Jungkook flinched away from the other’s friendly gesture, “Yep.” He curled his fingers under the hem of his hoodie and pulled the clothing up and over his head. He wore a basic, white tank top and black, mesh basketball shorts. “So, are we sparring or what?”

“Coach wants us to throw mitts until he’s free to watch us spar.” Jimin states carefully, cautious over Jungkook’s unsteady aura. Jungkook nods in silence and hoists himself up into the ring; Jimin grabs the faded black set of Everlast mitts, fastening the Velcro wristband around his wrists and rolling into the ring under the red, waxy bottom ropes.

The duo went through three exhausting rounds of mitt work. Jimin held mitts for Jungkook the first round, manipulating various combinations of the one, two, three commands. With each passing round, weakness was spotted in Jungkook’s form. Jimin noted the lethargy in Jungkook’s jabs, speed sacrificed in the interest of just hitting the target; Jungkook was notorious around the gym for his speed, capitalizing on his reach advantage with quick strikes that made impact before the opponent could reflexively block. A peculiar apathy dulled the overall sharpness of his combinations, and Jimin could easily predict Jungkook’s failed precision the moment he called a command.

“Dude, what’s up? Are you okay?” Jimin asked out of genuine concern for his friend before starting the fourth round.

Jungkook huffed in small bursts, “Yeah, just hold the mitts right.” He held clenched fists up in defensive position, eyes locked to the Everlast logo on Jimin’s mitts as he impatiently awaited the next cue.

Jimin squinted. There was nothing wrong with how he held the mitts; Jungkook’s accuracy was off. He opted to avoid provocation, so he sidestepped Jungkook’s words and continued his commands, “One. One. Two. One-two. One, two, three.”

Jungkook’s intensity increased with each command. A sore lump swelled on Jimin’s palm through the tough, thick pad of the mitt. It was commonplace to have sore or even bruised hands after holding mitts for someone for extended periods of time, but this level of pain was atypical. Jungkook was punching with his full power, unbridled, violating proper sparring etiquette. Jimin yanked a mitt back out of striking radius, causing Jungkook to snap out of his brutish haze.

“Yo, what the fuck? Calm down.” Jimin griped.

“Do your job right. Hold the mitts up.” Jungkook quipped, tossing his fists up to animate his dissent.

Jimin shook his head, feeling disrespected. “Nah, I’m not doing shit until you tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been aggressive since this morning.”

“I’m fine, hold the mitts up.” Jungkook repeated, a brazen attitude accompanying his words. He pumped his fists and shadowboxed around Jimin’s head, emphasizing the desire to continue mitt training.

Jimin slapped Jungkook’s left fist away with a mitt. His patience with Jungkook was thinning. “Does this have something to do with that rapper?” When he had asked that question earlier in the morning, he was greeted with silence. Now, watching with quirked eyebrows, he received his answer; Jungkook fidgeted, a veil of bitterness so flagrant around him it left a sour taste in Jimin’s mouth.

“What the hell happened between you two?” Jimin daringly inquired.

“Nothing fucking happened!” Jungkook shouted so quickly his voice strained. There was pain disguised in those defensive words.

“Why are you so uptight?” It was a rhetorical question with an instinctual answer. “Did something happen? Did you guys fight?” Jimin’s instincts were rooted in fighting, in violence, and he knew Jungkook was of the same ilk. Fighting was second nature; fighting was instinctual. “Is he some punk from Fight Club? I knew he looked familiar…” He clapped his mitts together, earning a fabric-muffled noise, before pointing the rounded tip of his right mitt at Jungkook as if he discovered the answer to the riddle.

“No, we didn’t fight.” Jungkook stated flatly as he rolled his eyes. His fingers curled and uncurled into his palms to soothe the immense tension building up in his finger joints.

Realization dawned upon Jimin. On the car ride back to Yoongi’s apartment, after they had dropped Jungkook off, Yoongi said he thought Hoseok had a hard-on. Jimin burst into laughter at the time, but maybe there was truth to that allegation. “Did you guys… kiss… or hookup?”

“I’m not fucking gay, Jimin. ” Though Jungkook spat those words like over-chewed gum, they lacked the hostility the words implied.

Jimin’s eyes widened before scrunching up, reacting in real-time to Jungkook’s nasty words. “You did, didn’t you?” Jimin accused, astonished. Jungkook sneered. “Holy shit, you fucking did.”

“I told you, I’m not fucking gay!”

Jimin couldn’t fathom why Jungkook was so worked up over such a trivial thing. “Dude, what’s it matter? You hooked up with a guy, whatever.” He stated nonchalantly.

“I’m not a faggot, Jimin.”

The word was trigger for Jimin. It took him back to glass hail shattering into thin, painful shards. It took him back to matte black Escalades. For the first time in their argument, Jimin felt as hot and fuming as Jungkook looked. His chocolate brown eyes turned amber.

“Why do you have to say shit like that? What the fuck’s wrong with being gay?” Jimin yelled, drawing in the unwanted attention of other fighters training at the gym. Only the crisp buzz of Velcro filled the gym as he removed the mitts.

Jungkook glared at the other with sinister eyes, cursing him for calling attention upon them. His chest heaved noticeably underneath his sweat-soaked tank top; a sort of melodramatic panic overwhelmed him. He felt like he was drowning in his own emotions, Jimin’s anger a crushing anchor pinning him down.

Preoccupied with his own vexation, Jimin continued his diatribe, “I’m comfortable enough with my masculinity to not deny my attraction to men. I’m not ashamed of that. But that doesn’t make me a faggot.” Enough people blindly judged the lifestyles of others. Jimin definitely didn’t think his best friend would judge alternative lifestyles, especially given his penchant for illegal underground fighting.

Jimin bored bullet holes into a distressed Jungkook; he could other’s judgement roll of him in flagrant waves, regardless of whatever dismay be experiencing.

“Fuck you. Where do you get off judging me, you bastard?” Jimin screamed. Perhaps it was more than just Jungkook’s homophobia that Jimin was internally battling with. Maybe he was venting the anguish he felt in the moment his lips tore away from Yoongi’s last night. “I don’t need shit from you too. You’re my teammate. You’re my best fucking friend.”

Jungkook was combating his own anguish, so he met Jimin’s watery gaze with vile. “Teammate? You already lost. You’re not helping any team, you’re not helping Coach, and you’re certainly not helping me.”

“Fuck you! Do you hear your words?” Jimin took a defiant step towards Jungkook, falling victim to his emotions. “I’ve spent months teaching you kicks because Coach wouldn’t train you as anything other than a fucking boxer, and you fucking say that?” Jungkook gulped through gritted teeth, but Jimin continued, “I guess it’s easy for you to say… You’re coach’s little prize fighter.”

Jungkook aggressively shoved the heel of his palm into the dip of Jimin’s shoulder, forcing the other to roughly stumble backwards. “Are you jealous of me? I didn’t choose to be his favorite fighter, Jimin.”

This time, Jungkook’s words truly possessed the hostility the words implied, “Maybe it’s because I win my fights-”

WHACK!

Jimin’s bare-knuckled fist collided unexpectedly into the soft corner of Jungkook’s mouth. Jimin inhaled sharply, immediately cradling his hand into his chest. Jungkook collapsed flat on his back to the canvas of the ring. Ouch. Was that what resentment felt like? A sucker-punch to the mouth? He coughed despite himself, more so as a consequence of colliding with the mat than from Jimin’s punch. A warm, crimson liquid trickled off his lips to the pristine, white mat below. His blood would definitely stain the canvas, serving as a perpetual reminder of his insensitivity and abrasiveness. Through thick lashes, Jungkook peered up at Jimin.

The whole scene was very reminiscent of his first night of training in Seokjin’s gym. Jimin punched Jungkook, and Jungkook fell unwittingly onto the mat, sustaining reasonable damage.

Then, it was all in good fun. Now, it was fueled by resentment.

Yoongi, who had come to break up the heated arguement but entered the ring a hair too late, pulled Jimin away from Jungkook. Jungkook took the opportunity to roll out of the ring.

Furious, Jungkook slipped into his hoodie discarded at ringside and tossed the hood over his head, effectively masking his storming eyes from the outside world. His head drooped low between his tense shoulders and there was a heavy, agitated sway to his walk. He could feel the judgmental gaze of his fellow fighters pierce him like the bullets of a firing squad as he approached the exit. Trembling, marred hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets and lower lip bloody and quivering, Jungkook withdrew into himself to suppress his pain; to conceal the damage dealt to him at the hands of his best friend.

“Stop! There’s decorum in this gym.” Coach Seokjin demanded in a deep timbre growl. Jungkook froze, Coach’s words like a glacial icicle stabbing into his heart, freezing the blood in his veins. He could handle Jimin and Yoongi, but something kindred inside him ached when Coach confronted him. He must’ve witnessed the fight.

Misery certainly loved company, but Coach didn’t deserve misery. If Jungkook were a levelheaded man, such compassion and insight could’ve mended the conflict and subdued his strife. But Jungkook was bitter, hurt, and embodied by unjustified resentment, so he spun on his heel to face his coach ready to spit fire.

“Decorum? You know what you train us for! How is there any decorum in that?” Jungkook hissed through gritted teeth and swollen, bloodstained lips. A fighter abruptly halted his weight training to focus his attention on the scene before him, his massive kettlebell tumbling to the mat. The loud thump mimicked the rampant heartbeat rattling Jungkook’s ribcage and his emotions intensified.

Seokjin grew rigid, fists clenching so tightly the skin of his knuckles paled white, eyes strained and nearly bloodshot; a once composed, placid man now unraveled. “You came here. You came to me seeking that type of training, and I have given you that.” He snarled through gnashed teeth, “And there’s a time and place for that… But if you come in here with anything other than civility and respect for my gym and my fighters, then you have misunderstood the most important aspect of training.”

Seokjin scanned the battered mess before him, swelling eyes punctuating his words as he lectured, “A man fights the battle; a man does not lose himself to the battle.”

Jungkook scoffed, snapping his head back in an obnoxious gesture of mockery. “Don’t be hypocritical. You lost yourself years ago. Isn’t that why I’m here? Isn’t that why you lead me here?”

Seokjin stiffened, twitching muscles solidifying to stone, and all color vanished from his skin. There was a prickling numbness that crawled up the ridge of his spine, across his shoulder blades, and down his arms before pooling into a collective tingle at his fingertips. Anger was red hot, fiery, an explosion of rage, and violent when prolonged. This, however, was something far more nuclear.

This was the manifestation of betrayal.

Betrayal was whiteness, a bleached and sterile phenomena stripped of colorful memories and sincere gratitude. It snipped heart strings and demolished hope, trust, and purpose. It scraped at wounds Seokjin long since healed.

When he discovered Jungkook’s unconscious body that faithful night, Seokjin’s only intention was to help the poor boy. What sort of soulless creature would he be if he abandoned a clearly concussed human being laying limp on the cold, dirty streets of Seoul? As he sat uncomfortably in the guest waiting room of the hospital, eyes fidgeting around various points of interest in the room to avoid unnecessary eye contact with judgmental elderly folk, Seokjin realized the depth of the situation he involved himself in. He was now responsible for the boy. Hospital personnel bombarded him with personal questions about the boy, to which he had no answers, but he felt obligated to the boy nonetheless. And when the petite, auburn-haired nurse invited him into Jungkook’s hospital suite, he stared absently at him.

If the boy was reckless enough to fight at Fight Club untrained once, he would do it again. A true fighter never stops fighting no matter the risks, so Seokjin decided to equip the fighter.

That way Jungkook could fight, and Seokjin could be the essence that compelled the fighter. The wheel could keep spinning, and Seokjin’s legacy could survive vicariously through Jungkook.

And that was how Jungkook was obligated to Seokjin.

But now, the wheel stopped. The spokes were crushed, splintered into a million pieces. There was no movement, only stagnation.

Seokjin gritted his teeth, the betrayal proving difficult to swallow. He peered at an uneasy Jungkook. “Get the fuck out of my gym.” He bellowed in a lethal, carnal outburst of emotion, finger pointing unmistakably to the exit.

Jungkook couldn’t bring himself to match Coach’s gaze, so he dipped his head low and left.

The knuckle of Jimin’s middle finger protruded questionably from his tender hand and he rubbed small circles into the base of it; he winced at the pressure applied, but knew that was the best solution to alleviate the increasing inflammation. Slight green and yellow bruising tarnished the rough skin there, leading Jimin to believe he may have truly broken the knuckle.

“Stop touching it. Here, I got you some ice.” Yoongi cooed, kneeling down on one knee next to Jimin, who was sitting on the canvas of the boxing ring. He blotted the ice pack along the bony ridge of Jimin’s injured hand in an attempt to find the most sensitive part. Chocolate brown eyes studied Jimin carefully, noticing how the other was breathing in heavy drawls and how his usually alabaster skin was saturated pink. “I’m, uh, I’m not really the best with this stuff.” His voice sounded guilty, almost sorry.

Jimin glanced up, a half-hearted smile forming on his lips. “Thanks for being there. Thanks for… breaking it up. I didn’t…” A small chuckle escaped his throat as if to mock him for being so emotionally shook up, “I didn’t know he was that angry. I didn’t know I was that angry.”

“Yeah, emotions are-”

“I meant what I said, Yoongi. I’m not ashamed of...” The initial confidence in his words faltered under Yoongi’s attention, so he stopped before he could fumble over his words. He recalled the previous night, kissing Yoongi, and those thugs hurling glass bottles and homophobic slurs. Jimin shifted the ice pack, causing a brisk drip of melted ice to roll off his hand. He watched the liquid seep into the pores of the ring canvas. With a sharp intake of breath, Jimin continued, “What I’m saying is, I’m ashamed I’m not Coach’s favorite. But I’m not ashamed of you.” He finally regained his confidence to hold the other’s gaze. Yoongi swallowed thickly.

For a slow minute, Yoongi simply stared at Jimin dumbfounded. “You’re still my favorite fighter.” Yoongi smiled, pearly teeth showing through parted lips. Jimin grinned in return, because this was the first time he had seen Yoongi truly smile.

Yoongi caressed the younger’s cheek, ghosting a trail over the angry wrinkles formed over soft skin from Jimin’s encounter with Jungkook. Nervous, he asked, “I know this probably isn’t the best time to ask this, but would you wanna go out with me sometime?”

Jimin’s smile grew wider.

Jungkook sat on the unkempt steps just outside Seokjin’s gym, forearms planted on the firm part of the thigh were the bone underneath was most evident. His mind reeled, replaying his argument with Coach, his skirmish with Jimin. Was any of it justified? Or did it happen because of his own internalized homophobia? How could he let something so disreputable effect his passion? How could he let something so shallow ruin his friendships?

His dark eyes locked on the cracks in the asphalt. They probably snapped under the unbearable pressure of having to support an entire world above, as well as serving as a foundation for the unappreciated planet below. He trailed a path along the cracks until they segregated into many.

Animosity wrapped around Jungkook like the veil of darkness that was the night. The pad of his pointer finger swiped at the crimson liquid smeared along the corner of his mouth. The movement reopened the small slice just on the inside of his lip. His teeth must’ve punctured the delicate tissue when Jimin punched him. He glanced at his bloodstained fingertip and analyzed it with malice, heartbreak, or some cynical combination thereof. He could feel his temper swell once more.

What was that breathing technique the nurse from the hospital taught him when he had his concussion? Oh. Something with breathing in fours; something like square-breathing. That would calm him down, right? That would stop all this pressure, right?

That would make him stop hating himself, right?

He understood why the sidewalk cracked. The pressure could only build up so much.

Cracking seemed like the only realistic solution.

Chapter Text

Time was a precarious concept; a healer of all wounds. Was it because time provided distance from a harrowing situation, or was it because it truly soothed any pain inflicted, self or otherwise?

How much time was enough time?

It had been two weeks since Jungkook stepped foot in Seokjin’s gym. In that time, his busted lip healed and his boiling rage simmered to a dull resentment. Jimin stopped calling him every morning to remind him he was late yet again, and that Coach was frustrated yet again. He couldn’t shake the overwhelming guilt from his mind, his arguments with Jimin and Coach echoing even in the darkest, most complex outreaches of his mind.

Two weeks did not heal Jungkook’s wounds. Two weeks suspended him in perpetual self-deprecation.

Two weeks was not enough time.

So he slept a lot, stretched, lifted weights, shadowboxed in his living room occasionally, and watched fight videos online.

Sometimes he’d toss on his favorite charcoal grey hoodie, the one Jimin let him borrow, and walk outside in the night, sorrowful eyes glued to the stelliferous sky above, savoring the stillness. It was the only time he welcomed the thoughts swimming through his mind. Under the surveillance of luminous stars, he could more comfortably sort out his emotions. Sometimes he’d even accept them.

Sometimes he’d attend shows at Phobia on nights he knew Hoseok was performing. Tucked away in the dark corners of the venue, under thick veils of cigarette smoke and blinding neon glow, he’d watch the man he kissed rap with such raw eloquence it made him, for just a fleeting minute, throw caution to the wind and want to kiss him again. But when Hoseok would catch his gaze amidst the sea of inebriated people, it made his secret admiration all too real; so he’d abruptly leave, feeling betrayed by his dirty thoughts.

That’s how he managed to punch a hole through his bedroom wall that was far too large to remedy with spackle. Every day it served as reminder of his situation.

All Jungkook wanted was to spar with Jimin, listen to the latest hip hop mixtape Yoongi compiled, and make Seokjin proud again. There was this one-two-one-three-two striking combination that kept him up until four in the morning one time; it was quick and straight forward, the type of characteristics Coach preached about, but Coach wasn’t around to tell him why it wouldn’t work. Coach was helpful with stuff like that, Jungkook realized.

But he was too stubborn to call and make amends.

So he slept more.

The same reoccurring dream visited him every night.

Something straight out of Wonderland, with pink cherry blossom petals dancing under the encouragement of whispering breezes, colored Jungkook’s dark world. There was a peculiar spark of glamour in the crisp air that carried a lilt of enchantment with each gust and swirl. A chirping bluebird swooped low as if to greet him before soaring into the warm comfort of sunshine; Jungkook’s gaze followed the chipper bluebird until the sun’s intense glare forced him to look away. It was then he realized the gorgeous sky above. It was a pillowy, light blue Jungkook often pondered over; so surreal a color the true name was a mystery. Surely it was periwinkle, or azure, or viridian?

Perhaps its beauty was so profound it transcended the need for classification and names; something so ethereal, so simple, did not require analysis. The sky was simply glorious, the wind simply brisk, and the pink blossoms simply beautiful. Perhaps everything was that simple, or at least could be.

Jungkook grinned peacefully to himself, and he reveled in the happiness the action evoked.

The soft ripple of flowing water consumed him, so he chased after the watery melody the wind carried. Each splutter and splash coaxed him closer until he stumbled upon a river with crystal clear water and moss embedded into the earthy riverbank edge. Sharp, jagged rocks scattered about the river’s expanse created crevices and ledges that yielded miniature waterfalls. A shroud of mist hovered over the base of each waterfall; sunlight mingled with the mist, casting faint but distinguishable rainbows.

Jungkook neared the shimmering riverbank and crouched down on one knee on the mossy earth. A velvety, pink blossom fluttered delicately to the water’s surface, compelling him to reach out and touch it. Perhaps it was the brisk wind kissing his exposed skin or the coolness of the water itself, but a wave of goosebumps prickled up his arm. He must have subconsciously closed his eyes under the sensation, wholly entranced in the serenity, but the blossom was gone when his eyes opened.

Instead, he witnessed something far less elegant and far more hideous.

His eyes widened into saucers, pupils dilating and body quivering as regret and resentment ransacked his body, a heavy stupor of paralysis seeping into every nerve. He felt heavy, as if bound by chains, and his lower lip began to throb. The reflection staring back at him from beneath the water’s surface was not Jungkook. Fiction often warned of perilous monsters lurking in the waters, scourging the deep; nonfiction often warned that the feared monster was a mirrored image, a self-reflection, of the emotion that plagued the spirit.

The mind fashioned ugly creatures in the name of emotion.

The monster staring back at Jungkook was the incarnation of denial.

Suddenly, the vibrant realm Jungkook escaped to became his own damnation; color melted off the pink cherry blossom tree, the green moss, and the pillowy, light blue sky like blood from a fresh wound, revealing the crackling, monochromatic truth hidden underneath. The world around him erased itself, leaving him in an endless entrapment of nothingness, soundlessness, and muted existence. A void.

He had been here before.

Jungkook shot up from his bed, chest billowing in a labored panic. A thick sheen of sweat coated his flesh and left him feeling sticky and uncomfortable; jet black strands of hair clung to his forehead just as the thin, light blue bedsheets clung to his flushed skin. A searing, stabbing pain drilled into the left temple his head, pulsating across his forehead, before settling with an unpleasant denseness in his right temple. Motivated by anger, Jungkook threw his sweat-drenched pillow across the room.

He blankly stared the hole he punched through his wall. It was within that moment Jungkook realized the importance of Fight Club. He could not handle the hazardous repercussions of suppressed grief; he was coward to himself, in himself, and couldn’t fight his own demons.

And so he fought others.

It was a blustery Thursday night, the third of the month, and Jungkook strolled solemnly through the obsidian night, noticing the astounding lack of starlight.

Gangbuk-gu was a quiet, isolated town hugging the outskirts of Bukhansan National Park in the domain of Seoul. A mystic ambiance from the dark forestry of the park embraced the town; the sky was vast and eerie and black. Streetlights, even moonlight, only managed the peek through the stark darkness when the forestry grew scant.

Gangbuk-gu was where constellations and shooting stars went to die, swallowed into dismal twilight; the perfect location for Fight Club.

There was an underpass in the crush of the hushed town that was unfamiliar to the faces that dwelled in neighboring towns. The once angel-white, glossy tiles lined along the inner walls of the tunnel were stained by a menacing, foul mold that left a poignant stench in the breezy air. Stone pavers on the ground crumbled, their integrity challenged by years of neglected upkeep. Thin lines of fluorescent light striped the ceiling of the underpass allowed the only presence of light in the whole damned city to pour into the sweaty, shirtless congregation of testosterone currently occupying the tunnel.

The odor grew in potency with each passing step Jungkook took, and soon it was coupled with the low chatter of voices. His breath was heavy, shaky, and a fleeting wave of anxiety overtook him. Was this smart? Channeling all of his internalized angst and resentment into destroying another human being? Would it grant catharsis? Was he pathetic now that fought like a common goer, seeking thrill through demolishing without purpose?

Was fighting without purpose worth fighting at all?

People arrived at Fight Club with broken spirits and a broken mentality, and they left with broken bodies. That was the vicious cycle. Whether it was worth it or not depended on the fighter’s reason for fighting. Jungkook, under the training of famous boxer Kim Seokjin, fought with support and prowess, and thus, fulfilled purpose; Jungkook, under the influence of self-imposed hardship, fought with insecurity and emotion, and thus, a hollow misunderstanding of what purpose truly was.

Purpose came from within, but purpose was only genuine when shared. He realized that now.

He felt alone without Coach and Jimin accompanying him to Fight Club, so he kept his gaze low and indirect as he rid himself of his over-sized, white shirt. The night air kissed his scarred flesh and he shivered as he approached the fight pit. A hellish fight was occurring in the pit, nearly finished by the looks of the downed man’s crimson-drenched face and probably fractured arm.

Throughout the night, various fighters stared at him, which was fairly common at Fight Club nowadays due to his rising fame in the underground fight scene, but he remained diligent in his efforts to avoid eye contact. Instead, Jungkook studied each fighter and their fight style, standing firmly, idly, unflinchingly as multiple men either reigned victorious and lost themselves in egotism and adrenaline, or were maimed to a bloody pulp and dragged out of the pit in shame.

Jungkook stewed in his disquiet, fingers twitching, as he studied the pool of blood in the middle of the pit. When was his fight? Who would he fight? This would be his fourth fight. If he won, he was one fight closer to fighting the king of the underground fight scene, Kim Taehyung.

“Aye man! I’ve got good news.” It’s a high-pitched, sing-song voice unbefitting of current events that makes Jungkook uncomfortable. Silent, he turned toward the voice.

“There’s not a lot of fighters here tonight at your rank. You either fight lower ranks or… you get the big break every real fighter hopes for…” Based on the intelligence in his words, Jungkook understood the man speaking to be the officiator. He tilted his head to express his interest and nodded to urge the man to continue.

“The number one contender to face Champion Kim-sshi is here. You know, the Australian Vale Tudo fighter? If you fight him and win, you automatically get number one contendership. You take his place and fight the champion at Ultimate Fight Night in two months.” The officiator explained, his fixed stare attempting to decipher Jungkook’s paled, stunned expression.

Jungkook’s initial intention for attending Fight Night was for a release, an escape from his mind and his emotions and his overall self-hatred. He arrived without his coach and teammate, two weeks absent from proper training, and utterly lost without necessary guidance. He had faith in his abilities, but his conscience told him he might be biting off more than he could chew.

“This is big. Whaddya say, kid?” The officiator pushed the offer.

Jungkook stiffened his upper lip and directly met the officiator’s gaze. He didn’t live in Seokjin’s shadow; he was his own man, and he didn’t need guidance. He knew himself better than anyone. He wasn’t fucking gay. It was time to face the monster staring back him in his dreams.

Tonight was the night Jeon Jungkook wouldn’t be plagued by his emotions.

Tonight, he would rise above.

“When do we fight?” He smirked as a renewed vigor set his soul ablaze. The officiator grinned in response.

Incredible energy from the wall of rambunctious fighters pulsated in cadence with Jungkook’s own heartbeat as he stood in the center of the fight pit. There was nothing as primal, as wanton as standing in the middle of the pit in anticipation for what barbarity would occur in the following minutes. He cracked his knuckles and bounced on the balls of his feet in an effort to revitalize the stagnant endorphins pooled in his gut.

His opponent, the number one contender to fight the notorious champion Kim “V” Taehyung, entered the pit with a condescending saunter. He was large in stature with a sculpted physique and mottled skin. He peered at Jungkook with nasty belittlement, the whites of his eyes cluttered with strained blood vessels. He cracked his neck from side to side, audible pops lost under the loud banter of surrounding fighters, before limbering up his limbs. His muscles twitched suspiciously underneath taut skin.

The man was a literal monster.

Jungkook felt disrespected by his opponent’s hyper-masculinized act of intimidation and lunged toward the man, provoked by tunnel vision. Their foreheads clanked together savagely, much like the horns of stubborn rams in battle. Fighters encircling the pit hollered encouraging profanities in response to the display of aggression. There was an astounding pounding in his ears, probably due to spiked blood flow. Jungkook gritted his teeth through a bestial snarl. They stared at each other with biting contempt.

Amidst rushed breaths, the number one contender roared, “You think you’re at my level? Fuckin’ pathetic,” before spitting a thick, slimy wad of saliva onto Jungkook’s face.

Jungkook reacted like a ricochet. He drove a hard, blunt knee into the man’s diaphragm, causing him to expel vital air from his lungs in a terrible cough. The man staggered back as his body curled reflexively, defensively inward. Jungkook, seizing the moment of vulnerability, extended a leg and planted a solid foot to his opponent’s chest with a push kick; the man crashed onto the uneven ground, convinced his ribcage shattered from Jungkook’s cruel impact. Jungkook swiped the disgusting blob of spit from his cheek in a dramatic wipe as he glared at his downed opponent with corrupt eyes.

“No. I think you’re below me.” Jungkook retaliated, tone laced with bloodlust, and spat a fat chunk of saliva onto the man below him. Blinded by rage, fueled by emotion, and compelled by the desire to destroy; the man, the number one contender, the monster in front of him gave him something to hate other than himself.

His lips quirked into an evil grin. There will be blood.

His opponent barreled towards him with unrelenting fists and godlike power, so Jungkook reacted of his own wicked volition. They fought like primal beasts with lack of mercy. This was unlike any bout Jungkook experienced at Fight Club. This opponent truly exemplified the marriage of skill, power, and strategy; his defense was never sloppy. Punches were not blocked, they were challenged head-on with a harder, stronger counterstrike; kicks were not flashy or impressive, they were excruciating and only used when success was guaranteed. Jungkook’s confidence faltered with each unpredicted strike from his opponent, and the gushing wound above his right eye made his vision murky from too much blood.

His own blood.

Jungkook was outmatched.

The number one contender prodded Jungkook away with stiff, antagonizing jabs to the overflowing gash above his eye. The blood loss was significant and nearing a critical threshold. Jungkook’s vision grew blurry as he wobbled; he was so disoriented it felt like his brain was trapped in a centrifuge. He shook his head to regain his wits, arms up by his chin in defensive position. It was hard to focus from all the unbearable pain rippling through his abused, broken body. Dark red liquid spluttered from his swollen lips through quick, jagged huffs.

He was losing.

Jungkook wasn’t the only fighter struggling to stay conscious. His opponent, though not as crippled as Jungkook, was slower and fatigued and wrecked. Fist-shaped, purplish-red bruises blossomed across the soft skin of his arms and lower abdomen from multiple, strategically-placed strikes from Jungkook. Still, the number one contender forged onward, minimizing the distance between the two with swift, sharp movements. Surrounding fighters whistled and hollered, voicing their amusement at the utter slaughter taking place right before their very eyes.

Maybe it was the false sense of increased strength, maybe it was the enthusiasm of his fellow Fight Club members, but Jungkook awoke with a sudden vengeance. His fists clenched, almost trembled under the abrupt constriction. If he could just land the first strike of the combination he’d been working on over the past two weeks, he’d earn the upper hand.

Like a cat hunting a mouse, Jungkook struck with precision and haste. One… He successfully struck his opponent with a simple jab. Two… A successful follow-up haymaker. One… Another jab connected. Now for the final blow, the end-all be-all: the uppercut into the knockout punch. Three-tw--

His opponent, though dazed, skillfully eluded the uppercut with only a shallow graze of the chin. Following the momentum of his evasion, he dipped under Jungkook’s knockout two and counterstruck with a left-hand hook; Jungkook, unfamiliar with a hook punch, stumbled back with thrashing arms and an exposed abdomen. The dynamics shifted into his opponent’s favor once again; his self-created strike combination failed without the wise critique of Coach.

With a conniving smirk, the monster charged towards Jungkook shoulder-first in a takedown attempt.

The anticipating moments before impact crawled by in slow motion. Jungkook was defeated, mentally, emotionally, and now physically. Surely his ribs would break upon collision. The hot blood pulsating within his skull was deafening and made him sick. Surely his lungs would burst. Holding up his arms was painful and rapidly becoming impossible. His muscles were exhausted from prolonged stress. The excessive need to submit to unconsciousness was alluring, tantalizing almost. He could just quit now and it would all be over.

Was this what Jimin felt like when he lost?

Jungkook drew his gaze up from the surly monster charging at him only to meet the familiar, kind eyes of a man whose presence exuded peace and comfort amongst the blurred, chaotic crowd. The man smiled warmly. Hoseok.

In that moment, Jungkook felt no hatred.

In that moment, Jungkook stopped fighting out of hate.

Jungkook fought for himself. He fought for acceptance, no matter how fleeting that may be.

Time sped up again, coaxing him back into real life. He hooked his exhausted arms around his opponent’s head, hands locking under the man’s chin, whilst his legs swung up and curled around the fighter’s hips. In a swift motion, Jungkook applied great pressure to the man’s neck with all the fight he had left in him in a guillotine choke. It was an extremely hazardous choke that blocked airflow compressing, and thus obstructing, the windpipe with application of gravity and brute force.

Jungkook was not a submission fighter. But something compelled him to act on instinct, to fight through all his pain, and to change the way he battled his monsters. His eyes never left Hoseok’s as he persevered through his own pain to force his opponent, the number one contender, into unconsciousness.

His opponent fell limp. Jungkook won.

Through all adversity, Jungkook won.

The officiator and several other fighters rushed into to pry him off of the limp, comatose man. Jungkook flopped onto the grimy ground, body feeble and tense and tender and bleeding and bruised and nearly obliterated.

Hoseok’s face was the last discernable object in his mind before he dissipated into the sea of unconsciousness.

Jungkook awakened from passing out with a long, drawn out groan. An acidic, gurgling nausea churned in his core, so he took slow, four-second long breaths to quell the sickness. His brain throbbed within its bony confines. His awareness, his reflexes, his memory were all clouded. There was an audible wheeze in each intake of breath followed by a pained grunt in each exhale. Dried blood was caked so heavily and so prominently atop his marred flesh that moving felt gross. His throat was dry, cracking and the need to drink was dire. Jungkook regretted all the times he inwardly rolled his eyes at Coach forcing him to drink water post-fight, or when he hissed in protest at Jimin using antiseptic wipes to clean the blood off his face.

It took probably forty-five minutes after waking for Jungkook to allow himself to rise. It was miraculous he could even stand, let alone walk. The human body really withstood far more than it actually deserved. After slipping into the over-sized white shirt he arrived in, he noticed Hoseok lingering amidst the thinning Fight Club crowd. Oh right. In some remote, still-functional crevice of his brain, he remembered. Hoseok was here.

Why was Hoseok here?

Jungkook started towards Hoseok in hopes of discovering why the man showed up to Fight Club. Did he know Jungkook was fighting? That couldn’t be, Jungkook didn’t even know he was going to show his face this Fight Night. Then why was he here? Did he attend every Fight Club? Was he that avid of a fan, or did he come to see one fighter in particular? Was he just toying with Jungkook?

Jungkook, completely preoccupied with pursuing Hoseok for answers, stopped dead in his tracks when a large palm on his sternum forcefully halted his momentum. He didn’t even hazard a glance or flinch, just watched as Hoseok disappeared into the dark, soulless Gangbuk-gu horizon.

“You’re not fighting smart.” The voice was uncomfortably familiar; Jungkook craned his head to place a face to the voice. Pain radiated around the hand pressed into his chest. He cringed.

Seokjin. Coach Seokjin.

Jungkook grimaced, ugly wrinkles distorted by swollen, oozing wounds. “And? What’s it to you?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s it to you?’ I’m responsible for your wellbeing.” Seokjin’s palm remained planted against Jungkook’s chest, pressure increasing to emphasize the weight of his words, “You sustained too much damage in that fight.” He knew the compression was painful for Jungkook, yet he persisted to annotate his point.

Jungkook would’ve shoved Seokjin’s ill-mannered hand away if he had any energy left to fight back. He had done enough struggling, he was tired, and he didn’t have the wherewithal to physically resist Coach. He opted to convey his irritation through a callous glare, but his courage died the second their eyes met.

He felt guilt in his heart, in his soul, but to verbalize it would hurt worse than anything his opponent did to him. A million apologies couldn’t trample the stubbornness Jungkook harbored in his spirit. So he continued to do what he was good at: fight.

“Don’t waste your time on me. I’ll fight how I want to fight,” Jungkook hissed.

“If you fight how you want to fight, you’ll end up in the hospital with another goddamn concussion!” Seokjin, consumed by frustration at Jungkook’s insolence, roughly shoved Jungkook back. In his weakened state, Jungkook did not stumble back, but instead fell on his ass onto the grimy, uneven floor. His head drooped low between his spread, scraped knees and his battered hands laced together at the nape of his neck. He looked as pathetic as he felt.

Yet he continued to fight back.

Jungkook shot Seokjin a death glare. “And what if I do? You’re not responsible for me anymore. I’m responsible for myself.” His words, though proclaimed through a violent shout, sounded meek and childish to Seokjin.

Unaffected, Seokjin folded his arms across his chest and peered down at Jungkook with disdain. “You know this illegal underground scene, you know Fight Club, you know how a number one contender fights, but you do not know the level of brutality V possesses. He’s the undisputed champion for a reason.”

But the bitterness in his tone could not mask the compassion that Seokjin felt deep down, “If you continue to fight the way you did tonight, he will kill y-”

Jungkook shouted his interjection, tears swelling, threatening to spill over, “I won’t let myself die-”

“You better goddamn listen to me! Fight Club does not care about your feelings, and neither do I. Get yourself together. Suck up your so-called problems. Get over your temper tantrum, self-hatred, or whatever other bullshit excuse you want to use to justify your actions. That’s what being responsible truly is. Bite the bullet before the bullet kills you. And when you’ve done that, you know where I’ll be.” Seokjin lectured.

Jungkook did not refute. He simply peered at the dirty ground, overtaken with guilt, too ashamed to look at Seokjin.

“The doors are always open, be a man and open them.” Seokjin’s parting words were like fired shots still smoking from the barrel of a loaded gun.

Jungkook swallowed the dry lump in his throat. It was time to man up, to accept parts of himself he was uncomfortable with, because no matter how hard he tried, they wouldn’t just vanish. They would kill him if he didn’t kill them first. Coach was right.

Coach was always right.

Chapter Text

It was a Wednesday. Wednesdays were always busy. Fighters lurked in every corner of the gym, some shadow boxing and others sparring on the mats. Epik High played over the grunts and pants and huffs of fighters and gym goers alike overexerting themselves. The distinct sound of taped fists colliding into punching bags played over every downbeat of the current song. Sparring mats formed slick films of sweat from prolonged use, causing two guys practicing their kicks to slip and clack skulls. There was a large man, likely a bodybuilder, flexing admirably at himself in one of the wall-sized mirrors near the shadowboxing section; a fighter honing his shadowboxing speed rolled his eyes in judgement of the bodybuilder and lost his rhythm.

Jimin was in the boxing ring in the farthest corner of the gym doing toe-touches. As he unfolded himself from the stretch, he noticed Jungkook standing in the doorframe of the entrance. He sneered and immediately depraved Jungkook of an equal glance by walking towards his damp towel draped over the top, waxy rope; he blotted the towel over spots of excessive sweat before tossing the sweat towel over his shoulder. He ducked through the top and middle ropes and hopped off the ring apron, vanishing into the gym locker room. Jungkook pursed his lips and mushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

Being dismissed by his best friend stung like scratching at a wound that refused to heal. Witnessing the hurt that still lingered on his best friend’s face bled like the wound that refused to heal.

With a heavy sigh, Jungkook focused his attention to the small upper floor of the gym, Seokjin’s office. The only light that illuminated the upstairs floor was glowing warm and bright. That light was almost never on. Coach must be doing paperwork or some other clerical duty he always seemed to postpone.

The gift of isolation was bestowed upon Jungkook. At least he could apologize in confidence.

Upstairs, Seokjin sat attentively at his desk, nose buried in paperwork and eyes straining through the outdated prescription lenses of his silver-rimmed eyeglasses. He blindly thumbed at the top sheet of paper in the unorganized pile to his left. The sheets rustled as he shuffled through them, loud and distracting over the soft thud of Jungkook’s footsteps on each stair.

As Jungkook entered the office space he kept his gaze low, so much so that his chin nearly dipped into his chest and his posture slumped uncomfortably as he crumpled into the metallic, fold-up chair in front of Seokjin’s desk. His overstuffed, black duffel bag settled beside his ankles with a muted thump.

Coach looked up to see Jungkook for the first time since his fight against the then-number once contender. In the span of a fleeting second, his eyes widened like saucers before reverting back to normal.

Jungkook suffocated in the silence. He felt guilty. For weeks he had felt guilty. Seokjin, his coach and the man who entrusted time and knowledge to making him a better fighter, had devoted time and wisdom to making him a better human being. When Jungkook abandoned all his resources, all his friends, all his hope, Seokjin did not abandon him. He was there through thick and thin to dose Jungkook with the bitter truth.

Seokjin’s penetrating words after Jungkook’s hellacious fight replayed in his mind since the moment the incident happened. Coach deserved an apology, but suitable words could not match the crushing guilt Jungkook felt. His lips parted briefly but his words hitched in his dry throat. He peeled the dead skin off the cuticles of his blunt fingernails, a nervous habit of his whenever he sat in Coach’s office.

Jungkook fidgeted, cleared his throat once more to soothe the raw hoarseness, and muttered, “I’m sorry. I acted out of line, and I shouldn’t hav-”

“Explanations aren’t necessary. We both know what happened. I appreciate your apology.” Seokjin replied in a snap, calm and confident as if he had rehearsed for this moment a million times.

Jungkook was caught off guard. He was intoxicated by guilt, plagued by this very instance of confrontation for days, and yet his apology was accepted without protest. “T-that’s it?”

“You owned up to your mistakes. The rest are small details.” Straight-faced, Seokjin cocked his head as he studied the fretted fighter.

Jungkook understood Seokjin’s graciousness to be an act of professional respect. “Thanks, Coach.”

“It won’t happen again.” Seokjin warned.

Jungkook nodded. “Yes, Coach.”

Seokjin set down his stack of papers and removed his glasses. There was a shift in energy, one that was much lighter and more pleasant. With a jesting smirk, he teased a doll-stiff Jungkook. “Surprised you’re coherent after getting the shit beat outta you.” A self-fulfilling chuckle concluded his joke, but Jungkook just furrowed his eyebrows and remained silent. It’s not like it wasn’t true.

Seokjin walked around his desk, fingertips tracing over the glossy, wooden finish until he stopped in front of Jungkook; he leaned back, the small of his back resting firmly against the desk edge. His strong arms cinched together across his broad chest. “I don’t know how you won, Jeon.”

Hoseok. “Sheer power of will?” Jungkook offered.

Seokjin tossed his head back in laughter. “You mean stubbornness?” He quirked an accusatory brow at Jungkook, “Stubbornness isn’t gonna beat V.” Jungkook bit his tongue to avoid verbalizing his objection.

Nevertheless, Coach pressed onward like coaches do. “If you don’t start training immediately, you will lose-”

If Jungkook bit any harder, he’d bite his tongue in half. So he relented his objections, “He won’t beat me.”

“No, he’ll destroy you.” Seokjin’s assertion triumphed his fighter’s opposition.

Jungkook tossed his duffel bag onto the desktop next to his coach in a fluid, overhand motion. “Then how fast can you throw on some mitts?”

“That’s my boy.” Seokjin spoke through a smirk.

Hitting canvas was nothing like hitting crumbling asphalt. Canvas was softer, more forgiving, with slight pliancy. Asphalt was dense and coarse. Yet the composition of the ground did not matter when the blunt force of impact was significantly more painful, significantly scarier. This conclusion was reached when Jungkook’s face smashed onto the canvas of Seokjin’s boxing ring, lips mushed into the mat and arms wrapped around his abdomen in fetal position. His pained groan was muffled by the mat.

He glanced up to see Coach’s darkened silhouette contrasted against the intense fluorescent light above the ring. “…and that’s why that combo won’t work.” Seokjin lectured as he popped the knuckles of his left hand with the enclosed palm of his right hand.

In a matter of seconds, Coach dismembered the combination Jungkook conceived during his two week pity party. In a matter of seconds, Coach saw the very same error that Jungkook’s opponent did in his last Fight Club bout. In a matter of seconds, Jungkook flopped to the mat because the pain on the right side of his ribcage was searing.

“Liver shots are a great way to down an opponent. The liver is like a command center for blood flow. Makes them lose focus when hit. Also hurts a lot.” Coach extended a hand to pull Jungkook up. “The gap between your two-three is too wide and leaves you too vulnerable. Your opponent was smart enough to counter your combo, but not smart enough to strike critically. He would’ve won if he hooked your liver, not your face.”

He reenacted the very scene of Jungkook’s fight that he was narrating by mock-hitting Jungkook’s chin with a left-hand hook; Jungkook carried the hurt he was feeling on his face in the form of a wounded grimace. “Not all knockouts are from head strikes.” Seokjin explained, completing his demonstration by affectionately ruffling Jungkook’s raven locks.

The ring wobbled and Jungkook reflexively responded to the source. Jimin. His heart sank.

Jimin draped his sweat towel on the red ropes sloppily like a child slinging things in a temper tantrum. “This is who you wanted me to spar with?” he spat as he sized Jungkook up.

Placid, Seokjin stated flatly, “Park, you know you’re the only one capable.”

“I’m not sparring with him.” He crossed his arms over the dark grey fabric of his shirt.

“I didn’t ask you if you wanted to.” Coach tutted.

Jimin held Seokjin’s strong gaze but there was no budge. He rolled his eyes at Jungkook. “Yes, Coach.”

With a little more reluctance and a lot more awkward glances, Seokjin convinced his two fighters to set their personal issues aside to prioritize Jungkook’s training in preparation for his upcoming championship bout against Kim “V” Taehyung.

Jimin lurched forth like a bull out of the gate, powerful and determined; however, his form lacked tact, much like a bull in a china shop. Some fighters, like Jungkook, fought with their emotions as a prime amplifier of skill. Jimin was not one of those fighters. His emotion clouded judgement and technique and thus compromised proper delivery of attacks. Jungkook evaded nearly every strike with precision and grace. The tables turned, however on one particular haymaker; Jimin sent Jungkook reeling back like a wounded animal in the heat of battle. The effect was unintentional, as the strike was ill-delivered. Immediately Jimin diagnosed his error; overzealous, he blocked the punch with the bony, blunt, unforgiving tip of his elbow instead of his forearm. An elbow was harder than knuckles. Consequentially, Jungkook gnashed his teeth to cope with the pain and grew exponentially more emotive.

They sparred aggressively, dirtily, and passionately. Teammates and best friends, they knew each other’s moves. They were taught from the same book of tricks. Coach stood a few feet away, scribbling notes into his spiral, green notebook as he watched the fiery bout ignite to combustible proportions.

After long, Jungkook forced distance between them. “Jimin, I’m sorry.” He huffed, “Please. I’m sorry.” Their fight was not purifying, it harbored animosity. They were more civilized that this.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook panted. He was met with an openhanded palm strike to his eye. He growled as Jimin taunted him, harassing him to continue.

To Hell with civility.

Jungkook lunged forward shoulder-first in a takedown attempt and Jimin did not falter or cower. The striking arts were Jungkook’s game. Clinch work and submissions, those were Jimin’s game. The most quintessential factor in all mixed martial arts was to force the opponent neglected their domain, their strengths, and to fend for themselves in another domain. All those months wallowing in recovery, barred from fighting under medical orders, Jimin calculated ways to improve. Yoongi and hip hop nurtured his mind and spirit, but only fighting could nurture his body. So he improved.

Because a loser was only a loser if they accepted the title.

And he was going to make the bastard tap out.

Jimin grunted as Jungkook propelled his shoulder into the lower tip of his sternum; he counteracted the forward-pushing momentum by stepping back to reassure balance. Swiftly, he hooked his arm around Jungkook’s neck, tucked snuggly under the jawbone, knotted his hands together in an unwavering grip that rested irritatingly atop Jungkook’s Adam’s apple in a side headlock. With gritted teeth and sinister intentions, Jimin squeezed with all his strength.

Though strained, Jungkook persisted, “I’m sorry. I’m-ah, I’m s-sorry, Jimi-”

Jimin responded by squeezing harder. The sudden constriction around Jungkook’s neck coaxed an eruption of phlegmy coughs from his throat. “Jim-Jimin, I-ah,” A fit of coughs interrupted his plea, “S-sorry. I’m so-sorr-” Jungkook sputtered as he endured through the surging swamp of mucous in his throat.

As rapidly as they started, the coughs halted as enough pressure was applied to his windpipe, in combination with the suffocating layer of phlegm, to successfully block all airflow. Jungkook could no longer apologize, no longer utter the words ‘I’m sorry.’ Thick veins bulged from the curve of his forehead and temples, their color an offsetting greenish-blue underneath the pale tone of his flesh. The steady pulsating rhythm of blood through his carotid arteries on either side of his neck buzzed as if the kink in blood flow was swelling to detrimental levels. His face was plum-purple, or perhaps burgundy under the radiant overhead light.

He tapped. Against Jimin’s constricting shoulder, Jungkook tapped.

Quit.

They both collapsed to the mat, Jimin laxing his overexerted arms at his sides and Jungkook laying in fetal position on the canvas for a second time since he entered the ring. Only frantic gasps of air filled the air around them to create an overall humid effect. After several minutes, Jimin nipped at his lower lip before addressing Jungkook.

“How’s your hand?” he asked as he nudged Jungkook’s limp hand with his toes.

Jungkook, sprawled flat on his back, limbs outstretched like a starfish, lolled his head towards to Jimin. “It’s fine.” He wriggled his fingers to exemplify his words. A pause allowed him to suck in more precious air, then he asked, “How’s yours?”

Jimin shrugged, “It’s fine.” He punched Jungkook hard enough in the mouth during their argument weeks ago to cause damage to his knuckles, and he couldn’t use his fist properly for days due to swelling. Jungkook didn’t need to know that.

“So you’re fighting V, huh? That’s big, dude.” Jimin remarked to change the subject. It was his way of accepting Jungkook’s profuse apologies.

And Jungkook smiled because he knew that. “Yeah. Coach says I’m gonna die.”

“You probably will.”

Jungkook snickered, which caused Jimin to full on chuckle. He rolled his head upright to stare at the ceiling but remained sprawled out on the canvas like a crime scene victim. Jimin sat up, sitting on his knees, and toyed with the fraying tip of tape on his wrist.

“You and Yoongi are coming to my fight, right? I need reliable witnesses for the coroner.” Jungkook joked.

Jimin took a slow, deliberate breath. He wasn’t expecting Jungkook to discuss Yoongi or his involvement with him at all, but he was more shocked by Jungkook’s blatant forgetfulness of Fight Club rules. Maybe he depraved oxygen to Jungkook’s brain too long in that side headlock. “Yoongi doesn’t know about Fight Club.” He ripped the frayed tape off his wrist and flicked it away. “First rule, dude.”

“Oh.” Jungkook’s eyebrows knitted together. A wave of guilt washed over him again. Hoseok discovered Fight Club of his own volition. No rules were broken. Yoongi was completely shut out, uninvited, and utterly clueless. Jimin ached, burdened by having to closet that aspect of himself to a man he was so open with. To tell Yoongi was to violate the rules of Fight Club. A man was only as good as his honor, Coach always said.

Jimin’s bright, chipper voice ripped Jungkook from his thoughts, “So like, is Eye of the Tiger gonna play over a cheesy 80’s montage of you training Balboa-style for this fight with V?”

Jungkook grinned. Park Jimin, his teammate, his best friend, and a man never down for long, was back.

“God, I hope so.” Jungkook replied.

It had been a week since Yoongi took Jimin out to dinner. Jimin was a bright energy in his average world, amplifying the spirit of everything he encountered. What began as comforting conversation about music among strangers morphed into something deeper, something utopian. His ever-elusive muse resurfaced in the steady form of Park Jimin. Newfound energy made him spry and prolific, so he cracked open notebooks and wrote lyrics in overwhelming abundance, melodies buzzed through his brain with quick inspiration, and new songs for his mixtape ignited in the underground rap scene like wildfire.

His burgeoning success in the underground spurred interest in maximizing resources at Seokjin’s gym. A strong mind was only powerful in a strong body. He amped up his strength training regimen thanks to Jimin’s expertise; exercising together seemingly strengthened their blossoming relationship.

But Jimin was a fighter and was demanded of by Seokjin often. In these times, Yoongi was left to his own devices. Even though his familiarity with the gym layout increased, his introversion diminished the desire to become familiar with other gym-goers and fighters. He preferred isolation, deliberating picking machines off of their proximity to others, and set the volume of his MP3 high when he lifted weights.

Exasperated strain was expelled from his body in labored huffs as Yoongi lay uncomfortably on the bench press. The dull curve of his fingernails left reddened imprints in his palms from how hard he was grasping the metal bar with heavy weights he was currently benching. An upside down triangle of moisture drenched through the chest of his thin tank top, evidence of the valley off sweat residing in the indent of his pectoral muscles. Delicate, pale skin adopted an angry red tinge with each exertion of force.

Suddenly, a narrow strip of paper flopped onto his stomach. It was enough of a distraction to disrupt his cadence, and on the twenty-third count Yoongi struggled to align the bar in its respective groove. Two hands, one curiously smeared with dried blood, caught the unsteady bar and hooked it safely into the groove. Yoongi peered up but had to blow the sweaty strands of mint hair away from his vision to correctly identify the owner of the marred hands.

“You should have a spotter.” It was Jungkook. He could barely hear it, but Yoongi could tell it was Jungkook because of the lack of an appropriate greeting or any social prowess whatsoever.

Ignoring the previous statement, Yoongi sat upright, yanked one earbud from his ear, and wiggled the tension out of his arms. The piece of paper fell into his lap. “What’s this?” he inquired as he firmly squeezed a taut spot on his bicep.

Straightforward and agreeable, that was their relationship.

“You wanna know what Jimin and I do? Third Thursday of next month. 9 at night.” Jungkook readjusted the strap on his shoulder to stop it from cutting into his skin. He was carrying a large, black duffel bag with a sterile-white Puma logo to match the white trim and zippers.

Yoongi inquired again, “But what is this?”

Jungkook was probably smirking judging off the inflection of his words, but Yoongi was too lightheaded from his workout to hazard a glance in the other’s direction. He characteristically slumped his shoulders as he plucked the piece of paper off his lap with two fingers. Scribbled onto the paper was an address.

“That’s the thing, we’re not really supposed to talk about it,” were Jungkook’s cryptic parting words as he left.

He had one more obstacle to confront.

Be a man and bite the bullet.

Those words echoed in Jungkook’s ears since the fateful day Coach Seokjin spoke them. He confronted everyone on his list of people who deserved an apology except for the very man who ignited his self-deprecating flames, Hoseok. For some reason, this posed the greatest challenge and made him nauseous to think about.

To Hoseok, the issue was simple: Jungkook drunkenly made out with him one night a few weeks ago and got upset when Hoseok rejected his advancements. He was oblivious to the weeks of torment Jungkook put not only himself through, but his Coach and teammate as well. He was also oblivious to how Jungkook couldn’t shake the feel of Hoseok’s lips against his own, or the way his face accompanied every dream and every nightmare. Jungkook was hopelessly infected by the man, the stranger, but he saw him everywhere, felt him everywhere.

His breath was shaky and uneven as it left his body; not in the post-fight, burdened way but in the stressed out, nervous wreck type of way. He was edgy, irritable to the slightest nuance, and kept his head low to avoid broadcasting his apprehension to anyone who dared glance at him in this huddled Phobia crowd.

Hoseok was currently hyping the crowd as Yoongi’s friend, rap battle champion Namjoon, spat lyrics with impeccable power and speed. Over the last few weeks, the duo teamed up to form a very popular collaboration. Occasionally, Yoongi made cameo appearances in their set, which was when Jungkook usually left before being caught; if Yoongi was performing, it meant Jimin was lurking amongst the sweaty masses. At that time, Jungkook hadn’t mustered the courage to confront his friends for his own wrongdoings.

But tonight, this breezy Wednesday night, Jungkook knew Jimin was elsewhere with Yoongi.

Tonight, this breezy Wednesday night, Jungkook was going to swallow his pride and confront Hoseok.

He weaved through obstacles of people on his odyssey to stageside. Much to his chagrin, it took the remainder of Hoseok’s and Namjoon’s set. So when the lyrics ceased and the catchy beats faded into dull audience chatter, there was nothing other than to meet Hoseok’s gaze. The man on stage looked surprised, which garnered Namjoon’s attention. The tall rapper squinted at Jungkook briefly before widening his eyes in realization; oddly, he chuckled and patted dramatic pats on Hoseok’s shoulder before exiting at stage left.

Hoseok smiled and Jungkook lost it. All bravery abandoned him, leaving him a nervous mess in bare witness of Hoseok. So he panicked and walked off towards the venue exit. He felt stupid. Why would he do this? It wasn’t necessary to make up with Hoseok, was it? Yet the thought of ditching him yanked at his heartstrings.

“Jungkook!” Hoseok shouted, desperate to finally get Jungkook’s attention. Jungkook wasn’t that far, closer to the exit but more so occupying a clearing of people in the back corner of the venue.

Jungkook spun around, a look of distraught on his hardened yet beautiful features. “How’re you gonna act like that?” It was rhetorical, but Hoseok couldn’t catch the tone over the piercing defensiveness in Jungkook’s body language.

“Like what?” Hoseok managed through a confused, soft whisper as he reached the other man.

The frustration simmering through Jungkook nullified proper speech patterns, so his accusations tumbled out in curt bursts. “Show up in my scene, watch my fights, leave.”

Hoseok’s eyes dilated to small portals of oblivion. How dare that punk have the audacity to throw hypocritical accusations! He approached a jittery Jungkook with caution, his outstretched, palm-up arms serving as the visual representation of his current, uncollected thoughts. “What? Look where you are right now. Why do you come to my shows?” he countered. His words lacked a certain venom, but he wasn’t a venomous man.

Helpless, perhaps flustered due to lack of sound reason, Jungkook switched the course of conversation again. “Why do you watch my fights?”

“Because… I think you’re talented.” Hoseok explained, and it was the genuine truth.

Jungkook shook his head in disbelief. “No one goes out of their way for Fight Club unless they’re fighting.” His fists clenched by his sides.

It was obvious Hoseok needed to calm him down. And so he did.

Hoseok stopped short of a few inches in front of Jungkook; he ghosted a gentle, soothing hand over the other’s goosebump-prickled arm. “I don’t know, there’s just something about you, alright?” Sensing the impending calm of the storm, he traced his hand up Jungkook’s arm, over the curve of his shoulder, and grazed his jawline with feather-light touches. “I’m drawn to you. I enjoyed our kiss, but I didn’t want to take advantage of you.” Hoseok watched the bob of the other’s Adam’s apple as he noticeably swallowed. His toffee-colored eyes finally flickered up to meet Jungkook's stare; the brooding, dark hue of Jungkook’s irises honeyed into brown-copper flecks. “I was hoping you’d come to another show of mine and we could sort of… start over.”

This was the closest he had been to Hoseok since that night. He wanted to shove him away and bolt out the door, and yet his feet failed to move. Instead, the very breath in his lungs escaped him as Hoseok gazed so tenderly, so enticingly at him. “Is that so?” Jungkook breathed because it was all he could muster.

He felt delirious, high off Hoseok’s presence and touch. In mere moments, he was able to pacify Jungkook’s self-inflicted strife. Just like all the other times, all the fights, all the pain, all the brutality and angst and hatred, Hoseok provided solace; he was a place of peace, a messenger of hope, and Jungkook’s serenity.

He had been chained by his ego and disillusioned by what could be instead of what actually was. Rejection was defense mechanism to avoid entrapment of the unknown. But unexplainable things could be so beautiful when accepted, when reciprocated.

Rejection of the soul was suicide. Acceptance was inevitable.

Jungkook studied the stunning face of the man before him. Hoseok.

Acceptance was always by his side.

In the climax of battle, in the aftermath, acceptance was always by his side in the form of Hoseok.

Jungkook smiled. “I think we should start over too.”

Hoseok matched his smile with unique vibrancy. “Hi, I’m Hoseok. I rap. I happen to find you interesting. And definitely attractive.” He brushed the pad of his thumb over Jungkook’s still-clenched fist.

Clearing his throat, he mimicked, “I’m Jungkook. I, uh, fight.” His tense fist opened slowly as Hoseok’s thumb helped unfurl it, and the action broke Jungkook’s focus. All the better, he was bad at expressing vulnerability.

“You might be a fighter by trade, but you don’t have to fight everything, you know.” Hoseok clarified, easily able to interpret the other’s reluctancy.

Jungkook laughed lowly, awkwardly. “I-I don’t know what I’m doing, but if I kissed you now would you reject me?”

And Hoseok’s hungry lips met Jungkook’s for the second time.

Chapter Text

Twenty-eight bruises speckled his skin since he started training again. Four weeks equated twenty-eight bruises, or roughly one gnarly bruise per day of training. Each the size of a mango and just as variant in color, spectrums of red and orange and gold and green and purple like a mosaic on his flesh. Sometimes tiny, purple blood clots accompanied the bruises. Sometimes razor thin cuts bridged between each clot to form interesting patterns like a connect-the-dot game.

One time, according to Jimin, Jungkook had the pattern of a three-eyed raven on his thigh. Yoongi disagreed, which spurred Jimin to poke what he claimed was the third eye to justify his rationale. Irked, Jungkook swatted the prodding hand away to continue wrapping layers of cream-colored bandage over his injury so he could get back to training.

This time, here and now, Jimin saw a dragon with its vast, whimsical, spiky wings outstretched across the expanse of Jungkook’s bare back.

Jungkook sat on a wooden bench in the gym locker room, heels of his palms rooted on the lip of the bench between the divide of his knees. From the reflection in the wall-length mirror in front of him, Yoongi and Jimin hovered behind the convex slump of his back with great awe. With a latex gloved finger, Jimin traced the pattern to illustrate the alleged dragon. Yoongi’s mouth fell agape, riveted.

Jungkook rolled his eyes, unenthused.

Through the mirror, a small box with a bold red cross embossed on the lid was split open on the bench on Jungkook’s right while cotton balls and torn antiseptic wrappers littered his left. Jimin daubed an antiseptic pad over a particularly deep scrape on the lower angle of Jungkook’s shoulder blade, meriting a hiss from the victim. Yoongi, with his sapphire blue snapback spun backwards and his lower lip pinned between pearly teeth, rubbed antibacterial ointment over each newly-sterilized wound.

Jungkook glanced down at his wiggling fingers, cuticles picked and knuckles raw. He closed his eyes to better concentrate on the present moment. The soft chuckles from Jimin and Yoongi loitering with ambient hip hop tunes at midnight was the present moment. Receiving basic medical care in the safe stillness of the gym locker room after a merciless day of training was the present moment.

Training was brutal and demanding. Carrying the title of number one contender was a blessing and a curse. He spent mornings running laps around Seoul. After the fifth lap, winded and aching, he’d arrive at Seokjin’s princess pink gym. Some days he was coerced into more cardio and endurance mitt training, some days he’d have to complete his strength conditioning in high intensity intervals with little rest, and some days he was ambushed by every fighter in the gym hurling bare-knuckled fists from all angles.

According to Coach, ambush days taught alertness and situational awareness.

Attentiveness. Expediency. Pain. A lot of paranoia.

Today was an ambush day.

“It’s there! You can’t see it? Between that bruise and-” There was a pregnant pause before Jimin pulled a wry face, “the big gash with the chunks of old blood.”

Which prompted Jungkook to grunt, “Chunks? What do you mean chunks?”

On ambush days, Jungkook endured copious amounts of damage. On ambush nights, Jimin and Yoongi spent hours playing doctor.

“This is gross.” Jimin squeaked as he wiped the bloody crust off the inflamed gash. “Did you hit the turnbuckle of the ring or something?” Under strands of damp, salty hair, Jungkook looked at Jimin’s bulging eyes through the mirror.

“Or did you get stabbed?” Yoongi added offhandedly.

Jimin’s laugh lines deepened and his eyes crinkled into half-moons in amusement. Bending down to Jungkook’s level and still giggling, he clapped a hand onto the wounded man’s shoulder and caught his gaze in the mirror. Into Jungkook’s ear he spoke, “The dragon, though? Super cool, man. The tail, like, coils around your spine.”

Jungkook made an offended noise and jerked away from his best friend. “Can you please be a serious person and clean the chunks?”

Jimin hummed, acquiescing.

After handing Jimin a bottle of rubbing alcohol, Yoongi pressed fresh pad of gauze just below the swollen laceration. With care, Jimin poured a small amount of the poignant liquid over the wound; the alcohol dribbled off the wound, pink with dissolved blood, and bled into the gauze below. Jungkook flinched in protest.

Jimin clicked his tongue as he set the rubbing alcohol next to the graveyard of used cotton balls. “Now the dragon looks like its crying.”

And Jungkook could’ve hit him.

“Coach?” Jungkook’s voice crept through the silence as he poked his head out from behind the slightly ajar door of Coach’s upstairs office.

Seokjin turned towards the noise, his silver-rimmed glasses casting a brazen glare under the steady illumination of his desk lamp. He smiled and motioned Jungkook in with a come-hither hand gesture.

Jungkook squinted under the harsh brightness of light. It was a stark contradiction to the pitch darkness in the gym below. The contrast was nearly blinding. “Uh, I’m cleared.” He croaked, “I should heal before the fight if I train smarter the next few days.”

Seokjin made a sound of endearment. “Rest up.” Jungkook cocked his head as if he didn’t understand the words his coach just uttered. Seokjin leaned back in his rigid, metallic chair and folded his arms casually behind his head; the chair creaked at the sudden weight change. “You get the rest of the week off.” He elaborated through satisfied noises of released tension as he stretched.

It had been an awfully long day. Maybe he took too many strikes to the head and his brain was malfunctioning, telling him the sweet things he yearned to hear. There was no way Coach was giving him a break before such a monstrous upcoming fight. His ears must be deceiving him. His brain was a filthy liar. “There’s still five days left until Ultimate Fight Night…” Jungkook eeked.

“Are you telling me you want to train more?”

Jungkook, eyes like manhole covers, looked unsure, confused, almost tormented. If there was a proper way to answer such a question, it escaped him entirely.

Seokjin snickered through another satiating stretch. “Go recover.”

It wasn’t a clever rouse devised by his deep-seated desire to avoid a twenty-ninth bruise. It wasn’t a false charade promising that Jimin would stop seeing mythical creatures in the gory aftereffects of his training. It was real. Coach was actually giving him a period to rest, to recover, to gather his wits so he wouldn’t keel over the second he looked Kim Taehyung, the mighty V, dead in the eyes. Jungkook could’ve flat out purred in gratitude, but he settled for a calm, appreciative thank you.

Seokjin tipped his chin in acknowledgement and returned to his prior endeavor. Under the lamp’s beam on the paper below the lead tip of his pencil, Jimin’s name was written. Below that were the words: tentative plan of action, strategy for redemption.

With his back turned, Jungkook didn’t see the paper.

Instead, he hesitated crossing over the door threshold. He ran his fingers along the unpainted, wooden doorframe beside him. He turned to physically see the wood grain he felt under the sensitive whirls of his fingertips. As his thumb rushed over the raised knot in the center of a particularly swirly loop of grain, a cathartic breath filled the atmosphere.

Analyzing the pattern of the doorframe, Jungkook bit his blistered lip, “Why do you train people to fight?” It was a question he’d been dying to know for months. In this moment of sensitivity with Seokjin’s authoritative, coachy walls down, he felt he just might get his answer.

Seokjin glanced up over the silver brim of his glasses. Had Jungkook actually glanced back, he would’ve seen the lopsided grin on Coach’s lips. “Fighting is struggling. Struggle is a necessary element in life. In order to stand up, you have to know how it feels to fall… and the cycle repeats.” Seokjin explained, his last words narrating the circular swiping of Jungkook’s thumb along the round knot in the wood grain.

Seokjin eased his legs off the top of his desk to swivel in his chair. The wall behind his desk showcased all of his most prized and cherished trophies, awards, and memorabilia from the apex of his boxing career. The great Kim Seokjin, pride of South Korea. Shelves held silver and golden trophies that looked like glorious chalices with regal, wing-shaped handles; at the base of each trophy was a shiny, obsidian plaque with his full name etched into it with honor and importance. A sort of matte silver metal framed awards and certificates of accomplishment.

On either side of the display hung two pairs of puffy, tattered boxing gloves. The pair on the left was tethered together by black cords; it was classic red, the prestigious finish flaking off in testament to its use and age. The set on the right was medium blue, much like the color of the sky Jungkook often dreamt about. It was tethered together with unstained, white cords laced into a glossy, unscathed finish.

A peculiar silence rich with nostalgia and sentiment snatched Jungkook’s full attention. He turned towards Coach, who sat facing the decorated wall, the wall of his glory days, strong arms crossed over his chest as he marveled at a time of grandeur long past. Seokjin studied a particular photo, one of a younger him cradling a gorgeous bouquet of ruby roses, a joyous smile stretching his bloodied face and absolutely glistening in sweat; multicolored confetti fluttered through the background as his free arm was raised victoriously by a referee clad in black and white stripes.

Voice so low Jungkook strained to hear it, Seokjin concluded, “You’ll never stop a fighter from fighting, I always say that… So the least I can do is teach the least painful way to fall.” His voice raised in volume as he swiveled to face Jungkook, “…and the strongest way to get back up.”

In that moment, Jungkook felt incredibly humbled to be in such a valiant fighter’s presence. Through all his selfishness, Seokjin did not quit on him. Through all his disrespect, Seokjin maintained honor.

Jungkook was forever indebted.

“Thank you, Coach Kim Seokjin-sunbae.” He expressed his respect with a deep bow. “I won’t let you down.”

If Coach was the embodiment of wisdom and patience, Jungkook epitomized insolence and resistance. If Jungkook was crudeness, Seokjin was refinery. Together they created fundamental duality, synchronized polarity. A Coach and a fighter. One was not sustained without the other.

“See you at the fight, Coach.”

There was an abandoned warehouse in Incheon that no one dared enter. Atop a hill near the coast of the Yellow Sea, creeping dangerously close to the sharp bluff, it endured the saltiness of ocean spray and the swelter of the summertime sun. It was a large building with peeling paint and busted glass windows. The integrity of the glass and tin-paneled roof was compromised under swift and nimble winds, as only the shattered remains of sharp shards and steel framing structures lingered. Coppery rust coated each piece of metal the salty ocean water had kissed. Mold cluttered the fine cracks of the walls on the interior of the building, black and green and fuzzy in between each brick. Much of the machinery was scrapped from the warehouse, but large bolts jutted out from the crackling cement floor. Fragments of steel and tin and rubber, probably from conveyor belts, littered the dirty ground.

This was Fight Club. This was Ultimate Fight Night. This was underdog Jeon Jungkook versus undefeated champion Kim “V” Taehyung.

Darkness enveloped the large building. It wasn’t an absolute darkness nor sincerely black in color. A fog of silver dusted a drab charcoal sky. Brilliant gleams of the full moon sifted through the fog only to be snubbed by angry storm clouds. From Jungkook’s perspective, neck cocked at the sky at such an angle a cramp was forming, the moon looked dewy and defeated by the turbulent sky. A cold droplet crashed onto the warmth of his cheek, startling him out of his daze. He wiped the raindrop dry with the cuff of his hoodie. The once-heavy air buzzed with static as more raindrops sprinkled from the stormy sky, and the tips of Jimin’s hair stood on end under the influence of the electricity in the air. He looked surprised, maybe a little impressed, and Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows as he rolled the hood of his hoodie over his head.

“This is it. Let’s head in before it starts to really pour.” Seokjin announced over the soft rumbles of thunder. Streaks of amazing light flashed underneath the ominous storm clouds. The sea just beyond the cliff boiled and churned with sloppy, white-capped waves.

Jimin nibbled at his lower lip as he studied the whimsical dancing of his hair. Droplets speckled the shoulders of his black hoodie and bled into one, damp smattering. Jungkook shot Coach a glance, the dark fringe of his bangs sticking to his forehead from all the moisture in the air. “You think he lost some brain cells with that last concussion?” he suggested to Coach, who replied with a badly concealed smirk.

“Maybe you need another punch in the mouth, Jeon Jungkook?” Jimin snapped half-heartedly as he mushed his electric hair down under his hoodie. He looked up at the sky with squinted eyes, droplets dotting his cheeks, and added, “Anyway, static electricity is cool.”

“Not getting rained on is cool.” Jungkook said and followed after Coach towards the entrance of the warehouse. Jimin snorted, stuffed his hands in the single pocket in his hoodie, and chased after Jungkook and Coach into the warehouse. The light sprinkle of rain turned into a definitive downpour.

Fight Cub was a curious existence.

In the low ranks, scraggly wannabe fighters congregated together to vent emotions spurred by everyday atrocities, or lack thereof. It was the feeding ground of minnows swimming in a vast, dark ocean unaware of the sharks that lurked in the mysterious depths. In the middle ranks, fighters improved in not only technique but in purpose. The motivation to fight intensified into something greater than an outlet; it was an infection that overwhelmed the body with outstanding infatuation and bloodlust. Here, the ocean seemed to shrink in magnitude as more sharks circled in on bigger prey; sometimes, perhaps by chance of miracle, the prey beat the sharks.

In the higher ranks, the elite, the infection fully consumed the body and morphed it into something cataclysmic. Fighters at this level did not pursue Fight Club to escape everyday existence with a cheap thrill; these fighters did not pursue Fight Club because nothing compared to the rush, the satisfaction, the sense of purpose that only Fight Club could provide. No, these fighters lived for nothing other than utter chaos. In chaos was divinity. The fighter, the prey, finally realized it was no longer prey. In these wicked depths, tucked into the deepest trenches, the prey understood itself to be the shark all along.

Here, only sharks fought sharks; here, only sharks won.

Here in this abandoned warehouse amongst a sea of one hundred-plus minnows, a battle of the divine would be witnessed.

Jungkook sighed. Far more people attended this fight than any other he’d ever fought. He had never fought at, let alone attended, a fight of this size and caliber. The pressure was stifling, restricting, and it forced him to swallow the dry lump itching his throat. Coach, sensing the intensity radiating from his fighter, placed a reassuring hand on Jungkook’s shoulder and told him everything would be alright and that it was just another third Thursday and just another fight.

It wasn’t just another third Thursday. It wasn’t just another fight.

It was nothing like his first fight; Jungkook was nothing like the man he was on the first night. Before he could begin, he was shattered. A stranger swept up his broken remains and offered him another opportunity.

Jungkook inhaled deeply and stared at Coach’s hand on his shoulder. Seokjin squeezed softly to gain Jungkook’s attention. When their eyes met, Coach smiled.

This man staring back at him offered him another opportunity. And so Jungkook underwent rigorous training, sought redemption, and took too many hard bumps – mentally, emotionally, and physically. Each a piece of what he had rebuilt himself into. He learned from all of them. From all of them, he became stronger, quicker, and smarter.

A true fighter.

A fighter worthy of glory. A fighter worthy of praise. A fighter worthy of championhood.

Jungkook smiled back.

A fighter worthy of his coach.

“Jungkook!”

Jungkook and Seokjin both reacted with a startle at the suddenness of the voice. It wasn’t Jimin’s voice and Seokjin’s face crinkled; Jimin’s whereabouts were unknown. He must’ve gotten distracted when he followed the duo in.

Jungkook grinned. It was Hoseok, white t-shirt drenched sheer and face slick with cold rain. He bowed respectfully at Seokjin as Jungkook introduced him.

“Uh, Coach, this is Hoseok. We met at Phobia, that place Yoongi talks about.” Jungkook explained, intentionally vague because the current moment was hardly an appropriate place to elaborate further on Hoseok’s relation to him.

Seokjin nodded. “I’ve seen you here before. Do you like to fight, by chance?”

Hoseok shifted uneasily.

“Do not solicit him!” Jungkook huffed, looping an arm around Hoseok’s shoulders and physically pulling him away from Seokjin. With a laugh, Coach left the pair to scope out the environment and form a battle strategy before Taehyung and his coach arrived.

Hoseok curled the tightly braided drawstrings on Jungkook’s dark red Nike hoodie around his finger and yanked. “So you’re gonna win, right? I won’t like you anymore if you don’t win.”

He liked to tease Jungkook and make him red-faced with public displays of affection under the surveillance of others. He was a private man, so Hoseok lovingly exploited his privacy any chance he got.

Truth be told, Jungkook didn’t mind it.

Jungkook stood still as Hoseok curled the other string around the pointer finger of his other hand. Slowly, he pulled each string until the lax hoodie resting on Jungkook’s upper back scrunched up tight to his neck. Jungkook clasped onto Hoseok’s hipbone and drew him in closer, their hips touching and faces mere inches apart. Gaze direct and breath low, he retorted, “You’re not rap battle champion and I still like you.”

“Yahh!” Hoseok pushed him back playfully. “Your words hurt me.”

Time crawled by in five anxiety-filled minutes, during which Jungkook scanned the warehouse for any sign of his opponent as Hoseok assured him that everything would be okay. Rain pelted in through the gaps in the ceiling, creating random puddles in the dips of the concrete floor. Jimin was still missing. Seokjin was deeply involved in his reconnaissance of the location. And Jungkook removed his hoodie and shirt because the moisture quenching the air was dampening his clothing to unbearable levels.

Still no sign of the champion.

Jungkook breathed deep. Square-breathing. One, two, three, four on the inhale.

Embedded in the swarm of unruly fighters and spectators alike, Yoongi stood small and cramped with his arms rolled into his core. Next to him, a large man removed his cut-up muscle tank top and tied it around his head like a warrior headband. Yoongi stared at him openly, judgingly. Fight Club was a hyper-masculinized wasteland akin to Seokjin’s gym, except there was a particular bite, a particular aura of malignancy that aroused these men.

Out of nowhere, Jimin poked Jungkook. “What’s he doing here?” he asked, directing Jungkook’s gaze over to the misguided man with the point of his chin.

One, two, three, four on the exhale.

Jungkook wasn’t paying much attention because the excessive, gurgling acid pool drowning his organs was distracting at best. Jimin’s appearance was abrupt, so Jungkook simply groaned in acknowledgement. Hoseok chuckled at the way Jimin’s hair swayed in the static electricity; it was unbefitting of his current panic.

“Yoongi. Yoongi is here.” Jimin slapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulders, grip vice-like, and Jungkook shuddered at the sudden clamminess against the warmth of his bare shoulders. “Did you tell him about Fight Club?” His erratic heartrate pulsed through his thumb into the hinge of Jungkook’s shoulder. The apple of his cheeks flushed pink from the frenzied blood flow.

Jimin was trying to get back into the ranks, have a redemption fight, but all hope would be squandered if he violated the rules.

“I didn’t say anything about Fight Club.” Ignoring the disturbing rattle of his own heartbeat in his bony cage, Jungkook attempted to remain calm for the both of them. They had very different reasons for their anxiety, but Jimin was the empathetic type who was overwhelmed by the energy of those around him.

Air puffed out of Jimin’s nostrils in a snort. “Thank you.” One corner of his mouth perked into a half-smile. As he watched Yoongi fidget around, he couldn’t mute the loud banter in his mind. Jimin couldn’t tell if he was more riled up over the potential reprimand or by Yoongi finally knowing Jimin’s precious secret. Would Yoongi feel betrayed or lied to? Technically, no lie was told. Jimin was a fighter and introduced himself as such. Whether he fought legally or illegally was never brought to question.

He sighed. “I guess I’ll go get him before he has a conniption or something.” He ventured off into the sweaty sea of bodies.

“I knew it!” Hoseok shouted cheerily, so Jungkook turned towards him puzzled. “I knew they were a thing.” He continued with utmost confidence, yet his disposition changed once he connected everything together. “Oh… He doesn’t know about Fight Club?”

“No.”

“He’ll think it’s cool.” Hoseok guaranteed with his signature warm smile. “I mean, he’ll be worried, but he’ll think it’s cool.”

Jungkook held Hoseok’s gaze, searching for any semblance of worry or anguish. “Does me doing this worry you?” he asked, tone delicate and human. Hoseok was interrupted before he could reply –

“Look what I found.” Jimin chirped. All evidence of stress vanquished, he seemed to radiate happiness. Yoongi trudged after him with a frown to match Jimin’s smile. “He says there’s too many people here.”

Jungkook agreed, still suffocating under the pressure of so many people here to witness the biggest fight of his career. His exposed skin was hot to the touch and reddish in color. Regardless of the salty chill seeping in through the cracks in the warehouse, Jungkook was sweating in thick layers. The gash on his back didn’t quite heal, and it glistened with sweat.

Yoongi’s eyes glimmered as a lightbulb went on in his head. “So this is why Jimin and I had to clean you up all those nights? It was training for this?” His tone sounded accusatory in the absence of understanding.

“Yeah.” Jungkook blinked. Hoseok surveyed the wounds, the newer cuts and the older scars, on Jungkook’s back.

As if by reflex to Jungkook’s flagrancy, Yoongi confessed, “Seems like a lot of effort to just… get beat up again.”

The degree of his lack of understanding became increasing apparent, so Jungkook shifted his gaze to Jimin. Jimin shrugged in response; he, too, failed to share Yoongi’s reluctance. Yoongi looked at Hoseok, a fellow non-fighter, who simply offered him another empty shrug. The actions captured Yoongi’s attention, causing a flutter of dissociation in his gut. Clearly he was the only one disheartened by the vicious cycle of pain rewarded to the already painful efforts exerted to gain such an award.

Fighters were such masochists.

“Why aren’t you fighting?” Yoongi grunted. It was directed at Jimin and spoken in a harmless bite.

“He’ll be fighting soon.” Seokjin interjected as he affectionately tugged Jimin’s hood down over his eyes. Jimin grumbled before sliding his hood off to see sufficiently again. “I have something I need to discuss with you.”

Seokjin averted his attention to Jungkook. “Jeon, V is here. Go get ready.”

Just then, Jungkook turned to see the long, lean figure of the Champion. Their eyes met.

All the nervousness he successfully trapped inside while distracted by his friends released like a roaring waterfall. His breaths were short, shallow, and choppy. The gurgling acid pooling inside of him mixed with his sudden adrenaline spike twisted at his stomach and bent him in half; shaky hands clutching his knees, Jungkook vomited all of his suppressed anxiety onto the warehouse floor.

And the Champion smirked.

Kim “V” Taehyung was nothing like the previous number one contender. He was neither brutish nor abrasive. There was no vicious snarl curling his lips. No veins throbbed under mottled, scarred skin. Muscles did not bulge and ripple in sync with crippling ferocity. Unmistakable poise and calmness established a mysterious and dangerous image of the champion. He held his chin high, shoulders back and chest puffed, basking in the groveling crowd. His limbs were spindly, lean, and long; he would undoubtedly have a reach advantage. Most alarmingly of all, there was a knowing gleam to his eyes, something suggestive of impeccable cunning and dexterity.

The champion tilted his head to the slightest flicker of movement. The way his eyes scanned each movement was surreal, almost robotic. Occasionally his lip would twitch to make him appear menacing, but it was a short-lived scare tactic. When his penetrating gaze landed on Jungkook, that same haughty smirk from earlier formed.

Jungkook recoiled. A shiver ran up his spine and numbed his arms like a wave of pins and needles. How could a man so seemingly aloof incite fear from a mere look? Perhaps it was the way he moved in riddles, or perhaps it was in the way he didn’t move at all.

Jungkook breathed deep. Square-breathing. One, two, three, four on the inhale.

The energy inside of the abandoned warehouse was extraordinary; a riot of color filled Jungkook’s peripheral vision, homage to a crowd so archaic their very actions were abstract blurs. The very pitter-patter of the rain paled in comparison to the ovation from Fight Club spectators. He’d never heard cheering so loud, so obnoxious, or so deafening.

The champion twirled in the limelight, smirking having never left his face. Raindrops crashed onto his bare torso and left him glistening and ethereal in the masked moonlight.

This man was not a monster. He looked nothing like a monster.

But not all villains were.

One, two, three, four on the exhale.

No matter how inexplicable V may be, Jungkook would not stand down. So, drenched in his own trepidation, Jungkook stiffened his upper lip and refused to avert his stare. He had gone through far too much to quit now. He restrained the tremble in his balled, scarred fists.

Not all villains were monsters. Not at heroes were fearless.

“Coach.” Jungkook felt small and insecure; his tone reflected his fluctuating emotions. “Can I win this?”

Seokjin’s grin wavered as he caught a flash of reluctance in his fighter. “Fight smart. He is the undisputed champion for a reason.”

Jungkook nodded in understanding and swallowed hard. He turned his attention back to his opponent, the champion. From Jungkook’s perspective along the outer rim of the pit, the fighter known as V looked normal. But in the dim glow of the clouded moon, spotlighted by moonbeams reflecting whimsically off glass shards, Kim Taehyung was the perfect enigma.

Jimin pressed his forehead against Jungkook’s, hands clamped to each shoulder. In a whisper of encouragement, he quizzed his teammate, “Hey Jungkook, what’s the first rule of training?”

Hoseok and Yoongi exchanged glances, but Jungkook smiled because he knew.

“Give him hell, Jeon Jungkook.” Jimin demanded as he pressed their foreheads together harder before sending his best friend and teammate into the fight pit. The cheering intensified; the rainstorm intensified.

The only thing preventing contact between the two fighters was the officiator, a suit-clad man with a low timbre voice. Loudly he announced the main draw of the night, the crux of Ultimate Fight Night, “The following fight is for Fight Club glory and championhood. Introducing first, hailing from Daegu… the undefeated, undisputed, longest-reigning champion of Fight Club: Kim “V” Taehyung!” He paused to allow for the boisterous uproar of support, “And introducing the challenger, from Busan… the underdog: Jeon Jungkook!” The hollering wasn’t as loud, but Hoseok and Jimin sure made a raucous.

“Now gentlemen, you know the rules. Anything in violation of said rules yields automatic disqualification. Anything else is fair game. Understand?”

They acknowledged the officiator with a nod.

“Well, without further ado…” The officiator backed slowly away from Jungkook and the champion, “Fight!”

Jungkook lurched forth towards Taehyung but immediately spiraled to the side, juking the champion in favor of delivering the first strike of the fight – a cheap spinning elbow strike to the back of the skull. The bony tip of his elbow collided with the fragile vertebrae, but only slightly. Taehyung spiraled in accordance to Jungkook’s own, creating a dovetail that posed an equally unfavorable situation for Jungkook; much to his chagrin, a simmering pain cracked the back of his skull in a similar way he struck the champion. He fumbled back, fists up by his chin defensively, and made eye contact with the champion. Taehyung grinned back, mimicking Jungkook’s defensive posture. Nothing of value happened, just a stalemate in which they switched places in the pit. So much for striking first.

Acting on the remaining whim of the previous attack, Jungkook lunged forward again. This time, instead of a harmonized spiral of counterstrikes, Taehyung cranked forth to crowd Jungkook’s movements. He felt five sharp knuckles drive into his gut, no doubt rumbling his organs, before feeling five more knuckles across the delicate flesh of his cheek. Jungkook cried out in pain, maybe frustration, probably both; he stumbled to a halt, crimson liquid trickling down his chin, and crashed down onto the wet, dirty floor when an accompanying roundhouse kick from Taehyung disrupted his balance.

No second left empty, the champion capitalized on Jungkook’s vulnerability and pounced. With a stern knee pinning him down at the sternum and the other binding his striking arm, Taehyung punched Jungkook repeatedly and viciously. The fresh wound on Jungkook’s cheek spewed more blood with each mutilating strike. All attempts to block the onslaught were for naught, as Taehyung was particularly skilled in the counterstriking arts. His reflexes were quick and astute. He was always three steps ahead.

The unwavering flurries lapsed and Jungkook choked out a breath. Then, excruciating pain. Taehyung had found a large, rusted bolt loose on the bloodstained cement, tucked it into his fist with the sharp head pointed out, and continued his assault. His target was Jungkook’s naked, billowing chest, arms, and any other undamaged body part. Yet Jungkook did not fall limp.

“Fuck!” Jungkook screamed underneath the carnage, words gurgled from all the blood pooling into his mouth. Seokjin shifted uneasily. All the energy Jimin brought diminished. All the sunshine left Hoseok. Even Yoongi grew contempt.

Jimin yelled and shoved the obnoxious spectator to his left away from him out of anger. “The fuck is that!?”

“Park, get ahold of yourself!” Seokjin shouted without tearing his eyes away from the scene. Hoseok, however, watched the way Jimin’s cheeks burned red in vexation with an empathetic frown. He wasn’t innocent to the likes of Fight Club, but he was as concerned and infuriated as Jimin was at this so-called fighting.

Jimin pointed an offensive finger at the fighters in the pit, “That’s cheating! This isn’t a fight, damn it!”

“No rules have been broken. Fighters win by any means necessary.” Seokjin insisted, but there was an audible crack in his voice. Hoseok remained silent, fists balled painfully at his sides. Seokjin was only being rational, but Hoseok couldn’t help but feel spiteful. Jimin, however, did not mute his irritations.

“This is sick!” Jimin yelled, irrational. Coach just shot him a banishing look. Yoongi grasped Jimin’s hand in a desperate act to calm him down.

Taehyung, drunk with arrogance, dropped the bloodied bolt to the puddled floor and stretched his arms out victoriously. The crowd roared in response, but the noise roused Jungkook. He squinted to better discern the moment. Had he fallen into unconsciousness? No, through red-tinted vision he could still see the champion. His limbs did not thrash, nor even hazard a twitch, and numbness prickled his skin. Yet he was awake and aware.

Jungkook grappled with himself, limbs powerless, brain relenting; he was a close victim to the all-encompassing lure of unconsciousness, a sailor seduced by a beautiful siren song. Suddenly, ambush days seemed relevant. Necessary, almost. From them he enhanced willpower. So in this moment, this bloody and hopeless moment, he refused to succumb. He persisted. He fought on. All great fighters saw the demise of their glory days, but today was not Jungkook’s end. Taehyung would not be the one to end him.

His fingers twitched and a metallic clank stabbed through the white noise in his head. A bolt. The bolt. He weaved the bolt in between his fist, sharp end held secure by his little finger. Just as Taehyung turned his attention back to Jungkook, he gouged Taehyung in the eye with the very same rusted instrument the champion was using previously. Taehyung hissed and slumped back as he dug the heel of his palm into the sensitive socket of his eye.

Something evil, something inhuman overtook Jungkook’s body. Maybe he was delirious from lightheadedness and blood loss, or maybe, just maybe, he was truly as cold-blooded as a Fight Club champion should be.

In chaos was divinity. In divinity was chaos.

Here, now, in this purgatory between victory and death, Jungkook was chaos. Jungkook was divine.

The outline of Jungkook’s foot left an angry red mark in Taehyung’s chest. The champion, still fussing over his gouged eye, thrashed in the coolness of a particularly large puddle. The rain pelting in through the holes in the ceiling softened, so only light sprinkles littered Taehyung’s sweaty body. Around him, in the spaces were droplets crashed into the openness of the puddle, a trail of blood from Taehyung’s eye dissolved.

Coughing and sputtering blood, Jungkook wobbled to his feet with a different energy. Darkness stoned his gaze as he lurked forth like a shark smelling blood in the water. He smirked in a way reminiscent of Taehyung’s. Upon reaching the downed champion, he spat blood at Taehyung’s feet. The champion snarled.

And they fought on.

Unlike his other fights where flashy, powerful kicks and well-placed striking combinations prevailed, this fight only resorted to these martial arts staples when an environmental weapon was not readily accessible. Instead of a whirlwind of punches, a cloud of metallic dust shavings distracted offensive intentions; instead of strategic kicks, steel structures and support beams left bruises and shocked nerves. The champion Kim Taehyung and the challenger Jeon Jungkook fought with abandon, reckless and cruel and blood-soaked. Tricked by endorphins, overdosed on adrenaline, they embodied chaos; only false invincibility could deceive the human mind into enduring prolonged torture.

“You do this?” Yoongi asked, horrorstruck.

Jimin’s appalled cringe could be felt through the chill in his words. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

Coach stood motionless and pensive, like a marvelous statue awaiting an inevitable fall.

No matter how convinced he was of his own invincibility, Jungkook’s body was failing him. He staggered, head woozy, and vision red-stained. Too much blood loss was not only dangerous in his current situation, but it was imminent. His movements grew languid, as did his spirit. His fists felt so heavy, holding them up was difficult. In his diminishing awareness, Hoseok appeared in the form of a great, astounding light. It was always like this. In his darkest, lowest existence, Hoseok was a beacon of light and hope. It was as compelling as it was cliché.

From chaos came order. From order came divinity. Perhaps that was the missing link.

Perhaps Hoseok was the missing link.

With the last trickle of energy that remained, Jungkook pinned Taehyung to a rusted steel beam by the throat. Taehyung’s left eyebrow was oozing burgundy, his lips swollen purple and busted, and several cuts delved into one large slice along his jawline; there were irritated little pockmarks embedded in his arms that flashed metallic under the gleam of the moon. With Jungkook’s merciless grip on his throat, the champion sputtered in desperation. The rainstorm stopped, Taehyung’s breathing slowed, a hush settled over the crowd, and only the peaceful rumbles of thunder could be heard.

And in that grand moment of wondrous silence borne of Taehyung’s last conscious breath, Jungkook became Fight Club champion.

Jungkook became divine.

Not one second more, Jungkook, too, fell limp. In the heart of the once-effervescent pit, two bloodied rivals lay comatose. There was a puddle of blood for each puddle of chilly rain water. The dark clouds finally unveiled the glorious moonlight; it was strong and enveloping, a splendid witness to the Hell below.

Chapter Text

Happiness was not a constant emotion, for if happiness was constant then it would no longer be special. Life provided hard lessons that sometimes brought negativity, but positivity could only be appreciated after the experience of negativity. That was human emotion worked. But in this moment surrounded by friends, happiness was magnificent and contagious; it spread from each person like an arc of electricity, lighting up everyone’s face with bright smiles and crescent eye smiles.

Jimin beamed, cheeks radiating and teeth pearly. After suffering a grand loss at his fifth Fight Club bout, he was removed from the rankings and sidelined with a concussion. With no medical clearance, he felt chained, restricted from his mixed martial arts endeavors. From ringside he sat alienated, tasked with taking field notes about his teammate’s progress. Every day he watched Coach teach a new technique. The resentment started as minor itch, something to easily ignore, but eventually manifested into suppressed bitterness.

One day, a blonde man strolled by and tossed Jimin a homemade mixtape. Every day since, the enigmatic blonde known as Yoongi introduced Jimin to the entire realm of hip hop by way of mixtapes, music videos, history, and even emersion into the local underground hip hop scene. Yoongi always said music connected people, that heartbeats synced with synthetic beats and thoughts paralleled lyrics, and he was right. Even now Jimin, smiling and tipsy, studying the slight dimple on Yoongi’s cheek as he laughed, realized Yoongi was right.

Because everyone – Yoongi and Jimin, Jungkook and Hoseok, and even Coach – were sitting in the shape of a lumpy circle in the center of Seokjin’s coveted boxing ring drinking a pack of 7brau as Epik High played in between lulls of laughter.

Yoongi crinkled his nose at Jimin once he caught the younger staring at him, causing Jimin to avert his gaze bashfully. They had been dating for over eight months – hell, they had even moved in together two weeks ago – yet the butterflies in his stomach never ceased their incessant fluttering. When Jimin’s honeyed gaze flickered back up to Yoongi, the elder winked playfully at him.

Jungkook rolled his eyes in feigned disgust before swigging the final remains of his beer. “Yah! Get a room.”

“We will! In our new apartment!” Jimin chided, poking his tongue out in a very silly, very tipsy way.

In a tone smooth as silk, Yoongi added, “Actually, I was thinking right here on the mat we could fu-”

“This ring is for training purposes only. Do you understand?” Seokjin interjected, pointing the neck of his beer bottle accusatorily at the couple. “Jimin, I need you to confirm that you understand that.”

Jimin’s eyebrows furrowed and his cheeks flushed pink, though that was more likely due to the influence of alcohol. Yoongi chuckled to himself before drinking down the fermented liquid in large, audible gulps.

Jungkook belched loudly. Medical orders banned him from indulging in any alcohol beverages for at least a month, which had long past five months ago, but the medication he was prescribed warned not to mix with alcohol. He sneered anyway, a grunt of protest muffled in his throat when he first noticed the warning in extremely tiny print on his prescription bottle. Warnings be damned, he was going to toss back a few shots of soju to commemorate his miraculous victory. But Hoseok, sweet Hoseok, the man that sent Jungkook into an existential crisis involving his sexual orientation, lectured his reckless boyfriend of the lethality of his carelessness.

Tonight, Jungkook was officially medically cleared, which was the motivation for the night’s festivities. Six long months to the day marked his impressive victory over the undefeated Kim “V” Taehyung. Six long months to the day he had done the impossible and completely uprooted Fight Club. The underdog, Jeon Jungkook, victim of nothing but his own shortcomings and prey of violent resistance, prevailed through hardship. His victory provoked such an uproar that devout V fans rioted through the moonlit streets of Seoul, meriting unwanted attention from police.

Underground fighting was illegal. Fight club was illegal. Investigations pressed forth but no evidence surfaced. The heavy rainstorm washed away every last drop of crimson blood; even the lingering odors of copper and sweat vanished under the relentless raindrops. Fight Club was suspended temporarily, though it was unsure if such a hiatus was due to police investigation, revolting spectators, or for the systematic destruction of Fight Club from Jungkook’s inexplicable win.

Forbidden to fight, let alone spar, Jungkook was left in the humdrum routine of recovery. Through this, a certain understanding for Jimin surfaced. There was a peculiar darkness in watching someone else do something he cherished in his very soul that crushed him. But for any shade of darkness, there was equal parts light. Hoseok was the light that illuminated even the farthest reaches of his darkness. So in the dullness of recovery, astounding light shone through; Hoseok took Jungkook out on their first official date. They saw a crappy low-budget horror movie Hoseok pretended to not be horrified by, ate spicy pork bulgogi from a place Jimin recommended, and walked hand-in-hand down the salty docks in the marina in Jungkook’s redemption fight and the first place he ever met Hoseok.

Hoseok snaked a hand into the terribly torn opening of the 24-pack of 7brau placed beside Yoongi. Sounds of glass clanking together as he plucked a fresh bottle from the cardboard confines. Hoseok scanned the area for a bottle opener to no avail, which prompt Yoongi to fidget. As he repositioned himself, he realized he was sitting on the opener. With an awkward and slightly embarrassed laugh, Yoongi handed the bottle opener to Hoseok.

Hoseok popped off the bottle cap with an audible burst; bubbly, cream-colored foam erupted from the lip of the bottle and Hoseok licked at the side of it so it wouldn’t stain the ring canvas below. Yoongi caught Jimin gawking at Hoseok’s bottle, no doubt unaware that he was blatantly fixed to the scene. Entering Jimin’s line of vision, the outline of Yoongi’s face sharpened from blurred daubs of color to perfect clarity; the elder winked again, inciting embarrassment in Jimin once more.

Seokjin sat crossed-legged and silent, unaffected by the homoerotic situation; he chugged the rest of his beer and finished with a burp. Jungkook surely would’ve reacted had he not been slamming back his libation like an eager frat boy.

Yoongi raised his beer high in the air towards Hoseok, announcing in a slurred voice, “Aye, cheers for the new rap battle champion!”

Hoseok’s face lit up into an amazing expression of sunshine. He raised his newly-opened beer up beside Yoongi’s. Their bottles clanked together to signify their cheers, causing more fermented foam to spill over the lip.

“Congrats on your mixtape, hyung.” Hoseok added through refreshing sips of his cold 7brau.

Yoongi grinned. It wasn’t just the underground fight scene that changed drastically. The musical stylings of Min Yoongi swept through the underground masses like a plague, infecting everyone with creative and genuine music he had written, performed, and produced himself. The unique beats and awe-inspiring lyrics transcended the underground scene into a new appreciation for American-inspired Korean rap music. Yoongi’s popularity landed him an opportunity to perform with better known rap artists on a mainstream level while maintaining his musical integrity. He used his newfound leverage to boost Hoseok’s talents within the underground.

Perhaps it was due to popular opinion, or maybe newly established confidence was to blame, but Hoseok overcame his unfavorable rap battle losing streak by finally beating Kim Namjoon. The previous champion took his loss in stride, shook Hoseok’s hand, and offered Hoseok more performance time on stage with the trending rap crew at Phobia. His upbeat and energetic rap style proved to be a success compliment to Yoongi’s style, which granted him the opportunity to be featured in several of Yoongi’s songs. When Jimin would train mitts with Coach Seokjin as Jungkook was tasked to take diligent field notes, Hoseok and Yoongi came together to write lyrics and discuss beats.

The rappers’ success bled into Fight Club once all the police investigations halted. If Jungkook was in attendance, every Fight Club spectator in the immediate area flocked to the fight. Yoongi and Hoseok took advantage of the influx of people to shamelessly promote their music and the hip hop scene. Before long, a beautiful unity of both scenes emerged to establish a great sense of Korean pride.

“Man, I can’t go to my fights without people asking me if Min Yoongi is going to be there.” Jimin griped as he spun his empty beer bottle on the canvas, “I’m the attraction, not you.”

“Actually, I’m the attraction.” Jungkook corrected, leaning back on his palms of his hands.

“I’ll have to agree with that statement.” Hoseok gave his conceited boyfriend a playful once-over.

“You’re all delusional.” Yoongi’s voice echoed as he spoke directly into the bottleneck before taking a sip.

Seokjin huffed. “Or they’re there to watch fights because, you know, it is Fight Club.”

Jimin waved a dismissive, drunken hand at his coach. “Nah, that’s not it. It’s definitely for me.”

Jungkook simply shrugged at Coach. Seokjin grinned at his ridiculous fighters.

A lot had changed in a year. Seokjin had always been a private man and liked to live under the radar. His days in the limelight passed and he accepted that fact graciously, perhaps appreciatively. But once people caught wind that the Kim Seokjin of previous boxing fame was the coach of underdog Jeon Jungkook, his name filled the mouths of every aspiring Fight Club fighter. He respectfully turned them down, claiming he already had two fighters and they were enough of a handful. He always failed to mention his strategy of Park Jimin’s redeeming comeback.

So when Jimin’s first fight in nearly a year graced Fight Club one Thursday night, shock waves rippled through the fight scene. Rumors of treachery and betrayal circulated, claiming Seokjin was training Jimin to dethrone his own fighter, Jeon Jungkook. All lies, they were; Jungkook was overwhelming supportive of Jimin’s comeback and constantly teased his teammate about their potential championship fight.

He told him champions didn’t suckerpunch their challenger in the mouth.

Everyone’s life took unexpected turns and happiness littered even the darkest places if one was willing to welcome it in. Some graciously accepted their life lessons, others rejected the very nature of their being.

Regardless of one’s chosen path, life went on and things changed. Not everything was worth fighting.

But to a fighter, fighting was worth everything.

But that’s just how they did it in the school of hard knocks.