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Dear Jimmy,
My mouth is full of blood. Jimmy, when you spoke of Hell, did you mean this place? Did you mean me? A man will break your back like it is nothing. He will not ask your forgiveness, but you will have to forgive him. They will try to repair you. They will put you down and open you up, but you will lean like a bad house. A man will smile and say, “You lean like a bad house.” He will smile and say, “It is your own fault.” Jimmy, if I forgive again, will I sit with you at the table of God? I lean like a bad house. I never stop bleeding. I forgive you. I forgive you.
– NO.1 // Forgiveness, Lingua Ignota.
It doesn’t take much grovelling on Eddie’s part to be taken out of the little leagues and into the games with the grownups. Actually, it doesn’t take any grovelling at all. Keegan—the truck driver who moonlights as an underground fighting ring entrepreneur—doesn’t see him as much more than a money bag in a flesh suit, and as far as Eddie’s concerned it’s a mutually beneficial agreement. The thing about all of this is: they love this. They love to see a guy fight like a vet without his tags on. All that muddled-up aggression with nowhere else for it to go. See, Eddie’s not out there bombing on them anymore, but he’s never stopped fighting. Not really, and especially not in his head. Lena just reminded him. Reminded him there is always someone out there willing to take it, take it from him, the burden—at least for ten minutes, or five, at least for the right price.
Crowd is loud tonight. Eddie can hear them—their posturing, whooping cheers—mostly men, but some women too. Girlfriends who didn’t know what Darryl the construction guy liked to get up to on his Fridays off, girls with adrenaline addictions, girls that maybe like to see a little blood and soot on a man’s face.
Keegan doesn’t go pretending this is anything more than it is; no fancy sirens, or ring girls, or walkout music; first Eddie is wrapping his own fists in white tape, and then he’s in the ring. He bounces foot to foot, testing his weight on his left knee that got the brutal end of a roundhouse kick only two nights before. It creaks but doesn’t give. It’s good enough for him. His opponent hasn’t entered yet. He doesn’t know who it’ll be—has fought all types of dogs since getting out of the playpen—finds the most exciting ones are the smaller guys; the ones that are lithe, a little pretty, too much hair to pull on and not enough weight to throw him around. Those guys are always the ones who fight nasty. He’s gotten more than one fingernail close to his eye, down his ribs, his head cranked back on his neck till he hears a pop. It’s—fun. And it always ends one way. An underdog’s only an underdog until Eddie wipes the footing right from under them.
Eddie cracks his knuckles, shakes his arms to keep them loose and warm. The guy is taking too long. He looks up to the stage above the nosebleeds and catches Keegan’s dark eyes. Keegan nods. The guy enters. He’s shirtless, built like a goddamn boulder; even taller than Eddie is, and Eddie is tall. The shadows at the edge of the ring keep most of him in the dark, so he can’t see the guy’s hair or eye colour, but he can see his carved abdomen, his pale knees, the black shorts that fall just above them. He’s barefoot, balled fists falling just below his waistline. The shape of him—sturdy, yes, but also—familiar.
“Give it up,” Keegan yells, his voice disembodied and loud with the way Eddie won’t tear his eyes away from his opponent’s shadowed face. “For Diaz and–and Buck! Fighters ready?”
Eddie’s lips part. Like a puppet on some fucked up string he steps forward, into the yellow light of the ring, and surely enough his hair is cropped short, blond, his eyes blue, that red speck kissed against his brow bone. Surely enough. It really is Buck.
“What are you—” Eddie starts, at the same time Buck steels his sharp jaw and yells, “Ready!”
“I’m not,” Eddie swallows, his throat suddenly tight, stepping further into the light. “I’m not going to fight you, Buck.”
Buck doesn’t stand down. When does he ever? He’d look natural here, in this lighting, those clothes, if Eddie didn’t know him so well—he’s in way over his head, hanging with crowds like this, with Eddie when he’s like this—the man he used to be, the man that ran away from his wife and newborn, the man of the deserts. No, Buck doesn’t even blink. He just smiles a fish-hook smile, no lip and all teeth, full of gut. “Then tap out.”
Eddie wants to—hit him, knock some sense into his thick skull. He balls his fists instead. “I can’t,” he says.
Buck only gives him a half-shrug for the effort. “And neither can I.”
“Buck—”
“And fight!” Keegan yells—the sounds of the crowd swallowing up the ending syllable of the announcement. Anything Eddie could hope to say to Buck would fall on deaf ears, now. So he doesn’t try and talk. It’s obvious Buck isn’t listening.
They circle one another on the matted ring floor, up on the balls of their feet, almost weightless. Buck doesn’t show any sign that he isn’t in this a hundred percent so—neither does Eddie. Eddie swings. His right fist, balled tight, aimed at the pretty little mark on Buck’s eye.
Buck dodges just in time. That or Eddie didn’t really aim. He shakes his head, sweat already beading his hair wet, refocusing on Buck’s hulking, awkward frame. “Come on,” Eddie growls, under his breath, when they circle close enough to knock foreheads. “Give it up, Evan.”
“Not before you do,” Buck says, jumping back on his hind foot. “Come on, Diaz,” he goads, louder, not for Eddie but for the crowds, the sharks swimming red in the dark, “You scared?”
Eddie scoffs. “Of you?”
Buck shrugs again. “Yeah. I guess that is what I’m saying. I’m saying: are you scared, Diaz?”
“No,” Eddie snarls out, dog-hungry, his hands rising by themselves. If Buck won’t listen—he’ll have to make him listen. He’ll—he’ll make him. “Fuck off.”
Buck cranes his neck up to laugh. A stupid move, ‘cause Eddie is propelling forward, aiming a stray elbow that catches good in Buck’s side, makes him fold into himself, feet stuttering back.
“Give it up,” Eddie says again. “Tap out.”
“No,” Buck rasps, his voice cracking with passion. He always puts all of himself into what he believes in. This is no different. Stubborn as a mule, this one, and Eddie almost finds himself smiling that smile, the Buck Smile, the one that is found and comes from somewhere deep in his belly. “Fight me properly.”
Eddie clenches his jaw. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for. I’ll—I don’t want to hurt you, Buck.”
“And who says I’m the one that will be hurting?” Buck asks. When he does, he sends a surprise hook Eddie’s way, one that he narrowly misses. The quick movement causes his balance to shift, tilting too much to the side, leaving his knee exposed. When Buck kicks—Eddie almost folds under the pain. He tries to bite it back, the wince, and the rough groan, but Buck notices. He always does. “Eddie—”
Eddie forces himself to steady through the pain, and keep his head in the game. He channels the anger he feels, aims it in one place and one place only. His fists.
“You wanted it,” Eddie says. “Don’t back out now.”
Buck rolls his lips, squaring up. “Who’s backing out?”
“Not me,” Eddie snarls.
Buck punches. It’s wide, misses Eddie’s face by a longshot. “Then good.”
There’s something about Buck, something that’s always gotten under Eddie’s skin. Something about him that’s so earnest and full, something exhausting, as Eddie remembers saying once, that day in the grocery store. It’s something about Eddie knowing he isn’t half the man Buck is, something so tiring to try and keep up with. Something Buck can’t understand, not when he’s always bulldozing around.
“Hit me,” Buck goads. His fists rest at his chin, thick fingers curled tight, going white. “You know you want to. Right here, in the mouth. Huh? Come on, Diaz, hit—”
What he does doesn’t register until Buck is gasping, stumbling back on the mat until his back thumps into the plastic. His teeth are a shiny, gleaming red, blood pooling between his lips and down the side of his chin. Eddie’s fingers match; red all around. It scares him—how good it feels. How the remorse doesn’t hit right away. The euphoria is always first.
“Like that?” Eddie says. He walks right up and Buck doesn’t move from the edge of the ring, only narrowly missing the throw he sends toward Buck’s rib. “You want to be reckless? Then—”
His words are cut short when Buck sends a knee into his sternum, making him choke on it, the words, and the very air he’s trying to breathe. He groans and tries to put some space between them but Buck is insistent, coming forward, taking Eddie’s space for himself. He gets his arms around Eddie’s middle and squeezes him, hard, getting a foot behind his bum knee until it falters and gives out, both of them tumbling down to the mats beneath their feet.
“You’re the one,” Buck pants, trying to hold Eddie’s flailing limbs, “being reckless. What is this, huh? Fight Club?”
“Shut up,” Eddie yells, again, trying to get his feet under him to switch their positions on the ground. His entire middle is exposed. His legs, the throbbing pain in his left knee sending alarm bells through his head. “You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t,” says Buck, finally losing grip. “You don’t talk to me—”
“Why should I?” Eddie asks. He’s switched their positions, Buck’s back flat against the floor, pinned under Eddie’s weight. He jabs two elbows into the same side he’d hit earlier, not quite revelling in the pained gasps they bring him. “Just for you to go tell some lawyer?”
The hurt in Buck’s eyes swims with the blue. They look wet, either from the pain or the exertion. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t know,” Eddie says for him. “You never know. When are you going to grow the hell up?”
Buck thrashes, getting his arms loose. He’s got power in them, his long, winding arms, the strength of his built forearms and biceps; a couple hits to Eddie’s own limbs has his hold readily weakening, readily giving away. Buck’s got weight on his side—he flips their positions again, Eddie on the floor now, Buck straddling his hips. He can’t get his balance back, his arms pinned to the sides of his head. He’s thrashing and squirming but Buck isn’t budging at all.
“Get the fuck off me,” Eddie yells, feeling panicked, helpless. Out of control. Buck’s nails are piercing the skin of his wrists. He doesn’t let up. “Get off, Buck, I swear to God—”
“No,” Buck says—his voice breaks again. Even though he isn’t in pain his eyes are still watering. Threatening to spill. “Stop fighting, Eddie,” he—pleads. “Please. Tap out.”
“No—”
“Please,” Buck says again. “Tap out.”
“No,”
“Eddie—”
It’s a split-second, but a split-second is enough. Enough for Buck to lose a little bit of focus, for his grip to lighten for just a pulse, and Eddie releases his arm, balls a fist, and punches him hard across the face. Buck’s head cracks to the side, his weight falling lop-sided across Eddie’s lap. Now his nose is bleeding, gushing really, down into his mouth. Buck chokes on the blood, hand up to his face, tears free-falling with the strike to his sinuses.
Eddie spins around and gets him in a leg-lock, his mouth just above Buck’s ear. “Tap out, Buck,” he growls under his breath. “I don’t want to hurt you. Tap out.”
“You’re gonna—” Buck wheezes, muddled by the blood, “You’re gonna have to knock me out.”
“Goddamn stubborn—”
“I’m not giving up on you,” Buck says. His face is all red, flushed. Down his shoulders and up to the tips of his ears. “You or Christopher. I’m not going–anywhere.”
Eddie’s eyes widen. It doesn’t sound like pity, coming from him. Not at all.
“I won’t,” Buck says, breath short, “Because I love you.”
“You—”
“I,” Buck says, “love you.”
It isn’t Eddie who releases the hold, not consciously. He doesn’t have any control of his body. Buck can pin him back down, in a chokehold, legs between his and keeping them down against the floor. Buck is reverent behind him, repeating, over and over and over: tap out. I love you. Please stop fighting me. I love you. Tap out.
Eddie—he smacks twice against the mat and a whistle blows; Buck lets go of him immediately, rushing to lift his hanging head, and look into his eyes.
“I love you, huh?” Buck urges again, smiling against the blood. “Crazy bastard.”
Eddie feels like sobbing. Or maybe he already is. “I—love you too, Evan. Jesus.” He presses his bare arm to the underside of Buck’s nose, catching the blood as well as a light hiss of pain. “I’m sorry about that,” he says. “You’re formidable.”
“Eh, not the worst I’ve ever gotten,” Buck says. “It was worth it.”
Eddie sniffs, wiping his eyes with his free hand. “Crazy bastard,” he says.
Buck, being Buck, only grins. “Let me fix you up?”
Eddie nods, smiling too. “But I think you’re the one that needs the fixing.”