Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fighter stares at the ceiling. It’s what he’s been doing for most of the day, really, staring at something. The ceiling is a good choice, it’s just blank and white, nothing to focus on, nothing that demands his attention. Just an empty space to stare at, to lose himself in. Every sense of time eludes him.

Can you just let me go?

Tutor’s words play over and over in his mind. Tutor’s face, that fake smile, his tears, it all repeatedly pushes to the forefront of Fighter’s mind. Tutor looked like he was hurting. He was hurting. Wet tears combine with the already sticky-dry residue of old tears on Fighter’s face.

Why was Tutor hurting? Why was he suffering so much?

Because of Fighter, because Fighter held him too tightly. Tutor just wanted to be let go. He just wanted to be free and Fighter tried to hold on too tightly. It was too much, and Fighter didn’t give him enough, and Tutor just didn’t want him anymore. Didn’t want him. Doesn’t want him. Being held like that, being this close to Fighter must have been so awful, so he cried about it.

Please, Phi, I can’t take it anymore.

It was too much. Too much for him. The relationship was too much. Fighter was too much. Wanted too much. Did too much. Felt too much.

No more, please. No more, it’s too much. Too much Fighter.

I’m not enough. Fighter is helpless in the whirl of his thoughts, the memories. I never was enough. Wasn’t able to be enough for him. Was too much.

He is not enough in some places, too much in others. He’s like a jigsaw puzzle that just doesn’t fit together, the pieces not lining up. He wanted too much, too intensely. He gave into himself too easily, didn’t give Tutor enough in return. Didn’t support enough, didn’t listen enough. He should’ve paid more attention. Should’ve paid more attention to how Tutor wanted Fighter’s love.

Can you just let me go?

Not enough but too much. Too repressed yet too forward.

You promised.

He messed up. Fighter messed up so bad. And he doesn’t even know how. Doesn’t understand. He’s still so confused. Where did it go wrong? Where did Tutor start being uncomfortable with him?

Not enough.

He really fucked up.

Was it ever even real?

The thought cuts through Fighter’s heart like a chainsaw, leaving the edges torn and raw. His face scrunches up with fresh tears as he chokes on a sob. His face is hurting, his chest is hurting. What is left of his heart is pulsing painfully.

Let’s pretend to be lovers, those were Fighter’s own words. Did Tutor take them seriously? Was it all fake—did he just pretend?

Fighter remembers how Tutor looked at him, looked under him. He remembers when Tutor told him he loved him, remembers how Tutor felt in his arms, how happy he was when Tutor snuggled up against himself. He remembers how happy Tutor seemed, how calm and at ease. Was none of that real? Was that just Fighter’s wishful thinking?

I wanted too much.

Was any of it even real?

Fighter jumps up. He’s unsteady on his legs, stumbles against the wall and has to use his forearms to support himself. His limbs barely feel like they’re still connected to his body, but he drags himself out of his room and down into the kitchen anyways. Thankfully, his father keeps an array of expensive wine bottles in the fancy and unnecessary wine cooler. Fighter chooses a bottle at random and gets a wine glass, not caring in the slightest about all the stuff about appropriate wine glasses for red and white and proper decanting times and techniques he’s learned from his father and the never-ending social functions and events he has to attend. He uncorks the bottle gracelessly and fills up the glass to the brim, takes three big gulps, and then lets himself plop down onto one of the barstools. The red wine leaves his tongue feeling velvety and gross, but at least this is something he’s used to. He can deal with that, holds onto the sensation with all his might.

But it’s of no use. Tutor’s face pushes back into his mind, takes up all the space it can. Tutor crying. Tutor fake-smiling. Tutor moaning his name. Tutor shaking off his grip.

Can you just let me go?

Fighter had attempted to live his life as he normally would. He got dressed in the morning, drank some coffee, went to class. Couldn’t focus at all. Debated skipping the rest of the day. Saw Tutor going up on the escalator at the same time Fighter was going down. Felt his heart clench painfully when Tutor didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Had to put every little speck of willpower he had left into giving Tutor the same treatment. Had to hide in the restroom for a couple minutes to fight the tears back down and to control his breathing. Went back home, uncaring of the classes he missed. It’s of no use anyways.

Tutor’s crying face doesn’t leave him alone. If Tutor had just wanted to break up, why did he look like it was hurting him so much? If Tutor truly hadn’t wanted Fighter anymore, then why was he willing to pretend at first? Why was he trying to make it seem like everything was alright, to then start crying when he asked to be let go?

Fighter must have messed up. He must have hurt him. It must have been his fault somehow, and it’s eating him alive that he doesn’t know what it is. What did he do wrong? How can he go on with his life knowing he hurt one of the most important people he’s ever had the chance of holding? How can he let Tutor go without any sort of explanation?

Nobody cares about my feelings, Tutor’s words echo in Fighter’s mind. Everyone just hurts me.

Please, Fighter leans down onto his arms, hangs his head. He doesn’t understand. Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me apologize. Tell me how to fix it.

He takes another sip of wine. He’s not drunk, he’s not even tipsy, but maybe the alcohol does give him a bit of a boost with his courage, because he takes his phone and goes to Tutor’s contact and only hesitates for a moment before pressing the call button. He’s just so confused. He has to know. Has to try, at least.

Please don’t leave me. He sees Tutor’s tear-streaked face. Please come back to me.

His call goes to voicemail, so Fighter hangs up and tries it again. And again. And again.

Eventually, he lets the voicemail announcement run through. “Tutor,” he starts, says the other’s name like it’s an awakening. It is, of sorts, because suddenly he realizes he has to say it now, has to put into words what he’s thinking, and has to do it in such a way that won’t shut Tutor out even further. His mind seems empty. He swallows, hesitates. “Are we really going to be like this?” Can you just let me go? “I’m so confused.” Please don’t leave. “At least tell me what I did wrong.” Please come back. “I’m ready to change it for you if it makes you uncomfortable.” Please. “I’m begging you, Tor.” He takes a breath and it feels like it’s his first since he said Tutor’s name. “If you’re ready, please call me back.”

Fighter ends the call there. He doesn’t know what he was expecting to happen, but it’s not the silence settling back down around him. He’s uneasy with it, feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He wills Tutor to answer him, to call him right this moment, but that’s—

Too much.

He takes another sip of his wine. It tastes bitter on his tongue.

His phone vibrates with a new message. Fighter feels like an electric shock hits him when he sees Tutor’s name flash on the screen. He grabs and unlocks it immediately and doesn’t hesitate to run when he understands that Tutor is willing to see him at the faculty building.

Please come back, repeats in Fighter’s head over and over as he makes his way over. He might be speeding a little, but his mind is somewhat preoccupied with not vibrating out of his body. Tutor is willing to see him and to talk to him, to explain to Fighter what went wrong. He’s acknowledging Fighter and his need to understand. Maybe—maybe they can make this right.

Fighter tries to rein in the hope that’s trying to settle in his chest, and he fails spectacularly. Tutor talking to him doesn’t mean he will change his mind, doesn’t mean he will come back—but at least he’s talking to me.

Fighter parks his car and makes his way into the main building. Tutor didn’t specify where to meet exactly, but Fighter is planning to try the spots Tutor usually hangs out at, and if he can’t find him, he’ll shoot him a message. He steps onto the escalator, trying to calm himself down. He’s Fighter—cool, collected, unbothered Fighter—not a fumbling little schoolboy who had his heart broken and jumps at every peep Tutor makes. At least, he’s that kind of Fighter to the majority of the student body. He hopes.

Then, his heart stops. There is Tutor. Tutor is right here, right on that other escalator—but he’s not alone. He has an arm slung around another boy, smaller, daintier, looking much younger. Tutor smiles at that boy, talks to him as if they’re close, looks at—

“P’Tor,” the boy calls out as Fighter quietly glides past them. He’s staring, he knows he is. His jaw must hang to the floor. His eyes are wild.

Please—

His heart is stuttering in his chest, apparently not remembering how to beat a steady rhythm. Fighter feels hot, all of a sudden, so entirely, incredibly hot. It’s white and it burns and it fills him, reaches out from his chest, fills every crack of his mangled body.

Nothing makes sense.

When did that happen? Where is this boy coming from? Fighter thinks he remembers him being one of Tutor’s students. But still, they literally just came back from vacation, and they spent so much of their free time together since. When did that happen?

Was it ever real?

Fighter’s stomach convulses so hard, he might actually throw up.

Pretend to be—

Was Tutor just out to hurt him? All this time? Was this a game, did he need to prove a point to someone?

Can you just let me go?

Tutor was crying. Tutor was hurting. Tutor was suffering so much when he broke up with Fighter. Fighter fucked up, it was Fighter’s fault, it was—not some random boy who tried to take advantage of Tutor’s kindness. It can’t be. This can’t be it.

Please, Phi, I can’t take any more.

Was it ever real?

Fighter balls his hands into fists. It’s not this boy, Fighter is sure of it. None of it has to do with this boy. And yet Tutor still brought him around, let Fighter think they were going to talk, let Fighter think they could at least save a piece of friendship, let Fighter hope—just to slap him across the face.

Just to hurt him.

“You want it this way, Tor?” Fighter mumbles under his breath. His jaw clenches until it hurts at the hinges. His fists ball even tighter, the nails pressing in hard enough to break skin. He is so confused. He just doesn’t understand. And now he’s also angry.

Tutor and that boy are long gone when Fighter’s body remembers what movement is. He starts walking, and his autopilot takes him to his car. He doesn’t know whether Tutor will be at his condo, but it’s the only chance Fighter has. Tutor told him he’d give him a reason, but all Fighter got was a load of bullshit.

Can you just let me go?

Fighter’s face is grim, his frown pulling his eyebrows in deeply. He sees Tutor’s face again, his sweet smile, the way he laughs, the serene expression in his sleep. His tears. His pleading.

No, Fighter thinks, and he’s not sure whether it’s his mind or his heart talking. I won’t let you go like this.

He tries to hold onto his anger, tries to let it fuel him, trusts it to make him know the right words to say, but he can’t help but remember the times Tutor smiled at him, the time Tutor told him I love you too. It hurts. It all leaves a gaping wound right in his heart.

Why do you hurt me like this? Fighter is desperate. He sees Tutor enter the apartment building just as he pulls up in the parking lot. Perfect timing.

Don’t you remember?

He makes his way up to Tutor’s floor.

Did I hurt you so bad you can’t remember?

He needs to know. Fighter just needs to know.

Was it ever real?

He gets to Tutor’s front door right before Tutor can close it, and he forces his way inside even though Tutor tries to lean against the door and shut him out. Fighter is inside, and then he’s right in front of Tutor, has him against the wall—tell me, was it real?

He’s frantic as he leans in to press wet kisses to Tutor’s neck and his clothes chest.

“P’Fight!” Tutor complains. He tries to push Fighter away, but Fighter doesn’t let that happen. He catches Tutor’s hands and pins them to the wall, leans in to taste Tutor’s skin on his lips again. Tutor doesn’t stop struggling. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

“Yes, I’m crazy,” Fighter all but yells at the other. His body is strung tight and he’s sweating. He’s so hot. It’s blazing, and it’s driving him crazy. He’s desperate and angry and so hurt, and now Tutor is right there, is right in front of him, and what else is there to pay attention to? “I’m crazy because I love you!”

Tutor looks at him, his eyes wild and clear, angry in his own right. Fighter leans in for a kiss, but it’s not pleasant at all, it’s just them fighting. Tutor tries to shove him and succeeds this time. Fighter stumbles backwards, taken aback.

“Get out, Phi!” Tutor shouts and crowds him further back against the door. This does not look like the Tutor Fighter has come to know.

Can you—Please—Don’t.

Fighter pushes Tutor back into the wall. He must look wild. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s hurting? Huh?” he demands. He wills Tutor to talk to him with everything he’s got. But Tutor just looks agitated, closed off. He glares at Fighter.

“I’ve told you everything,” he spits out, “What else do you want from me?”

“Told me everything?” Fighter repeats, in part almost finding it funny how Tutor is still trying to keep that up, but mostly just absolutely incredulous. His pain is pulsing, he feels it in his belly and against his ribs, and his anger is rearing its ugly head in response. He drags Tutor across the hallway and presses him up against the other side, completely disregards Tutor’s demands of, “Let go of me.”

Can you just let me—Fighter has no mind for that right now.

“You’ve told me everything?” Fighter repeats once again and leans in close. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you really think I don’t know what’s going on?”

He leans in again, leans down to Tutor’s neck and closes his lips around whichever patch of skin he can reach. Tutor struggles against him, though, and pushes him away once more. Fighter’s back collides with the opposite wall. They end up staring at each other, wild and hurt.

“What do you want from me?” Tutor demands. Fighter almost snorts in reply.

An explanation? Too easy. Sympathy? Impossible, it seems. The truth?

“What I want,” he starts. The way Tutor is looking at him drives him crazy. Not the good kind of crazy. “I want things to be like they were back at the beach.” He steps up to Tutor, leans in closer, puts his hands onto the button of his jeans, as if Tutor will understand the meaning, will understand that it’s not a threat. “I’m afraid you might forget.”

Tell me.

He presses his lips to Tutor’s, hard and without any finesse.

Was it real?

“Let go of me!” Tutor yells, but as he goes to push Fighter away this time, Fighter simply grabs him by the wrist and pulls him along, further into the condo. Tutor is struggling against his grip, but Fighter is relentless and simply drags him along towards Tutor’s bedroom.

“Come here,” Fighter mumbles and swings Tutor around so he lands on his bed, follows the other immediately so Tutor doesn’t even get the chance to get back up or move away.

“Let me go!” Tutor demands again and again. Fighter disregards it, pins Tutor’s hands to the bed and hovers over him for just a moment. It’s reminiscent of earlier instances, Fighter realizes, but it’s so starkly different. Nothing about this feels good. Nothing about his harsh grip and the wild, hot desperation in his veins and the look of anger on Tutor’s face is pleasant.

Was it ever real?

Fighter leans down to connect their lips. He tries to be more gentle, more like he used to do it. But Tutor turns his head away, denies the touch. “Let go of me, Phi.”

Can you let me go?

“Do you remember? Back at the beach?” Fighter asks. Tutor rolls his head back so he can look up at Fighter. His eyes are wide, gleam with defiance and hurt. He looks so much like the Tutor Fighter thought he knew. “Do you remember the taste?”

Tell me. Please.

Tutor frowns up at him. He squints his eyes. Is he going to cry? Fighter doesn’t want that. No more crying. Tutor hates crying. Why is he always making Tutor cry?

Fighter leans back down to lick and suck at Tutor’s neck, on one side, then on the other. The fight seems to bleed out of Tutor’s body, because he grows soft, almost pliant, under Fighter’s own. Tutor goes completely still. When Fighter lets one of his wrists go to run his hand underneath Tutor’s shirt, to feel some more if the warm skin he’s missed, Tutor doesn’t move his free hand. It simply stays put.

“Do you remember it?” Fighter leans up. He has to ask. He has to know.

Was it real?

Tutor is still frowning, still looks—fragile. He looks so fragile underneath all his frustration and defiance. Fighter hates it. He doesn’t know what to do about it. He doesn’t know anything, doesn’t understand. He’s still so confused. Nothing makes sense. This—whatever the hell is happening right now, it doesn’t make any sense.

Please.

He leans down, his body leans down on its own accord, and their lips connect. This time it’s softer, because this time it’s an actual kiss. It’s an actual kiss—Tutor is kissing him back. He’s not struggling, is not trying to get away, is not pushing at Fighter and yelling at him. He is kissing him back. Soft and slow and real.

Fighter’s brain doesn’t compute, but he decides that that’s something to deal with later. He has this now, he has Tutor here now. Nothing else matters at the moment.

“Do you remember?” he asks weakly when he leans up again. Tutor simply looks at him, his expression unreadable. Fighter doesn’t know what to do with that.

He rucks up Tutor’s shirt and leans down, leans down Tutor’s body to kiss the now bared skin. He breathes in Tutor’s scent, now fully aware of it again for the first time. Tutor’s just lying there, motionless. He doesn’t move to shove Fighter away, but he also doesn’t move in reaction to Fighter kissing and licking at his skin, he doesn’t make any sounds, doesn’t acknowledge Fighter on top of it at all, it seems.

Please—

There’s something so incredibly frantic, so incredibly desperate growing inside Fighter’s belly.

He sits back up and his hands go to unbutton Tutor’s pants. What more does he have to do? What more can he give? What more does Tutor want?

“Are you satisfied now, P’Fight?” Tutor asks, voice cold. Fighter sits up and looks at Tutor, really looks at him. He becomes aware of what position they’re in. Of what situation he’s maneuvered them into. What this looks like.

Tutor doesn’t look at him. He’s staring off to the side, gaze hard and cold. He’s still not moving. He’s given into Fighter—given up. This is not Tutor doing things willingly. This is Fighter taking, because he’s used to taking, because he’s used to being given, this is Fighter acting upon his hurt and his anger and—

Too much. Not fucking enough.

He gets off Tutor and off the bed, watches as Tutor jerks his shirt down. He staggers where he stands. His knees threaten to give in, his shoulders are shaking. He sits down before he can fall and leans against the cabinet behind him.

I fucked up.

One more thing to add to the list of things that he has hurt Tutor with. At the very least, this time he’s aware of it.

Tutor sits at the edge of the bed, decidedly not looking at Fighter. Only now does Fighter fully realize that his necklace is dangling around Tutor’s neck. Why? He’s so confused. He came here to get answers, to talk, and instead he overpowered Tutor, forced him into a situation Tutor didn’t want. And now Fighter’s the one who has to talk, has to try and make things right.

How is he supposed to make things right? He doesn’t even know what was wrong in the first place.

Can you just let me go?

There are tears in his eyes.

But why?

He has nothing left to lose. This is it. This is his last chance to make Tutor talk to him, if he even still has that chance left. This is his last chance to make Tutor understand. He needs Tutor to understand. Even if that means Fighter has to lay bare his very soul to the other. The thought, the prospect alone terrifies him. But Tutor has already seen him, has already known him. This is just the rest of it, the ugly truth.

Too much.

Fighter tries to speak, opens his mouth, but no words come out. It’s hard to talk about his feelings. It’s even harder to do when he’s so scared. But he’s even more scared of not doing it, he finds. “You made me lose my mind, Tor,” he says. There are tears in his voice, making it all wobbly and unsteady. “Do you even know how hard it is for me to open up to you?”

It’s all real. It’s always been real.

Tutor looks at him pensively. He looks like he’ll jump or run or explode at a single wrong word Fighter says.

“From the first day I met you, I barely even realized myself,” Fighter tries to explain. He doesn’t know how to put into words that it took him a while to figure out that he’s attracted to Tutor, and that it terrified him. Not Tutor, never Tutor, but everyone else. Mainly, he was scared of himself. “I had such strange feelings for you, and I didn’t understand. But now I know, I’ve liked you from that very first day.” He had yearned, and he had tried to get closer. He had struggled with himself, had needed to figure out how to approach another boy, how to approach Tutor. “I tried to step away, but the more I run from you, the closer I want to be.”

He is crying, full-on sobbing. He doesn’t know what to do with himself. His hands are shaking, his head is aching, right behind his eye sockets. This feels like grief. Like he’s mourning. Maybe it’s for is younger self, scared of finding out he likes men, scared of others finding out he likes men, scared of letting himself have Tutor. Scared of not being able to have Tutor. Maybe it’s for his current self, having loved and having lost and having fucked up and having been punished for it.

Please don’t leave me.

Tutor looks like he’s crying. That—doesn’t really make sense.

“Until the day I opened up to you, and you opened up to me,” Fighter goes on. Because now he has to. He has to make Tutor understand. He’s hurting. Please. He makes his way onto his knees somehow, crawls forward until he can crouch before Tutor. He looks up at him, tries to make him see. Was it ever real? “I was so happy. I was so fucking happy with you.” He didn’t know his face could crumble even more. “But why? If there’s something wrong, why can’t you just tell me?”

He can’t handle the way Tutor looks at him. Why is Tutor crying? He’s making the other cry again. He doesn’t understand. It’s just too much. Always too much. Never enough.

His posture, his entire being crumbles down onto Tutor’s lap. He’s pressing his face into one of Tutor’s thighs and sobs into it, crawls his fingers into Tutor’s pants. He feels Tutor’s hands on his shoulders, rubbing along soothingly. It’s the comfort he’s been seeking.

“I already left,” Fighter cries into Tutor, “But then you became like this.”

Suddenly, the hands on his shoulders grip him hard and shove him backwards until he’s separated from Tutor completely. Fighter’s breath catches in his throat as he looks up at Tutor, his heart stutters in confusion and apprehension.

No—please.

“Enough is enough,” Tutor says. His face is wet with tears, but his voice is void of any emotion. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.” Fighter sits back and his body just collapses into itself. “But if you must know right now, I don’t love you anymore.” There is ice in Fighter’s veins, spreading slowly, torturously, burning him. “You should go back.”

Fighter is—

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore. “You dare to say this to me?”

Tutor looks at him, unblinking. He takes a deep breath. Swallows. “I don’t love you anymore.” He enunciates every syllable clearly. Nothing makes sense.

“You say that like you don’t care about my feelings?” Fighter understands the words, but he doesn’t understand Tutor.

Is this real?

Tutor smiles at him, small and strained. “You should go back. And if you really love me, then you should get out of my life.”

Fighter never knew merely existing could hurt this much.

“I don’t love you,” Tutor adds, as if he can’t see Fighter is already done for. “Go!” He’s just watching as Fighter tries to get up shakily. Fighter hopes that his legs will actually bear his weight and not buckle under him. It’s never been so hard to move his body. Everything is frozen into place.

“Wait,” Tutor says once Fighter has turned away, has found some sort of resolve to leave this place, to leave Tutor sitting here, on his bed, just like this. Fighter hesitates to turn back around. Does Tutor just want to rub it in some more? Hasn’t he hurt Fighter enough by now?

He turns anyways, because how can he not? The tear tracks have dried on Tutor’s face, but they’re still there to see in the dim light of the room. Fighter watches in horror as Tutor takes his necklace off and then holds it out for Fighter to take.

“Take your necklace back,” Tutor says, looking off to the other side. The tag of the necklace dangles around, showing off Fighter’s name that Tutor had so proudly worn. “I don’t want to keep it anymore.”

Fighter tries not to break down crying again. He tries to hold it in. Tries to not crumble at Tutor’s obvious attempt to hurt him even more.

“Take it,” Tutor orders, and when Fighter doesn’t comply, he takes Fighter’s hand and makes him hold it anyways. It feels like the leather is burning Fighter’s palm. Tutor looks like he’s crying, but maybe Fighter is just imagining things through his own veil of tears.

“Tor,” he says, his voice barely more than a scratchy whisper. “Even if you break up with me, can you at least keep the necklace? Please.”

When I’m wearing this, I feel like you’re beside me, Fighter can hear Tutor’s words echo in his mind. It might not be much, and it might not be anything substantial, it’s just a necklace. But the thought of Tutor even giving back this little piece of Fighter, erasing every last proof—

Too much.

“I’m begging you,” Fighter presses out.

Not enough.

“Please, Tor,” Fighter asks, his voice going high with desperation. Tutor stubbornly looks away from him and the necklace. “I’m begging you.”

Please.

It feels like half of an eternity that Fighter stands there, his hand with the necklace reaching out towards Tutor. An offering, a question, a plea. But Tutor ignores it, ignores him. Fighter’s hand sinks, as does his head, as does what is left of his heart. He sniffs and turns back around.

He recognizes something on the shelf he passes by, and it stings right where his wounds are gaping. It’s the nametag he wrote for Tutor on his first day, when they first met. Tutor kept it, even went so far to put it up out in the open like this.

Fighter wishes he could go back to that time. Tutor had hated him, but it was something Fighter was able to deal with. Now Tutor hates him too, but this time, Fighter can’t handle anything at all. He’s had Tutor’s love, and now that he knows what it feels like, he can’t go back to anything else.

Slowly, because his body can’t do fast right now, because it feels like he’s moving through hardening amber, he puts the necklace down in front of the nametag. If Tutor really wants to get rid of him, then he’ll have to do that himself. Fighter brushes a finger over the tag, softly, like it were Tutor’s cheek. Or his lips. Like it could mend a broken heart.

It might be the last time he gets to touch anything close to Tutor.

Can you just let me go?

Fighter turns and leaves. He doesn’t look back, not this time. His heart can’t handle anything anymore.

Too much.

He sits in his car once he makes it there, feeling weak and tired and so cold. His hands grip the steering wheel. His ribcage feels empty but so heavy. He doesn’t remember driving home. He doesn’t remember getting into the shower and turning the hot water on. He doesn’t remember anything, really.

I don’t love you anymore.

At least Tutor’s voice will stay with him for a long while.

~

Fighter’ life goes on as if it’s in a haze. He can barely focus on anything. It’s pure luck that he doesn’t have a car accident or something similarly stupid like that. He attends fewer and fewer classes, because what’s the point? He doesn’t pay attention anyways. It’s not even that he’s not trying. But he sees and hears Tutor everywhere now, even though the other is nowhere near him. It wears him down. And because he can’t see Tutor in real life anymore, because Tutor has stepped out of his life and suddenly vanished—it was not his voice Fighter heard in the restroom, it was not his shadow he saw in the cafeteria, it was not him sitting in the courtyard, no matter how sure Fighter’s mind had been about that—he finds himself looking at the pictures they took during their beach trip a lot. Like, during class. Or when he’s supposed to do homework. Or when he’s supposed to attend a family dinner.

Or like right now. He’s supposed to be in class, but he’s sitting in the deserted courtyard instead, looking through the photos on his phone. They make him smile, the memories make him smile. He was so happy at that time. He was holding onto Tutor, was allowed to hold him.

Too much.

He’s had him, for a time. He was allowed to be happy. It’s more than he probably even deserved, he muses. Tutor was—is more than he deserves.

Not enough.

He’s fucked up so bad. He’s made Tutor harden, has made him come up with so many ways to hurt Fighter back. He’s made Tutor hurt.

He hurt Tutor so bad the other can’t even talk about it.

I don’t love you anymore.

Fighter smiles sadly, down at his phone. Swipes to the next picture. He considers deleting them, considers deleting everything he has from Tutor on his phone.

But he can’t do that. He can’t just erase all evidence from what he’s had with Tutor. He can’t just remove all traces of Tutor from his life. Even the mere thought of that puts him into agony, like he can’t breathe, like he’s drowning in ice.

The tears, his good old friends, come back to visit.

~

Dew finds him after class is over, asking why he didn’t attend. Fighter doesn’t even really listen to his friend, but he is thankful when Dew sits down next to him. He is grateful that he’s not completely alone, at least for a few minutes.

“You’re just like Tor,” Dew complains eventually. Tutor’s name immediately has Fighter’s attention.

“What?”

“He is just as bad as you,” Dew says, then he leans his head to the side and gives Fighter a calculating glance. “Actually, he looks worse than you. Really subdued and pale. I don’t know what happened.”

That doesn’t make sense. And it doesn’t sound good. Fighter’s heartbeat is picking up speed. “Where have you seen him?” he asks.

“Uhm, just now? In front of the faculty building?” Dew answers carefully. He obviously doesn’t understand why Fighter is suddenly so interested in Tutor’s whereabouts, and he calls a perplexed, “Where are you going?” after Fighter once the other jumps up and actually runs across the yard.

Fighter finds Tutor, and his breath hitches when he does. The other doesn’t look good at all. He’s pale and sweaty, there are deep purple rings under his eyes. He’s shivering in the wide shirt he’s wearing. He simply looks miserable. It doesn’t make sense. Fighter wants to hold him.

Tutor stops walking and puts a hand up to his head like he’s in pain. In the next moment, his knees are buckling and he’s falling. Fighter has never reacted so fast in his life. He’s at Tutor’s side before the other can truly fall over and grabs him around his waist to steady him. Tutor looks up at him at the jolt, apparently pulled right out of fainting. Recognition blooms in his hazy eyes, and he slowly pushes Fighter away. Fighter lets him, but only after he’s sure Tutor will keep standing on his legs and not fall over again immediately.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He almost wants to laugh at himself, at how he has apparently not learned anything. He still can’t string together the right words. It’s obvious Tutor is not okay.

“Why are you here?” Tutor wants to know. He probably isn’t in the mood to entertain stupid questions.

“I followed you here,” Fighter says truthfully after a moment of hesitation. He has nothing left to lose, he decides. He will already consider it a win if Tutor takes better care of himself. “You look pale. Are you getting enough rest?”

Tutor’s eyes flit around the space, not focusing on anything. Especially not on Fighter. “I have to go now.”

Fighter’s hand shoots up as Tutor tries to walk away. He doesn’t grip tightly, only wraps his hand around Tutor’s elbow loosely enough so his touch will register, but Tutor still stops in his tracks and half-turns back towards Fighter.

“Tor, you shouldn’t be doing anything else right now,” Fighter says. He’s worried about Tutor. He doesn’t know whether it was him and their situation that reduced Tutor to this or something else. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t—it’s not relevant. This is not about him right now. It’s about Tutor feeling better, and Fighter will do anything he can right now to make sure Tutor is taken care of. “You gotta take care of yourself.”

Tutor looks at him blankly. Fighter lifts his hand to lay against Tutor’s neck and face. Tutor flinches back from the touch. “You’re burning up, Tor!”

“I’m not,” Tutor defends weakly. “I just got some sun.”

If the situation weren’t what it is, Fighter would laugh at that. “You better go to the hospital with me,” he says and grabs Tutor by the wrist to lead the way. But Tutor resists and twists his wrist so Fighter lets it go. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, the elephant is right there with them in the room, but Fighter steels his resolve. This is not about them.

He sighs lightly. “Can you stop being stubborn?” Fighter asks, halfway to exasperated.

Tutor hums. “I guess I’ll just go back to my place,” he concedes after a moment.

“I’ll drive you there, then,” Fighter decides. Hesitation is written all over Tutor’s face. Fighter sighs again. “I’m begging you. Let me take care of you until you get better. Maybe only today.” Tutor just looks at him. “Please?”

Fighter goes to hold Tutor’s wrist again, and this time Tutor doesn’t try and get away from it. He nods once. Fighter smiles in relief and immediately turns to start walking, not wanting to give Tutor even just one moment to rethink that decision.

It’s sort of not really a question whether Fighter will come inside with Tutor or not once they reach Tutor’s condo, because Tutor just grows paler and more lethargic the longer the ride lasts. Once they arrive, Fighter has to help him out of the car and Tutor whines at having to move around so much. It makes Fighter’s belly twist, seeing Tutor this weak and sick.

He makes sure Tutor gets into bed after taking medicine and drinking some water. It’s weird to be back at Tutor’s condo, moving around freely and with purpose. He still remembers the last time he was here, what he was feeling, how it happened, what he almost did—

He remembers how he left.

He tries not to think about it as he looks for a washcloth. It’s probably really stupid, but he marvels at how everything is still in the place where Fighter has learned it to be over the many tutoring sessions and sleepovers they’ve had at Tutor’s condo. The washcloths are still in the same cabinet that Tutor stores his towels, blow-dryer and spare toothbrushes in, even on the same shelf. Of course, Tutor doesn’t redecorate and reorganize his entire space just because he broke up with Fighter. But still, Fighter can’t help but feel like it all holds just a tiny piece of himself. Tutor’s condo holds just a little bit of Fighter in it. And Tutor hasn’t tried to get rid of it.

He makes his way back to Tutor’s bedroom with a washcloth and cold water in a bowl and finds Tutor seemingly asleep. He looks calm, angelic in a sense. Fighter climbs onto the bed next to Tutor, slowly and carefully, trying neither to spill any water nor to wake Tutor up. And then he sits there for a time, just watching. Tutor’s chest rises and falls, rises and falls.

Fighter leans closer and repositions so he can get Tutor into a more upright position. Apparently, Tutor was only dozing lightly, because he wakes up at Fighter’s tentative touch. Once he’s sitting up and back against his pillows, they settle again, Fighter leaning against the headboard with one arm so he can look at Tutor, open and steady.

“P’Fight, what are you doing?” Tutor asks. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks up at Fighter, and his voice betrays how tired he is. But there is no hostility in his demeanor, no rejection of being this close to Fighter.

“I’ll take advantage of you, maybe,” Fighter teases him after a beat of consideration. It might be the wrong thing to say, and Fighter half-expects Tutor’s expression to turn grim, for him to at least scold Fighter for it, for him to say something about that fateful night that still haunts Fighter whether he’s asleep or not. But Tutor just stares up at him, entirely unimpressed. Good. Fighter still has to apologize for it, properly. But not when Tutor is sick and halfway to either delirium or sleep. “I’ll give you a sponge bath,” Fighter then says, serious this time. Tutor nods.

Fighter grabs the damp towel he wrung out earlier and uses it to ever so gently wipe the sweat from Tutor’s skin. He starts with the other’s hands, holding them tenderly, before moving on to dab at Tutor’s face. Tutor stares up at Fighter the entire time. Fighter tries to focus on the task at hand and not at the look in Tutor’s eyes. He doesn’t dare interpret anything into it. But his heart, that treacherous asshole, sings with a little flicker of hope at how soft and pliant Tutor is.

Then, Tutor closes his eyes and lays back, enjoys the attention and care. Fighter is glad to see it. “Just stay still and let me take care of it,” he mumbles. It reminds him of something in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t want to entertain any of that. He’s here now with Tutor, being able to take care of him and touch and just be. He doesn’t want to stay in his head all the time.

Tutor agrees with a hum. Carefully, to give Tutor time to protest, Fighter goes in to unbutton the other’s shirt and open it up enough for him to do his job with the washcloth. Tutor lets it happen, simply continues watching. Fighter first wipes the cloth along Tutor’s neck, then along his collarbones, then down the center of his chest. He’s a little daring and is fully ready to retreat at the smallest sound of displeasure from Tutor as he wipes under the shirt and over the other’s pecs and nipples. It elicits a small little gasp from Tutor, not sounding irritated at all, quite the opposite.

Fighter has a hard time not letting his heart bloom.

He leans down, suddenly, almost even surprising himself. He lays his ear against Tutor’s chest, hears his own blood whooshing, hears a faint thumping. Tutor doesn’t react, just keeps breathing. Fighter smiles when he leans back up.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. He then takes Tutor’s hand in his and slowly brings it to his own chest. He presses Tutor’s palm flat against where his heart beats against his ribcage. He never takes his eyes off of Tutor. “Mine is beating fast as well.”

Tutor is looking up at him, blinking, smiling. He is smiling. For real now.

Fighter remembers where he is and what he’s doing. Tutor is sick, and he hasn’t indicated that he’s ready yet to talk to Fighter about their—their thing. He puts Tutor’s hand back into his lap. He is glad, however, that Tutor looks calmer, more present now. His eyes are not as hazy and his skin is not quite as pale anymore.

“Comfortable?” Fighter asks. Tutor smiles and nods. It’s a balm for Fighter’s soul. “You better get some rest.”

Tutor continues to look up at him. Like the Tutor that did not even consider saying something like I don’t love you anymore straight to Fighter’s tear-streaked face. It does things to Fighter. Things that make him decide it’s better for him to leave. He might spill out his guts again otherwise, and he’s not ready to go through that once again. Also, Tutor is sick. He’d probably be even less amused about it all right now.

“P’Fight,” Tutor says as Fighter makes to get off the bed. He grabs for Fighter’s hand, and while his grip is not tight, Fighter can’t help but comply with the unspoken request immediately. He turns back to face Tutor and almost gets lost in the other’s eyes, now even more open than they were before. “Can you not leave just yet?”

It makes Fighter smile. The loose grip Tutor keeps on his wrist makes him smile as well. And it makes his heart flutter in a silly little dance. It probably turns him stupid as well, judging from his next words, “You miss me, right?”

But Tutor doesn’t push him off, doesn’t scold him or make fun of him, just hums resolutely in agreement. Fighter is mesmerized. “Are you asking for some TLC?” Fighter pushes onwards. He almost can’t believe this is happening. He’s sure he’s smiling like a fool. He doesn’t care.

Tutor rolls over so he can press Fighter back into the pillows and snuggle into his side. “P’Fight,” he whines with this fake-cutesy voice that Fighter loves to hate, “Please stay with Tutor for a while.”

Tutor cuddles his face into Fighter’s neck and Fighter can feel all the parts of his body and his heart that were in disarray over the last couple of days slot back into place. He leans his head against Tutor’s, wraps his arms around the other and allows himself to just hold him, to just be with Tutor like this. To just be. He breathes, and now he realizes it’s much easier than before. His chest doesn’t feel so heavy, doesn’t feel so empty and sucked in all the time.

Tutor is here, and he is going to be okay. And he is not pushing Fighter away, is not telling him hurtful things. Is actually doing quite the opposite. Is acting like he’s missed Fighter. Like he’s enjoying his touch and his presence and his closeness.

Fighter knew things didn’t make sense. They still don’t. But this way, with Tutor in his arms, even if he’s sick and delirious and probably not fully in his right mind, it’s easier to not care about it. Maybe he’s still taking advantage of Tutor this way. But then again, he’s only holding the other, and that by request. His heart is too weak to deny him that.

It’s the first time in quite a while that Fighter falls asleep not with Tutor’s voice in his head but Tutor himself in his arms. He’s confused, but he’ll take it. He’ll take anything at this point.

~

It’s only been a light slumber, because the vibrating from Tutor’s phone on his nightstand wakes Fighter up. Fighter is disoriented for just a moment, because Tutor? Is here? With him? And then he remembers, and he basically melts into the mattress. Tutor is here with him. All of that was real. It is real.

Tutor’s phone vibrates again and again, and Fighter reaches over the sleeping boy to grab it and turn it to silent. But then he swipes across the screen and it unlocks the phone—which is dangerous, doesn’t Tutor know the first thing about security? He’ll have to have a word with the other once he’s back to full health—and he sees the messages Zon sent just now. Fighter tries to not read them, he really does, but his name just basically springs out and at him, and then he’s already reading the message, and then his heart just stops.

One of the messages says that Tutor should talk to Fighter about Fighter’s father. That there should be a better solution to this. Another sounds worried, because Zon heard Tutor got sick because of this shitty situation he’s in with Fighter.

Fighter looks at Tutor’s face, calm and still and relaxed in his sleep. Still too pale, the circles under his eyes still to prominent.

My father?

His hands start shaking. Is this all just—is Tutor not—did his father—

No fucking wonder nothing makes any sense at all.

Fighter doesn’t hesitate to call Zon on Tutor’s phone. He gets out of bed as quietly as possible, trying not to wake Tutor up. He leaves the room just as Zon picks up on the other end.

“Tor? Where are you? How are you feeling?” Zon immediately asks as he answers the phone.

“Ai’Zon,” Fighter says, wincing at how this is probably going to go. “Hello.”

“P’Fight?” Zon’s incredulous shout comes from the other end. “What are you doing with Tutor’s phone?”

“Zon,” Fighter says. He’s glad he left the bedroom for the kitchen. Zon’s voice would manage to wake Tutor up even sounding tinny through the phone like that. “I took Tutor home because he was sick. I was staying with him. He is sleeping right now and I didn’t want his phone to wake him up, but when I took it I accidentally saw your messages.” He tries to be swift about his explanations. “Now, tell me, what is this about my father?”

“Oh god, Phi,” Zon squeaks, “Is Tutor okay? Is he doing better or do we need reinforcements?”

Fighter respects Zon’s concern about his friend, is glad that Tutor has friends that are willing and ready to take care of him, but right now, there are more urgent matters at hand. “Tutor will be okay, he’s already much better,” Fighter says, hoping that that will move things along. “Now, please, tell me what any of this has to do with my father.”

“Phi,” Zon starts, much less enthusiastic now. It seems he’s trying to stall. “I really don’t think I’m the one who should tell you. I mean, you’re already with Tutor, try asking him about it.”

Another move Fighter has to give Zon credit for, but only in theory. “Yeah, if that worked out so well, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now in the first place,” Fighter gets out and tries not to sound as exasperated as he feels. “Tutor doesn’t want to talk to me about it. He hates that so much he’d rather hurt me and himself over it. Do you really think he would tell me anything instead of just closing off and shutting me out again?”

He hears Zon shuffle around on the other end, obviously uncomfortable. Fighter gets it.

“Please, Zon,” he says, “I’m begging you. Please tell me. This might not be something I can just fix, but it’s my father, and it’s my relationship.” He barely even wants to think about it. Holy shit. “I am affected either way, don’t you think I should at least know what’s going on? Don’t you think I deserve that much?”

Maybe he should be saying these things to Tutor instead of Zon.

“Phi,” Zon starts. He still doesn’t sound like he’s a fan of the idea of talking about what Tutor has told him confidentially, but he probably agrees that this is a fucked up situation for Fighter as well. Or maybe he thinks that telling Fighter might help better Tutor’s situation. It doesn’t really matter what Zon thinks, Fighter decides, because he finally starts talking, and Fighter doesn’t much care about Zon’s motivation for it right now. “Phi, your father asked Tutor to break up with you so you can have a regular family. He said Tutor is not good enough and that he knows what’s best for you and that he wants his old son back.”

Fighter balls his empty hand into a fist. Zon seems to be talking himself into a rage pretty easily, because he doesn’t stop, just gives more and more details about all the things that Fighter’s father has said to hurt Tutor. Fighter doesn’t even fully listen. He has to put more effort into not starting to scream.

“And then he even offered Tutor money to break up with you,” Zon says, sounding as indignant as he should. “Can you believe that? I’m sorry, Phi, but your dad is a real asshole. I was ready to go and rip him a new one when Tutor finally told me what’s up.”

So, Tutor has kept this hidden not just from Fighter? He’s tried to deal with that all on his own? Fighter’s heart aches.

“I wish you did,” he says, his voice sounding like gravel. “Fuck.”

Fighter’s mind is racing. It was not Fighter, it was never Fighter. He didn’t mess up. His only mistake was believing everything would be okay. That his father wouldn’t find out so fast. And that he would be upfront with his displeasure, that he would go to Fighter with it and not to Tutor. What a rookie mistake.

“Phi,” Zon’s voice quakes out of the phone, “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to rip him a new one,” Fighter answers immediately. He hears Zon gasp. But the other doesn’t protest. “Listen, Zon, can you take care of Tutor for me? Or at least just check up on him? I don’t want to leave him all alone when he’s sick like that.”

“Sure, Phi,” Zon agrees easily, but he’s hesitating. “What about you?”

“I’ll go and talk to my father,” Fighter says seriously. “That is long overdue.”

“And then?” Zon asks. “What happens next? Does it matter what he says?”

Good question.

Fighter ponders it for a moment, not because Fighter’s father will have any say in who Fighter gets to be with, but because he has to think about what his next steps actually will be.

“Of course it doesn’t,” he ends up saying. “It’s just sad that Tutor thinks it does.” Zon makes a sound in agreement. “Listen, Zon, has Saifah already mentioned something about going to the beach to you?” Zon is spluttering at the other end. Good. “Tutor said he would like to go to the beach with you sometime. How about you invite him along? To cheer him up a bit?”

Zon is quiet on the other end for a moment. “You are not thinking what I’m thinking you’re thinking.”

Fighter frowns, confused. “Maybe? Listen, Tutor will not want to talk to me about it all. And here he has way too many possibilities to run away from me or to hide or do whatever else he thinks he has to.”

“So, you want us to invite him along to the beach and not tell him you’re coming as well?” Zon finishes the though.

“Basically,” Fighter agrees with a nod. “I’ll pay for it all, don’t worry. I’ll even tell Tutor that he can go with you on my expense. He asked me for it, after all.”

“He did?” Zon sounds astonished. “Wait, wait, are you trying to buy my collaboration with your plan?”

Fighter stops for just one moment. “Is it working?”

Zon breathes out heavily. “Phi, go and deal with your father. I’ll deal with Tor. I’ll help you, because I want to, and because I want to see my friend happy again. And I’ll see the trip to the beach as just a nice reward for being such a good person.”

Fighter snorts. “Yeah, you do that. Go ahead and tell Saifah about it as well. Make sure he actually understands and not just stares at you like the fool he is.” Zon splutters on the other end again. “Thank you, Zon, really. For telling me, and for helping me with this now.”

“Sure, Phi,” Zon says easily. “Go get your man. I mean, after you go and—do whatever it is you need to do with your dad.”

Fighter sighs. “Yeah. I’ll get your number from Tutor’s phone, alright? I’ll send you a text so you have my number. Keep me updated.”

“Sure,” Zon agrees again. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Fighter says before he ends the call. He’ll need it.

~

Fighter is not looking forward to having this talk with his father. He leaves Tutor unwillingly, the other still sleeping soundly when Fighter returns his phone to the nightstand. He notices the nametag on the nightstand, the nametag he’d written on that first day. It makes him smile softly, now fully understanding. Well, maybe not fully, but he’s getting there. Tutor didn’t want to break up with him, and he didn’t want to hurt him. He thought he was doing the right thing to protect Fighter—and to protect himself. As hurtful and unfair as it was to Fighter, he can’t find it in himself to really blame Tutor.

He brushes Tutor’s hair from his face, gently, softly. Presses a promise into Tutor’s skin with featherlight fingertips. But then he has to leave. He has to talk to his father. He has to do it. He has to do it for Tutor, but he mainly has to do it for himself. He wants to do it.

He’s scared shitless.

He grips the steering wheel tightly once he finally leaves Tutor’s side and gets in his car to go home. Home. It feels wrong. It feels so wrong because this home has his father in it, has the one person who has been with Fighter for all his life—only to manipulate him and control him. To make Fighter’s life his own.

Fighter has been aware of that for a while. He’s disagreed with it for even longer—teenage years suck, especially with a demanding parent like his. But he’s used to it. He knows how to deal with it, maybe not in the healthiest of ways, but he gets by. It’s normal to him. Not good, but normal. It was normal for him to be scared of his father. He guesses it’s also normal for him to be scared now. He’s terrified.

He has never been able to really confront his father about anything. He’s tried, of course he has, in his roundabout ways without using words, or with indirect suggestions. More directly as well—but it has never ended well for him. His father knows how to push Fighter’s buttons, how to play right into his fears. No wonder, he’s the one who molded Fighter right into this, he’s the one who installed the buttons and gave Fighter his reasons to be afraid. Whenever Fighter has tried to confront his father before, he has either been punished before he was able to get his point across, or he has lost his resolve halfway through anyways.

He doesn’t know what will happen. He only knows that he can’t go on like this. He can’t be the son his father so desperately wants, apparently. He was never able to.

He is so scared.

He thinks of what Zon told him. His father has treated Tutor badly. He has treated Tutor so incredibly badly. His father seems to have a talent to find a person’s weak spot and just hit it repeatedly until they crack under their own weight. He has made Tutor hurt, and he has made Fighter hurt, and Fighter just wants it to stop.

Does his father gain joy from this? He hopes not.

He’s still his father.

A man who doesn’t know how to do it, how to live life, how to be a parent any other way.

But Fighter knows. He has learned first-hand. Just because you don’t know any better, it doesn’t excuse your actions. It still makes none of this okay. And his father has to take responsibility for it. It’s time he actually does.

Fighter reaches home.

He is fucking terrified.

~

His father is in the kitchen when Fighter finds him. A small part of himself has hoped his father wouldn’t be home, but the bigger part of himself is glad he can do this right now and not get any chance to let go of his anger and hurt and chicken out of it somehow.

He walks up to his father and heedlessly pushes the glass out of the other’s hand. He knows the words, they are right there. But he can’t say them. Goddammit, he can’t say them. He is so fucking scared, but he is also so fucking angry.

“What’s the matter with you?” his father complains. “Why are you so moody?”

“Do you really have to ask that?” Fighter demands heatedly. “Do you really think I don’t know what you did?”

There’s that slimy smile on his father’s face again, and it drips of contempt. “That boy couldn’t stand it and just had to tell you, hm?”

Fighter’s hands curl into fists so tightly, he’s sure his nails draw blood. “You admit it sooner than I expected.” His voice is shaky with his fury. “Let me ask you, are you happy with what you’ve done, dad?”

His father fixes him with one of his piercing gazes, a cold one. “Since that Tutor boy came into your life you’ve changed so much.”

“Who has changed?” Fighter interrupts before his father can take over this conversation before it even really started. “I’m still the same person who likes to argue! But I’ve always listened to you.” You made me listen. “But what you’ve done this time, that was too much.” Too much. “I can’t take it!”

For a moment, one short moment, his father actually looks taken aback. Not angry, not annoyed. Just surprised. It’s—strangely satisfying.

“All I do,” his father says next, and he’s right back at manipulating his way around, “It’s for your future.”

Fighter doesn’t hear that for the first time. And he hates this phrase with passion. “My future?” he repeats. The audacity of this man. The fear is practically choking Fighter, but he presses his next words out anyways. “It’s only for your future business.” He is shaking, all over. His chest and shoulders feel like someone has put iron blocks on them and is just adding more and more on top. He can barely breathe. “You’re fucking selfish!”

He expects it when his father slaps him across the face, and yet it comes as a total surprise. Half of Fighter’s face stings from the impact, but he doesn’t dare move other than turn back to face his father. It almost—Fighter is almost glad that his father hit him. Finally Fighter has brought him to a point where he cannot talk himself out of it, where he can’t use his cunning and manipulative and controlling ways to make Fighter feel weak and small and inferior and like he needs to hide. Finally it’s not just emotional blackmail, not just twisting Fighter’s words around in his own mouth. Fighter hates that he feels glad, hates everything about it, but a twisted, wicked part of him likes that he can make his father lose it like that. He never has before.

“Don’t you dare look down on what I’ve done for you!” his father shouts. “Understand?”

Fighter’s bottom lip wobbles. His knees tremble, as do his hands. His throat burns. “For me?” he repeats. “Done for me?” Not enough. “Have you ever asked me what I like, or what I don’t like? Or what I want? What I need?”

His father’s jaw clenches. “Everything I’ve done,” he says, low and clearly, as if Fighter is too stupid to understand otherwise, “Is for your future. So your future won’t be finished before it even started.”

“So fucking what?” Fighter grits out, his voice scratchy. “Look at me now. Do I look happy to you?” He squares his shoulders. He hopes none of the tears gathering in his eyes will fall. “Or do you actually want me to be like this?”

His father waves his hand around as if to brush Fighter’s words to the side just like that. “Your feelings for that boy will fade, but your future is waiting for you. You can’t just throw that away!”

Fighter nods, because he has to stall for more time, he has to get ready. But he can’t get ready. “It’s your future.”

His father’s hand darts up and his eyes go wild and wide, but the slap Fighter expects—that he wants—it never comes.

“Go on!” Fighter yells. The tears brimming in his eyes are threatening to spill. “Do it! Just hit me!” He takes his father’s hand and slams it against his face, but there’s no momentum behind it. All he feels is the warmth of the skin. He feels a warmth he didn’t know his father had. Or maybe Fighter himself is just so cold.

“I can’t do anything to you,” Fighter goes on to say. He has to get it all out now. This is the only chance he will get. And if he has to speak through his tears and through his tongue being tied and through his lungs being crushed, he’ll find a way to do it anyway. “You were never pleased with me. I always have to obey you. I need to do exactly what you want.” Never enough. “Let me ask you right now: Why do you have to control my life? Especially my relationships?”

His father is just staring at him. He’s incredulous. Fighter is—almost proud. If his body could stop shaking so badly.

But then his father’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head, small, jerky movements, as if to shake off something unpleasant. Something like the thought of Fighter deciding something for himself, or Fighter being with someone who makes him happy. Of Fighter being happy.

“Because in the future, you gotta have a family and you gotta have status,” his father says decidedly. As if it were law. It is, in a sense. It’s the law he lives by. “You gotta inherit my business.”

“The fucking business!” Fighter yells. “It’s all you ever talk about.”

His father’s patience seems to wear thin. “And how do you know your love with that Tutor boy will last?” he screams. Fighter feels it in his bones. “I’ve seen it, homosexual love is not steady.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” Fighter grits out. Swallowing hurts in his throat. “Are you sure your heterosexual relationships are steady? Mom left you!” Never enough. “She left you for another man.” She left me too, because your claws wouldn’t let go. “Let me ask you this,” he swallows again, tries to swallow his tears, but it just hurts so much more, “How can you judge other people’s love?”

His father looks uneasy. This is more than anger or annoyance, he’s not merely frustrated at Fighter trying to defy him. He doesn’t know how to deal with this situation.

Good.

Fighter looks at his father, really looks at him. It’s scary how he sees himself in the other. The same line of the mouth, the same shape of the eyes, the same slant of the cheekbones. The same need to manipulate and control, the same aversion to using actual words with actual meanings, the same easy confidence with which they throw money all around them.

If he’s not careful, he’ll end up just like him. Caught up in a cycle of pain and disconnect. Caught up in a need to control he things he just cannot control. Caught up in a rampage of hurting others, so far gone from himself that he won’t even recognizes it anymore when he’s hurting himself as well.

Fighter puts his hands together before his chest. His fingers are trembling.

This is it.

He takes a deep breath, tries to fill his lungs with air and almost chokes on how tight his throat is. He’ll have to do it with what he’s got. He looks up at his father, the man who has had an iron grip on him instead of a protective grasp for all of Fighter’s life.

“I’m begging you,” Fighter starts, and he doesn’t care that the tears are welling up rapidly in his eyes again. “I’ve followed your way enough already.” He cannot find joy in how shocked his father looks. “Please let me be happy with mine. I’m begging you.” It’s funny how all he seems to be doing lately is begging people.

Fighter puts his hands on his father’s chest, right on top of his heart. His father looks at him like he’s seen a ghost, then Fighter puts his head down as well. He leans into his father, feels him put some of his weight back against him as to not stumble backwards. It’s the first time Fighter is leaning on his father, in the most literal of senses.

Fighter straightens back up. He isn’t sure what he expected, but the disdainful glare still hurts. Regardless, he has to carry on. “Can I make my own decisions about this now?” His heart is hammering against his ribcage. His ears are ringing. “If it turns out bad, I’ll take care of it myself.” He takes a breath, wonders how his throat still lets any bit of air through. “I’m asking for my life back, dad.”

Fighter is not sure what it was. Maybe his sincerity. Maybe the tears in his eyes and the way he soldiered on regardless of how his body was screaming at him to run and hide. Maybe the easy way he called his father dad. But his father just leaves. He brushes past Fighter without another word, without even more than a glance in Fighter’s direction. And then he’s gone. Fighter is alone.

He’ll always be my dad.

Fighter stands there. He doesn’t know what to do with that thought. Or with any thought, really. He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He doesn’t know what he expected. His father to come around with one conversation that can hardly even be called as much? For him to just let Fighter have free rein over his life all of a sudden? A hug?

He stumbles where he stands. He can’t feel his knees, can’t feel his legs at all. He has to support himself against the counter, runs his hand across the smooth surface of it, but that doesn’t help either. He can’t feel it where he’s touching it. He can’t feel his body at all. It’s shaking, but it’s barely there. Fighter sinks to the ground, slowly, as if he didn’t know how to move his limbs, as if everything were just in the way. He is numb, his body is numb.

Never enough.

His father left. He just walked away like that. He ignored Fighter’s words, brushed them off—brushed Fighter off like none of what just happened even matters. His disregard for Fighter’s existence, it was always there. But never before has it been this tangible. It leaves Fighter empty. It leaves him numb. It leaves him feeling like he’s barely even existing. It leaves him barely feeling.

He’s shaking all over. He thinks he’s crying. He can barely swallow. There are no sensations against his knees, underneath his fingertips.

Not enough, never enough—

Too much.

He’s too much Fighter. And not enough nothing.

He sags to the side until he lays on the ground. His body is shaking, he can feel it around the few edges he can still perceive of himself. But there’s no feeling attached to it. No emotions well up. He’s just empty. It’s just his body trying to hold on.

Never—