#boxingau

carlos who's this crazy feral dog whenever he fights, blood dripping from his bare knuckles and staining his mouth as he bares his teeth at the opponent. completely different from his personality outside the fighting ring where he's all easy smiles and warm words around the gym. each scream from the public entices him to push more, hit harder, leaving his adversary at his mercy. like an entertainer, juan carlos usually scoffs, amused when carlos gets deeper into the zone as the match progresses. and carlos never denies it, because why would he? it's the truth, he loves all the attention and the praise, especially after he met him.

his jannik who once before was just his beautiful and smart med student roommate, but now he also makes carlos stop and stare by the entrance of their small kitchen, feeling oddly warm on the inside at the cozy view of jannik making breakfast for both of them in the early hours of the morning with his disheveled soft red curls, glasses perched high on the bridge of his freckled nose and sluggish movements from another sleepless night of studying that was interrupted by carlos' storming into his room for his usual small patching up.

he wants him. he wants to reach under jannik's sweatshirt while he's cooking, just to rest his hand low on the toned planes of his stomach, thumb brushing the waistband, just so jannik forgets what he's saying mid-sentence. jannik would probably let him, even praise him for it, but carlos never has. yet.

then, jannik starts coming to his matches, despite the slightly illegal aspect of his job. one day, carlos gets off his phone with juan carlos with a new match scheduled and jannik shyly asks if he can come along. and watch. carlos brightens up and throws himself at him, his arms looping around jannik's neck, nuzzling into the pale skin of his collarbones. he wants to bite it. "of course, i want you to watch me win!" jannik playfully scoffs at his arrogance and, after a moment of hesitation, his hands carefully settle at the small of his back. carlos promptly chooses to ignore the low heat starting to coil in his stomach.

the matches are held under the gym he practices at, the underground club lights up at night with the fighting ring right in the center of it. for the entertainers. bets are placed, shots are poured and the music blasts loudly through the speakers as carlos makes his way to the locker room. carlos throws his purple jacket into his back and sits on the bench with a small groan. his muscles ache with a dull pain, the effects of his gym session in the morning, but not enough to incapacitate him in any way.

"carlos, you're up in 10. go wrap you hands." juan carlos says through the closed door. carlos grabs the tape and loops it around his wrists and back around his hands. he hasn't seen jannik yet, but he knows he's there. he can feel his eyes following him around the cramped club, and imagines his shy, polite jannik pushing through people without a care, just to get to the best seat in the house by alvaro and his friends' side.

carlos climbs into the ring and that primal, feral feeling is there again, fuelling him to beat his opponent into a pulp. his eyes find jannik's dark stare across the room and the hunger amps up to a thousand. keep looking at me. don't stop. he flexes his fingers and counts to ten. it's time.

"It doesn't hurt as bad as it looks, I promise," Carlos tries to say, tries desperately to meet Jannik's piercing eyes—anything to stop the silent treatment. Please, look at me.

"Don't." Jannik snaps, avoiding his pleading gaze. He uses a wet cloth to clean the blood on his skin, being careful over the open wounds on his skin. Always so cautious with Carlos, even when he's mad at him. And Carlos can see it after many years of knowing Jannik. It's subtle, but it's there. He's furious, and Carlos wants to keel over and die. The furrow of his brow, the muscles of his jaw tensing and relaxing with words unsaid, and the cutting glare he sends Carlos when he opens his mouth that softens immediately when Carlos hisses after Jannik presses too hard on a bruise. Jannik apologizes softly, and his free hand trembles slightly as he continues his ministrations.

Jannik's hands never shake. Not even when Carlos comes home in worse states than this.

"This is not okay, Carlos." Jannik breathes out sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He's getting agitated again, just like when he first saw Carlos stagger through the door after the ambush. Carlos bites down on his lip, ignoring the metallic tang of blood as he stares at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos mumbles, the lump in his throat burning as he stares at the ceiling. It sounds pathetic even to his own ears, too small against the weight in Jannik’s silence.

Jannik doesn’t answer right away. His hands move with precision as he checks the damage, fingertips grazing Carlos’ jaw. Carlos finally really looks at him: messy, red curls, silver-framed glasses, and sweater sleeves falling over bony wrists. Some hidden part of Carlos is elated that Jannik is finally touching him, meeting his stare.

“Hold still,” Jannik says, the words clipped. And his Jannik is so meticulous, jaw set tight as he wipes away dried blood from his temple, then brushes gentle circles along his cheekbone where the swelling’s starting to bloom. He doesn’t speak, but Carlos can feel his fear by the harshness of his breath.

Carlos watches Jannik’s hands work—steady, careful, but that tremor is still there. Each time Jannik brushes antiseptic over a wound, his touch is gentle, but his jaw is set so tight it looks painful. Carlos can’t stand it. He wants to say something, anything, but the words dry up in his throat.

Jannik presses a clean bandage to the worst of the cuts, fingers lingering just a moment too long. “I don’t know what I would do if you didn’t return home—” his voice cracks, and he cuts himself off, focusing intently on the gauze, pinning it with tape. The silence is heavy, but Carlos feels it: the worry, the fear, the anger all tangled together in the space between them.

“Please, Jan,” Carlos reaches out, desperate, and grabs onto Jannik’s wrist. "I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, forgive me."

Jannik’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he finally looks at Carlos, eyes shining with a storm of emotion. "You have nothing to be sorry for; it’s not your fault." His thumb rubs slow circles over Carlos’ wrist, the touch grounding.

"Just let me take care of you," he says, but his voice is softer now, almost pleading.

Carlos nods, and as Jannik tapes the last bandage, his fingers linger just a little longer than necessary. There are words neither of them can say yet, but in the gentle pressure of Jannik’s hands, Carlos feels them all the same.

Jannik pauses when his knuckles graze the old scar above Carlos’ hipbone. His hand lingers there, fingers brushing it once—absently, tenderly—before he seems to catch himself and pulls away too fast. “You need to be more careful,” he mutters.

Jannik’s hand lingers, warm against his skin, before drifting upward, slow and deliberate, as though he can soothe away everything Carlos refuses to voice. He cups the back of Carlos’ neck, pressing lightly into the muscle there, grounding him. Carlos closes his eyes against the rush of shame clawing at his chest. He hates this—hates being laid out like this, bleeding, weak. He’s supposed to be strong for Jannik, the one who takes the hits and gets back up smiling and ready for more. Not this.

And yet, he can’t help the way his body softens under Jannik’s touch, how his tense muscles start to melt, how a rare, pliant part of him wants nothing more than to stay exactly like this, under the care of Jannik’s hands. He hates that he craves it, and that hate tastes so sweet in his mouth.

“You're thinking too hard. Stop that,” Jannik murmurs, perceptive like always, his voice low and amused. His fingers move in slow circles at the nape of Carlos’ neck, coaxing his gaze back. “You’re so good, Carlos.”

Jannik’s fingers press a little harder into the hollow at the base of Carlos’ skull when he doesn't answer, the motion less soothing now and a bit more owning. “Look at me,” he orders, low and steady. Carlos lifts his face like he’s been pulled by a string, breath hitching; big, hazel eyes all soft and obedient. Jannik’s mouth quirks into something almost like relief. “Good.”