#was this inspired by umiko's soapgaz gym art? maybe so.

[narcissosbythepool]

Continuing GhostPrice fighter AU (crossposting from my twitter again)

Part 1 here

Cw: mild violence, mentions of substance abuse, suggestive language, some trauma foreshadowing

*

It's the aftermath of a completely pointless and insignificant win that changes Ghost's entire life.

"Hey."

Ghost doesn't look up from where he's brooding. His ribs are sore, he's bleeding from his brow, and he's not in the mood for a chat now.

Someone steps in front of him and he frowns. Who the fuck is this?

"What do you want?" he finally grumbles and looks up.

He's somewhat surprised at the person stood in front of him. He expected some young guy trying to provoke him after his fight, but it's an older man (late 30s? Early 40s? Older than himself, either way) with some truly impressive mutton chops.

"Wondering if you'd like to learn to win by fighting better rather than just outlasting your opponent."

Ghost gives him an unimpressed look.

"Why do you care? I keep winning, don't I?"

The man smiles. It's not a kind smile – it's a challenging one, like Ghost is a grumpy teen throwing a tantrum.

"You can do better. I would like to see it happen."

Ghost's kneejerk reaction is to tell the guy to fuck off. He's just some wannabe-fighter. He looks like an idiot in the beanie and windbreaker.

But something in the way he carries himself catches his eye. It's confident, but not in a cocky way like the guys that sometimes show up to try to rile him up.

He looks tough. Toughened. Learned.

"And you think you can teach me?"

"I know I can."

"You taught before?"

The man's lips twitch in amusement. "I've done my share."

"So why'd your student quit?"

This makes the man laugh out loud.

"I see you're a bit of a challenge. Want to drop by the gym and do a couple rounds?"

Ghost raises a brow.

"That's not a euphemism. I do actually own a gym."

He should say no. He really should.

Maybe this guy's a creep. A serial killer. Maybe he sucks at fighting. Maybe he's all talk.

But maybe. Maybe there really is a gym. Ghost has been haunting his own life for so long that it doesn't feel like his own anymore.

He'll take the lifeline.

"Fine."

Worst case scenario he doesn't have to worry about rent anymore.

There is a gym.

It's after hours but Price ("John Price, former fighter, I own a gym with my friend") lets them in with his keys and punches in the security codes before opening the door for Ghost to step in. The gym is not particularly special but it's clean, and a set of dull cement stairs lead them to the basement where a ring is waiting for them.

Ghost starts getting a little excited, now, his blood pumping heavy in his ears. This man, John Price, might be the real deal – Ghost was polite enough not to google him on the walk here, but he'll put it on his to-do list at once.

"This is where the magic happens," Price says, walking to the ring and then leaning on the ropes, watching the mat wistfully.

"I see you're missing the mat already."

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you?"

"You have no idea."

Price finally takes him to the changing room.

"You ready for another round?"

"Right now?"

"That's why I'm asking."

Ghost really wants to wipe that smirk off his face.

"I'm ready. Are you?"

Price replies by unzipping his jacket and underneath is a tight, dark green tshirt that shows off his toned physique and Ghost's mouth goes dry, the embers of irritation turning into a flame of yearning – of attraction, of excitement for a challenge, and from the glint in Price's eyes, he's taken note of the fire that now devours Ghost.

Price hands his ass to him in the ring.

Ghost is stronger ("you hit like a fucking freight train") but Price is better, knows the strategy to beating an opponent bigger and heavier than him, and the fight ends with both of them bruised, Ghost held down on the mat by Price, until he taps out.

"Please teach me," he asks politely, lying on his stomach, trying to heave air back into his lungs. Price detaches himself from Ghost and sits down on the floor next to him, wiping off sweat from his brow.

"What's your real name, son?"

Ghost swallows.

"Simon. Simon Riley."

"So, Riley," Price starts.

Ghost bristles at that a bit.

"I'd rather you not call me that."

Price looks at him over his shoulder.

"Simon? Or Ghost?"

"Simon's fine."

"Simon then." Price smiles cheekily. "You'll call me 'coach' or 'sir', is that clear?"

The demand of authority makes Ghost's guts stir with some mix of arousal and amusement. Price probably likes to feel important.

He wonders if Price would let Ghost call him sir in bed.

"Alright, Simon. I need you to stop smoking. And drinking."

Ghost feels a flare of irritation.

"I don't drink." His tone is definite, raw on the edges.

"...Alright. Hm. Now, no judgement here but. Do you do any other drugs?"

"..."

"No need to glare at me. If you don't, good. If you do, quit them. Then I'll coach you."

"Those are the requirements?"

"Those are the requirements."

"So when can I start?"

Price smiles, and this time the teasing edge is no longer there, just a warm and open smile that makes Ghost feel a little flustered.

"Right now works. Simon."

"Yes, sir?"

Price's smile turns into a wicked grin.

"Cooldown."