The smell of sweat and leather filled the air. Flynn might have expected the smell to have grown dull to him after so many years of essentially living in the gym, but he had somehow never gotten used to it. It was a shame really. While he loved the subtle scent of leather that filled the air, it was too often overpowered by Jones's nasty old man sme-

Flynn's world exploded, cutting off his thought with a flash of pain and a completely new smell. Blood. The third most common scent.

"What the fuck, old man?!" Flynn shouted.

"The fuck are you shouting at me for, brat?" Jones said, before aiming another swift punch at Flynn's face, though he managed to duck under it this time.

"I thought we were just doing drills," Flynn said. "Why the fuck did you punch me?"

"You think your opponent's gonna warn you before punching you?" Jones asked, before aiming another punch at his face, as if to emphasize his point.

"Well if we're just supposed to be doing drills, then yeah. I would," Flynn said, before jumping back out of Jones's reach, just in case he tried to punch him again. Flynn touched his glove to his nose and frowned when he saw a drop of blood on it.

"I'm bleeding," Flynn said.

"I can see that," Jones grumbled, before taking his pads off and dropping them to the floor.

"We're stopping?" Flynn asked.

"I don't want blood on my equipment," Jones said, climbing out of the ring and tossing Flynn a rag. "Clean that up, then take a shower. We're done for the day."

"Tired already?" Flynn asked, with a frown. "You ain't getting old on me, are you, Jones?"

"Less talking, more cleaning," Jones said, already halfway across the gym.

Flynn took one of his gloves to flip Jones the bird, before picking up the rag and dabbing at the drop of blood to clean it without smearing it. He sighed, disappointed at how suddenly their training session ended, but knowing better than to argue about it. Jones was an eccentric old man, and random mood swings weren't something he was unused to.

Once Flynn was satisfied that his glove wouldn't stain, he made his way to the changeroom to shower.

Flynn showered with his clothes on for the first few minutes, taking the opportunity to wash his clothes with the soap before stripping down and tossing them over a drying rack that stood in the corner of the shower room. Though he wasn't usually one to shower with warm water, preferring cold water to soothe his muscles whenever he got a good training session in, he knew that Jones hated when he pushed up the heating bill, and he felt like spiting the old man today.

Once he was done, he took his clothes from the drying rack and wrung them out as best as he could before pulling them back on. The wet cloth clung to his body, but Flynn ignored the uncomfortable feeling, knowing that it would dry out before he walked out the door.

It always did, for some reason. He never really questioned it. When he asked Jones about it once, the man suggested that he probably just ran hot and not to think about stupid stuff.

The gym was empty when Flynn stepped outside, though that wasn't anything strange. The gym wouldn't open to the public for a few more hours, and Jones was probably still out. Flynn didn't want to go outside and inhale Jones's cigarette smoke, so he idled around in the gym, busying himself by finding a rag and wiping the floors.

It was an odd picture, he was sure, for a ten-ish year old boy to be wiping down the floors of a ratty boxing gym like this, but it wasn't like he had anything better to do. Better than hanging out at the orphanage at the very least. Flynn wondered for a moment about what the other kids in the orphanage were doing, before he quickly decided he didn't give a shit.

With the sudden increase in free time that he had no idea what to do with, Flynn busied himself by cleaning the smaller nooks and crannies that he usually didn't bother with. Armed with nothing but a rag and a bucket of soapy water, he set about to try and make the gym look as presentable as possible. Well… as presentable as he could possibly make it look. Even he had his limits.

Cleaning in silence, he only stopped when the creak of the gym door made him whip his head around.

"Cryin' out loud, Flynn. At least turn on the lights when you creep around in here. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"It's bright out and I don't like wasting electricity, Tom," Flynn replied, frowning when the young man flipped the switch anyways. He looked up at the lights as they hummed and flickered before giving off a steady light. "Jones doesn't like it either."

"Loosen up, Flynn. You're too young to be wearing such a sour look," Tom said.

Flynn gave Tom his best smile, and immediately the older man chuckled and shook his head.

"Okay, nevermind. You've proved your point," he said. "Now put that away. You'll scare the children."

For the first time that day, Flynn laughed. His subtly too wide mouth and subtly too sharp teeth weren't really noticeable most of the time, but when he smiled, people got uncomfortable even if they couldn't figure out why. While the other kids at school and at the orphanage were quick to simply label him as a freak, Tom had been the first to point out that he kind of looked like a snake.

Not that Tom would've been the first to notice. Flynn was certain that both Jones and Liz had noticed before Tom had, but Jones likely didn't care enough to point it out, and Liz likely didn't think he looked any stranger than the other kids. Something about everybody being beautiful just the way they were. How in the hell Jones had raised a lady like that, Flynn had no idea.

"Hell, Flynn," Tom said, interrupting his thoughts. "You've really cleaned this place up. How'd you manage to clean the rafters?"

Flynn shrugged. "I climbed," he said. "And I had time."

"Mr. Jones should really be paying you for all the good you do here," Tom said.

"Fuck that," Flynn said, his frown returning in full force. Tom's eyes pointedly shifted to the side, though the smile didn't drop from his face. He likely meant it as a friendly joke, knowing just how much Flynn hated the idea of taking the old man's money, but that didn't make it any less infuriating to hear.

"I'll kick your ass if you ever suggest that shit again, Tom," Flynn said.

"Yeah, yeah," the older man said, taking off his jacket and tossing it to the side. "You wanna back up those words in the ring?"

Flynn's dour mood lifted immediately. "Really?" he asked, trying to stop the excitement from entering his voice too obviously.

"Yeah," Tom replied, as he stretched his arms over his head.

"What's the occasion?" Flynn asked.

"Not everything's a trick, you little bastard," Tom said, rolling his eyes. "I just need a warm-up before the class starts, not that I expect you could give me one. Now are you gonna try to prove me wrong or are you just gonna stand there?"

Flynn felt his lips curl up into another grin before he slapped himself in the face and hopped on the spot.

"I'm gonna beat your ass, Tom."

"Sure thing, buddy."

Flynn had no chance. Being large for his age meant nothing when his opponent was an adult equipped with two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Though Tom was holding back enough that he wasn't going to accidentally kill Flynn with an unlucky punch to the head, it sure didn't feel like it to Flynn, as he fought for his life against the wall of jabs that Tom sent in his direction.

Knowing that trying to block Tom's punches was a useless endeavour, Flynn ducked and dodged out of harm's way, taking glancing blows as he pushed himself forward, trying to get to a range where Tom's longer limbs would be ineffective.

It didn't work. It never did.

By the end of the three minute round, Flynn was laid out flat on the floor, holding blood and spit in his mouth while he waited for Tom to bring a bucket over to him.

"Fanks," Flynn said, before propping his upper body high enough that he could spit into the bucket before falling flat on his back once more.

"No big," Tom said, sitting down cross-legged beside him.

Flynn waited for Tom to say something, but when the man didn't do anything but stare off into space, Flynn scrunched his nose and pushed himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the way that his muscles screamed at him when he did. Tom didn't even seem to notice.

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

Well, he noticed that at least. Tom let out a sound that was somewhere between a cough and a laugh, before turning to Flynn.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"No," Flynn answered. "The fuck is your problem?"

"Me? What? Every day you hound me to beat the snot out of you, and when I actually do it, you call me out on it?"

"You weren't beating the shit out of me, Tom. That's just how men like us have conversations."

"Don't listen to Mr. Jones's philosophies. He's a genius at punching stuff, but not much else," Tom said, though Flynn noticed his eyes dart backwards, as if expecting the old man to be standing right behind him. "Most people don't walk away that bruised after a simple talk. Are the police gonna be coming after me again?"

"They don't give a shit about us rats," Flynn said, shaking his head. "Stop changing the subject. Don't be a bitch."

Flynn saw Tom's eyes spark in a rare fit of anger, before it died out just as quickly as it appeared. Tom sighed and looked away, before leaning back and falling flat against the mats.

"How do you do it, Flynn?"

Flynn frowned. "I don't know what to tell you, Tom. I guess getting punched in the face is just a natural talent I have."

Tom's eyes flickered towards Flynn, giving him a half hearted glare, before looking directly up at the ceiling again.

"You got a terrible life, Flynn."

"Gee, thanks. I never realized."

"Will you just shut up for a second and let me finish?" Tom asked, though there wasn't any real heat behind it.

"Not if you're gonna be a little bitch about it," Flynn said. "I've never watched a chick flick in my life and I don't plan to start now. Don't think that just because you lied down, all mopey and sad, that I'm gonna lie down next to you and look up at the starry night sky while I let you talk about how your day went for a fucking hour before getting to the fucking point."

Tom stayed silent for a moment before sighing and sitting up.

"I'm thinking of quitting boxing," he said.

"Why?" Flynn asked.

"Because it's hard trying to go pro while working sixty hours a week," Tom said. "Which, now that I say it out loud, it just sounds like I'm complaining."

Flynn frowned. Though his first instinct was to agree with what Tom just said, he bit the comment back and turned his head away, not knowing what sort of expression he should be wearing.

"So. How're things at work, Tom?" Flynn asked, still staring off to the side.

A long silence was his only reply, and though he didn't want to turn around and see Tom moping around or crying, god forbid, curiosity eventually got the better of him.

When he turned around, he was thankful that there were no tears in Tom's eyes, but he was also confused by the dumb look that Tom was giving him. The way that Tom's lips threatened to twitch upwards into a smile, made Flynn glad that Tom was apparently done with moping around, but at the same time, he wanted to punch the grin off the man's face for whatever reason.

"The fuck are you looking at?" Flynn asked.

Though Flynn couldn't see the humour in it, the simple question made Tom cover his mouth and grab his gut as he failed to hold back a couple of high pitched giggles that definitely didn't suit a muscular twenty something year old black man like him.

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"Ah, there's my good ole Flynn back," he wheezed, more than said. "It sounded like I was talking to my dad for a second there. I was half expecting you to call me 'sport' or something like that."

Flynn scowled and punched Tom in the meaty part of his thigh. Even though it felt like he was punching a brick wall, Flynn felt a twinge of satisfaction when Tom yelped and pulled his leg away.

"Little bastard," Tom said, rubbing at the spot where he'd been punched.

"Asshole. See if I give half a shit about you ever again," Flynn said, threatening Tom with a raised fist, even if he was too tired to act on it. He let himself fall backwards and laid on the floor of the ring.

"Aww, little Flynn does have a heart. Who knew?" Tom said.

Flynn scowled at his words, and felt it deepen when he heard Tom thump down a short distance from him.

"Get back up. I was lying down first," Flynn said.

"Nah, it's too late," Tom said. "You're in a chick flick now. Sorry."

"Fuck off."

Tom's only response was to laugh. Though Flynn hated the idea of participating in mopey chick flick shenanigans like this, he didn't want to get up either, feeling like that would be like handing Tom the win, somehow. So he stayed down, even if he didn't like it.

"The stars are beautiful tonight," Tom said.

"I'll actually stab you, Tom," Flynn said. "I'm gonna go back to the orphanage and get my shiv from my pillow, then I'll come back and stab you in the dick."

Tom immediately fell into silence. Flynn knew that Tom usually got like that whenever he mentioned his life at the orphanage, and though he hadn't meant to use it as a tool to shut him up, he wasn't going to complain about the sudden silence either.

They simply laid like that for a while before Flynn decided he had enough. Rocking himself up to his feet, he stretched out his sore muscles a few times before nudging Tom's shoulder with his foot.

"Get up, shithead," Flynn said. "I gotta wipe the floor before your little brats get here."

"They're the same age as you, little bastard," Tom grumbled.

"And they've been suckling their momma's tits their whole lives," Flynn replied. "Those brats haven't even seen the real world yet."

"And you've seen too much of it," Tom said, still lying down.

"Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?" Flynn asked, nudging Tom's shoulder again.

Tom glanced at Flynn and got up before he could nudge him again.

"I think I'll quit my construction job," Tom said. "Find another part-time gig or two and go pro."

"Good for you," Flynn replied, as he grabbed a rag and started to wipe down the puddles of sweat that the two of them had left in the ring. "You want a cookie?"

"I wish you would take my life-changing decision a little more seriously, Flynn," Tom said.

"And I wish you would shut the hell up," Flynn replied. "You think about what part-time gigs you're gonna take? Maybe you could ask Liz if she has an errand boy position for you or something."

"Elizabeth?" Tom asked, before chuckling and shaking his head. "I couldn't."

"Why not?" Flynn asked.

"Why don't you let Mr. Jones pay you?" Tom shot back.

Flynn stared at Tom for a few seconds, before shrugging.

"Fair enough," he said.

With nothing else to say, Flynn took another shower while Tom went to the office and went over the gym's finances for a while before the first of his brats started to trickle in for the gym's children's boxing classes. Flynn scowled at them, but made himself scarce before any of them could notice him, sneaking out the back door, only to be surprised when he nearly bumped into Jones.

The old man was leaning back against the wall, not reacting to Flynn's sudden appearance from inside the building as he sucked on his cig, surrounded by a large pile of butts. Flynn frowned when he realized it had been a while since he'd bothered to clean up behind the building, but before he could scold the old man for not using the bin he'd set up specifically for the cigarette butts, he noticed the wistful expression on his face.

"Motherfucker," Flynn said. "Does everybody gotta be a mopey little bitch today?"

Jones continued to stare ahead, not acknowledging Flynn's insult at all. Before Flynn could consider asking whether Jones was going deaf or not, the old man took the cig from his mouth and flicked the ash in Flynn's general direction. Flynn jumped back to avoid it, and glared at the old man, but said nothing.

"Did you have a good talk with Tom?" Jones asked.

"Yeah. Can't you tell?" Flynn responded, pointing at his face. Though he usually healed quickly, the soreness he felt told him that he was no doubt sporting a black eye or two, at the very least.

"Did you manage to talk back at all?" Jones asked.

"No. I'll get him next time though."

Jones gave him a blank stare, holding it for a few seconds before turning his head and staring off into the distance once more.

"He wants to go pro," Flynn said.

"I'm aware."

"You don't want him to?"

"It's not a matter of what I want him to do. Tom's his own man. He can make his own decisions."

"But you don't want him to."

"Didn't you hear me, brat? I don't give a shit about what he wants to do. I just don't want to be any part of it."

"Why?"

"Cause I ain't a coach, kid. Tom's better off going somewhere else to train, rather than this shithole."

Flynn glanced back at the decrepit building they were both leaning against and couldn't help but agree. "Tom's a fucking idiot," he said. "But he's his own man. He can make his own decisions."

Jones glanced at Flynn before grumbling something unintelligible and tossing the last bits of his cigarette to the ground. He grinded it against the floor under his heel before reaching into his pocket and drawing out another one.

"And what about you, brat?" he asked, covering up his face to light up his cigarette despite there being no wind.

"What about me?" Flynn asked.

Rather than answering immediately, Jones focused on trying to get his lighter to work, making sparks that landed on his bare skin three times before he could get a flame going. He took a long drag before he stared up into the sky.

"How old are you, brat?"

"Where the fuck did that come from, old man?"

"Just answer the fucking question."

Flynn wanted to needle the old man some more, but something about his voice surprised him. Flynn had never heard Jones sounding so tired before.

"Ten-ish," he said.

"And when do you turn eleven?" Jones asked.

"Why? You planning to throw me a fucking party?" Flynn asked, with a dry laugh. "Fuck if I know. Don't think my crackwhore of a mother bothered to fill out the proper paperwork when she dropped me off at the orphanage, but maybe I can ask around."

Jones didn't seem happy about the answer. He let out a sigh, and a cloud of smoke along with it.

"If someone offered you unimaginable power in exchange for your freedom, would you take it?"

Despite the suddenness of the change in topic, the question was easy enough that Flynn knew the answer immediately. "Yeah," he said, without a second of hesitation.

"Why?" Jones asked. "I thought you hated being confined."

"And if I was powerful, I could just take my freedom back. Easy."

Suddenly, Jones fell into a coughing fit, spitting out his cigarette onto the floor. He pounded his chest violently as a spray of hacked spittle flew out of his mouth. Before Flynn could wonder if he should be concerned for the old man's health, however, the cough faded away into a horrible raspy sound that sounded like Jones was rubbing two sheets of sandpaper against each other.

It had been a while since he'd heard the old man's laugh and it was just as annoying as he remembered it, but it also filled him with a sense of warmth that he desperately tried to ignore. Fucking Tom. This was all his fault somehow.

"You're still green, brat," Jones said, through raspy breaths. "But that's a good answer."

He didn't say anything else after that. Jones reached for his pocket for another cigarette, but seemed to decide against it, shaking his head and walking back into the building. Flynn wondered for a moment what that had all been about before deciding that he didn't give a shit. He stepped inside for a second to pick up the broom by the door, and swept up the discarded cigarette butts he had outside, before stepping back in.

Tom was still teaching his class, and would be teaching more for the next few hours, so Flynn simply idled around in the back of the building with Jones, sitting in silence until Jones decided to get up and start making dinner. Flynn joined him and though the kitchenette at the back of the gym was tiny, they fell into a familiar and comfortable rhythm with each other, to make a typical meal of spaghetti with strips of nearly expired steak that Jones had bought from the nearby butcher for cheap.

They waited for Tom to finish the last class of the day and shower up before they started eating. The back office fell into a comfortable chatter, filled mostly by Tom asking Jones about how Elizabeth was doing and talking about the gym's finances, while the old man gave him grunted responses and Flynn got in his jabs wherever he could. They ate their fill, leaving no leftovers behind, and though Tom usually left after dinner, he sat back down at the table across from Jones after helping Flynn wash the dishes.

Flynn could take a hint, so he made himself scarce, saying that he needed to head back to the orphanage anyways. Ms. Baggs didn't give a shit about what the kids got up to, but she did have a rule that every kid needed to sleep at the orphanage at least four times a week, or she would write them off as dead.

The walk from the gym to the orphanage took an hour, but it was warm and he had a full belly, so he could hardly complain. He kept his hands in his pockets and fidgeted around so any muggers would think twice about trying to jump him if they thought he had a knife, but he doubted that anyone would assume a rat like him would have money anyways. The only people who harassed him were a pair of teens who yelled at him for being white and a drunk hooker trying to sell herself to him, under the assumption that he was a midget.

Otherwise, he made it to the orphanage without getting into a fight, and nobody there was stupid enough to start anything with him, given how many of the older kids still had scars on their bodies from the times they'd tried to mess with him, and that had been from a time before he had towered over them all. The only kid who was taller than him was a fifteen year old named Derrick, but he never took a fight unless he was certain he could win.

Giving everyone in the room a stink eye as he entered, he checked his pillow to make sure his shiv was still there before taking his place at the corner of the large room that they slept in. Though there were a few ratty beds scattered around the room that had been donated by a faraway hospital, Flynn took his place on the floor.

He refused to close his eyes until Ms. Baggs called for lights out and shut off all the lights in the building. Immediately, the room fell into silence, with none of the kids being stupid enough to make a noise and potentially set someone off.

With a hand halfway inside his pillow, Flynn closed his eyes and fell asleep.