Tonight, he was silent.
Julian was a few years older, his dark hair brushed back with a silk-like sheen that didn't move even when he shadowboxed. He was the walking stereotype of a "man's man"; jawline sharp enough to cut glass, a calm, heavy presence that made the Fighter's high-energy persona feel suddenly... small. Flimsy.
As the Fighter stepped through the ropes, the lights felt too bright, the glitter on his robe feeling less like armor and more like a costume he'd outgrown. He looked across the ring. Julian was already there, standing perfectly still, his eyes clear and grounded.
The Fighter felt a sharp, bitter twist in his gut. It was a familiar ghost—the feeling of the Detroit locker room, of being the "freak" who didn't fit the mold. Looking at Julian, he felt an old, desperate need to prove he wasn't just a "pretty thing" in a mask. He felt the weight of his own masculinity being measured against Julian's effortless gravity, and he found himself wanting.
And for the first time in a long time, the Fighter didn't dance.
He lunged.
Every punch he threw was loaded with a jagged, frantic energy. He wasn't just fighting for a win; he was fighting to tear that "perfect" composure off Julian's face. He put more effort into the first round than he usually did in three—his lungs burned as he drove into Julian's guard, his gloves thudding against that solid chest.
He was trying too hard. He was over-extending, his teeth bared, sweat flying off him in a spray. He caught Julian with a sharp left hook that should have rattled him, but Julian just reset his feet, his face remaining a mask of stoic, manly calm.
He landed a stinging jab that split Julian's lip, a thin trail of crimson marring the "Saint's" perfection. The Fighter felt a surge of ugly triumph, leaning in during the clinch, his sweat-slicked face pressed against Julian's cool skin. He wanted Julian to snarl. He wanted him to spit or curse or show some flicker of the aggression that lived in the Fighter's own marrow.
But Julian was silent.
He didn't shove the Fighter off with the usual ring-side aggression. Instead, as the referee broke them apart, Julian reached out a heavy, gloved hand and gave the Fighter a brief, steadying pat on the shoulder; a gesture so paternal and calm it felt like a slap. He just looked at the Fighter, his eyes surprisingly soft, almost pitying, then stepped back into a perfect, grounded stance.
The Fighter recoiled as if he'd been burned. The silence was worse than a taunt. The pat on the shoulder confirmed everything he was terrified of; that in Julian's eyes, he wasn't a peer. He wasn't a "man" in the way Julian was. He was just a high-strung, "pretty" kid throwing a tantrum in a ring full of glitter.
He went back into the fray, hitting harder, breathing louder, trying to bury the "Saint" under a mountain of effort. But every time his glove connected, he felt less like a champion and more like the kid in the flannel, screaming at a world that refused to take him seriously.
But the war in the Fighter's head had already left him exhausted. He wasn't outclassed; Julian hadn't landed anything the Fighter couldn't handle, but the effort of trying to out-man a man who looked like a classic cinema star had drained him. Every time Julian leaned in, smelling of expensive cedarwood soap instead of the usual metallic tang of sweat, the Fighter felt like he was swinging at a mountain.
The fight ended in a narrow decision. Not a blowout, just a hard-fought, grinding match that left both men breathing heavy.
As the lights dimmed and the crowd's roar turned into a low hum, the Fighter tried to maintain his "Glitter King" posture: shoulders back, chin up, eyes defiant. But his chest was heaving, and the glitter on his face was smeared with Julian's blood and his own sweat.
Julian was there before he could exit the ropes.
Up close, the height difference was more pronounced. Julian didn't look down at him with disdain; he looked down with a relaxed, easy-going curiosity. He'd already wiped the blood from his lip, and his hair, miraculously, still looked brushed. He looked like he'd just finished a light jog, not twelve rounds of combat.
The Fighter froze, his hand on the velvet rope. He felt the old sass rising in his throat, the armor he usually wore to keep the "Sloanes" of the world at bay, but it felt heavy and clumsy against Julian's genuine tone.
He looked at his own boots, then up at Julian's calm, handsome face.
Art form. The word felt foreign.
The Fighter shifted his weight, his knuckles throbbing inside his gloves. He looked at Julian's broad shoulders, the "stereotypical man" silhouette, and felt that sharp, internal ache again. He had spent the whole night trying to beat the masculinity out of Julian so he could feel like he owned his own, and here was Julian, handing it to him like a gift.
He tried to keep his voice flat, a casual inquiry, but there was a crack in the foundation. Deep down, he was terrified of the kindness. A bully he could fight. A sweetheart made him feel like he was back in Detroit, being "the freak" that people only tolerated because they felt bad.
Julian reached out and gave the Fighter's shoulder a friendly, solid shove, not a punch, just the kind of thing brothers do.
Julian flashed a blindingly white, sincere smile, gave him a nod, and stepped over the ropes with the grace of a man who had never felt a moment of insecurity in his life.
The Fighter stood alone in the ring for a second too long.
It was the ultimate defeat. He had tried so hard to be "manly" enough to hurt Julian, but Julian was so comfortable in his own skin that he didn't even realize they were competing for the same space.
As he walked back to the locker room, the "Glitter King" didn't feel like a king. He felt like a boy who had tried to play dress-up in a world of giants, and the giant had just told him his costume was "cool."