the stranger was always there to clean the fighter after a fight. he'd fix his face as much as he could and tell him how he thought he did. they'd have a minute alone before the fighter's manager would come in and give him his money, always disregarding the bloody rags and the boy to the side.
"barakat! what a fight! keep this up and your rewards will be more than you could ever imagine!" the man shouts as he walks away, almost each time.
"i barely have an education," the fighter remarks while the stranger cleans his cheek. there are scars on his face but they're hard to see until someone's up close like the stranger.
"i don't care." he doesn't. the fighter is intelligent in ways books can't teach. he's smart and uses his head to do more than fight.
"i do, alex," he says, using the stranger's name for the first time. he doesn't know how to feel, so he keeps quiet a minute while he rinses the rag and gives his eye pressure.
"hold that, jack, i need to get wraps for your knuckles."
it's not the first time he's said his name out loud—it's only the first time he's said it to the fighter.
