The gardeners had stopped their work to watch. Had he noticed, no doubt the Baron would have reprimanded them, but he was just as intent as they were on the spectacle. Mick was as amused by the situation as Terry was, but he remembered to stay focussed. The best man would win, and he intended to be the best man!
Mick had not had a good scrap in a long time, but he was sure his instincts would not desert him now. He knew Terry was a regular at the inner city wrestling club, and did a bit of kick boxing on the side, but had never seen him in action. This would be interesting.
The two men moved cautiously towards each other, arms slightly raised, both smiling. Mick found himself slightly distracted by the other guy's body. Well-developed, Terry looked like he was bursting with health and power. Mick suddenly felt the weight of the sun on his bare shoulders and the strain of the recent hunt. He had run for over an hour, then carried the boy back here, a good four miles at least. In contrast, Terry looked fresh as a fucking daisy.
He pushed all doubts from his mind. He had been through worse. Much worse, and had not given up. He chanced a quick glance to his right. Jonathan was on his knees, still bound, watching them and frowning, his lips pushed out ever so slightly. Those lips looked absolutely heavenly.
Terry darted in, taking advantage of Mick's moment of distraction, and aimed a low punch to the stomach. Mick saw the sudden movement out the corner of his eye and started to twist away from it, but only partly dodged the attack, and Terry's fist connected hard with his side.
It was a strong blow, but Mick hardly felt the pain, reacting instantly, lashing out with his left arm in a side strike to Terry's nose. Terry blocked it and brought up his knee towards Mick's solar plexus.
Mick cut down with his right arm, blocking it, and then swept his left leg round, tripping Terry. His opponent fell but rolled away on the grass, springing to his feet just out of reach like an acrobat, beaming.
Oh, very fucking pleased with yourself, aren't you, dojo boy? Mick jumped towards him, aiming another kick, low towards Terry's shins. Terry dodged it easily, disturbing Mick's balance, and delivered a very successful snap-punch to Mick's right temple.
Bastard! Mick spat inside his ringing head, but he was already ignoring the pain, seeing the follow-up about to be launched, and ready for it. He deflected Terry's second punch, grabbing his wrist and spinning, pulling Terry forward, adding to his own momentum, unbalancing him, and then twisting the other way, sending Terry in a short, sharp arc to the ground.
Mick fell onto Terry, who was already struggling to escape the hold, but with limited success. He wriggled out of the lock Mick had been planning but Mick had him, his weight smothering the younger guy. Terry flailed his arms as Mick tried to grab them, his elbow striking Mick in the mouth. Mick pushed his forearm forward, towards Terry's throat, and leaned into it to add his weight to the attack.
Terry's legs wriggled free and sprang up, clamping around Mick's waist and squeezing. Mick groaned at the gradually mounting pain, breathing getting more difficult with each passing second. Leaning back, he placed both hands against Terry's thighs and tried to prize them apart. But Terry held on grimly, his muscular legs as firm and tight as a vice. They were welded together, pelvis to pelvis.
Mick lifted up onto his knees, leaning back further, out of the reach of Terry's fists, and continued to push down and outwards against Terry's thighs. It was strength against strength now. And Mick felt his fading away like mist under the blazing hot sun.
Still his determination, his stubborn, bullish defiance burned within him. It was a deep part of his character, and it had shaped his life and saved his life many times over the years. Shutting everything else out of his mind, he maintained pressure on Terry's thighs, feeling his arms tremble with the effort, feeling fresh sweat break out all over his baking body.
It could only have been a few seconds, though it felt a lot longer, but eventually he felt the iron grip of Terry's legs begin to falter. Strength was a winner, but no-one could maintain that kind of power indefinitely. One of them would reach his breaking point soon. Very soon...
Terry groaned as Mick succeeded in pushing his legs a few inches wider, and then Mick was free, sliding out of the death grip sideways, grabbing for Terry's arms again. But Terry was already twisting, away from him. Mick fell onto him, fighting for control. Terry twisted the other way, but Mick's weight held him down. Mick's arm snaked forward and down, under Terry's neck and up again the other side. Mick grabbed his own wrist and squeezed.
Terry's head was trapped, Mick's huge meaty arm pressing into his throat. Terry tried to wriggle free but Mick piled on the pressure until he saw Terry's ears go bright pink.
After a few seconds Terry stopped struggling and tapped Mick's arm weakly.
“YES!” Mick released him, jumping to his feet, laughing joyously. The blazing sun was no longer a cruel tormentor, it lit up the world around him in glorious colour and sang like fire in his blood.
Baron Michael was clapping. “Bravo, Mick! Bravo.”
Still laughing, Mick reached down to help Terry up off the grass. The loser was too weak to stand, and sat with his arms hanging limp between his legs. Gasping and chuckling, he panted “You... have got... some fucking... stamina, mate!”
“That's me. Never give up.” He was breathless himself, but light-headed with the exhilaration of the fight. He could taste his own blood in his mouth and felt the dull ache of the blows he'd taken. His muscles ached and his chest hair was sticky with sweat. But he felt alive.
His bullish spirit had triumphed again. All his life it had been the same. He was a tough guy but no Superman. There were many things in the world that could hurt him. But nothing – nothing – was worse than giving up.
“Mick!”
He turned to the Baron, who was now standing behind the kneeling form of Jonathan, beaming. The boy was gaping at Mick with an expression that was hard to read but seemed to contain shock, horror, disbelief, confusion and... excitement?
The Baron had hold of the rope binding Jonathan's chest and arms and pulled it upwards, bringing Jonathan higher up onto his knees. The boy looked uncomfortable in his bonds, his body still marked with dirt and grass from his chase and capture, but that only made him look all the more desirable. His mouth – those full, beautiful lips – trembled. He gazed up at Mick as if looking at something that had never walked the earth before.
Mick turned towards them and took a deep breath. The Baron nodded and said “Congratulations. And now, as they say, to the victor – the spoils!”
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