Matchmakers

Reconciliation [Part Two]

POV THARN

The boxing gym is well equipped but at this hour it is a bit empty.

Techno and I quickly spot Champ chatting with a very muscular man. Champ introduces him as the owner of the gym and also his mentor. We show him respectfully despite my desire to see TYPE.

Champ notices him quite easily because of the way I look around the room.

"Type is in the back, you won't miss him.

I give him a weak smile and a last hai to the owner and I go to the back of the room.

Indeed I can't miss him, PANG, PANG, PANG, PANG, PANG, PANG, PANG, resound with each blow that Type hits in a boxing bag.

He doesn't notice me and I don't let him know I'm there.

I just stand there and watch him. He is... beautiful is the word that comes to my mind.

Champ told Techno that Type really needed to blow off some steam, but I didn't think it would be that bad.

The blows he hits follow each other in rhythm, rhythm disturbed by a sudden burst of anger.

In front of me, I see him in a different light. It's not the first time I see him in anger, far from it. He has a pretty angry character and I have learned to live with it. Not that I'm complaining, in fact I secretly enjoy knowing that I'm able to get him so angry-which often happens when I'm being hit on-and that I'm able to calm him down.

Type often gets angry but always keeps a certain amount of restraint and even more so since we've been together. But now he's unloading absolutely everything; he's completely covered in sweat, I don't know how long he's been punching that bag, but his punches don't let up: always stronger, always faster.

I am tempted to stop him before he hurts himself but on the other hand I understand that he wants to externalize all the rage that he has probably kept buried for a long time.

All I can do is watch him vent and hope that things will get better afterwards and that we'll be able to put things straight: this situation has gone on long enough, I want my kitten back.

After what seems like hours, the blows finally stop. Completely out of breath, breathing erratically and with trembling limbs, Type collapses on the bench next to him.

He still hasn't noticed me. I continue my observation with fascination. All the tension in his shoulders leaves him as he catches his breath. I see on his face that although he is tired, he is calm. I see him wiping himself with his towel totally lost in his thoughts, and that's when I decide to approach him and hand him a bottle of water.

The sensation of holding something in his hands brings him back to earth, surprised he straightens his head to see whose hand is holding the bottle and then frowns when our eyes meet.

A flurry of emotions crosses his beautiful eyes so quickly that I can't decipher them but his face expresses relief: he is relieved to see me.

He drinks the water I gave him, proof that he was really thirsty.
I sit down on the bench next to him and there is an awkward silence between us. Between us, we always know what to say, if one is nervous the other finds something to say.

But now, I'm completely lost.
What should I ask him?

How is he doing? Of course he'll answer me: as someone who has been abandoned like a piece of shit by his boyfriend

Did he sleep well? Answer: great, after being called an infidel.

How was his day?

Answer:remarkably well, so much so that I had to take my anger out on a punching bag before committing a murder and ending up in jail at just 19 years old.