The Sanders Sides

9 - Seething Roman

The rhythmic thud of punches against padded mitts echoed through the gym, a steady beat that mirrored the pounding of Roman Sanders' heart. Sweat beaded on his brow, stinging his eyes as he ducked and weaved under his trainer's relentless assault. Each jab, each hook, was a release of pent-up energy, a physical manifestation of the whirlwind swirling inside him.

Roman wasn't just here for the workout. He was here for the escape. Here, in the controlled chaos of the kickboxing ring, the anxieties gnawing at him faded into the background. The worries about upcoming auditions, the ever-present pressure to live up to his family's legacy – all of it dissipated with every well-placed kick.

His trainer, a mountain of a man named Bruno with a shaved head and a surprisingly gentle voice, barked instructions. "Left jab, Roman! Right cross! Don't forget to breathe!"

Roman followed the commands with practiced ease, his movements a blur of red – the color that seemed to bleed into every aspect of his life, from his crimson hair to the stylish joggers he sported. He wasn't just drawn to the color; he felt it embodied him – his passion, his creativity, the flamboyant side he wasn't afraid to show.

But lately, a different color had been creeping into his world – a soft, calming blue that belonged to Logan, the quiet, introspective new guy at his university. They'd bumped into each other at the library a few weeks back, and ever since then, Roman couldn't seem to shake the feeling that there was something special about him. The way Logan's eyes, the color of a stormy sky, seemed to see right through him, the way his thoughtful silences spoke volumes – it all left Roman yearning for more.

The bell marking the end of the round clanged, a harsh sound that ripped Roman from his daydream. He lowered his arms, panting heavily, his chest slick with sweat. Bruno clapped him on the back, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Good work, Roman," he boomed. "You're getting faster, more focused. What's got you so fired up?"

Roman hesitated, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Just... life," he said vaguely, not wanting to delve into the confusing tangle of emotions swirling inside him.

Bruno chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floor. "Life, huh? Well, whatever it is, keep channeling that energy. You've got the talent to go far, kid, just gotta keep pushing."

Roman nodded, a flicker of determination igniting in his brown eyes. He knew Bruno was right. He wouldn't let his anxieties hold him back, not in the ring and not in his pursuit of... well, whatever this thing with Logan was.

With a deep breath, he grabbed a towel and wiped down the sweat, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. Maybe, just maybe, this kickboxing class wasn't just about physical release. Maybe it was also about training him for a different kind of fight – a fight for love, for acceptance, for the courage to be his true, flamboyant, red-wearing self, no matter who was watching.

Fury coiled in Roman's gut, a tight, venomous knot that threatened to burst. The image of Patton, his best friend, flinching under the taunts of that obnoxious jock replayed on a loop in his mind. Patton, with his gentle smile and unwavering kindness, didn't deserve that. No one did.

He ripped off his shirt, the white cotton a stark contrast to the simmering rage simmering beneath. Yanking on a spare red karate gi, the color a physical embodiment of his anger, he stomped into the dojo. The rhythmic thwack of bodies against punching bags provided a meager counterpoint to the storm brewing inside him.

He launched himself at the nearest heavy bag, unleashing a torrent of punches and kicks. Each blow was a manifestation of his frustration, a silent scream against the injustice he'd witnessed. He wasn't just fighting for Patton; he was fighting for a world where kindness wasn't a weakness, where someone like Patton could walk with his head held high.