fight club. lh ; mc.

nueve. parte uno.

Michael wakes up with a throbbing pain in his lower back and his ass, a pain much different to the one he acquires when he's damaged from a fight.

He woke up in the middle of the night to Luke peppering kisses all over his bruised back, then Luke had flipped him onto his back, fucked him until his vision blurred and his body shook with overstimulation.

Michael doesn't know what this all means, is the thing. He's used to people using him for sex and he has a feeling that this situation isn't going to be much different from the others. Luke probably knows well enough of Michael and his endeavours to know that the young boy would do anything he wanted him to do with the click of his fingers.

The redhead is aware that the right side of the bed is cold because Luke slipped out from under the covers at six in the morning and didn't come back.

He tries to ignore the stinging feeling that shoots it's way through his heart.

-----

Michael throws himself into training the second he steps foot into the club. He's been swinging his whole body at the punching bag whilst Malik holds it for him, shouting backhanded encouragements.

"That was good, do it again but better!" "What sort of useless shit is that, Clifford, I said better!"

Michael punches, punches, punches, until his knuckles split and they bleed, and once again Ashton comes swooping in, wrapping his large hand in the back of Michael's shirt and dragging him back towards the bathrooms. Michael lets himself be dragged like a rag doll.

"You and Hemmings were suspended for a week, you know that, Michael." Ashton scolds as he reaches for the first aid box, motioning for Michael to hop up on the counter, which the redhead does with a hiss leaving his mouth.

Ashton raises an eyebrow at him, but because he's Ashton he doesn't pry, instead pulling out antiseptic spray and a bundle of gauze.

"I know we were," Michael mutters, "I just needed to let off some steam and I figured it'd be better doing it here than punching all holy fuck out of the stuff in my apartment."

Ashton laughs at that, grabbing Michael's hand and spraying the antiseptic onto the open wounds, "Does this have anything to do with Luke, by any chance?"

"Not at all." Michael's reply is snappy and too fast, Ashton is a smart man, of course he will catch on.

"Well, whatever it is that's going on, fix it. Because you're both driving everyone insane."

-----

Michael curls himself up into a ball on his sofa, a blanket thrown haphazardly over his shivering body.

His eyes aren't focused on the television, but are in fact focused on the orange pill bottle sitting on his coffee table. Fluoxetine pills prescribed in his name stare at him and tease him, practically begging him to give in and pop a few.

Michael has been depressed since he was fifteen years old.

He had a decent upbringing, his parents loved him and because he was an only child, he got their undivided attention all the time. Though they weren't the richest people in the world, they still found a way to give Michael anything his heart desired, and he never went without.

People just... didn't like him. There was something about the weird blond kid with his crazy fringe and his sarcastic humour that people didn't like. And the boy became isolated fast in high school, nobody spoke to him and nobody tried to be his friend.

That was probably the main contribution.

Michael sits up and cracks his back as he goes, before he's clutching at the orange bottle and pulling two out, slipping them in his mouth and swallowing dry.

-----

It's been four days and Michael still hasn't seen Luke. Which he was sort of expecting, but.

Michael hasn't seen anybody at all. Nobody has stopped by to see if he's okay and at least alive, nobody's called or texted. He's been on his own completely.

His days have the same routine; wake up, shower, brush teeth, contemplate eating but decide not to, watch television, finally eat, watch more television, sleep.

The 'happy pills' are no longer helping him and he feels stuck. This is the worst he's felt in a while, and he knows it's bad because every time he thinks, his mind wanders towards thoughts of suicide.

He feels like in a way he's overreacting, but he's in a horrible, depressive mindset that he can't seem to pull himself out of and nobody knows, so they don't know to come and save him.

Michael's tired eyes slip shut and he lets sleep pull him under.