Credit goes to:bitchfacecalum.tumblr.com
In the air you could sense both the tension and the clouds of dust that flew off the bag he was punching relentlessly, one thud after the other in a steady pace echoing through the walls of the empty gym you were both in at that very moment.
You observed him attentively with a frown on your face, digging your teeth on your lower lip nervously as you watched his knuckles smash against the leather of the punching bag, the muscles of his glistening bare back contracting while he left out grunts of frustration with every blow.
It was more than obvious he didn't want to be disturbed, but you knew that if he didn't truly want your company he wouldn't have allowed you to be there. That was just the way he was; he would never speak out loud about the thoughts and emotions that tormented him, having the ridiculous mindset that "real men" didn't actually do that thing where they talked about their feelings. But after knowing him for as long as you did, you realized it didn't take words for you to figure out his current mood, as much as just paying a little bit of attention to his subtle reactions and body language.
Right now it didn't take a genius to know he was not only angry, and resentful; but mostly frustrated at himself.
Michael had always been the type of guy to push beyond the limits, demanding from himself even the impossible and especially when it came to his career. If there's one thing you couldn't say about him is that he wasn't passionate about what he did.
He lived every day like it was the last one, which made him such a thrill to be around and every chance he had to prove himself and the world that he was one of the best boxers in the business, he took it. Needless to say, as such a hard worker, the times where Michael could say he had failed at something were very few.
But the night before had unfortunately been one of them.
The fight had been very even, both opponents equally sweaty and tired by the punches they'd taken; but for some reason, when the last round came, Michael looked considerably more distracted, looking around the crowd frantically and lowering his guard, only sealing the deal for a clear defeat when his lack of concentration allowed the other guy to corner Michael and inevitably win the fight.
He had been quiet for the last 24 hours, only showing you he was still aware of your presence when he'd place a kiss absent-mindedly on your forehead to move on to do something else. He hadn't stopped; he'd barely gotten any sleep and when you saw him heading towards the gym you knew you'd have to come with and put an end to that absurd behavior.
"Michael?" You spoke, getting up from the bench where you'd decided to watch him silently as you both entered the room.
No reply.
If anything, the sound of your voice had made him throw punches even harder, the bag moving farther from him with every swing of his toned arms. The amount of tattoos that had grown since the first time you saw him almost a blur due to the speed that he was moving at, every muscle contracting and making you distracted for a second at the way every curve of his body was simply perfect, seeming like it could've been expertly chiseled to your preference by someone before they decided to bring him into your life.
"Michael..." You repeated; carefully approaching him and placing a hand delicately on his slippery shoulder, burning on your skin as he stopped immediately.
But he didn't look at you.
He frowned and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the leather surface defeatedly while his hands rested on the sides of the object he'd relentlessly tortured for endless hours. His breath was uneven, you guessed from both the effort and the whirlwind of emotions that gathered inside of him.
