boxer ⋆ luke hemmings ✔️

05. Rage.

Luke Hemmings was pissed.

He hit the bag as hard as he could, both fists in the most defensive stance they'd ever been. He was blinded by rage, and he had no idea how to control it.

Normally, he was great at managing his emotions. He had to be- it was in the job description of being a boxer. He couldn't be too happy, or too sad, or too angry. Too much of anything was prohibited.

Unfortunately, anger was all he could feel.

They wouldn't let Luke see him.

One hit was a feeling equivalent to an electricity shock being ignited all throughout his body, starting at his knuckles and ending up everywhere else. Every punch required a different type of force, yet he found it hard to maintain any of that due to the insanity that was currently coursing through his veins.

They wouldn't let Luke see him, on his birthday.

He ditched the gloves. The pain he was waiting to feel left him unsatisfied, for the foam protected everything. Usually, that was a good thing. It was just a nuisance now.

He knew that Jack wouldn't be too happy with his decision to forget the gloves, for Luke's knuckles were still healing from the last time he fought- but his brother wasn't around to nag him about it, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He just didn't give a shit anymore.

They wouldn't let Luke see his own son.

And what he truly wanted right now was to pummel someone's face in. He wanted to grab someone by the back of the head and drag their face right through the dirt. He wanted to let out all of his unkempt, raw emotion, and he wanted to let it out in the form of violence.

So he trained. It wasn't training, per say- more like anger management condensed into a punching bag- but that was his excuse. If anyone asked, he'd be quick to answer.

He heard the double doors to the mini boxing arena slide open, catching his attention momentarily. He then saw a figure out of the corner of his eye, barely being able to ignore it.

One punch. Two punch, three. His fourth caused a dent in the rubber, satisfaction filling his bloodstream.

"Luke,"

He could hear them, but he chose not to listen. He was restless, and furious, and all he could see was red.

"Luke."

He heard something crack. Was it his knuckle, or his hand? It could have easily been one of his fingers. But he didn't care; he had no time to care.

"Luke!"

"What the fuck do you want?" Luke barked, slamming the side of his fist into the punching bag once more. He saw that the person who stood on the other side of the room, and was now slowly making their way towards him, was Ashton Irwin.

"Dude, I've been calling you for the past three hours," Ashton said, slipping under the ring rope. The punching bag that hung, suspended a couple of feet above the air, was the only thing that seperated them. "Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"Are you fucking blind? I'm busy," Luke snapped.

"Busy beating up a rubber bag?" Ashton repeated, following Luke out of the ring. "Makes sense,"

"What do you want?"

"I don't know what the hell's at a bigger loss," he continued, doing Luke's favourite thing of avoiding and forgetting, "The bag, or your poor hands."