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His navy suit, white shirt, red tie, gelled back brown hair. Gorgeous man with a harsh personality. Ever since Michael turned to the illegal side of business, things had changed him. He heard things a lot of people hadn't. He knew things most people didn't. And he saw things almost nobody else had. This hardened Michael. He wasn't always like this, yeah he was harsh but not like now. He used to be softer. So much softer that he fell in love.
They met at the pub, she was a barmaid but came from a rich background. They got on well, he visited the pub often. She made space in his heart, and he loved her. She was the missing piece to his happiness, he even cracked a smile every now and then.
But things had changed. Being involved with criminal activity everyday changed people, especially hurting or even worse killing. It was if he grew tired of her, he never made space for her, work was the priority. This wasn't the case, he did love her he just couldn't physically show it.
He recalls his last conversation with Isaiah, one night in the office when his best mate came to visit him:
"Ah, the main man." Isaiah smirked, shooting gun fingers at him as he entered Michael's office.
"Mmh." Was all Michael could say.
Isaiah lay his hands across the desk. "Come to the garrison, even if you're not available for the ladies, I am." He chuckled.
Tapping his foot impatiently, Michael bluntly replied, "Not now I'm busy."
Isaiah sighed, "there's no one left in this place, it's ten thirty and I want you to come out for once, like the old days."
"Isaiah can you just fuck off, unlike you I'm doing something fucking intelligent around here!" Michael yelled.
There was a long pause until Isaiah moved towards the door making his way out.
"You know what, fuck you. I don't know what the fuck has happened to my best mate but you better fix it and you can start with your wife." Isaiah spat.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael questioned angrily.
"She hasn't been here in months, if you're treating us like shit, fuck knows what goes on in London. Sort yourself out. You're a mess." Isaiah fired. He gave one glance towards Michael before walking out of his office.
"Yeah, well fuck you!" Michael shouted as he put his hands on his head. "Fuck." He muttered.
He believes the best way to deal with everything is to ignore it. No matter what it takes, deny, deny, deny. If it's not there it can't affect him. Truth be told, he's battling with depression too. Holding all these expectancies and titles above his head is driving him crazy. But his depressions a different kind to hers, he wasn't as forward with his feelings. He pushed it to one side and only feeling slightly better when he slept, if he ever did.
London, December 3rd, 1920, dark and cold, 1:00 am.
He stood in their shared bedroom, looking out through the window. Snow fell heavily, he sighed as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He could see his reflection in the window, he carried heavy bags around his eyes. He took in a few drags before turning around before looking at the mess he had created. She was asleep in bed, still and almost lifeless but she was everything to him.
Till this day Michael still doesn't know how he managed to get so lucky. He knows she could do so much better and he knows he treats her like shit. He hears her crying when she thinks no one's listening. He sees her self abuse when she believes no one's watching. He doesn't blame her, he would do the same if he was in her place. It's not that he doesn't care, he just doesn't know what to say. He wants to cry and wants to shout but has to keep up the strong persona. He looks back out to the window taking in another breath, this time he opens the latch of the window and leans forward to feel the breeze on his face. He takes in another drag before speaking out,
"I'm going mad." He muttered as he rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm just constantly, on the verge of falling off the edge." He grunted, gasping for air as he felt like all oxygen had been taken away from him. He looked back to his wife in the bed. "I don't know who I am anymore." He threw his cigarette out of the window.
Walking around to his side of the bed, he placed himself on the edge, the bed dipping with him. He reluctantly looked back at her tear stained eyes.
"I'm so sorry." He croaked. "No one should feel how you do, I'm sorry for the way I treated you. I love you so much. I really do." He sobbed. He got under the covers and snaked his hand around her waist. Something he hasn't done in a long time. He cried quietly into her shoulder. "Please forgive me, I don't want to lose you." He whispered.
She began to stir, her eyes fluttering open, surprised by the close contact from Michael. She doesn't say a word.
"I don't know why I can't tell you to your face anymore. But I love you so, so much." Michael explained. She began to feel tears on her shoulder. Her skin taking in the wet substance. Removing her arms from her grip, they find their way in his hair.
"Michael?"
"Y-you're awake?" He replied, completely startled.
"It's okay..." She smiled, and with that he begins to sob uncontrollably.
"I'm so sorry." Michael stuttered between cries.
She isn't sure what to do. This is the first time they had been emotional towards one another in months. Anna just lets him cry. She lets him sob into her, knowing a sense of relief will fulfil him when he is done.
"I don't deserve this." Michael finally spoke after the crying had died down, he peeled his stained cheeks from her neck as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. "I don't even know where to start, I have been the biggest-"
"Michael." Anastasia smiled sweetly. "We can talk about it in the morning." She nodded hopefully, Michael finally grinning as he too nodded in response. Michael opened his arms, inviting her in to cuddle for what felt like the first time in forever.
