Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“I just don’t care about anyone who can’t keep up. Yoichi and I are innovating…and we don’t need any uncreative, traditionalist pigs.” The words had came out cold and bitter, they hung thick in the tense atmosphere that clouded the field. Harsh words with a harsh impact, intended to carve a lifetime of pain into one’s being.

Every syllable was painfully annunciated, and Michael was sure that they would forever remain engraved behind Alexis’s thick skull. He didn’t have to face him to feel the intense weight of his despairing gaze; Michael didn’t even have to spare a glance, but he knew Alexis’s teary eyes hadn’t once left their sight on him.

He had told Alexis to quit soccer. He had embarrassed him on live television, humiliated him in front of thousands, insulted him in the most degrading tone possible, all for the sake of pursuing a win that never happened.

He had shoved away the only person who was willing to stay, the one person who endured years of his verbal abuse silently, staying by his side the same way an obedient puppy would with its owner. The image of Alexis’s expression, laced with grief and agony, bore holes in his brain, and no matter how much Michael tried to brush it off, tried to convince himself not to care, it proved to be impossible.

The guilt didn’t wear off, not the day after the match, not the week after, nor the month after. Ness hadn’t came running back the way he usually would. It was an awful, dead silence on his end, and for a while, Michael had assumed that Alexis had finally given up; he finally grew tired of putting up with his shit. Michael thought that it was fair; he did deserve to rot in his own loneliness. After all, he treated Alexis like absolute shit, the same way his father had treated him when he was younger.

He hated it. He despised how he grew to resemble the same father who had put him through hell during his childhood, the same father who spiralled into a black hole of self-destruction, the same way Michael was spiralling now.

He loathed it all. His coach, his team, that bastard Yoichi, the way Alexis made him feel, and most of all, himself, and with a loyal dog by his side to take his anger out on, he channeled it inwards. He was a failure, undeserving of love and understanding; he was incapable, useless, worthless, and a shitty person. All the names his father had hurled at him, the times he would press his weight down on his feeble body, hands wrapped around his neck while yelling the most hurtful things possible to a child, he felt deserving of it all.

The thought of it made his chest tighten. He needed to feel something familiar, something that resonated with him; he needed to relive the abuse and to punish himself for being such an asshole, not just to Alexis but to the entirety of his team.

As his hands flew up to grip his neck, nails digging into the flesh as he tightened his grip, he reflected on his childhood, the hellish 15 years of his life that tormented him. His throat burned; it felt raw and exposed, itching for release and for air. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, the pressure in his skull rising as he felt the blood rush and swell in his head. Every vessel from his neck above threatened to pop and explode, the pounding of his heart now dangerously loud in his ears as blotches of black spots clouded his vision.

He bit down on his lip, hard and unrelentlessly, in an attempt to stifle the hacking noises that escaped his throat. Despite his great efforts to go unnoticed, he wasn’t as quiet as he thought he was, because as his vision blurred into darkness, he could faintly hear the panicked footsteps and the faint cries. Well shit, he thought, before fading into unconsciousness.

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It’s a mess as he stirs awake, his vision blurry, the cut-off from blood circulation does wonders at creating an incessant headache that pinches the area right behind his temple. The constant motion doesn’t help either; he can feel the strain of his muscles, they quiver and tremble under the weight of his body as he struggles to help himself up into a sitting position. A steady hand on his back assists him as a grim and firm voice cuts the air, “Michael, how are you feeling?”

Michael doesn’t answer, his throat sore and tight; he’s sure that if he speaks now, his voice will come out strangled and cracked. Instead, he observes his surroundings like he always does, it’s a little habit that he picked up in his childhood days as a thief, the old times when he had to analyse every movement of the people around him while he swiped trinkets and items. Even after all these years, the habit never left; it remained engraved deep within the fibres of his being.

The first thing Michael takes note of is the darkness of the night, judging from the pitch-black color, it has to be midnight. His eyes shift to the man behind the steering wheel, driving at a dangerously high speed across the roads, his expression stern and neutral.

That’s just the way Noel is, and sometimes it irritated Michael to no end, the way his expression never shifts to reveal emotions and the way he’s always unbothered, much like a stone wall.

But this time it’s different, Michael picks up on the slight crease between his eyebrows, a slight frown. The man parted his lips again, his voice solid, “Michael, do you know where you are?” The question carried no malice nor condescension, and yet Michael feels a pool of irritation gather; he’s pissed. Why can’t Noel just mind his own business instead of driving him out at night? For fucks sake, this is ridiculous.

With a snarky tone, he bites back, hissing, but his throat betrays him, and all that comes out are hoarse words. “Obviously, I have eyes to see that I’m in a car.” Clearly unimpressed, Noel keeps his eyes fixed on the road ahead, ignoring Michael’s attitude, he speaks with the same monotonous tone, “We’re headed to the hospital.”

Michael already knew that. He hates hospitals, from the sterile glow of sharp white lights, to the smell of sanitiser, to the doctors that work there. The annoyingly persistent migraine in his head only makes it worse, and he’s sure his displeasure is written clearly on his face.

There’s a hand rubbing circles on his back, gentle and slow, he turns his head to catch a glimpse of the person responsible for this, it’s Ali. There’s a sinking disappointment that Michael hates to admit, somewhere in his heart, he had secretly hoped that it was Alexis who was in his place.

“We’re almost there.”, Noel announces, and Michael feels an eye roll starting to form, but he decides against it when he’s reminded of how nauseous he is; every movement causes his stomach to tense. He can tell that they’ve arrived from the way the car pulls into a car park. Noel is the first to leave the car; he moves quickly, but not in panic. His outstretched hand is instantly swatted away by an irritated Michael, “I can help myself.”

Noel doesn’t say anything, only leads the way silently to the hospital’s entrance, the only sounds filling the dead, awkward silence are their footsteps. Michael’s feet nearly betray him, stumbling on a non-existent obstacle.

Instinctively, Ali reaches his hands out to support, but the gesture of care is quickly rejected when Michael scowls and ignores him. It’s painfully embarrassing. First, he had been caught choking himself; second, he woke up in a car, all vulnerable and exposed; third, he had just tripped on air.

A genuine disgust starts to bubble within him; he’s weak and exposed, and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of his existence, the way his sweat sticks to his skin, the way his muscles ache like they’ve been overworked for years, probably because they had been.

Michael is never one to value rest; he trains like an animal, like a restless dog. The daily trainings themselves are vigorous, but Michael never feels like they’re enough; no amount of effort feels enough. The impending sense of dread that drives him looms over him at any time he rests.

He’s scared. Scared of being weak and unprotected, scared of being the underdog, and most of all, scared of returning to the shitty place he grew up in, scared of going back to his father. The thought of it terrifies him, being at the whim of his father’s hand, flinching and struggling under his grip, begging for it to end. He hates the vulnerability of it. He wants to make a run for it, to escape, the sudden urge to shield himself from the world, to be isolated and alone, after all, he thrives best in loneliness.

His train of thought is rudely interrupted when Noel calls him. “Michael, follow the doctor.” He must have zoned out because he doesn’t remember walking through the hospital doors, and yet he finds himself being guided through the corridors of the hospital to a dimly lit room. Makes sense, it is midnight after all.

Ali helps him to a chair despite the shooting glares that Michael directs at him. He doesn’t want help, he feels like he’s being treated like an infant at his grown age of 19. Noel stands at the door, like a massive boulder that blocks his escape route, scanning Michael, probably scruntinisng him, and yet not a muscle on his face twitches to hint at what he’s thinking.

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The medical procedure is excruciatingly boring and unreasonably long, leaving Michael wondering if there’s really any need to have a 100-question survey asking near damn the same thing each time. “Are you experiencing any form of light-headedness or dizziness?” Michael replies with a curt ‘no’, a white lie, but he can’t be bothered to tell the truth; it’ll only result in a longer stay at this wretched hospital.

“Are you, in any way, feeling nauseous?” Once again, Michael lies; every question asked by the doctor is met with the same monosyllabic response. “How’s your throat?” Another question he wants to avoid, he answers with an unconvincing ‘Fine ’, eager to get this done and over with, but of course, Noel has to cut in. He just has to make this worse than it already is.

“Your voice says otherwise.”, and Michael feels his entire surroundings rotate as he rolls his eyes, making it strikingly obvious that he doesn’t appreciate Noel’s little input. He swears he feels a vein at the side of his neck pop as he retorts, it takes everything in his power not to tell Noel to shut the fuck up, instead he settles for a passive-aggressive comment, “I think. I know. Myself. Best.” The irritation is practically dripping from his tone, and yet Noel can’t seem to notice it. No, he probably does, he just doesn’t care, Michael thinks.

The next line from Noel nearly sends Michael over the edge: “But do you really?” He has to clench his fists and shut his eyes; he just wants to smack the shit out of his coach right now. It goes quiet for a moment, the tension in the room intensifies, and the poor doctor is unsure of what to do as he’s caught between their banter.

The stare-down between Noel and Michael is punctuated when Michael flinches as a cool, circular surface contacts his bare skin. The sudden movement from him earns an apologetic reassurance from the doctor, “Ahem, so sorry, I have to check your breathing.” Michael grumbles a little and scrunches his nose, calculating if he would rather give the doctor a hard time or finish this quickly. All the while, the doctor listens through the stethoscope, shifting the cold, metal surface to his lower lungs.

Then he stops, hesitating at the area, the sudden lack of movement makes Michael question if there’s an issue. “Take a deep, slow breath.” He cooperates, letting the air expand his lungs, but as he does, he feels an unceasing itch in his throat, like there’s phlegm of some sort, though he’s not sick at all. The air seems to tickle his throat, and he explodes into a violent coughing fit. Every cough made the strain in his throat worsen. The doctor merely moves backward, letting Michael have his space.

For a moment, it feels never-ending, his lungs hacking away, and his abdominal muscles cramping under the pressure. At the corner of his eyes, he spots Ali wincing, like he could feel Michael’s pain, and in his peripheral vision, Noel is judging from a distance. This can’t get any worse.

The dramatic fit settles into a low growl in his throat. Noel’s eyes haven’t left him the entire time, and Michael wants to tell him to mind his own business, but he’s sure that if he says anything in this state, his throat will betray him. He frowns, exasperated at how long this is taking, and annoyed at how Noel doesn’t pry his eyes off him. The doctor finally turns towards Michael, and for a second, he has hope that he’ll discharge him. “I’ll have to keep you here for a while longer, just until you finish the medication I provide. I suspect that you’re low on fluids, and your throat is suffering some damage from prolonged pressure, though it’s nothing serious.”

Michael feels an insult creeping up his throat, but swallows it since he isn’t in any position to be demanding. It all feels so overdramatic, he bites back a snarky remark as the doctor hands him a cup of liquid, looks like plain water, but it assaults his tastebuds with an overly sweet tang, the taste sticking to his tongue as he downs it. The doctor approaches with another 5 cups of the same syrup-like liquid, “You’ll have to finish 6 cups, but they have to be taken 15 minutes apart from each other.” Michael grits his teeth, how fucking tedious, it almost makes him regret choking himself in the first place.

Never in his life has he wanted 15 minutes to pass so badly. He just wants to speedrun the process, down all 5 cups in one go, and get the hell out of this hospital. The entire atmosphere is dense with uneasiness. Ali has his eyes shut, cheek resting against his palm, probably deep in sleep, and Michael envies his obliviousness to the unpleasant ambience of the room.

He’s restless, fidgety with impatience, only growing more agitated by the minute. He groans inwardly, “Noel, what’s the time?”. For the first time in a long while, Noel takes his eyes off Michael, “2:28.” Michael mumbles something incoherent under his breath, distinctly unpleased, and the same deafening silence follows after. The stillness is driving him crazy; just an hour ago, he was praying for everyone to shut up. It’s so silent now, so absent, just like the day after he dropped Alexis.

The day he lost him. Michael locks his jaw, his mind is drifting again, and he doesn’t understand why he keeps thinking about him, why he can’t seem to get Alexis off his mind. It’s not like it mattered to him; if he had truly cared, he wouldn’t have lashed out at Alexis the way he did, he wouldn’t have treated him like a dog, and yet there hasn’t been a day that he hasn’t thought about him.

It’s infuriating. Michael doesn’t understand their relationship; it’s too complicated to be boxed into a single category, he doesn’t even know if it exists anymore. He’s driving himself insane, making his mind go round and round, chasing and chasing for a reason and an answer, something to justify his actions, to rationalise his behaviour.

It’s cut short when Noel takes a sharp breath, and Michael already knows it can’t be good. “Is there a reason as to why you tried to take your own life?” Michael snaps his head up, the bluntness of his question throws him off guard. Noel is staring straight into him, with that same unconcerned look on his face. Michael’s voice comes out rough. “That wasn’t an attempt.”

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“Sure, if you say so.” Noel is evidently unconvinced; it’s obvious his choice of reply is aimed at humouring Michael, his sharp eyes darting across Michael’s figure in an attempt to read his body language while his lips remain as a thin line.

Another momentary silence falls across the room, and Michael prays that it remains this way, trying to make it as obvious as possible that he has zero intention of engaging in any further conversation with him. But this is Noel he’s dealing with here. The man has no consideration for the feelings or wishes of others, and every word that leaves his mouth has no empathy, only crude honesty and efficiency, because Noel values logic and productivity over emotions.

“Why did you do it?” It’s short and brief, truly reflective of Noel’s personality, the tone unchanging and unvaried, like it’s a bother to have to ask him the question, like he’s only asking because he has to, and not because he wants to. It’s not like it offends Michael; in fact, he might even prefer it.

There’s solace in knowing that the people around him can’t care less about his well-being. In his world, kindness can never be free; it’s always a facade meant to sugarcoat ulterior motives. He doesn’t believe in the existence of foreign concepts like unconditional love, goodwill, and wholehearted care; it’s never been given to him without a cost. Not when he was a child, not when he was scared or lonely, not now, and probably not ever.

Michael shrugs. He doesn’t have anything to say, nothing impudent up his sleeve, not even a cheeky little remark, just silence that speaks a thousand words. The truth is that his cocky behaviour and superior exterior, the pretence that he displays for the world to see, is far from the actuality of his identity.

All the smug smirks, his unfazed, indifferent personality, and the arrogance are acts he crafted carefully to conceal the tornado of emotions. Deep down, it’s a mayhem of trauma and cuts that have yet to heal and require attending to, but instead, they’re met with a bandage that’s poorly stuck on in an attempt to hide them.

There are times, his act falters, the bandage threatens to peel away, to let the wounds breathe and bleed out, and each time Michael tapes it up again. He’s succeeded every time up until now, and it’s landed him in a tricky predicament, counting down the seconds until his release from the hospital.

He’s on his last cup. Chugging it down, the sweet aftertaste stings his brain in a way that causes it to spin. The doctor approaches Noel with papers against a clipboard in one hand, and in the other, he holds a card reader. “Once you finish filling up the paperwork, we’ll discharge him.”

Noel takes the pen and papers, scribbling in his signature, and Michael notes how incoherent and illegible his handwriting is. Afterwards, he taps his card against the card reader, his expression still, but the little wrinkle between his eyebrows leads Michael to infer that the cost of this visit isn’t cheap.

“Alright then, you’re free to leave, sir.” Finally, it’s about time. Michael takes a sneaky peek at Noel’s watch, it’s almost 4am. Looks like he won’t be attending tomorrow’s, or rather today’s, training then. Noel nudges a sleeping Ali awake, causing him to jolt up, “It’s time to leave.” Ali yawns, still drowsy, he mumbles something along the lines of “at least I don’t have to attend tomorrow’s training.”

Noel ignores him, and despite his vigilant eyes and perfect posture, Michael can tell that he’s tired too. “Will you be coaching for today’s session?” Noel hums, “I’d assume no. The doctor asked for me to monitor your condition; someone else will replace me for the time being.”

There's a moment of silence again, before Noel continues, “Once we return back to the training camp, you’re going straight to sleep and I’ll have a talk with you in the morning when you wake.” Michael isn’t sure if that was phrased to intimidate him; whatever its purpose is, it's doing a bad job, and Michael can’t be any more bothered with Noel.

‘Have a talk’ his ass. He might as well say he’s going to scold him, or give him an hour-long lecture, either of which won’t faze Michael in the slightest bit. Just another reprimandation, as long as Noel doesn’t go into that sappy sentimental bullshit, he doesn’t care. The rest of the trip back is eerily silent; no words need to be exchanged, not now at least.

By the time they’re back, Ali is half-awake. Moving like a literal zombie, he stumbles into his room and plummets straight for his bed and knocks out immediately. The speed at which it takes him to drift into slumber land is honestly impressive to Michael, who, although sluggish and dozy, can’t seem to have an easy time falling asleep.

He’s struggling to keep his eyes open; his muscles weary and fatigued, protesting at every toss and turn. His body is quite frankly, completely drained and sore, but he doesn’t have the luxury of getting a good rest, because his mind won’t stop tormenting him. It won’t stop pulling out unwanted memories, flashes of his father on top of him, his face shadowed but his eyes illuminated enough for Michael to see the unadulterated rage.

Michael flips his pillow around. The constant movement has made the side he’s lying on warm. When his head hits the pillow again, it’s Alexis on his mind this time. Alexis with his teary doe eyes, they had always carried a sort of sorrow in them, like a deep ocean, so vast and endless.

Michael grumbles, turning from his back to his side, he just wants to sleep. Every time he feels himself drifting off, his mind decides to torture him with another memory, and at this point, he’s not sure if he’s fully awake anymore. It’s like he’s a slave to his mind, tetering between a state of dream and reality, and after what feels like an eternity, he eventually dozes off, mind still brimming with scenes from the past.

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The rays of sunlight infiltrate the little gap between his curtains, hitting Michael’s face straight on. It would be an understatement to say that last night’s sleep was nothing short of torturous. Even after he drifted, his thoughts manifested as nightmares that haunted him, it was like his own mind was on a mission to destroy him.

He groans and shifts his head to cover his face with the pillow. The room is humid and warm, and the sun is awfully, awfully bright. Not even 5 minutes into the new day, and he’s already annoyed; there’s no chance of having the talk with Noel without him spewing some impertinent shit. Michael brushes it off quickly; he’ll just have to put up with it.

He drags his slack body out of bed, languidly running a hand through his bed hair, the messy tuffs sticking out in all directions like a wild, stray cat. All that fidgeting last night didn’t do him any favours.

He glances to his right, and the digital clock reads 1:13 p.m. It’s an unusually late time to wake up by his standards, but then again, there’s no reason he should be waking up early.

He heads for the bathroom, sifting through the many hair products sitting on the sink counter, just grabbing a random can and spraying it onto his hair in an attempt to tame it. With a comb, he brushes through the knots until his hair looks somewhat presentable; the gradient blue seems to be fading, he’ll have to dye it again. Usually, Alexis would be the one maintaining it, but Alexis isn’t here, Michael will have to do it himself.

It’s ironic that despite priding himself in being independent, being able to thrive alone in discomfort, he finds it troublesome to carry out his daily tasks without Alexis. It’s hard to admit, but Michael had grown increasingly comfortable and accustomed to Alexis’s presence.

The little gestures, like him fetching a bottle of water after training, bringing him his spectacles when he wanted to read, waking him up in the morning, guiding him through his morning routine when he was too sleepy to keep his eyelids from closing, they all became a part of Michael’s life. Alexis had come into his life and infiltrated his loneliness with all his acts of service, then he left, understandably so.

Michael looks into the mirror; he definitely doesn’t look his best today, even with his best efforts to make his hair cooperate, a few wild strands stick out, and his tattooed eyeliner is a darker shade of red due to his heavy eye bags. But overall, his appearance is more or less the same as usual, put together and slick with a charm to it, a stark contrast from the internal emotional mess.

Yawning, he sets out of his room and heads to the shared canteen, it’s about time for lunch. The canteen is empty, the tables and chairs pristine clean, untouched and unmoved. Most of the players in Bastard Munchen usually went out to get their meals; the canteen was only ever used when they were too lazy or in a rush. Michael himself rarely used it, but it’ll have to do for today.

He’s sitting alone at the table, absent-mindedly scooping up scraps of chicken and rice from the plate, the motion repetitive and flowing like clockwork. He’s chewing, but his vision is directed towards the field. The canteen is positioned in such a way that it’s directly opposite of the football field, easy access for hungry players, Michael reasons.

His gaze is fixated on a certain player, a certain player with magenta coloured hair and sad, doe eyes. He observes intently, analysing the way Alexis flicks his ankles, working his way around the obstacles with the grace of an angel; it’s almost akin to a butterfly fluttering around petals.

It’s a brutal truth pill to swallow, and it makes Michael sick to the stomach: He’s good, as a matter of fact, he’s better off without him. Watching Alexis play, with that pure smile on his face, carefree and lively, makes Michael gag.

He’s never seen Alexis this relaxed in training, and he doesn’t have to think far to know the reason. That day, he criticised Alexis for dragging him down, for being pathetic and unable to evolve as a player, when in reality, it was actually him who was dragging Alexis down.

Alexis molded his playstyle and his techniques to complement Michael’s. He never scored a goal by himself, never passed to any other teammate, never developed skills for himself, and everything he came up with was meant to be dulled in the presence of Michael’s glory. Michael dimmed his spark, and its ever so obvious now with the sight of Alexis flourishing as a player without him, like a bud blooming into a flower, petals vibrant and spread out.

He’s so lost in thought, he doesn’t pick up the slight movement of a shadowy figure passing by him, gaze still unwavering when the scene is blocked by a wall. That wall being none other than Mr. Nonchalant Noel Noa himself.

He doesn’t say anything, not even a “Hi’ or an “Excuse me”, and plops himself and his plate of food at the same table as Michael, sitting directly across him in a way that causes the entire situation to seem a little too intimate for Michael’s liking, though Noel pays no heed. A sarcastic remark forms at his lips, “I don’t remember asking you to join me for lunch.” Noel stares blankly as he picks up his utensils, “I don’t recall that either, but I decided to anyway. You look lonely.”

Michael grits his teeth. That indifferent bastard sure knows how to get on his nerves. He can’t figure out if Noel is just dense and doesn’t know how to take a hint, or if he’s doing this on purpose to spite him. Either way, he’s not pleased, and with the way the veins at the side of his temple bulge, he’s sure they might just pop.

Noel disregards the piercing glare from Michael, carrying on with his meal without a care, before he clears his throat, “Regarding the matter last night, you know I can’t let it slide. You’re a danger to yourself, and I can’t have you injured under my care.” Michael winces just the slightest bit; his words didn’t carry any malice or intentional harm, but they hurt nonetheless. He knows it’s the truth; he’s known since the day he joined this team.

“Most coaches would bench you, ask you to take a break from the sport, but I know you won’t let it rest. So I’m being generous here, Michael. You will attend therapy sessions twice a week, once on Wednesday and once on Sunday. It’ll take no more than 2 hours of your time. A qualified therapist has already been contacted, and your first session is expected to begin this week. It’s free too.”

Michael bites his lip, resisting the urge to express how utterly ridiculous this is. As much as he hates it, Noel is being lenient on him, and he knows it. The punishment could have been far worse. He’s getting off light considering the situation, and he knows he doesn’t have a choice.

“How long will this therapy thing last? Noel blinks and stares, “As long as it has to, the more you cooperate, the faster the process will be.” Michael grumbles unintelligibly.

He hates the idea of having to open up, to bare his wounds to a random stranger, to be stripped down to his inner self, and exposed for the world to mock and glee at him. Noel is still staring, waiting for his response until Michael sighs, “Whatever, as long as I still get to play on the team.”

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The rest of the day passes in a blur, the boundaries of time dangerously blend and slip, and Michael finds himself falling back into his usual routine for the next day, and the day after, and then another day after.

It’s the same process every morning: he drags himself out of bed, throws on his jersey, tries to appease his hair, then grabs whatever scraps he can find for breakfast and prays that it’s enough to get him through the first session of training.

It’s all motions he’s too familiar with, scanning the field and taking in the entirety of the grass, analysing the movements of his teammates, striking the ball over and over until his foot goes numb from the repeated pressure, and finally, avoiding being anywhere within a hundred metre range of Alexis.

Afternoons are the worst, under the unrelentless sun and with the heat prickling his skin, his eyes squinted because they’re sensitive to light, and his jersey sticking grossly to his sweaty skin. Just regular training, with a side of avoidance and a hint of strained relations with his team.

Michael never considered himself much of a team player to begin with, but with the way he’s been dodging communications and interactions like a plague, you could mistake him for a stranger on his own team. By the time evening hits, there’s a slight breeze that makes the last hour of training slightly more bearable, the wind being a god-sent gift to the overheated players.

When it’s time to wrap up, the team wanders off, chuckling and patting each other’s shoulders, cracking jokes while grabbing a meal together, as a team, while Michael stays behind. He was never particularly eager about attending team meals together; it had always been him and Alexis going off as a separate duo, but with Alexis’s newfound bond with the rest of the team, it’s just Michael now.

He can’t fault any of them, who would want to be close to an arrogant asshole with a tongue that’s too sharp for his own good? Instead, he goes off by himself, minding his own business and getting whatever he needs before holing himself up in his room.

If Michael can be honest, he’s lost track of the days. With the way the past few have dragged and the daze he’s been in, it’s been feeling like months. Maybe the strangulation did knock off a braincells, it’s like he never recovered from that night. He’s functioning not as a person, but like a robot, or more like a code, carrying out his purpose as a football player and nothing else. Like a machine made to obey and repeat its dutiful task until the end of time.

His warped concept of time only shatters when Noel walks up to him after their evening training session, acting as a barrier obstructing Michael’s path back to his room, the vacant look on his inscrutable face right in front of Michael. He’s wordless, and their little staring competition goes on for another awkward minute, giving Michael’s numb expression plenty of time to knot itself into a bewildered one.

It must be the furrowing of his eyebrows, or the scrunch of his nose, that tells Noel that he’s perplexed, and the unreadable man finally asks, “Michael, do you know what day it is?” Without a delay, it hits him. It’s a fucking Sunday, he had thought months had flown by, but really it was only 4 measly days.

A low grumble escapes his throat, “I forgot about the entire therapy arrangement, genuinely. I wasn’t trying to sneak my way out of it.” Noel nods, “Apology accepted, allow me to guide you to the room it’ll be taking place in.”

Michael gnashes his jaw, of course, Noel has to twist his words; that was in no way meant to be perceived as an apology, merely an explanation. Another eye roll overcomes him, too bad Noel can’t see it with his back facing him as he’s walking them down some eerie corridor.

Funny, in his years of training here, Michael doesn’t recall the facility having such a murky area. The air is stale, and it’s quiet in a sense that it’s unsettling and off-putting. For a moment, Michael thinks that Noel’s finally put up with enough of his bullshit and is going to execute him here.

The idea is cut short when they approach a room, the warm glow of light emitting through the creak of the door. Noel knocks, the sound echoing and reverberating through the atmosphere, and pushes the door open to reveal the internal decor.

The walls are plain white, the floorboards a nice color of birch, with two couches pressed against opposite walls, and a table intersecting the space between them. A fairly young lady sits on one of the couches, hair kept neatly in a tight bun with a few stray strands falling in front of her eyes, her posture upright and proper, with a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

She ushers him with a beckoning hand, “You must be Michael! Take a seat, take a seat!” She doesn’t have to tell him twice, really; he’s itching to just sink into the comfort of the couches. Noel closes the door behind him before taking his place right beside Michael.

“Can I get the two of you any drinks? I have tea and coffee.” Michael and Noel answer unanimously, the same direct response, short and sweet, “Coffee.” The lady stands up, retrieving a cup from the cupboards and working her magic with the coffee machine while Michael makes himself comfortable; if he’s going to be here for two hours, he might as well get cosy.

“Would you like milk with it?” Noel is the first to reply, “Just a bit will do.” She nods, “And you, Michael?”. His face twists at the thought of the dreaded substance; the thick, white texture makes him nauseous, and he’s certain that his displeasure can be heard through his voice, “I can’t stand milk.”

She hums as she carries the two cups to the table, “Any particular reason for your distaste of milk?” He pulls a long face, it’s not even 10 minutes into the session and she’s already prying, trying to break down the foundations of his preferences. That’s what therapy’s for, he’s aware, but it’s annoying regardless. His response is brusque and abrupt, displaying his unwillingness to disclose information, “No.”

He catches an embarrassed Noel shaking his head in disapproval at the discourteous behaviour, but the lady only lets out a sheepish laugh. “Well, we can start with introductions. I’m Miss Müller, and a few of my hobbies include baking, gardening, and photography. My interests are woodland animals and unique flower species! Now, it’s your turn, you can go ahead and introduce some of your hobbies, likes, and dislikes, the basics.”

Silence befalls the room. He’s thinking about what to say, calculating the best response to keep Miss Müller’s nosy questions at bay. “I’m Michael, my hobby is training, I like stray dogs, and reading literary works, I dislike milk.”

It’s a safe answer; his one dislike is the one’s he’s already exposed at the start, and his likes are simple, his hobby general and basic, something expected of a soccer player, yet the woman still finds a way to pick apart his answers.

“Only training as a hobby? You must be working very hard. I trust you are taking proper care of yourself, yes?” Michael provides no more than a slight nod of his head, a skeptical look from Noel interrogates him.

There’s another momentary silence. Miss Müller is scribbling something into her notebook, the pen moving at a rapid speed that leaves Michael wondering if there’s even anything to write down. His answers have all been bland and unrevealing; there’s no justifiable reason as to why she should be scribbling like a maniac.

Just as he’s gawking at her, she snaps her head up, “You’ve indicated your dislike of milk twice now, are you certain there isn’t a reason for it?” He’s annoyed by the insistent questioning, and in his reluctance to provide an audible answer, he shakes his head.

A heavy sigh reaches his left ear; it’s Noel. “Michael, the purpose of therapy is for you to talk about yourself and your issues. Across the years, I’ve seen you avoid milk far too much for it to be just a dislike. You treat it like it’s a virus.”

Michael tilts his head down and bites his tongue. They’re trying to force an answer out of him, and he doesn’t want to give it, but the pressure is unrelenting, building and weighing on his back as they remain patient, awaiting an answer.

“It’s got…something to do with my childhood.”

Chapter Text

The words hang dense and thick, lingering in the atmosphere that pervades the enclosed room, the implications of them menacing and unnerving. Michael doesn’t budge, his head bowed with hanging strands of hair concealing his expression.

He’s grateful for it, the cloak of hair that’s enshrouding whatever that might betray the vulnerability of his current state; the downcast eyes, the lip bite, and the grimace, all cowering behind a meek defence.

Years of running, of avoiding, of dodging, and he still can’t escape it. It always ties back to his origins, to that excuse of a “Father”.

He did everything he could in the past years to block it out, to forget and move on, scrubbing the parts of his skin where he could feel the ghostly remnants of his father’s calloused hands, the way he sank his nails into his skin, like a lion ripping apart its prey.

Hiding behind facades and masks to disguise the helpless child he used to be, drowning himself in books about psychology in an attempt to understand and to control, dissecting his own mentality and picking apart his trauma with futile efforts, trying to comprehend the reasoning behind his actions.

He inspected every little detail, internalized every single emotion, and tried to make sense of it all until he gave up. He was tired, and so he buried it under layers and layers of defenses, locking away those fragile emotions in fear that if they bubbled up again, it’d be too much to handle.

All that hiding is now fruitless. He’s confined in a tiny room with Noel and that shitty therapist; it’s dreadfully stuffy and cramped, the air suddenly too thick to be inhaled. Was the ventilation in this room that bad when he first entered?

They’re waiting, waiting for him to elaborate on the fucked up things that happened to him. He doesn’t want to, and even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to, because his throat is awfully scratchy and dry, the usually smooth and steady voice now lost somewhere within the pits of his chest.

Then comes that aggravating voice from that pesky woman. “Michael, please do share what you mean by that.” He clicks his tongue. There she goes again, prying and sticking her nose in places they shouldn’t be in.

It must be the fidgeting of his fingers, the fiddling, and the squirming that give away his increasingly stinging anxiety. It causes Miss Müller to console him, “Are you nervous? There’s really no need to be, this is a safe space. I’m here to help you.” Irritating.

Everything that comes out of her mouth does nothing in terms of deescalating his agitation. The pity and the sympathy, they flick the corners of his brain and ooze between the wrinkles in all the wrong ways, maddening and annoying him.

They won’t let him leave the room unless he speaks. He’s sure of it. His throat is tight and his voice shaky, the unwavering confidence that has always tainted it now diminished to a pathetically timid quiver. “I had an alcoholic shithead for a father. He was an ass, a useless one at that.” Michael nearly scoffs at himself.

‘Useless’ was a way to put it nicely, that thing—his father— was completely and utterly incapable of being a functioning adult. As far as he could remember, Michael never once saw his father step a foot out of the house for purposes besides purchasing more alcoholic beverages.

He never worked, too busy spending his days lounging on the couch that would have fused to his flesh had it not been for his dedication to beating Michael and throwing him across the room. Lazy and sloppy, he never cleaned. The house was always stacked with bottles of alcohol, some broken from having been used as a tool to “discipline” the young Michael, the broken shards scattered across the floor, while piles and piles of trash and whatnot resided in corners.

The memories come flooding back like a tsunami, the stench of the alcohol stinging his nose, the cockroaches scurrying across the floorboards as they creaked under the immense weight of his father, the lack of a functioning heater leading to freezing temperatures during the colder seasons, and worst of all, the fucking fear. The fear of dying, of being beaten to death, of starving.

Many times, he lay curled up against the cold, filthy floor, body limp and sore from the beatings, his entire being motionless and deadly silent, just praying for an escape.

Michael’s breath hitches, then he continues. “He couldn’t work. That fuckass spent his days in a blur of drunken rage. I learnt quick that if I wanted to have a portion of food on my plate, I’d have to get it myself.” They’re barely even scratching the surface of his trauma and Miss Müller already has that look on her face that screams “it’s too extreme for me to keep listening”.

Noel, for the first time, cracks a troubled expression. Michael doesn’t plan to stop, not when they’ve already gotten this far. There’s a sick sort of twisted joy that he gets from this, amidst the reluctance to share. He wants it to hurt, to sting, and to pierce; he wants everyone to feel the extent of agony he endured.

“So I went out and stole. Stole everything I could, anything that would be useful. But mind you, I had to consider my father, couldn’t be selfish, you know? Had to be filial and all that.” The sarcasm dripped from his tone, almost mocking and making a joke out of the past, jeering at the person he used to be.

“He had a grocery list for me, a series of items he ‘needed’ for his own personal comfort. You know what one of them was? It was milk, and god forbid I forget the milk. I missed it on one of my ‘work’ days; the consequences to that were as dire as you can imagine.”

The implications are clear, at least to Noel, they are. Coming from an impoverished background himself, he’s not foreign to the struggle, the labour of scraping together scraps to get by, but the implications, the fucking implications of the ‘consequences’ Michael received as a child, terrify him.

Miss Müller tightens her grip on the notepad, eyes heavy with concern and a twinge of disgust at the entirety of the situation; she already has a general idea of what he means by ‘consequences’, and she prays it isn’t what she thinks it is. Like a wary deer, she questions softly, wishing fervently for him to prove her interpretation wrong, “...What do you mean by ‘consequences’?”

Michael sneers. She sure has some audacity to keep pushing. His eyes avert elsewhere as he resumes, “He went crazy that day, I tell you. It’s not like he never put his hands on me before the milk situation, oh trust me, he did, many times. But by far this one was the worst.”

Michael closes his eyes, recalling the brutality of it as he lets the words flow, “He kicked me across the floor, my back hit the wall, and he cornered me. Then he beat me, tugged at my hair, and pulled my head back before slamming it down onto the ground. He punched and kicked, thought I was gonna die, I could’ve sworn I cracked a rib or two. Then he sat on me, grabbed me by the neck, and choked me. I don’t remember what happened after. I passed out.”

Truth be told, the story he had just told was tame in comparison to the actuality of it. He had cut out all the descriptions of him begging and pleading while his father rested his entire weight onto his feeble body, squeezing his neck like he was wringing a wet towel dry.

He didn’t bother to describe the aftermath either, the nasty bruising on his abdomen after being beaten senseless, the ragged breathing and the painful expansion of his chest every time he inhaled, the soreness in the muscles of his legs as they trembled from standing.

He had to crawl for the days after that incident, his face swollen from the pummeling, and he wasn’t able to drag himself out of the house. He was so fucking scared, feverish, and delirious, he thought he had died for a while then.

“I’m so sorry to hear that Michael–” He cuts her off, uninterested in her words of sympathy. “Don’t bother with the pity, I'd rather not hear it. You can just…tell me the next steps of this therapy thing.” He’s just eager to leave it behind him, to focus on what’s headed for him, and to hopefully speed up this snail-paced session.

Chapter Text

Miss Müller nods, “As much as I… appreciate your willingness to move forward, I think it’d also be helpful if you give yourself time to register and comprehend your feelings. Everything you’ve endured and suffered through is no light matter, and you should be proud of yourself for making it so far.”

Michael feels the artery at the side of his neck pulse, his jaw locking as the twinge of annoyance wraps it vines around him, twisting and wrenching to intertwine with the cells of his being.

He almost, just almost, rolls his eyes back. The expression on his face remains neutral on the surface, but inwardly, he lets out a condescending scoff, the words resonating off the walls of his skull. “You should be proud.” Proud? Of what? Scrapping like a stray dog to get by? Living the first 15 years of his life as a criminal, stealing and robbing from neighbourhood stores? Letting himself be beaten down and abused for the entirety of his childhood?

There’s nothing glorious about his existence as an individual; once a piece of shit, always a piece of shit. He bites back the unsolicited comment that’s forming at the tip of his tongue and lets out a hum, not one of agreement, but one that indicates his presence in the conversation.

Satisfied with the tiny gesture, she finally utters the words that have been much long awaited by Michael, “Seeing that our session is nearing the end, we can wrap it up here and resume this at our next session, which I believe is next Wednesday, yes?”

He doesn’t even bother letting her finish her sentence fully, wasting no time; he’s on his feet and smoothing the creases of his shorts as he waves a lazy hand, muttering a low effort goodbye while walking out the door. Noel follows shortly after giving a courteous, almost apologetic bow.

The walk back is silent, just the way Michael likes it. With the punishing migraine pinching his frontal lobe and a repulsive sentiment that’s settling within his gut, he doesn’t want to have to deal with any more questions; it’s bad enough that he had to sit in that disgustingly cramped room, spilling the parts of himself he’s hidden warily for years to a random stranger with Noel listening.

The consequences of his vulnerability are instantaneous, the regret of having shared such an intimate part of his life, and more strikingly, the repugnance of knowing that he’s laid himself open like a book, his trauma and the fears all exposed.

He hastens his pace, consciously aware of the grimy sensation of his jersey clinging to his skin, the fabric rubbing is a sensory nightmare. Not to mention that he hasn’t showered the entire day, the little mini time in his room was rudely interrupted, and he was dragged to attend this shitty session.

It’s disgusting and off-putting, thinking about the amount of dirt that’s lingering on his skin, and the one thing he can’t stand, aside from milk, is uncleanliness.

The filth and the grub reminded him of the days he would curl up like a fetus, hugging that tattered soccer ball, his hair oily from being unwashed for days, and his skin mucky from being tossed around in trash. There never was a working shower in the house, so he reeked of rotting flesh while the stench of alcohol attached itself to him.

Absolutely unacceptable. He makes a beeline for the showers, towel and clothes slung over his shoulder, while his left hand grips a bag containing his shampoo, body wash, and conditioner.

It’s late, almost 10:00 pm, the showers would be empty by now, perfect timing for him to take his own sweet time running through his shower routine. Not that it's unnecessarily long, he doesn’t use more products than he needs to, but he does like having the privilege of time, detangling knots in his hair instead of just slapping on shampoo and conditioner, praying that they would do their job well enough.

He flings the door open, a sigh mindlessly escaping his lips as his tense muscles relax, the pressure in his temple easing just a bit. He’s grateful for the warmth of the steam and the tranquility, no annoying teammates yelling at each other to hurry up, throwing soap at each other across the stalls, and making a nuisance.

He’s so grateful that he nearly misses the hue of magenta sticking out between clouds of steam, the gradient of brown hair fading into purple sticks out like a sore thumb, undeniably noticeable.

Michael blinks once, then twice, his mind short-circuiting as he struggles to differentiate illusory tricks from reality. There’s no doubt about it, his heart drops six feet under as his breath halts, every muscle in his body that was once slack now stiff and rigid. What bad luck.

Hearing the click of the door and a soft sigh, Alexis flicks his head in that direction. He mused to himself, how odd, it’s late, there shouldn’t be anyone showering at this hour. He had only come at this time because the universe decided to shit on him. He had gone out to the field to retrieve the water bottle that he had so carelessly left behind, but a cheeky little pigeon had other plans, depositing its feces on his clean sleepwear.

The steam is thick, clouding his vision as he squints his eyes, struggling to make out the person by their silhouette. The shuffle of feet and the dead silence from the other person make his imagination run wild; the hairs on his skin stand on end. What if it’s a ghost?

He thinks he’s about to have a freak out, entertaining the thought of a ghost haunting the shower. That is, until the steam settles, and now he’s fully certain he’ll freak out. It’s indisputable: the streaks of metallic blue and the rose tattoo. The universe sure is on a mission to sabotage him today.

There’s a stunned stillness between the two, neither daring to move a twitch of muscle, baby blue eyes drowning in magenta ones, the tension dangerous and threatening. Michael is the first to break the stare-down; he snaps his head towards one of the stalls, face unmoving like stone, the expression etched on it is unreadable, but Alexis swears he catches a glimpse of discomfort shifting behind those magnetic orbs.

Michael’s grip on his bag tightens, his fingers spasm as he keeps his eyes obsessively focused on the stall, resisting the urge to let them wander to Alexis, who, all this while, has kept his head low, those doe eyes snatching peeks between gaps of his hair. There’s a shuffle of feet; it’s Alexis making his way to the other stall.

The atmosphere is condensed with unspoken words itching to be said, and there’s a lump in Alexis’s throat scratching his vocal cords. He has so much to say, every inch of his being tingling as he bites his tongue; he wants to speak, to reach out, and to start a conversation with him, with Michael.

He really shouldn’t, considering everything that the man has put him through, the humiliation and the shame, and oh god, the manipulation and the superficiality. But just having him in such close proximity, it’s excruciatingly tempting, and insufferably familiar.

Many times, before their fallout, they would shower in consecutive stalls, the latter unwinding under the warm water while making conversation on the small things in his life. It was mostly Alexis sharing about his family, or his quirky little interests and beliefs, while Michael humoured him. But there were times when Michael would drop hints of the deeper, more intimate parts of himself. They were rare, but Alexis treasured every bead of them.

He shuts his eyes, shaking the memory out of his head; no point in reminiscing about the past, at least not when the present Michael is standing this close. They’re separated by a stall, and the sound of water slapping against bare skin and hard tiled floor resounds across the area.

Michael raises a hand soaped with body wash, and he slathers it across his left chest, right above his heart. It’s pounding, he can tell by how his veins are pumping, the blood in his ears rushing as his face flushes a tint of red. He can’t tell if it’s because of the temperature or the absurdity of the situation.

He’s nervous and uncertain. For fucks sake, he doesn’t know what to do. The stall he’s in and the stall Alexis is in are separated by a singular stall, and the distance isn’t doing shit. Did Alexis seriously think that having a stall wedged between the two of them would reduce the awkwardness of this? He can practically feel the impact of every unexpressed emotion; it’s practically radiating off Alexis, and he knows damn well Alexis can feel every pang of discompose that’s leaking from him.

It’s inconceivably pathetic, the standards that he’s stooped to. He had pledged himself, that he wouldn’t get attached and that Alexis was nothing more than a lackey.

Yet here he is, unravelling and getting all jumpy because of him, too scared to even swallow the lump that’s dwelling in his throat to say the words. What absolute weakness. Even if he did have the courage in him to utter the words he wants to, they wouldn’t in any way salvage their…friendship.

He’s lost in his self-loathing and self-deprecation, so much so that he nearly misses it —the one sign that indicates a possible mending between the duo. It appears soft and unassuming, from Alexis himself; the tone delivering it is indecipherable.

“…You didn’t attend today’s training.”

Chapter Text

Michael hesitates, alarms in his head blaring warnings and cautioning him to tread carefully. Unless his memory is once again failing him, he’s almost certain that he has indeed participated in today’s training; as a matter of fact, he even recalls the mental note of him watching Alexis and the rest of the team walk off while he stayed back on the field. He remembers it quite vividly, in fact, the moments of him walking back from the field before being sentenced to the therapy session, and finally, ending up in this predicament.

“You got a few brain cells knocked off or something? Pretty sure I was training on the same field as you today.” Immediately following, Michael winces at the unnecessarily harsh tone he’s unintentionally used; it was meant to be more sarcastic, really, rather than condescending or insulting. He can already visualise the wretched expression that must be crossing Alexis’s face now, and he’s certain that he’s scared him out of talking.

Alexis only rolls his eyes, not that Michael can see, but still, he can’t help the gnawing vexation. He instantly blames himself for overestimating Michael’s development as an individual over the months that they haven’t interacted. It’s incredibly in character of Michael to respond with such scornful offense; he merely brushes past it, completely disregarding the disrespect. He’s no stranger to the cruelty of Michael; the man knows how to draw out the worst elements of an individual, push their buttons, and pull their strings in all the right ways to maintain control.

Alexis is aware, exceptionally aware of it all. So typical of Michael to push away the concern of others, over the years that Alexis has spent glued to Michael’s side like his servant, he’s observed and noted the avoidance that Michael harbours towards affection and care. He loves to be served, to be feared, and to be admired, but never to be doted on and cared for. Hate and malice from people fuel him, but kindness and love, he avoids like the plague.

The months he spent separated from Michael, the much-needed mental break, allowed him to open his eyes to the man Michael truly is. The illusion and the facade carefully built up over years of manipulation, it shattered under the pressure of time. Alexis had always perceived Michael as a god-like figure, capable of achieving things no other person could, constantly challenging the boundaries of the impossible.

His word seemed like law back then, but when Alexis had finally awakened, he found the glory of Michael to be one of false reassurance, full of flaws and holes. Michael isn’t a god of any sort; he’s impressively talented, undeniably attractive, and unresistably charming, but above all, he’s beautifully fragile and equally traumatised.

Alexis knows now, and he’s going to make a change. “I obviously know you were there physically, dipshit. I mean like…mentally. You were spaced out today, and really any other day, but it's mostly worse these days.”

Michael does a double-take, stunned by Alexis’s newfound courage. His ears, that are still attuned to hearing the constant waver and tremble of Alexis’s voice, are now reeling under the certainty in his voice. Never once in his years of knowing Alexis would he have expected Alexis to be calling him a dipshit, though he can’t say it isn’t deserved at all. It is rather mild, considering he had called Alexis a literal cancer cell on live television, which was broadcast to hundreds of thousands of viewers.

He grits his teeth when the full weight of Alexis’s words settles uncomfortably under his skin. Alexis had just pointed out his mental weakness. Alexis sees him as weak. He merely grunts out a half-hearted reply in an attempt to avoid conversation on his current mental state, “I was sleepy, the team was moving so slow, training got boring.”

He twists the tap of the shower to stop the pour of water, grabbing his towel slung above the door to dry himself off. So much for the long shower session; he just wants to get the hell out of this place. It’s funny how the tables have turned, from Alexis being the one hiding from Michael to him being the one running from Alexis.

He’s ruffling his hair, rushing through the motion so that he can leave first, without having to exit the showers at the same time as Alexis. But Alexis clearly has no intention of letting things go by Michael’s way, because it’s only a few seconds after Michael has shut off the tap, and the sound of water splattering on Alexis’s side has also ceased.

He then sees the swift motion of Alexis yanking his towel off the top of the door, shit, Alexis is trying to match his pace. Michael bites the insides of his cheeks as he speeds up his movements, muscles flexing as they work to grab his garments and sleepwear, swiftly patting himself dry before donning the clothes.

He’s struggling to get his right arm through the right sleeve of his shirt as he hears the shuffling noise of fabric from Alexis’s stall intensify. He curses his fingers for catching onto the sleeve fabric, and he turns his wrist awkwardly to dislodge them before finally sliding the shirt fully on.

Without sparing another second, he reaches for the lock, flicking his wrist to turn it as the door unlocks, and he slams it open. His knee tightens under the pressure of his leg muscles as he briskly walks towards the exit, only for a resounding thud coming from behind to echo throughout his body, followed by intensely paced footsteps.

Michael’s palm touches the surface of the doorknob, ready to fling it open and step out. He’s about to make his escape, until the warm touch of a smoothly polished palm meets his other wrist, slender fingers encircling it in a firm, but not tight, grip. His bones lock in place, muscles tight like a spring as he forces himself not to look back at the stern gaze from Alexis.

Michael bites his lip, palm still sitting on the doorknob. If he wants to, he can run; there’s no way in hell Alexis would be able to catch up, but he doesn’t. His feet are firmly planted on the ground, unable to carry the weight of emotions clouding him.

“Michael. Let’s talk.” Alexis is unyielding, the grip he has on Michael’s wrist gently hardening. Michael’s eyes flicker back, though his face remains in the direction of the door. He doesn’t trust himself enough to put on a truly neutral expression, certain that some level of nervousness is written on it, and he would rather die than let Alexis see him this pathetic.

Cornered and distraught, Michael spits words of venom, the thorns around them piercing Alexis’s heartstrings. “What’s there to talk about? Don’t come to me with any sort of hopes or expectations that I’ll apologise for my actions. I’m trash, alright? Haven’t you been mistreated enough? If you’ve truly grown so much as a person that you’ll do yourself a favour and have some self-respect, leave me alone, Alexis.”

Michael can’t see his reaction, not the way his face is probably twisting itself into the same lost look, not the way his non-occupied hand is probably gripping the base of his shirt, and most certainly not the pitiful look in Alexis’s eyes. “You’re mistaken, Michael. I do have self-respect, and I do have dignity, and I’m most certainly not expecting an apology from you. That’s clearly far beyond your standards, considering you can’t even look me in the eye.”

Michael whips his head back, the palm that once rested on the doorknob now fully clenched into a fist as he yanks his other hand out of Alexis’s clutch. He’s like an animal baring his teeth, jaws ready to maul apart flesh, all while Alexis carries a look of neutrality.

“So what is it that you want? You want a fucking redo? What is it Alexis? Spit it out, hurry up and just fucking tell me already.” His throat constricts, the airway now carrying hollow air as it narrows to make breathing more difficult than it already is.

Alexis doesn’t falter; he doesn’t retreat back into his skin like he usually would, his heart steady and sturdy in the face of Michael’s explosive emotions. He won’t run, won’t give up, he’s determined to make it work, to recover what’s left of their friendship and rebuild it from the start. He’s willing to take his time, to endure the setbacks, and to go through it all again, but this time not as a servant, but as an equal friend of Michael. “I want us to be friends, I want to stand beside you and support you, from equal ground.”

Michael's icy glare pierces the atmosphere, his eyes as sharp as daggers as an incredulous look flashes across his face, his features warping into an expression that can only be described as poisonous. “You want us to be friends? Alexis, look me in the fucking eye and tell me if there's even a single part of me that could give a shit about your existence or our relationship.”

Ouch. Alexis feels the sting of his words, the venomous jaws sinking into his skin as he breathes in the condescending look that Michael gives. He’s not going to back down, even if Michael wants him gone, even if Michael spits out venom and poison, he won’t waver. He sees it, the slight quiver in Michael’s bottom lip that betrays the sharpness of his words.

He had noticed the signs, the quick glances Michael would take at him during training, the usually harsh look in the boy’s eyes softening when catching glimpses of him; they were replaced with a coat of loneliness that he only showed when he was sure no one was looking. He knows Michael wants a reconciliation, but the man will never admit it.

“Stop lying to yourself Michael. You know you care. You think I don’t see you goggling at me during training? I see it through the corner of my eye constantly, and for someone that’s supposed to be good at manipulation, you’re ass at hiding your emotions.”

Michael flinches, for just a second, the guard on his face drops, and Alexis sees it, the loneliness and the pain. It lasts a split second before the scowl becomes twice as nasty, and Michael bites back twice as hard as before. “Don’t fucking patronise me. I look pathetic, is that it? Is that why you’re trying to reestablish something that never existed? I can guarantee you that I don’t need your sympathy, so fuck off already.”

Alexis frowns, now starting to grow frustrated with Michael’s constant attempts to shut him out. His fists tighten as Michael continues ranting, “What are you? My fucking saviour? I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone. Don’t pull this friendship bullshit onto me in hopes that you can fix the loneliness in me that you’ve so delusionally convinced yourself into believing I have.”

Alexis isn’t having any of this. He steps forward, grabbing Michael by the side of his hair as Michael’s arms fling upwards to grip Alexis’s, his rant cut off short, and his eyes flickering with a sort of shock. He takes a step back, body leaning back against the door as Michael holds him in place, with a determination that Michael’s never known he had.

“Listen jackass, I want to be your friend, not out of pity or sympathy. The only one delusional here is you. You try so desperately to convince yourself that you’re heartless and unworthy of human relationships, well I’m telling you right here and now, that I want us to be friends, is that really so difficult to believe?”

Michael goes silent, his eyes laced with something unreadable. The words lay foreign in his eardrums; he’s stunned in place, until he finally garners the strength to wriggle himself out of Alexis’s grip. Carefully sliding himself across the door, he puts some distance between himself and Alexis, his mind jumping, trying to connect the dots.

Alexis wants to be his friend, not out of sympathy, not out of pity, just because he wants to. Michael truly can’t understand it. Who would want to be friends with a piece of shit? After everything he put Alexis through, it seems oddly unfair. He doesn’t understand Alexis in the slightest bit, but if he’s this insistent, there’s nothing he can do about it. The boy rarely displayed incidents of his stubbornness, but when it sprouted, its roots would be resolute; any attempt to cut them off only strengthened them.

“...Fine. It’s up to you, but don’t blame me if this whole friendship thing doesn’t work out. I’ve already warned you. I don’t care.”

Alexis scoffs, shaking his head while a cheeky smile creeps onto his lips. Michael tilts his head in confusion, and Alexis reaches a hand out, flicking a strand of Michael’s hair off his shoulder, teasing him in a much lighter tone, “You say that, but your hair is soapy from the shampoo you didn’t wash off. All because you were panicking and hurrying to avoid me. It seems pretty obvious you care.”

Michael’s face reddens, scrunching his nose and breaking off eye contact with Alexis, the embarrassment written by the color of his face as he rushes towards the shower stall, giving Alexis a playful shove along the way while telling him to ‘shut up’.

Alexis only snickers, “See you tomorrow then, Michael.” Michael responds by flipping him off, and Alexis shakes his head, but the heavy tainted atmosphere and the tension have faded into something a little more…reminiscent of better times.