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.”