It Was Always You [BxB]

It's still dark when Joaquin jolts awake, his heart palpitating and sweat dampening his nose. Julian slumbers undisturbed beside him, untouched by the irrational emotions churning in Joaquin's core.

Fumbling for his glasses, he checks his phone, his eyes adjusting to the light. 4 AM. Two missed calls and a text message. From Alice? On a weekend? Seems like lawyers aren't the only ones haunted by work after hours.

The message lands on his chest like a massive blow, immense and instant, stealing his breath. He forcefully squeezes air out of his lungs as he pulls himself upright with care. Julian stirs but stays asleep.

His mother is dead.

But in Joaquin's mind, she lives. He can still picture her face, how she'd glared fiercely at him whenever they would cross paths in that shabby house. Her voice was cold. Scathing. Like he was a nuisance. Someone she'd have to endure, not to care for.

And now she is dead.

As she took her last breath, did she think of him? Did remorse ever touch her? Did she bother to whisper an apology, even to the void, for all the pain, all the abuse?

Or did she carry her hate towards her son to the grave?

Joaquin inhales and cautiously slips out of bed, his steps feather-light but unsteady. He hurries to the kitchen. With quivering hands, he fills himself a glass of water, droplets spilling on the floor, and he downs it in one gulp.

The last time he saw her, she wanted him out of her life.

But now, she's gone. Just like that. Is he supposed to cry? To mourn?

Joaquin turns the faucet on and splashes water onto his face. He can't stay here. He can't let Julian see him like this.

Joaquin peeks into the bedroom to steal a glance at Julian's face. Peaceful. Unaware.

Then he steps back, closes the door, and departs his safe space.

To deal with his personal hell.

*

After sending the text, Joaquin chucks his phone into his duffel bag and collapses on the floor. The gym is alive, with boxers in constant motion, gloves smacking against the leather, and coaches barking their orders.

He looks down at his trembling hands. He's been at it for a couple of hours, hammering the heavy bags, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion.

Still, it's not enough. Nowhere near enough.

"Joaquin!"

He raises his gaze. A coach he's acquainted with, together with another trainee, approaches. He gets to his feet, greets them, and immediately requests a sparring session.

They climb into an available ring, spectators gathering around to watch. Joaquin bites down on the mouthpiece. No headgear by mutual agreement, just fists. Cheers and hoots erupt, yet they don't reach him. Joaquin needs to get rid of the adrenaline rush, the high, that makes it impossible for him to stay still.