REWRITE

THIS IS MY SKIN

(and it's thick. this is not your skin - yet you are still under it.)

we all carry these things inside that no one else can see

they hold us down like anchors

they drown us out at sea

- 1 -

The clock beat in time with his punches and Tommy was lost in the rhythm of it. It was early morning, pale sunshine refracting around the empty gym through the high windows, making the space seem cold despite the late summer warmth that lay languid in the streets. While it was tolerable now, the heat would quickly begin to build as the gym filled, and so he chose to get his sessions done early in the morning and late at night. Plus, it was easier to zone out and fall into the cadence of his own movements when he was alone.

Currently, the only other person in the building was Colt, the manager. Tommy had expected to be dropped when he lost the title at Sparta but it seemed that Colt wasn't ready to give up on him just yet. Despite the odds, the pair had struck up a relatively stable friendship, something that Tommy usually wasn't very good at. Though he'd lost the competition, Colt didn't want him to run off to another gym and so was eager to keep Tommy's attention - and loyalty - which is from where the discussion of 'income' had sprung.

Throughout the entire ordeal, Tommy's intention had been one thing and one thing only: victory. Thus he had forgone sponsors and interviews, which meant he had also forgone profit. While some cash had come in due to it all being televised and Colt being able to talk the talk, the whole thing had left Tommy with little more than a dislocated shoulder and an empty wallet. So, when he had been released from hospital, Colt had been quick to pull him aside and start talking income. In return for Tommy keeping the gym clean, acting as spotter when required, and manning the front desk, a weekly wage would appear in his account every month, keeping things ticking over. It wasn't much but in the world that he lived in, Tommy was grateful for every cent Colt spared him.

Aside from the money, having a reason to get up and out of the house in the morning, and something to think about other than, well, anything else, was a relief. Sparta had been more mentally challenging than physically and the maelstrom of thoughts it had triggered weren't as quick to go as they had been to appear. Fires that he had believed to have been smothered out years ago flared up, burning just as strong if not stronger than the first time around, old wounds tearing open to bleed just as fresh. Since he had been fourteen years old, Tommy had carried around a casket of conflict and by stepping in front of the camera - and his brother - it had been thrown open for the world to see; and while he supposed that the silver lining at the bottom of unleashing such a Pandora's box unto himself was the chance to have his brother back in his life, he couldn't deny that Conlon men had one defining trait: abandonment.

When Brendan had held him tight after that fight, breaking and remaking him simultaneously, Tommy had clutched onto the whispered promises with a child's hope that maybe it was going to be okay. That he had lost the fight but he had won so much more, and the two men that had meant everything to him only to be lost were suddenly there again, flawed but present, and that took him higher than any morphine the doctor could prescribe. He allowed himself to remember the fairytales his mother told him as a kid, that love conquered all, and all sins could be forgiven.

And so, together, the two brothers had walked away from the cage. Brendan's strength had encased him the way it had when he was just a boy, and Tommy wept for the path his life had taken. When the doctors took him into surgery, Brendan promised him that he would be there when he got back and Tommy believed him. As he'd faded into oblivion, he'd seen a fragile catharsis hang above his head like a halo and he'd thought that this was - finally - the end of him.

When he woke in the hospital bed, he heard rather than saw Brendan outside the door. It didn't take Tommy long to work out that his brother was speaking to his wife, and as he'd blinked away the remnants of sleep, he realised that it hadn't been catharsis hanging above him after all but rather the collision of time. After going so long without even acknowledging the existence of a brother, the missed years of their lives had met, warped and imploded inside the cage, all with an audience as witness. They'd tried to play catch up but you can't miss out half the book and expect to continue the story. No, there was no catharsis here; the tragedy played on.

Still, Brendan tried, Tommy had to give him that much. He sat by his bed for over a week, handing out apologies with every meal, pleading for his baby brother to understand why he'd had to leave him all those years ago. He spoke of his daughters, his wife, his family 2.0 and Tommy could only count down the days until Brendan would leave, afraid that the antiseptic of the place would leak into his wallet and bleach the faces of his loved ones away. Brendan was sorry but he did not regret, and what kind of person would Tommy be if he expected him to? He knew better than most that you could not wish away a family, even a bad one.

Thus Tommy forced himself to shoulder the pain. He took Brendan's apologies and ate his hospital food like a good patient, and he made himself numb. Not that he could do much else: his blood had turned to sand a long time ago, and no amount of holy water tears could bring him salvation now.

On that last day, Brendan gave his final apology, his breath rattling through his lungs like old pennies. Tommy accepted it wordlessly, wondering whether being blown to pieces with his unit would have hurt less than this. Still, when Brendan hugged him close, Tommy held on for dear life, sending a choppy prayer to whoever the fuck was listening that this would be it. That he had paid his dues, that he had collected enough demons to satisfy the devil and that this would be it. Whether or not it was answered was something only time would tell.

When Brendan dropped him outside Paddy's little home, Brendan told him that he was going to donate a percentage of his winnings from the fight to Pillar and her family, in honour of Manny. There was little Tommy could say to that accept a tight-throat thank you, for it didn't matter whose bank it came from, as long as those beautiful children could have the life and opportunities they deserved. And as Brendan drove away, promising his little brother that there would always be a place for him at his table, Tommy told himself that he was okay to always be the one left behind. The walk from the ring to the hospital bed was long enough; second best was good enough.

Time passed, as it does. It took about twelve weeks of physical therapy for Tommy's shoulder to finally start to get back to normal and he hit the gym as soon as he was able. During those few months, Tommy tried to keep out of the path of his father as much as possible, the pair of them caught in the steps of an awkward dance that moved from one extreme to the other with no grey area in sight. They spoke the language of coffee and long silences, never quite looking each other in the eye but trying not to avoid each other to the state of blatancy. When the sun was bright, they would attempt to settle into the mould of any dynamic they could: father and son, trainer and fighter, but the suit never quite fit. Thing was, the fundamental parts of their existence hadn't changed, nor, perhaps more importantly, had they been addressed and as such it was hard to shake the feel of what they had once been: abuser and survivor.

That atmosphere was another reason why Tommy was grateful as hell to have a certified excuse to be out of the house: even his Pop couldn't argue with him leaving to go to work. Plus, it allowed him to train when he wanted which kept him in shape, and with the guys that worked out there having already known him before Sparta, it allowed him to keep his head down. Occasionally a passerby would stare at him or a fan would come into the gym but his ferocity and the lack of communication he'd had with the media gave him a large enough buffer to avoid any publicity, though the one or two letters he'd had from viewers were sweet enough that he kept them in his bedside table.

Which brings us back to now. Tommy threw his last punch just as the clock struck nine and began to unwrap his knuckles, enjoying the small comfort in regime. Knowing the doors would be opening soon to the regulars, he quickly hit the showers, appreciative of the hot water as it soothed his muscles. Afterwards, he dressed in silence before walking out to take his place at the front desk, anticipating the cool breeze from the AC to probably be the best part of his day. He nodded his greeting to those that walked by and pulled out a pile of membership applications that he was hoping would take up the rest of the morning to process.

With only the sound of abused punching bags to distract him from his own thoughts, the creak of the door sounded too loud in his ears and he sharply looked up, realising only then it was approaching midday. He was surprised to see a young woman, perhaps in her mid twenties, barking a goodbye down her cellphone as she stepped into the gym, bringing in a wave of heat from the outside. Sighing, she dropped a satchel down by one of the waiting chairs then headed over to where he was sat. Tommy looked her up and down as she approached, not recognising her at all. He wondered whether she was a fan but there was a hardness in the lines of her face that made him think otherwise.

"Can I help you?" he asked, watching her. Tiny beads of sweat lined her forehead and her mascara was smudged under her eyes from the heat, enhancing the shadows lurking there.

"Er, is Colt here?" She had an accent but it was the exhaustion in her voice that Tommy heard, and it took him a second to register her question.

"Name?"

"Harley Sinclair. He knows me." Her tone was dismissive, her body turned away from him as if she would rather be somewhere else. Tommy thought about asking what she was here for but decided he didn't actually care. Instead he got up and told Colt he had a visitor. As the two greeted each other, he told himself he was only listening in on them because there was nothing else to do.

"I thought you were gonna be here yesterday," Colt said, holding the girl at arm's length to give her an appraising look. She just shrugged, her eyes darting over to Tommy for a tiny second, her face devoid of emotion.

"Things took longer than I expected. You still okay for me to crash at yours?"

"Yeah, 'course." Colt's tone was softer than Tommy had ever heard it and when he pulled the girl in for a hug, Tommy thought that maybe he should make it less obvious that he was watching them.

"Take as long as you need," he said before checking his watch. "I've got to make some calls. Gimme twenty minutes and I'll take you round. That okay?"

"Sure," the girl - Harley, Tommy remembered - said, moving to take a seat, visibly uncomfortable with being left alone. She took out her phone, unlocking it then locking it again without actually looking at it. After a few more rounds of this, Tommy cleared his throat.

"Do you need anythin'?" he asked her, trying to be polite. Harley put down her phone and sent him a smile, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear. When she shook her head, Tommy decided to busy himself with more paperwork, not wanting to waste more time staring at some random girl. Soon enough, Colt reappeared and ushered Harley out of the gym, calling over his shoulder that he'd be back later. As the girl closed the door behind her, she sent Tommy another warm smile and he couldn't help but return it.

By the time Colt returned, the gym was empty and Tommy was stashing away his gloves in his locker having finished his late night workout. His manager was leaning against the front desk when he walked out.

"You alright, man?" he asked. Colt shrugged and ran a hand over his bald head.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just had some late nights, that's all." There was a pause and then Tommy found himself asking the question before he even realised he was going to.

"Who was that girl?" Colt gave a short laugh, shaking his head.

"The daughter of an old friend," he replied vaguely and Tommy leant against the wall, raising his eyebrows at his boss until he continued. "I was friends with her mom when we were kids. Now I think about it, Lily lived not that far from your old man's place."

"She looked rough, man," Tommy said, recalling her face: gaunt, pale, dark circles under her eyes.

"I know. I got her some food though and then she practically passed out on the coach. Runnin' on fumes, as always." Colt looked like he was gonna say more but then turned away. "Right, I've got some business to tie up then I'm out. I'll see ya tomorrow?" Tommy nodded and headed out with a goodbye.

When he got home, the smell of coffee hit him hard and he could hear the Moby Dick audiotape coming from his father's bedroom, which meant that it was a tough night for his Pop. Tommy hesitated outside his door, knowing that a good son would go in and see if he was okay but then he decided that bad fathers don't get the luxury of good sons, and so he climbed the stairs, undressed and fell unceremoniously into bed. The sound of muffled voices coming from downstairs reminded him of being a boy with a family again, and he drifted off into darkness, not awake but never quite asleep.

This chapter was rewritten on 23 December 2015. The quote is from the song Chelsea Smile by Bring Me To the Horizon.

The title of this fanfiction and the accompanying quote is from a book called I Wrote This For You.

xo