It hadn’t been all that long since Michael was in Monty’s shoes. Two years, give or take, since he’d pried a crumpled photograph of Fiona from its hiding place inside a cushion, lit a match, and set fire to the only reminder of the life he’d left behind. Two years since he’d had to drown his sorrows in liquor every night just to catch a few minutes of sleep, before the nightmares — his baby brother dying in his arms; the woman he loved backing away from him in horror when he told her he made a deal — woke him up again.
And two years since he’d wrapped his hands in tattered cloth, downed a shot of tequila, and entered the pit for another fight to the death. Those days were a haze now, but Michael could remember every moment of that last match. The punches he landed, and the marks left behind by the ones he took; the bottle smashed over his head, and the fragment he used as a blade to break his opponent’s chokehold; the crowd chanting ”¡Acaba lo!” and then dissolving into cheers as he dealt the final blow.
Back then he’d fought with the raw, ragged desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose — but now, Michael’s mind was clear and his movements measured. He’d gotten his name back today, if not anything else. He felt more like himself than he had in a while, and he wanted to hold onto that for as long as possible.
He could see the pain written across Monty’s face, could feel the anger building with each strike, and he knew exactly what was happening. As polite sparring gave way to an outright brawl, Michael kept every sense keenly focused on the man before him, his cool-headed control in sharp contrast to Monty’s increasing volatility. The outcome was inevitable; he was simply biding his time.
Monty’s eyes flashed with rage then went dark, and that was when Michael acted. It would’ve been easy to take advantage of such a vulnerable moment to put the guy down for the count. It was what he would’ve done — what he would’ve had to do — two years ago. Instead, Michael maneuvered the frantic man directly into his arms, applying a firm but patient hold.
“Hey,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It's okay. I’m right here.” A gentle reminder intended to bring his distraught companion back to the present. Since he couldn’t see Monty’s face from his position, Michael shifted his head slightly so that his ear rested against the man's throat, feeling and listening for his heartbeat. Then he held Monty there for a long moment until it finally began to slow.