One, two, punch— it was the steady rhythm he'd come to lean on more than his own heartbeat and yet to anyone else who didn’t fight, it seemed entirely counterproductive. What could possibly be gained from slamming fists into another human being until the final bell tolled? Nothing, or at least that was how it appeared from the outside looking in. But the truth was that whenever he was jammed up tight with nowhere to put his thoughts and their never ending spin, that steady cadence of swinging punches gave Sawyer somewhere to shove them. Over the years, whether it took shape between tattered ropes or a chain linked cage, a fighting ring had always been somewhat of a sanctuary for Sawyer— the one place where he managed to scrape up a moment of peace despite the way chaos seemed to rage all around him. He wondered how many people actually understood that— the way fighting wasn’t so much of a choice, but a necessity. He didn’t know that he’d ever be able to explain it, but when it came to people like Ryder, Sawyer knew he’d never have to.
After what had happened at the warehouse, Sawyer needed to blow off steam, needed to somehow make it make sense— and luckily for him, Ryder had been willing to move around in the ring with him. Though he wasn’t so sure it was lucky for Ryder. Ordinarily, Sawyer was a decent sparring partner who could rein himself in and show some discipline. But in his current headspace, he’d lost all sense of that word and had thrown series after series of frenzied punches until he finally found himself backing into the ropes, out of breath. “Fuck,” he shouted through gritted teeth as he dropped his hands, momentarily calling for a ceasefire. Running a set of taped fingers through his hair, flattening the unruly blond strands against his head, he shot Ryder an apologetic look, “Sorry, man.” But it wasn’t as though the younger man hadn’t held his own— he’d done that and more, just as Sawyer had predicted he would. He’d seen how talented Ryder was. Sawyer just felt bad for coming at him like a bat out of hell without even so much as a warning. “Prob’ly not what you were expectin’ when I asked ya to train.”