Brass doesn't know what you've done to him.

He feels like a dog, Pavlov-ed to react to you, to fall to your beck and call like an obedient mutt. It makes his lips draw back, his teeth bare. It makes him snarl and snap but he knows he's fooling himself. He'll crawl back to you with his tail between his legs, just like he always does.

He can still feel his ears ringing. His chest is heaving and his muscles ache faintly. He licks his lips and he tastes copper. He doesn't wince at the sting of his tongue against his split lip.

His manager is droning on about something, maybe scores or follow ups or some other bullshit he couldn't care less about. Brass is good at hitting and punching, that's the only reason he's here. And, sure, the pay.

He hums when it's appropriate, making it seem like he's listening just out of basic respect. As soon as the conversation is over, he's striding past and out of the room. There's still a buzzing under his skin when he makes it outside, where he knows you're waiting for him. You always wait for him if you make it to his matches.

He bounds up to you with heavy steps, making you look over to him just as he reaches you. He doesn't even greet you before he's caging you against the brick wall behind you, eyes hard and harsh breaths passing through his nose. 

His jaw is clenched, and he balls his hands into fists against the brick. “I need you.” He says, breathless and ragged.