Darren's blog

Sometime after 2:00 a.m., the train eased into an unplanned halt. No station announcement, no bustle, no vendors but just a long mechanical sigh as the wheels settled. Outside, the world was coated in cold fog, thick enough to blur the platform lights into pale halos. The temperature had dropped sharply; the air carried a wet chill that slipped beneath fabric and pressed directly against skin.

Inside the coupe, Veer stirred first.

His body remembered the fight before his mind did. Ribs stiff, jaw aching, shoulders bruised deep. The compartment felt too warm, too close, as though the very walls were holding the memory of fists and sweat.

He pushed himself upright with a slow breath, swung his legs down, and stood.

He needed cold air.

The corridor was empty as he walked, quiet except for the soft hum of the train’s resting machinery. Outside, the platform waited still, fog-wrapped, and almost unreal in its silence. The cold hit him instantly, a clean shock along his spine. He breathed it in as though it might wash something out of him.

He lit a cigarette and leaned against the railing. Smoke curled upward, disappearing into pale mist.

The coupe door slid open again.

Footsteps.

Ayan stepped out.

No coat. Sleeves pushed up. Bruised, but steady. His breath emerged in thin white streams in front of him. He saw Veer—in the same moment Veer saw him—and the pause that followed was heavy, but not with surprise.

Just recognition.

Ayan came to stand beside him, not too close, not distant either. They stared out at the same empty stretch of platform, the sharp cold cutting through their clothes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Ayan murmured.

Veer exhaled smoke. “Could you?”

A faint, humorless huff left Ayan.

“No.”

The fog drifted around them, quiet as snowfall.

“You still hurting?” Ayan asked.

Veer finally turned to look at him fully. “Enough to remember. You?”

Ayan’s eyes held firm. “Not enough to stop.”

The air shifted.

Not suddenly.

Not explosively.

But with the slow, unmistakable pull of gravity drawing two objects back into collision.

Veer flicked the cigarette away, ember vanishing into fog.

“So we finish it?” he asked.

Ayan didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You think we’re done?”

The cold wind moved between them.

Their blood ran hot despite it.

They stepped closer, until their bodies nearly touched, their breaths mixing in the icy air.

“You have anything left?” Ayan asked, voice rough and low.

Veer’s reply was immediate.

“I’ll take whatever you have.”

The space between them collapsed.

Ayan shoved Veer hard, sending him stumbling back across the damp concrete. Veer caught his footing just in time to see the punch coming, a heavy right hook meant to break through, not test.

It landed.

Veer’s jaw snapped sideways; pain flared. He answered with a hook of his own, sharp and precise, cracking against Ayan’s cheekbone. Both men felt it. Both men steadied.

The fog swirled as they clashed, footsteps echoing across empty cement.

Ayan drove Veer back toward a steel pillar, shoulder lowered, weight behind every movement. Veer grunted as his back met cold metal, the shock running down his spine. Ayan followed with two body strikes deep, punishing shots that thudded into muscle.

Veer didn’t fold.

He struck back with instinct and grit. His knee drove up into Ayan’s thigh, throwing off his stance, and his forearm scraped hard across Ayan’s jaw, snapping his head aside. With the tiniest gap created, he shoved Ayan backward to reclaim space, lungs burning in the cold.

They circled now, breath ragged, limbs heavy but still dangerous.

Ayan lunged again, a wide, furious swing. Veer ducked it and countered with a tight uppercut that forced Ayan back but Ayan absorbed it, stepped through it, and wrapped both arms around Veer’s torso, driving him bodily into the carriage wall.

The impact boomed through the empty platform.

Veer’s teeth clenched against the pain. Ayan’s weight pressed against him, pinning him there. A short, brutal flurry followed close-quarters strikes, shoulder, fist, knee, elbow like less technique, more survival.

Veer pushed back with what remained in him, palms flat against Ayan’s chest, refusing to fold. His breaths were sharp, uneven. His legs tremored from exertion.

Ayan landed two more heavy blows to Veer’s side  so hard they rattled his breath. Veer responded by hooking Ayan’s leg and dragging him down. They hit the ground hard  rolling, punching, choking, mud and blood mixing across the concrete.

But the train horn blasted long and urgent.

The signal had switched.

Time was up.

They broke apart, panting, faces bloodied, bodies aching.

Ayan wiped blood from his eyebrow, spit red onto the ground, and stared.

Veer stared right back.

No satisfaction.

No closure.

Only a deeper, hotter hate.

They had one win each now.

And that felt unbearably incomplete and they got back on the train in silence.

Side by side.

Not rivals.

Not strangers.

Enemies.

The First-Tier AC coupe was a chamber of refrigerated air sealed against the thick, humid night. Outside, the suburbs of Mumbai spread into long ribbons of flickering streetlights, blurred signage, and shuttered stalls. The train glided through them like a bullet through smoke, carrying its passengers toward quieter, darker country.

Inside the compartment, Ayan had taken the Lower berth.

He was a broad-shouldered man, frame thick with weight training and the aggressive rigidness of someone who did not back down from confrontation. His hair was still slicked from a meeting; his tie loosened, his jacket discarded in a careless heap. The tension written across his posture was real. An unresolved business betrayal, a deal collapsing, pressure building behind his eyes. Tonight, anger was the only thing holding him together.

The berth he occupied did not belong to him. His ticket was for the Upper Berth.

But Ayan’s belief was simple:

The world was divided into takers and those who let themselves be taken from.

He had already chosen which one he would be.

The door slid open. The Ticket Conductor stepped in, followed by Veer. Veer was no less physically capable than Ayan. Leaner, perhaps, but built with the balanced tension of a man who knew how to spend his strength efficiently. His gaze moved once across Ayan. Brief, assessing then settled on the berth.

 “Tickets, please,” the conductor said, routine and tired. Veer handed his over. “Veer. Lower berth.” Ayan did not get up. He handed his ticket without shifting his position. 

 The conductor glanced. “Mr. Ayan, you are assigned to the Upper. Mr. Veer has the Lower.” Ayan spoke without looking up. “He will take the upper. I’m already settled.” 

 The conductor shrugged, uninterested, uninvested. “As long as both tickets are valid and you remain in this coupe, it’s your arrangement.” He stepped out. The door slid shut. The latch clicked.

The compartment was sealed.

Veer stepped closer. Not threateningly but just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going to accept the situation by accident.

“You’re in my berth,” he said simply.

Ayan finally turned his head toward him. The smile he gave was not friendly.

“I don’t climb.”

Veer’s voice stayed calm. “And I won't give up what I’ve paid for.”

“That’s cute,” Ayan said.

There was a moment - thin, cold, suspended where either man could have deescalated. Neither did.

Veer reached back and quietly slid the deadbolt into place. A firm metallic thunk sealed them in.

Ayan sat up slowly, deliberate, shoulders rolling as though loosening before a match.

“So that’s how it is,” he said.

Veer didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the wall and released the latches holding both the upper and lower berths. The padded platforms folded up, locking into place. The compartment transformed into no beds, no pretense of rest,just a tight, enclosed arena.

Ayan stood.

For a few seconds, neither moved. They simply watched each other - weight shifting slightly, measuring reach, footing, temperament.

Then Ayan struck.

He came in heavy, leading with his weight. His punch was fast for someone his size but Veer blocked, but the impact still pushed him backward. Veer countered a low sharp kick to the thigh, enough to bruise deep muscle. Ayan grunted, barely acknowledging it.

The train curved. Their balance adjusted instinctively.

Ayan drove Veer against the padded wall, forearm under his collarbone.

“Just climb up,” Ayan murmured. Not a suggestion. A declaration.

Veer twisted sharply, breaking the hold, and struck two clean shots to the ribs. Ayan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t retreat. He answered with a knee that knocked the air clean from Veer’s lungs.

They locked up chest to chest, arms tangled, the fight shrinking to leverage, pressure, breath, sweat. There was no elegance here. No style. Just determination and anatomy.

Ayan tried to throw Veer down. Veer hooked a foot, tried to sweep but failed. So he changed strategy and pulled, forcing both bodies off balance. They crashed to the floor together, rolling hard, fists and elbows in tight, punishing arcs.

Ayan got on top first.

He struck once - twice - three times. Raw, heavy blows.

Veer blocked the fourth, barely.

His vision blurred. His chest burned.

He could feel himself slipping.

Then the train hit a rough joint in the track.

The whole world jolted.

Ayan’s next punch went just wide only by inches but it was enough.

Veer surged upward, driving his forehead into Ayan’s nose.

A sharp, wet crack.

Blood flooded instantly.

Ayan reeled.

Veer scrambled to his feet, breathing ragged, body screaming, but still moving. He struck not cleanly, not beautifully but with what remained of him ; 

He throw a hook followed by shove, strike to the jaw and a desperate knee right to Ayan guts. A final, heavy right hand to end it.

Ayan’s body sagged ,not unconscious but just finished.

He sank to the floor, breathing hard, eyes open but unable to rise.

The compartment went still again.

Veer stood in the quiet, chest heaving, ribs throbbing, sweat cooling fast in the air-conditioned chill. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t look triumphant.

He was simply the one still standing.

Slowly yet painfully he lowered the Lower berth back into place.

He sat, leaned back and closed his eyes.

Ayan remained on the floor, bloody but breathing steadily, recovering in silence.

No apology, No conversation, No victory was claimed.

The train sped forward through the night.

Both men knew this would not be the last time they fought each other.

I never thought a few seconds on the road could steal something I built with my own fists. One moment I was on my bike, the next I was rolling on the asphalt road, ribs splintered like glass under my skin. The doctors told me I’d heal, that with time I’d be fine. They didn’t know the real injury wasn’t on the x-ray.

Fighting had always been my pulse. Not the polished, televised stuff in gyms or arenas, but the kind of scraps you learn on your own — watching and joining those backyards, carparks, friends’ garages. No coaches, no bright lights, just sweat, bruises and the quiet pride of teaching yourself how to move. It was where I felt alive, where I measured myself. After the accident, all of that went silent. While my ribs knitted themselves back together, something inside me stayed cracked. I watched from the sidelines as others traded punches and stories, while I sat out, pretending I was okay. 

A few weeks ago I tried to test myself..met a guy from some dating apps. Just a little roughhousing, nothing serious, just to feel my body in that space again. At first it felt like home — the stance, the grip, the smell of sweat — until a twist, a push, and then the pain hit me like a blade from inside. Sharp, hot, familiar. I stopped immediately, breathless, trying not to show it. Later at the clinic, the doctor didn’t sugarcoat it: my ribs still hadn’t fully recovered. “A couple more months of real rest,” he said, “or you’ll set yourself back again.” Walking out of that room felt heavier than any punch I’d taken.

On the outside, I look normal now. I go to work, laugh with friends, carry groceries, nod when people tell me how lucky I am. They see a body that functions again. They don’t see the nights I lie awake, palms pressed to my ribs, remembering how it felt to square up with someone, to taste the adrenaline right before a fight. I miss the bruises, the exhaustion, the ritual of pushing past pain — not because I liked pain, but because that’s where I felt whole.

Sometimes I wonder if a part of me is still lying on that road with the bike, unable to get up. But then I remember what fighting taught me before I ever threw a punch: that a fight isn’t only about who hits harder. It’s about getting back up yourself, even when no one’s watching. It’s about holding the broken pieces and still finding a way to move.

I don’t know if I’ll ever step back into a fight. Maybe that chapter’s closed. But writing this is its own kind of fight — a way of admitting that I’m still healing, that strength isn’t always about muscle or impact. Sometimes it’s just breathing through the ache and showing up anyway.

Growing up close to my mum’s side of the family meant spending a lot of time around my male cousins. And if you know anything about boys packed into a living room, yard, or bedroom, you'll know that physical games are bound to happen — especially wrestling. It was one of our favorite ways to kill time during family gatherings. We'd pretend to be our favorite WWE stars, body slam each other onto mattresses or sofas, and laugh until someone cried or got scolded.

Back then, it was just roughhousing. Just play.

But something always lingered for me — something I couldn't name.

I spent my entire school life in all-boys environments — from elementary right through high school. You can imagine the testosterone-filled chaos that came with that. Especially in the locker rooms after PE. Puberty made everything louder, sweatier, messier. Some boys flaunted their bodies, others flashed each other as a joke, and there were always moments of unfiltered, raw energy. I remember the variety of body types — the way backs curved, chests broadened, how some boys carried muscle while others stayed lean. It was all imprinted in me in ways I didn’t quite understand at the time.

I used to think I was the only one feeling… different. The only one who felt something stir when we locked up on the mat, or when a friend casually leaned on me after practice, damp with sweat. I’d get hard sometimes, especially during play fights — and I’d feel embarrassed, even ashamed. I kept thinking, “Why is my body reacting like this?”

But over time, it didn’t feel so confusing — just unspoken.

As I got older, I leaned into wrestling more — not just as a memory, but as an interest. I began watching more, and not just the mainstream matches. I found myself more drawn to independent and underground circuits, where the bodies were stockier, heavier, and more diverse. Over time, I realized I wasn’t into the traditional washboard abs type — I was into beefy, solid guys. The kind who looked like they could crush you with a bear hug… and maybe hold you just as tightly afterward.

And then came that match.

It all started with a DM on X (formerly Twitter). A random guy slid into my inbox after seeing the word "wrestling" on my profile.

“Hey, you wrestle?” he asked.

I replied, “Yeah, but I’m just an amateur. Still kinda new to the whole thing.”

He responded almost instantly. “Same here. Wanna go for a round? My spot’s free.”

It caught me off guard — direct, casual, confident. But something about it felt easy. No pressure, just two guys who shared the same interest. We exchanged a few more messages, set a time, and next thing I knew, I was at his place — mats already laid out, the space clean but minimal. He greeted me in shorts and a tank top, barefoot, solid. Stocky in the best way.

We stretched. Chatted a bit. Agreed on some friendly rules. And then we locked up.

What happened next was a blur of holds and counters. His grip was tight but respectful. We rolled, shifted, grunted. The match was casual, but the tension built quickly. Every time our chests pressed, every time he pinned me down or I wrapped my legs around his torso, something inside me stirred again. That familiar heat.

And then — during a brief pause when he had me in a tight hold — I felt it.

Hard. Pressed against my thigh.

Not just mine — his too.

We both paused. Caught between instinct and curiosity. I looked up at him, breathless. He looked down at me and raised a brow with a grin.

“You too?” I whispered.

He didn’t say anything. Just smirked again and loosened his grip. The energy shifted. Not into something sexual, necessarily — but something real. Acknowledged. The rest of the match played out slower, more deliberate. We weren’t pretending anymore. We were feeling everything.

When he finally pinned me, fully straddling my waist, our bodies still hard and sticky with sweat, he leaned in and said, “It’s more common than you think.”

Afterward, we both laughed it off — but not awkwardly. Just honestly. Two guys who found something familiar in each other.

That moment didn’t make me ashamed. It made me seen.

Wrestling didn’t just give me bruises and sweat-drenched shirts. It gave me a mirror. It helped me make peace with a part of myself I spent years hiding or pretending didn’t exist. It showed me that intimacy doesn’t always look like candlelight and whispers. Sometimes it looks like two bodies tangled in tension, testing limits, and sharing unspoken truths.

It wasn’t just a sport to me. It was an awakening.

And I’m grateful for every hold, every g

rapple, every match that reminded me: I’m not alone.

It had been three weeks since the brawl in the wrestling gym.

Neither of them talked about it—not to each other, not to anyone else. But it lingered like smoke. The bruises healed, but the fire didn’t. They still passed each other in the halls. Still worked out in the same weight room. But now? Not even eye contact.

And yet—they were thinking the same thing.

It didn’t end right.

The brawl was wild. Ugly. But it wasn’t settled. There was no win. No clarity. Just sweat, blood, and walking away angrier than before.

So the final text came late one night. No threats. No hype.

Jax: One more. Clean. No running. No gear. Back room behind the old gym. No one’s there.

Reid: Friday. Dusk. Don’t bring excuses.

---

The back room wasn’t even part of the official training space anymore. Old mats, rusty vents, flickering lights. It was half-forgotten. Which made it perfect.

Jax was there first—hood down, shirtless, pacing. His knuckles were taped this time, but nothing else. He wasn’t here to score points.

He was here to end this.

Reid came in right on time, jaw tight, bare chest rising slow. He closed the door behind him and said nothing. Just dropped his gym bag and stepped onto the mat.

No music. No timer. No coach.

Just the two of them.

Jax stepped forward. “Last one.”

Reid nodded. “Let’s make it count.”

They circled.

This time, there was no rush. No lunging. They moved like they were calculating—looking for that one mistake, that one break in posture. Their feet shifted. Shoulders coiled. Then—impact.

Reid went in first, fast double-leg. Jax sprawled hard, fought him off, then countered with a snap-down. He drove Reid forward and tried for a front headlock, but Reid rolled out, slipped behind, and nearly took Jax’s back.

They reset.

Jax landed a powerful hip toss next—spiking Reid on the mat. Reid bounced, grunted, but rolled with it and caught Jax in a side hold, using leverage to flip him. They scrambled like animals—raw, technical, and aggressive.

Minutes passed.

Grunts. Sweat. Quick gasps between slams. Reid locked in a cradle. Jax broke free and charged. Jax hit a lift. Reid sprawled and reversed. Neither one giving up the mat for more than a breath.

They were both shaking now. Muscles screaming. Pride cracking.

Then—it changed.

Reid caught Jax in a deep single-leg, lifted him high—and slammed him down hard.

Jax hit the mat flat. For one breath, he didn’t move.

Reid straddled, locked Jax’s arms down, chest pressed, breathing through clenched teeth. Jax tried to bridge—but nothing left. His body twitched, but the strength was gone.

He stared up, teeth grinding.

Reid’s voice broke the silence. Quiet. Steady. “This is it.”

Jax’s eyes flared. Not fear. Not even anger anymore. Just... defeat.

He exhaled slowly and tapped the mat twice.

Reid released him.

Jax lay still for a second, sweat running down his cheek. Then, slowly, he sat up. No outburst. No curses. Just heavy breathing and a hollow look in his eyes.

Reid stood, chest rising, blood at the corner of his lip again. “You gave me hell.”

Jax looked at him. “You earned it.”

Another pause.

For the first time, they weren’t enemies. Not quite friends either. But something changed.

Respect. Hard-won.

Reid offered a hand. Jax stared at it. Then took it.

No words followed. Just a nod between two guys who had thrown everything at each other—body, ego, and rage—and survived it.

It was finally done.

And this time, they both knew it.