#schumilton

Lewis knew damn well how much of a mess he was right now. He'd been tidying up after a relatively contained fit of rage when Mick walked in, immediately attempting to help. Lewis isn't sure how much helping he's actually doing anymore, however, whilst he's standing staring at the single glove in his hand after having given up on finding its partner.

He'd been harsh with the younger man, trying to ignore his presence in an attempt not to snap at him. But then his ring caught his earring as he was changing, and the slight tug of pain manifested itself as an outward burst of anger. Ten minutes later - half an hour perhaps, he isn't sure - and his breathing is heavy, throat is sore, he's regretting every word he's spoken.

Mick, of course, had taken the anger like the angel he is. The German was over a decade younger than him and had learned to accept harsh words much better than the older man, something that never ceases to amaze him.

So Lewis steps back, finally properly acknowledging his.. friend? Partner? God knows. The blonde looks exhausted, no doubt tired of the constant discussions and debates over his worth in the sport that has beared his name from before he himself could even spell it. Lewis knows he doesn't have to explain further, he also knows that that doesn't make it right.

Mick gets it, he understands. The world is out to get him too. In a different way, sure, but he gets it. He isn't out to get him.

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are," the German offered a slight smile, the corners of his mouth curling inwards.

"It's just so frustrating."

"I know it is."