ArchivedLogs:New Tricks

New Tricks
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Trib
In Absentia	2013-07-11 A boxer and a whore meet in a gym....
Location <NYC> Sweat - Greenwich Village
An apropos name; it is hard to escape the smell, when visiting this fitness club. Open twenty-four hours, this facility comes equipped with all the bells and whistles for those who want to train hard. All the standard gym equipment can be found and then some. In addition to private personal trainers, there are group classes in all sorts of things, from bicycling to crossfit to yoga to martial arts to more esoteric fare such as pole dancing and dodgeball. An olympic-sized pool makes this a popular draw, and the sauna rooms by each locker room are nice spots to unwind after a heavy workout. Outside, it is once again creeping back into hot, although not /enough/ so to be quite as oppressive as the previous week. Many of the gym's regulars have taken to the outdoors for their running, today, though the pool and weight rooms still are rather packed with people. Lucien has been in the former, for a long stint of laps; there's still the distinct tang of chlorine on his skin although his workout is not yet over. Dressed -- well, gymlike, sneakers, black shorts, a thin sleeveless green shirt in some lightweight wicking fabric, undoubtedly far more expensive than is really /necessary/ for sweating in. At the moment he's at the weights, kind of lazily spotting a youngish man on the bench. At least until the man -- the ID on his abandoned pile of nearby clothing says that he is a young /doctor/, in fact, over at Mt. Sinai -- gets paged and has to make an abrupt exit. Which leaves Lucien faintly /disgruntled/, grimacing at the abandoned bench. Trib is hard to miss, when he enters the weight area. At his height and bulk, people /rarely/ miss him. Dressed in a pair of blue shorts and a white tank top, he looks equally gym-like, save for the athletic tape wrapped around both hands and wrists. Walking slowly among those working out, he seems uncertain where he'll actually /begin/ his workout. Until he spots the abandoned bench, and the frustrated-looking guy standing next to it. He wheels to a stop, looking first at the former, then at the latter with a curious pop of his eyebrows. "You need a spot?" Lucien certainly does not miss the new arrival, eyebrows briefly raising as well as he looks Trib over. "If you do not mind," he answers with a small curl of smile, his voice soft and softly-tinged with francophone accenting. "I would gladly do you after." He's rearranging the weights on the bar, adding more to it than the slightly smaller man before him had taken on. From 200 to 250, 260. Stop. "Are you here often? I feel like I am not sure how I have not noticed you before." Trib's mouth curls into a smile, and he nods as he moves to help secure the weights. "'ppreciate that," he grunts, tighting the fly with his left hand. "I only know a couple of people who work out here, an' they ain't here." By contrast, his own voice is rough-edged, and his accent Jersey-thick. At the question, he shakes his head, moving to the head of the bench and chuffing a laugh at the comment on his size. "I'm on a guest pass," he says. "I'm checkin' out the place. Gettin' a feel for it, before I buy a membership." He narrows his eyes as he considers. "I been here once before. I think I gotta buy after this." He waves his right hand in the general direction of the other man. "I'm Trib." "Lucien," Lucien's hand extends for a handshake, with this introduction; if taken it comes with a soft-subtle flush of pleasing-happy-warm, quiet but cheering. "I come here often, their facilities are excellent. It helps that in my case it is close by." He slides into place under the bar, inhaling deeply, then exhaling as he reaches up to get a proper grip on it. Lift it, lower it slowly to his chest. Raise again, the thick muscles of his arms flexing hard with the motion. "Some of their classes," his voice is more /strained/ in between reps, "are a little, ah, /precious/, but the pool alone is worth the price." Trib's handshake is warm and firm, if a bit odd with the last two fingers missing. He smiles a bit wider when that flush works through his skin, and he nods. "Good to meet you, Lucien. That's French or some shi -- thin', right?" The big man rolls his shoulders, and steps up as Lucien settles himself, holding his hands under the bar until it's firmly gripped and stable. He seems vaguely curious about the man's ability to handle that much weight, and the uptick of his eyebrows as the reps start is definitely impressed. "Yeah, I don't go for all them foofy classes," he rumbles, eyes crinkling. "Yogercise and Roomba Zoomba or whatever the hell it's called. That shi -- stuff -- don't do nothin' to help me." His hands slip under the bar now and then (for SAFETY), and he grins down at the man. "An' I look terrible in spandex." "Or something," Lucien agrees in quiet half-grunt. Another lower of the bar, another lift. And then again. His brilliant green eyes shift after the next, once the bar is back in place, sweeping over Trib before he moves it again. "Oh, I very much doubt that," he says with soft amusement. "All you need to look good in spandex is to be in good shape." Trib's eyes crinkle further, and his eyebrows quirk at the comment. "I dunno," he says with a chuckle. "I don't think my ass is all that hot." He twists the lower half of his body, peeking over his shoulder. Maybe he's double-checking. "You probably rock the clingy look, though." Which seems more like a general assessment, without hint of suggestion in the compliment. There's a bit of silence as he lets Lucien concentrate on the reps, occasionally grunting encouragement softly. Then: "How long you lived in the city?" "Your ass is definitely up to par," Lucien /states/ this like a neutral-bland /fact/. Without looking over at Trib's ass, it might be noted; he's currently concentrating on his bar. Down. Up. Down. Up. The muscles on his neck stand out more with successive reps. "I have been known," he grunts in between, "to wear occasional /cling/." Another down. Another up. "Oh -- goodness. A few years. High school. Ish. More or less. You? That accent is," he notes, "across the tunnel." "Well, that's a relief," Trib rumbles. "It's the only part of me I can't see properly, so I ain't ever sure." His gaze is intent on the up-down motion of the bar, and he folds his arms over his chest. "I could see that," he grunts about Lucien and cling, without any sort of emotion attached to it. He simply can see that. The pinpointing of his own accent gets another curl of lips, and a lift of one shoulder as he looks out over the gym in a quick, idle pass. "Pasaic," he confirms with a nod of his head. "But I've lived in the city for a couple of years. Moved up here to train." He offers a few shadow punches, to illustrate. "Train?" Lucien's eyebrows lift. Studying Trib as he nestles the bar back into place for a brief moment, then lifts it down again. "You box." His teeth grit again. Up. Down. Up. Down. There is sweat glistening down on his forehead, starting to stain his shirt damp. "Do they even," the question sounds genuinely curious rather than mocking, "/have/ a weight class for you?" "Used to," Trib says with a bob of his head. "Tryin' to get back into it. Find a manager an' trainer, an' all that." He waggles the fingers of his half-hand in the air. "'sgonna take some time, though." The question gets a smirk, and the big man reaches to support the bar without pressure. "Heavyweight," he states. "Although I ain't as thick through the middle as some of 'em. Especially on the amateur cards." His smile is tight and mildly triumphant before it fades back into neutral curiosity. "What do you do for a livin'?" "I am not," Lucien admits, "familiar enough with boxing to know if there was an -- upper bound. For that." And then silence, through more reps. "You got -- /out/ of it?" By the time he gets to twenty, the sweat is more or less /dripping/ off him. He settles the bar back heavily into place, eying the weights as though contemplating adding more. "I am a whore," he answers with the same quiet neutrality, eyes flicking up to Trib as he says this. But then back to the weights. "Well, when you get to the bigs, it's heavyweight," Trib says. "Which I qualify for, but in the amateur leagues, I fight in super-heavyweight." He snorts. "Which is occasionally annoyin', since the majority of boxers are around middleweights, an' it can be hard to find a card in my class." He says this as though Lucien had not just admitted his ignorance of the sport. The question gets a shake of his head. "Not on purpose. I got caught up by some shit that went down, an' lost my manager an' gym. So I'm back to square one." He helps settle the bar, making sure it's well-placed before releasing it. The admission gets a small twitch of Trib's eyebrows, and he wrinkles his nose as he considers this. "High dollar?" Lucien listens quietly to this, everything in his expression suggesting he is genuinely interested in what Trib has to say, whether or not he /is/ familiar with it. "I can see how that would be a challenge," he reaches for his water bottle as he sits up, standing and moving to -- add a few weights to the bar. 270. 280. Then stop again. "That -- sounds frustrating, do you --" His brows crease, slightly. "How does one," he wonders quietly, "go about finding a new -- gym. New manager?" He settles himself back onto the bench again, but takes another deep swig of water before lying back down. For a brief moment, his lips curl. Just quickly. "Very." "It ain't easy," Trib admits, shifting his weight to allow Lucien to add more weight. His eyebrows lift slightly, and the sudden slant of his mouth says that he's impressed by the addition. "Usually, you can find a manager just hangin' around a gym. But those guys ain't interested in findin' you an owner. They just want the small-time purses." He grins in a sudden, hard expression. "/I/ want to box in the big venues. Las Vegas, Miami, Atlantic City. An' /those/ managers ain't hangin' around any gyms 'cept their own, 'cause they're workin' for an owner." He lifts a shoulder. "Like I said, tricky." His hard grin shifts to a loose, approving smile at the confirmation of the blonde's price. "Good. You look like someone who should be pullin' down big numbers." He wrinkles his nose. "I bet bein' high dollar cuts down on the super-creepy guys wantin' a date, yeah?" "Hm." Lucien stops to consider this, as he draws in another breath, lifts his arms to settle in proper position. There's another slow breath as he lifts the weight, muscles straining but stable and even in motion as he lowers it. Lifts it. "There are plenty," he says, "of men /and/ women who are -- slightly off. But the good thing," another pause for breath, another rep, "about commanding a high price is, yes. Having my /own/ pick of clients. I do not solicit. People solicit me." There is quiet here, again, through another few lifts. "I might," he admits, "know a person or two. In -- that world." "Tell me about it," Trib rumbles, eyes crinkling again. "I've met more than a few creeps along my short career path. I can't imagine how bad it would be if I was offerin' my services." There's no censure in his voice as he drops his hands, raising them up under the bar upon every lift, and pulling them away as it lowers. "An' if they're comin' to you, I guess the cops can go stick it, yeah?" His smile widens suddenly, at that image, and there's a small glint in his eye that seems maliciously gleeful about it. His body tenses, briefly, when Lucien mentions his connections, every muscle freezing in a minute clench of stunned disbelief. "You do?" is a rumble with a hopeful cast to it. Then he's wrinkling his nose as he considers that. "Oh, yeah. I guess you would. Listen, I ain't askin' for no favors, but maybe when I get a card, I could..." he pauses, chewing at his lower lip in sudden, weird self-consciousness. "Let you know?" He smiles. "You could come an' watch, or whatever." "The cops," Lucien /huffs/ this, possibly out of irritation or possibly from exertion with the heavier weight, "take their /taxes/ from all men and women in the trade, now and then." There is a disgusted curl of his lip that comes with this, and his next few reps are /just/ a little bit faster. Muscles tensed a little harder. With this, he only gets to fifteen before stopping, chest /heaving/ beneath his thin shirt. His eyes close as the bar clangs back into place, hands just a little shaky as he crosses them over his chest, just /lying/ there for a moment. "I do," he answers eventually, "I know -- many people. Do you have a card? I can give you mine. I would be interested in seeing --" He pauses, breathing in and out slowly, "you in action." Trib helps the bar back into place, his muscles tensing but not straining as he shifts the weight. "Cops," he grunts. "Take their fair share from a lot of people who shouldn't have to pay it." There's the smallest darkening of his amber gaze as he states this, but he doesn't elaborate further. Instead, he moves around the bench, looking down at the puffing blonde. "You're pretty strong," he notes. "That was a shit-ton of weight for someone with your build." It's clearly a compliment, and the big man lets his eyes travel over Lucien for a moment. "I ain't got a card," he says, almost apologetically. "But I can give you my number." He grins, suddenly, and does a little shuffle of his feet, bringing up his hand to shadow box. "You'll like it," he promises. "I got the moves like Jagger." "Staying in shape is somewhat a necessity -- in different ways for my position, perhaps, than for yours, but crucial all the same." Lucien opens his eyes finally, drawing in a slow heavy breath and pushing himself up, to reach for hand towel and water both, taking a deep swig as he mops himself somewhat more dry. Then mops the /bench/ behind him from the sweat it has accumulated, too. Before standing, stretching one arm and then another and then gesturing to Trib -- your turn! He sets down the water bottle, slings the towel over his shoulders so that he can have his hands free. "I never did understand that song," he admits, with mild amusement, "Jagger is a decript old man. I can only imagine he /paid/ young pop stars to include him in their songs. That was not the only one that came out the same time that mentioned him." "Actually, whores an' boxers ain't that far removed," Trib says. "We both use our bodies to make our livin', an' we aspire to havin' the highest-payin' people payin' us. So I get it." His grin is a quirk ot one side of his face. "If your body goes to shit, all that goes away like a shot." He adds more weight to the bar, stopping at 325 before spinning the flys and moving back around the bench. "Yeah, I don't get it either," he says as he settles himself into place. He's tall enough that when he's settled, his legs are nearly out in the walkway. "It's a catchy song, though. But lookin' at them old videos of the Stones -- he was a spaz. I don't know why people say he was so damned sexy." He grins tightly as he reaches up for the bar. "Maybe I should have said I got the moves like Timberlake," he says as he grips the bar and lifts it free with a small grunt of exertion. "That's probably more...whatayacallit...descriptive." "Timberlake," Lucien is forced to acknowledge, although he says it like it /galls/ him to even know this, "would seem much more apt." He watches the addition of weights quietly, just nodding slightly to himself. Approving, perhaps, though perhaps not quite as /surprised/ at Trib's size. He exhales quietly, hands hovering beneath the bar out of Trib's way. "No, I suppose on some level we are not that different. Though when it gets down to it, I compare my profession to /acting/ more than any other. I provide a nice fantasy for people to escape into. -- I suppose boxing does, as well. It is all so much entertainment." "He's pretty bad-ass," Trib acknowledges, grunting a bit as he slowly -- oh, so slowly -- lowers the weight to rest on his chest before pushing it up with equal sloth. Like he's trying to feel every pound of it. "Sexy, too." Another slow lowering (slowering?) of the weight, and he huffs an agreement with Lucien's sentiments. "People like boxin' 'cause it gives them virtual violence," he says, and this is probably a confirmation of Lucien's thoughts. "They like gettin' all worked up watchin' two healthy men beat the stuffin' out of each other." He chuffs a laugh on the next rep. "I guess boxin' is like bein' a gladiator," he says, and then his expression falls as a thought flickers across his face. "Only not really /anything/ like it." "Boxers have a choice," Lucien murmurs softly, fingers lazily travelling along with the bar. His attention is focused more on Trib's face than on his arms. "People do seek catharsis in all kinds of ways, though. Some more healthy than others." "Yeah, they do," Trib grunts, pushing the bar up again. "Usually." He takes his eyes off the bar to look up at Lucien, then, and his eyes crinkle. "So what are we?" he wonders. "Healthy or unhealthy?" "Oh -- I do not think there is any way to measure," Lucien admits, with a very soft breath of laughter. "That depends entirely on the individual, and not at all on the recreation. I have seen healthy heroin usage, and terribly disordered video gaming. Innocuous things become less innocuous when abused. Do you feel healthy? Do you feel those who watch you are?" "Moderation in all things?" Trib seems amused, and shakes his head as he pushes through the next rep. Unlike Lucien, sweat blooms in the fabric of his shirt very quickly, though he's not showing any sign of strain. "That seems a good policy. Too bad more people ain't got that kind of sense." The questions get a slow wrinkle of his nose. "I used to think I was," he says. "Healthy. But I'm startin' to realize I'm probably as fucked up as anyone. The people that watch me...that's another thing. Some of them like the sport; some are just waitin' to see that one-in-a-million killed-in-the-ring kind of shit." He grimaces, and pushes the bar into place with a clang. "Hell, the last batch -- all they fuckin' /did/ was scream for blood. That don't seem all that healthy, at least to /me/." "No," Lucien's brows crease, here, deep, something tightening in his expression. "Some people's catharsis comes from very ugly places. Have you," his fingers continue to travel, hovering beneath the bar until it clangs back into place, "-- sorry, no. That is an intrusive question." Trib reaches for the bar again, and grips it tightly. "I ain't got no big secrets," he says as he lifts the bar. "If something's too personal to answer, I'll tell you." He looks up at Lucien, and there's a small crinkle of his eyes that lacks the merry humor of earlier. Then he's lifting the bar free again, and starting the next set of reps. "Go on and ask." Lucien is quiet a moment. watching the bar and then watching Trib's face as his hands hover beneath it. "Just curious," he wants to know, "if you have encountered any of that one-in-a-million chance. I have seen --" His lips compress, something distant in his expression, "some rather violent bouts in the ring." "Yes." Trib answers immediately. "Not in the boxin' ring, but I've had 'em." He exhales in a slow rush as he pushes the weight up. Then down. Ad repetitum. He doesn't elaborate for a moment, focusing on his weight-lifting with a hard set to his jaw. "I guess most of New York has seen some violent shit in the ring," he says slowly. Almost carefully. "With them tapes that Stark released." A subtle tension threads itself through Lucien's posture, jaw tightening at that. "Yes. I suppose this city has seen -- a lot," he agrees, quietly. "I thought we had done away with gladiatorial combat 'round about the time we did away with crucifixion." Trib snorts. "We ain't done away with crucifixion," he says, his voice strained and low as he pushes the bar away from his chest. "Ain't you heard of the internet? We just found a new way of doin' it." His grip on the bar tightens until his knuckles whiten, and he grinds his teeth audibly as he considers something. "I was there," he offers suddenly, his voice quieting to a rumbly murmur. "In the cages." Aaaand back into the reps, as if he hadn't spoken. "Were you." This is quiet, and if Lucien is surprised it does not show on his face. He just continues to spot Trib's heavy bar, his expression steadily neutral. "Really restores your faith in our public servants, does it not?" Trib barks a laugh that's really more an explosion of air from his chest, and his lip curls into lopsided smile. "I wouldn't trust a fuckin' cop as far as I could throw 'em," he grunts. "Dirty fuckers, the lot of 'em." He shifts the bar back into place with a clang and lifts a hand to mop at his face, pushing at his hair. "I don't usually tell people that right off," he says, looking up at Lucien. "On account I don't know who knows who, an' I don't want the cops comin' an' fuckin' gettin' up in my shit. But I figure a whore knows how to keep his mouth shut." Again, said without censure. He is merely stating fact. "I imagine you could throw one of them a fair bit farther than most could," Lucien comments with a small curl of amusement to his mouth. It fades away ; he rests his weight against the bar once it has clanged back into place. "Discretion is a crucial skill in my profession, yes. Do you think the police would come after you, for that? I mean, I do not doubt they have the lack of /ethics/ to do so, but with the embarassing PR position they have been in, it simply does not seem -- ah. /Prudent/." Trib rests his hands on his chest, staring up at the ceiling (and eventually Lucien, when he leans in). "Before the cages, I would have said no," he says honestly. "But now, with their world havin' gone all to shit, an' those cops gettin' killed..." he wrinkles his nose. "That kind of shit leads to panic, and guilty men panickin' do fuckin' imprudent things." He lifts his shoulder. "That's why I try to avoid 'em as much as I can manage." "That also," Lucien murmurs, and here he stoops to pick up his own water, offer it to Trib, "seems prudent. Nobody is quite so twitchy as those who believe they are under fire." Trib sits up, lifting his shirt hem to mop at his face before accepting the water from Lucien with a grateful almost-smile. "That sounds funny," he grunts. "Like you're makin' a point about me bein' paranoid." He says this matter-of-factly, punctuating it with a squirt of water from the bottle into his mouth. He's careful not to touch his lips to the bottle, but he still strokes his thumb over the opening before handing it back. "Thanks. But it ain't like I'm ducking around corners to avoid 'em. I'm just tryin' to avoid their unnecessary attention." He stands, then, and moves to un-weight the bar, bringing it down to 150 before he grabs his towel and wipes at the bench. "I mean, if that's what you were gettin' at," he says, frowning suddenly at himself in the mirrored wall. "Sometimes I miss shit." "Oh, I said nothing about which side of this equation believed themselves to be the victims," Lucien says with a quiet huff of laughter. "Nor which side is justified in thinking so. You and yours have more than your fair weight of righteous anger. I imagine the police guarding City Hall the other week do, too. Or -- would. If they had survived. These things never really find a /neat/ end, do they?" Trib exhales a slow sigh, and shakes his head. "I don't think anythin' in life has a neat endin'," he says with a roll of his shoulders. "There ain't no fuckin' 'happy ever after'. There's just more shit that happens after you think you've closed the book." Lucien's eyes turn downward, looking towards the water in his hand. "I am not sure you ever really close the book. At least -- not until --" He quiets, lifting the bottle to take another gulp. "Were you through?" He gestures towards the bar. Trib chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "That's kind of my point. The book's never as closed as you think it is." He watches the smaller man wiht a small thoughtful squeeze of his eyes. At the question, he glances back at the bench, and nods. "Oh, yeah," he confirms. "I do most of my workout on the bags. This is just to warm up, get my muscles pumped." And he offers Lucien a view of the GUN SHOW, lifting his arms to flex his biceps. His grin turns a bit lazy, and he tips his head in that direction. "You can join me, if you want," he says. "I can show you a few tricks." Lucien considers this offer thoughtfully. Turns his head to consider the bags. After a pause he nods, a very brief thin smile curling his lips. "Please," he agrees, one hand gesturing towards the bags as if in invitation. "I am always up for. New tricks."