ArchivedLogs:Training

Training
Of so many varieties...
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Micah
In Absentia	15 March 2013 Lucien invents a less geeky sort of game. Micah can officially avoid smiling for 2 minutes and 47 seconds. Warning: Um...Lucien-powers. And lots of 'em. XD
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. It's evening on Friday, not /late/ but late /enough/ that much of the city is already busy, well, Friday Nighting. Probably somewhere there are dinners being had and boozes being drunk and clothing being donned for long nights of dancing. Not here, though. Here there is a lot of grunting and sweating but considerably less of it happening with partners. Lucien is providing none of the grunt but a lot of the sweat, at the moment; he's commandeered a treadmill, notched up its incline and set it to eleven. Miles per hour, that is. From the way his shirt sticks to him and his hair to his forehead he's probably been in here a while. His expression is pulled into a frown, jaw set; perhaps it's in concentration but even when he finally lowers the speed to an easy jogging pace to cool down he's still reaching for his water bottle with an expression like maybe he is /angry/ at it. Micah wanders in from the locker room in Generic Gym Outfit of an extremely faded navy T-shirt and grey shorts. His gait is more uneven than usual and kind of /bouncy/ as he has switched out his usual prosthetic foot for a carbon fibre running blade. He has a tablet computer in hand. Micah heads toward the line of treadmills, catching sight of Lucien as he does so. "That treadmill piss you off?" he jokes with a smile, by way of greeting, as he scopes out his own machine. Lucien gulps at his water, wiping his forehead against his sleeve. Somewhat uselessly, given the dampness his green Under Armour shirt already carries. His eyes flick over Micah, frown deepening as he looks at the other man head to -- well, blade. It takes a moment before the frown smoothes away into a small smile. "Micah." He slows down the treadmill just a little more, a jog, still, but an easier one. "You look more cyborg than usual. Matt would be jealous. He says he ran into you at Hive's --" One hand waves, generically vague. "Geek -- thing." Unlike his brother Lucien clearly does not partake of Game Night. "Have you been well?" "Lucien," Micah mimics Lucien's tone in greeting, a lopsided grin sneaking across his lips. Micah kind of hops up onto the neighbouring treadmill, resting the tablet on the convenient little ledge formed by the bracket that holds up the control panel. Swipe, swipe, program on screen with lots of tracey lines in a few different colours. He starts the treadmill at a...really slow walk, actually. The lines on the screen wiggle graphlike. "Yeah...I'm testin’ a new sports foot combination for this knee unit." His grin widens at the mention of Matt. "He was there. There were trains. Transit routes were monopolized." Micah's fingers rake through his hair, mussing it in a different direction than it was going before. "I've been...incredibly busy. But good. You?" "Trains." Lucien looks blank. His frown returns. "I suppose that is more straightforward than the last time, he said something about murders and androids and the game was not through until it was nearly sunrise." He gulps at his water again, then rests it back in its holder. He glances towards the tablet, unabashedly watching the screen with curiosity. "Good-busy? Just work, or -- trains." Micah chuckles at Lucien’s attempts to describe unfamiliar games. Aw, /trying/ is so cute. “Just…everything. I’ve made a lot of new friends with a lot of /crisis/. On top of work bein’ busy. Also, trains.” He presses the speed up slightly, then notes Lucien’s screen-watching. “I’m wireless,” he explains simply. “And recording data to send back to the engineering geeks.” "Your leg is wireless." Lucien's voice is quiet, as always -- a little more breathless than usual, with his jogging -- but even through the reserve there is /curiosity/ that he can't hide. He looks down at the knee, and back up at the tablet. "What is it saying?" There has been a while of easy-jogging; slowly he starts notching the speed of his treadmill back up. "Crisis," he echoes this in a softly amused murmur, "in this city? You don't say. Are your friends alright?" A side-flicked glance to Micah. "Are /you/ alright?" “Heehee, yes,” Micah replies rather gleefully…he actually /says/ ‘heehee’. “It’s recordin’ velocity and range of motion at the knee joint, primarily. What would be tibial translation, if there were a tibia in there. Time in swing phase versus stance phase. Timing of initial contact with the support surface. Comparin’ how all of those measures relate to one another.” He is increasing speed periodically, working up to a speedwalk. “Mostly, they’re okay? Or gettin’ better, at least. /I’m/ fine.” "But your leg is wireless." This time it comes with the faintest twitch of a smile. A deeper fascination, though it is abruptly broken by: "-- Did you just /say/ heehee." In Lucien's voice it does not sound like laughter, flat and somewhat bemused. "Well it /is/ microprocessor equipped. Gotta program the thing somehow, yeah?" Micah's nose crinkles with amusement...before he adopts a deliberate deadpan straight-face. "No...maybe. Yes." He smirks with the 'yes'. So much for straight-face. His speed increases to the point where jogging is necessary. The lines' wiggliness increases in fairly direct proportion to the speed increasing. Lucien lifts a hand, pinching slightly at the bridge of his nose. "You," he states this like an /accusation/, "are impossibly adorable." This time when he looks at Micah again it's with an actual turn of his head, to size the other man up. "Do you practice at it?" He -- also maybe sneaks another peek at the tablet as Micah speeds up. But it's quick! And then he's looking at Micah again, eyes narrowed in intense scrutiny. Micah blushes at the compliment, rapidly from his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, right up to the tips of his ears. Or maybe it’s from the jogging; it’s /totally/ just the jogging. Look, speeding up more! He attempts the straight-face again. “Oh, yes. There was an intensive training camp. Continuing education courses on a monthly basis. /Exercises/ even.” He gives Lucien a serious look, managing even eye contact. “Kittens may be involved.” "Kittens," Lucien says, like this thought /aggravates/ him. He meets the eye contact for a moment, but then breaks it off to look forward. "From you I'd almost believe it." He speeds his treadmill up, too, working back up from jog to run. But his eyes turn back, towards Micah again. "Exercises. Do they record those, too? Collect data tracking how much cute you have accumulated? You're red, you know." “Oh, yes. It is integral to Cyborg Trainin’,” Micah continues to deadpan…until the end of that statement, when sneaky-grin-giggling takes over. “Dammit, I can only keep that up for so long.” Commentary on the state of his blushing, as per usual, makes it slightly worse. “That’s…kind of a regular state of existence for me. Redhead Curse,” he explains, just sort of flapping a hand at his face as if this is thorough enough explanation. "I could give you lessons," Lucien offers to Micah. Deadpan. His phone is sitting on the panel of /his/ treadmill, and between pounding footfalls he reaches to swipe it unlocked, open up a -- stopwatch? "I'm timing you," he tells Micah. "No smiling. See how long you will last. I could try no blushing, next?" He glances over to consider the other man thoughtfully. "But I could probably cheat at that by just mentioning that it is quite an adorable -- /curse/." "Ohmygosh, that would be like /torture/!" Micah sort of spits these words out through giggles. And he is /extremely/ red at this point. Of course, that /could/ have something to do with rapid jogging combined with giggling and talking at the same time, too. "Though that could be fun, too." He smirks at this. "What happens when I slip up?" "Punishment, of course. You have to be trained correctly. You're already losing, by the by." Lucien is still deadpan. He hasn't actually started the clock yet. "You are smiling already. /And/ red. Double the loss. Come, now. It's not hard." See? Look at him. He is not smiling at all. Between words he's breathing quite deliberately. In, out, deep. Because running. “Oh, had we started that game already? Tsk, I hadn’t even consented yet.” Aaand Micah is /still/ smirking. “Oh, there’s no hope for the redness now that’s it’s already started. Involuntary how quickly it goes away. Unlikely since /exercise/ is goin’ on, too…” He runs the tip of his tongue over his lips to moisten them, then presses them together firmly. He gives a resolute nod. “Okay, doin’ this. No smilin’. This is not goin’ to go well for me, just FYI…” Lucien slows his treadmill down again, this time to a stop. He hits the timer on his phone, starting it, then grabs at his water bottle for another deep gulp. He steps off the treadmill, moving over to Micah's to lean against its rail, one elbow hooked up against it. "Is that consent, then," he murmurs, looking over Micah's (red!) face. "I would hate to take advantage." He has his phone held lazily in one hand; with his other he sips at his water again. Then puts it in /Micah's/ treadmill's holder because, well, it's closer. "I don't know. Depending on how you take to discipline, it could go quite well." Micah has managed to reach a running pace at this point. “Hm, that would be a yes.” He is /very deliberately/ maintaining a straight face at this point. “I s’pose that means it’ll go less ‘poorly’ and more ‘interestingly’, then.” He substitutes a quirked brow for a meaningful grin here, followed by a sidelong glance, as if to ask if eyebrow-substitutions count as cheating. Eyebrow substitutions are apparently acceptable; at least, Lucien does not stop his clock. He just watches Micah for a long moment, and sips again at his water. "Interestingly," he echoes, considering this, and then nods. "Interesting I can do. Good. Look. You're nearing a minute. I would suspect this is some kind of record for you. One day I should try this game with Jackson; I suspect, though, he might blush to /death/. -- Are you feeling withdrawal, yet?" Micah’s…nose twitches. Stupid muscles of facial expression being /so easy/ to activate. “I don’t think blushin’ has ever proven fatal.” The mention of Jax and blushing probably would have induced /more blushing/ if it were possible right now. But there is only so much redness that can happen with one face. “For the love of little green apples…I think I was before this /started/.” "No, if blushing were fatal you would be in the highest risk group. How are you feeling? If it helps make it easier," he informs Micah, gravely, "the lack of smiling is not going to put a dent in your charts. Your /cute/ track record remains unharmed, for this exercise. There is something endearing about the struggle." Not that he sounds particularly endeared, really. /Deadpan/. He's glancing down to the timer. "Minute and a half," Lucien reports. Quite solemnly. "I suppose if you make it to -- say, three -- it might have to be reward instead of correction." He replaces the water again, and then his fingers drum absently against the treadmill's rail. “This has got to be the strangest stress test I have ever experienced,” Micah opines drolly. Lucien’s commentary, probably as planned, is /not helping/. “You might be a little too good at this.” He frowns slightly before biting down on his lower lip. /Frowning/ and /biting/. Not /smiling/. “Hmm…I’m honestly not sure which would be more interesting.” Fortunately, there seems to be enough running data collected in the computer, because Micah starts decreasing the speed slowly. "Are you stressed?" This time Lucien asks with great solicitousness. His eyes fix on Micah's face. "There are ways of taking care of that. Goodness," he adds, softer, as Micah bites down on his lip, "don't hurt yourself. It's not worth it." He glances back to the clock, to announce, "-- Two minutes. You have fifty-nine seconds to decide which would be more interesting." “Collectin’ data while runnin’…s’like the medical definition of a stress test. Just need some heart monitors.” Micah squeezes his eyes closed briefly. “On second thought, /don’t/, that’s a horrible idea.” Solicitous Lucien is…also /not helping/. Micah pays entirely more attention to the speed controls on the machine than necessary, given he was hitting them without looking before. “Ohgosh, you are /entirely/ unfair, by the way.” He doesn’t look back up while speaking. "How /is/ your heart feeling?" Lucien is /so/ very helpful, look! He is reaching over the rail, reaching one hand for one of Micah's to curl fingers gently around the other man's wrist. And check his pulse. That his senses reach out to check /other/ things also -- his mood, his general state of being -- is incidental. "Hardly unfair. If I were cheating, you would know it." The belt on Micah's treadmill is back to a steady crawl again by now, weaning to a slow walking pace. "It's fi--hee!" Unexpected touching does him in, dissolving his intended reply in a little giggle. Oh, so much fail. His mood is more of a cocktail than a singular being at this point: amusement, curiosity, most definitely /interest/, and other more subtle notes. Just a hint of pain response because does that attachment point on the running blade /ever/ need to be adjusted back a bit to avoid excess pressure through the suspension system at higher speeds. "Would I? I guess I didn't set parameters for your behaviour..." Clearly having lost at this point already, he's back to smirking with that comment. It's reflexive more than thoughtful (after all, if Micah is here to test the foot /out/ probably the pain of knowing where it needs adjustment is /helpful/!), the quiet dampening touch that reaches out to numb away that hint of pain. With his other hand, Lucien hits the timer. Thirteen seconds short of three minutes. Now /his/ lips twitch, just slightly at their corners, his bright green eyes lifting to meet Micah's. His hand doesn't leave Micah's wrist, fingers curled there warm and gentle. "-- No. You did not. Would you like to?" Hm, well, at least it was /short-lived/ discomfort. Still needs fixing, though… The treadmill finally gets a rest. A few taps to the touch screen to stop data recording and save. “Gah, so close!” Micah laments, but in a light, playful way. “I…” If the flush of his face had faded any, that gain is reversed utterly. “Um. A little late for that, isn’t it?” He flutters a hand in the direction of Lucien’s phone and its timer. "A little late for that," Lucien agrees, quiet amusement in his voice. His gaze shifts away, glancing around the gym at other people at their workouts, but then back to Micah. "If I had been cheating," he says again, mildly, "You would know it." This time, the words come with sensation. A flush of warmth that spreads into something exhilarating, almost euphoric; it's a heady intoxicating rush that pulls at the other man with something a lot like happiness, though the note of pleasure in it isn't exactly innocent. Lucien is watching Micah's face closely, his own expression simply -- thoughtful. Micah nods solemnly at Lucien’s echoing of his comment. As for the other people in the room that Lucien is inspecting…there were other people? Assuredly that’s just a rumour as far as he’s concerned. He may have been about to say something when Lucien’s little…manipulation happens. His mouth had opened and everything. But then it’s closed again, rather quickly. Micah sort of fall-leans against the handrail between himself and Lucien. “Ohgosh.” As if any of that tumble of mood /needed/ heightening. Was that…? He swallows hard. Forgot to bring water out of the locker room. “I guess maybe I would at that…” He sounds /distracted/. The rush of feeling continues, pleasure shivering higher as Micah leans forward. Lucien doesn't move, staying where he is against the handrail, rather closer to Micah now with the other man's shift of movement. He's still studying Micah's expression, his own carefully neutral throughout this steadily growing flood of euphoria. "You still," he comments, thoughtful, quiet, "didn't set any parameters. For my -- behaviour." Yeah, so he was distracted /before/? The rail is about the only thing keeping him upright at this point. “I…hm…not…” Micah pauses, starting over. “You…do…that? Like, on purpose?” He gestures kind of weakly at Lucien’s hand, hopefully clarifying because he is failing at /words/. "No," Lucien tells Micah seriously, not letting up the storm of feelings, "it's entirely an accident. I had no idea what would happen when I touched you. It might have been enjoyable, it might have lit you on fire. It's a gamble. You do not, ah, feel any combustion coming on, do you?" “Ohgosh.” Micah’s really not certain if that was all teasing or not. He also seems to be failing at /brain/. He does have enough sense to lower his voice before the next comment that just sort of spills out of his mouth. “Everybody here has superpowers but me. I’m like the Xander of the whole /City’s/ Scooby Gang.” Never mind that he should know better that Lucien is almost /certainly/ not getting that reference. Mouthfilter is /off/. “I…uh… It /is/ very warm?” Should he be /concerned/? Lucien does, indeed, just kind of /eye/ Micah for that reference, his eyebrows raising. "-- Xander. Scooby Gang." This might be a question but it mostly just comes out flat. "Warm. You should drink." He picks up his own water bottle to offer it to Micah. Though this offering comes in time with a rather sharper /pulse/ of pleasure. "You do seem to have fallen in with an uncommonly unusual crowd. If it helps," he says, still serious, "I am about as far from a superhero as you can get. Unless there is something heroic about bringing people --" He doesn't actually finish this sentence. He pops the top open on his water bottle, one-handed, and holds it out to Micah. “Mmhmm. Should.” Micah repeats, voice distant like a person half asleep. And easily as suggestible at this point. He takes the bottle, drinking from it thirstily. Not at all at a loss as to where the mouth of the bottle had last been. His eyes are focused on Lucien because clearly there is nothing else to look at right now. “Everyone keeps sayin’ that. Don’t think they know my definition of superhero’s a bit easy. You know though, you were there.” Thought-train, why are you not linear anymore? "A bit easy." There's amusement in Lucien's voice, at this. "Even by your lax standards, I am not sure I measure up. I feel you do, far more than I." He's still leaning against the treadmill, occasionally flicking glances around to skim the others in the gym but largely focusing on Micah. There's a stretch where the feelings he creates ramp up, a strong burst of pleasure (dizzying, intoxicating, rather carnal in nature) but then his hand slips away. His fingers trace down the inside of Micah's wrist, brush against the other man's palm, and then he drops his hand back to his side. Even so, the sensations he brought are slow to fade. "I should shower." "Uh-uh, no superpowers," Micah reiterates softly, still propped against the rail. His breath catches, eyes closed with that overwhelming... Lucien's hand going away does catch his attention, like that hand was holding him up as surely as the rail, and removing it was akin to pulling a support away. He almost looks confused. As if Lucien's comment only just now reminded him of where he is. "Oh. Yes. Should," he repeats again. Too long standing on a treadmill...not how things are done. He manages to remember to grab his tablet, tries to step down from the treadmill, and sort of Bambi-wobbles on that forgotten running blade. Good for running...hard work to balance on for just about anything else. "Small technicality. I know many with superpowers who use them for nothing but selfish gains. And many without who do a wealth of good for the world around them. Your standards seem fairly discriminatory." Lucien has grabbed his phone, too, slipping it into a pocket of his shorts before taking his water bottle. His hand reaches to Micah's elbow at that wobble, and though /he/ is a solid-stable post for balancing on his touch might not be the /most/ helpful, coming as it does with a renewed flux of euphoria. Even so. He keeps his hand at Micah's elbow, half supporting, half guiding the other man towards the locker rooms. “Hmm…sorry.” Micah’s processing power is extremely compromised. The word ‘discriminatory’ seems to have triggered an automatic apology. He leans against Lucien heavily, allowing himself to be lead off. Probably appearing extremely intoxicated to any observers. "Are you apologizing for -- existing?" Lucien is a little puzzled at this apparently unprompted apology. He glances at Micah with a mild frown. "I am not sure," he admits as they enter the locker rooms, "that this was actually proper, ah, punishment for your failure." “Hmm? Sorry,” Micah repeats again. He seems to be fixating on certain words. Maybe he’s apologizing just because Lucien is frowning this time? He also seems to have forgotten about that whole game and stakes thing that /just happened/. Oh, yeah… “I’m s’posed to be submitting to your judgement there, right…” Lucien is guiding them towards the lockers, where he releases Micah to unlock one. He sticks his phone and water bottle inside, trading them out for a towel instead. "You could," he suggests, as he peels his sweat-damp shirt off, "always try the challenge again. Fair warning, though, I will almost certainly cheat next time." Micah manages to find his own locker and go through the locker room rituals out of pure, perfunctory habit. “Hm…could do, if that’s the sentence, Sir,” he somehow achieves a sober tone for this reply. But then ruins it with a silly sort of grin. “You cheat nice.” "Sometimes," Lucien allows this grin with a small private smile of his own, turned inward towards his locker. "But what I do can cut both ways." He is slipping the rest of his clothes into his locker, too, to start for the showers with his towel instead. There is something in Micah's tone, or perhaps the Sir, that pulls his smile a touch wider. "Though for many tastes, that is nice as well." Micah’s locker contents are weirder than most. It contains a small toolkit. Oh, and this other foot… Micah busies himself with switching out to the non-running version, because he is clearly too dizzy to handle /standing/ without doing so. “Hmm…can be.” He grins up at Lucien walking away. It is a decidedly fortunate thing that he is not undergoing the ‘challenge’ at present. "Still need more work." Lucien is admittedly not going all that /far/, to get to the rows of showers; his voice drifts back from around the corner in time with the sound of water turning on. "I can /feel/ you smiling from here." That comment might be making Micah smile /more/. He is beginning to regain access to his neural pathways for /thinking/ with distance from Lucien-touch. "Sorry, I think I might be beyond help for the evening..." Foot switching dealt with, he readies for showering, himself. "I think, Micah," Lucien answers -- it's /probably/ deadpan, though he can't be seen, "that you are beyond help for pretty much the entirety of life." He pronounces this sentence very solemnly. “I know, I’m completely hopeless,” Micah sighs exaggeratedly as he claims his own shower space. What a tragedy it is to be him.