ArchivedLogs:Boxing Lessons

Boxing Lessons
Dramatis Personae Arturo, Trib	2014-06-14 '
Location <NYC> Foswell's Gym -- Hell's Kitchen
Foswell's Gym is not the /fanciest/ of gyms, catering more to the boxing crowd than the Zumba dancers and their ilk, although there's plenty of signage encouraging non-boxing people to take advantage of their amenities. Located on the edge of Midtown and Clinton, it's almost a Hell's Kitchen landmark. Particularly since the owner, former boxer 'Foggy' Nelson, is one of the very few in the area who doesn't do business with Wilson Fisk. As a result, many of the locals come here to train alongside the boxers. The layout is relatively simple; a large room with a boxing ring in the middle. To the right of the entrance, a pair of doors lead to modest locker rooms and shower facilities. On one side of the gym are a line of punching bags, both heavy and speed, as well as a row of butterfly weight machines. On the other, weight benches line up in front of a rack containing weights from 5 to 100 pounds as well as dumbells with similar range. Towards the back, a glass wall looks onto a room padded with heavy canvas where often self-defense classes can be seen taking place. Next to that room, a door with the words OWNER/MANAGER marks the office beyond. The text Trib sent was super short. Probably for Arturo's benefit. TEXT <Trib ---> Arturo>: com to foswell's gym in the kitchen. bye the landry. Trib Now, some time later, Trib is waiting for Arturo to arrive, clad in a pair of loose red shorts and a sleeveless grey t-shirt. His wrists and hands are taped, and his hair is pulled back into small ponytail at the base of his skull. The boxer seems intent as he focuses on his current workout -- skipping rope at a speed that seems impossible to keep up with. The gym otherwise is mostly empty. A pair of meatheads are working out with the free weights, their grunts and shouts of encouragement filling the small space. Trib doesn't seem to notice this. Maybe he's used to lunkhead gym rats. Despite the typos in the text, Arturo manages to find the gym easily enough. He shoulders open the doors. He's wearing a hoodie and a pair of jeans. His hair is a bit wild, as is the stubble on his cheeks. He could really use a shave and a haircut, but he hasn't got two bits. He approaches the boxer slowly, taking pains not to interrupt the man's flow. He stands off to the side and waits for an acknowledgment. Trib notes Arturo's arrival with a flick of his golden gaze, but he doesn't speak, preferring to conserve his energy for the workout. When Arturo gets close enough, the boxer grunts, and suddenly slams his hands together, keeping the rope in a straight loop that he beats against the floor as he continues hopping. Finally, he stops, bouncing softly a couple of times before he drops the rope to mop at his sweaty face. Arturo gets a lift of one corner of the big man's mouth, and he stretches suddenly, reaching up over his head to grab towards the ceiling high above. "So this is where the fuckin' magic happens." Arturo watches the jock with the appreciation of a proper nerd. "I see that. Very...magical. Magic smells like sweat. That's cool." He cracks a grin, but given their public location, he does so while keeping his lips mostly closed. It makes for a strange expression. Trib smirks at Arturo, and closes one eye in a slow wink. "That's what keeps me comin' back," he rumbles. "The smell of fuckin' magic. It's fuckin' addictive or some shit." He flaps an elbow in the older man's direction -- maybe spreading the magic /around/. Dropping his elbow, the boxer moves to a spot where his towel and water bottle wait patiently. Bending at the waist, he snaps up his water bottle and squeezes a hefty amount into his mouth. Watching Arturo thoughtfully, he swishes the water around his mouth before he swallows, smacking his lips and exhaling lustily. "So, I figure you need to know some stuff before you sit nine rounds in my corner." "That...would probably be a good idea. I've never been much in to sports. I mean, I played street hockey growing up, but that's about it. My parents thought it'd be smart to keep me out of it." Arturo looks around the gym, then back to Trib. "Everything I know about boxing comes from half paying attention to movies." "That's all most people know about it," Trib says. "What they fuckin' see on Rocky. But it ain't all punchin' meat and runnin' up steps." The boxer grunts, and lifts a shoulder. "Don't get me fuckin' wrong. I watch Rocky at least once a month. But boxin' is called the 'sweet /science/' for a fuckin' /reason/." He rolls his neck with an audible popping noise, and sets down his water bottle to shake out his arms. "You got some shorts or somethin' to change in to?" "I'd imagine there's a lot of anatomical knowledge to it. Knowing where to hit and how hard to have the best effect. Watching your opponent to see where the weakness is and taking advantage of it. Oh..." Arturo looks a bit sheepish at the question. "I didn't realize you'd be wanting me to get in the ring. No, I didn't bring shorts." Trib furrows his brow. "How the hell are you supposed to learn, if you don't fuckin' experience it?" he says in a mildly exasperated tone. "I can /tell/ you about shit all day long, but that don't mean you're goin' to /know/ it." He sniffs, and narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "Wait here," he says, and crosses around the ring to disappear into the office. A minute later, he comes out holding a pair of safety-orange shorts. He tosses them at Arturo when he gets close enough. Up close, they smell Downy-fresh, and have clearly been washed recently. "Lockers are over there," the boxer grunts, jabbing his finger in that direction. "An' watch out if Paulie's in there -- he gets a little handsy with new guys." Arturo eyes the tossed shorts and looks rather dubious. The fact that they smell Downy fresh is reassuring, but still. He looks from Trib to the locker room and back again. For a moment, it looks like he might protest, but something in the other man's manner makes him think otherwise. "OK. Uh. Be right back." And he disappears into the back. He emerges a few minutes later, carrying his hoodie and jeans, and wearing the orange shorts. He's wearing a black faded band tee with the name 'SLOAN' embossed on it. His legs are - as likely is not surprising given his feral mutation - fairly hairy, but the pattern of the hair growth isn't quite normal. Trib's grunt when Arturo reappears is approving, and he runs his gaze along the older man's frame. His eyes narrow slightly, and he grunts again; a suprised sort of noise. "Fuck, but you're a fuzzy bastard, ain't ya?" Trib /might/ sound a bit admiring. Maybe. It's hard to tell, with him. He moves to his pile, extracting a pair of sparring gloves and walking them back over. "Put these on," he says, helping Arturo do just that. "They'll keep you from breakin' your hand or your wrist, if shit goes south." He doesn't sound like this is likely -- just that it's a definite possibility. Once the gloves are on and the boxer has them tied, he moves back and produces a sparring helmet. "You look pretty good," he notes as he comes back. "If you wasn't so slicey, you could go bantamweight, easy." "It's my genes," drawls Arturo. He looks down at his legs and shuffles self-consciously. "If I knew I would be showing off my gams, I would have broken out the Nair." Sarcasm, that. As the gloves go on, he cooperates with getting them in place. "Hey, I also won't scratch you. So there's that." "That, too," Trib grunts in agreement, and jams the helmet onto Arturo's head helpfully. At least, it's probably helpful. "I don't need to be fuckin' cut to ribbons teachin' you a fuckin' haymaker." He leans in to fix the chinstrap, watching Arturo's eyes as he snaps it in place. "Fuzzy's nice," he rumbles softly, his lips twitching into a smile. "Too many fuckers shavin' everything these days." He snorts. "Fuckin' metrosexuals." Arturo's mess of dark curls stick out everywhere around the helmet. It also doesn't really accomodate his ears, which causes him to make a face. He tries adjusting it without taking the gloves off, which looks rather strange as he plants a fist on either side of the helmet and wiggles it back and forth. "It's a losing battle for me to try and shave. I don't have the razor budget." "Could always laser it off," Trib says helpfully, wrinkling his nose at the odd fit. He reaches out to hook his fingers in the holes over Arturo's ears, and pulls with enough strength to cause a sound like thick fabric tearing. Suddenly, there's a /little/ more room in the helmet. Enough to avoid discomfort, anyway. "Better?" Trib doesn't wait for a reply, moving towards the ring in the middle of the room. "C'mon," he says almost cheerfully, swinging up and stepping on the middle rope as he pulls the top rope upward. "Into the fuckin' fire." Despite the fact that Arturo is considerably more durable than most people, as well as considerably stronger, he is still quite apprehensive stepping into the ring. His shoulders are hunched and he's holding his hands like he doesn't quite know what to do with them. "Do I look as ridiculous as I feel?" Well. At least his ears aren't sticking out of the sides of the helmet. Trib is unmoved by Arturo's apprehension, and lifts a shoulder at the question. "You look good," he assures the other man, swatting fingers at his rump as he slips through the ropes. He follows immediately after, rolling his shoulders and bouncing on the balls of his feet. The fact that he towers over Arturo probably isn't helping any with the apprehension, but he still seems unbothered. Moving to a corner, he picks up a pair of gloves and slides the first one on, tugging it down and frowning at it. It's not a boxing gym for nothing, though, and one of the lunkheads comes over to help the big man get his gloves situated. It takes a minute or two, with lots of growling from the big man and ending when the lunkhead jumps down and scurries back to his buddy. Trib turns back to Arturo, grinning and slapping his gloves together. "Okay. First of all, get your stance straight. Feet shoulder-width apart, and put up your dukes." He demonstrates duke-lifting, holding up his gloves in the manner described. "I ain't goin' to out an' out fuckin' /hit/ you," he promises. "Not at first." "Not at first. Reassuring," says Arturo as he follows Trib's instructions. He's very body-aware, so it doesn't take much for him to take up the proper stance with half-decent form. He lifts his hands and holds them in front of his face as instructed. Once the gloves are up, the lesson is /on/. Trib proves to be a rather diligent instructor, with an amazing amount of patience with a neophyte. He goes over every punch and jab until Arturo feels comfortable with it, as well as threading the rules of the sport into the lesson. In an hour's time, Trib /is/ throwing actual punches -- albeit pulled punches -- at Arturo, grunting approval as the other man responds with the appropriate counter. When both men are breathing hard and covered in a sheen of sweat, the boxer holds up his gloves. "Take a fuckin' break," he grunts, grinning wearily at the older man. "You done good, Fuzzy." Arturo turns out to be a fair student. He listens intently and copies movements correctly most of the time. Some of the more complex combinations have him flailing a bit, but he more or less picks it up. When he does throw a few punches of his own, it's with a surprising amount of strength - even though he's not punching with his full force either. He's not as controlled at Trib when it comes to holding back. He also doesn't seem to be phased when one of Trib's punches slams into his left forearm when he blocks when he's meant to dodge. At the end, he's breathing hard, and sweating quite a bit, especially around the helmet. "I don't think I like that nickname." A pause as he draws in a lungful of breath. "...that means you're going to keep using it, right?" Trib doesn't answer the question directly. Instead, he just smiles a toothy smile at Arturo. "You got to move around more," he says instead. "Plantin' your feet in the ring for too long will get your ass knocked down. You're small an' fast -- fuckin' /use/ that." He lifts a glove to work the knot loose with his teeth, talking as he works. "Youm'f alfo goff to keep control, more." The knot loosened, he tugs the cuff open with his teeth, looking at Arturo with a new appraisal. "You leave your whole fuckin' right side open half the goddamned time. Good way to get all your ribs broken." "My ribs are harder to break than you'd think," says Arturo. He tries to paw the gloves off. When that fails, he tries to use his teeth. He catches the edge of one of the ties with his fang by accident and it pops loose. "Oh." A beat, "Uh. Sorry. I'll pay for that." He pulls one hand out of the glove, pulls off the other, then takes off the helmet. Given how long and unruly his hair was before the helmet went on, it's practically mad scientist now. "Besides, what does it matter how well I fight? I'm here for you, remember?" Even steel's got a breakin' point," Trib grunts, shaking the glove off and letting it smack into the canvas. "No matter how tough you think you fuckin' are, there's someone out there that's fuckin' tougher." He lifts his eyebrows at Arturo. "So, it's better to guard your ribs all the fuckin' time than learn too late the guy wailin' on you has fuckin' super strength or some shit." He rolls a shoulder at the popped tie, snorting. "It's a fuckin' gym," he grunts. "They have to replace shit all the time. Laces is fuckin' cheap enough." He works the lacing on his other glove free, and pulls it off, as well. The question gets a sharp look from Trib, and he studies Arturo for a long moment before he lifts a shoulder and bends to collect the discarded glove. "Matters to me." "Well, you have a point. But I generally try and avoid fights. Which, is harder to do these days because of..." Arturo motions to his ears. "I don't really want to learn how to hurt people more efficiently. But I do agree that I could use more control. Especially since, uh, it gets hard to once my blood gets up." Trib snorts as he works on the other glove, unknotting the tie pretty deftly for only having two fingers and a thumb on the job. "I ain't teachin' you this shit so you can go out lookin' for trouble," he rumbles, pulling off the glove and waving it at Arturo. "I'll personally kick your ass if I hear you /have/ been makin' trouble." He smiles, taking some of the heat out of his words. "The whole purpose of boxin' is to learn /new/ fuckin' instincts, so you /don't/ lose control when you get all fuckin' hot an' goin'." SOmething about 'looking for trouble,' brings a blush of...well, not /shame/, but it's a rather fox in the henhouse look. It lasts only a moment, though. "My uh, my instincts are a bit more.../pronounced/ than your average person. But yeah. Yeah. Tame the beast within, all that." "Fuck that," Trib says in a sudden growl. "I ain't interested in /tamin'/ no one no more. If you're a beast, fuckin' own up to it." He lifts his shoulders. "Just don't be a fuckin' animal." "Look, I uh, if you're determined to help me out, help me fight? I feel like I should let you know just what you're in for." Arturo looks around, then moves to duck out of the ring. He makes his way towards the free weights. Trib has a bland look for the warning. "You know I work out regular with Luke Cage, right?" He falls silent, moving to the edge of the ring and leaning against the post in the corner. Watching. "You mentioned, yeah. But when you're fighting with him, you're ready for him. Should stand to reason with me, too, right?" Arturo chuckles roughly and rubs the back of his neck. He waits a moment to make sure no one is looking, then goes for the heaviest of the free weights. It's a weight even the most musclebound gym heads would lift carefully. He picks it up and holds it up towards Trib like it was a pound of sugar. Trib snorts. "Cage may be a softie, but he comes at me hard in a dust-up. An' I've done plenty of fightin' against guys who could kill me." A shadow flickers across his face at this admission, and his jaw clamps shut firmly. He watches the display of strength with a mild tick of his eyebrows. "Impressive, he drawls, his eyes flicking over the extended freeweight. "How much can you lift?" Arturo hefts the weight and gives it a few experimental lifts. It doesn't seem to be straining him much. "I dunno. A lot? More than a human should be able to, at least." His paranoia over being spotted has him replacing the weight quickly enough. Trib hums thoughtfully as he works his way out of the ring and hops to the floor. "We should work out at the railyards some time," he notes, jutting out his lower lip. "There's all kinds of heavy shit to throw around out there, an' there ain't nobody watchin'." He grins. "If you do it at night." He stretches, then, lacing his fingers together and pressing his palms towards the ceiling. His shirt rides up, exposing just a touch of furry trail on his lower belly. "You hungry, after that?" "Bench press some girders? Push some rail cars around?" Arturo beams brightly at the mental image of that, fangs on prominent display. "I could eat, yeah. I feel like I should shower, though." He gives himself a sniff. "Oh, there's going to be showering," Trib says, heading towards the locker room. "I ain't goin' nowhere smellin' like a dirty jock. Leastways, nowhere /nice/." He grins over his shoulder at Arturo, and motions for him to follow. "C'mon, Fuzzy," he says. "If you're nice, I'll wash your back." Arturo chuckles warmly as he follows Trib towards the locker room. "I feel woefully under prepared for this step into the world of jocks. I thought I was just going to watch you punch stuff as you explained the rules to me." Trib chuckles as he begins stripping off his shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it on a bench. "That don't seem a practical way to learn this kind of stuff," he rumbles, hooking his thumbs into his shorts and sending them floor-ward. "I mean, boxin' /is/ the sweet science, but it ain't somethin' to learn...whatayacallit. Academically." "Well, I /am/ an academic. Guilty as charged. I'm not exactly a kinetic learner. I've tended to avoid that kind of thing, especially before I could control myself. Sort of hard to play volleyball if you can't stop your claws extending." Arturo shrugs off his shirt, but he hesitates with the shorts. He /is/ fuzzy. The hair across his chest, shoulders and sides is oddly textured, and growing in unusual patterns. He's not completely covered, but it's not far from it. "Yeah, I guess that would be a fuckin' challenge," Trib says, shucking down his athletic supporter and scratching himself idly as he studies the hair on Arturo's torso. "Damn. You must be murder on fuckin' shower drains," he notes before opening a locker and cramming his sweaty gear in there. Closing the locker, he gives Arturo another long look. "You goin' to wear those into the shower?" he asks, one eyebrow lifting in amusement. "You have no idea," murmurs Arturo in response to the shower drain comment. He hesitates a moment longer with his shorts, then drops them and tosses them aside, followed by his boxers. "Hey, maybe I should just shower at gyms. Murder their plumbing." He steps up to the shower and hits the button to turn it on. "I shower at gyms to keep my fuckin' water bill low," Trib rumbles, his eyes crinkling as he steps up to his shower head and fires it up. The shower is a communal affair, so there's nothing to offer any privacy. So Arturo is getting a SHOW as Trib grabs a bar of soap and begins working up a lather. "So I don't see why you can't fuck up some gym showers with some hair." He grins, and lifts an arm to soap underneath it. "Hell, there's a guy here who's nearly as fuckin' hairy as you, an' he's just a regular human. You can't be worse than him." "When I was a teenager, it impressed my friends. That's when the other kids couldn't even grow a single chest hair. I was already pretty much like this. But as I got older, it didn't seem so cool." Arturo steps under and lets the water cascade down his head. He mops his hair back from his face and takes a deep breath. "When I was in my 20s, I used to take a pair of scissors to it and cut the worst of it off. Now? Unless I wax or something, I don't see the point." "Unless you look like fuckin' Bigfoot, it ain't worth the hassle," Trib agrees, working lather down his body and along his legs. That done, he steps back into the water to rinse. Freeing his hair from its tie, he shake it loose before ducking his head under the spray. "Looks good on you, though." He narrows his eyes, twisting his head and pushing his hair aside to peer at the other man. "Bet it gets fuckin' warm in the summer, though." "You'd think," says Arturo as he starts to work the soap across his shoulders and under his arms. "I think my glandular system works more like a canine than a human's. At least, that's what my experiments have been able to determine. I don't pant, but when I get hot, I do get a very strong urge to open my mouth." His tone is wry. It's hard to tell if it's a joke, or if he's serious. He glances sidelong towards Trib, then puts his eyes front again. "I do that," Trib says blandly, reaching for a bottle of shampoo. He also has a sidelong look, although there's mischief in his. "Open my mouth. When I get hot." If Arturo had been drinking anything, he would have done a spit-take. As it stands, he just kind of gurgles in the water. He hides any potential blush by soaping up his face. Trib's mouth twitches into a half-smile at the gurgling sound, and he pours shampoo into his palm. "Don't drown in here," he rumbles. "I don't need my gym closed down 'cause there's fuckin' /cops/ up everyone's asses." Arturo chuckles. "Death by gym shower drowning isn't how I intend to go. Don't worry." He reaches for the shampoo as well, then lathers up his hair. He works his fingers back and along his scalp. "There's definitely better ways to go," Trib agrees, working lather through his hair. He bends backwards, briefly, his spine popping like gunfire and eliciting a groan of relief. "Me, I plan on goin' in my sleep, after winnin' a prize bout an' fuckin' myself out on a fuckin' /stable/ of hot guys." He grins, then, and winks at the older man. "So I should have a good smile on my face for the undertaker, yeah?" "You forgot the piles of cash and the fancy hotel room. And the top shelf booze," says Arturo. He washes the soap from his hair. He scrubs himself over a little more, then turns around to let the stream hit his back. "How long've you been fighting? I mean, like, as a sport, not like, fists on the playground." "Well, that goes without sayin'," Trib rumbles, bending forward to rinse his hair. It takes a minute of working his fingers through it to clear it of lather. "If I just won a prize bout, I'd be in a fuckin' suite. Knee-deep in ass." He twists to grin at Arturo, allowing water to run over his face. At the question, he straightens, pushing his hair back with a wet slapping sound. "My granddad got me started when I was about fourteen," he rumbles. "So, I've been boxin' for about seven years. I've only been takin' cards official-like for a couple of years." He shrugs. "It's always slow goin' at first, though. Unless you're fuckin' Pacquiao or some shit." He looks over at Arturo, enjoying the view for a moment before he speaks again. "What made you want to be a doctor?" "Christ," says Arturo when Trib tells him his age in a roundabout way. "I feel positively ancient." He steps back from the shower and runs his hands over his chest to try and shake loose the water droplets. He looks up at the question and grins a little. "I wanted to understand my own biology. I also wanted to help mutants who got sick. I had all sorts of reactions to conventional treatments growing up, and the doctors didn't have any research to help treat me." "Look pretty good for an old guy," Trib rumbles, using his fingers to squeegie the water from his scalp and out of his hair. He nods at Arturo's answer for the question, and grunts as he shuts off his water. He shakes much like a dog might, slinging water in a small, furious cloud around him. "That's pretty fuckin' smart," he says, his tone stating that he's clearly impressed. "An' kind of cool." "Self-preservation," says Arturo, as he looks around to see if there's a towel service. If not, he'll start dabbing himself off with paper towel. A slow process, but ultimately effective. That'll teach him to come to the gym unprepared. "Humans take it for granted how many hundreds of years of medical research they have behind their biology. Ours is varied and has a whole host of challenges. I mean, how /do/ you repair a split wing membrane when those wings are attached to a humanoid?" Luckily, there are plenty of towels on a rack just outside the shower area. They're not the fluffiest things in the world, but they'll get you dry. Well, dry enough. Trib grabs one and begins toweling himself off briskly and nodding at the older man. There's a clear disconnect when the terms get technical, and he lifts a shoulder good-naturedly. "I guess you /are/ fuckin' smart," he rumbles. "I didn't understand none of that." Arturo chuckles and shakes his head. "It's not important. But the whole area of mutant diagnosis and treatment is a totally new frontier. Even if someone looks entirely human on the outside, they might have a severe reaction to say...x-rays. We just don't know." "Sounds tricky," Trib says, roughing the towel between his legs before tossing it into a hamper. "How long you been a doctor, anyway? You don't look /that/ old." "I'm 30," says Arturo as he finishes towelling himself off. He tosses it into the laundry bin, then goes towards his clothes. "So not that many years actually practicing. Med school takes a hell of a long time." "So you ain't /ancient/," Trib rumbles, his eyes crinkling as he pads to his locker and opens it. "Just older'n me." He fishes out a can of deodorant, giving himself a spritz under each arm before he tosses the can at Arturo. "Still. You got a good reason for goin' into medicine. You ain't just about gettin' insurance money, like most of the ones I meet in the ER." "A good reason. Yeah, I guess," says Arturo. He catches the deodorant and spritzes likewise before he tosses it back. "And a shit reputation and garnished wages." He reaches for his boxers, then his jeans. "Pfft," Trib makes a dismissive noise as he pulls out a pair of blue briefs and pulls them on, juggling bits to get them settled. "Reputation's somethin' you fuckin' /earn/, an' the money will fuckin' come after." He grins, and winks. "Take it from someone who knows. Once people start noticin' you properly, an' the stuff you're tryin' to do, things start to pick up." He wrinkles his nose as a thought occurs to him. "You tried gettin' on at that mutant clinic? Seems like that'd be right up your alley." "Oh, I had the money and the reputation. And then I lost it by being idealistic and paranoid." Arturo pulls his t-shirt on over his head. He settles it and runs a hand through his wet hair. His curls wind in tight spirals. "I put my application in there once, but never heard. Can't really blame them. I'm bad PR." "That happens," Trib rumbles, his mouth tightening in sympathy for Arturo's explanation. "Don't take much to trip you up, but getting back on your feet can be a fuckin' bitch." He pulls out a pair of jeans, and snaps them before he begins sliding them on. The self-deprecation gets a rude noise. "Fuck. That guy that runs it -- he ain't exactly the poster child for warm an' fuzzy feelin's. I can't fuckin' believe /you're/ a fuckin' worry for 'em." "Or maybe they just didn't need the staff. It's fair, y'know." Arturo shrugs. He picks up the shorts, then starts to hand them over to Trib. He pauses, "Ah, it'd probably be nice if I washed these before giving them back, hey?" "Maybe," Trib rumbles. buttoning his jeans. "But with your specialty, they're fuckin' dumbasses if they don't hire you on." He waves a hand at the question, although he leans forward to sniff the air exaggeratedly. "You didn't stink 'em up with some weird animal...whatayacallit. Fur-mones, did you?" It might be a tease. The sniffing /is/ awfully exaggerated. " You can just toss 'em in the hamper, an' Bill will wash 'em with the rest." "Pheromones. And no, not any more than your average human. Not that I'm aware of, anyway." Arturo grins. He looks down at the shorts, shrugs, then tosses them in with the towels. "I'm doing all right doing clinic rotation. It's not ideal, but it gives me time to continue my research. Well, what research I can do without money and a proper lab." "Yeah, that's it," Trib rumbles, pulling out a grey t-shirt and slipping it over his head. The material is tight against his chest, and has the Rocky poster on the front. He doesn't bother to tuck it in, letting it hang loose against his waistband. "How the fuck do you do research without a fuckin' lab?" he wonders, then holds up a hand. "Naw. Don't tell me. Save it for dinner." "Ah, it's...well, I don't know if this will be any easier to explain over food," says Arturo. He rubs the side of his neck and smiles. "It would involve genetics 101." Trib wrinkles his nose. "Huh. Maybe we won't talk about it, then," he decides with a shrug. "Don't sound exactly like sparklin' conversation. The stuff I know about that shit could be written on a fuckin' grain of rice." "Let's just say that there's some research I can do with blood sample results, books, the internet, and a few old friends who do have proper labs." Arturo touches his nose and nods towards the door. "Where we going?" Trib looks like he might say something about experiments and old friends, but instead grunts as he jams his feet into his sneakers and grabs his gym bag from the locker. "We can go anywhere you want," he says, closing his locker with a bang. "I'm an easy fuckin' date." And the internet. Arturo cracks a grin and bends over to tie his shoes. "Do you like sushi?" he asks as he straightens up. "Shit, yes," Trib says, grinning and leaning against the wall next to the locker room door. "I love that fuckin' wasabi shit. Make everything /taste/ like somethin'." He straightens as Arturo comes towards him, and holds up a finger in warning as he leads the way. "But I don't do fuckin' karaoke."