ArchivedLogs:Not Sucking

Not Sucking
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Trib
In Absentia	2014-02-28 '
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 getting on late into the night and while earlier in the post-work rush the gym was packed with waiting times for some of the more popular pieces of equipment, by now most people have slipped back off to enjoy the rest of their Friday nights, leaving the place -- still /inhabited/ but a lot more quietly so. Lucien's probably been here a while -- at least, by the time he makes it back to the locker room he's worked up a healthy sweat, black UnderArmour shirt clinging to his chest and back and hair still sticking to his forehead. Black running shorts, black sneakers, he doesn't have much colour to him (except for the exertion-induced flush to his cheeks) as he drops down onto a bench, leaning forward to open the (also black!) lock on one of the lockers. When Trib enters the locker room, it's not as quietly as it could be, the door thumped open by one large, booted foot to be pushed further along with a battered gym bag. The boxer soon follows, the chill of the outside still clinging to his faded army jacket and jeans and creating a small island of cold that the big man carries with him. He stalks along the lockers with his usual panther-like pace, peering at each locker until he finds an empty one near where Lucien is sitting. Banging the door to /that/ open as well, he drops his gym bag on the floor and begins shrugging out of his coat. He glances over at the other man, blinking for a moment before he grunts, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "You done already?" It might be a tease, the way his eyes are crinkled. Lucien is just clicking his lock open when Trib joins him; his green eyes flick up only briefly before returning to his locker. He tugs the door open -- it sticks just a little before his yank opens it all the way -- and exhales heavily, mouth twitching into a faint smile. "Oh, my workout for the evening is only beginning," he answers with quiet amusement. "But the second half of it I will be much better compensated for. How is the city treating you lately?" He reaches into his locker to tug out a towel, a small plastic travel soapdish, a pair of rubber flip-flops. Trib rumbles a laugh at Lucien's correction, and lifts his eyebrows as he tilts his head at the other man. "Which workout is more fun?" he wonders, dropping to sit on the bench and begin removing his boots. "Been pretty good," he says, bobbing his head as he loosens his laces. "My boss fixed me up with a trainer, an' he's workin' me pretty hard. An' other stuff don't seem to suck as much as it fuckin' used to. Most stuff, anyway." He braces a toe against a heel, and pushes off a boot to thump on the floor. "How about you?" he asks suddenly, sitting up a bit straighter and beginning to tug off his shirt as he toes off the other boot. His grin is lopsided before the shirt comes over his face, hiding it. "How's tricks?" Lucien picks up his water bottle to take a long swig, stashing it in the locker afterwards. "Workouts," he answers, leaning down to unlace his sneakers, "are all generally more fun with partners." He slips off his shoes and socks, stowing them in the locker as well. He pulls his phone out of the side of his gym bag, flicking through his messages briefly. "It's surprising the number of people I have heard that from lately. Though, really, I suppose New York did rather break the /curve/ on sucking, lately. So perhaps not-as-much-as-before is not /such/ a high bar to cross, mmm?" Trib tosses his shirt in his locker, scratching absently at his upper left arm, and the tattoo there. "That's fuckin' true enough," he says to Lucien's observation. "But there's somethin' to be said for a nice, long solo workout every now an' then." He winks, and stands, unbuttoning his pants and lowering the zipper. Then he bends to open his gym bag, extracting some wadded up gym apparel in grey and setting it on the bench. Then he hooks his thumbs in the waist of his jeans, and pushes them over his hips, underwear and all. "It's all that weird shit, like the city bein' painted up an' stuff," he opines, scratching himself lazily before he extracts a jock from the pile and steps into it. He snaps the band when it's in place, running a finger along the leg straps to settle them, as well. "It's got everyone all...fuckin' whatayacallit. From that fuckin' Bambi movie. Twitterbated." He flutters the fingers of his half-hand at his temple in illustration. "But it is pretty nice not havin' somethin' awful goin' on, for once." Lucien's eyes slant to the side, flicking in one brief sweep down and then back up over Trib. "New ink?" His brows raise, eyes lingering briefly on the tattoo before returning to his phone. "The latest star-chase did seem to have quite a number of people all a-twitter. I admit some pessimistic part of my mind is quite convinced this is just a prelude to --" His eyes lower, thumb swiping against his screen to send a very brief email before he stows the phone back away. "Well. I should just enjoy the merriment while it lasts, I suppose. Speaking of, that fight of yours is coming up soon enough, non?" Trib glances down at his arm at the question, and the corner of his mouth quirks in a quick, warm smile. "Yeah," he says, reaching over to run his fingers along the lines -- two abtract koi, one large black one and a smaller orange one with their tails overlapping surrounded by a ring of blue and black lines that resemble Japanese representation of water. "I got it for Valentine's. For Bones." He shifts his hand to scratch idly at his chest. "Them stars was fuckin' crazy," he says, snorting as he reaches to pull out a pair of shorts. "I found one at the bottom of my water bottle, an' another one stuck to my fuckin' window." He wrinkles his nose. "But people seemed to fuckin' get off on it. Like you said, probably better to just fuckin' enjoy it while it lasts." He bends at the waist to step into the shorts, pulling them up quickly and tugging at the waistband. "Next week, actually," he says. "All that fuckin' snow an' shit -- they had to push it back. You still comin'?" Lucien quirks a brow upward, his eyes drifting over the tattoo a little bit longer, this time. "For Valentine's," he echoes with a small tug of smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Mmm. How /is/ that child doing? Hopefully sharing in your not-quite-as-terrible streak?" He digs clothing out of his locker, next. Jeans, a long-sleeved dark green henley shirt, a pair of black boxer-briefs. He peels off his shirt in one quick motion, tossing it into the locker. "It's in my calendar. I rather look forward to seeing you in action." "What can I say?" Trib rumbles, his eyes crinkling. "I'm a fuckin' /romantic/." He rumbles a laugh, and plucks up his shirt, shaking it out. "He's doin' good," he answers the question, twisting his shirt around to hook it on his thumbs. "He cut back on the number of fuckin' jobs he's workin', so he ain't quite so fuckin' high-strung." This sounds almost apologetic, but Trib's expression is hidden almost immediately by the shirt as he slips it on. "He's thinkin' about maybe goin' back to school. Which is cool." He smiles as he jerks the shirt down onto his shoulders, and nods at Lucien's affirmation. "Good," he says, sitting back down on the bench and shoveling his clothes into the locker. "Wouldn't be much of a boxer if there weren't at least one good-lookin' whore in the crowd cheerin' for me." "After the year this town has had I would be almost more worried about people who emerged from it calm and well-balanced." Lucien's answer comes with a small breath of laughter at Trib's apologetic tone. His smile twitches a little bit wider at that last comment, head bowing as he stands. "Do well enough in it and who knows, by this time next year," he murmurs, slipping out of shorts and underwear and adding those to his locker as well, "you may have yourself a whole entourage." Trib barks a laugh at Lucien's comment, and shakes his head. "I don't think anyone in this fuckin' city's is well-balanced," he says, digging a pair of sneakers from his bag. "I think just /livin'/ here makes you fuckin' nuts." He huffs a noise that's not quite another laugh, and bends at the waist. He's not as sly about getting an eyeful at Lucien, turning his head to enjoy the view as the other man strips. His eyes crinkle at the prediction. "An' you can say you knew me when." "Mmm. Quite possible. I can't recall," Lucien admits lightly, "whether or not I used to be sane, in my pre-New York days." He slips on his flip-flops, closing the locker door and clicking the lock shut once more. Only then does he turn, lazily swiping his towel off the bench to shake it out and wrap it around his waist. "Should I get an autograph now, then? Before the glory gets to your head and you forget me?" "Yeah, I ain't sure I'm a good fuckin' test for that idea," Trib admits. "My pa was crazy as fuck -- I was probably fucked from the start." He's smiling as he says it, still watching Lucien intermittantly as he puts on his shoes and ties them up. He looks up as Lucien turns to face him, and his grin is wide at the question. "You don't need no autograph," he says, fishing a lock from his bag before he tosses it in the locker and shuts it. "You ain't someone I'm likely to fuckin' forget. 'Sides, if I go big, I'm takin' you with me." He declares, crinkling his eyes and snapping the combination lock in place. "Any entourage /I'm/ in is gonna need some pretty in there." An amused smile pulls at Lucien's mouth. He bundles his clothes under an arm, picking up his soap as well. His shoulders roll in a slow stretch, muscles pulling tauter as he leans one shoulder up against the lockers. His eyes slip down over Trib, laughter buried in his soft voice when he speaks again. "Oh. I think you'll do a fair job carrying the pretty all on your own. Not that I'd say no to joining you on the ride." "Hah. Sweet talker." Trib actually colors the tiniest bit around the edges of his ears, and his grin shrinks into something a bit warmer. "You'd hate yourself for sayin' no," he says, pushing to his feet and leaning in towards Lucien ever so slightly. "Once I get goin', it's goin' to be a hell of a ride. I got...whatayacallit. Stamina." Lucien tips his head downward, exhaling a quiet laugh as his free hand lifts to rub against the back of his neck, fingers curling up into his hair before dropping away. "That," he pulls away from the lockers, straightening with a slightly lopsided smile as he tips a glance back up at Trib, "I do not doubt." His brilliant green eyes flit up to meet Trib's. "Enjoy your workout, Trib." Trib grins, and straightens as Lucien does, lacing his fingers together and turning his torso to swing his arms up over his head. "You, too, Lucien," he says, stretching briefly before dropping his hands. "Make sure you don't pull nothin'," is his advice as he heads for the door. "Unless that's what they're payin' for."