ArchivedLogs:Punching Things

Punching Things
Dramatis Personae Trib, Micah, Lucien	22 November 2014 '
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. Saturday nights are not a night one thinks of as being /gym/ nights. Oh, sure, there are those for whom working out is a daily thing, but overall, people are more prone to indulge their excesses than their regimens. That probably the reason why, at this late hour, Sweat is not operating at full capacity, though there still appears to be a wait for the more user-friendly machines. Other areas, like the pool and the heavy bags, aren't quite as popular. Regardless of the turnout, whoever is in charge of the gym's sound system is apparently shooting for a club-like atmosphere, blasting a new remix of what sounds like a Ryan Black song under the distortion. Trib is not a fan of techno, even fuzzy techno. This is apparent in the way he pummels the heavy bag he stands in front of. Stripped of his t-shirt, the boxer wears a pair of loose-fitting silky shorts in navy blue that match the sparring gloves on his hands. Hands he's currently driving into the leather with a nasal grunt of...effort? Dissatisfaction? Pain? It's hard to tell, since his expression never wavers from its vaguely-annoyed neutral state. Some people might be out at clubs on Saturday nights. Including Micah's husband, who is off bar tending at Evolve! Which might explain why Micah is at a gym on a Saturday night. As he exits the locker room, his step is a little more uneven than usual, bouncy on the left with a running foot on the end of his (fancy carbon fibre and metal and computerized knee!) prosthesis instead of the usual one. The rest of him is /probably/ less interesting to look at: red hair profoundly mussed and only vaguely finger-combed back into place after changing, plain robin's egg blue T-shirt over black shorts, running shoe on the right foot. The set of his jaw and shoulders might be a /little/ on edge. Certainly, he's not as default-smiling as usual. The vagaries of Lucien's work life may not quite follow normal workweek patterns. Insofar as he has actual friends, though, two of them are currently /at/ Evolve -- one tending bar while Matt no doubt flirts with half the patrons under the guise of keeping Jax company -- and the third is right here. Which means right here is as good a place as any to spend /his/ Saturday night, in green UnderArmour tee and black shorts and black sneakers. Towel draped around shoulders, water bottle in one hand. "-- It is," he is musing, gesturing with his water bottle towards the heavy bags as he ambles that way, "only one small step removed from your family's Friday nights. An excess of emotion. Energy. Something to /pound/ on to let it all out. Cathartic, n'est-ce --" This trails off as he reaches the bags, stooping to set his water bottle down but tipping his head, thoughtful, to regard Trib with a long and pensive gaze. Then Micah. /Hm/. Trib might be focused on his current bag-pummeling, but the sound of Lucien's voice as he and Micah draw near is unexpected enough to cut through his focus. He stops, chest heaving a bit as he turns to look at the blonde. His gaze moves to Micah, then, and there's a small tightening of the big man's mouth before he pulls his chin to his chest in a slow, uncertain nod of greeting. “It's. I dunno. Not usually how I deal with things. But I'm not /usually/ three-quarters of the way t'sockin' one of m'best friends in the jaw, neither. I just...it's /Jax/. I know Dusk didn't mean it or nothin', but. I can't...he gets hurt enough when I'm not there. I just wanna never let nothin' near 'im an' there's /this/ right in front of me.” Speaking of things right in front of him, Micah's halting monologue comes to an abrupt stop when he finally (belatedly) notices Trib. Not that /he/ is quite so adept at stopping, a few stutter steps needed given the springy nature of his current left foot. He reaches out to steady himself on a bench by the spot Lucien claims for his water bottle. Shoulders hunching, he returns the nod in kind. "There have been moments in life I've thought it might be very satisfying to, ah, sock people -- not often," Lucien considers, flexing his fingers thoughtfully and setting down a gym bag beside his water bottle, "/in/ the jaw. Perhaps just behind it." His eyes drop, briefly, in contemplation of his own knuckles. "There are better places. Less sturdy bones. Hello, Trib. -- Your family /does/ encounter a good deal of strife. Right in front of you, often." He stoops, unzipping the bag to get out a pair of wristwrap gloves to offer to Micah. "How /do/ you deal with things?" With no open show of hostility from either man, Trib seems a bit nonplussed, and he purses his lips thoughtfully for a moment before he responds. "Lucien. Micah." He scrubs a glove across his nose, listening as Lucien talks and exhaling affirmatively. "Some people draw that kind of shit," he says, lifting a shoulder. "Trust me on that." He looks over his shoulder at Micah, nostrils flaring as he considers. "Go for the nose, if you gotta. Those break pretty easy." "Wasn't a matter of satisfyin'. What would I /wanna/ hurt Dusk for, anyhow? Was a matter of gettin' 'im off m'husband. Wouldn't matter much where I punched anyway. S'Dusk we're talkin' 'bout here. Just 'bout anythin' I could do would come off as a love tap." Micah accepts the gloves and begins fussing with getting them on more than a little inexpertly. "Usually find somethin' needs fixin' that I can actually /fix/. Go for a run when it ain't like the arctic tundra outside." Okay, so that isn't fair on the first day that it actually got above freezing in some time, but Micah is feeling less than charitable. Which might also explain the snappish reply to Trib's observation of people drawing strife. "What exactly is /that/ s'posed t'mean?" It doesn't quite qualify as growling but isn't the friendliest of tones. Lucien rocks a half-step forward, reaching in to help Micah tug the second glove into place and secure it; always a trickier prospect once the first one is on. He snags a second pair from the bag, rolling a shoulder in a shrug. "Do you have much experience in that arena?" One eyebrow quirks up, green eyes fixing back on Trib. He holds his gloves loosely in his hand, letting them flop lax and idle against his opposite palm. "... some people," his eyes cut back to Micah, "do not precisely /run/ from strife, either." Trib sniffs at Micah's flare of temper, and turns back, leaning against his bag and taking a sharp, deep breath. "I meant that I know what it's like to keep stumblin' into shit," he rumbles, jutting out his lower jaw the tiniest bit. "When you look like a fuckin' junkyard dog, you ain't usually livin' the fuckin' free and easy life, yeah?" Lucien's observation gets an amused-sounding snort, and a shake of the boxer's shaggy head. "You ain't got to /run/ from it," he says, pushing off the bag and rolling his neck. "Especially when it's right there under your fuckin' feet every time you turn around. Better to just find a way to deal with it that ain't killin' bastards." "Arena?" Micah just looks confused. Maybe he's not paying the best of attention, but he's not sure what's being referred to. Considering exactly what has been going on around him lately, he doesn't manage to completely suppress a skeptical snort at Trib's complaints of the public dealing poorly with /his/ appearance. Something about Trib's final statement sets his jaw hard enough that his teeth grind. It is probably for the best that he says nothing else for the time being. "Really?" This puts a very faint widening in Lucien's brilliant green eyes. They sweep, briefly. Up-down, a tic of motion over Trib's form. "Is it your /looks/ you believe make your life challenging?" One finger lifts, tapping slow against his cheekbone as the others, folded, rest against his jaw. "That is certainly a perspective." His weight shifts back onto a heel, gaze canting back towards Micah and that grinding jaw. "Like fixing things?" he suggests, mildly, "that you can actually fix?" "No," Trib says to Lucien, shaking his head. "I'm a real asshole, most of the time. That's what really gets in my fuckin' way. Lookin' like a hired goon don't help none, though." He lifts a shoulder. "I been workin' on /not/ bein' an asshole, but there ain't much to be done about the gooniness." Which might be an attempt at a joke, given the crinkle of his eyes, and the self-deprecating lift of one side of his mouth. But Micah clearly isn't in the mood for joking, given the jaw-grinding, and Trib's exhalation this time is a bit resigned-sounding. "Fixin' shit's always a good plan," he grunts, moving to where his shirt and towel are piled up. "I'm learnin'." Micah shudders a little at Lucien's suggestion, but moves past the deeper implications for his own peace of mind. "Leaky faucets an' unravellin' sweaters're a whole lot less complicated'n people," he explains softly. "Got a clear problem with a clear solution, an' when you're done workin' at it...s'all better." He looks up at Lucien, then back at the gloves on his hands, giving a heavy sigh. "I really don't know what I'm doin' here." "What exactly does not being an asshole constitute?" The curiosity in Lucien's tone sounds genuine. He's watching Trib's expression with interest. "Or, rather, working on it?" "I do not know. People are all just so much wiring as well. Sometimes it runs smoothly, sometimes it needs," Lucien is finally strapping on his own gloves, tugging one firmly into place and using his teeth to pull on the second pair and get them situated snugly, "adjusting." He tips a gloved hand out to an empty bag. "Stress. You are adjusting." "I ain't sure," Trib admits to Lucien, mimicking the blonde's action and lifting a wrist to his mouth to tug the knot loose. "I'll let you know when I feel like I got it." Which might be another joke, muffled though it may be by the knot. Once it's free, the big man divests himself of his gloves with surprising speed, and drops them on his pile. "Have fun with your adjustments," he rumbles, bending to scoop up said pile and heading towards the lockers. But not before he offers one last bit of advice as farewell: "Keep your feet planted, and your elbows tucked." "People adjustin' don't exactly come with a manual," Micah observes. Again he looks down to the gloves, then up at the bag. "Adjustin'. Sure. Gonna admit I really ain't done any punchin' of things outside of a self defense class I took as a teenager for folks in wheelchairs." He finally manages a hint of self-deprecating grin, though it still looks tired. "This'll be dif'rent." A nod, much like their greeting ones, acknowledges Trib's parting advice. Lucien tips his head up to Trib as the man leaves, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I do not know if that comes with a manual either." His gloved hand rests lightly at Micah's waist, urging the other man around closer to the bag. He lifts a hand to guide Micah's arms into better position, the next twitch of his lips /upward/ into something that approximates an actual smile. "This is not about self defense." He's brought his hands up, too, demonstrating the form. Quick-quick, jab-cross, smack-thwack on the leather bag. "It is largely just about punching of things." Micah bouncy-steps a little closer to the bag at the little guiding shove, giving it an intensely skeptical look. “I should rather hope it isn't. If I'm under attack by inanimate amorphous objects on top of ev'rythin' else, now, I think I might just hafta pack it in.” Jokes! We're at least doing better enough for jokes now. He settles his weight further over his right hip, watching Luci's demonstration and then attempting to repeat it back. Probably with less than a truly effective amount of force. Thud? Lucien watches Micah's first attempt, quiet. It's very tiny corrections, small touches of gloved hand to arms to drop shoulder a little bit here, tuck elbow a little closer there. Lucien doesn't tell Micah to hit harder, at the moment just setting his form straight and then tapping the bag again. "I have seen the bags attack back, if you attack hard enough." The amusement in his tone is just a dry curl wisping through his softly accented voice. "But no worries, you are nowhere /near/ in danger of striking them quite so hard. Your children, perhaps. /You/ can feel free to beat as much as you can. /These/ enemies were built for your frustration." So it takes a little shake of head for Micah not to lean /into/ Lucien's guiding touches. Right. Punching things. “Mmn. Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I was aware. Love taps,” he reiterates wryly from earlier in the conversation. “Okay. Beatin'...enemies. Got it.” Lowered shoulder, tucked elbow. Weight firmed up over the right leg again. At least a better approximation of the movement, if not an impressive one. "Perhaps a poor turn of phrase," Lucien amends, now just rocking back to watch Micah hit. His eyes focus on the motions, gloved hands crossing over his chest. "Just. Adjusting."