thecapitol | I'm Looking for the Tower of Learning [Closed]

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I'm Looking for the Tower of Learning [Closed]

WHO| Venus and Enjolras
WHAT| Venus teaches Enjolras how to fight.
WHEN| Prior to the crowning.
WHERE| Training Center
WARNINGS| my ship tho. also mentions of bugs and nightmares.

She isn't new to nightmares. When she was little, the insects her older cousin put on her would crawl back out of her skin in her dreams, skittering and slithering across her belly button and under her shirt. When she was a teenager, the world was on fire, and she kept screaming and beating her little brothers because they wouldn't hear her, and she'd crack their faces open and reveal egg yolks on the inside. Then there were, of course, your run of the mill dreams about showing up to a red carpet event in the wrong clothes, of forgetting her bookbag to school and having to go on futile, circular quests to retrieve it.

The flavor of them has changed. There's a sort of dread to them now that isn't tied into grief, but a vague sense of loss, like grabbing through fog and finding nothing. Foreboding for the future, rather than sorrow for the past. She wakes up in the morning and there are names on her lips, and she listens at people's doors for the sounds of sleeping to ease the strange anxiety in her bones. Kankri snores a little. Enjolras is awake, and she can hear the rustle of pages in his room, but she doesn't knock or enter.

It soothes her bones but not her mind, so she goes to the Training Center. Dressed in a midriff top and spandex pants, she stretches on the mats, warms up with the acrobatic bars. She wraps her hands and puts chalk on them that's still there when she takes to the more combat-oriented exercises. It's still early enough that there's no one besides her there to hear the smacking of her kicks against a dummy, of the elbow she miscalculates on just enough to give herself rug-burn.

She pauses for a moment, breathing heavy but not yet sweating, and goes to the supplies rack to put a brace on her arm.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I am a decent enough shot. Better perhaps because I actually practiced now and then. Guns would end the Arenas faster, which is probably why they avoided them for so long, even as a gimmick." There's the nasty reality that she'd died by being shot last go round. Specifically, she'd died by being shot by the best friend who had given him the bruise now mostly faded around his eye socket. She would have died anyway, and honestly, he doesn't fault Courfeyrac at all for what he'd done, but it's strange to talk about all the same, and he's glad when she changes the subject.

Even though what she changes the subject to really isn't that appealing either.

"I beg your pardon?" He blinks down at her, eyes wide and not quite disapproving. "Surely you can explain it to me rather than going through all that." Just because she can dodge doesn't mean he should make her. It seems counter to chivalry.

She folds her arms. "Explain how to throw a punch? If you just punch the air you're going to correct your technique." Then again, if he punches at her she expects he'll hold back, if he does it at all.

She steps back, an exaggerated long-suffering sigh oozing out her mouth.

"Okay, punch the air. Fine." She tries not to be offended, figuring it has as much to do with just springing the notion on him as their respective genders. "I need to see what you're starting with, which isn't too shabby, if Courfeyrac's nose is any indication."

He winces, but it's less about some misguided chauvinism now than it is about the memory of throwing a punch at his best friend and closest ally, present company excluded. They'd all been mad, or rather he, Courfeyrac, and Marius had all been mad, but Enjolras had been the one to throw the first punch. It would be a while before he could stop beating himself up over it.

"If you insist," he says finally, in a placating sort of way, and swings into the air. There's power behind it, but it's difficult to really gauge an attack that isn't aimed at anything. Moreover, for as controlled as Enjolras is in every other aspect of his life, he's not when it comes to fighting. He throws himself into it, putting his full weight behind an attack. Even in this strange, hypothetical scenario, it leaves him obviously off-balance and leaning heavily to one side.

"Dare I ask what I'm doing wrong?"

Venus' mouth is twisted to the side in an expression that shows that while she's not too disappointed, she's not impressed either. She lifts one foot and gently taps it to his calf, then to his knee. "Well, you have your front covered, that's good - something you picked up from your boxer friend? But anyone who isn't playing by the rules of boxing is going to sweep your feet out from under you by hitting right here."

She reaches forward, across herself, and brings a hand to his shoulder. "Or pull you from here and send you crashing down from your own momentum." She leans in forward, twists, and grabs his wrist. "Or if they're Maximus, grab you by the forearm and throw you over their shoulder from here."

She steps back, putting her hands on her hips. He's not a hopeless case, but there's a lot to work on. Then again, he's a Victor. He may very well have all the time in the world to practice. "Most of your problem is your balance, honestly. Let's look at your stance, first. As soon as you're in danger, you'll want your feet wide and staggered, and to try and keep your center of gravity divided between both. Like this."

She stands alongside him and demonstrates, including the punch. "You can also run from this position."

He mimics her stance. The problem is that understanding the issues and applying her advice while stagnant is a very different thing from correcting his problems while in motion. Different still probably in a practice fight than in a real one. It does feel better, though, more correct and like he might actually be able to move from this point into another defensive position, rather than simply tumble from punch to punch.

And, while Maximus had seen fit to knock him down continually rather than throw him, it isn't something Enjolras is keen on leaving open to him if he's ever stupid enough to challenge the gladiator to a rematch.

"Alright, I think I follow your logic." He brings his fist up, holding them defensively around his face, shoulders curving in to complete the effect. It makes him seem smaller on top somehow, even as his legs are spread wide to afford him the balance needed to move. "I will say that this seems heavy, like I might be slower to move now that I have a firm footing someplace."

"Shift your weight up on your foot, to right behind your toes. It'll take you practice, but it's actually faster than starting from a default position." She lifts her heels to show, then hops one foot to the other. "It also lets you dodge, which you can do by dropping your heels and bending at the knee."

It's instinct for most people to bend at the waist to avoid a hit, but it's also just doing the work for your opponent in setting yourself up to get knocked down or hit in the head and back.

"I'll be honest, you should probably spend a few weeks on footwork alone. When I started heroing my coach had me practice jumping around little firecones while keeping my head up. Anyway." She demonstrates throwing a punch again. "A cross is probably your strongest punch. You'll want to throw it like this, moving through your whole body down to your heel. Now show me you try."

The terms heroing and coach fly easily over his head. He understands them on their face, of course, but the nuances of this situation seem to change their intrinsic meaning. He tilts his head, as if acquiescing to a request instead of obliging someone who's actually doing him a favor. It's a little weird to think about learning how to fight from your mistress. He's almost entirely sure none of his friends have ever been in this kind of situation. He's completely sure that all of them would find it funny, even in a hypothetical.

Still, he throws the punch. It's better this time, he doesn't fall forward, or seem too caught up in the momentum to stop himself. That said, it lacks the power of his initial effort and he can tell.

"Well?" Enjolras almost doesn't want to ask. Venus is entirely right, working like this isn't very helpful to either of them. If he's going to improve at all, he's going to have to get over his pride and actually spar with her. Somehow that seems more difficult than facing Maximus again.

"Better technique, less power. It's going to take practice. A lot of practice."

She tries to remember how she did it, starting as a teenager. It helped to have a coach, and after that, access to the Danger Room at Xavier's. The technology here is close to Danger Room level, but she isn't trained as any sort of teacher.

"Here." She moves behind him and puts her hand on his hips. It's strangely intimate, talking into the back of his neck. "Okay, throw it again, and I'm going to push your shoulder so you know where the twist has to come from. Keep your feet where they are. Show me ten of these done right."

"Alright." He punches into the air again, all too a aware of her hands, the the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck. It isn't unpleasant, it's just unfamiliar both in terms of activity and the level of intimacy between them.

The punch itself isn't bad, and he does make and effort to pay attention to the steady pressure of her fingertips on his shoulder. After all, Enjolras knows he has to improve if they're ever going to accomplish anything at all. He throws a third punch, then a forth, both improvements on each other. By the time they're done, he's panting ever so slightly, and there's a thin layer of sweat on his brow.

"I suppose it gets easier the more you practice." He chokes out between heavy, controlled breaths.

"That's why you build up stamina. If we're going to turn this into a regular thing, I'm going to tell you to add wind sprints into your daily routine." She backs up, nodding her head approvingly. "But you're getting better. Even just over those few minutes."

She walks around him and squares her stance. "Alright. Now try and hit me."

"I do not have a daily routine." The confession is soft, but out of embarrassment now instead of just because he's easily winded. In actuality, he had something of biweekly routine that involved coming down to the Training Center and staring at some of the equipment while attempting to box and indulge in all the melancholy and self-doubt that usually came along with too much time spent pondering the Games.

He's not entirely surprised when he hears the request again, but Enjolras is no warmer to it now than he'd been a few minutes ago. "I-- I suppose you will be offended if I say that I am concerned for your safety."

Except he's not really. It just seems weird to punch in the general direction of a woman under any circumstances. Even when he knows perfectly well that she's more than capable for putting him in his place.

"A little bit offended." She raises her fingers together in a 'tiny bit' gesture. "If it's because I'm a woman, I'll remind you that Shepard's a woman too, and she's got an extremely punchable face."

Or stabbable, in Venus' case.

"I think you should have a routine. It helps- it helps to build up muscle and stamina," she says sheepishly. It helps to keep steady, in Venus' case. Too much idle time drives her out of her mind, and she worries that the same is happening to Enjolras, that that explains why he's awake at odd hours and has a room packed with scrawled-on philosophy books. She never really knew him before the Games, but she has noted a decline.

He has to smile at least a little bit at that. Shepard is probably the one woman he wouldn't feel the least bit bad about punching in the face, at least once. She's more than capable of fighting back as well, and after everything she's done in the Arena, she's earned it. It does call his own less than egalitarian opinions on women into question, however.

Stretching to relieve some of the tension that's been building in his neck as shoulders, he tentatively glances back to meet Venus' eyes. There isn't really a reasoned argument to be made. It's old fashioned posturing masking itself as chivalry when she clearly doesn't need chivalry at all. It's comfortable, but it's antiquated. He has to adapt.

"It is because you are a woman. It is not actually that I think you incapable of defending yourself, it is simply that I--" He pauses, mouth opening and closing not unlike a fish. Well, perhaps he more closely resembles a confused dog, between his large eyes and sweaty curls. The internal struggle is still visible regardless. "It is that I never wanted to think of myself as the type of man who would hit a woman. Regardless of the circumstance."

There's something earnest about that that does make her feel somewhat better about dating him. At the same time, that same ping of sadness that struck her way back when they met, when it weighed on him so suddenly how far out of time he was, foments in her stomach.

"Then I think you should probably look at why you wouldn't want to be the type of man to hit a woman, regardless of the circumstance. I'm pretty sure the circumstance is what makes the hitting as disgraceful as it is."

If it's equals punching equals, it's no big deal, but obviously that isn't the time he comes from. Nor is it the time she comes from, honestly, but it's not an issue she faced much in person.

She reaches forward and takes his hands, pulling them up into a boxing position. "Come on. Just pretend I'm Shepard."

It takes him a minute to parse that, and the befuddlement, however momentary, probably reads on his face. He still isn't particularly great at hiding his emotions, particularly not with her. While it's something he's given thought to before, the situation of women was always easier to compartmentalize as being unimportant in the grander scheme of political autonomy and matters of true citizenship. Simply put, women mattered to him as much as men, but the social quandary peculiar to the fairer sex could be ignore, for the moment, while they figured out how to deal matters of true subjugation.

Additionally, when so many of the women present were capable enough fighters, it was simpler still to just consider them as men. Simpler, and more pragmatic. Though when faced with one directly, that line of thinking sometimes left him wanting.

So it takes him a moment to readjust. He sighs and again paws uselessly at his sweaty curls. They're sticking up in every direction, probably representative of the way his thoughts are roaming entirely too quickly. It's with a heavy sigh that he lets Venus move him. She's right, he realizes, finally, after an intense fifteen second internal debate. There isn't a reason to think them unequal in this. In fact, if anything, she has the advantage.

"I do not want to hit Shepard, I simply want her to disappear. But your point is well taken." And without further warning, Enjolras punches forward, aim set at Venus' pretty brow. He knows she knows what she's doing, but he hopes she hasn't overestimated her speed, all the same. He won't be able to forgive himself if they're sporting matching bruises tomorrow.

Thankfully, although his punch is well-thrown, Venus is more than prepared for it. She drops her knees and shifts her forearm up, redirecting his attack with the back of her hand and dipping her head safely out of the range of attack.

From here, she could go up and over his arm to break it, or palm-strike his nose, or hit him in the gut. Were they outright sparring, she'd likely go with the last of those, but this is training, and she isn't exactly keen to beat up her lover.

"Much better." She reaches forward and takes the other fist, the one that dropped down to the side when he threw the punch. "You need to keep your body covered, though. No dropping your hands, because it opens you to counterattack."

She's a much gentler instructor than Maximus.

"Now, see how I blocked? I bent my knees, rather than my waist. If I ducked from the waist-" she demonstrates- "I would basically be asking for you to hit me in the back of the head. Everything you do is going to be about keeping your balance."

She reaches over and smudges some sweat from his brow. "It's a lot to take in. No one learned to fight in a day."

"You really do mistake my reticence for helplessness." He sighs, but does as she says, taking care to note the way in which she moves. It's less the movements themselves and more the grace with which she performs them. She has a flow that he hasn't mastered, and one the advantage of which is easy to see given the speed necessary within an Arena.

Still, while she is a better fighter than he is likely to be for a long while, Enjolras can't help but feel as though he has misled her. It wasn't so long ago that he was running from the National Guard, and it wasn't as if he had ever questioned his ability to stand against trained soldiers or the municipal gendarme. "May we try again? I should like to clear up this misunderstanding and, unfortunately, I think that there is only one way this will be accomplished."

"I don't think you're helpless. I think you don't know how to fight hand to hand. There's a difference." She frowns, figuring that if she has to spend this session - as she now thinks of it - dodging around his wounded pride as well as his punches, they're liable to end the hour with an actual fight. But she nods, getting back into position.

She tilts her neck to the side, stretches and pops it. The crack is decidedly unfeminine, almost grotesque, but she figures if there's any place to leave the trappings of womanly performance behind it's while trying to convince someone to treat you as a man. She rises again to the balls of her feet, prepared to see what he does. "Alright. Correct my misunderstanding."

There are a half-dozen comments he could make about the semantics implied by that remark. There's the fact that hand to hand is the only thing which can be relied upon in the Arena, or perhaps the argument that Courfeyrac's broken nose is evidence enough of his abilities. They're all diversions, however, and there's nothing really to be said against her assessment. He isn't formally trained, not even as a boxer, and even if he were, formal training for sport would differ drastically from something that would be practical within the Arenas. As such, he says nothing, focusing his attention on her with a grim sort of determination.

The punch he throws her way is better for the practice. It's a cross; his right first headed for her left cheekbone and as Enjolras moves, he twists his left hand under to deal with the block he can only assume is coming. The movement isn't perfect, and he only realizes the feeling of imbalance after he's already committed to it. It's what she warned against, honestly. Still, it feels better to be putting up some semblance of a counter offensive even if it's fumbling and ineffectual.

She flips him.

It isn't even a fully conscious move, more the impulse firing from muscle memory when she sees the second punch coming. With his right blocked, she grabs his left wrist and yanks forward, her knee coming up and hitting him in his midsection hard enough and with the leverage to flip him heels over head and onto his back. The smack as he hits the mat - and as the thinking part of her brain catches up with what has become instinct - makes her cringe.

"Shit!" She pauses where she is, wincing and deciding that, at this moment, it's probably better she not immediately help him back up, lest she damage his pride further. It likely hurt - getting kneed in the gut usually does - but unless she gave him a spinal injury he should be fine.

God, she hopes she didn't give him a spinal injury. She drops down to her knees next to him.

"Did I hurt you?"

Edited 2014-04-05 00:06 (UTC)

He isn't hurt necessarily. He is, but it's less a matter of being physically damaged and more a matter of being stunned. He hadn't seen that one coming, hadn't been able to sense the signs of her movements, where it all was headed until the second in which he'd been sailing through the air. It's embarrassing. More embarrassing is that Enjolras had thought he'd actually been putting up something of a fight.

Apparently not. Apparently he was to be completely outmatched.

"I look forward to the day when we have regular access to guns." There's resolution rather than bitterness in his tone, and while he is certainly embarrassed, he really isn't angry with her. It isn't, after all, her fault that she's better than him. And in fact, being better than him at this is something that should be admired.

It's with that thought in his head that he picks himself up, wincing slightly as something in his back realigns itself, and something in his abdomen constricts with the effort of movement. "Nevertheless, I think that I shall live. Shall we go again?"

"You want to?" She tries to keep the surprise out of her voice. She didn't expect him to want to get right back to it after that; certainly he shouldn't think she'd think less of him for taking a minute, and yet she finds it's admirable how quickly he gets himself back together. It isn't just pride, it's stubbornness, obstinance a pleasant shade shy of petulance. She wants to kiss him right now more than she has in a few days, and that is, actually, saying something.

She stands back up, too, and places herself across from him in the position they were moments ago.

"When we have regular access to guns, you can teach me how to shoot." At some point, she'll have to explain that she carried her projectiles in her DNA; right now, she doesn't know if she's up to the task. He hasn't asked about the teleportation yet, which she presumes is because why mess up the nice thing they have going with a 'so what the hell was that about?'. "Until then, I'll place my money on my fists."

She tilts her head over. "You know, you might have hit me if you had thrown a hook instead of a jab. Your form's getting better, and I'm not just saying that to coddle."

He tilts his head to the side, mimicking her earlier motion. His neck pops with a crack violent-sounding enough to rival hers. The muscles just below his shoulder near his spine are beginning to ache now, a reaction to the throw only slightly delayed. It's not easy to compartmentalize it, shove the discomfort to the side and focus on what they are attempting to accomplish, but he does it. Enjolras has never had a problem with self-denial for the sake of focus, and now is no exception.

"It would likely help if I knew the technical difference between the two." His fist move up again, poised protectively in front of his face. Logically, the next level will involve her posing an offensive in return instead of just blocking his attempts. They probably won't be there in a while, but he's already recovering from one black eye, he'd rather not have to face the speculation regarding a second one so soon.

Abruptly, he realizes that he's shifted his weight back to his center, rather than leaning forward, or favoring one side as he would have done without her corrections. Pain, apparently, was a decent enough incentive to correct his actions. "My fighting experience is limited to that of college boys brawling after having too much to drink."

That isn't, strictly speaking, accurate. He'd generally fought completely sober, and generally it had involved more than just a drunken schoolmate. Still, if they had a conversation ahead of them regarding her mutation, there was likely one of equal difficulty awaiting them when they finally had time and reason to discuss the events of the barricade.

She wonders if she should warn him that he'll feel this tomorrow. Not just the flip, but also the effort of perfecting technique, of using muscles in ways that they aren't accustomed to working. It's not unlike filing down a point, removing the parts that don't lead towards the end goal. It's equally dangerous, too.

"A jab moves forward. A hook," she shows in slow motion, her arm parallel to the ground as she brings it around boxes air, never leaving her face or chest vulnerable, "comes from twisting your torso. It's a pretty standard way to come out of a cross, because it reverses your momentum back to get back to neutral, if that makes sense."

It's easier to show than to tell when it comes to the body. She doesn't know most of the terms she needs, nor the actual mechanics behind why certain motions move more fluidly into others. She's trying her best and still feeling as if she needs qualifiers.

"I've fought military squads and supervillains. If my fighting experience weren't what it is, I'd be dead." She holds her hand out. "Can you imitate what I did for the hook? A strong cross and a hook will get you pretty far against most people, especially if you know basic counters. Hit my hand."

He wants to ask about what she means, exactly, by supervillians, but there isn't really the opportunity now. Talking while doing a workout, however informal, takes a certain amount of breath control and he's not got it just yet. So, without a word, Enjolras acquiesces, punching at her hand. It's easier than aiming for her face or her body proper, feels somehow less shameful. Perhaps they should have started with that.

The movement is intuitive enough, but it's a timid effort on his part. His stomach aches as he twists, mimicking her motion moments earlier, he will be feeling this a few days from now even if he's too stubborn to acknowledge that now.

"Like so?" There's a subtle upturn to his intonation. And he studies her expression carefully for confirmation that he's at least moving in the right direction. "How do you account for the momentum and throwing your weight into the punch?"

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/dips into my old tae kwon do knowledge

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