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

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?"

Her hand catches the fist, slowing the movement slightly. She nods, then stoops down, reaches forward and moves his foot. "Almost perfect. If you remember to twist at the ball of your foot, your hook should end with you here." She stands up and gestures to his position. "See how your face and side are still protected?"

She swallows back telling him that she didn't learn this in a day, that she was in some sort of combat training since she was sixteen. She's toeing around, trying to find the line between being encouraging and being patronizing. The numbers on the wall, the clock, say it's nearly five a.m.

"Let's run some more hooks and get through some blocks before all the good cafes open. Sound like a plan?" She puts her hand up again. "Twist all the way through the foot this time."

All the good cafés that he hasn't gotten himself banned from, he wants to say, but he holds his tongue. It's more of a joke to him now than anything else, but they haven't really discussed the misfortune with Marius and Courfeyrac yet, and he isn't really looking forward to it when they do.

He bounces slightly on the pads of his feet, trying to mimic just what she'd done a moment ago. The motions are still choppy, but they're getting there, and he can at least see the logic in what she's describing. The hard part will be duplicating it again tomorrow, and then the day after. Habituation may create a metaphysical state of being, and, in a similar manner, practice can make perfect, but Enjolras has his doubts as to whether he'll ever be able to rival her grace and seeming mastery of the movements. Really, a musket would be far more convenient.

"Yes. Then perhaps I shall take you for breakfast?" There's nothing shy about questions like that anymore, which, he supposes, is nice. Aside from the implications involved, it doesn't really matter who's taking whom where and why, but it's pleasant to know that the implication can settle around them without either feeling one way or anything about it, or like they have to explain themselves.

She grins. The toaster will have to do without its morning serenade.

"I'd like that. You know how I feel about oatmeal and cinnamon rolls." Tastebuds are possibly her favorite part of a human body, something she didn't even remember to miss in her many years of heartbroken wandering as a cloud of dark matter (as a ghost, as she now thinks of it), and sugar is a pleasure she tries to mete out rather than gorge on with varying success.

They go through a few more practices with the hook, then the jab going into the hook, and then a few blocks. By the time they're done even she's feeling tired, and has worked up a rather unladylike sweat. An Avox comes by with fresh shirts for them, but Venus has one for her packed into her gym bag.

"Can you still walk?" She holds her arm out to link with his. Not as support, but as companionship.

It’s almost automatic to take her arm, even if their present arrangement feels superficially unnatural. Her arm should be in his, not the other way around, but intellectually he knows it doesn’t really matter. It’s all pride and illogical tradition, conditioning with any need for the conditions to be met, and so he lets it go, falling in easily beside her.

“I’ll be fine.” It’s a lie rather than a fiction, because he’s already hurting a little, and he’ll hurt more later today, let alone tomorrow. Enjolras can feel the strain in his arms, and the dull ache centering over his shoulder blades, but that he is too proud to not ignore even if he can see the ridiculousness of it.

“You like cinnamon rolls, but have you tried French toast?” The inquiry is light, intended to segue the conversation away from talk of his apparent deficiencies. He doesn’t know the real story with Venus’ physical situation, but he has caught on that the foods they have in Panem are foods with which she’s unfamiliar, for the most part, and that she has a thing for sweets. For his part, Enjolras is content enough to exist on bread, wine, coffee, fruit, and maybe a little bit of protein when he remembers it. He’s heard the lines about that being nutritionally insufficient from the stylists and escorts, but old habits are hard to break. “It is made with cinnamon and vanilla. I think you would like it, even if it is horrible for you."

"French toast? I haven't had that since I was a kid." But she remembers liking it, and the idea fills her with anticipation. She's felt compelled lately to reconnect with her childhood rather than erase it, and she likes to attribute it to being unable to visit her family's final resting place. She has to hold onto a time before mutation (and stardom, and Panem), even as the lure of the past starts to fade in the light of her new connections, her relationships that tether her to this time and place. The friends she's made here, and the friend and lover who's linked his arm with hers.

"I die every two months, I don't think I have to worry about death by cinnamon toast."

She says that lightly, but seriousness follows in its wake, like a sort of punctuation. They may have spent the entire morning shadowboxing in anticipation of having to, at some point soon or later, defend their lives, but it feels for an instant as if she's shattered a pleasant illusion. She tries to usher them back to levity.

"So, diner instead of a cafe, then? Or a restaurant?"

"I do not think it matters," he replies flatly, and it's a struggle not to latch onto her grim flippancy from a moment ago. It's too early, in his opinion, for such discussions, even if the way she so casually skirts around it does nothing for his mood.

"Most cafés will have it, the same most diners and restaurants." And the truth is that he prefers the mood of a café to that of a diner, if only for its familiarity.

They fall into step easily along side each other, breaking apart only momentarily to step into the elevator as it arrives. The behavior, like her earlier comment, is deceptively mundane, the illusion of domesticity so complete he can almost, for a moment, forget that she means what she'd literally. "We should change if we're to go out. I would not wish you embarrassed to be seen with me."

It's true, there are large, wet patches where he's sweat through his shirt, and Enjolras, being of a particular era, would've felt inappropriate in public anyway, dressed as he is. But, if he's to be honest with himself, he's also being flippant and using the circumstances to avoid dwelling too heavily on everything lurking just ahead of them. It isn't particularly brave or noble, but he's willing to cling to the illusion for the moment.

"Cafe it is, then. Someplace quiet with comfy chairs." He's going to need it, with that workout he had. She may too.

She looks over at his sweat-soaked shirt with a certain amount of admiration - at the very least the effort he put in is obvious - but as someone who knows full well the importance of a public face, she doesn't say that she just might prefer him this way.

"Pretty sure 'embarrassed' isn't the word I use for being on your arm, but I should put on makeup, anyway." It's not as if she's insecure about how she looks without it, or that she thinks Enjolras is bewitched by the magic of mascara and foundation, but she doesn't want to broadcast the vulnerability of her insomnia to the entirety of the Capitol on the street, and the puffiness under her eyes betrays her limited hours resting. "Just don't keep me waiting while you put on your thirty-six layers of clothes."

In the elevator, she squeezes his hand and imagines that she will never let it go.

The pressure of her hand in his is delightfully familiar. They're new at this, it's true, but not so new that habits have yet to form, both consciously and unconsciously. They can exist in silence together without having to fill the void with needless chatter. It's trusting, rather than awkward, the subtle intake of breath and metallic whir as the elevator glides its way up to their floor, comfortable rather than pensive. Any awkwardness is a pleasant sort, a buzz of anticipation with which he's become more than familiar in regards to her. At first Enjolras disdained the sensation, now he's come to expect it, and even miss the feeling when she's not around. The rush is worth whatever superficial uncertainty accompanies it.

"It is hardly my fault that society has lost the art of proper dress." He ventures the joke casually as they arrive at their floor. The District 5 suite is, for once, blessedly quiet around them. "And if you think that I am bad, you should have seen Courfeyrac when he insisted on wearing two waistcoats."

She snorts, and it's a genuine, happy sound amidst her usually controlled and graceful laugh. It's honest. "Did he think that he would woo more ladies with a double-waistcoat?"

Granted, not like Courfeyrac needs the help. The boyish enthusiasm and charisma generally seem to do him just fine.

Venus lets Enjolras' hand go and retreats to her room, emerging fresh-faced and waiting for him on the couch. From the lounge she can hear Lindsey McDonald's snoring, hear Initiate muttering to himself and bustling about in his room. Before everyone wakes up and starts chattering and bickering and living, District Five is rather nice, and she feels as if she's stolen a nugget of peace.

"I bet everyone tells you you're so handsome," she teases when Enj returns, coming up to adjust his perfectly-fine collar. It's mostly just an excuse to get close, the artificial explanation fueling the boldness they still seem to need to press their boundaries. "Cafe?"

"It was a fairly popular fashion for a time." The reply floats after her as she walks away. Enjolras follows suit, disappearing into his own room to find a fresh pair of slacks, shirt, and cardigan. There's enough early morning light filtering into his room from the window that he doesn't need to reach for the artificial lamps. It bathes everything in shades of blue and gold, and makes the red sweater he tugs on seem orange in the shadows. The sounds, or lack thereof, in District 5 are pleasant before everyone's woken up to ruin it all, and he thinks perhaps Venus might be onto something with this morning routine thing. If nothing else, it would be worth it to wake up earlier and appreciate the quiet every so often.

The proximity when they're reunited is daring, perhaps but not unwelcome. "Cafe," he agrees lightly, reaching up to collect her hand in his, hazarding a kiss on her knuckles before dropping their hands between them so that they can walk.

"How far do you feel like walking?" Enjolras' question comes with a suitably inquisitive expression. In truth, he doesn't feel like walking much at all after that workout. He's determined, however, to show a brave face.

"Not far. I'm not wearing the shoes for that." She's switched from tennis shoes to sandals, not only a little because she wants to separate herself from how she feels when she works out. If she knows she's given him an out, she doesn't show it. She takes her hand from him as if it's a bouquet of flowers, only to link it back with his on their way down the elevator.

The streets outside are busier, and Capitol citizens roll down their car windows as they pass, ogling the new couple that the tabloids predicted nigh on eight months ago. For a woman who's spent the last several years in the spotlight, it's only now that Venus feels a sense of territorial peevishness at having something private intruded on - despite having previously invited the press into their little not-romance with her shenanigans with the statue.

Now that it's real, she doesn't like the reminders that it could be fake. After someone in a car starts honking at them and taking pictures, she lets go of his hand, a slight flush in her cheeks.

"Ignore them," he says with a grim sort of authority. They've come full circle on this, it seems. After all, only a few months ago, he'd have behaved exactly as she's doing now. Things have changed, however, and the possibility that all this, in a different set of circumstances, could be fake, doesn't scare him nearly as much as the idea of denying what is real when they know it is. They make it a few more paces, past another car and another catcall, before he puts an arm around her shoulders. He means the gesture to be comforting, but it's stilted, almost aggressive. It shouldn't matter to them what these people think. They don't have the right to think anything about them at all.

Fortunately, soon enough they make the corner onto a side street. It's quieter, and the thinner traffic makes for less people gawking at them. Tentatively, he hazards a look over to her. It's still hard for Enjolras to tell just how she's interpreting everything between them, even now that they're better at at least talking things out for the most part.

"We cannot stop people here from saying whatever it is they will say, but we do not have to give them the gratification of our attention." Which is a direct flip form his position a few months earlier, and still far easier said than done, but it's all various shades of relative anyway. "And, I would rather they misinterpreted this than that we let them keep us from each other."

She watches her feet. It's uncharacteristic for someone who usually walks with such confidence, an almost supernatural sense of self-possession. And yet. And yet.

"It's never mattered before." Not the relationship, but what people thought of her - shallow, vain, a slut, a talentless floozy, an opportunistic ambulance-chaser - it never mattered. It wasn't from any sort of self-assurance so much as no great investment in protecting anything, because there was nothing worth defending, to her.

She raises her eyes to meet his, smiling softly. "I didn't say they're keeping us from each other. I'm just- I'm new at this too, you know. You know that."

And yet new as she is, she does like how her body seems to fit in his, the curve of the back of her neck folding under the crook of his arm like a hip-bone into a socket. She wraps her arm around his back and waist, imagining defiance as a wire inside her body, star-shaped, running through each limb and down to the fingertips.

"This place?"

"This is fine." It's a quiet café. Not their usual, now that he and his friends have apparently ruined that for them, but it will do. Time will make a new place their usual and that will be fine. They break apart so that he can hold the door for her, and once inside, they find a quiet table somewhere away from the window so that they can perhaps pretend to some privacy again for a moment.

The minute they're settled in, he reaches for her hand across the table. The quiet between them seems vulnerable, and, while the physical contact won't do anything to explain away their respective insecurities, it's comforting nonetheless.

"I was not hungry when we left, but now that we are here, I feel I could eat at least one of everything on the menu." The smalltalk is awkward, less stilted than his attempts at reassurance if only because he's telling the truth. The workout has suddenly caught up to him, and Enjolras can feel it in just how drained and tender he feels. "Coffee first, I think."

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

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