familiar bruised faces [muffin]

XX

He can hardly recall the night at the fight club- not two punches into his second fight, the chick knocked him out cold, flat on his ass. Honestly, he can't even recall going home that night- a dull image of the dark warehouse reflects poorly in his memory, but hell, he could have just been dreaming anyway.

A fight ensued, he knows that much, and his mother declared him grounded 'Until you're thirty' or whatever. So, the routine began- school, home, then the training center if he asked politely.

Fault himself rubs his cheek, where a beautiful black eye blooms in the morning light. Sure while he never told his parents where he went, his oldest cousin could take a single look and know exactly where he'd been, sharing only a dull frown- what career didn't take part in Fight Club? It was a twisted initiation ritual into the ranks of minor stardom, and anyone who was anyone attended at least once or twice, and only those who wanted any chance of someday getting into the arena won.

But the sixteen year old didn't lie when confronted, didn't say anything, simply brushed it off with a laugh and a 'You know me' which seemed to sate the hunger most approached with.

Though he does make sure to avoid the 'floor' for a while, hanging back on the sidelines while others fight, fists and fury soaring through the air while his eye struggles to heal, initially blurred and swollen shut. He opts instead, for less physical courses, classroom settings he normally found boring and only minorly useful at best.

Today, specifically, he holds a styrofoam cup, lounging on a weightlifting bench with his legs propped up on a few dumbbells stacked to about knee-height. Pale eyes flicker -mostly- upon the lithe forms of women and girls twisting and turning, gymnasts in their own rights, before they fall on a lonely male.

Eyes narrow tight, his jaw clenched as he focuses, struggling to put a name to that face. Thin fingers lift to pat at his still beautifully bruised face, quiet huff slipping past his parted lips. Blurs of trash talk and unfocused eyes ping his face.

Oh. Right.

He hauls himself free from his nest, adjusting his tank top. He leaves the other things as is, uncaring- he wasn't lifting the weights anyway, so he wasn't using them. Fuck it, someone else can get 'em.

His feet drag slightly as he approaches, hands pushing his pants pockets to the limits, fists clamped down inside. A few moment pass with Fault standing on the sidelines, just watching the half-hearted attempts to slap the crap out of the bag, before he finally grins, and steps forward.

"Hey, you're supposed to keep your stance tight." he states, circling the bag, gaze meeting the kid's. Actually, Thane is probably older than him, but Fault doesn't give two shits either way, a shit-eating smirk on his face.

XX

"Oh ha, ha, ha. You here to shit talk, or are you here to fucking train?" he teases back, though his voice lacks the painful, fiery venom. "You wanna go again, only this time with actual fucking tools?" His hand gestures widely to the massive array on either side of them- wooden swords, glaives, fake throwing stakes, spears, axes and whatever else the center could come up with. All tools of destruction, of defensive protection turned offensive.

Fault himself feels fairly relaxed, and completely unoffended- more than one male, and nearly all females have told him basically to fuck off, and sometimes, its a regular thing. Still, he keeps trying and struggling against their walls, though his hands finally fall. A glimmer of frustration reaches his pale eyes, and he finally frowns, taking the hint- maybe. The guy just wants to be left alone.

Nah, of course not! Training is a social event, and it should be friendly and a welcoming environment- the games are just as much a team sport as they are going to have to turn solo at some point.

"Alright look, I didn't mean to offend you, sorry if I did." His hands lift defensively, as though he knows exactly what Thane wants to do- maybe kick his ass across the center from one end to the other, and at his size, Fault doubts he couldn't. What the opposing male lacks in skill, he more than makes up for it in strength and sheer size. Fault is like a mouse, compared to the crouching tiger of the career before him, and a momentary fear grips his throat.

Actually he couldn't be too sure- with himself out of commission, it could just be an even fight, especially with his left eye still being a bit blurry. Fault relies mostly on speed and sidestepping, and if his perefriels are out, then so is he.