At some point during the first stretch, Rude is either enlightened or has a mild case of hypoxia, because he comes to realize that no amount of pushing from Tseng could even come close to how far he's willing to push himself. This wouldn't be easy, but it wouldn't be impossible either. The only difference is that now there's someone there to witness him struggle rather than help him through it. He wonders what Reno's doing back home.
The thought leaves his mind as soon as they reach the plateau and he has a hard time catching his breath. When Tseng offers him the water, he manages to grab it, but feels a little light-headed. The serious kind of light headed, not like his mini panic attack when they first started. The scenery must have been beautiful, but the periphery of his vision is blurring too much for him to even appreciate it.
When Tseng approaches, he almost crumples into him, leaning against his superior for support. "I can't... I can't breathe." Well, there was nothing physically stopping him from breathing. He's taking in air just fine, but the air doesn't seem to be enough to feed his body.
Whatever reading Tseng is getting from his pulse, whatever he thinks about Rude's sudden admission of difficulty, it does not show on Tseng's face. Might as well be any day at the office, in the board room, Tseng just as dark a void of emotion as ever.
"Yes you can," he says, guiding one of Rude's hands to his chest. There is a very specific way that he's breathing; it's his hope that Rude will follow along the moment that he gets out of his own head about it.
His voice goes low. "Your body is adjusting. You've been here many times before. Your flight training, your dive missions. You've been chosen for this mission because you are more than capable."
He helps Rude uncap the water bottle and lift it to his lips.
Rude catches on quickly. For one it's rare Tseng would invite any meaningful amount of contact with him if it wasn't actually meaningful. He understands but still hates how he feels so much more short of breath over something that he would usually rebound from in a couple pants or a few deep breaths. This wasn't easy.
Had he more oxygen going to his brain he might have asked why the hell Tseng decided to do this on a whim. Participating in a fighting ring was definitely reasonable, he's not complaining about that. He still stands by his opinion that he could make it to the final fight at the very least. This training might be useful to him at some point in the future, but he doesn't know why he has to learn to breathe in thin air for a fight unless..
"Tseng," he pants, taking a drink and gradually composing himself to the feeling of maximizing the duration of each of his breaths for better oxygen circulation. "Where is the fight being held?"
Rude gradually lefts his weight off his makeshift trainer and looks him dead in the eye.
Tseng's hands close over Rude's shoulders, slowly turning him. Just behind him, there is a battered old warehouse sitting at a left-leaning cant. It barely looks stable enough to provide shelter from the rain, but Tseng knows it for what it is: one of the most popular underground fighting rings this side of the continent. Behind its dilapidated façade is a reasonably well-constructed stadium with bleachers that stretch all the way up to the ceilings, a glittering ring sat in pride of place that must have cost millions in gil to establish. Outside, there are no markings to give it away, no signage, no evidence of any life but for the well-worn path leading up to it.
"Right here," he says. His hands slide away just as quickly, and he takes a step forward, joining Rude at his right-hand side. "Color me surprised that you've never heard of this place."
After all, this is what Rude does, isn't it? He knows all those exciting muscles and dazzling moves were tempered just for places like these, but it's been awhile, he supposes. Oh well. What a grand re-entrance for his quietest Turk.
Rude is apprehensive about the contact when Tseng's hands fall onto his shoulders, but he turns easily to see the warehouse in the middle of a decent sized clearing. They must have meant business if they went out of their way to secure a location this secluded. It could only mean one thing. People died in these fights, and they had to keep it quiet. So aside from the match fixing and betting there was that to worry about as well.
Back in his day he had to worry about the first two and some violence outside the ring, but Tseng might have been right to keep insisting that he take this seriously. At first it's a little nerve-wracking, but he's killed and subdued men with little more than his bare hands, he doesn't doubt himself in that regard. And he's come a long way from the fighter he once was when he was knocking people around for money. Well, more often than not he was getting knocked around for money. This time would be different. He's not going to lose.
"Come on, let's keep training. I want to get used to this."
He wonders if they'd be able to go inside and scope out the competition? Was anyone even in there now? They were undercover enough that it wouldn't seem suspicious. Maybe.
Tseng nods resolutely. That's more like it. Rude keeps himself veiled, but Tseng is his director; he can sense the conviction in him, feel the rise of his determination as surely as he can clock his pulse and pressure. There are things one just has to know to command men, and Tseng knows his men better than himself most days.
"Stretch," he says, lowering his pack to the ground. The terrain here is hardly conducive to what he has in mind now, but that's better. Let Rude learn to account for multiple variables now. Later, it will help him focus. The bag opens with zipper purr, and Tseng pages through its contents until he produces a pair of focus mitts—custom-made, black as night, drafting the scent of rich leather across the buffeting gales of the mountain top. They fit his hands like a second skin, despite how unwieldy they are.
"Then square up," he says, waiting, watching. This time, he'll make no move to assist Rude with his stretches. He wants to see how far the Turk will push himself now that he realizes what is at stake.
Rude takes his time, going slowly through the major muscle groups, and then the finer ones afterward. His eyes watch what Tseng is doing while he moves, brows raising when he slips the fitted focus mitts onto his fingers. It slowly becomes clear what he's readying himself for.
He gives a final roll of his neck and shoulders before he nods. Rude misses his own pair of leather gloves. That barrier between himself and the people he hit was usually a safety blanket, but Tseng was special. He doesn't mind direct contact with his superior, and they were only just sparring. It wouldn't be necessary, he hopes.
Both fists raise up in front of him to show he's ready for whatever Tseng can throw at him. "Whenever you're ready."
Tseng is watching him too, impassive as ever but undeniably transfixed. Rude really is exquisitely composed. Watching him stretch is a fascinating display of how powerful and potent the human body can become, and one by one, he watches those massive muscles shudder as Rude holds them until they burn. Impossible not to feel a swell of pride, seeing him like this, knowing that it is his command that Rude follows. It reminds him of why it is important to do all the best and most terrible things to deserve that command.
And then he's squared and waiting. Tseng lifts his hands in kind.
"Let's start with a drill," he says, moving his mitts to illustrate the actions he wants as he goes along. "Jab, cross, jab, uppercut, uppercut. One, two, three, four, five."
His hands return to their stations. The rush of thrill tingles in the pit of his throat; Rude is wearing no gloves, this could hurt or go south quickly if Rude loses focus. Tseng could not be more excited to begin this dangerous dance.
No gloves is a risk, and he knows that Tseng knows this and is likely to exploit the choice at some point down the line, but at the moment he lets the anxiety of what that might be get shoved out of the forefront of his mind so he can focus completely.
Rude watches the instruction and only needs to see it once to have the drill down, but watches the second repetition example to humor Tseng.
The first go-round Rude hits his mark perfectly, taking his time to ensure his form is right and his body is comfortable with it before he picks up the speed. He's working the way he normally would at whatever altitude Midgar and Edge were at, not accounting for the lack of oxygen supply here simply as an experiment. He wants to see the effect it has on him if he doesn't do anything to try to mitigate it. This is the control.
As he repeats the movements over and over again, his body falls into a rhythm and it feels like a dance. Rude loses himself in that 5-move combo and doesn't notice when he starts to get light headed again. The final uppercut of the set lands, but catches Tseng in the jaw before he realizes what he's done.
Tseng knows. The issue is that this is necessary, but boring. Rude will not excel if he does not have this repetition to guide him, if he does not train himself to make these minute adjustments to his breathing and his movements. The only thing that will separate him from the chaff here is drills and learning by rote what it means to tangle savagely this high above the clouds.
Without gloves, it isn't so boring anymore. Tseng does not need to look beautiful to complete his half of the mission. Rude hits him so swiftly that he doesn't feel the ache until halfway through the next round. He sees stars belatedly, and his stomach drops. His eyes come alive.
"Focus. Square up," he insists, lifting his hands to start them over. "One..."
This go around, Tseng is hitting back harder. He offers more resistance, more pushback. He moves faster and turns the angle of pressure odd ways, trying to throw him. He's a good trainer—it's good practice. It's better begging for more.
Nothing's ever really come easy for Rude, and he doesn't suspect that it would suddenly change now that they are working with a small window to get their preparation in. Even though fighting came naturally to him, it was something he had to work at to get to this point where he can do complicated moves with so much ease. He remembers crying when his (now deceased) father told him to stand up and fight back instead of soaking up punches like a sponge. Taking a punch was his only real skill when he finally got over his fear of hurting anyone and it turned out he was a natural at martial arts, boxing, you name it. Naturally talented, sure, but not without learning, practicing, and busting his ass to get there.
This wasn't different. Being able to fight in this altitude would be another bullet point on his resume that no one would ever have to read. Just like the time the three of them tried to "practice" not drowning in Rufus' pool. The loser was the one who'd pass out first. He didn't loose, and he came out of that exercise a little more deadly than he'd come in.
The less oxygen that gets to his brain the more his thoughts cloud his focus and then he's not thinking much of anything at all besides about making sure his fists connect as hard as possible with their targets. Tseng takes the punch like a fucking god, and so Rude doesn't falter. He keeps going straightening up again, arms up, hitting his mark, blinking away the haze. His breathing is the variable that he changes, making sure to take full deep breaths to keep the oxygen demand met and it works. For a while.
The next time he hits Tseng it's in a similar spot. A mean right hook to the jaw. Was that even part of the rotation? He doesn't know. Just every time Tseng so much as lifts his hand his brain's impulses take control and he strikes. No oxygen for thinking, only for fighting. Only one brain cell was needed to do this sort of training, it seemed, and eventually Rude loses himself, trying to dodge Tseng's hands and get past them to hit him in the face again.
The face always gave more points.
..is the last thought he has before he starts to get light headed again. Right. Breathing. Maybe two braincells would be better.
"Good... Good... Good— Fuck." Rude hits like the Midgar bullet train, screaming fast and hard enough to crunch a lesser man's skull. The only thing that's keeping Tseng on his toes is knowing how to take a hit, how to dodge them, what to do when you see it coming too late. He's a pro at turning momentum against men ten times his weight, but Rude's not just some scrappy mark who got into this gig because he's big and beefy. When he gets like this, Rude's practically a monster.
"Focus, Rude," he hisses, but it's clear that's not breaking through whatever hazey shit is happening in Rude's head right now. Tseng's chin is bleeding down his shirt, lots of spill for how small he suspects the cut is. Either way, they can't afford this. Rude's got to sober up, Tseng has to make an executive decision.
He's pretty sure Rude's actively trying to tag him now. Tseng decides to use that against him. Sure enough, Rude's cutting up and Tseng is there to meet him with a guard, tapping his forearm against Rude's wrist to spin him off. It's the space he needs to throw off one mitt and let it clatter dully to the ground. He knows that if he blocks with one arm, Rude's gonna go for his open side, so he anticipates that too, lifts his leg for a high snapping kick to buy him more time, more space to throw off the remaining pad. Then they're back to start, both squared up and faced off, Tseng tense and ready for whatever Rude wants to pull next.
Funny, he's feeling a little dizzy too. Not because of the air or all the blood he's losing. It's like a pavlovian response to pain when it's Rude dishing it out, a druggie daze that settles over him and makes his guts twist sharply. But dammit, he's holding it together for the sake of the job, Rude can too.
"This is good," he says, taking one slow, methodical step to the side. "Don't lose this. Breathe. Focus."
Tseng's voice is distant. He's aware he's being spoken to, but nothing registers for some time. The red of the blood only worsens his state like a bull looking for something to charge at. He goes for Tseng like an animal that picks up the scent of a potential partner in heat. Only the scent is blood, and he doesn't want to fuck Tseng (right now), just make him bleed more, and again.
Maybe part of him refuses to back down because he knows that Tseng can handle him even at his worst. Rude sees the opening and right away he takes the bait, knee raising for a kick when there's a kick thrown to his open side. His ribs are much better now, but the memory of when Tseng had crushed them before with his thighs and then Reno reinjuring them again during their fight after that. It yoinks him right out of his happy place.
His hands are still up like he's still going to fight, but at least now he has better things to worry about than thin air. Rude doesn't know when Tseng had started bleeding or lost the gloves, but this has turned into a proper training exercise somehow. He does need to focus. "Don't hold back. I can take it." He's a little short of breath, but he reorients himself to fix his breathing.
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no subject
The thought leaves his mind as soon as they reach the plateau and he has a hard time catching his breath. When Tseng offers him the water, he manages to grab it, but feels a little light-headed. The serious kind of light headed, not like his mini panic attack when they first started. The scenery must have been beautiful, but the periphery of his vision is blurring too much for him to even appreciate it.
When Tseng approaches, he almost crumples into him, leaning against his superior for support. "I can't... I can't breathe." Well, there was nothing physically stopping him from breathing. He's taking in air just fine, but the air doesn't seem to be enough to feed his body.
no subject
"Yes you can," he says, guiding one of Rude's hands to his chest. There is a very specific way that he's breathing; it's his hope that Rude will follow along the moment that he gets out of his own head about it.
His voice goes low. "Your body is adjusting. You've been here many times before. Your flight training, your dive missions. You've been chosen for this mission because you are more than capable."
He helps Rude uncap the water bottle and lift it to his lips.
"This will not be what breaks you."
no subject
Had he more oxygen going to his brain he might have asked why the hell Tseng decided to do this on a whim. Participating in a fighting ring was definitely reasonable, he's not complaining about that. He still stands by his opinion that he could make it to the final fight at the very least. This training might be useful to him at some point in the future, but he doesn't know why he has to learn to breathe in thin air for a fight unless..
"Tseng," he pants, taking a drink and gradually composing himself to the feeling of maximizing the duration of each of his breaths for better oxygen circulation. "Where is the fight being held?"
Rude gradually lefts his weight off his makeshift trainer and looks him dead in the eye.
no subject
"Right here," he says. His hands slide away just as quickly, and he takes a step forward, joining Rude at his right-hand side. "Color me surprised that you've never heard of this place."
After all, this is what Rude does, isn't it? He knows all those exciting muscles and dazzling moves were tempered just for places like these, but it's been awhile, he supposes. Oh well. What a grand re-entrance for his quietest Turk.
no subject
Back in his day he had to worry about the first two and some violence outside the ring, but Tseng might have been right to keep insisting that he take this seriously. At first it's a little nerve-wracking, but he's killed and subdued men with little more than his bare hands, he doesn't doubt himself in that regard. And he's come a long way from the fighter he once was when he was knocking people around for money. Well, more often than not he was getting knocked around for money. This time would be different. He's not going to lose.
"Come on, let's keep training. I want to get used to this."
He wonders if they'd be able to go inside and scope out the competition? Was anyone even in there now? They were undercover enough that it wouldn't seem suspicious. Maybe.
no subject
"Stretch," he says, lowering his pack to the ground. The terrain here is hardly conducive to what he has in mind now, but that's better. Let Rude learn to account for multiple variables now. Later, it will help him focus. The bag opens with zipper purr, and Tseng pages through its contents until he produces a pair of focus mitts—custom-made, black as night, drafting the scent of rich leather across the buffeting gales of the mountain top. They fit his hands like a second skin, despite how unwieldy they are.
"Then square up," he says, waiting, watching. This time, he'll make no move to assist Rude with his stretches. He wants to see how far the Turk will push himself now that he realizes what is at stake.
no subject
He gives a final roll of his neck and shoulders before he nods. Rude misses his own pair of leather gloves. That barrier between himself and the people he hit was usually a safety blanket, but Tseng was special. He doesn't mind direct contact with his superior, and they were only just sparring. It wouldn't be necessary, he hopes.
Both fists raise up in front of him to show he's ready for whatever Tseng can throw at him. "Whenever you're ready."
no subject
And then he's squared and waiting. Tseng lifts his hands in kind.
"Let's start with a drill," he says, moving his mitts to illustrate the actions he wants as he goes along. "Jab, cross, jab, uppercut, uppercut. One, two, three, four, five."
His hands return to their stations. The rush of thrill tingles in the pit of his throat; Rude is wearing no gloves, this could hurt or go south quickly if Rude loses focus. Tseng could not be more excited to begin this dangerous dance.
"One..." he begins.
no subject
Rude watches the instruction and only needs to see it once to have the drill down, but watches the second repetition example to humor Tseng.
The first go-round Rude hits his mark perfectly, taking his time to ensure his form is right and his body is comfortable with it before he picks up the speed. He's working the way he normally would at whatever altitude Midgar and Edge were at, not accounting for the lack of oxygen supply here simply as an experiment. He wants to see the effect it has on him if he doesn't do anything to try to mitigate it. This is the control.
As he repeats the movements over and over again, his body falls into a rhythm and it feels like a dance. Rude loses himself in that 5-move combo and doesn't notice when he starts to get light headed again. The final uppercut of the set lands, but catches Tseng in the jaw before he realizes what he's done.
"Hand slipped."
no subject
Without gloves, it isn't so boring anymore. Tseng does not need to look beautiful to complete his half of the mission. Rude hits him so swiftly that he doesn't feel the ache until halfway through the next round. He sees stars belatedly, and his stomach drops. His eyes come alive.
"Focus. Square up," he insists, lifting his hands to start them over. "One..."
This go around, Tseng is hitting back harder. He offers more resistance, more pushback. He moves faster and turns the angle of pressure odd ways, trying to throw him. He's a good trainer—it's good practice. It's better begging for more.
no subject
This wasn't different. Being able to fight in this altitude would be another bullet point on his resume that no one would ever have to read. Just like the time the three of them tried to "practice" not drowning in Rufus' pool. The loser was the one who'd pass out first. He didn't loose, and he came out of that exercise a little more deadly than he'd come in.
The less oxygen that gets to his brain the more his thoughts cloud his focus and then he's not thinking much of anything at all besides about making sure his fists connect as hard as possible with their targets. Tseng takes the punch like a fucking god, and so Rude doesn't falter. He keeps going straightening up again, arms up, hitting his mark, blinking away the haze. His breathing is the variable that he changes, making sure to take full deep breaths to keep the oxygen demand met and it works. For a while.
The next time he hits Tseng it's in a similar spot. A mean right hook to the jaw. Was that even part of the rotation? He doesn't know. Just every time Tseng so much as lifts his hand his brain's impulses take control and he strikes. No oxygen for thinking, only for fighting. Only one brain cell was needed to do this sort of training, it seemed, and eventually Rude loses himself, trying to dodge Tseng's hands and get past them to hit him in the face again.
The face always gave more points.
..is the last thought he has before he starts to get light headed again. Right. Breathing. Maybe two braincells would be better.
no subject
"Focus, Rude," he hisses, but it's clear that's not breaking through whatever hazey shit is happening in Rude's head right now. Tseng's chin is bleeding down his shirt, lots of spill for how small he suspects the cut is. Either way, they can't afford this. Rude's got to sober up, Tseng has to make an executive decision.
He's pretty sure Rude's actively trying to tag him now. Tseng decides to use that against him. Sure enough, Rude's cutting up and Tseng is there to meet him with a guard, tapping his forearm against Rude's wrist to spin him off. It's the space he needs to throw off one mitt and let it clatter dully to the ground. He knows that if he blocks with one arm, Rude's gonna go for his open side, so he anticipates that too, lifts his leg for a high snapping kick to buy him more time, more space to throw off the remaining pad. Then they're back to start, both squared up and faced off, Tseng tense and ready for whatever Rude wants to pull next.
Funny, he's feeling a little dizzy too. Not because of the air or all the blood he's losing. It's like a pavlovian response to pain when it's Rude dishing it out, a druggie daze that settles over him and makes his guts twist sharply. But dammit, he's holding it together for the sake of the job, Rude can too.
"This is good," he says, taking one slow, methodical step to the side. "Don't lose this. Breathe. Focus."
no subject
Maybe part of him refuses to back down because he knows that Tseng can handle him even at his worst. Rude sees the opening and right away he takes the bait, knee raising for a kick when there's a kick thrown to his open side. His ribs are much better now, but the memory of when Tseng had crushed them before with his thighs and then Reno reinjuring them again during their fight after that. It yoinks him right out of his happy place.
His hands are still up like he's still going to fight, but at least now he has better things to worry about than thin air. Rude doesn't know when Tseng had started bleeding or lost the gloves, but this has turned into a proper training exercise somehow. He does need to focus. "Don't hold back. I can take it." He's a little short of breath, but he reorients himself to fix his breathing.