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
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.