"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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"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."
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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.