nonscriptum | hadriel { ic inbox }

For about two days.

[It had not at all been a good fit for him, both for some of the reasons he's nervous now and because he'd also been about five feet tall. But he shakes his head at the question, watching Nate.]

Not really, but I assume it's to stabilize the joints and tendons?

[That would make sense, right?]

You're not too far off, actually.

[Tucking one wrap in his pocket, he unravels the first and shows him where to loop it before starting the process. Slowly, with the intention of Lance following along.]

It's partly for safety, partly for stability. A good wrap tightens your fist when you clench it, keeps it in the right shape. If you get in a fight you obviously won't have time to wrap your hands up, but at least you'll know what your fist is supposed to feel like before you take a swing.

[It's a form of muscle memory training that he didn't have at his own disposal when he first started throwing punches in the cafeteria or the schoolyard, but it should serve Lance well in getting him acclimated to the feeling.]

[Lance pays careful attention to what Nate's doing, copying his movements and beginning to wrap his hand as Nate does.]

Right, okay. That makes sense. The less time you have spend thinking during a fight, the better.

[He distinctly remembers how fast everything had happened in the fight at home, even if at the time the moments had also seemed to stretch out. So much had happened in such a short time, and it had gone from a back and forth exchange to being over in just a few seconds.

He still doesn't know, exactly, what he could've done, even looking back. That certainly doesn't help his confidence but at the same time it's also a good reason to be learning, even if he hasn't quite realized yet that he's stopped copying Nate's wrapping and is instead sort of just staring down at his hand.]

[Lance acknowledges, processes, and seems to get stuck again. Nate has to wonder if this is what it's like working with his own damn self when he gets caught up, or drifts into a new train of thought. People frequently tell him it's annoying, so, probably.

It's a lot. He exercises patience, tugging his own wrap off and moving around in front of Lance. Gently prying the fabric free he finishes the wrap for him, picking up the conversational slack.]

You're gonna suck the first few days we work on this, [Nate warns him, pinning the cloth to the back of Lance's wrist.] Until you find your rhythm. Practice makes perfect.

[Stepping away with a reassuring pat to Lance's bicep, Nate retreats back to his bag for the punching pad he brought.]

Put that other wrap on, Rocky.

[He snaps out of it as soon as Nate moves to help finish the wrap, immediately somewhat embarrassed both for zoning out and for need the help because of it.

But Nate is being patient and so Lance takes a moment to let out a long, quiet exhale, refocusing on watching what Nate's doing and then nodding in understanding at his words. Right. Okay, he's going to suck at this, and it's fine; they both know it, so no pressure, right?

He works on the other wrap as Nate goes to dig through his bag, finishing it quickly and shaking off the rest of his mood.]

So, did you ever have any actual lessons, or did you just pick everything up through experience?

[The tone of the question is purposefully light, not because he thinks it'll be a touchy subject but because he's trying to keep a positive attitude and move on with this whole thing.]

[Nate cobbled together something akin to a punching pad - with limited resources like theirs, he didn't exactly have a choice - and fishes it free now: canvas with a MacGyvered handle, fabric and leather in a general oval shape. He didn't want Lance throwing punches at his face or chest for practice.

Not at first, anyway.]

Experience, mostly? [He doesn't think that coaching from his older brother on how to take hits more effectively qualifies as a professional lesson.] After Sam got kicked out of Saint Francis I got picked on a lot more often. Had to learn really quickly what not to do.

[Time and again he would get written up, receive the usual chastisement from a livid Sister Catherine, overhear the concerned please for his well-being from Father Duffy. It wasn't so different from other prisoners or a warden with a big stick.]

Didn't really matter if it was street kids competing for an alley, or some overly-friendly inmates, or the cartel. Everyone hits the same. You learn which buttons to push and you get fast, or... [His note wrinkles at a brief memory and he stands, fitting the pad over one hand.] You bleed out in a gutter.

[Yeah, bleeding out a gutter--or a parking garage--isn't fun, and Lance almost makes a morbid comment about such, but decides not to. Instead, he files all that information away and raises his eyebrows, giving a small grin as he wanders a little closer.]

Did you ever break your hand?

From making a fist the wrong way? No.

[He's lucky. Luckier than he knows, and lucky enough that it may be noticeable to others. The kind of scrapes that Nate walks away from with a quip and a smile would kill most men.

Nate remembers trying to clock a blockhead employed by Katherine Marlowe, though, and how ineffective boxing maneuvers were until he roped a safety line around the guy and pushed him out of a falling airplane. Treasure hunting needs hazard pay.]

From punching a guy with a jaw made of granite? Almost. Now show me your stance.

hadriel { ic inbox }

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