2020-10-07 - The Warrior's Code

Itzhak told Dante to meet him at Kelly's, so he can teach him how to throw--and more importantly, take--a punch. Here they are, on a cooling autumn evening, the dark falling earlier and earlier, the trees beginning to drop their brilliant leaves. It's Pacific Northwest noir at its best, in this old brick gym that never heard of 'spin class'.

Itzhak, wearing a snug compression tank top and loose athletic pants, is getting a roll of tape out of the gym bag he's got open on the bleachers. Kelly's has lockers and showers and the usual, but he's in the bad habit of having fallen out of using them. Nobody who sets foot in here will touch his stuff.

Once upon a time, Dante considered training here. But various things got in the way, and it became easier just to use Bayside's extensive gym instead. He enters, carrying a gym bag, wearing expensive looking workout gear, including tight jogging pants and a rash guard top. He definitely looks more like he's going for a jog than to get into the ring, but he does have boxing gloves with him. These days, he's let a bit of a beard grow in, and it's flecked with silver.

"You ready to do what so many have dreamed of and punch my pretty face?"

Itzhak smirks, glancing up. "I'll be gentle. It's ya first time." He beckons him over, rips lengths of tape off the roll. "I ain't a coach, not really, not like Kelly. So if you wanna get deeper into this stuff, get a hold of him. He'll make us spar each other, it'll be a blast. Hold ya hand out." This is so Itzhak can start winding tape around Dante's hands, to reinforce the knuckles. "That beard looks great on you, you know that?"

"Oh sir, if you think you'd be the first to bop me in the nose..." Dante drawls. "I actually boxed a little in school. But I was also in the drama club, and it just seemed too risky after a time."

He sets his bag down and offers his wrist out to Itzhak. He grins a little at the comment about the beard. "Don't get used to it. It's just so I don't stand out quite so much with all these ridiculous stories going around town. For once in my life, I don't want to be easily spotted."

"Too late, I'm already used to it. Looks hot." Itzhak tapes Dante up, then does himself, which he does practiced and easy. "Like you needed to be hotter, you jerk. These rumors are mishegoss, man. We found out how to stop 'em, though. Can you get your gloves on okay or do you need help before I get mine on?"

Dante picks up his gloves and taps them on like a pro. He grins, clearly pleased with himself. Then, "Bollocks. I forgot my mouth guard. Or are we not there yet?"

He scratches at his beard with the gloved hand. "I hate the gray," because he is a vain peacock, "But colouring it is a royal pain when it's this length. And, oh? Do tell? I'd really love to stop being a father to invisible children."

"Forgot ya mouth guard? Well, I can't hit you in the face then. Gotta wait till next time. Why hate the gray? It looks fuckin' fantastic on you. I dunno if you noticed, but the silver foxes in this town gotta beat 'em off with a stick." Itzhak doesn't actually get his gloves on yet, because it'd make sense for one of them to be able to pick things up. Leading Dante to the ring, he goes on, "So it don't actually fix the rumors, but you can get her to change 'em to something maybe you can live with better. Her--the Revisionist. She's the one been writing this stuff like it's a bad soap opera."

"Oh no, I brought it, I just..." Dante holds up the glove that he just put on. "But I should've just let you think I did forget it. A way to preserve my mug." Instead, he does pop one glove off and reach down for the case with his mouth guard. "I hate it because I'm a vain bastard and I like the clean look of one shade of hair. Most of the silver's in my beard and my temples. And I don't know if I'm ready to be a silver fox just yet. Not sure if I'm done being a horny young fox."

He steps into the ring and wrinkles his nose at Itzhak's explanation. "That sounds like a bloody gamble. What if it changed things so as the town thought I was a stinky poorly-dressed vagabond or something? It seems to like doing things like that."

"I mean, that might happen. You don't exactly get to pick. But I met her, she's, well, she's bugfuck nuts but she ain't so bad compared to some of 'em over There. Maybe you could find a way to bribe her or schmooze her, I dunno."

Oh, Dante DID remember his mouth guard! Itzhak doesn't even try to pretend he's not pleased. "Hell yes, I still get to pop you in the face. C'mon, you can be silver and not done being young and horny." Then, remembering what exactly they're doing, "Okay, so, you're gonna hit me first. If I was Kelly I'd make you work the bag and correct your form and stuff, but I dunno how to do that so it's good for you. On the other hand, brawling, I know. So just throw a punch at me." He gives Dante a saucy little beckoning of his long inked fingers, waggling his eyebrows.

"There's others of them? Pulling the strings?" Dante pops the mouthguard in. He settles it into place using his tongue, then slides his gloves back on. He actually doesn't have horrible form. His guard goes up.

"Now, this is the part I struggle with. I'm someone who always tried talking his way out of a fight. I've only thrown a handful of punches not at a bag." But he has been working out rather obsessively for the past six months., and keeping away from delicious, delicious carbs. Which was a challenge given he just opened a restaurant.

"Yeah. There's others. Tell you later. Right now you got something bigger to worry about. Me." Itzhak rolls forward, and despite the boxing ring setting, despite his workout clothes, suddenly there's something different about him. Suddenly, his eyes on Dante and his weight shifted and his big hands tensing into fists...he'd look more at home on the windy wet street outside, a rough man with violence on his mind. "Don't talk, Taylor. Just slug me."

"Ah," says Dante, as he tries to correct his guard. This is definitely not a natural state for him. "Just like this? No warm-up?" He walks around Itzhak, placing his feet deliberately and keeping his profile low. He's watching how the other man moves. Then he attempts to throw a punch. It's clearly the punch of someone who was taught proper form once upon a time but who hasn't done it properly in a long time.

"This is the warm up." Itzhak grins. He slips aside, not allowing Dante's hit to fully impact but enough to bap him. "Oof. You weren't kiddin' about the muscles, buddy. Good! Keep ya wrist straight, you want your knuckles aligned with your wrist, or you'll sprain something. C'mon, again." Walking backwards, he circles, eyes on Dante. "You got more horsepower than me, you just gotta figure out how to use it."

"I obviously can't sprain my wrists. They're my livelihood. And no one wants to hear my writing process out loud." Dante takes a swing before he finishes saying those words. It's a bit wild and telegraphed, but it's got some power behind it. He may have put a lot of work into his workouts, but that doesn't mean his muscle is purely decorative.

Itzhak dips aside again, this time bringing up his guard. He grunts at the impact to his ribs, grin widening. "Yeah! Good!"

Then he reaches out and shoves Dante. That isn't regulation! But he shoves him just like he's trying to bully him. "I'm comin' up to you and I wanna mess with you, whaddaya gonna do about it?"

"Oi!" Dante sort of paws at the hand shoving him. He rocks back, putting distance between them. His guard goes back up when he sees what Itzhak is doing. "Assuming throwing my wallet at you wouldn't do the trick?"

He swings again, but overextends. It's bad form. It's the kind of move that would only work if he caught someone by surprise and off-guard.

Promptly Itzhak backs off, lets the swing go whistling by him. His legs are so long he can just kind of step out of range whenever he feels like it, and he's obviously got plenty of practice doing exactly that. "Good! I mean ya form was terrible but you know what's good? You took a fuckin' swing. That's what's important here, convincing some asshole like me that you ain't gonna roll over."

"Wouldn't that just encourage him to go for a weapon? Like a gun?" asks Dante as he starts to circle Itzhak. Some muscle memory is returning. It's far from perfect, but there are some fundamentals there. He jabs, but doesn't throw a full punch, just to see what Itzhak would do. Dodge? Throw up a guard? Side-step? "And we both know that rolling over can sometimes be fun." He grins fiercely, flashing that mouth guard.

"Nine times outta ten, nope. You know what you do if he does pull a gun or a knife? You run the fuck away screaming 'He's got a gun!'" Itzhak perks right up when Dante throws a few jabs. He leans in, guard up, and then laughs. "We sure as hell do, don't we?" His breath comes in little huffs as he maneuvers, falling into the rhythm of sparring. Thump! Thud! as Dante lands hits on his guard or his ribs. "Whoo! You got a spicy one there, Taylor."

Then without telegraphing, Itzhak pops him back. Quick, not with all his strength, and not in the face. In the torso. Pow!

And that gets easily through Dante's guard - such as it is. He winces and staggers back. "Ah. Ooof. I'd hate to know what that feels like when you're not pulling your punches. Break my bloody ribs, I reckon." There's a tiiiny slip in his accent, to something less posh and polished. Maybe it's the fisticuffs, maybe it's the concentration.

He shuffles back, switches his guard, then attempts to throw a few more. They're all aimed at Itzhak's core except the last one which does go for the head. He doesn't expect it to connect because his form really is all over the place.

Itzhak blocks, blocks, then whap! Dante connects with him in the face. He yowls in Yiddish--oy, gelaimter!--and skitters out of range, half-laughing, half-pissed off. "Christ, Taylor! I can't read you when ya flailing like that. ...that's great, actually." Itzhak wipes his nose, checks for blood, but he got out of it only lightly marked. His cheekbone is going rosy, though. "Good job."

An evil glint in his eye, he comes after Dante then, and he means business. The business of trying to pop Dante one in the face, namely. But he's still going faster than hard; he's still not aiming to pummel him. Just to give him a little taste.

"Oh, oh my," Dante looks a bit shocked that his punch connected. And a bit embarrassed, too. So there's absolutely no guard up when Itzhak goes to return the favor. His head snaps back a bit and splits his lip. "Ah, bloody...oooh..." He backs up, shuffling feet, guard now up. He slaps his gloves together. It's on.

He takes another swing, this time a hook to the ribs rather than the face. He's still over-telegraphing, but still managing a fair bit of power in spite of that.

"Hah!" With that bark of glee, Itzhak steps right in to mix it the fuck up. "Give it ta me, Taylor!" ...phrasing! He's all leg and elbow and too-fast fiddler's hands in a fight, grinning, cussing, on the move. But he's not fighting to win--it'd serve no purpose. He's fighting to wear Dante out, to teach him what it's like to go into several contacts, work those out, back off, come back in for more.

And to bruise him up, and to leave his mark on Dante's pretty face, of course. Dante said he could. Itzhak is taking him seriously. Besides, he wants a few bruises himself.

Dante has stamina and strength going for him, if not form. But in boxing, overextending and telegraphing like he's doing burns energy. He's also doing a fair bit of chasing Itzhak around the ring. So it starts to wear him down. He starts to get sloppy. Which means the other man gets to decorate his face with a few more bruises and a split lip.

When he does land the odd hit, it's with some power. He's also not great at pulling his punches. Not that he's not trying but if he holds back too much, he has no chance of landing any hits at all. "You're wearing me out, Itzhak," he says on the exhale.

"Yeah? You wanna say uncle?" Itzhak's sweated up real good at this point too, his curly forelock dripping into his eyes. He's breathing hard but even, big bony ribcage going in and out. The differences between him and Dante are stark: this is a song Itzhak knows by heart, a song with its own beats and crescendos and rests. Like everything else Itzhak does, there's something musical about the way he fights, the rhythms he falls into. Which is a way he can teach Dante, too.

He's got a gorgeous bruise developing on one cheekbone where he was careless and let Dante catch him, and there's bruises hiding under his tank top by now, too, but he's having himself a fine time.

"I think if you hit me much more, you're going to have the wrong surly Mexican showing up at your door," says Dante with a chuckle and a curl of his lip into a half-shark smile. But he doesn't drop his guard until they've formally called it off. He keeps his literal dukes up, even as a little bit of blood trickles from his lip down his chin.

It's quite the contrast from how he came in, all neat and in expensive workout clothes. And now, well, he looks exactly like he exchanged a few punches with a New Yorker.

"Aight, aight." Itzhak calls it, straightening up and waving Dante's fists down. First he baps them with his own, though. "That was a good fuckin' bout. This's a good look on ya, Taylor." He's teasing, but he means it, eyeing Dante. "Rumpled and bloodied up. I like it."

He ducks out of the ring and goes straight for his water bottle, standing on the bleacher next to his gym bag. That gets more than half emptied before he comes up for air and gestures at Dante. "How ya feel? Did that help?"

"I think it would have been more therapeutic if I didn't like you," says Dante as he ducks out of the ring. He pulls off his gloves and flexes his hands. There's a wince as he does it. "There's going to be some funny looks when I walk into Sitka with a split lip and bruises. Though I think I might be able to cover some of it up."

Because of course he uses concealer. He also might wear eyeliner, but it's subtle enough it's hard to confirm.

"So. How did I do? Be honest."

"Tell everybody your violinist roughed ya up, guy's a troublemaker." Itzhak seems to be in a fine mood, grinning at Dante, a little bloodied his own self. "Look, honestly, you're a lot less bad than you led me to believe." Well, ask for honesty, get it.

Itzhak goes on, waving the water bottle, both hands in motion. "You wanted me to show you how to take a punch? Well, you took 'em like a champ. I didn't know if you were gonna let me pop you in the face once and then decide that was enough. You didn't do that. You hung in there and let me hit you and you hit back. That's the really important part of knowing how to fight. The rest of it's just technique."

"Well, if I'm being honest, I've sort of learned how to stand up for m'self. I wasn't always over six foot," and buff, but Dante's been working on that part. "And I was always a bit...well, a bit of a peacock. Except for those few years when I tried to be a straight man. If you want to wear a pale blue suit and a pink pocket square, you have to be ready to be popped in the chin by some insecure douche." He grins and goes for his own water bottle.

"I also went to pub...private school with some archaic traditions they haven't fully modernized."

"Good," Itzhak says, fierce. "You fought for how you wanna dress? That's what I like to hear." His eyes tick over Dante, then look away. "Archaic traditions, what's it y a mean by that?"

"Mhmm, like capital punishment and hazing that were officially outlawed but vestiges still remained. As well as the environment that normalized it for ages." Dante dabs at his bloody lip with a towel, but that just makes more of a mess. For a guy concerned with his appearance, he doesn't seem to mind that he got roughed up a little. "They had only just 'phased out' caning a few years before I became a student."