Wake me up, lower the fever

[rivalize]

Who: Tristan Terran & Tyler Vaughan
What: Just a guy trying to get back into shape running into a manly health nut. They have this knack for unexpectedly stumbling upon each other, but hey; third time's a charm?
When: Right about now.
Where: Under the sun, will update if this change.

[Man, it hurts. Arms and legs alike, and every single muscle in his body. He'd thought them long gone, but what's left of them is cruelly reminding him that he should never have stopped exercising. His lungs are on fire and his pulse throbs in his temples and Tyler jogs like a pathetic novice, refusing to stop. There's no way in hell he'll go back home feeling so lame and it's what pushes him to keep running, no matter how weak his knees have come to feel under his weight.

The sun's crested the sky and it's hot and humid and he's kept it up for a couple hours now, long enough to take note of the clouds slowly obscuring the atmosphere. Rain—or worse—a thunderstorm in training. Tch. He doesn't need an excuse to stop, not when he's already begging for one in the far back of his mind, and he runs faster and he breathes harder and he's pretty sure his heart is on the verge of giving out. But he won't. It's been a constant battle since he's left the false security his parents provided, to prove that he's better than what they gave him credit for—not to the world, but to himself—and there's no room for disappointment.

He was never the athlete they wanted him to be and it's why he ditched everything, because it was never what he'd wanted. The competition, the training, the strict routines, all for what? Certainly not any sort of glory that belonged to him, and once away from his father, he ridded of everything reminiscent of him.

Including exercising.

It's something he regrets now, disgustingly warm in the heavy weather, but it's his choice and it makes for a small victory. So what if he winds up fainting. At least this pain is self-inflicted and it's twisted in ways he can't even begin to fathom, but it's his and it's what matters. Responsibility. Self-sufficiency. Free will. It's what he strives for, and everything counts. Even the risk of humiliating himself.

He doesn't see the crack on the bridge he's crossing, gaze up and wind in the hair as he puffs out his chest in a proud attempt to convince himself that he's fine. But he's not. He's weary and out of breath and sweaty and there's that stupid pothole in the middle of nowhere and it's like his feet have a mind of their own. Of course they'd be deliberately attracted to it. Of course he lowers his head a second's fraction too late, and up go his hands and down goes his face, tripping over it with less grace than a klutz. It's a matter of seconds but it feels like hours as he lands on all-fours, scraping his palms and cracking his back in the process, pitifully breathless near the bridge's metallic rail. And he prays that nobody's watching like the conflicted hypocrite he is, frown tight and skin flushed in frustrated embarrassment.

So maybe some other things do matter, after all.]

Comments

running is difficult it's ok ty. btw the pic is just to show it's not a fannypack ROFL ino important

[kindofearthy]

[ And why shouldn't he jog in the middle of the day? When the heat's hit its peak and the humidity is as suffocating as the sun is bright? Bah. He's never been particularly thrilled about running in any capacity or time of day; in fact, he avoids it as often as he can, because bulk and build aren't meant for streamline motion. See, he sticks to the gym most days and bypasses the elliptical machines in favor of the weight room or on occasion, the pool for some laps. But unfortunately, while it is, in fact, summertime, some students have their year leases beginning now for the college owned apartments just off campus and so, his membership there at the college funded gym? Today isn't a good day for a visit. Apparently, a good chunk of the complexes decided to create some sort of basketball tournament between the assortment of apartments and with the influx of players and bystanders to cheer and watch, Tristan just can't find it in himself to deal with students.

… He really needs to stop that.

See. There's tiers of adulthood. Eighteen, twenty-one and beyond. He isn't much older than most of the kids taking courses and yet he feels the disconnect; he's social but not quite enough so to become involved simply to become involved and so he feels... older. Much older.

Though, maybe not too old, because there's still that slapstick amusement that bubbles up inside and then clenches tight to have him cracking a grin when there's the distinct trip, fumble and crash of someone up ahead. There's a good heart lodged away in his chest though and while the pang of entertainment has him wanting to laugh, the other part of him – with all the responsibility and concern and do-goodness – has him wanting, briefly, to help. In the end, he probably wouldn't have offered, because a trip is usually nothing more than scrapes and embarrassingly flushed cheeks, and thus, not nearly anything in dire need of his assistance, but the path he's on? It leads up that way to the bridge and so, there's nothing to do other than to keep moving.

And really, he should have expected it. They often cross paths when he's having an off day.

He's hunched on the ground, face obscured and form indistinguishable in the crouch, but there's white and really, how many kids have hair that color? Oddly enough, it's the slowing down part that's always the hardest and he feels it in his knees and his chest and his back as his body gets a taste of rest. All he can suddenly think about is the water bottle at his hip as he huffs through his breath, trying to calm his lungs and the throb of his pulse; his dark grey shirt is a little darker in certain patches and there's a sheen from his neck up to his forehead, but he ignores the moisture in favor of quirking a smile while adjusting the heavy, black rims of his sunglasses. Tyler, how nice to see you. ] … Having trouble?