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

THIS PIC SHOULD BE EXACT. AND oh, I guess Tristan isn't a real man then >:

[rivalize]

[Hey, no. There was a free apple fritter involved, don't even try. People, these days. Tch. Can't lend a hand without expecting the moon in return. Tyler knows he's teasing—or taunting, more like—but it stings right where it's supposed to and goddamn it Tristan. He tries. For once he's given a chance to do his own thing and granted, it's far from perfect, but the efforts are where they should be, even though it's not enough. Have a little faith, yeah? Or don't, and call him a baby.

It's what distracts him from the bottle—he's so damn thirsty—and while he noted the slip—a curse?—his focus is lost the second his virility shut up feels jeopardized.] A bab— What? [His lips part and close and part again, but whatever he's thinking to say dies in the back of his throat. Babysitting? Really? Well-played, Mister Counselor, but it's nothing that sits well with him. To claim that he's piqued would be an understatement, and he scoffs and he shakes his head and he growls, the sound slightly hushed by the rolling of thunder in the distance.] As if. [He should have known that this stalking thing would be turned against him. Tch. He would look fierce if the curve to his lips wasn't so akin to a frustrated pout, and it's almost cute—comical if anything—but he tries so hard to defend himself the flames in his eyes are still strong. The thing is, he doesn't really know how to defend himself. He's too used to take it without a word and if there's fury boiling inside him, he's never learnt to let it out. So he gestures towards Tristan, head shaking in unison, as if somehow his hands can convey all the insults he can't think to say.] You're barely even older than I am! [There. That's something, isn't it? For a start, anyway. He groans, palms on hips, and quietly sobers up with a:] Nobody's forcing you to come back, y'know. [Except losing a customer really wouldn't be ideal, and he holds his gaze as stubbornly as he can manage, miffed and cross and a trifle bashful.]