[ It's too quick. He should have at least felt something, but there's no room for questioning in the fall, Robby's head knocking the back of the flooring as hard as his torso, and it's only by learnt instinct that his limbs start to move in defence.
It's more of a flail, a single arm, and the strike connects. As breathless as his drop, pressing into him as he does into the wood; his world is dizzy in his ears, but his eyes snap sharply onto the form of Paul above him as the wound up tension in him breaks as he soaks in what he perceives, what permeates the air without an utter word being spoken.
It might be the smile sewn onto his face, unnerving and immovable; or the late realisation of what Robby's sparked or some other indescribable means of communication that lets him know that competition has dialled into challenge, and rules are self-decided.
He flips up, but doesn't straighten as he witnesses Paul coming back for him, and Robby carries his weight with the knowledge that he needs it. He's fast, but Paul is faster; Paul has height, but less weight to his muscle that gives Robby more force and more ability to absorb moves. Because that's what this becomes about: a war of attrition, reflexes and executing the next move while already in another. They both have precision, both with their counters even with Paul's Eagle Fang training; but this lost its make-up in being about dojos somewhere in one of the drops, and certainly by the time that fists meet faces.
Blood drawn doesn't stop Robby. They each have their purpose in this fight, whether it's anything they can grasp as firmly as the other's hair, the other's clothing; but it won't be satisfied by any kick plunged into one's stop, an elbow smashed into the other's nose.
It's shaped like survival for one of them, who doesn't know where or how the end comes; not when the other doesn't stop, and when stopping seems to be a foreign concept, anyway. ]
no subject
It's more of a flail, a single arm, and the strike connects. As breathless as his drop, pressing into him as he does into the wood; his world is dizzy in his ears, but his eyes snap sharply onto the form of Paul above him as the wound up tension in him breaks as he soaks in what he perceives, what permeates the air without an utter word being spoken.
It might be the smile sewn onto his face, unnerving and immovable; or the late realisation of what Robby's sparked or some other indescribable means of communication that lets him know that competition has dialled into challenge, and rules are self-decided.
He flips up, but doesn't straighten as he witnesses Paul coming back for him, and Robby carries his weight with the knowledge that he needs it. He's fast, but Paul is faster; Paul has height, but less weight to his muscle that gives Robby more force and more ability to absorb moves. Because that's what this becomes about: a war of attrition, reflexes and executing the next move while already in another. They both have precision, both with their counters even with Paul's Eagle Fang training; but this lost its make-up in being about dojos somewhere in one of the drops, and certainly by the time that fists meet faces.
Blood drawn doesn't stop Robby. They each have their purpose in this fight, whether it's anything they can grasp as firmly as the other's hair, the other's clothing; but it won't be satisfied by any kick plunged into one's stop, an elbow smashed into the other's nose.
It's shaped like survival for one of them, who doesn't know where or how the end comes; not when the other doesn't stop, and when stopping seems to be a foreign concept, anyway. ]