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 Posted: Thu Jun 21, 2012 4:09 pm
For as much as Jett liked his solitude, he still found himself drifting to the gym twice a week. It wasn’t like he didn’t have his own supplies or anything; the more interested he’d gotten in boxing, the more he’d invested in his own home gym.
And yet, without fail, he still always made his way back to the gym.
Typically it was a good place to meet up with people, or do some socializing—particularly when it came to the friends he’d agreed to coach in boxing. He wasn’t here to meet up with anyone, just to get out of the house.
No classes meant he had too much free time, and with the antique shop he worked in undergoing minor renovations, it had been closed for the past few days and would be in a similar state for a few more.
His mother had left for another meeting, and while having the house to himself for a few days was always a fun experience, after the first few days, he tended to get a little bored of the silence.
He could have called up Micah for another training session, or maybe should have invited Grant to try and help the guy build up some muscle. It would have been just dandy if Raven could have shown up, but he didn’t imagine ‘Hey, let’s go get all hot and sweaty at the gym’ was going to be her idea of a good date.
Jett had decent enough timing; by the time he loaded up, got in his car and found a good parking spot, the midday sky was peppered with clouds just waiting to split open.
He had heaved his bag over his shoulder and walked into the gym just after the first few drops had fallen from the sky. Jett had been dressed for warm weather—or, at least, a warm workout—so when the cold water splashed on his bare shoulder, he knew to hurry his a** up.
The good news about working out in the middle of a weekday was that there was hardly any competition for space; most of the usual patrons had work to deal with. He had a favorite spot in the gym and made his way towards there, noting the people he did manage to see. A few were men he’d known for years, though several were strangers—and two were just downright obnoxious teenaged girls poking at the equipment and giggling and squirming like they’d never seen a punching bag before. He rolled his eyes, relatively annoyed by people who came in just to brag about having been there. It was an easy decision to make his way to the other side of the gym just so he didn't have to deal with them.
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Posted: Thu Jun 21, 2012 6:15 pm
Paris’s visits to the gym were few and far between.
He didn’t mind them so much. He did like to stay active, and they could be decent places to run into some relatively attractive people (or some unattractive people struggling to become more healthy and/or less unattractive), but he’d never had much of a need for them, and—despite what his boyfriend’s good looks might lead people to believe—attractiveness had never been much of a determining factor when it’d come to his previous version of “dating.”
He found himself at the gym now not for any desire he had to work out, but because his mother had encouraged him along in an attempt he suspected was meant to encourage him to work out his stress in a healthier fashion (because he didn’t expect Chris to keep his mouth shut about the running around Momma Gallo, and he didn’t trust Momma Gallo not to keep her mouth shut around Mom). Currently his mother was ensconced in one of the glass enclosed rooms off to the side, which would have made a decent space to dance if it weren’t currently occupied by a group of twenty or so women in the midst of a round of Preggers Yoga.
Which left Paris on his own, attired in his idea of gym clothes (old tennis shoes, pink shorts, and a black top with “Pineapple” scrolled across the front in white), making haphazard use of one of the treadmills as far away from those aforementioned giggling and squirming teenaged girls as he could possibly be.
He’d only been jogging for a little while before he decided the machine was absolutely boring and not nearly as satisfying as doing without (and he would be sure to inform Chris that, yes, he had tried and, no, he didn’t have any intention of making it a regular thing). His only saving grace was the fact that the gym played music and that he at least had something to listen to while mindlessly staring at some poster on the wall directly across from him.
Sadly, music made him feel like dancing, and trying to do any sort of dancing on a treadmill was not advisable.
He should know. He tried a few fun steps on a whim, unbalanced, and ended up being shot right off the machine straight into Jett’s path.
“… Ow…”
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Posted: Thu Jun 21, 2012 10:22 pm
Perhaps it was the environment that kept Jett so on edge, or maybe his experience in the ring—or maybe even all those late nights he’d spent out gathering energy—but when something came hurling towards you out your peripheral, he knew you had to act fast.
In this case, instinct had him hook his arm out to intercept the figure; he’d held his arm out to serve as a quick catch to prevent whatever—scratch that, whoever—had just come flying towards him.
Though he reacted quickly, it took him a bit longer to process the situation. All he’d seen was a mess of blond and pink. His eyes quickly traced the path that the stranger had come from, and he eyed the still running treadmill suspiciously until things gradually clicked into place.
Sure, he’d seen plenty of treadmill accidents. He’d seen people trip on loose shoelaces, trip over themselves—even fall asleep once before. Jett had mostly watched people fall into a heap near the machines, not fly so far away. If it was anything he had concluded about this person, it was that despite having been rather clumsy, they must have had some sort of balance to make it his far without winding up a heap on the floor.
“—I think the goal of a treadmill is so you can exercise while staying in one place. Not sure if anyone told you that before letting you use it.”
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Posted: Fri Jun 22, 2012 12:10 am
Having expected he’d go flying onto the floor, Paris was both surprised and relieved that that was not to be the case, as he imagined that might have hurt quite a bit, and he wasn’t very thrilled by the idea of being injured via treadmill. Not only would that be terribly embarrassing once people learned the reason for it was due to his own stupidity, but he just couldn’t handle any injuries right now. Too many other things to worry about.
Besides, if his career in dance was ended by something so dumb as a freaking treadmill when there were more dangerous things going on in his life, he would be so pissed.
And so it was with a look of relief that he glanced up at his savior—and a rather attractive one at that.
So maybe getting flung off a treadmill wasn’t so bad, after all. Score one for Paris.
“Oh,” he said, and tried to smile like this situation was completely normal, “yeah, my bad. Not really used to the whole staying in one place thing. Usually I’m allowed a little more movement. Trying a little one-two-step obviously wasn’t the best idea. Thanks for the arm, though.”
And he took his time getting a proper footing and extricating himself from said arm. If a good-looking guy was going to play the hero in this little debacle, who was he to complain?
“Sorry about that. I’ll try to actually remember where I am next time instead of zoning out. Bad habit. Still kind of working on it.”
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Posted: Fri Jun 22, 2012 11:48 am
Paris’ level of response was not what Jett had initially expected; his mind was still wrapped around the giggling girls, so it had been his mistake to assume this was just another one of them. Sans the pretty face and pink though, there seemed to be no correlation. There was no awkward giggling or manhandling of the equipment—just, apparently, an accident caused by lack of attention.
Things could have been worse, he supposed, and he nodded, apparently attempting to understand this stranger’s plight. He’d have been embarrassed as hell if something like this had happened to him, no matter how cool he tried to play it off. Still, for all it was worth, Jett was impressed at how well this stranger was brushing it off.
“No, it’s fine,” Jett insisted after a moment; he wasn’t going to let anyone get the impression that such a little thing as being bumped into was enough to really shake him. “If it’s so boring that you’re zoning out, why aren’t you just running outside?” he prompted. There was the small fact of the weather being rather disagreeable at present, but summer showers were short lived and it had been clear almost all morning. “Seems like that might be a little less dangerous—unless, of course, you’re the type of person to just one-two-step in front of a car, too…?”
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Posted: Fri Jun 22, 2012 5:49 pm
“Depends on how fast the car’s moving,” Paris joked.
It would have been very easy to be embarrassed by what had happened, but Paris didn’t usually let things like that bother him. There were worse things than taking a tumble from a treadmill. If he’d been hurt, he would have been mad at himself for not paying attention to what he was doing, but embarrassment wasn’t something he was all that used to feeling.
Paris made a move to shove his hands into the back pockets of his shorts, before he realized these particular shorts didn’t have any pockets to them. For lack of anything better to do, he propped one of his hands onto his hip and let the other hang loosely by his side.
“Usually I run outside, but some people are apparently of the opinion that I don’t know how to pace myself well on my own, so they thought it’d be a good idea to try out a treadmill instead,” he continued without shame.
Sometimes he was ashamed. Other times he didn’t think he had anything to be ashamed of. He ran to work out his problems. There wasn’t anything more to it than that.
After a moment, Paris turned back to the treadmill in question in order to turn it off. “I’m just waiting for my mom to get out of her yoga class,” he explained as he did so. “Clearly the treadmill’s no good after all. Maybe I’d be better off on one of the bikes. No chance of getting thrown off those, right?”
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Posted: Sat Jun 23, 2012 6:22 pm
After Paris mentioned the yoga class, Jett found himself glancing towards yoga class, glancing over the faces. Something about a bunch of women clustered in a tiny room doing some pretend form of exercise was amusing to him, though he allowed himself a few seconds to admire a few of the nicer looking ones. Of course, Jett didn’t allow his gaze to linger for too long; he didn’t know which one ‘mom’ was and didn’t want to be checking out some old lady.
His eyes drifted back to the stranger as he shut off the treadmill; for all the time Jett had spent at the gym, he had been on a treadmill only once, and never once touched a bike. For all he knew, they were death traps just waiting to be activated.
“I suppose you’d have to work pretty hard to get yourself thrown off of one of those.” Jett might not have been the nicest fellow some days, but he still knew his manners. There was probably some unwritten rule, after you’d spoken to someone for more than a minute you were supposed to exchange names, even if you weren’t ever going to see each other again. He held out a hand and introduced, “Jett Draven. So how often do you come to the gym with your mother? Doesn’t exactly seem like she’s good company at the moment,” he noted.
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Posted: Sun Jun 24, 2012 4:53 pm
Paris clasped Jett’s hand just long enough to make a decent greeting—nothing overtly flirtatious in nature but enough to seem more welcoming than rude. “Paris LeFay,” he replied.
He let his eyes sweep up and down Jett’s frame for a closer look, and while he definitely saw enough to like, he’d suffered a horrible lack of interest in anyone since he’d begun to date Chris. He could acknowledge another attractive dude easily enough and didn’t find anything particularly bad about looking so long as it didn’t cross the line into intense staring, but the compulsion to make a move on any male who showed him the time of day just didn’t present itself anymore.
He figured that was a good thing and didn’t usually dwell on it for very long.
“This is my first time, really,” Paris said once their hands had separated. Though he’d expressed the intention to try one of the bikes, he didn’t move over to them just yet. “I figure humoring her is the least I can do. We haven’t exactly been on the best terms for a while, so I guess having me nearby makes her feel better.”
It made him feel a little better, too, to be honest, but he wasn’t about to admit that to a stranger.
“I assume you come here often,” he observed with a cheeky smile. “Are you an athlete or do you just do it for the health and beauty benefits?”
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Posted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 1:50 am
Jett was vaguely jealous that Paris’ mother would even think to step into a gym; his own mother just laughed at the notion and brushed it off; in her youth she had, apparently, been rather active, though with age she had focused on more important things. She was already a stick; a heavy diet of hard work and fretting kept her unhealthily lean.
Briefly, he considered what Paris had said regarding mothers and relationships, however this hardly seemed the situation to pry—nor did it seem particularly interesting. Naturally, Jett liked to learn as much about a person as possible and, either they were interesting enough to keep around, or somewhere down the road he could use what he knew against them.
The only thing more appealing than prying, however, was talking about himself.
For as discrete as Jett might be about it, there was no greater satisfaction for him than reflecting on his achievements and priding himself on all that he had accomplished—bonus points if there was someone there to listen.
“Health and beauty? …Maybe not so much.” Boxing was not about being pretty, and probably wasn’t the healthiest sport one could engage in. “I suppose I’m pretty casual, but it’s kind of just routine by now. I’ve been boxing for a few years.”
In speaking, he took the opportunity to observe Paris, who was not at all unattractive, but was walking along a very thin line. Perhaps it was because he was used to his busty, nicely curved girlfriend that he related all girls to her, and that when he considered men, he compared them to the well structured, toned men of the gym that Paris seemed so odd. A bit androgynous, more pretty than handsome. The face of a girl—but was that an Adam’s apple? A lean body, but—hell, if those were breasts, Paris was sorely lacking.
Was Paris a boy’s name? It was a girl’s name, wasn’t it? But Paris didn’t sound like a girl…though, Jett had met more than his fair share of masculine women. And feminine men. That maybe looked too much like girls. And maybe kissed like them, too. Not that he would know about that or anything.
To save himself from any sort of embarrassment or perhaps the wrath of an angry mother for hurting her baby’s feelings (Thank you, Ms Rosen, for that pleasant reminder of just how awkward ‘meeting the parents’ can be) Jett refrained from outright blurting ‘By the way, Paris, would you mind telling me what, exactly, are you hiding in your pants?’ he figured he’d play it cool and see if he couldn’t figure it out, himself.
If not, he could always pants the kid and bolt.
“What about you? You run,” he noted, though he considered Paris to be far too pale to have done anything professional with it. “Are you just here for the health and beauty or is there an athlete in there, somewhere? Buried beneath that pretty little face and…” he paused. “Interesting wardrobe?”
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Posted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 1:25 pm
Paris could practically sense the confusion oozing out of this guy, and while he’d gotten into the habit of total honesty when it came to his gender in recent months, he couldn’t always squash the temptation to play the old guessing game. It wasn’t as if Jett had come out and asked about it yet, so Paris still had enough of an opportunity to play innocent and pretend as if he had no idea the other boy was even confused about it.
He had plenty working to his advantage, obviously. His lack of an impressive height could be frustrating at times, but his short stature and thin body certainly helped his appearance lean more toward female than male. Then there was the hair, of course, which he currently had pulled back into a sporty ponytail. His “pretty little face”—and he might have preened a little at that—was definitely the most source for confusion. Even without makeup on the fine bones and delicate features gave a more feminine appearance.
If there was anything he lacked it was the curves. His waistline had changed somewhat after hours spent running around the city at night in a restrictive corset, but his chest was notably unimpressive unless he chose to fake it, and his hips were not as wide as one would typically expect to see on a girl.
He had a great set of legs though—thin like the rest of him, but well-toned—and the full curve of his backside had occasionally been known to make up for the lack of ample breasts. The rest of him was suitably misleading. The Adam’s apple was by no means prominent. Most people completely missed it. Hell, Paris even forgot it was there, though some people with an especially critical eye might have picked up on it from time to time. His voice, too, was not one most people would expect from a boy. There was a lighter quality to it, high without being overly cutesy or squeaky—less sweet school girl and a little more sultry.
“An athlete and an artist,” Paris replied, turning in a demonstrative twirl as he said, “I’m a dancer.”
That was sometimes enough to explain away the flat chest to less observant individuals. He certainly had the body of a typical ballerina, strong legs with a less developed upper half. It helped that he danced mostly female roles these days. He was usually the one being lifted rather than the one doing the lifting.
“I’ve been doing some work for a local company, but that’s not really something I expect most guys to have any interest in,” he continued, still with that cheeky smile on his face. So far he definitely pegged Jett as the sort to fall into the “most guys” category.
“No offense or anything. To each his own or whatever. Do you do anything with your boxing, though?” he wondered. While Paris had never been one for aggressive sports, he had to admit there was something undeniably sexy about a guy who participated in them. “Like, matches or competitions? Or do you just do it to work out?”
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Posted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 4:45 pm
Jett allowed a little more time for subtle scrutiny; his list of girl versus boy was quickly leaning in one direction. Paris was quickly racking up the points on the feminine chart, but there was that little nagging voice in the back of Jett’s head, that little sliver of doubt.
…But at the end of the day, who cared?
Jett pushed his doubts aside; what reason had Paris given him to question gender other than acting differently than all the other pretty girls he saw.
He shrugged at Paris’ ‘most guys’ comment; for as much as Jett considered himself different from ‘most guys’, he at least shared that in common with him. His taste in art was somewhat lacking—particularly in the performing arts. There were times when he considered that acting might be interesting; on more than a few occasions, he’d played a role. Unprofessionally, of course. And never on stage.
His performances were limited to real life encounters, and it was rare that he was ever to reprise the same role twice. Once he got what he wanted, there was really no reason to keep up appearances.
Dancing, though? What was the benefit of that?
You couldn’t manipulate or charm anyone through dancing—did that have any real world applications? Of course he wouldn’t be interested in it. Never mind that dangers always looked like a strong gust of wind could steal them away. Flexibility might have been a plus.
He’d have to ask Raven about that.
“Used to. Haven’t in a few months, but I keep thinking about getting back into competitions.” He’d been getting into brawls still; boxing had come in handy when he was out patrolling energy, but Jett doubted that was the sort of thing he should be broadcasting. “Mom’s always disapproved, though. Always fusses over every little bruise I come home with, boxing related or not. She always gets worried I’ll step into the ring and never walk out.”
Not that boxing wasn’t dangerous; Jett was just too good at it to be worried about permanent injury. Or maybe he was just too cocky. It was most likely a mixture of both. “Of course, it hasn’t happened yet. I’m better than she thinks, but—moms,” he said with an exasperated—and yet still fond—sigh. His content, charming little smile never left his face. “Always worrying over the little things. But.” He shrugged. “I’ve humored her for a fair while. Kinda loses interest if you stand around and punch a bag full of sand. I like having an opponent, like when it’s a challenge. Though, prize money’s a good incentive, too.”
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Posted: Mon Jun 25, 2012 8:28 pm
He couldn’t tell if Jett was impressed or not, but then Paris knew not to expect most guys to think dancing was all that impressive in the first place. Plenty of people underestimated it, and underestimated him by extension. It was something he’d had to get used to over the years—first the teasing, then the bullying, then the disdainful question of “Dancing? What do you expect to be able to do with that?” from adults who thought there were better career paths out there, something less competitive and with greater odds for success.
Paris had held his own through most of it. He didn’t care if other people had trouble understanding it so long as they let him be. If he wanted to dance instead of becoming some big corporate hot-shot, he didn’t see what business it was of theirs. At the end of the day, all that really mattered was that he was happy with what he was doing.
He let himself look impressed with Jett even if the feeling wasn’t returned. It wasn’t all an act. There was something impressive about a guy who made good use of his fists, but he might have exaggerated the expression a little bit. He couldn’t help but think of some of the kids he’d grown up around back when he’d lived with his dad, talking with their fists and thinking so highly of themselves. It was sweet the way they liked to act like big, tough men, as if that were the only way to really validate their existence.
Paris could never quite make himself believe that it was.
“Yeah, I can’t say ballet’s as dangerous as boxing,” he replied with a short laugh, “but moms sure know how to overreact over every little injury. And dance moms are crazy. Like, you have no idea. My mom’s never been that bad, but there are some moms out there… man, you’d think a broken toe or one little mistake was the end of the freaking world. Seriously, they push for perfection. It’s not all just a bunch of skinny girls prancing around in frilly tutus.”
It wasn’t all a bunch of skinny boys prancing around in tights either, but he left the comment as it was.
“Is that what you were going to do before I so gracefully got in your way? Punch a sandbag?” he wondered. “Do you mind if I watch? Not to be a creeper or anything but, you know, to observe and stuff. I’ve never tried it before. I kick better than I punch.”
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Posted: Wed Jun 27, 2012 3:52 pm
Instinctively, Jett glanced to the punching bags to make sure he didn’t have to fight for a spot and nodded before he looked back at Paris. “Yeah, I was heading in that direction. If you wanted, you could come ‘observe’. Or you could go wild and give it a try. Never hurts to more than one way to fight. Especially if you, say, break a toe and still decide you want to go out and pick a fight.”
He shrugged, “Unless you’re worried about breaking a nail or something, then you can just watch. But I’ve got an extra pair of gloves if you want to give it a go or something,” he offered. There wasn’t really much he could gain from offering to give a few quick lessons other than company and some time acknowledging his passion. It wasn’t that he was volunteering because he was a nice guy or something—like that would ever be the case—but Jett wasn’t exactly friends with a lot of the other boxers, and—hell, the whole point of him coming out was to get a workout in and pretend like he hadn’t been playing recluse.
“Or I could just punch the bag and you could stand there, look pretty, and tell me more about your dancing,” he concluded; it might not have been Jett’s cup of tea, and as such it also happened to be a topic he was rather painfully ignorant in. When he thought of dancing, the first thing he thought of was a bunch of skinny girls prancing in frilly tutus—not that he was going to admit it. He wasn’t the sort of person who was going to go home and research dancing now that he’d met someone interested in it, but he figured there wasn’t any harm chatting about it now since Paris seemed to be passionate about it.
At least, he assumed Paris was passionate about it, given how much of a distraction that little one-two-step had been back on the treadmill.
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Posted: Mon Jul 02, 2012 11:24 am
“Well, I can’t say I’m the sort to pick random fights with people, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to give it a try,” Paris decided.
He, too, looked in the direction of the punching bags, but it was more to give them some thought rather than to make sure there weren’t too many people over there already. While he supposed he could be considered a physical being given how often and how much he enjoyed being close to people—he was a prolific cuddler, after all—he was by no means a violent person unless it was strictly necessary for him to be so. Patrolling had certainly presented him with various opportunities to test out his fighting skills and figure out what he was good at and where he could use some work.
Paris had to admit punching was not his forte. Perhaps, he thought, it might be a good idea to give one of the punching bags a quick go.
“Not so worried about breaking a nail, no,” he said, amused by the assumption—as he was by many of the assumptions people tended to make about him. “But I think I’ll watch first anyway, just to see a little of what I’m getting myself into. Not that I have anything against standing around and looking pretty for a good-looking guy,” he added with a small, potentially flirty grin.
He told himself he wasn’t really flirting flirting because it wasn’t as if it meant anything. He was just finding a source of entertainment whenever and wherever he could get it.
“Would your extra set of gloves fit me?” he wondered, and held up his hands to demonstrate as he said, “My hands are pretty small-ish. Don’t know if size matters.”
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Posted: Mon Jul 02, 2012 5:05 pm
Jett’s eyes drifted to Paris’ hands after flashing a well placed smile of his; he had always enjoyed a little playful flirting, even if he was in a relationship. It wasn’t like he was going to run off and have his way with Paris, so it wasn’t like Raven really had much to worry about. Words were just words, and he’d tell whoever he wanted whatever he wanted.
Especially if she wasn’t around to berate him for it.
A very slight examination resulted in Jett nodding after a brief moment of consideration, coming to the conclusion that the gloves would fit with ease. Not that he’d really had any doubts, Paris was just so tiny compared to him. “Nah, they should be fine. Gloves are pretty much one-size-fits-all so far as actual size. You only have to really worry about getting different gloves depending on your weight or what you’re training for. If you’re just starting or just screwing around, there’s not really a big deal with glove size.”
He was neither impressed nor upset that Paris had chosen to decline his offer; boxing wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and he and Paris already seemed to be on opposite ends of the spectrum. He nodded again towards a particular bag before he started walking, the only indication of his destination. He could talk about his boxing for hours if need be, however conversation was a two way street, and if he was going to have an audience, he might as well take something away from all this.
“So, dancing,” he began, dropping his bag on a conveniently placed bench nearby. “My mom took me to some show a few years ago.” She was an opportunist, like him, and though dancing might not have been her pool of interest, when she’d been given two tickets, she had decided to make the best of them. Jett had reluctantly attended, but his mother had been thrilled with the opportunity to dress up.
He had never mentioned to tell her—and certainly had no intention of informing Paris—that he had fallen asleep during the production, and he couldn’t even remember the name.
He pulled out a fairly new pair of cloth hand wraps and began to quickly bind his hands. “You done anything worthwhile yet or still working your way up the ranks?” he prompted, figuring that was a nice enough way to ask if he was any good.
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