crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2022-01-07 10:05 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2022-01-07 10:05 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 33: Knot
It's 1 am, and they've got to be up for training at 5, so Hurricane doesn't expect to find anyone in the gym.
He's usually got the place to himself this late – an hour or two to run through some routines on the balance beam and the parallel bars, without anyone around to remind him of combat maneuvers for a change.
It helps him clear his head. If he stays in motion long enough, sometimes his brain will shut up and turn off for a while, until all that's left is the thrill of motion and the static buzz of exhaustion behind his eyes. And most days? Most days that's better.
When he pushes open the door today, though, the light's already on, and there's Sasha sprawled out on the weight bench. He's not lifting anything, though; he's still and he's quiet, eyes closed and face locked in a grimace.
Hurricane's calling out before he can think better of it: "Dude, you okay?"
Sasha's eyes come open. He sits up, and then winces. "Is nothing," he says.
"Kinda looks like something," says Hurricane, crossing the gym to stand beside him. It's weird, looking down at Sasha; usually the other boy towers over him, but he doesn't rise from where he's seated, this time, and Hurricane gives him a quick once-over to check for injuries. "What's up? You drop a free weight on your head?"
Sasha hesitates a beat. "My leg," he says at last. "The muscles, they are making knots."
"Dude," says Hurricane, with a sympathetic wince. "Charley horses suck. You really planning on playing tall dark and stoic and just waiting for it to go away?"
"That was plan," says Sasha.
"Yeah," says Hurricane. "Naw. You gotta kinda poke at em some, or they stick around longer."
Sasha frowns up at him dubiously. He bends down, though, and prods gingerly at a spot on his calf.
"Yeah," says Hurricane. "Like that. Not just once, though, you gotta keep going till it relaxes. Stretch it out some, too; it'll feel better."
Sasha prods at it again, with three fingers this time. "You have strange idea of feeling better."
Hurricane rolls his eyes – plops himself down cross-legged on the floor at the base of the exercise equipment. "Here," he says. "I'll do it."
He bats Sasha's hands away, and he reaches out to help.
It's a bad one; he can tell as soon as he digs in with the ball of his thumb. Sasha sucks his breath in and takes hold of the side of the weight bench, and Hurricane eases up some, going lighter on the pressure.
It's weird to see him like this, when just two weeks ago he took a piece of shrapnel through his suit and didn't make so much as a sound over the comms. He didn't make a sound afterward, either, when he was sitting in the med bay getting stitches. There's probably some secret about human nature buried in there somewhere, if Hurricane was philosophical enough to dig it out, but he's not. And besides, there's other things to focus on, like getting this charley horse sorted.
He can feel it as the cramped muscle starts to relax – takes hold of Sasha's leg under the heel, and guides it gently up straight. "Point your toes?" Sasha does. "Now flex your foot up, toward the ceiling." Sasha does that, too. "Couple more times, back and forth."
He waits until the stretches are done, and then he goes back to working at the muscle – glances up to check Sasha's face, and finds that the pain there is almost gone. He grins, a little crooked. "Not bad, right? Way better than just waiting it out."
"Is much better," Sasha admits, reluctantly. "You have done this before, yes?"
Hurricane runs his thumb over the spot a little harder, this time, and is gratified to feel the last of the tension give way. "Gymnastics class, dude," he says, and sets Sasha's foot down on the ground. "MMA stuff, too. They teach you how to take care of it when you get messed up."
"Well," says Sasha. "My thanks, then, to your teachers. And also to you."
Hurricane ducks his head, a little – clambers to his feet, to hide the way his face goes hot. "Gotta share the wealth, right? We get knocked around enough on duty. No point hurting when we don't gotta."
Sasha flexes his leg a few times, experimentally. "As you say," he says, thoughtful. "Is time enough for that when duty calls."
"For real," says Hurricane, and heads back over to the balance beam.
They don't talk much, after that; Sasha lowers himself back down to the weight bench and switches out the leg weights for his arms.
The quiet shift and clank of metal on metal follows Hurricane through his warmup stretches and then through his routines, a rhythmic backdrop in the otherwise silent night.
He's usually got the place to himself this late – an hour or two to run through some routines on the balance beam and the parallel bars, without anyone around to remind him of combat maneuvers for a change.
It helps him clear his head. If he stays in motion long enough, sometimes his brain will shut up and turn off for a while, until all that's left is the thrill of motion and the static buzz of exhaustion behind his eyes. And most days? Most days that's better.
When he pushes open the door today, though, the light's already on, and there's Sasha sprawled out on the weight bench. He's not lifting anything, though; he's still and he's quiet, eyes closed and face locked in a grimace.
Hurricane's calling out before he can think better of it: "Dude, you okay?"
Sasha's eyes come open. He sits up, and then winces. "Is nothing," he says.
"Kinda looks like something," says Hurricane, crossing the gym to stand beside him. It's weird, looking down at Sasha; usually the other boy towers over him, but he doesn't rise from where he's seated, this time, and Hurricane gives him a quick once-over to check for injuries. "What's up? You drop a free weight on your head?"
Sasha hesitates a beat. "My leg," he says at last. "The muscles, they are making knots."
"Dude," says Hurricane, with a sympathetic wince. "Charley horses suck. You really planning on playing tall dark and stoic and just waiting for it to go away?"
"That was plan," says Sasha.
"Yeah," says Hurricane. "Naw. You gotta kinda poke at em some, or they stick around longer."
Sasha frowns up at him dubiously. He bends down, though, and prods gingerly at a spot on his calf.
"Yeah," says Hurricane. "Like that. Not just once, though, you gotta keep going till it relaxes. Stretch it out some, too; it'll feel better."
Sasha prods at it again, with three fingers this time. "You have strange idea of feeling better."
Hurricane rolls his eyes – plops himself down cross-legged on the floor at the base of the exercise equipment. "Here," he says. "I'll do it."
He bats Sasha's hands away, and he reaches out to help.
It's a bad one; he can tell as soon as he digs in with the ball of his thumb. Sasha sucks his breath in and takes hold of the side of the weight bench, and Hurricane eases up some, going lighter on the pressure.
It's weird to see him like this, when just two weeks ago he took a piece of shrapnel through his suit and didn't make so much as a sound over the comms. He didn't make a sound afterward, either, when he was sitting in the med bay getting stitches. There's probably some secret about human nature buried in there somewhere, if Hurricane was philosophical enough to dig it out, but he's not. And besides, there's other things to focus on, like getting this charley horse sorted.
He can feel it as the cramped muscle starts to relax – takes hold of Sasha's leg under the heel, and guides it gently up straight. "Point your toes?" Sasha does. "Now flex your foot up, toward the ceiling." Sasha does that, too. "Couple more times, back and forth."
He waits until the stretches are done, and then he goes back to working at the muscle – glances up to check Sasha's face, and finds that the pain there is almost gone. He grins, a little crooked. "Not bad, right? Way better than just waiting it out."
"Is much better," Sasha admits, reluctantly. "You have done this before, yes?"
Hurricane runs his thumb over the spot a little harder, this time, and is gratified to feel the last of the tension give way. "Gymnastics class, dude," he says, and sets Sasha's foot down on the ground. "MMA stuff, too. They teach you how to take care of it when you get messed up."
"Well," says Sasha. "My thanks, then, to your teachers. And also to you."
Hurricane ducks his head, a little – clambers to his feet, to hide the way his face goes hot. "Gotta share the wealth, right? We get knocked around enough on duty. No point hurting when we don't gotta."
Sasha flexes his leg a few times, experimentally. "As you say," he says, thoughtful. "Is time enough for that when duty calls."
"For real," says Hurricane, and heads back over to the balance beam.
They don't talk much, after that; Sasha lowers himself back down to the weight bench and switches out the leg weights for his arms.
The quiet shift and clank of metal on metal follows Hurricane through his warmup stretches and then through his routines, a rhythmic backdrop in the otherwise silent night.