Work Text:
Sweat was dripping all over the arena, chest heaving and breaths coming out in bated pauses.
Techno had no clue what time it was, the windows to the outside world having gone dark at the very start of his workout. The dummies had practically been beaten raw, one of them even splitting and now lying in its own foam and split sandbag. Phil was gonna give him hell if he didn’t clean it up before leaving.
Sighing, he was just about to start tugging the gloves off his hands—sticking uncomfortably with sweat and making his wrists all itchy—before the door far between the stands swung open with its age-old, deafening creak.
“That the sound of your hinges already, old man?” Techno called out, not having to look back to know the only person who’d come back to the gym at this hour.
“Who are you calling old man? Little shit…” The footsteps had finally reached the bed of the ring.
Techno turned around with a peachy grin. Phil, his mentor, who’d already clocked the mess of the ring and the culprit stood right over it.
“What the hell happened to the dummy? You start firing rounds at it?”
He rolled his eyes, throwing the gloves to the stands where they landed with a heavy thump. “Not my fault, the thing was already ripping apart at the seams.”
“And I suppose I’m gonna be the one asking for funding for a new one?”
“About time, I’m tired of practising against these things.” Techno kicked the shabby remains off the ring’s edge. “Get up here, Phil, you can be the replacement in the meantime.”
Phil, with a shake of his head and something exasperated muttered under his breath, pulled the lines to the side and ducked under onto the mats. “When did you get so cocky? Some new deal come in and blow your confidence through the roof?”
“Can’t a boxer just practice for practice's sake?”
They both tapped fists, Phil remaining more on the lax side while Techno started bouncing between feet, hands readied by his face. “Practice sake? You? We both know you’re spouting utter shit right now, Techno.”
Their spar came naturally to both of them, oh so similar to the first few months Phil had taken scrawny, little Techno under his wing with the promise to become great. With hard work, of course. It meant tireless training, rampant exercises, and drilling commands. But what it’d shaped Techno into was one of the best.
Without little surprise, no matter how much blood, sweat, and tears had gone into his training, it always ended with Techno tapping out. Either with a spit of blood or cheek gone bruised too badly, Phil never pushed him bloody and raw.
With a well-natured huff, Phil pulled Techno in by the neck, giving him a rough hug and solid pat on his nape. Instantly, Techno had hands wrapped around the man’s torso and flipped the two down into the mats, landing on Phil with an arm pressed hard against him.
Winded, but a smile still on his face, Phil patted his arm off with a sharp, “Christ, Techno!”
“Shit, sorry.”