Mahogany and Teakwood

Chapter 30: Jonquil

and i thought that i found myself today

and i thought that i had control

Roman hit a button on his watch and crouched in a wide-legged stance across the grassy courtyard, wooden bokken held a gloved grip in front of his chest. He wore loose black pants and an old pink tank top, the stretched sleeve holes hanging past his waist. His mane had been tamed into a stubby ponytail; his face hidden by a fencing helmet.

"Ready?" he called.

Virgil, similarly dressed—though his tank was a sensible black, thank you very much! —adjusted his gloved grip on his own wooden practice knives. The face-covering helmet he wore was Roman's spare, and a little too big.

"Whatever, Doctor Do-the-Most," he grumbled.

"Ha! That was almost clever."

Roman lunged on the last word, but Virgil was prepared. He caught the bokken with both knives and turned it aside, following with an overhand strike. Roman blocked, and countered, causing Virgil to stumble back.

The thwack of wood against wood, and occasionally, wood against a helmet's metal grill, echoed off the complex walls. Roman's eyes sparkled as he fought, sometimes stepping back to twirl his weapon around his hand just because he could. He enjoyed this.

Virgil wished he could say the same.

Both were panting—in Virgil's case, borderline wheezing—sweat dripping down their backs. Early July in Pennsylvania wasn't brutal like Florida, but it was a hot day. Virgil barely blocked another blow, exhaustion making his limbs feel like molasses. Any second now, Roman would come at him with something clever and send him sprawling to the ground.

It had only been a month, but to Virgil, it felt like an eternity.

Roman had put him through the most grueling exercise regimen of his life: endurance runs around the city, every possible variety of "up"—sit-up, pushup, V-up—weights, even Yoga three times a week.

Virgil hated every second of it. He threw up twice the first day, then threw himself on his bed and refused to move for nearly twelve hours. Roman let him have a day to sulk, and then woke him up at the asscrack of dawn to start it all over again.

This cycle repeated nearly every week.

His pride spurred him to throw himself into Roman's misery fests, knowing his only other alternative was to go crawling back to Logan. He'd push himself until he physically crashed, because it was embarrassing to wheeze and stumble and occasionally retch his way through exercises that barely winded Roman. Then he'd spend the next day in bed, miserable and aching.

Roman assured him, over and over again, that it would get easier. He was never put off by Virgil's slow, inconsistent pace and snarky, stubborn attitude; he just explained, and demonstrated, and encouraged. In fact, for all his dramatics and ego, Roman wasn't a terrible teacher; a fact Virgil might have appreciated if he felt less wretched.

Roman insisted that they warm up properly, that they stretched, that Virgil learn proper form so he didn't hurt himself, that they always spotted each other while doing weights, and he always cooled them down afterward no matter how loudly Virgil protested he just wanted to collapse.

And after a solid month of this, Virgil did notice that he could run further, could do more repetitions before hitting the "please let me die" phase of a workout. For a span of days in June, he'd actually almost started to feel proud of the reluctant, begrudging progress he'd made. He'd even caught his own reflection in the full-length mirror once before a shower and doubled back, surprised, running hands over his own ribs. He would probably always be thin and wiry, but his arms and chest were—unbelievably— starting to gain a little definition.