Larius discovered something unfortunate.
Healing was boring.
Movies had lied.
Books had certainly exaggerated.
Reality consisted mostly of waking up every few hours because turning over in bed suddenly became a negotiation between several unhappy muscles.
The first morning after the fight began with optimism.
That optimism lasted approximately four seconds.
He rolled onto his right side.
Pain immediately objected.
"..."
He rolled back.
Pain objected differently.
"...seriously?"
The ceiling offered no sympathy.
Neither did gravity.
Very carefully, Larius sat upright.
His shoulder felt tight.
His ribs protested.
The bruise along his cheek had settled into a dull ache instead of the sharp sting from yesterday.
He considered that progress.
Reluctantly.
He shuffled into the bathroom.
The mirror greeted him.
"..."
"...well."
The left side of his face had developed a respectable collection of colors.
Purple.
Blue.
Hints of yellow beginning around the edges.
It looked less dramatic than yesterday.
More embarrassing.
He gently touched his cheek.
Instant regret.
"Right."
Apparently bruises preferred not to be poked.
Good to know.
After brushing his teeth, he stretched instinctively.
His arms rose.
His shoulder immediately complained.
"Fine."
He lowered them.
"You win."
The apartment remained quiet.
The familiar smell of coffee grounds waited in the kitchen.
Outside, Los Angeles was already awake.
Cars passed.
Someone somewhere was arguing with a delivery truck.
A dog barked.
Life had continued exactly as expected despite yesterday feeling unusually significant to him.
That thought lingered.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it.
Yesterday, he had been punched.
Yesterday, police officers had questioned him.
Yesterday, he had watched someone nearly lose their money.
Yesterday had felt...
important.
The city had apparently disagreed.
The city simply moved on.
1
Breakfast was depressing.
Not emotionally.
Culinarily.
Two eggs.
Toast.
Coffee.
Larius stared at the plate.
Then at himself reflected faintly in the microwave door.
"I really do eat like a college student."
The eggs offered no defense.
Halfway through breakfast he reached for the kettle.
His shoulder reminded him about yesterday.
He stopped.
Blinking.
"..."
That movement hadn't hurt this much yesterday.
Interesting.
He vaguely remembered reading that bruises often became worse before they became better.
His body apparently enjoyed delayed complaints.
Wonderful.
The notebook appeared beside his plate.
Almost automatically.
He had started doing that recently.
Writing things down had quietly become part of mornings.
Not every morning.
Most mornings.
He uncapped a pen.
Thought for a moment.
Then wrote.
Recovery is slower than injury.
He stared at the sentence.
"...rude."
Another line.
Apparently muscles remember being punched longer than I do.
He closed the notebook.
Finished his coffee.
Today was gym day.
A truly unfortunate coincidence.
2
Marcus noticed immediately.
"You look terrible."
"...good morning to you too."
Marcus walked around him once.
Examining.
"No concussion?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"No."
"Nausea?"
"No."
Marcus nodded.
"Good."
Pause.
"Still ugly though."
Larius sighed.
"I came here for encouragement."
"No."
Marcus replied.
"You came here because consistency matters."
That was annoyingly accurate.
The warm-up began.
Slower than usual.
Marcus refused to let him rush.
"Neck."
Gentle rotations.
"Shoulders."
Carefully.
"Hips."
Larius obeyed.
Every small movement revealed another muscle he hadn't known existed.
Apparently getting shoved into pavement introduced people to anatomy in unpleasant ways.
After fifteen minutes Marcus folded his arms.
"You know why you're standing here?"
"Questionable life choices?"
Marcus ignored that.
"Conditioning."
Silence.
"If this happened six weeks ago..."
He pointed toward Larius's shoulder.
"You'd be hurting a lot more."
Larius frowned.
Marcus continued.
"Your muscles are still weak."
Helpful.
"But they aren't completely untrained anymore."
Another pause.
"You've spent over a month teaching your body how to move."
Marcus shrugged.
"That matters."
Larius hadn't thought about it that way.
He remembered his first week.
Out of breath after short walks.
Stiff.
Awkward.
Everything feeling unfamiliar.
Compared to now...
Still awkward.
Still inexperienced.
But undeniably different.
Marcus interrupted his thoughts.
"No heavy work today."
Relief.
"We're doing fundamentals."
Relief disappeared.
3
The heavy bag hung quietly.
Waiting.
Larius stared at it.
"I don't want to learn how to beat people up."
Marcus nodded.
"Good."
"...really?"
"People who say they want to fight usually want confidence."
The answer came so quickly that Larius suspected Marcus had said it many times before.
Marcus walked toward the bag.
Tapped it lightly.
"You didn't lose because your punch was weak."
"I lost because I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Exactly."
Silence.
"I don't intend to teach you fighting."
Marcus looked directly at him.
"I'm teaching you how not to fall apart if someone decides violence is a good idea."
That felt...
different.
Marcus planted his feet.
"Stand."
Larius copied him.
"No."
He adjusted.
"No."
Again.
"No."
"...how am I standing wrong?"
Marcus gently nudged one foot.
Half an inch.
"There."
Larius blinked.
"...that was tiny."
"So are hinges."
Marcus tapped the floor.
"They still hold doors."
The comparison annoyed him because it made sense.
Twenty minutes disappeared.
Not punching.
Standing.
Turning.
Balancing.
Keeping weight centered.
Returning to the same position.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Larius finally spoke.
"I haven't thrown a single punch."
Marcus smiled.
"You've practiced every punch."
"...what?"
Marcus stepped into position.
Without warning.
One clean jab.
The bag shifted.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing cinematic.
Then Marcus stepped back into exactly the same stance.
"Everything before this..."
He pointed to his feet.
"...made that possible."
Larius looked down at his own shoes.
For reasons he couldn't explain...
he finally understood why Marcus had spent twenty minutes correcting something that looked almost identical every time.
The foundation wasn't exciting.
It was simply necessary.
And somehow...
that described nearly every lesson he'd learned during the past month.
The realization was irritating.
Because reality continued refusing to provide shortcuts.
4
By the time Larius reached the flower shop, the afternoon sun had settled into that warm golden light that made everything outside look calmer than it actually was.
The small bell above the door chimed.
It had barely finished ringing before Sofia looked up.
She froze.
Exactly one second.
Then burst into laughter.
Not polite laughter.
Not the kind people used to avoid hurting someone's feelings.
The kind that completely escaped before permission could be requested.
She leaned against the counter, laughing so hard she had to wipe at the corner of one eye.
Larius sighed.
"...I've been here three seconds."
"You look..." she tried to continue.
Another laugh interrupted her.
"...I'm sorry."
She wasn't.
Not even remotely.
"I almost feel bad."
Another pause.
"I said almost."
Larius placed one hand over his heart.
"I came here seeking emotional support."
"You came to the wrong building."
Before he could answer, Fabian appeared from the back room carrying a small watering can.
He looked at Larius.
Then stopped walking.
His eyes widened slightly.
A slow smile spread across his face.
"...don't."
Larius warned.
Fabian disappeared without a word.
"He went for the notebook."
Larius said flatly.
"Mhm."
Sofia replied.
"You aren't going to stop him?"
"No."
"I thought we were friends."
"We are."
She smiled.
"Which makes this much funnier."
Fabian returned less than thirty seconds later.
Notebook already open.
Marker already uncapped.
Prepared.
Like this moment had been waiting for him his entire life.
He held the notebook up proudly.
YOU FOUND THE WRONG GYM
Silence.
"..."
Sofia laughed again.
Larius stared.
"...that's actually pretty good."
Fabian looked pleased with himself.
Then flipped the page.
A drawing.
A tiny stick figure labeled:
LARIUS
Another much larger stick figure.
Labeled:
BAD GUY
The first panel showed Larius pointing dramatically.
Second panel.
A speech bubble.
STOP!
Third panel.
A giant fist.
Fourth panel.
Larius lying sideways.
Tiny police car arriving.
Fifth panel.
A smiling child waving.
Underneath, in careful handwriting:
STILL COUNTS.
The shop became completely silent.
Larius looked at the drawing.
Then at Fabian.
Then back again.
For several seconds he tried very hard not to smile.
He failed.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"...that is incredibly disrespectful."
Fabian grinned so hard his eyes almost disappeared.
Sofia leaned over the counter.
"You should keep that."
"I absolutely should not."
"It belongs in history."
"It belongs in evidence."
Fabian immediately hugged the notebook protectively.
"See?"
Sofia said.
"Even he knows it's art."
Larius shook his head.
"I've been emotionally ambushed."
"Correct."
5
The teasing lasted another ten minutes.
Mostly because every time the conversation calmed down, Fabian quietly flipped to another page.
Apparently he had been drawing.
Frequently.
One picture showed Larius carrying groceries while looking terrified of a pigeon.
"I was not scared."
Fabian slowly raised one eyebrow.
"..."
"...it flew at my face."
Fabian wrote underneath.
EXCUSES
The child had become unbearably confident.
Larius narrowed his eyes.
"I taught you nothing."
Fabian looked at Sofia.
Then wrote.
YOU TAUGHT ME PATIENCE.
Pause.
Then added another sentence.
WAIT LONG ENOUGH. HE GETS EMBARRASSED HIMSELF.
Sofia laughed so suddenly she nearly dropped a bundle of lilies.
Larius covered his face.
"...I created a monster."
"You helped."
Sofia corrected.
"I finished the job."
6
The shop gradually returned to normal.
Customers came.
Flowers were wrapped.
Payments were made.
Conversations drifted in and out.
Larius found himself sitting near the worktable while Sofia trimmed stems.
She worked quickly.
Not hurried.
Simply practiced.
Every movement looked natural.
Cut.
Turn.
Remove damaged leaves.
Place into water.
Repeat.
He watched quietly.
"You know..."
he finally said.
"Hm?"
"You make everything look easy."
Sofia didn't answer immediately.
She continued working.
Another stem.
Another cut.
Another arrangement.
Finally she smiled.
"I've been doing this since I was twelve."
There it was again.
Years.
Larius sighed dramatically.
"I swear reality only has one answer."
"It usually does."
"I don't like its answer."
"Nobody does."
Another customer entered.
Sofia greeted them warmly.
Prepared a bouquet.
Wrapped it neatly.
Accepted payment.
Wished them a pleasant afternoon.
The entire interaction lasted less than three minutes.
After the customer left, Larius looked around the shop.
"I didn't even notice you thinking."
"I wasn't."
"...what?"
"I was talking."
"You were making flowers."
"Exactly."
She placed another bouquet into the display.
"My hands already know what to do."
The sentence lingered.
Because Marcus had said almost the same thing.
Fabian signed without translating.
Richard shelved books without checking every number twice.
The librarian scanned books while carrying conversations.
Marcus corrected posture while watching six different people.
Nobody seemed to think very hard anymore.
Not because they weren't intelligent.
Because practice had quietly moved the work somewhere deeper.
Somewhere below conscious thought.
Larius rested his elbows on the table.
"...that's terrifying."
Sofia looked up.
"Why?"
"Because it means my brain eventually expects me to become competent."
She laughed softly.
"That is exactly what it expects."
"...I think my brain has unrealistic standards."
Fabian immediately wrote one final sentence before closing his notebook.
YOUR BRAIN IS MORE PATIENT THAN YOU ARE.
Larius read it twice.
"..."
He hated how accurate that sounded.
Which unfortunately meant Fabian was probably right.
That realization irritated him far more than any of the teasing had.