If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d swear the old man knew
something he didn’t, he would have quit months ago. It was grueling, it was
hard work, and he barely had time for it, it felt like. It was always
punishing, to take his bike up to his father’s dojo, and once he got there it
never got easier. Being the sensei’s son meant something. He was treated special, regardless of how
much his father tried to keep him from showing others: he had to be perfect. As
his father’s son, it wasn’t about going along with the rest of the class, it
was about doing it right the first time. It was about always giving it your all; if a punch
wasn’t as hard as he could make it, if a kick wasn’t with all his weight in it
(“But precise, and on balance! If I can knock you down in response, you should
be keeping your feet on the floor!”) then he was slacking. It wasn’t because he
was tired, or because he wasn’t sleeping well, or because he was sick, it was
because he was lazy. He was his father’s son, after all, and in his eyes that
meant the world.
He wanted to tell his father to shove his pride up his ass,
but he knew he never would.
He wondered if his dad could see the way he looked at him,
could see how mad it made him when he humiliated him in front of the others. No
special treatment, he’d remind him in the locker rooms as they changed with a
clap on the shoulder and a grin. He’d have to earn it like everyone else. What
he really meant was ‘don’t make me look bad’ and ‘if you’re not setting an
example, then why should anyone else bother with it?’. Every mistake he made
was under scrutiny, because every mistake he made was pointed out to everyone;
they picked him apart as an example. Even if he hadn’t done much wrong, there
was still the easy answer: Tighten the core, keep it steady. You’re breathing
too hard. Not hard enough, you’re not focusing on the blow.
He could have focused a hell of a lot better if he could
have sparred the old bastard.
He didn’t get to do it often, but he relished every bruise
he left on him, ever y time he felt his knuckles connect with something firm
and real. He never won, really; his father had experience, strength, and
training on his side. He took him apart, practically as an example, but there were
surprises. Upsets. And when it happened, he glowed. The day he’d left a bruise
on his chest, he couldn’t stop smiling. The day he caught him in the jaw after
the other man had missed with a sloppy kick he practically cheered. He’d never
won, but he was always getting closer. He wasn’t the best in the class, but he
worked for what he got, and when he thought about it he hated that he enjoyed the
challenge, that he had such a fierce sense of pride from fighting through it
all.
And now he could block him.
Blocking the man’s blows was always hard. His father had a
lifetime of training behind him (he’d started young and stuck with it) and he
was in excellent shape; he swung like a sledge hammer and moved with the grace
of someone who knew the limits and capabilities of their body to a T, and knew
how to work with them. A few months ago, his arm would have shaken for trying
to catch the blow. He wouldn’t have been fast enough to block entirely, to
cancel the blow properly, and instead would have had to take the brunt of it on
his arm. He would shake under it, striving back and pushing against it only to
be off balance when the man shifted to his next attack.
But everything changes. He got better. And the first time he
felt his arm strike out against the man’s arm, felt himself snap his guard in
and cancel the strength of it instead of taking the brunt of it, he looked to
his father’s face and held his gaze as he stepped in and brought his palm
foreword, with his weight behind it, into the other man’s sternum. The rotation
started at his shoulder in a twisting motion, working each muscle in turn to
build up a wave of strength that plowed into the man’s chest and sent him
skidding backwards a few feet, his stance broken.
He’d broken his stance, and that meant that he’d broken out
of the mold. As he looked to the man, who nodded to him dourly and let out a
short bark of ‘good’, he couldn’t help but smirk. He was catching up. Looking
out at the others, he could see that some of the elder students were impressed,
or at least noticed. It had been a good move and a well executed motion, and
there was praise to be had in that, but if it was to be garnered, it would be
from the other students, not his father. Doing well, to him, was at standard.
Still, as he bowed to the older man and received a bow back before turning and
making his way for the locker rooms, he couldn’t help but smile.
As he slid from his uniform, breathing out lightly and
letting the sheen of sweat that coated his limbs begin to cool, he heard one of
the other students come in, an older man named Oki. “That was good, Saito!” he
said happily as he too began to strip down, the younger man shrugging and
smiling slightly as he slid his clothes into the gym bag and made his way for
the showers. He was in a good mood, and a little conversation never hurt
anyone.
“Thank you. I’m learning, at least; it took me a bit longer
to grasp then I thought it would. It’s different, learning the principal to the
practical application.” He said as he turned the faucet on and let the water
pour over his head, closing his eyes and looking up to the faucet as he felt
the drops bead on his eyes. “But I’m learning.”
Words: 1052
Learned: Skilled Guard
Exp: 52
Home 
Log in 
