This is where he feels comfortable. Somewhere right at the top of his game. When the strain numbs out of awareness partially, because the endorphins make everything sharper, clearer, more in focus, taking his body half out of the equation. It's another thing to use, to push through hoops, that will object. Passing number markers half without reading them, as he just takes the mountain for itself.
Taking Cath at her determined smile, even when he can see where it's wearing at the edges. Enough to question, but not act, because she's has sharper, harder, more determined edges for the wear. And, God, but he's missed this. People who can push through, who get off on flagging as much as he does. How much it makes you, drives you, hauls you up by your boots and shoves you hard, faster, tougher at whatever is.
He's missed having someone to do this with. He's missed being home to even get to do this, himself.
The top is getting closer, crowning toward them, which just makes his foot work even lighter, except for push up. Makes his breaths shorter, choosing to take in air now and then, rather than get caught up in trying to take in more thinner air. He by passes the whole thing. Relying on breathing less, and not so much holding his breath as just slowly letting it, pushing toward a focal point, like swimming far down.
Letting that focus take everything that's in him. Each step, each blink, each shift of his arms when his weight does. Ignoring the the sweat coating his skin, and sticking his shirt to his back and his sides, his shorts against his legs. There's only the top, and the way it's a step closer every two seconds. Coming into view faster and faster, closer and closer, now.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-28 12:30 am (UTC)Taking Cath at her determined smile, even when he can see where it's wearing at the edges. Enough to question, but not act, because she's has sharper, harder, more determined edges for the wear. And, God, but he's missed this. People who can push through, who get off on flagging as much as he does. How much it makes you, drives you, hauls you up by your boots and shoves you hard, faster, tougher at whatever is.
He's missed having someone to do this with. He's missed being home to even get to do this, himself.
The top is getting closer, crowning toward them, which just makes his foot work even lighter, except for push up. Makes his breaths shorter, choosing to take in air now and then, rather than get caught up in trying to take in more thinner air. He by passes the whole thing. Relying on breathing less, and not so much holding his breath as just slowly letting it, pushing toward a focal point, like swimming far down.
Letting that focus take everything that's in him. Each step, each blink, each shift of his arms when his weight does. Ignoring the the sweat coating his skin, and sticking his shirt to his back and his sides, his shorts against his legs. There's only the top, and the way it's a step closer every two seconds. Coming into view faster and faster, closer and closer, now.