Chapter Text
You've been attending these fencing lessons for little over a month now, and time sure has flied. "Going pro" hasn't exactly occurred yet, but you still feel pretty confident in your skills. Defense was more of your thing rather than attacking, you realised by your fourth lesson. Parries, circles included, were moves you had down to a T. But, disengaging seemed impossible for you to do. For some reason, there was just something so difficult about tricking your opponent. How did your instructor lunge to your left, and then move his rapier like he was tracing a semi-circle that led to a poke in your right side? That man was so swift with all of his motions; you didn't understand why he wasn't a world champion instead of being stuck to work with snotty kids in an unkempt fitness center. Or, maybe you were just plain bad at what you did. Denying the latter, you created a scenario in your head about how your instructor must have been world renowned at one point, but was forced to leave the competitions due to an injury that would never be able to heal properly. His love for fencing undying, he decided to teach others about it so he could pass on the passion he had that would unfortunately never be used again.
"Mm...Yep. That's pretty much what happened, actually." he had replied after you jokingly told him your "theory" on his back story of why he became a fencing instructor.
"Oh, shit! Seriously?" Your voice was borderline squeaky. He must be joking; has has to be! Right?
"Yeah," he said with a nod.
"Wh...Where is it?" you ask after a few minutes of processing.
"Where's what?"
"Your injury that you had to leave for!" Real smooth; you're positive he just loves talking about it.
He pulls up his right sleeve and removes his glove to give you a view of a long scar that ran from his wrist to his elbow. "I damaged my tendons right there," he tells you while dragging a finger along his forearm. "And now I can't move my fingers anymore in this hand." Shaking his arm up and down, each of his fingers lifelessly flop along with the movement. "But, I'm grateful that it wasn't my left, then I'd be in some serious trouble." You nod as you scrutinise the poorly healed stitching, and then you quickly turn your head away, as you remember that it's rude to stare.
"If it wasn't your left, then how come you had to quit?"
Thinking for a moment, he looks towards a wall to his right, and then towards you. "Well, it could've been for a variety of reasons. I mean, first off, I had to get surgery as an attempt to try and resolve my issue, but championships were almost there, so, I had to choose one or the other." He punctuated what he was saying by making wide, dragging motions with his rapier on a dusty floor mat. "The pain was just unbearable, so my sister scolded me about 'Don't push yourself too hard, Di,' and, 'Mother would only want the best from you.'
"I ended up going into surgery, and as you can tell, it didn't work out so well. As soon as word got out, my sponsors started giving up on me; I did try physical therapy, but nothing worked. Even if it was my right hand, by the time I finally got done with all that training, all of my sponsors were gone. You can't really be an athlete without sponsors."
Your mind goes completely blank, and you mutter a "That's deep, bro."
All he does in return is shrug. "What can you do?" he finishes with a sigh. "Anyway, let's see what we need to work on this week, okay?"
"Alright, I guess." Good, god, that memoir put you in a less than positive mood. But, you manage to straighten out your posture, anyway. You watch as your instructor raises, then lowers his rapier in salute, the tip pointing to the ceiling. In an attempt to follow suit, you make sure your guard does not go above your nose in order to complete the salute successfully, as well as properly. He nods his head in approval.
"En garde!" he shouts. You struggle to quickly place your mask onto your head, envying how effortlessly your instructor does the task. Placing your right foot behind a duct taped line in the middle of the blue gymnasts' mat that the two of you were currently standing on, your instructor does the same with his left. "Ready, kiddo?" With a nod, you eagerly await what you know he is going to announce.
"Play!"
And with that, you're off. The sound of rapiers clinking and clashing together doesn't last long, as your instructor catches you off guard with that infamous—infamous to you, of course—disengaging technique of his. With a poke to the chest, you wince a bit; you will never see the day when that doesn't hurt you, even if the pain were to last a brief moment. "Halt!" you attempt to yell breathlessly.
"Hey, woah, woah! Why the halt all of a sudden? I was playing fair, I swear!"
"Nah," you wheeze. "It's not that. I just really, really need you to teach me how to do that."