[for Steve]

[manwithoutfear]

Politics are uncharted territory, but the boxing ring is like coming home. I don't come here half as often as I'd like, the space occupied six times out of seven, but today, the air is quiet of muffled blows when I make my traditional afternoon inquiry. Not a soul save my own.

The canvas floor sighs under my weight as I step through the ropes, the smell of sweat and blood assaulting my nose for those moments I linger near the ground before straightening. I wrap both hands in lengths of thin, soft cloth, my actions practiced and quick, since I don't know how long it is until I find an audience (or an audience finds me).

As it turns out, however, it's far too soon. I barely get my hands on the bag before I hear the tell-tale fall of footsteps behind me, light but plainly audible. I'm a difficult man to sneak up on. I sigh with something like relief when I realize I won't have to lie about why I'm here; his gait is no less recognizable than his heartbeat.

"Steve."

Comments

[onlyforthedream]

We both know I'm not going to, but I come at him fast, anyway, a deft left hook with a feint on its heels. When we get into each others' way back home, it's rarely anything short of a nightmare. Neither of us are prone to backing down and we're both exceptional fighters. In a world where egos clash regularly, I can honestly say I have the utmost respect for Daredevil.

[manwithoutfear]

My mouth pulls into a grin. It's always a pleasure to fight someone who knows what they're doing -- more so when the opponent is maybe more skilled than yourself. At our level, though, that difference is perhaps negligible, but it's the kind of thing that makes me want to bring my A-game. It's been far too long since I had anyone throw a punch my way.

Not that anything lands. I've had plenty of time to get used to life without my radar sense. I block, deftly, dodging the feint, and leading up with my own combination of punches.