lonlewis:
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“Mostly ones that are absolutely nasty as hell!” Lonnie laughs, “Ya know, like wearin’ the same pair of socks every fight or not taking off a pair of underwear as long as you have a winning streak- gross shit like that. I’m not generally the superstitious type. All my socks and underwear are clean.” He teases, shaking his head at the mere thought of pulling that stuff in the name of a win, “My theory? Guys who do that aren’t as good as they want ya to believe. Compensatin’ with weird traditions and all that.” He’d rather be known for his skill than being eccentric. Honestly, he’d rather just be known for his skill, all the other stuff a mystery to the general public. Lonnie flashes a grin, “That’s a pretty bold statement, but I’ll take it.” He nudges his shoulder against hers fondly, “Fun isn’t exactly how I’d put it, but it’s entertaining at least. It’s kinda sweaty and hot and usually really damn loud- you should still come though.” He chuckles, hoping that description didn’t sound as bad out loud as it did in his head, “A Holbrook at a boxing match? I’d love to see it. ‘Specially if that Holbrook’s you.” He tells her.
—
At the explanation of superstitions-turned-nasty-habits, Arabella allows her face to scrunch up in the sort of way that all the etiquette and pageant training in the world would have disavowed: nose wrinkled, lips pouted, eyes squeezed shut. It’s a rare moment of utterly open expression, but Lonnie, despite the short time she’s known him, is one of the few who’s seen her display the wider gamut of feeling that she was prone to hiding away — frustration, excitement, stress, reluctance. When he trained her, he pushed hard, not shying away from doing so on account of her family name or any other reason, and Ari supposed it gave her the freedom to show him the truth of whatever she was feeling in the moment, unfiltered by the constraints of expectation. After a moment longer, she lets her face fall into a relaxed grin as she replies, “Hot, sweaty, and loud... So basically, a Met Gala afterparty, but in athletic wear?” There’s a slight giggle, though it stops short at the realization that he’d said he wanted to see her there, specifically her — not her too-cool-for-school older sister, not her wealthy, influential parents, but her. So, it’s only natural that she chirps giddily, “Of course I’ll be there! I’ll dress head-to-toe in whatever your colors are, and I’ll take so many photos, and I...” Her brow furrows at that, struck suddenly at the reality of what she might very well witness at his match. “I suppose it’ll be strange to see someone trying to hurt you, though. Do you... Do you enjoy it? Even with that — and having to hurt someone else, I mean.”















