Ira #2
I'm braced over him, my weight distributed through my knees and one forearm.
One of my hands is locked around his wrist, keeping it near his spine, and the other is flat against his shoulder blade.
He's face-down, his cheek pressed to the blue mat, and I can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.
He's small beneath me, swallowed by the sheer mass of my shadow.
Aven's breath catches, then goes shallow.
I notice immediately because I'm tuned to his every movement.
I can feel the way his ribs expand against the floor, the way his heart is slamming against his chest. The bond doesn't just hum now; it flares.
Fear, sharp and metallic. Embarrassment, hot and heavy.
Something else beneath both, darker and less willing to be named.
"This," Aven says, his voice muffled and strained, "is a deeply inappropriate teaching method for a man with religious trauma. I'm pretty sure there's a commandment about this. Or at least a very sternly worded pamphlet."
I don't move. I should release him and tell him to get a drink of water, but I'm looking at the way his dark curls are sweat-damp against his neck.
I'm looking at the pale sliver of skin where his shirt has ridden up.
My own blood is heavy, pulsing in my ears.
The air in the storage room feels like it's been replaced by something thicker, something that carries the scent of him: citrus, and a hint of the incense Soren burns.
"Do you want me off?" I ask. My voice is a low rasp, closer to his ear than I intended. I can see the goosebumps rise along his arm.
Aven doesn't answer right away. He's still.
So still he could be a statue, except for the frantic vibration of his heart.
He takes a long, shaking breath, and I can feel the way his body softens under mine.
He isn't fighting the pin. He's leaning into the weight of it.
For a man who's spent his life being haunted by things he can't touch, maybe being held down by something solid is its own kind of mercy.
"Aven," I say, more firmly. "Yes or no."
"I'm considering my options," he whispers. "It's very quiet down here. The ghosts... they don't like when I'm being stepped on, apparently. It's remarkably peaceful."
I know what he's doing. Humor as a shield.
Deflection as a pressure valve. But his body has already answered enough for both of us to hear it.
His breathing is shallow. His face is hot against the mat.
His hips shift once, small and involuntary, and the bond turns the movement into a flare of heat under my skin.
I shift the pin by degrees, keeping my weight controlled instead of crushing him.
"Use your hip," I murmur near his ear. "The leverage isn't in your arms. It's in your base. Push back. Make me work for it."
Aven tries. The movement is rough at first, all frustration and embarrassment, his body fighting itself before it fights me.
He pushes back because it's the drill, but the bond gives me the rest: the relief of pressure, the way the spirits feel farther away when my weight brackets him in, the want he's furious to be caught having.
I keep my hand around his wrist and give him only enough space to find the lesson.
"There," I say when his hip finally shifts under mine. "Again."
He makes a low, furious sound and does it properly this time, finding the angle I left open for him. The second he has it, I release and roll away, letting him keep the escape instead of turning it into another cage.
Aven rolls onto his back a few feet away, flushed and furious, glaring at the ceiling like the mat has personally betrayed him.
Soren is staring at us, his highlighter forgotten.
Cain hasn't moved from the door, but his eyes are dark, focused on the way Aven is gasping for air.
The tension in the room is a living thing, a wire pulled so tight it's humming.
"I hate training," Aven says, his voice cracking. "I hate it. I hate your muscles. I hate that you're right about my center of gravity. I hate everything about this floor."
"I know," I say, sitting up and resting my elbows on my knees. My hands are steady because I make them steady. "You hate it because it's real. Because you can't joke your way out of a pin."
"That's not the same as permission to keep being smug about it," he snaps, finally sitting up. He looks at me, and for a second, the sarcasm drops. He looks raw. "Ira. I..."
He stops. Whatever he was going to say gets swallowed by the sight of my face. I'm probably not doing a good job of hiding the way I'm looking at him. I'm a man of control, but Aven is a variable I didn't account for. He's the crack in the armor.
"We stop here," I say, rougher than I like.
"Is that the official training reason?" Aven asks, defensive wit returning like a reflex. "Or are you worried I'm going to actually land a hit and bruise that pristine ego of yours?"
“You need to learn your body before you start using surrender to avoid it,” I say, standing. It's a harder truth than I intended to give him, but Aven needs it.
Aven stares at me, his mouth slightly open. "That was annoyingly insightful."
I reach for the bottle on the shelf and offer it to him instead of answering. He takes it, but our fingers brush around the plastic, and the bond snaps tight on contact. It isn't Cain's silence or Soren's warmth. It's weight. Control. A steady pressure that asks for nothing and promises too much.
Aven's breath catches. Mine doesn't, because I've spent years teaching my body not to give away what it wants, but discipline isn't the same as absence.
I see the way his fingers tighten around the bottle.
I see the flush still high on his cheeks, the anger he's using to cover embarrassment, the want he's trying to pretend belongs only to the training. I let go first.