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He takes half a second to catch his breath, half-scowling--although far more at himself than at her. It's a matter of focus, after all. He just needs to focus. Then he'll be able to use his height, his weight, his years on her to his advantage, actually.

"Hn."

Adjusting the wrapping on his hands will help refocus him. Not looking at her will help refocus him.

"Gimme a sec."

She knows the scowl isn't meant for her. Knows that he can get quite competitive in the moment. Knows especially that training together like this will be for both their benefits. So she'll leave him to fix his hand wraps and refocus.

"All right."

She'll take the momentary break to get a quick drink of water and re-tie her hair back into a ponytail, stretch a little bit to loosen her muscles and get back in the zone, herself.

"Ready?"

His breath comes short, sharp, as he nods, settles back into a sparring stance.

"Again."

Just like before. Only this time without him dropping his guard and letting her land a hit to his collarbone.

She nods once, briefly, before she moves to strike again as she had last time. She knows it's unlikely he'll not block the first move, so her other hand's already going for another.

There's always something sharp about the way she fights, Spadelike-- understandable, giving who, for better or worse, had trained her to the point she'd gotten. In spite of everything else Shea had done, she had learned as best as she could under his tutelage, which makes her and Edgar well matched to go against each other despite the gap in age and size.

But eventually one or both of them will make a mistake.

Sparring with Argine is good for form, because what she lacks in instinct and raw talent is compensated by her intense precision. Sparring with Andrew is good for practice, because they're nearly the same size and spend generally the same amount of time at this sort of work.

Sparring with Rachel is good for innovation. She's smaller, and she's faster, and she's someone he cares about. It makes it harder to go for the legs while she's throwing the second blow.

Sparring with him helps push her to be better than she is. She learns how to adapt, with him. Learns better how to try to calculate all the possible outcomes in the span of a few brief seconds.

Learns to sidestep the movement towards her legs, shift more towards the defensive rather than the offensive stance she'd been taking not long ago.

Taking offense is easy most of the time. Taking offense with her is incredibly difficult. It's also something he needs to be able to do.

There's a rough noise in his throat as he presses the advantage against her guard.

She blocks him-- not easily, but with more ease than she should be able to. She recognizes the sound as a discomfited one, and although a part of her loves him for the fact he hesitates to do anything even remotely threatening to hurt her, that's not the point of this exercise. The flash of her eyes is rather like a lioness, the muttered words coming out in something almost like a growl.

"Don't you dare--" Punctuated by a sharp exhale as she blocks another blow, "--take it easy on me, Edgar Eicheln."

And this is why he has to train with her. At the end of the day, there can't be holding back. There can't be personal feelings throwing a person off their game.

The next sound that escapes him is much more of a roar. No more striking, then--he's going for a grapple.

Better. It's going to make things more difficult, but they're meant to push each other. This is how they're going to learn, going to get better, stronger, more ready to go through the Challenges they're going to need to to achieve their dreams.

He's bigger than her, so she knows she shouldn't let him get a hold of her-- has to duck away from his reaching arms, move a little more out of his range and reevaluate. She's not sure she can take him down-- doesn't want to risk it this early on.

Time, clearly, to keep dancing just out of his reach until he's tired out or she can come up with a better plan.

They can't do that. She's faster. She's going to be able to skirt him.

Tackling isn't particularly good form, but it's what's happening.

She's fast, but not fast enough to dodge the entirety of his body hurtling towards her. She hits the mat with a sharp gasp, moves instinctively to knee him wherever she can hit while she tries to push him to the side.

Her knee catches hard under his ribs, right in the gut where his breath is caught short for a second. Fighting through the daze of momentary blindness and sharp pain is actually fairly easy at this point. His attention can stay on roughly reaching to pin her arms properly.

She'll struggle for a good couple minutes more-- likely getting a few more good knocks and knees in-- but eventually he'll get her arms down. A bit more wriggling will be done, then, but soon enough she'll tire, and, panting, rest her head back against the mat.

"Dammit." It's said more out of wearied frustration than any true anger. He's got her where she can't get out unless she really hurt him, probably by headbutting him, and she doesn't want to actually do that. He's had enough brain damage as is, and she'd really rather not have the headache she'd have to deal with afterwards.

"All right. Uncle."

"Tell me what you'd do."

He's breathing heavily. His entire body--because she has landed incredibly painful jabs in the struggle--is on fire with hurt. But he's not moving yet.

"Tell me what you'd do if you thought I were going to kill you."

Her gaze is calculating as she tilts her head just slightly, evaluating the situation a little more even as she begins to respond.

"Headbutt you, if yours was as close as it is now," she begins, "If not, bite your arms or kick in more sensitive areas, or just try to kick you loose using both legs instead of just the one. You've also a little bit less of a grip on my left wrist--" she tugs at it a little to demonstrate, "--So I could keep working at that. I'd try to break your nose or get you in the groin or stomach because that should be the most distracting, but since you're well-trained enough to have gotten me pinned I'd probably just go for the eyes instead. Once you're distracted it's a matter of getting you off of me, and then from there it'd be whatever I could do. And of course, if I'd had my knives on me I probably would have just stabbed you as soon as you got me down, or while you were knocking me over. We weren't accounting for knives this time, I know, but you should keep them in mind if you're going to use tackling as a method. I could have gotten you easily with one when you came at me like that."

He loves so much about her. Here, in this moment, he loves particularly being allowed to watch her mind work. It's captivating.

"Hm."

And with that, he shifts to the side, rolls down onto his back for a moment.

"Nose before eyes, yeah?"

She'll sit up as soon as he's off her, rubbing at her back a little absently as she responds, "'s more a matter of personal preference. A lot less unpleasant breaking someone's nose than poking 'em in or taking out their eyes."

But, well. That's not something she wants to linger on. She'll turn a little to look down at him, one hand dancing lightly along his chest, "You okay? I was kicking you pretty hard."

He wants to argue about the logic of noses first. He wants to stand back up and return to fighting stance.

The best he can do, for the moment, is knock at her hand, close his eyes. "Fine. Just need a minute."

"'kay," she hums in agreement, moving to fix her hair again, "You want to have another go, 'r are we done?"

"Another."

Except that he doesn't seem to be getting up anytime soon.

"Whenever you're ready, then."

She'll be adjusting the wraps on her hands while she waits.

And he'll be lying here, nursing bruised ribs. She's got sharp knees.

"'s there any water?"

"Yeah," she says as she pushes up off the ground with a slight wince, rubbing her back again gingerly. She'd hit the mat hard.

She'll walk over to retrieve her water bottle, drink a little bit out of it before coming over to settle beside him again and hand it over, "Y'sure you're all right?"

She can't help but worry, after all.

Sitting up is a slow, clearly painful thing.

"'s just bruising." Which he's lived with before. That doesn't mean he isn't going to be moving slowly for a bit. "Not like y' knocked my head in or anything."

Which also, you know. Happened a lot.

He takes the water gratefully, swallows a long sip before adding, "Y' know you worry too much, Rach."

"Just enough, I think," she murmurs in reply, "'nd you know I can't help it, either way."

She loves him. Of course she worries.

He sighs, just slightly, but he also leans over to press a firm kiss to her cheek. There's no helping worry being a part of love, after all.

"Give us a hand up, then."

The kiss on the cheek will be reciprocated before she gets up, taking his hands.

"Up y'go."

There'll be a quick peck on the lips waiting for him when he gets there.

And it's at least half getting that kiss which gets him upright, although it comes with a sharp intake of breath.

"Y' think we can... grab an ice pack after this round?"

"Definitely," she agrees, her eyes studying him with quiet concern as he straightens, "Maybe we'll keep this one to getting hits in, instead, mm?"

No more tackling.

"Hm."

It would mean restraining himself, yes, but it would be for the best.

"'m taking that a yes," she hums at him, stretching just a little to try to get rid of the ache in her back.

"'re you ready, then, or d'we need to break a little longer?"

"We wait any longer and 'm not gonna be able to stay upright." Which is encouraging, he's sure, as he drops into fighting stance. "C'mon, girly."

It's not really, but she knows better than to try to stop him when he's got his mind set. She mirrors him, getting ready to start again, "First to five, mm?"

As per usual, between them. When they aren't knocking one another over.

"Go ahead."

It's his turn to start, after all.

Once more with feeling, then.

And with a lunge into an upper cut.

A block with one hand, then, while she steps away, trying to get a better angle to go for his side.