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Sabo has something of a mild epileptic attack when he steps into the friendly elitist-high-rise-usually-chrome-washed-cutthroat-membership-fee gym at Baltigo Inc. on the first Monday of September. He’s been distantly aware that Ivankov took over renovations of the place a while back, but that doesn’t prepare him for the blinding purple walls, coloured strobe lights, and bedazzled contraptions that wouldn’t have looked out of place as torture devices on display at a medieval museum.
He should’ve known.
“Wow, what the fuck,” Trafalgar Law says over his shoulder. Eloquently put. Sabo can’t decide how he feels about this. On one hand, he likes to think he’s progressive, accepting, not obviously judgmental. On the other hand. Those walls. What the ever loving—
“Oh, hey. Welcome.”
Sabo doesn’t do a double take because he’s a grown arse adult and he can be socially acceptable even on Monday mornings after Luffy has eaten his fridge and pantry empty without sparing the coffee grounds. He knows, without having to turn to look, that Law is raising his eyebrows. Which – also – apt. Because the man before them is a specimen. Sabo takes a moment – a very brief one – to consider his on-off-again-off-again-wait-on-no-nope-it’s-off-again relationship with Koala from Logistics. Then he holds out his hand. The one that doesn’t have fingers pinching his thigh to keep him grounded to reality.
“Nice décor,” is what comes out, dry like a martini without the pretentious olive stick. “I’m Sabo. The wraith next to me is Law.”
The mass of finely hewn bronzed Grecian human grasps his hand in a firm shake, then Law’s because Law offers, pretending in front of strangers that he’s not the maladjusted malcontent that he is.
“Zoro. I run the place. I’ll be your instructor for today,” the man says. He doesn’t seem to want to punch Sabo half as much as Sabo does. Zoro’s expression doesn’t budge an inch from its professional, distant half-smile, but there’s a twinkle in his eye as he considers them both, then squints at the vibrant paintjob by the door. “And, yeah, Ivan got a little carried away. You guys the guinea pigs he said he’d blackmail into coming over for the trial?”
“Terrorised,” Law says. “We’re not willing subjects, but he promised an experience we’ll never forget.” And because Sabo’s best-friend-colleague is something of a major wanker who can read him like a lit up billboard, Law punctuates the tail-end of the declaration with a showy elbow nudge into Sabo’s side.
Sabo smiles and pinches Law’s bony wrist in retaliation. “Yes, we’re here to be convinced and impressed.”
This draws a grin from Zoro, which may be even more disarming than the man’s green hair and utter physical perfection combined. “That can be arranged.”
Sabo doesn’t stare because he’s not a teenager who can’t keep it in his expensive sweatpants. He’s the leading financial analyst in Baltigo for fuck’s sake. Fie on him if he does something completely daft like act on a schoolboy crush.
He points to the nearest lean, mean, sleek machine instead and tries not to sound too imperious the way Ace says he can get when his pride is being challenged.
“Well, then. Make us regret being alive.”
… Sabo can’t draw enough breath to sass Law who can’t draw enough breath to verbalise whatever cheek he’s throwing at him with impressively sculpted eyebrows.
It’s half an hour later and they’re both flat on their backs on the polished parquet an inch from hurling up their non-existent breakfasts.
Baltigo’s finest.
Sabo blinks and Zoro is in his face, looking unbelievably smug as he blocks the eye-searing view of the psychedelic ceiling. He hasn’t broken a sweat. Sabo detests him.
“Not a word,” Sabo wheezes through gritted teeth. Law makes an unintelligible noise to his right, vaguely indignant like he can’t believe Sabo has regained speech faculties. He hasn’t. Those three words make his head spin from the oxygen they momentarily deprive him of. Their instructor snickers, a sound that Sabo appreciates from the other half of his internal universe that isn’t trying to convince the rest of him that a heart attack isn’t imminent— he just isn’t as fighting fit as people who look like classical marble statues come to life.
Extreme climbing, Zoro said before they began climbing on the artfully-constructed death ladders, provides an intense full-body work out. Perfect for desk-bound employees who don’t have the time or patience to exercise more reasonably. If you power through it regularly enough, you get all the exercise you need in a twenty-minute session.
Yeah, well, fuck. Of course you do. Because Extreme Climbing is code for rip all the muscles in your body a new one. Sabo is oddly incensed that Zoro is standing, because that can’t be possible.
Something heavenly is pressed against his forehead. It is soft, fluffy and, most importantly, cold. Sabo clutches the iced towel and doesn’t care that his birth mother would probably have swooned angrily at the indecent sound he makes when the towel is properly suffocating most of his face. He can still hear Zoro’s periodic chuckle over Law’s stony silence. Or maybe his colleague has finally expired.
“Thanks,” he says when his heart and lungs stop trying to overthrow him. “Trafalgar, you dead?”
“I wish.”
“Excellent.” Sabo lifts his head.
Zoro is draped on one of the chairs that he must have dragged over in the time that Sabo and Law were trying to regain their humanity. His chin is perched on the arm resting on the back of chair, and his nostrils are flared from the effort of trying to tone down the smirking. It does nothing but look unfairly attractive.
“You pass,” Sabo announces. “We regret being alive.”
Zoro snorts. “Thanks. Gotta put that on the flyers.”
“We have enough dirt on most of the sales department to get them to come here at least once a week,” Law says evenly, propping himself up on one elbow and looking like that causes him a significant amount of pain. “There are some people in there that I would give anything to see suffer on these machines.”
“That’s the spirit,” Zoro says, though he doesn’t look all that convinced. He doesn’t know Law like Sabo does. Sales won’t know what hit them. “You guys coming back?”
“Every day,” Sabo promises, mostly because it really is a good work-out. Being at Dragon’s beck and call on top of having to sort out the shit that the finance department gets up to means that he hasn’t exactly had spare time to devote to body-sculpting.
Partly because Zoro’s pleased smile is something to behold.
“Yeah?” Zoro says. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Law saves him from doing something monumentally ill-advised – like ask their new instructor out on a date – by yanking him to his feet and shoving him in the direction of the company’s shower facilities.
“You’re gawking,” Law drawls when they’re out of earshot.
“Wouldn’t you?” Sabo retorts.
“His hair is green.”
“Purist. I think it suits him.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard you sound this stupid since our trainee days.”
Sabo grumbles and doesn’t dignify the truth with a response.
He’s in so much trouble. He’s so fucked. He’s going to have to call Ace and vent during lunch. He doesn’t trust himself not to make life-ruining decisions any time before noon on zero caffeine.
Extreme Climbing. Who would’ve thought. He’s going to have to send Ivankov an anonymous thank you note. Something along the lines of improving the building’s overall aesthetics.