(no subject)
One would be forgiven for not thinking Charles Xavier particularly athletic for two reasons. The first is expectation: his reputation among those he's met on this island is that of a bald, wheelchair bound patriarch, an old man. The second is reality: from the way he holds himself down to the way he dresses, Charles bears the mark of his profession, academic written clear 'cross his forehead in bold, capital letters. Appearances, however, can be deceiving, and while Charles might not boast the chiseled physique of some of his fellow residents, there's a perfectly fine figure underneath his favoured cardigans, earned by way of running.
It's not a part of his daily routine that he makes a point in advertising, the activity having taken something of a desperate edge since those few days he spent unable to get out of bed back in August, but he does make a point in going out at least once a day, sometimes in the morning (and often in the afternoon, if he's had too much to drink the night before). The route varies depending on his mood, though he rarely strays from the boardwalks when he can help it, with the thinking that they're there for a purpose, and ought to be used for such.
Today, he's already been running long enough for sweat to soak through the front of his shirt, leaving a damp spot in the center of his chest (not the most impressive of feats when considering the heat of early afternoon). He's properly winded, with half a mind to stop and catch his breath, when Mother Nature makes the decision easy; with little warning, the sky opens up and unleashes a downpour of rain. Letting out a startled laugh, Charles slows to a stop, head tipping skywards as he gets well and truly drenched.
It's not quite the break he envisioned, but it would serve well enough.
[Timed to Tuesday afternoon, in the rain, on the boardwalk of your choosing. CLOSED TO NEW THREADS.]
It's not a part of his daily routine that he makes a point in advertising, the activity having taken something of a desperate edge since those few days he spent unable to get out of bed back in August, but he does make a point in going out at least once a day, sometimes in the morning (and often in the afternoon, if he's had too much to drink the night before). The route varies depending on his mood, though he rarely strays from the boardwalks when he can help it, with the thinking that they're there for a purpose, and ought to be used for such.
Today, he's already been running long enough for sweat to soak through the front of his shirt, leaving a damp spot in the center of his chest (not the most impressive of feats when considering the heat of early afternoon). He's properly winded, with half a mind to stop and catch his breath, when Mother Nature makes the decision easy; with little warning, the sky opens up and unleashes a downpour of rain. Letting out a startled laugh, Charles slows to a stop, head tipping skywards as he gets well and truly drenched.
It's not quite the break he envisioned, but it would serve well enough.
[Timed to Tuesday afternoon, in the rain, on the boardwalk of your choosing. CLOSED TO NEW THREADS.]