#proveagain

❝ you're going to do great out there. ❞ daniel said, stepping forward to offer the boy his encouragement before the tournament ensues. this was a bittersweet moment. if this were the old him, back when he and johnny were at odds, he would've looked at miguel in that cobra kai gi with disdain. but now, seeing the young man stand before him, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. he thinks back to the first moment he saw miguel. the night he stormed into johnny's dojo, automatically assuming the worst out of him for bringing cobra kai back. you shouldn’t believe a word this guy says, or you’ll end up exactly like him, he'd said. but for once in his life, daniel was glad the boy hadn't listened to him. ❝ no matter what happens, you should be proud of yourself, miguel. ❞ he places a comforting hand on miguel’s shoulder, giving it a gentle pat. ❝ we definitely are. ❞

Johnny has his scarred, calloused index finger jammed hard against the fine linen button up shirt spread over LaRusso's chest when Miguel's voice finally cuts through the sound of their incessant bickering. In the heat of their deteriorating argument, he'd--perhaps shamefully--forgotten that Miguel was in the next room.

Tunnel vision. Single-mindedness. Daniel brings it out in him like only a few others can, and it seems as though he knows all of his trips and triggers; knows his nuclear launch codes and likes to flirt with the turn of the key; knows how to put him right back on the sparring mat they'd squared off on at the All Valley, giving him one more shot to prove himself if he could just dare to strike once more.

This is just who they are and always will, he often thinks. There are moments where the past and their pride take a back seat, and the two of them are able to find peace enough to work together; to be friendly with one another for the sake of the students, their children. But they always come right back to... this.

"Miguel--"

An excuse could slot in easily here. Johnny, though, wants to be better. For Miguel. For Robby. For their baby sister. For Carmen. Maybe even for himself, if he squints.

He blinks at the young man he's grown to think of as his son, his anger and frustration melting slowly from his face as he takes a deep, steadying breath. He's calming down, but that doesn't mean he won't lightly shove shove Daniel back--primarily to get him out of his face--with the heel of his hand.

Johnny cannot and will not promise that they won't fight again in the future; even the incredibly near future. But he can, right now, stop this one from progressing.

"Let's get out of here. Been meaning to hit the beach again."

she waits for him to answer, moving toward the IV, checking the drip with practiced ease. there’s something about the way he holds himself, a reluctance to show weakness, and it reminds her of her father. the need to be strong, even when everything inside is telling him to rest. her fingers brush against the bandage, checking its tightness. ❝ we’ll need to change this soon. it’s healing well, but you’ll need to stay off it. ❞

"¡Ay, no manches!"

He's clearly been hanging out with Josh too much: he laughs when he hears the incredulous expression fall out of his mouth so automatically when it had never been a part of his vocabulary before.

"Miguel!" Cypress calls out, jumping down off an elevated training platform and pushing his way through a small group of other competitors to get over to Miguel. Once he's in front of him, he grabs the other young man's hand, pulls him in shoulder to shoulder, and gives him a few friendly slaps on the back. "I didn't know you'd be here!"

Sure, Miguel's posts and stories pop up on his Instagram feed occasionally, earning a like and a comment here and there, but they hadn't really spoken much since Miguel had gone home. And besides, Cypress has had his hands full with his round the clock, rigorous training regime.

Which has paid off, if Miguel's declaration is anything to go on.

Cypress knows what he looked like when his tío first introduced them: he'd just been some spindly kid with bad posture, an exceptionally bad haircut, and even worse acne. And, in some deeply seated, terribly self critical part of him, that's still what stares back at him in the mirror, despite all the immense progress he's made; despite his hard won increases in strength, speed, and stamina. His imposter syndrome has flared wildly since he'd arrived on the premises and been surrounded by the best of the best of his peers.

But Miguel is looking at him like he's more than that--like he's an equal, or something closer to it than he'd ever imagined--and it reminds him of all the time and energy he's spent fighting like hell to get here. This realization has him standing a little straighter, a little squarer; has him grinning wide enough to make his face hurt.

"Bro, I can't wait to see you fight."

Part of him-- Part of him wants to fight him himself. To really test himself against more than his own teammates and the other local dojos he'd competed against. But he doesn't voice this. Yet.

Instead, Cypress gives him a playful little punch to the shoulder, then ducks down behind his fists in a mock defensive posture. Still grinning.

He's tried to learn all the names and faces of the competitors, and he does a decent job remembering who is who when they take to the mat--or have certain signature hairstyles that set them apart--but to recognize them out of their gis is still a bit troublesome when he's never been formally introduced. There are just so many of them.

Still, he smiles as a young man knocks against the open doorframe of his little office, relieved not to see Kovačević or his sensei again. Those two, he remembers.

This young man's American accent, when he politely asks if he has time to meet with him, helps Ellis zero in on possibilities. And, now that he's had time to think, he's certain he's seen him with the boy with the American flag themed hair: Eli Moskowitz.

That would make this--

"Miguel Diaz, it's a pleasure. I'm Ellis Shivji; call me Ellis." With his two middle fingers, Ellis pushes the nosepiece of his crooked glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. This straightens them--a little--from their previously disheveled appearance, but it's obvious there's something wrong with the frames. If someone were to look closely enough, they'd see black electrical tape at the left temple hinge, a good bit duller than the glossy black plastic. "Please, have a seat."

An electric kettle behind him chirps a little tune, and Ellis turns toward the sound, toward an airtight glass canister of loose leaf tea and a small collection of mugs. Gifts from people he's helped, mostly.