The four of them had spent the last couple of hours just loitering around at Keiran's, drifting between pointless conversations and distracted silences. Brock was leaning against the rail, scrolling endlessly through his phone like he was searching for the meaning of life hidden between memes. Tanaka sat with his hood up, pretending he wasn't people-watching every soul that passed by. Kieran stood off to the side, mind clearly elsewhere, probably running mental simulations of tomorrow's match.
Roy… well, Roy was just existing, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded, drifting through the moments without any particular urgency.
Eventually, the orange glow of the sunset started to fade into that deep blue that marked the beginning of night. Street lamps began to hum to life, and the air picked up a bite of cold that made it clear autumn was giving way to something sharper.
"Guess we should head home," Brock finally said, breaking the lazy atmosphere.
They all began moving toward the street, but Roy slowed his step and turned toward Keiran. "What time's your fight tomorrow?"
"In the evening," Keiran replied, voice casual, almost bored. He gave a small shrug. "So we can just head straight from school."
"Cool," Brock said, satisfied enough with that answer.
With that decided, they started peeling off in different directions. Roy was the first to split, waving lazily before disappearing down a side road toward his place. The remaining three continued toward the train station, their footsteps muffled by the hum of distant traffic.
When they reached the platform, Roy raised a hand in a half-hearted wave. "Later."
Brock and Tanaka mumbled their goodbyes before boarding, leaving Roy to take the long route home on foot.
He liked walking at night. The streets had a quieter rhythm then, the city's usual noise dialled back to a manageable hum. His headphones were slung loose around his neck, not playing anything, just resting there out of habit.
The calm didn't last long.
"Oi! Roy!"
He turned at the sound of tyres skidding lightly over the pathway. A battered black bike rolled toward him, and behind the handlebars was Kieran, pedalling like the devil was on his tail.
"What, you couldn't just text?" Roy asked dryly as Kieran came to a stop beside him.
"Wouldn't be as fun," Kieran said with a grin. "Are you busy?"
"…Define busy."
"Wanna practise? Help me get ready for tomorrow?"
Roy didn't even pretend to think about it. "Nah. Can't be asked."
Kieran tilted his head, a sly smile forming. "I'll buy you food."
Roy's expression stayed flat for all of two seconds. Then his eyes shifted just enough to betray his interest. "…What are we waiting for, then? We need to practise."
Kieran smirked like he'd just won a small but important battle. "Knew you'd say yes."
They moved quickly after that, cutting through side streets and quiet alleys until they reached an open field not far from Kieran's place. It was the kind of spot most people would overlook — uneven grass, scattered rocks, and the faint outline of where an old football goal used to be.
Roy figured they'd be using weapons, considering Kieran's match tomorrow would almost certainly involve one. But Kieran just tossed his jumper to the side and started rolling his shoulders.
"…We're doing hand-to-hand?" Roy asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Yeah. Felt like it," Kieran replied simply.
Roy shrugged in understanding. "Fair enough."
He set his bag down and slid off his blazer, tossing it next to Kieran's jumper. His long-sleeved white shirt came loose from his waistband as he untucked it, then rolled his shoulders to loosen up. The wind was cool, sharp enough to sting his skin just slightly.
Kieran untucked his own shirt and began hopping lightly on his toes, his movements smooth and controlled. He'd always had that fighter's way of moving, like his body was constantly shifting to a better position even when he was "standing still".
"One rule," Kieran said, pointing at him. "No prana. No Soul Art."
Roy gave a small smirk. "Fine by me. Makes it more interesting anyway."
They took a moment to size each other up. The world seemed to narrow around them, the distant hum of the neighbourhood fading into the background.
No crowd. No loud commentary. Just the whisper of the wind and the crunch of grass underfoot.
Roy's mind wandered for a brief second — he realised how rare it was to fight like this, stripped down to the basics. No gimmicks. No supernatural edges. Just fists, feet, and instinct.
Kieran bent his knees slightly, hands up, eyes locked on Roy's.
Roy mirrored the stance, relaxed but ready, his weight evenly distributed.
Then, without another word, they lunged.
Kieran's opening move was fast — a direct jab aimed for Roy's face, more to test his reflexes than to land a hit. Roy tilted his head just enough for the fist to graze past him, feeling the rush of air as it missed.
He countered with a quick hook toward Kieran's ribs, but Kieran twisted away, the strike catching nothing but air.
They circled each other slowly now, feet shifting over the grass, eyes locked.
"You're holding back already," Kieran said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
Roy smirked faintly. "Says the guy who's not even breathing heavy."
Kieran came in low this time, feinting a sweep toward Roy's legs. Roy read it early, stepping back and flicking a jab at Kieran's shoulder as he retreated. It connected, but lightly — just enough to tag.
The next exchange was faster. Kieran pressed forward with a combination — left jab, right hook, left feint into a knee strike — forcing Roy to block, sway, and sidestep in rapid sequence. Roy caught the knee with his forearm, the impact sending a dull thud through his arm.
Roy retaliated with a short, sharp uppercut aimed for Kieran's chin. Kieran swayed back just in time, the punch missing by a hair.
"Not bad," Kieran said between breaths.
"Still not trying," Roy replied flatly.
They clashed again, their movements smoother now, falling into a rhythm that felt more like a dance than a fight. Grass crunched under their shifting weight, the occasional slap of palm against forearm ringing out when one blocked the other's strike.
Roy ducked under a high kick, swept his leg low toward Kieran's ankle, and almost had him — but Kieran hopped back, landing lightly, smirking.
It wasn't just sparring anymore. This was them talking without words, testing not only each other's strength but their understanding of one another.
And neither had any intention of stopping just yet.