A dry swallow.
Kiseki, bruises from their training healed only to the lightest shades with the imprint of their effort remaining, knuckled the edges of his desk. Tension lingered, his body primed as if his ears could lay back to his head in contemplation of fight or flight. It wasn't a question, really - you can't fly away with wings so easily scorched - but the promise of the 'fight' demanded such consideration. It was an inevitability. It always was, whether further fate intervened or not. That red string of destiny, so bound with deep marks across his skin, had already laid the path to this peak in beckoning stone and a tug along his arm. A staircase to the sun. How far before your legs give out?
He lifted himself, still. It was slow and uneven and ages past in seconds, a million thoughts in a million skies like stars apathetic to his wishes.
He couldn't, in that moment, even begin to wonder what Ichika was thinking when Proctor explained that their lesson for today was a sparring match with a peer to follow up the previous exercise. Now that time had passed and the work had set in to young muscles, it was time for them to apply their previous team on one experience into a true one on one: an unlikely match in the real world, but a very important one to be prepared for. There were rules in place, of course, top of which was no aiming towards vitals with any form of attack and a concession to end the fight if your opponent ever asked to. Still; all Jutsu, all weapons, all force bar lethal was allowed as long as both parties wanted to remain fighting. It was as close as you could get to no holds barred with pre-teens. He couldn't imagine the other boy - as light, as fierce, as adoring as he seemed to be - had considered Kise's hand for this particular dance, but he did seem to have some kind of vested interest in his growth as a Shinobi.
He was such a good ... friend. They had been daringly close this past month, fleeting glances and lunchroom d- hangouts as they laughed with full mouths and poured over messied homework - both mostly Ichika's doing. It was a lovely time, and their friendship was made no weaker from their memories shared from their combat training. They were practically inseperable in school, and Kise had half - most of - a mind to ask him over to his house, but discussing their lives outside of their bubbles always seemed a little ... taboo. Kiseki was so scared of shattering something so picturesque. He was happy. Ichika seemed happy. And now ...
There was no force challenging him to do this. There was no such instruction or assignment. They were made free to ask whoever they wanted out to the field for today's sparring practice, and expected to do so within the next ten minutes and wrap up by the end of the school day. The sun was high in the afternoon; it lit him from behind, his small, wiry frame, his hair speckled with light refracted in strands splitting over near-desperate blue. It shifted as he did, slow steps forward, through impassive throngs of chatting students all asking their friends or engaging in light ribbing to make the most 'fun' out of the circumstance. Kiseki had nothing on his mind but yearning. To be, to grow, to do anything but settle in this unbroken peace. He needed to be more. He needed to .... he needed to ... he needed to -
"Ichan," he started, soft, comfortable. It was easier together than it was before, yet harder than weeks preceding to get the words out. He was almost blushing, in such a strange rush of emotions; addressing all his peer, friend and object of adoration in gentle plea. "Would you like to spar with me?"
Kiseki, bruises from their training healed only to the lightest shades with the imprint of their effort remaining, knuckled the edges of his desk. Tension lingered, his body primed as if his ears could lay back to his head in contemplation of fight or flight. It wasn't a question, really - you can't fly away with wings so easily scorched - but the promise of the 'fight' demanded such consideration. It was an inevitability. It always was, whether further fate intervened or not. That red string of destiny, so bound with deep marks across his skin, had already laid the path to this peak in beckoning stone and a tug along his arm. A staircase to the sun. How far before your legs give out?
He lifted himself, still. It was slow and uneven and ages past in seconds, a million thoughts in a million skies like stars apathetic to his wishes.
He couldn't, in that moment, even begin to wonder what Ichika was thinking when Proctor explained that their lesson for today was a sparring match with a peer to follow up the previous exercise. Now that time had passed and the work had set in to young muscles, it was time for them to apply their previous team on one experience into a true one on one: an unlikely match in the real world, but a very important one to be prepared for. There were rules in place, of course, top of which was no aiming towards vitals with any form of attack and a concession to end the fight if your opponent ever asked to. Still; all Jutsu, all weapons, all force bar lethal was allowed as long as both parties wanted to remain fighting. It was as close as you could get to no holds barred with pre-teens. He couldn't imagine the other boy - as light, as fierce, as adoring as he seemed to be - had considered Kise's hand for this particular dance, but he did seem to have some kind of vested interest in his growth as a Shinobi.
He was such a good ... friend. They had been daringly close this past month, fleeting glances and lunchroom d- hangouts as they laughed with full mouths and poured over messied homework - both mostly Ichika's doing. It was a lovely time, and their friendship was made no weaker from their memories shared from their combat training. They were practically inseperable in school, and Kise had half - most of - a mind to ask him over to his house, but discussing their lives outside of their bubbles always seemed a little ... taboo. Kiseki was so scared of shattering something so picturesque. He was happy. Ichika seemed happy. And now ...
There was no force challenging him to do this. There was no such instruction or assignment. They were made free to ask whoever they wanted out to the field for today's sparring practice, and expected to do so within the next ten minutes and wrap up by the end of the school day. The sun was high in the afternoon; it lit him from behind, his small, wiry frame, his hair speckled with light refracted in strands splitting over near-desperate blue. It shifted as he did, slow steps forward, through impassive throngs of chatting students all asking their friends or engaging in light ribbing to make the most 'fun' out of the circumstance. Kiseki had nothing on his mind but yearning. To be, to grow, to do anything but settle in this unbroken peace. He needed to be more. He needed to .... he needed to ... he needed to -
"Ichan," he started, soft, comfortable. It was easier together than it was before, yet harder than weeks preceding to get the words out. He was almost blushing, in such a strange rush of emotions; addressing all his peer, friend and object of adoration in gentle plea. "Would you like to spar with me?"