Part of the Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story. Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building.
The late afternoon sun hung low, casting molten gold across the backyard. The weathered fence circling the patchy grass looked less like suburban privacy and more like the battered walls of a makeshift arena. No crowd. No referee. Not really needed. Just the dull thud of gloves on flesh, the sharp snap of breath between clenched teeth, and the steady rhythm of two men who’d been trading leather long enough to wear the fight on their bodies. Sweat ran in rivulets, darkening patches of dirt where it fell. Bruises bloomed in purple and red along ribs and shoulders. A thin line of blood traced the edge of a mouth, a raw badge of how much fun they were having. This wasn’t about points or belts. This was about power. About pushing past pain until it turned into something addictive.
Kevin’s chest heaved, the black-ink spirals across it shifting with each breath, the design alive with motion. Sweat clung stubbornly to the wiry hair on his torso, glistening like molten glass in the sunlight. His bright green hair, matted, damp, still caught the light like a flare every time he moved. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and grinned through split lips, eyes locked on Rena. Rena stood lighter on his feet, bouncing, his smooth skin slick with sweat that caught the gold of the sun. His curls, damp and unruly, clung to his forehead. His jaw was tight, his breathing steady but charged, gloves already up, not out of caution, but instinct. He shifted with the grace of a streetwise dancer, legs alive with energy, waiting for the next beat in this bruising rhythm they were writing together.
They didn’t speak. They just circled.