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The tips of the surrounding trees sip from the remaining light of day, gently swaying under the influence of the evening air. The clearing cupped in the spaces between them contains a boy in its center, a strong one. He takes pride in this. There is nothing he cannot bear. He stands with his face to the sky, eyes closed, hilt of his sword in his grip. Breath comes easily to him, honor even more so.
He opens his eyes and raises his sword. With an exhale, he begins: movements swift and powerful, cutting through the air with determination, unwavering. His muscles ripple underneath smooth skin, boasting strength and dedication to his craft. It’s a dance, it’s an art. It’s magnificent.
A sly voice cuts through the peace of the dusk: “Ah, Sa’amura!”
The boy abruptly ceases his dance. With a wicked grin, he turns over his shoulder. “Kuroo-san! Figures you’d be the one to interrupt.” He turns to face him. Kuroo stands, long and lean, hand gripping hilt, blade resting across the length of his shoulders. He’s clever— an alley cat in the night. Daichi pictures a black tail twitching behind him: the impression of giving something away. He drops his chin and looks up at Daichi from under his dark lashes. One eye peeks out from behind a shock of black hair, a roguish smirk twisting his mouth.
“What a pleasant surprise to find you here,” he calls as he saunters over from the treeline, stopping just a foot away from the son of Nike. “I was just coming to train. I was only going to imagine sparring you, but my, my: I have the real thing.” Daichi regards him with a lifted brow as he watches Kuroo drive his sword into the ground, lean on it, and toss his hair with a sigh. “I guess a hard day’s work is never done for a kid like you, huh? Does mommy expect you to train every night?” Kuroo grins down at the shorter boy, who laughs.
“Ah,” Daichi sighs. “Expectations can seem like heavy things, can’t they? You’re blessed not to be subjected to them, Kuroo-san!” He says cherrily.
Kuroo chuckles. “So, Sawamura, are we going to do this, or are you just going to keep teasing me? I could be fine with either.”
Daichi sweeps his arm across the air, gesturing to the field in welcome. “Please! You’d be doing me a favor: I can’t resist a victory,” he agrees. Kuroo grins and pulls his sword from the Earth. Daichi begins walking backwards, distancing himself without taking his eyes off of the taller boy. Whether his reluctance to turn can be attributed to good battle instinct or simply because Daichi enjoys life’s simple pleasures, who’s to say? All that matters is Daichi draws back, and the tension between them pulls taut.
“Are you ready?” Daichi lifts his eyebrows and takes an active stance, the muscles in his thighs swelling in anticipation.
Kuroo, who has yet to come across an occasion serious enough for him to discard his devil-may-care façade, shakes his hair back into proper disarray and waves his sword at the warrior. “What? Don’t I get a kiss for good luck?” He purrs.
“Ha!” Daichi shouts, surprised, but he maintains his stance. “The goddess of luck bestows so little upon her own son that he has to bribe it out of his opponents?”
A cheshire grin begins to slowly spread across Kuroo’s mouth. He lifts a brow. “A kiss from me is worth enough to you to be considered a bribe, Sa’amura?”
Daichi lunges, maintaining his low stance, but Kuroo leaps aside, heels sliding into the earth.
Kuroo spins back to him, blade ready to meet blade. He’s thinner and taller than the son of Nike, but he sees everything: his watchful eye playing sentinel over the movements of others. Daichi’s swift attacks meet a practiced and graceful opponent who receives blow after blow from the warrior and sends them right back. He’s unbeatable, ravenous for victory. There is no prize in the world as tantalizing as that of triumph.
Kuroo swings his sword around his head and brings it down upon the shorter man, who catches the blow and presses upward. Kuroo pivots and nearly wrings the sword out of Daichi’s hands. Instead, Daichi dives and rolls back into his ready stance with a laugh.
“Shame on me for forgetting your tricks, Kuroo-san,” he says breathlessly with a stormy grin brewing on his mouth.
“It’s an honor to surprise you, Sawamura.” Kuroo gives a slight bow.
Daichi pounces again, and they resume their dance. The light of the sun slips from the hand of the sky, and the clearing is blanketed in pale blue. A distant loon from the lake beyond the trees mourns the death of the day, and bats begin to swoop over the breathless boys engaged in their rumpus.
Just then, Kuroo’s long, nimble fingers wrap around Daichi’s wrist, and he twists, the sword landing with a soft thud on the grass. This is it, he thinks to himself, elated. I’m going to beat the unbeatable. But his arm is yanked downwards, and before he can understand what’s happening, he’s hitting the ground next to the sword, arms pinned on either side by iron legs.
As Kuroo’s shock dissipates, Daichi comes into view above him, sketched against the pale sky. Perched upon Kuroo’s chest, a noble smile begs to burst open. Daichi reaches over Kuroo’s head and plucks the sword from his hand. He slides it under Kuroo’s jaw with a seamless flourish. His eyes twinkle with well-deserved pride, but when he looks down at the sight before him, his heart stutters.
The battlefield is so easy, so logical and sure. From birth, he’s been capable of anything. Well, clearly not anything. With the cool grass and the dark-haired boy beneath him, envy ripples down his throat at the thought of the Aphrodite cabin. All the years spent with a weapon in his hand couldn’t prepare him for this: getting what he wanted. He lifts a brow, careful to keep the tantrum of his heart away from his face, and bends over the grinning boy, a mirage in tempered blue.
Kuroo watches Daichi’s face sketch into definition and gives into the weight of him on his chest. For all of Kuroo’s pomp and circumstance, he is useless when caught red-handed in a bluff. A fierce flush overtakes his cheeks, clever smile cracking, and he thanks the gods for the cover of dusk. Daichi hovers for a moment above him, deciding, deciding, decided: he bows his head and brushes his lips over the defenseless boy below him, careful to not put too much weight on the sword still pressed to his neck. Kuroo’s chest stutters and steals away the last of his confidence. Daichi smiles against his lips, then presses a little harder. The boy’s mouth yields to him, opening like night blooming Jasmine to the evening air. He tastes of summer and salt, and Daichi’s nerves dissipate as he revels in kissing the smirk off Kuroo’s mouth, rolling it over his tongue and tucking it away.
He parts from him and admires the prosperous pink heat radiating from the alley cat’s cheeks. Kuroo opens his eyes and narrows them, studying his opponent’s face. The smirk returns despite Daichi’s best efforts. Daichi gently takes the sword from Kuroo’s neck, rises, and offers a helping hand. Kuroo takes it, and the son of Nike pulls him to his feet.
“Couldn’t give that to you before and let you win,” Daichi says gently, lightly, and holds out Kuroo’s sword. Kuroo takes it and his chin lifts ever so slightly.
“Who says I didn’t win?”
Daichi blinks. “See you later, Sa’amura.” The cat turns and stalks off into the night, sword resting on shoulder, victory over the stunned victorious in tow.