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The old lights flicker and hum; the place is dim, only half of them lit. The floor is patched with dirt, footprints, and blood.
The gym is quiet other than two people — an unsettling atmosphere hanging in the air along with the scent of sweat and mildew. After-hours are always strangely dreary. It's easy to forget about that during the day, when the place is full of noise and energy and company.
Kenya leans back against the ropes of the ring and toys with his hand wraps. He tightens one, secures it again, then flexes his fingers. Picks off a couple stray dots of dried blood and who-knows-what. His hand curls into a fist. There's a dark expression shrouding his face, matching the fluorescent shadows that ring his eyes and the bags under them. He's the newest here, the youngest by far, but his death glare still has a bite to it.
Sakuma tries to shake off the odd feeling. He's just a brooding little kid, isn't he? An angry, violent one with an impressive amount of strength, but little nonetheless. Fights like a man and pouts like a kid. Always glancing around like somebody's out to get him, never looks anyone in the eye. But today, he stares right at Sakuma, gaze burning into him.
Sakuma leans against the opposite wall. He keeps his distance but makes it clear he's not running away. "It's late. Aren't you tired yet?"
"Never," he rasps through gritted teeth, not a single shred of hesitation. Stubborn. Fearless. "I want another round."
Sakuma lets out a little noise, somewhere between a laugh and a disappointed tsk , and Kenya crinkles his nose in contempt. "No, you don't. You need to go home."
The kid's shoulders tense up. His fists tighten until they're white-knuckled, a vein swells at his temple. He's bruised, splashes of purple working their way up his cheekbone and over his forehead. A smudged trail of red runs from his nose to his chin. Sweat soaks through his hoodie.
He's still determined, taking a daring step forward.
Sakuma shoots him a skeptical look. "Kid—"
"Don't call me that," Kenya spits.
He almost feels bad for the kid. Sakuma reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he dodges to the side, lip curling.
"Stop trying to act tough. You'll get hurt if you keep going like this."
"I won't. I know I wont. I'm better than that, just give me another chance." His voice almost cracks in the middle of it, unsteadily rising. Then, quiet and hoarse, "I need to..."
This close up, Sakuma can see him shaking, his shoulders rising and falling with choppy, labored breaths. Is he just angry? Scared? Pushed himself too far? Sakuma is curious, and honestly worried despite the way his best judgment tells him to steer clear — but he's also dead tired, and he knows Kenya must be even more so. He turns to leave. "You can have your fight tomorrow, okay?"
He barely moves before Kenya grabs the back of his shirt. The kid doesn't even say anything, just digs his nails into fabric and skin, staring and snarling. Sakuma glances over his shoulder and tries to make out the expression on Kenya's face.
On the surface, Kenya seems like he should be an easy read: some broody kid with too much attitude and not enough sense. But he's unyielding, more than stubborn — determined like he's got a death wish. He's brash, but he isn't stupid, far from it. Something drives him; something that makes him take every decision on fight or flight. Like a wounded animal backed into a corner, panting through bared teeth.
"Tell me why, then."
Kenya blinks, confused, and swallows thickly. "... Huh?"
He isn't sure if trying to reason with this little tight-wound ball of anger will get him anywhere, but he's already crossed the line and has no where else to go, so he continues. "Why we need to do this now. Why you're so determined to get stronger or die trying."
It hits a nerve. "Why does it matter?" Kenya snaps, his tone sharp-edged again.
Sakuma is yanked back hard, almost enough to make him stumble, but he finds his balance and holds his ground. "Because I don't want to see you getting yourself killed over nothing."
He's soft for little punks, and that's probably the only reason he hasn't punched this one in his big mouth yet. He's seen too many kids like that in the boxing scene: a fiery star, the prideful type that burns bright and crashes just as fast. The ones that act invincible and die young. Wasted potential. Sakuma tries to take them under his wing, if he can, and set them straight.
But Kenya's different than that. He's not the typical big-city thug chasing parties and thrills and fame, the ones that pick fights for fun. It's not about pride, is it? He keeps himself under lock and key, completely isolated, holding his secrets close to his chest. And he must have a lot of them, too many for such a young kid.
Sakuma starts to put the pieces together in his mind. It feels like having half of the puzzle, only able to trace the missing gaps and know it won't make a pretty picture—
The patchwork of scars he tries to hide. The way he fights so recklessly. The look in his eye in the middle of a match, blank and laser-focused. The days he disappears. The bruises that aren't from practice.
This isn't like anything he's seen before, Sakuma realizes. This is worse. A pang of worry settles into the pit of his stomach.
Why you're so determined to get stronger or die trying... Because I don't want you getting yourself killed over nothing...
His words were meant to be vaguely cautionary, but he starts to think there's more truth to them than he considered.
He's knocked out of his thoughts as Kenya pushes past him. Like Coach said, just a moment of distraction can cost you the match. Whether Kenya is trying to block his way or to run, he isn't sure, and Kenya looks just as conflicted. At least the kid isn't going for a punch.
"Hey," Sakuma says softly, and the change of tone makes Kenya flinch. He wants to reach out, take back the distance that's been put between them, but he doesn't. Kenya's back is against the door and he has the feeling that one wrong move will send them back to the beginning again. "Tell me you're alright, kid. Tell me you're safe."
Kenya doesn't meet his eyes. He just takes a step back, and for a moment, Sakuma thinks he might never see the kid again — but he stops. Sunlight and fresh breeze from outside crack through the tense atmosphere, lightening the air a little.
"... Tomorrow, then. We'll fight tomorrow."
It's an evasive answer, but it's a commitment. A promise that he'll keep himself safe for tonight.
Sakuma sighs, relieved. "Same time, same place. Don't make me worry about you."
For the first time ever, Sakuma sees him smile, a small quirk at the edge of his lip. He lets out a huff of air that could almost be a laugh.
"Just worry about losing."
One glance over his shoulder, and he's gone, until tomorrow.