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There are several important rules to traveling with Skateboard.
Shuriken has learned most of them through trial, error, and one extremely embarrassing incident involving a fruit stand.
Rule one: do not distract him mid-turn.
Rule two: if he says hold on, he means immediately.
Rule three: he will absolutely show off if given even the slightest opportunity.
Today, Shuriken intends to break at least one.
“Race you,” he calls.
Skateboard doesn’t slow.
“Unfair,” he replies, easy as breathing, wheels humming against the pavement. “You can grapple.”
“I will run,” Shuriken says.
“You will lose.”
“We’ll see.”
Skateboard grins over his shoulder.
That is invitation enough.
They launch.
Skateboard cuts down the street like it owes him money, carving clean lines through pedestrians who barely have time to protest before he’s gone.
Shuriken takes the rooftops, sandals barely touching tile before he’s leaping again, wind sharp and sweet in his ears.
This is the language they know best.
Speed.
Precision.
Trust.
Skateboard doesn’t look back often—but he doesn’t have to. He can hear Shuriken keeping pace, the rhythm of him, the promise that if he falls there will be someone infuriatingly competent there to witness it.
Motivating.
Skateboard takes a corner too tight on purpose.
Shuriken lands in front of him.
“Cheater,” Skateboard laughs, swerving.
“You expected honor in a race?” Shuriken replies.
“Yes.”
“That was your first mistake.”
They burst into the open plaza together, momentum finally bleeding off. Skateboard hops down, rolling to a stop with a flourish that he pretends is casual and absolutely is not.
Shuriken lands beside him without a sound.
Show-off, Skateboard mouths.
Professional, Shuriken mouths back.
They are both correct.
They lean against the railing, catching their breath.
Skateboard bumps their shoulders together, light but deliberate.
“I almost had you,” he says.
“You did not,” Shuriken replies.
“I was gaining.”
“You were dramatic.”
Skateboard laughs, bright and uncontained.
God, Shuriken likes that sound.
It’s reckless. Honest. Entirely too easy to chase.
“You’re getting faster,” Skateboard says after a moment.
Shuriken glances at him. “Training.”
“Mm,” Skateboard hums. “Or motivation?”
Shuriken arches a brow. “You implying I require incentive?”
“I’m implying,” Skateboard says, nudging him again, “that you hate losing to me specifically.”
Shuriken considers.
“…Yes,” he admits.
Skateboard beams like he’s won something anyway.
They watch the city move below them.
For once, neither of them is.
Skateboard taps his wheels against the ground, restless energy contained only by choice. “You ever think about slowing down?”
“No,” Shuriken says immediately.
“Yeah,” Skateboard nods. “Me neither.”
A beat.
Then, softer, “But it’s easier when you’re there.”
Shuriken turns.
Skateboard is looking at the skyline, pretending he didn’t just say something almost vulnerable.
Shuriken understands the maneuver.
He steps a little closer anyway.
“You’re very loud when you wipe out,” he says.
Skateboard gasps. “Rude.”
“I would notice,” Shuriken continues calmly.
Skateboard’s mouth twitches.
“…yeah?”
“Yes.”
They stand like that, shoulder to shoulder, the afternoon stretching warm and golden around them.
Skateboard lets his arm drift, just enough that it rests against Shuriken’s.
Not asking.
Not retreating.
Shuriken leaves it there.
“Next time,” Skateboard says, already recovering his bravado, “I’m picking the route.”
“I look forward to defeating you on it,” Shuriken replies.
Skateboard laughs again, delighted.
“Man,” he says, “you’re impossible.”
Shuriken allows himself the smallest smile.
“You keep racing me.”
“Yeah,” Skateboard says.
Like it’s obvious.
Like there was never any other option.
They push off together a moment later, gravity reclaimed, speed returning.
Neither of them notices they start in perfect sync.