P R A C T I C E

Darren ran at his usual roadwork pace slowed by a factor of a little bit. The way he saw it, it was about two times, to times and a half as long as his usual roadwork course. If he paced himself in the middle and the end, he should be able to run it, he theorized himself.

A look over his shoulder informed him that the two followed suit and that he was in the lead, and comfortably so. He slowed down a little.

Kirk was the closest, unsurprisingly, as the American had mentioned opening a sports club, and even without him mentioning his seemingly boundless passion for exercise, his body and attitude carried the message loud and clear.

The message was that Kirk was the sportive type and that he could walk, or rather run the talk. It was jointly told by his calves, his quadriceps, his hamstrings, his enthusiasm and the way in which he automatically broke into a rhythm of uninterrupted “hop, hop, hop” onomatopoeias.

Boyo was last. Darren slowed down even more, letting Kirk take the lead to examine the boyo in question more closely. His face was a mask of judgemental neutrality.

True to what the delinquent gathered, the boy was the type who thought before acting. He had a resolute expression on his face and was obviously pacing himself. Darren was making audible “hmmm” sounds, in part because he was an idiot, in part to tease and distract his classmate and in part to see if how he reacted to the delinquent’s piques.

The “hmm” sounds stopped and left their place to Darren’s devil's smile. His devil smile was the smile he employed when he had the type of idea that he himself found to be great ideas, but to which other people displayed a series of reactions ranging from “that’s completely stupid” to “why?”, passing by “seriously?” and “that’s just dangerous” on the way.

“Come on boyo, pick up the pace! It’s not fair if you’re going slower than us!” he said with the same shit-eating grin that seemed to throw the perfect wrench in Akio’s gears to make them grind sweetly. “Gonna have to be a bit quicker than that if you wanna give more of em white knight speeches and live to tell the tale!” he added referring to the music night, the grin from earlier showing no signs of ever wanting to leave his face.

“Tss tss boyo, you think too high, of yourself. You didnt ruin, the night, Jaz did,” he said between breaths. The delinquent’s back straightened and his chest puffed with pride, kind of like a girl trying to make her boobs stand out. “And we saved it! Address letters of thanks to OD Hazard,” he added, referring to his band, unaware if his two running mates knew of the name or even that they played that night, not really caring either way.

But as Darren said, that was enough of boyo, and Kirk was the star of the show now. It was hard to say if the show was a roast or a celebration of the athletic American; even when Darren liked someone, his shit-talking and fun-poking ways shone through, and they shone brightly.

He let Kirk talk for a while, as he was becoming increasingly aware that he was talking too much for someone who planned to run three laps around campus, as they were reaching the three-quarters of their first one, passing the main building and having the dorms in view once more.

The bit of respite gave his lungs a second life, which he promptly proceeded to waste by speaking up again. “Yeah, that aura boi, sneakier than he looks. On the surface, ‘nother boyo, but get him riled up, an’ he’ll rip yo ass, them aura claws, scary shit b. And he smart, too,” Darren said, adding next to nothing to the conversation on Naoru. He was about as much the thinking type as Kirk was, preferring to let his fists do the thinking. The talking he did himself, and he did it plenty.

He shot a glance at Kirk’s flesh backpack when he flared it up and back down again. “You control, that shit, too?” The first lap completed, Darren’s breath was getting shorter. His legs were fine, but his lungs were starting to burn a little too much for comfort, enough that he had to switch to a proper breathing technique and spare his saliva a little, very much against his will.

Inhale, inhale, through the nose, exhale, exhale, through the mouth. For the first time since they started running, Darren looked like a proper boxer doing his roadwork. He looked competent. The blondie was probably the number one martial artist in the school, both in technique and physical conditioning, but he rarely looked the part, if ever.

“You like, long and sturdy, between, your hands,” he repeated. He wanted to make the obvious joke, but he thought the better of it and closed his mouth. Maybe just repeating the incriminating words was funnier. Yes, it was, the delinquent reassured himself, nodding at his own thoughts.

Funnier or not, his respiratory system sure welcomed the breather. That second lap sounded feasible. The third one would be a challenge.

He looked over his shoulder at Akio, his eyes carrying the message that never in a million years he would be caught giving up before the red-haired annoyingly taller than him boy. he was determined to show that his relatively shorter frame packed the most punch, his superiority complex only spurred on by the fact he was the shortest of the three.