No homo (private)

The ball bounced once on the edge and fell right through. Chris dribbled it back to the middle of the field, let it bounce back and forth between his legs, spun, took a run, jumped high and slam dunked it. His hair was plastered on his skull with sweat -- well, the hair he had. He had been rocking a punk undercut for the last few months, after spending his early teenhood playing with messy spikes and Eminem styles.
He lazily made the ball bounce alongside him as he went to the edge of the field, dropping down on the grass. He was sweaty, tired, and sore. A few new scars were stretching across his skin and ugly shades of purple, courtesy of some stupid Nike runt. Chris flexed his arm in a quick sword movement whilst picturing himself beheading him.

Chris turned around aggressively. Which idiot was ruining his evening now?

"Amphitheater's that way, punk," he snorted, pointing him in the wrong direction.

The guy had a strong built and dark, smooth features. The sunset made a side of his face glow orange. Chris ignored the rush of attraction he felt and strode over. "Hold up. You a Nike kid?" he asked, a knife suddenly in his hand.

"Really? Cause you look just like one of those @sshole c#nts to me," Chris spat, threateningly close. There was some height difference, but that had never stopped Chris from throwing people around before.

Cypress quickly shook his head as he started to back away from the guy. He was definitely intimidating and he was sure that he was even when he wasn't trying. Closer now, Cypress was able to tell that he had angry green eyes and freckles splattered across his face.

"I'm a Demeter kid!" He quickly blurted out. "Not Nike, I swear," He took his camp beaded necklace and showed him the green one. "See?"

Chris stuck his knife under the necklace and glanced at the green one. "Demeter, huh," he grunted and let him go, which was his version of an apology. "Don't you have daisies to grow or something?" He flipped his knife and made it disappear back into his clothing, almost disappointed. He was pumped for a fight, he didn't know why. His whole day had been one long brawl cut up by a lunch break, but he still had enough anger to take on a squadron.

"Catching on, are ya," Chris mouthed with a sneer. He had a sword at his side and tactical knives sheathed on his wrists. A serrated blade poked out from under his shirt. He had other weapons hidden inside his clothing, but those were the obvious ones.

OOC: Realized I haven't described his clothing. He's in gym shorts and camp tee, and for once he's wearing running shoes instead of combat boots. He's also wearing a shark tooth around his neck, plus the camp necklace.

He groaned. He hated being called French. "Wanna say that again? I'm bloody Corsican, d#uchebag." He closed a fist and flexed his arm, as if about to land a punch. "Why are you still here anyway, do you need free @sskicking lessons?"

"Teach you? How to fight?" He snorted. "I'd rather teach a dead whale. That's right, get lost, you..." Just as he was about to fire a bunch of insults after him, his eyes fell on the picnic table next to them. There was a sandwich right there, with cheese, salami, tomatoes, it looked heavenly. He noticed the guy had been holding it earlier, but it was untouched.
Did...did the dude really just give him his food? Just like that?
Chris followed him with his eyes.

"Oi."

Chris took a bite of the sandwich. Holy Zeus, it tasted even better than it looked...

"Right. Fine. I guess I can try and coach you for a bit," he grunted. "Arena, tomorrow at 11am. And don't be late, I hate people who waste my time." With that, he turned away, grabbed his basketball and strode away with headphones in his ears.