It always catches him off guard when Oz moves so fast. He hardly sees it coming when he side steps the incoming punch and throws a thick arm around his throat. Ed’s hands grab the other man’s arm, expecting to be freed after a moment like with any other holds they did during their sparring match. His fingers clutch his arm harder, urging him to let go, but it only tightens it in return. The release doesn’t come though and his carefree attitude quickly fades. This wasn’t playtime anymore.
“Oz–” He uses what air he has in his lungs to gasp his name as he tries weasel his fingers beneath his arm to pry him away.
Each match sent his mind back to a private school’s play yard. The pushing, the shoving, the fists he could not dodge, nor legs that could move quick enough to escape. Now the tables were turned, it wouldn’t be him laying on the ground broken. Except the man in his grasp wasn’t a bully, but an ally on the streets. The physical struggles did nothing to shake his mind, but the hoarse call of his name slithered in. His arm went slack, suddenly free Ed from his grasp that was far more serious than sparring. Dark eyes blinked finally from their hardened gaze, landing on the blond’s to gauge his injury.
