[For Porthos]

Oliver would say he isn't sure how he arrived here, but that would be a lie. Porthos has quickly become something of a friend, and in a city as strange and lonely as this one, Oliver will take it. His life, which he'd fought so hard to keep, has been disrupted, and having at least one person who doesn't ask questions makes things a little easier.

That has somehow led to sparring with Porthos, but Oliver is sure that was ninety percent Porthos' desire to have someone to beat on.

Usually, Oliver would give back just as much as he gets, but he's tired this morning. He's used to long nights out in the city; it's something else that keeps him from sleep when he gets home. Glimpses out of the corner of his eye, vivid dreams, the surety of a presence in the room with him, and the crushing guilt that accompanies it.

There can't be any reason for it other than his own emotions, and sparring is good for that, at least. He doesn't see blonde hair and vacant blue eyes between punches, doesn't see a tattoo that is the mirror of his own as he dodges and rolls.

It helps, but it isn't enough. Oliver is just a touch too slow dodging a blow from Porthos, and he goes down with a loud huff.

He stays on the mat for a moment and shakes his head. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"