MEMENTO MORI.

Atsumu’s hands are gentle where they take hold of Kiyoomi’s, smelling of orange peels where they had indulged in the fruit during break and the fresh fragrance that lingered from the floral scented soap. “ This file’s got good grit, never buy the disposable ones ya get in a packet, they’re trash. ” his movements are slow and in practiced manner, eyes focused where they ensure his nails maintain an even length and shape. “ Yer nails are kinda brittle but ya keep ‘em short so s’not a big deal. Ever broken one durin’ games ? ”

plotted, @kiyuomi​

perhaps  if  the  scent  of  citrus  and  botany  embedded  into  the  dermis  of  his  counterpart  wasn’t  providing  the  comfort  that  it  currently  was,  he  wouldn’t  be  so  lax;  perhaps  he  wouldn’t  even  be  in  this  situation.  perhaps.  albeit  still,  that  doesn’t  matter  so  much  now.

a  professional  outside  hitter  takes  care  of  his  hands,  of  course  he  does,  but  the  combination  of  frequent  hand  washing  and  sanitiser  means  that  his  skin  is  a  little  more  lacklustre  than  most—  dry.  it’s  dry.

optics  follow  the  movements,  studying  them  with  the  intensity  of  a  spike,  weaving  the  advice  into  his  memory—  don’t  buy  the  disposable  ones.  they’re  trash.

❝  once,  when  i  was  younger.  i  keep  them  short  for  that  reason.  makes  it  easier  to  grip  the  ball,  ❞   a  grimace  atop  features,  avoiding  eye  contact  as  he  seemingly  struggles  the  words  out.  as  if  they  were  lodged  in  his  throat,