05.

the question is fragmenting,   a vibration sent pulsing into shinso’s wary life…     there is no answer to his question  that could be fully,  wholly true   [   shinso thinks that truth isn’t real,   but that must be the same is true of falsehoods:     how do we fill the spaces between what is and what isn’t?   ].     his father had once told him that the mind can’t really see the peripheries of your vision,   that it just makes up what it thinks should be there   –    that explains the shadows,   the blackened shapes that move a little too quickly.      he thinks his life is like that:     the parts of the world that are made up by the mind to ensure that order is established.     he folds his hands in his lap and tips his head back.    from here,   he can see the spiral of stars above them,    the endless itch of sky dawning on them.

‘       i have things that matter…       i think i have things that matter.     there’s no way of being completely sure of these things,   i don’t think.    not before you lose them.      ’       he doesn’t speak the words to akaashi:      they billow into the air   [   he tries to tangle his fingers around every word,   but they’re gone too quickly   ].    he speaks around the other…     but it’s enough just to say the words,   to feel them in his mouth.     each noise feels like a sigh of relief.      ‘        do you have things that matter to you?    what are they?      ’      THE UNSAID QUESTION…     what’s the normal response?       ​

deficient as his answer is,    lacking only in certainty to the question you had possessed,       you have no acknowledgement that would be considered a solution.    it is not unreasonable to think that there are people as doubtful as you:   your desires only a reflection of self-afflicted mundanity.    you yourself,    a caricature of indetermination,    ambiguity of wishes lost beneath mediocrity. 

it’s not as if you forgo the option of answering him,    an external observer might see your near-persistent silence.    (    those would be the same to apply a character of instinctive knowledge to you,    to unjustifiably equate permanent intelligence—    to think you must have all the answers.    )     you cannot blame anyone,    no less him nor yourself,   to seek out meanings of the unknown.    you are the same within that regard—    it drifts from personal interpretations to want of unyielding assurance. 

“    i’m not sure that’s true,    ”     an initiation on your end after your silence:    not in a manner of dismissing his feelings,    only fashioned of your own comprehension,     “    to think that it might be too late to notice....     ”     you have no basis for your cognizance,    only personal emotions not acceptable to the bias of reality.

(    your consideration a reach to the cosmos above you—    to cassiopeia,    to perseus,    to the length of hydra:    there is a weave of your contemplation between their distances,    as if any inquiries could be reflected from their own mythos.    )

“    don’t worry.    you only just started.    ”    yukako’s reassuring words are made by the shape of her mouth,    fervorous and consecutive for keiji,    the inexpert.

the four corners of her home becomes a backdrop—    warm,    simple and unpretentious.    the furniture,    miscellaneous items and such are a blur,    not quite worthy of notice.    the focus:    a pair of bodies,    comprised of a multitude of chemical elements,     blood    [    a morbid addition,    considering the nature of these otherwise heartfelt,    meaningful words…    ]    and,    most importantly,    love for the other party.    it is so special;    the miracles they know,    no one knows,    and no one loves the way they do⁽ ¹ ⁾.

“    everyone starts out how you are:    [    there’s a slight tilt of her head as she says this,    serving well as a symbol of emphasis.    the movement of her hands,    embroidering the image of a rose onto cloth via needlework,    doesn’t cease.    ]    not knowing what they’re doing.    ”    it’s an allusion to her past self—    during which yukako knew next to nothing about the quick pain of being pricked by a needle or the bead of carmine it let greet the air.

pain is an excellent teacher.    “    you’ll be as good at sewing as you are at volleyball if you keep at it.    ”

you,    inexperienced    &    inelegant,     do not take comfort in your progress,    (   despite—    the petals of your rose:    less chunky,    the exteriority of your finger a reduction of miniscule pricks    ),    only however in the solace of her words.    they settle just as she to your side:    a reassurance of support,    equivalent to the wrap of a warm blanket upon your person,    or the first aestival breeze of the season.    it is coupled with the dexterity of which she composes,    as though the act of embroidery is her own origination.   (    if you were someone of less knowledge of the world,   you would take such as truth if only by the spectacle before you.    )

your care is laid with delicacy to the assurance she gifts you—    though,    it might appear ludicrous to those a bystander to your emotions,    the two of you are simple visuals to the refinement of courtship,    to the charm of your entanglement.    (    i carry your heart[i carry it in my heart],    margaret atwood said.    )     

it’s not as if your vexation has support—    you are the one that follows into frivolous footsteps by attempting aggressive maneuvers for bokuto-san to counter his blocks,    &     yet you see yourself just as inconsiderate as he to feign keeping your indignation at bay.    (    the glower you pass over your right shoulder is merely a glare off of the court floor,    kuroo-san,    don’t read too far into it.    )

you cannot maintain your ignorance of him,    despite your knowingly futile attempts:    his clear goading locked underneath a grin both boyish    &    taunting in its execution,   is obstructing even your peripheral in no-lesser movements.    your attention,    though unstable for you,    flutters between the line of your set    &    the fast blur of his team    (    though tsukishima considerably diminished behind him    )     from your right.    ambitious he is in his migrations,    you are significantly more self-assured in the arch of your plays   &   the point of bokuto-san’s teachings than you would be in his underhanded tactics. 

no matter that kuroo-san is clever in his defense,    (    cunning    &    diabolical just as well    ),    you fail to present yourself as merely a stand-by,    someone unremarkable    &    a blend in your environment,    that even your spite carries through with the satisfying slap of the ball against his side of the court.

(    it’s apparent,   through further investigation of the flare of amusement within you,  that maybe it isn’t irresponsible to prompt yourself in defiance of your unexceptional disposition—    it is clearly gratifying.    )