#bmspkd

" bokuto-san! great game today! ” Shōyō looks up from where he’s stuffing his uniform - unused, undirtied, worn only for the sake of appearance so far but not actual play or involvement - back into his duffel bag along with his team jacket. unlike the rest of the team who are sweaty and tired but exhilarated coming off of the high of a hard fought game won, shōyō feels full of pent up energy and restlessness - excitement and impatience, acceptance and understanding all warring within him at the fact that he remained benched this game, and will remain that way until his official debut onto the jackals.  “ man ... watching you and everyone else play on the court --- i’m super jealous i can’t be there too, but it’s super incredible seeing the game that close! ”

your attention unwavering in front of you.         unblinking   to   the   occupancy   of   your   teammates,    to   the   scurry   of   their   activity   through   the   gym.    your   attached   concentration   second   to   the   sudden   approach   of   his   voice,    right   there   ..    right   there   ..    always   right   there.       as   if   by   nature   you   turn   toward   it,    the   application   of   a   stressed   expression   upon   your   face,    you   wish   to   reprimand   him   for   interrupting,    for   not   practicing   himself.     “     oh,    bokuto-san,      ”      but   ...    !  

baffled,         you’re   not   entirely   sure   what   had   happened   even   when   it   happened.    the   warmth   of   his   finger,    imprinted   on   your   nose.    your   eyesight   immediately   blurred   at   the   edges,    as   if   to   pinpoint   with   a   visual   examination.    affection   is   not   lost   within   bokuto,    though   you   are   hardly   on   the   end   of   it.    incomprehensible,    the   height   of   your   cheeks   paint   a   picture   of   crimson,    flustered   &   stricken   into   silence.    you’re   quiet,    for   a   beat,    for   two.    the   stutter   of   your   mind   is   like   a   short   circuit.     “        i         ──       ”     oddity   is   within   his   nature,    intertwined   with   his   overwhelming   personality.    you   think   nothing   of   it,    you   try   not   to.    your   emotions   school   back   into   apathy,    though   lacking   the   exasperation   you   wish   to   have.     “       bokuto-san,    please   keep   your   hands   to   yourself.       ”     you’re   stable,    your   voice   does   not   waver   because   you   do   not   allow   it.    your   body   language   speaks   of   composure.     “       i   was   watching   the   team   practice,    if   you   want   to   know.    you’re   aware   you’re   supposed   to   be   doing   the   same   thing,    aren’t   you?       ”      

             𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅𝐅 —  distracted by the intense, all-encompassing desire to impress caused his hand to connect with the ball at an odd angle, which not only resulted in the ball flying HELPLESSLY out of bounds, but the force of it also pushed his fingers back farther than was natural.  or comfortable.  at the time he’d only winced, his other hand coming up to hold onto the digits as sharp pain shot all throughout his hand and up his arm before releasing them as if nothing happened.  he was embarrassed;  it suddenly felt as if all eyes were on him after his flubbed attempt at a serve, and in the moment he wanted nothing more than to disappear.  his time on the court was already so limited, and now he’d wasted it.

shaking it off, he’d managed to get his head back into the game before he had an absolute MELTDOWN, but ignoring the pain from before only came back to bite him in the ass when it was time to line up a proper set.  one touch of the ball against throbbing fingers had him yelping loudly, his set sent horribly over their spiker’s reach in his awkward attempt at forcing himself forward while simultaneously pulling himself back.

in the end, he’d been reprimanded, taken to the nurse, and sent right back to the sidelines with bandaged fingers and the doom of knowing that if they lost this game it would likely be his own fault.  it was a damning feeling —  even worse than not playing at all.  had he really let his pride get in the way of doing what was right for his team ... ?

eyes wandered to bokuto as he celebrated victory with his team, rightfully so, and while nothing could quite take away from the raw joy the other’s happiness brought him, he still felt down over the way things had gone.

@bmspkd

different types of relationships !

💛 for our muses to be friends

 any  other  day  –  any  other  day,  and  the  automatic  response  of  ‘  how  many  times  do  i  have  to  tell  you  to  knock  ‘  that  he’s  uttered  countless  times  would  have  been  spoken  without  him  even  having  to  look  up.   the  presence  in  itself  and  the  change  in  energy  was  enough  to  let  anybody  know  it  was  bokuto,  after  all  .  .  .  or  maybe  it  was  just  the  volume?

 regardless,  a  few  solemn  blinks  were  delivered,  palms  that  were  comfortably  laying  empty  in  the  his  lap  now  warmed  by  a  questionable  wrap  job.  ah,  well  –  the  sentiment  was  there,  he  supposed.

 ❝  you  know  you’re  normally  meant  to  wait  until  after  they  open  the  present  to  tell  them  what  it  is,  right?  ❞  candid  and  forthright,  yet  devoid  of  anything  but  lightheartedness  as  nimble  digits  moved  to  delicately  undo  the  not–so–delicate  paper,  revealing  said  leg–warmers  in  their  wake.

 they  were  thermal,  and  perfect  for  the  winter,  just  like  he  promised. ❝  i’m  going  to  assume  you’re  all  just  tired  of  me  complaining  about  how  cold  i  am. ❞  he  held  up  the  garment  to  take  a  closer  look;  ah,  he  hates  how  lovely  his  teammates  (  friends  )  are  –  (  no,  he  doesn’t.  not  one  bit.  he’s  actually  extremely  touched.  )

 ❝  i’m  kidding  –  thank  you,  bok–kun.  they’re  great.  i’ll  wear  them  to  practise  and  i  bet  miya  will  be  jealous.  ❞

 in  hindsight,  mistake  number  one  was  asking  bokuto  koutarou,  of  all  people,  to  be  honest.  sakusa  considered  himself  a  relatively  patient  kind  of  guy  –  it  was  one  of  his  strengths;  though  not  the  social  butterfly  his  cousin  is,  or  as  adept  in  manoeuvring  his  way  through  crowds  the  way  his  teammates  are  –  he  was  still  able  to  deliver  another  swift  ‘  W H A C K  ‘  to  the  side  of  the  spiker’s  head  with  all  the  grace  in  the  world  and  without  a  single  falter  to  his  stoic  visage.  see?  patient.

 ❝  i  was  just  wondering  how  other  people  viewed  the  itachiyama  uniform.  ❞  okay,  it  did  make  them  look  like  highlighters,  but  to  be  truthful,  he  couldn’t  really  pinpoint  at  what  point  he  had  armed  himself  with  said  pillow  as  a  rather  ineffective  weapon;  it  was  only  once  the  feeling  of  quilt  on  calloused  fingertips  was  registered  did  he  realise.  ❝  asking  you  to  be  honest  wasn’t  an  open  invitation  to  insult  me.  ❞

                         OH,      THE   GODS   WERE   LAUGHING   AT   HIM,     WEREN’T   THEY?                     it’s   seemingly   unfair,     the   short   end   of   the   stick   is   nothing   but   his   to   grab,     like   pure   misfortune   all   the   damn   time.    something   had   to   be   out   for   him   just   for   his   perception   to   be   considerably   sharp   to   bokuto’s   presence   before   he’s   even   near   him,     like   an   unwilling   second   nature.     try   as   he   might,     he   could   never   have   a   good   day.     (      ————         not   that   he   tries,         inevitability   works   on   its   own   time.      )