ʙʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴀs ᴀ ɴᴏᴜɴ, [ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ: ᴛᴀᴋᴀᴏ]
It's no secret that the key to bothering Midorima Shintarou lies in most everything that defies normalcy (an interesting fact, when all things considered, he is not normal in the slightest). And he sits in an afternoon class, note taking, teeth grinding together as he ignores the headache and general grogginess supplied by a hangover. He's a watered down version of himself, he thinks, and he hates it.
In the back of his mind he directs a string of curses towards Kise for taking him out the night prior.
His eyes start to close, sleep more appealing than a biology lecture at this point, and he's at the halfway point of passing out face down on his desk when he feels his phone suddenly buzzing in his pocket. Of course, he ignores it, but the buzzing doesn't stop and only grows more and more incessant. His eyes flash open and he suddenly sits up, teeth grinding even harder together when he one hundred percent expects a text from Kise or someone else from the night prior--
His eyes narrow at the appearance of a snapchat notification and the quick assessment that he's never actually downloaded snapchat onto his phone. Still, he opens the notification, fumbling with how to work it for a moment, completely engrossed in his phone screen.
Oh.
The picture is an entire seventy seconds of Midorima staring at himself, and his jaw goes slack, all eyes (or just a single pair and a camera, really) on his back with paranoia and regret suddenly making him even sicker than he was five minutes ago. Images from the night before roll by, picture after picture of Midorima drinking, his arm occasionally around someone he doesn't recognize. The questions run through his mind at a fast pace - who put this app on my phone, who took these photos- but when the images finally come to an end and Midorima is staring at his own back in class, he puts two and two together fast enough. He suddenly twists around in his seat, eyes landing on the black haired boy sitting behind him.
The only one sitting behind him.
Later on he'll blame clouded judgement and a pounding headache, but when he abruptly stands, pointing an accusing finger and shouting, "who ARE you," he's not thinking at all of consequences and just how badly this looks for him.
But perhaps most of all, the icing on the cake is when he actually lunges forward, across the rows of seats, ready to grab him by the collar of his shirt and shake the information out of him when he doesn't answer fast enough to Midorima's liking.
