#lcgcrity

    “Yes, er–it’s really fine, I’m good…!”

    It’s at this point that Mio makes a grave error. Like a salesman slapping the hood of the car they’re trying to sell, Mio lands a smack to her own palm on sheer I-need-to-reassure-this-person-everything’s-okay instinct. The problem? Everything is not, in fact, okay.

    You can see the nervous, reassuring smile freeze on her face as the sharp pain registers, posture going rigid after a shudder bolts its way down her spine. Oh, that hurts.

    “Of course! Just leave it to me!“

    With a salute (why? why did she do that?), Mio spins on the heel of her sneaker (a faint squeak against the floors punctuating the action) and takes off in a sprint, slipping through the door and beyond the halls. She reemerges slightly dishevelled several minutes later, cradling an ice pack and a towel more carefully than is necessary in her hands and making a beeline back to Asimina’s side at the bench.

      “How are you, Dimiou-san? It looked like you shifted your weight at the last moment to avoid a more serious injury, but I’m sure it still hurts...” Mio has sunken down on bent knee with the wrapped ice pack hovering over her teammate’s ankle before she realizes maybe she should let the girl handle this herself.

[ reign / accepting / @lcgcrity ]

“Neh, Asimina, did you ever play back in Cyprus?”

Cuba had won a bronze medal in 1976 Olympics and that had been the reason her father had gotten into the sport, a love he’d passed onto his daughters. Who watched them play in the NORCECA championships whenever they could. But she’d never really thought about volleyball in Europe before. 

Lenny’s cheeks tinted a light pink shade at his comment. “Golly. I — er — yeah. Th-They are k-kinda cute.”she replied. She twiddled her fingers in an awkward manner.

“Luci, you know you don’t have to feed  me just because you’re our manager or because we’re in the same class, right?”

Any other person might’ve arched a brow at the seemingly rude way she’s talking, but it’s out of concern more than anything else. Not that she’s complaining when there’s food involved, she just has no idea where he finds the spare time to find recipes online between everything else he seems to do. 

posed in thought & still as a statue, she would have looked more at home in a museum than a flower shop. But building a bouquet was no simple task in Yerin’s mind – she wanted to choose the blooms with the colors and meanings that would suit her friend best. Yet in the middle her straining to remember the floral language of daffodils ( was it trust? or respect? ), a sudden voice interrupted her tangle of thoughts. She glanced up to find the florist hovering nearby, prompting a question she’d honestly like to know herself.

❝ Oh – I’m sorry! ❞ Yerin exclaimed, instantly sheepish to be discovered  – sometimes she felt her indecisiveness should be criminal. Hopefully he hadn’t been watching her pitiful ambivalence for long. In any other situation, it would’ve been difficult to disregard a pair of eyes like his that stood well above the other customers … but her attention had been consumed with the task.

then bring him over instead, that calls for easier muse management