Ryouta saves up words to spend later. He writes whole arguments in his head when he can and look no one in the eye. He boils whole tempests and lets them evaporate in a day.
His basketball suffers. Ryouta thinks about the streamlined grace of Daiki’s legs and jumps higher, runs faster, reaches further. He has no appetite; Akashi recommends a new diet that Ryouta prints out but does not follow. “Akashicchi,” he laughs, “Thank you for noticing.” And he hangs up when Akashi does, a silence between his words and the polite, cold goodbye.
Akashi had never really liked inefficiency. Daiki is anything but: there is nothing wasteful about his movement on the court.
Ryouta itches to fill the space in his head with Daiki’s presence. Sometimes, it’s like he’s hollow: he’s what his photographer frames him to be for the hour. It’s his job to be empty, kind of, and Ryouta wonders what exactly it would be like to always be full, to overflow. He chases his image, the stretch of Daiki’s hands imprinted on Ryouta’s memory and pulling at his muscles. He’s selfish: he wants to be loved, wants attention for attention’s sake, wants Daiki’s eyes on him when he plays, when he breathes.
(The only person who can beat me is me. Ryouta is so close to being Daiki that it hurts to come back to himself, at times.)
He wonders what Daiki would look like if he unloaded one of the arguments in his head. I hate you. It turns into something else when he says it aloud: a question. It sounds weak-willed: another trait Akashicchi doesn’t like.
Daiki leaves impressions in Ryouta he can’t quite replicate. Even in spirit, clay keeps the impression of fingers.
Ryouta watches Daiki leave the trace of his fingertips on Kurokocchi and tries not to think about it; remains empty. The storm in his head dissipates when Kurokocchi looks up at Daiki, like he’s the center of his world. Ryouta looks at Daiki and Daiki never quite notices--it’s not fair, it’s not right. (But Kurokocchi is small and frail and looks almost fragile, overwhelmed by the brightness of Daiki’s force until he nearly disappears. Ryouta mirrors it; Kurokocchi complements it. It would be easier to hate it, if he could.)
He’s not a child; he won’t cry for what he wants. Ryouta just looks away when Kurokocchi lifts himself up, hands on Daiki’s broad shoulders to kiss him, and keeps chasing the light.
FILL: AKAASHI KEIJI/BOKUTO KOUTAROU/KUROO TETSUROU, G
420 words
Ryouta saves up words to spend later. He writes whole arguments in his head when he can and look no one in the eye. He boils whole tempests and lets them evaporate in a day.
His basketball suffers. Ryouta thinks about the streamlined grace of Daiki’s legs and jumps higher, runs faster, reaches further. He has no appetite; Akashi recommends a new diet that Ryouta prints out but does not follow. “Akashicchi,” he laughs, “Thank you for noticing.” And he hangs up when Akashi does, a silence between his words and the polite, cold goodbye.
Akashi had never really liked inefficiency. Daiki is anything but: there is nothing wasteful about his movement on the court.
Ryouta itches to fill the space in his head with Daiki’s presence. Sometimes, it’s like he’s hollow: he’s what his photographer frames him to be for the hour. It’s his job to be empty, kind of, and Ryouta wonders what exactly it would be like to always be full, to overflow. He chases his image, the stretch of Daiki’s hands imprinted on Ryouta’s memory and pulling at his muscles. He’s selfish: he wants to be loved, wants attention for attention’s sake, wants Daiki’s eyes on him when he plays, when he breathes.
(The only person who can beat me is me. Ryouta is so close to being Daiki that it hurts to come back to himself, at times.)
He wonders what Daiki would look like if he unloaded one of the arguments in his head. I hate you. It turns into something else when he says it aloud: a question. It sounds weak-willed: another trait Akashicchi doesn’t like.
Daiki leaves impressions in Ryouta he can’t quite replicate. Even in spirit, clay keeps the impression of fingers.
Ryouta watches Daiki leave the trace of his fingertips on Kurokocchi and tries not to think about it; remains empty. The storm in his head dissipates when Kurokocchi looks up at Daiki, like he’s the center of his world. Ryouta looks at Daiki and Daiki never quite notices--it’s not fair, it’s not right. (But Kurokocchi is small and frail and looks almost fragile, overwhelmed by the brightness of Daiki’s force until he nearly disappears. Ryouta mirrors it; Kurokocchi complements it. It would be easier to hate it, if he could.)
He’s not a child; he won’t cry for what he wants. Ryouta just looks away when Kurokocchi lifts himself up, hands on Daiki’s broad shoulders to kiss him, and keeps chasing the light.