karasuno--and kageyama, especially--they’re all freakish and weird in their intensity, with chips on their shoulders the size of the sun. that crazy-fast quick is nothing hajime’s ever seen, and he aches to try it, to jump that high and spike that hard. even after seeing that little #10 soar, hajime winces when he lands.
mid-match, with his jersey already sweaty and a familiar ache in his legs, hajime watches oikawa twirl the ball in his hands.
hajime can’t quite do what they do--but if he could keep his eyes shut midair, he’d spike oikawa’s toss. he’d do it every time, every day. it’s not like he doesn’t believe in him any less.
takahiro doesn’t get what the problem is. it’s unfair, when he considers how hard seijou’s worked and how much sweat he’s poured into this game. he watches hajime pummel the ball to the ground on the opposite court and it’s frustrating, tiring, how it doesn’t land. karasuno is troublesome.
he doesn’t like relying on oikawa’s service ace. none of them do: it’s makes him powerless, a little less capable of helping his team out when he clearly can. oikawa’s jump serve elongates his lean legs, head tilted back as he chases their little moment of glory, and the weight on his shoulders is one that takahiro aches to share.
wing spikers are afraid of walls. issei can see it in the way kindaichi jumps, in the way new players are hesitant to soar--and it’s the fear that’s subverted in the graceful, sleek attacks hanamaki and iwaizumi give. in the way that, sometimes, karasuno’s #3 will power the ball with a brute force like a gunshot.
when you’re part of that wall, it’s different. seijou’s defense, its castle, is built up of issei’s limbs and his hands, in his ability to read people. he coaches his underclassmen when he can, and makes sure that the gap between seijou and their opponents is never too hard to overcome.
but even with his hands at the ready, issei can’t help himself but watch the way oikawa leaps into the air after the ball, jump serve streaking sweet and sharp across the court, over the net.
they all seek glory, in the end, but the bottom line is that there’s only ever one victor in a match. their trust doesn’t chain him down. to tooru, their trust boosts him higher up into the air.
FILL: TEAM AKAASHI KEIJI/BOKUTO KOUTAROU/KUROO TETSUROU, G
402 words
karasuno--and kageyama, especially--they’re all freakish and weird in their intensity, with chips on their shoulders the size of the sun. that crazy-fast quick is nothing hajime’s ever seen, and he aches to try it, to jump that high and spike that hard. even after seeing that little #10 soar, hajime winces when he lands.
mid-match, with his jersey already sweaty and a familiar ache in his legs, hajime watches oikawa twirl the ball in his hands.
hajime can’t quite do what they do--but if he could keep his eyes shut midair, he’d spike oikawa’s toss. he’d do it every time, every day. it’s not like he doesn’t believe in him any less.
takahiro doesn’t get what the problem is. it’s unfair, when he considers how hard seijou’s worked and how much sweat he’s poured into this game. he watches hajime pummel the ball to the ground on the opposite court and it’s frustrating, tiring, how it doesn’t land. karasuno is troublesome.
he doesn’t like relying on oikawa’s service ace. none of them do: it’s makes him powerless, a little less capable of helping his team out when he clearly can. oikawa’s jump serve elongates his lean legs, head tilted back as he chases their little moment of glory, and the weight on his shoulders is one that takahiro aches to share.
wing spikers are afraid of walls. issei can see it in the way kindaichi jumps, in the way new players are hesitant to soar--and it’s the fear that’s subverted in the graceful, sleek attacks hanamaki and iwaizumi give. in the way that, sometimes, karasuno’s #3 will power the ball with a brute force like a gunshot.
when you’re part of that wall, it’s different. seijou’s defense, its castle, is built up of issei’s limbs and his hands, in his ability to read people. he coaches his underclassmen when he can, and makes sure that the gap between seijou and their opponents is never too hard to overcome.
but even with his hands at the ready, issei can’t help himself but watch the way oikawa leaps into the air after the ball, jump serve streaking sweet and sharp across the court, over the net.
they all seek glory, in the end, but the bottom line is that there’s only ever one victor in a match. their trust doesn’t chain him down. to tooru, their trust boosts him higher up into the air.