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Description

    Gym doors open, protesting with a screech of the hinges. Actions halt, and opponents dissect a row of ravenous crows. Taut, fixed air from the gym grapples with the whispering wind from the outside—wrestling together to conjure a gauche mix, which somehow, players desire. A fortified wall of athletes stares back, challenging their adversary’s gaze.

    The doors force them into sets, condensing to the point where they look like an actual flock of crows. Eyes fierce, concentration brimming, and ears yearning for the whistle to blow in their favor. The first trio moves in unison, as if it was rehearsed—victory on their minds. Mouths salivate at the thought of playing—to touch the ball for a few mere seconds. Anticipation accumulates as the rising crows file in the gymnasium. Black wings ruffle, ready to feast on a thrilling game.

    In those few seconds, when flesh meets the ball, there’s a window of opportunity, something they’ll never stop reaching for.

    Black jerseys take the court.

    Squeaking shoes, and actions from the other team resume. Eyes glide over the crows, taking note of marked players, including the silent orange jersey in the back.

    Nishinoya squeezes your hand. His calloused palms—the very antithesis to his personality—compress against your own, rubbing sluggishly. The action isn’t a need for reassurance, or a sign of building fear. He’s not like that. Nishinoya’s a skilled athlete, improving his renowned skills at an accelerating rate. Teams observe him carefully, calculating what resides in his arsenal.

    After all, there’s nothing more fearsome than someone willing to learn.

    You both move in simultaneously, but before you can trek to the stands, he stops you. Nishinoya unwinds his hand from yours, and faces you, bodies centimeters from each other; his warmth glosses over your exposed skin. It ignites receptors while setting your visage aflame, as he always manages to do.

    Nishinoya leans in, but makes no move to plant a kiss on your lips. His head slithers next to your ear, warm breaths caressing your ear shell, effectively commanding all of your attention (as if he didn’t before). Your skin almost ripples as lethargic moments pass—echoing with silence. Your heart drums rapidly, waiting for his predictable move. It’s always like this, what he does before games.

    Then, he speaks.

    It’s an incoherent whisper, lost to the rambunctiousness of the gym. Familiar syllables roll through your ear, weaving a whimsical path—teasing you as they glide. They’re not able to be interpreted—perhaps that’s part of the allure—derived from his very own language, one he constructed as a child.

    Despite the lack of interpretation, there’s no mistaking the passion that gushes over his words. It washes over, rising and falling with every turn of his lips.

    Phonetically beautiful.

    There’s nothing quite as heartwarming when he exchanges this familiar phrase. He’s letting you experience an entire language he crafted at a tender age; Nishinoya’s wearing his heart on his sleeve for you, allowing you access to the core of his pulsating heart.

    Nishinoya pulls away, not too quickly to rustle you out of the enchanting haze, but with enough speed to take in your reaction—something he’s always cherished.

    How wonderfully intimate.

    He’d marvel all day if he could, however, the silent countdown ticks.

    He grins, instantly attracting your eyes.

    “Thanks! Yuu really helped me out again!” His voice is boisterous, easily contrasting to the subtle whispers. Nishinoya enunciates one word in particular, but before you can fully comprehend the situation, he’s already running off, the sound of his shoes melding into harmony with the other players.

    His eyes meet your own one last time.

    Judging by his personality and attitude before games, that wasn’t a normal phrase.

    It’s a pun. He used his own name as a pun.

    However cheesy he might be, there’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes.

    They erupt.

Description

    Gym doors open, protesting with a screech of the hinges. Actions halt, and opponents dissect a row of ravenous crows. Taut, fixed air from the gym grapples with the whispering wind from the outside—wrestling together to conjure a gauche mix, which somehow, players desire. A fortified wall of athletes stares back, challenging their adversary’s gaze.

    The doors force them into sets, condensing to the point where they look like an actual flock of crows. Eyes fierce, concentration brimming, and ears yearning for the whistle to blow in their favor. The first trio moves in unison, as if it was rehearsed—victory on their minds. Mouths salivate at the thought of playing—to touch the ball for a few mere seconds. Anticipation accumulates as the rising crows file in the gymnasium. Black wings ruffle, ready to feast on a thrilling game.

    In those few seconds, when flesh meets the ball, there’s a window of opportunity, something they’ll never stop reaching for.

    Black jerseys take the court.

    Squeaking shoes, and actions from the other team resume. Eyes glide over the crows, taking note of marked players, including the silent orange jersey in the back.

    Nishinoya squeezes your hand. His calloused palms—the very antithesis to his personality—compress against your own, rubbing sluggishly. The action isn’t a need for reassurance, or a sign of building fear. He’s not like that. Nishinoya’s a skilled athlete, improving his renowned skills at an accelerating rate. Teams observe him carefully, calculating what resides in his arsenal.

    After all, there’s nothing more fearsome than someone willing to learn.

    You both move in simultaneously, but before you can trek to the stands, he stops you. Nishinoya unwinds his hand from yours, and faces you, bodies centimeters from each other; his warmth glosses over your exposed skin. It ignites receptors while setting your visage aflame, as he always manages to do.

    Nishinoya leans in, but makes no move to plant a kiss on your lips. His head slithers next to your ear, warm breaths caressing your ear shell, effectively commanding all of your attention (as if he didn’t before). Your skin almost ripples as lethargic moments pass—echoing with silence. Your heart drums rapidly, waiting for his predictable move. It’s always like this, what he does before games.

    Then, he speaks.

    It’s an incoherent whisper, lost to the rambunctiousness of the gym. Familiar syllables roll through your ear, weaving a whimsical path—teasing you as they glide. They’re not able to be interpreted—perhaps that’s part of the allure—derived from his very own language, one he constructed as a child.

    Despite the lack of interpretation, there’s no mistaking the passion that gushes over his words. It washes over, rising and falling with every turn of his lips.

    Phonetically beautiful.

    There’s nothing quite as heartwarming when he exchanges this familiar phrase. He’s letting you experience an entire language he crafted at a tender age; Nishinoya’s wearing his heart on his sleeve for you, allowing you access to the core of his pulsating heart.

    Nishinoya pulls away, not too quickly to rustle you out of the enchanting haze, but with enough speed to take in your reaction—something he’s always cherished.

    How wonderfully intimate.

    He’d marvel all day if he could, however, the silent countdown ticks.

    He grins, instantly attracting your eyes.

    “Thanks! Yuu really helped me out again!” His voice is boisterous, easily contrasting to the subtle whispers. Nishinoya enunciates one word in particular, but before you can fully comprehend the situation, he’s already running off, the sound of his shoes melding into harmony with the other players.

    His eyes meet your own one last time.

    Judging by his personality and attitude before games, that wasn’t a normal phrase.

    It’s a pun. He used his own name as a pun.

    However cheesy he might be, there’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes.

    They erupt.