Perfectionist ✺ Sakusa Kiyoomi

6

𝐂𝐡 𝟔 —— 𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐘𝐞𝐧

A towel draped exhaustedly over Chiharu's sweaty shoulders. The temperature was a neutral warmth, yet he was shivering in his damp jersey. His back hunched deeply, and his head dangled from his neck.

The lights down the hallway casted the walls with a discomforting white. The team walked alongside each other as they headed for their locker room. There, they were to grab their bags and belongings before ascending the bus that would take them back to the inn for a much-deserved shower and meal.

The air was dark and dry, almost hurting Chiharu's nose to breathe it in. At the tips of his fingers was a numb buzzing. His body was present and moving, his mind elsewhere.

"Haru-san, are you alright?" Touma, the first year, asked in concern. And rightfully so, as they'd all seen Chiharu's mishap at the end there.

Chiharu didn't respond. Part of him didn't know what to say. That he was fine? That he'd lost the game for them for technically no reason? Yeah, he wasn't in the mood to make his grief clear. If he had opened his mouth, he feared that what'd come out would be broken and incomprehensible. The brightly lit hallway was too much for his head.

Touma kept pushing on. "What happened during that last point? Are you sure you're okay?" He reached out to pat Chiharu's back in sympathy, as if to say "I'm here, and I've got you".

The Libero said nothing. He ran a hand through his damp hair and stared ahead emptily. Despite the shining light from above, his bright rosy hair seemed to desaturate and melt into its surroundings. As if it was in despair as well.

Before now, Chiharu had thought this entire time that he'd break down and bawl like a child if he ever lost before going to Finals. He believed that he would shatter on the spot, as soon as a game ended against his favor. That he would crumble onto the court, shoulders shaking, hands clenching tight to his jersey as if someone were forcefully stripping his title and spot on the team. That was how Chiharu watched many of his upperclassmen cry before he became the upperclassman himself. 

And Chiharu was numb.

His eyes were blank, trained on nothing in particular. The pat on his back from Touma didn't even feel real.

Chiharu didn't understand why he felt this way. Why he wouldn't— couldn't— cry. His eyes were dry.

He ran another exasperated hand through his hair, fast enough to rip out a few strands.

Sadness didn't swallow his body in a deep ocean. Anger instead pierced every inch of his skin.

The more he thought about how they lost the match, the more angry he grew.

And then the only thing that felt real in that moment was his anger.

"It's fine, Haru-san. You'll still go on to do amazing things, I know it." Touma added.

This time, Chiharu found a bitter taste in his mouth. But it was pleasant. It was real. "Please, just piss off." He spat. Upon which, there was no sense of relief like he'd expected. The tightness in his chest simply grew. Someone might as well have been stabbing him repeatedly in the stomach.

Without looking back, he could feel the first-year physically withdraw from his presence. If Chiharu were any less upset, he would feel a bit bad about this, but he was wildly angry. His brain was fogged and overtaken by a fiery, white rage. Which, a sane mind could argue, was not an excuse for any of his actions, but Chiharu was far from reason.

Kiryu, who had watched all of the above events go down, sighed and sent an encouraging nod in the first-year's direction. "Don't mind him. He's..." The captain struggled to find his words. "He's a sore loser," Kiryu settled with, as the team arrived in the locker room.