『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

34. Hinata Shoyou x Artistic! Reader | You Can Be the Subject

→ character : Hinata Shoyou | Haikyuu!!

→  requested by : Rynadu45

→  05142017

→ wherein hinata shoyou's always been overflowing with words, sentences, that all resonate and stick to the skin of your heart until it grows into something so severe it's almost like a disease. and you've always avoided speech, loathed it with angry breaths, and all you have to reflect the pieces of your heart are the arts your childhood's washed in.

[a/n]: knowing me (which i do,) i'm going to post this at around midnight again so y'all living in the part of the world with delayed time zones have caught up so, happy mother's day to all of the mothers ^^

xx

The professor's lecture was lowered to nothing more than a hum that would coax small jerks of a knee out of you from a sudden spike of the volume, and the clicking chalk was a beat that drowned under the intonations of a discussion you'd very well find underneath the folds of your textbook; a beat that would click, click, click to the brightest of its worth when the professor's lips, chapped and unheeded, would fall closed.

It was early enough that the colony of sun beams were slowly nurtured, growing still into the fullest of its potential: a heat that left the sides of your arms disgusting and sweaty, and the clumps of your hair pulled up into something that vacated your neck from the tightly-woven prison bars of [h/c].

It was early enough that the other eyes, dazed and near unresponsive from a consuming desire for sleep, were either pointed at the professor (they were the ones who required splendor in the ink of the marks of their report cards,) or hidden underneath a shell of heavy eyelids (they were the ones who didn't care as much.)

Hinata Shoyou was lost somewhere in between, with his cheek in his palm and his mouth hung open to breath more tiredness into an atmosphere that was beginning to crack under the weight of it.

You watch, a few seconds longer, as his eyes blink open and closed just as rapidly as your heart beats, before you face the paper, blank and smooth under your deftly-moving fingers.

xx

You draw him exactly like he is, so unwound and yet so tightly seated, his bag slumped just as lazily as the arch of his back. So human and yet so otherworldly wonderful, allowing only seconds of panicked relaxation before he straightens a little to bury a yawn underneath bent fingers.

Hinata Shoyou is a sketch on a piece of paper teared at one of the sides, a hail of clashing shapes and lines and concepts, motionless and hidden from any wandering eyes- everything the real, original Hinata Shoyou was not. The real Hinata Shoyou was tapping impatience into inconsistent beats on his desk, nodding into sleep.

But you try your damnedest to try and replicate him anyway.

You draw; lines upon circles upon lines. Until you've corrected the slouch of his back and the movement of his fingers and the way his hair curls and how his eyes swing. You find yourself working your pen through memory, of every stolen glance of every boring morning lecture, of every afternoon break, of every sunset that kept you thousands of orange sunlight prison bars apart.

You only look up to see if your classmates were staring at your hands that fly over the paper to vandalize it with another bending line (they're asleep, what you probably would have been if you hadn't felt the girth of the pen underneath the layers of your pencil case before the professor had wandered in.)

You finish Hinata's hands, which are splayed on his desk, while yours surround the pen with urgency- you scare yourself whenever the professor falls silent seconds too long and there isn't the click of the chalk to assure you he hasn't spotted your drawing.