7 Works by stringendos
Listing Works
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They do not speak of sprints through the rain, of the bubble that builds under convenience stores at night, and their harsh, artificial lighting. The dangerous toeing, of lines marking classmates and best friends; defenders of centre line gates, standing three metres deep.
Nor will they speak of this.
Of a night in summer, the fireworks muffled under raging pulses; of pulling Osamu in close, with fingers knotted into the front of his yukata, to feel the press against a barely there dimple, to chase the taste of laughter back into his mouth; and burn the shape of him into dreams.
(Because close enough here, Suna could ask him, so honestly, ask him, a little foolishly,
Do you know that I’m in love with you?)
or, suna, after developing a crush on osamu along with half of the school's population: oh well i'll get over it.
he did not, in fact, get over it
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He remembers Suna asking, three months back into his life, “Are you seeing anyone now?”
And Osamu had replied, tongue a little loose from the hour, “Nope,” with a small shake of his head and far too much honesty. “There’s only ever been you.”
there comes a point when being best friends with your ex doesn't work anymore. it happens, osamu learns, after you try to kiss him.
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Together, they tilt their chins to the sky above and bound along the concrete path, kicking up gusts of their own making, and laughing into the summer air.
“Shouyou!” she calls out, curled hands a steady anchor around a pair of ankles, “Don’t you feel like you’re flying?”
At four, Hinata basks in this summit, looming higher than any skyscraper, and grins, far brighter than any sun.
even with an ocean between them, kageyama and hinata fall into step
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“Akaashi?” she repeats, for the third time in the past five minutes.
“Akaashi,” Bokuto confirms, as if his name is refinding its place in his mouth.
“I know that name.”
Between them, Bokuto shrinks. “No,” he stresses, “you really don’t.”
“Wait!” She waves her index finger around, pointing, as if coming closer to the truth. It’s a little unnerving, Bokuto thinks, to see when the penny drops, and how her eyes widen as glee climbs across her face. “Yes, I do! Isn’t he your first love?”
bokuto, and refinding a first love through the rain
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Behind the curtain, Atsumu stops—
—holds his breath in his chest, and closes his eyes.
Without eyes and hands, they do not see or feel; but move in memory alone. Where bodies fail, minds fill - these gaps that are left behind in a trail of half steps. Together, they pretend they can feel the other, and their warmth through the veil.
kita is a ghost. even now, atsumu's still in love with him.
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“Hey, Kenma. D'you wanna hear a secret?” he breathes out, when he's certain that Kenma's over waist deep in a dream and still sinking. "I think I was in love with you then.”
Would it be okay with you, if I were to tell you that I think I still am?
the quiet art of falling in love with your best friend, as told by kuroo tetsurou.
(and finding out that despite distances; mapped out by train lines and air miles and years between; some things never change.)
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Palms snap together in thanks for first meals of the morning and no amount of fanfare. But this is a hunger that only volleyball can satisfy; with the ache that weaves into limbs after matches, the feeling of leather beneath fingertips; the tingle in palms after tosses well spiked.
Strange, this; how so many dreams can be stuffed into two handfuls. How between these two palms lies an entire universe and a lifetime of want.
a three year sprint, two captain jerseys, and a chase for the top