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sakusa’s love language is simply a matter of irony. he knows that all too well, and yet he can find nothing to replace it, nothing else to satisfy that gnawing feeling in the bottom of his stomach. no matter how he looks at it, his love language is touch.
it’s the cruelest thing he’s ever had to live through. to refuse to high five his teammates, to refuse a pat on the back for a job well done, to refuse to shuffle too close in a group photograph — only to slink back home, hollow and empty, curling in on himself because he needs to feel someone else’s warmth on his skin.
he has no use for gifts that carry meaning. he doesn’t find joy in being ushered out on crazy adventures. he sees no point in someone doing things for him. there is limited pleasure in words of affirmation.
no, what he wants, beyond anything else that could matter to him, is someone to make intimacy a priority. to hug him sleepily in the morning, to kiss him good luck before a big match, to hold his hand in a crowd he doesn’t feel he can breathe in.
he doesn’t think he’ll ever find that someone that can not only give him touch, but give him touch at a distance. which is possibly why he doesn’t understand the spark he gets when a pinkie brushes against his own when he’s sitting on the bench.
the blond tousles aren’t looking in his direction, focused on watching the court, and somehow the action not being done on purpose irks him. infuriates him.
then it happens off the court, off the bench. he’s sitting gingerly in a booth, listening to his rowdy teammates, cleansing wipe under his hand as he holds lightly onto the glass he’s poured the beer in.
a thigh bumps up against his own, seemingly by accident, but when he looks up at the culprit, all he sees is a lazy smile, eyes glancing away at the last second. something wicked in him asks for more.
third is on the coach back from an away game, where he sits by the window, rigid in his seat. a head drops onto his shoulder in alarm and instead of tensing, he relaxes, and he curses his body for betraying him, his fingers for wanting to touch.
he’s helping put things away after practise next, and when their hands meet as they fold the net, he swears the other squeezes ever so gently, and when they pull away again, he mentally hits himself for wearing gloves.
they’re walking home, alone. the rest of the guys went ahead. the gloves are off, and the figure bumps into him lightly once, twice, and that brush of a pinkie turns into a hook. it takes fighting his instincts to not pull away.
irony usually tastes bitter. it tasted like that to him too, at first, but eventually what was metallic turned somewhat sweet, easier to swallow.
“yer thinkin’ again,” blond tousles murmur into his neck, and arm draped around his naked midsection. “gonna get a headache.”
the arm tightens and his fingers find a home in the dyed hair. he’s found someone to satisfy the gnawing feeling in his stomach.