[FIC] before but unclear (kamio x ibu)
For: sparkly_cherry //
Media: FIC
Title: before but unclear
Request: anything kamio x ibu
Rating: PG
Summary: Change is a second year transfer student with dyed black hair, kind eyes and a violent streak.
Notes: I'm sorry that this is so late! I hope you enjoy it. :D
The silence of the locker room is suffocating, the air thick with sweat, and the stench of superiority. He breathes awkwardly into his jacket sleeve and tugs on jeans. The fabric sticks to his skin and he scrapes the bandages on his knee, but he listens to the upperclassmen talking (jeers, elbow jabs and harsh smiles) and bites down on his lip. The other freshman are downcast eyes and hunched shoulders on the corner benches, a soft rustle of clothing and the squeak of sneakers on wet tiles.
The upperclassmen leave (a ripple the follows the wake of the coach) and the door slams shut, and the sound echoes. His heart beat slows; he rubs at the cut on his cheek, and tosses his duffel bag over his shoulder.
There’s a click of a locker to his left, and he turns. A boy with calm eyes is smiling at him, and taps his ear with a forefinger. Kamio waits for him to say something (he doesn’t, just repeats the gesture). Kamio pauses, and then pulls his headphones off, giving the boy a strange look.
Come here, the boy says and holds out a band-aid.
He counts the days in injuries: a skinned knee on monday, a black eye on tuesday after he won a match against an upperclassman, scraped elbows on wednesday, a split lip on thursday after he got into another fight (same argument, different set of fists), and bruised knuckles on friday (self inflicted).
He thinks it might be worse (and it usually is) and the boy with calm eyes wraps bandages around his hands.
He is not quite sure how it happened, but Ibu Shinji waits for him after practice. It is not something that happened overnight, but something that slowly, slowly, slowly changes from glances across the locker room to brushing shoulders on the way home from practice.
Shinji has said little (and Kamio has said even less), but the brushes of fingers, the murmurs of heartbeats and the glances speak volumes.
He thinks that Shinji must bottle up all of his words, lock them up for days, and then release them all at once. He is surprised, the first time Shinji starts talking (and never stops). But the second time he finds it almost comforting, an odd sort of rhythm. He listens, to the padding of sneakers on the sidewalk, the thump thump of hearts, to Shinji’s voice and the murmur of sound from his headphones, and thinks, things are different, now.
Shinji (silently) walks them to the street courts on a tuesday morning before practice. The courts are empty, and Kamio (fingers trembling) takes out his racket. Shinji challenges him to a match with a shrug of his shoulders, and Kamio just laughs.
It becomes a game, then. Shinji trying to match Kamio’s speed, and Kamio trying to beat Shinji’s strategies. It takes days, weeks, and then Kamio wins (6-4), both breathless and sweating but grinning. Shinji steps up to the net, they shake hands and it feels like living.
A few of the other freshmen follow Kamio and Shinji after practice and for the first time Kamio can remember, he can shrug off the anger.
They are not allowed to play, so they practice at the street courts, a kind of team without a captain. Ishida and Sakurai challenge strangers to matches, Shinji practices hitting the same spot on the wall over and over and over, and Kamio runs laps around the courts.
It’s raining on the day that Shinji murmurs, let’s try doubles.
It doesn’t work the first time (or the second). Shinji is quiet, and Kamio hesitates. Ishida’s power destroys any formation they might have had, and Sakurai finds all of the pauses, the breaks in their rhythm.
Kamio and Shinji sit back to back on the benches, afterward, and it should be awkward. But Kamio just leans against Shinji’s back and says, let’s try it again.
He makes the mistake of challenging one of the upperclassmen to a match on wednesday morning. He knows what will happen (of course he knows) but his heart his beating loudly in his chest and it sounds like I can win.
Change is a second year transfer student with dyed black hair, kind eyes and a violent streak. The rumours from Kyuushu precede him, and he walks onto the tennis courts with crossed arms.
He challenges the upperclassmen to matches, and things are the same, except that Tachibana Kippei punches first.
The revolution (as Sakurai calls it later) does not last long. It is a whir of motion, harsh voices and ends with Tachibana, poised and calm, wiping blood off of his knuckles. There’s a cut on the coach’s face, just below his left eye and Kamio feels like he should be horrified (the team will not be able to compete until next season) but he spits blood onto the courts, watches Shinji wipe blood of his cheek and he laughs.
Media: FIC
Title: before but unclear
Request: anything kamio x ibu
Rating: PG
Summary: Change is a second year transfer student with dyed black hair, kind eyes and a violent streak.
Notes: I'm sorry that this is so late! I hope you enjoy it. :D
The silence of the locker room is suffocating, the air thick with sweat, and the stench of superiority. He breathes awkwardly into his jacket sleeve and tugs on jeans. The fabric sticks to his skin and he scrapes the bandages on his knee, but he listens to the upperclassmen talking (jeers, elbow jabs and harsh smiles) and bites down on his lip. The other freshman are downcast eyes and hunched shoulders on the corner benches, a soft rustle of clothing and the squeak of sneakers on wet tiles.
The upperclassmen leave (a ripple the follows the wake of the coach) and the door slams shut, and the sound echoes. His heart beat slows; he rubs at the cut on his cheek, and tosses his duffel bag over his shoulder.
There’s a click of a locker to his left, and he turns. A boy with calm eyes is smiling at him, and taps his ear with a forefinger. Kamio waits for him to say something (he doesn’t, just repeats the gesture). Kamio pauses, and then pulls his headphones off, giving the boy a strange look.
Come here, the boy says and holds out a band-aid.
He counts the days in injuries: a skinned knee on monday, a black eye on tuesday after he won a match against an upperclassman, scraped elbows on wednesday, a split lip on thursday after he got into another fight (same argument, different set of fists), and bruised knuckles on friday (self inflicted).
He thinks it might be worse (and it usually is) and the boy with calm eyes wraps bandages around his hands.
He is not quite sure how it happened, but Ibu Shinji waits for him after practice. It is not something that happened overnight, but something that slowly, slowly, slowly changes from glances across the locker room to brushing shoulders on the way home from practice.
Shinji has said little (and Kamio has said even less), but the brushes of fingers, the murmurs of heartbeats and the glances speak volumes.
He thinks that Shinji must bottle up all of his words, lock them up for days, and then release them all at once. He is surprised, the first time Shinji starts talking (and never stops). But the second time he finds it almost comforting, an odd sort of rhythm. He listens, to the padding of sneakers on the sidewalk, the thump thump of hearts, to Shinji’s voice and the murmur of sound from his headphones, and thinks, things are different, now.
Shinji (silently) walks them to the street courts on a tuesday morning before practice. The courts are empty, and Kamio (fingers trembling) takes out his racket. Shinji challenges him to a match with a shrug of his shoulders, and Kamio just laughs.
It becomes a game, then. Shinji trying to match Kamio’s speed, and Kamio trying to beat Shinji’s strategies. It takes days, weeks, and then Kamio wins (6-4), both breathless and sweating but grinning. Shinji steps up to the net, they shake hands and it feels like living.
A few of the other freshmen follow Kamio and Shinji after practice and for the first time Kamio can remember, he can shrug off the anger.
They are not allowed to play, so they practice at the street courts, a kind of team without a captain. Ishida and Sakurai challenge strangers to matches, Shinji practices hitting the same spot on the wall over and over and over, and Kamio runs laps around the courts.
It’s raining on the day that Shinji murmurs, let’s try doubles.
It doesn’t work the first time (or the second). Shinji is quiet, and Kamio hesitates. Ishida’s power destroys any formation they might have had, and Sakurai finds all of the pauses, the breaks in their rhythm.
Kamio and Shinji sit back to back on the benches, afterward, and it should be awkward. But Kamio just leans against Shinji’s back and says, let’s try it again.
He makes the mistake of challenging one of the upperclassmen to a match on wednesday morning. He knows what will happen (of course he knows) but his heart his beating loudly in his chest and it sounds like I can win.
Change is a second year transfer student with dyed black hair, kind eyes and a violent streak. The rumours from Kyuushu precede him, and he walks onto the tennis courts with crossed arms.
He challenges the upperclassmen to matches, and things are the same, except that Tachibana Kippei punches first.
The revolution (as Sakurai calls it later) does not last long. It is a whir of motion, harsh voices and ends with Tachibana, poised and calm, wiping blood off of his knuckles. There’s a cut on the coach’s face, just below his left eye and Kamio feels like he should be horrified (the team will not be able to compete until next season) but he spits blood onto the courts, watches Shinji wipe blood of his cheek and he laughs.