Growing up as a social person, Sora Suzuki was surrounded by love and affection- even from the most random people. Tender strokes, gentle kisses. Love came to him in the form of five unique beings, and damn, he's in deep. But when shit happens, and...
they were the words in every poem. he was merely the ink
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OCTOBER TWENTY SEVENTH, TWO THOUSAND AND TWELVE
13:33 in the afternoon
"HEY, HEY, HEY!" Sora's lips quirked upwards, his eyes darting to the side. Bokuto and Kuroo bounded up to him; broad grins stretched across their faces. The middle blocker moved onto his left, the spiker onto his right. They threw their arms around his shoulder and squished themselves together.
"You're looking good," Kuroo whistled, taking in his friend's outfit. If your lovely and not-so-innocent author had to describe it to you, well, imagine a fine specimen wearing clothes that would make a bitch roll over in heat and spread their legs for a full course meal provided by that slam-a-lama ding dong.
"Thank you," Sora laughed, soft like a feather floating through the air, caressing the eardrums of the people around him. Those dressed in orange, standing in the stands and supporting their school's boys' volleyball team, flushed. Their eyes migrated to the divine male standing at the front, his friends on either side of him. His long black hair looped together in a half bun, a thousand shades of obsidian, forming new mosaics with each shift under the artificial, argent lights of the gymnasium. The air surrounding him demanded their full, wholehearted attention. Named after the sky, Sora Suzuki looked like a breath of fresh air. Tether off the ground, rip away your ties to gravity— and you still would not be able to reach him. For he stood too high on his elevated mantel.
Try as you might, the boy was blessed by the gods and goddesses that watched over the world. Wicked smirks donned their faces; they poked and prodded him behind their false facades of cordiality. They sprinkled salt into his open wounds, scrubbed harshly against the red and raw skin. They poisoned his beliefs, taunted his thoughts; they made a mockery out of his fragile heart.
All for their entertainment.
( i am gods and goddesses )
Watching the match against the team of wild crows and the team with one great white eagle, Sora found himself struggling to breathe at times. Sometimes because Bokuto squeezed his body a little too tightly out of anticipation, sometimes because his youngest soulmate looked utterly impeccable in the middle of the court, raven hair glistening with sweat, ocean-blue eyes analysing every aspect of the game, looking for weaknesses, pushing for strengths. He stood as a king; a king guided and flourishing under the watchful eyes of his teammates and friends.
And as a result, he and his team won. A team was just as powerful as its weakest members, and Shoyou Hinata was far from weak. He and Tsukishima stood as the MVP of the match, clawing through feathered wings, peeling away Shiratorizawa's carefully constructed defence and attack with desperate, famished plays. They won. They won when no one thought they could.
