𝟸 & 𝟺

-twenty-three-

tyr·an·ny
/ˈtirənē/
cruel and oppressive government or rule.
"people who survive war and escape tyranny"

It seemed as though the feeling of such a rule, such a feeling had never left. It had been present since many events passed.

How the summer approached with no warning, and the blast of reality had no cushion to soften the effects. It was no way to enter someone's life. Yet tyranny had exceptions beyond the horizon.

How the court never felt a peace. It was a war in itself. The battle to win. The battle to stay on the field, fighting for the titles, the joy, the memories.

Yet nothing ever feels fulfilling from battling such a cause. Winning such a match. Being on such a court.

You looked over your shoulder, standing across from him on the court. The battle had already begun, the momentum being shifted, altered and even tested with every striving move and defying tactic.

The only thing that separated you from him, separated you from barreling him into his own grave, was the net that defined your battle.

The battle of the sky and ground. Saves from the line, gains from the air. The possibility of it all in your favour, was in reach.

Tyranny stood on the other side, waiting to unleash its wrath of unpleasantness and detestable looks and remarks. How he fought didn't make you cringe, or ache, it was just his pure existence. How such a human could be of a grotesque, foul, idiotic and narcissistic nature.

His reputation stood as tall as his name; Tooru Oikawa.

He looked to you as the ball rolled to his feet, planted firmly against the edge of his shoe.

"Let's see what lil' miss idol can do, especially in the absence of a pro...she can't even live up to..." he spoke to himself as he went back to serve. As the ball spun in his hands, he narrowed his field down to just you, right to your position.

You readied yourself for the receive, lowered yourself and prepared to make a move. Studying his next move wouldn't be too daunting; you had spent so many evenings in their gym, serving and receiving and setting. It wasn't your choice, but he didn't believe that kind of skill ran in the family. Nonetheless the passion, the drive.

Simply the will to beat people like him.

"Enjoy trying to figure this one out...Y/N," he tossed the ball high up, ran for the approach, and nearly abolished the ball mid air. The force of it all had it flying past you, down the line and into the back wall. It had a certain speed and force to it, that no one could match.

He was either angry or fired up, upon analyzing that kind of force.

You drew your eyes away from the line, angered and merely pissed at the fact that even a touch was better than being a bystander.

You looked to the score, which had now been a trail lengthened to 6 points for Seijoh.

Things were quickly becoming an upsetting situation. Not just for the game.

You looked to him again, narrowed eyes and an unpleasant lip. You simply wanted to scream, yell, cuss. Anything that would show him just how much it made you hate him.

It took a lot for you to hate someone. It took so much out of to avoid them, isolate them, want to annihilate them.

You could see from how you interpret him now, why he might be sending all of his serves your way. It was such a foul, childish and arrogant reason. If he hadn't gotten over it by now, moved on or at least come to terms and had figured out how it made him feel, he was behind in the grand idea.