Most Unfortunate - Haikyuu Daichi X Reader 🏐

PART SEVENTEEN: It's Just Allergies

Sometimes I take my skills for granted.

It's challenging to recognize what comes so naturally.

The crisp white pages lay open with fine etches of graphite, a carefully depicted silhouette of a water bottle centred. The subject matter is less than extravagant, yet preciseness was captured through the layering of curved edges. Chicken scratch and blemishes create various textured surfaces, contrasting yet harmonizing. My man-bun friend fiddles with the hem of his blazer jacket, his eraser shavings building up along the perimeter of his book, like a fort; he is left with layers upon layers of ideas ghosted away.

The talk with the art teacher didn't go so well. Not in the sense that she was annoyed at his demand to change classes, but the fact that it was an impossible request. Regardless of his apparent struggle in Fine Arts, 'it is too far into the year to change studies.' So, when Miss Himari handed out our following assessment to 'capture your passion,' the Ace was utterly perplexed.

A loud thunk shakes the tabletop, pencils jumping as his face hits the desk.

Ouch.

"This is hopeless. I'm going to fail this class, and it's going to bring my grades down." His voice is muffled, still flat against the desk as he rambles out emotionally beat. I pat him on the shoulder reassuringly. His personality never ceases to amaze me, appearing so out of place-brutish, rough around the edges with his adolescent stubble growing wispily on his jaw. Not to mention his facial structures so sharp it could cut cheese, thinly sliced. Yet, he is secretly the biggest softie of Karasuno High School.

"Asahi, you're thinking about it too much." Brushing off the art dandruff, I sharpen his pencil. "Stop trying to do what you think the teacher wants. Rather, let your mind open, and eyes wander, calm yourself man and take a deep breath. It's art; unlike a volleyball, you're not meant to control it. It controls you." Sliding the visual diary across the desk, setting it between his arms, I see his caramel eyes close. The frown disappears as his chest balloons, filling with a deep inhale. Then slowly, he breathes out a long, smooth release. "Better?"

Nodding, "Yeah", he fiddles the pencil between his fingers. I sit back and respectfully shut the F up, not wanting to disrupt his Zen. Eyes opening, he looks around the space. Walls decorated with students' art, quotes by the world's most creative and influential minds, and of course, public-school emotion charts because apparently there is a restricted measurement of feelings between one and ten. God forbid you to pick eleven; you'll win a one-way train to the nut house.

Asahis' eyes grace over anything and everything in the room.

And then they stop.

I don't think he even registered that he was staring, let alone that he began sketching. I could gather throughout our class; he wasn't as clueless as he was made to believe. There is no doubt he had extreme difficulty applying art techniques to particular art styles. Abstract, surrealism, Dada, to name a few. The fundamental movements confuse him. But as his hand moved, eyes fixated on my shoes, it became apparent; he really was in the right class. He just needed to find a way to incorporate his style into the lessons. The design gradually rendered a clear textual distinction of coarse canvas and sleek leather capping. Fine weaving of laces overlapping as he etches fine details, so intricate, accuracy down to the stitching and ventilation holes that pattern the sides.

He's amazing.

The pencils movement slows as the last stroke defines, drifting over the ragged form of the shoe's tread-the cubed pattern clustering like a skyline metropolis. The reference sketch made my shoes look more appealing than they genuinely are. Missing the wear marks and scuffs from much abuse. My gaze flicks between his trancelike state to his sketchbook. Once frustratedly blank, now filled with a magnificently drawn shoe -contoured to perfection.