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The room erupts into laughter, even Kiyoomi chuckles a bit. Bokuto turns to face him, tugging at the bottom of his shirt to get it settled over his body. “How about you Omi-Kun? Gone on any dates lately?”
His fingers twitch slightly beside his waist, knocking themselves against the cold metal of the locker. He clears his throat before turning back to his locker and grabbing out his shoes. “I don’t see anyone that way.” His tone is indifferent, as if he’s talking about that dish he ate a couple days ago — which was, to be frank, bland as hell — but if you listen closely, you can hear just a hint of insecurity laced delicately into the wave of his voice.
“Oh,” Hinata’s voice warms the tips of his fingers, dethawing them just enough so that they don’t burn as they rub against the leather of his shoes. “That must suck.”
Or, Sakusa Kiyoomi on what it means to discover, understand, and accept yourself throughout the years.
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