"Midnight Anxiety"
...
The air was humid, carrying the scents of trees, car fumes, and human perspiration. With each desperate lunge forward, Sakuraba pounded the cement with the rubber soles of his sneakers. A nagging voice—the part of him that he wished to erase—told him that he was crazy, thoughtlessly throwing away his opportunity with Jari Productions. But another part of him battled the doubt.
This is your chance. This is your life. You got out while you could.
He swiped at some drops of sweat stinging his eyes, gritted his teeth, and increased his pace. Leg muscles screamed; hair clung to his face. The joints in his ankles popped every time his feet made impact with the road. But all that haunted each step was a face—one of grief when Sakuraba cynically mocked his self-worth on the team, then another face of surprised gratitude when Sakuraba told the quarterback that he had quit the modeling agency. This face had followed him everywhere the past twenty-four hours.
He slowed to a stop, the building where he and his teammates were lodged straying into his sight. The clouds had begun to spill a few drops, and the thin rivulets running through his hair onto his flushed neck alleviated some of his stress. His hand faltered at the entrance when the same face entered his mind, this time accompanied with a voice.
"I've been waiting six years."
Sakuraba could feel a sudden tension cramping the tendons in his shoulders, and when he finally went inside, the eerie silence of the hallways made him wonder how late it really was. As if to answer the unspoken question, a watch left abandoned by the vending machine beeped with the hour, and when he picked up the culprit, its green glow revealed the numbers—twelve o'clock. Midnight.
The time was sickeningly clichéd, but in his stupor, Sakuraba did not mind. His hand still cradled the watch when he sought out a restroom. The fluorescent light nearly blinded him, and even after he had dipped his head to the sink to rinse his face, he still had to squint when he looked up at the mirror. Dark crescents framed his eyes, and his cheeks looked gaunt, the stubble looking more like specks of dirt than hair. God, had he ever looked like such a train wreck?
"I want to be a top player! What does an ordinary guy have to do to get there?"
After fumbling in the dark for his duffel, he found the electric shears buried under clothes at the bottom of the bag. Careful to keep his step quiet, Sakuraba left the room again and returned to the same restroom. The light was still blindingly white and the reflection in the mirror, no less ghastly. He picked up the watch again—12:23 am. Balancing the watch on the white porcelain near the faucet, he switched on the razor; its buzz reverberated against the tile of the room, shaking his already weak footing. He tentatively pulled out some strands of hair from the front of his head, a bit unsure what he should do next.
"Scissors would help," came a voice from behind, momentarily drowning out the electric whir.
Sakuraba's hand yanked away the razor, and his head whipped around to look at the intruder. Takami calmly met the startled gaze, but his brow was wrinkled, hinting at some quiet distress.
"I can find a pair, if you want," Takami continued off of his first statement as though there had been no awkward pause.
Sakuraba nodded numbly; though he did collect his wits before the other tall man could leave the room.
"Did I wake you?" Worry traced his words, as the emotion seemed to skulk about everything that Sakuraba had tried to say for the past few weeks.
Takami shrugged and opened the door. "It doesn't matter. I'll be back in a minute."
"I need a teammate like Sakuraba Haruto. I've been waiting six years."
The quarterback quietly commanded that Sakuraba be still. The taller man had pulled over the trash bin to collect the discarded hair. After asking how much Sakuraba wanted off, to which the only answer was a grunt, Takami snipped strand after strand until the hair was short enough to be properly buzzed. Occasionally, Sakuraba would glance up at the mirror, some twisted satisfaction welling up inside of him as he watched every piece of hair drop away like the burdensome trivialities he hoped to rid himself of.
The razor was turned on again—the absence of its noise having not been noticed by Sakuraba earlier. Takami seemed as unsure as the receiver had been moments before, but he carefully held the razor to the hair remaining, shearing it close to the scalp without quite ridding the skin of fuzz.
Sakuraba felt a steadying hand grip lightly onto the skin of his neck as his friend made the final touches. Looking again at the mirror, the reflection revealed Takami behind him, concentration etched onto his face. With that face again burned into his pupils, Sakuraba allowed his eyelids to close, the hypnotic drone of the razor lulling him.
This is something different. This is what I need.
The watch read 12:51 am. Takami was still brushing off some stray tufts off of Sakuraba's shoulders. Both of them were quiet in that painfully bright, white-washed room. An odd feeling seized Sakuraba's stomach in an iron grip. Despite the bout of relief he had experienced by something as juvenile as merely cutting his hair, the awkward pressure cramped his stomach. Takami's hand had stilled on his shoulder, but it remained lying there innocently. Sakuraba had to remind himself to breathe, and he eventually turned to face the older boy, inadvertently pushing off the hand.
"I will get better." The words tumbled from his lips, a desperate promise to himself as much as to Takami; "I will get better.
A reassuring smile answered Sakuraba's wavering words Takami patted the receiver's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"I never though that you wouldn't, Sakuraba."
"I need a teammate like Sakuraba Haruto."
The watch beeped again—one o'clock. Lying in bed, his exhaustion from earlier having disappeared, Sakuraba stared blankly at the ceiling. Although little hair had been cut from his head, he felt kilograms lighter. He touched the short mane, still somewhat disbelieving that he had done it. The hair was still gone, but Sakuraba did not regret his decision.
He rolled onto his side, attempting to sleep. But outside of thoughts about his hair or about the fall tournament or even about his rivalry with Shin, there was that face with its small smile that refused to leave his mind. The skin on his shoulders still tingled from the touches before.
"I need a teammate like Sakuraba Haruto."
And perhaps that was all Sakuraba needed to know.
...
END
a/n: Based mostly on volume 11 of the manga, this drabble has several direct quotes in italics and quotation marks. Thanks for reading!