I. To Those Who are Strong
He can feel it.
Aomine Daiki can feel it.
The blood rushing through his veins, the adrenaline pumping out of his glands, the sweat pouring out of every pore, he can feel it.
Everything's in a rush, and the whole world is blurry. There's nothing in his vision but a ball, a basket, and a court. In the distance, he can hear cheers, shouts, and roars.
The world is nothing.
He blinks, and he sees clearly again, but then he wishes he couldn't.
'Cause now, all he sees is despair.
He clenches his fist; he grits his teeth, and he walks away. This is not the first, and definitely not the last, and he feels a painful ache of longing in his chest for something he can't even explain.
All because of a ball, a basket, and a court.
"The only one who can beat me, is me."
II. To Those Who are Ignorant
He doesn't want to hurt anybody.
If no one can keep up with him, if no one's good enough for him, if no one can defeat him, it's not his fault. If he's too tall, it's not his fault; if he's too forceful and uncontrollable, it's not his fault.
Murasakibara bites languidly on a piece of his favorite candy, and he stops chewing for a moment.
"I'm tired of this flavor..."
And he can't help but think of the endless cycle of hurting and not even caring, of vengeful glares directed towards him when it's not even his fault, and he decides he's tired of that too.
...But if no one's strong enough yet...
...it's not my fault.
III. To Those Who are Beautiful
Kise knows that he is beautiful. He knows that he's charming. He knows that he's handsome. He knows that he can be cool too. He knows it.
He also knows how ugly his play style is.
It's a style built on copies, imitations, and frauds. It's a style full of piracy and broken records. A style not his own, but a collection of souvenirs from all the foes he's gone against. It's a junkyard.
I want my own style.
He thinks of Aomine's free form, a way of playing that was so unique and dynamic; he couldn't even copy one move. It's a jagged, random play, but it's perfect in all its imperfect glory.
I want my own style.
He closes his eyes, and he recounts every face of the players who have had their hard work thrown right back to their faces in a matter of minutes. He retrieves memories of heart-broken players who realize that hard work is no match for sheer genius, of frustrated tears and faces.
It's a very ugly and cruel style indeed.
...I'll just have to make do with this...
IV. To Those Who are Proud
Midorima is a man who acknowledges what he can do. If he knows he can, he will do it, and he's sure as hell not afraid to show it. Midorima is arrogant; Midorima is prideful; Midorima is proud of himself.
The callouses on his fingers are more than enough evidence of his efforts, of hours spent alone in deserted gyms and courts. Not a day goes by that his left arm doesn't tingle, and his fingers don't feel a small ache throughout the day.
Midorima is not one to put himself down for the sake of others. He's aware of his talent, and he's aware of all the hard work he's putting into enhancing it. To be asked to go easy, to give chances to those who aren't even trying, is an insult to his pride.
No matter how many teams are shattered, no matter how many hopes get ground into the dust, Midorima will not be stopping for anybody.
He knows what he's capable of, and he will never hesitate on showing it.
So he doesn't mind feeling a thorn prick his chest when he slowly sees that he's getting too good, and the others are improving too, and that everything's falling down.
"I've merely done all that I can..."
V. To Those Who are Underestimated
All his life, he's been nothing but a shadow, an existence barely noticeable to anybody. He was the kid playing alone in the play ground, the one who was always last to get picked for teams, the silent child nobody could see.
It was a weakness, an abominable trait he wished to eradicate, but didn't know how. Kuroko had always thought it to be a nuisance, a flaw.
...Until everything fell into place, and it turned out to be one his greatest strengths.
It was a cover to hide his real abilities, to fool his opponents into underestimating him. Misdirection was a deceitful yet delicious trap he could use to his advantage. It was a gift.
It was the one of the keys to their victories, and at that thought, he couldn't help feeling a sense of elation.
(But now that everything was breaking apart, and he and his feelings were being ignored again, and he didn't matter anymore, he couldn't help thinking- )
I'm just a shadow, after all.
VI. To Those Who are Victorious
Akashi has never lost anything, in every sense of the word. He doesn't know defeat, and he's very sure that he won't be tasting it ever. Not in this lifetime, or any time at all. Akashi Seijuurou has a reputation to uphold, after all.
Victory is as normal as breathing, but as important as oxygen. He wages ridiculously dangerous bets when he's in a battle because he knows that he won't lose, that he can't lose. He's confident; he's arrogant; he's the Emperor.
"You're quitting the club?"
"Yes."
...
He feels a bitter taste in his mouth, but he refuses to acknowledge defeat. A fleeting thought crosses his mind, that maybe, just maybe, he might have lost the game this time around. Were all his plans a failure? Did he end up destroying instead of creating?
...Is this checkmate?
"...It was nice having you."
Just for a second, Akashi feels the crown on his head slip.
This is not the end. You'll see.
VII. To Those Who are Watching
Momoi sheds a tear when she sees what they've become.
Nobody can reach them now, not even each other.
Her heart swells within her, and she denies what she already knows: everything was gone now.
We all fall down, one time or another.