When his thoughts are clouded, there’s an unspeakable muddle written all over his facial expression. Eita rarely spoke out his insecurities, never really bothered telling anyone else about it either. He’s one of the remaining upperclassmen within the team, a pillar of some sort, one of the foundations of Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team.
He has a habit of picking on his lips, teeth gnawing down and chewing. Sometimes it felt numbing, the pain searing; and other times, it felt relieving that his thoughts would focus on the stinging of his skin other than his thoughts.
His team just lost to Karasuno. This would be it, he concludes to himself with a heavy weight sitting on his chest as his throat dries — essentially, losing meant he would no longer have an opportunity to play at the Nationals with the other guys. He blames himself for it, he couldn’t help it. Shouldn’t he have scored more points for the team seeing as he was their designated pinch server? It felt suffocating, just thinking about it, really.
“You did your best.”
Did he? Did he really? He finds himself lost for words, eyes settling on the sight of you. There’s a look of gentle concern plastered all over your face, it’s as if you wanted to reassure him and comfort him so badly, but couldn’t find the right words for it. He sympathizes with himself, even a day after losing, he still couldn’t bring himself to move on from everything — he’s practically sullying your mood, too.
“I’ll be okay, love.” He breathes out, uncertain. But he’s grateful for how you managed to calm a bit of his nerves when you reached out to hold his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I promise.”