king of dust and eye boogers ––- and yawns, gritty maw so wide open to bare thirty two porcelain teeth, red tongue, glossy spit. if it were an art ( yawning, that it ) he’d be the master of it, the perishing insomniac. ( he’s running on fifty four hours without a lick of sleep –– not even his usual kitten naps –– and he’s only human, so it’s starting to wear on him. he thinks it’s a comfort and security thing; anytime he and his team venture from miyagi for a training camp, eita has trouble maintaining his regimen of scattered power naps throughout the day and startling wakefulness at nighttime. ) he wipes his eyes in a completely unrefined manner with the backs of his hands, the skin surrounding his lids pinky-weeping and irritated. his dark circles are worse than normal –– like thick lines of eyeshadow he powered onto his face in an attempt to look like a raccoon. it’s no surprise his patience is at a zero and that he glares at the strange setter off another team standing in his way, for just those three reasons. one. he’s strange. two. he’s a setter. three. he’s standing in his way. ‘ who’re you? ‘
