{ bloodsport } | yuma
He appears unguarded and unyielding, begging them to challenge his authority (and they disappoint, like always). Instead, they split themselves into two to create a buffer between them and himself, ignoring the fact that he could craft them into victors with his own two hands
—and he wonders, do they truly favor the taste of loss that much?
It's no matter to him, he knows; after all, he'll win either way. He's always been dusted in gold and adorned with laurels, the opponent's loss trapped securely in a vice-like grip (because he couldn't bear the thought of even toeing the line of defeat).
He forgets it, he ignores the looks of loathing twisted into their features, and he stands above them all—an emperor among kings.
(It's always been easy to dismiss those below you.)
When Akashi's seated on the centermost spot of the locker room bench, unlacing sneakers and wearing apathy like a second skin, Yuma's presence drifts over him (all-consuming, hard to ignore; much like his own).
"Did you need something?"
