[ He flashes a cheeky smile while tapping the ground with the tip of his foot in anticipation. Mismatched eyes glint, once again judging the distance and calculating the most direct route with consideration to bushes and trees. At the mention of the street light, his gaze flickers, nodding once he understands the way the colors work. Traffic lights are novel and unfamiliar thing he would take the time to study in interest if there were not a competition. ]
Three? Then I really have to win.
[ Edging his foot up against the line of their charming stick, he crouches sightly, ready to take off at a flash of blue. From head to toe, nothing about the swordsman suggests that he believes that he is going to lose—even if is aware that he migh be the underdog in even a footrace against this man. It's this: the sense of dragging down something colossal, clawing hands up against a concrete wall until it crumbles, trembling under his own limits with bones grinding and tissue ripping. The best feeling, even with something as inconsequential as this.
Which is why the smile across his mouth is genuine. Eyes bright, his body is a bow with limbs taut in tense string-draw—one, two, three—and a straight shot once the light turns blue.
Crunching grass. Cutting wind. An earnest race without any tricks at all, at least on his part—relishing the challenge too much, Rokurou doesn't even think about it once he goes. Every stride is thunderous applause, synapse symphony with trickling beads of sweat and rib-expanding breath. It does not matter if he loses when he skids into their agreed upon spot; he is delighted anyway, standing tall with a happy huff and mane gone wild. ]
no subject
[ He flashes a cheeky smile while tapping the ground with the tip of his foot in anticipation. Mismatched eyes glint, once again judging the distance and calculating the most direct route with consideration to bushes and trees. At the mention of the street light, his gaze flickers, nodding once he understands the way the colors work. Traffic lights are novel and unfamiliar thing he would take the time to study in interest if there were not a competition. ]
Three? Then I really have to win.
[ Edging his foot up against the line of their charming stick, he crouches sightly, ready to take off at a flash of blue. From head to toe, nothing about the swordsman suggests that he believes that he is going to lose—even if is aware that he migh be the underdog in even a footrace against this man. It's this: the sense of dragging down something colossal, clawing hands up against a concrete wall until it crumbles, trembling under his own limits with bones grinding and tissue ripping. The best feeling, even with something as inconsequential as this.
Which is why the smile across his mouth is genuine. Eyes bright, his body is a bow with limbs taut in tense string-draw—one, two, three—and a straight shot once the light turns blue.
Crunching grass. Cutting wind. An earnest race without any tricks at all, at least on his part—relishing the challenge too much, Rokurou doesn't even think about it once he goes. Every stride is thunderous applause, synapse symphony with trickling beads of sweat and rib-expanding breath. It does not matter if he loses when he skids into their agreed upon spot; he is delighted anyway, standing tall with a happy huff and mane gone wild. ]