For once, they were not positioned face to face on opposite ends of a wooden board.
Midorima seated at a desk, Akashi perched on that desk, the green-haired teen took diligent notes as Akashi spoke of the new practice routine he sought to initiate for the upcoming month. Every now and then, Midorima would interject with an opinion of his own if he was feeling a bit daring.
"I dont see why we can't just double the drills." Midorima was saying to Akashi, but leaves it at that, begrudgingly accepts the captain's decision after a halfhearted struggle. He knows it's futile to challenge a decision once Akashi deems it to be the correct course. Sometimes he feels more like a glorified secretary than a vice captain, and other times Midorima can't help but wonder if Akashi only keeps him around for shogi practice.
"Your imagination leaves much to be desired, Shintarou." To which Midorima gently scoffs at but allows Akashi the last word.
"Close your eyes, Shintarou, and imagine for me." And Midorima does so, not because a vice listens to his captain, but simply because he's grown accustomed to listening to Akashi. It's practically reflex, these days.
Imagine what, Akashi did not say, but Midorima kept his eyes shut, perked for direction, for the sound of anything, really, because he's suddenly aware of how silent the room is, how heavily his breath escapes, and he's starting to feel absurd. He flinches as fingers come to rest against his temple, and though he would have tried hard to suppress the spastic movement, surprise doesn't typically offer that sort of luxury. He wonders if Akashi reads the gesture as distrust, and if he feels wounded by it in the slightest. A thumb skims his cheekbone, and Midorima maintains the best pokerface he can manage until he feels the weight of his glasses abruptly leaving the bridge of his nose. Suddenly he's even less sure what all this is about, were it even possible.
Plastic frames now in his possession, Akashi looks past all indications of fluster written plain in the tint of his teammate's face and the stiffening of his posture. He only thinks how he would like to feel those long lashes, a gentle dusting against his own lips, but he's one to distinguish want from need. And so, he does not act.
"That's good enough, Shintarou."
The long-shooter is greeted by the blurry form of his captain, black rims framing red and gold. He hates not being able to see, this brief moment of vulnerability so different from the situation mere moment ago where he had willingly placed himself in, or so he'd like to think. He could swear those lips hovering two feet away were curved in a smile, but after snatching his glasses and hastily jamming them back on, Midorima feels inexplicably let down when he catches nothing beyond the redhead's usual composure.
If this had somehow been an exercise in imagination, had he just succeeded?