Konoha's Five Stages of Grief: Speedrun

Stage 1: Neither Confirm Nor Deny

You'd think after three years of playing in loud, enclosed spaces one would get used to the heavy hand claps. After all, they signified something good, right?

Sure, the claps grew in intensity as more bodies filled the already cramped gymnasium, but it was all done in good spirit, even if over half the teams were moping, filling the air with disappointment and anger. It was suffocating but soon they would be dismissed, allowed to retreat and breathe untainted, clean air.

Soon, however, was delayed to later , and so the disappointment and anger became thicker, radiating off of everyone in harsh pulses.

It made Akinori's skin burn.

The team was supposed to rest in one of the empty rooms until the trophy ceremony started, but their coach, for some reason he'll never understand, made them huddle and wait with the other teams present. Everyone, player and audience member, reeked of sweat and burnt nylon. He fought the urge to gag and pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his face, doing his best to block out the smells without inhaling his own stink in the process.

A found balance was short-lived as the gym doors opened to reveal what seemed to be twenty more teams, all contributing to the already infected air with every step they took closer to center court. Akinori's grip tightened on his jacket, fingers numbingly red from the pressure as he forced himself to stand closer to his team, slowly inching his way towards the center of their huddle.

He cursed rather loudly when an elbow from behind collided with his serratus — he was already aching as is and it sent an unbearable burn across his torso. The figure on his right turned their gaze towards Akinori, brows creased with poorly hidden shock at his sudden outburst. He shook his head with an I'm alright , and both left it at that.

Fifteen more exhausting minutes passed and the throbbing sensation in Akinori's side had not subsided, the bone most likely suffering from a bruise. He rubbed the spot again, sighing irritatedly as he looked around the gym for the caged clock; 19:57 it read, the awards would be given out soon.

The thought alone brought some ease to the blonde's nerves, loosening his hold on his collar.

.

.

At last those three, horrible minutes had ticked by, and with them the center doors opened; the glare from the polished gold hurt to look at, yet many of the athletes couldn't stop from staring. Akinori however, tore his eyes away from the offending chunks of metal, rubbing his eyes until his vision blurred.

Even after all this time he'll never understand the need to stare at an object you're not likely to receive, it's useless building up all that hopeful energy, only for it to be torn down when the name of those you're competing against is called out instead.

The room grew cold with the quieting conversations, the impatient shifting of feet accompanied by quiet echoes of cracking joints felt even worse on Akinori's ears; unpleasant vibrations forcing their way deep into his head.