HI KAY ILY thanks for organising this great event!!! Have a vaguely MatsuOi AU??
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Issei's not really all too keen on all this volleyball stuff - he quit halfway through high school, him and Hanamaki, when morning practices got too tough and classwork started piling up in the evenings. Now he stares sadly at the little pot belly building up where he used to have muscle, but he's far too lazy to do anything about it. He's stretched enough for time as is, between the clients' endless demands and his boss always yelling in his ear about some sort of paperwork. He barely has enough time for a morning coffee to carry him through the day.
So he's flicking through the ad channel half-asleep at midnight, stubbornly refusing to sleep because he has a meeting tomorrow and maybe if he stays up long enough time will stop and he won't have to present his half-assed report on the percentage of fresh fruit squashed during transit to supermarkets. He knows he'll be wrecked at six tomorrow (today?) but it's preferable to falling asleep and waking up what seems like an instant later, skipping forward five hours without knowing a thing about it.
There's this guy on TV, a small-time volleyball player for one of the local teams, and he's advertising the stupidest invention Issei's ever seen, flipping batter into the air and slamming it down with some sort of serving spoon like it's a volleyball waiting to be served. Or a takoyaki ball waiting to be served, to put it more literally. Ha. Issei develops strange tastes in things when he's tired, so he kind of appreciates the joke.
The guy on TV points to the phone number flashing in front of his stomach. "Call now and you might even get to hear me advertise in person!"
He tops it off with an overexaggerated wink and a peace sign that would have Hanamaki in stitches if he was watching. Issei just blinks blearily. He fumbles with his phone to send a text - Hanamaki does camera work sometimes for this sort of thing, so he might even know someone who knows the guy. He can kind of see why people might call, just for that promise. Random volleyball player is vaguely charming, probably, with his bright smile and athletic frame. The phone number glows temptingly on screen, and perhaps there's some sort of hypnosis behind it, because Issei finds himself wondering whether serving takoyaki will bring him the satisfaction he's been low-key missing since he had a good look at his career and realised the 'best outcome' of it would be him doing the same thing, over and over, for the rest of his already boring life.
Besides, he's kind of hungry now. Maybe the takoyaki server will come with free takoyaki?
(In retrospect, Issei will admit this is terrible reasoning.)
"Wow," someone says, when he presses call. "I can't believe that worked."
If he hadn't been awake for about thirty hours straight, Issei might find it in himself to be more surprised. "You're the guy from TV."
There's a soft rustle, a hand covering the phone on the other side, maybe. Iwa-chan, this customer has a really nice voice! Listen -- I'll put him on speaker -- and then the line rustles again; the volleyball player from the commercial is back. "I did promise!" he says cheerily. "Are you actually calling for the Rolling Thunder Takoyaki Tosser?"
"Uh." Issei doesn't really remember it having such an obnoxious name, but it sounds about right. He scratches his head, sinks back further into his couch. "I guess. Matsukawa Issei, unit number 2 -- "
He breaks off with a yawn, not bothering to hold his phone away from him, and whoever's on the other end laughs brilliantly. It's a nice laugh -- Issei doesn't get to hear that many nice laughs in his dead-silent office. It's all keystrokes and stifled yawns there, set to the muffled backdrop of someone getting scolded by their superior a couple of cubicles away. "Someone's sleepy," the voice trills. "Mattsun -- can I call you Mattsun? -- I think you should have a rest before you go ordering everything you hear about on late-night television. Why don't I call you back tomorrow?"
Are you seriously flirting with a customer, Issei hears faintly through the receiver. There's the sound of a brief scuffle, the volleyball player shouting something indistinctly, and honestly, it's kind of nice to listen to. It's been a while since Issei's been part of such an inane conversation, the sort he used to laugh about in school. He wonders how old the guy is -- maybe twenty, if he's still young enough to yell like that -- though he's a professional athlete, Issei remembers, well-established on his team. Maybe older, then, closer to Issei's age. "How old are you?" he asks, because it's the middle of the night and he might as well.
It's alright if he flirts back, the volleyball player with the nice voice retorts from a distance, clearly not listening anymore. And I'm helping him; he might not even want this piece of junk; I'm only doing it because Makki asked --
Issei waits a while, but it soon becomes clear he's been forgotten. He drifts off to the two of them arguing in his ear, wakes up with a dead arm and a familiar voice drilled into his subconsciousness -- Oikawa Tooru, twenty-three; hello? Hello??
He opens three tabs on Google and searches: rolling thunder takoyaki tosser review; oikawa tooru boyfriend; how to tell if someone likes you back.
(then they chat over the telephone and oikawa delivers the takoyaki tosser in person and they have several lowkey dates involving terribly misshapen takoyaki before mattsun charms oikawa with a lame lame pickup line and they live happy ever after)
no subject
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Issei's not really all too keen on all this volleyball stuff - he quit halfway through high school, him and Hanamaki, when morning practices got too tough and classwork started piling up in the evenings. Now he stares sadly at the little pot belly building up where he used to have muscle, but he's far too lazy to do anything about it. He's stretched enough for time as is, between the clients' endless demands and his boss always yelling in his ear about some sort of paperwork. He barely has enough time for a morning coffee to carry him through the day.
So he's flicking through the ad channel half-asleep at midnight, stubbornly refusing to sleep because he has a meeting tomorrow and maybe if he stays up long enough time will stop and he won't have to present his half-assed report on the percentage of fresh fruit squashed during transit to supermarkets. He knows he'll be wrecked at six tomorrow (today?) but it's preferable to falling asleep and waking up what seems like an instant later, skipping forward five hours without knowing a thing about it.
There's this guy on TV, a small-time volleyball player for one of the local teams, and he's advertising the stupidest invention Issei's ever seen, flipping batter into the air and slamming it down with some sort of serving spoon like it's a volleyball waiting to be served. Or a takoyaki ball waiting to be served, to put it more literally. Ha. Issei develops strange tastes in things when he's tired, so he kind of appreciates the joke.
The guy on TV points to the phone number flashing in front of his stomach. "Call now and you might even get to hear me advertise in person!"
He tops it off with an overexaggerated wink and a peace sign that would have Hanamaki in stitches if he was watching. Issei just blinks blearily. He fumbles with his phone to send a text - Hanamaki does camera work sometimes for this sort of thing, so he might even know someone who knows the guy. He can kind of see why people might call, just for that promise. Random volleyball player is vaguely charming, probably, with his bright smile and athletic frame. The phone number glows temptingly on screen, and perhaps there's some sort of hypnosis behind it, because Issei finds himself wondering whether serving takoyaki will bring him the satisfaction he's been low-key missing since he had a good look at his career and realised the 'best outcome' of it would be him doing the same thing, over and over, for the rest of his already boring life.
Besides, he's kind of hungry now. Maybe the takoyaki server will come with free takoyaki?
(In retrospect, Issei will admit this is terrible reasoning.)
"Wow," someone says, when he presses call. "I can't believe that worked."
If he hadn't been awake for about thirty hours straight, Issei might find it in himself to be more surprised. "You're the guy from TV."
There's a soft rustle, a hand covering the phone on the other side, maybe. Iwa-chan, this customer has a really nice voice! Listen -- I'll put him on speaker -- and then the line rustles again; the volleyball player from the commercial is back. "I did promise!" he says cheerily. "Are you actually calling for the Rolling Thunder Takoyaki Tosser?"
"Uh." Issei doesn't really remember it having such an obnoxious name, but it sounds about right. He scratches his head, sinks back further into his couch. "I guess. Matsukawa Issei, unit number 2 -- "
He breaks off with a yawn, not bothering to hold his phone away from him, and whoever's on the other end laughs brilliantly. It's a nice laugh -- Issei doesn't get to hear that many nice laughs in his dead-silent office. It's all keystrokes and stifled yawns there, set to the muffled backdrop of someone getting scolded by their superior a couple of cubicles away. "Someone's sleepy," the voice trills. "Mattsun -- can I call you Mattsun? -- I think you should have a rest before you go ordering everything you hear about on late-night television. Why don't I call you back tomorrow?"
Are you seriously flirting with a customer, Issei hears faintly through the receiver. There's the sound of a brief scuffle, the volleyball player shouting something indistinctly, and honestly, it's kind of nice to listen to. It's been a while since Issei's been part of such an inane conversation, the sort he used to laugh about in school. He wonders how old the guy is -- maybe twenty, if he's still young enough to yell like that -- though he's a professional athlete, Issei remembers, well-established on his team. Maybe older, then, closer to Issei's age. "How old are you?" he asks, because it's the middle of the night and he might as well.
It's alright if he flirts back, the volleyball player with the nice voice retorts from a distance, clearly not listening anymore. And I'm helping him; he might not even want this piece of junk; I'm only doing it because Makki asked --
Issei waits a while, but it soon becomes clear he's been forgotten. He drifts off to the two of them arguing in his ear, wakes up with a dead arm and a familiar voice drilled into his subconsciousness -- Oikawa Tooru, twenty-three; hello? Hello??
He opens three tabs on Google and searches: rolling thunder takoyaki tosser review; oikawa tooru boyfriend; how to tell if someone likes you back.
(then they chat over the telephone and oikawa delivers the takoyaki tosser in person and they have several lowkey dates involving terribly misshapen takoyaki before mattsun charms oikawa with a lame lame pickup line and they live happy ever after)