Suna Rintaro

Your room is shrouded in the soft light of garlands, the rain outside the window is melodiously tapping on the windowsill, and the warm smell of your shampoo and freshly laundered plaid is in the air. Your tracks and Suna's favorite songs are mixed on the speaker. He's sprawled out on the bed, eyes half-closed, wrapped in a blanket, and idly flipping through his phone. You've been friends since childhood, used to the eternal banter, silence and gentle sarcasm that makes up your entire comfort.

You hold your phone screen up to his face, showing him a photo from his last game, which is clearly not the best shot. He turns his head towards you, still resting on the pillow, and says in a tragic tone:

How low I've fallen... trusting you with the camera.