Chapter Text
I’m turning around I’m having visions of you
But then I understand
The friend I’m dreaming of is far away
And doesn’t feel my love
But I do, I do
Atsumu knows the image of Shinsuke’s back, a recurring memory carved into the most tender space in his thoughts. He knows this the same way one knows the faded burn of their first childhood scar or the acrid salt of Suma Beach air or the stark dreamy photos of a solar eclipse: first is the cruel white light, searing; then, the ocean-tide-calm of wounded lines simmering at the silent shore—bare skin and charred sand and obsidian crater skies.
Shinsuke’s back is this: the mannered slope of well-worked shoulders; the tuft of gray hair sticking out to the left side of his head which fades into black; the unwavering movement of a boy who has never spared a glance behind himself. He is diligence, ceaselessness, clarity. Some days Atsumu reimagines Shinsuke as something distant: a red sports jacket, maybe, billowing away in swept autumn leaves, which Atsumu is unable to grasp even with his spry yearning hands…
Then, all Atsumu can do is look.
Atsumu has spent the last fifteen years looking at Shinsuke’s back. In these fifteen years, Atsumu always walks three steps behind him, deliberate and infallible and waiting.
He is twenty-five when the world fits in his palm like the cool leather skin of a volleyball.
There are many names Atsumu is referred to, some more sentimental than others—Tsumu or best setter in Japan or that pain-in-the-ass serve or just pain in the ass, solely—but those are nothing to the grand title of Olympic athlete, now. This is Miya Atsumu, king of kings, now set to conquer other lands, other armies, other emperors.
I am grabbing all these monsters in my hand and I am having the merriest time. See? I’m happier than you.
There are familiar faces, and there are new ones, surmountable players that fleet across his peripheral like reeling film roll of “top” and “greatest” and “world-renowned”. Sometimes Atsumu feels his whole life is told only in these faces that have come and go and never left.
There’s his childhood in the form of Aran, a face of hard lines and kind eyes; a high school summer spent with faces of brooding mouths and stretching limbs (Hoshiumi, Sakusa, that Goody Two-Shoes—); Ushijima from Nationals, stupidly perfect form and jokes that fly over his head; MSBY’s resident mood-lifters, Bokuto and Shouyou, all wide smiles and warm skin, bodies of sunlight; new faces and old ones, the faces of Atsumu at twenty-five years old: Komori’s innocent laughter, Yaku’s ruthless nagging, and Hakuba and Hyakuzawa—those two giants , the fuck were they being fed while growing up?
This is it, this is the top. They all feel it, brewing in their marrow, the way they glance at each other and know, just know. We are the national team, beasts in our right. Here, monsters are kings. We were chosen—no, we were meant for this. All of us, all here now, with one purpose, to abide by the law of the court: don’t drop the fucking ball.
Yet Atsumu wonders. Of all these faces, glorious and driven and “of the best” right beside him, none of them are the cool gazes and hidden smiles of Kita Shinsuke.
Hinata Shouyou returns to Atsumu’s life in the middle of wintry Osaka March, sun-kissed and honey-eyed and dream-wrought.
Among the rows of men, all looming and tense and a bit of hidden eager awe, there is Shouyou breathing laughter and brilliance around him. He brings the Brazil coast breeze into a long day of stagnant grueling tryouts: this carefree burst of energy in someone so small but at the same time a presence so large, so invincible—Atsumu can’t help but almost recall with a tinge of jealousy his MSBY tryouts two years ago (long silences, nearly shitting bricks, the glare Meian had on his face, for fuck’s sake).
When it’s Shouyou’s turn to serve, all eyes are on him. Flaming orange, bronze-skinned wonder-boy.
Even after all these years, Atsumu can never forget his jump, the hungry twitch of his calves to an incredible sprint, wings bared like fangs of flight, the gasps and murmurs of he’s fucking fast! — to the float of his heels, and here he is, Hinata Shouyou! Little giant, greatest decoy, crow let free, flying flying flying—
He flings into his jump—not a jump, his jump, Shouyou’s jump, jump of Miyagi dreams and Rio beach, a jump boundless, Icarus incarnate—and it’s like the entire stadium has hushed into bated breaths to watch him soar.
Shouyou gets the hit in, undoubtedly. The satisfying smack of the ball spinning from the floor. The court is silent.
“Holy shit,” Atsumu murmurs from the sidelines. Somehow, it’s higher than before.
Shouyou rumbles out an exclamation of victory, turns to the spectators. In the breath of a second, he stole their show. “That was good, right? I totally felt the ball whoosh and bam and wow, I don’t remember the floor being this smooth —“
Meian is laughing behind Atsumu, clapping his back, “I like this one, that orange kid.”
They all do. Atsumu watches Shouyou leave the court, running towards Bokuto for a grappling hug. That laugh, drawing in each member of their team, as if Shouyou’s already one of them. When he looks up, Shouyou catches Atsumu’s gaze from above, and smiles.
He thinks he’ll never get tired of seeing it.
To no one’s surprise, Shouyou does make it into MSBY. In their first team practice, Atsumu is quick to pull him aside for warm-ups. They’ve still yet to stock up on sizes, so the sports jacket wears a little baggy on Shouyou. Cute.
Atsumu leans against the wall and takes the volleyball from under his arm, twirling it between his eager fingers. Looks at the other with a little too much gloat.
“I told ya I’d set for ya one day, Shouyou-kun.”
Shouyou grins, takes the ball from Atsumu’s hands. His touch could destroy the world.
“What are you waiting for?”
Loving Hinata Shouyou is a force within itself. The thing is it’s difficult not to love him, when he’s uncomplicated smiles and Miyagi sunrises and angel-winged.
Shouyou loves with every single breath. His love is endless, a love twice as much as anyone else, a love that could bring the sky apart with a single rippling laugh. Shouyou shines so brightly Atsumu thinks he’ll burn with it.
Their first kiss is outside of a bar in Umeda, between big neon screens and stumbling passersby in the vibrant city night. Shouyou comes in between his breaths so quick and light, fleeting kisses barely landing on his face that Atsumu has to grab him by his chin and pull him back in.
Shouyou blinks, beams, laughs in his mouth. He returns kisses like pieces of candies, falling sweet in rain, gives them away so sporadically that Atsumu lets him do all the loving for him.
It’s easy, almost too easy, that Atsumu wonders one day he’ll wake up and Shouyou will be flitting away from his grasp once again, like a bird too beautiful to cage.
Maybe that’s why it was easier to let him go then.
He has spent days where Shouyou is quiet, dazed, uncharacteristic. He’ll stare at his phone for too long, or maybe thumb at his jersey in some sort of disassociation, or laugh in a way almost hollow, empty. Like he’s waiting. Like he’s aching.
Atsumu wonders if Shouyou misses something, if he’s missing what Shouyou yearns. On one of these days, the evening before MSBY’s game against the Adlers, Atsumu points out his boyfriend’s somber behavior.
There’s a beat of silence first, just the sound of the restaurant bustling beside their table, silverware clinking and incoherent chatter.
“Do you ever feel like something is meant to stay in the past, but you still wish you had changed it in some way?” Shouyou says, unexpectedly, as the fork stills in his hand. “Like you know there’s no way, but a selfish part of you wants… an opportunity you had a chance to take, but chose to leave.”
Shouyou doesn’t… doesn’t say things like this, in metaphors or vagueness or melancholy. Atsumu is jarred, and suddenly doesn't feel the appetite for his pasta anymore, which turns into dust in his mouth. He’s never seen Shouyou like this. He doesn’t know what to say.
We don’t need things like memories . For some reason, Atsumu can’t help but think about Inarizaki’s slogan, words that had been buried in his mind for years. He watches Shouyou silently finish his dinner and wonders, distantly, if memories are not meant to be discarded, but instead kept, cradled. Loved, cherished.
“Do you think they remember?” And hastily, Shouyou corrects himself, “I meant, the opportunities—! Uh, that sounds a little awkward—or—”
Atsumu seems to get it. Nods, and almost wistfully, tongue swiping over his lip, he says:
“I mean, I get ya. Sometimes, I wish. But then I’m here, and I dunno, is there anywhere else I’d really be?”
Shouyou smiles, the kind that slowly grows into something great. Atsumu feels like he’s watching a sunrise. “You sounded really cool for a second, you know, just like an actual senpai .”
Atsumu catches onto the mood shift quickly. He swipes a scoop of mashed potatoes from Shouyou’s plate, lilting, “Wasn’t I always cool, Shou-kun?”
Maybe he was wrong about Shouyou. Like him, Atsumu comes to grasp, Shouyou has regrets, has a past he can’t quite shake off. Shouyou’s past is this: blazing seas and white-cloaked kings and love-worn volleyballs. Shouyou’s past comes that very next day. Shouyou’s past comes in the form of that fucking Goody-Two Shoes on the other side of the court, and then—
And then Atsumu realizes Hinata Shouyou has never really been his from the start.
Harsh training gets harsher, given they’ve only got a handful of months before the Olympic Games. By then, every day is spent together. 5:00AM breakfast: Aran cooks up a storm of nutrients and green things and protein shakes (fuck, Atsumu hates protein shakes). By seven, conditioning. Strength training. Cardio. Running. So much running. Three hours of that humid gym and it’s another terribly healthy meal, enough that Atsumu might pull off his taste buds. After, recovery exercises. Deep stretches. Yoga, if Komori can get Kageyama to stop being so stiff about it. Literally.
And then, finally, the court: their own gymnasium sprawling in finely polished floors reflecting off large lights and the high ceilings. That distinct smell of the court, the sweet tumble of volleyballs beginning to roll, sneakers squeaking and knees sliding across the floor until it’s deep in the night. They sweat all the way back. Hit the showers. Collapse onto the bed. Wake up, rinse, and repeat. It’s a cruel cycle, but Atsumu wouldn’t trade it for the world. In some ways, it is the only world he knows now.
When the winter holidays arrive, it’s Atsumu and Aran to leave Tokyo first. These are sparse moments of freedom at the train station, soaked: the eager bites of takoyaki for the first time in months, fingers frozen and tongues burnt; Atsumu kicking snow at Aran’s ankles; the hum of the train beneath them, and then they are drifting to sleep before magazines are read and konbini onigiri are unpeeled…
“Yer car’s a piece of junk,” is the first thing Atsumu says when Osamu greets the two outside of Shin-Kobe station. Hyogo air is crisper than Atsumu remembers leaving it, agrarian and sweet.
“I think it’s a very nice ride,” Aran’s voice eases over Osamu’s ‘fuck you!’, and sends Atsumu an exasperated glance, something along the lines of Really, right now? and Play nice . Atsumu sticks out his tongue instead.
Okay, it really isn’t a piece of junk; simple, reliable Honda Accords as they come, chipped baby-blue paint and suspiciously bumpy on the left side of the vehicle but at least it fucking works, Osamu quips. Suna, reluctantly emerging from the front seat, helps their bags in the trunk. He’s the same as ever, silently cool and effortlessly disinterested. Although, Atsumu does notice a new scarf tucked around his neck since Suna last visited him and Aran in Tokyo: meticulous wool-knit weaved to flawless tufts of grey-red threads at the ends, undoubtedly Shinsuke’s craftsmanship.
Shinsuke picked up knitting second year—it was around this time of the year too, when the members of the team had caught the flu after a particularly hefty snowball fight. Shinsuke embarked on an additional grandma hobby of making scarves and hats for the team. Hell, the scarves and hats felt like they were grandma-made. They were subpar at first, but Shinsuke had always caught onto perfection quickly. He knit during the morning rides to games, period breaks, at the bus stop. Atsumu made a lot of shit jokes about how Shinsuke had no sense of color coordination in making the patterned garments, but still wore them every day that entire winter anyway.
A part of Atsumu desperately wants to ask about Suna’s new scarf, but he doesn’t. Instead, he throws an arm around the friend, cooing, “Sunarin, didja miss us?” and takes the familiar violent blow to his ribs with a wheeze. He bites his lip and crawls into the backseat, Aran behind, and the car rumbles its way back home.
The first few days blur like they always do when Atsumu’s back: bone-crushing hugs, home-cooked meals in saran wrap, the unforgettable, almost endearing creak of his childhood bedroom floor. His mother is overbearing as usual, with elaborate attempts to feed him no matter how many times he reprimands that he’s on a strict Olympic diet, okaa-san , you want me to lose or what ? If anything, his father is worse. When Atsumu heads out for a later morning run he catches his father working on a pack of Camel’s, kicking back on the snowy porch. Atsumu refuses the offer of a cigarette in disbelief.
Not to mention, every meal together is a meal to nag him, the audacity to mock Miya Atsumu, Ma, I’m on every other Tokyo 2021 poster here! —only to promptly be humbled by another jab. As much as he loves his parents, they’re unbearable, and how he lived with them in the first eighteen years of his life, he still wonders.
As for Osamu and Suna, the couple got a place together a year ago, after Onigiri Miya opened shop in Hyogo. They live in the complex not far from the shinkansen , a sleek one-room apartment with a small kitchen, quiet living room, and their cat Nara (named, obviously, by a cheeky Aran). It is, that being said, just enough for two people.
Atsumu knocks anyway.
No answer. Atsumu looks at the time. Four in the afternoon. No fucking way Osamu isn’t home. He can sense his brother’s presence ignoring him on the other side of the door in his very marrow. Atsumu tries again.
This time, Osamu opens the door, and laying his eyes upon the luggage by Atsumu’s side, purses his lips. “No.”
“Yes.” Atsumu grins a shit-eating grin, and lets himself inside.
Much to Osamu’s chagrin, Atsumu stays on the Miya-Suna living room couch for the rest of the week.
Christmas comes the next day in heavy snowfall. Just before the family gathering, Osamu and Atsumu are to shovel up the driveway for incoming relatives but they end up in a snowball fight one way or the other. It’s fucking freezing and there’s ice running down under his jacket and stuck between his gloves. And there’s Suna complaining from the porch in his pristine un-snowed self (he had refused to do any handiwork; Mother Miya wouldn’t have allowed him anyway as a guest), about how they’re twenty-something and still messing around, lame bastards. Osamu drags him into the pile of cold white snow and the three of them scrabble until their faces are red from the cold and the driveway lay half-shoveled, half-six-foot-long-snow-angels.
As for the actual gathering, the Christmas party is always as sweet as it is stuffy and showy. The overcrowded kitchens and makeshift dining tables, store-bought wine, itchy sweaters, shabu-shabu, and God forbid mothers bragging about birthing Olympic athletes (very humble, Ma…). Atsumu can’t help but feel a little out of place; he’s always been one for parties, but everyone—friends, cousins, second cousins—has brought someone: boyfriends, girlfriends, new flings, fiances and rings, all of which Atsumu’s gaze follows from the corner of the living room behind the tree, swirling his wine glass with an uncharacteristic resignation.
He shouldn’t be jealous, really, he’s hot and young and rich, for fuck’s sake. Not like Atsumu is eating his own ass out about how he’s a hustling bachelor (though technically, he is) and there’s no reason why he should be single, not that he cares, because being single is easy. It’s effortless. There are no attachments. Just him is enough, Hot Young & Rich Bachelor Miya Atsumu trademarked. It’s a working title.
“Tsumu,” his mother calls from the other side of the room, “Come here! I want you to meet somebody!”
Over the crowd, he can barely make out his mother’s petite figure, and maybe one of her friends, and, who was this? A pretty lady?
Well, would you look at that—another suitor that Miya Atsumu has caught the eye of, of course. The time has come. Fuck being single, he thinks, as he strides from his place of previous self-pity and straightens his collar. Unbuttons the first button, just for the enhanced sex appeal. This is a cuffing opportunity presented at the most drastic period of his life.
“Rei-chan, this is my son, I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Atsumu can’t help but check her out, not so discreetly. Because she’s not a bad catch, Ma, since when did ya know how to choose ‘em? Wide-eyed, freckled, and sweet.
“Of course,” Rei smiles, “You and Ojiro Aran are the talk of the town. Nice to finally meet you! Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to ya, too,” Atsumu says smugly, pleased to be recognized.
“Oh, yes, Atsumu-kun, congratulations!” Rei’s mother chimes in, already wearing a drunk glow. “You must be working so hard in Tokyo. Please make time to attend Rei and Mako’s wedding as well.”
What.
“Oh, I forgot!” Atsumu’s mother cries. “This is Mako’s fiancée. They’re goin’ to be married later this June, don’t forget to check the mail when ya go back, hm?”
Mako, as in, his cousin Mako? Getting married? To her? Atsumu takes a look at her hand, wrapped around a wine glass, and almost faints at the sight of the ring. How—why—what is going on? As if on cue, Mako appears from behind them, looking quite positively about to get married.
Christ. Single it is.
Atsumu would die from the embarrassment, probably, if it hadn’t been for Ma to say something before he could make a fool out of himself. After exchanging more pleasantries with Rei and Rei’s mother, Atsumu excuses himself for some fresh air, exhausted for the night. He maneuvers through the throng of reds and greens, and before he can reach the coat rack, someone bumps into his side:
“Excuse me.”
Huh ? That voice…
That voice, enough that Atsumu almost thinks he’s in a dream, that the wine was spiked, that this couldn’t be him. Someone walking past with their head down, and he can see it now: that sliver of grey, the muscled shoulders and familiar figure, undeniably—
Shinsuke. It’s Kita Shinsuke .
Atsumu panics. Shinsuke? It’s almost like slow-motion, the way Atsumu is stuck, for a moment, and there is only him, in-depth and so close, close that before Atsumu knows it, he reaches out and grabs the back sleeve of Shinsuke’s shirt—is that really him? God, it is, what do I do —
“Shinsuke,” he breathes out like it has been the only name he has ever known. They’re so close, enough that maybe Shinsuke can feel the fan of his breath. “Shinsuke, it’s you.”
Shinsuke raises his head, finally faces Atsumu. It’s him it’s him it’s him . “Atsumu.”
You would think, after all these faces, it would be easier to forget his. But it’s Shinsuke. Because Shinsuke is—because Atsumu has known Shinsuke before anything, before himself, even—Atsumu knows Shinsuke has been going to the same barber since his third year in high school and knows Shinsuke prefers tea over coffee and knows if Shinsuke does, at some point, happen to want coffee he knows how he likes it (two creams, no sugar). He knows Shinsuke in pain and in laughter, knows him in the court and outside of it, would know him by the breath, the scent, even the passing brush of a shoulder—
“I—you…” Atsumu swallows, still clutching his sleeve. Fortunately, Shinsuke doesn’t move an inch. “Didn’t know you were comin’.”
Shinsuke looks at him. Not quite, as if trying to look past him. “I forgot to call.”
“Why didn’t you?” is what he really wants to ask, but Atsumu is afraid that it is or isn’t the same reason he never called Shinsuke himself.
“It’s hot as hell in here,” Atsumu says instead. “Want some fresh air?”
By the time they get there, Hitoshi Ramen is brimming with holiday spirit: the quaint ramen bar hidden in the neck of town transformed into a booming Christmas hotspot. Ruby- and jade-tinted lanterns are hung up under the canopy, which sinks with heavy snow, and, entering the shop they’re to duck just at the right time to miss the freezing drops of the one of many melting icicles above.
It’s full, more than, that they barely sneak a seat at the bar of the crowded shop, nicking it just in time after a drunk couple leaves. The air is warm, the comfortable kind that they’d only want to shrug their jacket off; Christmas jazz—Sinatra, Nat King Cole, the classics—plays dreamily from the speakers; leather-cracked stools are tucked between fog-tinted windows and the tacky mistletoe of a bathroom entrance
They sit, Atsumu orders two flasks of sake. Shinsuke cocks a brow.
“What?”
“Thought ya couldn’t drink. Some crazy athlete’s diet…”
Ah, so Shinsuke has been keeping tabs on him. Atsumu tries not to grin too hard. “Y’know, ya really shoulda just called.”
Maybe Shinsuke is guilty, or something, because a somber, almost embarrassed look crosses his face as he averts his gaze elsewhere. “Yeah… Sorry about that.”
Their drinks come by. Atsumu pours a cup for Shinsuke to take, leaning in:
“It’s Christmas so…,” He murmurs and pauses, deliberately. They’re not even inches apart now; Shinsuke is caught by surprise. Their fingertips overlap over the small cup, not even a feather’s touch. Still, Atsumu feels his entire body alight. “I figured I could make an exception.”
They pull apart with a snip, the heat dissipating in a second. They fill the silence with a sip, but it takes a beat longer, and then Atsumu wonders what to say. How to begin, when there are so many questions he doesn’t know how to ask. The how-are-you’s, what-have-you-been-up-to-lately, why-we-don’t-talk-anymore… How it's just funny how we miss each other so easily. How I was still in Tokyo last year, how you were out of town the year before, how we always seem to be at the right places at the wrong time, or maybe the other way around, like fate itself never wanted us to meet…
Shinsuke swallows a cough. “How’s yer training been, then? Aran’s tellin’ me yer a real troublemaker.”
Right, volleyball talk. Why didn’t he think of that? Atsumu can keep up with that. He huffs, a little miffed, “Still playing captain, both of ya.”
He tells him, anyway. About his teammates on the national team, how rivals transition to partners in the span of months. The sort of men he used to be wary about or ruthlessly analyze from afar have now posed as different problems, from syncing up sets to pride clashes to well, getting along in the dorms, because Atsumu has never been too good with uptight folks like Goody Two-Shoes or Lefty Frankenstein—
“Ushijima-san, you mean.” Shinsuke’s eyes glint at his drink. He’s amused.
“Yeah, that bastard, can’t keep his moral lectures to himself, nor can he take a joke, ya know. You could ask him if jokes just fly over his head and he’d tell ya he’s never heard of a bird named ‘Joke’,” Atsumu watches Shinsuke breathe a laugh, “I’m tellin’ ya, I was wonderin’ if it was better when he was on the other side of the net drilling the fuck outta us.”
“Nearly tore you a new arm with that one in Osaka last year, though.” Shinsuke has loosened up now, halfway through his bottle.
Atsumu laughs, loves it when Shinsuke has those quips that slip out so seamlessly, perfect timing. “Yeah, and now I’m settin’ for him, wouldja look at that.”
And it warms him, too, knowing Shinsuke has been keeping up with him all this time, his games, although maybe that’s a given, because if anyone would do that for his old teammates, it’d be Shinsuke in a heartbeat. It’s so easy for them to fall back into a conversation that Atsumu doesn’t even know why he was panicking about it in the first place; they talk, they do, like they always have done and have never forgotten to. The rhythm of conversation is unique to only them that it never left after all: the exaggerated boast of Atsumu always followed by the exasperated glance of Shinsuke; Atsumu’s pause after any witty-ass remark just to catch the soft escape of Shinsuke’s laugh; Shinsuke’s ever-cool, lecturing voice sliding over and under Atsumu’s passionate, rowdy tone in the boisterous chatter of the crowd.
Two more flasks, and another one, and another pass across the counter.
“And you?” Atsumu asks, when they watch another row of customers shuffle out the doorway into the night, “How’s the farm treatin’ ya?”
Shinsuke shrugs. “Not much. The usual.”
“Ya call this ‘not much’?” Atsumu asks, dubious, and steadies a look at Shinsuke’s arms. The sweater is tight around Shinsuke’s shoulders and down, curves drawn under the cloth. “Not much, my ass. Looks like it’s treatin’ ya like an underwear model.”
Shinsuke snorts and brings a hand over his biceps. He’s a little bit caught off guard by Atsumu’s tipsy vulgar jabs but discreetly revels in them. They both know he’s flirting; both of them enjoy it.
Atsumu lets out a long, satisfied sigh, placing his drink down. He rests his head on the table. The side of his head facing Shinsuke, and views him from below, the slope of Shinsuke’s chin winding to his neck, not a bead of sweat on him but moist, glistening. Atsumu is beyond tipsy, bubbling inside. His eyes are wide, blunt, unafraid.
“You know, you’re the same, you haven’t changed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, yer still handsome. Always have been.” God, he’s really, really drunk.
No response. Shinsuke pours himself a shot and takes it in one swallow, not breaking their locked gaze the entire time. He’s stone-faced, but his ears are pink. He’s so tale-telling without even trying, that Atsumu tries not to smile.
It’s far past midnight when they’re finally outside. It’s stopped snowing. They stand there, silent for three or four minutes, Shinsuke rubbing his red nose against his scarf. He has always been easily affected by the weather, during colder seasons quick to catch a cold—he’d become the type to carry medicine around with him no matter what; always wore an extra layer; his hands often on the colder side, even in summers, and sometimes Atsumu falls asleep imagining the cool touch of Shinsuke’s palms on his face, not that he still thinks about Shinsuke like that anymore, but, he kinda does.
“It’s late,” Shinsuke says.
Atsumu looks at him, then away. He tilts his head back up to the black sky and sake simmers at the bottom of his stomach. A little bold, because he’s drunk: “S’dark, too. Need me to walk ya home?”
Shinsuke shakes his head. Drunk, too, surprisingly—had never been much of a drinker, actually, but still hardly a light-weight. It is late, but the street remains bright and crowded. Swarms of people in their gloves and scarves and coats pass by in front of them, where the two lean against the outside of the shop and dig the soles of their boots into the snow. Still dodging the icicles.
“I’m—” Atsumu’s voice fumbles then, a little, between trying not to sound too nervous or too excited—“really glad to see you though, ya know.”
Shinsuke raises his head. His eyes are golden. “Me, too.”
He wonders if it’s the alcohol in his system or something, but Shinsuke is currently looking way too kissable for him to pass up. So he doesn’t, and leans in. Like something out of a movie, Shinsuke sharpens in Atsumu’s line of sight, that the blue-lit street behind him is out of depth. He lifts a hesitant hand onto Shinsuke’s arm, which Shinsuke does not shoulder off. (Not a bad sign—more like a fucking miracle, actually.) Atsumu tilts his head and droops his eyes—gauging—then brings his nose to Shinsuke’s chin—asking. Atsumu knows Shinsuke can feel his breath on him, knows Shinsuke knows he knows. In a way it makes Atsumu think, how did I ever unlove him? But he had never undone it in the first place, just forgotten, forgot a love that had been buried until this very moment.
Shinsuke pulls apart.
“I—”
“Shit, I’m sorry—”
“No, I...” Shinsuke looks down at his feet and back up, earnest and forgiving and maybe a little bit remorseful. “I wanted to ask ya, actually, if you’d like to come to the shrine with me. On New Year’s.”
“What?”
“Oh,” and he sort of shoves his hands in his pockets and steps back, “It’s just, Obaa - chan is gettin’ old now, so she can’t make it up this year, and well, since yer back in town—”
Atsumu does the second double-take of the night. “No, I mean, yes, yeah, of course. Of course, Shinsuke, sorry. I’m slow on the uptake right now, ‘s the…”
“Alcohol.”
“Yeah, that.” Atsumu blinks. “New Year’s it is. I’ll be there.” And then, again, “It really is getting late, Shinsuke. I don’t want ya walking around in the dark like this, drunk. I’ll take ya home, alright?”
It’s not really a suggestion this time. They begin to walk; Shinsuke closes his eyes. He lets out a plume of breath, and it swirls in the cold air: “Without it, we’d never see the stars, y’know?”
“Without…?”
The dark, Shinsuke says. In the moonlight, he looks like a dream.
Atsumu loves Shinsuke in memories.
It should be a painful way to love when memories are not supposed to be. We don’t need things like memories . Memories don’t deserve to be coddled, to be wished for. Yet, Atsumu loves, anyway.
The Shinsuke in his memories might not even be the true Shinsuke, now. Or maybe Atsumu has only learned to love the Shinsuke in his memories. Or maybe, he’d rather keep Shinsuke as a memory, memory-kept and nothing more.
Memories, stupid ones, because they are memories that are better off forgotten. Somehow, Shinsuke is even stubborn in his mind—memories of Shinsuke from high school, Shinsuke during games, Shinsuke in college…
The Shinsuke who had actually confessed first, that people tend to doubt no matter how many times Atsumu tells the story, about the ride back from a game in Kyoto: when the coach bus fell silent, and Shinsuke had done the round for headcount, and then had sat in the seat next to Atsumu’s. When both were too tired to keep up a conversation, but somehow, their hands found each other in the blurry light, and Shinsuke had said, very quietly, I like you, Miya Atsumu , and—after making sure he wasn’t dreaming—Atsumu softly brought Shinsuke’s head up and kissed him.
The Shinsuke who would mercilessly captain them every practice, somehow more strict on Atsumu than anyone else; who wouldn’t even let Atsumu as close as a breath to him, and banned PDA at the gym when Atsumu did get as close, because we have to be professional, Atsumu, and no, I will not hug you for every point you score, that’s just unnecessary… Shinsuke, who, as soon as they left for home, melted from that facade, whose body would flush with every one of Atsumu’s touches, and who would let himself rest his chin on Atsumu’s shoulder as they waited for the train. Shinsuke, who would stop them at the corner store, and buy a snack or two, and look away when he handed them to Atsumu, murmuring, You worked hard today. Eat it.
And then there was the Shinsuke who dumped him, in the most polite way possible because it was Kita Shinsuke , for fuck’s sake, that Atsumu wasn’t even sure they had broken up until Osamu confirmed, that it was. Somehow, everyone had expected it except Atsumu himself, that they were surprised that he had even called it a relationship, you and Kita Shinsuke ? No one thought it would last through university; that it was barely a fling. Of course, Atsumu didn’t have the capacity to care about what other people thought about him and Shinsuke, but then, he wondered, if Shinsuke had ever thought it was a relationship at all. But Shinsuke had been so sincere, and maybe even a bit regretful, when they broke up. It only made sense, because Shinsuke had already planned to spend the rest of his life working in Hyogo, and Atsumu was set to play in capitals around the world. Atsumu would have put up a fight if he didn’t see it, too.
There were more, but for the most part, the memories were discarded when Atsumu moved to Tokyo. Only then, only in certain places at certain times, the thought of Shinsuke would arise again—maybe while watching a movie or aimlessly playing iMessage games or even worse, before sleep. Or maybe when Atsumu had come across one of Komori’s cheesy novels in the middle of the night, flipping through the crisp pages and landing on a sentence that made his chest stutter:
In memories, I meet you in silver light; here I caress you and your hands of ghosts: fleeting kisses, translucent skin.
I awake, I think of you, I hope you are nothing more than a dream.
So, as per Shinsuke’s request, on New Year’s they visit the shrine together. Atsumu wakes up to the early morning, where toes curl under wool blankets and where frost tickles the cold windowsill. He runs into Osamu in the kitchen filing through the mail. It’s odd because usually by the time Atsumu wakes, Osamu’s out the door. Right. It’s New Year’s.
“Hey,” Osamu regards him suspiciously. He looks up from the gas bill, reading glasses perched on his nose.
Atsumu tries to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Good morning.”
“Yer up early.”
“New year, new me,” Atsumu dismisses with a drawl and starts the coffee machine before Osamu can pry any further.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t. Atsumu drinks from his steaming mug with a nagging feeling that Osamu probably already knows. Maybe what they say about twin empathy really is a thing—
“It’s not a thing,” Rintarou groans. He’s entered the kitchen in his stupid robe and nothing under just to cut Atsumu off. “It’s just you and Samu being freak idiots.”
“Hey, how’d ya read m’ mind?” Atsumu presses as Rintarou fishes a mug from the dishwasher. He remembers that mug, the one with the frog design. He got it from one of his fans during a rally and rewrapped the abominable thing for Rintarou’s birthday last year.
“Ya said it out loud, genius,” Osamu says, now moving on to the cable bill. “Ya goin’ on a date with Kita-san or what?”
“Fuck off,” Atsumu says, upset Osamu does already know. “S’not a date .”
“You need to get laid,” Rintarou says. “Or else you’ll be a menace to society forever.”
“Fuck you, too, man.”
“Hm,” Rintarou smugly smiles into his cup, “wouldn’t you like to know who does that for me.”
Atsumu gags up his coffee a bit. Drains the rest into the sink.
“Get yer boyfriend under control,” he hisses to Osamu, then flips Rintarou off, heading out to get ready for his New Year’s, absolutely not-date with Kita Shinsuke.
The snow is lighter than before, and Atsumu can make Shinsuke out much clearer today: his dark blue coat, the oversized earmuffs, the slate gray tuft peeking out under the hood.
The morning of game days, the big ones, Shinsuke used to visit the shrine and pray. Atsumu would only know this because of the charms dangling from the zipper of Shinsuke’s duffel bag—勝守. Katsumori. Victory. Shinsuke didn’t really believe in those things, but Atsumu supposes they served some sort of tangible reassurance or affirmation. Though it was never I hope , I wish , we win. It was victory or not. Success could not be hoped for, wished for, as much as it was worked for. That was Captain Kita for you.
The shrine still stands the same as Atsumu remembers—ancient, modest, obstinate. When they arrive, there are lines and rows of people filing to get their prayers for the year in, huddling with their black parkas and red noses, like colonies of ants swathing upon a sugar hill.
He knows he’s really not supposed to watch Shinsuke pray, but he does without even realizing, ignoring the odd looks he garners around them. Observing Shinsuke is something borderline religious itself, anyway. The incense is still between his calloused fingers, eyes closed and lips parting with prayer; smoke curls at his flushed cheeks, and his face becomes washed in the morning, new-year light. Kita Shinsuke, holy divine.
“So,” Atsumu asks, when they exit the shrine through the snowy evergreen, “What did ya wish for?”
Shinsuke quirks a brow. “Seriously, ain’t that bad luck to tell?”
“Not if it’s me,” Atsumu insists. Shinsuke bluffs his laugh into a cough.
“That’s a terrible reason.” It’s a half-assed scolding. “Well, the usual, I guess. Good crops, healthy Obaa-chan , maybe a vacation .”
“Vacation?” Atsumu piques. “Where to?”
“It could be anywhere,” Shinsuke shrugs. They make it to the bottom, where the roads meet them: frozen crossroads, shops closed, traditional decor whisking against the air above. The snow inches at the soles of their boots. “Though, I’d really want to see the beach right now.”
Atsumu closes his eyes, imagines it. The sea, sprawling under the sun, and the sand, sticking to their ankles. “We used to go there a lot, didn’t we…”
“Mm.” Shinsuke smiles a small smile, too, remembering. “All the time, during the summer.”
Atsumu shifts his weight a little closer to Shinsuke as they walk past the shops. Counting the festive banners roped around streetlights, he sneaks a look from the corner of his eye. Shinsuke is quiet.
Atsumu pouts. “Well, aren’t ya goin’ to ask me?”
Shinsuke is in a good mood, which means he’ll cater to Atsumu. So he asks.
“What is your New Year’s wish, Miya Atsumu?”
“Taking gold. Duh.” Atsumu flashes a grin. Shinsuke almost rolls his eyes; of course. “And then taking you out, too.”
Shinsuke halts. He can’t make out Shinsuke’s expression from the side, so Atsumu turns to face him.
“I like you, Shinsuke,” Atsumu says. “Y’know it, too, don’t ya?”
Shinsuke is silent. In the silence, still, Atsumu thinks he can fall for him over and over. A puff of smoke leaves Shinsuke’s mouth, snowflakes resting at the edges of his hair. He’s always had a kind of stare, the kind that makes anyone on the other side of the net feel naked, but Atsumu flourishes in it this time, because Shinsuke’s attention is fully on him.
“I’m not askin’ for anything in return,” Atsumu raises his hand, almost gallant, if it weren’t for him internally panicking, “I just want ya to know…
“I’ll wait.”
Shinsuke kicks him.
“Fuck, ow, ow,” Atsumu grabs his leg, nearly toppling from the sudden pain, “What the hell was that for?!”
“You were acting like an idiot again,” Shinsuke crosses his arms. “Christ, Atsumu, what’s gotten into ya, did Tokyo fry yer brains?”
“What?”
Shinsuke looks at him. This time, it’s bordering on pitiful.
“Don’t waste yer time on me, Miya Atsumu,” he says, and began trudging forward once more.
The rest of the way back is a walk in silence, and a little shame on Atsumu’s end. They end up in front of Osamu and Suna’s apartment door, off to the side, where before Atsumu can say something between goodbye and I’m sorry and I want to see you, please let me see you again , Shinsuke tells him to take out a hand.
“Here.” Shinsuke slips something into Atsumu’s gloved palm. It’s a good-luck charm, the very one they sell at the shrine.
“ Katsumori ,” Atsumu murmurs, turning it over. Victory .
“I’ll be watching ya,” Shinsuke says. He’s shy about it, just like back then. “So don’t lose.”
But before he can turn away, Atsumu grabs a hold of Shinsuke’s wrist, and brings their gazes together again. “I meant it, ya know—I’m not the same kid from high school, anymore. And that’s not for ya to decide, either, whether I’m wasting my time or not. When I said I’ll wait for ya, just let me stay, alright?”
“That’s... quite a promise.”
So? I like you, I still do. I like you, Kita Shinsuke, does that really change a thing? Atsumu doesn’t say any of that. He watches Shinsuke leave instead, holds the charm in his hand a little tighter.
Even over the holidays, Aran still manages to bother Atsumu about training. He ropes him into an evening session of cardio the night after New Year’s at the local gym, and when he’s exhausted Atsumu to his bones they somehow find themselves slewing into a kickback on the Miya-Suna living room couch, beers cold in their hands and television playing some drama before their time. They’re actually there to babysit—catsit—Nara, whose owners are out on a date Atsumu couldn’t care less about. The sweet Russian Blue feline curls up against Aran’s leg, mewling sleepily.
Atsumu melts into the sofa, sipping steadily through his second beer. He knows he’s supposed to lay low on the alcohol, but figures if Aran is drinking one, he should too. Not only that, but he’s not exactly in an exceptional mood, when they’re to go back to Tokyo soon and Atsumu still has things to say to Shinsuke—what things exactly, he wishes he would know, too. Atsumu throws an arm over his eyes and groans.
Aran seems to notice the shift in mood, since he picks up most of the talking between them tonight. He coos at Nara, laughs good-heartedly at the television, and watches Atsumu keenly from the corner of his eye. Still, Atsumu can feel Aran’s captain-mode-eyes prick at his skin. It’s unnerving even after all these years.
“How was the shrine yesterday?” Aran tests the waters. “Heard ya went with Kita.”
Atsumu lets out a warbling noise, between content and despair, leaning towards despair.
“What, did ya get rejected by him on your date?”
“No—! How—” Atsumu sits up. “ Why does everyone keep on saying it was a date?”
“Suna told me.”
Fucking Suna Rintarou. “He’s lying. Don’t listen t’ him. And it wasn’t a date, and I didn’t get rejected , what makes ya think that? Ya think I still like Shinsuke?”
Aran levies him with a dubious look.
“What now ?”
“Ya know,” Aran says, threading his fingers through Nara’s fur. The car purrs. “There’s nothing wrong with still having feelings for someone after getting rejected—”
“—I wasn’t rejected—”
“—What you’re feeling is valid. Although, it’s been quite a few years since you two…”
“Oi, now, don’t rub it in.”
“I’m sure Kita isn’t outright happy telling you that, either,” Aran ignores him. “I mean, I’m not the type to boast, but I did get some confessions during school… Y’know, s’not easy turning down people at their most vulnerable state.”
“That’s definitely boasting,” Atsumu whines, kicking in his seat. The cat startles. “And that’s unfair , Aran! Everyone liked ya in middle school! It’s totally different the other way around.”
“Hmm. I think we need to start training for yer attitude, too, then.”
“Hey!” Atsumu knows it’s a harmless joke, but he finds offense in it anyway. “Shinsuke doesn’t think I’m mean, y’know.”
“You’re an asshole to just about everyone else.”
Atsumu crosses his arms. “I’m nice to ya.”
“If yer so nice, get us some more drinks, won’t ya,” Aran gestures to the coffee table of empty bottles, and laughs when Atsumu reluctantly gets up, “And refill Nara’s water bowl, too!”
Atsumu grumbles all the way to the kitchen. He drains the last of the water bottle labeled ‘For Nara’ into the cat’s bowl. Nara comes up behind him, slinking past his legs. The cat brings its head over the rim.
“Ya even have yer own water bottle, y’know that?” Atsumu strokes the cat’s back. Nara only jumps back and hisses at him. “Jeez, fine! I’ll leave ya alone, brat.”
Osamu and Suna rarely drank, so really, the alcohol in their house is mostly for guests. They’re always iffy about Atsumu rummaging through their kitchen, because he tends to leave things a mess afterward, and so he’s only been designated entry to the fridge and the microwave and half the cabinets. The rest, he’d be damned to touch. It’s unnecessary because Atsumu doesn’t even cook, but he likes to make complaints about it anyway, to which Osamu and Suna would tell him to shut up and use the microwave instead.
“...Yeah, sorry about that,” Aran’s voice begins to grow louder as Atsumu enters the living room space, tackling more beer between his arms, “I really would, but my car’s in Tokyo—yeah, since last year… Are ya sure you’ll be able to make it home tomorrow?”
Aran has his phone cradled against his ear, “Alright then… you, too, Kita…” Click .
Atsumu hands Aran a drink, trying not to sound too curious. “Was that Shinsuke?”
“Yeah,” Aran scratches the back of his head, “He’s heading back tomorrow.”
“Already?”
“Kita’s busy with the farm, I guess. He’s crazy hard-working like that. But he needs a ride, and of course, it’s New Year’s weekend, so everyone has their own plans.”
“Well, how’d he get here in the first place?”
Aran shrugs. “I dunno, a friend from college ‘round here. All I know is he doesn’t have anyone to take him back. I’m surprised he asked me because well, you know Kita. He doesn’t like to ask for favors too often.”
Friend from college… Atsumu makes a face. Too vague of a description that he can’t resist wondering who Shinsuke had been hanging with lately. But then, slowly, an idea began to form at the back of Atsumu’s head. When he sees Aran off and retires for the night, Atsumu dials Shinsuke.
It rings four times. Then, a hesitant, gentle, “Hello?”
“Hey,” Atsumu barely manages, throat suddenly dry. “I was, uh—I heard ya might need a ride tomorrow.”
So much for sounding suave. Over the line, Shinsuke’s quiet laugh sounds tender, a small piqued smile in his voice. Atsumu is glad to hear it, and it feels that just like that, their rift from yesterday has blown over. “Is this an offer?”
“If you want it to be.”
“And the chauffeur?”
Atsumu kicks his leg up on the coffee table. “Yours truly.”
A pause crackles from the other end. “ You have a car?”
“How’d ya think I got here?”
“It’s Osamu’s, ain’t it?”
Atsumu reels, sighs into the speaker, “Maybe. Yes, it’s his. Take it or leave it, sweetheart.”
“Does Osamu know?”
“He will when he can’t find it in the morning.”
“ Atsumu ,” Shinsuke berates.
“Of course he does, I’m jokin’, alright?” He isn’t. “And it’ll be fun! A road trip with good ol’ Captain Kita. C’mon, I ain’t seen ya in months and yer makin’ it hard for me, Shinsuke.”
“Road trip?”
“Ya wanted to see the beach, remember?”
Shinsuke is silent for a moment. Then, softly, “Okay.”
Atsumu sits up. “Really? Yer alright with it?”
“Yeah, why not?” There’s a rustle, maybe the sound of him moving in bed. Atsumu imagines it: Shinsuke, sleepy-eyed, chin tucked above his blanket. Maybe his luggage has been neatly packed, at the foot of his door, and his clothes already pressed, laid across the ironing board. “We leave at six in the morning.”
“Six?” Atsumu groans, makes a show of it, “Yer killin’ me, Kita Shinsuke.”
“Take it or leave it,” and with what sounds like a laugh, a barely audible Shinsuke laugh, he hangs up.
Atsumu stares at the black screen of his phone, doesn’t realize he’s been smiling for a while now, and when he does, turns off the lights and goes to sleep early.