Work Text:
When he first meets Atsumu, all Shinsuke sees is the careless way he tosses his belongings across the club room.
From the moment Atsumu enters Shinsuke’s life he is the embodiment of big motions and bigger emotions, stepping into the gym that first day with the bravado of a boy who knows he’s good, and can’t wait to prove it to anyone who dares doubt him.
Shinsuke has no reason to doubt, even if he were inclined to such a thing. He has heard many a tale of the Miya Twins from Aran, has already braced himself for the coming storm. He doesn’t expect to spend much time on the court with the twins over the next two years, but it doesn’t hurt to tread lightly around carnivores such as them.
Anyone with eyes or ears would be able to tell you that Atsumu doesn’t have a good first day of practice. He starts it off arguing with Osamu, an occurrence Shinsuke quickly comes to understand as just "another day that ends in -day.” Two hours later he is huffing and stomping and slamming his locker shut because things didn’t go his way one too many times. He rips his sweat soaked shirt off and hurls it across the room, where it lands almost comically softly just shy of his gym bag. He kicks off his shoes in opposite directions. He runs long fingers through his hair, causing half of it to stick sideways. He dumps the contents of his bag onto the floor in search of his phone, and when he can’t find it, lets out a frustrated yell.
Shinsuke sees carelessness in those actions, and it gets under his skin more than it probably should.
It takes him a while to figure out why Atsumu’s brand of carelessness digs deeper than the carelessness of Shinsuke’s other teammates. After all, Suna frequently shows up late to morning practice. Osamu picks fights with Atsumu out of boredom even though he knows it’ll never achieve anything. Even Aran has a bad habit of leaving crumbs everywhere he goes. Each of Shinsuke’s teammates have their own idiosyncrasies, moments where they’re just the teenage boys they are, not yet the men Shinsuke knows they’ll one day have to become.
But something about Atsumu demands Shinsuke’s attention in a way he can’t explain.
It isn’t until the first time they’re paired up at practice and he hits one of Atsumu’s sets that he understands; Atsumu is like him.
Shinsuke knows that he is an exception, not a rule. He knows that not everyone approaches each and every aspect of mundane life with the same care. Perhaps that’s why it took so long for him to see those same qualities in Atsumu.
He’d been blinded by the careless way Atsumu lets insults spill from his lips, the careless way he treats his own health for the sake of looking cool on the volleyball court, the careless lies he tosses around as easily as he tosses a ball. I didn’t steal your snacks, I didn’t break your umbrella, I didn’t forget to do my homework .
Shinsuke hadn’t seen the truth in front of his eyes until Atsumu sent perfect toss after perfect toss his way, even though it was only a practice game and they were winning by a margin of ten points.
In volleyball, Atsumu is anything but careless. Sure, he takes risks, pulls crazy stunts, but there are no half measures. No shortcuts. Every inch of the court gets his devotion. Every set gets his full attention. He tosses every ball like it’s the only ball.
Shinsuke takes everything in his life seriously, no matter how big or small, because to Shinsuke, life is nothing but a collection of all those moments bundled up into one package.
But for Atsumu, volleyball is life.
And when anyone else on the court isn't taking things as seriously as Atsumu, that's when a storm appears behind his eyes. That's when Atsumu's ability to hold back evaporates and the carelessness manifests as insults, as explosions of frustration, as a teenage boy's arrogance.
Atsumu is careless with many things, but Shinsuke quickly learns that volleyball is an exception.
It takes him far longer to learn that volleyball is not the only exception.
The only time Shinsuke sees the twins fight for real, the kind of fight that doesn’t blow over like a summer storm, the kind that doesn’t fade to grumbles and mumbles in just a few hours as they return back to equilibrium, the kind that isn’t just "another day ending in -day,” it’s when Osamu tells Atsumu that he’s not planning on playing volleyball after high school.
The aftermath of the storm leaves a trail of wreckage in its wake and Shinsuke does not know where to start assessing the damage.
He begins with Atsumu, because things tend to begin with Atsumu, but they also tend to end with him. And the rest of the team is already crowding Osamu anyway. He can’t fault them for it; Osamu’s generally the safer option, less likely to bite a gentle hand.
But someone has to tend to Atsumu, and Shinsuke is the kind of team captain who does the right thing over the easy thing every time.
Shinsuke finds Atsumu sulking in the bathroom, fingers white-knuckled on the edge of a sink, glaring into his reflection like it's his brother he’s murdering with his gaze.
Shinsuke politely clears his throat as he steps into the bathroom.
“Go away,” Atsumu mutters without looking away from his reflection. “I ain’t in the mood for a lecture.”
“No.”
Shinsuke closes the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed. If Atsumu tries pushing him away, Shinsuke is willing and able to let Atsumu tire himself out trying.
Atsumu’s grip on the sink tightens. His arms tremble like the effort of keeping his frustration contained is too much. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“If you’re gonna tell me I’m bein’ overdramatic, I don’t wanna hear it. Sorry, Kita-san, but I ain’t budgin’ on this. Samu’s gotta apologize first this time.”
“It ain’t my place to tell either of you what to do,” Shinsuke says, surprising himself. It seems all he’s ever done this last year is tell the twins what to do. But as soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows it’s right. “This ain’t like tryin’ a fancy new trick in the middle of a game, or mediating an argument on stolen snacks. This is about something much deeper.” Shinsuke takes a step toward Atsumu, and now he’s close enough to see a spot of blood on his knuckles where skin has split.
“It’s about love.”
Atsumu finally tears his gaze away from the mirror and looks Shinsuke in the eyes. There’s something fragile in his gaze, a broken shard that cuts deep.
“Yeah, about how Samu don’t love me anymore.”
Atsumu has always been careless with his words, so quick to say things he knows aren’t true that Shinsuke has wondered at times if it’s just a trained reflex. Something he’s practiced so often it has become second nature. Routine. But this time, there’s uncertainty in the lie. Fear that maybe it isn’t a lie after all. And a question, for Shinsuke to answer.
Am I not enough? Am I not worth it?
“I ain’t dumb enough to think you truly believe that, Atsumu.”
Atsumu’s gaze falters, and he looks away from Shinsuke. He pulls his hands away from the sink, clenching and unclenching his fists a few times to get the blood flowing again, staring at his fingers like they’re the most fascinating things in the room.
And maybe they are. Shinsuke is not ashamed to admit to himself that he admires those long, skillful fingers and the hours and dedication that Atsumu has poured into their training.
Atsumu rubs a finger across the scraped knuckle, smearing a line of red across the back of his hand.
“You’re bleeding,” Shinsuke says, unnecessarily. But it breaks the silence, and some portion of the wall he’d built up between himself and the idea of Atsumu in his head crumbles. He reaches through it and catches Atsumu’s wrist. Atsumu freezes, eyes wide. Shinsuke’s heart stumbles before it regains its footing.
“You oughta get this cleaned up,” Shinsuke continues, gaze fixed on Atsumu’s hand. “A setter’s hands are important. Wouldn’t want such a small scrape to get infected and ruin everything you’ve been workin’ toward.”
Atsumu is unmoving and silent, and if Shinsuke’s blood wasn’t rushing to his ears, he might have wondered about that uncharacteristic display of stillness.
He lets go of Atsumu’s hand and reaches towards the paper towel dispenser, pulling down two paper towels with swift movements. He tucks one into his pocket and reaches around Atsumu to turn the sink on, wetting the other. He wrings out most of the water, then carefully folds the wet paper towel.
Atsumu still has not moved. He is observing Shinsuke like a trapped animal observes a hunter, wary and tense. Ready to either bolt or lash out at the slightest sign of danger.
But Shinsuke is not nervous.
When he was a child, he used to sit still as a statue in his backyard, birdseed in his palm. If he waited long enough, the birds would hop inquisitively over to him, then flutter up to his wrist and eat directly out of his hand.
The secret is to not make any sudden movements. To appear calm and steady like rock, unbothered by hesitation and enthusiasm alike. The secret is to reach out a hand, and trust that it will be reciprocated.
Shinsuke reaches slowly for Atsumu’s hand. “I’m gonna wipe off the blood, is that alright?”
Atsumu’s head bobs in acknowledgement. He lifts his hand and meets Shinsuke’s halfway, placing it gently on top of Shinsuke’s open palm.
Atsumu’s hand dwarfs Shinsuke’s. His fingers curl awkwardly around Shinsuke’s hand, like he’s not sure what to do with them. Shinsuke isn’t sure what to do either; this isn’t part of his routine. Holding Miya Atsumu’s hand isn’t something he has experience with.
But regardless, Shinsuke still tends to Atsumu’s wounded hand with the same attention he gives everything; the attention it deserves. He presses the damp paper towel to the scrape, dabbing at it a few times before wiping off the excess blood Atsumu had carelessly smeared everywhere.
When he has ensured that the wound is clean, Shinsuke drops the dirty paper towel into the trash can and pulls the dry one from his pocket.
This time, he does not have to ask. Atsumu comes willingly, placing his hand back in Shinsuke’s with a shy smile.
Shinsuke feels a rush of affection for Atsumu. It surprises him. And then he thinks back over the time that he has known Atsumu, and it no longer surprises him.
You do not carefully tend a garden and act surprised when flowers blossom.
And so Shinsuke brings Atsumu’s hand up to his mouth, and presses a kiss to the back of it before replacing his lips with the dry paper towel, sealing away his sudden outpouring of emotion.
Shinsuke holds Atsumu’s hand between his, pressing down on the paper towel to stem the bleeding. The paper towel is rough between their hands. He suddenly wishes that he were not so conscientious, that he was holding Atsumu’s hand with no barrier between them.
He cannot seem to look Atsumu in the eye. Someone’s hand is trembling, and someone else’s is steady, and it does not matter, really, whose hand is whose, what matters is that Atsumu has entrusted his hands to Shinsuke, and that Shinsuke did not, and will not, betray that trust.
“Kita-san…”
Shinsuke looks up. Atsumu’s jaw works back and forth as he searches for words.
“Thank you,” he finally says.
“Please be more careful in the future,” Shinsuke replies. He smiles. "After all, you've gotta prove Osamu wrong, ain't that right?"
Shinsuke graduates at the top of his class on a bright spring day.
The last few months have been a whirlwind. Between losing at nationals and passing the team off to Atsumu and studying for exams and preparing for university, Shinsuke has had very little time to reflect on the moment in the bathroom with Atsumu.
Atsumu never brought it up either, and so Shinsuke assumed that Atsumu was embracing their team motto and relegating the moment to memory. Perhaps he was embarrassed. Perhaps Shinsuke had overstepped.
Perhaps the right thing to do was to give Atsumu space to breathe, even though it hurt.
But then Atsumu finds him after the ceremony. He rushes up to Shinsuke, hair a mess, uniform partially unbuttoned.
"Kita-san, come with me, I've gotta–" he pauses, breathless like he’s just run a mile.
Shinsuke turns to his grandmother. "I apologize for my teammate's rudeness."
Atsumu's face flushes red. "Excuse me," he says to Shinsuke's grandmother with a bow, "may I steal your grandson for a moment?"
Granny has never been able to resist a charming young man's smile, and she shoos Shinsuke away. "Go with your friend, Shinsuke. Time with your classmates is a precious gift. I will wait here. I quite like the shade of this tree."
Atsumu beams as he tugs Shinsuke over to the gym.
"Atsumu what–"
"Kita-san,” Atsumu interrupts, “this is my last chance." Atsumu parks Shinsuke by the entrance of the gym, hands on his shoulders. "I've gotta ask ya something."
And here it is. Suddenly it makes sense. Why Atsumu had held back too. Why they'd both given each other space to breathe.
Because Shinsuke is breathless as Atsumu takes his hands.
There is hope written across Atsumu's face as he asks, "Can I set to ya, one last time?"
Shinsuke looks down at where their hands are clasped together. Atsumu's hands twine through Shinsuke's like they're knotted together.
Someone’s hands are trembling.
Shinsuke is fond of Atsumu's hands. Hands that helped carry their team to nationals. Hands that express every emotion Atsumu can’t say with words. Those hands that hold so much of Atsumu’s self-worth, hands that are rough with a decade of volleyball but soft in their intent.
And perhaps he is fond of the boy those hands belong to as well, because he says yes.
As Atsumu digs through the supply closet for a ball, Shinsuke looks over to where their banner hangs on the wall.
Something about those words had always seemed off to Shinsuke. Like it was saying "nothing you did in the past matters now." And Shinsuke could never quite agree with that sentiment, because what you do in the past is what gets you to the present moment, isn’t it?
But perhaps there is a difference, between clinging to memories, and craving them.
Shinsuke never expected to spend much time on the court with Atsumu. He’d accepted that his place wasn’t to live among the beasts, but to watch them from the sidelines. But then he was made captain, and he got to stand on the same court as Atsumu, and he got a taste of that hunger that drives monsters like him, and now that Shinsuke is facing a future without Atsumu, he wishes he'd been able to make more memories by his side.
Perhaps Atsumu is feeling the same way.
When Atsumu reappears, ball in hand, they settle into an easy rhythm. A toss, a set, a spike, a toss, a set, a spike. Their shoes squeak on the wooden floor and the sound of the ball echoes in the empty gym, and it’s nice, to indulge himself one last time.
And then Shinsuke realizes that they’ve never actually practiced alone together like this.
The next time Shinsuke’s feet hit the floor and the volleyball goes rolling into a corner, he does not retrieve it.
Atsumu rushes over, concerned. “Are ya tired, Kita-san?”
“Atsumu…”
Shinsuke has always known that Atsumu's full devotion to “volleyball is life” doesn’t leave much room for anything else.
It feels like Atsumu is saying goodbye.
“We can stop,” Atsumu assures him, and something inside of Shinsuke’s heart begs, No. I’m not ready to let this become a memory.
And maybe the gods are watching after all, because Atsumu digs around in his pocket for a second before grabbing Shinsuke’s hand and pressing something small into his palm.
“I actually had another thing I wanted to ask ya, Kita-san.”
Shinsuke looks down at the small button, and now Atsumu’s disheveled uniform makes sense.
“Samu said this was lame and cheesy and givin' second buttons is straight outta a dumb romance manga and technically you’re the one who’s s’posed to do this since you’re the one graduatin’ and all, but I ain’t good with words, Kita-san, and anyway, actions speak louder, don’t they? Will ya accept this?”
He says it in a rush, like he’s worried Shinsuke will stop him before he can finish.
And Shinsuke realizes he’d been blinded once again, by the image of Atsumu he’d built in his mind, the Atsumu who only cares about volleyball, who only cares about Shinsuke when he’s his volleyball captain.
Atsumu was not saying goodbye when he invited Shinsuke to the gym. He’d been confessing.
Volleyball is his life's greatest love, and he'd asked Shinsuke to share it with him.
And Shinsuke can feel his heart begin to break. Because he cannot accept those feelings.
Shinsuke takes Atsumu’s hands into his own, holding them the same way he holds everything; with the care they deserve. And he will turn him down with that same care. Because Atsumu’s life is volleyball, but Shinsuke’s is not. Atsumu’s hands were meant for more than Shinsuke’s simple life, and Shinsuke may have held out his hand to feed the birds, but he never once considered caging them.
“I care for you Atsumu, but we wouldn’t–”
Atsumu squeezes Shinsuke’s hands tight, not painfully, but so that Shinsuke can not forget their presence. His button digs into Shinsuke’s palm. “I ain’t dumb enough to think you truly believe we wouldn’t work, Kita-san.”
Shinsuke blinks at the echo of what he once told Atsumu. “You’re turnin’ my own words against me.”
Atsumu smiles. “I ain’t gonna let you deprive yourself just ‘cause you think it’s the proper thing to do.”
And Shinsuke should have known it wouldn’t be simple. Atsumu has never let a simple ‘no’ stop him. If someone says something is impossible, he simply invents a new solution. Shinsuke should have known that he would not be the exception.
When Atsumu says that they are not impossible, Shinsuke has no choice but to take his hand and trust him.
So he does.
It’s risky and reckless and it could fail and leave both of them brokenhearted. It’ll take the kind of dedication Atsumu has only shown volleyball. It’ll take the kind of uncertainty that Shinsuke has always found uncomfortable.
And it’s thrilling. Not like being pulled into danger by sharp teeth, but like standing on the same court as monsters, and, just for a moment, being one of them.
It's like jumping into the unknown, hand in hand.
Carelessly, perhaps, but not without care.
After Shinsuke comes in from the fields and showers off the dirt and changes from his work clothes into simple shorts and a t-shirt, he finds Atsumu out back, hunched over the flowerbeds.
He’s been at it all day.
“Atsumu, it’s gonna be dark soon. You’re gonna be hurtin’ more than helpin’ at this rate.”
Atsumu sits back on his heels with a frustrated sigh and runs dirty fingers through his hair, which had been plastered to his forehead with sweat.
“I wanted to get this fixed up today, before I leave.”
Before I leave.
Atsumu is always saying that, these days. Let me help ya with that, before I leave. Let me do this for ya, before I leave. Let me kiss ya one last time, before I leave.
It’s like he knows Shinsuke can’t say no to him when he puts it like that.
“At least let me help ya then,” Shinsuke says. “So we can eat dinner together before bedtime.”
Before you leave, goes unspoken.
“It wasn’t your fault though, Shin.”
He’s right. The flowers getting trampled by Atsumu climbing through the window after locking himself out of the house was not Shinsuke’s fault. Atsumu had forgotten to bring his key along when he went on his morning jog, and Shinsuke had locked the door behind him as he always does and Atsumu, instead of finding Shinsuke, had decided that the solution was simply to break in to his own house, stepping all over Shinsuke’s flowers in the process.
When they were younger, Shinsuke would have seen only the carelessness in those choices.
But now, he sees Atsumu not wanting to disturb Shinsuke’s workday. He sees Atsumu wanting to fix his own mistakes instead of relying on anyone else. Atsumu who cares, even though they’re just flowers.
Shinsuke crouches next to Atsumu and leans over to inspect the damage. “You’re replanting them all wrong anyway.”
Atsumu buries his face in his hands. “Shin, why’d ya hafta go and say that!”
“Because I’d like these flowers to live.”
“Alright, alright, don’t gotta rub it in that my thumb ain’t as green as yours.” Atsumu hands Shinsuke the trowel. “Show me how to do it then, so I know next time.”
And so Shinsuke does. He shows Atsumu how to determine which flowers are too damaged to leave in the soil, and how to best rearrange the ones that might still survive. How to move a plant without damaging its roots.
How to carefully tend to a garden, so that flowers might bloom.
Atsumu has always been fast to learn, and they make quick work of it, falling into a comfortable rhythm and then a companionable silence.
Until Atsumu breaks it.
“You’re bleeding.”
Shinsuke looks down. There’s a smear of blood on the handle of his trowel. He must have nicked his finger on the blade.
“Oh.”
Atsumu gently extracts the trowel from Shinsuke’s hand. “You’ve gotta go clean it, right? I’ll finish up this last one, don’t you worry.”
Shinsuke nods and makes his way inside the house.
He’s still washing off the dirt in the kitchen sink when Atsumu finds him a few minutes later.
“I’ve got bandages and antiseptic and gauze,” Atsumu declares. He plops several boxes on the counter.
“I don’t think I’ll need all of this,” Shinsuke tells him.
“Well I wasn’t sure how big the cut was, so I just brought everything. And anyways, a farmer’s hands are important. Wouldn’t want such a small cut to get infected.”
Something tightens in Shinsuke’s chest. Atsumu’s grip on his heart, perhaps. A painful fondness that has taken root.
Atsumu reaches for Shinsuke’s hand, and Shinsuke lets him take it. Atsumu’s hands are damp and smell faintly of lavender, freshly scrubbed in the bathroom while he was grabbing supplies from the medicine cabinet.
“Let’s get you fixed up,” Atsumu says. He lets go of Shinsuke’s hand to squeeze some antiseptic cream onto his finger, then he transfers it to Shinsuke’s finger, rubbing it across the cut. Shinsuke’s breath catches in his chest. Atsumu’s hands, which contain so much power, are gentle. His fingers, built for monstrous athletic prowess, are delicate. To be on the receiving end of such focused attention makes Shinsuke’s heart ache fiercely.
He is just a simple rice farmer. Atsumu is everything but simple. And yet here he is, in Shinsuke's home. In Shinsuke's life.
Atsumu pulls out an adhesive bandage and wraps it around Shinsuke’s finger, tight but not too tight.
And then Atsumu brings Shinsuke’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it. He kisses each finger. He kisses them without haste. Like there is nothing more important to him than Shinsuke’s hands. Like right now, there is all the time in the world. Like tomorrow, Atsumu won’t be gone, returned to the world of ferocious beasts, and Shinsuke won’t be left alone to feel nothing but the ghost of his touch.
Right now, all that matters is two young men, holding each others’ hearts in their hands and trusting that they will not be broken.
It is only then that Shinsuke truly understands. Ten years, they’ve known each other, and over and over again he’s been blinded by Atsumu’s carelessness.
Volleyball is not the only exception. It never has been.
Miya Atsumu is careless with many things, except the things he loves.
Miya Atsumu is careless with many things, but he has never once been careless with Shinsuke.
And as they stand in the kitchen, hand in hand, nobody is trembling. Their hands are as steady as their love.