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Going back home is a breath of fresh air; it rings true in more ways than one.
Osaka, Tokyo--as beautiful as those cities are in their own charming way, they're loud and dirty and crowded and there never seems to be enough oxygen. Hyogo is clean and calm and quiet and serene, and even more so farther up north. Hyogo is a reprieve from his hectic schedule. It is a retreat--a place to think, meditate, recollect, rest. To Atsumu, Hyogo is a place to escape.
"How nice of you to visit," his mother had said to him when she opened the doors to his childhood home. Her tone was sweet and welcoming, but Atsumu has known her for all his life and by now knew that there was a passive aggression laced in her voice.
He hasn't come home in a long while. Volleyball takes up most of his life, and while he hadn't really intended to avoid visiting his parents, it was just so easy to push it back and say he was too busy to come. It didn't make him feel too guilty--he truly was busy, especially now that he has been drafted for the national team, but nevertheless, he owed his mother an apology, and before he had even stepped inside the house, he was already embraced and forgiven.
Atsumu has all but three days to mull about the neighborhood. It had been difficult to get his leave granted by the higher ups with the Olympics so fast approaching, but thankfully, they accepted his flimsily backed-up excuse of declining mental health. He's lucky his teammates helped vouch for him; the committee in charge of them wasn't too keen on believing Atsumu, too dead-set on podium finish to care.
All the while, he has kept his visit lowkey, not wanting to alert anyone but a select, trustworthy few of his presence in their lovely town. As much as Atsumu would have loved to see his neighbors' faces, he'd rather spend his three days in quiet solitude.
But three days have long passed. It has been a week--yet somehow, his phone isn't blowing up with messages nor is his inbox flooding with emails. Atsumu's starting to wonder if they even noticed he had left. Even his mother has asked him why he hasn't left yet, and although Atsumu knew that she didn't mean any harm, he would've wanted his mother to act like she didn't want him to leave. His heart stung with the feeling of being unwanted anywhere.
Atsumu doesn't know how he expected his reception to be. It isn't like he's coming home with a gold medal dangling off his neck. It isn't like it's his birthday, or announcing his engagement or running for governor--but still. It's way too quiet. Atsumu wishes they would've been at least a little happier to see him.
Atsumu knows why he's feeling this way, but he just doesn't want to think about it. He also knows what he came to Hyogo for, and it's not simply just the quiet countryside peace. He came here to seek the wise words of a sagacious guru, one with the name of Kita Shinsuke.
But Atsumu also knows why he hasn't made a single step towards the rice paddies. He doesn't think he'll be able to bear it if he is unwanted there too.
How awfully petty of me, Atsumu thinks in the silence of his raging mind, since when did I care about what people think of me?
Atsumu had only ever valued one person's opinion--and that person was himself. Not even Osamu's views hold much weight; if Atsumu wants it, he'll do it. He knows himself well. He has always maintained a strong intrapersonal awareness. He knows his limits and his strengths and just what he's worth. But for some reason, as well acquainted as he is with himself, Kita has always managed to see things about him that he'd never notice on his own.
Atsumu never meant to, but before he knew it, Kita was already there residing in his head, overseeing him like some sort of guardian. What would Kita-san think? What would Kita-san tell me if I did this? Would he frown and scold me? Would he be proud? In no time at all, Kita has become someone whose opinion he valued most, sometimes even more than his own. If Kita-san says so, then it must be right.
If Kita-san says he has no time for Atsumu's problems, then that's that. It's rice planting season, so Kita's definitely got his hands full in his farm. There's no room for a big ball of nervous tension to go invade Kita's routine and force him to spare some time--
Atsumu bites his lip in contemplation. Then he showers and dresses in a long sleeved shirt and his shabbiest pants.
If the air in Hyogo is already significantly different from the city air, then the air in the northern farmlands is also marginally different from the rest of Hyogo. The air here is always so rich and green despite the lingering stench of animal manure and compost. Atsumu has been here a total of four times. The first was with the Inarizaki alumni when Kita revealed that he was working in his family's farm. The second and third were with Osamu, when they decided to go bug Kita in some type of way but ended up helping out and getting sore bodies the next day.
It has been two years since he last set foot on the uneven grounds of this farm, and a year since he's last seen Kita. He remembers to greet each person he passes with politeness. He walks solemnly and reflectively towards Kita's house, like a sinner in contemplation right before confession with a priest.
Kita's grandmother ushers him inside their house with a warmth that only a grandmother can have. She fusses over Atsumu; sit here, son, I'll fetch you some water. Would you like anything to munch on while you wait for Shin? Did you ride your bike all the way here? You must be tired then, poor boy. Atsumu immediately feels a little better. It could very well be just courteous hospitality, but Atsumu will take anything at this point.
Atsumu watches Kita's grandmother with an attentive eye. He's heard that she's been getting frailer by the day, that's why she no longer participates in farmwork and instead sticks to cooking for the tired workers. Despite her acting with robustness, Atsumu keeps his gaze on her shaky hands as she pours him tea and watches the ground she'll be stepping on to get to him.
Atsumu is made aware of Kita's presence when the air in the room shifts, like something in the room is deliberately sucking the chill away. There’s a perfectly rational thermodynamic reason for this--the heat from a sun-soaked body hastening the movement of air molecules thus raising the room’s temperature--but to reduce Kita’s encompassing warmth to a scientific phenomenon seems almost blasphemous.
“Is that you, Atsumu?”
Atsumu can’t turn around. Kita is in the doorway behind him, and he can see the shadow he casts on the dining table, but Atsumu doesn’t look.
“Yeah,” he replies instead, uncharacteristically feeble.
“You should rest, Grandmother. I’ll take care of our guest.”
Atsumu’s heart lurches ecstatically and pathetically.
Atsumu lets himself get carried away and into Kita’s pace. He tries to help the best he can, but the most he can do is physical labor like lifting sacks of grain and tilling the post-harvest soil. He can never match Kita’s technical skill in the other things; one would think that as a setter, he’d have a little more dexterity and finesse, but farmwork is a whole other monster entirely. Atsumu can’t let himself be careless; not only is this Kita’s livelihood, he’s also working on something countless hands have worked on. The soil will remember his misdeeds, and he might just sabotage the next harvest if he doesn’t do it right.
Atsumu knows that he’s not obligated to do this--Kita didn’t even call him here or asked for his help. He just wedged himself into his routine, and maybe Kita won’t say it but their efficiency rate probably just dipped with Atsumu tagging along. Still, Kita humors him. He gives him tasks to do and corrects his mishandlings and commends the things he does right. At some point, Atsumu wants to cry--and also wants to stay. Maybe he can assume a farmer’s life from here on out, training under Kita’s wing. Maybe he can find a purpose here, too.
(He knows that that’s just bullshit his mind is creating because of these fleeting emotions. Atsumu receives a little attention and he becomes attached. Ha.)
When the sun’s glare finally softens into a hazy glow, Kita simply places a hand against Atsumu’s sweat-drenched back.
“Are you ready to talk about it now?”
Atsumu’s breath gets caught in his throat and all the blood in his body runs cold. He wants to throw up. He’ll never be ready, but he nods defiantly anyway.
Kita leads him back to his house first, ever the silently-caring senpai who surprisingly dotes on his underclassmen. Atsumu never stopped seeing him as a captain--Kita just always seems to know the right path, and the right way to steer him into it. Or, alternatively, Kita has always been the right path. And Atsumu can’t help getting caught in his gravity, in his magnetic pull. Maybe it’s too early to tell, but at this moment, as Kita hands him one of his too-small-on-Atsumu shirts to change into, because he’ll get sick if he leaves his sweat to dry, he thinks that he’d follow Kita anywhere. Consequently, he’d tell Kita anything and everything, too.
“I’m…” Atsumu trails off. It’s hard to start after all.
“It’s okay, Atsumu. Take your time. Let’s walk,” Kita says calmly, completely unaware of how Atsumu sees him as this otherworldly deity as he gazes at his broad back.
Walking in the fields is way different now that they’re not here for work. Atsumu gets to observe and admire their handiwork instead of toiling almost face first into the soil. He gets to see the vast expanse of the farm and all the crops that grow there, and seeing them like this brings his heart peace and serenity; it makes the sweat and muscle pain worth it.
“Was I able to help you, Kita-san?” Atsumu asks, voice uncharacteristically meek.
“Ah. So that’s what this is about,” Kita replies lightheartedly, even as they teeter on the brink of a heavy topic. Somehow, Kita just knows even without Atsumu having to say anything much.
“Was I?”
There’s an amused smile on Kita’s face, softened by the dimness of the early evening. There is no bright sun that casts sharp shadows on his face; Kita looks dream-like and soft and welcoming. Atsumu wants to reach out a hand and see for himself if he is as delicate as he looks.
“If I’m being honest, your methods were unrefined and a little inefficient, but your eagerness made up for it.”
Atsumu swallows the disappointment forming as a lump in his throat.
“...And it was nice having you around. It lessened the work I had to do myself and even made me feel like the tools I held were lighter than usual. Thanks to you, I have a lot of energy to spare,” Kita follows up along with a gentle hand pressed against the small of Atsumu’s back. It’s so warm, but Atsumu shivers.
“That’s--That’s good to hear,” Atsumu mumbles.
“Good to hear? Normally, you’d be jumping around yelling after receiving that kind of praise. Are a humble farmer’s honest words trivial to a soon-to-be olympian now?”
Atsumu stops in his tracks. Kita has struck a chord, and he knows it. His hand drops from Atsumu’s back.
“If I…If I come back here tomorrow, would you let me work on the farm again?” Atsumu supposes he could’ve just straight out told Kita then and there about his woes, but it’s too embarrassing. It almost seems childish and petulant to complain about being so sad about becoming an olympian athlete of all things--that’s an achievement, a milestone. He should be grateful; he should be making every moment count; it’s a testament to how hard he’s worked and the talent that he’s made bloom; he should be proud of himself. He should be proud.
He should be proud.
“Sure, if that’s what you want,” Kita answers. He looks back at Atsumu with a knowing smile, as if he knows his reasons for sharing his troubles in the most roundabout way possible.
“Would you want me here?”
“Of course, Atsumu. It’s always nice seeing a kouhai visit.”
Ah yes, visit. Atsumu is merely a visitor. This place isn’t where he belongs.
“Although I’m sure your team would want you back in the gym as soon as possible.”
Atsumu chokes on air. He’s not even moving from his spot and yet it feels like he just tripped and fell in front of an audience (and he has experienced that).
“My team isn’t even calling me to come back,” Atsumu blurts, forgoing his code words for the first time since he’s arrived. “I don’t think I’m wanted.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Kageyama’s been the starting setter since forever. It’s going to be my first time--there’s no way I’m going to play any big games. I doubt I’m even going to get to play at all-- ”
Kita’s hand returns to its place on Atsumu’s back, and it’s pathetic, but it spurs him to vent more, to say more, as if the hand is telling him that, it’s okay. It’s okay to let it out. This is valid.
“Objectively, I know I’m thinking irrationally. I know the logical responses to these worries I have and I know how to solve them. It’s just--when it comes from me, it feels like I’m just faking it. It’s hard to believe I’m worth anything when I’m the only one who thinks so. At some point, you gotta wonder if that’s even the truth. Perhaps I’m just delusional or something. Maybe my sole purpose is to make it seem like Japan has a deep roster; maybe I’m just there as a last resort; maybe I was never meant to participate; maybe I qualified because they pitied me. I know I’m good. I know I play damn well. But god, I don’t know--maybe…maybe I need to hear it from someone else for once.”
Kita listens, and when Atsumu’s done with his outburst, he takes a moment of silent pondering.
“I suppose that it won’t amount to anything much if I tell you that you have nothing to worry about. It’s no good coming from me.”
Atsumu balks and his throat suddenly goes dry. “I’m sorry, Kita-san, I didn’t come here to just complain--”
“So you’re wondering, then, if there’s any worth to you as a member of the olympic roster? Are you doubting your capabilities, Miya Atsumu-senshu?”
Maybe if there had been any more pride left in him, he would’ve made a rebuttal, but his self-assurance had seeped out of him with every day he spent in Hyogo. All he does is despair over Kita’s words.
“Well, even if I am worth anything, what’s the point if I’m not wanted?”
Kita’s comforting hand travels from Atsumu’s back to his hand. Atsumu clutches onto it with all he’s got. While he may have some unresolved feelings for Kita, all he feels right now is companionship and trust. It feels a little immature and shallow to tarnish it with anything more than that.
“Walk with me, Atsumu,” Kita says vaguely, and Atsumu does nothing but follow.
The evening air has become colder as Kita takes him to the paved path bisecting the wide farmland. The ground here is littered with husk and grains of all sorts and so Atsumu’s shoes crunch with every step. Kita, on the other hand, seems to walk soundlessly. He does not disturb his environment, rather, he seems to be part of it. This farm is truly his home, and he belongs to the pristine and gorgeous backdrop just as much as the plains and the sky. Yet even as Atsumu crunches his way through the path with each shameful step he makes--a disruption, a chaotic mess, a mere visitor--Kita’s hand guides him along as if he’s not this bumbling insecure fool. Kita holds his hand, rubs his thumb across his knuckles, as if he wants him here.
"You are more than a sum of your parts, you know?" Kita begins. His voice pierces through the sound of crickets so confidently.
"And how is that possible?" Atsumu’s voice, in contrast, is easily drowned out. How pathetic.
"Because you are not just comprised of a complex system of chemicals and substances working together,” Kita answers. Atsumu listens like he’s about to reveal the truth of the universe.
“You are not just your thoughts and your actions. You exist beyond the confines of your being, of your soul and your body. You exist in the soil that you have stepped on, and on the marks your feet leave. You exist in the air that you exhale and in the sweat that drops onto the earth. You exist in the people you affect--in the hands that you have touched and in the ears that have heard your voice. You exist in the minds of beings other than your own--in the souls and bodies of the people you have graced with your presence. You exist in the things that you exist with, in the very same way that others exist within you, the very same way I exist in your body and in your soul."
He lets out a shuddering sigh, breathless. He wonders if he too exists within Kita.
"Your value has very little to do with what you are doing; we are all tiny little things in the vast, ever-grand scheme of it all. It lies instead in the ripples that you cause, and the chain of events that follow."
Atsumu looks down on his feet, which have curled toes in a vain effort to silence his noise.
"My value is in the chaos I bring? The change I initiate? Is that it?"
"Think of it like this grain."
Kita picks up a single rice grain--husk still intact--from its brethren scattered on the ground, and holds it between his calloused fingers.
"Looking at it now, it is yet to be milled, and not even edible to humans. It is singular and, quite frankly, at this point, almost invaluable. When we gather these up when the sun goes down or if it rains or the winds pick up, not every single grain will be stored and kept dry. Some will fall to the ground, and we will not bother to pick it up. But even then, it is not merely a grain left to be ignored."
He turns Atsumu's tense hand and places the grain on his palm.
"This grain's value lies not just within itself, but in the things it can be. It's in the sack of rice that will be delivered to your brother's shop; it's in the onigiri that will feed your brother's customers. And if it falls to the ground, then its value lies in the birds that will have a feast, and in the soil that will be nurtured, and eventually in the crops fueled by the life-force it has returned into the earth. That's the value of a rice grain, Atsumu."
Atsumu is overwhelmed, but he understands. He understands. When he returns to Tokyo to train for the Olympics, he hopes he'll remember then, that his feet are planted on that gymnasium because he deserves it, and because the ripples of a single rice grain had made him stand there. Because he, too, is a byproduct, and he is also a source. He is both an aspirant and a motivator. Wanted or not, he has a purpose to fulfill, and he owes it to every grain he’s stepped on until he has realized this, and to every grain that has filled his stomach until he has enough strength to accept this.
"Not so much a disruption," Atsumu starts, voice awfully calm, "as it is a steady flow."
Kita chuckles. "I'm sure it's quite different if it's you. You are a disruption. But a much needed one--that, I can attest to."
Atsumu's chest fills with something a little more juvenile than serenity, but something more mature than awe. It's always like this with Kita, always so, so important. Atsumu treasures this moment, keeps it in the pocket of his worn-out farm clothes right next to his heart.
“Thank you, Kita-san,” Atsumu says with all the gratitude an indebted kouhai can muster. “I don’t think I’d ever amount to anything without you.”
“Hm? Have you not learned anything at all? I just--”
“You’re an exception, Kita-san. I--” Atsumu wants to say it, wants to ask it. I am so taken by you. Do I exist within your body and soul as well? Will you let me? But he fears that he has imposed on him long enough. “I’m just giving you due respect.”
“You’ll be fine,” Kita says, then he smiles, all warm and kind and unassuming and so, so handsome. Atsumu’s heart stutters. If Kita-san says so, then it must be right.
"So, Atsumu, are you ready to go home?"
Atsumu thinks then, that he is already at home, that there is a home that exists in these fields and in the space by Kita's side just as Kita exists in Atsumu's mind and in his heart. But as welcome as he may be to set foot onto these wet paddies and enter the low ceiling of Kita's house, Atsumu knows that his responsibilities, that the stagnant pond that must be startled, disrupted by the big being that is him, is in Tokyo.
"Yeah. I think so."