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[ #atsuhina] au where they’re soulmates but every time one gets hurt, the other is inflicted with the wound too, however, it doesn’t hurt - it just shows up on their bodies. imagine the amount of bruises atsumu has to deal with until he meets shōyō.
he’s only lounging in the corner of the gym, resting his eyes until his brother snorts beside him, the sound irritating him enough for him to peek an eye open, glaring. “what?” snark laces his tone, edge of the question piercing. osamu only grins in that lazy way of his.
“nothin’, nothin’.” a pregnant pause that has atsumu sitting up completely now, eyes open — osamu’s got him in the palm of his hand now. “just that ya got a little somethin’ on your face there, ‘tsumu.” that lazy grin only widens further with atsumu’s own actions.
fingertips trail over his skin, though he feels nothing there, he promptly turns to push at osamu’s shoulder — that is, until aran walks up to them with a concerned look in his eye.
“you guys got that physical? that’s a first.”
“phys— what?”
“you guys got that physical? that’s a first.”
“phys— what?”
at this point, he’s standing and his hands are lingering on his hips in a manner that somehow gathers everyone’s attention, hooded eyes narrowing at aran and then again, to osamu. the twins stare at each other for a long time, seemingly using twin telepathy to converse.
osamu raises a brow, now unamused by the situation and shrugs, turning to toss the volleyball into the air so he can hit it upwards in sets of 15. atsumu’s only left to wallow in his state of confusion and slight annoyance — he feels left out of some sick joke.
“aran-kun, is there something on my face.” and it comes out as more of a demand than a question, despite the age difference between them (only a year, but aran’s been conditioned to get used to the twins being annoying so he didn’t mind much).
the third-year stares for a bit.
the third-year stares for a bit.
“yeah. like, a bruise. kinda big. it’s on the side of your face.” a thick finger points to exactly where said bruise is, atsumu’s hand naturally drifting up to touch where he assumes aran is pointing to. “yup- did you guys punch each other? it kinda looks like a ball mark...”
a ball mark? punching each other? a bruise?
“huh? no— we fight but not like that, ya know.” he almost feels offended that aran would stop to think that he and osamu were that barbaric. absentmindedly, his palm rubs against the ball-shaped bruise. “s’prob’ly... soulmate.”
“huh? no— we fight but not like that, ya know.” he almost feels offended that aran would stop to think that he and osamu were that barbaric. absentmindedly, his palm rubs against the ball-shaped bruise. “s’prob’ly... soulmate.”
osamu, without a doubt, is the first to react — even from across the court. he guffaws, head thrown back and arm across his stomach, ball tucking itself neatly under his armpit. “your soulmate’s prob’ly clumsy then, ‘tsumu! what if they’re not into volleyball?”
the last of his snickers trickle out in quiet bouts, like water droplets hitting a marble floor. atsumu rolls his eyes, annoyed even more at the possibility of having a soulmate that wouldn’t be interested in playing volleyball with him.
“then i don’t have a soulmate.”
“then i don’t have a soulmate.”
the entirety of inarizaki’s volleyball team sighs instead, moving past the issue with atsumu and his mystery soulmate so they can practice for the upcoming matches.
in hindsight, miya atsumu should’ve known the moment he had laid eyes on karasuno’s tiny middle blocker (decoy?) that the cause of his constant bruises (always on his face or arms too) had been from none other than hinata shōyō.
fox-like eyes watch his every move, a roughened hand clasping over his forearm where most of the bruises had manifested — atsumu turns his arm a bit, redness layering and spotting at random parts of his forearms, though now it fades into a pink shade. he smiles, intrigued.
the only way atsumu could have possibly talked to the blocker for the first time had to have been through tobio, and in his mind, the plan had been fool-proof. but his brother had told him how idiotic of a person he had to have been to engage the opponent on an important day.
maddening as it had been, the inarizaki setter had quelled the thirst to go up to shōyō and figure out why the hell he kept getting hurt (because atsumu wanted these bruises to stop appearing, of course, and... maybe, he cared— just a little bit).
“afterwards, shōyō-kun.”
“afterwards, shōyō-kun.”
throughout separate days, atsumu would randomly spot bruises up to his biceps or on his face, or even on his palms. it had gotten to the point that even mid-match, atsumu would sport a fresh bruise from shōyō, himself.
needless to say...
needless to say...
that match had been inarizaki’s victory from his wrath - of being riddled with bruises, suffering from slight humiliation. couldn’t he care for himself?! who kept throwing volleyballs at his face? isn’t tobio looking after his own spiker?
atsumu had let out a low “tsk” sound.
atsumu had let out a low “tsk” sound.
the match against karasuno went on as we know it, atsumu and osamu being knocked off the throne as the terrifying miya brothers by a single crow; his hands were burning with redness, forearms stinging a bit too. he had winced, and then looked up, through the holes of the net.
hinata had also been rubbing at his forearms and his palms, fingertips rubbing against one another with a concentrated look. then clementine-gaze shot over to him, startling atsumu, and it lingered before the rest of karasuno’s teammates whisked him away.
“good job out there.”
“good job out there.”
a heavy smack on the back forced him to sway forward and almost fall on all fours, turning around with a bewildered look. inarizaki seemed spent, after all the time on the court, for their results to come to this.
“‘tsumu, i think we were too thirsty.” and he had been right.
“‘tsumu, i think we were too thirsty.” and he had been right.
they shook their loss off and plastered on smiles, shaking hands with karasuno; then atsumu got to hinata, who stared at him with a thousand blazing suns in the depths of his eyes. it was enough to shake him to his core, bruises now beginning to tingle and burn on his skin.
“shōyō-kun,” he had blurted out, exhaustion not making him think. with his forearm littered with bruises that were his and also not his, he pointed.
“i’ll toss to ya one of these days. but before that happens, i’ll destroy you at the interhigh. so you better brace yerself.”
“i’ll toss to ya one of these days. but before that happens, i’ll destroy you at the interhigh. so you better brace yerself.”
there had been no way that hinata shōyō didn’t notice the mirrored bruisings on their respective arms, the cheeks, no way that he didn’t notice the shakiness in his voice, and the way atsumu only directed focus to him. if he didn’t, then color hinata shōyō a grade a idiot.
and there was a moment where he genuinely figured that shōyō was most definitely not the brightest tool since he only stared at him with those unblinking eyes and then some, yet never approached him after (it only served to make him antsier about it all, if anything).
years after years, atsumu moved on to focus on his volleyball career, but never once forgot about the markings on his palm and forearms — the ones on his cheeks ceasing to exist.
he smiles, ball spinning in his palms. “he’s gettin’ better.”
he smiles, ball spinning in his palms. “he’s gettin’ better.”
osamu’s face scrunches up in that way of his, murmuring “creepy” loud enough for him to hear.
... it ends up with the ball smacking his brother’s face directly. “it’s not creepy, dumbass! s’not my fault he’s my soulmate— and he usedta get hurt on his face all the damn time. —
... it ends up with the ball smacking his brother’s face directly. “it’s not creepy, dumbass! s’not my fault he’s my soulmate— and he usedta get hurt on his face all the damn time. —
“i’m just sayin’ he got better—“
“and ya can’t get your mind off him, we know, ‘tsumu.” osamu waves a hand dismissively and turns after tossing the ball back. atsumu blinks owlishly and then opens his mouth to argue against that. “save it.”
“and ya can’t get your mind off him, we know, ‘tsumu.” osamu waves a hand dismissively and turns after tossing the ball back. atsumu blinks owlishly and then opens his mouth to argue against that. “save it.”
“i know what you’re like when ya start to be interested in someone. i’m your brother, ya dolt.” a pause, atsumu unable to find the words to even deflect anything because it’s true, he supposes.
he’s been constantly checking up on shōyō’s progress in brazil ever since.
he’s been constantly checking up on shōyō’s progress in brazil ever since.
has been excited to know that when he comes back, he’s most likely going to try out for the msby black jackals and be his spiker for the first time in years.
it brings a healthy flush to his cheeks, smile spreading before he can stop it.
it brings a healthy flush to his cheeks, smile spreading before he can stop it.
it’ll be the first time he gets to set for his soulmate, even if shōyō doesn’t know it yet.
osamu stares at him from where he’s chewing on his onigiri, on the bleachers, and rolls his eyes despite his own smile.
osamu stares at him from where he’s chewing on his onigiri, on the bleachers, and rolls his eyes despite his own smile.
