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The first time Sakusa and Atsumu hold hands, it’s an emotional experience.
For Sakusa, maybe?
But for Atsumu, certainly.
For Sakusa, maybe?
But for Atsumu, certainly.
Sakusa is reminded of a time when he was younger; before he learned about germs and before his anxious rituals set in, when he would cling to his older sister wherever he went.
He’s reminded of dragging Komori along his grandmother’s garden admiring the peonies.
He’s reminded of dragging Komori along his grandmother’s garden admiring the peonies.
Sakusa laces his fingers through Atsumu’s as he drags in a breath and as he exhales, shoulder falling, he returns to a home long forgotten. Worries wash away.
But Atsumu, dear Atsumu, feels his heart clench.
Closeness is unfamiliar to Atsumu. With his brother, love was shown exclusively through pushes forward. Love was telepathy and knowing what the other meant, but never being ready to vocalize it.
Closeness is unfamiliar to Atsumu. With his brother, love was shown exclusively through pushes forward. Love was telepathy and knowing what the other meant, but never being ready to vocalize it.
His parents, meanwhile, believed in tough love. Acknowledgement for accomplishments, and stern looks for falling behind.
They didn’t believe in hugs, though, no matter Atsumu’s age.
They didn’t believe in hugs, though, no matter Atsumu’s age.
And suddenly Sakusa is next to him, unassuming, and Atsumu has kissed him. He’s held his cheek, pressed his hand against Sakusa’s waist, he’s done it all without hesitation.
But it’s today, a Tuesday morning like any other, that Sakusa decides to trail his hand over to Atsumu. They’ve finished breakfast and are watching the news with some commentary, and there is a warmth next to Atsumu’s hand.
Before he knows it, there are fingers dancing with his own. Atsumu remembers sakura blossoms falling outside his old school gym and Kita congratulating him. He hands over the captain’s jersey and wraps Atsumu in a hug.
Tears threaten to peak from the corner’s of Atsumu’s eyes but he holds them back; not here, not in front of ‘Samu.
And then he is back at his apartment and Sakusa’s knuckles are knobby, he notices.
And then he is back at his apartment and Sakusa’s knuckles are knobby, he notices.
Sakusa’s nails are short, a symptom of his anxiety he told Atsumu on a particularly early morning. Atsumu’s heart clenches. His breath catches in his chest. This is unknown territory.
Sakusa, without breaking his eyes from the tv, rubs his thumb over Atsumu’s tremoring fingers. He smooths out all his worries, a low hum rising from his chest.
Atsumu lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Atsumu lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
Sakusa’s breathes in an old home. Atsumu exhales twenty one years worth of yearning.
Sakusa melts into the callus on Atsumu’s palm, revelling in every piece of Atsumu he can handle.
Atsumu holds trust in the palm of his hand, brings knobby knuckles up to his lips to kiss them like a prayer, and let’s their hands, intertwined, fall to his side.
Atsumu holds trust in the palm of his hand, brings knobby knuckles up to his lips to kiss them like a prayer, and let’s their hands, intertwined, fall to his side.
It’s a Tuesday morning, unassuming like any other, that Miya Atsumu learns what it means to fall in love.