Work Text:
one
“Kita-san,” Atsumu says. His heart is in his throat; his hands are shaking. “I like you. Will you go out with me?”
Kita looks at Atsumu for a long moment. His eyes are as clear and searching as ever. “I can’t, Atsumu.”
two
“Atsumu misses you, you know,” Aran says. “He talks about you a lot. I think he’s trying to get information out of me, but honestly? You know what he’s like. I could tell him what you had for lunch yesterday and he still wouldn’t be satisfied.”
Aran can hear Kita’s smile over the phone. “He’s chasing someone who doesn’t really exist any more,” she says. “He could reach out if he wanted to.”
“He could.” Just like Aran could keep him updated. Something in him, though, thinks that there are things Atsumu should find out for himself, when he’s brave enough to pick up the phone.
“But he won’t,” Kita says, and that’s the truth of it.
three
“Granny,” Shinko says.
Kita Yumie doesn’t respond for a moment, too preoccupied with neatly peeling the orange she's holding. “Hm?”
“Do you ever wonder if things could have been different?”
Yumie stills, casting one of her sharpest looks at Shinko. Life has creased her face where she used it most, smiles and laughter permanently etched from decades of kindness. Still, she’s capable of cleaving through any and all uncertainty with composed precision. It’s where Shinko gets it; it’s still terrifying from Yumie, turned on her.
“You’re talking about something specific,” Yumie says. “To answer your question — yes, of course. Who hasn’t? But you’re going over something that isn’t different, so you need to put it out of your mind. Things can be different, if you make different choices in the future. The ones in the past are done.” She looks down and sighs. “Help me with this orange. Its skin is too thick for me, you know what my hands are like these days.”
It’s so like her, to accept her limitations without rancour, to ask for help without hesitation. “Of course,” Shinko says, taking it. She digs her thumbnail in, peel and pith.
A little juice escapes through the valley between her thumb and forefinger, running down past her wrist.
four
Sometimes Atsumu hates this city. This early, though, dawn grey and hesitant on the horizon, he likes it. Everything’s not quite in color yet — the sun itself hasn’t quite come out, forcing trees into true green, painted railings bright yellow. For now, the world wakes muted and slow.
Osamu’s at work already, of course. He’s not open yet, but he’ll let Atsumu in. He’ll frown that little frown he’s developed since they stopped being each other’s shadows, the one that Atsumu keeps saying will develop into a proper wrinkle (and then I’ll have proper proof I’m the happier one, Atsumu likes to say), and he won’t ask if Atsumu’s okay, but he will feed him something which asks the question for him.
Today Atsumu really is okay, actually. Better than that. The frosted glass of the early morning is beautiful; the temperature is just right, allowing him the luxury of stepping out in his favourite, well-loved cardigan; the few people on the streets hurry on without looking at him. It’s quiet, in a way he’s learned to appreciate as community and not abandonment in the years since middle school. Being around people, without talking to them.
There, just a little ahead of him, a woman turns the corner and comes into view. She’s tall, carrying herself with the easy grace that Atsumu sees in himself and his teammates. This is somebody who is comfortable with her body and its strength.
Her hair, ponytailed high so it swings as she walks, is silver-black. It’s a little too close to home — she’s probably about the right height, though he can’t imagine Kita living here. Can’t imagine Kita in the coat she’s wearing, practical except for the way it flows from the waist, flaring around her hips.
But the woman keeps walking, taking the same corners Atsumu’s taking, and for a moment he doesn’t notice it because he’s too busy looking at her. Then he’s too busy trying not to look at her or catch up to her, because he knows a lone woman out this early must worry about these things from time to time. Then she stops — he stumbles to a halt a moment later, when he realises — and turns, and smiles at him. It’s toothy and bright, full-mouthed. For a moment it stops him from recognising her, unfamiliar as it is.
But then: “Atsumu,” she says. Her voice is low and even, as usual. Warm. “I’m sure we’re going to the same place. Walk with me.”
five
Atsumu’s face is hilarious. Even when it’s murderous — perhaps especially when it’s murderous, because that vengeful look has to be shot at Osamu only when Kita isn’t looking, and Kita is very much looking at Atsumu.
“No,” Atsumu’s saying. “I didn't— Nobody told me. I knew Osamu was getting rice from you, and Aran still talked to you, but I had no idea.”
“You can’t blame them for that, you know,” Kita says mildly, and Osamu watches Atsumu go from indignant to chastised to shamed to— there it is, the sparks of hope. The man Atsumu’s always been, putting himself back together and facing his flaws head-on.
“I know,” Atsumu says. “I’m sorry.” He turns to face Kita properly, offering her his hand. “Let’s start again. I’m Atsumu. I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you in so long. Long enough that maybe I should introduce myself. It’s good to meet you.”
Kita looks at him the way she always has, like Atsumu’s a pane of glass. Whatever she sees in his transparency must be good, because she slips her hand into his. “My pleasure,” she says.
She lets her hand linger. He looks at her, eyes wide, lips a little parted, like he’s surprised that Kita’s letting him learn her anew.
Osamu lets them be. Whatever is happening there will give him no peace in the coming months. He may as well enjoy the quiet now.
(plus one)
It’s delightful how wrong-footed Atsumu looks in her bedroom. It’s also a little frustrating, but Shinko isn’t impatient enough for that to bother her — he’s here, with her, and if he keeps his hands hovering over her hips like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch her, that’s a little artifact of the newness of it all. She tucks it away for later.
One day, he’ll be confident with her. One day, he’ll stop looking at her like he can’t believe she’s here. But today he’s drinking her in like he’s never seen her before. Like he’ll never see her again. And maybe he won’t — not exactly like this, anyway, in this moment.
She drops to her knees and reaches for him, and he stumbles back. His hands find the edge of her desk, gripping it like it can protect him from how clearly he wants her.
“Kita-san,” he says, pained. He shuts his eyes. Sweat is actually beading on his forehead.
Maybe Shinko understands him a little. She’d like to remember this moment forever, too. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because I’m a woman,” she says.
Atsumu's eyes fly open. “That doesn’t even make any sense! What—”
And her hands are on him, and his mouth clicks shut, and she’ll remember this, she will. He will too.