Ship: Kita Shinsuke & Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu Fandom: Haikyuu!! Major Tags: None Other Tags: None Word Count: 609
finishing saso with kita shinsuke, my love
***
“Open your hand,” says Atsumu, and so Shinsuke, under the bridge, does. He does not do it quickly, none too eager; he takes his time, bringing his clenched fist out from behind his back, unfolding fingers one by one like petals in the thaw of early spring. At their feet, the river runs.
Atsumu’s tipping forward on his toes, his grin brimming over with excitement. It is a rough, homespun thing that he presses into Shinsuke’s palm, a stick of dango glazed in thick sauce.
The beat of the taiko drums picks up behind them. Shinsuke takes a bite, closes his eyes. The dango is sweet and chewy and just a little nostalgic.
/
“Open your hand,” says Osamu, and so Shinsuke, under the fluttering carp streamers, does. He does not do it slowly. Stitch for stitch, he has learned, Osamu is the more patient one, and there is no use in drawing out the moment; he extends his palm to Osamu and meets his gaze head on, expectant.
Osamu’s fingers are cold. When he withdraws his hand, Shinsuke sees why. He’s been holding on to this little plastic cup of kakigori all this while, and it has not yet melted.
Shinsuke picks up the spoon and puts a bit on his tongue. The shaved ice is cherry pink. It leaves a stain on his lips that does not come off when he licks it.
/
At the heart of the festival, there is the shrine.
It is a small one, with a single torii gate to lead the way there among overgrown trees and vines that have grown wild, twining round low fences that have faded into the shrubbery. No one tends it, these days. Most people have forgot about it.
Shinsuke is not most people.
As the crowd parts around him, he crosses the threshold. In the shrine, he knows, the foxes are laughing at him. Only they do it in the way foxes do, which is discreet and subtle, and they never forget, never let a small thing go. Always catching him when they think he’s not looking, gazes flickering like lanterns.
Have you chosen? they ask.
Shinsuke’s mouth is full of offerings that he would make, if he could. It is full of sweetness and ice and stolen afternoons under the fiery sun with Atsumu, stolen evenings on a back porch with Osamu. Once, Atsumu had plucked a flame-red maple leaf from an autumn tree and tucked it behind his ear; once, Osamu had brushed a leaf like that off his jacket.
Shinsuke’s mouth is full, and he does not lay any of it on the altar.
I will not choose, he says at last, for it is a trick, and a false choice.
He bows his head before he leaves, and the laughter of the foxes curls around him on the rising wind.
/
The twins find him by the torii gate. They are leaning on opposite sides, one closer to the festival, one closer to the mountain. There is a light in Atsumu’s eyes that reminds Shinsuke of lanterns, and a smile on Osamu’s face like a wish from long ago, a half-luck fortune tied around a branch and left to fate.
Shinsuke’s faith is not such a fragile thing. The foxes picked it over with their sharp teeth, and he made them put it back together again. He believes half-luck can go either way, or all ways. He believes that, whole, they are more than their halves.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” says Atsumu.
“Let’s go,” says Osamu.
As one, they fall into step, and Shinsuke finds his place in between them.
FILL: TEAM GRANDSTAND, G
Fandom: Haikyuu!!
Major Tags: None
Other Tags: None
Word Count: 609
finishing saso with kita shinsuke, my love
***
“Open your hand,” says Atsumu, and so Shinsuke, under the bridge, does. He does not do it quickly, none too eager; he takes his time, bringing his clenched fist out from behind his back, unfolding fingers one by one like petals in the thaw of early spring. At their feet, the river runs.
Atsumu’s tipping forward on his toes, his grin brimming over with excitement. It is a rough, homespun thing that he presses into Shinsuke’s palm, a stick of dango glazed in thick sauce.
The beat of the taiko drums picks up behind them. Shinsuke takes a bite, closes his eyes. The dango is sweet and chewy and just a little nostalgic.
/
“Open your hand,” says Osamu, and so Shinsuke, under the fluttering carp streamers, does. He does not do it slowly. Stitch for stitch, he has learned, Osamu is the more patient one, and there is no use in drawing out the moment; he extends his palm to Osamu and meets his gaze head on, expectant.
Osamu’s fingers are cold. When he withdraws his hand, Shinsuke sees why. He’s been holding on to this little plastic cup of kakigori all this while, and it has not yet melted.
Shinsuke picks up the spoon and puts a bit on his tongue. The shaved ice is cherry pink. It leaves a stain on his lips that does not come off when he licks it.
/
At the heart of the festival, there is the shrine.
It is a small one, with a single torii gate to lead the way there among overgrown trees and vines that have grown wild, twining round low fences that have faded into the shrubbery. No one tends it, these days. Most people have forgot about it.
Shinsuke is not most people.
As the crowd parts around him, he crosses the threshold. In the shrine, he knows, the foxes are laughing at him. Only they do it in the way foxes do, which is discreet and subtle, and they never forget, never let a small thing go. Always catching him when they think he’s not looking, gazes flickering like lanterns.
Have you chosen? they ask.
Shinsuke’s mouth is full of offerings that he would make, if he could. It is full of sweetness and ice and stolen afternoons under the fiery sun with Atsumu, stolen evenings on a back porch with Osamu. Once, Atsumu had plucked a flame-red maple leaf from an autumn tree and tucked it behind his ear; once, Osamu had brushed a leaf like that off his jacket.
Shinsuke’s mouth is full, and he does not lay any of it on the altar.
I will not choose, he says at last, for it is a trick, and a false choice.
He bows his head before he leaves, and the laughter of the foxes curls around him on the rising wind.
/
The twins find him by the torii gate. They are leaning on opposite sides, one closer to the festival, one closer to the mountain. There is a light in Atsumu’s eyes that reminds Shinsuke of lanterns, and a smile on Osamu’s face like a wish from long ago, a half-luck fortune tied around a branch and left to fate.
Shinsuke’s faith is not such a fragile thing. The foxes picked it over with their sharp teeth, and he made them put it back together again. He believes half-luck can go either way, or all ways. He believes that, whole, they are more than their halves.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” says Atsumu.
“Let’s go,” says Osamu.
As one, they fall into step, and Shinsuke finds his place in between them.