sakusa wants to hold atsumu’s hand.
it’s easy. they’re walking down the street, side by side, close enough that their shoulders could touch, far enough that they don’t. atsumu has a hand in his pocket, the other by his side. sakusa has a hand in his pocket, the other by his side. atsumu’s hand swings with every stride. sakusa’s remains still, stiff like a board, straight like it’s the border between him and his partner, crossings closed indefinitely.
atsumu’s love language is physical touch. sakusa knew this ever since their first youth training camp, observed how he high-fived his hitters after every spike, leaned on their shoulders when he chatted with the others, brushed their arms in passing. the first time he approached sakusa for a high-five, all he received was a scowl and turned back. he never attempted it again, not even when they reunited as professionals, not even when they started dating.
you’d think that dating would embolden him to make contact, but instead, atsumu adopted every other love language instead. he gives him small, useless trinkets that remind him of his partner; he wipes down public surfaces for him before sitting down himself; he goes over to his apartment twice a week for dinner, movies, drinks, video games. and although they continue to insult each other, it’s never with any heat, always with affection, much to their teammates’ bafflement.
he’s still physical with everyone else – sideways hugs, fist bumps, high-fives, the occasional slap on the ass when he’s excited. but when it comes to sakusa, it’s always a shared nod, a fond smile, a cocky grin.
is it selfish of him to want more? no. is it possible? yes. so, will he be able to do it? questionable. this is because, as he looks at atsumu’s hand, his mind races. what was the last surface he touched? how many doors did he have to open before reaching their rendezvous point to walk to practice? did he sanitize after touching every surface? even if he sanitizes them now, would it be enough to eliminate those layers upon layers of germs, to eradicate the possibility of illness that clung to some other commuter’s hand, who obviously does not use hand sanitizer, who could’ve touched another contaminated surface that could be cultivating disease, born from a sneeze, a cough a–
he jumps, startled. atsumu is half a step in front of him, turns toward him with concern on his face, lips pulled in a frown. “are ya okay?”
“y-yeah.” his breath stuttered. that’s all the evidence that atsumu needs.
“no, yer not. what’s wrong? ya can tell me.”
sakusa takes a deep breath. he’s learned a lot about atsumu since establishing their relationship, so he knows that something atsumu values as much as trust is honesty. “i want to hold your hand.”
he watches his intense expression slide off his face – eyes widening, mouth falling open, faint blush blossoming in his cheeks. “but,” sakusa says before atsumu can say something he’ll regret, “i don’t know how.”
the uninitiated might be screaming, just reach for his hand! how hard can it be? atsumu, however, is not one of them, seen by how his eyes flash, lips press together with a nod. “what can i do to make it easier?”
sakusa stares at their hands, mere centimeters away from each other, both pairs dangling by their sides. in an alternate universe, he’d grab one by the wrist and drag him all the way to practice. in this universe though, he just…stands there. “i don’t know.”
atsumu is undeterred. “i’ll sanitize my hands. would ya feel better if ya sanitized yers?”
“i- yeah. maybe.” sakusa didn’t touch anything, as his apartment lock uses a keypad, and the front entrance is automatic. he walks to the rendezvous point, fifteen minutes away. still, he lets atsumu squeeze some hand sanitizer on his palm, a brand that meets his cleanliness standards.
“okay.” atsumu puts the sanitizer away. “ya want me to reach fer ya, or do ya wanna do it?”
he nods, then offers him his hand. sakusa takes a moment to admire his lithe fingers, faded callouses, uniformed nails. these hands have delivered countless tosses and service aces. they have provided support, encouragement, security. they are his to take.
and he does. sakusa brushes the back of his hand against his, reaches until their palms are together. atsumu wraps his fingers around his hand, and sakusa does the same. atsumu gives a little squeeze. sakusa squeezes back. they stay like that for a moment, eyes on each other. then, atsumu gives a small smile. “ya good?”
sakusa nods, doesn’t trust himself to speak. he takes the first step, and atsumu follows. they continue down the sidewalk, hand in hand. they don’t talk, don’t let go until they reach the training center and enter the locker room, where they have to break away to reach their respective lockers.
after practice, they find themselves together again, so they can head home. sakusa doesn’t think, just reaches for atsumu’s hand. atsumu doesn’t comment, just asks what he wants for dinner. they talk the entire way, about the new drills that they have to do, the fitness goals they need to set, the upcoming interview for a talk show next week.
it’s only when they reach the safety of sakusa’s apartment that atsumu says, “i love ya.”
“i love you, too.” the reply is easy, quick. if he can say that without hesitation, surely he can hold his hand in the same way? it’ll be something to work toward, an instinct that he’ll hone, just as loving atsumu comes as easily as breathing.
