Haikyuu imagines

Anxiety- Kenma

I knew it was stupid to let it get this bad.

I'd been at dozens of games before. Hundreds, if you counted all the training matches I'd watched Kenma play. I'd sat through louder crowds, harsher opponents, tenser moments. But something about this one-this particular match-was different.

Maybe it was the pressure of Nationals. Maybe it was the noise of the gym. Maybe it was that I hadn't slept last night, or eaten enough this morning, or maybe it was just one of those days where my body decided to betray me without warning.

Either way, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I was sitting on Nekoma's bench because I'd promised Kuroo I'd keep Kenma calm and focused. I was supposed to be the supportive one. The steady one. But my fingers were trembling violently enough that I had to tuck them between my knees just to hide it.

"You okay?"

The voice was soft. Barely audible over the echo of bouncing volleyballs and the chaotic buzz of players warming up. But my head snapped up anyway, because even quiet, Kenma's voice always cut through everything else.

He was standing in front of me, kneepads scuffed, jersey slightly crooked, cat-like eyes fixed right on me. He looked calm-too calm-the way he always did before a match. Detached on the outside, processing everything on the inside.

I forced a smile. "Yeah. Just... excited."

He blinked once.

A slow, unimpressed blink.

The kind that said, Don't lie to me. I know you better than that.

Before I could come up with another excuse, someone called his name from across the court. Warm-up drills. Kenma didn't move. Not until he took one slow step closer and crouched down in front of me, closing the distance enough that I could see each golden fleck in his eyes.

"Your hands," he said quietly, gaze dropping to where I'd hidden them. "They're shaking."

I froze.

Fuck.

I hadn't wanted him to see. I hadn't wanted anyone to see. Anxiety always felt like a weakness-like something that would worry him right when he needed to focus.

"It's nothing," I whispered. "Seriously. Just nerves."

"For the match?" he asked.

"No, not for-" I cut myself off, realizing I didn't even know how to explain it. "Just... everything."

He didn't push. He didn't demand. He didn't say anything dramatic or overly comforting.

He just reached out.

Slowly. Carefully. Like he was approaching a skittish animal.

His fingers brushed mine. Barely. A feather-light touch.

I sucked in a breath.

Then he gently slid his hand under both of mine and held them.

Not fully intertwined. Not squeezing. Just... holding.

Just steady.

Just there.

The warmth of his palm was enough to make my throat close.

"We're sitting," he said simply.

Before I could question it, he stood up, tugging my hands just enough that I followed him to the far end of the bench-the spot tucked slightly behind the clipboard crate where there was shade from the noise and chaos.