Chapter Text
Hase Ayame’s office has a deep red accent to it, flush with wooden furniture and walls. It’s a little nippy and dim, but spacious enough for Atsumu to sit down on the two-cushioned loveseat across Hase’s armchair. She isn’t in the room yet, which gives Atsumu a chance to look around. There are a few magazines on the coffee table in front of him, and posters about mental health and sports, too.
He stretches out and does what Ayame had told him to— Make yourself comfortable, Miya-sama —as he watches her figure outside the door. She finishes talking to the man at the front desk, and comes in and shuts the door. Atsumu hears it fit into place and suddenly feels just a little nervous.
“Hi there, Miya-sama. How are you doing today?”
“I’m pretty alright,” he says conversationally. He’s never actually given therapy a try, and while it hasn’t been more than a minute, he doesn’t know what to expect anymore. Aside from the honorifics, Hase is probably only five or six years older than him, and has a pleasant smile that makes him feel a little less awkward sitting here.
“I see that you heard of me from Iwaizumi-san. I want to establish before we start that anything you say is confidential and will be treated as such. Nobody but me will be disclosed to any information you share with me unless it jeopardizes your health—in which case will be shared with a doctor—or your safety—in which case we will discuss legalities. You didn’t mark any boxes on the inquiry form that are cause for immediate concern, so I doubt it will come up. If it does, I’ll let you know. Understand?”
Atsumu nods, a little overwhelmed by what seems like a disclaimer list. But he understands that this is her job and how the legalities work, so he doesn’t ask any questions and figures he won’t need to. Then, she puts down the clipboard she’s holding, and the mood shifts a little. “So, what was it that made you want to reach out?”
The lump in his throat moves slowly as he swallows, trying to find where to start. It’s not like he’s had much of a crash course on sharing his emotions with other people. He’s sure that’s why he’s so quick to anger. He remembers why Iwaizumi recommended this in the first place.
“Well, I guess I’ve been strugglin’ a bit with stress recently,” he starts slowly. It’s like he doesn’t know if that’s the right answer, if that’s what she’s looking to hear. Still, she urges him to go on with patient eyes. “I’ve been havin’ some trouble sleepin’ and keep makin’ mistakes at practice. It’s like I’m not at my 100 for some reason.”
“Have you made any major changes to your life recently, or even smaller ones that might be throwing you for a loop?” It’s odd how similar she sounds to Iwaizumi, and he realizes that the man really knows what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t consider himself a professional about it.
“I kinda had a thing with my brother last time I visited him, and we’re real close—he’s my twin—but we sometimes get into arguments. And so I left his place feelin’ a little shitty...” he pauses and bites his tongue. “Sorry,” he forces himself to say, because he sort of forgot his manners. “Am I allowed to curse?”
Hase clearly struggles not to laugh, giving him a tight-lipped, friendly smile to suppress her chuckle. “Of course you can, Miya-sama. You can express yourself however you need to.”
“Ah, right, right.” He’s a little embarrassed, but her smile lightens the mood a bit and he keeps going. It’s never been super easy to talk to anyone, and it still isn’t, but the atmosphere makes it feel like staying quiet would be worse. Like he would be wasting her time. “So, uhm, yeah, I was pretty upset about that. It’s all sorted now but we had a game a bit after and I didn’t perform well. I’ve been in the dumps ever since.”
He shrugs, because he doesn’t think there’s much else to say. He’s even still hesitant about all this—it’s not like Hase can just give him magic gummies that make him sleep like a princess and play at his top form every game and all his problems would be fixed. (And, because now that he thinks about it, it would probably be very illegal and he would probably lose his job.) But he started with this hour session, just once. If he really hates it, he won’t come back.
“Sometimes our performance can make an open wound a little worse. I understand that most nights after big games, teammates get together afterward. Do you often go out with your team?”
Atsumu bites the inside of his lip and thinks. “Sometimes. I mean, usually during the day, or if we have stuff like watchparties. But I don’t drink at all during the season, and I’m pretty strict about sleepin’ and stuff after. I definitely didn’t go out after that game. I was way too upset to be ‘round anyone.”
“I see.” Hase writes something down on her clipboard, which he almost forgot about until he hears the pen scratching on the paper. He has no clue what she’s writing, or why she’s writing it down, and he furrows his brows. What could she possibly be noting? He wants to see. He restrains himself when she speaks again, though. “If this game is the cause for your recent struggles, it’s possible you never got out of that mindset. While you don’t have to drink or party to have fun, going to team dinners and celebrations after rough games can definitely be beneficial. A lot of athletes struggle with isolation and guilt after a hard loss. Being with teammates is a good way to counter that.”
Hase writes something again, and Atsumu feels himself leaning forward a little out of slight discomfort. But then he shifts his focus onto her words, and they do kinda make sense. “I guess I never really thought about it like that. I always saw them as like... bein’ in the way. My main focus is volleyball and that’s kinda it.”
“How about next time the team schedules something, you go and try to have some fun? You could let loose and try something new. A lot of people find solace in music, cooking, running, or other hobbies.” She puts her clipboard down in her lap again and regards him. “No matter how you do it, try to put yourself out there. Sometimes you need to embrace change instead of pushing against it. Sounds good?”
His mouth is dry when he mutters, “yeah... yeah, sounds good.”
The rest of the session goes generally smooth, discussing most of his work ethic and his schedule. It feels like he has to debrief someone on his life for a minute, and there’s too much to say, but generally, the conversation stays light. He mentions how much he loves volleyball, how it’s all he applies himself to, his plans for the future. He mentions his teammates and his friends and talks a good amount about Osamu and his family. By the end of it, he just feels like all he’s done is yap about himself, and while it feels weird, Hase doesn't act like it at all.
It’s when he’s standing at the exit, twiddling his thumbs, that she comes over and shakes his hand. “I think we’ve had quite the productive session today, Miya-sama. I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to talk to me like you did today. Remember what I said about applying yourself to other things and trying new hobbies, okay? My door is always open if you’re willing to speak again. I think it would be beneficial for you.”
He shakes her hand enthusiastically in return. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, it was kinda weird, this is like—out of my comfort zone. But I’m glad I finally got convinced. I appreciate you. I, uhm... may reach out again. I don’t know when. Or how.”
“You can always contact me via the phone number Iwaizumi-san gave you. I’ll always be able to accommodate communication and scheduling. I know practice and games get in the way a lot.”
“You could say that again. Thank you, Hase-san. Have a good day.”
“Bye, Miya-sama.”
The week following his appointment comes and goes. He never realized what Hase meant by productive until he’s at practice and is feeling a little better, less shaky on his feet. He doesn’t sleep quite the same as before, but now he reads a bit before he falls asleep, and that kinda makes up for it. But he still fucks up, he still scrubs his skin too hard in the shower, and he still avoids Sakusa’s harsh gaze.
The best he can, at least.
He gets stuck with the man again in duos, because despite how much he does not, will not, could not admit it, he and Sakusa do make a good team. They’re physically compatible. Sakusa is good at spiking. Atsumu is good at setting. They do that, and that’s it. He still feels disdain in every part of his body when he has to face the scrutinizing, judging look Sakusa seems to always give him.
He bumps the ball back into the air and lets Sakusa receive it. “Glad to see you’re not fumbling like before,” he mentions offhandedly, almost like he doesn’t want Atsumu to hear. But he clearly does, because he says it just loud enough and in just the right tone to irk him anyway.
Still, he has to bite back. “Awhh,” he coos, pausing momentarily to dig for the ball. He shoots Sakusa a dirty look for sending it so far to the right. He makes his voice sugary sweet and baby-ish. “Was someone worried?”
“Yeah.” Sakusa stares him down. “For our team, that is. I wonder how much it would cost to replace a setter like you mid-season.”
Atsumu scowls and tells the hairs on his neck to lie back down. Sakusa rubs him the wrong way and is an asshole and just because he saw Atsumu cry doesn’t mean he gets to taunt him relentlessly. He has to fish himself out of his head, back in that moment where he was sitting in his car and feeling helpless. Bitterness fills his mouth. Of course it had to be him. Of course it had to be the one guy that doesn’t like him. That doesn’t care.
“Sorry.”
He hears his neck crack before he feels it as he snaps his head up. Sakusa is looking down at the ball to his left, and then shoots his eyes right into Atsumu’s.
“I’m bringing it up too much. Sorry.”
“Huh?”
Sakusa shakes his head and picks up the ball, walking away. Atsumu only gets to look at the back of his head as he processes the fact that Sakusa just apologized to him, and for what, he doesn’t know. And, like, he’d kill to get Sakusa to apologize about things. All the time. It’s a dream come true.
But now he just sits here, confused and questioning and not fully processing it. Sakusa looked genuinely remorseful. Maybe he’s pitying Atsumu.
Part of that only makes him angrier, because how dare Sakusa pity him, when Sakusa’s the sad introverted sop that can’t get the stick out of his ass?
But the smaller part, this whisper, this itch, says that it’s nice. His pity feels nice.
Sakusa sits on the bench, drinking his water, and Atsumu tears his eyes away from him. With a groan and two palms to his eyes, he throws himself into two laps as a form of self-punishment and wills the thought to go away.
- -
Atsumu tries what Hase recommended; on his two days off a week later, he makes a long one-hour trip to the weekend markets to pick up fresh meat and produce, as well as cooking ingredients. He’s always been good at cooking, and hasn’t had any issue making or preparing food, but Osamu has always been better. He never had to do much cooking when they lived together and whenever he visited, and he doesn’t have the time to try new recipes during the season.
He has at least a little time now, so he’s going to give it a shot. He returns to the sharehouse with bags upon bags and thanks himself for not overworking at the gym before so that his muscles don’t ache too bad as he wrestles them to the kitchen. MSBY is kind enough to have provided the members of the sharehouse with an expansive, high-quality kitchen and plenty of space. Sadly, it mostly goes unused and untouched, save for meal prepping.
Unlike Osamu, he can’t just create recipes out of thin air, so he follows along on his phone as he prepares some chicken for the katsudon he wants to make today. He throws the rice in the rice cooker and makes some extra for the next day. Sweat drips down his face by the time he’s done preparing the flour for a separate okonomiyaki recipe. Since he wants to save it for later, he wraps the bowl with plastic wrap and places it into the fridge, fetching his cabbage salad for the katsudon.
Thirty minutes later, he’s finally finished and the kitchen is clean, his stomach empty and grumbling. As he’s about to throw the katsudon together, the front door opens, and Atsumu watches Sakusa step into the building in his workout outfit.
“Hey,” he greets casually, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the man as he approaches the kitchen. He’s breathing heavily, still sweating like crazy and focusing only on chugging the closest bottle of Gatorade he can find.
Atsumu’s been trying to keep his distance lately, especially because Sakusa is being so weird lately. One day, he’ll treat Atsumu with basic human decency and might look at him almost softly, like he doesn’t hate his guts. They’ll talk and maybe even crack a joke or smile at each other, and this weird, foreign feeling settles in Atsumu’s gut, like he’s being understood for once.
But then the next day, he’s yelling at Atsumu for missing his set and blaming him for a headache Atsumu’s sure he didn’t cause. He’ll push Atsumu away, not talk to him, keep so much distance it’s like they’re forced to be teammates and Sakusa would rather switch teams than spike his balls.
But Sakusa gave him water when he cried, and sits next to him when the team watches a game recap, their thighs nearly touching.
It’s so wishy-washy that he doesn’t know which Sakusa he’s going to get next, so it’s best he doesn’t get any. Especially since he’s been so distant with everyone lately—it seems like after his bad week, everyone’s been walking on eggshells around him. He hates it.
Sakusa shuts the fridge and leans against the counter, hands gripping it firmly. He still looks out of breath, shoulders tense, and seems to not even recognize that Atsumu is standing there.
“Uhm,” Atsumu starts, trying to get his attention. “I made some katsudon. And I have a bit of extra rice, if you wanna eat it.”
Sakusa shakes his head, but it seems like he hasn’t registered Atsumu’s words at all.
“Yo, Sakusa,” he says, finally taking the steps towards the man’s hunched figure. He places a steady hand on the Sakusa’s shoulder, but at the contact, the muscle underneath jumps, and Sakusa’s hand flies to smack his away.
Atsumu holds his stinging hand and scowls. “What the fuck, dude?” he spits, preoccupied with looking at the small red mark on his pinky. It really doesn’t hurt, but it caught him off-guard. His next complaint dies on his tongue, though, when he sees Sakusa’s face.
He looks a little out-of-it, mouth slightly agape, beads of sweat clamming up on his forehead. His eyebrows are pinched and his eyes are glossed over, but upon seeing Atsumu, they clear up. “Sorry,” he says almost immediately. He takes a shaky breath and uses the same hand that hit Atsumu to pinch his nose bridge.
He looks on-edge, and if anyone understands that feeling, it’s Atsumu. “Naw, you’re good... ya feelin’ alright there?”
Sakusa blinks once or twice. It’s like Japanese is some foreign language to him that he’s trying to decipher by reading Atsumu lips, but he can’t figure anything out. Eventually, he takes a breath and says, “I’m fine.”
Still, as he turns towards the sink and immediately starts washing his hands, he doesn’t look fine. Atsumu feels a little perturbed, in a way, and follows him in a few steps.
“Ya don’t look fine.”
Sakusa seems to grumble something, but before Atsumu can ask him to repeat himself, he retches over the metal basin of the sink and vomits. Atsumu’s eyes widen and he immediately takes a step back. Sakusa huffs over the sink and looks down in horror.
“You should really eat somethin’!” Atsumu shoots out, and then he finally uses his brain to fetch Sakusa some water. He keeps trying to think of solutions, or the cause of the problem so that there might be a way to fix it. Does he have some sort of stomach bug? Is he sick? Did he work too hard at the gym?
When he gets back to his side, Sakusa is scrubbing the sink with a soapy sponge, the vomit rinsed away. “Do ya... need somethin’? Anythin’?”
“...No,” Sakusa says weakly. “I—I just need to—” he cuts himself off and scrubs harder. Atsumu watches his muscles flex as he hyper focuses on the task and it kind of clicks, then.
Sakusa has this prickly attitude about him. He doesn’t like high fives, or touch, or dirt, but he especially can’t stand bodily fluids. He wears his mask like a layer of protection, and maybe Atsumu’s just gotten used to it, but now the reality of Sakusa’s aversion sinks in.
He looks so frustrated that he might cry, and Atsumu can’t move or do anything to help.
“What’s the matter? What’s—I mean, why did ya vomit?”
Sakusa seems to nearly gag again at the word. “I feel gross,” he says in one breath. “Oh, god, I need to shower—shit.” He grips his arm with his clean, dry hand, and he looks over at Atsumu with sickly eyes.
Like he’s insecure about something.
Like he’s scared.
“The sink looks pretty clean to me,” Atsumu starts, trying to get Sakusa to put down the sponge, squeezed into the permanent shape of his hand. “How ‘bout ya go, like, take a shower ‘n stuff? I’ve got some katsudon ya can eat when ya get out to make up for your lost lunch.”
Another near gag, but Sakusa responds a little better, nodding his head faintly and dropping the sponge into the sink. He beelines for the bathrooms upstairs, and Atsumu is left alone in the kitchen to stare at the now empty space, head reeling. He’s seen Sakusa have little fits and episodes of hyper-focus—cleaning, cleaning, cleaning—but he’s never seen it this bad. This intense .
He didn’t think Sakusa could let it get to him like this. He always seems so stern and detached, but when he looked at Atsumu, he looked scared. Is that what Atsumu looked like to him that day? Is that why he acts so weird around him?
He sighs and starts preparing two bowls, hoping that it all washes over and down the drain, just like it should.
Sakusa comes down thirty minutes later in fresh clothes, his hair slightly damp, curls tight. He looks more awake, and Atsumu peers at him as he enters the kitchen. “Yer bowl’s over on the counter,” he mutters as he washes the frying pan for the okonomiyaki tomorrow. He bites his tongue and considers his next words carefully. “Ya feelin’ any better?”
“I feel fine.”
There it is. Prickly Sakusa—Prickusa, Atsumu thinks to himself, and nearly laughs—is back, the emotional-and-feeling Sakusa that he saw not too long ago, totally gone. “Right.” Atsumu clears his throat and hands Sakusa chopsticks. “Well, eat up, I guess.”
“Thank you for the food,” Sakusa says, and Atsumu knows he isn’t saying it to him, but he imagines it so. That way, he won’t lunge across the table and call Sakusa an ungrateful prick. Maybe he’s embarrassed. Atsumu was after Sakusa saw him in his car, crying. He reacted the same way.
They eat in silence for approximately two minutes before Sakusa looks up and considers Atsumu for a second. Atsumu can feel his eyes staring into the crown of his head until he, blessedly, breaks the silence and says, “This is good, Miya.”
“Yeah, well, good cookin’ runs in the family,” he says a little dryly, but tacks a laugh on at the end just to seem friendly. He pokes at a piece of chicken and knows it’s not as good as Osamu’s or Ma’s cooking. Knows that Sakusa is just going to go back to this shell of a person the next day if he tries to talk to him any more than right now.
“Why don’t you cook more often?”
But, of course, he continues the conversation. Atsumu has to give in. A conversation with Sakusa is so rare. And he seems in a better mood now, and Atsumu would feel guilty if he turned him away now—especially after he was feeling like crap earlier.
“I don’t really got the time for it. Since we have today and tomorrow off I thought I’d try out some new recipes.”
“You should cook more often. Having a real home cooked meal is nice.”
Atsumu raises his head and stares at Sakusa across the table, eyes wide. Sakusa’s head is already down again as he shovels rice into his mouth. Atsumu's eyes glaze over his dark black curls, and he thinks about the sentence, turning it over in his head like a coin.
When Sakusa doesn’t look back up, he smiles just a little bit, the betrayal of his lips, and looks back down at his bowl.
He doesn’t think about Sakusa vomiting. He doesn't think about Sakusa hitting him. They don’t talk again, not about why Atsumu is branching out when all he wants to do is stay in, and not about why Sakusa treats the meal as a warm welcome home.
He doesn’t think about crying in his car three weeks ago.
What he does think about is the way Sakusa’s foot kicks his under the table, and how their ankles rest against each other for the rest of the meal.
- -
Their next game comes up on him faster than he would’ve liked. In the two weeks following his weird dinner with Sakusa, they’ve been oddly talking to each other more. Sakusa is leaning more towards that talkative, kinder side, not always chastising Atsumu, save for a normal amount during practice or fighting over space in the bathroom.
They leave for Okayama at night so as to make their game in the early afternoon. After the seven hour-long bus ride, they’ll have a few hours to crash at their hotel, play their game, and then stay the night again before leaving in the early morning.
Atsumu bounces his leg as he sits on the curb outside their gymnasium, his travelbag at his feet. Their bus is running a few minutes late, and he’s nervous as is. Not to mention, he’s exhausted. They’ve been practicing since early morning, nonstop, and right after, he had to pack up. And now he’s sitting here, lip between his teeth as he waits for the bus. He just wants to get on it and knock out already.
It pulls up twenty minutes later, and he’s never been more grateful for the compact, uncomfortable ride there in forever. He shuffles into line as everyone throws their bags overhead in the storage bins or under the bus, in the case of his coach and their trainers. Atsumu slides into a window seat.
There’s more than enough seats for their team to spread out evenly, offering almost everyone a window spot or at least a buddy to sit next to. No one really cares, since they all plan to pass out anyway. Or so Atsumu thinks.
He has his forehead against the cold window when he feels the chair beside him shift just a little and another body enters his peripherals. He turns his heavy, tired head, only to see Sakusa sliding in right next to him.
He doesn’t say anything, just kind of stares, probably more than he should. Sakusa grabs his neck pillow and instantly makes himself comfortable without looking or talking to Atsumu at all. Like this is normal. Like they’ve been seatmates since primary school.
Atsumu tells himself not to be weird about this. He’s going to put his earbuds in, close his eyes, and fall asleep, easy peasy; or, it would be, if when he opened his airpod case, his airpods were actually in there. Instead, it’s empty, and he stares at the case, a mix of anger and frustration coursing through him. He needs to turn off his thoughts, he needs music to escape right now—from Sakusa, from his exhaustion, from his nerves. Where the fuck are his airpods? What’ll he do if he can’t fall asleep? What if he can’t relax, and he shows up to the game exhausted and he can’t play properly? What if—
A whisper interrupts his thoughts.
“If you forgot your headphones, you can borrow mine.”
Sakusa looks him in the eye as he hands him his headphones. They’re over-the-ear and fluffy around the earpiece. Atsumu has half a mind to just reject it and not worry about it, but the temptation is too strong. He needs to fix how loud his brain is right now.
“Thanks,” he whispers back, taking the headphones graciously and connecting them to his bluetooth. He puts them snugly over his head and is surprised when everything—the bus, his own breathing—goes quiet. He takes them off and puts them back on.
“They’re noise-canceling,” he hears Sakusa say when he takes them off again.
That explains so much. He vaguely remembers a time where he was trying to get the man’s attention and just couldn’t, wondering how loud his music could be. So this is why.
“Cool,” he says back.” Thanks again.”
Sakusa just closes his eyes and sits further back into his neck rest. Atsumu leans his head into the window again and puts on a chill playlist, and as the bus starts up, he feels himself drifting off to sleep.
He wakes up some time in the middle of the night, maybe around two or three. The streetlights are bright as they cross over the highway, and he squints to adjust his eyes to the bus, shutting the window curtain closed. It seems like everyone is asleep, and he can hear who he thinks is Bokuto snoring from somewhere behind him.
He checks his phone to see that it is, in fact, 02:43, and he immediately turns his brightness down. He has a missed text from Osamu.
To Atsumu:
>>yo
>>i’m gonna go to the red falcon game in okayama
>>to see aran
>>see u there?
He simply thumbs-up the message and puts his phone away. He loves Osamu, he really does, but there’s this sense of pressure that comes with having him there at games that he can’t explain. He loves his brother’s support and craves it, but sometimes, it sets his nerves alight. He feels his eyes in the crowd that watches him. Osamu knows volleyball and knows when he does something wrong or right.
But Atsumu is good. He reminds himself of that. He’s good at volleyball. He’s ranked as one of the top setters in the nation. He can’t think too hard about this. This isn’t some tournament—it’s just another game. It’ll make them better as a team.
He looks over to Sakusa and finds him wide awake, reading a book. How he can do that without getting nauseous is beyond Atsumu.
Atsumu watches him for a moment, absorbed in his page until he brings his finger up and doggy-ears it. He shuts his book and leans back, sighing.
“Can’t sleep?” Atsumu whispers.
Sakusa turns his head a bit to look at him through the side of his eye. “I don’t sleep on buses.”
“Uncomfy?”
Sakusa nods.
“Why don’t ya take the window seat? We got a few hours ‘till we get there. I’m pretty well-rested right now.”
“...If you don’t mind. But I don’t need it.”
“Nah, take it,” Atsumu insists, already shuffling his stuff around. It forces Sakusa up, and then they swap seats, and Atsumu puts down the outer armrest to lean against. “There. Now ya can get some beauty sleep.”
Sakusa regards him with careful eyes and then murmurs a soft, happy, “Thank you.”
At that, the man plops his head on the window. Atsumu doesn’t know how long he stares at the side of his face until he realizes that Sakusa’s jaw is slack and he’s breathing a little deeper. A smile sits on his face as he leans back into his seat, not minding the odd way he has to adjust his head to finally close his eyes.
It turns out to be a bad idea.
They get to the hotel when it’s still pitch black outside, and he tumbles out of his light sleep into a world of a raging headache and blinding lights. Everyone on the bus is standing up already, including Sakusa, who is trying to pick his things up around Atsumu’s feet. He shuffles himself up to his feet and feels a pain in his neck burn hard from the uncomfortable position he slept in.
He stutters down the hall of his room next to the rest of his teammates, who all seem as exhausted as him, save for the fact that they’re not holding their neck tightly and digging in their pockets for aspirin like Atsumu is. He finds his door and slides into the first out of the two beds in the room the second he can. He doesn’t process anything else—he doesn’t care about changing out of his current clothes or about the sound of footsteps following behind him.
He only sees another body hit the bed beside his.
“Oi,” he grunts, mouth in the comforter as he looks through his lashes. “I thought I was roomin’ w’th Sh’yo.”
Sakusa pulls the comforter up and lies, back-first, onto the bed. “No.”
He doesn’t know what compels him to say it, but Atsumu opens his mouth before he can stop the words from coming out. “Yer always ev’rywhere... Like yer st’lkin’ me or s’methin’.”
He watches Sakusa turn on his side. He can’t make anything out in the dark, or with his sleep-addled mind, but he can feel eyes on him. Always.
What he can make out is the smirk in Sakusa’s tone when he asks, “Does it bother you?”
Atsumu thinks about it. Sometimes, it might. Sometimes, it does, only because the attention is weird and has no proper source that he can identify. At least not right now. But, in the end...
“Nah...” He swallows down a weird lump in his throat when Sakusa stands back up and takes off his shirt in one, fluid motion.
After he’s put on another shirt, Sakusa regards him in the dark. Atsumu feels like the man can almost hear his thoughts, but then he drops his stare and sighs. “Get some rest, Miya. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“Okay, Sakusa,” he forces himself to say. It feels wrong, like he should say something more, like there’s more to talk about. But there really isn’t, and Sakusa makes that clear when he shuts the curtains all the way and lies down. “Goodnight,” he says at the wall, really regretting the fact that Shoyo didn’t room with him.
Something just feels amiss.
“Goodnight, Miya.”
- -
His bad feeling was right.
Of course, Murphy’s law wants to play its games today. Atsumu wakes up in a start from a nasty dream, his ears ringing as Sakusa shakes his shoulder.
“Wake up, Miya. You’re going to make us late. Everyone is gathering downstairs.”
He blinks his eyes open to see light streaming brightly through the window, and he groans. Rolling over, he grunts again and asks, “wh’t time is’t?”
“It’s eleven.”
That gets him up hard and fast, like a bucket of ice cold water has been dumped on his head. “What?” he screeches, voice cracking. He nearly trips off the mattress as he rolls himself out of it, and Sakusa moves back with a scowl. He puts his mask back up. He’s clad in their track uniform, likely with their game uniform underneath. Atsumu doesn’t even change his underwear, just digging through his suitcase for his clothes. “Why the fuck didn’t ya wake me up?”
“It’s not my job to get you up, Miya, I’m not your mother,” Sakusa starts, and Atsumu is about to punch him before he continues. “Besides, I did try. I woke up to your alarm, told you to get out of bed three times, and then that I was going downstairs to eat breakfast with the team and for you to join us when you finally got your lazy ass out of bed.”
Atsumu is positively fuming. He tugs his shirt over his head, backwards first, and inside out the second time before finally getting it right. His heart pounds loudly in his chest; they have to leave in ten minutes, and he isn’t even fully awake. “Fuckin’ hell, ya didn’t think to fuckin’ check in when I didn’t come down?”
“How is this my fault, Miya?” Sakusa hisses, and everything suddenly dissipates. The little hesitance last night, the headphone borrowing, the eating dinner together, the little shared sentiments that Sakusa’s been giving him––they all evaporate. Atsumu’s hands shake as he throws on his pants, back to Sakusa. He can feel eyes boring into him, up his spine and to the hairs under the neck, but he doesn’t care.
“If you gave even a bit of a shit about me or this team, ya would’ve shot a fuckin’ text or somethin’. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He finishes tying his shoes, and without a word, grabs his duffle bag and leaves.
Hinata greets him as he comes downstairs. “Atsumuuu!” he exclaims when he sees him. “Thank god you’re not dead! Here, I saved you a muffin.”
Atsumu clears his head for a minute and tries to remember where he is and what Hase said about being with his teammates and enjoying their presence. He takes a deep breath and wipes the bout of cold sweat off his forehead, sending a smile to Hinata and grabbing the muffin. “Thanks, Shoyo! Sorry I slept in, I didn’t really get proper sleep on the bus last night bein’ in the aisle ‘n all...”
He hears Sakusa approaching from the stairwell and grits his teeth in a forced smile. “Oh, Sakusa-kun! Are we all ready to go?”
Atsumu eyes Sakusa from the side, lugging his duffle bag over his shoulder and out the front doors of the hotel. His stomach rumbles, and he scarfs down the muffin as fast as he can. When he belches, he hears a muttered ‘ugh’ from his left. “What, ya got a problem?”
“Yes. Too many to count,” Sakusa snaps back, rolling his eyes. He skips in front of Atsumu when they get to the open doors of their bus, and Atsumu scowls meanly at his back.
“Ya could say that again. All ya ever do is complain, anyway.” Atsumu taps his foot impatiently as Sakusa waits to get on the bus. “And could ya be any slower?”
Sakusa turns around and meets his eyes, eyebrows furrowed sharp. “Oh? I don’t want to hear that from the guy who only woke up five minutes ago. Do you really want to know what’s slow? It’s your brain, Miya.”
Atsumu feels a blood vessel pop somewhere in his head as he grits his teeth. He goes to open his mouth to shoot back another insult, but before he can, two hands come around the side of them and smack them both, properly, over the head. Atsumu yelps and Sakusa keeps his head down, holding the back of his neck.
“Shut up!” Meian yells at them. “I don’t know what you two are bickering about right now, but if you don’t get on the bus right now, so help me, neither of you will be playing this game.”
Atsumu feels his face burn in embarrassment as everything comes back down in his mind. He guesses Meian really did just slap some sense into him, and he bites the inside of his cheek and stops glaring. “Yes, captain. Sorry”
Sakusa follows with a sheepish, similarly quiet, “my apologies, captain.”
Once they get on, Atsumu spends the hour-long ride to the gymnasium drifting in and out of an uncomfortable nap. He really wishes he had been able to wake up more and grab some coffee. He stretches out his legs into the empty space next to him, and in a moment of weakness, spares a glance back at Sakusa’s seat. The man is staring off at the window, mask back up and headphones over his years. He doesn’t look to be in great shape, either.
Atsumu sighs and slumps further back. It’s his fault he slept in. He knows it, and yet, somehow, Sakusa’s existence just seems to be getting on his nerves. He can’t blame the man for his mistakes, but it feels like Sakusa is there every time something goes wrong. Like a bad omen.
But fuck, was he an asshole. Why can’t he keep his shit together? He looks back again. He wants to apologize. Hell, he even takes his phone out of his pocket multiple times within five minutes, trying to decide if he should text the man. That feels like even more of an asshole move though, and he gives up on the thought as they roll up the gymnasium.
He just has to focus. This isn’t anything new. He knows how to play volleyball, whether he’s slept 24-hours or none at all. He takes a breath to gather himself, stands up, and then promptly slams himself into Sakusa’s chest as he steps out into the aisle.
He’s really hoping to wake up from this concussion-induced nightmare soon.