Chapter Text
In the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor, time and space seem to distort. Atsumu left the doctor’s office only a few minutes ago, but the minutes stretch and feel like hours. He tries and fails to move his unblinking gaze away from the wall, and his vision swims, spots dancing. The buzz in Atsumu’s ears refuses to quieten.
He could—should just leave. The MRI results won’t be ready for a few hours, and Atsumu’s growling stomach suggests the next course of action quite insistently. He feels a bit too queasy to comply, with the nausea coming in waves, clearly and embarrassingly anxiety-induced.
Wasn’t someone supposed to pick him up after this? Do they not care about the sick and injured at all here in Osaka?
Alright, it might be a bit of an exaggeration. Everything points to the sprain being a minor one, and he told the team manager to leave himself, annoyed by all the fussing. That was the two-hours-ago Atsumu, though. The present-time Atsumu is a completely changed person, never-before-seen, and totally not going to revert back to his usual asshole self once he recovers from the sensory hell of an MRI.
In the end, just this once, it’s a good thing that nobody ever listens to him. The manager returns with the team doctor in tow, and they push Atsumu’s wheelchair all the way to the hospital canteen. Stocking up on crutches for someone this tall is apparently not a priority around here, and Atsumu hates it.
The food turns out to be not half bad, though. In all his 21 years of life, Atsumu hasn’t once spent enough time in a hospital to get to try it. He’s always been too careful to get himself seriously injured, except for the occasional fight with Osamu that, at worst, led to scrapes and minor bruises. It was nothing that his mother’s careful hands couldn’t tend to. Well—until now, that is.
His companions wait patiently as he eats, perhaps hoping to get him in a better mood before announcing some terrible news. Naturally, Atsumu takes his time.
“So, Miya-san,” the doctor finally starts. “We are, of course, still waiting for the MRI results, but it seems pretty straightforward, and I would like to start making arrangements as soon as possible.” Her hands are folded neatly on the table. The right hand is gripping the left, fingertips pressed into knuckles, nerves evident for anyone with a mind to look.
“Huh?” Atsumu replies. Eloquence tends to escape him when a conversation doesn’t prompt any banter.
“There’s this hospital in Tokyo with an outstanding physical therapy department that the management would like you to go to,” the doctor continues. “The intention is to have you completely recover before the start of the season, and we hope for your cooperation.” Her smile is strained.
Atsumu might have earned a bit of a reputation for being rather uncooperative from time to time. “Uh… Yeah, sure,” he responds, because this is not one of those times. Atsumu will agree to just about anything, no matter how unpleasant, if it means he’ll return to playing sooner—and Tokyo? Tokyo doesn’t sound bad at all.
The doctor’s hand relaxes.
—
It’s sweltering, and this parking lot is way too far from the hospital for Atsumu’s liking. The unforgiving August sun has already made him more irritable than usual; Atsumu longs to scratch the itch for a row with the taxi driver. His attention is scattered all over the place: there’s movement in Atsumu’s peripheral vision, and it’s snatched away from the driver in favor of the view from the side window in a second. Atsumu pays without a word of complaint to get out of the car as fast as possible, the desire for confrontation forgotten.
There, next to a spotless black Lexus, Sakusa Kiyoomi is putting on an equally black face mask with one hand and taking out his phone with another. The total engrossment in whatever it is he’s typing is kind of admirable. He doesn’t notice Atsumu approaching until there’s only a meter of distance between them, even though the crutch-aided hopping is fairly eye-catching.
When Kiyoomi’s eyes finally fall on Atsumu, they spark with recognition just for a beat, then dull with displeasure. “Ugh,” he lets out, not even sparing a curt greeting, and starts to walk away.
Atsumu didn’t really expect this to go any other way; he smirks and hops to catch up. “Ugh? That’s all ya have to say after meeting yer ultimate volleyball rival in a random parking lot? I’m actually insulted, Sakusa-kun. Where’s the shock? Where’s the surprised squeak? Where’s the lightning and the thunderstorms—” He pauses. “Okay, you’re not responsible for those ones, I admit. But ya should definitely entertain me by looking at least a little impressed by this twist of fate!”
“Ugh,” Kiyoomi repeats, yet he slows down to accommodate Atsumu’s pace.
Atsumu concludes he has a good read on Kiyoomi’s true feelings about this conversation. “So whatcha doing here?”
They go around a corner.
“Why are you following me, Miya?”
“I’m not. It very much looks like we’re going to the same building, y’know. Are ya having some health troubles, then? Thought ya’d never gotten sick with yer whole…” Atsumu stops for a moment to wave a hand. “...extreme cautiousness thing.”
It’s a bit of a walk—and quite a lot of hops—to the hospital, so even Kiyoomi feels forced to reply to maintain some semblance of politeness in the silence. “I’m here for an internship,” he says, clipped.
“C’mon, gimme more than that,” Atsumu whines.
“Ugh,” Kiyoomi grumbles, again, but folds under the insistence quite quickly.
It’s been a long time in the making. Ever since that Interhigh final 5 years ago, Atsumu has had his interest piqued. It started with service aces and receives, then ended with a humiliating loss to Itachiyama in Atsumu’s last Spring Tournament semi-final. There were sparks of obsession in between, fueled by the Youth Training Camps, and after, fueled by Atsumu’s intrinsic nosiness, but none of it ultimately mattered. Atsumu hasn’t seen Kiyoomi in years. Attraction is insignificant if you never really get the chance to act on it. Atsumu is guilty of daydreaming, not of delusion.
“I’m getting a minor in Health and Medical Care,” Kiyoomi explains. “Doing an internship over the summer break is easier than taking one more subject next term to get the credits. I don’t have that much time, with volleyball and the actual major.”
Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up. “A minor? On top of volleyball?” Then he thinks he should probably make it seem like he hasn’t been occasionally stalking Kiyoomi’s social media. “Wait, what university are ya going to?” he adds hurriedly.
Kiyoomi opens and holds the hospital door for Atsumu, all the while looking at him out of the corner of his eye with suspicion—and alright, Atsumu might have overdone it a little. The recent string of Waseda victories is a frequent topic in volleyball news. With every single article naming a certain spiker as one of the team’s most valuable assets, one would have to not care about volleyball at all to be this clueless. Whoops.
“Are you trying to humble me or something?” Kiyoomi asks, and that’s really the best outcome Atsumu could’ve hoped for. “Anyway, yes, it’s not particularly easy. I’m already at Waseda, though, so I’m just getting the most out of it.”
Seeing things through, Atsumu thinks, mind flashing to an old conversation, and fuck, it does all sorts of things to his insides.
“That’s cool, I guess,” he says, shooting for nonchalance. “So… You’re too shy to ask what I’m doing here, aren’t ya?”
“Yeah, shy,” Kiyoomi scoffs. “I can grasp it from your get-up, Miya, crutches and all. Did you have some sort of accident during a match? Got distracted trying to show off while jump serving and landed badly? I didn’t know MSBY were in Tokyo, I’ll give you that.” They approach the elevator, and Kiyoomi presses the button with his knuckle. “The emergency room is on the ground floor, by the way, so you can really stop following me now.”
Atsumu grins. “Ah, ya think you’re so sharp, Sakusa-kun.” A ding signals the arrival of the elevator. Atsumu comes in, and Kiyoomi reluctantly follows. “You’re wrong, though,” Atsumu adds, pressing a button.
The number lights up, and Kiyoomi does a double take. He hurriedly takes out his phone, tapping on the screen. Atsumu can feel what’s coming in his bones.
Once Kiyoomi seems to have found what he wanted, he lowers his hands slowly and resignedly. The look on his face speaks volumes. “Physical therapy,” he states flatly.
“And now ya got it! Any reason why you’re so confident about that?” Atsumu’s grin turns shark-like.
The doors start to open, and he only gets a sigh instead of a response, but there’s no need for one at this point anyway.
The people forming a small crowd in the reception area turn towards them. Atsumu is probably a bit late by now; he takes it upon himself to be the first one to speak.
“Um, hello. I have an appointment scheduled. For Miya Atsumu?”
A man who’s maybe a few years older than him and wears a badge that spells Sato Satoshi—and what a godawful name, honestly—hurries to the computer. His lab coat has stains on it.
“Oh, yes, hello, Miya-san.” Sato-Sato clicks and types furiously for a minute, and Atsumu uses this time to look around. “Your doctor’s been a bit held up, but she’ll fetch you shortly. Would you mind waiting in one of the chairs over there? I apologize for the delay.” Sato-Sato bows slightly.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Atsumu replies, and shuffles over to a chair where he gets to be in the perfect position to watch the spectacle unfold. There’s no doubt he’s about to witness one; waiting, Atsumu couldn’t help but overhear that this entire group of people are, apparently, Kiyoomi’s fellow interns who are just dying to get to know him.
He manages to insult one of them by the time Atsumu sits down. Atsumu suddenly gets Suna’s love of filming.
There’s a girl with stars in her eyes—on second thought, those might be hearts, actually—who deescalates the situation rather masterfully. Not her first rodeo, Atsumu guesses.
“So, Sakusa-kun,” she starts then, confirming the suspicion. “I didn’t know we’d be interns at the same department. We’ll finally have some time to get to know each other outside of classes! Nice to see a familiar face, isn’t it?” She bats her eyelashes.
“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi replies without much enthusiasm.
Oof. Contrary to popular belief, Atsumu is capable of sympathy, and this conversation definitely calls for some.
“I’m so excited!” The girl doesn’t let the lukewarm reaction deter her. “They’ll have me shadowing the technician. Maybe I’ll even get to fix some equipment!” She beams, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her sneakers are obviously scrubbed clean. If the material hadn’t yellowed with age, they would have probably been snow white. “What about you?”
“I’ll just be doing some paperwork, as far as I know.” Kiyoomi clenches and unclenches his fists in the pockets of his UV protection jacket. “I’ve also been told I’d be overlooking the reception area from time to time.”
Atsumu suppresses a chuckle. Who in their right mind put the guy with one of the world's least friendly faces on welcoming duty?
“Ah, so you’re basically my protégé!” Sato-Sato pipes up, and gives Kiyoomi a mildly inappropriate once-over.
It’s entertaining to watch multiple people so plainly having the hots for Kiyoomi. Still, Atsumu is on edge for some reason. Maybe because he’s a little worried that he’s just as obvious—then again, he never goes for subtlety with his flirting, so it wouldn’t be much of a revelation. The other possible reason is far more likely. Bitter, Atsumu toys with the thought that one of these people might get what they want. He shifts in his seat.
“I’m also an intern, but I started a few months ago,” Sato-Sato continues. ”They’ll probably hire me after the summer since I’m a graduate. I can teach you some things, I’m sure,” he adds, voice dipping midway.
Atsumu cringes. Thanks to some very unfortunate experience, he knows one thing: workplace romance is a terrible idea. The awkwardness that follows the imminent fallout is simply not worth the thrill of some heated storage room makeout sessions.
“We’ll see,” Kiyoomi replies, impassive.
Getting rejected by your colleague straight away, though? Oh, that is so, so much worse, and for both parties, at that. These poor fools probably don’t even understand how bad it might go for them. What’s even worse, Kiyoomi might suffer, too.
Really, Atsumu can’t let this come about.
He might be understanding: it’s not often that you get a chance to shoot your shot with a guy who looks like a fucking Greek god even in that gaudy jacket. The dark circles under Kiyoomi’s eyes are deeper than before, but it’s offset by this new haircut of his—Atsumu almost drooled the first time he saw it on Komori’s Instagram story. He’s still proud of not taking a screenshot.
Social norms and common sense tend to fly out of the window in the face of Sakusa Kiyoomi—seriously, Atsumu relates. And perhaps he relates a little too much, because an idea suddenly pops into his head, unruly and impossible to ignore. It’s as ingenious as it is ludicrous. All of this is just a disaster waiting to happen, but it would only take a few words from Atsumu and a bit of cooperation from Kiyoomi to prevent it. The idea refuses to leave Atsumu’s mind. He bites his lip, considering.
He hopes it won’t come to it. Perhaps it won’t, and he is merely overthinking, the distressing memory of his own recent mishap still fresh. Atsumu wouldn’t really gain anything from interfering. This soft-heartedness is uncharacteristic. With one final push, he banishes the idea to the back of his head, settling back in the seat.
Atsumu has been zoned out for a while, it seems. The people split into multiple groups, and now Kiyoomi is terrorized by his two admirers all on his own. No matter how flimsy, the buffer of the other interns was better than this.
It’s a little pathetic how desperately the girl tries to talk with Kiyoomi. The three-word answers are bad enough, but at some point he actually takes his phone out and starts scrolling. It gets excruciating to watch, especially since Atsumu has experienced being on the receiving end of this sort of behavior himself.
On the other hand, Sato-Sato is quiet—too busy ogling to speak. Actually, this might be Atsumu’s personal hell. No two ways about it: he has acted like both of these people towards at least some of his numerous crushes. The sudden self-consciousness is agonizing.
The girl gets more and more dejected by the minute. She appears about to admit defeat, and Atsumu feels for her, he really does, but then she apparently gets a sudden influx of determination and courage, like a drowning man gathering all of his strength for one final attempt to push to the surface.
“Say, Sakusa-kun… Would you like to get dinner with me after the shift? I know this is not the best place for a chat, but maybe if we’re alone in some cute restaurant…” Her words have a hopeful lilt to them.
Well, at least this finally makes Kiyoomi look up from the screen.
“Sorry, Kobayashi, I’m not interested. I’m gay.” His attention returns to the phone as if something in the universe hasn’t just shifted with this reveal.
Atsumu’s brain reboots.
Huh.
Kobayashi’s entire face flushes red while she stutters out a surprised “S-sorry, I didn’t know.”
That makes two of them. No amount of sporadic stalking has served to help Atsumu figure out this piece of information.
He isn’t the only person that is happy to overhear it: Sato-Sato absolutely lights up at the words. His entire posture changes, back straight and chest puffed out, and then he speaks up in a tone that is so obviously meant to sound alluring it’s no more dignified than hair twirling.
“Oh, would you maybe like to go out with me, then?”
Again, Atsumu cringes.
Kiyoomi raises his eyes to give Sato-Sato a once-over that—can the briefest of glances feel condescending? This one most certainly does.
“No, thank you,” Kiyoomi says, and perhaps he reached his limit of not being too blunt for the day, because he looks Sato-Sato straight in the eyes, expression flat, and in a completely emotionless and brutally honest tone begins to say, “You’re disg—”
Oh hell no.
Would it be funny to witness this man get verbally obliterated? For sure. Is Atsumu normally the kind of guy who would have the time of his life watching it happen? Most definitely.
Just this once, though, he won’t.
“Ah, sorry to interrupt this lovely conversation, but I feel kinda uncomfortable seeing a taken man being hit on.” Atsumu fakes his most confident smirk. He has to speak up to talk over Kiyoomi; it puts the attention of the entire room on them, the other interns quieting down to listen in.
“What?” Kiyoomi asks with a confused frown. He seems startled by the reminder that Atsumu is still here.
“It’s alright, Kiyoomi!” The frown deepens at the use of his given name, and it’s fortunate that all attention is locked on Atsumu. “I know how secretive ya are, but we’re all friends here—or about to be, right? Honestly, I think it’s better for everyone if ya explain that you’re already in a relationship instead of trying to make up an excuse to reject a nice guy ya’ll be working very closely with.” Kiyoomi’s expression returns to its usual blankness as he catches on. “Just please don’t hit on my boyfriend, okay, receptionist-san?” Atsumu winks.
“Oh… Yes, of course. I apologize.” In a repeat of their first interaction, Sato-Sato starts to bow before catching himself. What a terrible professional habit to have, Atsumu thinks.
Kiyoomi doesn’t say a word, only giving Atsumu a pointed incredulous look before returning his attention to the phone. It could look suspicious, but that would require someone to actually doubt the claim, to think that Atsumu has lied—and why would he make up such a ridiculous fib?
They don’t know that lying comes naturally to him, his first instinct above anything else. The way it’s only partially self-indulgent makes him feel so benevolent that the self-satisfied high carries him through the entire first meeting with the doctor once she finally arrives to fetch him.
When Atsumu leaves with a folder full of papers detailing his recovery process, there’s no grump to bother in the reception area. The only person to bid him goodbye is Sato-Sato.
—
Maybe Atsumu hasn’t put enough thought into this.
At the very least, it starts to seem like he’s the person who put the least thought into this, because he’s almost completely forgotten about the little white lie when his physical therapist strictly reminds him to avoid any strenuous activity the next day. He’s halfway to asking what the hell she’s talking about: they’ve already discussed this, and Atsumu doesn’t really understand why people often assume he’s some sort of an airhead. He doesn’t need to be reminded of such basic rules, okay? He’s not a fucking elementary schooler; he’s a professional athlete who got where he is by honing his body for over a decade.
Before the anger boils over, though, the doctor winks at him and asks whether she should have a talk with his boyfriend, too, and Atsumu thinks, oh.
So there’s that. On the second day, the entire department knows that their new patient and one of the interns are supposedly dating.
Atsumu bemoans the nosiness, no matter how hypocritical it is. His own snooping skills are legendary. They’re only applied when absolutely necessary, however: like when he needs to figure out what could throw his teammates off their game. It’s not his fault that it means he needs to be aware if they’re dating someone, and who, and also who they’re friends with, and who they’re pining for, and whether they used to have a crush on someone on the opposite side of the net back in high school or at any time before or after, and whether they shared a team with any of their opponents, and whether they had any sort of tension, and—
Well, you get the idea. Atsumu wouldn’t be this good at setting if he didn’t know what’s going on in the heads of his teammates during matches. And during practice. And at the gym. And during team outings, too.
Having people all up in his business instead of the other way round isn’t something he’s used to. What’s even worse, Atsumu finds himself totally unprepared for it when the break between his recovery sessions apparently coincides with the lunch break of half the department who keep glancing at his half-empty table for two at the hospital canteen. He wasn’t even that hungry, really. Damn.
Atsumu angrily chews his tonkatsu, eyes bored into the scratched wood of the table. The view is suddenly obscured by another tray—and oh, there he is: black trousers, white shirt, card on a lanyard, blank face, and a mop of jet-black curls.
Kiyoomi sits down in the opposite seat. “Miya,” he says in lieu of a greeting, and digs into his food.
Atsumu’s face splits into a grin: they have an audience. It’s no fun to be observed this closely on his own. With Kiyoomi here, Atsumu has an opportunity to play around, and the anger seeps out of him.
He mulls over his next course of action. The plates clear while Atsumu keeps quiet, and then he asks, hushed, “What brings ya here, Sakusa-kun?” His foot carefully moves towards Kiyoomi’s. “Missed me?” Their ankles touch.
Kiyoomi’s shoulders jerk in surprise, almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move his leg away. “Keeping up appearances.” He glances to the side. Atsumu doesn’t follow the gaze: he knows a table full of interns is right about there. “We need to talk.”
“My-my, what a terrifying choice of words! Ya breakin’ up with me? So soon? And in a public place, too?” Atsumu wipes off an imaginary tear. “Brutal.”
Kiyoomi sighs. “Why did you pretend to be my boyfriend?”
Straight to the million-dollar question it is. Why did he, really? A creature of habit, Atsumu opens with a lie.
“I’m a good guy,” he says. His grin is as full of confidence as his heart is empty of it. “I’ve had something similar happen to me, y’know. A workplace can get real unpleasant when you publicly shoot someone down.” Kiyoomi doesn’t need to know who rejected whom during that particular fiasco. “Thought I’d help ya,” Atsumu shrugs.
“Well.” Kiyoomi pauses there, staring somewhere above Atsumu’s left shoulder. “Thank you, Miya,” he mutters.
“Ah, you’re welcome!” Atsumu preens.
“But I wonder if you thought this through,” Kiyoomi continues. “Do you understand how ridiculous it will make me look if anyone learns you lied and I went along with it? I share classes with half of those people. Oh, fuck.” Kiyoomi reaches to put a hand on his forehead, then seems to think better of it and stops midway, settling for a frown. “This can easily become so much more—what did you call it?—unpleasant.”
Atsumu did not, in fact, think this through. “Of course I considered that,” he scoffs, because he wouldn’t be Miya Atsumu if he couldn’t bullshit his way through just about anything. ”We’ll fake it so nicely nobody will suspect a thing. Don’t worry, I’m in it for the long haul.” He pauses. “Well, until I head back to Osaka, I mean. So… I’m in it for the entire, uh, three to four weeks if my doctor’s to be trusted. Good enough for ya?”
“I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?” Kiyoomi sighs. The sound is kind of starting to grow on Atsumu. “Fine, yes. Let’s do it. So what’s the plan?”
Fake it till you make it, probably, Atsumu thinks. “Shouldn’t be too difficult. Your colleagues are nosy as hell, but we’re not under investigation or anything.” Nevertheless, the similarity is a tiny bit unsettling. When Atsumu casually shifts as if to gaze out of the window, at least three heads move to look away from their table far too quickly to pass for innocuous. “Ya not actively avoiding me should be good enough, to be honest. Think ya can manage that?” Atsumu raises a brow.
Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “With some effort. How much time will you be spending at the hospital?”
“A few hours every weekday. From 9 am to midday, mostly, but with an extra session after lunch on Wednesdays. Don’t sweat it; I’m sure I’ll barely even see you anyway. Just, like, wave at me and…smile if you’re at the reception desk when I come in.”
“That doesn’t sound good enough.” Kiyoomi frowns. “Where do you live?”
“Takadanobaba. Why?”
Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “Baba? Couldn’t choose anything nastier? I’ll be picking you up.”
“I didn’t choose it!” Atsumu bristles before the last words register. “The management—wait, what?”
“I’ll be picking you up,” Kiyoomi repeats with an air of finality. “What kind of person would let their injured boyfriend commute to a hospital?”
“Um, the one who doesn’t actually have a boyfriend?” Atsumu shifts uncomfortably.
“Exactly. What’s your number?” Kiyoomi unlocks his phone and looks at Atsumu inquiringly, a finger hovering over the keypad.
Reciting is automatic. Atsumu’s tongue follows the familiar path, self-directing, as the gravity of the situation finally starts to sink in.
Atsumu has a bit of a crush on Kiyoomi. It’s never been a big deal: his crushes are mainly harmless. His crushes are distant, usually, and therefore meaningless.
Atsumu likes distance. He likes the rare meetings, too, of course; it’s just that, when all is said and done, they’re no more than a reverie. Some flirty words get thrown around, rewarding Atsumu with a rush of dopamine, but when it’s over, unattainability keeps him grounded. Daydreams don’t throw Atsumu off balance.
It’s the lack of distance that causes issues. It’s the lack of distance that forces Atsumu to face, every single time without exception, that nothing ever works out not because of the circumstances, but because Atsumu is Atsumu.
He’s made peace with it. Really, he did. He’s not going to try and change who he is, not for anyone, even though who he is is, simply put, too much. As it happens, too much is just enough for Atsumu to feel like himself, and he can’t bear being anything less than that.
Still, there’s no pleasure in being reminded about it. Once his crushes veer from silly fantasies to hope, he crashes and burns, time and time again. It’s bound to happen.
Atsumu can imagine it all so clearly. The chance to get closer to Kiyoomi is right here, and he will take it—hell, he’s already taken it; one might even say he orchestrated it himself. It won’t end well for him, but Atsumu truly is a fool.
When Kiyoomi sends him a message to make sure they both have each other’s phone numbers, Atsumu feels nothing but excitement.