Chapter Text
It sears--the burn in your lungs as you tumble headfirst into the manmade canal of Tokyo DisneySea.
You’re vaguely aware you’re probably drowning, which is fine—you never planned on living past 40 anyway. Jumping the gun on one of your life plans doesn’t seem too bad when you have nothing else going for you. (You are the one cutting lecture to go a theme park alone on a Wednesday morning, after all.) So what if you're only 22? Only the good die young (everyone will remember you at the prime of your life) and you're about to prove that.
Except you don't.
The immense disappointment of being pulled out of the water by some random park employee doesn’t even compare to the shock of opening your eyes and realizing you’re somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. And oh, it's not a park employee, but a random old guy, plucking you up by the collar of your shirt like you're a helpless baby kitten.
No, you’re not drowning at Disney anymore (a shame, as you consider the potential million-dollar lawsuit forever lost. Amazing how they can get away with it even in another universe.). You’re hacking up water in the fountain of some luxury mall.
"Are you OK?" asks really old guy.
"Y--yeah," you say, words crumbling lamely in your mouth as you look around to assess your surroundings. The signs are still written in Japanese, which, yes, means you're still in the same country. Right. That's good. "Is this--where am I?"
“Ginza Six,” he says, and when you stare at him blankly like a deer in headlights, he goes on. "You must've hit your head. Should I call you an ambulance?"
"This isn't Disney?"
"What's Disney?"
You practically choke again, this time on laughter, but when you see he's not fucking with you, you recoil instead. "How can you not know what Dis--where am I, really?"
"Oh no, she has amnesia," says a passing really old lady.
Really old guy looks at you with eyes full of concern, "Are you OK, miss?"
You take one last look at your surroundings, the really old guy who's dialing 199 on the phone, and then you look at your hands before standing up. No, you think, you are really not OK.
*
Dripping wet, you head to the closest boutique, take whatever's cheapest on the sale's rack, and make your way to the nearest bathroom in a mad dash that would probably impress even the most veteran marathon runner.
You field all sorts of weird looks as you start stripping naked by the mirror, throwing your clothes with a wet thwack to the ground. You're in the middle of peeling away your undergarments when you see it.
A single name printed in your skin like a tattoo print in white.
Like a scar.
Atsumu Miya.
"Whaaaaaat the fuck," you mumble, brushing your fingers against the characters, feeling every ridge to ascertain if this is real or if you're having ridiculous delusions of grandeur post-drowning. "What the actual hell is that?" You start rubbing away at the imprinted name, but nothing changes. The mark stays pretty on your skin, only turning redder the more you irritate it with your hands. "What the--"
“That’s your soulmate’s name,” says the girl occupying the sink next to you.
She’s wearing a some kind of school uniform and from the look of her, she’s probably in middle school. Great. Now you're getting lectured by somebody five years younger than you, which is basically the equivalent of getting lectured by a fetus. When she sees the doe-eyed look in your face, very obviously not understanding the severity of the situation, she scoffs, “Oh my gosh, are you from a different planet or something?”
“No, I’m just really, really stupid,” you tell her, not quite sure about the physics of telling someone where you’re actually from, which she’s technically right about. You are from a different dimension. But you've seen enough shows to understand the risk of endangering your life once you let the secret loose. And you're not in the mood to meet a violent, painful demise after drowning in a fountain. “Can you please explain to me what this means?"
Still, the look she offers you is filled with disbelief, maybe disgust? Great. She must think you’re fucking with her now. “Ever hear of the red string of fate?”
“Um, yes. No. Yes. Refresh my memory for me?"
She sneers at you, “Jeez, you really are stupid.”
“Yes, glad we’ve established that. Now please explain this to me like I’m a five-year-old.”
She does.
*
Turns out all the cash you were carrying was converted to whatever currency they use in this new world. Along with your IDs, with your name printed on in block letters (your very unattractive ID photo stays exactly the same. Can't win them all). But your phone’s dead. Water-logging logic still applies even in this new world.
When you gather yourself and decide this isn't some weird dream you've conjured up with that weirdo brain of yours, you get yourself a guidebook from the local book store, untuck the map, and toss out the book before heading over to the library.
You make a bee-line for the public computers and start googling the name imprinted on your collarbone.
Search: Atsumu Miya
3,000 new results.
Bingo.
So he's famous-famous. Figures.
Turns out this Atsumu Miya guy is some kind of volleyball player...athlete...whatever. OK, so maybe you’re more of a football girl, but who cares? Beggars can’t be choosers, right? His player profile says his favorite food is fatty tuna, but there’s nothing else past that that's particularly helpful. Moot point. Fine. You decide to move along.
The second thing that shows up is Onigiri Miya, apparently some restaurant his twin brother founded. You jot down the address, look up the closest sushi spot nearby, and head out on your way with errands in plan.
*
Fatty tuna in hand, you make your way to Onigiri Miya, where there's a line out the door that you basically ignore as you filter through the aisle until you find a very, very tall-looking man in a baseball cap that looks exactly like the guy on your collarbone.
"Line's there for a reason," he says, sauntering right past you with a two plates of mackerel for the customers in the booth next to you.
"You guys should really consider getting a front-of-house," you offer unhelpfully as you follow him into the back where the seats end and the kitchen begins. "I need to speak to you--are you Atsumu Miya's brother?"
"What gave it away," he deadpans.
You peel back the neck of your shirt, where the name sits on full display.
He does a double-take, "Oh shit."
*
"Listen, if there's one thing you should know about my brother, it's that he ain't exactly the commitment type."
"That's fine." You're not exactly the one looking for the boyfriend to end all boyfriends, but you decide to let that slide. It's easier than explaining this isn't your world -- you have no one else to turn to or trust -- and nothing makes sense logistically. "You said he's a volle--"
The door opens before you turn the corner—and there he is in all his glory. Atsumu Miya. He looks taller than his pictures, handsomer too. His hair's slicked back, which gives him an adversely mature quality that the bangs in his player headshots didn't.
"I had a good time."
Oh, there's someone else too.
Another girl.
He kisses her on the way out. “See you tomorrow night?” She says and he smiles and offers her a nod of affirmation before looking over to see his brother and you.
"See what I mean?" says Osamu, ushering you to the apartment. "Oi--that's like the third girl you brought back this week. What'd I tell you about sleeping with fans?"
Atsumu shrugs, "Doesn't matter if they'll keep quiet about it." He turns to you, "Who's this?"
“Hi, I think I’m your soulmate,” you say, and maybe that’s not that best line to lead with, but you’re not wrong -- he is your soulmate according to the giant white characters scarred into your collarbone -- and he should be ecstatic to finally meet you, right?
The door slams in your face. “FUCK MY LIFE,” comes the muffled scream on the other side.
Osamu cocks his head to the side as you try not to feel completely insulted by the reaction you’ve just witnessed, “I think he’s taking it well," he says, and um, really? You two must have very different definitions of what it means to be well.
The door rips open again.
“Come in,” he says, utterly cold and callous as he takes off towards the couch. You try not to look completely hurt by the revelation that your soulmate already hates you, but easier said than done. His face is already morphing into something like he’s ready to kill you—which somehow puts you on edge because, hey, you're game to kill him too.
“I brought tuna,” you say, handing over the doggy bag of food. Your last attempt at putting on a show of good faith. Because food is supposed to unite people, regardless of what universe they come from. “I read it’s your favorite—”
“Can we just pretend this never happened?" He says, looking at you from the couch. "Where do you live? I'll call you a cab."
“I don’t have a home,” you say, “Actually—"
Atsumu groans, tossing his head back like the entire weight of the world has crushed his shoulders twice over, “Awesome. My soulmate is a homeless loser.”
“Hey, that’s not nice,” says Osamu, taking a seat next to him. “We don’t know if she’s a loser yet.”
Something inside you snaps when you see him untuck his phone from his pocket, "You think I want to be here?" You drop the fatty tuna on the floor. "You fucking--dickhead? YOU THINK I WANT TO BE STUCK IN THIS STUPID WORLD? THAT DOESN'T KNOW WHAT DISNEY IS?"
Atsumu blinks, "Wait, what do you mean by that?"
Oh. Wait.
Your secret's out and you're not miraculously dead.
But now the twins are staring at you like you're a literal alien (which you are, for the record) and though you're tempted to turn around, leave, and never turn back, you collapse on your knees, completely resigned to your fate instead.
*
“You think I’m crazy.”
For a while, Atsumu and Osamu just stare at you.
In silence.
Waiting.
Until.
"Yeah, you're crazy," says Osamu, standing up from his seat to reach for the case of fatty tuna that's still sitting next to you on the floor.
But Atsumu is rubbing his temples like he's already tired of you. And you--you start understanding the severity of your situation. Because neither of them believe you, which means you're basically on your own.
"Forget it," you mutter, standing up and making a bee-line for the door. "I thought you could help me out, but I'll figure this shit out on my own."
But Atsumu grabs you by the wrist before you can even get a handle on the doorknob. "Just--wait. Give me a sec, will ya? It's a lot to process," he says, and the look he offers you is so full of disdain, so full of pity, that you would rather just cut your losses and say fuck it. Because if he decides to believe you, he is then responsible for you the way a person is responsible when they discover an abandoned box of puppies on the side of the road.
"I just need time to think," he says, dragging you to the couch where he plops you right next to Osamu. "Just stay here. And be a good girl."
*
Like everything else in life, soulmates are not full proof.
Red strings break. Life happens fast. That’s why divorce lawyers are still in demand; that’s why relationship counselors still exist; and that’s why people learn to ignore the marks they’re born with to sleep with other people. That’s why Atsumu Miya is perfectly content with his dating life outside the volleyball court. Everything is set at a leisurely pace and there’s no expectation that anything will last more than a one-night stand.
Feelings don't get hurt, drama doesn't exist, and every party is happy.
It's the only game where everyone wins.
So when he stares at the mark of your name on his wrist, shifts his gaze to the name scribbled on your ID in block text, assesses your photo like he's trying to figure out some lost secret left by DaVinci on the Mona Lisa, he frowns.
You're cute, but you could be a little prettier. (Well, that’s not saying much since you look like a wet puppy dog, which is basically what you are.) And you could be a little taller, but you’re overall easy on the eyes, even if it's not quite his aesthetic. It could be worse, he thinks, leaning over the sink to splash some water over his face.
When he comes back out, you're nowhere to be found.
“Where is she?"
Osamu has already emptied his case of fatty tuna, scrolling through his phone leisurely like he has nowhere else to be. “She said something about the mall and finding a way home. She also told me to tell you not to follow her—also that you’re a dickhead and she would rather drown herself in a fountain than have you as a soulmate,” he says. “Are you hungry?”
Atsumu groans, but grabs his jacket from the back of his couch.
"Where're ya goin'?"
“To find my dipshit soulmate,” Atsumu snaps, slamming the door shut.
*
It doesn't take him long to find you.
There's only one mall nearby, three blocks away from his volleyball gym, and there's only one fountain in the entire structure.
Doesn't help that you're literally fist-fighting with the security, trying to dive head-first into the fountain while a group of onlookers stare on like they're witnessing the advent of a zombie movie. You are loud, but you are also crying, so when he dives into the water after you, it's enough to surprise even himself.
You break from the guards, jumping into the deep-end of the fountain, and he follows you, swimming right past the buffoons in uniforms to grab you by the nape of your white t-shirt. Which has gone completely see-through.
But you're bawling, hiccuping nonstop like you can't catch your breath. "I wanna go home," you sob. "I don't want to be here. I wanna see my mom--"
“Oi, you don't have to go,” he says. “You can stay, OK? I believe you."
Tears well up in your eyes—they well up fast, slipping down your face in hot fat globs until you’re sobbing into his shirt. “Why can’t I wake up from this,” you say. “Why can't this just be a dream."
He doesn’t know what you mean, but he's managed to corral you to your feet, which is a minor victory in his book. He throws his jacket over your shoulders, tells the guards you're with him, and leads you out of the fountain where the group of onlookers look disappointed the show is finally over.
You're probably going to get a lifetime ban from ever visiting that mall again, but that's OK too.
*
After a hot shower, a few rice balls, and a nap, you get settled into his one-bedroom apartment.
If what you said is true, then you seem to have a pretty good handle on things—the world you’re from isn’t much different than his, except you don’t know anyone here, and apparently Disney doesn’t exist.
You don't speak about what happened in the mall. He's afraid to ask because the thought of you breaking apart again is just too much to handle. And he's done his good deed of the day: he followed his gut, did the right thing, and rescued you from mall cops.
So he spends the next hour just studying you from the dining table. "You can sleep on the couch," he says, and it's enough to make you smile. Amazing what two rice balls can do to lift the mood.
He's about to say something more when there comes another knock on the door.
It’s another girl.
"Hi," she says, scanning his sweatpants and tshirt. "Forget about our date?"
"Shit, yeah. Family emergency," he says, whipping up a lie on the fly as the girl shifts her gaze to you. "That's my cousin. She just moved to the city. She's staying with me for a while until she gets on her feet."
She buys it, "Aw, that's too bad. Call me later then?"
"Will do." He pecks her on the lips before closing the door, smile forming on his face as he turns to you.
And then he frowns. Almost immediately.
“You are impinging on my right to get laid so I hope you’re ready to pay up,” he says, and for a moment, you think he might be talking about a different kind of payment, but when he realizes the look on your face is something of disgust, he goes on. “You’re paying half of rent, idiot. What the hell is wrong with you? Get your head out of the gutter."
“What the hell is wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with you?” You snap, forgiveness apparently all lost as you cross your arms over your chest and huff. “We were being nice and then you started being an asshole to me for no good reason."
He just looks at your face like it's offending him, "Ugh." He turns his heel to go to his room.
He slams the door shut.
*
You spend the rest of the night ignoring him, watching some cheesy romcom on the television until it's pitch black outside your windows.
You're vaguely aware at some point that the door to his room is creaking open, but you don't give half a damn as you continue staring at the drone of your screen, watching the cute couple make their final meeting in the dreary thicket of the Meiji Shrine.
Atsumu stomps into the living room, every step heavy like lead, until he reaches the end of the pull-out couch.
"I can't sleep," he says, nudging your foot roughly with his. "Because the TV is on."
You lift the remote and turn the volume all the way up.
After some heavy consideration, he joins you on the pull-out couch. Flopping right next to you while maintaining a respectable wedge of distance.
"Go away," you say, but it hardly has any resolve as you tone down the volume on the TV, apparently acquiescing to this terrorist's demands.
“What’re you watching.”
“I don’t know. A romcom,” you say, no fight left in your voice. “If you wanna turn something else on—”
“It’s fine.”
For a while, the two of you just stay like that, watching TV on the couch. Until the main couple are kissing on screen, in the rain, totally drenched. It’s longing, deep, and passionate, and when they look into each other’s eyes it’s like there’s nothing else in this world they can see.
“That,” you say, motioning to the TV with the remote. “Best romcom trope ever, bar none. I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."
Atsumu takes a breath, ready to take your offer and say something offensive to piss you off because the best trope is obviously body swaps because boobs are awesome, but when he looks over, he sees you’re already fast asleep.
He tucks the covers over your shoulder and decides to call it a night.
*
Days go by and Atsumu starts figuring out what life looks like with you in the picture.
You don't see much of each other during the day. He wakes up at dawn for his morning workout, starts practicing at noon, and gets home in the evening. When he has a match, he doesn't get home until midnight. And when he's on the road, he barely sees you around at all.
Still, you start settling into a routine and he finds himself coming home to dinner made. You start packing his lunches too, which is an oddly domestic thing to do, but he thinks nothing of it because you tell him "I like cooking" and "I always wanted to be a chef", which are basic keywords for don't misinterpret my actions.
“So what’s your endgoal here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, what’re you trying to do? Win the Olympics?”
Atsumu rubs his temples, “One does not simply win the Olympics,” he says. “And for your information, we’re a division one volleyball team, which,” you look less and less interested the more he’s explaining. “Are you even listening?”
“So you’re a professional.”
“Yeah.”
“And you get paid to play—”
“—volleyball.”
For a while, both of you just eat in silence.
“That’s really cool,” you tell him, suddenly, beaming. “You followed your dreams and now you're here. You made it. That's, like, one in a million." You probably aren't thinking much of it when you say the next words: "I think that's really amazing."
Atsumu goes to sleep with a smile on his face.
*
You start taking on shifts at Onigiri Miya, working front of house because Osamu says cute girls will drive more customers through the door—and hey, that’s kind of sexist but he’s not completely wrong either—so you deal with it, put on a brave face, and work your ass off because money isn’t free and money in Tokyo is especially not free.
Outside the twins, you start making friends with the wait staff. With your long shifts into the night, they’re the only ones you really see around. So you share drinks with them, bitch about customers, and try to explain to them the unfair power of one tiny capitalist mouse, hoping that one day you'll wake up and they'll know exactly what you're talking about.
Atsumu and his teammates are part of that little squad, pouring in long after restaurant hours are closed. You take over kitchen duties while Osamu serves, and for the most part, Atsumu remains perfectly civil -- no one knows you're living with him and you're content with that arrangement -- though Osamu makes it clear to the others that you're completely off limits. (Whatever that means. You think it's probably for the sake of his brother.)
Adriah, one of his foreign teammates, starts chatting with you outside the group. And it's mostly menial at first. He asks you how your day is going and if onigiri was always your life's passion, and for what it's worth, you do your best to indulge him because he's nice and seems like he genuinely wants to know.
Atsumu watches mostly with a discerning eye, like an eagle watching its prey moments before striking. You give him a look like what the hell is wrong with you which he returns with similar fervor, as if you're the one doing something wrong.
“If you don't mind me asking, where are you from?"
“—that’s none of your business,” says Atsumu, and, gee, that’s a weird thing to say to a freaking teammate. “Sorry. She’s my cousin, alright? I’m protective.”
Adriah laughs, but there’s hurt behind his eyes that you don't miss.
Eventually, the rest of Black Jackals call it quits for the night and offer their thanks before leaving. But Atsumu hangs around while you and Osamu clean up, and it's only when you start wiping down the counter that you decide to say something.
“Your friend Adriah,” you start, wringing the towel in your hand. “You were really mean to him.”
“I was saving your sorry ass. He was asking you where you were from,” he replies, scrolling through his phone to look at his game stats. “What was I supposed to do? Watch you tell him you’re from another dimension or somethin’?”
“I was gonna tell him I’m from Tokyo, idiot. Your cities still exists in my world."
Oh.
“You were an asshole to him for no reason,” you tell him, frowning. "You should say sorry."
"Whatever," he mumbles, but it hardly has any effect because the only discomfort he feels is in his gut--and it doesn't feel like guilt, only envy.
*
Weeks go by, and suddenly you've been living in his place for three months.
Atsumu has always been a morning person, but you’re fast asleep by the time he gets up and makes himself breakfast—you work deep into the night at the restaurant, so you sleep during the day as much as you can. And when Osamu is taking a shift in front of the stadium, you’re the one manning the restaurant all day.
So he decides he owes you this much of a professional courtesy. He does have a sizable investment in Onigiri Miya and you're part of that success, so the numbers are all lining up for him to be nice to you, perhaps even respectful.
He starts getting used to having you around. It’s a curious little thing, coming home to food on the table. He thinks there's some comfort in it he hasn't quite managed to digest.
“I’m moving out,” you tell him one day.
Oh. He doesn’t quite expect that, but then again, what did he actually expect? “You—”
“—I have enough saved up for a deposit,” you go on, beaming with a smile so bright it makes his stomach flip. “And work has been going really great. Osamu lets me cook in the kitchen, which is what I always wanted to do, and all my coworkers have been really supportive. I'm doing what I love, so I've decided living here isn't too bad."
For a moment, he all but forgets that you're from another world.
A different world.
“You don’t have to go, y’know,” he says. “You can always stay.”
“And sleep on your couch forever?” You laugh, pouring yourself a cup of coffee before making your way to the dining table. “No thanks.” You take a seat, pull out the newspaper, and flip to the listings of apartments in the back. “Besides, you can get back to your normal life. I’m sure you have a whole laundry list of girls who are waiting for you to call them back.”
You say it so flippantly he nearly forgets the fact that your name is still printed on his wrist.
Because all of this feels normal, like this is exactly how it's supposed to be. Like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.
“Oh, and can you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” the word escapes him faster than he can think.
You give him a funny look, “I was wondering if you could get me two tickets to your game tonight,” you say. “This guy I’m seeing—”
He blanches, “—you’re dating?”
“Um, yeah.”
He looks weirdly offended, which somehow makes you feel offended too, and when he gets up to go to his room, he slams his door and you're left wondering what you did wrong.
*
It's raining.
Attendance is down when the weather sucks, so the stands remain relatively empty when you arrive, soaked to the bone. Your date--some dreary looking college student--ushers you in, leading you to your seats in the stands. The best seats in the house, thanks to Atsumu. You would be so lucky. And you would be so welcome.
*
It's raining and you're willowing outside after the game with your date, who offers you a courteous goodbye before you turn your heel, ready to head in the opposite direction.
But Atsumu's there, like some creepy Machiavellian final boss. The rest of his teammates bid him goodbye, but he stays there, watching you. Like a stalker. Like a weirdo stalker. And you hold your gaze on him for a moment longer before turning around and bolting.
You start running, so he starts running, and suddenly this is now a game of cat and mouse that neither of you really signed up for.
"WHY ARE YOU RUNNIN'?" He screeches.
"BECAUSE YOU'RE CHASING ME," you screech back, but he catches up before you can get across the street and suddenly you're in a one-way wrestling competition to get out of his grip. "What the hell is wrong with you? Let go of me!"
"Why were you running?" He asks again, and your eyes immediately well up with tears, which get lost in the downpour of rain. "Where are you going?"
"I don't know," you snap, and suddenly you're ugly sobbing, choking out the words that come next. "I don't know where I'm going, OK? I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing? I don't belong here--this isn't my world, and you chasing me doesn't help!"
He rips back his sleeve and shoves his wrist into your face, “That’s your name, alright? You belong here."
"W--"
He pulls you into his arms, lips colliding against yours and suddenly you're melting, melting, melting. Tasting him as he lifts you into the air, only to lower you slowly to the ground as your lips part. As you gulp down your last breath because you know this is a road you're traveling down that you can't turn back on.
"I'm sorry it took me so long," he says. "I love you. And I'm sorry. Please stay."
You meet his gaze, the smallest smile forming on your lips, "OK."
Best. Trope. Ever.