Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts as a single thread. There’s never been a loose edge that Atsumu hasn’t wanted to pick, fingers twitching with the perpetual need to unravel. He doesn’t know why he’s like this, only knows that Osamu would say something like it’s to account for feeling like the interior twin, but Osamu is going to spend the rest of his life serving onigiri from the stands while Atsumu is serving no-touch aces to crowds of adoring fans so, really, who’s the one having the last laugh? Even if Osamu still talks to Kita every other month, whereas Atsumu is lucky if he gets a postcard once a year, one line in neat black kanji about the importance of diligence or something equally damning on the back of a rice field.

The truth is, when you grow up one half of a pair, you find your own ways to stand out. Osamu lightens his hair into a dark ash, so Atsumu bleaches his hair in the bathroom one evening to his parents’ abject horror, strands like straw in patchwork clumps with the black roots showing through. Osamu is chosen as the setter before he is, but Atsumu is the one who nips at his heels until he finally fells the beast, because he’s always willing to practice one extra set just to earn the satisfaction of calling victory his. Osamu eats three rice balls, so Atsumu just has to have four even though it weighs him down at training, sloshing in his stomach until he’s kneeling in the bathroom afterwards and emptying his victory into porcelain.

It’s an itch. A compulsion. It’s the childish fascination with a lighter, flickering it on and off just to know the thrill of holding the flame in his hands. It’s seducing Osamu’s first year girlfriend away from his side just because he can. It’s flicking his gaze over Ayane’s head to lock eyes with his brother just before he goes in for the kiss because everything is another point to be scored in a game.

It’s meeting Kageyama Tobio in person for the first time after hearing so much about the genius setter of Miyagi from a nothing school who has shaken up his prefecture. The crows who slays the giant, Ushijima bowing out of his third year of high school volleyball failing to make Nationals. It’s seeing a brittle spine, stiff as a board, and flitting, nervous eyes that dart around him in an attempt to fit in, and feeling his fingers press against the fissure until it breaks. It’s the disgust in hearing the unyielding challenge of Atsumu’s sets be compared to the soft, reverent touch of Kageyama’s and spying the exact place to stick the knife and twist.

“You’re an awful sweet goody-two-shoes, ain’tcha, Tobio-chan?”

Because in all things Atsumu must win. Because all things Atsumu must unravel, spiralling the thread outwards like tape from his fingers after a long day’s hard practice.

And then there’s Hinata, who is something like another point to be scored. Or, at least, that’s what he thinks.

*

It starts as a single thread. Atsumu occasionally flicks through Twitter when he’s bored, and given that he mostly knows and follows volleyball players, it’s inevitable that most of his feed is filled with volleyball content. One chain of comments gives him pause, and he huffs a laugh to himself as he looks through the eager Black Jackals fans attempting to work out information on their newest recruit. There’s just something about Hinata that makes people want to know more. Atsumu gets that. He’s been there himself, peering through the net with the fire in his belly igniting as he realises that’s been thoroughly unprepared for the lightning quick feet of Karasuno’s number ten.

captain meian and his vball kids @kiochibi

so apparently @tsumtsums captured the new bj OH with the team but he’s so small?? are we sure this is the new recruit and not a manager or something?? #mysteryjackal

There’s a picture attached of a blurry candid, Hinata walking by his side nearly a whole head shorter. His face is obscured by a black cap and mask but a little of his red hair pokes through. There’s no mistaking the Black Jackals’ tracksuit he wears, a mirror to Atsumu’s own. Atsumu is struck, not by Hinata skipping along with his usual pep, but with his own posture, turned completely towards him all the way down to his feet. He remembers this moment, Hinata babbling about something or other that his friend in Brazil had said, and how he hadn’t really heard a word, too mesmerised by the sun reflecting through his red hair like autumn leaves.

your source for jackals content @msbysource

ok so I did some digging on the bjs new oh and it turns out he used to play beach?? check it out my friend saw this game when she was in brazil #mysteryjackal

This first image depicts a toned man diving across the sand to dig a volleyball, a visor shading his eyes from the sun. The second depicts him celebrating with a much taller, dark-skinned man. Hinata in the picture is bronze with the sun, his smile beaming from ear to ear, and he looks radiant. Holy shit. How is Atsumu only seeing this now?

just one backpacker against the world @pizzapii

Replying to @msbysource

That’s Ninja Shouyou! I caught a game the week I stayed in Brazil and he was awesome! I don’t know much about volleyball but he was fun to watch and not bad on the eyes, either! 👀👀

NOTICE ME KAGEYAMA-SENPAI @yamatobs

Replying to @msbysource

mm get this tho if that’s really Ninja Shoyuou ie Hinata Shouyou ie Karasuno #10 then he used to play with none other than Kageyama in high school! #mysteryjackal

atsumu’s wife @settersouls

Replying to @yamatobs

OMG get this my brother used to play vb for mujinazaka vbc and apparently these 2 played off atsumu twice !! check #mysteryjackal

This picture is slightly blurred, depicting a newspaper article covering the Interhigh. It details the rivalry between Karasuno and Inarizaki, two top-tier schools, dated 2014 when Inarizaki reclaimed victory in the third round of the tournament. There’s even a quote from Captain Miya himself, which makes him smile, studying the familiar tangerine away uniforms of the two captured mid-quick, Atsumu across the net poised for the attack.

“Six years, eh, Shouyou-kun?”

Something about it itches beneath his skin in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. To think they’re weeks away from the big game, where he might finally get to put that old promise into motion. Atsumu lets his thumb hover the image of a younger Hinata mid-flight and grins.

His stomach growls in hunger.

*

There are things that Atsumu has never wanted until he sees it in the hands of someone else. He turns his nose up at volleyball until Osamu gets one for his birthday and then suddenly he’s hypnotised by the washing machine spin of colours as it twirls in the air, twitching with the need to rip it out of his brother’s hands. No, in fact, Atsumu does not want a dog until Misaki in his class comes in with pictures of his brand new puppy and everyone in class swarms around him. It’s not like he really cares about fashion until Suna enters the locker room wearing the latest Nikes and then as soon as he’s home he’s searching up the price on his laptop. Perhaps it is why he belongs with the foxes, dirty little scavengers that they are.

Then there’s Kageyama; wide eyed, soft-spoken, hunched over Kageyama trying to fade into the crowd, who had merely blinked in the face of Hoshiumi’s gravity-defying leap into the sky and marked it down for reference, suddenly a different boy altogether on the national stage. His brows are drawn down like a storm cloud over the sky, promising a hurricane. Kageyama, who stands with his shoulders high and his chin higher, lofty as a king surveying his subjects, and Atsumu wonders how it’s possible for someone to change so severely in the span of weeks. A trick played to hustle his competition, he wonders? But, no, Kageyama is not the fox, sly and cunning with its tricks.

Kageyama is a crow; a ravenous, devouring little vulture, seemingly harmless yet vicious in the way it swoops in and plucks out its opponents’ eyes. Kageyama Tobio, king of the crows. Kageyama Tobio, the slayer of giants. And by his side is a boy even stranger; shorter, somehow, than even Hoshiumi with his big, swivelling eyes that seem to see all. Atsumu’s radar pings the moment he sees him. One vulture recognises another, after all, like two ruthless creatures scrapping through the dustbin for more. Oh, is he curious about Karasuno’s number ten and the secrets he must hold in that tiny body of his.

And then it happens. The Freak Quick, like a lightning strike. Like Kageyama’s gathering storm has finally broken, and Hinata is the weapon with which he directs it. The ball thunders past Atsumu’s face in a rush of air that sets his hair to fluttering. A knot of something twists in his stomach, be it shock, or envy, or anticipation, he does not know nor does he care. Atsumu could not put a name to the feeling that eats him up from the inside, picking at him like a crow’s beak picking at the giant’s carcass. He sees the rush of it, feels his heart quicken and his palms sweat, and thinks, I need to try that, the way the fool sees another dive off a cliff and finds their thoughts filled with the need to know how it feels to flings themselves over the lip of the abyss.

Hinata stares at him through the net, mouth pulled into a defiant grin, and oh how Atsumu wants. At first he thinks it is merely the quick, because there is not a thing he has seen another possess that he has not immediately wanted to wrench away from them, and like the greedy little scavenger he is he rips it right out of their hands, flips the ball too close to the net and feels the ripple of that cliff-drop swoop in his stomach when Osamu spins it past the blockers’ faces. Oh. Yes. He can see why Kageyama enjoys this.

It is not fair he thinks, that Kageyama should have all this talent and have Hinata Shouyou by his side. His tongue sticks out as he darts around the net on quick feet. Atsumu’s eyes cannot keep up with him. Suddenly he is in the back corner, suddenly he is at the net, as if he can multiply himself around the room. Suddenly he is goading Atsumu into serving right into the space he wants, making him think the left corner is free only for him to swoop in for the kill, the crow sensing the moment the giant falls.

Atsumu’s hairs stand on end with the thrill of it all.

Later, when the final point has been scored and he stares back at the scoreboard, wondering if a brutal three-set game has ever gone so fast, Atsumu’s eyes drift back to Hinata jumping into the air in triumph, his shock of orange hair as vibrant as his garish away uniform. He sees him flap his hands at Kageyama, eyes shining, and feels that knot of something in his stomach when he wants. This time it is more than just the quick he desires.

Like the fox that he is, unable to let the dust of defeat settle quite yet, he points at his opponent. “Shouyou-kun,” he says with the certainty of a man who has just witnessed his future in a moment of blinding, predetermined clarity that’s usually reserved for the devout, “I’m gonna set for ya one of these days.”

And if the set of Kageyama’s shoulders gives him an additional little thrill as he bows out his second year of his high school volleyball career, well, Atsumu doesn’t hold even the tiniest lick of shame that would stop him from admitting it.

*

Hinata Shouyou hits him like a bullet to the chest for the second time six years later, when he is to be introduced to those who have made the cut for the team following tryouts. He saunters in with his water bottle in hand, ready to put these brand new players into place so they know that he’s not the kind of setter who will suffer a brat, when he chokes on his drink. A volleyball strikes down upon the opposite side of the court like the cut of lightning from the sky, the resounding boom echoing out like rolling thunder. A man, tanned golden brown and all compact muscle, jumps up and down in celebration.

“Hinata!” shrieks Bokuto in his ear, shoving him aside so he can swing his disciple up into his arms and spin him around.

“Bokuto-san!” Hinata exclaims, face radiant with joy.

Atsumu is still wheezing, clawing air back into his throat as Sakusa throws him a dirty look and sidesteps him, as if the team’s main setter dropping down and dying in the middle of the gym floor is a mere inconvenience. It’s been six years but Hinata is unmistakable. The line of his shoulders is broader, the colour of his skin warmed by the sun, but the look in his eyes holds the same ravenous hunger within. Atsumu feels the twist in his gut and huffs out a laugh through his wrecked throat.

Tobio-kun isn’t going to know what hit him.

It takes a while. At first Hinata is on the bench, resigned to practising with the second stringers. Even once he’s fed into the rotation, he starts off on the opposite side of the net, everywhere all at once as he dances across the floor. That’s fun, and Atsumu enjoys being his opponent, but it’s nothing compared to the full-body shiver he gets the first time he tosses the ball high and quick, Hinata tearing up the side of the net with the hungry eyes of the hunter spotting its prey. He launches into the air and powers the ball across the net, right into the space between Sakusa and Meian, the pair blinking in shock.

Hinata spins and subjects him to the full beam of his grin, hands curled into fists. “That toss was amazing, Miya-san!”

Atsumu feels his heart throb, skip a beat, and then trip over itself inside his ribcage. Outside he simply mirrors Hinata’s smile, thumb in the air. “There’s many more where that came from.”

“I can’t wait!” Hinata bounces on his heels, ready for the next play, and Atsumu is preoccupied with taking in the tight, compact lines of his form that he almost misses Sakusa’s serve, staggering backwards as it smacks off his arms and flies out of bounds.

Atsumu glares across the net where Sakusa merely stares back at him. But then Hinata erupts into laughter, catching them all off guard. The sun streaming in through the windows turn his brown eyes into a burnished amber that almost seems to glow, his mouth spread wide to reveal shining white teeth against golden skin.

“Everyone’s amazing! I’m so excited!”

And that’s how a promise made recklessly, ravenously, six years and several tournaments ago, comes to be fulfilled. With the sun shining. With Hinata radiant as he sings Atsumu’s praise. With the skin-tingling, hair-raising sensation that a new stage looms on the horizon, bigger and brighter than any he has played on before. There’s nothing Atsumu enjoys more than a challenge, like the question that’s burning in Hinata’s eyes.

Can you reach my level?

Hinata is always looking up to the sky but Atsumu knows it’s not because he’s short.

“That’s because we’re gonna win ‘em all, isn’t that right, Shouyou-kun?”

When he holds out his fist, Hinata bumps it in answer.

*

If there has been one fundamental truth to Atsumu’s life all the way up to the end of his high school years, it’s that he and Osamu come as a pair. This fact has been a subject of such festering resentment for so long that it’s not until after graduation that he comes to realise just how much it has shaped how he views himself as a person. Freshly graduated, his diploma in one hand and a fistful of ambition in the other, he is excited about what his future will bring. He can already picture the volleyball he will play on a different stage. The world of professionals. The banquet of monsters.

That all comes crashing down when Osamu tells him he wants to quit.

“What do you mean you want to quit?” he repeats like a skipping CD. This is already their third day of arguing about it. “Ya started before me. I wouldn’t be playing if it wasn’t for you!”

“Yes,” says Osamu with more patience that he probably warrants, “and now yer gonna keep playin’ after me. But I’m just not as invested in it. You can see it too.”

After banging and crashing and several hours of roaming the streets in a huff, Atsumu returns to the house that evening to find that Osamu has made a steaming plate of onigiri, crafted perfectly, and when he bites into the soft, sticky rice, he is delighted by a core of flaky tuna that melts on his tongue. It is not an apology as such, but more of a statement. This is who Osamu wants to be. Atsumu does not get to deny him it, even if he doesn’t understand it, and he really doesn’t, licking the last grains of rice from his fingers. But his hunger has been sated for the time being.

“Is this a twin thing? Like when I dyed my hair?”

Osamu huffs, looks away, and then leans on his palm. “It’s time we both thought about the future,” he says mysteriously.

“I have thought about it!”

“Did you ever doubt, even for one moment, that you would do anything but volleyball?”

Atsumu pauses at that. “No,” he says eventually. “Did you?”

“Been thinkin’ a lot about it. About what would make me happy.”

“Volleyball doesn’t make you happy?”

“Does it make you happy?”

Atsumu hates when his questions are thrown back in his face. Petulant, he crosses his arms and says, “I asked ya first.”

To Osamu’s credit he restrains himself from rolling his eyes but Atsumu can tell it’s a near thing. “I’m never going to be like you, Tsumu. I’m not going to spend six months perfecting a serve to get one extra point.”

“It was more than one extra point,” he scoffs. “Besides, did ya see their faces when I –”

“That’s what I mean, ya know? You have this look on yer face sometimes, like yer starving and you’ll never be satisfied til ya’ve beaten everyone.”

Atsumu frowns, trying to work out if that’s an insult or not.

“But bein’ an athlete is a short career.” Osamu leans back and there’s the softest smile on his face, eyes distant. “I think Kita-san had the right of it. Simple work, done right. That’s sustainable. Maybe I just don’t have it in me to be devourin’ anymore.”

Atsumu snorts. “Don’t know what yer sayin’. Yer always eatin’.”

Osamu fixes him with a look that makes his smile drop. It is eerily reminiscent of the time that he had caught the cold and turned up to practice, only for Kita to boldly proclaim to his teammates that he was an idiot for not taking care for his health. It says something like, there is another day after tomorrow.

And then because Osamu is still Atsumu’s twin, and they will always be in eternal battle, he says,“I’ll tell you I was happier than you. I’ll win this bet, Tsumu.”

And that just can’t be borne. There is no competition Atsumu will ever concede to Osamu, especially not one like this. But as he retires to bed for the night, lying awake and staring at his ceiling, he realises he doesn’t know the first thing about how to win. For the first time, Atsumu considers the chance that he might not emerge victorious. He huffs and rolls onto his side, glaring a hole in the wall where through the plaster Osamu sleeps.

I’ll be the happier one, he thinks. Just you wait and see.

The lighter flicks on. It burns.

*

Long after their promise, Atsumu spends a lot of time thinking about what happiness means to him. When he was in high school, happiness was stealing the last of Osamu’s matcha Kitkats, or nailing a new serve that had taken him six months to perfect and shocking his opponent team into silence. Happiness was stuffing his face with ramen after a victory with his team loud in celebration around him, or Kita ruffling his hair and telling him that he was less irritating when he kept his mouth shut.

Now, twenty-three and living out a tiny apartment in Sendai, he stands on the balcony and watches the chef from the sushi restaurant across the street carry a huge bag out to deposit it in the communal bin below, his neighbours on the other side of the wall fighting again. His fingers twitch with the ghost of a volleyball imprinted into his skin and he wonders what will happen in that big, nebulous cloud hanging over the horizon that he only dares to call after.

One day Atsumu will no longer play professional volleyball because his body will give up on him. It is a thought almost too heavy to carry and yet he shoulders it for the first time, straining against its weight as he wonders what happens then. What happens then?

How does he measure what happiness means when he can no longer spin the ball beneath his hands? When he can no longer trick his opponent with a sly smile as his spiker smashes the ball onto the other side of the court? Who is Atsumu without his victories, worn and beaten into the bumps and lumps of his fingers? If Atsumu is the fox, cunning and clever in its tricks, what happens to him when he has been defanged and declawed and left by the road?

Suddenly the weight is too much and his knees buckle with the strain of it. Atsumu tsks and turns, shutting the sliding door to his balcony as he retreats into the gloom of his apartment.

*

“Miya-san?”

Atsumu turns, sees Hinata standing in the doorway. He’s wearing that look in his eyes that sends chills down his spine. It’s the crow look; head tilted to the side and a kind of animalistic intensity burning within that makes him feel like he’s about to be devoured. Every so often he forgets this version of Hinata, until he’s out under the bright lights of court with the roar of the crowd in his ears, two points down on a set but knowing that giving up another is unthinkable.

Here Hinata is shadowed by the door frame, just outwith the overhead lights above the gym hall. It’s late now, the sky beyond the windows a matt black, and most of the team has already left. Atsumu’s still stuck on sharpening the curve of his hybrid serve, determined to work his way through it because he knows he won’t sleep otherwise. Sometimes the urge takes him and there’s no helping it.

“You know my brother,” he says, spinning the ball in his hands. “You can call me Atsumu.”

For a moment Hinata simply stand there, the silence a tangible thing between them. Then he’s striding forward, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards. “Atsumu-san,” he says, and the first time hits him like that rush of diving off a cliff. “What are you doing here so late? You know Coach will be mad if he finds out.”

“Ah, Shouyou-kun,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, “you’re not gonna rat me out, are ya?”

Hinata rakes his gaze over him. “Hm. Should I?”

“I dunno. Should ya?”

Atsumu likes the way Hinata smiles when he sees an opponent. It’s the way his lips pull back around blinding white teeth. The baring of sharp canines in warning. It’s the challenge in his eyes that seems to say: underestimate me and you’ll regret it.

“Set for me?” he says.

“Always.”

Atsumu wonders, as he spins the ball up into the air, catching the blur of fire as Hinata leaps and then pummels the ball across the net, if he’ll ever tire of it. Of the magic between the two of them. The way the electricity seems to spark and crackle like his very touch against the ball is pure static; like Hinata is saying to him with every spike, here is my gift of the lightning. Use it well. And Atsumu thinks with resolution, as long as you’ll have me.

Perhaps the storm had never been Kageyama’s, after all.

After a good twenty minutes of this Hinata stops, wiping his mouth as his chest heaves. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, Atsumu following its track down his cheekbone. He swallows. “So what is it that’s got you so in your head today?”

Atsumu blinks, squeezing the ball between his hands. It feels familiar the way an old friend does, his hands accommodating the shape beaten into them over the years. “Just been thinkin’.”

“Mm.”

“You know,” he begins, then stops, rubbing his neck. “Shouyou-kun, what makes ya happy?”

Big, dark eyes blink back at him. “Huh?”

“I’ve just been thinkin’, is all. About what happens when all this is over. Osamu… Osamu said he was going to go to his deathbed knowing he was happier than me an’ ya know me, there’s no fight I’m ever gonna concede to him. But sometimes it hits me that I dunno what happiness is. Ya know?”

The next minute is near unbearable, his lungs tight as he holds his breath. He fights the urge to pull the words back, staring into Hinata’s eyes. Hinata meets his gaze for what feels like an eternity and his lungs begin to burn with the need for air. Then suddenly, he breaks that connection to gaze out over the empty court with what feels like an audible snap, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards.

“I used to get laughed at a lot for my height when I was younger,” he says. “I thought. Well,” he laughs, fingers twisting in his jersey. “I thought it meant I couldn’t do things other people could. But then, one day when I was out on the street, I saw a boy on the TV in a shop window.” Hinata is still staring out at the intersecting lines of the court, his smile growing. “I could have sworn he flew. They called him the Little Giant.”

He turns to him and Atsumu feels himself gasp at the fire burning up in his gaze. “I knew with a certainty I had never felt in my life that I wanted to play just like him. I wanted to know what it was like to fly.”

Hinata laughs, some of the intensity simmering down. “The truth is I don’t know what happiness is, Atsumu-san. Most people tell me I’m dumb to not really worry about the future. But there’s something that happens when I’m out there. When I’m out there I can fly and that’s something, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” he murmurs, twisting the ball in his hands, “that’s really something.”

Hinata’s smile softens out, like the first blush of dawn over a golden field. “You’re not laughing at me.”

“Why would I laugh at you? Shouyou-chan, you’re capable of anything. I’ve seen you fly.” It makes Atsumu want to claw his way up to those heights. Makes him want to push Hinata even further just to see how high he can go.

“Oh. You’re really nice, Atsumu-san!”

The ball drums against the floor like Atsumu’s thudding heartbeat as Hinata takes it from his slack hands, skipping off to practice his serve, oblivious to the effect his words have just had on him. Atsumu rubs his neck and watches Hinata’s shirt ripple across his back as he tosses the ball into the air and leaps.

“That’s really something, indeed,” he murmurs, stomach twisting.

*

Long after their promise, Atsumu spends a lot of time thinking about what happiness means to him.

Meian has a wife and two kids. Atsumu knows this because they tottle along to their games sometimes, two chubby-cheeked little gremlins with jet black hair and big, sparkling eyes, clutching handwritten sighs in their pudgy little hands. His wife, Meian Haruka, comes to the court in her three-piece power suit, her black bob sleek without a hair out of place, and the whole team will know she has arrived from the clack-clack-clack of her heels against the floor. Haruka is a woman who likes to be announced.

Sometimes she will wait behind after a big match, and as her mini-Meians run to their father with piping voices like little birds, she will stand back and watch as they clamber all over him, her painted lips parting in a smile. Atsumu catches Meian once, his responsible and level-headed captain, beaming broadly as he meets her eyes, and thinks, you’re not supposed to be so happy once you’re married.

That’s how it’s supposed to work, ball and chain and all that. Atsumu’s never wanted to be tied down. Can’t stand the thought of it; nine-to-five and a postcard house with a white picket fence and two screaming little brats running around making a mess when he’s already got that covered on his own, thanks. But sometimes.

Sometimes his eyes skim over Hinata as he wipes the sweat from his face with his practice jersey and wonders how he might look with early morning sunshine spilling across his face in bed, or singing in his kitchen, off-key but enthusiastic, with the sizzle of the frying pan as he tests how high he can toss his veggies before they stick to the ceiling. There’s a funny quiver in his belly whenever he has these thoughts that force him to turn away. Indigestion, he thinks. Trying to eat too many rice balls again, he thinks.

Then there’s a fan sign, where Mrs Meian shows up in yet another designer powersuit, her little demons in either hand. It’s a picture perfect photo op moment, journalists snapping photo after photo until Atsumu is dizzy with the flashing lights, Meian embracing the pair of them in his Black Jackals jersey.

“Cute!” says Hinata, eyes sparkling. “They look like they’re gonna be volleyball players!”

“How could you possible know that?” he says.

“I just know, okay.”

And later, once the kids have grown tired of posing for the cameras, the little girl with black pigtails runs up to Sakusa, who’s eyes bug so hard all of the whites of his eyes show. He looks like he’s about to shove her and run but one glance from their manager roots him in the spot, stiff as a lamppost as she peers up at him with big eyes. There’s a smear of sauce on the corner of her mouth.

“Saku-chan!” she exclaims happily and then grabs his hand.

Atsumu erupts into laughter, slapping the table as her brother joins her, jumping and smacking his hand through the air in the imitation of a spike. The next thing he knows he feels soft hair tickling his neck and then there’s Hinata, doubled over and giggling into his shoulder, and suddenly he can’t breathe.

“Ha, Sakusa-san’s face! Quick! Someone snap a photo.”

Atsumu takes out his phone and Hinata only laughs even harder, tears shining in the corners of his eyes.

Sometimes happiness is watching Sakusa Kiyoomi be pawed by the sticky little hands of Meian’s kids as Hinata laughs his way onto his shoulder, his ears ringing with the pealing sound.

*

“Shouyou-kun?” he says, returning to the gym hall to find Hinata up on the stands, staring out across the court with an intense expression. “What are you doing up here?”

Atsumu jogs up to meet him, lands in the seat one away from his and looks out across the court shrouded in darkness. It looks different from this angle, without the blazing overhead lights now that practice is finished. There is something hallowed about it, he thinks, without player or fan, the high ceilings so much grander without all the distractions of the waving banners and the shrill voices clamouring over one another. The shadows cling to the places where the light does not reach, stretching out long.

“Somethin’ on yer mind, Shouyou-kun?”

Hinata is leaning over, fingers threaded together as if he is watching an intense five-setter unfold before his eyes. Somewhere in there, Atsumu thinks he probably is. Only, he thinks that rather than dwelling on previous matches won and lost, he’s confident that Hinata’s mind is pushing towards the future. To his debut match against the Schweiden Adlers. To his reunion with one Kageyama Tobio.

Atsumu would be lying, if he were to say he’s not excited. His gut is quivering in anticipation of simply walking on court; practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of seeing Kageyama’s reaction. It feels fated, somehow. Like his entire high school career was designed with the purpose of building him up to this moment. Like, in that last empty second where the ball had bounced across the floor and Atsumu had known the point lost, he had foreseen where he would be sitting now.

I’m gonna toss for ya one of these days.

Hinata, on the other hand, well, Atsumu’s sure he sees it a little differently. They had been close back then, hadn’t they? It must be odd, knowing they’re about to be opponents. Atsumu tries to imagine Osamu on the opposite side of the net but the picture won’t take shape. It feels wrong, somehow, to think of his brother in another team’s colours, be it Itachiyama green or Fukurodani white, or Kamomedai blue. His fists clench to think it, teeth grinding together.

“A lot of people used to tell me the same thing,” says Hinata, uncharacteristically quiet, with a squiggly line between his brows. His eyes have that distant, unseeing glaze over them, as if in this moment he is walking the past. As if he is taking Atsumu’s hand and leading him there. “They used to tell me that without Kageyama as my setter I was nothing.”

Atsumu stills, mouth parting. His instinct is to scoff but a hard-earned restraint holds him back. Hinata clearly needs to talk and he needs Atsumu not to make this moment about him, even if he cannot possibly imagine how anyone could watch Hinata take flight and not be struck by the divinity in it. By the surety that Hinata Shouyou was made for volleyball.

Hinata kneads his fingers. “I knew they were right back then. If it hadn’t been for Kageyama… I would never be here today.”

And that just stings. Atsumu feels like he’s conceded enough battles to Kagayama Tobio over the years that he has to bite his tongue until he draws blood. It tingles on his taste buds with the taste of metal.

“So I worked hard on my skills. I fought harder. Ran faster. Jumped higher.” Hinata’s thumb presses down on the back of his hand, the line on his brow deepening. “It wasn’t enough. I crashed out during that Kamomedai match, when the team needed me most, because I hadn’t done enough. And Kageyama…” He inhales sharply and then pushes the air out through his nose. “He went on ahead.”

“I knew I needed to do something different. I needed to learn my own volleyball, you know? I needed to know what it meant to play the game without him.”

Atsumu nods, fingers twitching in the material of his shorts.

“Brazil was tough, at first. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t play. Starting on the sand was like starting all over again, only –” he looks up and Atsumu gasps at the way his eyes catch fire “– there are no solid foundations on the sand, you know?”

Of course. It makes sense, in a way. That Hinata can jump like that because he is his own foundation. That if he can force such an unruly surface to bear his weight, then commanding the hard surface of the court is child’s play. He truly is a force of nature, defying each and every expectation set down in front of him with the kind of ravenous hunger Atsumu can only envy.

More, Hinata’s eyes seem to say. I want more.

I will give you more, Atsumu says in return.

“I saw him once,” he says with a tiny, faraway smile. “On the TV, serving for the Olympic team, and I don’t think I have ever felt so small. I thought, well, ‘he has not just taken a step forwards. He has run a whole marathon, and I have not even started yet’. It took me a while, to settle into that realisation. For a few days poor Pedro had to watch me mope around our apartment, convinced that all those people had been right.”

And yet here Hinata sits, about to start a game for one of Japan’s biggest professional volleyball teams, an opponent of the boy he once called a partner. He has achieved so much more than any of those naysayers ever thought he could, because they had failed to see it. The hunger in his eyes. The animalistic tilt to his head as he spots the ball, tongue jutting from his mouth. The way he takes to the skies as if he has wings sprouting from his back.

Hinata still has more to prove.

“Well,” says Atsumu, the slap of his palms against his thighs ringing out in the airy hall, “now’s yer chance to go out and show ‘em all, right?”

Hinata turns once more, subjecting him to the hair-raising thrill of the sweep of those eyes. When his mouth curls upwards into the beginning of a grin, Atsumu feels his stomach squeeze. He can feel the empty pit in his belly where the hunger is awakening.

“Besides,” he says, leaning over into Hinata’s space just a little, “Tobio-chan’s not the only setter in this game, is he? Ya still have me and I certainly ain’t done showin’ all I’ve got.”

Hinata’s smile sharpens, teeth like fangs. “I’m glad I get to be on your team, Atsumu-san. I can’t wait to hit your sets tomorrow.”

Atsumu laughs. Feels his hand flick the lighter. Feels the heat of the flames. “You and me, Shouyou-kun. No stopping until we take the top.”

It feels, not quite like a promise, but like another prophecy, just like the one made six years prior across the net of a bitter loss. Atsumu feels the certainty of it rattle in his bones. Atsumu will set for Hinata. Atsumu will set for Hinata and they’ll win the league title and Kageyama will get to watch it all from across the other side. The tables will turn.

He doesn’t quite know why the thought thrills him but it does. Atsumu is a fox, after all. Atsumu is a fox and he has just befriended a crow.

*

Out of all of their teammates, Atsumu thinks Bokuto must be the happiest of them.

There’s no denying how much Bokuto Koutarou enjoys volleyball. From bus to locker room to court side he bounces, marking every point scored with a bellow of triumph. Bokuto, like some hero from a comic book, all rippling muscle as he leaps into the air and smashes the ball across the court, is a constant field of motion. Bokuto, embracing all elements of what it means to be a star, gesturing for the crowd to clap for him before he serves. Tongue out, brows drawn, more intensely focused in a game than his jovial personality off-court could ever promise.

Even Bokuto, out of everyone on their team, has a partner.

And then there’s Akaashi Keiji, who enters the stadium like a model as he tap-tap-taps away at his phone, completely unaware of the eyes shifting towards him; teeth-grindingly oblivious to his own magnetic pull. He draws as many gazes as the players on court do, aloof and sophisticated in his city boy clothes, imperious as a prince as he sits to watch the game in the front row.

Six years ago Atsumu knows he would have tried to steal Akaashi away from his friend just for the game of it. Six years ago he would not even have thought anything of it. But in his years Atsumu has come to learn this much: there are some things that cannot be stolen. Besides, there’s no saving the way Akaashi flicks his grey eyes over Atsumu with disdain and lets them slide right off as if he’s not even worth a full look. The worst thing about Akaashi, Atsumu thinks, is how he makes no secret of the fact that he prefers Osamu.

“Miya-san,” he says one day over a shared meal after a match, like he does not regularly speak to his twin, “you have a thread loose.”

“Huh?” He blinks in surprise, having expected Akaashi to impart the wisdom of the universe in such a grave tone. “What?”

“A thread,” he says, chewing. Atsumu suspects he’s only here for Osamu’s food, freshly donated to celebrate their win. “You have one.”

Sure enough when Atsumu looks down he sees a catch on his shirt, a thread sticking from his sleeve. His fingers grab it, tempted to pull it until it’s irreparable with that boyish enthusiasm for the lighter, but he manages to resist. It’s then that the door slams open and a wall of noise crashes into the room as Hinata and Bokuto bound in and Atsumu’s hand jerks, ruining all his self-restraint when a ragged line runs down his sleeve. Well, at least he tried.

“Did you start without us?” Bokuto protests as he drops down next to Akaashi, shoving him over to grab a selection of onigiri in both hands.

“You were taking too long,” says Akaashi but from his soft smile he clearly doesn’t mind the way they’re pressed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh.

Hinata sits on a cushion on the other side of the low table, stuffing his face before he’s even hit the ground. Atsumu has the fleeting image of him shoving Atsumu aside in order to press the naked skin of their thighs together but he pushes it away, gulping as he reaches for more onigiri before it’s all gone. By the time Sakusa arrives, sitting opposite Hinata and at a distance to the table, there’s hardly any left.

“Myaa-sam makes the best food,” Bokuto mumbles through a mouthful of rice.

“It’s delicious,” Akaashi agrees.

Even more devastating than the way that his brother is apparently everyone’s favourite Miya twin, is the way Hinata levels his beaming grin upon Atsumu like the force of a floodlight cutting through the darkness. He almost raises his hand to shield his face from the radiance of it, gulping once again at the way his eyes crease, cheeks full with onigiri and rice stuck to the corner of his mouth.

“Thank him for us, Atsumu-san!” he says, raising his thumbs, and Atsumu feels the arrow shooting through his heart.

Sometimes happiness is suffering everyone complimenting Osamu if it means he can be exposed to the full wattage of Hinata’s smile, a single ray of sunshine all for him.

*

Atsumu likes every facet of Hinata, from the bright, open way that he smiles, to the calm that takes over him as he practices yoga in the morning, to the way he doubles over holding his stomach when he’s struck with laughter, the sound of his voice ringing in Atsumu’s ear. But if there’s one expression he likes to see most on his face – the one that makes his stomach flutter and twist – then it’s the feral focus that consumes him during the pinch point of a match. It’s the look of the omnivore; the look of the hungry, ready to devour.

Atsumu takes one look at that expression and feels a shiver run down his spine. Every time. It’s a look he recognises because he knows it’s the exact mirror of his own. Here, amongst the chaos of competing voices, his field of vision narrows down to nothing but the ball and the bright flash of orange tearing up his side. Here, playing not in Inarizaki black but Jackals black, he has found another who understands that twist of something. Here, after Osamu has abandoned him for the safety of rice shipments and tax returns, there is another who flicks the lighter with fascination.

There is nothing that feels quite like tossing the ball on pure muscle memory, on screaming out, “Shouyou-kun!” as a figure takes flight to the gasp of the crowd. To the crack of thunder that is his judgement across the court. To the wide eyes of his opponent. Atsumu’s hairs stand on end, breathing hard as he takes a moment to view the scoreboard. Kageyama cannot believe it either, from the way he gapes between them and it.

Then there he is. Hinata Shouyou, shining in a layer of his own sweat, eyes bright as he screams out, “Yeeeaaaah!” with a mighty bellow, his hands curled into fists.

“Shouyou-kun!” he cries and does not miss that he is the first one those amber eyes land on. That he is the first one to feel the blistering slap of hands on his. His palms come away stinging, as if Hinata has just tried to spike him across the net.

As he watches Bokuto high-five him, and Inunaki slap him on the back, Atsumu wipes the sweat from his brow and thinks, I would not mind it.

Atsumu would let Hinata devour him, if only he would ask.

*

When Thomas first joins the team, it feels to Atsumu like he is unhappy. Not in the kind of way that can be determined on the court, where he works as hard as the rest of them; perhaps even harder to account for the fact that he is clumsy around the language, syllables falling off his tongue hard and heavy. But there is a language in a set that breaks through any barrier, and when Atsumu spins the ball cleanly in the air in a way that pushes him to the tip of his incredible height, Thomas smacks it across the back line with a roar of triumph and turns to pump his fist in Atsumu’s direction. On the court there is no language but the language of winning and it is one they both know well.

“Thomas!” calls Inunaki, after a particularly gruelling Friday practice. “We’re going out for drinks. You coming?”

Thomas waves them off with his usual genial smile. “Sorry,” he says and then he’s off into the locker room alone. No one makes a big deal of it but Atsumu thinks they all feel it, as they share glances between one another in the wake of his retreating back.

It’s not until later, when Hinata joins the team, that Thomas starts to join them on their after practice outings. That’s Hinata’s magic, Atsumu thinks, that he can bring anyone towards his light. Dwarfed by Thomas’ impressive height, Hinata merely leaps up to match him, the two of them sharing a grin as Hinata lets the English roll of his tongue.

Another skill that shocks those around him, like Hinata’s singular purpose in life is to surprise those who underestimate him. Atsumu feels another flare of that hunger in his stomach as he watches Hinata bounce up and down, pointing and saying words that aren’t meant for his ears. At first he doesn’t quite get it. Practice is over. There’s no fight here. No Osamu, no Kageyama, no Ushijima to try and take down. If anything he’s loose-limbed and relaxed, content with the burn in his muscles that let him know he’s worked hard.

“Oh! Oh!” Hinata pipes up suddenly, turning back. In the glow of an izakaya’s neon pink lights he glows, his hair cast aflame, and Atsumu stops in the middle of the street, Sakusa crashing into the back of him. “Thomas says he wants to try karaoke!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” yells Bokuto, turning more than a few heads. He jumps forward, slapping Thomas across the back. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

And later, as Atsumu shares an incredulous look with Inunaki at the way Thomas is belting out an English pop song off-key but with much gusto, he finds his gaze drifting past the libero to Hinata. Slightly glassy-eyed and with pink cheeks, he pumps his fist at Thomas and cries out his encouragement, laughing against Bokuto’s shoulder. It must be some kind of magic, the way he draws everyone into his spell. He remembers the feeling that overtook him as he watched Hinata take to the sky for the first time and feels it liquefy in his stomach, hot and molten. Remembers the way others would look at him when struck for the first time by the crack of lightning across the court and then the sunshine of his smile like the first peek of sunlight through the clouds.

Even Thomas is not immune to it, it seems. Atsumu smiles as Thomas finishes off with a particularly bad note and Hinata claps him off stage enthusiastically as if he has just won the set with one of his monster blocks. He likes to see others as bewitched by Hinata as he is, even if his fist curls reflexively with his perpetual need to possess. But he is better than that now. He is happy to see Thomas truly become one of the team.

“Who’s next?” Bokuto shouts, raising his beer.

Hinata’s eyes land on Atsumu and he gulps, trapped as the rest of the team turns to him. Behind his hand Sakusa snickers.

“Come on, Atsumu-san,” Hinata says, a hand wrapping around his, and Atsumu is too weightless, the only thing in his mind the slide of their rough fingers as he’s propelled up onto the platform. Before he knows it Hinata has deposited him, with complete ease, in front of his teammates. He presses the mic into his hand and slaps a hand over his shoulder. “Let’s hear it.”

The first note of an old pop song filters through the speakers but Atsumu can barely hear it over his thumping heart. He lifts the mic up and opens his mouth to sing. On the first syllable Atsumu’s voice cracks. The team holler.

*

“Shouyou-kun?” he calls into the darkness of the locker room. “You still in here? The janitor is about to lock up.” The Black Jackals have just lost their first game of the season, a landslide loss that had rocked its way through the entire team, and Atsumu is tired. He wants to go home.

As he steps through the door he hears what sounds an awful lot like sniffling and he freezes. Oh, but Atsumu is the last person who knows how to handle something like this, and yet he cannot bring himself to just leave. With tentative steps he fully enters the locker room, squinting into the gloom until he finally spots him, curled in on himself with his knees tucked into his chest. He should probably go and turn the light on or something but he doesn’t want to disturb Hinata.

Unsure what to say, he drops down on the bench opposite him and leans back with a sigh, thinking about what someone like Kita would say. What’s the use in crying over what you can’t change? He grimaces, picturing the impassive expression that would don his face. Maybe not. Suna? No, he would just turn right around and walk back out. Osamu? Osamu might think of something soothing to say. Maybe. If he could muster up enough sympathy. Now that he thinks about it he’s not sure how Aran put up with their team when –

“Atsumu-san?”

“H-hey,” he says, voice softer than he really intends. “Ya alright there, buddy?”

There’s another sniffle and then a soft huff of laughter. Hinata reaches up and scrubs his eyes. “It’s okay, you can leave. I just, I don’t know, it all got a bit much all of a sudden.”

Atsumu hums. He can understand that. While it’s never enough to make him cry, he can’t deny how much the game worms its way under his skin. There’s a compulsion in him that can only be fed by the challenge of it. If it weren’t for volleyball, well, Atsumu’s not sure what he would have become.

“It’s not that I’m upset really, it’s just.” Hinata waves his hand. “I fought so hard to be here, you know? I spent those two years in Brazil while Kageyama was on the Olympic team, fielding all kinds of questions about why I just upped and left, and honestly there were some days when I didn’t have an answer.”

“You have one now. You beat him.”

Hinata huffs, a soft bang sounding as he tips his head back against a locker. “I guess it’s all a bit overwhelming. I spent years of my life climbing my way up to the top of the wall because I wanted to know the view from the top.”

Atsumu considers. “And now you’re worried the only way is down, right?”

“I don’t know. I suppose in some ways I still don’t really understand volleyball without him.”

Atsumu pushes away the curl in his gut, leaning forward on his thighs. He takes Hinata’s hands in his, cold and clammy, and rubs warmth back into them. “There’s always a new height. I know you know this because I see you chasing it every day in practice.” In his head he wonders when he became so damn cheesy. “Besides, you’re not gonna be satisfied by only beating him once, are ya? I know I sure ain’t.”

Hinata laughs, squeezing his hands back. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“Yer damn right I am. Now, no more of this moping. Up and at ya, before both of us get locked in here all night.”

Hinata bounces to his feet, opening his locker to grab his things, and Atsumu makes his way back out to give him his space. It turns out he’s not the only one who’s been caught in his thoughts, straying into the murky waters of after. To think someone as bright and beautiful as Hinata experiences the same doubt is oddly humbling in a way he’s felt before, quiet as he waits for him to finish changing.

He emerges a few minutes later, bag at his side, eyes a little pink but otherwise calm. The focus has returned to his gaze, mouth curling at the corners, and Atsumu’s heart swells. Before they part ways in the car park Hinata turns, resplendent in the street light, and beams.

“Thanks, Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu wants to protest, to say he never really did anything, but Hinata’s already dashing off. Instead he stands in the quiet car park in the dead of night, clutching the heart he thinks is about to beat its way right out of his chest.

*

Atsumu would never really describe Sakusa Kiyoomi as a happy man but he can’t say that he seems particularly unhappy either. It’s more like he exists on an entirely different axis that slides between volleyball mode and cleaning mode. Atsumu’s not really sure whether either of these things make him happy but he takes on the kind of focus that Atsumu does when he’s in the midst of the thrum, assessing his opponent from the other side of the net before he makes his move, ten fingers pitching the ball backwards to Sakusa even as every part of him signals that he’s looking to Hinata.

Sakusa snaps those ridiculous wrists of his and the ball shoots past Hoshiumi, thundering against the line and then crashing against the back wall. When he turns and shoots Atsumu an intense look he thinks its about the happiest Sakusa he’ll ever get to see.

Atsumu’s earliest memory of him, beyond looking down upon the court as his team crushes his opponent, his spike like a deadly laser fired over the net in tandem with his team’s award-winning setter Iizuna, is in the men’s bathrooms just before his semi-final match. It sticks out so clearly in his mind because he feels a certain kinship he doesn’t expect for the sour-faced spiker.

Atsumu can’t help but take notice of him, given that his team is bulldozing through the competition, and finds himself fired up by the haughty look he fires at everyone in his path, standing at the farthest away sink as he rigorously scrubs his hands.

“Atsumu, stop dallying and wash your hands properly,” comes a familiar voice, cool and collected. The tap water runs as Kita lathers up his hands, directing him with a look. “Twenty seconds, remember?”

As Atsumu follows his senior’s commands and feels his nerves ease a little by the routine, he catches the glint in Sakusa’s eye, the first time he has seen him pay attention to anyone. Of course it’s none other than Kita Shinsuke who can make his eyes sparkle like that; each and every member of the Inarizaki Volleyball Club has gone through the same ritual. It’s practically a right of passage at this point, even if Kita isn’t a starter.

Someone from Tsubakihara sneezes and, quick as a flash, Kita holds out a packet of tissues. “Please cover your mouth when you sneeze,” he says as the boy apologises, as stringent with other players as he is his own team. Atsumu smiles. There’s something about how habitual he is that’s comforting, soothing some of the excitement shuddering through him at having come so far through the competition. They’re one match away from the final.

“Oh,” says Kita, nodding as he passes Sakusa to reach for a paper towel. “You are Sakusa Kiyoomi, aren’t you? You have nice technique.” He folds up the wet towel and deposits it into the bin, oblivious to his effect as he exits the bathroom with his usual calm.

Atsumu studies Sakusa’s forlorn gaze after him and thinks he has just witnessed yet another pitiful soul fall for the unique charm of Kita. Heh, he thinks, so he’s human like the rest of us. It does little to sooth the ache in his chest as the last ball falls and the scoreboard blazes the result in flashing lights. Inarizaki lose in the final, Sakusa’s face strangely free of the triumph etched across his teammates’ faces. Still, he doesn’t miss the way Sakusa catches his eye, a small smirk curling the corners of his mouth, so there must be something about volleyball that he enjoys.

Of course, that doesn’t stop himself from wondering sometimes, several years on from that painful loss, just what it is that makes a hypochondriac so willing to share a ball with six teammates. It doesn’t stop him from wondering why he tags along when they go out, his expression miserable the entire time they take an outing to the beach, or dragging his heels when they agree to hold a training camp together in the mountains. But somehow he’s always there anyway, as if the mere act of reluctance is what makes him happy.

Out of all of them he hates dealing with fans the most and yet that didn’t stop him from choosing one of the biggest professional teams in Japan, which is an oddity in of itself, but Atsumu is coming to understand that he is a walking bundle of contradictions pressed into one beanpole of a package. His brow wrinkles as soon as he spies kids with their pudgy little hands and the sweat is visible as soon as he realises he’s expected to shake hands. It would almost be funny, if he didn’t look quite so distressed, and hey, Atsumu’s done some maturing over the years. Maybe. It’s not like he wants Sakusa to suffer, or anything like that.

It all comes to a head when a fan sneezes in his face and he staggers back as if he’s been punched, his whole body trembling and, oh shit, he’s going to say something that will get their manager tearing all their hair out. Atsumu can already see the videos that will make their way across Twitter, ready for the hate mail that will come pouring in. He stares wide-eyed between an ill-looking Sakusa and his wildly apologetic fan, preparing for the storm, when red hair flashes in between them.

“Thank you for coming to watch us play!” he says. “If you give us your address we can send you out a signed poster. Please excuse Sakusa-san, he hasn’t been feeling well.” With his bright eyes and brighter smile she clearly can’t resist, starstruck as she passes over a piece of paper with her address, and Atsumu thinks it’s a feeling he knows well.

As she leaves Hinata spins to Sakusa, holding a finger up. “Just a moment, Sakusa-san!” As if Sakusa is capable of moving, locked up with shock.

Hinata dashes over to his bag, rummages through it, and then returns with plastic crinkling in his hand. He holds it out to Sakusa, extending it so that Sakusa will not need to touch his hands to take it. It’s a brand new mask, still wrapped in its packaging. “I have a few spares from when Natsu caught the cold,” he says.

And damn if Sakusa doesn’t melt at that, stiffness fleeing in an instant as he rips off his old mask, sanitises his hands, and then carefully unfolds the new white medical mask, delicate fingers deferential as they pull it over his mouth.

“Good?” asks Hinata, holding up a thumb.

“Good,” says Sakusa, mirroring his gesture, and Atsumu swears the whole team breathes a collective sigh of relief.

Maybe for Sakusa it’s simpler than he realises, as he watches Sakusa head out of the stadium with Hinata at his side. Maybe it’s Atsumu who has been overthinking this happiness thing. Volleyball, improvement, victory. Maybe, at the end of the day, it’s just about the little things that make up each individual day.

We don’t need memories.

Somehow that quote gets more poignant with every day that passes. Kita would say something like there is no use in worrying about what has passed and someone like Kita would certainly know what he’s talking about. Each day is a new beginning, ready to be played anew. There’s a comfort in that, Atsumu thinks. A sense of peace he can live with, even if he’s still leaning it, like a fox cub still tripping over its paws.

*

Atsumu’s phone buzzes. He’s brushing his teeth, poking at his tired eyes in the mirror after a long, gruelling practice, when his screen lights up and he grabs it. It’s Osamu, sending him a screenshot. A review. He squints at it, the bristles of his brush biting into his palate as he reads over the gushing five star review in one of the local papers for Onirigi Miya. They’re tipping it as the trendy place to be, with custom made onirigiri that ‘melt in the mouth with an explosion of flavour’. Atsumu spits into the sink.

His phone buzzes again.

I think I’m winning.

He swipes to call and yells into his phone, “Oi, Osamu, you trying to make up for your failure? Just cause you’ll spend yer days watching me in the limelight doesn’t mean ya need to act so green.”

Osamu’s voice is calm as he says, “If ya don’t feel threatened right now why are ya bleatin’ in my ear?”

Atsumu tsks, grip tightening on his phone. “Anyway, when are you next coming through? Coach has been raving about yer stuff. Won’t stop yapping my ear off.”

“Think I should be able to make the EJP Raijin game.”

“Ho ho ho, is that how it is? Don’t care about yer old brother but ya’ll show yer face for Suna? Shoulda known.”

“Jealous cause he likes me better?”

Atsumu blows out air in protest, surprised to find his chest feels lighter than it has in a while. Sometimes Osamu has a way of reframing things for him. Bringing them back into focus. Sometimes he misses the easy days of elbowing one another into the gym hall, taunting each other with one bet after another, but this isn’t so bad either. Even if they’re apart more days than most, they’re never going to lose that connection completely. Osamu wouldn’t let him if he tried.

This is just Osamu’s way of keeping that flame alive. If he can’t elbow him in the gut from behind the net, then he can metaphorically do it through text. Fucking asshole. Atsumu smiles into the mirror.

“Ya sure yer not just telling yourself that?”

Osamu huffs. “Hey, do you want to visit Kita over the summer? We were thinking of heading over one day. Suna and Aran have already agreed.”

He hums, surveying the lines he didn’t have when he was sixteen. Pokes at the dark bags and scruffs a hand through wiry hair from being dyed so often. “Guess I could spare a day.”

“Aw, don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll remember your name.”

“Oi, I’ll have you know he sent me a postcard for my – Osamu!”

*

“Ninja Shouyou?” says Thomas, as they clink their glasses together in the izakaya after they snatch the league title right out of the Alders’ hands.

Atsumu hasn’t forgot that moniker, leaning on his hand as Hinata flushes, looking suddenly shy as if he hadn’t just nailed that incredible left-handed spike. In the warm light of the bar he looks radiant, their team all clustered around him like in his short time climbing into a starter position he has become the very sun they orbit. After the last point had been scored, after Atsumu had stared up at the glowing numbers on the board and confirmed it for himself, the team had piled upon Hinata, offering back slaps and cheers and first bumps as if he had been their good luck charm. Atsumu’s not so sure that assessment is wrong, enjoying the way Hinata’s flush tinges the tips of his ears with pink.

“I played beach volleyball in Brazil for two years,” he says. “I guess they started calling me that over there.”

“Even Romero knows about it! That’s awesome!” exclaims Bokuto, raising up his glass. “Let’s all play a game over the off-season and Hinata can kick our asses!”

Hinata clinks, the table exploding with cheers. Atsumu snorts. They’re already well on their way to drunk but they’ve earned it. It’s not often that they can afford to drink like this, given their profession, but having just won the league a little indulgence isn’t going to hurt. Maybe. Atsumu drains the last of his glass and meets Inunaki’s sharp gaze over Hinata’s head, stilling. He narrows his eyes but Inunaki only raises a brow and he looks away with a pained sigh.

Maybe it’s not such a good idea after all. Atsumu’s never been very good with indulgence. Having a little has only ever made him hungry for more, the way a bowl of rice quickly turns into two, and as he watches Hinata laugh his way onto Bokuto’s shoulder, he feels that emptiness curl inside his stomach. Atsumu rises from his seat too quickly, his head spinning, and the Black Jackals whoop at him as he stumbles away.

He needs a distraction or he’s at risk of letting something slip. Atsumu knows himself enough to know what he’s like when he’s loose from drink and victory; when he’s craving more of both. Hinata isn’t a trophy to be fought over. This isn’t high school, when all he cared about was beating Osamu. There are more things that he wants now. One thing in particular, he thinks, stealing another glance at Hinata’s happy, bright smile.

You’re not good enough for him, he thinks as he trudges away. You’ll only hurt him. He deserves better than your games.

So Atsumu does what Atsumu does best: he locks sight on Akaashi sitting in the corner nursing his beer and feels his grin grow. There’s an ugly, black feeling in his chest that won’t fade. He bumps into the chair on his way over, knowing he’ll bruise later but too drunk to care now. God, but Akaashi is pretty, his blood thrumming. It’s a sin, how he steals glances at Bokuto, as if he doesn’t realise that everyone else in the room is looking his way.

“Fukurodani’s setter, huh?”

Akaashi keeps his expression cool, staring up at him through the thin frames of his glasses. “Miya-san.”

Atsumu feels his thumb flick over the lighter. On. Off. He just can’t help himself. Later, when Akaashi has stumbled off, leaving Bokuto to stare after him in confusion, Inunaki finds him staggering out of the bathroom, levelling him with a hard stare. “That’s enough,” he says.

Inunaki doesn’t even know, he thinks with a sourness that surprises even him. He doesn’t know their history, so who is he to be butting in? “Shion-san,” he says, throwing a hand around his neck. “Always looking out for us, aren’t ya?”

“It’s time you grew up, don’t you think?” he says, pushing his arm away. “Stop messing with them. They’re your friends.”

Atsumu lets his head thud against the wall, the lights spinning. Out of the corner of his eye he catches flame red hair and feels his stomach twist. The lighter slips from his gasp, flame cutting off.

When you are eighty years old and have confidence to say you are happier than me…

I’ll tell you I was happier than you.

Atsumu’s hand curls into a fist.

*

Atsumu doesn’t spare much thought to Inunaki’s happiness because Inunaki’s happiness usually comes at the behest of his teammates’ misfortune. More often than not at Atsumu’s misfortune, because Inunaki is the fucking devil.

“Atsumu-san,” Hinata says with wide eyes, “what happened to your hair?”

Bokuto takes one look at his pink tinged hair and erupts into guffaws, clutching at his stomach as tears leak from his eyes, Sakusa making no secret of sniggering in the corner of the locker room.

Atsumu whirls to see Inunaki snapping pictures and lunges at him with a yell, Inunaki tossing his phone to Thomas, who used to be too sweet to even think of it until Inunaki got his claws into him. “Don’t you dare!” His hands are too full wrestling his demon libero to stop it from happening and he freezes when his phone buzzes with a notification.

He takes out his phone to see that the most godawful picture of him with dripping wet pink hair has been uploaded to the official MSBY Twitter because of course Inunaki Shion knows the password. Atsumu screams.

Hinata looks at his own phone. “Aw, I don’t think it’s so bad.”

In the moment’s distraction as he stares back at Hinata, Inunaki grabs his own phone out of his hand.

“Inunaki Shion!”

Atsumu is met with nothing but laughter from his asshole teammates.

*

It’s not until they’re a few weeks into the off-season that they’re able to set up their beach volleyball match, and Atsumu’s sure it’s only because Bokuto is itching with the need to get out and play, corralling as many of his teammates into his car as he can so they can head to the beach and make good on their promise. Atsumu grabs the handle of the door as Bokuto launches around a tight corner, stomach lurching as he realises his mistake in agreeing. He might have had slightly ulterior motives in tagging along, but hey, it’s not like Bokuto cares so long as he has a willing victim white-knuckling his way through the worst car ride of his life.

“I thought Akaashi was coming,” he gasps out as Bokuto jerks to a stop in front of Sakusa’s apartment block.

“He’s meeting us there,” says Bokuto cheerfully.

But if there’s one good thing to come from the early grave that is Bokuto with a driving license, it’s Sakusa sidling his way towards the car with a look of utter disgust, wiping down the door handle with a cloth, and then pinching it open with a gloved hand. His dark head pokes its way in, sees the clutter littering the floor beneath the seat, and blanches even paler than his skin should allow.

“Come, come join,” he says, leaning out of the window.

Sakusa scowls. “I’m just going to –”

“Chicken out because you know you’re going to suck on sand?” He shrugs. “That’s fine. At least you’re admitting it upfront.”

The door slams, Sakusa sitting delicately in the back seat with a look of such murderous intent that Atsumu can feel it bore into him. He turns, shoots a triumphant grin, and then remembers that he’ll probably pay for this later. Oh well. It’s always fun to get one up on Sakusa, maybe because it’s so easy.

“Who else are we picking up?” he says, voice squeaking as Bokuto floors the gas and tears out onto the road, horns honking behind him.

“Inunaki and Thomas are coming together in Inunaki’s car so we’re just getting Hinata and then we can go.”

“Oh.”

Atsumu has never been to Hinata’s apartment, and he can’t deny he’s curious as Bokuto pulls up outside a nondescript apartment block across from a small convenience store. It’s a bit quieter than his own place, maybe thirty minutes from the bustling city centre, but it’s got its own charm to it. He wonders what Hinata’s apartment looks like inside; whether he’s the type to keep everything neat and minimal, or whether he hoards the pieces of his life to offer on display to those allowed within. Atsumu wouldn’t mind seeing it; seeing the things Hinata thinks are worth keeping. Seeing the things that represent his journey to where he is now.

“Bokuto-san!” Hinata exclaims as he runs around and opens the door, sliding into the back opposite where Atsumu sits. “This was such a good idea. I can’t wait!”

Atsumu meets his eyes in the rear view mirror and resists pulling his gaze away, stomach curdling as Hinata’s smile drops to be replaced with his crow-like head tilt. He shivers at the thought of being assessed. Hinata himself is dressed in a Bouncing Ball shirt and shorts, sunglasses perched atop his hair. Apparently he knows the owner of the company because he’s consistently decked out with all the latest gear.

The ride is painful but Atsumu manages to survive it, forced to listen to Bokuto and Hinata exchange eager chat about old friends as if neither of them care about the way Bokuto’s dodging in and out of cars like he’s trying to audition for the latest Fast and Furious. The only thing that makes it more bearable is knowing that Sakusa’s having as bad a time as he is. Maybe even worse from the way his gaze fixates on the empty can that rolls from one side to the other every time Bokuto performs some ridiculous manoeuvre that he is 98% confident is illegal.

Oh, Aran-san, I’m sorry for my past sins, he thinks as Bokuto squeals his way into the car park and throws his hands into the air.

“We’re here!”

Hinata whoops, already diving out, meanwhile Atsumu is still sitting stiff with tension, blinking out at the seafront dotted with visitors. A little girl leaps atop her father’s carefully crafted sandcastle, giggling as her brother chases her out towards the waves, calm but for the occasional bluster of sea spray.

The door clicks. “Atsumu-san, aren’t you coming?”

Atsumu meets Hinata’s warm eyes and melts. “Ah, right. Can’t have ya without a setter, can we, Shouyou-kun?”

“If you think you can manage on sand!”

“Why you little –”

Hinata squeals as he darts out across the sand, kicking it up with his feet as he stretches his arms out wide. Atsumu chases after him but as soon as he hits the softer sand he stumbles, unaccustomed to the way it shifts beneath his feet. When he rights himself he looks up to see Hinata turned towards him, backlit by the soft light fighting its way past the clouds, his eyes creased with laughter. Atsumu’s heartbeat mimics his own scuffled steps across the beach, nearly tripping over himself for a second time.

A volleyball soars over his head, and quick as a flash, Hinata snatches it from the air. He holds it aloft, shaking it with both hands. “Bokuto-san, where are the others?”

Bokuto runs past him, shouting loudly enough to attract several sunbathers further down the beach. “Inunaki and Thomas are running late so we’ll have to play between us.”

Sakusa looks dubious about the sand, taking delicate steps across the sand like it’s about to burn him. Atsumu points and laughs at him, earning a vicious glare he’s probably going to regret later when he inevitably gets served to the face. He turns to Hinata, loops an arm over his shoulders, and pulls him in, catching a whiff of sun scream and shampoo. “Be on my team, Shouyou-kun?”

“Hey! We need a setter on either side!” Bokuto protests.

But Atsumu spots a figure standing up by the car park, watching them from above. “Think we got yer second setter right there.”

“Keiji!” Bokuto screeches, immediately distracted as he wheels his arms above his head.

“Bokuto-san,” says Akaashi as he walks over, “you’re disturbing everyone.”

Bokuto simply grabs his hand and laces their fingers together, completely unafraid despite how new their relationship is. Atsumu isn’t envious at all. “Come play with me. We haven’t played together in years.”

Akaashi adjusts his glasses. “That’s because I haven’t played in years.” He seems to realise the other eyes on him, gaze flicking between them.

“Well, now’s the chance! The only one who can play on sand is Hinata.”

Sakusa has already parked himself on a blanket on the sand, limbs folded in as if he might get poisoned by long-time exposure to it. He scrubs his hands with a bottle of hand sanitiser as they set up a net that Bokuto had packed into his car, sticking poles into the sand. The net flutters in the wind but holds. Hinata sticks up his thumbs and Atsumu supposes it’ll do.

“You can be the referee,” Bokuto tells Sakusa, who merely narrows his eyes.

Atsumu plants the ball into Hinata’s hands and if he lets his fingers linger more than he should, well, who’s going to say? “Show us how it’s done, Shouyou-kun.”

Hinata takes a moment, rolls the ball and brushes off the sand, tilting his head as if he’s calculating. Atsumu feels that thrum in his blood; the same feeling he always gets at the beginning of a match. It’s the hunger that eats up his belly, gnawing at the pit of his stomach. The hunger that makes anything but winning an impossible objective.

Hinata tosses the ball into the air and then jumps, slamming it across the net. Bokuto dashes back to receive it only for the wind to carry the ball further than he expects, awkwardly pushing it into the air. Akaashi runs in an attempt to set it but he misplaces his footing and stumbles, the ball thudding down in front of him, and Atsumu erupts into laughter. Hinata tugs on his wrist but he looks like he’s holding back his own mirth, biting his lip.

“Argh, this is harder than it looks!” Bokuto exclaims as he passes the ball back to Hinata.

Akaashi is a quick learner; he doesn’t make the same mistake twice. This time he steadies his stance, comfortably hoisting the ball into the air. On an indoor court it would probably be the perfect set, smooth and clean, but the wind causes it to drift, Bokuto’s spike messy as the ball flies over to his side. Atsumu flails only for Hinata to pop up at his side, digging the ball into the air, and suddenly he knows exactly how he earned the name Ninja Shouyou.

“Atsumu-san, watch –”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

He does, in fact, not have it. Instead Atsumu’s foot slides in the sand as he attempts to set the ball and then suddenly he’s sprawled across it, rolling with a groan. He stares up at the cloudy sky to the sound of bellowing laughter, the loudest belonging to Bokuto. Sand slides from the hair as he sits up, and suddenly there’s hand in front of him. Atsumu looks up into Hinata’s face, unable to fight his own grin even though he’s being laughed at. He grabs hold, feeling the calluses beneath his fingertips, and finds himself being wrenched up into the air and dusted off by Hinata, his heart thumping in his chest.

“Oi, oi,” he says. “Don’t laugh at a man when he’s down.”

Even Sakusa is sniggering from his blanket.

“Don’t worry, Atsumu-san, we’re still going to win,” says Hinata with a certainty that makes him glow.

When they win the match Atsumu is under no illusion that it’s all down to Hinata, the rest of them slipping and sliding across the sand like drunkards, but it doesn’t stop him from gloating when Thomas and Inunaki finally show up. He takes the next match out to play referee if only so he can watch Hinata in action, ducking and diving across the beach with ease, and doesn’t even pretend his eyes are anywhere else.

Maybe, if he can be brave enough to admit it to himself, happiness is beginning to take the shape of Hinata Shouyou himself.

*

Atsumu should know better by now than to keep checking Twitter but sometimes he gets bored. He’s still got a couple of hours until practice and he can’t help his hands wandering to his phone, moving more with muscle memory than conscious thought. The screen loads and he flicks through his feed as he makes coffee, the kettle whistling as it bubbles. Atsumu scrolls past a picture, freezes, and then scrolls back up.

it’s ninja time @shouyouofficial

look who I ran into when I visited home @kagetobio

There’s a picture of Hinata grinning into the camera, his arm slung around the neck of a familiar face. Kageyama isn’t so much smiling as he’s grimacing, eyes narrowed at Hinata, a baseball cap shadowing most of his face and a black mask around his neck. Atsumu’s hand tightens on his phone.

mr refreshing @sugawaras

Replying to @shouyouofficial

you were both home and you didn’t even notify your favourite senpai???

STEP ON ME SAKUSA @blackjackz

Replying to @shouyouofficial

omg I can’t believe you 2 are still friends we demand baby pics!!!

mr refreshing @sugawaras

Replying to @blackjackz

heh I can indulge with that

Beneath is a picture of a young Hinata, beaming into the camera with his fingers held up in a V sign, a ball tucked beneath his other arm. He’s wearing his Karasuno jersey, number ten, so he must still be in first year. At his side Kageyama looks as gloomy as ever, like he’s trying to level the camera with his glare.

STEP ON ME SAKUSA @blackjackz

Replying to @sugawaras

omg omg omg @sunshinesho @adlerssource @papermillie @setterztobio

make way for the ninja @sunshinesho

Replying to @blackjackz

ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? I TOLD YOU @setterztobio

#1 Serve @setterztobio

Replying to @sunshinesho @blackjackz

baby tobio is so cute!! okay @sunshinesho maybe you have a point

The No.1 Schweiden Adlers Source @adlerssource

Replying to @blackjackz

asfdfghh friends to rivals to lovers

Atsumu tosses his phone away and drags a hand down his face. He’s not sure why he’s even bothering with the comments. They’re always full of weird things, like that weird girl who stalks Osamu at every pop up store because she’s obsessed with him. They’re just fans getting carried away. Still, he can’t fight the churn in his gut as he leans against his kitchen counter, imagining the pair of them. Are they together right now? Did they spend the day together? What do Hinata and Kageyama even do when they’re not playing volleyball?

His mind strays into thoughts he does not want to be thinking of, yanking them back with a slap to his cheek. “Enough of that.” He does not need the mental image of Kageyama crowding into Hinata’s space, Hinata’s eyes fluttering closed as they –

“They’re not together,” he says to his kettle. His voice lacks conviction. “There’s no way that – argh!”

In the end he picks up his phone again, clicks into the last person he called, because even though Osamu walked away from all this years ago, Atsumu has never been all that great at letting things go. Osamu answers the phone without so much as a greeting which only pisses him off even more, bumping his heel against his cupboard door and then groaning as pain crackles up his foot.

“Is there a reason you called?”

“Samu, are ya happy?”

“What?”

“I said,” he says, a hand over his face, “are ya happy?”

“What’s all this about now?”

“Just answer the question.”

Osamu huffs, voice distant for a second as he answers someone, and then returns. “I’m too busy to think about it most days but, yeah, I suppose I am. Sometimes I’m too stressed to feel it but, hm, I suppose I’m proud of what I’ve been able to do.”

Atsumu makes a noise from the back of his throat.

“What’s this about? Tsumu?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m just going to –”

“Am I winning? I told ya I was going to be happier than –”

“Yer not winning. Fuck off!”

“Whatever ya say. I mean, if you want to concede now then I don’t mind.”

“I’m going to be happier than you! Mark my words, ya hear?”

Osamu huffs a laugh and Atsumu feels the pressure ease, hefting out a sigh of relief. “Think I might be in love, ya know?”

“You goin’ to tell him?”

And it’s so like Osamu, to know but not say anything until Atsumu has caught up to his own feelings. “Nah, I don’t think so. We’re not – I mean he’s – it’s not like I’ve –”

“Got a chance?” Osamu makes a thoughtful noise. “Not like ya to be so down on yerself.”

“I’m not down on myself! I’m just, you know, he’s my teammate. Might make things awkward.”

“It might.”

“But?”

“But you’ll never know until you try, right?”

Atsumu laughs into the empty space of his kitchen. If only it was that simple.

“Aw come on. Ain’t that complicated, is it?”

His stiffens. It’s the by-product of being a twin; sometimes he genuinely thinks Osamu can read his mind.

“Tch. What would you do then, smartass?”

“I would just tell him, ‘I like you’. Let him decide what he wants to do about that.”

Atsumu’s fist clenches. Trust Osamu to be cool and suave about it. God damn it, at this rate Osamu is going to win their bet if he can’t get their shit together. At the end of the day, Hinata isn’t the type to make a big deal of this kind of thing. Either it all goes well and he gains the trump card he can wield over Osamu, or he goes up in flames. But, hell, when has Atsumu ever been afraid of a little fire?

This ain’t a fire. This is the whole sun.

It’s more than flicking the lighter on and off. It’s the risk of looking up into the flaming ball in the sky just to see its beauty, only to have his retinas burned out for the privilege. Is Atsumu willing to pay that price? He doesn’t know.

“What’s up? Ya’ve gone quiet all of a sudden.”

“Shush, I’m thinking.”

Osamu laughs into his ear. “Don’t think too hard now, ya might short-circuit.”

“Osamu!”

The laughter grows louder, until he hangs up. Atsumu gazes into his empty kitchen, a quiet resolution building in his heart. He can’t keep this going forever. He has to do something, before this blackness in his heart eats him up inside.

But first he’s got some thinking to do.

*

The only thing worse than losing to Kageyama off court is losing to him on the court. Their first match against the Adlers of the new season ends quietly, with a ball dumped softly over the net by the king himself, a smug look twisting up his features as he lands to the roar of the crowd, the scoreboard blinking back at him. Atsumu feels empty and not in the way he is before a match, ready to devour his opponent. There’s a black hole in the pit of his stomach threatening to pull him inside himself, his fists clenching as a sweaty Hinata embraces Kageyama warmly with arms around his neck.

“I’ll get you back next time,” he says when he pulls away and Atsumu can’t see the expression on Hinata’s face. Can only see the fire in Kageyama’s eyes as he stares back, mouth drawn into a line of satisfaction.

“We’ll see about that.”

The locker rooms are quiet afterwards, everyone quick to shower and change. Losses are hard to swallow for anyone, and they don’t seem to get any easier with time. If anything this one smarts the worst, knowing that Kageyama gets the last laugh. He sits on the bench with his towel slung around his neck, listening to Meian change as he plays over each move in his head. If only he had got that last serve in the line, or if he had known that Romero was going to –

“I think we should go out.”

Atsumu blinks, startled from his reverie. He looks up at Hinata, hair damp and curling, a drop of water running down his throat and into his clavicle. “What?”

Hinata throws his arms wide. “Everyone is too morbid! Hoshiumi-san says that the Adlers are going out for drinks and he invited us to join.”

Atsumu stares at him. “I don’t wanna go listen to my opponents gloat, Shouyou-kun.”

“Oh, come on.” He plants both hands on his hips. “We’ll get them back! Besides, if I get Hoshiumi-san drunk enough he might let some trade secrets slip.”

“Ooh, that’s not a bad idea!” says Bokuto and Atsumu’s fate is sealed.

Atsumu knows it’s a terrible idea from the start but he’s just unable to resist the storm that is Hinata Shouyou. So he trails along after Hinata and Bokuto to the izakaya where the Adlers are having a small get together to celebrate their win, even if they shouldn’t really be drinking in the middle of the season. Not that he can stop himself as soon as he sees Hinata pulling up a chair between Kageyama and Hoshiumi, the two of them turning towards him like flowers curling towards the sun.

Atsumu isn’t jealous. He’s not. It’s just that Hinata is his wing spiker and right now Hinata is laughing at something Kageyama has said, the setter’s expression looser than he’s ever seen it, a small smile on his face as he clinks glasses with Hinata, the chatter of the patrons around them drowning out their conversation from across the table. Kageyama is laughing and Hinata is laughing with him too and they both look so happy together that he feels like he’s being swallowed up by his own feelings.

Get a grip.

He knows Hinata and Kageyama are some fated high school sweethearts and star-crossed rivals who have shaped one another’s destinies and all that other grand romantic bullshit that Atsumu can’t possible compete with. He knows Kageyama has carved a place into Hinata’s very being, from the way Hinata trains harder than any of them in order to beat him, to the ravenous way he chases after the ball with his wings outspread like a crow in flight. He knows that everyone is waiting for the moment when they finally realise and fall in love, one last piece clicking together to form the picture perfect epic slow burn of their rivalry romance.

Atsumu knows this but it doesn’t stop the wanting. It doesn’t stop the fact that he’s as drawn to the sun as the rest of them, only like Icarus he just has to get a little too close. Well, it’s not just his wings that are burning now. His entire being is burning up and he just can’t seem to douse the flame. He trudges to the bar and orders another drink, and then another. He lets Bokuto slap him on the back as they throw back shots, lets Inunaki talk him into chugging down an entire pint, and he wipes his mouth as if he can’t wipe the taste of Hinata that’s been lingering on his tongue since he was seventeen and staring his own defeat in the face.

What do you do, when your victory and defeat wear the same face? Everything comes back to Hinata Shouyou somehow. To his earnestness and his ethic and his mettle and his smile.

Atsumu’s not even that drunk when he stalks off to the quieter hall that leads to the toilets, the hum and chatter muffled through the door, but it’s his excuse when he thumbs onto Osamu’s number, the phone ringing a few times before his voice rumbles in his ear. “Oi, what time d’ya call this?”

“What makes ya happy, Samu?”

“Again, Atsumu?” There’s a sigh and then a rustle of movement. “Atsumu, are you drunk?”

“Just – answer the question, damn it!”

Osamu sighs down the line. “We’re really doing this now?”

“When else are we gonna do it?”

“Atsumu, go home if yer drunk before ya make a fool of yourself.”

“I’m not drunk. Just. I need to know. What’s the secret?” He falls forward, lets his head bump against the wall.

There’s a sigh that makes his hand clench around his phone. “Do you need me to come and get you?”

“No, I need you to tell me the secret to happiness.”

“Atsumu,” Osamu says, patient but likely grinding his teeth, “I can’t tell ya that. Got to decide that for yerself.”

Atsumu hangs up on him and groans, listening to the rumble of chatter and laughter beyond the door. It feels so distant yet so close all at once and maybe he has had a bit to drink but it’s not really enough to be the kind of drunk that he wants to be right now. God, he’s so pathetic all of a sudden, overthinking things he never used to spare a single thought to at all. He curses Osamu’s name under his breath for planting the seed in his brain in the first place. Now they’re sprouting and he can’t push them back down in the earth.

“Atsumu-san.”

Atsumu freezes at the burst of noise, sealed off by the door closing once again, and feels his neck creak as he slowly turns. Sure enough, standing with his head tilted and his brow furrowed, witness to the mess of Atsumu’s meltdown, is none other than Hinata Shouyou himself. Framed by the warm light spilling in through the window to the door, he looks softer, hair aglow like candle flame and face ruddy with the warmth. Atsumu’s too taken aback to hide the way his gaze roams Hinata, from the pink crease of his mouth, to the flash of tanned collarbones peeking from his shirt, to the way the fabric pulls taut across his shoulders. His eyes rise and he gulps as he finds Hinata’s stare shift, heavy-lidded and molten.

A thrill shudders down his spine.

“What are you staring so hard at?”

Atsumu frowns as he stumbles forward, fingers grasping onto the blue thread that has caught his eye. “Ya have a thread loose.” Before he can stop himself he pulls, the catch growing worse. Shit. He’s never been able to let anything go, has he?

“Ah, Natsu is going to kill me for that,” Hinata laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are flushed, alcohol sharp on his breath. Atsumu can’t stop himself from staring at the sweat beading on his brow, at the pink of his lips, and the burning fire inside his eyes.

“Atsumu-san?” he says quietly, face tipping up, searching. The air grows charged with the kind of anticipation that makes Atsumu’s gut curl.

“Shouyou-kun,” he murmurs, leaning into Hinata’s space. This close he can spell his musky scent combined with the hint of floral shampoo. His hand lands on Hinata’s jaw, cradling gently, a thumb tracing the outer line of his lip. He’s at least a little bit drunk. Somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind he registers that he shouldn’t be doing this, but no, he’s perfectly aware enough of what he’s doing. He’s just too cowardly to do it completely sober, the alcohol more of an excuse than an enabler.

“Atsumu-san?” Hinata is frozen beneath his touch, big eyes following his movements.

“Shouyou-kun,” he repeats, leaning right over until his forehead thunks against the wall, Hinata’s soft red hair tickling his cheek. The warmth of him radiates through their clothes, only confirming Atsumu’s belief that Hinata is the sun itself. “Just a moment. Just let me have this.”

Atsumu wants with a hunger that scares even him. He wants to sink his fingers into Hinata’s soft skin, wants to devour him whole, but he can’t. Hinata is not someone who can be tarnished by his greedy hands. Hinata is someone who belongs to someone else. No, Hinata is someone who does not belong to anyone but himself. Yet he just can’t bring himself to pull back from the warmth, eyelids fluttering closed as he lets it seep into his bones.

Hinata pushes him back by the shoulders and he braces himself for the fallout. “Atsumu-san?” His cheeks are red and it only makes Atsumu’s gut twist even harder.

“Sorry, Shouyou. Sorry, I’ll –”

A hand wraps around his bicep, preventing him from pulling back completely. “Do you – are you –” Hinata frowns, the grip of his hand loosening until he’s caressing Atsumu’s shoulder. “You, really?” His eyes are still wide, almost imploring.

His heart is thudding an erratic beat in his chest. Atsumu doesn’t dare let himself dream. “But Tobio-kun,” he begins, unsure why he’s trying to shoot himself in the foot now.

“Kageyama is going abroad. To a new team.”

“Oh.”

Hinata tilts his head, eyes roaming his face. A small smile clicks into place, like he’s come to some sort of realisation. “Kageyama is leaving but you’re here. I want to stay here and play volleyball with you.”

“Oh.”

Hinata licks his lips and Atsumu makes no attempt to hide how he follows the movement. “Is it only volleyball?” he manages to get out smoothly. “Or is there more you might want to do with me, Shouyou-kun?”

Hinata shivers in his grip and it makes his stomach coil, heat pooling low. God, he’s going to be the death of him. Atsumu lets his hand trail along his jaw, feeling flushed skin beneath his fingers. He wants to touch, wants to taste. Wants to take Hinata apart, but delicately. Not to pick apart, to consume. Wants it to learn the way his muscles shift beneath his hands, strong from those explosive jumps that send him soaring into the air. Wants it to taste the sunshine on his skin, to see just how far the sun has kissed him so that he can say he went further. His fingers tremble. Atsumu has never been delicate with anything in his life and it scares him.

But Hinata cocks his chin, eyes as sharp as on court when they’re down a point and about to lose a set. The crow eyes. Then suddenly Hinata is launching himself at Atsumu, hands roaming through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back as he growls into his mouth with a kiss that is more teeth than lips. Atsumu gasps into it, his hands falling onto Hinata’s hips as he presses him into the wall with a thigh between his legs. A tongue flicks its way into his mouth, hot breath against his, and then Hinata groans in a way that makes Atsumu’s hips jerk.

Hinata pulls back, cheeks red and lips redder, looking like sin incarnate. Atsumu feels that emptiness in his belly begging to be filled. “Take me home?”

Atsumu can’t resist leaning in for one more kiss. His hands slide beneath Hinata’s thighs and he grins into his mouth when Hinata releases a small cry of surprise as Atsumu hauls him up into his arms, strong thighs wrapping around his waist and squeezing tight. “Dunno if I can wait, Shouyou-kun. Want to eat ya up right now.”

“Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu cackles all the way home, nipping at his ear in the taxi. He kisses Hinata senseless in the lift up to his apartment, barely making it through the door before the two of them are tearing into one another again. In the cool, washed out hues of Hinata’s bedroom he presses him down against the mattress, his hair falling into his eyes as he takes in every line of him honed from the years, the cut of muscles filling out his thighs as they part for him, and the ripple of his abs as Atsumu runs a hand down his abdomen and feels the quiver beneath his fingertips.

“How long?” he says as they move together, each thrust eliciting sweet sighs from Hinata’s swollen lips. “How long, Shouyou? How long have you wanted this?” It eats him with the need to know.

“Since I first saw you in that gym hall for the first time in six years.” Hinata’s eyes are clear when he pauses, chest heaving.

“That early?”

Hinata wriggles against him, trying to probe him into moving. Atsumu presses him down, fingers laced through Hinata’s own. “Shouyou?”

And for the first time there’s a hint of vulnerability in Hinata’s face. “You kept your promise. You kept your word to me.”

I’m gonna set for ya one of these days.

It makes his mind reel to think the ball might have been set all those years ago, putting into motion the slowest, sweetest toss of his life. And there to meet him is Hinata, already leaping with the surety that Atsumu will send the ball straight to his hand. His fingers scratch down his back in a way that makes him shudder, hot breaths teasing his ear. Atsumu cradles his face as he pushes down once again.

“I’m here with you,” he breathes. “I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

*

At the beginning of the new year Atsumu invites Hinata to come home with him to visit the shrine. Osamu shoots him knowing looks the entire time, to which Atsumu knocks his shoulder into his and then Hinata laughs as the pair of them push and shove at one another, apparently unfazed by the scene they’re making.

Instead he is generous with his smiles, calm as he claps his hands together to pray, and, if Atsumu spends more time observing how his cheeks pink in the cold weather or the way the frost clings to his lashes, well, who’s going to tell? There’s just something about the way the dusting of white catches the light and casts a prism of colour across Hinata’s face, his eyes gleaming with that fire that burns in him at all times, and he wonders what Hinata was like in Brazil. If he had raced across the sand full of laughter, or if he had been like he is now, quiet, with a soft furl of determination between his brows.

When they get home, Atsumu’s fingers numb even through his gloves, he fetches one of his warm jumpers and comes back down to find Hinata leaning over Osamu in the kitchen, making soft exclamations as Osamu walks him through the process of making onigiri in a patient tone he reserves for very few. Atsumu leans in the doorway and watches them, the reverent hush between the pair as they prepare dinner, and thinks it’s so easy that it scares him. It’s so easy to want this. To imagine coming home in the evenings to Hinata filling his kitchen with warmth after the bitter cold of January.

Atsumu has never felt like this before. In his hand he curls his fortune around his fingers, telling himself in a voice startingly like Kita’s that he does not believe in fate.

“You carve your own path,” he had said on his graduation day. “That is what I admire about you.” And Atsumu had fought back the tears that had welled in his eyes, heart swelling to have earned the respect of a man such as Kita Shinsuke.

“Watch me,” he had replied. “I’ll be out there on that stage one day.”

And Kita had smiled, muted and soft in the glowing light of memory. “I will look forward to it.”

Later, after they have sat to eat and Hinata deposited on the sofa before he could do the washing up, Atsumu washes the plates and passes them to Osamu, the two of them quieter together than he ever remembers.

“You’re allowed to want something else, ya know.”

Osamu’s words cut through the fog curling in his mind. “Huh?”

Osamu doesn’t look up, motions calm and methodical as he dries and then returns the plate. “You’re allowed to have more than one thing in your life.”

“Argh, I know that.” The plate slips out of his hands with a plop, soapy water splashing across his shirt. He flicks it off his hands with a sigh, curls one around the back of his neck. “It’s just. He’s so – ya know?” He waves his hands. “He’s so vibrant and funny and good. How can I ever be enough for him?”

Osamu fixes him with a level gaze. “Ya ever think that he deserves to make that decision?”

“Eh?”

“If ya quit now, yer taking that away from him. Has he said he doesn’t want to be here?”

Atsumu thinks of the wide, open smile Hinata had turned on him when he had asked. “Well, no but –”

“Then let him make his own mind up.”

“But what if he –”

“Breaks up with you?”

“Well, yeah.” He sighs. “It’s gonna happen eventually. I mean, all his friends are just waiting for when he and Kageyama get together. They’re like star-crossed lovers or some shit, ya know?”

Osamu snorts and then whips him over the head with a towel.

“Oi!” Atsumu rubs at his head, wincing at the sting. Osamu can snap it in such a way that it cracks.

“Stop moping,” he says. “If he breaks up with you then ya probably deserve it. But you don’t need to give him more reasons, do you?”

Atsumu stares back at Osamu and then exhales, deflating. “I guess you’re right, eh?”

“You don’t know what the future will bring. Enjoy what makes ya happy now.”

Atsumu huffs, turning to laughter at Osamu’s wrinkled brow. He pokes at it and howls when Osamu leaps back, swiping at him. “Heh, when did you get so wise?”

“Are you guys fighting again?” Hinata pokes his head around the door, eyes wide and inquisitive.

Caught mid-motion, they both freeze at the same moment and raise their palms. there’s no resisting Hinata, so they put down their swords for the time being. Atsumu can feel Osamu’s gaze boring into his back as he saunters over and throws an arm around Hinata’s shoulders. “Say, how about we watch a movie without him, Shouyou-kun? Just you and me?”

And the flush of Hinata’s ears, spreading to the back of his neck, is enough to make his stomach curl. Maybe Osamu has the right of it. We don’t need memories. What’s in the past is over and there’s no use in worrying what he can’t predict the future will bring him. All he can do is focus on what he can do here, now, in this moment.

Sometimes happiness is throwing away a bad fortune because there’s nothing bad about carrying Hinata up to his bed after having fallen asleep in his lap.

*

Atsumu tosses the ball high into the air, knowing he’s pushing the limits of what Hinata is capable of. Knowing he’ll hit it anyway. The flash of red hair makes his heart quicken with the rightness of it as he leaps into the air, as he powers the ball against the back corner of the court with a crack of thunder that sends goosebumps down Atsumu’s arms. Hinata lands, spinning on his heel with his hands curled into triumphant fists, but the smile drops off his face at what he sees in Atsumu’s stare. He cocks his head, blinking his eyes, dark brown in the muted afternoon light.

“Atsumu-san?”

“What makes ya happy, Shouyou-kun?”

And then Hinata breaks into a grin as blinding as the sun after heavy rain. “Your tosses make me happy! I want to keep hitting your tosses forever!”

And there’s little he can do to fight it, Atsumu’s hand wrapping around his shoulder and hauling him in until Hinata’s back is pressed to his front, his nose in his air. “Ack!” he squawks, cheeks flaming. “The team – the team are watching!”

Atsumu thinks they already know anyway, from the way Inunaki has already turned around to gesture to Thomas. Meian’s eyes linger for a moment before he’s immediately distracted by Bokuto yelling at the top of his lungs, followed by the smack of a ball. He allows himself a moment just to hold Hinata in his arms, feel the thrum of his pulse from the point where his arm rests against this throat, and then he breathes out, “You make me happy.”

Hinata wriggles out of his grasp and spins, hands over his mouth as his face turns scarlet. Atsumu can’t help his answering laugh, fingers trailing the nape of his neck as he runs back to his place before Meian can scold him.

Bokuto tilts his head, peering through the net. “Is Hinata sick? He looks kinda red.”

Atsumu turns back around, flashes him a wink. “Nah, he’s fine.”

And as he jogs back into the fray of Black Jackals practice, he thinks to himself that maybe he won’t win his bet against Osamu, that there’s a chance he’ll get to eighty and have to concede the victory, but before he gets to that point he knows he’s going to give him a damn good run for his money.

*

Sometimes happiness is watching Hinata in the crimson red of Japan’s national colours as he soars into the sky. Sometimes happiness is the pinpoint perfect set that meets him above the net and the way the whip-crack of the ball echoes throughout the court. Sometimes it’s waking up to find Hinata curled in his sheets, morning light dancing across his back as he buries his face into the pillow, and sometimes it’s Hinata and Osamu ganging up on him from the back seat of his car as Suna cranks up the radio, tearing down the endless road splitting the sun-drenched rice farms on their way to Kita’s.

Sometimes it’s the big moments, like a shiny medal around his neck to the roar of the crowd, but mostly it’s the little things, like the way there are two toothbrushes above his sink and a lingering collection of Hinata’s clothes in his wardrobe.

There are days when he’s angry, or frustrated with himself, or just plain moody. Days where Hinata is ferocious and unforgiving, the two of them bickering their way from breakfast to practice to rough sex against his bedroom wall. But the ease never goes away, the unspoken spark of connection, as sure as a ball set and spiked. Atsumu thinks, for perhaps the first time in his life, that if he were to die tomorrow then he could say he had a life well lived. That he could face Osamu without shame and win that cursed bet. 

More importantly, when Hinata smiles at him from where he belongs, by his side in Jackals black or Japanese red with the intersecting lines of court before them, Atsumu finds he doesn't care about their bet at all.