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He hated how his heart rate shot up, clammy hands grabbing at his shirt as his breaths came short and shallow, suffocating in the confines of the darkness around him as his chest lay stuck to his thighs. 6’2 looking awfully a lot smaller than what seemed possible.
It was just so overwhelming.
What is he to this world? Will he ever have an impact or will he too succumb to the void, wallowing away, forgettable? Just a whisper in time.
Time doesn't exist anyway,
He'd laugh at himself, hypocritical against the race of his mind trying to slow itself down to breathe steadily to the seconds of a minute - to time itself.
He held his breath, forcing the roughness of his pants to a standstill in an attempt to quell the dull ache in his chest, his head, his heart. Yet his attempts proved to be unsuccessful with the following wet sob tearing from his throat. Pathetic .
What is he to this world? What does his push of arrogance and assholery accomplish for him? Why does he lie through his teeth every morning, proclaiming his love for his own life, how he wishes time would stop and he could stay in this moment forever.
He loves volleyball, he loves serving, receiving, spiking, setting he loves the euphoria that accompanies any point that belongs to him, he loves the look on his opponents' faces when he puts them in distress and he loves the silence of the crowd at his very bidding.
He loves the feeling of sweat clad skin symbolising his tremendous effort, showing how much he worked for that point, that win.
It's a feeling that he seems to forget when the sun's light dips from existence and the earth cools and sweat plasters across his skin again and a months worth of built-up turmoil and upset force their way up and out of his throat at 3 am. Pathetic .
What is he to this world? What do dull-brown eyes and mustard-blond hair and bushy brows have to offer?
His eyes glance up to the mirror facing his bed, he's sat much too far away and his eyes are far too bleary to even make out his silhouette in the darkness.
But with the 22 years he's had of owning this face, and the decades worth of monthly 3 am cry-scapades, he knows what to expect. That his straw-esque hair is plastered to his forehead, that there are indents on his cheeks from where he had smushed them against his forearms, that his knuckles are slightly paler than the rest of his skin from their clutch on the fabric that collects underneath the bend of his knees.
He can't get back to sleep, not with the steadying sunlight filtering into his room, marking the roll of time into the distant morning and highlighting tear-stricken cheeks. Pathetic.
---
He’s tired at practice, as he usually is whenever this monthly episode clashes with the sport. He doesn’t let it get to him that much, serves, receives, spikes, and sets 99.99% perfect due to a decade’s worth of time dealing with this fatigue.
Nobody notices how he cherishes their timeouts a little bit more than usual; a 0.01% crack in his ability proving to be incapable of denting his jerk-face facade and allowing him to slip into the locker room without a quip from a teammate about the darkness under his eyes when their practice ends.
He’s showered, dried, and changed, ready to hoist his bag atop of his shoulder and get back to his apartment to finally, maybe, sleep a little when a low grumble of, “what’s going on,” stops him dead in his tracks, echoing around a locker room full of only himself and a prickly, too-blunt jerk.
There’s no beating around the bush because he’s far too tired to care and all he wants to do is speed up time and get home and crash, “‘m tired,” and wills himself out of the door and away from onyx eyes.
9 PM; there’s a knock on his door, drumming into his ears at its persistence. A hand slides down his face and around to the base of his neck, massaging tension created from its awkward tuck into the corner of the sofa that had been his salvation for the past two hours.
There’s a creak from his floorboards and a rustle of the trinkets in the bowl he keeps next to his door as sluggish hands struggle to grasp onto the appropriate key to his front door while the drumming on the other side grinds to a halt.
When he finally opens it there’s nothing but a small mesh bag leaning against the wall next to his door and upon further examination, it’s housed by an unopened box of chamomile tea bags, two packets of eye mask skincare sheets, and a post-it note reading, if you’re tired tomorrow, i’ll kill you. i want to work on a new set, a messy scrawl characteristic of doctors, those that are working towards being one, or those that studied science of some kind at a university-grade level.
The door closes and the kettle’s turned on as he makes his way to the bathroom, the packet of skincare in his hands advertising the elimination of dark circles.
---
“‘M startin' to think ya care about m’ wellbein’,” the statement’s quiet against the commotion of the team, but only one person needed to hear it anyway.
Three months ago, a box of chamomile tea and two packets of skincare were left at his front door.
Two months ago, a bag of almonds and another two packets of skincare with a note of, almonds are a healthy fat and a good source of calories, they pair well with chamomile tea if you still have some. get some rest , was left at his front door.
One month ago, 6’4 waltzed into his apartment at 09:30 PM, onyx eyes scanning him up and down and small lips asking if he still had some bags of chamomile tea.
“I can tell you’re off your game. Not by much. But it irritates me. Get some rest,” and he watches as the other’s figure disappears out of the room and he knows to expect a drumming at his front door come 9 PM.
One month later, his hands tuck around a mug of steaming hot chamomile tea, burning the tips of his fingers as his eyes glaze over the motion on the screen in front of him as his mind wanders to onyx eyes, small lips, and two moles.
Two months later, he’s accompanied by curly hair and a neon yellow windbreaker that he follows as he’d run out of his personal stash of chamomile tea, most of the shops are closed for a national holiday, and 6’4 beside him says that he has a few more bags at home.
Three months later, he’s cradled on a pristine couch covered head to toe in a hoodie, sweatpants, and socks as long slim fingers comb through his slightly damp hair, two mugs washed and drying next to the sink.
---
What is he to this world? Why did stardust have to mix and collide into the being that is Miya Atsumu?
He wakes, hands hot and clammy and chest tight, body aching with the need to crawl out of his skin as his hands claim their place in the mess of blond, tugging.
‘Tsumu.
His eyes are shut tight, forbidding tears from escaping and leaving his skin blotchy and red, puffy eyes for all the world to see for when the sun’s eventually ready to come back up again.
“‘Tsumu.”
He wants to curl in on himself, plaster his thighs to his chest as he usually does in his monthly 3 am ritualistic fashion, a cry violently escaping the once-tight seal of his lips, begging to ease a pain that cropped up out of seemingly nowhere.
“Atsumu.”
Eyes shoot open, breath coming raggedly as he propelled himself upright to stare in the direction of his name, prying himself from another's arms.
“ Omi ” graced his lips in a shuddering breath before sobs wreaked havoc on his body, free-falling from his lips to match the tears free-falling from his eyes.
“Do you want a snack?”
“W-what,” Atsumu’s confused, Sakusa just repeats the question.
“Isn’t it too close to breakfast to have a snack, Omi” he grumbles, trying to wipe sweaty palms on the fabric wrapping his ankles, only for them to slip with a quiet screech, the fabric protesting it’s towelling abilities due to its own dampness.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, let's take a shower you’re sweaty,” and a puff of breath escapes his lips, lighter than the previous aggression that wrestled from his chest. The left corner of his lips quirked up slightly, the breaths that he fought so earnestly to quell having calmed at the simple, stupid, question from Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Post-shower they lay in the darkness of Kiyoomi's room. He's going to wash the sheets when they arise properly, then maybe shower again. But for now, Atsumu’s on his stomach, face nestled into the bridge between Kiyoomi’s jaw and Kiyoomi’s shoulder, as a hand comes to rest at the small of his back, rubbing circles into tense skin.
Sunlight filters through the curtain, routinely bathing the room in a soft golden tinge and marking the start of a new day. They must get up, brush their teeth, have breakfast, maybe brush their teeth again. They must go about their day. They must be on time.
Kiyoomi presses a sweet kiss to Astumu’s shoulder, readying himself for another day of volleyball and cleaning and touchy-feely friends acquaintances and Atsumu, and Atsumu groans in protest of the day ahead.
Atsumu has known himself now for 23 years, he’s had at least a decade's worth of willing time to speed up, to finally find a place where he’s content with how his life places on its point.
He's known himself for 23 years, and in the smooth golden washes of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s bedroom, and in the warm press of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s hand on his back, and in the soothing touch of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s lips on his, maybe he’s finally found it.
If time stood still right now, he’d be happy.
Because maybe Miya Atsumu does have the weight of the world on his shoulders.
He can learn to deal with that when his world, after all, is Sakusa Kiyoomi.