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You sit alone in your dorm, the weight of your world clutched your hands. A university acceptance letter in one, and a V. League recruitment letter in the other. There are things that people expect of you, but there are things that you want for yourself. Somewhere in the middle of that lies an empty court with no players, and only choice will be able to fill that court.
Deep down, the empty court is a lie. It’s not empty at all.
There is you, and somewhere in the back of your mind is a boy with atrocious blonde hair and an attitude to match. You met him three years ago, and then time and time again. You will never admit it, but he is unforgettable. You deny every instance the rotation puts you both up front and your eyes meet. His sets are like demands. You better meet this, you better hit this. It makes you want to place your infallible trust in him. Want is the key word here, it does not mean you do, even if the tosses are the best tosses you have spiked in a while. He serves like the world must bow down to him. They fall silent at command and watch with bated breath, the toss of a ball into the air, and the telltale number of steps.
You cannot be thinking about this right now. You push it away, back to the depths. The letters are still in your hands.
This is where Itachiyama ends and the rest of the world begins, and the world does not revolve around Miya Atsumu.
—
You are at the Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium again. It’s designed by Fumihiko Maki, your brain supplies. How many times have you stood here? To the average person, six times is kind of a lot, but to you, it’ll never be enough. The blue and orange court stretches out before you once more.
You are alone this time, and the two times before that. This is a lie. You are not really alone, there are twelve people on the court, including you, eleven excluding you, and six on your side. There is Otake and Kato and Fujiwara. Besides the immediate court, there are thousands of spectators. Of course there are, this is the All Japan Intercollegiate finals. The expected Chuo vs. Waseda rivalry. But nevertheless, you feel alone. It’s not as if you’re not part of the team, you very much are. You have won the past two consecutive Intercollegiates together, and you’re about to make that three.
You have friends, kind of. If friends are people you talk to occasionally, then yes. But how many of those friendships are only there because of close proximity and association? They appreciate you and you appreciate them in turn, but still, something is missing. You think of the time in your first year of university, where they went around asking favourite colours as an icebreaker. You wanted to say yellow, yellow like the colour of lemon Lysol wipe packaging, like Mikasa volleyballs, like the Itachiyama uniform, like your volleyball shoes, like the colour of hair—
You swallowed around the words instead, and said green.
You think you know what’s missing, but you don’t particularly want to dwell on that information, so you push it away, back into the depths. Warm-up time is over. The first set is about to begin, there are eleven people waiting on you. Here, there is no room for anything except volleyball.
The world does not revolve around Miya Atsumu
—
You are in Osaka, fresh out of University and an All Japan Intercollegiate MVP. You have the satisfaction of completing college, and by extension, education, as proven by the piece of paper called a degree hanging in your room.
This is your first time away from Tokyo by yourself. Without family, without Komori, alone. But are you really alone anymore? When you first pushed open the doors to the MSBY gym, Atsumu was there, back facing you, outlined by the morning light that came through the high windows.
You are both different people than you were back then, in high school, and you can feel it.
Atsumu was always fleeting, and never solidly within your grasp. Now, he is much closer, much more real, no longer just a lingering thought at the edge of your mind. He is that much closer, but still hard to reach, with hands you cannot bring yourself to touch.
You have started on Atsumu, so you cannot stop now.
What are you so afraid of? You have always seen things through til the bitter end. Actually, you’re scared that if you reach out first, he will no longer be within reach, like flowers that close up at the touch of the moon. There is something about the endless possibilities of the futilities of your actions that keep you back. You think at least if you keep quiet, maybe he will still be by your side, even if it’s out of obligation.
He calls you Omi-kun, with a familiarity that says you know each other, but you have only known of each other, limited to glances across the net and short interactions at training camps and matches at Nationals. The ease with which he says it invites warmth, but you are not sure if you are ready for that.
You say you hate the nickname, but there is a lot you would give to hear Kiyoomi fall from his lips.
The world does not revolve around Miya Atsumu, but maybe you can orbit each other.
—
Atsumu isn’t any less of a jerk or any less dramatic than he was back then, you learn. That’s comforting. Mostly, he just annoys you.
He’s always asking you ridiculous questions. He calls you by your nickname, which you’ve gotten used to responding to, and just asks you, do ya think water is wet?
You are not having this conversation, and you tell him exactly that. He then says he’s been thinking about this since his brother brought it up.
You’re thinking? You snort lightly. Don’t hurt yourself.
This makes him coo, aww Omi cares if i’m hurt, even though you literally did not say that.
You didn’t say that, but you do care, even though you refuse to tell him that.
You learn that you share the same hunger for competition, always striving to land the first service ace, and to see how many service aces you each can score. Whatever he can do, you want to do better. Together, you channel that hunger into perfecting your attacks. He is your setter, and you are his spiker.
Atsumu cares. You think that he thinks you don’t notice, but you do. It’s in the way you can spot a spare box of masks at his dorm right next to a stack of volleyball monthly magazines, in how he reaches doors before you to open them, and in how there’s always an extra bottle of pocari in the bag when he goes on convenience store runs. So yes, he cares, but is it out of obligation? Out of a need to keep you happy and in good shape? You worry, and you think you’d rather be sure of where you stand than be lied to.
You have never been too great at holding back, and chasing something with no end in sight, no satisfaction, has never sat well with you. You are made of burning and a need for answers, so it culminates like this.
You are sitting at the kitchen table, and Atsumu is just across from you, but in this moment, he feels so, so far away, and you feel the need to reach out, take his wrist, close the distance, even though you have never allowed yourself to do so previously. The sum of every time that you’ve pushed this feeling down, bursts to the surface again, like a thousand too stubborn, too buoyant beach volleyballs.
You draw in a breath and exhale, “Miya.”
His eyes tilt up to stare at you, questioning, and you are momentarily lost, stuck in one place while everything else continues to revolve.
It takes you three seconds that actually feel like three minutes to orient yourself again, and when you do, you realize the name Miya doesn't feel quite right on the tongue, like something heavy and chained. Try again.
“Atsumu,” tumbles freely from your lips.
He’s still looking at you, and you realize he has never looked away.
“Yes Omi?”
You cannot stand this kind of spotlight on you, even if you brought it upon yourself, so you have to avert your eyes before continuing.
“I like you.”
You’ve never really imagined you could say it, and it sounds too tender to your ears, but before he can say anything else, before waiting for a response, you continue, because you need to.
“Sorry. I never really meant to like you at first, but it happened anyways, it’s your stupid serve routine, and your stupid smile, and the stupid way I think you care, and —“
“Kiyoomi.”
You shut up, weighed down by the gravity of your first name finally falling from his mouth, and by the sound of the syllables twisting around teeth and tongue.
He smiles, a wide, closed lipped grin, and all you can do is watch the stretch of his lips.
“Don’t apologize. I like ya too.”
The thousand beach volleyballs floating on the surface of your emotions are popped, and the heaviness of too many years spent wishing is lifted.
There is an upturned palm sliding across the smooth, clean surface of the table, on a trajectory toward your own hand. You watch it inch closer and closer, and it comes to a stop before you. A pinky reaches out and links with your own.
This is okay.
More than okay.
You hook your pinky tighter, drawing his hand closer. His hands are warm, and heat blossoms from the singular contact point between you. It travels through your hand, up your arm, and into your chest, curls around your heart and tightens around it once, then unfurls, spreading. You stay like this, for a while, for three minutes, comprehending the exact meaning of it all.
You shift, undoing your pinkies, and instead move to curl your fingers under his own, and he instinctively curls his fingers against yours. Your hands are flipped, your palm is the one upturned now and his are slightly cupped over yours. A few moments later, you shift again, rotating your hand and wriggling your fingers through the spaces between his, so that all five fingers are linked and you are entirely holding hands now. His hands are calloused from years of setting, sturdy, sure, and genuine. You never really thought you would get this far, honestly.
The quiet is understanding, unoppressive. There is no need to say anything here. You understand him, and he understands you.
The world does not revolve around Miya Atsumu, but you might.
—
You are at the Ariake Arena. This is the first Olympic game of your volleyball career, a culmination of all your efforts. You are not alone this time. There are twelve people on the court, six on either side, one Miya Atsumu, and one Sakusa Kiyoomi.
There is someone standing next to you.
You both step forwards, and the blue and orange court stretches out before the two of you again. This is your Euphrates, where it started and where you are pushed onward. On the court, there is nothing that disgusts you.
The world revolves around the two of you.