Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Sakusa meets him, he’s aged 16, spiking for the U-19 training camp.

Flippant, arrogant, perfectionist — all words that came to mind as Sakusa watched him from the sidelines, sending up a ball in the air for another to spike. The arc was graceful, perfectly flying through the air. At the sure movement of a spike, the ball landed with a loud sound on the other side of the court, sound reverberating throughout the court. He made no move to high five the spiker who had hit the ball, simply basking in the praise that his other teammates had thrown at him much too often, his head growing three times bigger, right in front of Sakusa’s eyes.

That night, as he takes a glance at the roster of invited players, Sakusa learned that his name is Miya Atsumu.

The second of Sakusa’s encounters with him is at the court, behind the net. On the same team as they play a practice match to appease the coaches, Sakusa clenches his fists. He slowly approached the net, taking a running start as Miya positioned himself under the ball. The ball grows closer to his outstretched hands for a set, tossing the yellow and blue ball perfectly in the air, a hyperbola approaching Sakusa as he lifted himself into the air, jumping to hit the ball.

Sakusa swings his hand on the ball, aimed perfectly, the way he’d always aimed it when he was going down for a spike. A snap of the wrist, a landing of the ball on the other side of the court—

And yet, as Sakusa brought his hand down on the ball, ready to feel its impact on his already calloused hands, he feels nothing.

Missed spike.

“What the heck was that?!” a snarky sound comes from beside him on the court. “What kinda spike was that?”

Sakusa raises his head, face forming a scowl as he meets the owner of his voice.

“The trajectory of the toss was off, Miya,” Sakusa retorts, bending his aching wrists as he sent a look of distaste at the man. “It didn’t line up with my spiking arm.”

“It’s not my fault you bend your wrists like that,” he grumbles, shooting daggers at him. “Anyone who can’t hit my tosses is a scrub!”

The court around them silences at Atsumu’s declaration, glares shot at him, but he didn’t care. Atsumu’s eyes were on him, piercing as they challenged his own icy glare, unrelenting.

“That’s enough, you two,” the coach shouts, blowing his whistle with a loud screech. “On the bench, both of you!”

Sakusa throws another glare at Atsumu, quickly walking to the bench in large strides, taking up his bottle from the ground. On the other side of the bench, Atsumu does the same, a bottle already grabbed from the ground, towelling off the sweat from his face.

Despite the sharp daggers glared at him, Sakusa ignores the setter, focusing on the court.

He didn’t know what he did to deserve such a menace.
Practice continues, and Sakusa hates it.

He jumps into the air again, finally meeting Atsumu’s set as it flies into the air, albeit barely, snapping his wrists to slam the ball against the other side of the net.

A whistle. They win.

Immediately, their team rises into cheers, running over to clap Sakusa on the back. As they did, Sakusa winced, discomfort rising in him as sweaty palms clapped his back. Several reach in for high-fives, and he hesitated. They place their hands against his in a quick toss regardless, and Sakusa spends a minute scrubbing his hands raw on his shirt.

And then, he comes.

“Nice kill, Omi-kun!” he cheers, raising his arm.

For a long moment, Sakusa grimaces.

But instead, Atsumu closes his hand into a fist. With an inward sigh of relief, Sakusa raised his fist, hitting the setter’s with his own.

“Don’t call me Omi-kun,” Sakusa bites out, their touch lasting for the briefest moment.

He doesn’t make a move to scrub his hands on his towel.

“Whatever ya say, Omi-kun!” Atsumu laughed, leaving him to approach the rest of his teammates.

Sakusa sighed.
The third time they meet is at night.

The third time they meet is when Sakusa jolts from bed, cold sweat running down his face and face buried in his hands. As he jolts up, the bunk bed above him rattles, loud and rickety. His mind races, heart running as he palmed at the the cold sweat beading his face, as he tries to black away the vision running through his eyes again. For long moments, Sakusa sat, hands in his face.

He sat, trembling.

“Omi-kun, are you alright?” a sleepy voice mumbles from the darkness.

From the bed beside him, Atsumu was seated upright, hands rubbing sleepiness from his eyes as he looked at him with questioning yes. For a moment, Sakusa pulls his hands away from his face, turning up to face the man, pushing his sporadic breaths down before he let words slip from his lips in a reply.

“I’m… alright,” Sakusa breathes out.

He let a silent curse ring the air as his voice shook.

“Really?” Atsumu murmured, swinging his legs to sit on the edge of his bed, facing Sakusa now. “You don’t seem like it.”

“I’m fine, Miya,” Sakusa bit out, teeth gritted as he raised his face from his hands, shooting out a glare at the setter. “I don’t need your concern.”

Atsumu pauses for several moments, still looking at him through the darkness.

Finally, he stands up.

“Where are you going?” Sakusa asks, watching as Atsumu began to slowly walk towards the door of the room.

“To the cafeteria,” he replies. “C’mon, Omi, accompany me, will ya?”

“Accompany you?” Sakusa bit out, glaring at him. “We aren’t allowed out of the dorms after lights out!”

“Which is why I need someone to blame the crime on when we do get caught,” Atsumu laughed, as silently as he possibly could be in the room of their sleeping teammates. “C’mon.”

Sakusa hesitated. He scrambled out of his mattress as Atsumu continued to walk forward with no hesitation. Sakusa paused as he stepped out of the door into the lighted hallway, padding silently behind the setter as he slowly traced their way to the cafeteria.

As Sakusa sat at one of the tables, looking at it skeptically for any traces of leftover spilt food from dinner that night. Atsumu slowly rummaged through one of the self serve counters, busying himself with something, only coming to join Sakusa after several minutes, two mugs of something steaming in both his hands.

“What is that?” Sakusa asks, watching as Atsumu sets a cup in front of him. It was fragrant, warm fumes engulfing him.

“Tea,” Atsumu replies simply, amusement lacing his eyes as he watches Sakusa’s eyes lace with suspicion. “I didn’t drug it, Omi-omi, you can trust me on that. It’s safe to drink.”

As if to prove his point, Atsumu brought his own mug to his lips, taking a sip before putting it back down on the table. Sakusa narrows his eyes, nodding before he takes his own sip of the hot tea from the mug, sighing as the herbal warmth spreads over him. It calms him, in just the slightest.

“Why do you know how to make tea?” Sakusa asks, looking at him through narrow lenses.

“Whaddya mean ‘why do I know how to make tea’?” Atsumu scoffed, thick accent coming through as he spoke. “Of course I know how to make tea!”

“Don’t seem like the type,” Sakusa murmured, earning a smack on the head by Atsumu’s ridiculously oversized hoodie sleeves.

“‘Samu, my asshole of a brother, used to have nightmares a lot when we were kids,” Atsumu finally settled on, sitting on his own mug of tea. “We didn’t want to wake out parents all the time, ya know? So I learned how to make him tea when he got ‘specially freaked out by somethin’.”

“Really?” Sakusa asked, looking at Atsumu through the fogging steam of his hot tea. “I… didn’t expect that.”

“Well, there are upsides to having a twin!” Atsumu laughed. “You learn how to make tea.”

For the briefest moment, Sakusa let a smile crack through his lips.

“Right.”

Sakusa slept that night without another nightmare to haunt him, his mind only filled with comfort.

Sakusa scrolled through his phone, Twitter feed glaring light into his eyes. He was in bed already, under the sheets as he watched Atsumu roll out his muscles with a foam roller he’d somehow managed to sneak into his luggage without the manager noticing, complaints rising from his mouth each time he moved the roller to massage another part of his legs, sore from the intense practice he’d put in after their scheduled training sessions.

As he heard Atsumu’s fiftieth complaint about his sore muscles that night, Sakusa wished that he’d taken up Bokuto’s offer on eating with the Jackals the night before their big match.

“This is why you don’t overwork yourself the day before we travel for an away game,” Sakusa commented, glancing at Atsumu as he began to roll the roller over his thighs, obscenely exposed by the short shorts from his highschool days. They rode up his legs, Sakusa shifting uncomfortably as he refocused his eyes on his blaring Twitter feed, refusing to let them wander any further on the expense of tanned skin.

“But I have to practice my sets a bit more,” Atsumu grumbled, moving to massage his left leg now. “If it’s not perfect, we can’t play well tomorrow.”

“Hinata can always set for us in a pinch,” Sakusa retorted, placing his phone on the side table that separated their twin beds, twisting around to face his teammates. “It’s not like our success rides on you.”

“You suck, Omi-kun.”

“Don’t call me that, Miya”

Atsumu scowled, staring at him in distaste. “Who calls me Miya? No one’s called me that, like, ever, because if you did, both me and ‘Samu would turn around at the same time to look at ya!”

“Osamu isn’t here.”

“My twin brother is on first name basis with you and I don’t even get anythin’ more than Miya?” Atsumu demands, throwing a pillow from his bed onto Sakusa. “And I’ve known you for longer; yer evil, Omi-kun!”

“Don’t throw it—” Sakusa shot back, hitting the stray pillow away with his hands.

Atsumu grumbled, plopping himself on his bed, opting to continue to massage his muscles there instead. Now, level with his own eyes, it was hard for Sakusa’s gaze not to travel to the length of lean, taut muscle that seemed to be positioned exactly where it shouldn’t ever be in respect to his eye level.

“Anyway,” Atsumu continued, “‘s not like a few tight muscles will make me flop the match tomorrow.”

“You never know,” Sakusa muttered, voice dark as he clicked on a video that appeared on his feed. Immediately, large sounds came from his speaker, cheers coming from spectators as a man in a white volleyball uniform slammed a set ball into the ground, a whistle cutting through the air as they won. In the background, cheers of ‘Ushijima!’ ran through the crowd, a practiced chant rising into the air.

“Schweiden’s ace?” Atsumu asked, turning to look at Sakusa.

Sakusa gave a non-committed grunt, turning his phone for a moment to show Atsumu. “Left handed, it’s impossible to receive his spikes.”

“‘S the same with you, ya know?” Atsumu replied, tossing the foam roller away, seemingly satisfied with how rolled out his muscles were (even if he’d barely been going at it for more than 10 minutes). “The spin you give the ball, it’s a wonder that anyone can receive yer serves.”

“Is that a compliment, Miya?”

“Well, it’s not now — stop callin’ me Miya!” Atsumu complained, moving from his bed to flop onto Sakusa’s.

Sakusa growled, batting Atsumu away with a bolster. “You’re contaminating the bed.”

“Good,” Atsumu grumbled childishly, rubbing his arm against the duvet. “I’ll contaminate it even more and make sure that you’ll never sleep on it peacefully knowing that Miya germs have spread across it.”

And despite Sakusa pushing him away with the bolster, he made no further move to remove Atsumu from his space.

“Anyway,” Atsumu continued, laying on his side to look at Sakusa, propping his head up with his arm, “why’re you looking at videos of Ushijima?”

“It’s always good to know your opponent,” Sakusa murmured, pulling up another of Schweiden’s well publicised plays on his screen, eyes narrow as he analyzed the screen.

“Even you aren’t that thorough, Omi-kun,” Atsumu continued, inching closer to look at the video Sakusa was watching. “Usually you jus’ let the coach do the research for us.”

“It’s the finals,” Sakusa answered. His skin prickled as he felt Atsumu inch closer to him to watch the screen, practically sitting beside him on the bed as he watched the play that the Adlers were making, frowning as the spike hit the other side of the court. Atsumu scrunched his nose at the cheers, clearly displeased.

“Yer just going to depress yourself if you watch all their successful plays the day before you go up against them in a match!” Atsumu complained, taking Sakusa’s phone out of his hands, ignoring the loud complaints that he vocalized in an attempt to regain his phone. “No more watching successful plays for you; yer going to sleep!”

“I’m usually the one forcing you to sleep when you’re awake at 2 am the night before a match,” Sakusa replied, voice scathing. “If I don’t continue analysing their plays, we might lose—”

“Shut up, Omi-kun,” Atsumu grumbled, flinging Sakusa’s phone on the couch opposite of the bed. To Sakusa’s relief, it landed squarely on the cushiony portion of the seat, not pouncing off to hit the wooden ground.

“If we lose tomorrow, it’s your fault,” Sakusa growled. “You can’t predict how—”

“I swear to god, Omi-kun,” Atsumu grumbled, “if you go on about us losing again, I swear I’m going to kiss you or something just to make you shut up.”

For the briefest moment, Sakusa’s mind stopped working.

But before hesitation betrayed his heart, Sakusa scoffed, staring at Atsumu squarely in the eyes. “You wouldn’t, Miya. Your unbelievable threats won’t stop me from saying that we’ll—”

But before Sakusa could finish his sentence, warmth touched his lips.

It was soft, the gentle press of lips against his own. It was unrushed, nothing like Sakusa had expected it to be. There was none of Atsumu’s fieriness as their lips pressed, slight and slow, gentle in the ways it needed to be. The setter’s hand gently rested on his jaw, thumb grazing his cheekbones as the chaste kiss continued, Sakusa’s eyes fluttering shut as he did.

And when Atsumu’s lips leave his, Sakusa’s eyes open, lids half closed.

“Fuck, Miya.”

Atsumu’s eyes filled with alarm, immediately pushing himself away from Sakusa. “I’m sorry, was it bad? Did I mess up, or—”

“No,” Sakusa murmured, lips cracking into a rare smile.

“It was great.”
The next day, the Jackals win the match against the Adlers.

And in front of the whole crowd, Atsumu runs to Sakusa, adrenaline pumping through his veins and the joy of his world on his face. He runs, Sakusa meeting Atsumu half way. Atsumu reaches up, tip-toeing his feet in the slightest, and he kisses him.

And Sakusa Kiyoomi kisses him back.

Their lives are monotonous.

Go to practice, come back home. Sleep in the same bed, wake up the next morning, legs aching from practice the previous day, and go to practice again. At 8 pm, come home, have dinner with the team, and pass out before they can even hit the bed.

Life with Atsumu was no less monotonous than every day had been.

Sakusa reflected that maybe there was a reason why people were told not to date their coworkers.

Now he was on the court, running up to spike in their practice match against a Division 1 team Sakusa could barely remember the name of. He took his running start, jumping into the air as he always did, towering over the blockers. Atsumu, positioned under the ball, extends his hands into the air, tossing it at him. Sakusa waits, and snaps his wrist on the ball, the girth of the Mikasa evident as he slams it on the other side of the court. A thundering sound, a whistle from the referee.

Out.

“The toss was too high, Atsumu,” Sakusa called out, annoyance prickling in him as he watched the other team scoop up the ball from the ground, readying themselves to serve. Atsumu’s only reply was a curt nod, nothing showing on his game face as he positioned himself for a receive.

The whistle blows; a serve.

The opposite team’s server tosses the ball into the air, taking a running start before he flew into the air, jumping high. Suddenly, the ball floats in the air, the impact on the ball nowhere near strong enough for a spike serve.

Jump floater.

“I got it,” Sakusa called out, positioning his hands to receive the ball. As the ball came closer, Sakusa braced himself, preparing to toss it up towards Atsumu.

The ball reaches, and Sakusa tosses it up as he’d positioned himself to.

Only, the ball goes flying in the direction opposite his toss.

A whistle, and a cheer.

A service ace.

“Omi, you should put more force into the toss,” Atsumu called out, demonstrating his toss form to Sakusa. Annoyance bubbled inside Sakusa, spreading across his face like ice cold water, poker face forced on as he looked at his boyfriend, giving him a curt nod.

As he turns to position himself in a receiving position once again, he does exactly as Atsumu tells him. He positions his hands in the air, and tosses at Atsumu.

The ball slips the other way again.

And the other team scores five points before Sakusa is swapped out for Barnes, who promptly receives the jump floater with no issue.
“Omi-kun, are you alright?” Atsumu asked, arm over his shoulders as practice concluded. Sakusa tightened his shoulders, shrugging Atsumu’s sweaty arm off of him, discomfort rising in him at the overt physical contact.

“Just fine,” Sakusa replied, icy voice the exact opposite of his words. “Just tired, I need to sleep early today.”

“But weren’t we gonna to watch a movie after practice today?” Atsumu asked, looking at Sakusa with a confused expression. “The one at the cinema that you wanted to watch—”

But Atsumu’s question goes unanswered as Sakusa walked into the Jackals’ waiting bus.

On the bus, Sakusa sat in an empty seat, hand supporting his head as he stared out of the window with a sigh. Frustration bubbled, boiling and sparking in him as he grit his teeth, mind replaying the spike over and over and over and over and—

He only snaps out of his thoughts as Atsumu finds a seat next to his.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Omi-kun?”

“Please don’t call me that,” Sakusa murmured, voice prickly. Atsumu stared at him, confusion rising in his facel.

“Is it because of the set that was too high?” Atsumu continued, observing Sakusa like how scientists observe microbes. “Or is it because of the jump floaters? It’s okay, Omi-omi, I know you’ll get better at receiving them; we can practice—”

“It’s none of that, okay?” Sakusa bit out out, turning to face his back against Atsumu, staring out of the bus window, resting his head on his hands. “It’s just, I’m tired, we’re all tired. I need sleep; we can discuss this tomorrow.”

But tomorrow was simply a repeat of everyday.

Wake up at 5 am, follow the rest of the team to their practice venue. Spike some serves, spike some tosses. Get frustrated over missed spikes and too-high tosses. Shrug off Atsumu’s arm as he tries to ask what’s wrong, and fall asleep on the bus. Immediately shower once in the dorm, and fall asleep once the bed is available.

Every day was a monotonous game.

And Atsumu makes it no different.
“Omi-omi!” Atsumu called out, tossing into the air. Sakusa runs up, eyes narrowed as he faces the blockers in front of him, ‘Schweiden’ written on their jerseys in large black font. Sakusa jumped into the air, arm poised for a spike, slamming the ball with all his might as it comes towards him, aim precise at the empty space between the blockers—

But the ball comes flying back at him, and onto their court.

“And a perfect shut out from the Schweiden Adlers!” the announcer calls out, cheers coming loudly from the white and orange clad Adler supporters on his right, their cheers deafening. “We expect no less from the powerhouse V. League team, especially from ace Ushijima and setter Kageyama!”

Sakusa growled as he picked up the ball from the ground, tossing it to the referee to give to the other team, who were already beginning to move into a serving position. Muscles taut and frustration settling throughout him, Sakusa moved to his position, crouched as he prepared to receive.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu murmured, voice sympathetic as he looked at him. “Toss too high?”

Sakusa’s only reply was a curt nod.

“And it’s time for Ushijima Wakatoshi to serve,” the announcers continued, the entire stadium silent as the ball was tossed into the air. “He’s well known for his intense spike serves; how will the Jackals receive it today?”

The ball goes into the air, and a deafening noise rose as Ushijima slammed it.

“I got it!” Hinata called out, crouching down to receive the ball. It rose into the air, perfectly reaching Atsumu, already prepared below the net.

“Combo!” Meian called out, spikers nodding as they began to take a running start, approaching the net swiftly.

Sakusa bunched his legs, rising into the air, and jumping with all his might.

“Omi-omi!” Atsumu called out, tossing the ball perfectly into the air.

Sakusa waited, waited as the ball began to approach him, and spiked.

The weight of the ball felt comfortable against his palm as he sent the ball onto the opposite court, sound loud as it hit the material of the floor, a deafening sound rising into the air. At it, their supporters rose into loud cheers, yelling and shouting as Sakusa landed, unstable from the strong hit he’d given.

“Omi-kun, that was perfect—”

And suddenly, a whistle.

Sakusa trembled as he turned, a red flag in the air, positioned exactly where the ball had landed.

Out.

“And that point seems to go to the Adlers!” the announcer called out, black and gold outfitted fans groaning loudly as the opposite team began to cheer, adrenaline rushing through them.

“Next is Kageyama Tobio’s turn to serve,” the second announcer spoke, “and—”

A whistle.

Sakusa turned, directed to the sound of the whistle, ice coming over him as he saw what the whistle was directing his attention to.

On the sidelines of the court, his number was being held up by another Jackal.

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu began, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if in comfort. “C’mon, we’ll do the next set—”

Sakusa didn’t reply as he shrugged Atsumu’s hand off, and walked to the side of the court, taking the number paddle from his teammate’s hands.

There was a deafening roar as the final rally finally came into play.

The Jackals didn't win the match that day.

Atsumu doesn’t run to Sakusa, and Sakusa doesn’t meet him halfway. They simply sit on a bench, gulping down water. Sakusa can’t tell if their face is wet with tears or sweat, because he can’t feel as he walks through the crowd of supporters, barely able to bow in gratitude for their support.

On the bus ride home, Atsumu sat next to Sakusa, but he says nothing. He says nothing as the familiar streets pass them, and the light fades into dark.

He simply places a hand on his knee, and traces circles around them as Sakusa falls into darkness.
The next day, Sakusa left the dorm at 5 am, before anyone else is awake to stop him.

He immediately made for the gym, ignoring the looks he gets on the MRT, even if there are only five people on the train that recognize him from his team jersey.

At the gym, he picked up a ball, and immediately begins training. He tosses a ball into the air, spiking it over the loose net, sending it to the other side, and picking up a ball from the cart before the first one even hits the ground. He can barely feel the ache in his legs as he continues to spike the balls over the net, satisfaction running through him as the sounds of the ball hitting the other side of the court rose into the air, like music to his ears.

The sun rises through the windows around him, tinting the dark gym in purples and oranges, turning brighter and brighter each time a deafening roar comes from his serve hitting the opposite side of the net.

By the time the sun is in the sky, Sakusa was panting, already on his third cart of volleyballs, sweat dripping down his face as he tried to concentrate, blurry from the sweat that was entering his eyes, stinging his vision.

“Omi-omi?”

At the familiar voice, Sakusa jerked his head up, questioning glare shot at the owner of the voice.

At the entrance of the gym, Atsumu stood, old Inarizaki jacket draped over his shoulders, eyes still puffy from sleep, duffle bag slung over his shoulder carelessly. He approached Sakusa, gently wrestling the ball out of his hands, tossing it back into the cart.

“What time did you get here?” he asked, pushing the cart away, despite the rise in Sakusa’s noises of protest.

“Six—”

“Don’t lie,” Atsumu grumbled, tossing balls back into the cart, slowly picking up the balls around him. “I was awake by five thirty and you weren’t in bed. What time did you get here?”

Sakusa stiffened. “Five.”

“Omi-omi, you’re overworking yourself,” Atsumu sighed, picking up the final stray balls across the court and rolling them back to their original positions. “You’re going to get sick if you continue to do—”

“And I’m going to continue to be benched if I don’t train,” Sakusa replied, voice crass as he picked up a ball from the ground, spiking it in a serve before Atsumu could stop him. “Two times.”

Atsumu looked up, gaze questioning. “Two times?”

“I was benched twice last week,” Sakusa growled, looking at Atsumu, frustration coming through him. “That’s twice the amount I’ve been benched last season.”

“Omi—”

“I need to train,” Sakusa growled, taking a ball from where Atsumu had placed it. “Don’t—”

Before Sakusa could toss the ball into the air, Atsumu gripped his arm, batting the ball away from his outstretched hand. As he did, anger rose in him, bubbling, boiling, spilling over.

Sakusa gripped Atsumu’s hand, and shoved it away.

“Can you stop, and just let me train?” Sakusa growled. “Stop trying to—”

“Can’t I stop you from runnin’ yourself to death?” Atsumu snapped. “Each time you come back to the dorm, yer already exhausted. You can barely make time to go to dinner with the team, or watch the damn movie that I made time in my schedule to see with you. If you start practicing at five in the fucking mornin’, you’re just going to—”

“Why is it my fault that I want to get better?” Sakusa snapped back. “I want to stop myself from being benched. I want to win games. I want to stop missing spikes during important matches, and I’m training to do just that. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is,” Atsumu spat, “that you’re runnin’ yourself dead without any concern for other people. Can’t you tell tha’ the people around you are worried?”

“Worried?” Sakusa growled. “I’m doing this for my own good, you don’t need to—”

“The fact is that you’re worryin’ everyone around you. Meian has come to me three times in the past week askin’ if you’re okay. Even Bokkun and Hinata are worried, and they never do that. Can’t you see that everyone’s concerned?”

Before Sakusa could snap something in reply, the door to the gym opened with a loud sound, dragging his attention to it.

The rest of the team yelled them a cheery greeting, placing their duffel bags into their lockers as Sakusa continued to glare at Atsumu, eyes dark.

“We’ll continue this conversation later,” Sakusa spoke, voice threateningly low as he stared at Atsumu. “But please don’t involve yourself in my practice today.”

That day, Sakusa only hit tosses from their backup setter.
Their conversation never continued.

As soon as they reached the dorm, Sakusa slammed the door to his room shut, ran himself under a hot shower, and collapsed onto bed.

And every day, he made his way to the gym before the sun rose, and collapsed once he came back home.

Soon, Atsumu stops coming after him.
The Jackals win their next match, and Sakusa watches from the sidelines.

Sakusa watches from the bench as his team cheers at their win in the final set, piling into a large group hug, falling over onto the ground. Sakusa watches as Atsumu, in the center of the circle, extends his arms around as many people as he could, bringing them all into a large, unbreathable hug.

“Let’s celebrate tonight!” Meian called out as the rest of the team gathered around them, Hinata and Bokuto jumping up and down at the word ‘celebrate’. “Let’s get drinks and celebrate, because we’re going to beat the Schweiden assholes in the next match!”

Meian’s proposition was met with loud sounds of approval.

As they piled into the bus, air loud with conversation of where to go, Sakusa sat in the same window seat, staring up at the darkening sky. He sighs as a familiar weight sits next to him, silence between them even as Sakusa glances over to check who it is.

“Hey,” Atsumu murmured.

Sakusa doesn’t reply to him, simply staring at the twilight sky as the bus moved to their destination.

Still, despite everything, Atsumu holds his hand, and keeps it there.

At the dorms, Sakusa immediately finds his way to his room, and locks himself in. He turned on the tap, running a cold shower over himself, sighing as he stared at the white tiles of the bathroom, letting the water over take him, wetting the curls on his head, soothing the aching of his body.

When he dries himself off and slips on clothes, a knock comes at his door.

“Omi-kun?”

At the voice, Sakusa flicked the lock open, opening the door in the slightest.

Behind it, Atsumu stood, dressed in casual clothes, hair swept naturally, free of the usual gel combed through the bleached locks.

“Are you coming with us for dinner?” Atsumu asked, voice hesitant as he stared at him.

Sakusa gripped the handle to his door. “No.”

Without another word, he shut the door behind him with a deafening thud, and sunk to the floor. Resting his head against the door, he sighed, burying his hands in his face. He could feel himself quiver, eyes watering even if he can think of nothing to cry about. Nothing comes to mind, even as he tries to think of anything to justify his tears.

”Another missed spike by spiker Sakusa Kiyoomi!”

The voice of an announcer comes to his head.

”Did he not have enough time to coordinate with their setter, or is Sakusa off his game today?”

The tears began.

”It looks like Sakusa Kiyoomi has been swapped out for rookie—”

And Sakusa clawed at his face, fingers ripping through the tears, rubbing his face raw.

”Sakusa, out—”

And Sakusa collapsed, nothingness overcoming him as he stayed, defeated, on the floor.
Atsumu comes home drunk.

Sakusa could hear Atsumu as he stumbled over the furniture in their shared dorm, the loud voices of Hinata and Bokuto, who had come with him, rising into the air as jovial laughter, running through the room, excitement practically bouncing off the walls. Sakusa sat on the edge of his bed, hearing them as he tossed a volleyball at the wall, a satisfying sound coming from it as it bounced back at him. He could feel nothing, not even the burn on his hands as he caught the ricocheting ball in his palm, ignoring the red sting it left on his palm, throwing it against the wall again, ignoring the way the wall gave away to small cracks and chips of plaster.

We aren’t renting the dorm anyway.

“Omi-kun?”

Atsumu’s slurred voice was painfully intoxicated as he knocked on the door, steps clearly slow and drunk. Sakusa gripped his fingers into a fist, slamming the ball onto the wall again.

“Omi-omi?” came Atsumu again, knocking growing louder against the wall. “‘M not gonna leave until you… open the door.”

Another toss at the wall. Another banging of the door.

Finally, Sakusa stood from where he sat, flinging the door open.

A drunk Atsumu stood, cheeks red in the way it always was when he drank too much, eyes unconcentrated as he stared at Sakusa, barely sobered up as he walked into the room, steps hesitant, arms extended around him, like a circus person on a line, attempting to walk to the other side.

“You’re drunk,” Sakusa said, more of a statement as he watched his boyfriend collapse onto the bed, sitting down mostly upright. “You know you can’t handle drinks.”

“I don’t care,” he slurred, Kansai accent even more glaring in his inebriated state. “Are you okay, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa tensed, staring at Atsumu. “If you wanted to come here and talk about my feelings or whatever it is, I suggest you don’t do it when you’re blackout drunk and about to pass out as we speak.”

As if he had been shocked into soberness, Atsumu’s eyes were suddenly clearer, despite his slow, intoxicated movements. “Omi-kun, you’ve been avoiding me.”

“Avoiding?” Sakusa sighed, crossing his arms as he stared at Atsumu. “Avoiding wouldn’t be the word I would use. I was focusing my time elsewhere; namely, on avoiding getting benched during a match.”

“It’s not working,” Atsumu growled. “Avoiding me to play volleyball and to get in extra hours isn’t working, Omi-kun. You were still benched in the match today—”

“Are you here to rub salt in my wound over our win against the team we played today, or are you actually going to give us something productive to talk about?” Sakusa snapped, staring Atsumu straight in the eyes. “You don’t have to tell me that I was benched; I know full well that I was benched during the match today. You don’t get to tell me that it’s not working—”

“Sakusa,” Atsumu started, sitting up from where he sat, footsteps still unstable. “What I’m saying is, the extra practice is taking a toll—”

“Don’t tell me that the extra practice isn’t working,” Sakusa snapped. “Working hard is the way to improve. Not all of us are gifted with talents. Not all of us manage to coast by life with just innate volleyball skills alone, Miya.”

Atsumu bristled, staring at Sakusa hostilely. “If yer referring to what I think you are, stop.”

Sakusa glared at Atsumu, flaring in anger. “Not all of us can get by with just regular team practice, Atsumu. Not all of us can play volleyball perfectly like you do without any extra practice, some of us aren’t talented enough to—”

“Can you shut up for a moment?” Atsumu growled, anger shining in his eyes. “Some of us know when it’s time to stop, Sakusa. Bokkun, Hinata, Meian, everyone on the team barely has any time to take extra practice because we actually need to rest. Not all of us work like a machine; team practice was created so that we’d get enough practice throughout the day, extra practice is only done before matches—”

“Why are you stopping me from doing more than the rest of you?” Sakusa spat. “Is it so wrong that I want to improve myself, that I want to extend myself even further—”

“It’s wrong,” Atsumu growled. “Okay?”

Sakusa stared at him, not a word leaving his lips.

“It’s wrong to run yourself dead with practice when everyone else is trying to keep you from dyin’ from exhaustion,” Atsumu continued, words spat out, spite lacing them. “Everyone’s concerned. Meian keeps askin’ me what’s up with you, Bokkun and Hinata are practically wrung with worry because you keep disappearin’ before we go to the gym together. Omi, I’m worried, but you won’t even let me talk to you.”

The anger in his words died as his sentence finished, pain replacing the sheen of fury in Atsumu’s eyes. Sakusa gripped his fists as he stared at Atsumu, heart clenching as he stared at his watery eyes, pain and conflict painted on his features.

“Atsumu,” Sakusa murmured, regret washing over him, “please, don’t—”

But before Sakusa could say his next words, Atsumu was gone, and the only thing he was talking to was a shut wooden door.

And so, Sakusa collapsed.

He collapsed as tears blurred his vision, running down his face, pain gripping his chest, as if something was trying to wrench his heart away, tearing a gaping hole through him. He hugged his knees, burying his face in his clothes as the tears continued to escape him, raw pain rising in him, rubbing his face with the scratchy sleeves of his sweater, red marks littering his face.

He cried.

And he cried again.

He cried as he saw Atsumu’s face, lost and eyes glassy.

He cried as he heard the voice of the announcers displaying his missed spike, disappointed groans of the crowd surrounding him.

Sakusa wondered if he was wrong.

He wondered if Atsumu was right, for all his anger and fiery words, for all the spite laced in them. He wondered, as he gripped his knees and hugged it to himself, if Atsumu had broken, if he had broken before he could even notice that he was cracking.

Sakusa wondered, as tears escaped his eyes, if Atsumu was crying too.

He wondered, for a fleeting moment, if this was what breaking felt like. If it felt like everything was shattering in him, floating nothingness like death had overcome him. Was this what it felt like, to be broken after everything was so perfectly put together? To be broken, even after everything was perfectly in place, yet everything somehow went wrong.

He wondered if it was the missed spike.

He wondered if it was losing against the Adlers.

If it was the extra practice, the pain and the tears.

What was it to be broken?

Sakusa rose, gripping a familiar jacket that had found its way onto his chair. The black jacket they’d always worn to matches, cold from being neglected, left there after the match. He gripped it, pulling it close to him, bringing it over his shoulders. As he did, he breathed in the scent of the jacket, expecting the clean scent he was so used to having over his clothes, the one of the soft detergent and fabric softener that he’d bullied Atsumu into getting him each time he ran to the convenience store for snacks.

But when he took in the scent, it smelled different.

And the tears began again.

The jacket smelt familiar, not the clean scent of detergent and fabric softener he was so used to smelling around him. It smelt like food, cooked homemade food and warmth. It smelled nearly like the woods, like a crackling fire and the hearth of home. It surrounded him, as if wrapping around him like an embrace, holding him tight.

And Sakusa cried as he smelt it.

It smelt of Atsumu.

And soon, Sakusa found himself walking. He found himself walking, Atsumu’s jacket wrapped around his shoulders, slowly making his way through the already dark dorm, the only thing leading him the memory of the path to the next room. His feet felt cold against the ground, warm jacket comforting him despite it.

Slowly, he unlocked the door to the room across his, and sighed.

On the bed, Atsumu laid. He laid, breathing softly, facing the wall he’d always faced when he fell asleep, back towards the door. His blanket wasn’t even pulled over him, still in the perfect, clean arrangement it had been in when housekeeping had cleaned up their room, limbs sprawled on top of it. Sakusa sighed as he closed the door behind him, heart clenching as he watched the rise and fall of Atsumu’s chest, a gentle breathing.

Gently, he lifted Atsumu’s legs, pulling the blanket over him and dragging it to his shoulders. With the tenderness of the wind, Sakusa gently slipped in behind Atsumu, resting his head on the crook of his shoulder, where his head met his neck, breathing in his scent. It smelt faintly of alcohol and intoxication, of outside smoke and restaurant food, but Sakusa didn’t care. He didn’t care as he breathed in the scent, buried under the same covers Atsumu was in, arm gently draped across Atsumu’s abdomen, a half embrace.

As he closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of Atsumu’s warmth, the tears stopped. The tears stopped as he gently held Atsumu, his warmth comforting. Even amidst the smell of tobacco and artificial food and alcohol and everything, Atsumu smelled like home.

And so, Sakusa laid. He laid in bed, hugging Atsumu, gently rubbing circles over his skin in the way Atsumu always did after a bad match. He gently caressed Atsumu’s hair, gently brushing the bleached blonde away from his face, away from where it would disturb him.

And as he laid, pulled into Atsumu’s warmth, he sighed, and held him tight.

He held him tight as he fell, and fell into the depths of exhaustion.
The next morning, light streamed into the room, Sakusa blinking his eyes open at it.

Atsumu was still in his arms, breathing gentle as he held Sakusa’s hand, still draped over his abdomen from the previous night. At Sakusa’s shifting, Atsumu turned around, puffy eyes red. Sakusa couldn’t tell what it was red from.

“Hey,” Atsumu murmured, gently brushing away the curls falling over Sakusa’s face. Sakusa observed his face, gently tracing his features. The tall nose, hooded eyes, familiar high cheekbones, chiseled jawline, now slack.

He found no trace of the previous night’s anger in them.

“Hey,” Sakusa murmured, heart clenching as Atsumu smiled, tender and kind, eyes soft. “About last night—”

“‘S okay,” Atsumu murmured, Kansai accent blending in with his sleepiness. “‘S okay, Omi-kun.”

And for long moments, they simply laid there. They laid there, Sakusa’s arm over Atsumu’s stomach in a soft embrace, fingers circling the soft skin of his abdomen.

And so they laid, in a soft embrace, refusing to let go.

The days were merely a repeat.

Nothing changed since the day Sakusa hugged Atsumu closely, since apologies were shared and “it’s okay”s were murmured.

Life was a cycle of missed spikes, locked rooms, and midnight apologies.

Soon, it stopped.

Soon, Atsumu stopped coming to Sakusa’s room, knocking on the door to ask if he was okay. For long nights, Sakusa simply sat at the foot of his bed, volleyball in hand as he spiked it against the wall in front of him, indent on the plaster evidence of his nightly ritual. Atsumu no longer placed his arm over Sakusa’s shoulders after practice, bullying him into a late night dinner meeting with the Jackals, or to invite him for some drinks at the bar they frequented even before anything between them had begun. Atsumu no longer texted first, and Sakusa no longer texted second.

Everything was a ‘no longer’, and everything was stagnant.

And Sakusa barely felt it.

He barely felt it as he found himself being ferried by their managers between match venues, barely felt it when the only thing he could concentrate on was the opponent in front of him, and the match they were meant to play. He barely felt it, even when he ran up to do a spike, and didn’t hear the usual ‘nice kill’ from Atsumu’s lips. He didn’t feel it, even when the air between them had grown stale, no conversation between them even as they took their usual seats next to each other on the bus back to the dorm, any attempt at conversation immediately shot down, or quickly becoming too dry to discuss.

Sakusa knew, but he didn’t feel.

He didn’t feel any of it.

He didn’t feel it until he woke up on a Sunday morning, crouched at the foot of his bed with a volleyball in his hands.

Despite the harsh pain in his muscles from the previous day, Sakusa stood up, discarding the volleyball and letting it roll to where he’d always placed it, quickly washing his face, leaving his room without even thinking about the long process of taking a shower.

The dorm was empty, eerily quiet. Bokuto and Hinata, who’d taken their leave the previous day to stay in their respective partners’ apartments, were gone, none of their bright, vibrant, loud energy remaining in the room. Sakusa didn’t mind.

He wouldn’t have minded, if it meant that he didn’t have to be faced with a single Miya Atsumu, sitting on the couch, face more serious that he’d ever seen it.

Sakusa could smell the alcohol in his breath as Atsumu murmured a gentle good morning, barely making any move from where he sat. He didn’t stand up and hug him like he’d always had, simply choosing to stare at the blank wall in front of him instead, wordless. He didn’t stand up to annoy Sakusa, or to badger him about the match from the previous day. He did nothing.

And for the first time, Sakusa felt it.

“Do you want breakfast?” Sakusa murmured, taking the seat next to the setter. “You smell like alcohol.”

“If I drank alcohol, then I’d obviously smell like it,” was Atsumu’s reply, soulless.

And those were his only words.

So, Sakusa sat, sipping his tea, mug enclosed in two hands, staring at the wall in front of him too. He sat, in the silence he once believed comfortable, hands nearly scalding from the heat of the tea. He didn’t make any move to place the mug back on the coffee table, despite the angry redness of his hands.

And all they did was sit.
Several hours later, they find themselves in Shibuya.

They sit at a restaurant, people bustling around them, some pointing at them seated together in a small booth in the tiny sushi restaurant they’d chosen to spend their afternoon in, slowly nibbling on pieces of sashimi as it arrived at their table, small smears of wasabi placed on them in lazy movements. Atsumu had barely touched his food, eyes distant, exhaustion evident in the features of his face, eyes puffy, dark circles evident.

“Why did you decide to drink last night?” Sakusa finally said, the breaking silence ice-like. “You’re not one to drink when there’s nothing to drink for.”

“Jus’ felt like it,” Atsumu replied. He didn’t make room to elaborate, simply letting the sentence sit.

A question slowly snaked into Sakusa’s mind. He hesitated as he articulated it.

“Is there anything wrong?” Sakusa murmured, gently clenching his fingers into a fist where Atsumu couldn’t see it. “You never drink without a—”

“Nothing’s wrong, Omi,” Atsumu replied, cutting into Sakusa’s sentence before he could even complete it. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“That’s clearly not right,” Sakusa challenged, forcefulness beginning to seep its way into his tone. “Don’t say that everything’s fine if it’s not; lying won’t do you any good.”

“I’m not lying,” Atsumu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why you’re so suspicious of me. I’m not going out to hook up with other people behind your back, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” Sakusa replied, biting the inner flesh of his cheek. “I’m just wondering if you’re—”

“I’m fine, Omi,” Atsumu repeated, words more forceful as he said them. “C’mon, let’s stop talking about this; people are staring.”

Sakusa lifted his gaze, sweeping around to verify Atsumu’s words.

He was right.

“Let’s just continue this conversation at the dorms,” Atsumu sighed, placing a bill on the table. “I’ll meet you back home.”

Before Sakusa could say anything, Atsumu stood from the table, and left.

Sakusa paid for the tab alone, and left the bill on the table.
When he arrived at the Jackals’ dorm, Sakusa found nothing.

Atsumu was absent, not in his usual place by the sofa. There wasn’t any sounds of the cringey soap opera he loved watching, or the usual loudness of the conversations he held over the phone with his old Inarizaki teammates. The only thing that the house contained was silence.

Cold silence.

Slowly, Sakusa toed his shoes off, leaving them in a neat row by the front door, walking towards Atsumu’s door. As he approached, he could hear nothing.

Gently, Sakusa extended an arm, placing it on the door knob, twisting it.

He couldn’t.

“Atsumu?” he called out, cautiousness evident in his tone. “Atsumu?”

“Hm, Omi?”

Atsumu’s voice was distant, low. It was as if his throat was scratched up and blocked, the kind he’d sported during especially bad colds.

“It’s me,” Sakusa continued. “Can I… come in?”

Sakusa’s only answer was a click from the doorknob.

Slowly, Sakusa entered the room.

The room was a mess, sheets undone and bed still messy. The desk Atsumu had was filled with all kinds of papers, posters and books, unorganized and cluttered. Atsumu, uncaring, sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the ground as he hugged his knees to his chest, eyes distant and unconcentrated. Tentatively, Sakusa approached him, gently sitting on the space beside Atsumu, legs barely brushing together.

“You’re not okay.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

Atsumu looked up, staring at the ceiling. “What gave it away?”

His words were biting, sarcastic as he said them.

“Why?” Sakusa murmured, fingers tensing, gripping the sheets, anxiety coursing through him. “You’re never not okay.”

“No one’s ever always okay,” Atsumu murmured. “Omi, where do you think is the line between something being worth it, and something being completely destructive?”

Sakusa tensed.

“What do you mean by that?” Sakusa murmured, turning to look at Atsumu. “Don’t speak in a roundabout way, tell it to me straight.”

“Not much about me is straight,” Atsumu laughed. Even that was dry.

“Still,” Sakusa mumbled. “Tell it to me straight; what do you mean?”

“Omi,” Atsumu murmured, not meeting Sakusa’s eyes. “Don’t you think we’re… not progressing?”

“Progressing?” Sakusa echoed, turning to look at him. “What do you mean by progressing?”

“We haven’t had a proper conversation in weeks,” Atsumu continued, carding his fingers through his hair. “We haven’t done… anything in weeks. We can’t hold conversations with each other without the topic going dry and… we just can’t—”

“Aren't we just busy, Atsumu?” Sakusa murmured. “We’re too busy to do anything in life. We have matches back to back, especially during the season, and we just don’t have time to—”

“Isn’t there where the problem begins, Omi?” Atsumu sighed. “The problem comes when we think we don’t have time but, do you think that really is the truth?”

Sakusa opened his mouth, but no words came to him.

“Like,” he murmured, “Bokkun has time to visit Akaashi, even when he has a million deadlines and Bokuto’s busy travelling to go to matches with us. Hinata can still visit Tobio-kun and spend the night at Osaka just because they enjoy being with each other that much, even if it means that he has to reschedule a few practice sessions with the team.”

“What are you saying, Miya?” Sakusa sighed, turning to look at Atsumu. Even his last name felt foreign on his tongue.

“I’m saying,” Atsumu continued, face pained, “how come everyone else around us can make the time to do everything, even amidst… everything? We’re on the same team, we travel to the same places together, we’re together everyday; why do we not have the time when they do?”

“We use that time differently, Atsumu. We use that time to sleep, to repair ourselves when Hinata and Bokuto are running themselves dry—”

“You can’t say that,” Atsumu murmured, eyes glossy with tears. “You can’t say that when you wake up at 5 in the morning to get extra practice in the gym. Bokuto and Hinata don’t drop dead the moment we come back to the apartment, they still have the energy to come with us for team dinners; you know that.”

“Okay, maybe it’s different, alright?” Sakusa sighed, frustration seeping into his voice. “I want to train, and they choose to spend their time with the different people they care about because their priorities are—”

“Different,” Atsumu bit out, voice harsh. “Because the priorities are different.”

“Is that such an issue?” Sakusa challenged, voice edging hardness.

“It’s an issue when I’m the only one who seems to put this first,” Atsumu murmured, gesturing into nothingness. “Every single time you decide to crash in your room after a long day of practice, I’m the one knocking on your door to check if you want dinner, or if you want to just rest in your room. Whenever we lose, I’m always the one who has to console you, to make sure that you don’t kill yourself practicing. Why is it always me—”

“Atsumu, can you think of one moment where you’ve shown to me that you need as much help as I do?” Sakusa cut in, teeth biting his lower lip. “I get it, I’m the one that’s a mess, but I’ve never had a moment where I had the opportunity to help—”

“Is it so hard to just ask me if I’m alright after a lost match?” Atsumu whispered, voice broken. “We play on the same team, I love volleyball as much as you do. Is it so hard to ask if I’m doing alright?”

Sakusa’s heart gripped. “Atsumu—”

“After you broke down completely after losing that match,” Atsumu murmured, “I told you that it’s alright for you to act that way after you lost a match — I feel the same way too. But if you keep acting and acting that way with no regard—”

“It’s not like I choose to act that way, Miya,” Sakusa growled. “I don’t choose to feel heartbroken over a missed spike, or depressed after we lose a match. If I could I would choose never to feel that way ever again, I can’t control whatever impulses in emotion I have!”

“Omi,” Atsumu murmured. “I know, but I can’t always be the one who takes the fall for it.”

Sakusa’s heart drops.

“You’re ending it.”

Sakusa’s words weren’t a question.

“I’m sorry, Omi,” Atsumu murmured, finally meeting Sakusa’s eyes for the first time. They’re watery, glassy. Sakusa saw himself in those tear filled eyes. “But I just can’t. It’s not your fault—”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it,” Sakusa bit out. “Don’t, it’ll just make it worse.”

And without another word, Sakusa stood from his seat, and left the room.

As he sat in his room, at the foot of his bed, volleyball hugged tightly to himself, Sakusa felt nothing. He felt no tears as he replayed Atsumu’s words in his head. He felt nothing even as Atsumu’s words haunted him, as they chased him through his dreams. His heart felt nothing, even as he bit his lips and tried to make himself cry.
The tears only come three weeks later when he sits at the edge of his bed and watches Atsumu smile happily through an Instagram picture.

Sakusa sat on the sidelines of the court, watching as his sweat drenched teammates began to approach the coach, managers passing out filled water bottles to everyone, who accepted them with exhausted, murmured apologies. Sakusa stood from where he sat, joining the team as they surrounded the coach, waiting for his instructions.

“We’re switching out Hinata this set because we need him to play in the third set; we need to get in as much minus tempo quicks as we can when the other team’s already beginning to slow,” their coach began, pointing at a diagram he’d drawn of the stadium. “Sakusa’s going to replace him, so our power doesn’t reduce. Bokuto will still stay, and the rest of the positions remain the same. Is that understood?”

As the team nodded, they sent nervous glances as Sakusa.

And Atsumu.

Hinata smiled at Sakusa, eyes devoid of the anxiety filled glances the others were throwing at him. “What strategy are you going to use today?”

Sakusa looked at Hinata, confusion filling him. “Strategies?”

“You and Atsumu-san always have the coolest strategies!” Hinata enthused, punching the air in front of him as if he was defeating some invisible enemy in front of him. “You know, like your combos with him are always the coolest! It goes wham, boom and whack!”

Sakusa nodded, breaking an uneven smile at Hinata. “Maybe they were.”

Hinata looked at him, but didn’t question his choice of words as Bokuto dragged him off, whispering something furiously in his ear.

As the whistle blew, signalling the end of the break, Sakusa stretched out his arms, moving his wrist from side to side, desperate to get any remaining tension out of his muscles. The rest of the team began moving forward, already in a crouched position to receive their next serve.

But, before Sakusa could join them, gentle, calloused fingers tapped his back.

“Om— Sakusa,” Atsumu murmured, greeting him with the flamboyant, too wide smile he’d always saved for fans. “Just like always?”

For a moment, Sakusa didn’t know what Atsumu was referring to.

Until he remembered.

Sakusa nodded. “Yeah.”

“And the set begins!” the announcers cheered as Sakusa and Atsumu found their positions on the court, crouched in a position to receive the serve. “This time, Hinata Shouyou has been replaced with Sakusa Kiyoomi, one of the wing spikers for the Jackals. It’s a surprise that they’re only bringing Sakusa-san so late in the game, because he’s known for the nasty spin that he puts in his spikes, making them incredibly hard to receive.”

As the announcers spoke, the served ball rose into the air, hurtling towards them.

“I got it!” Bokuto called out, crouching down to receive the ball cleanly into the air.

“And the ball goes up!” the announcer cheers. “You see, Sakusa-san was one of the members that competitors were specifically worried about, mostly due to his incredible matchup with their setter, Miya Atsumu.”

As Sakusa heard those words, he tensed.

“The ball received by Bokuto-san is moving perfectly towards their setter, Miya Atsumu,” the announcer continued. “Will he—”

But the rest of the announcer’s words were cut off by one loud call.

“Omi-omi!”

Sakusa looked up.

Atsumu was below the ball, hands outstretched, ready to set. At the sight, Sakusa bunched his muscles, running forward for the spike.

“And the ball goes—”

Without hesitation, Sakusa paused in front of the blocker, watching as they jumped up high.

A gasp ran through the crowd. “A delayed—”

Before they could finish their words, Atsumu tossed the ball into the air, flying straight at Sakusa’s now outstretched arm, hitting the ball with a resounding sound on the opposite side of the court.

“And we have a perfect delayed time attack, a specialty of—!”

Sakusa turned around, cheeks already pink from the exertion of the match.

And he met Atsumu’s eyes.

Without hesitation, Atsumu’s lips broke into a smile. “Nice kill, Sakusa.”

And Sakusa’s heart pricked.

If only he could’ve saved that smile for himself forever.

As they scored the final point, the supporters around them yelled amidst enthusiastic bouts of applause, the Jackals coming in in a large group, arms flung over one another in a tight embrace. Despite the sweat clinging to their skin and the all too warm heat emanating from them, Sakusa joined in, cringing at the feeling of his teammate’s sweat.

“It’s a celebration tonight!” Meian declared, cheers of agreement resounding through them. Sakusa smiled, wiping off the sweat dripping from his temples with the sleeve of his shirt.

A celebration.

For a moment, he turned.

He turned to face Atsumu, cheeks red from the high of the win, warmth spreading through his skin all the way to his neck, hair tousled and messy from the match. It was everything Sakusa revolted; from the messy hair to the sweat slicked skin, from the reddened, patchy cheeks to the arrogant, prideful smirk he sent towards their supporters, who swooned at the gesture.

It was everything he hated, and yet he couldn’t help but stare.

As they returned to the benches, downing bottles upon bottles of water, making up for the lost moisture, Sakusa walked to plop on to the bench, sighing as he ran his fingers through his hair, discomfort rising in him at the dampness of the black locks.

“Kiyoomi.”

Sakusa looked up, tensing as he heard his name drawl from familiar lips.

“Miya,” Sakusa nodded, curt as he stared up at his blonde teammate, eyes questioning as he stared at him. “Anything you need?”

“That… was a good spike,” Atsumu smiled, much too brightly. “It was a good spike.”

Sakusa swallowed, nodding in response. “It was a good set.”

For the briefest interval, Sakusa tensed as Atsumu moved closer to him, hesitant in his actions. Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten up as Atsumu moved, frame by frame as if it was a slow motion in the bad romance movies Atsumu loved watching so much.

It was slow, purposeful.

For a moment, Sakusa expected warm arms around him, as they always were after long rallies and big wins.

But Atsumu simply sat, and settled himself a meter away from where Sakusa sat.

Today… will never be the usual.

The celebration was more noise than Sakusa would have liked.

The celebration was all adrenaline and endorphins, the high of the match clinging to the air. Sakusa sat at the edge of the table, a small shot glass in hand, taking tiny sips from it as he watched the others horse around and laugh, no difference between them and the highschool teams Sakusa had been so used to being around during his time at Itachiyama. They were laughing, clinking glasses with one another's’, cheeks turning red as the bottles of alcohol continued to drain, going into each person’s glass every few minutes.

“Sakusa-san, are you not drinking?” Hinata asked, eyes distant and lips pressed into a permanent smile. “It’s a victory, you know!”

“You should probably get him home,” Sakusa murmurs to Bokuto, glancing at Hinata, who was now trying to imitate a horse for Meian and Atsumu’s drunk amusement. “Kageyama won’t be happy if he blacks out on us now.”

“He’ll be fine,” Bokuto waved off. “Anyway, you should probably watch out for that one, he looks like he’s about to jump out of the window at any moment.”

Sakusa watched as Atsumu took another shot, clearly too drunk to even register anything that was happening around him. At the sight, Sakusa sighed, shaking his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“He’s probably going to be defenestrated by me before he even has the opportunity to jump out of a window,” Sakusa growled, gripping his glass. “He’s probably going to die before we make it to midnight if he continues to drink like that.”

“He definitely will,” Bokuto laughed, easily downing another shot of whiskey like it was no problem. “But you’ve been drinking the same amount of all of us, you don’t seem the least bit drunk.”

“Tolerance,” was Sakusa’s only answer.

Sakusa watched as Atsumu downed yet another drink he couldn’t take, the liquid in his cup now a weird mix of some light colored alcohol and amber colored one, making some sort of demonic concoction in the shot glass in his hands. Now, he was beginning to hug everyone around him, practically hanging off of their backs in his intoxication.

“We probably should…” Meian said, slurring his words as he tried to keep himself upright on the table, “start going home. Does… does everyone have a driver, or someone to… bring them home?”

A chorus of yeses came from the group.

Except one.

“Damn it,” Atsumu groaned, pouting at his phone. “Meian, don’t you think Osamu will come and pick me up?”

“Dumbass,” Meian chastised, hitting Atsumu on the head. “He doesn’t live in Tokyo, you idiot.”

“But he’s my brother!” Atsumu complained, now hanging off of Meian, who tried in despair to shake him off. “I live in Tokyo, why doesn’t he live in Tokyo?”

Meian sighed, giving Atsumu a tired look and turning his gaze to Sakusa. “Sakusa, do you think you can—”

“No.”

Sakusa’s reply was curt, filled with no emotion as he stared at the setter in distaste. Meian sighed, not even surprised at the shortness of Sakusa’s answer. Immediately, the air around them shifted, awkward silence filling it.

“C’mon, Sakusa,” Bokuto followed up, words slightly slurring as well. “We can’t have Atsumu dead on the street, he’d probably sleep by a lamp post if he could; we have practice tomorrow afternoon, he can’t be dead by then.”

“He’ll be dead, even if he goes with me,” Sakusa murmured darkly. To his relief, only Bokuto caught his underhanded comment, and he made no move to comment on it.

“We’ll leave Atsumu to you regardless, Sakusa,” Meian sighed. “You know where his apartment is, right? Just drop him off there and make sure that he sleeps on his side so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit or anything.”

Sakusa wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“‘M I going with Omi-Omi?” Atsumu finally murmured, hugging Meian slightly tighter. “Am I?”

“Yes, yes you are,” Meian sighed, plucking Atsumu’s arm away from where it rested around his shoulders. “You’re going with nice-man Sakusa.”

Meian shot an apologetic look at Sakusa. “Sorry, Sakusa; I don’t think any of us… could take him right now. Take public transport, don’t drive because you drank today also.”

Sakusa sighed, giving Meian a nod. He was the captain after all.

“Alright, I’ll leave you with him, then,” Meian said, dragging Atsumu up from where he sat, clearly struggling with his weight despite his intense volleyball training regimen. “Please don’t kill him on the way back.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” Sakusa muttered, only to the drunk laughter of the group around him.

Soon, the group dispersed, leaving Sakusa with Atsumu’s arm hung around his shoulder like he was an incapacitated person, murmuring drunken words into the night sky as they walked back to Atsumu’s home, not far from the restaurant they had chosen to drink at. On an ordinary day, Sakusa would’ve relished the moment, looking at the star dusted sky as he walked down the well lit streets of the city, silently listening for the soft chirps of birds around him, or the soft throttles of cars and bikes passing by him, serene and calm.

But on a non-ordinary day (read: today), he was walking on the streets with a drunken Miya Atsumu clinging onto him like a child.

“Omi-Omi, don’t leave!” Atsumu insisted, hugging Sakusa tighter. Sakusa winced, rib cage crushed.

“Get off me, dumbass,” Sakusa sighed, peeling Atsumu’s arms away from him. It only served to make Atsumu place his arms back around Sakusa, unrelenting.

“Don’t leave!”

“We’re not even at your apartment yet,” Sakusa grumbled, dragging Atsumu as he walked the familiar concrete path back to Atsumu’s apartment. “I’ll leave you in the apartment once we get there.”

Atsumu simply grunted, unintelligible garble coming out of his mouth as Sakusa gripped the back of his shirt, hauling him through the streets.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu murmured, now nearly half asleep as he leaned on Sakusa’s shoulder. “Don’t leave me.”

“If you keep saying that I’m going to leave you here,” Sakusa threatened.

Atsumu didn’t reply.

Sakusa’s shoulders aching, he found the familiar building to Atsumu’s apartment. It was a familiar high rise building, posh and expensive. With a sigh, he dragged the setter through the automatic doors of the fancy building, slowly pushing into the lobby, apologies murmured at the guards. He’d bought a place in the apartment not too long ago, almost immediately after their breakup.

To say that Miya Atsumu’s absence was a relief would be an understatement.

“Get some rest, Miya,” Sakusa groaned as he hauled Atsumu through the open door of his apartment, which had taken some time to open. “Meian-san will kill you if you don’t wake up properly tomorrow morning.”

“‘Morrow mornin’?” Atsumu murmured, his voice a mix of his familiar Kansai accent and incoherent slurs. “Whas tomorrow morning’?”

“You’re impossible,” Sakusa sighed, forcefully shoving Atsumu through the doorway. “Go sleep.”

“I don’ wanna sleep, Omi-kun,” Atsumu whined, voice like a child. “Stay here, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa froze at Atsumu’s words, skin prickling as Atsumu clung onto him, unrelenting. His warmth felt familiar, his clutch around him, in a side hug. He still smelled of his familiar cologne, evident no matter how long he’d spent playing volleyball. It was a soft smell, familiar to Sakusa as he wrenched his thoughts away from it, shoving the softness of Atsumu’s scent to the back of his mind.

Sighing, Sakusa slowly made his way through the apartment, not even bothering to turn the lights on as he located Atsumu’s room, shoving him onto the comforter. Atsumu landed with an unceremonious plop, whining still rising in the air.

“Stay there, dumbass,” Sakusa growled. “I’ll get you water.”

As Sakusa returned with the water, Atsumu still on the couch, he sighed. He wondered for a brief moment as Atsumu poured water onto his lap if it would’ve been more effective to throw the water into the setter’s face instead.

“Omi,” Atsumu spoke, word dragged out and high toned. “Thank… you…”

Atsumu had already begun to nod off as soon as he grasped the cup from Sakusa’s hands, sloshing some liquid over the edge of the cup. Sighing, Sakusa righted Atsumu, placing the cup more securely into his hands.

“Don’t make it fall,” Sakusa grumbled. “I’m not cleaning up a mess here.”

Atsumu nodded, clearly still out of it as he sipped on the water, choking slightly as the water entered his system. Sakusa’s face conjured a smirk of amusement as he watched the setter choke on the water, hooded eyes half closed as the setter tried desperately to stay awake.

“I’ll take it,” Sakusa sighed, moving across the room to grab the glass. “You’ll be a dumbass and drop it if—”

But as Sakusa reached forwards to grab the cup, he felt arms circle the back of his legs, as if hugging him close.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Miya,” Sakusa murmured, gently pushing Atsumu away. Despite it, he clung on, barely deterred by Sakusa’s shove. “Miya, let go of me.”

“No,” Atsumu slurred. “Why aren’t you staying?”

“I can’t stay the night,” Sakusa sighed, pushing Atsumu again. His fingers trembled as he did, no force behind the shove. “Miya, let me go—”

“Don’t go,” Atsumu murmured, words clearly drunken. “Don’t leave, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s heart beat faster.

“I can’t stay, Miya,” Sakusa insisted, moving backwards.

“Omi?” Atsumu murmured, voice tight. He stood up, stance weak as he drew up to his full height.

Atsumu was close, breath ghosting Sakusa’s face, a mix of alcohol and smoke smells mingling, fanning Sakusa’s face. He didn’t flinch as he slowly gazed into Sakusa’s eyes, lips quivering as he continued to observe his features, eyes glassy.

“Miya, don’t—”

“Sakusa.”

Before Sakusa could move, he felt it.

Lips pressed against his own, the taste of sharp alcohol dancing through his tongue as it did. Atsumu cupped his face, holding it close, desperate as he held it, fingers carding through Sakusa’s hair. Sakusa shut his eyes as he felt the press of lips, his hands finding their way around Atsumu, holding him closer.

For long moments, they stayed. They stayed, nothing more progressing between them as the gentle press of lips continued, in a silent embrace as their lips brushed over each other, separating only for moments before finding each other again.

For a moment, Sakusa saw themselves in their old apartment.

He saw them, faces all smiles and love as they pressed gentle kisses onto each other’s lips, laughing as they fit snarky comments in between each peck, movements familiar and comfortable. He saw him holding Atsumu close against the filtered light of the windows, gently holding him, heart beating quick as Atsumu pressed Sakusa’s lips to his own, over and over and over and over—

Sakusa trembled as he held Atsumu, fingers quivering as he held him close. He could taste the alcohol, the intoxication and the madness. He could taste the desperation and the lust as Atsumu held him, face cupped and fingers brushing over his cheeks. He could feel the crinkle of Atsumu’s shirt under his clenched fingers, heart palpitating as Sakusa held the all too familiar figure close.

Closer than he should be.

“Miya,” Sakusa murmured as they separated, lips puffy and bruised. “Miya, you’re drunk, we can’t—”

“I love ya, Omi-kun,” Atsumu murmured, eyes hazy and breath alcohol filled.

And Sakusa’s heart gripped.

“Atsumu, you’re drunk,” Sakusa murmured, pushing away the knife in his heart, gently gripping Atsumu. “You’re not in your right state of mind—”

“Omi…” Atsumu murmured, leaning against him, gently moving his face closer.

Immediately, Sakusa twisted his face, gently pushing the setter away. He staggered, hitting the edge of the bed, gently falling into it.

“You’re drunk, Atsumu,” Sakusa murmured, voice tight. “You’re not sane.”

“I’m… I’m sane, Omi,” Atsumu murmured, voice pained as he stared at Sakusa. “Please, let me—”

“You’re going to sleep,” Sakusa spoke, voice forceful. “Now.”

Gently, he pushed Atsumu under the covers, throwing the blanket over him, silently closing the door behind him, ignoring the rising protests from Atsumu.

And as the door shut, Sakusa collapsed.

He collapsed as he felt the wetness running down his cheeks, as he felt the ripping of his heart. He collapsed as he leaned against the door to Atsumu’s room, hands in his face as he roughly wiped the tears away, as he carded his fingers through his hair, pain giving him relief as he scratched his skin raw, red bumps rising on the paleness.

And as he closed his eyes, he saw it again.

He saw Atsumu, moments away from him. He saw Atsumu coming close, a familiar, gentle press of lips on his own. It wasn’t demanding, not like the ones he’d experienced before. It was gentle, slow and calm, unforced as he held his face, pulling him close, the taste of alcohol dancing on his lips.

And then he heard it.

”I love ya, Omi-kun.”

His lips still tasted of Atsumu.

Please… don’t Sakusa screamed, salty tears rubbing his pain raw. Please… don’t—

Please don’t make this harder for me.

A month passed.

A month passed of Sakusa in his room, knees to his chest as he sat at the foot of his bed, burying his face in his hands, salty tears running down the wetness of his cheeks as he heard laughs reverberate outside his room, Atsumu’s comfortable laughter bouncing off the walls as he talked with his teammates, warm. Atsumu’s voice was warm as Sakusa hugged his knees closer to his chest, drowning out the sounds with his hands to his ears. It was warm even as he buried himself under the pillows on his bed.

And it lingered even when Atsumu was gone.

They were at the gym, silence overcoming them as Atsumu set a ball into the air, hands graceful as he let it fly. Sakusa bunched his muscles, running into a jump, flying into the air. He hit the ball squarely, sending it pummelling onto the other side of the court. Atsumu let out a satisfied sound as he watched it roll to the other side, already reaching to pick up another ball.

“Miya, it’s late already.”

Even after a month, the name sounded foreign to his tongue.

Atsumu looked out of the gym windows, squinting before nodding in agreement. “Yeah.”

No words were shared between them as they picked up the rest of their things, folding the net neatly and stowing it away, rolling the cart of used balls into a corner of the court, grabbing their things before exiting the gym.

At the locker room, the quiet between them didn’t cease.

Sakusa turned the other way as Atsumu made a move to change his clothes. He pretended not to notice as Atsumu flopped onto the bench in the middle of the changing room, shirtless as he wiped sweat from his face. Sakusa only turned the other way, averting his eyes, quickly pulling on his shirt the moment he took his sweaty training shirt off, barely letting even the slightest sliver of skin show.

“Omi.”

Sakusa tensed as he pulled his shirt over his shoulders.

“What?” Sakusa murmured, back still towards the setter as he pressed his lips into a thin line.

The single word came out with more spite than he intended it to.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Sakusa turned around, looking at Atsumu through squinted eyes. “What thing?”

“The thing when you’re thinking about somethin’ so hard that you can’t even speak properly.”

Sakusa turned around, leaving his eyes lingering on Atsumu’s face, avoiding anything that was below the broad expanse of his shoulders.

“I’m not doing whatever you think I am,” Sakusa sighed, pulling his gym bag onto his shoulders as he stuffed the used shirt into the main pocket. “You’re overthinking and overanalyzing — I’m not like a game of volleyball, you can’t just analyse me.”

“Geez,” Atsumu sighed, finally grabbing a shirt to pull over his shoulders. “Calm down, won’t ya?”

“It’d be a surprise if anyone could keep their calm around you,” Sakusa sighed, moving towards the door.

“Wait, Sakusa.”

Sakusa turned around, grip on his sports bag tightening as he looked at the setter. Atsumu’s eyebrows were knitted together, concerned as they looked at Sakusa, head tilted slightly.

“What?” Sakusa grumbled. “I have to get back to the apartment before seven, or Bokuto and Hinata will eat cheetos for dinner, again.”

“What are you thinking about, Omi-kun?” Atsumu murmured, grabbing his own bag and hoisting it onto his shoulders. “Care to share?”

“No.”

“Mean, Omi-kun,” Atsumu sighed, tone a mix of his usual playfulness and—

“I’m not thinking about anything,” Sakusa clarified, biting the inside of his cheek as he spoke, fingers tightening around the bag.

And suddenly, his mind travelled.

It travelled to drunkenness, the taste of alcohol on his lips. It trailed to the desperate press of lips, gentle yet filled with meaning, the clutch of Atsumu’s body close to his own, the—

“Not thinkin’ about anything?” Atsumu murmured, scoffing. “You’re terrible at lying, Omi. You never were good at it, ya know?”

“As you’ve so graciously decided to tell me.”

They were walking down the hallway of the gymnasium building now. The halls were too quiet, too dark as they walked down it, side by side, the quick strides of footsteps the only thing accompanying the echo of their voices.

“So, what are you thinking about?” Atsumu pressed.

“You won’t stop until I tell you, will you?” Sakusa bit out.

The taste of the alcohol came to him again.

“You got it,” Atsumu laughed.

It was mirthful.

“It’s nothing you need to know about,” Sakusa sighed. “Or anything you even remember, really.”

“I remember a lot of things, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa’s only answer was a dry laugh.

“If you remembered everything, we wouldn’t even be talking and walking down this hallway together, Miya.”

“It’s something about me?” Atsumu murmured, turning his head to glance at him.

Sakusa didn’t turn to look back at him.

“When?” Atsumu murmured.

Sakusa didn’t reply.

“You have to tell me what happened, Omi-kun,” Atsumu sighed, stopping his walk mid stride, gently grabbing Sakusa by the wrist. “Clearly, you’re not over something.”

“Stop being self conceited for two minutes and stop assuming that I’m not over you,” Sakusa sighed, pushing Atsumu’s grip away from him. “You’re thinking about it too much.”

“You said it was something related to me,” Atsumu murmured, “something that I don’t remember.”

“Yeah,” Sakusa managed, heart gripping. “You don’t remember a whole deal when you’re drunk, Atsumu, or you would’ve said something about it by now.”

“Drunk?” Atsumu murmured, eyes widening as he gripped Sakusa’s wrist, urgency reverberating in his grip. “Omi, what are you not telling me—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Sakusa sighed. “It was a month ago, you don’t need to—”

Atsumu’s gaze steeled. “A month ago? What happened a month ago?”

“You don’t need to know,” Sakusa bit out. “If it was important, you would’ve remembered it, instead of conveniently forgetting it.”

“I was drunk, Omi-kun,” Atsumu snapped, “you can’t expect me to remember everything—”

Sakusa whipped his arm away from Atsumu’s grip. “You kissed me, okay? I brought you home when you were drunk and it just happened. You forgot about it, and it would’ve been better if it just stayed like that.”

Atsumu stopped.

“What?” he murmured, realization washing over his gaze. “Omi, I’m so—”

“Don’t apologize,” Sakusa muttered, ignoring the rising grip on his beating heart. “You don’t need to, you were drunk.”

“But that’s why I need to—”

Sakusa gripped his palms, bringing them into fists. “Atsumu, if you wanted to apologize, you would’ve done so a long time ago, when there was actually something worth apologizing for. You kissing me while you were drunk is far from the worst thing—”

Atsumu’s eyes hardened, staring into Sakusa’s. “Don’t go there—”

“If there’s anything you should apologize for, it’s for trampling over everything we worked for when we were still together.”

Atsumu’s jaw clenched. “There’s a reason why we broke up, Omi.”

“Because you couldn’t handle the emotional baggage,” Sakusa spat out, bitter. “At least you could’ve told me in an indirect way, Miya. I don’t need a constant reminder that I’m always going to be passing on emotional baggage for the rest of my life!”

“It’s not that, Sakusa, and you know it,” Atsumu bit out, voice hardening in a way it hadn’t done in months. “You know it wasn’t because of that.”

“Then maybe we weren’t trying hard enough, Miya!” Sakusa yelled, wetness running down his cheeks.

Atsumu stared at him, eyes soulless.

“Who wasn’t trying hard enough, Omi?”

Silence fell over them, Atsumu’s eyes pained as they stared into Sakusa’s own glossy ones. He bit his lip, quivering as he continued to stare into Sakusa’s eyes, broken as he raked his fingers through his hair, blinking away the sheen from his eyes.

“It isn’t over for you either,” Sakusa tried, voice broken as he stared at Atsumu, desperation seeping through him. “When you were drunk last month, before I left your room, you told me that you loved me.”

Atsumu froze.

Sakusa stared at Atsumu, warm tears travelling down his face, cutting his skin. “Is it still true?”

The only thing Atsumu could give him was a watery smile.

“It still is, Omi,

But not like that anymore.”

And the months passed.

The Jackals won matches, and they lost matches. Life had become a cycle of winning and losing, and Sakusa felt nothing.

He felt nothing at the victory dinners, or at the bars when everyone drank until they got wasted and Sakusa was left to take them all home. He felt nothing as he spiked the ball across the court, or when he made the winning kill. He did nothing as his teammates pushed them all into a hug after each victory, and sat silently in the bus after each loss the team had.

And Sakusa continued to live.

He continued to live, barely live, as he watched Atsumu stumble through the door with someone new.

His heart clenched each time he saw her, smiling and laughing, politely bowing at every teammate each time she showed up for a match. He pressed his lips into a thin line behind his mask as he gave her a nod every time she ran down to the court post match, Atsumu catching her in his arms as he twirled her around in front of the whole stadium, pressing a sloppy kiss to the side of her face, and holding her hand all the way out of the court.

He pretended to live as he locked the door to his room, pulling his pillow over his ears, blocking out the laughs, the whispered conversations and noises from the opposite room. He closed his eyes, pushing away the taste of alcohol and desperation and softness and him. He brought his hands to his face, burying it, smothering his tears.

And he watched.

He watched as Atsumu moved out of the apartment, watched the farewell party commence as Atsumu promised them all an invite to their housewarming party, a quaint little apartment all the way in the outskirts of Tokyo. He watched as Atsumu drank his life away on the all too familiar brand of alcohol that he’d always drunk at their celebration dinners, laughing and cheering and clinking glasses with everyone else, an arm around the girl’s waist, keeping her close to him.

And Sakusa watched as she smiled, not an inflection of sadness or emotion or pain or baggage in her smile as she hugged Atsumu close, gently brushing away the hair from his face, fluffing up the newly dyed strands, gently bringing her fingers across his face. Sakusa watched as the team thought up of dumb games to play, and watched as swoons rose in the air as Atsumu brought the girl into a kiss as a dare, cheeks red from the alcohol, love and sweetness in the air.

And Sakusa ignored the way his heart gripped as he looked at the two, eyes glassy and hazy without the intoxication that everyone had fallen into. He ignored the way she sat on his lap, her arm around Atsumu, holding him for support. He ignored the way that she smiled, and Atsumu smiled back at her, no hint of sadness or pain or emotion or reluctance as he held her close, and kept her close.

And as the day came to a close, and the housewarming party came to a halt, Sakusa was the first at the door.

Atsumu followed him there, stumbling and glowing from the high of the euphoria, and gently opened the door to let him leave.

“Thanks for coming,” Atsumu smiled.

His arms brought Sakusa into a hug.

It was warm, familiar.

“Of course,” Sakusa murmured, lips pressed tight as he blinked the tears away, and tore himself from Atsumu.

And as Sakusa walked out of the door, coat hanging off of his shoulder, his heart gripped, and a voice called out.

“Hey, Omi?”

Sakusa turned around, and Atsumu smiled.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

And Sakusa smiled.

He smiled, turned around with a gentle, masked nod, and pretended that everything was fine.