Archive of Our Own

Miya Atsumu is well-acquainted with want. 

Sometimes Atsumu feels that’s all there is to him, this insatiable hunger. His mother jokes that he was born with his arms outstretched, his hands grabbing and reaching for something more. Atsumu asked her, once, if she was able to tell him and Osamu apart when they were younger. He was ten, struck by the thought that they were switched as babies. This led to a week of terror, of lying in his bed at night wondering if his entire identity was a lie, until he plucked the courage to approach his mother about it. 

Atsumu, ten years old, afraid that he was Osamu and Osamu was him. Atsumu, his hands clenched into tight fists. His mother crouched on the floor in order to meet his eyes.

“Listen,” she said, “I could always tell who was who. You were never switched, I promise.” 

Atsumu, unconvinced, pressed further. “How d’ya know that for sure?”

“You were always much more wanting than your brother,” she paused, considering her next words, “Whenever I picked you up, you would look over my shoulder like you were looking for something better. If you didn’t like something, you had no problem kicking up a storm until you got what you did like.”

All Atsumu heard was this — you were more difficult. You were more needy. His hurt must’ve shown on his face, because his mother quickly reached forward and wrapped him in a hug, rubbing circles on his back. The smell of her perfume and the soft fabric of her cardigan. Atsumu, chest heaving, sobs wracking his body.

“I’m sorry, I meant — you’re a fighter, and that’s good. You can achieve anything you want, alright? Listen to me — the only things worth a damn in the world are the things you have to fight for. Don’t ever lose your fire, it’s the best thing about you, I promise.”

The world sharpened into focus. At that moment, Atsumu saw himself and his future clearly. Ten years old, already decided that if all that sets him apart from his twin is this fire, well — he’s going to let it consume him. 

Take a boy, one half of a pair, tell him he was born a fighter, and here’s the result; Osamu, laidback, willing to see where the road takes him. Atsumu, prepared to carve out a path himself with his own two hands, if it meant he would get what he wanted. Take a boy, tell him hunger is all he is, and a pattern emerges. He sets his sight on a goal, he beats himself and everyone around him to the ground until he’s won, and then he aims higher. Rinse and repeat. Take a boy, tell him he could have anything he wants if he tries hard enough, and the boy might just believe it. 

Take a boy, tell him the only things worth a damn are the things he has to fight for. The boy learns to split the world into two categories using that rule alone — what’s worth his full, undivided attention, and what isn’t.

Hinata Shouyou falls into the former.

—

Hinata fits into the Black Jackals perfectly, slipping into their daily routine like he was there all along. Atsumu finds it hard to believe there was once a time when he wasn’t with them as they toiled through practice, running through drills for hours, discussing strategies until their voices went hoarse. It’s like living in a dream — specifically, the type he had when he was seventeen years old, when all he could think about for weeks after Nationals was that impossible jump and shock of orange hair. 

Even dragging himself out of bed at six for early morning practice is easier now. If someone were to ask him what he loves most about the mornings, it would be this — seeing Hinata waiting for him outside his door, looking up from his phone and grinning when Atsumu steps out into the corridor. 

Their routine of going to practice together was one created by accident, from one of Atsumu’s rambling complaints during a team dinner. Something about how nobody would walk to training with him in the mornings, even though it was always so cold and lonely and dark, why not just wake up at six to keep him company, didn’t anybody else care enough about the sport to practise earlier with him, what sort of self-respecting teammates would abandon him like that, he might as well just leave this restaurant right now, follow in Osamu’s footsteps, quit volleyball forever and sell onigiri — 

“I’ll walk with you.”

Hinata Shouyou. A Black Jackal for barely a month, at that point. Not yet used to Atsumu’s constant whining, a quality described by most as ‘insufferable’ and ‘grating’, including his own twin brother. His interruption stopped Atsumu’s rant in its tracks, the simple sincerity of Hinata’s words taking him by surprise. 

“Don’t agree to that,” Sakusa said, voice as flat and bored as always. “He’s like a wild animal. If you show him affection once, he’ll follow you around forever.”

Atsumu stared at Sakusa, equal parts shock and anger. It was the most he heard Sakusa speak all night, and it was to insult him. Figures.

“Mind yer business, Omi-kun!” Atsumu snapped.

“Didn’t you make it our business when you stood up and begged us to walk with you for ten minutes?” 

“No way I asked for yer opinion — and no way it’s been ten minutes!”

Sakusa held up his phone, the screen lit up with steadily rising numbers — 10:18, 10:19, 10:20, 10:21.  

“Did’ya time me?” Atsumu asked, enraged.

“Obviously,” Sakusa replied, “yes.”

Atsumu briefly wondered how bad of a hit his popularity would take if he was caught fighting his teammate on camera. 

“Hey!” Hinata said, drawing Atsumu’s attention away from Sakusa and back to him again. “You still haven’t said if you’re okay with me walking with you! I’m starting to think you don’t want me to.”

Hinata was smiling, a teasing lilt to his voice, yet Atsumu understood his offer was genuine. Hinata was never one to say something he didn’t wholeheartedly mean. Atsumu was never one to pass up an opportunity like this, presented directly to him on a silver platter.

“Well, if yer sure you can wake up that early,” Atsumu said, “then be my guest!”

“I’m used to it! In high school we’d — I’d — get to the gym before everyone else to fit in more time for training. I liked it.”

Hinata’s face drooped, his voice taking on a note of wistfulness when he mentioned Karasuno. Huh, Atsumu thought, that’s interesting. He didn’t know, not yet, that Hinata’s lockscreen was a picture of his high school friends, the five of them packed close together. He hadn’t yet heard the stories about sleepovers and fights and evenings spent together outside a convenience store. All he knew was of Karasuno’s prowess on the court, and nothing of the friendships that built their team up from the ground.

“Alright,” Atsumu shrugged, schooling his expression into a casual one, “s‘pose I’ll see you first thing in the morning, bright ‘n early?”

“I’ll be there, right outside your door!”

Atsumu tightened his grip around his glass. He lifted his drink to his mouth and tried to hide his smile behind it, his eyes watching Hinata beaming at him from across the table. Early morning practice with Hinata. Not a bad setup at all.

So — a certainty. Atsumu and Hinata, walking down the stairs together, their footsteps echoing around the stairwell. The rest of the team, in bed, trying to steal as many extra minutes of rest as possible. If only they knew they were missing out on the privilege of seeing Hinata Shouyou, still shaking off the remnants of his sleep. Atsumu would gloat about it, if not for the fact that these moments together in the morning feel almost sacred, not made to be shared with anyone else. He pictures their conversations featuring others, the sound of more footsteps in the hall, and he feels a wave of annoyance ripple through him.  

So — when Hinata brushes shoulders with him as they walk out the door, and Atsumu’s heart tries to beat out of his chest, he’s not surprised, not really. It’s the natural progression of things. It’s the lifelong cycle of want, fight, get, want more. Hinata is Atsumu’s teammate now. He’s achieved his five year long goal of setting for him. He should be satisfied — but satisfaction is an unfamiliar concept to him, one he couldn’t imagine, even if he tried. He only knows how to fight tooth and nail to get what he wants, and once he has it he needs to set his sights on something else. 

So — he wants more than this. So, he wants to be his teammate, his friend, his confidant, the person he looks for first thing in the morning and last thing at night. So, maybe that still wouldn’t be enough. So, he wants hands underneath his shirt, breaths ghosting over his face, soft touches that linger. Desire is an itch that won’t go away, a feeling that builds up in his chest, carving out a home in his body. It’s a voice in his head saying hey, you need all this and more. He looks at Hinata, briefly allowing himself to indulge in the fantasy of more, before he pushes it out of his mind. He goes to practice.

—

“So, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu says, pausing during his post-practice stretches, “tell me — how’re ya findin’ things?” 

Hinata, standing nearby, in the middle of some sort of competition with Bokuto — the rules of which Atsumu doesn’t understand, and doesn’t think he ever will — looks up. There’s an intensity in his eyes, and it strikes Atsumu how Hinata approaches everything with his full effort — even meaningless competitions like this. 

Atsumu fights back a grin, the sight reminding why he wanted to play with Hinata in the first place. There’s no other player like him in the world.

“Yeah!” Bokuto says, straightening, the competition already forgotten at the mention of a new topic, “Like, was it weird going from sand to this again?” He stomps on the court for emphasis.

“It was! The sand was hard to get used to at first, it’s just — completely different! Like, you can’t kick it, you have to jump instead,” Hinata jumps in place to demonstrate, “it was like being a baby, learning how to walk for the first time. But then once I got used to it, it was strange going back to the court, which is a lot more — forgiving, I guess.”

Atsumu motions for Hinata to continue.

“Plus, it took me ages to adjust to the time difference! I was still in the old time for weeks, feeling all super energetic at night, but during the day it was like,” Hinata deflates for a second, his shoulders drooping, before perking back up, “you know?”

Bokuto nods enthusiastically, as though this makes perfect sense to him.

“Oh, yeah, I get that! When I can’t sleep I need to do something, like, go for a run, or call Akaashi, or — hey, speaking about Akaashi, let me show you this picture of him at a cat cafe!” Bokuto stops, and runs over to his jacket, strewn haphazardly across a bench, searching frantically for his phone.

Hinata sits down next to Atsumu, stretching his legs out. Atsumu tries his hardest to avert his eyes from the exposed gap of skin between his kneepads and the hem of his shorts.

Bokuto fishes his phone out of his pocket. He raises it into the air with a triumphant yell, drawing the attention of their other teammates, heads swiveling around to stare at him. Bokuto, unbothered, rushes back to Atsumu and Hinata, swiping through his camera roll as he runs, searching for the picture.

He shoves his phone into their faces. There, surrounded by a variety of cats, is Akaashi Keiji. He’s evidently happy, a small smile playing on his lips, one hand stroking a ginger tabby and the other resting on the floor. It’s a nice photo, Atsumu can admit that much.

“This one!” Bokuto exclaims, “He’s so cute here, don’t you think? Right?” He directs this question to Hinata. Atsumu waits for his reply, wondering if Akaashi is Hinata’s type. He certainly fits the build — tall, dark hair, serious. Hinata opens his mouth to answer, but Bokuto moves on before he can speak. He swipes across, his camera roll seemingly consisting only of Akaashi. 

“And this was taken while you were in Brazil, for Akaashi’s birthday party! I wish you were there! It was so much fun, Komi bought him this really funny gift, here, look, I think I have a picture of it — oh, wait, this one was when we went on a trip together!”

Atsumu almost has to admire Bokuto’s uncanny ability to relate everything back to Akaashi. The frequency at which Bokuto brings him up in conversations makes him feel like another, lesser-seen member of the team. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he, and the rest of his teammates, know more about Akaashi than they know about Bokuto himself. The one exception to this might be Hinata. His years-long friendship with Bokuto is one Bokuto constantly enthuses about, marvelling over Hinata’s growth since they first met, at some training camp way back in high school. Atsumu’s glad that Hinata’s change brought him here, to this team and to this court. 

Atsumu wishes, sometimes, that they were together since high school. Scratch that — since middle school. Since elementary. He turns to Hinata during a practice match and feels a bone-deep longing in his body, wishing that it was his-and-Hinata’s freakish quick since the beginning, instead of a move they stole and improved. When he passes posters of Kageyama, hears Hinata’s voice, throws the ball into the air, and feels the sting of Hinata’s high fives on his palm, he thinks — take that. My partner now. 

Bokuto stops in the middle of his explanation of another picture — this time, it’s one of Akaashi in a store, trying on different pairs of glasses — with a gasp. “Where is everyone?” he asks, looking around the gym.

“Gone,” Atsumu says, “practice is over.”

“Oh!” Bokuto shoots up, speaking over his shoulder as he hurries to the bench, “I told Akaashi I’d call him after practice, once I’m home, he’s probably worried, so — I should get going!” He frantically throws on his jacket and slings his bag over his shoulder, rushing to the exit. 

“Tell Akaashi-san I said hi!” Hinata says. Bokuto, already halfway through the door, turns around.

“Okay!” He shouts, his voice echoing around the gym. 

The door slams shut, leaving just this in its wake — the open gym, empty save for the two of them on the floor, angled towards each other. Hinata taps Atsumu’s arm, his face uncharacteristically serious, then quickly draws his hands back.

“Do you,” Hinata says, picking at a loose thread in his shorts, “really think we’ll defeat them? The Adlers?”

When Hinata says them, Atsumu knows he means Kageyama. Atsumu knows Hinata is here, on this team, to fulfil some middle school promise to defeat Kageyama. Atsumu knows he’s here to be a good enough setter to help Hinata win. 

“‘Course. With me ‘n you workin’ together, they don’t stand a chance,” Atsumu says, completely honest, his voice is dripping with confidence. Atsumu has little to no experience in the field of reassurance. Osamu was always the twin people looked to for a shoulder to cry on. But, what he can offer, is this — the truth. He knows they’ll win. Kageyama is good — brilliant, even — but they’re better. “Plus — y’know there’s no way I’d play with you if you weren’t good enough.”

“That’s true,” Hinata says, and he rests his hand on Atsumu’s leg for a split second. It’s barely there before it’s gone. Hinata pushes himself up from the ground, his shoes squeaking against the court. Atsumu takes it to mean that the conversation is over. He lingers in the feeling of the burn from Hinata’s touch for a moment, and lifts himself off the ground too. I’m like a high schooler with a crush, he thinks, again.

They wander back to their bags, where Hinata pulls out his own phone. He turns it around and around in his hands. “You know, I — ” Hinata pauses, as if searching for the strength to speak. “I moved to Brazil to get stronger, and that was always the main goal, but I also moved to — to get over someone.”

“You don’t hafta say it like that,” Atsumu says, “I know who you mean.”  It’s obvious Hinata misses Kageyama. It’s clear from the way his eyes linger on him when they watch recordings of his matches. It’s clear from the way his voice catches when he recounts tales from their time together. It’s clear from how he looks at Atsumu, surprise flickering over his face, like he expects someone else to be standing there. 

Hinata laughs, a soft and subdued sound, nothing like his normal laughter. It’s self deprecating, a sign of surrender. He doesn’t put words to his admission.

“Well?” Atsumu asks, when the silence has stretched on too long, “Did movin’ work?”

He doesn’t know why he’s bothering to ask when he already knows the answer. It’s some form of torture, of self-inflicted hurt. Maybe he wants to hear it directly from Hinata that it didn’t, that he’s going to go running back to Kageyama when the final whistle blows. Maybe he wants to hear that yes, it did, and allow himself the smallest morsel of hope. 

“I think so,” Hinata says, looking directly into Atsumu’s eyes. 

Atsumu isn’t so sure Hinata accomplished his goal, but he knows what it’s like to want something so badly you circle right back around to convincing yourself you’re better off without it. But — there’s a chance, something like a future hidden in Hinata’s words. Hidden in the way he stared at him when he said that, like — like he was daring Atsumu to ask more. Atsumu pushes the thought out of his mind. Hope is becoming too familiar to a guy like him.

“Huh. Movin’ overseas to get over a crush?” Atsumu says, “Maybe I should do that.”

“Who do you have to get over?”

Atsumu opens his mouth to reply, and finds, for once in his life, that he has nothing to say. Hinata’s head is tilted to the side. He looks quizzical — and cute, Atsumu’s brain supplies, unhelpfully. 

He’s saved from answering by a ding from Hinata’s phone. And another. And another. Hinata checks his phone, his brow furrowing as he reads.   

“Yer lookin’ confused there, Shouyou-kun. Somethin’ wrong?” 

“We don’t have training on Saturday, right?” Hinata says, in lieu of an answer.

“Nah. Didn’t’cha hear Bokkun talkin’ ‘bout how he’s goin’ on a date with Akaashi that day?” Atsumu shakes his head, “He wouldn’t shuddup ‘bout it durin’ practice earlier. I don’t think I could forget that we have a day off, even if I tried.”

Hinata’s expression clears instantly, “That’s perfect! Hey, do you want to get dinner with me on Saturday?”

Atsumu gapes, wondering if he misheard, if Hinata is really implying he wants to go on a date. Wow, Atsumu thinks, maybe he has moved on.

“I’m meeting up with some friends from school, if you want to come with?” Hinata continues, “It’s the first time we’ve had time to meet since forever! I think Yamaguchi can get us seats in this new restaurant that’s opened up, so —” he trails off, looking up at Atsumu, expectant. 

Atsumu hopes his slight disappointment doesn’t show on his face. He shrugs. “Well, guess I’ll hafta turn down all the other people who asked me.” It’s a clear yes, if Hinata knows how to speak his language.

“I’ll tell them to book a table for four!” Hinata says, turning back to his phone and typing furiously. Atsumu watches him, all too aware of how Hinata effortlessly understands him, and how he wants Hinata to understand him more . For the first time in his life, Atsumu wants to let himself be known.

Hinata sends the text, and checks the time on his phone. “We have a few more hours left until they lock the gym up! Let’s practice!” 

Technically, they shouldn’t. They should be at home resting, and people will be locking up the gym soon, but — there’s something about how Hinata takes it as a given that Atsumu wants to win as much as he does. There’s something about how there’s two of them standing on this court, this mutual need to be the best connecting them.  Atsumu can almost taste victory on his tongue, can almost feel some of his insatiable hunger wearing away.

“Been waitin’ for you to ask,” he says, “these Adlers won’t know what hit ‘em.”

—

to: omi-omi

[Image attached]

rate my outfit out of ten omi-kun

from: omi-omi

zero. leave me alone

to: omi-omi

:(

He receives no reply. “Tough crowd,” Atsumu mutters. He knows Sakusa is biased, due to the absurd amount of disdain he manages to hold in his heart for Atsumu, but — surely his outfit isn’t that bad. He gives himself a once-over in the mirror, and another, and another, mulling over Sakusa’s cold review, until a knock echoing through him out of his reverie. He grabs his keys and heads over, twirling them around his finger.

Here, standing in front of his door — Hinata, his excitement palpable, barely contained in his body. Atsumu thinks it’s probably the happiest anyone has ever looked to see him.

“Hey,” Atsumu says, injecting confidence into his voice, “you look good.” Good is an understatement. He stops himself from saying more, from filling the cityscape with an inexhaustible list of compliments.

“Thanks! You clean up well!” Hinata says.

Atsumu scoffs, “you tryin’ to say I don’t always look this handsome?”

“Fine — more handsome than usual!”

Even though Atsumu fished for the compliment, he still didn’t expect Hinata to go along with it, and certainly not with as much enthusiasm. He blinks, taken aback.

“They said they’re there already!” Hinata continues, “I’m excited for you to meet them — I mean, you probably already know them from matches in high school, but, to meet them as friends.” 

Atsumu nods, turning to lock his door before facing Hinata again. “Right, in that case, let’s get goin’—”

“Hold on,” Hinata says, blinking at Atsumu, “your collar. It’s —”

Hinata reaches up and adjusts the collar of Atsumu’s shirt. His fingertips, cool to the touch, faintly graze the exposed part of Atsumu’s skin. Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat. He wills himself to concentrate on anything except the deft movement of Hinata’s hands and the focused look in his eyes.

“ — crooked. It’s fixed now, though!” Hinata draws his hands back.

Atsumu swallows, “‘preciate it.”

“No problem!” Hinata says, seemingly unfazed. “The restaurant is only a short walk away, but since they’re waiting, we should probably hurry.”

They fall into step together, retracing their path from this morning, and every morning previous. After all this time, it’s become second nature to Atsumu to accompany Hinata, as easy for him as volleyball. As comfortable as volleyball, too. 

—

They’re brought to their table when they arrive, some tall blond guy already sitting there. Atsumu recognises him as Tsukishima Kei, current player for the Sendai Frogs, former Karasuno middle blocker, and one of the faces on Hinata’s lockscreen. Hinata introduces him as a best friend. Although Tsukishima winces at that title, he doesn’t rebuke it. Atsumu adds it to the mental list of things he knows about him.

“Have you been wearing the shirt I bought you in Brazil? I saw it in a store and I just knew you would love it!” Hinata says, smiling widely.

“No,” Tsukishima says, “I threw it away.”

“You didn’t!” Hinata’s face falls into one of exaggerated hurt.

“I did. Ask Yamaguchi.”

“Where even is Yamaguchi? I thought you said you were both here already.” 

Tsukishima tilts his head to the left. “He’s in the bathroom. He’ll be out soon.”

Hinata nods. He gasps, “Oh! I forgot to mention, this is —”

“Obviously, I know who he is already. One of the Miya twins is helping you defeat Kageyama?”

The table lapses into a brief silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air. So. In this dimly lit restaurant, surrounded by the chatter of other tables and the hum of the air conditioning, Tsukishima confirms Atsumu’s suspicions. He’s a pawn. A tool to help Hinata defeat Kageyama. Which is — not great, really, but it’s better than nothing. Look, Atsumu tells himself, you might be the replacement, but at least you get to set for him. There’s some sort of pleasure in knowing that even if he’s only a means to the end, for a while, he was wanted. Not just wanted — needed. 

“No,” Hinata says, “he’s more than that. He’s a teammate, and a — friend.”

His voice catches on the word friend . Atsumu decides to dwell on that later.

“I didn’t know you thought so highly of me, Shouyou-kun. Plus,” he says, shooting a lazy grin at Tsukishima, ”I’m not just any Miya twin. I’m the better one.”

Hinata tilts his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowed, a look of genuine confusion on his face, “But you’re not Osamu-san?”

Atsumu places his hand over his heart, recoiling. “Yer woundin’ me, Shouyou-kun!” he says, his voice mock-hurt. A part of him wonders if there’s truth to Hinata’s words, if he does prefer Osamu over him. He wouldn’t be the first person to like Osamu more, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Hinata laughs. “I’m sorry!”

“Whatever. You know what, I bet this food is nothing compared to ‘Samu’s. Actually,” Atsumu says, turning to face Hinata, making it clear the offer is for him and him alone, “d’ya want to come get some of his food with me sometime?”

“I’d love to!” Hinata exclaims.

Atsumu, pleased, faces forward once again. Tsukishima’s gaze is fixed on him. Atsumu recognises this calculating expression from previous matches, long in the past — the moment where he can see the game change, where he spots the other team’s weakness. Great, Atsumu thinks, a nother guy who’s too smart for his own good.

Tsukishima’s eye catches on something behind them. He softens, his hard edges melting away, “You’re just in time. Save me from this flirting.” 

“Stop making fun of them, Tsukki,” someone — Yamaguchi, Atsumu assumes — says, voice chiding.  He comes into view, taking a seat next to Tsukishima. 

He’s initially unassuming, the type of person who blends into the background, that others don’t notice at first glance. The type that’s all too happy for someone else to steal the show — except when it comes to his pain-in-the-ass jump float. At least — that’s how Atsumu vaguely remembers him. The Yamaguchi sitting in front of him now is different, almost visibly more confident and comfortable in his own skin.

Hinata introduces Atsumu and Yamaguchi to each other, referring to Yamaguchi as another best friend. Yamaguchi’s reaction to the label is nothing like Tsukishima’s. He smiles widely, clearly pleased, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.

“By the way — is it true Tsukishima threw out the t-shirt? The pink one, from Brazil?” Hinata asks, once introductions are out of the way. Tsukishima huffs.

Yamaguchi taps his chin in contemplation, before shaking his head. “No, Tsukki wears it all the time!”

“That’s not true,” Tsukishima interjects, frowning.

“I have proof!”

Tsukishima angles his head down, twisting his hands in his lap. It’s one of the most obvious nervous habits Atsumu has ever seen. 

“Show it, show it!” Hinata says.

“Alright, alright, hold on,” Yamaguchi replies, holding his hands up in a placating manner. He opens his phone and scrolls for a few seconds, until he finds the picture. He slides his phone across the table to Hinata and Atsumu. They press together to stare at it, Hinata’s hair tickling Atsumu’s cheek.

The amusement Atsumu feels fizzles out as he absorbs the sight — Tsukishima wearing an awful, tacky tourist t-shirt, his appearance sleep-rumpled, shielding his eyes from the morning light. Atsumu searches for a word to describe the picture, but all he can land on is intimate. He can’t shake the feeling of intrusion. He’s abruptly all too aware of the low lighting in the restaurant, of the people in the seats around them, their bodies angled towards each other, trading secrets and dreams. He burns with the knowledge of Hinata’s presence beside him, their arms touching, heads close together, what assumptions onlookers might make about their relationship. Assumptions he wholly, desperately wishes were true. 

Outwardly, he laughs, “I’m lovin’ yer choice of t-shirt, Tsukki!”

“Don’t call me that,” Tsukishima says, his tone clipped.

Yamaguchi reaches across the table to take his phone back. “That’s enough of that. Tsukki’s getting embarrassed!” He drapes his arm across Tsukishima’s shoulders, Tsukishima half-heartedly pushing him away. Yamaguchi continues, “the waiter should be coming soon, so, I hope you know what you’re ordering.”

Hinata groans, covering his face with his hands. “Don’t use your captain voice! We’ve been out of high school for years!”

“Didn’t you check out the online menu like I told you to?” Tsukishima asks. Hinata shakes his head. Tsukishima sighs. “Once an idiot, always an idiot. Guess you didn’t pick up any brains in Brazil.”

“Hey! That’s not fair!” 

“Can you please just pick something to eat?” Yamaguchi asks, bored by the scene in front of him, probably identical to the ones he’s seen play out a million times before.

Hinata snatches up the menu from the table, visibly fuming as he flips through it. The anger seeps off him when he lands on a particular page, his eyes widening. “You like this, right?” Hinata asks, “It looks good!”

It takes Atsumu by surprise that Hinata remembers a preference as minor as this, mentioned in passing some weeks ago. “Yeah. Guess I’ll get that, then.” 

“That’s settled!” Hinata says, closing the menu, “I’ll order it too, and see what all the fuss is about.” He smiles at Atsumu, and it feels like a victory. 

—

“We should get going!” Hinata says, “We have practice in the morning, bright and early. Right, Atsumu?”

He nudges Atsumu, like it’s some inside joke between them. Maybe it is. Atsumu nods.

“We’ll pay on the way out,” Hinata says, tapping his pockets to make sure he has his wallet. 

Yamaguchi frowns. “No, we invited you out, so we’ll pay.”

“We’re leaving first, so it makes more sense for us to do it.”

Yamaguchi considers this, sighing in defeat. “Fine, but we’ll treat you another time! Atsumu-san,” he says, “you come along too!” 

Tsukishima doesn’t openly complain about Yamaguchi extending this invitation, so he must be in agreement. Atsumu isn’t sure if he’ll even be in Hinata’s life once the match is over, but, contrary to popular belief, he’s not a complete asshole. He’s not going to shoot Yamaguchi and Tsukishima down so soon after meeting them — especially not when a free meal is involved.

“I’m never gonna say no to an offer like that,” Atsumu replies, “‘course I will.”

They weave through the restaurant, coming to rest at the register. Hinata pays, turning to Atsumu as he puts his wallet back into his pocket. “Did you have fun?” Hinata asks.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, “I’m glad you invited me.” It’s the truth, plain and simple. 

The contrast between the cold air of the night and the warmth of the restaurant knocks Atsumu off balance when they step inside. It shocks him, leaving him breathless. He zips his jacket up, pulling it closer, burying his nose in the fabric.

“Hey.”

Atsumu glances down, to look at Hinata tapping his arm to get his attention. “Hey,” Hinata says again, even though he must know Atsumu heard him the first time. 

Hinata reaches up, resting his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. He whispers into Atsumu’s ear, even though there’s nobody else around them. Even though Atsumu could hear him fine, just a second ago. The restaurant — only a few paces behind them, Yamaguchi and Tsukishima still sitting inside — feels years away. The world slows and condenses down to this — the point of contact between hand and shoulder, the stretch of space between mouth and ear.

“You were right,” Hinata says, “the food wasn’t as good as Osamu’s. I’ll have to hold you to that promise.”

Disorentiated, it takes Atsumu a beat to realise what he means. By the time he remembers the declaration in the restaurant, of an invitation extended only to one person, Hinata has moved away. Atsumu can feel the ghost of Hinata’s touch lingering on his shoulder. He clears his throat. They’re getting too fond of making promises, even though they’re running on borrowed time. 

Atsumu nods once, twice, his eyes fixed on an invisible point ahead. One more promise won’t hurt. “Lookin’ forward to it,” he says, and leaves it at that. 

— 

In the nights leading up to the match against the Schweiden Adlers, Atsumu goes about his regular bedtime routine. He showers, he eats, he watches a recording of a match or two, he ignores texts from Osamu, he washes his face, he brushes his teeth, he climbs into bed. He dreams.

He dreams that Hinata switches teams. Before the match, during it, just before the last whistle blows, whenever. It doesn’t matter, because the rest always happens in the same way; Hinata crosses over to the other side of the court and takes his old place next to Kageyama. He looks into Atsumu’s eyes from across the net, face apologetic yet determined, the mesh net between them warped, and Atsumu is frozen. He says — sorry, Atsumu, but you’re not good enough. Sorry, Atsumu, but I decided I actually don’t want you to set for me. Sorry, Atsumu, but I want to defeat you now, not Kageyama. Sorry, Atsumu, but I don’t need you. Sorry, Atsumu, but —

He wakes up, sweat pooling on his skin, the image of Hinata leaving him seared into the back of his eyes. 

Here’s a truth — losing Hinata would be the worst thing in the world. Worse, maybe, than his brother telling him he was quitting volleyball to become an onigiri vendor. He knows this, and he’s only been on the same team as him for a few months. How did Kageyama cope, after three years of being on the court with the best damn player Atsumu’s ever seen? 

He can’t shake the feeling that it will play out like his dreams are telling him, if not now, then eventually down the line. He’s a player in Hinata’s game to defeat Kageyama, one of the many people who found themselves swept up in his orbit. He’s known this since the second Hinata walked through those doors at the Black Jackals tryouts and blew the rest of the competition out of the water. 

He mostly tries to ignore this fact, by keeping it locked up in a box in the deep reaches of his mind — along with memories of that tragic fan event — but since the dinner with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi, he wakes up thinking about it more often than not. His dreams are a way of breaking the box open and forcing him to face the truth of his existence, from the moment he took his first breath — he’s the runner up. He has to fight for the chance to be more than the second-best Miya twin, the second best setter for Hinata. Here, look, in the box — proof that he’s a stepping stone. Proof that all Hinata wants is to fulfil some middle school promise to be the best.

Atsumu understands this. He knows the feeling of a relentless hunger, of a bottomless stomach, of chasing a goal you’ve spent your whole life longing for. He knows it’s not enough to just want something — you have to work for it too, regardless of any obstacles or potential casualties. But he pictures the way Hinata slings a hand over his shoulders and he thinks, please, let me have this one thing without breaking myself for it.

Then — he thinks about Hinata, real and tangible, the certainty of him standing outside his door, waiting for him. He thinks about chilly mornings and long nights. He thinks about Hinata’s hand on his shoulder. He thinks about hunger, and splitting meals with Hinata, knees knocking underneath the table, snacks passed from hand to hand. He thinks about his mother telling him he’s a fighter, and of a fire burning in his chest. His pulse steadies. He rolls over and goes back to sleep. 

—

“It’s unrealistic,” Sakusa says, not even bothering to look up from his phone, like Atsumu didn’t just pour out his heart and soul to him.

“Right,” Bokuto nods, a contemplative expression on his face, “I mean, you can’t change teams in the middle of a game, it’s against the rules! Or — or else people would just switch to whichever side is winning. It doesn’t make sense!”

“Why’re you criticizin' my dream? It’s a dream, s’not s’posed to make sense!”

“If I had to sit through this, I’m allowed to point out any inaccuracies,” Sakusa says.

Atsumu isn’t quite sure how he went from doing drills, to here — recounting his dreams to Sakusa and Bokuto, receiving two wholly different reactions. Sakusa, ever the picture of disinterest, Bokuto, enthusiastic attention. He flops onto the ground, pulling his arm over his face.

“Fine. Last time I ever open up to you,” Atsumu says, the sound muffled by his sleeve.

“Good.”

“You can always come to me for advice!” Bokuto says, as friendly as ever. 

At first, it’s not the worst suggestion Atsumu has ever heard, considering Bokuto is one of the only people on the team in a long term relationship. Atsumu mulls the idea over in head, the thought of confiding in Bokuto and telling him exactly what’s been on his mind. He suppresses a shiver. “I’ll pass.”

Bokuto shrugs. “I’m especially good at advice when it comes to love! You’re missing out!”

“I don’t even need advice!” Atsumu whines, “I’m doin’ fine on my own!” 

“You just spent seven minutes telling us about these recurring nightmares you’re having, and you think you don’t need help?” Sakusa asks. 

Atsumu moves his arm off his face, propping himself up on the ground to look at Sakusa, who finally had the decency to put his phone down. “Did’ya time me again?” 

“No,” Sakusa shakes his head. Atsumu would be willing to bet that he’s smirking underneath that damn mask.

Bokuto pats Atsumu’s shoulder in consolation. “I’ve known Hinata a long time! I don’t think he’d leave straight after the match. Like, if he was planning on going, he’d wait at least a month, probably!”

Atsumu groans. “That’s even worse. Man, I’m so screwed.”

“He’ll definitely quit if you stay there forever,” Sakusa says, his exasperation evident, “stop wallowing and go do something, so we can actually win this match.” 

It’s oddly motivating, in the blunt way that only Sakusa can achieve. Atsumu sighs, pulling himself off the ground, dusting off his shorts. His mind refocuses, directing his attention on something attainable — perform well in practice. Be a good setter for Hinata. Win the match. Easy. 

—

The final whistle blows. The match is over, and they’ve won. The proof is displayed clearly on the scoreboard, undeniable. Atsumu knew, he knew they would win, but still — a part of him still can’t believe it. 

The match exists in fragments already, splintering into brief moments in time. He remembers sweat pooling on his forehead. He remembers raising his fist in the air and the silence that overtook the stadium. He remembers pulling off the best version of the quick with Hinata, a synchronicity unlike one he’s ever felt before. He remembers the atmosphere, intense and electric. He remembers his inner fire, bursting from the vessel of his body, blazing across the court.

He watches Hinata leave to talk to Kageyama, and another undeniable truth comes into existence. The match is over. Hinata won against Kageyama. He filled the hole in his chest, he achieved his greatest desire. Realistically, Atsumu knows they’ve reached the end of the road, that this is it for them, that Atsumu is just one somber conversation away from being reduced to the role of ex-teammate. Well, he thinks, it was good while it lasted.

And yet —

Atsumu stands off to the side. He chats amicably to fans, taking pictures and writing his name on sheets of paper as they’re passed into his hands. He enjoys the post-game buzz, of playing the part of a celebrity — and playing it well. He’s in the midst of signing an autograph for a middle-schooler when Hinata reappears in the corner of his vision, slotting into place beside Atsumu. He’s alone. 

“Finished catchin’ up with Tobio-kun?” Atsumu asks, handing the sheet back to the kid, before turning to face Hinata. Hinata hums in affirmation.

Atsumu stretches, schooling his expression into one of feigned nonchalance. “So, what are you goin’ to do now, then?” He braces himself for the inevitable tragic news.

“I mean — we have the interviews next? So, that, and then I want to take pictures with a few people!” Hinata replies.

“What ‘bout after that?” 

Hinata scratches his cheek, his confusion evident. “Sleep, I guess? Train for our other matches,” his face brightens, nudging Atsumu, “and win those too!”

Our other matches. There, in Hinata’s throwaway comment — hope, crystallised. A hand outstretched, a promise of more time together. A morsel of optimism, devoured and savoured. Atsumu isn’t in the business of wholly trusting anyone but himself, but if there’s one thing he can count on, it’s the look in Hinata’s eyes and the honesty in his voice. He nods.

Hinata stays.

—

Hinata stays, and Atsumu expects the dreams to end. They don’t. 

The first dream is innocuous, as though it was plucked directly out of Atsumu’s everyday life. He’s at practice, running laps, his shoes squeaking against the court, vaguely aware that he’s running much slower than usual. It’s frustrating. It’s even more frustrating when the person in front of him skids to a halt, spinning around to face Atsumu. 

Hinata, Atsumu thinks, ‘Course. I’d know him anywhere.

“You're off your game today!” Hinata says, grinning widely. “Something on your mind?”

Before Atsumu can answer, Hinata takes his hand. He drags him away from the rest of their teammates, pulling him out of the gym, through the streets, his grip an anchor to keep Atsumu from losing himself in the lights and chaos. 

“Let’s do something fun!” Hinata says. He’s still holding Atsumu’s hand.

Atsumu blinks, and they’re sitting in the same restaurant they went to with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi. Only, this time, Hinata is sitting directly across from him instead of beside. He’s holding up a menu, asking Atsumu to read it for him, but the words jumble when he looks at them. “Gimme a minute,” he mutters, “I can’t make out what it says.”

From behind Atsumu, someone snatches the menu out of Hinata’s hands. Atsumu whirls around to glare at the thief. There, flicking through the menu, looking as insufferable and irritating as usual, is Osamu. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” Atsumu frowns, his confusion growing by the minute. “Don’t you have yer own business to run?”

Osamu frowns at him. “Does it matter? I’m doin’ what I want to do, and I’m happy.” 

Atsumu feels the confusion melt away, replaced by the familiar welling up of anger. “But this isn’t fair,” he says, whining, “it’s just meant to be me and Shouyou-kun. Right?”

He directs the last part at Hinata. He receives no answer.

Osamu sighs, well-practiced after a lifetime of knowing Atsumu. “He’s gone.”

“He isn’t!” 

Atsumu turns back around, expecting to see Hinata. Instead, he faces an empty chair, devoid of any record of Hinata’s presence. Atsumu shakes his head in disbelief, his stomach twisting. He’s certain that he was there, just a second ago. “There’s no way he’s gone,” he mumbles, his hands gripping the edge of the table.

“I told you so,” Osamu says, “now — are you ready to order?” 

Atsumu jolts awake. He lies motionless for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, a leaden weight in his chest making it difficult to draw breaths. He hopes it’s a once-off dream, nothing more than remnants lingering from the previous nightmares, and after this he’ll finally get a night of peaceful sleep. If he’s being honest with himself, he knows he’s never been that lucky. 

—

Hinata sits cross-legged on Atsumu’s couch, scrolling through a catalogue of movies on his laptop. Every so often, he pauses and hovers over a certain movie, his brows furrowed in concentration, before shaking his head and continuing his search. Atsumu holds himself back from blurting out how adorable he thinks the sight is.

“Picked one yet?” Atsumu asks.

“Ah, hold on — how about this one?” Hinata angles the laptop towards Atsumu. Atsumu squints at the screen. He recognises it as some sort of sci-fi movie that he vaguely remembers seeing advertisements for a while back, plastered all over his social media feed and every single surface he passed. Truthfully, Atsumu has never been much of a sci-fi fan, but, well — when he glances up from the screen, and Hinata’s eyes are sparkling and eager, he thinks he might become one.

“Sure,” he says, settling back on the couch, “turn it on.”

Hinata nods, pressing play and placing the laptop on the coffee table between them.

The film is fast-paced and, frankly, confusing. As far as Atsumu can gather, there’s two main characters — long-time friends and teammates — and they’re on a spaceship trying to deliver and protect some important machine. He thinks.  

“Wow! Did you see that?” Hinata gasps, leaning forward, looking almost as animated as he does while watching volleyball matches. 

There’s a scene where the two main characters are arguing about the machine and the best way to protect it — holy shit, Atsumu thinks, what’s so important about this hunk of metal, just build another one of these things, if it’s that important — and one of the characters storms off to rejoin his old crew. He leaves his friend standing alone on the planet, dust billowing around him, watching his figure get smaller and smaller until he’s nothing but a dot in the distance. The pure, unbridled display of heartbreak, the way the friend sinks to his knees, his anguish palpable — watching it makes Atsumu’s neck prickle. It’s almost painful to watch.

His mind wanders back to the Schweiden Adlers match. He wonders about how things could have transpired if it all played out like how he feared they would. He would have been happy for Hinata, of course, he would have supported Hinata no matter what choice he made, but — it would have hurt. He’s glad he’ll never have to find out exactly how he would have grieved. He thinks about the other character walking away, and wonders what happened in those missing minutes when Hinata left to talk to Kageyama.

“After the game,” Atsumu says, fueled in equal parts by curiosity and jealousy, “when you went off with Tobio-kun — what happened?”

Hinata sits a little straighter, his eyes breaking from the screen to look at Atsumu. “Huh. This is coming out of nowhere.”

Atsumu shrugs. “Just tryin’ to make conversation.”

“What, so the movie isn’t good enough for you?” Hinata teases, mock-disappointed. “Well, we talked! I made fun of him for losing, obviously, you should’ve seen his face, he was all —” Hinata’s face contorts into exaggerated scowl, an accurate impression of Kageyama.

Atsumu laughs. “What else?”

“We just caught up, I guess. He also met these two old classmates from way back in middle school while we were talking — actually, I was in a camp with them, in high school.” Hinata pauses, frowning, “Well, I guess I wasn’t actually in the camp. I crashed it, and then I was the ball boy. But, whatever! They were there, and I was there.”

Atsumu raises an eyebrow. “The ball boy?” 

“It’s a long story!” Hinata waves his hand in the air, flippant. “I’ll tell you about it another time. It happened around the same time you were at that youth camp in Tokyo, with Kageyama.”

“Oh, right. Man, that feels like a whole lifetime ago.” He remembers how Kageyama acted at that camp, playing matches and running through drills like he was used to someone else standing beside him. Atsumu realises that the someone else Kageyama missed was Hinata. The thought twists his insides. He can’t believe there was a time when he didn’t know who Hinata was outside of the duo, a time before he swore to toss to him someday. Knowing Hinata is so ingrained in him, so integral to who he is now, that he wonders if he was half-formed shade before they met. A part of him thinks that he only started existing when their eyes met from across the court.

“It’s weird how things change,” Hinata says. He sounds wistful. “Anyway, when Kageyama met them, the three of them promised that they’d play together soon. Which is nice for Kageyama, because I think he’s wanted to play with them again since, like, forever!”

“Good for Tobio-kun,” Atsumu says, collecting pieces of courage to ask the most important question of all, “ah — sorta unrelated, but, when you said you wanted to get over him, d'ya mean as exes, or —” he trails off, raising an eyebrow. His heart thuds in anticipation of Hinata’s answer. 

“No! We never dated. I mean, I had a crush on him for a while, I guess, but then it went beyond having a crush,” Hinata grimaces, seemingly embarrassed, “I wanted to follow him, play on the same court as him, defeat him, you know what I mean? He was magnetic, or something.” 

Yer tellin’ me, Atsumu thinks. He shrugs, “Yer the same. People get caught up in yer orbit, too.” He rotates his finger in the air, notices Hinata tracking the movement with his eyes.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Don’t give me that. Y’know I don’t bother with people who aren’t worth my time,” Atsumu tilts his head to the side, “who aren’t interestin’.”

It feels a step too close to the fact of the matter, skirting around the edges of a confession, carving out the outline of the truth. He’s just one sentence, one word away from admitting that something perilously close to love guides him. One wrong move and the secrets of his heart would be laid bare, spilled across the coffee table, leaving a stain on the carpet.

Hinata hesitates. “So, you’re saying I’m interesting to you?”

“Well — I guess so, yeah. Y’know what I mean. Yer good at volleyball,” Atsumu says, somewhat aware that he’s hurtling towards saying something he shouldn’t, “I mean, I told you years ago that I wanted to toss for you someday. And I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Hinata says. He’s looking at Atsumu like he’s trying to figure him out, his brow furrowed in concentration. His gaze simultaneously makes Atsumu feel on edge, and revitalises him. Atsumu can’t stop himself from preening underneath it, just a little. Yer gonna be the death of me, he thinks.

“Do you miss Tobio-kun bein’ yer setter?” Atsumu asks, all attempts at subtlety flying out the window.

“It’ll be nice to play with Kageyama again someday,” Hinata says, speaking carefully. “I meant it when I said I was over all those feelings, but, yeah, I miss him, I guess. But — I like playing with you a lot, too.”

Atsumu frowns. “I’d be pretty pissed off if you didn’t like playin’ with me, after all this time.”

“No, I mean — I really like being on the same court as you,” Hinata says, “I really like being with you, in general. I chose to keep playing with you, you know?”

Atsumu’s breath catches in his throat. If he didn’t know better, if he wasn’t aware that Hinata feeling anything even close to romantic for him was impossible, he would think — he would think that was a confession of some sort. Atsumu wonders if it would be presumptuous to lean forward and finally say the words that would change it all. 

Something crashes on-screen. A character yelps in pain, jolting Atsumu out of the trance he was in. The moment shatters. Hinata groans. “We missed it,” he says, leaning forward to rewind.

When he sits back again, Atsumu doesn’t think he’s imagining their increased proximity, how Hinata seems to have moved closer to him, their bodies just a hair’s breadth apart. Atsumu can’t shake the image of how Hinata looked at him, how for a split second it felt like Hinata wanted the same as he did. 

—

In this dream, Hinata leans over to kiss him. The movement is slow and deliberate, leaving Atsumu aware of every second that passes. Hinata stops short before the moment contact is made, pulling back, his eyebrows furrowing. He looks — disappointed. Atsumu feels hollow, wind whistling through the place his heart should be.

“Oh,” Hinata says, “sorry. I was wrong.”

When Atsumu speaks, the words crawl out of his mouth, painfully slow. “What? Did you think I was someone else?” 

Hinata shakes his head. “No. I just thought you were better.”

This dream hurts more than the rest. Atsumu — raised with a twin, on a team with Sakusa — is no stranger to barbed words. He knows that the real Hinata would never say something so cruel, so directly aimed at his heart. Still —

His hands scrabble for his phone on the bedside table the moment his eyes open, frantically unlocking it to pull up Hinata’s name. The same part of him that falls into step naturally with Hinata and plays with him like he was born to be his setter knows instinctively that he will feel at peace if he hears Hinata’s voice. The knowledge is innate, almost primal in nature.

“Um — hello?” 

The roughness of Hinata’s voice doesn’t initially register with Atsumu, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “Hey,” he says, and is shocked to find himself a little out of breath.

“You know it’s two in the morning —” Hinata says, the tail end of his sentence cutting off with a yawn, “right?”

“Oh, shit,” Atsumu says, blinking at the time on the screen, “it is.” It hits him that Hinata was asleep, and Atsumu disturbed his rest, all because of some ridiculous dream. “Sorry, I’ll hang up now —” 

“Don’t!” Hinata says, considerably more lively than a few moments before, “seriously, I’m awake now! And — since I’m awake, you better tell me why you’re calling at this hour.” 

Atsumu sighs. “Bad dream. Nothin’ serious.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Atsumu doesn’t know how he would even begin to explain any of the dreams to Hinata. He briefly allows himself to entertain the thought of letting loose the avalanche of confessions and secrets that live in his heart. He would start from the beginning, he thinks, from the first time he played against Hinata and felt everything slot into place. Or maybe he’d start from sometime in the middle, the two of them wearing the same jersey, their shoes squeaking against the same court. Or — he’d probably fast forward to the end, when Atsumu’s name is nothing more than a footnote in Hinata’s life. 

“Nah, not really,” he says, “thanks, though.” 

“Well, if you change your mind, you can,” Hinata says, “but, to be honest, you don’t sound too great, so — do you mind if I talk? Might calm you down, or something!”

“Doesn’t bother me,” Atsumu replies, and then swallows. It’s two o’clock in the morning, and he feels vulnerable, and grateful. A part of him desperately wants Hinata to know how much the offer means to him. “I mean, yeah. I’d like that.”

Hinata rambles, recounting the events of his day, even though Atsumu was by his side for most of it. It melts into him leading Atsumu through his life before the Black Jackals, his Karasuno days unfurling and coming to life. If Atsumu closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that Hinata is lying next to him, their heads resting on adjacent pillows. He can almost pretend that Hinata’s voice is coming from beside him, instead of being filtered through the speaker. 

Hinata yawns in the middle of another one of his stories. Atsumu can hear him trying to muffle it.

“You can hang up, if you want,” Atsumu says, his own drowsiness weighing his words down. “I’m fine now.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” It’s not a lie. Hinata’s voice is comforting, expertly honed in the ability to restore his heart to its regular rhythm.

“I’ll sleep soon. But, I need to ask — do you get bad dreams a lot?”

Atsumu takes a deep breath. He exhales slowly. “Sometimes, I s’pose.” 

Hinata lets out a sympathetic hiss. “Well,” he says, “you should call me whenever you have them!”

“Thanks for the offer,” he replies, “but I don’t wanna wake you up when you should be gettin’ sleep.” 

“I’d way prefer to be awake and talking to you than being asleep while you’re upset!”

His face heats up, a warm feeling coiling around his body. Hinata is so damn nice . “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“You better! Before I sleep, I’ll just finish off the story,” Hinata takes a deep breath, “okay, so, as I was saying, Yamaguchi was out on the roof —” 

If Atsumu falls asleep on the call, and wakes up feeling more refreshed than he has in weeks, well — that’s nobody’s business but his own.

—

True to his word, Bokuto is good at giving advice. He’s the definition of unsubtle, and sometimes Atsumu thinks he’s just recycling things Akaashi has said to him, but — Atsumu can’t deny that it helps, even just a little bit. Atsumu understands why Bokuto was elected captain in high school. 

Atsumu’s conversations with Bokuto are significantly less helpful, however, when Sakusa is also there — such as now, the three of them practicing together in a corner of the gym, Atsumu going through the motions of his usual dramatics.

“He’s like — my number one weakness.” Atsumu says, forlorn.

Sakusa shudders. “That’s embarrassing,” he says, “I can’t believe you admitted that.”

For once, Atsumu is inclined to agree with him. It’s humiliating. It’s soul-destroying. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before. He wouldn’t trade this feeling for the world. “He’s killin’ me,” he says, closing his eyes. 

When he opens them again, Sakusa is glaring at him. 

“Don’t give me that look!” Atsumu snaps, “I know for a fact that you developed a crush on that one guy last week, just because he wiped the handle before openin’ a door!”

Sakusa shakes his head. “That’s different. I don’t dream about the guy. When he walked out that door and I never saw him again, I didn’t care. You played one match against a guy in highschool, and then spent the next five years thinking about him.”

“Well,” Atsumu says, slowly, “when you put it like that, it does sound pretty bad.”

“Not to mention,” Sakusa adds, “that he’s apparently your number one weakness.” 

Bokuto perks up. “Oh! Speaking about weaknesses — did you know Akaashi memorised mine in highschool? All —” Bokuto pauses, mumbling under his breath, before he continues, “thirty seven of them! Isn’t that romantic?”

Atsumu shakes his head. “Bokkun, it’s actually pretty creepy.”

“I guess it’s a little bit weird,” Bokuto shrugs, unfazed, “but he was just being a good setter! It was his job to understand me, and it was my job to understand him. And then — I dunno, one day he said something about my favourite movie, and it was like, boom, instant realisation!”

“About what?” Sakusa asks.

“That we knew each other just as well off the court as on the court!” Bokuto grins, his happiness written all over his face. “Everything just sorta fell into place after that.” 

Atsumu thinks about Hinata pointing out the meal to him in the restaurant. He thinks about the catalogue of information in his head that Atsumu built up about Hinata, that maybe Hinata developed too. He thinks about Hinata staying with him on the phone, telling him stories that he knows will soothe him. He thinks about the inherent need to know someone to be a good setter for them, how everything he does on the court traces back to this perpetual feeling of belonging and understanding. 

“Makes sense,” Atsumu says, attempting to sound bored instead of hopeful. The look Bokuto sends his way tells him that he wasn’t successful. 

“Listen, ‘Tsumu,” Bokuto says, picking a stray volleyball up from the floor and spinning it around and around in his hands. “I think Hinata understands you, but he can’t read minds! You still gotta tell him how you feel!”

“No way in hell am I doin’ that.” Atsumu replies. It’s probably the easiest decision he’s ever had to make.

“C’mon! It worked for me and Akaashi!”

Of course it did. The few times Atsumu has met Akaashi in person, it was clear from the way he looked at Bokuto that he was head over heels for him. There was never going to be anything other than a happy ending on the cards for them.

“You’re never gonna get anywhere if you don’t talk about it with him! With Akaashi, I gotta talk to him, and he’s gotta talk to me about what’s wrong and what we want,” Bokuto pauses, his brow furrowing, as if a thought just occurred to him. “What even is it that you want?”

The question throws Atsumu for a loop, the simplicity of it catching him off guard. 

Wanting, before all these complicated feelings, was easy. It was measurable, defined by reachable goals. It was something Atsumu could train for and work towards. But now — desire is impossible to pin down. Atsumu doesn’t think he could put words to his want, not anymore. It’s grown and spiralled out of his control, bigger than his body, stretching out into the realm of something more. He looks at Hinata and feels empty and full all at once. He speaks to him through actions, hoping that volleyball can convey all he wants to say, that it can put shape to his desire.

Atsumu doesn’t know how to say that he wants all the before and all the after. He wants less space between them, less moments spent apart. He doesn’t know how to confess this in a way that keeps the truth of him hidden.

He settles on, “I wanna spend time with him.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

Bokuto frowns. He tosses the volleyball into the air. “So, tell him that,” he says, and catches the ball.

—

Atsumu loses track of the number of dreams he has. 

In Atsumu’s dreams, Hinata is always there, existing in his mind in some form or another. Sometimes, he takes the main focus, the entire universe built up around him. Sometimes, he’s a blur in the background, appearing for merely a split second, before he fades out of vision. Atsumu might see a hundred faces every night, but he wakes up with only Hinata crystal clear in his memory. 

Like — the one when the entire team was cycling a particularly difficult mountain trail, sharply twisting and turning as they traversed the rocky path. Bokuto stopped intermittently to look at the flora and fauna, marvelling over the flowers growing between the trees. Sakusa paused every so often to pull up his mask, which kept falling down, and to brush dirt off his clothes. Atsumu tried to eat as they cycled, his pockets overflowing with food. Hinata — Hinata raced ahead, his legs pumping at what felt like the speed of light, shouting at the rest of them over his shoulder to catch up. 

Or — the dream where Atsumu was browsing a bookstore, and noticed that the book sleeves all bore the names of his fellow teammates. He stepped closer to examine them, and realised that they all quit volleyball to write books, mainly about how terrible it was being on a team with Atsumu. Hinata’s book was the most popular, with almost every single copy in the store sold out, save for the one Atsumu was staring at. He decided to buy it.

Or — the time Atsumu dreamed he was trapped in a sea of people, feeling like he was drowning in the crowd. He searched his surroundings for an opening to escape the pushing and shoving, when his eyes caught on a tuft of orange hair, somewhere far in the distance. Every part of him itched to follow this shining beacon of light. He woke up before he reached his destination. 

Through it all, Atsumu wonders if these dreams are some sort of cosmic joke, a form of atonement for his past — or current — life misgivings. What have I done to deserve this, he thinks. He ignores a voice, suspiciously similar to Osamu’s, asking him if he wants a comprehensive list of every mortal sin or minor annoyance he’s committed. Atsumu understands, on a distant, rarely acknowledged level, that the only way the dreams can end is by achieving some form of closure. He resigns himself to dealing with these dreams for the remainder of his life.

—

Atsumu, in a fit of stupidity, decides to bite the bullet and tell Osamu about the dreams.

As part of his determination to live a happier life, Atsumu created a number of rules in his head to follow while talking to his brother. Among them — to never show weakness around Osamu, or imply he was even a little bit unhappy. Despite this, he caves, calling him on a Saturday evening. Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

Atsumu slumps over his kitchen table, his face the picture of distress. “I don’t know what to do. The dreams are all sappy and romantic and they’re killin’ me,” he says, one hand pressed against his forehead, the other holding the phone up to his ear. 

Osamu coos, a mocking sound. “Our little ‘Tsumu’s growin’ up! I can’t wait to tell Kita-san about this.” 

“I’m older than you! Have some respect,” Atsumu pauses, “and don’t you dare breathe a word to Kita-san. I’ll kill you if ya do.”

“Yer only older by twenty minutes! You don’t even act like it.”

“Happiest twenty minutes of my life!” Atsumu snaps. He wishes he was in the same room as Osamu, so he could wrap him in a headlock and physically fight him, like he used to be able to do.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it was. So, what’s the big deal about this? Haven’t you been nursin’ this same old crush for years?” 

“Don’t call it a crush , that’s so embarrassin’,” Atsumu hisses, ignoring Osamu’s raucous laughter at his reply, “and the thing is, I dunno what to do about all these feelings. Like, do I jus’ die?”

“Stop bein’ so dramatic. Yer a grown adult! Talk to him.” Osamu says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. 

“Why does everyone want me to do the one thing I’m not gonna do? No way in hell am I breathin’ a word ‘bout this to him.”

What he has with Hinata now is good . It’s so good. Atsumu can’t risk that. He doesn’t want it to come falling down, to have everything they built up destroyed within seconds, because of some poorly placed feelings.

“Who’s everyone?” Osamu asks. 

Atsumu places his phone on the counter, putting Osamu on speaker, counting the names on his fingers. “Obviously, yer one of them. I was talkin’ to Bokkun about it — and Omi-kun, actually, and they’re both more helpful than you would think, which was surprisin’. Some people in my dreams, though I guess they don’t count. Y’know that blond guy with glasses, from the Sendai Frogs? Him too, through some passive-aggressive text — I can read it for you, if you want, I think it was a joint message from him and his boyfriend —” 

Osamu cuts him off. “So you told basically everyone except me? Yer own twin brother?” 

“I’m allowed to have my own life ‘n my own secrets,” Atsumu says, feeling the familiar hurt rising up in him again. “You made sure of that.”

“I’m not gonna apologise for doin’ what made me happy,” Osamu says, honest as usual, “so don’t try ‘n make me.”

Foolishly, ridiculously, Atusmu is struck by the urge to cry. It’s overwhelming. He wants to cry, and he wants to be somewhere that isn’t here, with someone else. He wants to be younger, and older, all at once. He wants to skip to the part of his life where he’s happy, when he doesn’t regret the person he’s become, and doesn't resent his brother, a little, for leaving him like that without a second thought. Atsumu takes a deep breath, scrunching his face. 

“I’m not sayin’ you gotta say sorry,” Atsumu mutters, “I’m just sayin’ that — I dunno. Like, everyone says I’m the selfish one, and I know I am, but you can have yer moments too.”

“It’s not like I died. Stop bein’ so dramatic.” 

“Yer own twin brother is goin’ through a crisis and you don’t even care!” Atsumu snaps.

“You know yer bein’ ridiculous! Look — I’m never gonna regret leaving, but I’ll admit that I do miss it sometimes,” Osamu pauses, more thoughtful when he speaks again, “but I think I finally got what Kita-san meant once I left it behind.”

“Yer gonna have to be more specific. Kita-san said a lot of things over the years.”

“Y’know what I mean. That whole thing about hatin’ the banner and all that. I get what he means about likin’ the little things, because it’s nice to make food from scratch that tastes good. Volleyball, with all the people, and all the energy, it was fun, but — it was too much. Seein’ people enjoy my food is better.” 

His words linger in the air, the weight of them settling on Atsumu’s skin. The energy to fight escapes with a sigh, leaving him only with a feeling of resignation. “I’m still mad at you, even if that does make sense.”

“Oh, grow up,” Osamu says, laughing, “y'know — if I never left, you never would’ve played volleyball with yer crush, and we’d both be spendin’ our time chasin’ after some sort of happiness we were never gonna get.”

“Don’t say that like I have a chance,” Atsumu groans.

“Yer definitely never gonna have one if you just sit around mopin’ all day. Actually, there’s an idea — I have this new recipe that I need some testers for. How ‘bout you invite him along with you to try it out?”

It’s an apology the only way they know how, an olive branch extended through the form of food. Atsumu accepts it. “I was thinkin’ about gettin’ some food with him anyway. You should post about us visitin’ on social media later. Get some free attention for yer shitty business.”

Osamu snorts. “Watch yer ego.” 

Silence falls between them. Atsumu can faintly hear the sound of something bubbling and sizzling in the background of Osamu’s end.

“You cookin’ up somethin’?”

“Yeah. Nothin’ special, just have a guest comin’ over later,” Osamu says. Before Atsumu can speak, he continues, “I’m not gonna tell you who it is, so don’t even bother askin’.”

“That’s unfair!” 

“I’ll tell you what it is — payback. Maybe next time you’ll think twice about keepin’ everythin’ a secret from me,” Osamu says, ignoring Atsumu’s protests. “Right, I gotta go now. Talk later.”

He hangs up without another word. Atsumu stares at his phone for a moment, frowning, before sighing in resignation and pulling himself off the counter. He glances at his own fridge, wondering if he has enough time and substantial ingredients to make food, or if he should cave and order takeout. 

He’s halfway through dialing the number for a nearby restaurant when he gets a notification from Hinata, asking him if he wants to come over for dinner. He replies yes within mere seconds. I can’t wait, he thinks, to brag about this to Samu later.

—

Away games are characterised by the team shuffling onto the bus, hugging their jackets closer to their bodies to fend off the early morning chill, the still-dark sky hanging over their heads. Some team members take their seats and immediately curl up and close their eyes to catch up on their rest. Others attempt to shake off their drowsiness by forcing themselves to stay awake, discussing tactics with the person sitting next to them. The same rings true for this match.

Atsumu doesn’t fall asleep on the bus. He can’t risk dreaming, not with Hinata sitting right next to him. Hinata, on the other hand, has no such problem. He falls asleep within the first half hour of the journey, his cheek pressed against Atsumu’s shoulder, his hair tickling his neck. 

Hinata’s hand found his way to Atsumu’s own soon after his head found Atsumu’s shoulder. It’s the first time their hands have touched for longer than a brief second, longer than the fleeting palm to palm contact from a high five. It’s the first time this sort of barrier has been breached, without the pretence of passing water bottles back and forth, of checking hands for injuries.

Atsumu catches Sakusa’s eye from across the bus. Sakusa shakes his head in disapproval. Atsumu isn’t sure if the look of displeasure is over the obvious display of affection, or how they’re carelessly passing germs between them. Most likely a combination of both. 

Bokuto twists in his seat, raising himself up and peering over the back of the chair to look at Atsumu and Hinata. His face lights up when he sees the way Hinata is leaning against Atsumu.

“He’s sleepin’,” Atsumu whispers, fighting down the rising embarrassment. Bokuto’s face somehow grows even happier. 

Bokuto ducks down. Atsumu can hear the sound of rustling, and can vaguely see him rifling through his bag through the gap between the seats. When Bokuto pops back up, his phone in his hands, pointing directly at Atsumu and Hinata.

Atsumu scowls, shaking his head. “Don’t do it.”

Bokuto takes the picture regardless. He looks at it, and beams. “It turned out nice!” Bokuto says, forgetting to whisper. “Do you want me to send it to you?”

“Keep yer voice down!” Atsumu hisses, “And — yeah, send it on.”

Atsumu’s phone buzzes in his jacket pocket after a few seconds pass. With his free hand, he unlocks it, and spends a humiliating amount of time staring at the picture. Objectively, it’s not a great picture, slightly blurry and nowhere close to flattering, for either of them. Hinata is fast asleep, his mouth half-open, while Atsumu frowns at the camera. His thumb hovers over the picture. He saves it.

“Yer makin’ a fool out of me,” Atsumu mumbles, looking at Hinata, so low he can barely hear himself speak. He has the brief thought that he never wants this bus ride to end, if it means they can stay like this forever.

Atsumu sits, keeping as still as possible for the remainder of the trip, aware of every minor movement he makes. He relinquishes his hand from Hinata’s grip after a while, careful to keep him from waking up. He looks out the window, the scenery only a blur of colours, and tries not to think about how much he misses the contact. 

He nudges Hinata when the bus slows down to a stop outside the stadium. “Wake up. We’re here.”

Hinata stirs awake. “You’re comfortable,” he mumbles, his face still buried in Atsumu’s shoulder. 

“You flatter me,” Atsumu replies, fighting down the rising blush, “but let’s just get goin’. I’m desperate to warm up and play.”

Hinata lifts his head up, stretching as he does so. Within seconds, he’s completely animated, all remnants of drowsiness gone. Atsumu’s chest clenches at the sight. 

—

They win the match. It’s not a surprise, not at this point. For as long as Hinata and Atsumu are working together, they’re always going to win. It always comes back to this — both of them chasing satisfaction, working in unison to set the court aflame. 

—

On the journey back, Atsumu lets his guard down. Fatigue, paired with the comforting sound of Hinata talking beside him, lulls him to a place of rest.

The dream, this time, is fleeting. It’s a brief kiss pressed to the back of his hand, the barest brush of lips against skin. It’s a spotlight shining on two people in an empty auditorium, their hands linked as they move. It’s a steady rhythm of shoes against the floor, a ruffling of fabric, a tune softly hummed. 

It’s — lovely. It’s almost overwhelmingly lovely.

—

Atsumu sees the droplets on his screen, blurring and obscuring the message, before he feels them on his skin. He lifts his hand to his face, almost hesitant, wiping away the tears. He can only imagine how unraveled he looks right now. He was always an ugly crier. 

“Man,” he murmurs, his voice thick, “this is so embarrassing.”

“What’s embarrassing?”

Atsumu resists the urge to turn around at the sound of Hinata’s voice, the cadence of it instantly recognisable. He turns inwards on himself instead, in a pathetically futile attempt to hide his face.

“I thought everyone was gone home,” Atsumu says, deftly avoiding Hinata’s question. 

“They are! I just forgot something in my locker, so I came back,” Hinata replies. Atsumu notices how Hinata’s voice seems to be growing nearer with every word. His blood runs cold with the realisation that Hinata will see him in this state.

“So — what’s embarrassing you?” 

Atsumu carefully moves his hand away from his face. Hinata’s face morphs into one of thinly veiled shock, then outright pity. Atsumu cringes.

“Don’t look at me. Not that there’s anythin’ to look at — but if there was, I’d be humiliated about it.”

Hinata shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with crying! I cry all the time!”

“I know,” Atsumu says, unable to hide the fondness in his voice, “you sobbed the whole time we watched that sappy movie last week.”

“It was sad, and you know it! The part where she was on the train was just so—” Hinata pauses, frowning. “Stop trying to change the subject! What’s got you this upset?

“It’s nothin’,” Atsumu replies, already feeling tendrils of intense humiliation wrap around his body. “I’m fine. You didn’t see anything!”

“I did see something, though?” Hinata sighs, taking hold of Atsumu’s sleeves and gently tugging them. “Tell me. I want to help you!”

“Man, it’s - it’s really no big deal. It’s just that I was talkin’ to my mom, and she said she was watchin’ the match, and that she was proud of me, and I guess it caught me off guard, or somethin’,” he swallows, averting his eyes, “I told you it was embarrassin’.”

Hinata’s brow furrows. “Does she not say that a lot? I don’t know why she wouldn’t — you’re great!”

“She’s said she’s proud of me before, don’t get me wrong, it was just somethin’ about those messages that made me emotional.” It was something about the way she commented on how he played with Hinata during the match, how she followed that message up with telling him how proud she was of his growth over the years. 

“I get it,” Hinata says, still looking at Atsumu. 

Atsumu is all too aware of how he’s been eroded, his hard edges worn down and soft to the touch. Every part of him feels tender and easy to bruise underneath Hinata’s gaze. His eyes fill with tears again. Hinata steps forward, concern written all over his features, and reaches for Atsumu.

“Is this alright?” Hinata asks, stopping just before skin touches skin.

Atsumu nods. Against his better judgement, distantly aware that he’s sealing his own fate, he tips forward, leaning into Hinata’s outstretched hands. 

Atsumu always assumed it would be his own fire that killed him, working from the inside out, the end result nothing but a smouldering shell of who he once was. But maybe it would be this instead — Hinata’s gentle touch, his hands cradling Atsumu’s face, wiping away the stray tears, leaving a burning trail in its wake. 

—

Atsumu lingers in the memory of Hinata comforting him. He goes to bed with it wrapped around his insides, soft and warm. He dreams of it.

The dream is a hazy one, coloured in soft pinks and oranges. It’s not a dream so much as it is a feeling. Hinata’s presence in the dream isn’t so much physical as it is emotional, in the feeling of friendship, and victory, and trust, and understanding, and maybe — more. Atsumu wants to live in that feeling, carve out a home in it for himself.

In a way, out of all of the dreams, it’s the worst one yet. It’s cruel in its conception, giving Atsumu a taste of what he wants so badly, allowing him to live in and be enveloped in a feeling of belonging and warmth, just for a night.

Atsumu drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen when the dream is finished, his mind nebulous, as if in a trance. He opens the fridge, his body bathed in its glow, and stares into it blankly, one hand still resting on the door, the other hanging loosely by his side. He feels like a ghost in his own home. 

Osamu, naturally, was always the one that genuinely enjoyed cooking. Back in high school, when Osamu was stressed, he would hide away in the kitchen for hours on end. He would emerge with an abundance of freshly-cooked food, significantly more relaxed than before. For Atsumu, on the other hand, cooking was a means to the end, a process he had to go through in order to reap the rewards of a semi-decent meal. But — as he pulls food out of the fridge, carefully washing and preparing the vegetables, mixing ingredients together — he thinks he gets it. It’s the process of turning the old into the new, watching the creation of something good, right in front of your eyes. It’s grounding.

He looks out the window while he eats. It’s still dark outside, a few hours left before he’ll have to go to practice. The food in front of him is decent, for a first-time attempt, but it’s pretty clear he won’t be taking a page from Osamu’s book and leaving volleyball to pursue a culinary career anytime soon. It’s probably for the best.

—

In a panicked and hasty attempt to protect whatever amount of his heart he has left, Atsumu decides the best thing to do is, of course, limit his interactions with Hinata. He doesn’t inform anyone of this new resolution.  

It’s not easy to put distance between you and a teammate you see at all hours. All things considered, Atsumu thinks he’s doing a pretty good job at it. He still plays with Hinata during practice, of course, and still walks with him to the gym. Really, the only thing that has changed is the amount he allows himself to be near Hinata. He doesn’t linger in his presence anymore than he has to, and doesn’t seek out his attention if it isn’t absolutely necessary. He thinks nobody notices — that is, if you don’t count Bokuto, unsubtle in his attempts to catch Atsumu’s attention in order to ask him what’s going on, or Hinata’s eyes fixed on him during practice, or the text from Sakusa, sent at 2:36am, simply reading: grow up .

So. A pretty good job. 

His master plan lasts all of three days. It blows up in his face on Friday evening, when Hinata shows up at his apartment unannounced and uninvited. The door swings open, and he’s there, staring across at Atsumu, who’s sitting on the couch. 

“You left your door unlocked,” Hinata says, in lieu of a proper greeting. He’s unusually calm in the face of Atsumu gaping at him. “Anybody could break in.”

Atsumu finds himself at a brief loss for words. He falters for a moment, taken aback, before sputtering in indignation. “Well, yeah! I can see that! What — what’re you doin’ here?”

“I’ll answer that,” Hinata says, some of his calm making way for frustration, “if you tell me what’s been up with you the past few days!” 

“Nothing. I’m fine, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu replies, aware of how stiff and wooden he sounds.

“Don’t give me that! You’ve been acting all — all distant, and it’s weird! I asked the others if they knew what was up, but they said they didn’t know either!” 

Atsumu sighs, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Listen,” he says, “I’m just tryin’ to work through some things, that’s all. I’ll be fine in a day or two.” 

“I’m your friend,” Hinata says, “and I want to help you out if something is wrong!” 

“I appreciate the offer, Shouyou-kun, but it’s because of you that I’m tryin’ to sort things out.”

Hinata’s face falls. Atsumu realises what he said too late, his brain catching up to his mouth. He jumps to his feet, striding across the room to stand in front of Hinata. “No, not like that! I didn’t mean it like that, it’s not actually your fault, I’m sorry, I meant —” 

In volleyball, there’s a small window of time before hitting the ball where the world slows down, and you’re aware that everything that follows hinges on your performance at this very second. It’s the moment before the fall, the moment before impact, the moment where the only thing you have to rely on is your own ability. It’s the moment you’ve trained for, putting hours into improving, until you’re good enough to face your fate head-on. Atsumu looks at Hinata, and feels like he’s transported to that moment. Despite everything he’s told himself since the beginning, Atsumu realises he’s been completely unprepared for this all along. 

He takes a deep breath. “I meant — since that time we played together in highschool, I’ve — y’know,” he closes his eyes and runs his hands over his face, muffling his next words, “had feelings for you, or whatever. And it’s gotten even worse since you joined the team, so, I wanted to try ‘n, I dunno, get over it, or somethin’. It was shitty, I know. Sorry.”  

He feels nauseous, every part of him exposed, and even more so when his confession is followed by a long stretch of silence. Carefully, fearfully, he opens his eyes to look at Hinata. Atsumu almost winces at the look on his face. Hinata stands motionless, knocked off-kilter by the admission.

“You don’t hafta come up with a nice way of lettin’ me down. It’s fine,” Atsumu mutters, desperate for Hinata to say anything, even if it’s heartbreaking.

“I’m not going to —” Hinata shakes his head, jolting himself out of his reverie. He looks Atsumu in his eyes, and determination shines through them. “You didn't have to try and get over it! I’ve been trying to let you know how I felt since pretty much forever! We basically went on a double date!”

“No way,” Atsumu gasps, his heart thudding, unable to believe his ears, “yer not tellin’ me that time in the restaurant with yer friends was a date?” He reconfigures his view of the outing, turning everything from that night over and over in his mind. Shit. It was a date. 

Hinata nods, wincing. “Well, I wanted it to be, and I thought you did too!”

“Of course I wanted it to be, I just thought that, I dunno, you were still hung up on —”

Atsumu trails off. Something in Atsumu’s face must betray his thoughts, because Hinata opens his mouth as if to speak, only to close it again. He looks away. Atsumu grows aware of the distant ticking of a clock.

When Hinata finally gets the words out, they sound as if they were wrenched out of him. “I didn’t know which twin you were, that time at Nationals.” 

“How,” Atsumu swallows, “is that meant to make me feel?”

Hinata shakes his head, reaching up to rest his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. It reminds Atsumu too much of that time outside the restaurant. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I know you now . I mean, if you and Osamu-san were to have the same hairstyle, and wear the same clothes and everything — I would know you. I know you’re not your brother, or Kageyama, or anyone else.” He takes a deep breath, his eyes expectant.

“I sure hope yer not mixin’ me up with Tobio-kun, or else I’d be gettin’ pretty worried,” Atsumu tries to pass it off as a joke, but it comes out too serious, and Hinata can tell.

“You know what I mean. You’re not a replacement. You’re Atsumu.”

Atsumu has never heard his name spoken with such care. He wasn’t aware it could sound so lovely, as if it’s a promise, as if it’s something to be treasured. Hinata holds his name gently in his mouth. 

“What’re you sayin’?” 

“I’m saying that I like you , and not because you’re my setter now, or because of who your brother is, or anything like that! I love being with you!” Hinata says, “I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world I’d prefer to spend time with.”

“Yer probably the first person to ever say that,” Atsumu mutters, his heart thudding, “but I think the same ‘bout you. It’s embarrassin’, but I’m really glad you stayed on the team. I mean, I hope we would’ve still been friends if you — if you left, but, y’know. I’m happy.”

“So am I!”

A thought occurs to Atsumu, a small tendril of doubt creeping in. “Ah — so, just to get things straight, yer really sayin’ you feel the same way I do?” 

“If that means you want to make out for a while, and date, and all that, then yeah! I feel the exact same!”

Atsumu swallows. He half-wonders if he’s experiencing another dream, more vivid than the rest, if any moment now he’ll have to wake up for practice. “Alright. Glad to hear we’re on the same page here.”

Hinata smiles, and cups Atsumu’s face in his hands. “Is it okay if I kiss you?” 

“Yeah,” Atsumu replies, leaning into the familiar touch, “that’d be good.”

It reminds Atsumu, in a way, of the time inside the locker room. The same hands are holding the same face, the same warmth in his chest, the same fire blazing across his skin. But, here, Hinata leans in and closes the gap between them. Atsumu's hands come to rest on Hinata's waist, responding to Hinata's actions with equal amounts of enthusiasm. Truthfully, it’s a little bit clumsy, and inexperienced, both of them trying to adjust to the other person, but — it’s perfect, and Atsumu can’t hold himself back from smiling into the kiss, his stomach full of butterflies. They break apart, and Hinata looks at him with such unguarded fondness, that Atsumu thinks he could live in this moment forever.

It’s not a dream.

—

Hinata brandishes his phone to Bokuto and Akaashi, both sitting across from them on the other couch. Akaashi leans forward, squinting, while Atsumu cranes his neck to see the screen. He groans once when he realises what the picture is. 

“Show ‘em another one!” Atsumu says, pouting, “I was havin’ a bad hair day when you took that.”

“Well, I think you always look good! But,” Hinata swipes across, passing his phone to Atsumu for approval, “how about this, then?”

He looks at it, considering. He’s biased, but it’s a cute photograph of the two of them, stretched out on the floor in Hinata’s apartment, relaxation written across their features. “I like that one.”

“Me too!” Hinata says, and shows it to Bokuto and Akaashi. 

Bokuto coos at the sight of the photo. “Cute! D’ya have any other ones?” 

“Here,” Atsumu says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and navigating to his camera roll. He taps on an album and passes his phone across the table. “I keep the pictures we have together in this folder. Go crazy.”

“Very organised,” Akaashi says, “I’m impressed.”

“It’s kinda funny,” Bokuto says, his voice contemplative as he swipes through the photographs, “that all this happened because ‘Tsumu didn’t know how to deal with his dreams. If you think about it, he’d probably still be all single and mopey and lovesick right now if he just ignored them.” 

“I know!” Hinata laughs, patting Atsumu’s knee. Atsumu huffs in mock-indignation, familiar with this topic of conversation between them. “When he told me about the dreams, I didn’t get why he wouldn’t just tell me how he felt!”

Atsumu groans. “It was humiliatin’ for me!” 

“I think it was kinda cute,” Hinata says, smiling at him. Atsumu perks up at the words.

“Well,” he says, preening, “who am I to argue with my boyfriend?”

“You know,” Bokuto begins, his face lighting up, “I’ve been thinking — maybe I should set up some sort of matchmaking service. I’m pretty good at it!”

Atsumu frowns. “Indirectly helpin’ one couple sort things out isn’t bein’ pretty good, it’s just luck.”

“Not just one couple. There was you and Hinata, of course, and then me and Akaashi —”

“That doesn’t count,” Akaashi interjects, “I told you how I felt first.”

Bokuto shrugs. “Technically, yeah, but I was sending you mind messages for years that I was into you! So, it was a joint effort!”

Akaashi ducks his head in a futile attempt to hide his smile. “Sure,” he says, clearly fond, “a joint effort.”

“Exactly! Plus, there was Tsukki and his boyfriend, which never would’ve happened if I didn’t step in just in time!” Bokuto leans back, clearly proud of himself and his alleged matchmaking prowess. Somehow, Atsumu doubts the complete validity of what he’s saying. He makes a mental note to probe Tsukishima and Yamaguchi about it the next time he sees them.

“Three couples isn’t enough to form the basis of a business on. Not to mention that I also had to listen to that constant whining about his dreams for months, so I deserve some of the credit,” Sakusa says, reappearing from the kitchen to settle on an armchair. He wipes down the chair before he sits on it.

Atsumu gasps, his hands flying to rest over his heart. “Omi-kun! You do care!”

“I didn’t say that,” Sakusa says, his expression neutral, “I’m just glad that I won’t have to put up with your complaining anymore.”

“Harsh,” Atsumu hisses, ignoring the laughs of everybody else, “but I’m in too much of a good mood to care. It’s yer lucky day.”

Bokuto gazes around his apartment with a forlorn expression on his face. “I wish I could invite all of you over more often. It’s nice!” He sighs, slumping against Akaashi, who puts his arm around him. 

Hinata taps Atsumu. “Hey,” he says, his voice low, “speaking of seeing people, I was talking to Kageyama about meeting up sometime for food, and we were wondering if you wanted to come along?”

“Sounds good,” Atsumu replies, and is almost surprised to find that it’s not a lie. It really does sound like fun. Hinata leans up to kiss Atsumu, soft and gentle. When he pulls back, he’s gazing at Atsumu with open tenderness. Atsumu knows his face probably looks the same.

“Now, I’m not complainin’,” Atsumu says, taking Hinata’s hands in his own, “but is there any reason for this sudden affection?”

“I’m just really happy,” Hinata says, smiling, and kisses him again. 

—

In the end, there’s no fire raging across the landscape. There’s no ash billowing through the sky, no great destruction unfurling before Atsumu’s eyes, caused by his own hand. Instead, there’s this — Kisses traded and given away for free. A feeling of love and comfort, growing between two people, filling up the air all around them. The promise of a tomorrow that offers as much hope and safety as the present.  

Atsumu wakes up. He barely has to crane his neck to see Hinata, asleep on the pillow next to him. There’s new goals to chase, other teams to defeat, matches to train for. They’re nowhere close to the end of the road, nowhere close to the conclusion of their ambition. But, for this second, in this moment, of this lifetime — Atsumu feels contentment, radiating from the centre of his chest, lighting up every inch of his body. 

He rolls over and falls back asleep. He doesn’t dream.