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Atsumu sits cross legged on the rooftop, an open bottle of Sapporo besides him, and a six-string acoustic guitar on his lap.
Osaka city is laid out before him, all sprawling streets and lit up buildings. He sees the street lights flicker on one by one down the avenue and tiny figures of people walk around. The sky is a darkening purple, the color the sun leaves in its wake after it’s dipped below the horizon. Night has not completely come to claim the day, and therefore exists the limbo of time where it is dark enough for car headlights to be on, but light enough to still see, just maybe not in great detail.
He turns the guitar over and strums it lightly, mindlessly. He doesn’t really need a reason to play, but it’s always been a way to let things out, no matter if he was feeling angry, joyful, or melancholy. Tonight, he supposes he feels a little in love, and a little wanting.
Nothing in particular happened, really. It’s more of a feeling always present at the back of his mind, an accumulation of the years they spent, an accumulation of time and time spent counting smiles, extending trust. Sakusa is a constant, much like volleyball, but less prominently. He slots himself just right into the corners of Atsumu’s mind, lingering. The thought of Sakusa Kiyoomi has made a home in his head, familiar and one that Atsumu has come to terms with.
But sometimes, it feels like it’s gonna swallow him whole, and the longing, the longing pierces his chest like a clear knife. Atsumu lets it.
He runs through some scales and arpeggios, fingers dancing up and down the neck of the guitar. Something that resembles a melody begins to form, and it’s choppy at first, digits fumbling a bit to find the notes that sound right, but eventually, the notes thrum with the strings like they’ve always belonged there, in this arrangement.
For now, he thinks of staring into large, dark eyes, like looking directly into a night sky without stars.
He repeats the little melody again and again and again, burning memory into his muscles. There are some notes improvised here and there, as feeling unfurls from fingertips. It unravels, unwinds into the busy streets below and over buildings, and envelopes him. He hums along quietly, absentmindedly.
It’s not that Sakusa is untouchable. Maybe he was before, but not anymore. He’s painfully corporeal, so within reach that Atsumu wishes to extend his hand and grab his fingertips, and to just hold, encasing bodily warmth between the two of them. He wants to run his thumbs over bony knuckles and press kisses to the insides of wrists, wants to sink hands into soft curly hair.
It’s that Sakusa has always blazed ahead, whether it was clearing a path with a nasty spike or shaping his own future through college while the people around him simply signed with teams that have recruited them.
Atsumu has always been scared of being left behind.
Maybe it’s a stupid worry, but it’s still a real worry, but since he didn’t really have Sakusa then maybe he doesn’t need to worry about it too much. He doesn’t know. That’s another thing. He hates being unsure, not knowing. He tries to convince himself, to take the fall, to stop worrying, for a little while, and let things work themselves out once they get there. Surely the ache in his chest and the want in his palms is proof enough that he should go after this, right? But he can’t help but fall into the what-ifs, and balk at every single one of them.
His lips eventually form words, which form sentences, which spill out of him like a flood. He sings out to the moon and the stars he cannot see but knows is there, somewhere, sings to the wall of the building closest to him, the one with all the lights off inside. He doesn’t know if he’s any good at singing, doesn’t care. It crescendos, his fingers run over the strings harder, press against the fretboard like it’ll make it louder. He lets everything, everything escape, curling up through the spaces in his ribs, tumbling through his throat, and released into the Osaka air through teeth and tongue.
Atsumu all but shouts it— his love, his fears, his longing, across the rooftops.
He doesn’t notice the door to the roof creaking open as the moment of catharsis dwindles, voice cracking a bit before quieting, the strumming softening.
His voice feels like a close thing to raw now, but it’s good, like a reminder.
He can hear footsteps draw closer, but he doesn’t turn to check who it is, he doesn’t need to. The sound of the steps are ones he’s familiar with. It’s not the first time Sakusa has seen him play the guitar. Sure, his heart gives a little jump when he considers what Sakusa could have heard, but he can’t take it back now, can he?
It’s only when Sakusa sits down next to him, that Atsumu plays the last of his notes and turns to look at him. There is a ghost of a smile on his face, nearly unnoticeable, but Atsumu notices it all the same.
He doesn’t even get to say anything before Sakusa is reaching over and grasping the forgotten, open bottle of Sapporo next to Atsumu and taking a skip. He sets it down in the space between his crossed legs, as if the bottle was his now.
Atsumu can’t help but say, “But I drank from that before, Omi.”
“Yeah, obviously. It was open,” Sakusa shoots back, and Atsumu nearly protests but Sakusa goes on and says, “I guess it’s because it theoretically isn’t too different from kissing you. Hypothetically.”
Right. Hypothetically. But like, what if it wasn’t hypothetical, isn’t that the question hanging in the air now?
Atsumu swallows his heart and says, “Ya thought about kissing me?”
It doesn’t come out in the usual teasing way he wishes, but more nervous, and he hopes Sakusa ignores the slight shake in his tone.
“Yeah,” Sakusa says it like a fact, like Atsumu has just asked if light pollution existed and the obvious answer is yeah. Atsumu is aware he flounders for a while, caught between squawking and just playing it cool, nodding in agreement, maybe dropping a smooth thought about kissing you too in there somewhere.
But Sakusa beats him to it, opens his mouth and suddenly says, “Let’s dance.”
The look on his face must show, because Sakusa sticks out a pinky and adds, “We can kiss later, promise.”
Atsumu accepts, setting his guitar aside and hooking his pinky with Sakusa’s before moving to intertwine their fingers and using their linked hands to pull both of them up. He hopes his hands don’t get too clammy and hopes Sakusa doesn’t mind.
When they’re both on their feet facing each other, Sakusa moves to rest his head on Atsumu’s shoulder, and Atsumu’s arms come around to embrace him, body warmth wrapping around them both.
Maybe they don’t have everything figured out yet, but that’s okay, and maybe it’s okay to be like this first, and work at things later.
They melt into one tonight, swaying gently on the rooftop to the tune of a song only in their heads, against the backdrop of twinkling city lights.