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Atsumu wakes up twenty minutes past his alarm, and that’s his first sign that it’s one of those days. Those shitty, sad days when everything feels gloomy and he feels heavy, sluggish, exhausted. His bad days are rare, but when they happen, they happen.
“Please, please, please have mercy on me,” he mutters to the universe at large. He grabs his things and wolfing down energy bars on the way out the door—only to run straight into his neighbour, who’s holding a full cup of coffee.
A few rounds of profuse apologies and a promise to cover the coffee later, Atsumu takes his coffee-drenched body out the door and launches into a run towards the gym. He storms into the gym and heads straight for his locker, phantom clouds brewing over his head so visibly that both Bokuto and Hinata recoil a little.
Sakusa takes one look at him and frowns. “What crawled up your ass and died?” he says flatly, his tone just a little softer than the one he usually uses to jibe at Atsumu. Atsumu notices, and he lets his shoulders slump a little.
“Not today, Omi-Omi,” he sighs, sending the spiker a wry look that’s less of a smile and more of a grimace.
Sakusa eyes him for a long moment, assessing. Atsumu would ordinarily enjoy it a lot more than he is right now—gosh, Sakusa’s eyes are pretty—but he’s too tired to feel more than the slightest swell of affection in his chest.
“Okay,” Sakusa says finally, and he backs off, shouldering his way out the door. Atsumu blinks, surprised, and the swell in chest grows warmer.
“Okay, settle down,” he murmurs to himself, forcing the feeling away. As he shuts the locker door and heads to the gym, though, he can’t deny feeling just a little better.
Atsumu’s mood doesn’t really improve with practice or his teammates’ antics—which, as he thinks about it, included a lot less of Sakusa’s biting remarks than usual—and he’s more drained than he usually is at the end of a practice. It’s more or less what he expected. Everyone has those days sometimes, and he knows by now how to deal with his: go home, eat dinner, get into bed early, and scarf down some sesame ice cream while watching some trashy TV show. Easy, painless, guaranteed to work.
Except, he recalls in the locker room showers as he fantasizes about this routine, he’s out of ice cream. And there’s no way he has the energy to get more right now. He doesn’t have the energy for anything but going home. Atsumu muffles a scream into his palms and lets the scalding water soothe his misery.
He’s in the shower for longer than he plans for, and he expects the locker room to be empty when he steps out.
It’s not.
Atsumu’s traitorous heart skips a beat when he sees Sakusa sitting on a bench, long legs crossed, a plastic bag beside him.
“Omi-kun,” he says, unable to hide his surprise. “I thought you’d have gone home by now.”
Sakusa shrugs one shoulder, eyes glinting above his mask. Atsumu can tell there’s something happening, here. Something is brewing in those dark, placid eyes.
“I was going to,” Sakusa replies, “But I needed to run an errand first.” He holds out the bag.
Atsumu frowns and tentatively steps closer to take it with one hand, the other holding his towel in place. He pretends not to notice Sakusa’s lingering, contemplative glance at his chest, though he’s sure his skin is flushing pink under his gaze. I hate you, he thinks at his body, and then mentally apologizes to the volleyball gods for the thought.
He opens the bag, and his whole world stops.
Atsumu looks back up at Sakusa, his heart thundering so loudly in his ears that he barely makes out what Sakusa says: “I figured you needed this. Hope you feel better.”
All Atsumu can think to croak out is, “How?”
Sakusa is smiling. Atsumu can’t see it, but he knows the shape of it in his mind, the way it crinkles Sakusa’s eyes. It’s sardonic, just the barest curve of his mouth, but more expressive than Atsumu could ever imagine.
“You know how,” Sakusa replies, a quiet challenge in his words.
And there it is, out in the open, as good as a confession.
Yes! Atsumu’s heart screams, cartwheeling in his ribcage. His chest burns, that ferocious, constant animal want waking up and baring its teeth, pawing in anticipation.
No, Atsumu thinks, mind hazy. No, no, no.
Sakusa gets up, seemingly uncaring of Atsumu’s stupor. “See you tomorrow, Miya,” he says blithely, a promise in his words, and then he’s gone.
Atsumu sinks onto the bench. He stares at the sesame ice cream in the bag. It’s his favourite brand.
Underneath the violent, leaping joy in his chest, what stirs to life is overwhelming panic.
-
Miya Atsumu is in love—
“No!” Atsumu cries. Osamu scowls at him, turning to pull out a bag of rice.
Miya Atsumu has feelings for Sakusa Kiyoomi, and he has never wanted anything to come of them.
“That’s not true,” Osamu says immediately, and Atsumu flips him off, even though his brother’s back is turned. He plonks his head onto the counter.
“Yeah, it is. Have I imagined holding his hand and touching his actual skin? Sure. Do I think he has the prettiest face I’ve ever seen? Maybe. Do I want to kiss that stupid smirk off his face whenever he insults me? Yeah. Do I think about him when I’m jerking off—”
“’Tsumu,” Osamu says, disgust in his voice. “If you talk about your sex life in front of me again, you’re banned from Onigiri Miya for life.” He scoffs. “You’re so dumb. You expect me to believe you don’t want him when you’re talking about him like that?”
“You’re not listening!” Atsumu spits back. “Look, I like him. I really, really, really like him. Like, I literally can’t stop thinking of him and I want him in my life so much—”
“There’s a word for that,” his brother mutters. Atsumu nobly ignores both him and the stutter of his heart.
“—but I can’t let anything come of this.”
“Why?” Osamu says. “Why’s he different?”
There’s something in his twin’s voice that tells Atsumu he already knows.
“’Tsumu,” Osamu says quietly after a long moment. “He knows you this well already. And he hasn’t run away. Don’t you think that means something? Don’t you think it’s worth trying?”
“No,” Atsumu whispers. His eyes burn. “No. Just. No.”
His brother runs a hand down his face, gentle frustration twisting his mouth. “I think you’re wrong.” He sighs softly. “I wish you could see it.” He ignores Atsumu’s disbelieving scoff and ruffles his hair, prompting a groan. “Go home. You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Atsumu mutters, and he pretends it doesn’t come out sad.
-
Miya Atsumu is not a good person. Not without effort.
He is built of the ugliest, most primal parts of humanity, the parts with teeth, the parts that shudder and reach and hold onto the things they desire with hooked claws, refusing to let go even when both he and his prey are drowning in blood. His want is a feral, almost rabid thing, and Atsumu has refused to tame it. It’s brought him this far. It’s brought him to the top of the nation. In time, it will bring him to the top of the world.
It has also kept him safe from heartbreak.
He likes the attention when he has partner, likes the warm feelings in his chest, the sex, the idea that someone is his in a way they’re not anyone else’s. That’s not to say he isn’t respectful, because he is, and he won’t ever compromise that. But he’s also abrasive, over-the-top, fixated on volleyball with little time for anything else. He’s purposely careless with his words, careless with his feelings, careless with his actions.
As a rule, he never, ever, ever lets anyone really, truly see him. To let them in would be to let them see the ocean of loneliness and insecurity guarded preciously by the bristling thing in his chest. He is, sometimes, in his heart of hearts, ashamed that he is not kinder, softer, more agreeable to the world. He is sometimes ashamed that he wants as strongly as he does, and he is sometimes, more often, ashamed that he is not ashamed of this.
Born from the stomach of this thing in his chest, and guarded oh-so-preciously by it, is an ocean of this insecurity, and Atsumu hates it.
He knows that if someone saw this snarling, wanting, relentless thing that forms the half his core, and the sea of anguished, yearning need and insecurity that spills into the rest, they would leave. He is a too-vicious, too-hungry, too-much-boy, and no one would be willing to touch him. Not without hurting him in ways he doesn’t know how to recover from.
So, he doesn’t.
Predictably, none of his relationships have ever lasted. And that’s fine. Atsumu has never really needed them to. He’s never wanted deeply enough with anyone to want them to stay.
Sakusa—calm, methodical, dark-eyed, shrewd Sakusa—is different. Sakusa walked into the gym with his blunt mannerisms, his refusal to take bullshit, his incredible skill, his unerring kindness, and Atsumu was gone for him. And as they only grew closer, spent more time together rooming for away games, going shopping together, going out for lunch and dinner, Atsumu felt that maybe, Sakusa felt the same.
And there’s the danger with Sakusa. Atsumu feels with him a vulnerability he hasn’t felt with anyone else. Because if Atsumu’s want is an animal, Sakusa’s is a surgical knife shrouded in shadow—unseen, but piercing and targeted when Atsumu’s guard is down the most, anaesthetized by the absolute force of his own desire.
Atsumu’s animal-want and Sakusa’s dagger-want would collide, and maybe the knife would pierce through the heart of the creature, revealing a mewling cub looking for love (not love, it’s not!) but scared to death of it. Or maybe the knife would reshape itself to become a claw, making space for itself in between the creature’s paws, noticeable in the way a recently-lost tooth is: suddenly, but the eerie sensation lost to gradual familiarity and acceptance and time.
But ultimately, Atsumu would bare his throat and lose to that knife—lose himself, lose his carefully constructed walls and his glass-like words under the onslaught of surprisingly tender, curious emotions in Sakusa’s eyes. Sakusa would put his everything into a relationship with Atsumu, because Sakusa never does anything by half-measures. Once he knows what he wants, and he’s calculated that it’s within reach, he won’t back down, won’t let himself be scared away, probably used to dealing with a life of fear and building himself a path over it anyway, tenuous as it may be.
Atsumu would be undone because Sakusa Kiyoomi would make every effort in the world, past what he’s already done, to know him.
And if Sakusa left after all that…
Atsumu doesn’t even know what would be left.
-
The next day consists of nervous, shifting glances and careful maneuvering of Sakusa’s space on the court, and Atsumu’s nerves are wrung tight. It’s almost a relief when Sakusa corners him after practice again, long after the others are gone.
“What?” Atsumu asks.
“Did you like the ice cream?” Sakusa asks. There’s something different about him. His expression is as deadpan as ever, his voice even, but Atsumu think he’s almost…giddy.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Guilt sours his mouth.
“Sure, yeah,” he says.
Sakusa waits, patient as ever. Atsumu fights down the panic.
“What?” he says again. Sakusa squints at him, confusion appearing for a split second in his eyes.
“Do you want to go to dinner?” he asks at last. Straightforward, blunt, to the point.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for what I’m about to do, Omi-kun.
“Go to dinner?” Atsumu laughs. “Um, as friends, right?”
“No,” Sakusa says. That happy feeling emanating from him is gone. There’s the slightest hint of a frown creasing his forehead, now. “I meant like a date. Which I know you know.”
“I just…I don’t like you like that,” Atsumu tries. Sakusa snorts, disbelieving. “Look, I know we have a good thing going, but it doesn’t mean as much to me as it does to you.” He forces himself to shrug. “And I don’t want to lead you on.”
Sakusa raises a single, mocking eyebrow. Liar, it states.
“Sorry, Omi-kun,” Atsumu finishes, finality in his voice.
Sakusa slams his locker shut and slings his bag over his shoulder.
“You know,” Sakusa says softly, his tone cutting. “I’ve thought a lot of things about you, but I never took you for a coward.”
Atsumu hides a flinch, even though he knows Sakusa will see it. I’m not, he wants to snarl, except he is, he is. That’s the whole reason they’re having this confrontation. But it’s something he hates and ignores and hides so deeply, and Sakusa has seen it, and fuck him! Fuck him for daring to hit where he knows it’ll hurt Atsumu the most, fuck him for knowing, fuck him!
(It’s exactly something Atsumu would say if their situations were reversed, and he’s reminded that as different as they are, they’re also cut from the exact same cloth.)
Atsumu locks eyes with Sakusa and allows a nasty, mocking grin to curve his mouth, lets venom coat the glint of his teeth. He exchanges blow for blow. “You don’t know me at all, do you, Omi-kun.”
Sakusa snaps his mask back on. His eyes have turned to stone. “No. I suppose not.”
He slips out of the locker room, darkly and quietly. Atsumu stares after him. He has the overwhelming urge to punch his locker, but he can’t do that to his hands. He slams it shut instead, so hard it shakes, and then slowly leans his forehead against it.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
This is exactly what he wants.
(This isn’t what he wants at all.)
-
Days pass. Their volleyball isn’t affected, just like Atsumu hoped. But Sakusa doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t talk to him. Doesn’t engage with him any more than he has to, and only with the utmost, distant politeness. Atsumu hadn’t realized how much he relied on their connection, their energy, on the court. The others notice, too, and they glance constantly between the two, concerned. Bokuto slaps his back in reassurance so often that Atsumu suspects he has a bruise forming. The others try to distract him with conversation and teasing, or pair up with him and force him to focus on practice. Atsumu can take pleasure in this, at least. His friends are wonderful.
On one occasion during a break, Atsumu stares across the gym and catches Hinata speaking quietly to Sakusa, their voices soft and serious. Sakusa looks—fuck, he looks awful. A quiet devastation lingers on his face, his wan and tired. Then Hinata and Sakusa both look up to find him staring, and as Hinata frowns in concern, Sakusa’s face goes politely blank.
Atsumu’s chest hurts. His stomach turns, and he holds a fist against his mouth, inhaling sharply.
What could it be like, for Sakusa? What kind of pain is he feeling? Worse than what Atsumu is feeling, probably. It’s one thing to know that someone you like doesn’t have feelings for you. It’s another thing to know with absolute certainty that they do reciprocate, and won’t be with you anyway, for reasons you can’t understand.
For one second, Atsumu wants, so badly he can hardly breathe. Fuck it, he wants to scream. He wants go to Sakusa and accept. He wants to tell him everything. He wants to lay his insides bare to that knife and let it do to him and his animal what it will. Love me, he wants to beg, he wants to grovel. See me, know me, and love me anyway. Stay, and never, ever leave, Kiyoomi.
Atsumu snorts, wiping at his eyes surreptitiously. The animal in his chest snarls at him, protective as ever over his trembling, fragile heart.
I know, he thinks at it. I know. This is for the better. For both of us.
Atsumu has to deftly avoid Meian’s attempt at a heart-to-heart later that day; he gives the man a chirpy response that he has to head to his brother’s after practice, and then he bolts into the showers. He stays in there for a long, long time, waiting for everyone to leave, before he heads out again.
He stops dead.
Why, he wants to scream, even as his knees go weak with unwanted relief.
Sakusa’s expression is determined. He sees things through to the end, Atsumu remembers.
“What?” Atsumu barks. He avoids looking at Sakusa as he sits on the bench to pull his socks on, and tenses when Sakusa sits beside him. The creature in his chest hones its claws on his ribs. Atsumu’s heart clenches, unsure whether to fall into his stomach or soar into his throat.
“I thought about it, and I want to know why,” Sakusa says. He looks immoveable.
“Why what?” Atsumu asks.
“Why did you lie?”
Atsumu’s hand spasms on his left sock. “Lie?”
“I know you,” Sakusa says. Atsumu’s insides quiver. “I know you like me. I don’t—” He cuts off sharply, his throat working. “I don’t understand why you would lie.”
Sakusa’s dagger-want hangs over Atsumu’s throat. The creature in his chest roars loudly, then quiets to a whine, tense and anxious.
This was always the trouble with Sakusa. Atsumu is vulnerable, powerless under that blistering intent.
He breaks.
“I’m scared, okay?” Atsumu blurts out, his voice cracking. “I’m scared of this not working. I’m scared of you running because I’m horrible, Omi, I’m not a good partner or person, I’m clingy and needy and I want too much and I ask too much and I’m too much, and you’ll leave, and then what’ll I do? It would rip me from the inside out, Omi-kun, and I couldn’t stand it. What if it affects my volleyball and I can’t play anymore?”
Sakusa watches him, surprise stark in his expression, his eyes so, so wide. Atsumu turns away, his hands clenching into fists on the bench.
“What if this destroys everything I have?” Atsumu finishes, breath shuddering. “What if all that’s left in the end is me?”
Sakusa is silent. Everything is silent. Atsumu doesn’t look. Good, good, he’ll leave now, and this will be done.
The world blurs in front of Atsumu’s eyes.
It keeps blurring, and keeps blurring, and keeps blurring, and the tears drip onto his lap, heavy and defeated and incessant.
“Miya,” Sakusa says, and a distant part of Atsumu that isn’t falling apart recognizes that Sakusa’s voice is trembling. “Miya. Miya, please.”
And then, through his aching, teary eyes, Atsumu sees Sakusa’s bare fingers creep towards his fists, then touch them where they rest on the bench. Watches as those spike-worn, elegant hands cup his own setter’s hands, coaxing them open, fingers interlacing and locking until he can’t tell whose fingers are whose. Watches as Sakusa pulls their hands and rests them against his chest, right above his heart.
Atsumu is half-turned, still looking away from Sakusa’s face, but every cell in his body snaps to attention.
“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi breathes, and Atsumu lets out an embarrassingly shuddery breath that’s only mostly from crying. “Atsumu. Look at me.” Kiyoomi pauses, then, somewhat brashly, like an afterthought, adds, “Please.”
Atsumu steels himself, even though he doesn’t know what he expects to see, and slowly, slowly raises his eyes.
Atsumu looks at him, and looks at him, and looks at him, and—
Oh.
Kiyoomi’s hands, so tenderly holding Atsumu’s, are ice-cold and shivering. He’s breathing in a way that’s carefully measured, but his chest heaves under Atsumu’s fingers. His eyes are too wide, slightly wild, and so raw. Atsumu reads the world in them, sees straight through into Kiyoomi’s soul.
Atsumu was wrong. He had thought, all along, that Sakusa’s dagger-want would cut his chest-demon into pieces. Somehow, he had assumed that he would be the only one affected.
But now, Atsumu sees. Even as the dagger hovers over his throat, at some point in his confession, the creature had pounced. It has Sakusa’s throat pinned under its wicked claws, fangs at the beating pulse at his neck.
It’s not just Atsumu. It’s not just Atsumu.
“Don’t you see?” Kiyoomi breathes, and the corners of his mouth pull tight as he wrestles to admit what Atsumu has just realized.
“Don’t you see?” Kiyoomi repeats, softer. His body relaxes. “I’m scared, too.”
The knife falls. The creature licks its lips, then steps back and lowers itself onto the ground, curling up into a ball with its head right over Kiyoomi’s heart.
The ocean in Atsumu’s core rises, and he pitches forward into Kiyoomi’s waiting arms and sobs it out.
Kiyoomi holds him for a long, long time, silent and steady in that way of his. It’s one of the things Atsumu loves best about him—and yes, he can use that word now, because it’s always been true. It’s always been love.
Atsumu lifts his head blearily after what feels like hours. Kiyoomi meets his gaze evenly, even though tear tracks line his cheeks and his eyes are just the slightest bit panicked.
“Omi-kun,” Atsumu whispers. He lifts up shaking fingers to brush at the lines, then lets his hand cup Kiyoomi’s face. “I’m sorry for what I did.”
“Don’t. It’s alright. We’re here now, aren’t we?” Kiyoomi says brusquely. His breath stutters at the prolonged touch, and Atsumu can tell it’s starting to become too much. He darts in and presses a soft, fluttering kiss to Kiyoomi’s cheek, then pulls back completely, giving him space.
Kiyoomi’s hands open and close as he regains control of himself. Atsumu waits patiently.
“Come back to mine for the night?” Kiyoomi says finally. Atsumu nods, letting himself launch the full force of his lovestruck gaze and smile right at his—boyfriend? Partner? It doesn’t matter, right now, but it’s…something. It’s something he never thought he’d have.
To his delight, Kiyoomi blushes. “Stop that,” he says gruffly, standing up and offering an upturned palm. Atsumu takes it, and they walk out hand-in-hand.
They don’t do anything that night. They don’t even kiss. But Atsumu doesn’t care—because they talk for hours and hours. And then after that, they lie together on Kiyoomi’s bed, only a few inches separating them, eyes tracing each other in the dark. Things are still raw, still healing, but the important thing is—the creature in his chest lies quietly. It’s still as guarded as ever, but it has a new, deadly addition to its arsenal in the shape of a knife, now, just like Atsumu thought.
But Atsumu hasn’t lost. Not at all. It’s the greatest gift he could ever have received. And who knows what else will change, with Kiyoomi by his side?
Well, there is time enough to find out.
There is time enough for love.