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They have an arrangement and it’s good. It’s simple, uncomplicated, and it works. Sometimes Sakusa would show up at his door, in need of a distraction, or an outlet for his frustrations, a way out of his head. Usually it was Atsumu knocking, usually a little less than sober and despite Kiyoomi’s frowning, he was never at a point not to know what he was agreeing to, what he was asking for. They’re around each other often, their schedules lining up with each other more than they do with most people in their lives. It makes sense.
It’s a simple arrangement, they fuck, no strings attached, and it works well. They work together well on the court, and well in bed, and if they bicker and argue everywhere in between, well there’s something endearing about it anyway, a sort of camaraderie they’ve established, slowly.
He doesn’t really remember how it started, really, just that it was the culmination of low simmering tension that had been a long time coming. He supposes at least—he hadn’t really realized how pent up they had both been until Atsumu had kissed him, angry, sloppy, a little less than sober. One too many barbs that had led to one too many drinks that had led to one too many ‘fuck you’s that had led to Sakusa pressed against the inside of the door to their shared hotel room.
That led to a repeat just two months later at their next away game. That had led Atsumu to his door after a grueling practice just a month later.
Atsumu had been the one who’d asked what they were fairly early on, and Sakusa had been the one to say casual. He didn’t need the extra weight of anything more than that, and at the relief evident in Atsumu’s face he wasn’t alone in that. It was easier this way; partners on the court, something close but not quite friends off of it, and reaping the benefits of each.
It went on like that, every so often, for months. First sporadically, only after an incredible win or a tough loss, or a particularly hard day at practice. Once a month, maybe more, but then slowly they found themselves together more often than not. Once a month turned into a handful of times, and then once a week that turned into maybe more often than could be considered casual when they weren’t busy, less when they were.
It’s a simple, uncomplicated arrangement, one they both agree is fine as is, one that can’t even quite be called friends with benefits when they’re reaping the benefits without even truly being friends. It’s simple, it’s easy, it makes sense. It’s uncomplicated until Sakusa’s lungs start to ache, and he coughs up bloody petals. It’s uncomplicated until Sakusa realizes the warm ache in his chest is love and that Miya Atsumu is notoriously uninterested in that.
Just like everything with Miya Atsumu, he doesn’t realize until it’s too late. He can’t say he’s shocked when the yellow-gold rose petals fall from his mouth, when he feels the pinch of thorns in his throat and lungs, but he’s disappointed for not noticing fast enough to stop it. It’s always like this with Atsumu; he stands too close, and the warmth that emanates from him soothes him to the point of distraction, to the point that he doesn’t notice the temperatures rising until he’s being burned up by it. He hadn’t noticed fondness creeping into his thoughts and expressions when he would turn to Atsumu, but looking back he can see all the moments lining up like dominos.
He can see how Atsumu’s attention and care for his teammates had drawn Sakusa to him in the first place, how despite their bickering he found himself calmer around Atsumu than he did most others, because he knew that he was understood—even if it was purely analytical. He could see how Atsumu always pushed him, how their service ace competition pushed them both to be better, how slowly they had—despite what he said—become friends.
Logically, he can see how spending as much time with Atsumu as he has would cause him to catch feelings. They work together, play together, spend nights out with the team together, and then nights in bed together. If he found himself drawn to Atsumu at public events, it was easy enough to pretend it was solely because Atsumu would soak up the attention, leaving minimal for Sakusa to deal with.
He was having a harder time explaining away how on occasion he’d let Atsumu cook for them, settle down with food to watch a game after Atsumu had shown up at his door hours earlier. It was hard to explain why he hadn’t thought to question why Atsumu’s casual touches bothered him so much less than anyone else’s until now.
He sees every lingering glance, every soft touch, every sultry word, every act of kindness shared between them lined up like dominoes, can imagine Atsumu at one end flicking the first one over as the line of them leads straight to Sakusa. He hadn’t seen when the first had been knocked down, but he’s being crushed by their combined weight falling on top of him now.
He hates himself for telling Atsumu they were casual—thinks that maybe if he had asked for more Atsumu would have turned him down then and there and they wouldn’t be stuck here. He would have nipped that rose in it’s metaphorical and literal bud.
Sakusa’s a rational man, he sees the limit, the ledge of the precipice he stands on, and can appreciate his options clearly. They’re simple, really; he can either fall, or take a few steps back. He can suffer, eventually choke on the garden that’s taken root in his lungs, or he can cut it out. He’s never been a sentimental man, truly, and he can’t imagine he’d mourn the loss of this sentimentality all that much were he to get surgery. He also doesn’t see the point in futility, knows that Atsumu isn’t built to love him back, surely wouldn’t be interested in it now, not when he has his one love volleyball right there.
And yet.
And yet Sakusa can’t seem to take those steps back, because sometimes he imagines it isn’t so futile. Not when he thinks of all the ways Atsumu has bent over backwards to accommodate his peculiarities. Not when he swears he’s caught the soft edge of a smile, something more in his eyes when they’ve talked. Not when he thinks of how softly Atsumu has run his hands through Sakusa’s hair after hooking up in another hotel after yet another away game. And it isn’t that Atsumu stays the night, he never does, but Sakusa thinks that maybe sometimes he considers it.
So Sakusa can’t quite turn and walk away. Instead he stands on the cliff face and deludes himself into thinking he can make it to the other side.
He has a good poker face, he knows, knows it’s only made better by the mask he wears. He also knows that Atsumu has gotten particularly good at reading him. That knowledge sends a warm ache to his chest, only intensifying the pains it takes to breath. He wears a mask to avoid germs, to avoid giving away too much with his face, to avoid coughing petals onto the ground when he’s standing too close to Atsumu.
It doesn’t even matter, in the end, because somehow in the middle of permanently burrowing his way under Sakusa’s skin, Atsumu took the time to get to know him, and it’s an infuriating fact. He stares too long, and Atsumu’s face twists—minutely, a slight shift to his lips, a twitch in his eye because Sakusa has been paying attention too— but he doesn’t say anything about it. He catches Sakusa’s eye once, in the middle of practice when he’s without his mask as a line of defence, sends an exaggerated wink his way and it feels off . Not conspiratorial, not teasing, but knowing in a way that makes Sakusa shiver, makes the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.
It makes him feel like Atsumu’s a predator, and Sakusa’s his next meal.
He’s not sure he minds.
Atsumu doesn’t cut him any slack, doesn’t give him a break despite being so clearly off his game. Not that anyone else notices, just Atsumu. He doesn’t cut back on the sets he sends for Sakusa, doesn’t cut back on the criticisms and cajoling when he messes up, doesn’t treat him any different than usual.
It does funny things to him, the way Atsumu cares enough to pretend not to. Sakusa doesn’t need babying; he needs a distraction from the burn in his lungs, needs an outlet for the feelings he doesn't know how to articulate, and Barnes gives him a slow, impressed whistle at the sheer power behind Sakusa’s next spike. It barely registers compared to Atsumu’s warm hand slapping him on the back, whispering nice kill in his ear, giving him that special smile so full of pride and love —for volleyball.
Sakusa’s usually the first one in and the first one out for practice, sometimes he waits for Atsumu, but usually he’s gone before the locker room’s filled up. Usually, Atsumu is one of the last ones out, dawdling and chatting with their teammates instead of getting dressed. Sometimes, like today, he’s in and out fast enough to leave just a few steps behind Sakusa.
He doesn’t say anything until they’re in the parking lot, humming a tune to himself as he trails behind, until suddenly he’s falling into step next to him, tilting his head slightly to look up and send a lazy grin to him. “You were pretty off yer game today Omi-kun, wanna lemme in on what’s got you so preoccupied?”
Sakusa narrows his eyes, doesn’t bother tilting his head to stare down his nose at Atsumu. “Not particularly, I’d prefer if you minded your business.”
Atsumu snorts, taking another step closer to Sakusa so their arms are brushing. The light touch makes Sakusa worry his sleeve has caught flame with the warmth that spreads from the point of impact. “Fuck off, Omi. Somethin’s bothering you, and as you’re setter it’s my business to know.”
Sakusa scoffs, readjusting the strap of his duffle on his shoulder. “I’ve just been distracted lately.”
Atsumu hums, a smug set to his smile. “Well that’s fair, Omi-kun, I know I’m pretty distractin’.”
He rolls his eyes. “I said nothing about you. You’re infuriating.”
“Infuriatingly hot going by how you kept staring all day.”
“The most obnoxious man I’ve met.”
“And yet, ya still let me—” He cuts himself off when Sakusa stops dead in his tracks and glares, his own eyes heavy-lidded in satisfaction. He turns away, continues walking ahead of Sakusa, whistling as he goes, and Sakusa wants to be mad, wants to snap at him for his lack of discretion to bring this up in the middle of the parking lot the rest of the team uses but—
But the idea of people knowing he’s with Miya Atsumu makes his heart stutter. It’s not that they are together, but the thought of people thinking they are. And in that moment of watching Atsumu go, whistling to himself in all his smug glee, Sakusa caves and imagines a world where they were together, that people knew , that God forbid Atsumu loved him too and wanted people to know —
It makes his chest ache.
It makes his lungs burn.
It steals the breath from his lungs enough for him to choke on the manifestation of his despair, and he starts coughing in the middle of the parking lot.
At first Atsumu doesn’t seem to react. He stops walking, turns his head slightly, calls out to him with the hint of a laugh still in his voice. It’s gone the moment Sakusa doubles over in his fit, his bag dropping to the asphalt as he runs back over calling Omi with increasing urgency as his arms encircle Sakusa to support him.
If anything, it makes it all that much worse. The way Atsumu says his name, panicked, concerned, like he cares about him. The way Sakusa’s body tingles where Atsumu touches him, but not in the discomfort he’s used to from everyone else. The way he feels at home in Atsumu’s arms. It all makes it so much worse as he coughs wetly into the papery material of his mask, how he feels the petals collecting there, threatening to fall back into his mouth and choke him all over again if he isn’t careful.
Atsumu leads him to the curb, sits him down with his head between his knees as he rubs soothing circles into his back, runs a comforting hand through his hair until he’s able to breathe again. He stays like that for a moment longer as he catches his breath, elbows resting on his knees as he raises his head just enough to cradle it in his hands. He feels it when Atsumu’s warmth leaves his side, but with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut he doesn’t realize he’s kneeling in front of him until a warm hand rests on his knee.
“Is that blood on yer mask?”
Sakusa’s eyes shoot open, staring at the man kneeling in front of him. The blood must have seeped through the fabric while he was coughing, collecting along with the petals. The concern is clear in his eyes, in the furrow of his brows, the lines of his forehead, and Sakusa thinks he could cry, because he can’t have it end like this . Atsumu’s hand is reaching for his face, and Sakusa reels back like the touch would burn him, and he’s not entirely sure it wouldn’t—Atsumu’s a sun he got too close to, and now he’s crashing back to the ground to face the consequences.
“Please give me a moment,” He settles with, voice muffled by more than the mask, the petals collected in the fabric making his predicament—his panic —worse. “Please just—”
He doesn’t get to finish, wasn’t really sure what he would have said anyway. Atsumu’s hand reaches out, gently but efficiently pulling the mask from Sakusa’s face. They both watch in horror as the golden rose petals stained red slip from his mask, float to the ground between them. Sakusa feels like he can’t breathe all over again as he watches the concern in Atsumu’s face morph into horror, to confusion, to understanding as he stares at the petals. Sakusa sees the exact moment Atsumu realizes what’s going on, head still bowed between them, but his shoulders tense, the hand on Sakusa’s knee slipping away silently. Sakusa thinks he will cry, is afraid he’ll start sobbing the moment Atsumu pulls away because he knows this is it .
“ Please, Atsumu, I—”
Atsumu pulls back, and Sakusa makes an aborted attempt to reach for him, freezes when he flinches. He isn’t looking at him, just stands, head turned away, Sakusa’s mask still held tightly in his hand. He bites his lip, Sakusa thinks hard enough to hurt, but the rest of his expression is tightly controlled, unreadable. He doesn’t make a sound, just stands there, and then he takes one step back, and then two, and Sakusa hates himself for the burn in his chest, in his face, in his eyes as he watches Atsumu turn to leave. His breath stutters before he whispers, “Sorry I pressed, Omi-kun,” so quietly he almost misses it.
He doesn’t miss how Atsumu walks briskly over to his abandoned bag, how he doesn’t look back once at Sakusa, how he leaves without another word.
Sakusa feels the thorns in his throat and lungs pierce him just that much deeper.
Once, a few months into their arrangement, Atsumu had asked him if he’d been seeing anyone else. He hadn’t thought it was an unwarranted question considering how they’d find themselves in bed together at least once a week by that point, had really only thought it strange Atsumu hadn’t brought it up sooner. He knew Atsumu was, because he would always tell him, and would always promise he’d been careful, that he’d still been getting tested regularly anyway. It isn’t that it bothered him to know, he just didn’t know what to make of it. He had asked, upon agreeing to this, to seeing each other occasionally, and Atsumu had said he’d planned to, that Sakusa was free to, too. But he hadn’t asked for the intimate details of Atsumu’s sex life, hadn’t once implied he’d wanted them. It wasn’t as if Atsumu was asking his permission to see other people anyway, he was just telling him he already had. It was a strange occurrence that meant nothing at first, but over time had made something twist in his gut, something green and envious he hadn’t even realized until the green in his lungs had flowered.
Atsumu asked once if Sakusa was seeing anyone else, and he’d said no. He hadn’t, truly, hadn’t even really considered it. He wasn’t one to look often for companionship, and Atsumu kept him busy enough as it was. Content enough, satisfied enough, as it was. But Sakusa had said no and Atsumu had gotten that weird look in his eye that he did when he was trying to unpack a new tick of Sakusa’s he’d noticed.
If, when looking back on the exchange, Sakusa thought Atsumu held satisfaction in the sharp cut of his gaze, he could chalk it up to wishful thinking. If he reimagined the scene in his own head and thought that Atsumu seemed happy in his response, it probably had more to do with smug glee that he was enough for Sakusa.
Because in the moment, Atsumu’s gaze was carefully guarded, sharp and calculating as he tilted his head at the response. In the moment, because it was only a fleeting moment, Atsumu had shrugged, pulling his shirt on back over his head before reaching for the buckle of his belt. In the moment, Atsumu said, “Well ya could. Maybe ya should,” and at the time Sakusa couldn’t explain why the flippant response had simultaneously set him on fire and thrown him into icy waters.
If, when looking back on the exchange, Sakusa dared to think clearly, he could admit now that he had already fallen for Miya Atsumu, and there was nothing he could have done to stop it.
He doesn’t know why that exchange replays in his mind now, while he lies in bed trying to sleep. At the time he hadn’t bothered responding, just finished dressing. He lies awake in bed, lungs aching, and thinks about that Atsumu from months ago, and the Atsumu from today. He thinks about the frustrated quirk to his lips, the disappointment in his eyes that day when Sakusa hadn’t responded to his statement, had chalked it up to not getting the reaction he’d wanted.
Miya Atsumu is an enigma, and Sakusa had realized early on he wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever be able to tell the difference between when Atsumu was making a jab at him, or when he was putting his foot in his mouth again as he so often did. He lies awake and tries to make sense of the looks he’d given him that day, the satisfaction at hearing Sakusa admit he wasn’t seeing anyone else fading so quickly into disappointment. He tries to compare those looks with the ones from today, tries to match the furrow of his brow to something he can name, the downturn of his lips, the look in his eyes, tries to compare it to his mental records of Looks Miya Atsumu Has Given Him in an attempt to place it.
Sakusa is fairly certain in his ability to read Atsumu, thinks that maybe if he can’t read him it’s because Atsumu can’t even tell what he’s feeling. Not that it matters, not that it changes things.
Life moves on. Practice is tense, strained in ways only he and Atsumu understand but the rest of the team picks up on. They acclimate anyway, pretend that this is the new normal, and they make it work. Atsumu doesn’t baby him with his sets, but he’s less rude about Sakusa messing up, barely even acknowledging it. Perhaps he expects this to be part of the new normal too.
Life moves on and Atsumu and Sakusa don’t talk about what happened. Atsumu pretends like nothing’s changed, but the warmth and levity are gone when he’s alone with Sakusa. They don’t talk about what happened back in the parking lot, what they used to do behind closed doors. There’s an unspoken understanding that they won’t have that back, that that door was shut the moment strings were attached, and Atsumu wouldn’t come knocking and neither should Sakusa. They always aimed for discretion, never told their teammates about their arrangement, but it’s never been clearer that something happened between them. Or, more accurately, that something isn’t happening between them. He hadn’t realized what a staple Atsumu truly was in his routine until he was left to figure out what to do without him. The practice after he broke down in the parking lot, he requests Meian’s help with his assisted stretches. It shocks him, shocks Atsumu who had already been making his way over, shocks everyone that sees Meian pushing Sakusa into his stretches. Sakusa thinks asking Meian’s help may have been worse than putting up with Atsumu’s; Meian’s hands are too forceful, too unfamiliar, and they leave bursts of uncomfortable heat and waves of apprehension in their wake. When they’re finishing practice, completing their cooldown stretches, Sakusa doesn’t make eye contact when he requests Atsumu partner back up with him.
Life moves on. They practice, they play, they win, they lose. They do promotional tours, they pose for ads and magazines, they conduct interviews, all as if everything was perfectly fine and normal. Atsumu and Sakusa are cordial at best, uncomfortably tense at worst, but that becomes normal for the weeks after.
Life moves on and Sakusa starts looking further into surgery. He isn’t a sentimental man, and he won’t let his career and aspirations burn out just because he fell in love with a man he had known from the beginning would never love him back. So he looks into it, looks into what it would take to schedule it, and he doesn’t tell anyone else about it. He can only assume Atsumu doesn’t either, and no one brings it up to him, not even Atsumu, so he thinks it’s a safe bet to assume so.
He weighs the pros and cons, takes care in how he approaches his dilemma. He’s a realistic man, he thinks that being able to avoid situations like this in the future would be the ideal, really, because the way his heart aches when he catches Atsumu looking at him only for him to turn away has begun to sting in a way he didn’t think it would. Because he hadn’t realized how much of Atsumu’s attention had been focused on him until it was gone, until he was left bereft of the warmth of his stare. So he deliberates, and he researches. He reads forums of people in recovery, stories of those who passed on because they couldn’t let go, vignettes from people who forgot their love entirely.
The last one causes him the most trouble. If he could guarantee the flower’s removal along with his feelings and nothing else, he’s sure that things could be fine, that maybe things would be normal again, and no one on the team would ever have to know. But he’s on a team with Atsumu, a team he likes , despite what they may think of him. The possibility of losing all the memories of Atsumu he holds so dearly makes him pause, because he can’t very well remain on a team working at the level they do if he doesn’t remember a thing about their setter. Everyone would know, when he showed up to practice with no idea of who Miya Atsumu was, and that would cause more problems for him.
He wonders if he’ll be able to outlast his contract like this.
He doesn’t try to schedule anything, just turns the thoughts over in his mind as the weeks pass him by.
It’s late when there’s a knock at his door, and Sakusa feels the dread pool in his stomach as he makes his way to it. There can’t be many people who would come by this late, especially not without calling first. So when he opens the door a sliver and finds Miya Atsumu standing in his doorframe, he can’t say he’s entirely surprised. For a moment he’s shocked anyway, can’t imagine what Atsumu could possibly think he’s accomplishing by coming here, but then he takes a better look at him.
He’s a wreck. His hair’s a mess, sticking out every which way like it did when Sakusa would run his hands through it, mesh crop top slipping off one shoulder with how he’s leaning on the wall next to his door. His gaze is lidded, face flushed, but he grins up at Sakusa when he realizes the door’s open. The smell hits him next, a mix of alcohol, sweat, smoke, and what he thinks might be a lady’s perfume, and it’s all Sakusa needs to know, really, that Atsumu was probably just at a club, may or may not have been fucking around with someone else before showing up at Sakusa’s door anyway.
“Hi, Omi.”
“Miya.”
Atsumu pouts at the use of his family name, something hurt flickering in his eyes that makes Sakusa want to scoff. “Yer not s’posed ta call me Miya anymore.”
Sakusa squashes the endearment that rises at Atsumu’s petulant tone, clears his throat as he feels the tickle of flowers. “What are you doing here, Miya? I think you have the wrong address.”
Atsumu hums, leaning further into the entryway. “Nope, yer jus’ the guy I was lookin’ for Omi-Omi. I missed ya.”
Sakusa takes a half step back, pulling the door slightly further closed between them. “Why’re you here, Miya?”
“To see ya, of course.” He says it with an easy grin, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it isn’t the cruelest thing he’s ever done to Sakusa.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Atsumu is silent for a moment, staring openly up at Sakusa as his grin melts into confusion. Sakusa thinks it’s unfair how Atsumu seems to think he has every right to ask this of him, after everything, thinks about how maybe this is the first and only time he has said no to him. He’s afraid his resolve won’t last long enough for him to leave when he catches the tears welling up in Atsumu’s eyes before he quickly turns away.
Sakusa sighs. “I’ll call you a car.”
“No, wait—” Atsumu trips as he jolts upright, stumbles into Sakusa as he begins closing the door. He wobbles as he tries to right himself, pulling himself off of Sakusa as quickly as he can in his state. “Please, Omi-kun, I missed ya… We don’t have ta do an’thin’ I jus’ wanna see you. You won’t even look at me anymore, Omi-kun.”
He struggles not to look away now, but the way Atsumu is looking at him, pleadingly, eyes rimmed red and cheeks stained just as bad. He looks honest, open in a way Sakusa can’t remember seeing on him before, this Atsumu so incongruous with the many others he has stored in his head. It makes it hard for him to breathe, makes his throat constrict around the thorny stems growing in them.
“I won’t touch ya,” he continues, pleading, “I promise, jus’ please don’ send me away.”
Sakusa doesn’t say anything, just stares for a long moment. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, he was doomed from the start. He’s always been weak for Atsumu in the end, he knew he wouldn’t send Atsumu home like this the moment he asked to stay, just didn’t expect for him to nearly cry pleading his case on his doorstep. He doesn’t know what that means, isn’t even sure what he wants it to mean, whether he wants to know at all. He doesn’t say anything, just steps back from the door and makes an aborted gesture for Atsumu to come in.
He doesn’t at first, just stays swaying gently in the doorway as he stares at Sakusa like he’s just told Atsumu he’s been chosen for the Olympic team, like he told him Sakusa single handedly hung all the stars in the sky. Stares at him like he’s anything other than an ex-fuckbuddy who’s painfully agreed to let him sleep on his couch.
When he does stumble in, he keeps his arms out for balance, and Sakusa watches as he starts and stops himself from reaching for Sakusa, for balance or for comfort he isn’t quite sure. His resolve isn’t strong enough anyway, and he smoothly presses himself to Atsumu’s side, keeping him upright as he struggles to take his shoes off. When Atsumu almost tumbles over anyway as he pulls and twists his leg up off the ground wrestling with his shoe, Sakusa sighs and kneels down to help him take it off properly. He tries not to react as Atsumu’s unsteady hand lands in his hair, grounding him and keeping him from falling over. It doesn’t leave his hair as he begins to stand, remains there even as he reaches his full height, Atsumu’s arm reaching over both their heads to twist the strands between his fingers.
Sakusa’s voice is rough with the need to cough when he asks, “What happened to no touching?” and Atsumu drops his hand quickly, a guilty look on his face covering the awe he was staring at Sakusa with. From here the smell is worse, so close he could probably guess the various drinks Atsumu has had tonight, but the worst is the perfume, how it turns something in Sakusa’s gut, a jealousy he knows he doesn’t have the right to.
He guides Atsumu to the shower, prays for his own sake that if he turns it on for him that Atsumu will be able to stay standing without Sakusa’s help. He promises he can, asks with pleading eyes if he can borrow Sakusa’s products, and then again asks for Sakusa’s help when the mesh of his shirt catches on a necklace and again on his ear. He just sighs, rolls the hem up for him, carefully pulls it up over Atsumu’s head and drags it off his arms. He isn’t quite capable of stopping himself from smoothing out his hair where it sticks out, jaw clenching when Atsumu leans into it tiredly.
He leaves quickly after that, goes about setting up his couch. Tries not to think about how he knows he’d cave if Atsumu asked to share his bed and promised to keep his hands to himself as he places a glass of water and bottle of ibuprofen on the side table. He goes to check on Atsumu to make sure he hasn’t passed out in his bathroom only to find him washing his hair, singing something offkey under his breath. It makes Sakusa feel fond , something he isn’t allowed to feel anymore, and he places a hoodie and pair of sweats he’d grabbed from his closet on the counter before he rushes out to have a coughing fit in his bedroom in peace.
When the telltale sounds of the shower stop, he holds his breath as he lies in his bed. He waits, but he doesn’t hear anything else. Not his bedroom door opening, not Atsumu’s voice calling out to him, but not the front door either. He considers checking in on him, but glances at the trash bin sitting next to his bed filled with blood stained rose petals and thinks better of it.
He wakes up early. He goes about his routine, silently, confined solely to what he can accomplish in his room and on-suite, and then he waits. He doesn’t know for how long, but eventually he hears the sounds of movement from his living room, the bathroom door closing, and reopening a short while later. He waits a bit longer, waits to hear the telltale sounds of Atsumu leaving, but they don’t come.
Eventually he moves, creeps quietly out of his room and into the kitchen where Atsumu stands staring at the coffee maker as it quietly gurgles away. He’s wearing Sakusa’s clothes, the sweats a little long on him, the hoodie even bigger. He hadn’t paid attention to what he’d grabbed last night, but it’s his old Itachyama hoodie. He wants to laugh, the yellows and greens clashing horribly with Atsumu’s hair, but the breath is stolen from his lungs because something about this scene feels right in a way it shouldn’t, and it sends a deep ache to his very core.
“Staring at it will only make it go slower.”
Atsumu doesn’t jolt at his words, just turns slightly, head lolling over his shoulder to grin weakly, tiredly at Sakusa. “Oh hey, Omi-kun. Come here often?”
Sakusa squints at him, at the red still lining his eyes, at the exhaustion still so obviously weighing him down. He raises an eyebrow. “Do I come to my own apartment often?”
Atsumu scoffs, turning back to stare at the coffee maker. “You’re so mean Omi, you never appreciate my jokes.”
“I’d appreciate them if they were actually funny.”
They’re silent for a moment, Sakusa leaning against the entryway to his kitchen, Atsumu staring blankly as coffee fills the carafe.
“I’m sorry,” He’s so quiet Sakusa almost doesn’t even register he’s speaking, and it takes him another moment to register the words. “I shouldn’t have done that to you. I meant what I said but I… I shouldn’t have shown up here.”
Sakusa knows he isn’t looking, turns away anyway as he fights the burn in his eyes. He thinks of how Atsumu looked at his doorstep, illuminated by the light from his apartment cascading over his debauched form. He thinks of the perfume he smelt of. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
From the corner of his eye he sees Atsumu deflate as he sighs, like any energy he may have had from sleeping the night off has already drained from him after exchanging just a few sentences with Sakusa. “I miss ya, Omi.” Sakusa definitely doesn’t flinch when Atsumu’s voice breaks in the middle of his name. “Really I… not just our arrangement or whatever, I miss you .”
Sakusa doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at him. He stands there, lets the weight of Atsumu’s words hang in the kitchen, the beep of the coffee maker too shrill and too loud in the silence between them. He hears shifting, hears a wet sigh, the sound of a cupboard being opened before immediately being gently closed again.
“I should leave.”
Sakusa doesn’t say a word, and Atsumu doesn’t move.
“I—” Sakusa winces at the rough catch of his voice, both from disuse and the way he’s been holding back both tears and coughs alike. He clears his throat, discreetly spits a petal out. “I don’t ask, but you usually tell me anyway.” He steels himselfs, sniffs lightly as he turns to face Atsumu, swallows harshly at the intense look on his face. “Did you hook up with anyone last night?”
He watches the gears turn in Atsumu’s mind as his face scrunches softly, twitching tightly as he stares at Sakusa. It almost makes him want to look away, the way his gaze is sharp, focused, like it is when he’s picking the opponent’s sets apart to prove he’s better. It’s intense, but it’s light too, open, his face softer than it usually is. Sakusa thinks for a moment, wonders if Atsumu is always this open and soft in the morning—he’s never really had the chance to find out.
Atsumu swallows, gaze lowering to somewhere down and to the left of Sakusa. “No, I… I was g’nna, haven’t in ages ‘n’ I thought it would make things feel better but…”
He let’s the sentence hang, glancing up through his lashes at Sakusa, eyes pleading for Sakusa to understand what he isn’t saying. “But you came here instead.”
“I missed you, Kiyoomi.”
It’s a whisper, reverent like prayer, and louder than life in the empty cold of the kitchen. The words reverberate off the pristine tiles, ricochet in Sakusa’s head. He says it like it matters , like if they’re the last words Atsumu ever said he’d die happy. He says Sakusa’s name and he shivers at how perfect it sounds in his mouth, how the twang of his accent makes it sound new and special . He says it like it’s the only word he ever wants to say again.
He doesn’t want to admit how shaky the breath that leaves him is, and he doesn’t want to admit that he has to quickly swipe at his eyes to ensure no stray tears leak out. “You’re a little late on that, Miya.”
From the corner of his eye he sees how Atsumu’s head drops, the shaky rise and fall of his chest when he says, “I know.”
It’s unnerving how quiet Atsumu can be. Sakusa has always known he couldn’t always be as loud and boisterous as he seemed, had always felt like he was one of the few people Atsumu felt comfortable being quiet around. It’s still unnerving sometimes, when the silence is so heavy, when Atsumu isn’t quiet because he has nothing to say but because he can’t say anything. He’s put his foot in his mouth one too many times, the embarrassment always haunts him, and sometimes he chooses to say nothing instead of the wrong thing.
Sakusa wishes he’d say anything right now.
They stand, silently, teresly, for too long. Atsumu doesn’t move to leave, just stares at the ground, and Sakusa doesn’t want him to leave yet, despite saying otherwise. Instead he moves slowly, walks over to the cupboard and grabs a mug. He stands there holding it for a moment, before grabbing a second one and gently closing the door. He pads softly to the coffee machine, behind Atsumu, notices how his eyes track his movements even without lifting his head. He gently settles the second mug on the counter next to the machine, makes his own coffee, and silently moves to sit at the small dining table.
Atsumu’s eyes stay trained on him, watching Sakusa as he sips his coffee quietly, before he glances at the mug sitting on the counter and bites his lip. He seems to take it as the invitation it is, pouring coffee into the mug along with enough sugar to make Sakusa grimace. He sits across from him at the table, staring into the drink in front of him when he murmurs, “Thanks for the clothes… yer sweater is much more comfortable than the mesh.”
Sakusa snorts, mouth unwillingly twitching into a small smile. “It looks terrible on you.” It’s only a partial lie coming from him, objectively it’s the truth.
Atsumu huffs, pouting into his mug. “Yer never gettin’ it back.”
Sakusa tries not to think about how his face flushes at the thought, sips his coffee instead of having to reply. He tries not to think about how his hand shakes, steadies it by clutching his mug with both hands. He tries not to think about the bags under Atsumu’s eyes, about how his hair looks so much softer without the excess of product in it, still sleep-mused. He tries not to think about how this is the only time he’s ever stayed the night.
“Omi-kun,” he says gently, and Sakusa is helpless to do anything other than meet his eyes, “I’m sorry for leaving you like that.” Sakusa sucks a sharp breath in through his nose, feels his chest tighten, jaw clench even as a million things to say flit through his mind. But you did , he wants to say, you did and I haven’t been able to let go. Why couldn’t I let go? But Atsumu carries on, pushing through the tension in the air between them. “Y’know it’s stupid I… at the time, all I could think was ‘Wow, Omi really loves someone, and that someone’s a fool for not lovin’ him back!’' He laughs, breathy and with a manic edge as Sakusa wordlessly stares at him. “Isn’t that stupid? Guess Samu was right when he said he got all the brain cells in the womb. He was pissed at me too, nearly decked me on the spot when I told him what happened.”
He swallows around nothing, purses his lips as he looks off somewhere to the side. He lifts his mug to lips to drink, and Sakusa is courteous enough not to point out how he shakes. “I really fucked that one up, huh? Even after Samu said that I was bein’ stupid I didn’t really get it. ‘Cause, y’know, me? That’s a stretch. Not that I’m not a catch ‘n’ all but I’m also the bane of yer existence.” He laughs to himself, swirls the liquid in his mug. Sakusa feels the urge to snap at him for it, to warn him not to make a mess of his kitchen, but he finds himself frozen in place, witnessing everything from afar. “And then I did get it, and I felt bad , because I left ya there, high ‘n’ dry, and even if I couldn’t help you I shoulda stayed, right?”
“I don’t know.” Sakusa doesn’t really mean to say it, doesn’t mean to break whatever spell Atsumu’s under, but he just looks up at him with tired eyes and hums. Sakusa bites his lips, presses on anyway. “I don’t… I wish you would have, but I don’t know if that would have been better.”
Atsumu nods, fingers tapping at the rim of the mug. “I dunno… but then you started ignoring me, like ya did way back when we first teamed up, like I was just another person you had to deal with and not someone you…” He trails off, hands making shaky gestures to the space between them like that makes it make sense, and Sakusa just blinks slowly at him. Atsumu grits his teeth, glares at the table. “I didn’t know why it hurt so bad, because I felt bad but we’d agreed there’d be no strings and you—” his breath hitches, his eyebrows pinching as he blinks like he’s holding back tears, “—you broke that first, so why was I hurting so bad, y’know?”
“You’re talking a lot.” Sakusa interjects, tries to keep his tone even as he can do nothing but watch the great Miya Atsumu crumble before him.
He laughs again, a startled thing that chokes itself off before it’s natural conclusion. “Samu said I need ta be more honest and thorough because otherwise I’ll fuck this up all over again and he’ll beat the snot outta me for real this time.”
“So you decided to get fucked up at a club, and when it wasn’t making things feel better you showed up at my door thinking… what, exactly?” He doesn’t mean to sound callous, but he’s hurt too, has been hurting for a while now, and he can’t help but let it bleed into his voice.
Atsumu flinches, eyes downcast. “Well when ya put it like that, it makes me sound like a real asshole, huh?” There’s a pause, one where Sakusa would normally tell him that yes, yes he is an asshole, but instead the silence hangs for a few beats too long. “I dunno what I was doing, I guess I thought… if I could get you outta my system maybe it’d be easier, right? But it didn’t and I couldn’t and god, Omi-kun, I’m really hoping that girl at the club didn’t recognize me ‘cause I dunno if I could handle another article about what a dick I am to fans right now.” When Sakusa opens his mouth, his concern for the poor woman must be clear on his face with how quick Atsumu is to wave his hand. “I didn’t do anything too bad, just… I mean I paid for her drinks and left, got a cab, but she seemed pretty peeved that I’d left her, is all.”
“Did you think I was going to fuck you?”
Atsumu doesn’t react as strongly this time, but his face still twists in discomfort as he plays with the sleeves of the hoodie curled over his fist. “Nah, I mean… even if I hadn’t hurt you, I knew I was too out of it for you to ever say yes. I really did just wanna see you.”
It’s obvious Atsumu has a laundry list of things he wants to say, wants to ask, but he’s picking and choosing what parts to say. They’re not the best parts, Sakusa is certain, but if there was anything he could be certain of, it was how Atsumu shied away from vulnerability, playing up how awful he could be to avoid admitting it. Sakusa sighs deeply, tries to think of a way to pry whatever Atsumu has to say out of him, settles instead for asking more of his own burning questions.
“Do you remember when you asked if I was seeing anyone else?” Atsumu blinks, cocks his head to the side as he nods. “Why did you tell me I should see other people?”
“I was hopin’ you’d say you didn’t want to.”
“You—that’s—” Sakusa starts, stops, breathes deeply once, blows it out in exasperation, “You’re so fucking stupid .”
Atsumu cringes, doesn’t look at Sakusa, just keeps picking at the seams of the hoodie’s sleeves. “I know, but you know me Omi-kun, I always fuck shit up somehow.” He clears his throat, glances up at Sakusa, licks his lips unconsciously. “I didn’t even really know why I wanted you to say that at the time, probably just for the ego boost but…”
He trails off, face softening as he swallows harshly. He glances away for a moment, and then back to Sakusa, something settling in his eyes as he meets Sakusa’s. “Is it stupid that Samu had to be the one to tell me I was in love with you?”
Sakusa blinks. “I had to cough up flowers to realize, so I think we’re about even.”
It’s a stupid response, a kneejerk reaction to something he’s not sure how to comprehend let alone react to, and he and Atsumu just stare for a moment. Atsumu cracks first, his panicked stare melting into incredulity as he desperately tries to hold back his laughter. Watching his chest convulse as Atsumu tries to reign it in brings a smile to Sakusa’s face, before he starts laughing, a quiet, choked thing, and Atsumu’s bright laughter rings throughout the kitchen after him. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed this, Atsumu’s warm laughter surrounding him, the way it makes him feel like he can breathe again.
When they calm down, minutes after their outburst, Sakusa has his forehead propped up in his hand. He doesn’t realize there are tears in his eyes until one drops onto the table below him, and it sets him off in another choked fit of laughter. He doesn’t know what it is, figures he’s been pent up for weeks now and to start crying now of all times feels like the icing on top of the embarrassing cake. His choked laughter cuts off in aborted snorts as he wipes his eyes.
“Glad ya finally found me funny, Omi-kun.”
He looks up, finds Atsumu already calmed down, gazing at him with an open mouthed smile, face soft, and open— awestruck. “Sorry,” he manages to get out.
“Huh? What for?”
Sakusa clears his throat, schools his features back into some semblance of neutrally controlled. “I didn’t mean to laugh, you’re not funny.”
Atsumu just sighs, leaning back in his chair as he runs a hand through his hair. Sakusa bites back the urge to replace the hand with his own. “Well fine, ya prickly bastard. I’ll just have to try harder then. Laughter looks good on you.”
Sakusa sighs, breath coming out heavy enough to shift his bangs. “What’re you doing, Miya?”
Atsumu stares at him from across the table, bites his lip before, “I’ll only tell if ya stop calling me Miya.” He’s stalling, it’s obvious, but Sakusa has gone long enough without answers that his answering Atsumu, is an easy enough correction, made worthwhile by how Atsumu’s breath stutters in response. “I dunno, Omi-kun.” His voice is soft when he says it, and it’s clear he’s fighting the urge to look away again. “I dunno what I’m doing or what you’re doing or what we’re doing but... “
Sakusa watches as he furrows his brows, purses his lips like he does when he’s trying to word things properly. This is an Atsumu he’s used to, one who knows himself well enough to know he says the wrong thing, one who occasionally puts in the effort not to, usually because of the embarrassment he knows he’ll face. He’s a loudmouth, cocky, and what he says he usually means anyway, regardless of whether he’s said it in a way that others will understand. So Sakusa waits, sips his coffee and watches him struggle with his words, watches his face flush and his eyes dart around the room as he thinks.
It’s always fun for Sakusa to watch Atsumu squirm, always make him feel warm and fond.
Eventually, he gives up, groaning loudly in the kitchen as he ruffles his own hair. He turns back to Sakusa, a determined look in his eye. “Can I kiss you? For real this time?”
He raises an eyebrow. “We’ve kissed plenty before, what makes those fake?”
“Yeah but… it’s different.”
“How?”
Atsumu pouts, crossing his arms in his chair as he whines. “Y’know, for all you call me impossible yer a real piece of work Omi. It’s different.”
Sakusa shakes his head, brings the mug up to cover his mouth as he fights a smile, knows it’s fruitless, that Atsumu’s bound to recognize his enjoyment anyway. “I don’t see how.”
Atsumu huffs, but in a flash he’s next to Sakusa, gently pushing the coffee away with one hand as the other directs his chin up for Atsumu to capture his lips.
It’s different and it isn’t. Atsumu’s lips fit against his just as well as he remembers, the push and pull familiar. He knows that Atsumu religiously uses chapstick, his lips soft and demanding against his. What’s different is the tender way he cups his jaw, the way his thumb rubs barely-there circles into his cheek. What’s different is it’s far slower than any of the other times they’ve kissed, more exploratory, cautious in a way none of the others have been before. What’s different is that this time when Atsumu kisses him, he feels his heart stutter and his face heat up, feels lightheaded as he lifts his arm to thread his fingers through Atsumu’s hair like he’s been waiting to since last night.
He feels Atsumu’s mouth twist into a grin just before he pulls away, eyelids heavy as he leans over Sakusa. “I love ya too, Omi.”
Sakusa’s breath stalls, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at Atsumu. His fingers clench in his hair, Atsumu’s warm breath fanning over his chin, and Sakusa swallows hard. His lips part, the words stuck in his throat and all that comes out is a pained whimper. He wants to say it too, knows that he does, that Atsumu knows he does from the flowers in his lungs, but he can’t, the words never flowing as freely from him as he knows they have from Atsumu, regardless of depth of meaning. Atsumu just smiles down at him though, doesn’t say anything, doesn’t seem to expect him to, and Sakusa thinks the moment is perfect anyway. So instead he curls his hand around the back of Atsumu’s neck, long fingers rubbing over short strands of his undercut as he pulls him back down to meet his lips again.
Atsumu chuckles but goes willingly, and for the first time in a while, when Sakusa’s breath is stolen it has nothing to do with the garden in his lungs.
The flowers that have taken root don’t suddenly disappear. It’s a process, over the course of a few days, and it hurts, but every time he starts coughing Atsumu is right there beside him. It goes as normal at first—the normal he’d been living in for the past month or so at least—if more frequently. Petals slipping out his esophagus, the bulb of a rose tumbling out of his mouth as he coughs. Eventually, he coughs and there are no more petals, but the ever present roots remain, and with each cough he swears he feels them loosen their hold on him slightly. Atsumu is there, a steadying palm on his back as he traces circles and patterns into the skin of Sakusa’s arm, and the burn of his touch almost covers up the burn of coughing up what remains in his lungs. It hurts, and he feels exhausted afterwards, but Atsumu is there with water, and when Sakusa blinks up tiredly at him, he thinks being privy to Atsumu’s soft smile, radiating love and warmth—towards him— makes it all worthwhile in the end. Atsumu leads him back to his own bed, sits next to him with his hands running soothingly through his hair until he falls asleep. And if Atsumu notices how Sakusa fights his own exhaustion just to appreciate the feeling of rough, calloused fingers running through his hair that he missed so much, he doesn’t say a word about it.