Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shouyou streaks across the court, and Atsumu smirks as the Adlers’ blockers unwittingly follow his movements. As they get tripped up in Shouyou’s trap, Atsumu tosses to Bokuto, the taste of victory already on his tongue. Upon hearing the ball slam into the ground, his grin stretches further, and he turns around just in time to see the smile break out on Shouyou’s face. Even from across the court, the crinkles under his eyes are as clear as day—his smile is even clearer. Atsumu lets out a satisfied sigh as adrenaline rushes through his veins.

From their first to their last play, they certainly did say a proper hello.

Bokuto sprints across the width of the court and envelops Shouyou in a massive hug. Lifting him off his feet, he swings him in a circle, belting out some words about “his disciple”; giggles erupt from Shouyou in tandem, like a chime in the wind. All of the Black Jackals are drawn to the rowdy display, pitching in their own bits of affirmation for Shouyou: Meian gives him a solid pat on the back, Inunaki runs in for a high-touch, and even Sakusa offers him a small smile and a fist bump. Shouyou takes each offer in stride, reciprocating with equal if not greater enthusiasm.

Atsumu’s the last to approach, and Shouyou’s smile somehow stretches even further. Atsumu feels his face flush, but chalks it up to the post-game adrenaline rush.

Shouyou throws his hands into the air. “Atsumu-san!”

Okay, okay, no more denial—his heart aches with fondness, squeezing with such force that he feels lightheaded. Shouyou better be ready to call an ambulance for whenever he inevitably sends him into cardiac arrest—it’s not an if, but a when, Atsumu knows with complete certainty.

“Shouyou-kun!” He lifts his own arms a bit forward—a casual invite. Shouyou is on him in an instant, wrapping his arms and legs around Atsumu like he’s hugging a tree. Atsumu stumbles a step back from the impact; Shouyou is short but, boy, is he dense.

Atsumu considers settling his hands along the bottom of Shouyou’s thighs, right along the seam of his shorts, but winds them around his back instead, squeezing sharply. While Shouyou may have tackle-hugged him on national cable, that can be easily blamed on the high of their win. Nearly groping Shouyou in public can’t be played off as easily, and he’s been chewed out enough times by their coach for various public faux pas that he really doesn’t want another scolding. His and Shouyou’s relationship hasn’t been made public for the same reason.

Shouyou stuffs his head in the crook of Atsumu’s neck. Atsumu shivers at the feeling of lips barely pressed against his skin, a whisper of a kiss. His heart kicks into double time just as Shouyou pulls back—the moment cut entirely too short. His breath puffs over Atsumu’s ear as he says, “After fan-meets, don’t go to the locker rooms. I have somewhere I wanna take you first.”

Okay, the heart’s going in triple time for sure now, alright, alright. Shouyou’s tone wasn’t particularly lascivious, but Atsumu’s mind sprints in that direction because he’s a dirty, dirty creature. So sue him. There’s no way Shouyou didn’t pick up on Atsumu’s increasing heart rate, pressed as flush as they are.

With a final, pointed squeeze of his legs—quadruple time, quadruple time, Atsumu is going to die—Shouyou jumps down and whirls around, running off to take his proper place in line. Atsumu stands there frozen for a moment, praying to whatever God is real to let him remain—all blood vessels intact—on this earth for a little longer.

Once his heart is safely settled, he opens his eyes—when did they even close?—and lines up as well. A blur of orange catches on the edge of his peripheral vision, and Atsumu flicks his gaze towards the source. Shouyou is poking his head just the slightest bit forward, and when his eyes catch Atsumu’s, he has the gall to wink. But before Atsumu can react, Shouyou’s back to standing prim and proper, gazing straight ahead. Atsumu glares at empty space, then whips his head back forward, a defiant tilt to his chin. He ignores the lingering spark that tingles all over his skin.

Winking at him. During a game. Shouyou’s mirth knows no bounds.

As Atsumu shakes the hands of the Adlers, he is definitely not pouting. No way in hell.

From that point on, everything’s a blur. He rehydrates; he signs t-shirts, shiki boards, towels; he keeps Sakusa from murdering the fans that step just a bit too close for comfort. The queue dwindles to empty and Sakusa gives him a single nod before heading off towards the locker rooms. Atsumu sticks his tongue out and winks just as he’s turning, so he catches only a hint of disgust on Sakusa’s expression before he stalks off. Atsumu walks the other way, planting himself in front of the entrance as he waits for Shouyou. He can see him talking to his old Karasuno friends, and he snickers a bit when Shouyou dodges one of Tobio’s punches.

Soon enough, Shouyou breaks apart from the group, throwing a wave over his shoulder as he jogs away. Turning his gaze forward, he spots Atsumu and his smile widens. His pace quickens as well, practically skipping towards Atsumu until he’s at his side. Shouyou rises onto his tiptoes and bumps their shoulders together. A blinding smile with a hint of cheekiness graces his features.

“Off we go!” Shouyou starts walking again, pumping his arms dramatically at his sides.

Atsumu raises a quizzical eyebrow to hide the fondness clutching at his chest. “‘Where’re we even goin’?”

“You’ll know soon enough!” Shouyou continues forward, ignoring Atsumu’s whine of indignation.

They continue wordlessly for a bit until Shouyou starts humming a string of notes—some Top 50 pop song, sounds like. Another fond pang strikes Atsumu, nestling deeper.

Even though they’ve been on the same team for a while—and dating for a month—Atsumu’s still thrown off sometimes by just how damn cute Shouyou can be. Just like he’s still surprised by his flashes of heightened intensity, or, even more uncommon, his bouts of genuine anger.

If Atsumu has learned anything over their time on the Black Jackals together it’s that Shouyou’s quite the complicated person—and Atsumu enjoys pretty much every part of him. Expect the unexpected; that’s how one must live around Hinata Shouyou. It’s that or be left in his dust, and Atsumu will not be left behind—ever, as a concept—thank you very much.

Shouyou abruptly stops walking and throws his hands in the air. “We’re here!”

Atsumu blinks back to reality and looks around. His eyes narrow a smidge as they read the banner hanging in front of the table.

Damn, he head must’ve been real up in the clouds if he didn’t notice the Onigiri Miya stand nearing closer and closer on their trek over. No, it was in the damn stratosphere at least, because he didn’t notice Osamu’s ugly, smarmy face either. Atsumu glares at him, mouth jutting into a pout.

“As much as I’m un-delighted to see my brother, why’re we here?” Atsumu flicks a curious gaze at Shouyou before staring daggers at Osamu again. “Samu’s shit goes quick; he probably sold out midgame.”

“We actually sold out before the first set ended, thank you very much,” Osamu replies, adjusting the brim of his hat.

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Yer not helping Shouyou-kun’s case, Samu.”

“All good, Atsumu-san!” Shouyou says, bouncing up once on his toes, his excitement evident. He looks like a puppy, and Atsumu is going to do something stupid if Shouyou keeps staring at him with those damn pudding brown eyes. “You’ve told me so much about how good Osamu-san’s onigiri is that I wanted to try some for myself! But you also brought up how it’s really popular, so I asked Osamu-san before the game started if he could save a couple for us.”

“Can’t believe you’re complimenting me behind my back, Tsumu,” Osamu says. The smallest quirk of his lips betrays his otherwise neutral tone.

Atsumu’s glare sharpens; he can barely make out Osamu’s features with how much he’s squinting now. “Shaddup, I’ve probably brought up yer shop only once or twice; Shouyou-kun’s just got a good memory, s’all.” When talking about Osamu, Atsumu’s normally complaining— “Samu made me be his guinea pig on my day off” this or “Samu won’t stop comparin’ me to pictures of foxes” that. He kind of talks about him as though he’s always right at his side, ready to verbally or physically assault him back. Atsumu can’t see him willingly offering praise or kindness anywhere within this equation.

Grinning, Shouyou shrugs. Atsumu tilts his head in Shouyou’s direction, shooting him a look. Shouyou’s eyebrows raise in turn, wiggling a few beats. Atsumu sends him a blank stare, the trembling corners of his mouth likely softening his desired effect. Shouyou’s tongue pokes out for a flash between his lips, and Atsumu’s heart rate kicks up a notch. They keep making faces at each other until Osamu clears his throat, snapping them out of their bubble.

“Here’s your order. When Shouyou asked for them earlier, I was gonna give ‘im them for free, but since he said that one was for you, I told him I’d steal some money out of yer wallet later.”

“Asshole,” Atsumu huffs. Shouyou laughs—the traitor. “I’ont have my wallet on me right now, but later I’ll pay ya back for one onigiri. Shouyou’s, of course. Because I’m a good boyfriend. Right, Shouyou?”

“Yep!” Shouyou chirps, stepping forward to grab their onigiri.

Despite fishing for the compliment, Atsumu flushes at Shouyou’s response. He tilts his head to the sky and looks up, praying once more to whatever God is real to rid these embarrassing reactions to Shouyou’s mere existence from his body.

This time, his call is left unanswered.

Osamu snorts, and Atsumu returns his gaze to his brother. His half-smirk has turned full-on smarmy once more as his eyes stare into Atsumu’s soul and judge him to the fullest. Atsumu elects to ignore him, snatching the onigiri that Shouyou offers him from the plate. The high road feels good, sometimes.

“The rice might be a lil mushy since the balls’ve been sittin’ in the warmer for a bit,” Osamu says as Shouyou unwraps his riceball and squawks in admiration, “but I hope ya still enjoy.”

“This already just smells amazing, Osamu-san!” Shouyou takes another big whiff, chest lifting. “Is the base cucumber? It has that wet, vegetable-y quality. But then it’s spicy, too! Karashi?”

Osamu’s eyebrows shoot up, hands moving to lay akimbo on his hips. “Yup,” he says, popping the p. “You’ve got a good sniffer there, Shouyou-kun.”

Shouyou laughs, waving him off. “I just cook a lot at home. My mom likes to joke that I could’ve been a chef if things “hadn’t worked out” with volleyball.” He frowns a bit at that, lips puckering. “As though things could have ever not “worked out” with volleyball...” But it’s gone as soon as it appeared, his expression shifts back quickly to a smile—like a lightswitch in his brain got flipped back to the “happy” setting. “But, yeah, I know my way around a kitchen. Certainly not nearly as skilled as you are, though.”

Osamu chuckles at the compliment. “I’m sure you’d be more helpful in the kitchen than your duncehead boyfriend.”

Atsumu, who was enjoying his first bite of onigiri, scowls at the jeer. He keeps his mouth shut, though, because it’s gross to talk with a mouth full of food. Contrary to popular belief, he has manners, unlike some brothers.

Shouyou giggles a bit then takes a bite into his onigiri, Atsumu and Osamu watching him intently. He chews twice and then groans, his eyelashes fluttering shut. “Wow, Osamu-san, that is amazing!”

A smile blooms on Osamu’s face. “Fresh rice, straight outta Hyogo. Can’t go wrong there.”

When Shouyou reaches the filling in the middle, he squawks, face turning red. He swallows the bite quickly then opens his mouth, fanning his tongue with his hand. Atsumu stares disrespectfully at the sight. “That was really spicy! But the spice and wetness and tanginess were all so balanced; how'd ya get it to do that?” Osamu’s eyes glint at the opening to talk about his onigiri making process—the same way Shouyou’s do when Atsumu’s tossed him a real good ball.

Atsumu’s eye twitches. Watching this conversation unfold has made something at the back of his mind itch, but not only can he not put his finger on it to scratch it, to relieve the pain—he can't even figure out why it's there in the first place.

Ignoring the sudden spike of irritation, he teases, “You sure you wanna ask ‘im that, Shouyou-kun? He won’t stop talkin’ ‘bout food once you get him started.”

“It’s okay! I’m curious! We’ve got some time before we have to meet back up with the team, too.”

Osamu starts talking and Atsumu chomps into his onigiri, tuning out the conversation. As Osamu’s twin, he’s heard enough about cooking for a lifetime. Osamu’s been interested in food since they were in diapers (if their parents’ old photo albums are anything to go by), but his interest in actually making food began about the same time they started volleyball. While Atsumu set up shop in front of the TV, ready to watch whatever new episode of anime before dinner time, Osamu joined their mom in the kitchen. Originally, it was just so he could sample the food as she cooked, the fucking pig. But after a while, Atsumu could hear the hums, questions, and eventual suggestions wafting out from behind the kitchen door. Osamu’s voice changed, too—his usual neutral tone gaining a new layer of flavor when food was the focus.

His fervor only grew from there, and—much to Atsumu’s tastebud’s chagrin—by the end of middle school, their mom was letting Osamu cook dinner on his own some nights. At first, the meals sucked—and Atsumu let him know it. But Osamu was relentless; even after full days of practice then school then practice, he was in the kitchen, concocting whatever mix of carbs and vegetables and spices floated his fancy that moment. By the time they started high school, Atsumu could no longer complain about overcooked fish or underbaked bread—Osamu had gotten good. Atsumu wanted to mock him for it—to see his volleyball skills slip so Atsumu could drag his attention back to the game and only the game—but Osamu stayed as sharp as his favorite Santoku on the court. And it’s not like Atsumu didn’t benefit—being his twin meant also being his test taster, and his stomach was always stuffed to the brim on good and bad days alike.

One of Shouyou’s particularly effusive squawks snaps Atsumu back to the present. “Five onigiri a minute?” he follows up, eyes sparkling. “You’re practically a machine!”

Osamu chuckles. “I mean, when you run an onigiri business, you learn how to turn ‘em out fast.”

“How’s your business doing? When’d you start it?” Shouyou asks, taking a bite of rice.

The tingle at the back of Atsumu’s head flares up, and Atsumu flicks his gaze between Shouyou and Osamu. Why’s he so damn on edge?

“Outta high school, I actually stayed home to take business classes online as I played around with different types of foods in the kitchen. I settled on onigiri pretty quickly, though—it just kinda spoke to me, in the way volleyball speaks to you guys, ya know?—and got my first branch off the ground ‘bout a year later.”

Shouyou makes a noise, but it’s dampened by the food in his mouth. He holds his finger up and swallows down the remaining rice before saying, “Wow! That’s hella fast!”

Osamu smirks, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. “Mm, and it’s done pretty well since openin’, if I do say so myself. We got three branches ‘round the Hyogo ‘nd Osaka prefectures now.

Atsumu rolls his eyes—despite what anyone else thinks or says, Osamu’s just as vain as him, he’s just gotta be a bit more encouraged before expressing it.

As their back and forth continues, something continues to claw at the back of his mind, leaving an uneasy prickle beneath his skin. Unlike what people (read: Osamu) like to say, Atsumu’s not completely emotionally constipated. The itch he can't scratch has something to do with Shouyou and Osamu interacting—that’s when it started, so there’s no other explanation.

But Atsumu’s used to Shouyou getting on with anyone and everyone; he’s even more used to Osamu being the more amiable twin. So, why does he want to burn his own skin off? Isn’t it good that they’re getting along so well, considering Atsumu’s not letting Shouyou go anywhere anytime soon? Most of the time, Osamu’s hated his exes (Atsumu always realizing, in retrospect, that he was right to); this is objectively a step in the right direction.

Atsumu shoves the rest of the onigiri into his mouth, just to do something with his restless energy. After Shouyou squawks for what feels like the thousandth time, Atsumu cuts in, “Shouyou-kun, stop strokin’ Samu’s ego, jeez.”

Osamu turns toward Atsumu and raises an eyebrow. “You, of all people, can’t say nothin’ about my ego.” He turns back to Shouyou and leans over the counter a bit, a conspiratorial look in his eye as he glances quickly back at Atsumu. “He’s just jealous that you’re payin’ more attention to me than him,” he stage-whispers.

Atsumu crosses his arms, mouth twisting into a pout. “Oi! S’not true.”

But really, why would he ever be jealous of Osamu?

Osamu hums a long note of disbelief. Atsumu wants to punch that shit-eating grin off his face so badly.

Shouyou laughs, patting Atsumu a few times on the shoulder. “It’s alright, Atsumu-san, I’ll give ya all the attention you want later!” He shoots Atsumu a cheeky wink. Atsumu blushes; Osamu gags. “But we actually should get going—the bus leaves for the hotel soon! Osamu-san, thank you so much for saving us some onigiri! It was really, really awesome!”

“Anytime, Shouyou-kun.”

“I’ll see you at dinner tonight?”

“You betcha.”

Atsumu glares between them. “Who says he’s invited?” Some of the Black Jackals and the Adlers’ members are going to an izakaya in a few hours; plus ones are never discouraged in these types of meetups, but Osamu certainly isn’t Atsumu’s.

“Shouyou-kun invited me while you were staring off miserably into space.”

The prickling fire under his skin picks up, a wave of indignation washing over him. Atsumu stares daggers at Osamu, then throws his head back dramatically, fisting his hand over his heart. “Shouyou-kun, how could you betray me like this? I thought you liked me.”

He’s joking, really. Okay, maybe like 75%. 50%. The point is, he’s mostly not serious.

Shouyou rolls his eyes. “I did it because I like you, silly.” Atsumu looks back down, waiting for him to expound on the point. He does not. Instead, he stares up at him, the corners of his lips turned up just the slightest. His eyes are crinkling a bit again at the corners, and there’s a mix of fondness and mirth in them that melts Atsumu’s insides to goo. The gaze feels like a stream of water, dampening the flames threatening to consume Atsumu whole.

Atsumu huffs, “Urk, fine, he can come.”

“I was gonna come, permission or not, you tyrannical pig.”

Shouyou whoops in delight as Atsumu reaches forward to smack Osamu upside the head. Osamu ducks, then punches him straight in the gut. The blow wasn’t harsh, but after the game with the Adlers and eating an entire onigiri, Atsumu’s sore and full of food; he doubles over, groaning. Osamu’s distant chuckles mock him as Shouyou runs a hand through his hair. Atsumu glances up through the pain to see Shouyou biting his lip—a telltale sign that he’s holding back laughter, too. Atsumu folds over again with a sigh: truly, no one loves him.

After a moment of wallowing in self pity, he straightens up and shoots a final glare at Osamu. Hooking his arm in Shouyou’s, he waltzes away, tugging Shouyou in tow. Shouyou glances back and gives Osamu one last wave before plunking his head against Atsumu’s shoulder.

“Tonight’ll be fun; stop moping,” Shouyou lilts, both teasing and appeasing.

In all honesty, Shouyou’s right: he normally does appreciate any and all extra time with Osamu, especially now that they’re not attached at the hip by volleyball. But this whole itchy thing happening when he sees Shouyou and Osamu together probably won’t just go away in a few hours—and he still doesn’t really know what it means, either.

Whatever. If it comes back, Atsumu will divert via his fantastic jokes and undeniable charm, as always.

“Sure, sure,” Atsumu says. He squeezes his elbow towards his body, causing Shouyou to stumble into him. Slinging his arm over his shoulder, Atsumu holds him in place as he rubs his knuckles around in his ginger locks. “But ya better give me “all the attention I want” like you promised earlier, or I’ll be mega-disappointed.”

Shouyou giggles, struggling to escape from Atsumu’s grip. “After dinner, it’ll be just you, me, and our hotel room. We won’t be needing the extra bed!”

Atsumu groans—why does he always say shit that will lead to him getting flustered, why is he like this—and Shouyou uses the moment of weakness to break free. He laughs as he trots quickly down the hallway (quite literally a half-walk, half-skip), and Atsumu picks up his pace to keep up, one hand still covering his flushed cheeks.

Most of the team has left the locker room by the time they arrive, so they quickly stuff their belongings into their duffle bags and hightail it out of Kanmei Arena. By the time they make it to the bus outside, Atsumu’s breath has picked up, his chest rising and falling at an embarrassingly fast pace (he’s a goddamn professional athlete and this little sprint with some extra weight is enough to take him out? Might as well retire now.) Shouyou, of course, is unaffected, and even offers to take his bag.

When Atsumu clutches at his heart like he’s been shot and declares his wounded pride, Shouyou says, “You worked so hard today, it’s no wonder you’re tired!”

He smirks at the blatant hypocrisy. “Oho, so you’re saying you didn’t?”

“Mmm, nah, I did,” Shouyou replies, taking a sip from his water bottle. After a pause, he continues, eyes flashing with mirth, “But they say that one of my selling points is my stamina.” At that, he smirks.

Atsumu vehemently denies any noise that left his throat at that moment.

He concedes his belongings to Shouyou, less out of genuine exhaustion and more out of general defeat. He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again: Hinata Shouyou is going to give him a heart attack. Can an abundance of affection clog arteries like cholesterol?

Bags tucked safely away in the overhead racks, he and Shouyou sit next to each other on the ride home. Despite Shouyou’s claims of stamina, he always—always!—crashes on the bus; the forced stillness likely triggers his ever-elusive pause button. Five minutes in, and he’s buried in the crook of Atsumu’s shoulder, his eyes shut, his shoulders sagging. Atsumu plops his own head atop of Shouyou’s, sighing contentedly.

Shouyou’s warm and heavy weight at his side is always a comfort—it was even before they started dating. When Shouyou joined the Black Jackals, Atsumu knew from their high school days that—despite their contrasting personalities—they’d get along well: few people can match his hunger for volleyball like Hinata Shouyou. But he wasn’t really expecting their relationship to be anything exceptional.

Shouyou is magnetizing, both on and off the court, his personality conducive to connecting with just about anyone. Meanwhile, Atsumu knows he’s brash, flippant, and sometimes unlikable (he’s been working on it since high school—really!—but, man, most people just suck to be around). Shouyou could’ve latched onto any of the Jackals (or not, people would’ve been drawn to him regardless), but for some reason, it was always Atsumu that he came up to after practice first, always Atsumu he asked to stretch with him, Atsumu-san, Atsumu-san, Atsumu-san! Which developed into sitting together on the bench, on bus rides, at parties. Shouyou bumping into Atsumu’s shoulder one too many times to be coincidental; Shouyou throwing him a lingering gaze behind hooded lashes; Shouyou glancing down at his lips so quickly, Atsumu thought he was making it up in his head.

Okay, he’ll admit it: he really didn’t realize for the first few months that Shouyou was flirting with him. But once it finally clicked, once Atsumu finally realized that Shouyou was pushing things in a less platonic way (the impetuses of his discovery certainly not Sakusa’s unamused stares and Osamu’s text of “you’re stupid please get a brain before shouyou-kun gives up”), he picked up some of the legwork. Shouyou, perceptive as always, noticed this change almost instantly, and boom: one heated locker room kiss later and here they are.

So, yeah, it’s pretty straightforward as to how they got here, but it’s still surprising to Atsumu that it happened at all.

Bzzt bzzt. The vibration snaps Atsumu out of his sweet reminiscing. Atsumu regularly texts three (3) people, one of whom is drooling on his shirt, the other of whom is a few rows ahead wearing a sleep mask in a seat all by himself. Which leaves only one bastard left.

Sighing, Atsumu fishes his phone out of his pocket and clicks the screen on.

Inferior Miya [16:03]

> The usual compilation.

Atsumu’s face contorts with contempt. Osamu hasn’t been to one of his games in a bit, so he had blissfully forgotten this rather unfortunate tradition. But whenever he does show up, he spends whatever time he’s not selling onigiri taking the most unflattering photos of Atsumu ever. Literally, every single one manages to catch his bad angles, his transitioning expressions, or his exhaustion. And then, win or loss, he forwards “the best” (read: the worst) to Atsumu. Because he’s a jackass who can never let him live in peace.

Atsumu sighs again and swipes through them, taking stock. Honestly, so far, they’re not that bad, though that one flying receive makes him look like a goddamn meteor hurtling out of the sky or something. Upon reaching the final image, his lip curls up in horror.

Atsumu has no clue how he didn’t notice, but somehow Osamu got a picture of him at the Onigiri Miya stand. He’s slouching, eyes pointed down and looking cross-eyed at the onigiri in his hand; what’s more, he’s half-blinking and there’s rice all over his face. Shouyou’s to his right, flashing a megawatt smile and a subtle peace sign. So he was in on this, too? Traitor.

Atsumu taps back into their message thread and types a string of emojis that tell the story of how he’s going to murder Osamu and hide the body.

Inferior Miya [16:05]

> I’ll be sure to show Shouyou the whole album at dinner tonight.

At the mention of dinner, Atsumu’s gut flips. Oh. He’d kinda forgotten about that part of the evening. (To be fair, anyone with a nice, solid lump of Hinata Shouyou pressed against their side while taking a trip down memory lane would’ve forgotten their woes, too.)

Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, heaving out a sigh. He instantly regrets it when his fingers come out coated in a combination of cold, damp sweat, and hair gel. Gross.

He turns to the right, burying his nose in Shouyou’s hair. The coarse locks tickle his nose, but the mix of lingering shampoo, sweat, and that distinct note that’s specific to Shouyou helps him feel grounded.

Atsumu exhales, closing his eyes. He really likes Shouyou. He kinda likes Osamu. Tonight will be fine. There’s no reason it wouldn’t be.

Confident in his resolve, Atsumu scooches an inch closer to Shouyou—closing any space left between them, Shouyou’s warmth a welcome comfort—and lets himself drift off to sleep.

🏐

An hour in, and the night is not fine—for many reasons.

Four rows of tables have been pressed together to squeeze in all the Black Jackal and Adler’s players, and it's as cacophonous as one would expect from a room full of boozed-up, professional male athletes. Thanks to the tight seating, Atsumu has been pressed flush to Shouyou’s side all night, which on a normal day would’ve been quite the blessing (any guise as an excuse for PDA is one he takes advantage of regularly). But even as Shouyou’s been bumping their shoulders together or intermittently squeezing his thigh under the table, it’s undeniable that the majority of his evening has been focused on Osamu seated across from them.

The night started off fair enough; Shouyou and Osamu picked up their conversation from earlier, and Atsumu butted in where appropriate (see: at times he could rib at Osamu) or when Shouyou asked his opinion. But as Shouyou drinks, he tends to revert back to his high school self—his natural chaotic energy he normally keeps under wraps popping out like a jack-in-the-box. Each drink turns the crank bit by bit, then boom: Shouyou’s out and ready to fucking party. And by party, Atsumu means chat someone’s goddamn ear off for hours. Atsumu normally loves Shouyou in this state, when all the attention is on him and Shouyou giggles at every one of his little jokes. But for some godforsaken reason, Shouyou has chosen Osamu as his target of the night, and the itch at the back of his mind has flared up so drastically that he feels like he’s developing a headache.

At the moment, Osamu’s doing exactly as he promised earlier—showing Shouyou the godforsaken “Tsumu 🤪” album. There are too many photos in it for them to sit there and scroll through, so Osamu is picking through them and flashing Shouyou only the “highlights”; the one currently on screen is from his debut match after he screwed up a serve real bad.

“He’s literally pouting.” Osamu double taps the screen to zoom in on his face. “Look at his cheeks. Tsumu and the Chipmunks.”

Shouyou, his alleged dear, sweet boyfriend, is cackling like a maniac. “C-chipmunks! Oh my god! Atsumu-san, you’re so cute!”

At the end of the slide show, Osamu pockets his phone. “I’ve got a lot more in the photo album in my house above the shop in Hyogo.” He turns to Atsumu. “Should bring him by the next time you come down.”

Atsumu picks his head up off the table and glares at first Shouyou, then Osamu. “Why d'ya think I’d say yes when ya invite him on the grounds of harassing me further?” What’s more, the thought of Shouyou at the real shop—most certainly ready to praise Osamu over everything from his fresh onigiri to his decor—makes Atsumu want to bite off all of his fingers.

“I wanna visit anyways!” Shouyou chirps. “I’d love to see where the magic usually happens.” He pats the top of Atsumu’s head. “But only if you’re okay with it, Atsumu-san.”

Atsumu doesn’t want to properly reply—fearing the words that may come out of his mouth—so he takes a sip of his third cocktail then plops his forehead back on the counter. The impact rattles through his skull into his brain, and it kinda hurts, but the vibrations momentarily quell the prickling in his mind. He lifts his head up just the slightest bit and drops it back down again, brain clattering around once more. Then again. And again. Someone free him from his mind prison.

“Atsumu-san, stop that,” Shouyou starts combing his fingers through his hair, and it feels real nice, but no. He’s still mad at Shouyou for... he doesn’t know why. But he still feels it. Feels bad. Therefore, Shouyou right now: bad.

It’s a nail in the coffin when Osamu pipes up, “Don’worry about him, Shouyou-kun, he’s got no brain cells left to lose.” Shouyou chuckles, lightly scratching his nails against Atsumu’s skull. His weakness. But his rotten mood overpowers the physical bliss, and he sits up straight, Shouyou’s hand falling back to his side in the process.

“Since I’m clearly just a joke to y’all, I’ll be takin’ my leave.” He stands up quickly, which was a huge mistake as he is drunk; he nearly falls back on his ass, but catches himself on Shouyou’s shoulder in the last second. “Goin’ over to Bokkun ‘nd Omi-Omi. At least one of them there loves me. ”

Something unreadable flashes behind Shouyou’s eyes, but he soon chirps back with as much cheer as ever, “Have fun! And don’t let Bokuto-san drink you under the table!”

Atsumu’s heart stings at the rejection he brought upon himself, and he grabs his drink before sulking a few tables over to Sakusa’s side. He plops down in one of the open seats to either of Sakusa’s sides and groans. Before he can raise his glass and tip the rest of his cocktail down, Sakusa elbows him hard in the side. He heaves forward in pain.

“Who said you could sit there?” Sakusa looks at him like he's gum on the bottom of his shoe.

Atsumu groans, clutching at his side. "I jus'wanted to sit with my dear friends... and this is how they welcome me..."

Bokuto, who's been wrapped up in a conversation with Akaashi, perks up at the sound of Atsumu’s voice. "HI, TSUM-TSUM!!"

"Hey, Bokkun. You're okay with me sittin' here, right?"

"Of course! The more the merrier!" Bokuto raises his glass and whoops. "A toast for Tsumtsum! For... being here and being awesome."

Atsumu's shriveled heart grows a few sizes at the praise, like the Grinch's on Christmas Day. Nothing better than some ego stroking via external validation. Bokuto's always a good guy to come to if Atsumu needs a pick-me-up.

Atsumu clinks his drink against Bokuto's and downs the rest. Sakusa— the fun hater—has his hands wrapped around his glass, but doesn't join in the festivities.

"Can you please leave now?" Sakusa asks.

"Mmm, nope," Atsumu drawls, waving down a waitress for another drink. "You'd miss me if I left, don't lie, Omi-Omi."

Sakusa hums a skeptical note, but doesn't try to physically or verbally push him out of the seat for the next hour. Out of benevolence, Atsumu makes sure to keep their limbs as far apart from each other as possible.

As Atsumu drinks down another two cocktails, they idly chat about everything and nothing, from today's game to Bokuto and Akaashi’s adventure to IKEA. The conversation's fun—really, it is—but the weight in Atsumu’s chest just grows heavier as the night rolls on. He glances from time to time over in Shouyou and Osamu's direction, only to see them still chit-chatting away or laughing up a storm.

After one of Shouyou's particularly boisterous laughs, Atsumu takes a big sip, drinking down a fourth of his drink.

"Miya, if you're going to keep binge drinking and sulking all night, can you take your depression elsewhere?” Sakusa asks.

Atsumu whirls his head around to glare at him, but the sudden movement leaves him dizzy, and he nearly totters over from the whiplash. He ends up giving Sakusa more of a lazy blink before dropping his head onto the table and closing his eyes.

“‘M not sulking,” he mutters against the cold wood.

Bokuto pipes up, “Yeah, Tsumtsum, don’t drink your problems away! We’re buddies, right?” Atsumu shakes his head, cheek squishing against the cold wood, but Bokuto either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Buddies talk to each other about their problems.”

“I don’ have any problems,” Atsumu huffs, turning to prop his chin up on the table to look at his company. “I do, however, want another drink.” He moves to raise his hand up and call over a server, but Sakusa pins his arm to the table with a glare. Atsumu whines a pathetic note, but his limbs feel too heavy to resist.

“It is especially in your favor to not get blackout tonight,” Sakusa says. “You’ve already made his night a pain; Hinata deserves better than to have to take care of you at the hotel. Unless you’re trying to get him to break up with you. Which would make sense, considering you abandoned him to drink yourself into oblivion rather than work through whatever has you shooting yearning glances in his direction every ten seconds. ”

Atsumu selectively ignores the latter part of the comment. “Awh, Omi cares,” he says, voice laced with exaggerated fondness. “He wants me to get laid tonight!”

“I would rather die than consider my role in your sex life, Miya.”

Atsumu laughs. It’s impossible not to get a kick out of Sakusa acting affronted by his mere existence (well, he’s at least 60% sure it’s an act). Bokuto’s booming laughter echoes throughout the room as well, and even the corner of Akaashi’s lips quirk upward for a moment.

Bokuto settles down and looks Atsumu in the eye, head tilted to the side in appraisal. His eyes are wide and unblinking, and it’s honestly a bit unnerving. Atsumu’s about to tell him he looks like a goddamn owl when Bokuto leans over the table and brings his hand up to shield his mouth.

“Omi-Omi, why d'ya think Tsumtsum’s being so emo?” he whispers. But it’s Bokuto, so it really just comes out at a normal volume, his hand doing nothing to shield Atsumu’s ears from the words. Atsumu huffs and sinks into the table, his head spinning too much to whine in protest. He hears Akaashi whisper—actually whisper—something to Bokuto in an admonishing tone; Atsumu sends him a silent prayer, grateful that there’s at least one person in the room on his side.

Sakusa doesn’t even glance at Atsumu before replying, “Clearly, Miya is jealous that his brother and Hinata are getting along so well.”

Without thinking, Atsumu sits straight up and fires back, “Why would I be jealous of Samu? Gross.” He bites back a groan as his head begins spinning in earnest thanks to the sudden movement.

Sakusa lifts a single eyebrow. “Because he’s actually a decent person? Because he’s a successful business man with life skills? Because you and him look similar, so you think Hinata’s going to leave you when he realizes that he’s got the same face but better credentials? Your pick.”

“Oi, stop that,” Atsumu slurs, mind spinning now for a different reason. The warmth of the alcohol running through his veins warps into a bitter heat, itching under his skin.

Sakusa takes a sip of his drink before responding, “You asked.”

“But I like Tsumtsum a lot!” Bokuto says, bringing his hand to his chin. “He’s really funny, especially when he’s not trying to be. And he’s really good at volleyball, which is definitely better than whatever “life skills” you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Omi-Omi.” Against his will, Atsumu smirks a bit, lips curling at the corners. Sometimes the world is so cruel to him that he forgets how nice it feels to be praised.

Sakusa gives Bokuto an unamused look over the lip of his glass. “In Miya’s mind, that pales in comparison to whatever the other Miya has apparently—”

Atsumu’s grin contorts into a grimace. “ Wouldja stop psychoanalyzin’ me like ’m not here or somethin’?”

Sakusa finishes off his drink and sets the glass down on the table gracefully. “You’re not denying any of it.”

Atsumu’s chair squeaks back and suddenly he’s on his feet, clicking his tongue. “Fine, I’m fuckin’ leavin’, Omi-Omi, ya big bully. Happy?” Atsumu turns to leave, then whips back around. “Wait. Don’ answer that.”

Bokuto gives him a sad look, bottom lip jutting out a bit, and Atsumu starts walking away before he gets sucked back in by his pleading that’s certainly to come. He thinks he hears Sakusa say “He’s just mad because I’m right,” but he’s already halfway across the room so he can’t defend himself. Besides, much to Atsumu’s chagrin, Sakusa’s analysis teases the itch at the back of his mind, giving him something substantial to consider.

The thing is, he doesn’t think Shouyou would leave him for Osamu. And Osamu probably doesn’t want to date Shouyou—he’s definitely not his type (because Osamu is tasteless). But if he knows this, why do Sakusa’s words still grip him like a vise?

Before he can contemplate his mind’s irrationality any further, Shouyou seems to sense his approach and swivels around, shooting him a big grin. “Atsumu-san!”

Atsumu looks between Shouyou and Osamu for a beat too long before letting out a “Hey,” as he plops into his seat. His gaze flits to the table, staring at the empty glass next to Osamu’s hand. Shit, he left the rest of his drink with Sakusa and Bokuto. Why did he think that being here would be better than there again, anyways? Now he’s gotta watch Shouyou and Osamu be all buddy-buddy again. Crap, he really didn’t think this through.

Shouyou’s hand materializes on his shoulder, tugging at his sleeve until he looks at him. Atsumu tries to shoot him a cocksure smirk, but Sakusa’s words are still swirling around in his mind. It definitely comes out more like a grimace.

“You are drunk,” Shouyou laughs. “Did you end up challenging Bokuto to a drink-off again? Dummy.”

Atsumu glowers, pointing his gaze towards Osamu. Osamu raises an eyebrow as if to say What are you blaming me for? Scrunching his nose in response (It’s all your fault, asshole.), Atsumu turns his attention back to Shouyou. Shouyou, who doesn’t know what he’s been up to the past hour because he didn’t look over even once, so wrapped up with Osamu. Atsumu smacks the thought down, sober enough to recognize its sheer pettiness. It’s not Shouyou’s fault that Atsumu’s a jealous bastard, after all; he deserves better than to be portrayed as the antagonist.

“None of that, Shouyou-kun,” Atsumu drawls. “I learned my lesson the last... three times.” Shouyou giggles, grip tightening on his sleeve. “I just decided to have a drink for every service ace I scored, an’ there were lots o’ them.” He winks, feeling more like himself after inflating his own ego.

Shouyou hums a high note, nodding along. “There were, there were!” He turns back to Osamu, hand sliding down to rest next to Atsumu’s thigh. “Speaking of, Osamu-san, how come you never learned how to do a jump floater? I remember your jump serves were insane in high school, but...” He trails off, eyebrows lifting. Shouyou’s attention turned away from him, Atsumu frowns, glaring at Osamu again. Osamu chuckles, likely at both Shouyou’s enthusiasm and Atsumu’s misery.

Atsumu replies before Osamu can. “Cuz he’s a scrubby scrub who knew he had to keep focusin’ on his basics instead if he wanted to even try keeping up with me at the bare minimum.” Atsumu knows this isn’t true, and certainly so does Osamu, but he says it anyway, just to see if he can get a rise out of him.

Osamu leans across the table and flicks him on the forehead before he can even react. “Now yer just spoutin’ nonsense on purpose.” He turns to Shouyou as he sits back down in his seat. “It was ‘cause he did a lot of jump float stuff after normal practice hours ‘nd I went home a bit earlier to work on cookin’. And besides,” he raises his eyebrow at Atsumu, “maybe I just letcha have somethin’ special. Otherwise yer ego would deflate when ya realized all the attention durin’ games was on me, and I’d’ve had to deal with yer mopey ass back at home.”

Atsumu’s nose wrinkles, and they trade a few more blows back and forth, digging at things ranging from their volleyball skills to their appearances to their taste in drinks. Shouyou flicks his gaze between them as though watching a ping pong match, eyes sparkling in awe at the seamless insults. Despite Atsumu still being kinda pissed at Osamu in general, the banter is familiar and... kinda nice. He hadn’t seen his brother in a few weeks, much less been able to have a proper conversation. (Is this a proper conversation?)

As it’s Atsumu’s turn to fire back an insult, he feels a hand pat his shoulder. He turns to Shouyou, who’s got a giant smile on his face. His cheeks are apple red, too, and he looks mesmerizing in the low lighting. Atsumu’s jaw slackens as Shouyou speaks up. “You guys are hilarious, but I really, really have to pee, so I’m gonna go—sorry to interrupt!” Before either of them can reply, he hops out of his seat and trots away from the table.

Atsumu watches him go—even with blurry vision, Atsumu can tell that Shouyou’s ass looks spectacular—until he feels a shoe knock against his calf under the table. He glares up at Osamu, who talks before he can complain. “It’s a miracle that you’ve conned Shouyou into dating you. But he’s gonna break up with you if ya keep being such an ass.” Damn, okay, straight to the point, Osamu is.

Atsumu huffs, crossing his arms as he frowns. “S’yer fault for hoggin’ his attention all night!”

Osamu shoots him a withering glare. “Forgive me and Shouyou for being normal, decent people who can get along well because we are normal and decent.”

“Neither y’all ain’t normal nor decent and you know it.”

“Don’t change the topic, scrub.” Damn Osamu and their twin telepathy. “I ain’t tryna steal your boyfriend—in fact, if I ever hear that you’ve broken his heart, I’m kicking your ass.”

Sakusa’s words from earlier burn in the back of his throat. A wave of pettiness, combined with his current drunken state, knocks out the last of Atsumu’s brain-to-mouth filter. “Well maybe you should date him instead then. Since y’all are just getting along so peachily.”

Osamu’s eyebrows shoot to the ceiling, and he leans forward. “Wait, holy shit, is this what tonight’s actually been all about?” He settles back down in his seat, expression thoughtful. “Back at the stand, I was just bein’ a jerk, but I guess I was actually right on the money.”

“Shut up,” Atsumu snaps.

Osamu pins him with a look. A silence settles between them for a few moments, and Atsumu takes the time to think about what he actually just said. Being a twin, his competitive side has always come out especially when Osamu’s involved—they’ve had to fight their whole life if they wanted any kind of singular attention rather than being seen as a pair, after all. So it makes sense that some of that may be bleeding into the events of tonight—the irritation of seeing Shouyou and Osamu easily have fun without him. But that being the explanation behind his entire rotten mood—that just doesn’t check out. He’s at least 70% secure in the idea that Shouyou’s really, really into him. (As for why, well—that’s another question.) And Osamu’s a jerk, but he’s not a jerk—he’d never steal a significant other from under his nose.

He feels like one of those blind men in that damn elephant metaphor: his hand resting on a tusk or a leg but missing the whole picture. His head is starting to hurt from all this thinking, too. (Actually, maybe that’s the alcohol.)

“If I say somethin’ mildly kind to you, are you gonna snap my neck?” Osamu finally asks, freeing Atsumu from his train of thought.

Atsumu shifts around in his seat. “Probably. But yer just gonna say it anyways.” He looks down at his hands. His vision has cleared compared to earlier, but it’s still blurry. “Besides, I’m prolly not in the state to be snappin’ necks, to be honest.” Atsumu flicks his gaze back up. “So say it before I am.”

“Yer a total douchebag,” Osamu starts, lifting up a finger. “You have basically zero social awareness, you have the tact and grace of a seven-year-old child, and you don’t know how to talk about your feelings.” Two, three, four fingers follow. Atsumu’s too dumbstruck to react.

“Yer hair is the texture and color of straw, you only wear athletic clothes ever, and you never wash your sheets despite being a professional athlete.” Five, six, seven.

Atsumu shakes his head, confused. “’M really not hearin’ this “mild kindness” anywhere in here.”

“Lemme finish talkin’, dumbass!” Osamu huffs, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got a million more awful, no-good, rotten traits.” He pauses, his eyebrows lifting just the slightest. “But Shouyou-kun likes you for a reason, ‘kay? And maybe if you got yer damn head out of your ass every once in a while, you’d see why.”

Atsumu stares blankly at him for a moment before sinking into his seat. He crosses his arms and hums. “But, like, I know that.”

Osamu shakes his head, defeated. “But do you?”

Before he can reply, Shouyou materializes at Atsumu’s side, laughing. “So, judging from that head shake, Atsumu-san won the argument? Good job, babe!” A choked noise worms its way out of Atsumu’s throat as heat rushes to his cheeks. Babe. He’ll never get tired of hearing it.

Composing himself, Atsumu nods his chin at Osamu. “Like I could ever lose to this scrub.”

“Ah, no, Shouyou-kun, we were talkin’ about something else.” Osamu shoots Atsumu a withering glare that says, And if you keep runnin’ yer mouth, I’ll tell him what that something was. Atsumu’s mouth snaps closed, teeth clicking. He doesn’t want to be exposed.

The dinner wraps up pretty soon after Shouyou returns, everyone gathering at the front of the izakaya and waving their goodbyes. Atsumu claps Tobio on the shoulder and promises him better luck next time, to which Tobio replies, “I don’t need luck, Atsumu-san, I need to practice.”

As Atsumu laughs, his eyes catch on Shouyou and Osamu chatting to the left. Wiggling his fingers at a confused Tobio, he stalks over, sliding up next to Shouyou.

Osamu’s hotel is in the opposite direction of the Black Jackals’, so he snatches Atsumu up in a hug (Atsumu begrudgingly reciprocates) before whispering his parting words, “Don’t screw up anythin’ more with Shouyou now that I’m leavin’ you behind.”

Atsumu scowls over his shoulder. “S’yer fault I ended up like this!”

Osamu steps back, locking his gaze with Atsumu’s. “Don’t blame me for your poor low emotional quotient and lack of self awareness.”

Atsumu growls, but Osamu starts walking away before he can think of a good comeback. “I hate you!” is what he settles with, flinging the words at Osamu’s retreating figure. Osamu raises his hand and continues walking on, not even sparing him another glance. Atsumu’s lips curl into a snarl. Bastard, ass, stupid, ugly, dumb, good-for-nothing brother—

Fingertips skim the back of his hand. “Atsumu-san, ready to go?”

He turns to Shouyou, who’s looking at him with raised eyebrows and a hint of a smile. Atsumu feels the tension drain out of his shoulders and knocks his hand into Shouyou’s.

“Yeah, leggo.”

Shouyou giggles and they both turn around to head in the right direction. The hotel’s not far, but it’s not close—about a twenty minute walk, maybe twenty-five in Atsumu’s rather inebriated state. He’s definitely past his peak drunkenness, but a stroll through the cool air will help him sober up even more.

He must’ve been dawdling with Osamu for even longer than he realized, because a lot of the team is nearly a half-block ahead of him and Shouyou, Bokuto in the middle with his arms pumped in the air. He’s too far ahead to hear what he’s saying, but his laugh rings clear through the city block.

Atsumu glances to his right, then his left—the passersby on the street are few and far between, and none of them are looking in his direction. Without looking down, Atsumu furtively links his pinky with Shouyou’s. It’s his first step in not acting like an asshole for the rest of the night, even as his skin still prickles inexplicably.

“So, what d'ya think of the inferior twin?” He can still be an ass to Osamu, though.

Shouyou flits his gaze to their hands then looks up at the sky in thought. “We’re dating, Atsumu-san. What do you think?”

“Hey!” Atsumu brings a hand up to clutch at his heart. While it’s mostly for the dramatics, a small barb of hurt does shoot through his chest, striking raw flesh.

“Hehe,” Shouyou giggles, tugging on their pinkies. “Just kidding, but I really like him! His presence is like...” Shouyou pauses again, his free hand gesticulating side to side. “Listening to the morning waves back in Rio. A steady but calming force.”

Atsumu nods in understanding. Obviously, this is not how their dynamic works, but everyone knows that Osamu’s ultimately the more levelheaded of the twins. “Osamu’s like the ideal housewife. He cooks, he cleans, he takes care of people... He always reminds me that I’m absolutely useless when it comes to “real life” things.” Atsumu huffs, a cloud of air forming then dissipating into the night sky. “He’s just jealous he can’t play volleyball as good anymore.”

Shouyou hums, nodding in agreement. “True, true. No one can set to me like you can!” Shouyou swings their arms forward and back, squeezing Atsumu’s pinky in the process, as though to bring his attention to his hands. “If Osamu is like the waves, you’re like the sand. Merciless, unyielding.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “How kind of you, Shouyou-kun.”

Shouyou clicks his tongue and slams his shoulder into Atsumu’s, throwing him off balance. “But I like that, remember? That’s why I went to Rio. That’s why I joined MSBY. I needed the people and things around me to push me beyond even my own expectations.”

Atsumu blinks in surprise. While everyone calls him the emotionally constipated one, Shouyou’s not much better—he’s just better at hiding it. He can badger someone for hours about their entire life’s history, but the second the focus shifts to himself, he diverts the topic back to the other person before anyone can bat an eye. Atsumu groans internally at the realization that maybe Shouyou’s read into his behavior more tonight than he’s let on. He wouldn’t be pulling out the Big Guns of reflecting on himself otherwise.

His words also confirm another thing for Atsumu, something that he thought he already understood but maybe was just brushing off the sake of self-preservation. Shouyou picked him above all others because he likes him. He sees that Atsumu is more than sarcastic, blunt, and crass. He likes their ambition and goals align; it’s what brought them together in the first place.

But even after this sparkling revelation, as always, his mind fixates on the negative and his mouth betrays him. “So you just like me for my volleyball skills, hmm? Guess I can’t be mad, though. S’all I’ve ever been good for, ‘cording to Samu.” It is only this late into the night that Atsumu really starts regretting drinking those five cocktails.

Shouyou squawks, an incredulous noise. “That’s not true at all!” He leans forward and twists around, forcing Atsumu to look him in the eye. Oh, God, his bottom lip is jutting out and his eyebrows are drawn down. Shouyou’s pouting. A rush runs through Atsumu, a mix of fondness and guilt. Shouyou’s so fucking cute, but he must’ve really hit a nerve if he’s making that face.

Shouyou huffs a breath out of his nose, eyes boring into Atsumu’s for a few more moments before straightening up. “But I’m not gonna tell you what else I like, cuz your ego’s big enough without it!” He snickers at his own joke, and the side of Atsumu’s lips unwittingly quirk up as well. “Anyways, why do you keep bringing up your brother when you’ve been avoiding us all night?” He pauses a beat before continuing. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you’ve been acting weird since the end of the game.”

Hand caught in the cookie jar, Atsumu looks away. Ah, fuck. He really shouldn’t have expected to get away with this.

Steeling himself, Atsumu looks back over to Shouyou, expecting disappointment. But when he meets Shouyou’s gaze, his heart seems to stop beating in his chest. Genuinely, Atsumu feels like he’s dying, suspended in time for this single moment.

After a second, his brain resurfaces from whatever just pulled him under. He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or his brother’s words or Shouyou’s patient, open expression, but Atsumu notches an arrow, aims for the elusive bullseye in the tangle of his thoughts, and lets it fly.

“You ‘nd Samu just... clicked so well. Like—so well. I don’t even think our first meeting on MSBY together went that good.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair briskly. “It just feels kinda like I’ve lost, somehow.” Thump. The arrow lands on target, provides the slightest bit of relief to the itch at the back of his mind. But the words lack a certain depth—like he hit a branch and not the root. Atsumu’s jaw clenches as he inhales, biting back a groan of frustration.

Shouyou’s face shifts, as though mentally processing the weight of Atsumu’s admission. Atsumu swallows, throat rougher than sandpaper; even if what he said was only a piece of the whole puzzle, he’s not sure he can wring out anything else from the tangled up mess that is his brain right now. At least he’s given Shouyou—actually, like, damn, he’s given himself somewhere to start. He turns his gaze forward, and the bright downtown of Sendai burns his retinas. The buildings and lights wiggle in the distance, but significantly less than before. Nothing to sober him up more than talking about his feelings, right? The idea makes him feel far more nauseous than any alcohol could.

They walk a few more moments in silence, Shouyou staring off into the distance with a thoughtful look in his eyes. Atsumu feels a twinge of worry settle beneath his skin, but he doesn’t press him—it doesn’t feel like he can, his tongue heavy as lead.

“I know what I wanna say to you, but I wanna be able to look at you when I’m talking, so let’s wait till we get back to the hotel,” Shouyou says suddenly, jolting Atsumu out of his head. “And you’re still pretty drunk, so let’s give that a bit more time to fade away, too.” He flashes him a quick smile, squeezing their pinkies together. Atsumu nods, weakly returning the gesture. Of course Shouyou wants to turn this into a legitimate conversation. Atsumu laments future Atsumu’s fate, but he also knows it’s for the best. He really doesn’t like getting into these kinds of things, but for Shouyou, he’ll do just about anything.

The itching under his skin simmers as they continue following their team from behind. Atsumu doesn’t really want to talk about anything right now—mentally preparing himself for a Talk—and Shouyou seems to get that, staying silent at his side.

Atsumu is still drunk, so the time to their destination passes in a rush. The hotel comes into view as they turn a corner, and Shouyou drops their hands. Atsumu’s face reflexively morphs into a pout and Shouyou chuckles, bumping his shoulder. “Hotel lobby. Public.”

A few seconds of basic cognitive thought later, Atsumu gets the message. Even though there are probably even less prying eyes inside, being confined by four walls always feels more personal, like someone’s gonna catch you.

They head in and take the elevator up to their shared room. Shouyou continues looking forward with that thoughtful look in his eye, glancing back to catch Atsumu every time he starts staring.

He opens their hotel room door with one of those plastic cards, and Atsumu follows in after him. They shed their shoes and coats, hanging them in the closet. When Atsumu has haphazardly stuck his on a hanger and onto the rack, Shouyou grabs his hand lightly, tugging him over to one of the beds. He climbs onto the mattress on his hands and knees, popping down cross-legged in front of the pillows at the headboard. Atsumu stares at him for a few seconds too long, squinting, so Shouyou pats the space in front of him, a wry smile on his lips. “Come on, Atsumu-san, don’t you wanna get into bed with me?”

Atsumu makes a face at the innuendo, but feels himself flush all the same. He follows Shouyou’s instruction, sitting criss-cross in front of him. Shouyou scoots forward a tad until their knees are touching.

For the first time tonight, Shouyou looks a bit unsure as he stares down at Atsumu’s hands resting in his lap. He rakes his gaze back up at Atsumu’s, squinting.

“Are you sober enough to remember anything from tonight tomorrow? ‘Cause if not, we can wait.”

Feeling pinned down by his gaze, Atsumu glances down at his own hands before replying, “I’m good, I promise.” Thank you, professional athlete metabolism, for digesting alcohol like nobody’s business. Really, though, he feels fine. Not sober sober, but cognisant enough. Besides, even in his inebriated state on the way home, he felt restless not knowing what was gonna come out of Shouyou’s mouth—he can’t imagine actually sleeping while still in the dark.

After a moment of hesitation, Shouyou reaches forward and takes Atsumu’s hands in his own. He rubs his thumbs over the tops of them, a light, loving touch. Atsumu sucks in a breath, and then slowly exhales, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders with each passing second.

“When Kageyama went to Youth Camp our first year of high school, I don’t think I’ve ever been more jealous in my life,” Shouyou starts. Atsumu’s nose scrunches in displeasure—why does he have to be talking about Tobio of all people right now—and Shouyou squeezes his hands as if to say, Patience. “I normally let stuff like that slide off my back like water—why waste time thinking about what others had that I didn’t when I could be practicing and getting better?—but for some reason, I just couldn’t shake it that time. And I knew that Kageyama deserved it, and I also wanted him to keep getting better, too, as my rival, but ugrh. It hurt.”

Given the topic of conversation and the direction Shouyou’s going with it, Atsumu knows that Shouyou’s telling this all to eventually make an ultimate point, to encourage Atsumu to see something from a different perspective or some shit. And normally when people try to “talk sense” into him—as Osamu puts it—he’d be storming out the door. He doesn’t need a goddamn lecture; he knows he’s got issues and he’ll fucking deal with them later. But as the indignation bubbles in his chest, Shouyou flips his hands over and links their fingers together, fingers curving upwards towards the ceiling like a steeple. Atsumu looks up at Shouyou and sees nothing other than that warm, pudding brown. Almost anything for Shouyou, he reminds himself. Tamping down his pride included.

The bubbles pop and splatter, giving way for a restless hum. Atsumu can do this; he can listen. He wants to listen.

“But I had the thought, I didn’t have to stay behind! So I made a plan to follow him—to break into Youth Camp.” Shouyou chuckles with fondness at the memory, and Atsumu relaxes a touch, smirking.

“If you’d done that, I woulda probably laughed right in yer face and told you to piss off. I’d’ve been even meaner than the coaches whose party you crashed.”

Shouyou giggles again. “Look, I was fifteen and stupid, okay? And you were fifteen and mean—we all had our flaws. And don’t worry, nothing would’ve compared to how badly Kageyama would’ve torn into me.”

Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow and he squeezes their hands together. “Hey, I thought we were talkin’ about your issues, not mine ‘r Tobio’s.”

Shouyou clicks his tongue, but carries on, “Anyways, I heard my two teammates talking about how that could get me arrested, so I snuck into the Miyagi Prefecture first-years camp instead.” Atsumu’s eyebrows shoot up and a surprised noise worms its way out of his throat.

“Yer kiddin’ me.”

“Nope!” Shouyou laughs. “In the end, they didn’t even let me “properly” crash. I was the ball boy.” Atsumu shoots him a dubious look and Shouyou sticks his tongue out at him. “Look, being able to watch from the sidelines actually helped me learn how to receive properly, thank you very much. But that’s not the point. The point is that I was so worried that I was never gonna catch up—that I was always gonna be so far behind him.” Shouyou’s gaze flickers to the side before pinning Atsumu down once more. They reflect a kind of pure sincerity that kinda scares Atsumu. Similar to how he can sometimes get in the middle of a game—his stare vivid and practically screaming Toss to me, toss to me, toss to me—but softer around the edges.

“And, at the time, that fear was pretty realistic. I had only been playing with a real team for a few months. I had more freedom in the air thanks to Kageyama’s pinpoint sets, but I would’ve been pulled off the court immediately without him. I needed to learn everything, from the ground up.” Shouyou pauses thoughtfully. “The view from the top. It was a lofty goal, but I was a crazy kiddo. And even now, years later as I’ve made so much progress towards that goal, I’m still not quite there.” Atsumu nods in understanding. Number one is where he’s always planned on ending up in the end.

“Anyways, behind that jealousy was that despair of potentially never being enough—not knowing if I could be enough with my height and all. So I get it. I get that gripping fear that you probably felt in your heart when Osamu-san and I were chatting and teasing you.”

Atsumu bites the corner of his lip, chewing at the dry skin. He hadn’t really considered that jealousy was just an outlet of fear—that the sinking feeling in his gut was just the tip of an iceberg. But Osamu’s constantly reminding him of his lack of emotional intelligence, so it’s only fair that he didn’t think about it much.

Shouyou slides his hands out of his grip and leans forward, placing them on either side of Atsumu’s face. “The thing I don’t get, though, is why you’re feeling jealous.” He squeezes his hands towards each other for a moment before dropping them to his shoulders, sliding them down his arms until he’s reached Atsumu’s hands again. Atsumu’s brow furrows in confusion and Shouyou huffs.

“Lemme clarify. I felt that aching jealousy because what I wanted was potentially out of reach. But, with us, I’m right here.” Atsumu’s heart skips a beat. He lets the words I’m right here trickle down into the root of his chest, nursing his heart until it blooms with warmth.

Shouyou must see something change in Atsumu’s countenance, because his gaze softens, too, fingers rubbing over Atsumu’s knuckles.

“I like you—I feel like I make that abundantly clear, but let me know if not—and you like me. And you’re not getting rid of me, no matter how dense you are sometimes.” Shouyou pauses, as though turning over the thoughts one more time in his head before he says them. “Just because Osamu-san and I get along well doesn’t mean I suddenly hate you, you know. Our relationships can coexist. His successes aren’t your failures.”

Shouyou's final words rumble in his mind like a distant thunder. His body itches with tense electricity—a foreboding thrum that marks the onset of a storm. A gale whips through his mind, shredding apart the phantom itch that’s been plaguing his thoughts, his skin, his heart all evening. For a moment, everything stills like he’s standing in the eye of the storm.

His successes aren’t your failures.

And then all at once, the clouds open up and it starts to pour. Images and memories tumble from the sky like rain, pelting against his skull in flashes. His and Osamu’s conversation at the end of their second year; their declaration starting a lifelong battle, a never ending war. Earlier at the end of the game: Osamu preening over his success, the awed glint in Shouyou’s eyes. Osamu inviting Shouyou to his shop. The concept of Shouyou being there, flabbergasted, enthralled. Tonight: Sakusa's comments. Osamu's lecture. His own fixation on Osamu; Shouyou’s conviction.

Atsumu’s eyes fly open as a final bolt of lightning strikes, searing an undeniable truth in the flesh of his heart. He's not jealous of Hinata and Osamu. And he's not quite jealous of Osamu either.

He resents Osamu's success.

His successes aren’t your failures.

“And it’s not like we didn’t get along when we first met!” Shouyou continues, completely oblivious to the fact that he just flipped Atsumu’s entire life on its head. “You took a few days to start being less awkward around me, but now I know that’s just cuz you liiiked me, hehe.”

Atsumu’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish out of water. Shouyou’s giving him an out: back to a teasing tone, this conversation could move past its zenith, shift into lighter things. Atsumu just needs to reply with some spicy comeback, something to keep the ball rolling. But his heart feels like it’s stopped and wedged itself in his throat, his mind completely static except for the red, flashing words I resent my brother.

Shouyou might’ve only been talking about the iceberg, but, somehow, his words reach the bottom floor of the ocean.

The rain continues, soaking Atsumu to the bone. More memories strike against his skin—cold and relentless. Their final year of nationals; the prickle of vexation behind Atsumu’s pride. His clipped responses to Osamu’s barrage of texts about his first shop—what did Atsumu think about this location? How about this wood for the countertops? The reluctance he felt over Onigiri’s first ad campaign, featuring Atsumu’s teammates as the hosts and servers. All of Osamu’s little achievements—his first real customer, his latest perfected recipe, his newest branch—like pin pricks against the cushion of Atsumu’s mind.

Atsumu had always chalked these gut reactions up to sibling rivalry, the natural competitiveness that fuels him even greater than food or water. But as the rain pours and pours, another bolt of lightning strikes—this time rattling Atsumu’s mind:

This resentment is nothing new. It’s been around since the day Osamu officially quit.

Atsumu suddenly remembers the sharp hurt that cut into him with each step after the declaration. The olive branches Osamu extended for days afterwards—all rejected with little more than a sneer. The way they didn’t actually speak properly again until Atsumu moved to Osaka; Osamu gave him a week before texting him like nothing had changed and, after a few days alone in a city of strangers under a starless sky, Atsumu started to text back. The months-long journey on the road back to normal that Atsumu had apparently forgotten about the second he stepped off the path.

Because who needs memories, right? Atsumu’s life had followed that motto even before he played for Inarizaki; looking up, ahead, and beyond was how he took each step forward. New experiences took the place of old—each day dedicated to building his muscles, honing his skills, becoming the best.

With each passing season, the all-consuming pain of betrayal dulled into barely an ache. He remembered the words of their promise about happiness and success, but none of its actual depth, none of genuine anger that laced their edges.

But slapping bandaid after bandaid atop an injury doesn’t actually help it heal, does it?

Thunder rumbles, and he begins to shiver, the cold creeping through his veins into his heart. He looks around for solace, but nothing except the endless expanse of dark sky greets him for miles in all directions. A drop of water strikes him between the eyes, prying another memory loose:

This storm isn’t new either.

It’s never been this vast before, but, throughout Atsumu’s life, he’s had his rainy days. Atsumu himself never realized, of course, the way a cloud would pop up over his head and split open, turning his usual foul persona into something even more wretched. Instead, it was always Osamu who turned his attention towards the sky, who helped him feel the rain against his face. Whether after being subjected to or observing one of Atsumu’s outbursts, he’d smack him upside the head and tell him to reflect a little—to stop letting the rain mindlessly assault him and to ask himself instead why the cloud was there in the first place.

But once their paths diverged, Osamu hasn’t been around to snap him out of his misery. In fact, Atsumu had no one like Osamu anymore—no one who knew how to read him so well that they could hand him a highlighter when he needed it most. And, besides, when the problem was about Osamu—and about Osamu over such a long period of time—of course Osamu couldn’t be the one to come in and huff, puff, and blow the clouds away. And after leaving them on their own to brew for this long, after living in the dark for so long without a beacon, Atsumu’s fully unsurprised that, now unlocked, they’ve sprung free with a vengeance.

The tempest swirling within Atsumu must be soaking into the cracks of his expression, for Shouyou’s brows furrow with concern. “Atsumu-san? What’s up?” He starts to rub circles into Atsumu’s hands. “Did I say something that made you uncomfortable?”

Atsumu’s momentarily yanked out of his storm of thoughts, a string of “No, no, no” falling past his lips before any misunderstanding could grow deeper. “It’s not you,” he follows up. The entire night hasn’t been about Shouyou, at least, not primarily. That’s exactly what’s killing him.

Shouyou’s head tilts slightly to the side. “Then what is it?”

Atsumu looks up at the sky and lets the torrent of rain nip across his face. Should he speak the truth—let the droplets gather on his tongue and slide past his lips? The mere idea chills him even more than the storm itself. Putting his resentment into words makes it real. These clouds don’t have to surface; this new reality can be kept within. And besides, all storms are ultimately fleeting—the gales abate, the chill dissipates, and the rain ends. At least, for a while.

Atsumu glares at the mosaic of gray above—at the stupid memories that tighten like a noose around his neck.

“Atsumu-san.” Shouyou squeezes his hands, his touch more delicate than glass. “I’m here.”

The echo of his declaration from earlier—but, with us, I’m right here—penetrates through the clouds. The slimmest ray of light shimmers in the sky, striking the ground before Atsumu’s feet. Atsumu inhales, air filling his whole chest. He looks down to see the patch of grass ahead of him glittering as the dew evaporates, kissed away by the sun’s heat.

He exhales, his breath leaving through his mouth, diffusing into the air along with the tension in his shoulders. Shouyou is here. He raises his hand shakily until his fingertips just barely skim the light. The ray jolts through his veins, sparking a new string of thoughts.

With Osamu, things between them were always a matter of expectation—the Miya twins, on and off the court, were bound to each other by their family name. Osamu didn’t choose to be with Atsumu just as much as Atsumu didn’t choose to be with Osamu; they were born together, raised together, and lived together, and thus expected to constantly work together. This implicit link meant that their moods and relationships bounced off one another—when Osamu looked after Atsumu, he was looking out for himself, as well. So when Osamu left unexpectedly, the pillar of stability Atsumu always took for granted crumbled—himself with it.

But Shouyou—Shouyou hasn’t been here from the beginning. No, Shouyou had the choice to keep his distance, or even leave once he’d stayed his welcome. And yet, here he sits in front of Atsumu, brown eyes sincere and open and kind, waiting patiently for Atsumu’s next words. Here, his presence breaks through the storm—the smallest light in the endless gloom.

Shouyou doesn’t, didn’t, never had to be here. But he wants to be. He’s offering his solace.

Turning his head to look up at the break in the clouds—just the narrowest sliver in the vast sky—he has a final realization:

He can trust Shouyou.

He can trust Shouyou, because Shouyou chose him.

The sun on his fingers grows hotter, countering the chill as it, too, flows through his veins. And Atsumu realizes—perhaps the most surprising discovery of the night—that he wants to take that step forward, spread his arms, and welcome the warmth.

So, he does.

“When Samu told me he was quittin’ volleyball, we had a fight,” Atsumu starts, his eyes shifting to the headboard behind Shouyou. “I just didn’t understand why—why he wanted to give up somethin’ he knew he was good at, something he knew he could have a career in. Why take a shot at somethin’ so risky as food service?” He chuckles, a small, defeated thing. “I think a bigger part of me, though, was bein’ selfish. We’d made a name for ourselves, you know? Who else could do what we did? Who else could push me to my 120% everyday?” He pauses as the next question flits through his mind, an admission he’s not yet willing to speak aloud: How could he leave me behind on my own? Likely sensing his hesitance, Shouyou’s thumbs begin their ministrations on the back of his hands again, but he stays silent.

“Obviously I never said any of this to him, but he always knows what I’m thinkin’. So he yelled at me ‘bout how I couldn’t just decide what I thought was right for him—for us. He told me to prove it to him, to tell ‘im on our deathbeds that I was the one with the happier and more successful life. And I’ve never backed down from a challenge, so ‘course I told him I would.”

Despite his earlier hesitance to even breach this subject, now that Atsumu’s started, the rain flows off his tongue and out of him like a waterfall.

“And at first, I really thought I was right. As I moved up the ranks in the Black Jackals, Samu was strugglin’ to even start up his business. As I began setting to some of the best spikers in the country, he was collapsin’ under the weight of bills and more bills.” Atsumu’s hands tighten around Shouyou’s fingertips. Shouyou continues rubbing circles, slow and steady. “But as time went on, his dream started shapin’ up. I’d walk in during lunch time sometimes on my off days, and the bastard could barely even spare me a glance ‘cause the line was out the shop, the tables packed.” He can feel a tinge of bitterness seeping into his voice, and he hates it.

“Now, with both of us a few years down the line, I can see it. I can see why he quit volleyball. I can see how happy he is makin’ onigiri day in and day out, greetin’ old ‘nd new customers, comin’ up with new recipes. I saw today how he talked to you ‘bout food the same way he used to talk about volleyball with me.”

Shouyou pries his fingers loose from Atsumu’s grip and flips over his hands, slotting their fingers together in a steeple-like fashion. Shouyou’s gaze drops to the space in between them, and Atsumu chances a quick glance at him. His eyes still hold the same warmth and kindness from earlier, but there’s a tinge of sorrow threaded under his eyelids—as though Atsumu’s words are weighing them down. Atsumu hates that he’s the one causing that expression, but he can’t stop tumbling on, drop by drop.

“These days, Samu seems so... content. Like he’s made and found his happiness. Whatever competitive spark that used to drive him, used to drive us, seems sated. ‘Course he keeps expandin’ his business, he’s growin’ it in the ways he can, but there’s just...” Atsumu resists the urge to bring a hand up to his chin in a contemplative pose. “There’s just a vibe about him now-a-days. In the way he sits and talks and works. Like, even if all his branches shut down and he were to be stuck in Hyogo for the rest of his life in his lil original store, makin’ onigiri till his hands fell off, he’d be happy. He’s found some kinda peace with himself and the world or whatever, unlike for me, where each set, each serve is still a step towards becomin’ the best.” Atsumu’s brows knit together, his lips turning down in the smallest frown. “It’s like he beat me to the finish line. Like he was right—he gave up on volleyball and is still happy.”

Atsumu’s eyes shoot up at the implication, quick to clarify, “It’s not like I’m unhappy, though. No, the Black Jackals are a blast. Bein’ surrounded by y’all makes volleyball real fun most days. But seein’ him be happy, in the way he’s happy...” Atsumu’s nose scrunches in thought as he tries to articulate himself—tries to put into words the ugly feeling inside of him. After a few seconds of searching to no avail, he clicks his tongue, agitated. “I don’t know! It just rubs me the wrong way.” His irritation morphs into something hotter, something that burns in the pit of his stomach. “But s’like... does that mean I wanted him to fail? Just ‘cause he didn’t go down the path that I thought was best for us? Isn’t that kinda fucked up?” Shouyou squeezes his hands, a grounding touch, but Atsumu continues on with the delicacy of a trainwreck. “Am I really that selfish that I’d want Osamu to be unhappy? Am I a bad person?”

“Atsumu-san,” Shouyou says, snapping his head up, eyes meeting Atsumu’s. His voice snaps Atsumu out of his spiral; his gentle but firm gaze keeps him from plunging in once more. Shouyou takes a slow breath in, and Atsumu instinctively follows, stuttering a few times as his heart thumps rapidly in his chest. He didn’t even realize how deep he’d sunk until Shouyou pulled him up. They sit there for a few more moments, only the sound of their shared breaths filling the space.

Shouyou breaks the silence. “I don’t think you’re a bad person. You’re just... a person. And all people have feelings and have feelings that we don’t really like feeling.” He pauses, eyes flitting down to their hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Do you want me to just keep listening? I know that sometimes people just wanna talk it out and not be bombarded with outside thoughts and advice.” He looks back up, eyes devastatingly soft. “I just didn’t like the way your thoughts were headed because they aren’t true. You could never be a bad person.”

Atsumu’s heart aches in his chest, fondness welling up in between the tangle of misery. “No, I think I’ve said what I was mostly thinkin’. And those thoughts are clearly aren’t in good order, so if ya wanna say anythin’ to help me get my head back on straight, it’d be appreciated.” He smirks a little, in part to reassure himself, in part to convince Shouyou. Shouyou smiles back, the smallest curl of his lips.

“Okay, just to make sure we’re on the same page—basically what you’re saying is that you feel like you’re losing to Osamu and his happiness, which makes you feel frustrated. But then you feel guilty because that makes it seem like you wish he were unhappy, which isn’t actually true because why would you ever want Osamu to be unhappy? But then you think about his current contentment again and you get frustrated again. Repeat cycle of bad vibes on and on and on.”

Atsumu nearly winces at the accuracy of the summary—the gross truth of it all. “Yup,” he says through gritted teeth.

Shouyou nods and continues, “Okay, I’m about to say something really direct, but I think it’ll help “get your head back on straight,” so I’m going for it.” Atsumu raises an eyebrow but says nothing. “I think that you’ve been looking so microscopically at this whole thing that you’re missing the big picture. You’re so fixated on Osamu that you haven’t actually looked at the whole situation or yourself.

“You yourself are amazing, Atsumu-san. Just because Osamu has done his own amazing things doesn’t detract from your amazingness. Look what you’ve done without him, all on your own. You’re the starting setter for one of the best men’s leagues in Japan,” Shouyou raises a finger. “You’re known throughout the league as one of its only tri-wielders in serving. You’re well on track towards being on the National team roster, if not the Olympics one, too.” Two, three, four fingers go up. “And things like success aren’t limited to a career, you know. Look at our relationship.” Shouyou brings up a final finger and gestures between them. “It’s new, but I’m happy, and I think you are, too. I’d say we count as a success.” Atsumu nods fervently in agreement, and Shouyou chuckles.

“Anyways, I think it’s easy to forget how hard you’ve worked to get to this point—all the serves you’ve practiced, all the time you’ve put in, all the energy you’ve invested. So, before you go off rattling on about Osamu’s giant, rose-colored success story, I think you needa take a step back and look at what you, Miya Atsumu, have done. Because the reality is that you’ve done a freaking lot. And you even said yourself earlier, you are happy. Good!” Shouyou says it so emphatically that Atsumu lips can’t help but quirk up a little. “You should be happy, because you have a lot of things in your life—you’ve built a lot of things in your life—that are worth being happy for.

“You and Osamu both aren’t the same people that you were back when you were seventeen. You guys turned this happiness thing into a competition when you were literally kids, with egos too big for your own skulls.” Atsumu huffs, indignant, but it’s not like Shouyou’s wrong.

“And now that you’re both older, with a better sense of what you both want to get out of life, both of your priorities—and, from what I’m sensing, measures of “happiness”—have changed. He’s hit milestones in the food industry just like you’ve hit ones in the V.League. And maybe you’re right, maybe Osamu’s not shooting for the stars like you are anymore, maybe he’d be happy for the rest of his life with what he has now. But he still has to work day in and day out to keep what he’s got going, just like you have to work everyday to keep reaching higher.” Shouyou pauses for a moment, rubbing his thumbs against Atsumu’s hands.

“I think one reason you’re feeling like he’s “beaten you to the finish line” is because what you think his baseline measure of satisfaction or whatever has been met, while you’re still climbing your way to the top. But you can’t compare an apple and an orange. You're both shaping your day to day lives around what respectively makes you happy, and those outcomes are completely different things.” Shouyou’s eyes flicker to the ceiling in thought.

“Anyways, you’re not a bad person and you’re not a bad brother. You’ve just somehow drilled into your head that if Osamu’s happy, you’re meant to be miserable, and vice versa. But in this fabricated competition you’ve chained yourself to, you’ve forgotten that there’s a third, better option: you can both win. You can both be happy. And despite the anger and hurt you’re feeling towards Osamu right now, I think, ultimately, that you both are.”

Atsumu’s vision is bleary again, and it’s not because of the alcohol. After a few more moments of silence, he pulls his fingers from Shouyou’s. Atsumu sees Shouyou’s expression morph into a bemused thing before he lunges forward, his arms wrapping around his back. A clipped gwah! escapes Shouyou as they tumble into the mattress, Shouyou’s arms slipping around Atsumu’s waist.

They can both be happy. Atsumu holds Shouyou tight as the slim ray of sun begins to grow, eating away at the dark, cloudy sky. It bathes Atsumu in its warm glow. Droplets continue to pour from the clouds and pound against his skin, but they’re less frigid now that they’ve been caught in the light.

Shouyou gives Atsumu a firm squeeze before relaxing into the embrace, sinking further into the mattress. Atsumu exhales and drops his weight to the right, tugging Shouyou in tow until they’re facing each other side by side.

The brightness and the gloom mix around in Atsumu’s veins, and it’s a confusing feeling—the simultaneous comfort and unease. Tonight has been, to put it lightly, a lot. Atsumu knows that there’s a long road ahead—of not only weathering but deconstructing the storm, of coming to grips with what he now understands while not allowing it to consume him.

But he doesn’t have to face it all at once, nor alone. He’s taken his first step forward today—with Shouyou at his side.

Atsumu opens his eyes and loosens his arms, pulling his head out of the crook of Shouyou’s neck. Shouyou looks back at him, a hint of concern in his eyes. Atsumu brings a hand up to curl in the back of Shouyou’s hair, burying his fingers in the coarse locks. He teases the strands for a moment, the words he so desperately wants to say stuck to the back of his throat.

“Thank you,” Atsumu finally whispers, barely filling the space between them. The phrase isn’t nearly enough to express the sheer magnitude of gratitude welling up in his chest, filling him with a buoyant sense of relief. Maybe one day he’ll be able to articulate all the ways Shouyou has touched his heart. But, again—first steps.

Shouyou’s expression melts, his gaze softening around the edges. He leans forward and Atsumu meets him halfway, their lips slotting together with practiced ease. Both of their lips are a bit chapped from all of their talking, but Atsumu relishes in the touch—the tender warmth. He presses forward just the slightest bit more before pulling back, eyes fluttering open.

“So now that we’re done with feelings,” Atsumu starts, letting his voice drip with mischief, “wanna make use of this queen size bed?”

Shouyou squints at him—suspicious—but there’s a spark of mirth behind his eyes as well. “Are you sure you’re both sober and stable enough to be doing something like that right now, Tsumtsum?”

Atsumu’s heart skips a beat in his chest. Okay, Shouyou must really just be teasing if he’s stooping to the level of nicknames. Atsumu’s mouth wobbles as he bites back a smile, but he shifts his face into a pout instead. “I’m fine!” He brings his hand off of the back of Shouyou’s head and places it palm down under his own chin. Sweeping it gracefully so that it curves up and around his cheekbone, framing his face in a flourish, he continues, “You have passed your wisdom on to me. I’ve turned a new leaf. I am a new man—”

Shouyou grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers, bringing them to cover Atsumu’s mouth. “You’re so lame, oh my god, stop.”

Atsumu flips his wrist and lets his lips brush against the back of Shouyou’s hand. “Ya, but you like it.” He doesn’t bite back his smile this time. Shouyou grins back, his eyes crinkling beautifully at the corners.

“I do,” he replies simply, moving their hands to the side and leaning in for another kiss. Atsumu’s gut twists at the light press of their lips, and he surges forward, hungry for more. Shouyou moves his hand out of Atsumu’s and places his palm on Atsumu’s chest, right over his heart.

This has got to be a metaphor for something.

But when Shouyou swipes his tongue over his lower lip, softly exhaling from his nose, Atsumu forgets how to think about things like hearts and metaphors and whatever-the-soft-fuck for the rest of the night.

🏐

When Atsumu wakes up, the spot next to him is empty but warm. He blinks, bleary eyed, and turns over, his intuition taking the reins and pointing him towards the window. And it was, right, too—Shouyou’s sitting out on the balcony, wrapped up in a puffy coat and scarf, doing his morning meditation. Judging from the sun already well above the horizon, he’s having a late start to his morning. Atsumu lazily smirks, his eyelids shutting once more. After what they were up to last night, Atsumu hopes Shouyou is maybe a little more tired today than normal, or God save him, he won’t be able to keep up in this relationship for long.

After a minute of warming up to the idea of existing as a functional person, Atsumu sits up, his head a bit woozy but not throbbing. Bless Shouyou for making him chug three cups of water before they actually went to bed last night.

After his silent prayer, Atsumu’s finally mentally prepared enough to get ready for the day when his phone starts ringing on the nightstand. Swearing silently—Shouyou is meditating—he springs out of bed to grab his phone before scurrying manically out the door of their hotel room.

Now in the gaudy hallway, Atsumu realizes he’s only wearing a pair of briefs. He swears again but decides to take the L—it’s early, so hopefully no one will walk down the way, and even if they do, Atsumu is hot as fuck, so they really should be grateful for this free showing.

Mind made up, he finally accepts the call. There’s a brief crackling noise before he hears Osamu on the other end say, “So did ya make up ‘nd fuck or did he break up with you?”

Atsumu yelps, indignant. “Shaddup! Shouyou-kun’s got the patience ‘nd insight of a saint, unlike your prickly ass.” Atsumu pauses a beat, smirking despite himself. “But he’s got a lotta other things that are pretty sinful...”

Atsumu can feel Osamu’s eye roll through the phone. “Alright, got it, you made up and fucked. Now that I know you’re not in peril, I’m hanging up; I’ve gotta get ready to open up shop today and don’t wanna hear about it.”

“Oi, you’re the one who called—” Atsumu starts, but the line clicks dead before he can say anymore. He rips his phone away from his ear and stares at it wide-eyed, fuming. Fucking Osamu. He’s just jealous because he’s a single-ass motherfucker. Atsumu considers calling him back and leaving thirty irate voicemails, but Shouyou’s probably almost done, and he’d rather cuddle his boyfriend than harass his good-for-nothing brother. (Cuddle time is few and far between, shitting on Osamu is forever.)

It’s in that moment that the entirety of last night comes back to him like an avalanche. Memories and conversations run through his mind like a montage, flashing so quickly one after another that his head spins for a moment. The cloying mix of guilt and frustration and confusion about Osamu strike him in the chest, squeezing his heart. Oh, how lovely it was for the past few minutes—in blissful ignorance of the dark, gray clouds above.

Atsumu pockets his phone and turns to exit the hallway, decidedly ignoring the feeling. It’s too early to deal with emotions.

Upon stepping into the room, he sees Shouyou pulling back the wide glass door to the balcony. He looks up at the sound of the front door shutting, and a smile breaks out on his face. “Mornin’!” His cheeks and nose are red as Rudolph’s, and Atsumu feels the weight in his chest abate. But how could he forget his sunshine?

“Mornin’,” Atsumu shoots back, walking over to the other end of the room. Shouyou’s half way out of his coat when Atsumu grabs the two dangling ends of his scarf. He gives him a knowing look and Atsumu wiggles his eyebrow back before yanking his wrists inward, pulling Shouyou closer. Atsumu looks down at Shouyou’s soft, brown eyes and a wave of warmth shoots through him at the look he’s getting back.

“Late start for ya,” Atsumu says, bringing a hand up to cup the side of his face. Shouyou hums as he sweeps a thumb over his cheekbone, the cold seeping slowly into his palm.

“Well, it was a late night,” Shouyou replies, lashes fluttering. Goddammit, he’s so hot, Atsumu feels like he’s going to crumple up in a ball and wither away and die from the heat. But he also can’t do that—not until he gets his morning snuggles, anyways.

“But you still got up earlier than me ‘nd got all bundled up ‘nd meditated.” He remembers his words from the night before and repeats them in a more syrupy tone, “Feels kinda like I’ve lost, somehow.”

Shouyou raises an eyebrow, his mouth curling up in tandem. A moment later, his expression drops and a flicker of concern passes behind his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Atsumu knows he’s not talking about physically, but he replies, “No hangover for me thanks to my dotin’ boyfriend.” He takes his free hand and taps him on the nose, the chill lingering even after the light touch. “Thanks.”

Shouyou’s mouth wobbles at the corner, but he keeps his expression square. He grabs Atsumu’s lingering hand with his own and brings them back down to their sides. “Do you even remember last night? Drunk-tsumu.” He smiles genuinely then, but the creases in his eyes are laced with a hint of worry.

Atsumu hesitates, sliding the hand on his face to his shoulder. For just a moment, he considers diverting or even fibbing, not sure if he has the emotional capacity to handle things now that he’s not intoxicated. He admitted things to Shouyou that he’s not even sure he’d ever fully formed thoughts around, much less vocalized. This “feelings” thing is kind of new and makes his chest tighten—and not in a good way.

But for Shouyou... he can trust Shouyou. He wants to trust Shouyou. So, he replies honestly:

“Yep. Every word.”

The words ring through the air, not quite a whisper but lacking his usual bravado. Shouyou’s face shifts slightly, his eyes sparkling with warmth, his lips tugging up into the smallest smile. The fondness in his expression makes Atsumu’s chest ache in a different way. Atsumu takes a step forward and pulls Shouyou into a hug. Shouyou lets out a huff as he’s slammed into Atsumu’s chest, but quickly wraps his arms around his torso.

Atsumu doesn’t say anything more—he hopes Shouyou understands. Hopes that he understands that Atsumu needs to take baby steps. Hopes that he understands that Atsumu’s trying. Hopes that the wild beating of his heart is explanation enough, for now.

Shouyou’s next breath is a short huff, maybe even a bit of a laugh. Atsumu feels the tension in Shouyou’s shoulders drain out underneath him as Shouyou hugs him back, squeezing just a bit tighter.

Atsumu feels the anxious prickle evaporate off his skin and he closes his eyes. It’s Shouyou; of course he does.

They stand there—for a few seconds, a minute, several, Atsumu doesn’t know. Despite Shouyou’s cold face against his chest, his icy hands on his back, Atsumu feels like he’s basking in the light, glowing warm and gentle against his skin.

After one final breath, Atsumu buries his face into the side of Shouyou’s head—his coarse hair tickling his nose—before stepping back. Shouyou’s expression still lingers with traces of affection, but it’s not so overwhelming anymore.

“Still got an hour or two before we gotta head out,” Atsumu starts. “Let’s lay back down.”

Shouyou’s eyebrows wiggle. “Oh? But if we do that, I’m not sure we’ll be back on our feet in time for the bus...”

Atsumu rolls his eyes, but feels himself flush. He knocks Shouyou lightly on the arm with his fist. “None of that, Mister. Let’s just laze around for a bit. Max PG-13 stuff.” Also, it may have been eight hours since “that,” but Atsumu doesn’t think he’s recovered enough for Round [value redacted]. Catch him dead before he admits that aloud, though.

Shouyou giggles while fully stripping off his jacket, trotting over to the closet to hang all of his winter gear up. Atsumu flops back onto the bed with the grace of a dead fish. While he’s not hungover, drunk sleep sucks and he’s still tired. His eyes slip half-closed, the warm comforter lulling him to the other side.

He feels rather than sees Shouyou slip into bed with him, Atsumu’s back meeting his chest as he slings an arm over his ribs. Shouyou mashes his cheek in between his shoulder blades, and Atsumu can feel the smile on his lips.

“Want me to order breakfast in bed?” Shouyou asks. “So you can keep bein’ a lazy bum, but at least you’ll be a nourished lazy bum.” Atsumu’s nose scrunches at the light insult.

“I don’t need breakfast if I’ve got you, babe,” he replies, flipping over to face Shouyou. “‘Cause yer a whole ass meal.”

Shouyou giggles, punching him in the shoulder. “That was awful.”

Atsumu smirks. “But yer laughin’ anyways.”

Shouyou rolls his eyes and sits up, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “You were literally the one who said we’re keeping it PG-13, weren’t you? Tell me what you want, dummy.”

They spend the next bit of time waiting for then eating mediocre hotel food. Atsumu flips on the TV as background noise, but Shouyou ends up getting pretty invested in the live tennis game on the default channel. Atsumu’s always only had eyes for volleyball, but Shouyou dabbled in a bunch of sports before high school, and he explains the plays on the screen with surprising eloquence. Well, of course, mixed in between his typical bam-s and gawh-s and fwoosh-es. Watching his face scrunch and stretch with every reaction is incredibly endearing, and Atsumu lets him chatter on as he pleases while they eat.

After their trays are cleared, though, Atsumu grabs his face and cuts off his commentary. Shouyou makes a noise of surprise, but soon shifts gears, pressing into the kiss with equal fervor. Atsumu swipes his tongue along Shouyou’s bottom lip, teasing lightly, and not another word is said for quite a while as Shouyou parts his lips.

Only after Shouyou physically pushes Atsumu away—yammering on about how they’re gonna be late for the bus at this rate!—do they finally disentangle themselves and climb to their feet. Atsumu pulls on some clothes and brushes his teeth, Shouyou mirroring him to the left of the sink. They then scour the hotel floor and bathroom for any misplaced items and find a lone sock under his bed. Atsumu doesn’t want to think about how it got there (or does he?).

As they head down to the parking lot, all bundled up and shoulder to shoulder, Atsumu’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s not late yet, so it can’t be Sakusa, and Shouyou’s right here, so that leaves means the culprit could only be one other person.

Inferior Miya [8:56]

> you’re off next weekend, ya?

> come home

> i’ve got a lot of new items i need you to taste test

> bring shouyou-kun

His brow creases and he bites at the skin on his lip. Thunder rumbles in the back of his mind, and his throat suddenly feels dry. But Shouyou’s words—about happiness, about mutual happiness—poke a hole in through clouds once more, a glimmer of reassurance.

A shoulder bumps into his arm and he looks up from his phone. Shouyou gazes back with big eyes, a questioning tilt to his head. “You okay?”

Atsumu leans over and bumps his shoulder back. “I’m good. Samu just asked if I could come home this weekend to be his taste tester. Like I’m a dog or somethin’, yeesh.” Shouyou chuckles as they arrive at the parking lot, bus idling as their teammates climb on board. Atsumu watches the exhaust leave the tailpipe in a puff then dissipate into thin air. Osamu’s texts sit at the front of his mind, but the invitation sticks to his tongue like barbs.

A voice suspiciously cheery and high like Shouyou’s pops up in his brain. What’s wrong with spending the day with your two favorite people?

Atsumu scrunches his nose at the notion. The mere implication that Osamu is one of his favorite people makes him want the bus to start driving—so he can throw himself in front of it.

Atsumu follows Shouyou into their row of seats and speaks before he can lose his nerve, “He was wonderin’... if you would maybe wanna come along, too.”

Shouyou takes his seat and stares up at him. “Do you even want to go, though?”

Fuck, Shouyou read him like a book. As always. But really, knowing everything he now does about himself, Osamu, and himself and Osamu... does he? The sky is bound to split open again and drench him to the bone if he walks into Miya Onigiri with its pristine, wooden countertops and sees the smile behind Osamu’s eyes as he shapes ball after ball.

If Shouyou’s there, though... If Shouyou’s there, he knows he’d find some solace in the dark. “I do.”

Shouyou smiles, a soft, closed-mouth thing, and leans over, plopping his head onto his shoulder. “Then I’ll go, too.”

Atsumu tips his head to rest atop Shouyou’s. “I’ll let ‘im know.”

He texts Osamu a crass confirmation back, then pockets his phone. Properly addressing his feelings and heckling his brother as much as possible are not mutually exclusive, after all. Hand now free, he slips his fingers between Shouyou’s.

The ride back down to Osaka is a long one, Atsumu’s thoughts brewing in between bouts of sleep or mindless social media scrolling. Everything seems to come back to Osamu, whether in passing or at the forefront of his mind.

When his thoughts take a turn for the worse—the feelings tingling against his skin, raw and ravenous—he takes a deep breath. He trusts. He tightens his grip, his palm warm and solid and snug around Shouyou’s own.

Shouyou always squeezes back.