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In hindsight, he’ll acknowledge it’s a stupid idea. Unbelievably so. And he’ll regret.
But for now, all Atsumu can feel are the glaring lights, raw white and painfully bright, buzzing at his back, and the skin of his knuckles splitting like ripe grapes for summer wine as he smashes his fist into his opponent’s nose with a satisfying crack.
The rules of the game are simple: no weapons, no killing, ten-second countdown to win, anything else goes.
There’s heat radiating from behind his ribs to the rest of his limbs, sunbursts of it rushing to stain his cheeks red, but his head feels fever clear as the crowd around them roars in delight and shoves closer, sharks circling in ever eager.
He rocks back on his heels and steadies himself, aligning his center of gravity between both feet, flat against the cool cement of the basement floor, as the other boy crawls back to his feet with a deep-seated groan and snarls, blood dripping from his nose to stain his teeth red.
It’s one of those impromptu sort of fight clubs, one made rational by the steady summer heat and the ease by which alcohol slips past dry throats. There's science behind it apparently, about summer and how she incites aggression, how violence piles up as the days grow longer and the nights miserly with their refuge.
His opponent aims a fist at his face, eager to leave a similar mark, and Atsumu catches it against a forearm instead. It's quickly followed by another blow, however, and this one grazes his mouth and jaw in a move that has Atsumu’s brain rattling inside his skull. Black spots dance in his vision as blood bursts in his mouth, sea brine salty.
In the end, despite everything, it’s still a stupid move that leaves him wide open, and Atsumu ducks under the arm and jams his elbow into the other's chest, follows up by raising his palms up to shove his opponent into the crowd.
There’s a chorus of booing as the audience rushes to avoid the impact, but a few brave souls gather to thrust him back into the ring.
“Hey, fight properly, jackass!” someone yells.
Restlessness is starting to set in, and Atsumu can see when the other boy grits his teeth angrily and rushes in, aiming a heavy blow at his stomach. This punch is more focused, and by now Atsumu’s ready to admit that he's starting to feel the effects of the shots he’d taken just before.
His movements are too slow, too clumsy, and he has just enough time to brace himself as the fist makes contact with the center of his solar plexus and forces the air out of his lungs.
It’s a good hit, followed by another to the tender spot between his ribs, right over his heart. Adrenaline dulls the pain, but it’ll be a bitch to tend to in the morning. He wants to end this before the fucker decides to leave another matching mark on his face, too.
With this thought in mind, Atsumu takes hold of the other’s arm and twists, feels the muscles tensing below his hands and bends the wrist back to give an ultimatum: kneel or feel his fingers break.
The problem is, it only takes a second for someone to lose their focus. Even less if the distraction is something you want. He takes a good look at the other boy’s defiant face, and there’s something oddly familiar about the thin eyebrows, the slope of his nose. A blink and it’s gone, but it’s just enough.
The other slips out of his grip, and Atsumu reaches forward, trying to find another hold. He overextends, the world tilts, and then he’s being thrown to the ground, the other’s weight heavy on his hips and his own arm twisted behind his back at a painful angle, a perverse sort of irony.
Atsumu bucks up, but it’s no use, and there’s a knee between his shoulder blades. The crowd goes wild, and he flinches as someone’s shoe comes too close to his face.
“Five!”
“Four!”
He tilts his head up, squinting against the brightness, and there’s a warning tightening of the hand on the back of his neck. He spits out a wad of bloodied saliva.
“Three!”
His lungs burn in his chest. More than anything, it's his pride that stings. It was stupid to get distracted like that, over someone that would laugh in his face if he knew, someone he -
“Two!”
His eyes catch on a familiar pair of worn-out Converse, the same ratty laces, just as they turn around and fade back into the crowd.
“One!”
There's relief in finality, too.
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“Hey, hurry up,” Suna says suddenly, looking up at the grey sky and breaking the companionable silence that had settled between them.
When Atsumu stands, adding another branch to the growing pile in his arms, a wet drop lands at the tip of his nose.
“It’s raining,” the other continues belatedly, and right on cue, Atsumu watches as another raindrop splatters onto Suna, dripping down his face like a tear.
“Oh, shit,” Atsumu has just enough time to say, squinting up at the clouds, before it starts pouring in earnest, the sky opening its jaws and unleashing fury like something straight out of a movie, a torrent of fat droplets landing in his hair and soaking his T-shirt translucent.
In the next second, Suna’s tugging on his arm and dragging him forward.
“Forget about the campfire,” he’s yelling, and they start running back towards where they came from, back to where the rest of their gear is packed along the fire pits on the beach.
Halfway there and there’s no sign of the rain stopping. Atsumu’s yanked off his jacket and is futilely holding it above both his and Suna’s heads to block out the storm, when he spots a bus stop in the distance and nudges the other in that direction.
They’ll just have to wait out the rain and pray that Osamu and Gin have taken care of the rest of their stuff.
Stepping out of the storm, the difference is jarring in its physicality, as if someone's settled a pair of noise-cancelling headphones over Atsumu's ears.
Suna sprawls onto the bench and leans back on one hand, panting, his other hand raking through his wet hair to slick it back, exposing the smooth, white skin of his forehead. The watery light sliding in through the plastic enclosure gives him a wan sort of shifting glow, pale fish tank-green.
Atsumu takes a moment to stare before remembering himself, shoving Suna to the side to make room. He settles in close, the slide of wet fabric against wet fabric against wet skin uncomfortable, and leans his head back against the walls as he tries to catch his breath.
“Well this sucks,” Atsumu laments. “And after we went through all the trouble of planning.”
“Did you seriously not look at the weather beforehand?”
“Hey, I don’t remember you sayin' anything either!”
“Yeah, well, this wasn’t my idea, was it?” Suna snips back, but there’s an amused smile on his face, and then he’s leaning in and reaching a hand up to brush back the wet strands of hair clinging to Atsumu’s forehead. “You look like someone tried to drown you.”
Like this, Suna’s eyes, dark-lashed and magnetic even in the dim light, are unbearably close, and when he blinks, beads of water fall from the dewy edges of his eyelashes and scatter, infinitesimal, onto Atsumu’s skin, like the spray of a wave breaking against shore.
The rain drums against the overhead shielding in a steady pattern, the sound like glass marbles rattling around in a soda can, and the world outside is flooding, the roads turning into muddy, twisting rivers.
Atsumu holds his breath as he watches Suna’s eyes drag across his face, before they settle, his expression stilling.
Suna’s hand drops, then, to brush at the high of Atsumu’s cheekbone, briefly over a scrape, and then at Atsumu’s jaw and the tender yellowing bruise, poorly hidden by a thin layer of concealer, there. His touch flutters as if uncertain before he presses down, hard enough that Atsumu winces, breath hissing out between his teeth.
“You’re still doing it,” Suna says, not a question, and there’s something like disapproval glimmering behind his otherwise impassive face. After a moment, his fingers leave, and Atsumu finds himself missing them, despite.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, not knowing what else to say. Not that there is anything else he can say, really.
“That’s stupid,” Suna states flatly and turns away from him. His elbows settle on his knees and he stares unseeingly at a single droplet as it tracks its way down the metal pole and sinks into the muddying soil at the base.
“You would know,” Atsumu throws back hotly, but all it takes is one look at the younger’s blank expression, and the anger seeps out of him. It’s no fun fighting people that don’t want to fight back.
He reaches out to pull at Suna’s hand, and tugs it into his lap, as if that would be enough of an apology. His thumb traces over the other’s pinky, crooked from never having set right, over the thickened skin of his knuckles, skin that’s been ripped open and scabbed over again and again, until it’ll never heal normal again. Hands like his own.
Atsumu turns, then, so he’s sitting sideways on the bench, and intertwines their fingers together, palm to palm, calluses to calluses, and Suna’s hand fits warm and dry in his.
Now or never. He’ll regret it if he never says it.
“Hey,” he says, nudging at Suna, and Suna frowns but looks anyway. “I have something to say, okay?” Suna watches him, gaze piercing, and it’s only after he gives a short nod that Atsumu continues.
“I like you,” he says, and it’s a simple thing, simple because he’s always known, and he’s been ready for a long time now. It had only been a matter of finding the right time to say it, and with graduation long past and the future fast approaching and glimmering low on the horizon, it seems that time will no longer wait.
Suna reacts much the way Atsumu had expected him to, with a derisive little wrinkling of his nose. His mouth is curved up at the corners faintly, giving nothing away, but his hand tightens reflexively on Atsumu’s, and Atsumu holds on firm in response.
"Is this your way of distracting me? Pretty shitty try, but I'll give ten out of ten for effort."
“Hey, come on, Rin.” He lets go, only to cup Suna’s face between his hands. “Seriously.” There’s no way Suna didn’t already know, and when he looks into the other’s eyes, his suspicions are confirmed. There’s no surprise.
“You’re always so dramatic about everything,” Suna says, pinking a little now, and his skin is warm beneath Atsumu's palms.
He scoffs. “You can hardly call this dramatic. And how am I s’posed to make sure you’re listening otherwise?”
Suna rolls his eyes but doesn’t counter.
“Okay. Odd timing, but okay,” He says instead and wets his lips, a flicker there and then gone, and it’s the only sign that he’s affected, that his careful calm has been knocked slightly off-balance. Atsumu files it away into the corner of his mind, pleased by the sight.
"I was gonna tell you tonight, no matter what, y'know? I had it all planned and everything. Under the stars, to the sound of ocean waves, and you would've fallen in love with me in an instant."
There's an amused glitter in Suna's eyes. "In front of Osamu and Gin? Very romantic."
"Would've waited until they fell asleep, obviously."
"And then woken me out of my beauty sleep to tell me this."
Atsumu laughs, a wry grin pulling at his lips. "Exactly, see? You get it."
"Alright." Suna rolls his eyes, but it's fond, and then he's holding Atsumu's gaze, expression serious. “Do you want my response? I can tell you now.”
And, actually, Atsumu hadn’t thought that far ahead, and now the nerves that had previously been absent surge back in. He flushes, a little overwhelmed, but after a short deliberation, his next words are resolute. “No.”
Suna’s eyes widen, surprised now, and his lips part. “No?” he repeats, the space between his eyebrows furrowing. “You don’t want to know?”
“No,” Atsumu says again, and now he’s certain of his choice. “Don’t tell me. And because I never asked you, you can’t reject me. So,” he inhales, feeling like there’s not enough air in his lungs, like there’ll never be enough when he’s this close to Suna, like he really is drowning in all the rain falling around them. “So please let me continue to like you.”
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Atsumu accepts a towel from some guy he recognizes from his General Chemistry lecture, and he brings it up to rub at his damp bangs, waving away someone else trying to hand him a drink.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says. “Gonna head out and get some air. Probably gonna turn in for the night.” The others groan good-naturedly, but they let him leave with a couple of shoulder-pats that have him hiding a wince.
The stairwell is quiet except for him and the faint metallic pinging his steps make as he climbs the tin stairs. When he pushes open the heavy door at the top, he’s greeted by a light drizzle, the raindrops catching light in the dull yellow glow of the streetlamp at the front of the building.
There’s someone standing next to the lamp, and Atsumu feels his heart rate pick up all over again.
He hurries over, tilting his head to peer into the other’s face, and Suna looks up, eyes widening.
“Hey.” He straightens, backing away a little to give the younger room, and steadies his voice to hide his surprise. “You came.” He tries smiling but stops with a wince as his fat lip splits and the salty tang of blood gathers at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, fuck,” he brings a finger up to gingerly prod at it, hissing at the tenderness and then wiping the blood off on the white of his shirt.
“You asked me to,” Suna replies. He’s standing further apart now, arms crossed in a way that closes his body off.
Atsumu licks his lips, nervous suddenly, and waits but the other doesn’t continue. A hundred small mistakes tonight, and well, they start to pile up. His leaking faucet has become an ocean.
“We should,” he clears his throat. “Should head in. Out of the rain. Do you wanna come up?” To his room.
Suna looks at him quietly, and Atsumu can feel the way the other’s gaze lingers on his busted lip.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Just for a while.”
Atsumu’s dorm is only a short walk away from where they are, but even so, when they finally reach his room, the rain has soaked through their clothes. It’s a single, luckily enough, but even so, the room is small and cramped for two boys their size.
Despite Suna’s protests, Atsumu convinces him to change out of his wet clothes and put on a pair of Atsumu’s shorts as well as an old tee. He thanks every single one of his lucky stars that he’d finally decided to do laundry just the day before.
Changing in such close proximity is nothing new for them, not after having been teammates on the volleyball team all throughout high school, but still, although Atsumu keeps his eyes carefully averted, he can’t help but listen for the quiet whisper of cloth on skin, the muffled sound as clothes fall to the floor.
He shakes his head, focuses on shucking off his own drenched sweatpants and pulling on a cotton shirt that smells faintly of fabric softener.
Before he can overthink about what to do next, Suna speaks again.
“You should get that cleaned up.” Atsumu turns around, and Suna gestures to his mouth. “You look like shit.” His mouth quirks up. “More than you usually do, and that’s really saying something.”
“You wanna play my nurse?” Atsumu jokes, and he’s rewarded with an ugly snort from the other before Suna throws himself onto Atsumu’s bed without answering. It unravels the tension a little, and he reaches under his desk to take out his first-aid kit. His ribs twinge a little as he does this, and when he stands, he’s careful to hold back any groans. When he looks back at the other, he’s relieved to find Suna not paying attention, eyes on the posters taped to his walls instead.
He settles on the bed as well and places the kit between the two of them, nudging it closer toward the other. He hadn’t really been kidding about wanting Suna to take care of him, even if it kind of hurts his pride that the other had watched him lose. Suna's familiar enough with these kinds of injuries, anyway, has treated them on Atsumu, on himself, dozens of times before, enough that ignoring the time that's passed, Atsumu can almost pretend everything is back to normal.
With Suna, it's about the vulnerability, a little bit. Laying himself open and letting Suna pick through his bones to find what's safe so maybe one day the other will trust enough to do the same. I'll give you my everything, so just let me have a little of you.
Suna rolls his eyes but picks up a small antiseptic pad and rips it open with his teeth. He pulls Atsumu in by the neck to dab at the outside of his lip, his touch firm even as Atsumu winces at the burn.
“Ow,” Atsumu moans but doesn’t try to move away. “You tryna kill me or somethin’?”
“Suck it up, you big baby,” Suna answers, unrepentant. Once he’s satisfied that he’s cleaned up the broken skin around the wound as best he can, he thumbs at the swell of Atsumu’s lip, pulling it lower to reveal his teeth and gums. His face goes pinched. “You cut yourself on your teeth, dumbass.” His fingers slip from Atsumu’s mouth, and his lip snaps back with a soft smack. "What's the point in having a face like yours if you're just gonna get your teeth knocked out sooner or later?"
"Aww, Suna, if ya think I'm hot, just say that."
Suna ignores him. “Do you have ice anywhere?”
Atsumu points at the mini fridge he has in the corner of his room, and Suna gets up to steal a shirt off his dresser and wrap it around a gel ice pack he finds on the top shelf. When he sits back down on the bed, Atsumu crawls over to settle his head on the other’s lap, staring up brazenly.
Suna sets the cold compress on his mouth unceremoniously, dropping it on his face without care, but he doesn’t push him off, so Atsumu holds back his complaint. He’ll take what he can get.
He reaches a hand up to hold the ice pack in place as Suna leans back on his hands with a long sigh, head tilted back against the wall as he stares at the ceiling.
Atsumu traces the long line of his throat with his eyes.
“You really haven’t changed at all,” Suna says finally, and it sounds resigned. From this angle, Atsumu can see the faint white scar on his chin and how it runs jagged up the side of his jaw, like the vein of a leaf. He reaches up to brush a light finger against it, but Suna takes hold of his hand a second later to pull it away. He intertwines their fingers briefly before setting Atsumu’s hand down on the bed sheets.
Absently, Suna brings his hand to the ice pack again, adjusting it. “It’s late. I should head back.”
“You could stay the night?” Atsumu says, and it comes out too hopeful and too tentative.
“I’d better not.” The slant of Suna’s mouth is crooked. He brings a hand up to card through his bangs, and they stick up in dark tufts even after his fingers leave, making him look younger than he really is, like the first time Atsumu saw him from across the volleyball court, only fifteen, all scraped knees and sharp elbows (the soft curve of his cheek, the shape his mouth made when he laughed). His own loud voice calling out to the other to introduce himself, the responding sulk and glare.
His hand drops back down onto the mattress, fingertips just brushing Atsumu’s pinky, but before Atsumu can even think to reach out, Suna curls his hand into a fist and away.
Somewhere in his room, Atsumu’s phone vibrates from a notification.
After a while, Suna speaks again, and his tone is casual, light like any heavier and it might break under the pressure. “Do you remember when I asked if you wanted to hear my response?”
Atsumu doesn’t have to ask to know what the other is talking about, the memory well-worn and cherished, a film reel he can wind back with perfect clarity. He nods, throat dry.
“I would have lied and told you I didn't feel the same way.” He says it so simply, the same natural way Atsumu had confessed, all those months ago. Because it is a confession, although it takes Atsumu a second to realize this. Another second to realize what it means, for Suna to say it in this way.
“I’m not going to ask you to stop, Atsumu. It wouldn’t make a difference, would it?” Suna’s voice is sobering, like a bucket of water down his back. Arrests the world where they are, to balance at the tip of a needle. “I mean, it’s not like you don’t already know how I feel.”
The thing is, Atsumu doesn’t know how to stop. It’s not something he can just walk away from, not the way Suna did. If Suna asked him to, he might have tried, but Suna would never do that anyway.
He’s not sure why he called Suna over tonight to begin with, when he knew he hated scenes like this, just knew that missing him was like a toothache that wouldn't go away, knew that he had Suna's number right there in his phone.
It’s hard to feel bad even now, not when he has Suna under him, warm and solid and real. Not when adrenaline from the fight is still simmering in his veins. It's a high like no other, and regret comes too little and too late.
“But that’s your choice. It doesn’t mean I have to watch you continue to do this. You understand that, don't you?" Suna looks down at him, and his face is so open, Atsumu has to close his eyes because it isn't something he's meant to see. "So, when I walk out that door, I’m not coming back.” He delivers the blow softly, gentle in the way he doesn’t mince his words, but still, the finality of it hurts more than anything Atsumu’s ever been dealt.
His voice wavers just the tiniest bit, impossible to notice for anyone not searching for it, but Atsumu has never missed a thing when it comes to Suna.
Suna, impassive and apathetic as he is, still crumbles where Atsumu’s fingertips touch.
There’s not really a response to this. Atsumu had seen this coming a mile away, not that it deadens the pain any.
He sits up, ignoring the dizziness that follows, and sets the ice pack down on the bed. It’s a skill, too, to know when to stop fighting. "No changing your mind then?" A rhetorical question, but he has to ask. “Okay,” he says. Leans in to press Suna into the wall to kiss him on the jaw, right over that thin pale line. “I won’t keep you.”
When he wakes up the next morning, he’s free of even the last dregs of a hangover, and it’s to the sound of birds outside his window and golden planes of sunlight slanting through the curtains. There's a soreness to his chest that tells of yesterday's bruises, healing now.