Archive of Our Own ^beta

Growing up, Atsumu Miya loved only volleyball, his family, and flowers, and he was content with that.

Loving his family had always been a given, volleyball helped him make sense of himself and find happiness, and flowers, well, they’ve had a special place in his heart since he can remember, running around the garden as a child and picking them from the ground to give to his aunt. In their first year of high school, Osamu had rolled his eyes at him and said, ‘if you’re so obsessed with ‘em, go work for auntie,' so that’s exactly what he did, spending most of his time outside of practice at her flower shop in town or tormenting his brother and Aran.

Ayaka taught him about the language of flowers, showed him the joy of giving people the perfect bouquet, helped him learn about the beauty of a single flower to huge arrangements which could light up any room, and even when he left Hyogo for Osaka to play for the MSBY Black Jackals, she asked that he promise to keep that love close to his heart. So, he did.

Atsumu knows that without flowers, he wouldn’t be the same person that he is now.

When Atsumu walks into the locker room the first day back after their holiday break – which he had spent in Hyogo with his family and in his aunt’s flower shop – Bokuto and Shoyo are already chatting excitedly, loud and happy as the latter relays his time away from Japan. Just seeing them surrounds him in warmth. He hadn’t realised how much he missed them; he’s gotten so used to being around their bright energy. Coming back feels like stepping into the sun, like he was a sunflower at night waiting for the morning to return.

“Morning!” he shouts, tossing his bag onto the bench in front of his locker. Out the corner of his eye, he can see Sakusa already looking tired, and he snickers. “Omi-Omi! How was your holiday? You’re lookin’ as grumpy as ever!” He still looks pretty, though. He always does. Atsumu thinks that if Sakusa were a flower, he would be an orchid: something that represents a rare beauty, delicate and sometimes difficult to look after if you don’t know what you’re doing, but beautiful, nonetheless.

That, or he would be some type of cactus.

He glares at him. “You look as annoying as ever, Miya.”

He grins, not at all deterred by the insult, and presses a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Omi-kun.”

It’s good to see him, too.

“Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto yells, bounding over and picking him up in a hug just as he was about to start getting changed. Atsumu laughs, hugging him back, and flashes a smile at Sakusa who watches them with narrowed eyes; he wonders what expression he would wear if Bokuto picked him up too.

“Hey Bokkun,” he says, wrapping Shoyo in a gentler hug after he’s escaped his hold. “How was Akaashi? It’s been a while since ya last saw him, huh?”

Bokuto deflates, his hair sagging along with the rest of his body, a flower wilting in the deadly sun after hours without water. “Well… we were supposed to go to my cousin’s wedding in the countryside, but he had to cancel ‘cuz he had a super important deadline coming up and is like, super swamped with work.”

Atsumu frowns; it’s been over a month since they last saw each other. “For real? That sucks, man.”

Bokuto nods frantically. “Right?! And he feels really bad about it even though he’s really stressed, but it’s not his fault. I was gonna send him a gift to make him feel better, but I can’t figure out what he would like.”

Shoyo nods sagely as they speak. “I said he should send him roses. Those are romantic, right?”

Cliché. “Red roses’re kinda overdone, though, so not them. You should send ‘im something more personal, like a bouquet,” he says, pulling his gym shirt and shorts out of his bag.

Bokuto hums, pretending to stroke a long, invisible beard. “So, a bouquet of different coloured roses? Instead of just red ones?”

Atsumu laughs and shakes his head. “I mean, you could, but I meant one with a more specific message.” He waves a hand in the air. “Y’know, using the language of flowers.”

“Language of flowers?” Shoyo asks, tilting his head with confusion written across his features.

Atsumu would be lying if he said he’s not disgusted; how can he not know about the flower language? “Like, y’know… how different flowers have different meanings and stuff,” he explains.

“How eloquent, Miya,” Sakusa comments from beside him, tying up his laces. Atsumu sticks his tongue out at him, then turns back to the others.

“So, like, what d’ya wanna say? You miss him, you’re not angry, you love him?” he asks, mind already running through what could go in the bouquet; he’s always loved making up the perfect arrangement for someone.

“Yeah!” Bokuto nods, eyes holding a sense of wonder.

“Okay… well, white camellias’ll show your affection and adoration, and pink ones’ll show longing, to be like, hey I miss you.” He sits on the bench next to his bag and looks up at the ceiling, trying to sort through the knowledge running through his brain. “Amaryllis is usually given to people who you think’re, like, stunning, but they also show that ya value them for more than their beauty; if you can get the pink and white ones, they’ll mix nice with the others, too. Oh! And if you add some alchemilla mollis in there too, that’ll compliment the arrangement real nice – they’re good at showin’ you’re looking out for someone. That’s a lot to remember, so I can write it down for you if you wanna find a flower shop near Akaashi that’ll make it.”

He turns back to Bokuto and the smile on his face falls slightly, him and Shoyo are staring at him with their mouths dropped open. A look at Sakusa shows him that even he is frozen in place. His eyes shoot back to stare at his shoes, feeling his face heat up in embarrassment; he didn’t mean to spurt out a bunch of information like that.

A couple seconds pass in which his face gradually turns redder before Shoyo speaks up. “Woah! Atsumu-san, that’s so cool! How do you know so much about flowers?”

Bokuto nods, having now perked up from his previous slouch. “Yeah, how’ve I known you for so long and never heard about this?”

Atsumu laughs, too awkward, and rubs the back of his neck; he’s never really talked to people other than Osamu and his aunt about the topic. He turns to Sakusa, hoping that maybe he’ll be able to save him from this, but he only looks back at him with intrigue. “Well, uh, my aunt back home has a flower shop, and I used to help out and work there. I usually spend a bunch of time there when I’m back home, too.” He shrugs. “I don’t really talk about it much. People don’t think it’s that interesting, I guess.” It probably seems out of character for him to have interests other than volleyball and eating.

“No way! You’re like, an expert,” Shoyo says, and Atsumu can’t help the grin that spreads on his face, cheeks still warm.

“Yeah, that’s really cool! Can you make bouquets?” Bokuto asks, leaning forward and practically vibrating on the spot.

“Well, yeah, but they’d get destroyed before they got to Akaashi, so you should just find somewhere in Tokyo to make it.” It would be pretty cool if he could show his teammates his skills one day, though. He never properly speaks to anyone about his interests: usually his conversation topics consist of stories and movie recommendations.

“Aw yeah… maybe you could help me when he comes here next time though.” It’s… nice, to see someone so excited about something Atsumu loves so much.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Bokuto and Shoyo grin, then head back over to their bags to get changed when Meian, Thomas and Inunaki walk in, greeting them all and asking how their holidays were. While Shoyo busies them with stories of his trip to Brazil, Atsumu gets into his gym clothes, trying to ignore the stare boring into his side until he’s fully dressed.

“Y’know, Omi-kun, if you wanna compliment my physique, you can just say it!” he says, turning to face the man still looking at him like he’s a puzzle or something.

He scoffs. “What is there to compliment, Miya?”

Ouch. That actually hurts a little. Atsumu takes a lot of care with his body, keeping clean – maybe not as much as Sakusa, but really, is anyone as clean as him? – and working out regularly, even outside of practice. He even tries his best to eat healthy, despite sometimes getting carried away with too many instant noodles or chocolate bars or popcorn. He knows he’s only teasing, really, but damn. He was crowned the second most attractive on the team by the fans for a reason – which, by the way, he’s still salty about Sakusa getting first place, even if he agrees.

“How rude, Omi-Omi! I can’t believe ya’d treat a teammate like this! And a friend, too!” he sighs, overdramatic, slumping back onto the bench. “Do ya treat Komori like this? No wonder I’ve not seen him for a while.”

Sakusa rolls his eyes and pulls on his t-shirt, his hair bouncing slightly with the movement. “You haven’t seen him because he lives in Tokyo. And I would say you’re more of an annoyance than a friend.”

Atsumu laughs, because he knows he’s lying. Also, just to annoy him further. “You’re really breakin’ my heart today, you know.”

“Hmm… maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.”

Damn, this bitch.

Sometimes, Atsumu likes watching his team play during practice from the bench; it gives him a new perspective on their playing style and what he could do to enhance their skills and bring out the best in them. For example, sitting here and taking a swig from his water bottle, he notices the way Sakusa’s hair occasionally gets in his eyes when he jumps to spike the ball, huffing when he lands and pushing it back, or the way Sakusa twist his wrists around in a circle when he gets in a particularly good play – if Atsumu tried that himself he would probably break them. He also takes notice of how Sakusa holds back from touching anything other than the ball, including himself – other than his hair – and glares at Bokuto when he high fives the air in front of him as if imagining a hand hitting his own.

Atsumu likes how when Sakusa whips around to look at him, scolding him for slacking and telling him to get back on the court, his hair messes up a little with the movement, and when Hinata says something – he doesn’t hear what – his eyebrow raises and the two moles above it get hidden behind black, shiny waves. He’s like a black orchid. A rare, unique beauty, mysterious and hiding other colours beneath his surface that you can only find if you look close enough. Atsumu thinks those other colours must be just as fascinating.

“Atsumu-san! Are you okay?” Shoyo asks, bounding over to him.

“Sure am, just got distracted is all,” he replies, not taking his eyes off Sakusa and watching him walk over with a suspicious look in his eye. Atsumu wonders if he caught him staring; it’s not like he was trying to hide it.

“You better not be sick. I don’t want to see you at practice if you are.” He wipes his hands and face on the towel sitting on the bench, then takes a few gulps of water. He follows the bob of his Adam’s apple with his eyes.

Atsumu grins. “Aww, Omi-kun, do ya care about me? I knew it was only a matter of time before you’d admit it!”

He rolls his eyes. “I just don’t want you spreading your germs around the gym. Plus, I would rather spike your sets than Hinata’s: they’re better to hit.”

Atsumu’s heart skips a beat; he already knew Sakusa liked his sets, everyone does, but he’s never actually admitted it out loud.

“Hey! My sets aren’t that bad, are they?” Shoyo cries, head and eyes snapping between the two of them. “Right? I worked really hard to improve them!”

“Your sets are good, Hinata, but you’re a spiker. Miya has far more knowledge and experience in the position than you, so—”

He interrupts with a lazy smile, leaning forward. “Oh, Omi-kun, I’ve got experience in a bunch of positions.” He winks.

Sakusa narrows his eyes and takes a step back, like he’s a parasite that needs to be set on fire or something. Atsumu doesn’t know how you get rid of parasites.

“You know what? I was about to say you’re a lot better than Hinata, but I’ve decided I would prefer him, setting skills be damned.” A lot better? Damn.

Atsumu might just be on the verge of a heart attack. He chokes on the words and coughs into his hand a few times, trying get rid of the weird tingling sensation that’s started up in the back of his throat. It doesn’t go away until he takes another drink of his water.

Sakusa instantly steps back again and scowls at him. “Go home if you’re sick.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m fine, Omi-kun, just not used to hearing you say such nice things about me. You really do like me!”

He doesn’t respond to that, instead choosing to let out a quiet groan, walking back to where Bokuto and Inunaki are talking by the net.

Atsumu spends the rest of the day thinking about that interaction, about Sakusa in general. It’s not like his crush on him is new or anything, it’s just that the thoughts have been way more prominent today. Maybe it’s just how nice he looked, though he looks nice every day, so maybe not, or maybe it’s the way he looked at him when they were talking about flowers in the locker room, like he actually cared about what he had to say. It could even be the fact that he acknowledged how much work Atsumu’s put into volleyball, even having said out loud that he is good at what he does. Which, yeah, he knew already, but it’s always nice when someone else points it out.

But really, that’s all it is, just a dumb crush that has existed, at least a very tiny bit, since the All-Youth Training Camp in high school. So, he doesn’t know why his thoughts are so focused on him today.

Atsumu spends so much time laying on his bed, mind swimming around the topic of Sakusa, that he doesn’t even realise the lump in his throat rising until he’s been coughing into his hand for almost ten seconds and his chest stings a little. He clutches onto the material of his shirt, other hand over his mouth, and tries to force out a chestier cough, tries to get rid of that feeling of… something stuck in his throat.

And then it stops, and his throat and chest kind of hurt a little, and he can feel something in his hand. He freezes.

Slowly, he brings his hand away from his mouth and looks down at his palm. In it, sits one lone dark purple, almost black, orchid petal. Fuck.

Atsumu has only ever known one person with hanahaki disease: a boy in his class in third year, someone he didn’t talk to much, but never forgot his name. He didn’t live to tell the story to anyone else.

Atsumu can’t be in love with Sakusa. He just can’t. It doesn’t make sense. Sure, a little crush on him, yeah, that’s fine, Sakusa is one of the most beautiful people in the world after all, but love? There’s no way. There’s just no way. Atsumu doesn’t fall in love. Atsumu doesn’t have long lasting relationships. Atsumu doesn’t have anything beyond a few hook-ups, maybe a couple dates. Atsumu doesn’t fall in love with people. Especially not his fucking teammate. He must have just swallowed a petal on his walk home and is finally throwing it up. It has to be a coincidence. Atsumu cannot fall in love, no matter how jealous he is of the relationships around him, or how, up until his third year, he yearned to find his soulmate. He couldn’t risk it.

After he caught Ren Setsushi in the classroom, vomiting petals into the bin and sobbing, after Atsumu convinced him to get the surgery because it had to be better than just living in pain like that, after Atsumu heard he had died… well, he swore that would never happen to him. He wouldn’t lose his entire life, everything he loved, for a person who didn’t want him back, and he most certainly would never let someone else see him like that. He swore that to himself. He promised.

Atsumu doesn’t love people, and they don’t love him back. That’s how things have always been. That’s how they were supposed to stay. But now. Now, Atsumu loves someone and it’s out of his control and they don’t love him back, because they were never supposed to. Apparently Sakusa’s better at sticking to the script than Atsumu is.

Atsumu goes to practice the next day with the decision that no one needs to know about his new recently developed lovesickness. He’ll get over it easy enough, and then everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to think about surgery or dying or anything, because he will get over it, and then he will never fall in love again. It’s a fool-proof plan, really. Except that it’s not, which he realises when he walks into the locker room, sees Sakusa’s shirtless back scattered with tiny moles that look like stars, and promptly reverses right back out the door and starts coughing.

“Tsum-Tsum, is that you?” Bokuto’s voice comes from inside and he can hear footsteps coming towards the door. Atsumu frantically looks around for a bin, then remembers there’s one literally right beside him – he can practically hear Osamu calling him an idiot – and throws the wet petal in just as Bokuto appears in the doorway, also shirtless. Atsumu does not react the same way. Not because Bokuto isn’t attractive – Atsumu has no problem admitting that everyone on the team definitely is – but because he isn’t Sakusa and Atsumu isn’t in love with him.

“Hey Bokkun! Ya realise you’re not wearing a shirt, right? Can’t go to practice looking like that,” he laughs, pushing past him and putting his bag on the bench beside Sakusa as usual. He doesn’t look at him until he’s sure he’s fully dressed. “Mornin’ Shoyo, Omi-kun.”

“Don’t come near me if you’re sick,” Sakusa warns, tilting away from him slightly to put more space between them.

“’M not sick! Just thought of somethin’ funny all of a sudden and it caught me off guard, that’s all.” He looks up and is met with Sakusa squirting some hand sanitiser into his palm, even though he’s not touched Atsumu or anything that he’s touched. He almost feels bad for making him anxious, though he knows it’s not exactly in his control. Gods, he can already tell this isn’t going to go well.

The day passes with only a couple more petals, and Atsumu decides he’s already gotten over it; his chest doesn’t even hurt. By the time he gets to practice the next evening, he’s only coughed up 12 petals since the first one; if anyone were going to beat hanahaki this quick, of course it would be him.

When he gets to the locker room, Inunaki greets him, saying that the others are already in the gym, so Atsumu talks with him while they both change, laughing about his recent trip to the beach with some friends outside of volleyball. Atsumu doesn’t think he really has any friends outside of volleyball other than Osamu or Kita – do Suna and Aran count when they play it too? He never really cared about making friends with people who aren’t as interested in the sport as he is.

The two of them walk into the gym together, Inunaki walking off to stretch with Meian, and Atsumu catches Sakusa scowling at him already. His throat tickles a little, but he doesn’t even cough!

“Omi-Omi, you’re looking happy today,” he hums, beginning his stretches. He rolls his eyes at him and holds out a tube of… sweets?

“Uhh, what’re these?”

“Throat lozenges. You coughed several times in practice yesterday,” he says, tossing the tube into his hands. “You’re lucky that you aren’t displaying any other symptoms of sickness, though.”

Atsumu stares up at him, but he’s already walking away towards Hinata who’s started yelling about practising receives. He… bought him cough sweets? Sakusa Kiyoomi bought Miya Atsumu cough sweets because he thinks he’s sick? Atsumu’s hand flies to his mouth, unable to stop himself from choking, and fiddles with the pack of lozenges to throw one in his mouth, just in case it actually will help. He turns away from everyone else and opens his palm. Three petals. Well, scratch that whole I’ve beaten hanahaki’s ass thing, because it turns out Sakusa has a heart. Holy shit.

He quickly stuffs the petals in his pocket, but when he turns around again, Sakusa ties his hair up in a ponytail, and Atsumu, on an impulse, puts another lozenge in his mouth – it seems he’s found the solution to his hair constantly getting in his eyes, then. Sakusa raises his right eyebrow, teasing, and Atsumu has to hold his breath, forcing down a cough. It’s like he’s become Sakusa-obsessed; he even briefly wonders if he’s figured out Atsumu’s got hanahaki and has just decided to kill him faster. He wouldn’t be surprised.

Getting home from practice is a relief and Atsumu finds his lungs – or is that his heart? – hurting a little less. He takes a bath, puts some instant noodles in the microwave, and walks around the apartment watering each of his plants. The splashes of green put him at ease. Green means happiness and healing. Green means good.

He remembers being 17, sitting in Auntie Ayaka’s shop, staring straight at the wall, angry and confused and upset after Osamu told him that he didn’t want to play volleyball competitively after graduation. He hadn’t understood at the time – they were the Miya Twins, they were supposed to do everything together and play volleyball together for as long as they could. They were even supposed to die together. He felt betrayed. He felt left behind. Ayaka had sat beside him on the floor and held out a pot of lucky bamboo, bright green and healthy. She told him that things would get better, that they would forgive each other, that Atsumu’s life would be lucky. As long as he kept that plant around, bad and evil forces would stay away from him.

He looks up at it now, sitting by the window in his bedroom, tall and proud. He kept it around, so why does he have hanahaki? Why has he been given the worst luck imaginable? Atsumu did what he was told, he looked after the bamboo – and his other plants – as best he could. He likes taking care of plants and flowers: they’ve always made him feel safer, in a strange way.

Whenever he felt like he had no control over a situation, like when Osamu had announced that he would be leaving Atsumu all alone in the big world of competitive sports, he focused on his plants and keeping them alive, on the lucky bamboo Ayaka had just given him. He felt less alone, tending to his plants while watching the stars outside his window and telling himself that he was one of them; it was Osamu’s loss that he had decided not to be.

Ayaka had told him that plants and flowers are beautiful and bright and kind, yet they need a lot of care, love, and attention; being too afraid to ask for that himself, he gave it to them, because if they were okay, then he was okay.

But now, his plants are still happy and healthy, but Atsumu isn’t. Now, he’s still taking care of them, yet he doesn’t feel in control at all.

He groans, letting his head hit the back of his bed frame, and looks back at his phone, refreshing his Instagram feed. He needs a distraction, something to think about other than stupid hanahaki and stupid plants that don’t fulfil their purpose and stupid Saku— oh my Gods. He sits up straight, eyes wide, and stares at the photo in front of him. There Sakusa sits, a bright smile on his face, one Atsumu has never seen on him before, with a small dog jumping up at him, under Komori’s username. Of course he posted it: Sakusa would never even think about sharing something like that on his own feed.

@MotoyaKomori: The new puppy likes Kiyoomi! I’d say this is a fat W for us.

Atsumu’s hand flies to his mouth. He thinks he might be sick.

He shoots to the bathroom and just as he falls to the floor in front of the toilet, the coughs start bubbling out, unable to control them. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling tears prick at them, and squeezes a fist in his hair, his body retching as he feels petals fall from his mouth into the toilet. They won’t stop. Gods, why is this going on for so long? He can barely breathe.

His hand moves to fist at his shirt instead, as if that will stop the pain building up in his chest and throat, and tries to cough heavier, attempts to get the last of the petals out so that it will stop. His hands shake. His vision swims a little. His body feels cold but sweaty. When he finally pulls away, the toilet is full of almost black petals. He crawls away, rests his head against the wall, and pulls out his phone. His head hurts so much.

The phone rings three times, then picks up.

“’Tsumu what the fuck, it’s one fuckin’ a.m.” Osamu. He sounds pissed, the asshole. What if Atsumu were in real danger?

“’Samu, I…” he swallows, his throat too dry – maybe from the anxiety, maybe from the three or four minutes of straight up spewing orchid petals – and runs a hand over his face; it comes off wet. Should he say? He doesn’t want to worry him. It’s only been a few days. He can get over it. He’ll be fine. Why did he even call him?

“The fuck happened? Ya sound like shit.”

Then again, if he doesn’t tell him, Osamu will probably strangle him when he ultimately finds out. He’ll be angry anyway that he’s only finding out about this now, even though he would probably do the same thing if he had ever gotten hanahaki.

Atsumu heaves in a heavy breath, readying himself. Rip it off like a band aid, right? “Okay, so, I kinda have hanahaki? Maybe? Definitely?” Good job, me.

There’s silence on the other end of the line. A beat. Two beats. Atsumu’s gut twists.

“Y’know, it’s funny, ‘cuz at first I thought I just swallowed a petal on the way home, but—”

“How long?” He can’t pick an emotion out of his tone.

“Huh?”

“How long have you had it?” he presses, a little concern leaking in.

“Aw ‘Samu, it’s so nice to see ya looking out for me,” he teases, pulling a dirty jumper from his laundry hamper over his arms and neck. He’s freezing.

“Shut the fuck up and tell me Atsumu.”

He groans, then peers down at the floor. There’s a stray petal that escaped the toilet basin; it’s upsetting how much he despises it. He used to love orchids. “Three days. I was gonna just get over it, but… I just had a full-on coughing fit.”

There’s shuffling from the phone, then a groan. “Why didn’t you tell anyone sooner, idiot?”

Atsumu picks at a ball of fluff at the bottom of his sweatpants, a familiar twinge in his heart. “I… didn’t want to get kicked off the team. Or worse, get made a second-string.”

“How is that worse?!” Osamu yells, incredulous.

“Well, if I get kicked off, people’ll think I’m a bad boy or somethin’—”

“Never say that again.”

“—but if I get made a second-string, they’ll think I’m shit. And I’m not shit.” He knows it’s a bad mentality to have, there are plenty of super talented second-string players, but it just makes him feel sick thinking about it.

The silence grows for a few more seconds and Atsumu thinks he’s going to make fun of his setting skills, but then another voice speaks up. “Who is it?”

Atsumu pulls away from his phone. “Sunarin? Since when were you fuckin’ listening?”

He can imagine him rolling his eyes. “Since you woke us up by calling at one in the morning. Who is it?”

He sighs, thinks of wavy black hair and dark, almost black eyes, blue as dark as the deep oceans and dark purple orchid petals. He coughs a couple more times before he can stop himself. He doesn’t think he has the energy to try, anyway.

“Omi-kun.”

Osamu lets out a short laugh. “Of fuckin’ course it is. You just had to fall in love with the guy who’s least likely to fall back in love with you, huh?” Ouch. That hurts.

“Right, well, just wanted to let ya know,” he mumbles, pissed off. He doesn’t want Sakusa to like him back anyway. If he does, it’ll just be harder to avoid his feelings and forget about them. Or, what if he can’t? It is Sakusa after all. The guy’s talented as fuck. And pretty as fuck.

He coughs again, then groans and rests his head back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. He wishes he hadn’t put the lights on. It’s too bright.

“I’m coming to Osaka,” Osamu says suddenly. “Rin, I’m goin’ to Osaka.”

Atsumu’s eyes open at that. “Wait wait wait, what? Why the fuck are you comin’ to Osaka? That’s like… three hours from Tokyo. It’s one a.m.”

“’Cause you’re obviously not takin’ proper care of yourself. I bet you’ve not even seen a doctor about it yet, ya fuckin’ moron.”

“Osamu, I don’t need you fucking babying me. I’m the older one here, if ya didn’t know,” he says, standing up and walking back to his room, just so he has something to do. Osamu can’t come here. If he does, people might ask questions, and he’ll have to face the fact that this isn’t going away anytime soon. Atsumu wants it to go away. He doesn’t want a doctor in his face, x-raying his lungs and telling him he’s sick and— Atsumu doesn’t want to be like Ren Setsushi. He doesn’t want love to kill him. Everyone else gets to be happy. Why not them?

“Only by six minutes, dumbfuck. I’m leaving in a couple minutes. Stay the fuck in bed and let me in when I get there.”

“Osamu—”

“Be there soon. Get some water.”

The line goes quiet.

Atsumu wakes up to a loud banging on the door, then a shouting of “’Tsumu open the fucking door or I swear to the Gods I’ll murder ya!” and he promptly falls off the bed. Fucking Osamu.

He pushes himself up, sighing, and presses a hand to his head. It hurts like hell.

“Shut up, I’m coming,” he yells, padding across the cold living room floor and opening the door. “Y’know I’ve got neighbours, right? Shoyo’s not gonna be happy with you wakin’ him up at half five in the morning.”

Osamu raises an eyebrow, like he’s telling Atsumu that he’s not that stupid. “First, I don’t think it’s possible for Hinata to get angry at anyone other than Kageyama and that blonde middle-blocker from his high school. Second, he just walked past me to go on his mornin’ jog, said he heard you coughing for almost five fucking minutes at one, hopes you’re okay.”

Goddammit. Atsumu grumbles random swears under his breath and opens the door wider, stepping aside so that Osamu can come in. He’s always been like this, violently caring, all sweary and angry when he’s worried the most. It’s why Atsumu didn’t want to tell him. Of course he would instantly start freaking out about the situation even though he totally has it under control.

“Go get a shower and get dressed. Then we’re goin’ to the doctor.”

Atsumu clenches his fists at his side. He doesn’t want to. “’Samu, I’m—”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not listening to someone who doesn’t know how to properly take care of themself.”

He glares at him for another few seconds, like it will stop him from being so forceful with his caring, but there’s no use. Osamu just hits him and pushes him into the bathroom.

Atsumu hates the doctor’s office. He always has, and he probably always will. Maybe it’s because the first time he visited one, his grandfather was dying and he and Osamu had to say goodbye, or maybe it’s because it smells like sickness and death, and sickness means no volleyball, and no volleyball means his life is over. Atsumu hates it here because now he’s one of the sick people and he could be scarring some other unsuspecting kid, just like that random old lady who can’t stop coughing in the back corner of the waiting room, and— wait. He’s doing that too. Gods.

“The fuck’re you bein’ so pissy for?” Osamu rolls his eyes, hands shoved into his pockets. He never really liked it either, but he’s always been better at controlling his emotions and not being over-dramatic. His eyes are practically locked on the old lady though, as if looking away will make him catch whatever she’s got.

“Just don’t wanna fuckin’ be here,” he mumbles. He knows he’s pouting, knows Osamu probably – definitely – thinks he’s being a baby, but he doesn’t care anymore. He whined all the way here, just to piss him off, and it’s working. Good. He forced him here without even trying to persuade him first.

“Shut it,” he says, nudging him with his elbow. “It won’t be that long, then you can go home and shower all the sick particles off you or whatever weird habits you’ve picked up from Sakusa.”

“You shut it. And don’t mock Omi. ‘S not his fault he doesn’t like germs.” Only Atsumu’s allowed to tease Sakusa: anyone else doing it feels like an attack on both of them and it doesn’t sit right with him. Throughout his time spent with Sakusa, he’s learned what jabs he can make, and which ones are too far. He’s learned how to manoeuvre around him – mostly, anyway – and how to tell if he’s comfortable or panicky. Atsumu knows him well. Sure, maybe not as well as he would like, but still, he’s done a lot of observing, a lot of playful bothering and bickering. He doesn’t like the expression that passes his face whenever someone makes a hurtful ‘joke’.

His hand flies up to his mouth and he coughs a few times, careful to hide any petals from sight: he can’t be the introduction to hanahaki for some little kid. He shoves them into his pocket and wipes his hand on his jeans. Osamu watches him, like he’s inspecting him and searching for signs and Atsumu doesn’t like being under his invisible microscope, being silently questioned, so he shuffles in his seat and turns away slightly.

It’s only a few minutes more before the doctor calls his name, and both of their heads whip towards a middle-aged lady standing in the doorframe leading to the consultation rooms. She smiles at them, and Atsumu forces himself to stand up – he probably shouldn’t embarrass himself by having Osamu drag him to the room. He just has to get this over with. There’s no running away now, huh?

A few months to a year to live, depending on how much strain he puts on his body. A year. 12 months. Probably less.

He can get the surgery, but it will remove all memories of Sakusa, and it only has a low success rate, so really, what’s the point? He’ll still most likely die unless he can either fall out of love in just a few months or get him to love him back.

A few months to a year.

He should refrain from strenuous exercise and spending too much time around Sakusa. I can’t, I’m a professional athlete, we’re on the same team. He should tell his other teammates and dial it back a bit, then.

A year.

He should try to get the surgery, that’s the best option, but he can have some time to think it over.

A few months.

Ren Setsushi in his third-year class only lived for three. Ren Setsushi in his third-year class didn’t make it through the surgery.

Atsumu and Osamu don’t speak on the bus ride back to his apartment.

Atsumu’s already decided to ignore all of the doctor’s orders. He can’t just stop playing volleyball. He can’t stop hanging out with Sakusa. He can’t forget all of his memories with him… not now. He just can’t. He— ugh. He knew the appointment would go that way. He fucking knew it.

Everyone always said that Atsumu was destined for great things, but it seems that he never gets them. Something always jumps in the way to break him down. It’s like he’s too busy admiring the flowers on a cactus to realise that its thorns are stabbing him in the side. Like he’s too busy inspecting dark purple, almost black, orchid petals, that he doesn’t pay attention to the growing amount he coughs up.

Osamu stays a few more days and tries his best to take care of Atsumu, who knows he’s being difficult, but won’t stop anyway. He wants him to think about the surgery, really think about it. Atsumu’s got some fantasy world made up in his head though where all of this just goes away; he just can’t figure out if, in the end, he gets over Sakusa, or if they fall in love and get to be happy. Not that Atsumu has ever had the happy ending he wanted.

When he goes back to practice after Osamu leaves – he was practically forced to stay in bed and let himself rest before going back full-swing – Atsumu acts like nothing happened. He acts like he didn’t wake up Shoyo at one a.m. with an endless string of coughing. He acts like he didn’t just skip three days of practice, only saying he had a bad cough that made it difficult to breathe. He acts like he has more than just a few months to a year to live. He acts like everything is fine, and that’s fine.

Every day, Atsumu holds it all in. He goes to practice, hangs out with the team, and he doesn’t let himself cough until he’s home and petals can safely fly out of his mouth for five or however many minutes, without anyone knowing. Sure, sometimes it gets really difficult to keep them all in, so he ends up running to the bathroom, and sure, he knows that doing so just means that when he gets home, he won’t be able to stop, but it’s the best course of action. They can’t know anything is wrong. They can’t make him second-string. They can’t kick him off the team. Plus, he knows that if Sakusa finds out he’s this sick, he won’t go anywhere near him. He doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable or anxious just because he can’t control himself.

And it’s fine. It’s really, honestly fine. Yeah, okay, so sometimes he goes into practice with a sore throat, and sometimes Osamu and Suna mention that he sounds like he’s losing his voice or that he looks tired when they visit or call, and Shoyo keeps hesitantly asking if he’s okay, but it’s fine. If it wasn’t fine, Atsumu would be laying on the floor, unable to move, unable to breathe. If it wasn’t fine, he would do something. But it is, so he doesn’t.

He’s always been pretty good at lying about how he feels, anyway.

Atsumu looks up from tying his shoes and shakes himself out of his thoughts when he hears running.

“Hey, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto yells, coming to a stop in front of him. His face is lit up with a bright smile as always.

“Bokkun, what can I do for ya?” he asks. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Shoyo bouncing up and down and watching them.

“Well… I wanted to tell you that Keiji really liked those flowers you helped me send the other month,” he grins, puffing out his chest. Atsumu feels a wave of affection run through him at that, partly because seeing his friend so happy makes him happy, and partly because he helped make another good bouquet. There’s always been something magical about that.

“That’s great! I’m glad it worked out,” he says, grabbing his bag and pulling it over his shoulder.

“A-And! He’s coming to visit next week, so I wanted to try making him a bouquet myself, y’know? So, I was gonna ask if you could help! Hinata wants to tag along too, and Sakkun wants to come so that he can make one for his mum’s birthday.”

Atsumu raises his eyebrows at that and turns to the glaring man behind him.

“I told you I would just buy one from the shop,” he mumbles, head twisting back to shoving his things in his gym bag, but he still keeps an eye on the two of them. Cute.

“Sure, we can! Ayaka has some friends around here, I think one of ‘em has a flower shop too,” he says, pulling his phone out and sending his aunt a text. “She’ll probably let me borrow it, since I’m such a delight.”

A noise from beside him, and he practically whips around to see Sakusa’s hand balled into a loose fist in front of his mouth. He laughed at him. Sakusa laughed at him. Sakusa laughed, smirked, whatever, at him. Holy shit. Holy fuck. Atsumu can count on less than one hand the amount of times he’s seen Sakusa Kiyoomi laugh. Or smile, even. And this time, Atsumu got him to laugh. Holy fuck he’s gonna be sick. But in a good way. Or maybe not, considering the hanahaki.

He tries to swallow the petals back down, almost winces at the taste, then points a finger at him, like he’s outraged. He’s not, really. He’s burning that face into his memory forever. “What’re you laughin’ for?! Everyone loves me, y’know!”

He looks at him, deadpan, the smirk already wiped off his face. “Miya. I sincerely hope you don’t think that everyone sees you as a delight. Or think that everyone loves you, for that matter.”

Well, I know you don’t love me.

He presses a hand to his heart – which actually kind of hurts right now, or maybe that’s his lungs? He can never really tell – and sighs, falling backwards into Bokuto who catches him with ease. “I can’t believe you would do this to me, Omi-Omi. I feel like I’ve been shot. Bokkun, take me to the volleyball hospital.”

“Aw, Atsumu-san, there’s nothing wrong with not being loved by everyone: no one is, except for maybe, like, Spongebob. Or Meryl Streep. We love you anyway, no matter how much Omi-san lies to you about it,” Shoyo chimes in, standing by the door now, ready to leave. Atsumu gets up and looks at him, showing an exasperated but grateful smile.

“Thanks, Shoyo. It’s good to know at least someone appreciates me.” He looks pointedly at Sakusa.

“Of course!” he grins, and Atsumu follows him out of the locker rooms with Sakusa and Bokuto in tow. They usually all walk together if one of them doesn’t end up staying behind for extra practice or doesn’t have somewhere to be. As much as he can appreciate going on a walk by himself, Atsumu has to admit that he loves it. He likes spending more time with Sakusa and messing about with him, and being with the other two, of course. It’s one of his favourite things about the MSBY team giving everyone an apartment in the same complex. Being so close to each other is nice: it meant Atsumu didn’t have to be completely lonely when he stopped sharing a room with Osamu, which was… a big change. Atsumu doesn’t like big changes, and he doesn’t like being alone. He doesn’t like the idea of forgetting things.

The next week, Atsumu dresses himself as nice as he can without looking like he’s trying too hard and sets off for the flower shop his aunt’s friend owns. He’s just a few steps away from it when he looks up from his phone, sees the three of them standing outside the flower shop, sees Sakusa, and immediately jumps into an alleyway to cough up petals into his hands. He looks so good, and for what? For what?!

“Atsumu-san, is that you?” Shoyo calls; he hurries to force out the last few petals and wipes his mouth. Gods. How is he going to do this? Maybe this was a bad idea. But… Bokuto wants the help, and so does Sakusa. Atsumu wants to be a good friend. That’s why he’s here. That’s why… well. The pain doesn’t matter if he’s there for them.

“Yep!” he shouts, walking casually out of the alleyway like he’s not being suspicious and flashing the three of them a smile. Sakusa frowns and tilts forward onto his tiptoes, looking into the alleyway.

“Uh!” He looks back at him. “I… thought I saw a dog.”

Sakusa’s eyebrow raise and he looks back down the alley. “Did you?” Oh, yeah. He likes dogs, doesn’t he? He almost feels bad for exciting him, though he doubts Sakusa would actually go anywhere near a dirty dog.

“Nah, just my mind playin’ tricks on me. Let’s go in, yeah? I talked to the owner earlier, shop’s closed today so we’ve got it all to ourselves,” he says, walking past them and towards the front door, pulling out the keys.

Bokuto straightens up, walking over. He’s more dressed up than their usual hangouts. “This’ll be so much fun! It’ll be so good to see Keiji and greet him with flowers, right? I’m picking him up from the station at six!” His hair perks up, as if he were an actual owl, and Atsumu’s not sure if he finds it weird or sweet.

He unlocks the door, then walks inside and switches the lights on. “Tell ‘im I say hi, will ya?”

“Oh! Me too!” Shoyo jumps in – both physically and verbally – as they all make their way inside. As the two of them make conversation, and Sakusa does whatever, Atsumu takes in the shop. It’s been a while since he’s been surrounded by so many flowers and so many bright, vibrant colours. It’s… nice. He’s missed this. He’s missed being around so much life; his apartment’s felt pretty dead recently, even with the plants he has around. Maybe it’s all the dying petals filling the bins.

He walks around the shop, glancing over the different flowers, hyacinths, hydrangeas, tulips, wisterias, then picks up the book on the front desk left out for him. It lists everything in here. He scans it, coming up with some good bouquet ideas in his head, and then he sees the word. Orchids.

His head snaps up, eyes roaming the room for the – now cursed – flowers. And there they are, a few of them sitting out for all to see, alive and happy. Atsumu’s breath hitches and he feels his heart quicken, beating too fast. Okay, no, he needs to get them out of his sight.

He sneaks past Shoyo who’s admiring some of the sunflowers near one of the windows, and grabs the pots, barely paying attention to anything other than the lump in his throat. It’s almost like the flowers inside him want to join the flowers outside. He practically sprints to the back room and places them down on a table, doing everything he can to avoid making direct eye contact with them. He shouldn’t be this panicked at just the sight of them.

He turns back around, takes a few seconds to calm his breathing, and walks back out to the others. He’s seen enough orchids already to last a lifetime.

He tells himself that it’s fine. He’s fine. They’re just orchids. They’re just flowers. They can’t do anything. Other than kill you.

“You all good, Tsum-Tsum? You look… distressed,” Bokuto says, looking at him quizzically.

He nods. “I’m fine, Bokkun. Just uh, the orchids weren’t healthy, so we’re not using any of them today.” That’s a good excuse, right? Yeah, totally.

“They seemed healthy to me,” Sakusa chimes in, unhelpfully. “And they mean love, don’t they?”

Atsumu tries not the glare daggers at him. “Well, Omi-kun, I think I know more about flowers than you do, genius.” He wants to stop talking about it now. He just wants to make bouquets and show off and do his second favourite thing in the world. He doesn’t want to think about hanahaki or black petals dying in his home, black petals suffocating him, black petals anything. He just— doesn’t want to.

“Let’s get started, ‘kay?” he says before anyone else can speak up. He stands behind the worktable set up in the corner and pulls out the notebook and pen that he brought from his bag. “So, what do we want to say with our bouquets?”

Atsumu likes this. He likes picking out different flowers and telling his friends what they mean and being around the things he loves. And the things that don’t love him back.

“Ah—Omi-kun, ya need to cut that a little bit shorter, so that it— here, pass it to me. Swear I’ve washed my hands,” he grins, leaning over Sakusa and picking one of the flowers out of his hands, then the clippers. “Here. Measure it up next to the other one and cut it so that it’s equal, but a little diagonal. Like… this! See?” He holds up the two flowers, both hydrangeas, and then passes them back to him, thinking of what other flowers he could use. When it comes to him, he realises he might just be a genius.

“WAIT THERE!” he yells, running off and searching through the flowers. Chrysanthemums. Chrysanthemums. Where are they? Ah! He spots the pot of bright white flowers sitting by the other side of the room.

“Omiii, you know… chrysanthemums mean loyalty and devoted love; they’re in a bunch of family bouquets. Plus…” he giggles to himself, “chrysanthemums.”

Sakusa looks blankly at him. “That was awful.”

Atsumu grins and points to Bokuto, ever faithful Bokuto, who’s bent over himself laughing. “He doesn’t think so.”

“Bokuto doesn’t count: he finds everything funny,” he points out, rolling his eyes, and really, he’s right, but he doesn’t have to say it.

“It’s okay Atsumu-san, maybe your next joke will be better,” Shoyo says, looking up from his arrangement for only a second before going back to work on it.

“I wish you would stop sayin’ stuff like that, Shoyo-kun,” he sighs, although there’s no real bite to it. “I know your trick. I know you’re not innocent.”

“Whatever you say!”

He sighs and turns back to Sakusa, ignoring Shoyo. “For real, though, Omi-kun, they’ll look great with the hydrangeas.” He searches the table and picks up an iris. “This’ll work too.”

Sakusa nods, taking them from him and following his previous instructions. “Irises are my mother’s favourite.”

Atsumu hums. “Yeah, they’re nice, but not my favourite.”

“What is then?” Sakusa meets his eyes.

“Hm?”

“What’s your favourite flower? Since you know so much about them, there’s got to be one, right?” He actually looks… interested.

He presses a finger to his chin, like he’s deep in thought, as if he doesn’t already know, and only blushes a little bit. “I like daisies and dandelions.”

“Why’s that?”

He grins and turns around, looking for the bucket of big daisies he knows he saw when they walked in; when he sees them, he lights up and carefully takes hold of one. “Well, daisies symbolise a lot of different things, like innocence, purity, good luck… did you know that the ancient Celts believed that when a new-born baby died, the Gods would sprinkle daisies across their graves to cheer up the parents?” He twirls it around between his thumb and forefinger. “I mean, that’s cool and all, but really I just like ‘em ‘cuz I think they look nice, like when the petals sometimes start to turn pink.”

When he looks back at him, Sakusa’s eyes are on the daisy in his hands; Atsumu wonders what he would look like with flowers in his hair or behind his ear. Probably just as cute as ever.

“What about dandelions?” he asks, and it’s… nice, having him look at him like that. It’s nice to see that he actually cares and isn’t just asking as a formality or something.

“Oh, I just like making wishes on them. Always have.” He subconsciously smiles. “Plus, everyone else just sees them as weeds, but I think that just makes them more special; they can sprout up anywhere and give you a chance at good luck.”

Sakusa nods, looking at him with an almost soft expression, and he doesn’t look away until Atsumu tilts his head at him in question.

This is going well. This is fun. Everything is fine.

Everything is not fine.

Atsumu slams the bathroom door shut, pressing his back up against it and covering his mouth with his hand. Hold it in. He needs to hold the petals in. If Sakusa hears him coughing his lungs out, he’ll never go near him again. He can’t lose him. Atsumu can’t lose him.

“Get it together. You can let it out later,” he mumbles to himself, voice raspy through the lump in his throat. Gods, why does Sakusa have to be so… Sakusa. He gets it, he’s beautiful and smart and even though he can sometimes be a bit of an asshole like Atsumu, he listens. How was he supposed to know that if he went off on a dumb tangent about his childhood, Sakusa would actually care? How was he supposed to know that not being shunned for his interests would be so nice? And why now? He didn’t react this badly the last time Sakusa listened to him. He was fine last time, everything was fine.

Atsumu presses his hand to his forehead, too hot, too sweaty, the flowers trying to force their way through his oesophagus. He swallows. And then it hits him. He’s getting worse. It’s getting worse.

Atsumu isn’t getting over Sakusa, and Sakusa isn’t falling in love with him. Although that’s not a surprise. Atsumu is, well, Atsumu. Sakusa would never love someone like him. Fuck, no, never mind, he can’t hold it in anymore. It hurts too much.

Atsumu throws himself at the toilet and lets it out. And then he has to force it out, because fuck, why won’t the petals just come out? He punches at his chest, and there. That’s better. Yeah. He sits up, wipes the sweat from above his brow, and as he goes to flush the toilet, he sees it. Oh Gods, he’s definitely getting worse. That’s not good. That can’t be good.

“Uhh, Tsum-Tsum, you okay in there?” Bokuto. That’s good. Bokuto is safe. Bokuto is his friend. But… if he knows, he’ll want Atsumu to take a break. He’ll tell him that this isn’t safe. He’ll tell Coach. Atsumu can’t lose volleyball. He can’t lose volleyball or Sakusa or—

“I’m fine! Just feeling real sick all of a sudden. I think I’m gonna head home. Sorry Bokkun,” he calls, looking at himself in the mirror. Gods, he’s pale. “Your bouquets are basically done, anyway. Just drop the keys off by my apartment when you’re done, yeah?”

There are a few seconds of silence, probably Bokuto hesitating, before he speaks up. “You sure?”

“Yep! I’ll be good, just gotta get some rest I think,” he says, then opens the door. Shoyo and Sakusa are finishing up their bouquets not too far away, adding a few extra flowers in with the rest.

“Maybe I should walk you back; you don’t look too good,” Bokuto worries, carefully taking hold of his head and looking into his eyes. Atsumu doesn’t know what he would do without him there, always at least trying to make sure that he’s okay.

“Seriously, Bokkun, I’ll be alright. It’s not a far walk, and you need to finish up your bouquet and go get Akaashi.”

Bokuto huffs out a breath of air, looking annoyed. His voice is firm when he speaks. “You’re more important than a bouquet, Tsum-Tsum. I don’t want to leave you alone if you’re really sick. Keiji would understand, he can meet me at my apartment.”

Atsumu almost starts crying at that. Fuck, since when did he get so emotional? “It’s okay, Bokkun, I swear.” He tries to keep his voice from wavering. “It’s just a really bad cough that’s knocked the air outta me, I just need some sleep.”

He hesitates for a while more, inspecting him with furrowed brows, and then he reluctantly sighs. “Okay, if you’re sure. But if you get really light-headed on your way back or anything, call me.”

He smiles, grateful, and nods. “Will do.”

And then he practically runs out of there, just wanting to get home and call Osamu and go to sleep, pretending that none of this is happening.

“You what?”

“I coughed up a whole flower, idiot,” Atsumu repeats, running a hand through his hair. How many times is Osamu gonna make him say it? It’s pretty uncomfortable to do.

“Like… the stalk too?” he asks, both worry and incredulity seeping into his voice. Atsumu rolls his eyes. Fuck’s sake, he hates this. He should’ve just not said anything. What would Osamu do if he just hung up now?

“No, just the flower blossom. You said you’d force me off volleyball if you found out I was keepin’ anything from you, so…” he trails off, looking down at the petals lying on the floor. He knows he’s pouting but at this point, he just doesn’t care. He hates all of this so much. Fuck Sakusa. Fuck hanahaki. Fuck love. Fuck these stupid fucking flowers. Fuck—

“’Tsumu, come on. Just—” he swears under his breath. “I feel like you’re not takin’ care of yourself enough. You’re spending so much time with him, and it’s just making it worse.”

He stomps on the petals, and it’s depressing how weak it is. When did he lose so much strength? When did it get to the point that he can barely break up a petal with his foot, where he gets tired when he clenches his fists for too long, where he feels joy at destroying flowers? He’s loved flowers for as long as he can remember. He still does, he’s sure of it, but he just— those fucking black-purple orchid petals. They make him so angry.

“It’s gettin’ worse anyway, though!” he yells, too angry to speak at a normal volume. He just wants to be happy and healthy again. He doesn’t want to go to practice fearing that everyone will find out his secret, that he’ll fall apart and crumble in front of the whole team, in front of Sakusa. “Whether I’m near him or not I just keep vomming more and more flowers! What’s even the point in avoiding him now? It’s fine, I’m dealing with it, it’s just pissin’ me off.”

“Atsumu, it’s—”

“Look, I’m tired and I need to clean, so I’m gonna go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Or Sunarin.”

There’s a frustrated sigh. “Fine, fuck you.”

Atsumu’s eyes widen and he throws the phone at the wall. “FUCK YOU!”

Practice the next day sucks. Everything sucks. Atsumu hates everything. He wishes this hanahaki would just fuck off. He wishes everything could just be okay.

You know what? Everything is okay. Everything is fine. Atsumu has made peace with the hanahaki. He’s not quite used to the constant throwing up of flowers, but he doesn’t think he ever will be, really, so this is fine. He knows what to do, what the warning signs are, what he should and shouldn’t tell Osamu. And, so what if he’s coughing up more and more full flowers every few days? It’s fine, he has it under control. He’s still got months left, too. It’s all good.

Okay so maybe, just maybe, it is not all good.

See, when telling himself that everything would be fine, Atsumu didn’t really factor in the five hour-ish train ride he would have to take with the rest of the MSBY Black Jackals in order to get to the match at Sendai from Osaka. He also didn’t factor in Sakusa deciding to sit next to him, mainly because he hadn’t thought that would even be a possibility. Although, he supposes it makes sense, considering he’s known Sakusa since high school, and despite being quite possibly the most annoying person in his life, he still respects the guy’s boundaries, or at least he hopes he does. But surely, he’ll be able to get through this. He can hold it in for a few runs to the toilet every now and then, telling everyone that he’s just had a lot of water to drink.

Really, the train ride is surprisingly peaceful despite the constant pain in his chest which he learns to just ignore after about half an hour. It’s embarrassing how happy he is to just act like the pain isn’t there, focusing instead on Sakusa.

“How’d your mum like the flowers?” he asks after a while of sitting in silence. When he doesn’t answer, Atsumu taps his shoulder lightly and waits for him to pull his earphone out before repeating the question. Whenever it’s too quiet he gets antsy, and he’s gotten to the point where he has no idea what Bokuto and Shoyo are talking about, so he can’t exactly follow along with their conversation; it’s just a lot of bwahs and zhooms.

“She liked them. She was surprised I knew so much about the flower language,” he replies, looking down at his hands in his lap. “She was less surprised when Motoya told her I got your help.”

Atsumu laughs. “As he should’ve!” He shakes his head, faux disapproving. “Can’t believe you were just gonna take all the credit. I worked real hard to come up with those bouquet ideas, y’know, Omi-Omi.”

“I was going to tell her the truth,” he defends himself, like he’s offended that Atsumu would even think otherwise. “Motoya just got there first. And anyway, I had to finish it myself, considering you ran out of the store so suddenly.”

Oops. The smile drops off his face. “Yeah… sorry ‘bout that. I started feeling sick and figured you wouldn’t want me around like that.” At the slight look of panic on Sakusa’s face, he rushes to explain. “I just didn’t get much sleep the night before. I’m all better now.” Well, it’s not a complete lie.

Sakusa nods, then looks back out the window. It’s getting dark now, the sun already setting and bathing him in a calm, almost ethereal golden light. His eyes sparkle slightly with it, and Atsumu can’t help but stare at the dark blue. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone else with as stunning eyes as Sakusa’s. Looking at him almost makes the pain bearable.

“We’ll be able to see the stars in Miyagi,” he mentions after a few minutes, snapping Atsumu out of his admiration.

“Oh yeah,” he hums, the excitement bubbling throughout him. “Shoyo says the night sky there is one of a kind. You like the stars, Omi-kun?”

“Well, growing up in Tokyo and then moving to Osaka, I didn’t see them much, so it was kind of like a special treat whenever my mother would drive us a couple hours out of the city to look at them,” he explains. Atsumu listens intently, happy to learn more about him; it’s not often that he talks so openly about himself, never mind his past. “It was only a once-a-year thing though, really.”

Atsumu thinks of nights spent back home in Hyogo, staring up at the stars when he got overwhelmed or scared or really upset. “We saw them a lot growing up. It was calming.” Then, he decides to add on something about himself, seeing as Sakusa’s decided to open up a bit. “’Samu and I would sit on our roof the night before our birthday and wait for midnight, so that we could be the first ones to say it to each other. I always felt like being with the stars was like being with our true selves.” He laughs, a quiet, almost sad thing. “Seems kinda stupid now that I say it out loud.” It’s been a few years since he and Osamu last did that together. Though, they’re still always the first one to say happy birthday to the other: Atsumu doesn’t think that will ever change.

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” Sakusa says. “It makes sense that you feel a close connection with the stars, seeing as you grew up around them. Plus, I think a lot of people feel that way.”

Atsumu nods at that, trying to suppress the small, genuine smile he usually doesn’t let show taking place on his face, heart warming up. Sakusa’s a good person. It makes sense that someone like him wouldn’t love him back. Atsumu’s only good quality is being good at volleyball, and if it even counts, knowing random information about flowers.

“I’ll be back in a sec, Omi-kun. I’ve been drinkin’ way too much water.”

The rest of the train journey goes well, in Atsumu’s opinion. He talks to Sakusa a lot about random stuff, making dumb jokes every chance he gets, and then about volleyball, and it’s good. He likes this, talking to Sakusa like everything is normal, like he isn’t in love with him, like he isn’t in an immense pain that will last forever, like he isn’t sick. Talking to Osamu is always nice, but sometimes it can be pretty draining when he constantly tries to subtly bring up the hanahaki. Even Shoyo’s been acting a little weirder with him recently; Atsumu’s pretty sure he’s heard his coughing fits from next door on more than one occasion, and he’s probably noticed Osamu and Suna making more trips than they used to, as well. It’s good to know they care, but… sometimes it just gets to be a bit too much.

Right now, with Sakusa, is good. If he looks past the pain behind his ribs that makes him wince every now and then, if he looks past the uncomfortable tingling in his throat and the flowers probably clogging the train toilet, then this is good.

However, it stops going well when Atsumu wakes up to someone tapping him, gentle, and finds himself asleep on Sakusa’s shoulder. It especially stops going well when he hears Sakusa’s soft voice by his ear, informing him that they’re almost there and that he should save his sleep for when they get to the hotel.

He pulls away, apologies spilling from his tongue frantically because he can’t believe he fell asleep on Sakusa Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi who would probably rather die than have Atsumu touch him for a prolonged amount of time. “I’m so sorry, Omi-kun, oh my Gods, I’m so sorry. You should’ve just pushed me onto the floor, or out the train window, whatever works best for you, I’m sorry, I—”

“Miya, it’s fine,” he interrupts, voice monotone, but when Atsumu looks up at him properly, he’s looking at him with some weird kind of… fond but exasperated expression. He almost looks like he’s smiling at him from behind the mask. What’s with that? No way. He must still be dreaming. Why would Sakusa ever look at him like that? It doesn’t make sense.

“I thought you hated bein’ touched, Omi-kun.” He doesn’t really mean to say it out loud, but he can’t help it. What does it’s fine mean?

“It depends on the person,” he replies, then puts his earphones back in as if he hasn’t just turned Atsumu’s world upside down with that one sentence. It depends on the person? Does that mean Sakusa trusts him? Does that mean Sakusa has deemed him worthy of being part of his personal bubble? Does that mean he counts Atsumu as his friend? Holy shit.

He practically sprints to the toilet.

Atsumu wakes up the next morning from a beautiful dream of him and Sakusa living a happy domestic life together, feeling pumped, excited for the long-awaited match of the MSBY Jackals vs. the Schweiden Adlers. And then he gets out of bed and throws up petals in the toilet and realises that he doesn’t feel all that pumped anymore. No, he just feels dizzy and kind of sick, but it’s fine. He’s fine. He just needs to wait for the adrenaline to kick in, just needs to wait for the match to start and finish and then he can relax. But he has to focus. They have to win. They have so many tricks up their sleeve, it’s the perfect opportunity. He can’t lose this for them.

So, before they set off to the gym, he sits on the bathroom floor of his hotel room for another good half hour, just getting rid of as many stupid black orchid petals as he can, just to get it all out, and then he meets up with the rest of the team in the hotel lobby and smiles like nothing’s wrong at all, even though every time he talks his throat burns.

After the teams have had their introductions and walked onto the court, ready to start warming up, Atsumu’s head gets sore. There’s so much noise everywhere, so many lights and people, and it’s fucking with his head. The universe has to be out to get him, he’s sure of it, but he just keeps telling himself that it will be okay. He just needs to get through it. Volleyball is his life. He won’t let this stupid fucking disease ruin him.

“Atsumu-san, are you okay?” Shoyo asks five minutes before the game starts, Bokuto right behind him. He takes a deep breath in, then turns to them. He just needs to get more air in him, needs to have a drink of water and some paracetamol.

“I’m good,” he responds, a big smile plastered on his face. Bokuto furrows his brows and presses the back of his hand to his forehead, and he has to fight not to melt into the touch; he forgot how good it felt to be taken care of without being shouted at for being a dumbass. Not that he doesn’t appreciate Osamu and Suna checking in on him. Just… this is a bit nicer.

“You’re hot, Tsum-Tsum,” he says, worry evident in his voice, and as much as it warms his heart, it also makes him panic slightly. He’s been doing such a good job at hiding the sickness, hasn’t he? It can’t just all go downhill now. It can’t all be taken back now, not after everything.

“Aw, thanks, Bokkun,” he jokes, then shrinks into himself at the look he’s given. “I’m fine, seriously. Just need some water.” He pulls away and grabs his water bottle from the bench, giving the two of them a thumbs up. And then he sees Sakusa’s eyes on him. Sakusa, staring at him with concern written across his features, and if it was in other circumstances, then sure, he’d be happy about it, but… does he really look that awful? When he’d looked in the mirror earlier, he’d thought he looked fine. Maybe a little thinner than usual from all the vomiting, but not that much. Right?

“Are you sure? Maybe you should rest for a bit,” Shoyo says, sitting beside him on the bench and leaning forward to look him in the eyes. “You’re super pale.”

“Shoyo, I’m okay, calm down,” he tries, lifting his hands in surrender, attempting to play it off as a joke. “Just, okay, if Omi-kun asks, don’t tell him anythin’. Not that there is anything wrong, but… if he thinks I’m sick, he won’t come near me, and we can’t have that happening during such a big game, right?” He doesn’t think his attempt at keeping the panic out of his voice is working.

Bokuto and Shoyo share a look that he pretends not to see, and then they nod. “Okay, if you’re sure. But—” Shoyo sighs. “Really Atsumu-san, if you’re sick, don’t push yourself. We all saw where that got me in my first year.”

Just hearing that makes him feel sick. He’s a pretty shitty person, isn’t he? “I know, Shoyo. I’m healthy, though. I already feel better.” It’s probably an obvious lie, so he just takes another gulp of water to avoid saying anything else. He just has to get through the match.

Sakusa gets a service ace, and then he turns around to look Atsumu in the eyes and smirks; it takes everything in him to stay on the court and swallow the petals down like that didn’t just seriously affect him.

During the break between sets, he sees Sakusa watching him, and all he wants to do is hide. Gods, it’s a nightmare. Why is he so focused on him today? He might look worse than usual, but he’s doing a good job. He knows he is. Despite being in the worst shape he’s ever been in he’s playing his best. He’s trained for this for months. He’s proving himself to the world right now. He’s showing them how good he is. He much he loves volleyball, how much he’s put into it. Nothing else matters more right now.

They win. Shoyo uses himself as a decoy, and Bokuto scores the winning point. The stadium roars and Atsumu loves it so much; this is where he’s meant to be, with the sound of disbelieving screams and cheers all around him. This is what he loves.

He turns to Bokuto, eyes wide, and high fives him, then high fives Shoyo, and then all his other teammates. Sakusa nods at him, smiles, even, maybe, and even though it’s not much, just the acknowledgement has Atsumu’s throat tickling uncomfortably. Gods, at the start of this whole thing it wasn’t anywhere near this bad. He didn’t feel the need to rush to a bathroom or bin just at the sight of Sakusa looking at him. He managed on the bus though, so he can manage now.

Sakusa looks over at the team gathering and gestures towards them. “You’re spacing out, Miya; don’t let that win go to your head,” he says it with a teasing smile though, and Atsumu thinks he might just pass out. “Come on, we need to go shake their hands.”

He nods and follows him to line up with the others, and though his throat hurts, even though he’s dizzy, he can’t help but grin. He won. They won, and that’s what matters right now. Suck it, Tobio.

The awards ceremony passes fairly quickly, and after, Atsumu feels so good that he high fives his teammates a second time, grinning at each of them, and then… then Sakusa fucking Kiyoomi high fives him.

“You did really good, Miya.” And then he smiles, soft and genuine and careful and beautiful – seriously how many times is he going to smile at him today? – and oh fuck, Atsumu needs to get out of there. Now. But… he can’t just leave straight away. He has to make it seem natural. Just hold the flowers in for a minute or two, that’s all. He can do that. He just needs to reply and then leave. So, he grins and nudges him with his shoulder, looking up at soft, careful, beautiful Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“You too, Omi-Omi. You were incredible,” he says, voice embarrassingly hoarse. The tips of Sakusa’s ears turn pink, his cheeks lightly dusted with a blush. Atsumu has to be imagining that, though. It must be from the match. Or it’s the lighting. Yeah, definitely. Stupid brain trying to trick him.

“You blew everyone away with your new serve,” he comments, being strangely kind and honest, and what’s with that? Seriously, why is he being so nice? Not that he’s not usually nice, because he is. He’s blunt, and he only really says what he means, unless he’s being sarcastic, because Sakusa is pretty sarcastic sometimes, but— oh Gods he’s rambling. Sakusa probably thinks he’s crazy, just standing there staring at him, but he can’t say anything. He thinks that if he tries to speak now, the flowers will just spill out of his mouth, as disgusting as that is. His throat hurts so much. And his heart and his lungs and everything else. He can’t hold it in much longer, so he just stretches his smile, then slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Gotta pee!” And then he runs. Very normal behaviour for Atsumu. Very natural. Good going.

Well. This is great. This is so much fun. This is truly beautiful. When Atsumu was packing for this match, he begged the Gods to let him win it and then right after keel over a toilet bowl for, what, five, six minutes now? And, oh hey! There are about five full flower blossoms in there right now, that’s fun, and now— oh. Fuck, wait, no, he should stop joking about this. That’s blood. That’s a bit too much blood. He hasn’t coughed up blood before. He can’t stop. Oh no. He can’t stop.

Atsumu is crying, and he’s retching over the toilet bowl, and he can barely breathe, and he thinks he’s going to pass out in a minute. He can’t stop crying. He can’t stop coughing up petals. Why are there so many? What did he ever do in his life to make the universe hate him so much? What did he ever do to fucking orchids to deserve this? Is it because when he was little, he dropped his aunt’s orchid on the floor and then accidentally stood on it when he was trying to get the dustpan and brush to clean up the broken vase? He didn’t mean to. He had felt bad about it for days after. He didn’t mean to kill the flower. He didn’t want to hurt it. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.

“Atsumu-san, I’m going to pick the lock, okay? You don’t sound good in there.”

He clutches his arm around his waist, face still over the toilet bowl despite knowing that there’s no point: the flowers have already begun to overflow, falling around him on the floor and in his lap. It hurts so much. His throat hurts so much. His lungs feel like they’re being squeezed, a titan’s hand wrapped around them, playing with him like a child with a toy. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going. His vision’s blurry, swimming all around him.

He hears the door open. Who—

“Fuck, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto? Bokkun, oh thank the Gods, Bokkun’s here.

He reaches out behind him, making grabby hands at his friend despite not being able to see him, his eyes squeezed shut again, tears rolling down his face. He wants it to stop. It hurts so bad.

He hears Bokkun fall down beside him, and then there’s a hand running up and down his back, rubbing circles. A voice whispers kind, reassuring words to him, but it’s shaky.

“It’s gonna be okay, Tsum-Tsum,” he says, and when Atsumu opens his eyes, he’s looking at him, a wobbly smile on his face. “Take deep breaths, you’ll get through this, okay? Just a little more. Just get it out. You’re doing good. You’re doing so good.”

He chokes on a sob, and then lurches over the toilet bowl again, resting the side of his head on his arm and vomiting more orchid petals. He can’t tell if his vision is black because there are just that many flowers or if he just has his eyes shut. “What did I do?” he gets out between gasps for air. “Why me?”

Is it because he told Setsushi to get the surgery and then he died? Is it because he indirectly killed someone? He didn’t realise it would hurt him more. He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He’d thought the Gods would have forgiven him by now.

“You didn’t do anything, Tsum-Tsum,” Bokkun says, and now his other hand is rubbing up and down his chest; it reminds Atsumu of what Mum would do whenever he and Osamu were sick with a chest infection. Neither of them has ever been sick like this before, though, and Mum doesn’t know yet. He’s been too afraid to tell anyone other than ‘Samu and Suna. Now Bokkun knows, though. But Bokkun cares. Atsumu’s so fucking glad he’s not alone right now.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but he’s completely melted into Bokkun’s side by now, silently crying at the endless, excruciating pain despite the constant vomiting having turned into more of an every-thirty-seconds kind of ordeal now. He wonders how long it will take for him to get used to this stage of hanahaki; is this the end? It won’t get any worse than this, will it? He’ll learn to live with it, right? Won’t he? Maybe it will be better when he dies.

Bokkun is hugging him tight enough to keep him feeling safe, but loose enough that he’s not restricting his lungs anymore than the flower stalks curling around them already are. He’s still whispering reassurances, and all Atsumu can think is that Bokkun is quite possibly the kindest, most loving person in the universe, and he wishes he had his brother here. Him and Osamu have always been less affectionate, needlessly arguing over random stuff, but when things get serious, they’re always there for each other, and he wants that so bad right now. He loves Bokkun, he appreciates him, and he truly does give the best hugs he’s ever received, but he wants to see Osamu. He wants his brother.

The door slams open and both Atsumu and Bokkun turn around to see who it is. Shoyo and Osamu are standing in the doorway, concern coating the former’s face, and the latter’s eyes wide with fear. Atsumu lets out a choked sob upon seeing him, and then suddenly Osamu is on the floor in front of him, sitting in blood-soaked dark purple orchid flowers like it’s not disgusting, grabbing onto his arms and inspecting him.

“Fuck’s sake, ‘Tsumu, I told you not to push it,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I told you to take it fucking easy.”

“Did I kill Setsushi? Is that why I got hanahaki? Because I hurt him?” It’s all he can get himself to say. It’s the only thing going through his head. “I didn’t mean to, ‘Samu.”

Osamu’s face falls, and he shakes his head. “I told you, idiot, that wasn’t your fault. Surgery was the best chance he had. You’re not to blame.”

Atsumu doesn’t know if he believes him, but he can’t make himself say anything else, so he just lets himself collapse against him, his throat finally losing the clogged feeling in it, the lump gone – at least for now, anyway. He feels empty. Empty of everything except flowers still twisting around his lungs and heart.

After a while, Atsumu finally catches his breath, and he manages to chug the water bottle Shoyo brought for him. The cold is soothing on his throat. He pulls away from Osamu and flushes the toilet, then piles up the petals on the floor and flushed them down too. It’s uncomfortably silent.

“Sorry about that, guys,” he mumbles, and he can’t bring himself to force a smile. “Thanks, Bokkun.”

“What triggered it?” Osamu asks almost as soon as he’s finished speaking, obviously deciding that he doesn’t care about waiting for the atmosphere to calm down.

He stares down at the floor, stained with little drops of blood. He doesn’t even want to imagine what his face must look like. “Omi-kun smirked at me a bunch in the game… and smiled. Like, a proper smile, ‘Samu. And he complimented me. And then,” his heart skips a beat, “he high fived me. Did I tell ya I fell asleep on him on the train and he told me that he doesn’t mind touch depending on the person?” It makes his stomach flutter a little bit, too.

“That’s true,” Bokuto comments, grinning at him. “You know, Tsum-Tsum, I’ve only ever seen Sakkun let Komori touch him. That seems promising, if you ask me.”

Atsumu rubs at the floor with the toilet paper, then throws it in the toilet. “Thanks, Bokkun, but… I think we’d know if he loved me back.”

There are a few moments of silence, and then Shoyo finally speaks up. “Is this why you’ve been so… distant?” He’s playing with the hem of his shorts, voice small. “I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t know how to approach you, and I don’t think I wanted to admit it to myself. What was wrong, I mean.”

Bokuto nods, voice just as soft as it was when it was just the two of them in here. “We all saw how you look at him, but I don’t know, I don’t think anyone expected you to get it. I’ve known people who had an unrequited love, but they never got hanahaki, so I guess I just didn’t think.” He looks guilty.

Atsumu shakes his head. He supposes this is a conversation that needs to be had. “It’s not anyone’s fault, guys. I didn’t want to tell you, I wanted to deal with it on my own, so don’t blame yourselves for not picking up on it. There’s nothing you would be able to do anyway. I’m just grateful that you’re here with me now, I guess.”

They both nod and he pretends not to notice them swallowing down their tears. He’s fine now, so there’s no point in crying anymore.

Osamu doesn’t say anything and just helps him stand up, walking over to the sink with him so he can wash his face. Looking in the mirror confirms his suspicions on what he looks like. Complete shit. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked so pale before, and the contrast of the dark crimson blood staining his lips against his skin is almost scary. But he just needs something to eat and some sleep, and he’ll be normal again. Same old Atsumu.

He’s just drying his face with some paper towels when he feels something bang into his back. It only takes him a second to realise that Shoyo is hugging him, holding on so tight as if it’s the last time he ever will. Atsumu squeezes him back. They stay there for a few minutes, and then Osamu walks him to the changing room. The team is still milling about, laughing and talking loudly about the game.

“Bokuto, Hinata, there you are! Where’s Atsu—” Meian does not finish his sentence.

Osamu nudges him, looking over at his bag of clothes, and Atsumu takes the hint. ‘Get dressed while I explain.’ So, he walks past his teammates and over to the bench, trying to ignore the way they all look at him with varying degrees of shock and concern, especially trying to ignore Sakusa’s eyes fixed on him. Atsumu just moves to get changed beside Bokuto, not wanting to spike his anxieties of getting ill.

“’Tsumu’s been a fucking dumbass and hasn’t been taking proper care of himself, so I’m takin’ him back to the hotel to rest up,” Osamu explains to Meian, looking at Atsumu out of the corner of his eye as if he’s afraid that he’s going to fall to the ground right then and there.

“Ya sound like Mum, ‘Samu. What next? You’re not gonna let me go celebrate with the team tonight?” he asks, glad that he manages to keep his voice steady. Osamu grins, almost evilly.

“Actually, you’re right, I’m not. Sorry, I know this was a big game, and you guys were great, seriously, but you know him. Idiot extraordinaire,” he rolls his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Atsumu takes a double take. “Wait, for real? Come on ‘Samu, I—”

“You should focus on getting some sleep, Tsum-Tsum. I don’t want you to get any sicker,” Bokuto pipes in suddenly, voice firm but still caring. He’s more worried than he was letting on, then. Gods, everyone’s acting like he’s gonna die tomorrow or something.

Osamu nods, then walks over and claps Bokuto on the back. “Well said.”

Atsumu groans but doesn’t protest any further, able to admit to himself that he doesn’t really want to go out anyway. He doesn’t think he can handle alcohol and sweaty bodies and seeing Sakusa all dressed up. Even the thought of it makes his face feel a little hot.

“See ya tomorrow, guys,” he calls, waving at them with as big a grin as he can manage, but he drops it as soon as he and Osamu are outside.

The hotel room is dark. Neither of them had bothered to switch the light on when they walked in, and it’s been a few hours since they arrived, so they’re only illuminated by the moonlight.

The hotel room is quiet. Neither of them has spoken a word since they arrived, Atsumu’s throat too sore to be used, and Osamu— well, maybe he just has nothing to say. Atsumu doesn’t know what to say either, so he can’t blame him.

The hotel room is empty, save for two bodies laying on the sofa in the corner, deciding against taking advantage of how much space there is and instead curling in on themselves at each end.

The hotel room is cold. Or maybe that’s just Atsumu. He throws on a hoodie to fight it.

Atsumu feels small.

This is karma. Having hanahaki is karma. It has to be. It’s the universe getting back at Atsumu for killing Aunt Ayaka’s orchid when he was a kid. It’s the universe getting back at Atsumu for telling Setsushi to get the surgery when he shouldn’t have, even if Osamu repeatedly tries to convince him that it’s not his fault. It’s the universe getting back at Atsumu for simply being.

He thinks of what Bokuto had said earlier in the bathroom. ‘I’ve known people who had an unrequited love, but they never got hanahaki, so I guess I just didn’t think.’

Atsumu keeps telling himself it’s karma, because it’s so much easier to accept than the truth that he’s just unlucky. Sometimes he wonders if it’s because he’s avoided love so much. The universe had seen him finally fall and decided that he didn’t deserve it. This was what you wanted, after all.

But Atsumu has avoided love for years now. He had sworn he wouldn’t let himself get too close to anyone, wouldn’t let himself get to the same point Setsushi got to. What if it turns out that all along, he’d just doomed himself from the start? That wouldn’t be fair though. It wouldn’t— he’s put so much love into everything else. Does the universe not see that? Do the Gods not count the love he put into volleyball, into his friendships, into his family, into flowers? He’s tried so hard to love everything else.

Then again, sometimes in the dead of night, when his brain gets so overwhelmed and he thinks too much about his fate, he wishes he had never seen Setsushi. He wishes he had never talked to him. He wishes he had never found out. He wishes he would have just died without Atsumu ever knowing beforehand. So maybe that’s why the flowers chose him.

A sniff breaks him out of his thoughts. He almost snaps his neck, almost chokes on air turning to Osamu, because there his brother is, sitting on the other end of the sofa and digging his palms into his eyes, the moonlight catching on the tears streaking his face.

Atsumu slides over and nudges him, smiling weakly. “Stop crying you loser; it’s not that serious.” He’s dealt with it fine so far. He’s managed it enough that he’s still breathing on his own, even if it’s sometimes difficult. He doesn’t like hurting other people. He doesn’t like being the reason that others are sad and breaking. He doesn’t like seeing his best friend hurt so much.

He’s taken aback when Osamu’s hands fly down to instead dig into the sofa cushions rather than his eyes, and he shouts at him. “It is fucking serious!” His voice cracks. “You’re fucking dying, ‘Tsumu!”

Oh. He can’t help but stare at his distraught face. Right. That is serious. How did he forget how serious that is? It’s basically the whole point of hanahaki. He’d gotten so used to the idea of falling out of love, or the stupid, reckless hope that Sakusa would eventually love him back, or just how much better death could feel, that he’d conveniently pushed the actual fate of that to the back of his mind.

He’s going to die. Atsumu’s going to die, and he’s never going to see Osamu again, and he’s never going to play volleyball again, and he’s never going to make a bouquet for Mum or Ayaka again, and he’s never going to know what it feels like to be happy and in love, and he’s never going to spend another birthday looking up at the stars with his best friend, and he’s never going to hug Bokuto or Shoyo or Suna or Osamu again. Atsumu’s going to die, and he simply won’t be anymore.

That night, Atsumu and Osamu sob into each other’s arms like they’re five years old again, terrified that they would never see each other again because Mum and Dad had a tiny argument and they thought they were going to get a divorce.

That night, Atsumu and Osamu hug like it’s the last time they ever will.

When Atsumu wakes up the next morning to the sound of his alarm that he forgot to turn off ringing, he practically has to pry his eyes open, crusty from dried tears. He doesn’t want to see how puffed up and red they are, considering how Osamu looks.

“Turn that off,” he groans, reaching for his own phone in his pocket. “Why the fuck is your alarm some shitty club music?”

Atsumu gasps, holding his phone close to his chest. “It’s not shitty, you asshole. That was the first song I heard when I went clubbing with the current team after our first win.”

Osamu fake gags, frowning at his own phone. “That’s disgustingly sentimental. Can’t believe I’m related to you.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything else regarding his alarm. It’s a good, upbeat song to help him wake up in the morning: it’s just an added bonus that it holds such happy memories.

“Hey, uh… have you been on twitter recently?” Osamu asks after a couple seconds of silence, interrupting Atsumu’s scrolling through the overwhelming number of texts from just about everyone he knows. There are missed calls from their parents, texts from Aran, Kita and Suna, and the MSBY group chat seems to be overflowing with missed messages. What the fuck?

“I haven’t even been on my phone since before yesterday’s match,” he answers, opening the texts from Shoyo and Bokuto first.

Bokkun: TSUM TSUM

Shoyo: ATSUMU-SAN

Bokkun: TSUM TSUM THIS IS REAL SERIOUS

Bokkun: HAVE YOU BEEN ON TWITTER

Shoyo: *insert twitter link*

Shoyo: everyone may or may not think (know) that you have hanahaki atsumu-san

Bokkun: Fans are still saying it’s a rumour but Meian and Coach Foster forced us to tell them if it was true or not

Bokkun: Plus it’s easy for them to believe seeing how you’ve been acting

Bokkun: I swear we tried to cover for you !!!

Atsumu stares at the texts in shock, then hesitantly clicks on the twitter link.

Please be a rick-roll, please be a rick-roll, please be a—

@msbyislife: aside from the screaming about how good today’s game was, did anyone notice how sick Miya looked?

The four photos included are close-ups of Atsumu between sets looking pale and quite obviously out of it. He can’t believe he looked that bad. No wonder everyone figured him out.

@atsumumiyasthighs: I noticed too!! I’m really worried about him

@enbyrights: I’m surprised he played so flawlessly in that state, he doesn’t look to be in a good condition

@crazyfrogmusic: guys… idk if I should say but I was walking past the bathroom and I overheard a convo between some of the team members

@crazyfrogmusic: I think Miya has hanahaki, and it sounded really bad

Atsumu decides to ignore the rest of the replies.

He shows the thread to Osamu.

He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“Oh fuck.” Osamu looks down at his own phone screen, scrolling through his text messages. “Rin says everyone’s seen it: apparently the tweet’s gone viral.”

Atsumu runs a hand through his hair and looks through some of his other texts.

Kita: Atsumu, are the rumours true? Are you okay? Please call me.

Aran: Atsumu?? What?? Are you okay? Call me

Osamu’s already dialling Suna’s number, sending worried glances at Atsumu every few seconds. He pushes his face away to make him stop, then opens the team group chat.

There are texts from each of his teammates, all overlapping each other, asking if he’s okay, how long has he had it, why didn’t he tell them, how bad is it really, why isn’t he replying, what the fuck. He zeroes in on the most recent text, though, from one Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Omi-Omi: You better not be fucking dead Atsumu

It should be embarrassing how much that warms his heart. It should be. It probably is.

Suna’s voice interrupts his spiralling, coming out of Osamu’s phone speakers. “Atsumu, what the fuck? Hinata told me he and Bokuto walked in on you practically dying after the match. They told me what went down in there, but I just— what the fuck happened?”

He groans, rubbing his hands over his face, then opens his texts from his parents; they’re frantic. “I know, Sunarin, I’m the world’s biggest idiot. I’ve heard. Several times.” He narrows his eyes at Osamu.

“Yeah, maybe because it’s true,” he says. “How many times did we tell you not to be a stupid, reckless dumbass? I’m pretty sure it was a lot. Way too many for a grown man.”

Atsumu flips him off even though he can’t see him, and Osamu flips him back for him. “You’re annoying me now so I’m hanging up,” he says with a frown, then reaches over and presses the end call button before Osamu can stop him. “I can’t make sense of Mum and Dad’s texts: it’s just a bunch of scolding. I’m not readin’ it.”

Osamu rolls his eyes but opens his own texts from their parents anyway. Atsumu fiddles with the stray string of his hoodie while he waits for him to tell him what they’re saying – he’s too overwhelmed to keep looking at his phone right now.

He types out a text, and not even 20 seconds later, his phone buzzes with a reply. “They want you home.”

Atsumu nods. Home. Hyogo. Stars and flower shops and clear air and his family. He feels vulnerable thinking about it. “I want to go home.”

Osamu tells him to pack his stuff while he and Suna pack their own things, so once he’s left, Atsumu shoves all his things into his bag and then, because he’s not ready to leave the safety of his room yet, he calls Mum, crying to her until Suna comes to collect him. Before he can say anything though, he’s wrapped in another tight but hesitant hug. And then he’s punched in the arm for being a massive dickwad and when they get to the hotel lobby, Osamu is already standing there with their stuff, talking to Meian and Coach Foster.

Atsumu straightens his back and forces himself to stand tall despite all the lingering glances burning into his back from the other hotel patrons and takes their scolding while standing strong, reassuring them that he’ll be okay and take care of himself from now on. It’s tiring, too much for someone who had as little sleep as him, but he knows it’s a necessary conversation, and it pays off once the three of them are finally on the bullet train, because even after the stress of the past two days, it feels good to not have to hide anymore.

He wakes up in his childhood bed. He wakes up in a warm, quiet home, and Atsumu thinks that if he’s going to die, then yeah, this is where he wants to live his last days, or however long he has left. So, he gets up, gets changed into an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that wouldn’t fit him anymore if he didn’t have hanahaki, and walks to the kitchen to get breakfast. It’s already sitting on the table for him, in the same place he always sat growing up, right next to Osamu on the old, rickety chairs that creak if you shift your weight to the right.

“You’ve got an appointment with the doctor in an hour,” Dad says, voice quieter than usual, like if he talks too loudly, Atsumu will break; he thinks he already has, though. He doesn’t say anything in response.

Atsumu tries not to look directly at the doctor’s face, not wanting to see her pity and sympathy anymore than he already had to when he was greeted by it.

“I’m not going to lie to you, it’s not good news,” she says after she comes back in from looking at his x-ray results.

“It never is,” he shrugs. It’s not like he came here expecting good things. He sees Mum tense up beside him, but he doesn’t dare look at her; the only smile she’s given him since he got back is a tight-lipped one, like she’s trying her best not to break down in front of him. It’s not really that effective when he can tell what she’s doing. He’s not a little kid anymore.

“After looking at your condition, it looks like you’ve got around a month at the most until the flowers will completely suffocate you.”

Mum’s breath hitches, and he doesn’t say anything. He was expecting this. He was never going to live a year.

“I’m going to prescribe you some medication to numb the pain, but I can’t promise how effective it will be,” she says, typing something into her computer.

“What can he do to give himself more time?” Osamu asks, speaking up for the first time since they walked in here. Ugh, he feels like a baby, having everyone in the room with him. It’s too much.

“Well, I would suggest avoiding the person you’re in love with as best you can,” she says, and really, out of everything she’s told him so far, that’s what hurts the most. He knew she would say something along those lines, but… he doesn’t want to stop talking to Sakusa. He doesn’t want to lose him.

“Also, and this one isn’t a suggestion,” she adds, voice unnervingly firm. He looks up and meets her eyes. “You have to stop playing volleyball.” Okay, no, scratch his previous statement, this hurts more. He can’t just— volleyball is his life. It’s his everything. It’s—

“I can’t—”

She interrupts him. “The exercise is far too damaging to your health, and it’s pushing your lungs and heart to work far more than they can manage in this state. The attack after your match was due to a large trigger and because you overexerted yourself: you didn’t allow your body the time it needed to relax, instead pushing and pushing until it could no longer function properly. So, you have to allow yourself time to rest, and you can’t hold in the flowers, or you won’t last more than a week.”

“But—”

“Got it,” Osamu says, nodding. Atsumu knows he shouldn’t even bother to speak any more. He can’t— this is why he stopped trying to fall in love. He told himself that he wouldn’t lose anything just because someone didn’t fucking love him back, and now he’s losing everything. Why doesn’t he get to be happy? Why has the universe never let him be happy? Why won’t Sakusa love him back?

The rest of the appointment passes in a blur, the only thing really sticking in his mind being the doctor’s suggestion to book in the surgery, and his reply being that he’ll consider it, though he’s not edging towards it. What’s the point when it will remove over half of his memories from the past few years, and might just kill him faster anyway?

The following two weeks feel like a month. Atsumu had never fully realised how much excitement normal exercise, never mind volleyball, added to his life. Now though, all he’s allowed to do is go on fucking walks. Walks that only last thirty minutes. But he tries to adjust to the new routine anyway. Though, he thinks the only reason he’s not slammed his head into a wall by now is thanks to his friends’ constant visits.

It starts with Kita and Aran coming to see him the evening after his appointment and continues with Bokuto and Shoyo visiting every couple of days, sometimes bringing their other teammates, sometimes by themselves, but it’s good. It makes him happy to know that they still put in effort to see him, even if it means they have to travel an hour to do so and the circumstances are… bittersweet.

But it means he can see them more, so he sticks to the rules this time. He lets his parents, Osamu and Suna boss him about, he takes his medication, he spends his days playing video games with them or helping Osamu come up with new onigiri recipes or helping Ayaka make beautiful bouquets for happy couples and happy families, and he pretends not to notice the way breathing comes just a little harder every morning when he wakes up.

And it hurts, knowing that every time he says goodbye to his friends, it could be the last, but it’s okay. He just misses Sakusa. A lot.

Atsumu calls him. He tells everyone he’s going to sleep, locks his bedroom door, and then crawls out the window onto the roof and dials the number.

“Miya?” the voice sounds almost breathless when it picks up. It’s nice to hear him again.

“Hey, Omi-kun,” he says, voice quiet in the night air, almost a whisper. “It’s been a while, huh?”

It’s silent for a moment. “It’s only been two weeks.”

Atsumu nods even though he can’t see him, then pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, phone balanced beside him on the rooftop, earphones plugged in. “It feels longer.”

A sigh that the phone barely picks up. “Yeah, it does,” he sounds sad. Atsumu doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like being the reason people are sad.

“You been on a run?” he asks then, not knowing what else to say; they’ve only spoken once since the match, on the group chat where Atsumu felt safe enough to do so.

“Mhm. What have you been… up to?”

He almost laughs at the awkwardness of his question. Gods he misses his stupid pretty face. “Playing videogames and going on short walks, mostly. I’m on the roof right now, though. Watchin’ the stars.”

“Watching them?”

“It’s a meteor shower tonight.” He can’t keep the smile off his face. “I’ll send a photo later.”

Sakusa doesn’t say anything, so Atsumu doesn’t say anything either, just basking in the silence. Sometimes it’s not so bad when it’s with him. Silence can just be… calming, with Sakusa.

It’s a while before he speaks up. “I’m not—” a huff, “I’m not uncomfortable, you know. Around you.”

Atsumu shifts in his seat, furrowing his brows. “What d’you mean?”

“Motoya guessed that maybe you’ve been avoiding me because of my mysophobia.” Atsumu’s never heard his voice sound so small. “But it’s not a problem. With you. I mean, it’s not contagious, so it doesn’t… scare me as much. You don’t need to worry about it.”

The confession pulls at Atsumu’s heart strings and he almost starts crying. Of course Sakusa would blame it on himself. Though, he was right anyway, at least partly.

“I always worry about you, Omi.” He worries about everyone he loves.

“You should worry about yourself more often.” A hesitant pause. “You’re too selfless, Atsumu.”

His breath hitches. No one has ever told him that he’s selfless. It’s always been that he’s too selfish, that he doesn’t care about anything other than getting better at volleyball, or that he’s rude and abrasive, or that he won’t let other people take care of him because he doesn’t want them to think he’s weaker than them because he knows he’s better. That’s never been true, though. Atsumu just never wanted to worry them or take up their time. He didn’t think he would ever hear someone say that he’s selfless.

“You’re probably the only person who thinks that Omi, but… thanks.” It’s a miracle that his voice doesn’t waver. It’s ironic, really, how much this conversation reminds him of that of two lovers, whispering quiet truths and reassurances to each other in the dark; maybe that’s just him having too much hope, though, thinking that things will miraculously fix themselves before he dies and the two of them will live a happily-ever-after.

They stay on the call for a while longer, talking about everything and nothing – though, they stay away from the hanahaki topic – until Atsumu can’t stop yawning and Sakusa practically orders him to go to bed before he falls asleep on the roof and wakes up on the ground.

Before he goes to sleep that night, Atsumu pulls up his notes app and drafts out a quick but important message, just in case. It’ll probably come in handy within the next few weeks.

Draft #69:

@atsumumiya: Hiya everyone! If you’re reading this, then that means I’m dead (whether that’s because I did or didn’t get the surgery), and I know that kind of sucks, but it’s okay. I’ve spent a lot of time being angry at myself for falling in love, and angry at dark purple orchids, at being sick and feeling useless. But I want you all to know that I’m not angry anymore. I’m not in pain anymore. I’m okay now. And in my last few weeks of living, I wasn’t angry or in pain, either. I was happy. Even though I’m dead, I’m happy now, and I’ll watch on from the grave and spook the shit out of you all just for fun.

I know everyone wants to know who it was, but I’m not going to tell you. I know that if they found out it was them, they would blame themself, and I don’t want that. It’s not their fault. It’s taken me a long time to realise that hanahaki and its outcome can’t be blamed on anyone. So please, if you find out who I’m in love with, don’t blab. The person I’m in love with is beautiful and kind-hearted and they always listen, even when other people don’t. I mean, I love them for a reason.

Anyway, I’m not very good at being poetic or whatever, so I’m gonna leave it there. Thank you everyone for making my life so happy and thank you for sticking with me through everything.

-Atsumu

Kiyoomi isn’t an idiot. He can tell that Bokuto and Hinata were hesitant about letting him come, even after he told them about last night’s phone call, and he can tell that Atsumu’s parents don’t know what to do with him, and he can tell that Osamu, despite being friendly with him, is avoiding talking to him as much as he can. None of the people in this house are being subtle at all.

Kiyoomi isn’t an idiot, and he knows Atsumu is in love with him. He knows that he is the reason Atsumu is dying, because if it wasn’t clear before – it very much was – it sure as hell is now that he’s standing in the Miya house in Hyogo, being treated with awkward kindness and hesitance.

However, Kiyoomi might just be an idiot, because he’s only just come to realise that he might be in love with Atsumu. Or, well, he’s close to it. Very close. It’s like Atsumu’s hanging over the edge of a cliff, and all he’s got to hold onto is a fraying rope that’s coming loose of its hook in the ground, and Kiyoomi is right there. He’s close enough to grab his hand and pull him to safety, but he can’t, because there’s some weird, invisible force holding him back. Fear, maybe, of getting close to the edge, of seeing what happens after he pulls Atsumu up.

He excuses himself to go for a walk, to clear his mind, and it’s almost upsetting how relieved everyone seems to be at that, but he understands. They’re afraid of what will happen if Atsumu sees him. He is, too.

Kiyoomi has been in only one relationship in his life, with a man he met in college who was kind, funny, and respectful. He gave the perfect first impression, and he always acted like he was the perfect person in front of people. Emphasis on acted.

Kiyoomi has been in only one relationship in his life, because before that, he was not ready for the intimacy of human touch, because during that, all he could do was hold his hand and deal with the underlying panic, because after that, he had been deemed ‘too difficult’ and ‘too much to handle’ and ‘too reserved’.

But maybe, if he let himself, Kiyoomi could be in another. Maybe things would be different if he were with Atsumu. Maybe he doesn’t have to be afraid, because Atsumu is the complete opposite of his last boyfriend, nicknamed Hell Spawn by Motoya.

Atsumu makes a bad first impression with almost every single person he meets. The first thing he ever said to Kiyoomi was that he looked like the lovechild of Michael Jackson and Mr Clean.

Atsumu does not pretend to be perfect, despite the mask that he sometimes puts on. He makes mistakes and can be loud and he is sometimes very over dramatic – then again, so is Kiyoomi –, but he tries to keep everyone around him feeling happy and safe.

Atsumu is kind, sometimes funny, and respectful, and Kiyoomi knows that is not an act, because he has known him since they were sixteen. He didn’t make fun of him for hiding in the corner of the room at the youth training camp, and when he joined the MSBY Black Jackals, he told the team that he didn’t like to be touched.

Atsumu has never told him that he is difficult, or too much, or too reserved, even though Kiyoomi knows that it’s true. When he had apologised for panicking and freezing up in an interview during his first month on the team, Atsumu had just shook his head and said that his mysophobia and anxieties weren’t his fault.

Atsumu has only ever been apologetic whenever they’ve touched, has never forced him to do anything he doesn’t want to, and has never shouted at him for getting uncomfortable or anxious.

Atsumu does not pretend to be someone he is not. Atsumu is the first person outside his family that Kiyoomi feels almost completely comfortable around.

Atsumu doesn’t deserve any of this, and Kiyoomi isn’t quite sure why he’s so afraid anymore, because he wants to try being intimate and honest and happy and safe. He wants to love Atsumu.

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and looks up from the ground, unsure where he really is now, and realises he’s in front of a flower shop, the edge of the path lining the building with tin buckets of brightly coloured flowers. He tilts his head up to see the name of it. Chrysanthemiya. Oh. That’s the name of Atsumu’s aunt’s shop, right? They have the same awful sense of humour, obviously.

He recalls Osamu telling the team that Atsumu was still at the flower shop and would be back in about an hour. Should he go in? What would he even say? They hadn’t spoken for two weeks until last night, and Kiyoomi hadn’t responded when Atsumu sent him a picture of the Hyogo night sky at three in the morning. He had almost cried.

He wants to go in, though. He wants to see him so badly it hurts.

So, he pushes the door open and steps inside. The sight that greets him is beautiful.

There, Atsumu is sitting behind a counter, surrounded by flowers of all different varieties and colours, the golden sunlight streaming in through the windows and setting him in a beautiful light that makes his eyes look like honey, and he’s grinning as he hums along to the tune playing on the radio. He’s a lot thinner than usual, obviously having lost a lot of his usual muscle, and his roots are growing out, dark brown mixing with pale blonde like a chocolate and vanilla marble cake, but all Kiyoomi can think is that he still looks as gorgeous as ever.

And then he lifts the tulip he’s been tending to, and although his voice is raspy it doesn’t seem to bother him when he speaks. “There you go, beautiful. All better.” He presses a light kiss to its petals, carefully adding it to the pot of other tulips. And Kiyoomi isn’t an idiot, so he braves his fears, reaches over the edge of the cliff, and pulls Atsumu up. He doesn’t think he really has a choice, anyway.

It takes Atsumu by surprise when he coughs this time, and he barely has time to lean over the bin he has strategically placed next to him behind the counter before the petal comes flying out. He hadn’t even had Kiyoomi in his head – yes, he’s decided he has the right to think of him by his first name for whatever time he has left, fight him – so what the fuck? He takes a deep breath in, readying himself for another possible coughing fit, and then he realises that he can fucking breathe what the fuck? His eyes open wide, and he presses a hand to his chest, which feels unbelievably light all of a sudden, and stares down at the petal. When he makes himself cough, nothing comes out. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck?

Is he dead? Did he just die or something? Is this the afterlife?

“You’re still alive, as far as I’m aware.”

He said that out loud? Wait—

His head whips up to face the ever so familiar voice in the doorway. Kiyoomi? “Omi-kun?” He doesn’t have to push himself to speak.

Kiyoomi takes a few steps forward, looking just as handsome as always, and he pulls his mask down to smile at him. “So, as it turns out, I think I might be in love with you.”

Atsumu stares at him, and then when the tears escape, he doesn’t even try to stop them, relief flooding his whole body. He sags against the counter, an embarrassingly big smile breaking out across his face.

He hears more footsteps against the wooden flooring and when he feels a hand running through his hair, he thinks his heart stops right then and there; there’s no way he’s not dead or dreaming. Atsumu has never felt happiness like this.

“I’m sorry for making you wait so long,” Kiyoomi says. “You deserve better. You deserve the world, Atsumu.” When he looks up, hesitant, he finally sees it, and the tears just get faster. He finally sees the same look that Osamu and Suna give each other when they think no one is looking, the same look that he’s watched Bokuto and Akaashi give each other on numerous occasions, but this time it’s for him. This time, he gets to see the beauty in love through that one expression, and he can feel his fears melting away, just like the flowers that have been holding him back for what feels like since his third year. When he sees the look Kiyoomi gives him, he thinks of life before he was eighteen, desperate to one day find his soulmate.

He pushes himself up from his chair – it feels just as easy as it used to – and turns away from Kiyoomi, searching the shelves behind him for the carnations. When he spots them, he carefully pulls out a light red one, meaning admiration, and a dark red one, meaning deep love and affection, then swivels back around and holds them out. He really hopes he’s being smooth.

Kiyoomi quirks a teasing eyebrow but carefully takes the two flowers into his own hands. “I thought it was roses that symbolise love?” he says it like a question.

Atsumu laughs. “Eh, that’s way too cliché.” He likes him like this.

Kiyoomi smiles, but it quickly turns to one that looks pained, and he averts his eyes to the floor. “Seriously, Atsumu, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through all of that.”

It pulls at his heart strings a little, and he shakes his head, putting his hands on his hips. “How many times do I need to tell ya to stop apologising for things that aren’t your fault, Omi?” He reaches out then, taking his jaw in his palm and turning his head to look at him. “Plus, my love for you knows no bounds: it’s undyin’.”

“That’s ironic,” he mumbles, and Atsumu can’t help the shocked laugh that bubbles out of him, or the laughter that follows. Osamu always tells him to shut up when he makes hanahaki-related jokes.

It takes him by surprise how easily the laughing comes to him, how it doesn’t hurt anymore other than the slight pain in his throat from already-there scratches. He’d forgotten what it felt like to not be on his death bed.

“Hey, Omi-Omi.” He grabs the keys from the drawer beside him and leads Kiyoomi out of the shop; surely Ayaka won’t mind if he closes up a little earlier than usual.

“Mm?”

He takes in a deep breath of the fresh air, and it feels so fucking good. “Can I hold your hand?”

He’s already pulled his mask back over his mouth, but his eyes soften at the question, and it makes little butterflies flutter in his stomach. How strange that one minute, love can make him feel tied to the ground, and the next like he’s flying.

Kiyoomi reaches out for him and intertwines their fingers as an answer, and really, Atsumu can’t believe he spent so many years depriving himself of this, hating this, after he spent so long wishing for it. He thinks he could become addicted to the feeling of loving someone and being loved back. Though, maybe he shouldn’t.

“Omi?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Kiyoomi squeezes his hand, rubbing his thumb up and down his finger. “I love you too.”

They get back to the house soon after, and even though Atsumu’s tired and he just wants to go to sleep, he knows he has to announce their new relationship to the others, first. He also knows they’ll probably force him back to the doctor.

He pulls Kiyoomi into the kitchen, still holding his hand, and greets his family and teammates – though, really, they’re all his family, aren’t they? – with a grin.

“Damn, I forgot how good it feels to not be dying,” he says, swinging their hands back and forth between them. Then he stops and frowns. “I’m never fuckin’ looking at an orchid again.”

The room goes silent. And then Osamu and Suna are jumping at him with a hug, and Kiyoomi is letting go of his hand to give them room. Atsumu holds onto them just as tight, hiding his face in the material of Osamu’s shirt, though before he can thank them for looking out for him all this time, he’s being slapped across the head.

“Fucking asshole I hate you so much never do that again.”

“I know. Sorry, ‘Samu.”

Just as Suna starts to pull away, mouth open probably with an insult already on his tongue, Bokuto and Shoyo come running at the three of them and they all fall to the floor, a pile of tears and smiles. When he looks over at Kiyoomi, he sees him inspecting the two carnations with only fondness in his eyes.

He knows it’s going to take them some time to work through their insecurities and his own fears that have already started to resurface about waking up some day with hanahaki once again, but even so, he thinks that from now on, things will get better. Life will be good again. Because growing up, Atsumu Miya loved only volleyball, his family, and flowers, and he was content with that, but now, looking around the room, looking at his closest friends and Kiyoomi, he thinks that maybe it’s worth opening up his heart for more.