Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was fate, if anything.

But Miya Atsumu didn’t believe in fate—

not yet, at least.

He preferred to rely on the things he knew, and in that moment, all he knew was the exact bus route he needed to take to the gym where the MSBY Black Jackals were holding their very first practice. He’d sat up in his bed at some late hour memorizing the stop numbers as best as he could but, knowing him, it still wouldn’t be enough. There were many places where Atsumu would rather not make a fool of himself, and public transport was high on the list. So as he stood shivering at the bus stop marked with a clear ‘3’ and ‘4’, he mouthed silent prayers to whomever might be listening that everything would go smoothly. The silky inside of his track jacket was running up the chilly skin of his arms. And his knees, uncovered by a measly pair of shorts, knocked together every once in a while. Atsumu hiked his volleyball bag further onto his shoulder before shoving both hands into the pockets of his jacket, tapping his foot impatiently.

Some other people had gathered at the same stop. Atsumu admonished himself for staring, but he needed to occupy his mind for a little while. The only thing worse than looking like a fool on public transportation was having some sort of mental breakdown on public transportation. He’d only done that once, and Osamu still hasn’t forgiven him. There was one lady with a briefcase wearing sensible shoes. There was another woman who was holding the hand of a little boy who Atsumu assumed was her son. A little ways behind them was a young man probably close to Miya’s age who was bundled up in a puffy jacket and a baggy pair of gray sweatpants. He looked much cozier than Atsumu felt. With his eyes scanning the boy’s appearance, Atsumu almost didn’t notice him look up from his phone and catch him staring.

Atsumu swallowed hard. His mouth froze agape when he did, letting all the hot air in his lungs escape as quick as lightning. He waited for the boy to make that face, that disgusted face that people made when they noticed that Atsumu was staring; but, instead, the corner of his mouth turned up into a subtle smirk and his eyes raked over Atsumu’s body from the soles of his shoes to the bleached tips of his hair. When Atsumu finally snapped his mouth shut, he felt a hot wave flush over his cheeks as he tore his gaze from the man. His fingers buzzed and his chest tightened as the heat flooded through the rest of his body.

Well, at least he wasn’t cold anymore.

Not thirty seconds later, the bus finally came to a screeching halt at the curb. The mother and son boarded first, then the woman with her briefcase. Atsumu glanced over anxiously to the young man who nodded him gently towards the entrance. Feeling his cheeks still burning red, Atsumu accepted the offer and boarded the bus as quickly as he could, racing to the furthest seat he could find and hoping that the man who boarded behind him was more interested in something on his phone than he could ever be in Atsumu. Once he’d cozied himself into his seat by the window, Atsumu masterfully shoved in his earbuds and began to blast whatever song he’d been listening to in the bathroom that morning. He let his temple rest lightly against the cold glass; it was a refreshing feeling considering the rising temperature of his face. And as the warm, wet heat of the bus spread across the exposed expanses of his skin, Atsumu finally let a cleansing breath escape his lips. Just two more stops and he would be there, then everything would be fine.

Everything was fine when he was playing volleyball.

So, when the last stop finally did screech into view, Atsumu nearly bounded off the bus, despite the entire thing being packed with people. The young man had gotten off a few stops earlier, and Atsumu was silently grateful. When the crisp, winter air hit his face, Atsumu couldn’t suppress a smile. He’d come to this part of town for his tryouts a few months ago, but he’d stayed in a hotel so close by that he doesn’t remember the trip much at all. Now he had an apartment almost four stops away because he couldn’t afford anything closer. But it was nice, in some way, because he got to spend the entire trip thinking and half-sleeping. If he lived any closer, he’d become a little too good at rolling out of bed and racing to practice—he’d done enough of that in high school.

High school, he thought.

I should call Osamu tonight.

The city was a little denser than where Atsumu started. The gym, from what he remembered, was nestled between a dojo and a massage place, both as fancy as it got. He had a vague memory of one of the team reps telling him that he got discounts at the massage parlor, but his head was still rushing from the try out that he didn’t catch it all. When he was called to try out, Atsumu expected to see other volleyball players there that he knew, possibly guys he played against in high school. But it was just a bunch of guys from their regular tea, the coach said he wanted to see Atsumu’s technical skills in particular. Now, as he trudged towards the familiar building, Atsumu prepared himself to see a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Don’t say anything weird, he reminded himself.

Don’t tell them about—, he thought.

He didn’t have time to finish the harsh reminder before he was swinging the front door of the gym open, letting the golden light inside stream out into the dull, gray winter morning.

“Miya-san!”

A voice. A familiar voice.

Could it be?

“Shoyou?” Atsumu asked meekly.

Sure enough, a head of fluffy, orange hair bounded towards him like an excitable dog. Thing is, Atsumu hadn’t seen Hinata in years, not since their triumph at Nationals all those years ago. Back then, Hinata had been decidedly thin and gangly; if anything, his shape was the reason he could fly so high when he jumped. But now, Hinata was far more built and his skin was tanned to a golden brown that Atsumu knew he couldn’t have achieved in Japan. There’d been talk of Rio when it came to both Oikawa and Hinata, but Atsumu hadn’t paid much mind to the rumors—perhaps it really was true. Hinata’s jaw was wider and more set with age. His flaming hair was long and tied into a low bun with the front pulled back by a thin headband. It looked like the hair of that one Karasuno player—Asahi, was it?

With firm, strong arms, Shoyou wrapped Atsumu in a bone-crushing hug. All the air was expelled from Atsumu’s body as Hinata nearly spun him all the way around. He still wasn’t very tall—he only reached Atsumu’s chin—but he’d grown a few inches since Nationals. Or maybe it was just his new confidence that made it seem that way.

“You’re on this team?” He asked vibrantly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu eked out, nursing his chest after Hinata’s vice grip.

A laugh bubbled from Hinata’s chest. He paired it with a blinding smile which seemed even whiter against his tanned skin.

“That’s what you said, right?” Hinata leaned in, “You said you were gonna set to me one day?”

Atsumu’s eyes fell in thought. He did say that, right after their game at Nationals. And he’d meant it. There was something mesmerizing about Hinata’s potential and the dynamic of the setter he worked with on that team that was frankly intoxicating to Atsumu. Once his brother confirmed that he would be done with volleyball after high school, Atsumu found himself scrambling to fill such a gaping space in his soul. Maybe the fulfillment of this promise was the exact remedy he needed.

“I did say that,” Atsumu replied, feeling a smile crack onto his own face.

“And now you’re here!” Hinata screeched, “It’s real!”

Atsumu couldn’t help but let the warm crackles of Hinata’s voice thaw his frozen insides. Though they’d played three entire sets against one another, they hadn’t spoken much. Perhaps this was Atsumu’s chance to fill the hole in his world—Hinata seemed to be the perfect size.

“C’mere,” said Hinata, his hand already clutching Atsumu’s wrist and dragging him towards the open court, “I gotta introduce you to someone.”

As the full court came into view, the cracking of a volleyball hitting the ground roused Atsumu from his early-morning daze. When he watched the body descend feet-first towards the ground, Atsumu took in the sight of a familiar spiker. The man’s head turned quick as a whip, his large, round, golden eyes locking onto Atsumu almost immediately. His smile was wide and bright, like he was stretching his own face with his fingers.

“Hey, hey, hey!” He cried.

In a flurry, Bokuto abandoned the court and rushed towards Atsumu with reckless abandon. Atsumu braced himself for another gripping hug, but Bokuto chose instead to hold Atsumu firmly by the shoulders and stick his face in a little too close.

“C’mon, gimme a set, just one!”

Atsumu shook his head.

“What?” He replied.

“A set!” Bokuto cried, “I’ve only ever watched you play, I wanna hit a Miya set for real!”

Atsumu’s mouth hung agape like it had at the bus stop. He could feel his face flushing again as he carded through every excuse of why he couldn’t do it.

“I haven’t warmed up yet!” Atsumu shouted.

Bokuto’s smile never faded. His eyes trailed around for a moment, probably an indicator that he was gathering his thoughts from the ether.

“Yeah,” he said, “that makes sense.”

Once Bokuto’s hands had abandoned Atsumu’s shoulders, he shifted the fabric around and felt wet patches on either side—there was no doubt that it was Bokuto’s sweat.

“Where’re the locker rooms?” Atsumu asked, a little too desperate to remove himself from the loud environment for a moment.

“Over there,” said Hinata, pointing towards a door off to the left of the court.

Atsumu muttered a quick promise of return to the rowdy pair before sauntering off towards the locker room doors. Even in the hallway that ran alongside the court, Atsumu felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He was still decidedly nervous; the successful feeling of his bus trip had only lasted so long. The echoing squeaks of shoes and the shouts of men went from muffled to silent when Atsumu let himself through the door labeled “Men’s Locker Room”.

It was nice—nicer than anything Atsumu had ever changed in. Even at Nationals the team would often share a locker room with boys from other teams, so it was never a particularly pampering experience. But the MSBY locker room was larger than the one at Nationals and was painted with alternating black and gold walls. The lockers were a matching sleek black and each shower had a curtain in front of it which was adorned with its own MSBY logo; the curtain provided much more privacy than Atsumu ever remembered in his locker room showering experiences. In the center of the room were two long, golden benches bolted atop a crest that was painted into the hard ground, Atsumu threw his things onto some space atop the bench and took a deep, cleansing breath.

He trudged over to the lockers. They were the kind that began at the ceiling and ended at the floor, leaving each player a long, skinny place to put their things at the end of the day. Atsumu had only seen lockers like these in American movies held at high schools—he never thought he’d get to use one. Slipped into a little frame on each locker was a piece of paper with a name of an MSBY player. Atsumu spotted Shoyou’s and Bokuto’s, but his was all the way at the end. When he was finally standing in front of it, Atsumu’s fingers rose subconsciously towards the printed letters. He ran his index over each syllable of his name, just to make sure it was his. Atsumu pulled his lips between his teeth to suppress a grin. It felt good to be playing volleyball again. It felt—right.

Atsumu took a quick glance to his left to see if, for any reason, he knew the player who had the neighboring locker.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Atsumu whispered to himself.

It sounded a bit familiar. Maybe they’d played each other at Nationals? Or maybe they’d gone to a training camp together? Atsumu was probably making it all up. His memory was a bit of a bitch, he forgot important things and remembered innocuous things. It was like a curse.

And considering that he’d forgotten to take his meds in the flurry of his morning, Atsumu wasn’t going to think on such a curse for too long.

Dragging his feet back to the benches, Atsumu plopped down next to his bag which was slumped over the edge. He got to work on his shoes first, untying the black laces with his defrosting fingers. He kicked them both off and unzipped his bag to root around for his good volleyball shoes. They’d been a gift from Osamu on his last birthday, and he’d broken them in during a pickup game with his old Inarizaki buddies. That was, of course, before Suna left. Nothing felt the same since he moved, so the boys didn’t really get together to play anymore. The inside of his bag was uncharacteristically dark, and his black shoes were hiding somewhere within it. He tried to use the eyes of his hands to see what he was touching, but it was no use. Atsumu had a nasty habit of shoving trash into his bag, covering anything of actual use.

“Excuse me,” a voice said flatly from above.

Atsumu furrowed his brow. His hands froze within the garbage inside his bag. He turned his head slowly towards the tall figure towering over him.

“Yeah?” Atsumu asked.

He was tall. That was all Atsumu could register for a moment. He was wearing a warm track jacket and a thick pair of winter sweatpants. His black, wavy hair was swooped back with a very thin layer of gel and he hauled an almost identical sports bag. Though Atsumu could see him very clearly, the man’s face was obscured by a blue, surgical mask that was covering both his mouth and his nose. The only parts of the man’s face that Atsumu could see was his set of thin, dark brown eyes which sported matching rows of thick, long lashes. His brows were sharp and intense, yet thin and well-groomed, and just centimeters above his right eyebrow were two dark moles; one was just a tad below the other, positioned perfectly. Though the man’s eyes were flat and serious, Atsumu couldn’t shake the downturned direction of them both—they looked almost sad.

“You’re in my seat,” he said.

His voice wasn’t particularly low, but it wasn’t as high-pitched and crackly as Hinata’s. It was somewhere in the middle. Atsumu let a quick chuckle escape from his nose at the assumed joke, but the man was speaking with such composure and certainty that Atsumu felt his body start to shudder in response. Was this guy actually serious?

“What?” Atsumu asked.

“You’re in my seat,” the man repeated, enunciating each word a little more than last time.

Atsumu’s brow furrowed even further. His eyes trailed from one end of the enormous locker room to the other.

“Dude,” Atsumu said, “it’s a bench.”

“And you’re in my seat.”

The man was relentless. Since Atsumu had turned his head, he hadn’t moved a muscle. Even his face was stoic and set, glaring down at the bumbling Miya.

“I don’t see your name on it,” Atsumu half-joked.

“It’s where I sat during tryouts and now I need to sit there again,” he said sternly, “because it’s my seat.”

Reeling back a bit, Atsumu removed his hands from his sports bag and turned towards the towering figure just slightly.

“You’ve gotta be joking, right?”

The man’s face finally moved with his hardening brow and narrowing eyes, “What about me makes you think I’m joking?”

He said the final word like it was someone else’s dirty napkin that he was forced to pick up and put in the trash. Atsumu’s body began to rush with prickling waves of anxiety.

“But I—” Atsumu began.

“Just move,” he commanded.

“No,” Atsumu retorted.

The man’s eyes widened.

“Move,” he repeated, his voice lowering.

“No,” Atsumu replied, “it’s a bench. You can literally sit anywhere. I was here first.”

It was childish, but growing up with a twin brother had formed Atsumu into an expert in childish fighting. And what this guy was asking for wasn’t even close to being a big adult problem. If anything, he was just mad he didn’t get his way, and Atsumu had no sympathy for people who complained about petty things like that.

“Just move a foot so I can sit there,” said the man.

“Just sit somewhere else on the bench,” Atsumu spat.

The man’s chest rose slowly then fell back down in a huff. The sound was muffled by his mask, but Atsumu swore he heard him grumble a bit. Turning cleanly on his heel, the man stomped out of the locker room. Atsumu’s lip quirked up at the sight. It was ridiculous, there was literally no one else in the locker room, he could’ve sat anywhere.

What was this guy’s problem?

Atsumu shook the interaction from his mind, his hands finally locating the shoes in his bag. As he slipped the shoes over his feet and tied them with warm, nimble fingers, Atsumu hoped that, if anything, the man he just met was some sort of benchwarmer, perhaps an overeager assistant coach.

He’d suitably warmed up just in time for the head coach to give a short spiel to the men scattered around the giant court. Bokuto and Hinata had been practicing serves and the other players were milling around, retrieving stray balls and stopping at walls for the occasional hamstring stretch. Soon, Atsumu found himself in a frighteningly familiar position—he had a volleyball in hand and was preparing to serve at the back line. He smiled. For the first time since his last pickup game, Atsumu noticed how right to felt to be standing on the court. For the moments where he was handling a ball and watching other players dance in the exquisite choreography of the game, all of the gruesome, harrowing thoughts would dissolve and Atsumu could be capable, for once in his life. It flowed through him like a wave of warm water, extending even to the ends of every fingernail and strand of hair.

With an expectant inhale, Atsumu scanned the court for his teammates in that specific practice match. On the other side of the net, he spotted Bokuto in the front where he was about to jump out of his own skin in excitement and Hinata, a row back, whose body seemed to vibrate even more than Koutaro’s. But as his eyes panned to his left, Atsumu caught sight of a similar mop of wavy black hair.

Damn, Atsumu thought, so he is on this team.

Atsumu didn’t have time to lament. Before he knew it, the whistle was being blown and the ticking clock of his serve had begun. It was fluid, instinctual: the gliding threads against his fingertips as he tossed the ball, the perfectly planned steps, the slight burn in both knees when he sprung from the ground and, Atsumu’s favorite part, the resounding smack of his hand against the surface of the ball. Falling back to the court always felt like floating as he watched the ball travel masterfully over the net.

It was Hinata who received the ball like he’d been born to do so. Atsumu’s eyes widened as he watched his toned, tanned leg stretch out beside him as his arms locked at the perfect point at the end of the ball’s arc. As soon as the ball smacked against the skin of his arms, shoes squeaked all over the court, particularly those of Bokuto who was running cross court and calling for a set from a player that Atsumu didn’t recognize. His feet moving before his mind could, Atsumu hurried up to the net and gave a look to a player behind him, urging the teammate to receive what would undoubtedly be an expert cross-shot from Bokuto. The player obeyed, sticking himself right at the direction of the impossibly fast ball that traveled back across the net to Atsumu’s side. Atsumu heard Bokuto give a hearty “ha!” as he hit the ball; he probably felt as natural as Atsumu did on the court.

When the distinct sound of volleyball against skin rang once more through the court, Atsumu’s eyes shot up to trail the ball carefully, shifting himself ever so slightly to place himself beneath it. With a quick glance down, Atsumu searched for the spiker that would have a hand up or give a shout to call the ball to themselves. Even though he’d told himself it wouldn’t be Aran or Osamu or even Kita, the idea hadn’t quite burrowed itself into Atsumu’s brain until he saw a complete stranger standing in their place.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a complete stranger.

If he hadn’t still been sporting his two moles aligned perfectly above his left eyebrow, Atsumu might not have recognized him as quickly as he did—particularly because the man had shed his mask. His eyes were still thin and darkened at the sight of Atsumu, but his jaw and lips were set in a rather soft line. His skin was impossibly smooth and seemed almost translucent and pearl-like—Atsumu swears he could see three blue veins crawling up the line of his jaw. He’d shed his warm tracksuit to reveal a rather built frame of muscles that were covered in similar, pale skin. A few black curls had loosened from their gel prison and fluttered along his forehead, kissing the top edge of his raven-black brows.

Silently, with little change in expression, the man lifted his left hand, coaxing the ball to himself. And if Atsumu had registered it all in time, he would’ve set the ball right as the material grazed his fingers, but he was caught up in a paralyzing moment.

He was—stunning.

Atsumu couldn’t tell if it was the carefully crafted line of his body as he prepped his body to run towards the ball or the deliberate places in his face where the bone was cavernous within which his eyes and cheeks could sink. Or perhaps Atsumu was perplexed by simply seeing the lower half of his face for the first time. In any case, he’d noticed the ball in his hands far too late.

With a flutter of panic falling down his body, Atsumu set the ball awkwardly off of his stiff fingers towards the player’s general direction. And as he watched the player run towards it and spike it, Atsumu could’ve listed twelve mistakes in that one simple toss. Watching the ball be received by the other side, Atsumu knew that what he’d done was fatal, proven true by the thwack of the ball against the floor of his side of the court. Atsumu’s eyes flew from the ball that was now rolling towards the back of the gym to the celebrating players on the other side. As badly as he wanted to melt away right then and there, he could feel his team’s eyes all on him, and there was on particularly stinging pair.

Atsumu craned his neck up to see the spiker. His brow had dropped, his hands were balled into fists, and his lip was twitching with unfettered anger.

“The toss was late,” he spat, “and low.”

Obviously. Atsumu had already identified those two failures of his toss amongst a slew of others. And from any other spiker, he would’ve done his obligatory whining session before promising to be better and delivering on that promise. But the anger of his earlier interaction with the guy started to burn in his memory. It didn’t help that the voice he’d used to demand Atsumu leave his seat was the same voice he was using to critique Atsumu’s set.

“I know that,” Atsumu retorted.

“Then fix it,” the man hissed.

“Miya! Sakusa!”

From the sidelines, Atsumu heard the coach yell his name and, presumably, the name of the player he was squabbling with.

“Cut it out, get set up to receive,” the coach barked.

Atsumu met Sakusa’s eyes once more, the name now etching itself into his brain. With only a little internal grumbling and groaning, Atsumu set himself onto the back line once again and prepped himself to receive a serve from the other side. And the play went pretty well, Atsumu set to a player he didn’t know, but the set felt comfortable and familiar, like the ones he’d done a million times before. They scored a point on the other side, then the other side scored a point on them. Now, in the middle line, Atsumu hunched over for a moment to catch his breath. In some way, the challenge seemed almost insurmountable when it came to beating the powerhouses on the other side of the net. But, in another way, the thought of playing on a team with those same powerhouses made Atsumu’s heart thrum against the edge of his chest. When he smiled, he could taste salty drips of sweat rolling over his lip and into his mouth.

“Miya!”

Like before, Atsumu found himself at the front line with the ball falling directly towards him. But when he looked down at the player who’d called his name, it was Sakusa with an even bigger scowl on his face. Atsumu quirked his lip and set to the eager spiker. He had to admit, Sakusa’s technique wasn’t bad at all. If he wasn’t such a dickwad, Atsumu would’ve actually been excited to play with him. When Sakusa spiked, his body would curl into a near perfect arch which would give him just the right amount of power to still be precise, but also watch the ball nearly flatten against the opponent’s side of the court. Sakusa fell back to the ground with a squeak of his shoes. Atsumu smiled as the players around his murmured praises and one even slapped his shoulder in encouragement, but Sakusa turned to shoot a rather dark glare at the setter.

"Do you always wait until the very last minute to set or are you just trying to mess with me?” Sakusa asked bitingly.

“Hey, we got the point, didn’t we?” Atsumu joked.

“It’s not about the point,” Sakusa grumbled, “it’s about the game. Set earlier.”

When Sakusa turned to reset himself on the court, Atsumu’s brow curled in half-confusion, half-amusement. Was this guy for real? It was almost like playing with a way-more-serious, lethally-authoritative clone of his brother—perhaps their only similarity was their expressionless faces.

They volleyed for a little while and Atsumu got to accustom himself to the styles of other spikers and even practice his own receives against Hinata’s quicker-than-lightning feet and another player’s terrifyingly violent serve. After every set, the spiker would come up to Atsumu, give him a pat on the shoulder, and request a small change for next time. Atsumu would smile and graciously accept the correction, storing it away for the next play.

So, when Sakusa called for a set sometime around the halfway point of the game, Atsumu glared at him for a moment. This guy couldn’t actually be serious. With a chaste sideways glance, Atsumu spotted a spiker a few paces behind Sakusa who was just as primed to receive the set. After he made sure that Sakusa was watching, Atsumu set the ball particularly so Sakusa would run, thinking the ball was his, but it would be too short and obviously meant for the spiker in the back line. In reality, it was just a feint so the opponent would think the ball was going to the left, but Atsumu saw the vindictive potential in the maneuver. But as the ball smacked against the spiker’s palm, Atsumu watched his feint fail as Hinata sped towards the other side of the court and received the ball. Once the ball flew back up into the air, Atsumu watched the opponent setter trail the ball with his eyes.

“Three blockers on the left!” Atsumu barked to his teammates.

And they obeyed, rushing to the left side of the net where Bokuto was watching the setter closely.

Smack.

“No way,” Atsumu whispered to himself.

With just a single glance, Atsumu watched the opponent setter float gracefully back to the ground with his hands primed for a setter dump, and the ball was already bouncing on his side of the court. When he finally trained his eyes down to watch the ball roll away, Atsumu spotted a pale arm and a wide hand fall onto the court. Sakusa, mid-dive, craned his neck up to a bewildered Atsumu, hellfire raging in his eyes.

It sucked. Setter dumps always sucked, especially when it made you dive onto the ground and look up at your opponent with sad eyes. In a chaste attempt at reconciliation, Atsumu took one step towards Sakusa and offered his hand to help the man up from his position on the ground. But after just one searing look at his face then his hand, Sakusa pushed himself up off the ground and rejected Atsumu’s outstretched hand.

“You should’ve set to me,” Sakusa spat, “I wouldn’t have spiked it so close to a receiver and we would’ve won the point.”

“I thought it wasn’t about the point,” Atsumu mocked.

Sakusa’s brow hardened. The hellfire in his eyes only raged on further. He was balling fists at his sides as Atsumu spoke.

“If you’re gonna complain about my shitty sets, then don’t call for balls anymore, yeah?” Atsumu joked menacingly.

Apparently, the line Atsumu had been toeing with Sakusa wasn’t as “under his toe” as he thought. With sure steps, Sakusa charged up towards him with a pointed finger and a permanent scowl pasted onto his face.

“Who do you think you are?” Sakusa growled.

“I don’t want trouble,” Atsumu held his hands up in a half-joking surrender.

“Then stop acting like a piece of shit!” The spiker shouted.

“Me? The piece of shit? You were the one losing your cool over a seat—on a bench.”

A screeching whistle blow peeled loud enough through the gym for Atsumu to feel his ears ringing.

“Sakusa! Miya! Bench!” The coach barked in one-word commands.

Atsumu released a slow, hot breath. Sakusa’s chest still traveled up and down with his quick, angry puffs of air. They glared at each other for a second, Atsumu weighed the value of continuing such a heated conflict. But, soon, the two of them retreated to the sidelines where the head coach was stationed with crossed arms and an even crosser expression. His eyes trailed the two players as they neared the bench before he commanded two players who were standing off to the side to take Atsumu and Sakusa’s place. When they finally did reach the bench, Atsumu caught Sakusa’s eye.

“Milord,” Atsumu said in a mock English accent, his hands extended theatrically towards a random place on the metal bench.

Sakusa scowled in response, Atsumu almost heard him growl, before he took a seat at the furthest end of the bench from where Atsumu was settling himself.

“Not a word outta you two until this set is over,” the coach grumbled.

Atsumu was happy to oblige. It wasn’t like he had anything to say to the dickwad anyways.

The end of practice didn’t come soon enough. Sakusa and Atsumu were eventually permitted to rejoin the group, but not without a scathing look from the head coach. Thankfully, the rest of the day was full of drills and technical work rather than more practice games. Atsumu supposed that the first game had been an attempt by the coaches to see the dynamics that already existed between players and which dynamics would form quicker than others. If anything, he and Sakusa had helped them in their research.

After succeeding in evading Sakusa in the locker room and on his way out of the gym, Atsumu was feeling rather light and airy in the brisk outdoors.

“Wait up, Atsumu!”

Both Hinata and Bokuto appeared swiftly beside Atsumu. For just having finished an hours-long volleyball practice, they seemed pretty energetic. Atsumu stuck his hands in his pockets and watched his breath steam up in the cold air in front of him as both of the men rambled on about something or other.

“And when you went swoosh and fwoosh—so cool!” Hinata screeched.

“I know, right?” Bokuto shouted in response.

“Hey, ‘Sumu,” Hinata poked Atsumu’s arm with a mittened hand, “what was up with you and that guy?”

In an attempt to remain cool and confident, Atsumu scoffed.

“He’s a jerk, that’s it,” Atsumu replied.

“Oh,” Hinata responded, his eyes trailing down.

“I mean,” Atsumu attempted to remedy what had obviously killed the vibe of the conversation, “he’s a good player we just—had a spat in the locker room and took it out on the court. I guess.”

Hinata pursed his lips and watched his feet crunch against the cracked pavement sidewalk. Silence fell over the three for a few moments, and it was precisely the moment that Atsumu’s brain started to spin. Sure, he’d forgotten to take his medication that morning, but he’d had volleyball for the past six hours to distract him from his own thoughts. Now that it was silent and he was just walking to the bus stop, his brain lost control and started to do what it always did.

There was the first horrifying image—the one of Hinata.

No, Atsumu commanded his brain and shook the thought away, I’d never do that to Hinata.

But what if he did? The image persisted—bloody, gory, downright psychopathic. Why else would Atsumu’s brain produce something so virile unless he really, deep down, wanted to do it, wanted to hurt some guy he barely knew?

Sealing his lips together, Atsumu squished his eyes closed and tried to dismiss the thought. His therapist would’ve been disappointed in him, but he wasn’t exactly in the mental space to deal with the thoughts right now, he just wanted them gone. He tried to think of anything else: the game, the MSBY uniforms, Osamu’s onigiri, Suna in California.

“Hey, isn’t that the guy you screamed at on the court today?”

Bokuto’s voice broke Atsumu from his torment and, sure enough, Sakusa was climbing onto the bus just a couple hundred feet away. Atsumu swears that he heard Bokuto’s loud, unrestrained comment, but he didn’t show it even if he did. Sakusa, adorned again in his mask, grabbed onto the handle of the bus door and pulled himself onto the vehicle. But before his body could disappear completely around the corner, Atsumu caught a flash of blue on his hands.

Gloves?

“Bo and I are going to get pork buns, do you wanna come?”

When Atsumu turned, he was met with a beaming Hinata and an eagerly waiting Bokuto.

“I—can’t,” Atsumu said.

It was partly true. From where he stood, Atsumu had two choices: he could either get pork buns with Bokuto and Hinata and continue to see terrible images of the two of them in his head, or he could see terrible images all by himself at home. His therapist would definitely be disappointed with him now.

“Oh, okay,” said Bokuto, just a dash of sorrow in his voice.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at practice, right?” Hinata asked.

“Yeah,” Atsumu chuckled, “as long as I can stay as far from Sakusa as I can. D’you think I can swing a whole season without having to talk to him or set to him?”

The pair laughed like it was a joke, and Atsumu didn’t have the heart to tell them that it wasn’t.

The ride back to his apartment four stops away seemed shorter than it had in the morning. Atsumu shoved his earbuds in and drowned out all the yapping in his mind with some rap playlist that Suna had made for him. Some of the songs were good, some of them were decidedly not, but Suna seemed so excited about it that Atsumu said he’d listen every once in a while. When he finally got off the bus at the very last stop, Atsumu muttered a quick thanks to the bus driver and raced up to his apartment, mostly desperate to escape the cold. With numb, shivering fingers, Atsumu fiddled with his keys and let himself into the dreary, empty space. There was furniture there left by the last owner, but Atsumu had done little to spruce up the space in the month he’d lived there. There was only one window in his living room and an even smaller one in his bedroom, and the entire thing was painted a drab eggshell white. Osamu always complained about Atsumu’s side of the room being a mess, so he’d probably be pretty impressed to see how well Atsumu had maintained the space in his absence.

But it wasn’t so much that Atsumu had suddenly gained an affinity for tidiness as much as he just hadn’t unpacked anything at all. For a month, Atsumu had been living out of a few boxes, one that contained his clothes and another that contained his flatware and silverware that he dug out whenever he needed something or didn’t feel like washing the last dish he pulled out and used. There was one lonely MSBY poster on his wall and a small photo he’d taken with Aran, Kita, Osamu, and Suna on graduation day. He’d stuck the thing crudely up on the wall with a ball of painter’s tape that must’ve been left by the previous owners who were at least nice enough to remodel. The photo hung above his bedside table where there was one phone charging cord and an almost empty bottle of pills.

When Atsumu had told his therapist that he was moving, he felt—guilty, above all. It was like he was abandoning the man that had kept him mostly sane for two whole years in favor of some job. But the doctor didn’t seem startled at all, in fact, he was happy for Atsumu. He’d filled his prescription again and sent it to a pharmacist close to where his new apartment would be, but he kept giving Atsumu all these flyers and business cards for places and therapists in the area. Atsumu acted gracious in the moment, but the stack of papers had just been shoved into a non-descript box and was only revealed when Atsumu went on a mad hunt for a clean pair of underwear. Now, the stack was sitting right next to his prescription bottle, wrinkled and torn.

“You’ve been on medication for a while, Atsumu,” his therapist had said, “eventually you’re gonna need to start building upon the version of you we’ve established here together to start getting your life back.”

It all sounded good in theory. OCD had, in a nutshell, completely ruined his life. But every time the light of recovery would glimmer at the end of the tunnel, Atsumu would only watch it fizzle out before he could reach it, revealing more long, dark tunneling. Sure, he wanted the thoughts gone and his life back, but he wasn’t sure how far he’d go to get it, considering that it could even be got. For now, when he remembered to take his medication, it did wonders. Or, rather, it was just enough to make him not kill himself.

And hey, that was already loads better than two years ago.

Atsumu ran a lazy finger over the flyer that rest on top of the pile. It was an OCD group therapy session about a five-minute walk away. Eyeing the dates offered, Atsumu tried to remember what day it actually was.

It was Monday.

Monday at 5:45pm, to be exact.

Perhaps it was just his luck that there was a session Monday night at 6pm.

“I met this therapist in school, he’s really one of the best in Exposure Response, and he runs this group session that I think you’ll benefit from,” the therapist had explained while shoving the flyer into Atsumu’s hand.

“I—just don’t think I’m ready for a group—” Atsumu had replied.

“Miya, listen to me. The biggest thing OCD will do to you is make you feel like you’re all alone. Going to a group session will let you know that you’re not, and that there’s lots of people out there who feel just like you do.”

As much as Atsumu wanted his old therapist to be wrong, the man rarely was. With his fingers still sliding along the edge of the paper, Atsumu finally picked it up, studied it for just one moment more, then folded it into quarters to stick in his pocket.

“Why the hell not,” he whispered to himself.

It was the exact sentiment that was helping Atsumu take each trudging step down the sidewalk just a few minutes later. He’d taken a moment to change into a warmer outfit consisting of jeans, a gray hoodie, and a black jean jacket that he’d stolen from his brother during the move. Paired with his hi-tops, the outfit looked as bland and unassuming as Atsumu wanted to feel, hoping he could slip in and out of the group session without being noticed. He’d carefully transferred the folded paper to his new pockets so that he could stand in front of the strip and search for the correct address that was printed on the flyer. Sure enough, he was soon stood in front of the correct building, a skinny little block shoved between a convenience store and a soba restaurant. The “open” sign in the restaurant blinked incessantly in the corner of Atsumu’s vision. It seemed to prompt him inside even though the prickly anxiety had started to overtake his body the minute he started walking. Everything in him wanted to turn around and go home, but he couldn’t afford to disappoint his poor therapist a third time in just one day.
And he was a little desperate to get out of the cold sooner than later.

So, with his hands shoved in his pockets and the folded flyer carefully concealed, Atsumu slipped through the propped-open door. The hallway before him was long, but it was warm. Despite the blustery cold rushing through the cracked door, there was something about the dark wood walls and matching floors that filled Atsumu’s body with an indescribable warmth. A long, running, red carpet guided feet down the hallway which only let to one door all the way at the end. The hanging lights cast golden puddles against the ornate carpet and the deep wooden floor planks. His body wasn’t shivering from the cold anymore, but it was still shuddering every now and then from the anxiety. What was he thinking? He didn’t just show up at stuff like this. He was gonna make a fool of himself.

Atsumu’s mind practically screamed at him as he walked down the hallway and tried to distract himself with the pictures on the wall. Most of them were of random people, sometimes pair but sometimes groups. Seeing them up there made Atsumu feel like he’d just walked into someone’s house.

Oh my god, what if he had just walked into someone’s house?

Swallowing down a hard knot in his throat, Atsumu finally reached the end of the rather skinny hallway. There was a double door before him, a large wooden piece that was carved in a rather Western style. The entire place looked like an old, European house to Atsumu, like one he’d see in a foreign film about some pointless time in the past. On the other side of the door, Atsumu could hear murmuring voices. He was crazy. He was just going to walk in? Fat chance. Atsumu felt his face heating up, his anxiety only rising through his body.

He’d barely come to terms with his mental illness, there was no way he was ready to share his experience with other people. What if they laughed at him? What if they told him he wasn’t OCD enough to be at their meeting? That would be far too humiliating, Atsumu would be some kind of masochist to subject himself to that. And it was all strangers, he didn’t like to talk to strangers. He had to go home and keep himself safe from such a purgatory.

That’s it—Atsumu was just going to go home.

A small wave of relief poured over Atsumu’s body. Sure, he’d disappoint his therapist a third time, but the old bag didn’t know what he was up to, so it didn’t matter anymore. He was going to leave and make himself some instant ramen and go to bed and just remember to take his medication the next morning. Atsumu took another longing look at the door, seeing small beams of golden light poke through the line which cut the doorway in half. Maybe he’d come back some other day and try again, or maybe he wouldn’t. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

But before Atsumu could puff his chest and saunter back towards the entrance, the door in front of him clicked and pulled away from his face, a member of the group must’ve gotten up and opened the door. Had they heard Atsumu outside? Glancing up in a panic, Atsumu’s mouth went dry.

Someone from the group had surely opened the door: a familiar masked spiker sporting a mop of black, wavy hair and two perfectly aligned moles above his left brow.

“Sakusa?”

Chapter Text

“I—” Atsumu stammered.

Sakusa’s dark brows slid slowly down towards his eyes at the sight of the blonde standing just on the opposite side of the door. His gaze trailed from the tips of Atsumu’s hair down to the soles of his shoes, a dragging judgement.

“What are you doing here?” Sakusa hissed, his voice low and gravelly.

“I was just about to leave,” Atsumu bit back.

A scoff escaped Sakusa’s lips, muffled by the material of his mask. He shimmied himself through the opening he’d created for himself in the doorway and stepped fully into the corridor.

“Figures,” mumbled Sakusa, “you’re such a child that you can’t even be in the same place as someone you don’t get along with.”

Each of Sakusa’s words were cold, they trickled slowly down Atsumu’s spine like freshly melted ice. Atsumu’s teeth grabbed onto the skin inside his cheek and chewed to try and channel some of the fury that was building in his chest. Sakusa was peering at him with narrow, disinterested eyes, but Atsumu couldn’t help but imagine the smarmy smirk he must’ve been sporting beneath his mask. Once Atsumu started tasting blood, he released his chewed-up cheek and swallowed a rather nasty string of words that he really wanted to say to Sakusa.

“Piece of shit,” Atsumu whispered to himself.

As Sakusa turned his back to him and started down the long hallway, Atsumu grabbed the handle of the door with a new confident fervor and stomped into the room the Sakusa had just vacated.

Atsumu had been in plenty of therapist offices and psychiatrist clinics. Whenever he’d sit in a new chair with a new man telling him new information about his screwed-up brain, he’d take a moment to notice all the things about the office that were similar to places he’d been in the past. There was always a degree or two on the wall, a candle of some sort on the corner of the table, a stack of clipboards at the ready, a mug with only cold remains of coffee. Atsumu would log it all into his brain and tuck it away so that, when the session inevitably ended and the therapist failed to help Atsumu, he wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving. Every therapist he ever went to was just like the one before, so there was no loss or gain to any of it.

But this room in particular felt nothing like the offices in which Atsumu had spent the greater part of the last two years. It looked more like a library; each wall was lined with rows of cherry wood shelving upon which mountains of books were piled in dusty stacks. In the portions of the wall which were unobstructed by books, a warm, crimson wallpaper had been pasted upon the drywall. Looking closer, Atsumu could spot a little, golden pattern of flowers spotting the paper even though, from afar, it just looked like a mess of dots and lines. The carpeted floor matched the near cranberry hue of the walls, the darkness of which made the room feel impossibly small, but Atsumu didn’t quite mind. It felt—cozy, if anything. Two windows on opposite sides of the room allowed in a good bit of the setting sun’s golden glow. Atsumu peered at the flying particles of dust which glinted against the sun’s rays.

The only furniture in the place had been pushed towards the center to create some kind of deformed circle. There was one rather long, emerald-colored velvet couch to the right, and across from it sat an identical counch that was just a few feet shorter. At the head of the circle was a tall, upholstered chair that at some point must’ve been golden, but the intricate designs in the fabric had been worn from sitting and lounging over the years. To the left of the tall-backed chair was another seat that was much smaller and more compact, the legs of which were fancy wood stems curling against the thick carpet. The upholstery of this chair was a baby blue smattered with white and pink blossoms, all connected by a winding branch.

There were two people sitting on the longer green couch, engrossed in conversation. One of them was a young man, he couldn’t have been much older than Atsumu. Upon closer investigation, Atsumu caught sight of a blazer draped over the arm of the seat where a sewn-in emblem poked out from behind the lapel. It probably should’ve been obvious that the boy was a high schooler considering that he was wearing plain slacks and a short-sleeved, white button down that most kids wouldn’t willingly wear outside of obligation. His hair was thin and black and rather overgrown, falling over his forehead and brushing against his eyelids. He kept messing with the fringe of it, trying to push it behind his ear even though it managed to escape every single time. He was speaking to a much older lady, her age evident by the wrinkles on her face and the way she was clutching her purse. She dressed like Atsumu’s mom did: plain shirts and cleanly-pressed slacks that ended just at the ankle to show off a pair of sensible shoes. The boy chittered happily to her, his fingers tangling together nervously as he spoke.

 There was one other girl who was curled up in the corner of the shorter green couch. Atsumu was never good at guessing ages, but she looked a little older than himself, the only tell being her business casual attire. She’d shed her restrictive blazer and placed it neatly on the coffee table in the center of the circle and she’d unfastened a few buttons at the top of her blouse which was slowly untucking from her gray pencil skirt. Her hair was clipped up neatly against her head, but a few strands had dislodged from the updo and were tickling the edges of her sunken, tired face. She was gnawing dutifully at a stubby, red-rubbed nailbed.

“Come on in,” a voice called from Atsumu’s right, “take a seat.”

Atsumu glanced up towards the noise to see a portly, old man hobbling over to the tall-backed, worn golden chair at the head of the circle. He had a steaming cup of something in his right hand which he set down on a side table shakily before settling himself into the chair. His face didn’t suggest that he was very old, but his body struggled to perform simple tasks like sitting and picking up a cup of coffee. He smiled gently at Atsumu, his face creasing with kind lines all over. His glasses had been pulled from his face and was being used to hold back the front of his wiry, black hair. They were the round, gold-rimmed kind that Atsumu thought made a person look effortlessly smart, like a professor. He was dressed in a burnt orange button-down that had been rolled at the sleeves and covered with a brown knit vest. His slacks were a light tan and buckled at his hips with a thin, black belt. Beneath the hem of his slacks, the toes of a pair of brown leather loafers peeked out.

“Well?” the man prodded, his eyebrows lifting questioningly at Atsumu.

With a flurry of movement, Atsumu shuffled towards a chair that was directly across from where the man just sat. It was a simple, brown leather piece that felt tacky and uncomfortable when Atsumu first lowered his body into it, but the chair quickly conformed to the shape of his body. Even so, Atsumu still sat rather awkwardly with his knees pressed together and his hands shifting positions every few seconds as he tried to find the most natural looking spot to keep them. Atsumu glanced around the place searching for the degrees or the clipboards or the candle, but none of those things were anywhere to be found. Even the man’s mug was full of something hot, fresh, and steaming. If this wasn’t a therapist’s office, then what was it?

“Once Sakusa gets back, we’ll start introductions.”

While the man with the glasses perched on his head may have sported enough wrinkles and age spots for someone to mistake him as Atsumu’s grandfather, his voice was not weathered by such age. Rather, it was warm and deep and fluid like honey; Atsumu wished that he would keep speaking, he could feel his racing heart calm at the sound of it. And in that moment, Atsumu wanted nothing more than to have the tingling anxiousness of his body quelled. His eyes darted to each person in the circle, most of which had ceased their conversation or nail-biting to look at Atsumu and rake their eyes over his appearance. He swallowed and looked sheepishly down at his feet, waiting until the chatter resumed. Atsumu clasped his hands together and twisted his fingers around, channeling as much tension into his hands as he could while he waited. Atsumu was so focused on the sensations of his own body that he didn’t notice Sakusa return until he was settling himself slowly into the blue, flowery chair beside the old man.

“Great,” the man tugged his glasses down over his eyes, “let’s get started.”

At the old man’s words, the high school boy turned from his conversation while the older lady set her purse on the floor beside her. The working woman to Atsumu’s left folded her arms in front of her stomach and cross her legs, bouncing the elevated foot repeatedly. Sakusa was the only person who didn’t move; when Atsumu glanced over at him, Sakusa’s icy glare send a shudder through his body.

“I’m Dr. Hirai,” said the old man, “and I lead group therapy for individuals with OCD.”

When Atsumu looked back at the doctor, the man was starting right at him. Obviously. He was introducing himself to the only new member of the group. Atsumu felt a hot blush creep up his cheeks as he parted his lips and searched for something to say in return.

“Since we have a new friend joining us, let’s just give some quick reintroductions,” said Dr. Hirai warmly, “just your name and your themes.”

Themes?

“I’ll go first,” said the boy in the high school uniform.

He shifted his body slightly towards Atsumu, but his gaze moved from one member to the other as he tilted his head and spoke.

"I’m Ito Hayato, I’m a high school student in my third year, and I have Sexual Orientation OCD and Scrupulosity.”

He spoke so matter-of-factly that Atsumu, on instinct, sat up a little straighter in his seat. He’d heard murmurings of scrupulosity and SO-OCD, but he never related to those criteria on all the tests he’d taken. Truthfully, Atsumu had often thought that he’d be much happier with those themes rather than the ones he had.

“For inquiring minds, talk a little bit more about scrupulosity, Hayato,” Dr. Hirai requested.

Now, Hayato looked right at Atsumu. He must be the inquiring mind that the doctor was referencing.

“Scrupulosity is basically intrusive thoughts that are all tied up with religion,” the boy explained, “so the fear that you’re doing something sinful without even knowing it or getting intrusions while you’re praying like—having sex with the Devil or something.”

Atsumu’s eyes widened. The image entered his brain for a moment before he quickly wiped it away, wishing to think of literally anything else. Maybe he was wrong in thinking scrupulosity would be an easier theme to endure. The words were so explicit, yet they fell rehearsed from Hayato’s tongue. And he looked so young—is that how Atsumu looked all those years ago when the thoughts began?

“My name is Tamura Yui,” the older woman said sweetly, “and I have Harm OCD and Responsibility OCD.”

At the familiar term, Atsumu’s ears perked up. He glanced at Tamura who shot him a comforting grin. But, apparently, the smile had been some sort of social cue that Atsumu picked up on a few seconds too late.

"Oh—uh—” Atsumu stuttered, gazing back out to the group, “My name is—Miya Atsumu—”

His eyes trailed to where Sakusa was perched right beside the doctor. His eyes were set on Atsumu’s awkward, seated form, and his brows had curled unapprovingly since the last time Atsumu looked at him.

“I have Harm OCD—” said Atsumu slowly, “and Relationship OCD.”

Tamura nodded gently in response to Atsumu’s admission. He glanced once more to Sakusa, but the man’s face hadn’t changed one bit, not even a twitch of the lip or a shake of the head.

“I’m Ueda Akari,” said the woman to Atsumu’s left in a fairly low, flat voice, “and I have Suicidal OCD, Existential OCD, and Sexual Orientation OCD.”

Atsumu felt a puff of air leave his mouth as Akari listed all of her ailments. He felt small and insignificant next to her, even as she returned to biting her nails incessantly. She shot a tepid glare towards a staring Atsumu to which the blond retreated back into the plush of his chair.

“And?” poked Dr. Hirai, gesturing towards Sakusa.

He looked reluctant, probably because Atsumu was there to witness the grand reveal of his soft underbelly. It only seemed fair, though, considering that Atsumu had so readily shared his own weakness. With a sigh, Sakusa rolled his eyes discreetly.

“I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi,” he said flatly, “I have Contamination OCD and Somatic OCD.”

As he spoke, Sakusa’s eye moved languidly from one member of the group to the next. When he reached Atsumu, his brow quirked for a moment which made the blood in Atsumu’s veins run hot with anger. Eventually, the man tore his gaze from his foe and looked back at Dr. Hirai.

“So, Miya,” the doctor turned his attention back pointedly to Atsumu, “Harm OCD, eh? The fear of harming yourself, someone you love, or someone you don’t even know. Give us your worst.”

“What?” Atsumu replied, his heart thrumming.

His worst? Everyone was looking at him, they were waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t know how to respond. Sakusa’s face showed no break, only disapproval and disdain.

“Your worst intrusions,” Hayato chirped, “what kinds of thoughts do you get?”

Atsumu’s mouth hung agape. His thoughts were so terrible, how could he say them out loud? What if saying them out loud somehow started to make them true? What if his thoughts really were just so awful that the group would hear them then sit in stunned silence until Atsumu left the room? He carded through all the terrible things in his mind, all the thoughts and compulsions he’d cycled between for the past few years. Atsumu wanted to tell them something true, but something that wasn’t so terrible.

“Well—I can’t hold a knife when someone else is in the kitchen,” said Atsumu meekly, “because I’m afraid I’ll—stab them.”

Feeling his mouth go dry as the words spilled out, Atsumu cast worried glances all around the circle, waiting for the shocked responses and the gasps of disgust.

“Mm, knives are the worst, aren’t they?” Tamura joked.

Atsumu made a small noise of confusion as he turned to his right.

“I remember, one night, I was so in my head that I scooped up all the knives from the kitchen and buried them in the backyard,” she said casually.

A smattering of chuckles erupted from the group. Out of the corner of his eye, Atsumu watched even Akari crack a dull smile.

“Imagine my poor husband looking out the window at 2am to see his wife digging a hole in the grass and dropping a cleaver into it.”

Hayato snorted, suppressing a full laugh behind his palm. Atsumu felt the laughter begin to chip away at the weight on his shoulders. He let a small, breathy laugh escape from his chest.

Tamura pointed at Atsumu and furrowed her brow quizzically, “Stairs?”

“Yeah, stairs are bad,” Atsumu confirmed with a nod.

Akari hummed in agreement from her corner of the couch.

“I-I actually forced my parents to move into a one-story house, at one point,” Atsumu said, “because I couldn’t stop imagining pushing my mom down the stairs at our old house. And I was so scared I’d just lose consciousness and do it.”

“Ooh,” Akari hissed, “that’s dedication to a compulsion.”

Atsumu chuckled again, feeling his chest open up little by little as the group spoke. He’d only ever talked about his intrusions in private sessions. It hadn’t occurred to him that other people could think the same things he did.

“I stopped using rocks in my landscaping for years,” Tamura lamented.

“Rocks bother me too!” Atsumu perked up, “It’s the bashing people’s heads open, right?”

Tamura laughed and nodded. She leaned back into her seat and clutched her stomach.

The words tasted sour on Atsumu’s tongue, just like they always did. It felt wrong to be laying it all out before him and all these strangers, but the way they were laughing and the warmth on all their faces had begun to loosen the ties Atsumu had used to suffocate his own mind.

Could it be—

that they understood?

“Atsumu,” Dr. Hirai called from across the circle, “what have you noticed about our group, so far?”

Atsumu sat back in his chair and straightened his posture a tad. His eyes glanced around the circle, catching onto each person’s face for a moment. He’d gathered so many things just in the few minutes he’d been there, how was he just supposed to choose one? Everyone was so different from one another that it was strange to see them all in the same therapy group.

“Well,” Atsumu began, “not everyone has the same theme.”

“Exactly,” whispered Dr. Hirai, “it might seem pointless for us all to meet since we only have some overlap with our themes.”

Atsumu crossed his arms and cozied himself into his seat. With another chaste glance to Sakusa, he watched the man’s stony face fixate upon the doctor, the same scowl still pasted across his features.

“But when it comes to OCD, it’s not about the content of the thought,” Dr. Hirai tapped his finger on his thigh, “it’s about the obsession over it, and that’s at the core of any theme.”

Dr. Hirai took a deep breath and grinned at the group.

“And we forget that.” He said, “We get so caught up in our own thoughts and our own compulsions that we think no one could ever understand the complexity of our thoughts. But there’s nothing about the thought itself that needs to be understood in order to beat the disorder to a pulp.”

Atsumu chewed on his lip. He watched Akari’s front teeth ravage the meeting of her thumbnail and the nail bed while Hayato picked at the hairs on his ankle and traced the design on his shoe with his finger.

“When your brain misfires, your brain misfires,” the doctor explained, “it’s what you do in response that quantifies the disorder. That’s why we meet and talk about the most horrifying things you can imagine because, eventually, your brain will stop seeing them as genuine thoughts that you produced and more like—suggestions shouted from the crowd at an improv show.”

The group chuckled (all except for Sakusa) at the doctor’s comparison. Atsumu had always felt like the voice in his head was a real screamer. Especially when he was lying in bed, the voice would drone on and on about horrifying things that Atsumu could never bring himself to repeat. It was like stepping through a field of landmines that he himself had buried in the ground; there was him, then there was his brain, and they’d lost correlation sometime in the last few years. But these were all things he knew. Atsumu had countless therapists tell him these exact things. Why did it sound so much simpler coming from Dr. Hirai?

“And that’s all you can really do,” Dr. Hirai shrugged, “the thoughts may never go away, but eventually, if you work for it, you won’t care about them so much.”

Never? Atsumu’s mind raced.

He’d always imagined his future without the burden of his thoughts. It was so close, he could almost taste it—the old life he had where he could cut vegetables with knives and pick up cords without imagining strangling someone with them. He’d lived that life before, all he had to do was return to it. Maybe what Dr. Hirai said was true for other people, but Atsumu was more determined when it came to getting his old life back. And he simply wouldn’t be satisfied until the thoughts were gone entirely. That was his promise to himself at the outset of all the madness, and Atsumu never backed out of his promises.

Atsumu was going to get better, he had to.

“So,” The doctor cozied himself into his seat, “let’s begin, shall we?”

The session went on for some time with the other members of the group talking about their weeks and how they did with the challenges Dr. Hirai had given them at the previous meeting. And as the top of the hour neared, Dr. Hirai prodded Sakusa a bit, asking him to open up about his week and such. But the stoic man grumbled and refused to answer, his stony gaze still set on Atsumu. Every once in a while, Atsumu would glance over at him to try and catch a softening in his expression or a showing of interest in what was going on, but it never happened—the man barely uncrossed his arms the entire time. As the group members bid goodbye and shuffled out, Sakusa was slipping his coat on wordlessly.

“Wait, Sakusa,” Atsumu called out to the man who had already dashed out the door.

Atsumu rushed to gather his own things, bowing and waving goodbye to Dr. Hirai on the way, who only responded with a knowing smile. Atsumu raced out to the corridor only to see Sakusa’s back shimmying out the front door which was still propped open with the doorstop.

“Hey, wait up,” Atsumu called down the long hallway.

It was less of a treacherous journey than it’d been when he arrived, but the corridor still seemed unnecessarily long as Atsumu huffed and puffed for air at the end of it. When he wriggled himself out onto the sidewalk, he caught a glimpse of Sakusa’s tall form already walking rather briskly away from the building. Atsumu revved himself up into a little jog to catch up to him, every beat of his shoes against the pavement sending spikes up his legs after sitting for so long.

“Sakusa,” Atsumu said breathily, “I gotta—tell you something.”

He stopped in his tracks rather abruptly. The man’s head didn’t turn, but Atsumu could already feel his menacing glare boring into his very soul. Atsumu hunched over for a moment to catch his breath in the tight, cold air.

“I wanted to say sorry,” Atsumu told him, “for being a jerk at practice today.”

It was a shitty attempt at reconciliation, but Atsumu would feel even shittier if he accidentally learned more about this man’s life than he ever wanted to know then prolonged such a childish fight at every single volleyball practice. Naively, Atsumu had hoped that the connection at the group session would be just enough to mediate a sort of peace agreement between them. But Sakusa’s head turned to cast only the coldest of glares at Atsumu.

“Don’t think we’re friends now that we go to therapy together,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“I—I didn’t say that,” Atsumu retorted.

“Just mind your own business, okay?” Sakusa said bitingly, “And if you tell anyone on the team about this, I’ll kill you.”

With that, the tall man turned his head and resumed his brisk walk down the sidewalk, hands shoved in his coat pockets and mask drawn over his lips and nose. Atsumu scoffed as he watched Sakusa’s body grow smaller and smaller in the distance. He shoved his hands into his own jacket pockets right as his phone buzzed.

Atsumu pulled the thing from his pocket and answered it, a familiar caller ID gracing the screen.

“Yeah?”

“’Sumu!” Hinata cried over the receiver, “you answered! I told you it was his number, Bokuto.”

Hinata’s voice was a little slurred.

“Where are you guys?” Atsumu asked, beginning a healthy pace of his own towards his apartment.

“The bar!” Bokuto called into the phone from a distance.

“We went to get pork buns but THEN—” Hinata hiccupped on his words, “we saw this bar and now we’re here. And YOU shouldcomejoinus.”

Hinata’s voice began to fade on Atsumu’s end. Bokuto’s voice booming over the receiver next solidified the culprit of the phone theft.

“38^th street, called The Palace—I won a beer chugging competition—there’s an ashtray outside, don’t stick your face near it—and uh—there’s a squirrel digging in the tras—Hinata look, it’s eating a whole piece of bread!”

Atsumu wondered if he just got a glimpse into the actual innerworkings of Bokuto’s brain. It was a bit disjointed and there was an easy-to-miss spot of important information somewhere in the middle of it. Atsumu was tired and he was angry, but the thought of going home to wallow sounded lame. Sakusa had probably gone straight home like a loser, and Atsumu wasn’t a loser. Dr. Hirai had also challenged him to sit with uncomfortable thoughts, just to see what it was like, so hanging around two near strangers with lowered inhibitions would probably be a good start.

“Fine, I’ll be there in a bit,” Atsumu groaned.

“You will?!” Hinata cried, “If you run then you can see Bokuto try and catch the squirrel.”

“Hinata, don’t let Bokuto touch the squirrel,” Atsumu commanded.

“I would but he just walked out the door—” Hinata paused, “I’ll just shout out the window—Bo!”

“Oh my god,” Atsumu whispered to himself.

He probably could’ve run to the bar, but it was an entire bus stop away, and there was little that could make Atsumu actually run somewhere. When he finally got to the right place, he let himself inside to see Bokuto and Hinata perched at the counter, drinks in hand.

“It’s Atsumu!” Hinata called out to him.

Bokuto turned around next, a wave of beer nearly sloshing right onto his shirt.

“Atsumu!” He cried, “I swear I didn’t touch the squirrel.”

Atsumu chuckled as he sauntered over to the pair, shedding his jacket and slipping himself into the seat next to Hinata.

“Good,” he told Bokuto, “don’t those things carry diseases or something?”

“Maybe,” Bokuto shrugged, planting his elbow on the bar and burying his cheek in his hand.

“Beer for you?” The bartender asked Atsumu.

Atsumu nodded. Hinata leaned in just a bit too close to his face.

“Where were you?” He asked earnestly.

“It’s—not important,” Atsumu brushed him off.

The place was a basic dive bar with old, rotting wood floors and windows that looked like they’d been repaired a few times after some unfortunate nights. There were a few other people spread out at the tables and a couple sat at the opposite end of the bar from the three of them. Soon, the bartender set the large glass of beer in front of Atsumu with a thud to which he responded with a sharp nod of thanks.

“Did you see that one guy’s receiving posture?” Hinata babbled to Bokuto, “It was crazy, he could’ve received the ball at any angle.”

“And the one with the hawk eyes, the setter,” Bokuto replied, “I watched him run cross court to get right under a chance ball.”

Atsumu busied himself with the alcohol, the first sip slipping cold and tart down his throat. He grimaced for a moment, unfamiliar with the bar’s brew. Eh, it’s alcohol, who cares.

Hit him over the head.

Atsumu shook the thought from his head.

Hit the bartender over the head with the glass.

“No,” Atsumu whispered to himself, pinching his eyes closed in desperation.

Hit the bartender over the head with the glass and watch him bleed.

Setting the glass on the countertop, Atsumu used his cold, wet fingers to rub circles on the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t hold the glass while he was thinking of all the awful things he could do with it. Atsumu tried to tune himself back into Bokuto and Hinata’s conversation as a distraction, but his mind kept going back to the glass and the bartender who was in deep conversation with the couple all the way at the other end of the bar.

Like any other intrusive thought, Dr. Hirai’s words came crawling through the mess of Atsumu’s mind.

“Just let the thought be for a moment. Don’t touch it, don’t poke at it, don’t think about all the layers of meaning beneath the surface.”

Atsumu inhaled deeply. As the oxygen invaded the crevices of his brain, Atsumu imagined the thought at the center of it, a meaningless little bundle of words. He wondered if Tamura had ever thought something like that. He wondered if Hayato or Akari had ever had to put down a glass of beer in fear that they’d commit a heinous crime with it. He wondered if Sakusa had ever sat with his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose.

“And Sakusa’s spike! The technique—I don’t even know where to start,” Hinata rambled on.

Atsumu didn’t mean to scoff, but his mind was on a certain dickwad when his name just happened to come up in conversation.

“Oh,” Hinata deflated a bit, “sorry, Atsumu.”

“It’s fine,” Atsumu sighed, “It’s just—I don’t know.”

Grabbing the glass of beer once again, Atsumu took a big gulp to give himself a reason to not speak any more on the subject.

“I mean, you guys just met, things could get better,” said Hinata meekly.

“Actually, I saw him—”

He stopped himself. The words “at therapy” hung heavy on the tip of his tongue, but he knew he couldn’t say it. Towards the end of the session, Dr. Hirai had explained the confidentiality clause to the group to ensure that everything that happened in therapy, stayed in therapy.

“Where?” Bokuto chimed in.

Atsumu gritted his teeth and stared into the surface of his drink, “Nevermind, it’s nothing.”

 “Do you—wanna talk about it?” Hinata asked awkwardly.

Truthfully, he did. But if this was Hinata’s way of trying to lighten the mood and make Atsumu feel better, he was doing a shit job. Not that it was his fault. Atsumu knew how difficult it was to deal with him, his family reminded him all the time.

“I just don’t get what his problem is,” Atsumu hissed into the rim of his glass before taking another sip.

Even in therapy, Sakusa hadn’t said a word beyond his introduction. Did he just go to sit there in silence? Or had Atsumu’s presence made him act that childishly?

“I even tried to apologize to the guy, and he kept being a dick for no reason,” Atsumu ranted with vague enough details to mask the truth.

“Maybe he was having a bad day,” Bokuto suggested sheepishly.

"Yeah,” Atsumu scoffed, “or maybe his face is just stuck like that.”

Hinata and Bokuto both took slow, uncertain sips from their drinks. Bokuto drained his completely and waved the bartender back over to order another one.

Smash the glass through Bokuto’s hand.

“What is it with you and the beer glasses?” Atsumu hissed at his own brain.

“Huh?” Hinata chirped, turning to Atsumu with wide, expectant eyes.

“Nothing,” replied Atsumu before sinking ashamedly into his seat.

“I think you should give it a couple more days, he’ll come around,” Hinata predicted with a growing grin.

“Doubt it,” Atsumu murmured.

There was something at the center of Atsumu’s chest, a hot ball of frustration that he couldn’t untangle. It wasn’t so much that he cared what Sakusa thought of him, but the man’s incessant rudeness only reminded Atsumu of his bitter memories of family, the family he’d finally gotten away from. And now, by some malicious comedic timing, Sakusa knew Atsumu’s biggest secret. The only thing that was keeping Atsumu from crawling into a hole and dying was that he knew Sakusa’s biggest secret, too. Vis-à-vis, that’s where they stood now. Atsumu would be damned before he relinquished such a level playing field.

“Wait, you’ve gotten a rabies shot before?” Hinata gasped.

“Yeah,” Bokuto replied casually, “there was a raccoon in Akaashi’s trash, so I chased it off. But then it scratched me.”

“How?”

“I dropped my phone next to it and when I tried to pick it up, it thought I was trying to pet it. So, it scratched me.”

A genuine laugh bubbled up from Atsumu’s chest. He erupted into growing chuckles for a few moments before he had to bury his head in his elbow, the chuckles turning into gasping laughter.

“Hey!” Bokuto admonished him, “As far as I know, that raccoon never came back to Akaashi’s house. It learned not to mess with me.”

Atsumu guffawed. Not on purpose, but it was so goddamn funny imagining Bokuto chasing a raccoon then getting scratched completely on accident that Atsumu completely lost his cool.

Bokuto planted his hand on the bar, “Oh, like you’ve never gotten a rabies shot.”

Propping himself up on his hand, Atsumu pressed his cheek into his palm and stared at Bokuto with teary eyes.

“I can confidently say that I’ve never gotten a rabies shot,” he said through giggles.

“Me neither,” Hinata added, battling his own chortles.

Bokuto’s face fell. He stared into the surface of his beer.

“My mom said lots of people get scratched by wild animals,” he pouted.

If Hinata and Atsumu weren’t holding their gut with laughter before, they definitely were now.

If Sakusa was having a bad day before, then he was having two bad days in a row. Atsumu knew this with one look at the guy as he walked into the locker room and refused to even acknowledge that Atsumu was there. As he wordlessly got changed and started to warm up, Atsumu took every chance he got to glance over at Sakusa and stick out his tongue a little bit, but only when he wasn’t looking. It was childish, sure, but it gave Atsumu a little twinge of satisfaction every time he did it, like he’d brought shame upon Sakusa without him even knowing it. Whenever Atsumu would catch Sakusa glaring at him with his hooded, narrow gaze, he’d return the sentiment with his own grimace of distaste.

Thankfully, the coach only had drills and technique work planned for the day, so there was no chance for Sakusa and Atsumu to be forced to work together on a team—at least, for that one day. If Atsumu was at the front of the line to serve, Sakusa would stick himself at the very back. If Sakusa occupied one end of the court to talk style with an assistant coach, Atsumu would plant himself on the opposite end of the court to talk positioning with the head coach. It was a cruel stalemate, but it kept them from snapping at each other’s throats, so it was really helping everyone around them, too.

The closest they’d been the entire practice was when they were both resting on the sidelines; Atsumu was sitting at the very end of the bench sucking on a water bottle while Sakusa patted his face dry with a towel standing a few paces behind him.

Strangle—blood—strangle—

Atsumu’s mind had been reeling all morning. His medication was lying somewhere in the caverns of his sports bag, but he didn’t have time to fish it out before the coach called for all the players to enter the court. Now his mind was relentless, prodding and hypothesizing about every little thing. And it was the same every time: a chorus of why would you think that and a collection of every reassurance that Atsumu could scrape from the recesses of his memory. He’d blink, shake his head, and wish it away, but he knew the feeling would only deafen when he got distracted again.

“If you keep trying to make the thoughts go away, they’ll only get worse.”

Sakusa’s voice was cold and distant. Atsumu turned back to glare at him, but Sakusa’s eyes were affixed on his teammates up ahead. He slung the towel around his shoulders.

“I know,” Atsumu grumbled to himself.

If there was anything he hated more than Sakusa Kiyoomi, it was when Sakusa Kiyoomi was right.

Chapter Text

“I have a trig test tomorrow and I haven’t even started to study,” Hayato whined.

Atsumu’s face curled into a grimace at the sound of his least favorite subject. His life wasn’t perfect but thank god he wasn’t in school anymore.

“I wish I could help you,” Atsumu told him, “but I’m so stupid.”

“Doubt that,” Hayato retorted.

“No, seriously,” Atsumu chuckled, “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten above a C on a math assignment. It’s a miracle they even let me graduate.”

“That’s always what people who got all A’s say,” hmphed Hayato, crossing his arms and snuggling into the green couch cushions.

“If I really got all A’s,” Atsumu leaned towards the boy, “I would never shut up about it, trust me.”

Hayato snorted and hid a small smile, turning back out towards the group. Atsumu’s second Monday at the therapy group had finally arrived after a long week of practice games and drills and lukewarm locker room showers. He and Sakusa had done a rather seamless job of avoiding one another, bar the occasional practice game and this one time that they had to stand next to each other as per the nutritionist’s request. But other than those unfortunate events, the extent of their interaction had been limited to tepid glances and furrowed brows. Every time Atsumu would see Sakusa within a certain radius of himself, his blood would start to boil. Hinata and Bokuto had joked that they could see steam coming out of Atsumu’s ears whenever Sakusa walked into the room. Atsumu had brushed them off, saying they watched too much cartoons.

But, despite all the avoidance and deep rumblings of distaste, Atsumu found himself looking forward to the following Monday. Seeing Sakusa on the volleyball court felt like a battle of wills, both of them waiting to see who would give in to their own anger first, but in this room with Dr. Hirai, the war would become a stalemate with both sides looking each other in the eye knowing they can’t shoot. Especially since they all had to sit, no one person was taller or bigger than another. And the little spot of pleasure that had settled into Atsumu’s chest with the knowledge of Sakusa’s secret had only grown. Perhaps their battle of wills wasn’t so gory because they were both holding a nuclear bomb above the other’s head. If anyone on the team, especially the coaches, were to find out where they were every Monday night, there’d be trouble. Professional coaches don’t like to work with athletes who they’ve deemed “difficult” or “unreliable”, and there was no better way to tattoo those labels onto your forehead than to admit that you’re medicated for a debilitating disorder like OCD and actively going to therapy for it, too.

Thus, every glance that Sakusa and Atsumu would shoot at one another in therapy was dulled, knowing what was at stake for both of them. Atsumu would take a deep breath to let all the hot, pressurized air in his head escape into the world around him. Sakusa may have ruined volleyball for him, but he wasn’t going to poison what was Atsumu’s only chance to kick OCD in the nards and get his old life back.

“Since we’re all already acquainted from last week, let’s go ahead and get started,” said Dr. Hirai with a small smile.

Everyone’s attention turned to the man in his familiar golden chair. He folded his hands in his lap and wet his lip before pulling them between his teeth in thought. He still didn’t have a clipboard. Atsumu had noticed it last week, but he thought it was just some kind of fluke, every therapist had a clipboard, right? Where did Dr. Hirai write all of his doctor scribblings?

“I was hoping we could talk a little more about intrusive thoughts today,” he said, “really get into the specifics of our different themes and feel the current that runs under them all.”

Dr. Hirai’s thumb ran over the wrinkles along his knuckles as he spoke. Sakusa had crossed his legs over one another and pulled his arms together tight over his chest, just like last week. Tamura was fiddling mindlessly with the handle of her purse and Akari was nibbling at her thumbnail.

“Hayato,” the doctor said, “you experience Sexual Orientation OCD. How has that affected your relationships.”

“Like—friendships? Or romantic stuff?” Hayato asked.

“Whatever you’d like,” Dr. Hirai said casually.

Hayato let out a lone chuckle. He slumped a little further into his seat as his eyes wandered unfocused across the room. His smirk melted into a straight line as he thought deeper and deeper into the request.

“I used to have a bunch of friends who were gay,” he said, his eyes now resting unfocused on the coffee table in the center of the circle, “but once the thoughts started—I flipped.”

He chewed for a moment on a piece of skin that was hanging from his lip. Hayato was wearing his school uniform, the sleeves of which were rolled up lazily and a few buttons of which were undone in the name of comfort. A few strands of hair had stuck to his forehead, probably from the long walk home, and there was a slew of scuff marks all over his shoes—one of which was half-untied. His posture, his speech, his appearance—it all seemed so familiar to Atsumu. Perhaps he could see himself in Hayato more than he thought. And it made the boy’s expression all the more honest.

“I couldn’t even talk to them anymore, my brain just wouldn’t stop,” his voice fell into a harsh whisper, “constant reassurance and attraction checking and all this other shit—at some point I felt like I was treating them like characters rather than my friends.”

Atsumu was no stranger to the feeling.

“An obsession with reassurance can turn even our best of friends into faceless caricatures, made only for the comfort they can provide,” Dr. Hirai interjected.

“At one point, I tried to open up about everything to one of them, I thought he’d understand,” Hayato trailed off, “but I think I hurt his feelings. I think he thought I was just being homophobic or refusing to accept who I really was but I—he couldn’t understand how the uncertainty was eating me up inside.”

Atsumu watched Hayato swallow over and over in between his phrases, a familiar tactic for when you don’t want to cry in front of a bunch of people.

“Because I know that even if I just—just gave in and said that I was gay, my brain would do the same bullshit, just the other way around!”

Hayato’s voice rose, another tactic to hide the cries that are building up at the base of the throat. His gaze had finally focused, and he’d chosen Dr. Hirai’s still yet understanding face.

“And if I don’t really have that OCD theme, then I might not have OCD at all then everything I’ve thought with Scrupulosity would also be true—” Hayato cut off his own ramblings by burying his face into his hands and releasing a long sigh.

“I can’t even think about dating while I’m like this,” he muttered into his palms.

Dr. Hirai hummed. Hayato dragged his hands up and down his face, finally letting his words drift away into the ether.

“Thanks, Hayato,” said the doctor, “it gets a little easier every time you share, right?”

Another breath traveled through the boy’s body, his chest rising with an inhale then falling back down with a slow exhale. He tilted his head up, eyes now bloodshot and tired from rubbing, and nestled his chin into his hands. He smiled dully.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “used to not even be able to say the word ‘gay’.”

“Good progress identification,” Dr. Hirai extended his hand to a hunched Hayato who released one of his own hands from beneath his chin to give him a hearty shake.

“With that being said,” Dr. Hirai mused, “I’d love to hear from Kiyoomi.”

At the sound of his name, Sakusa’s low gaze shot up to the level of the group. His brow fell into its usual hard line, and Atsumu could only imagine the curl his mouth had taken on beneath his mask. His piercing eyes bore holes into Dr. Hirai’s skull, but the man didn’t look the least bit phased.

“Be as clinical and impersonal as you want,” the doctor shrugged, “doesn’t matter to me.”

When Sakusa’s eyes shifted quickly to Atsumu, the blond felt his entire body flood with chills. Atsumu’s heartbeat picked up at the sight of such passive fury, he wanted nothing more than to give Sakusa what he wanted by leaving the room and never returning, but it would be far more satisfying to watch him go bonkers with Atsumu sitting just across the circle from him. There was no doubt in Atsumu’s mind that Sakusa’s reluctance to share about the specifics of his illness had something to do with his teammate listening on. But no one in the group, not even Dr. Hirai, knew that they saw each other outside of therapy totally against their wishes.

“You don’t even have to talk about your relationships, you can just talk about your theme or whatnot,” Dr. Hirai attempted to pad the question once more.

Sakusa still stared mercilessly at Atsumu who was resisting a small smile of satisfaction at Dr. Hirai’s selective attention. And either Sakusa and Atsumu weren’t being so covert with their distaste towards one another or Dr. Hirai was more masterful at picking up small cues than they thought.

“Or, y’know, I can just have Atsumu go, instead,” the doctor suggested flippantly.

“No,” Sakusa blurted out before Dr. Hirai could even finish his statement.

In less than ten words, Dr. Hirai had harnessed the competitive nature of their relationship and used it to his advantage.

Man, Atsumu thought, this guy is good.

“Fine,” Sakusa said flatly.

His body didn’t shift much except for a tightening of his arms across his abdomen. He decidedly looked away from Atsumu and picked some neutral spot around the circle to look at.

“I have Contamination OCD,” he said lowly, “and everyone thinks all I care about is cleaning, but I don’t. Even something that’s clean can be contaminated.”

“How so?” Dr. Hirai prodded.

Atsumu swears he heard a growl hum from Sakusa’s chest.

“It’s not about whether something is clean or not,” Sakusa groaned, “it’s about whether my brain says it’s contaminated. I could buy an apple at the grocery store and my brain will convince me that it’s covered in a bloodborne disease, but I could buy a loaf of bread from the same grocery store and think nothing of it.”

Atsumu’s eyes trailed to the floor as Sakusa spoke. He tried to imagine all of the probably contaminated things he’d eaten on dares. Really, it was a miracle that Atsumu wasn’t dead with all the dumb shit his friends made him do.

“I don’t talk about illnesses or read about them because I think it’ll make it more likely for me to get them,” Sakusa spoke rather formally, his voice occupying just one flat tone, “and if something’s contaminated, I’ll wash my hands after touching it or just not touch it at all.”

“And how do you know something is contaminated?” Dr. Hirai asked.

Sakusa brow tightened. His mask moved a bit as he ground his teeth and adjusted his jaw. His eyes skillfully avoided Atsumu as they bore directly into the surface of the coffee table.

“I don’t,” Sakusa mumbled.

“But that doesn’t make it any less awful, does it?” The doctor added.

Sakusa’s face softened a bit at that, even though his body was still tightly wound around itself and his brow still obscured the shape of his eyes. Dr. Hirai, unlike his circle neighbor, shifted in his chair and placed his hands on his knees instead. His lips parted to say something, a distinct inhale rising through his chest.

“My last relationship only lasted a month.”

Everyone had suspected that Sakusa was done after doing his bare minimum. Hearing his voice once again jolted everyone back to reality almost immediately. Even Dr. Hirai’s eyebrows rose in surprise and his body ceased all shifting.

“Tell us more,” he encouraged gently.

Sakusa’s brow loosened, but his eyes refused to rise back to the level of the group. Atsumu could see the top of his cheeks tinting pink over his mask from the sheer embarrassment. He took one long, languid breath in and held it all there for a moment.

“I couldn’t bring myself to touch her,” he said, minced and muttered, “my brain kept saying she was contaminated. It hurt her feelings that I had to wash my hands every time I’d make contact with her skin.”

Dr. Hirai had settled into his chair so that he was half-facing Sakusa, but still open to the rest of the group. But it didn’t even matter, everyone was suspended in anticipatory silence as Sakusa spoke. Even the sound of breathing was getting lost somewhere in the thick tension.

“She called me a monster.”

Monster.

The word revolved in Atsumu’s head in an obsessive loop. It was somewhere in his memory, buried way down deep, but he couldn’t quite reach it. But Atsumu knew the word carried some sort of weight; why else would his chest tighten and his head go fuzzy right as he heard it?

Monster, monster,

Miya is a monster.

Atsumu squelched his eyelids closed and tried to focus his attention on the word and any variation he had stored of it in his mind. He’d always described his memories as a carousel, where he was an immovable horse on the track forced to spin eternally, seeing the same memories over and over, the same thoughts and intrusions circling back no matter how hard he tried to escape them. If his memories were the paintings along the wall of the carousel, then this was the haunting tune that played in the background.

Monster, monster,

Miya is a monster.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Hirai said lowly, his eyes portraying a genuine sorrow.

Atsumu’s eyes fluttered open as the doctor interjected, tearing him away from the carousel and the song and all the other things that were whizzing through his mind. Sakusa had returned to his original position: his arms wrapped tightly around his torse, his brow heavy over his eyes, and his legs crossed and turned in order to block the rest of them off from perceiving him in his entirety. Atsumu looked away before his judgmental stare could be reciprocated.

“I actually—” Atsumu blurted out.

The words started tumbling out of his mouth before he could even stop them. He’d been thinking it, sure, but he didn’t mean to start talking. Now, everyone’s eyes were on him just as he felt himself lose the ability to speak. Atsumu sat there with a gaping mouth for a few seconds, feeling the group swiftly become his audience.

“Have something to add?” Dr. Hirai asked.

He did have something to add, but with the way Sakusa’s glare shot over to him right as the words were uttered, Atsumu wasn’t so sure that he’d make it out alive if he did. But Atsumu had made a connection while Sakusa spoke, and isn’t that what this was all about? How was Atsumu going to get better if he didn’t dive headfirst into this therapy thing?

“Well—” he stammered, “I have Relationship OCD and it—it’s definitely ruined a bunch of relationships for me in the past.”

“How so?” Dr. Hirai hummed.

“Just—the constant questioning,” Atsumu gestured subtly to Hayato, “and—feeling like something is off or wrong like—like Sakusa said.”

He’d originally planned on leaving the last part out, desperate to leave Sakusa out of the equation entirely, but Dr. Hirai was looking on with such expectant eyes and Atsumu couldn’t help but feel that he was doing the right thing by relating his experiences.

“And I’ll just drive myself crazy and the person I’m with crazy,” Atsumu chuckled lightly, “and the closer I get to someone, the worse the harm thoughts get. So, it’s just not worth it at this point.”

“Feel the undercurrent, folks?”

Dr. Hirai smiled slyly and looked around to every member of the group. His hands were folded again in his lap.

“OCD likes to disguise itself in these different fears and compulsions and intrusions when it’s all working for the same end: to distance you from those you love and keep you from living the life you deserve.”

Half of the group nodded in response to Dr. Hirai’s analysis. The other half looked to the floor in thought, soaking in what it all meant. When Atsumu’s eyes flickered back up, they met unceremoniously with Sakusa’s across the circle. They stared at each other for a moment and Atsumu began to feel the hot flames of frustration in his chest be doused with cooling water. Perhaps this was the breakthrough they needed, the words by which they would finally understand each other and move past all of the nonsense they were putting themselves through. Sakusa’s expression was no indication of such an end, but Atsumu hoped anyways.

The session ended as per usual with short recaps of the week and how they each addressed their personal challenges and such and, soon, everyone was shuffling out one-by-one after giving a brief overview of what the rest of their night looked like. Atsumu wished Hayato luck on his trig test, Tamura and Akari were babbling on about something that was going on at Akari’s work as they shuffled out the door. Sakusa performed his usual routine of gathering his things in silence then rushing out the door with the urgency of a trauma surgeon. Atsumu feigned taking his time, saying goodbye to Dr. Hirai and putting his things gingerly into his pockets. But he was really just counting the steps it would take Sakusa to reach the end of the hallway so he wouldn’t sense Atsumu following close behind.

Once he peered out the door and saw that the coast was clear, Atsumu walked vigorously down the hallway. He wanted to catch Sakusa, but he didn’t want him to run off like he did last time. Atsumu’s chest felt lighter, like the burden of their mutual frustration had been listed from his body. Maybe they could finally sit down and talk and play volleyball without having to interpret each other’s weird, wordless cues on the court. When Atsumu caught sight of Sakusa’s back a few feet down the sidewalk, he picked up his pace to a gentle jog.

“Sakusa!” He called out just loud enough for the man to hear.

Sakusa stopped firmly in his tracks and craned his head back to look at the figure running up behind him. His eyes were narrowed and downturned in displeasure. Atsumu caught his breath when he finally stood before Sakusa and his unchanging expression.

“I didn’t know we had all that stuff in common,” Atsumu said casually, “I wouldn’t have been such an asshole if I knew—”

“In common?”

Sakusa spat the word like it was a rotten piece of fruit, brown and wrinkled and rancid. His eyes widened just enough for Atsumu to see the fire blazing within them. Sakusa turned his body towards his opponent, but his stature made Atsumu feel like he was being sized-up by someone only a few inches taller than him.

“Y-yeah, in common—” Atsumu hesitated.

“We don’t have a damn thing in common,” Sakusa hissed.

Atsumu furrowed his brow in confusion. His head sputtered back upon hearing Sakusa’s fighting words.

“What’re ya talkin’ about?” Atsumu retorted, “We’re in the same therapy group.”

“Now you think we’re one-in-the-same?” Sakusa bit back without pause.

Shaking his head of the ridiculousness of it all, Atsumu shoved his hands in his pockets and took a decisive step back.

“I didn’t say that—” he began.

“You’ll never understand the hell I live in,” Sakusa jabbed a finger into the center of his chest as the hot, biting words fell from his lips, “Contamination OCD is pure hell.”

Atsumu scoffed, “The different themes don’t matter, it’s all OCD in the end. Your theme isn’t any worse than mine.”

“Y’know, I thought the arrogance thing was just some kind of act you did on the court,” Sakusa spat, “turns out that’s just who you are.”

“Arrogant?” Atsumu leaned towards Sakusa antagonistically, “If anyone here is insufferably self-centered, it’s you.”

“I thought I told you not to talk to me,” Sakusa retorted.

“Then I guess issa good thing yer a shit conversationalist! I don’ wanna talk to ya anyway.” Atsumu shouted, his old accent slipping through the cracks his anger was carving into his composure.

With a huff, Sakusa turned and started marching down the street with even more urgency than the week prior. Atsumu shook his head in disbelief.

“Dick,” he muttered under his breath.

Atsumu’s entire body burned all the way back to his apartment. It was a short walk, but Atsumu stomped the whole way to try and siphon some of his fury through the soles of his feet. With his hands shoved into his pockets, Atsumu walked with his gaze fixed firmly on the floor and kept muttering to himself all the things he wished he would’ve said to Sakusa in that moment. If only his accent didn’t come through every time he started to lose his cool. He’d spent a long while trying to shake all the strange pronunciations before he moved to the city, but he couldn’t help but let it slip through every once in a while. Really, he only reverted when he was getting worked up, when he talked to his mom on the phone, or

“What the hell are you doin’ here?” Atsumu groaned

“I made you dinner!” Osamu exclaimed

—when his brother visited. Sure enough, Osamu was standing in his kitchen hunched over an army of steaming pots and pans scattered around the stovetop.

“How did you get in my apartment?” Atsumu glowered as he set his keys and phone onto the counter.

“That’s a secret,” Osamu muttered while stirring a pot of rice.

“It’s also a crime,” Atsumu replied before tossing himself onto a dining chair like he’d dreamed of doing the entire walk home.

Osamu looked over at him with a quirked brow, observing his brother’s dramatic drape over the dining table, one arm extended out with the other bent to bury his face. Atsumu grumbled into the crease of his elbow.

“You on yer period or somethin’?” Osamu joked.

“Shut up,” Atsumu growled.

“Fine,” Osamu conceded, “don’t tell me.”

Atsumu freed his face from the stuffy crook of his arm to instead lay it flat against the wooden surface and pout. It did smell good in the kitchen, Atsumu could sniff out rice, potatoes, salmon, and maybe a pot of soup somewhere in the mix.

“You really should unpack all yer shit,” Osamu called out to him, “I had to dig this pot lid out from beneath a stack of pretty unsavory magazines.”

“I don’t own any unsavory magazines,” Atsumu replied bitingly, feeling his jaw rub against the woodgrain as he spoke.

Osamu snorted, “Fine, I pulled it out from beneath a pile of wrinkly underwear. If yer salmon tastes like Calvin Klein, you only have yerself to blame.”

“Haven’t had the time,” Atsumu grumbled.

“I find that hard to believe,” Osamu replied, “All you do is go to volleyball practice then come home.”

“S’not true.”

“No? You been goin’ on hot dates every night?”

Atsumu picked up his head from the table and buried his chin into his left palm, the elbow of which was planted onto the flat surface. He let his head tilt so he could still see Osamu slaving away at the food.

“I’ve been goin’ back to therapy,” he said.

Osamu froze his stirring for a moment. His head turned next, eyebrows nearly touching his hairline.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Osamu let out a chaste “huh” of surprise before returning his attention to the soup.

“Thought you ran away to the city to get away from all the therapy bullshit,” he muttered.

“Well, my brain followed me,” Atsumu groaned as he watched Osamu pull bowls and plates from the barren cabinets.

Osamu shuffled the pots over one by one in general silence. The plates and bowls came next, hitting the table with a clunk. And the silverware was last, Osamu setting it against the plastic dishware with a series of clammers.

“Really,” Osamu said lowly, “buy a proper dish set. I will pay you to buy a set that isn’t plastic.”

Atsumu chuckled as he ignored Osamu’s biting judgement and served himself some food instead. Osamu followed suit, filling his plate with as much as it could handle.

“So, that’s it? Therapy’s the only thing botherin’ you?” Osamu inquired with a bite already primed on his fork.

Atsumu had his fork readied in his hand, as well, but he stopped just short of the food. He wanted to talk about Sakusa, but he had to either separate him from therapy and relegate him fully to the volleyball team, or he had to talk about him anonymously in the therapy group.

“There’s this guy—” Atsumu began

“Is he hot?” Osamu asked.

Atsumu sputtered, “W-what?”

“Is he hot?” Osamu repeated, his words muffled by a bite of greens that was a bit too big.

“I’m—not answerin’ that!” Atsumu reeled back in disgust.

His mind flickered to Sakusa sitting in his chair at the therapy group in that haughty little pose he always did. He thought about his mask and the way his eyes could signal so much disgust all on their own. He thought about Sakusa mask-less in practice, the clean lines of his body whenever he served and the perfect arch of his back whenever he spiked. And, of course, Atsumu thought about the way his curls would always catch the light whenever he was suspended in the air—

“Okay, so we’ve concluded he’s hot, now where did you meet him?” Osamu muttered, taking another bite of food.

“I never said he was—” Atsumu bit back before giving up, “he’s on the MSBY team.”

“So, he’s a good player.”

“He’s—alright, I guess.”

“That’s what I always said about you in high school,” Osamu teased.

Atsumu finally took a bite of food but still chose to talk through it, “Whatever.”

“Whenever a reporter would come up to ask me about my brother’s technique, I’d say you were just alright and that Kita was much better,” he said.

“I’m tryin’ to tell you somethin’, d’you mind?” Atsumu glowered at his brother.

Osamu sported a small, mischievous grin before shoveling more dinner into his face. Atsumu sighed and continued his dinner, as well.

“This guy’s the biggest dick I’ve ever met in my life,” Atsumu let the bite muffle his words, “I mean even worse than you.”

“Wow,” Osamu widened his eyes in fake amazement, “impressive.”

“Seriously,” Atsumu took another bite, “every time I try to mend things with him, he gets all uptight and acts like I kicked his puppy.”

“Did you?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“How’re you gonna survive a whole season with this guy?” Osamu inquired.

“No clue,” muttered Atsumu.

They both looked down at their food for a moment in silence. Atsumu chewed up what remained of his prior bite and swallowed it down into his slowly filling stomach. As good as it felt to have Osamu there and to eat his familiar cooking, there was always something eerie about Atsumu’s past that he couldn’t quite place. His childhood wasn’t so bad, not compared to what other people have gone through, but it always feels like he’s being passively haunted by it. When he finishes a plate of a recipe his mom used to make, he always feels a little sick after, and when people would say certain words, he’d feel like a kid again, small and vulnerable. Atsumu must’ve spent so long burying everything deep down that he couldn’t even remember where he’d dug in the first place. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wishing that Osamu hadn’t come at all.

“Well, it’s not the end of the world. Plenty of kids hated you on the Inarizaki Team and it all turned out okay.”

“Fuck you,” Atsumu muttered, flinging a few grains of rice at his brother’s face.

It didn’t take them long to slip back into a familiar rhythm. They were twins, after all. They talked about mom and Aran and Suna and Kita. Osamu dished about his new job as a line cook and recounted some date he went on with this girl whose name he couldn’t remember and talked about a fight he had with his landlord last week. Then Atsumu got a little giddy talking about all the phenomenal players on MSBY, raving about their technique and their speed while Osamu listened on with half-interest. Even though he had no interest in playing anymore, he at least understood what Atsumu was talking about. And Atsumu hadn’t made any friends yet outside of the Black Jackals that he could dish to about volleyball, so Osamu would have to do.

But even after they fought over doing the dishes and snapped each other with wet dish towels, something still felt off in Atsumu’s body. If he could name it, he would’ve, but it was so small and insignificant that all he could really do was shove it down. It wasn’t until he’d successfully kicked Osamu out of his apartment and cozied himself into bed at some ungodly hour that it hit him. It was the familiar feeling that everything could fall apart at any moment, that the very ground beneath him threatened to crack with every step forward.  Atsumu felt sick to his stomach with both the startling realization and the lingering taste of his childhood dinner on his tongue. He always tried to tuck himself into bed when he absolutely couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore, so as to avoid haunting thoughts such as this one, but even the heaviest cloud of fatigue couldn’t dissolve the unsteady sensation in his body.

One day, Atsumu thought, I’m gonna get my life back and I’m never gonna feel like this again.

He said it to himself a few more times. And the reassurance was just enough to send him off to sleep without another thought.

“Left!”

Even from his lounging position on the bench, Atsumu could hear the clear shouts of players from the court, cut through by squeaking shoes and the harsh, echoing slap of skin against the surface of the volleyball. Atsumu wiped at the sweat dribbling down his forehead with a towel he tucked under his water bottle which was clenched in his left hand. He could already feel his muscles starting to ache after many hours of play and his eyes were heavy with fatigue from his late night. He made a plan to call Osamu later and curse him for staying so long.

“Wow,” Hinata whispered from the other end of the bench.

He was watching the practice match intently, his legs twitching to get back out there. He kept glancing back to the coach, waiting for him to give the word. Hinata was just as sweaty, if not sweatier than Atsumu, but he had some sort of endless energy reserve that Atsumu could only dream of. It was irritating when they played at Nationals, but now it was a little exciting. Atsumu imagined what it would be like playing his first real game with this team.

“Atsumu,” Hinata called to the other end of the bench, “did you see Bokuto’s cross-shot in that last play?”

“He had two of the tallest blockers on him, too,” Atsumu replied, “for being his only choice, he executed it really well.”

“D’you think they’ll put us in the rotation for the first game?” Hinata asked, nearly buzzing from the anticipation.

“Maybe if we all had your stamina,” Atsumu joked before taking a long sip from his water bottle.

Hinata’s cheeks tinted pink at the compliment. He crumpled in a little on himself before turning his attention back to the game.

“They’re all in top form, but they’re not syncing like usual,” Atsumu heard the head coach say to an assistant coach.

He was right. While every spike and block was near perfect, the players weren’t moving with predictive intention, they were being more reactive than anything. And it resulted in late blocks, missed receives, and weak spikes that were tossed just a little too high. Atsumu’s mind started to turn with all the ways he could make gameplay more cohesive when he was put back in.

Even Sakusa struggled with his timing, jumping just a hair too early. Atsumu chalked it up to him playing with a new setter, but he wasn’t getting nearly as crochety with this setter as much as he got with Atsumu. After every failed play, he’d take a step towards the player and give a chaste note before resuming the set, but he’d never have that kind of patience and those kinds of manners if it was Atsumu setting a little too high or a little too early. Atsumu narrowed his eyes at the sight, pouting around the spout of his water bottle.

“Hey, ‘Sumu!”

Atsumu turned to Hinata who was stretching his body as far as he could over the expanse of the bench, warm gaze trained on the blond at the other end.

“Some of the other guys and I found this burger place down the street, we’re gonna go try it after practice. You in?”

Truthfully, Atsumu did want to go. He’d remembered to take his meds this morning, so he wasn’t in such a dire state like he usually was, and his mouth definitely watered at the sound of burgers and fries.

“Y’know what,” Atsumu crooned, “that sounds really—”

THWACK.

It was the unmistakable sound of the volleyball hitting the skin, but it didn’t sound like the skin of someone’s inner arms. Both Atsumu and Hinata’s eyes snapped towards the court to see where the sound had originated, especially since it sent a hush over the entire court. That is, until other players started gasping and letting out little noises of disgust.

Hunched over near the net on the left side of the court was Bokuto, clutching his nose. Atsumu watched the ball roll absently towards the adjacent wall.

“Bokuto!” The head coach called out.

With the hand that wasn’t clutched over his nose, Bokuto sent it up into the air to give an exuberant thumbs up. And once his hand was up, Atsumu’s heart lept to his throat at the sight of a steady stream of blood dropping from Bokuto’s face onto the floor.

“The ball must’ve gotten spiked right into his face,” Hinata whispered to himself, but loud enough for Atsumu to hear.

“I’m good!” Bokuto cried, his shouts muffled by his own hand.

He uncovered his nose for a moment to reveal the true horror. Sure, the bridge of his nose had already gone a bright shade of purple, but the blood spilled so constantly from his nostrils that it was all funneling down into over his top lip and into his mouth. The blood was staining his front teeth and even seeping onto his bottom lip and chin. He attempted a weak smile to show the coaches he was okay, but it sort of just made everything worse.

But as Bokuto took a few steps back, his hand diving back up to his nose to catch the drops that were trailing down his neck, Atsumu could finally see Sakusa who was right behind him, his hand planted on his knees and his body hunched in a receiving position. But something wasn’t right. Sakusa wasn’t moving, not even a muscle. Atsumu stood to get a better look and wondered how long Sakusa had been frozen there. Atsumu took a few tentative steps forward to see that Sakusa’s entire body had flushed a deathly pale and his face had gone a bright shade of green. His eyes were open, unblinking at the net. He literally looked like he was about to die, hurl, pass out, or all of the above. With another tentative step forward, Atsumu peered closer at Sakusa’s frozen face.

Right on the center of his Adam's apple, there was a bright red spot. And there was a matching spot just at the line of his jaw. Atsumu didn’t have to get any closer to know what had happened. Bokuto’s blood had splattered onto Sakusa’s neck.

“Sorry, man,” Bokuto chuckled, still holding his nose as the team physician finally burst through the side door.

Sakusa didn’t respond. His muscles didn’t even twitch. The only semblance of movement came from the sputtering rises and falls of Sakusa’s chest as he breathed. Sure, anyone would’ve been grossed out by getting someone else’s blood on them, but this was Sakusa’s hell. And Atsumu was the only person who knew that.

Atsumu had a tendency to rush into things before he really thought about what he was doing—at least, that’s the excuse he always used when he got berated for being impulsive. So as he ran out onto the court, the only thing on Atsumu’s mind was the tone of Sakusa’s voice in the therapy session just the day prior and the softening of his brow when he told the group about his last broken relationship. Atsumu was the only person in the room who understood what was happening: what was he supposed to do, sit around and watch him have a panic attack?

“Sakusa!” Atsumu shouted, pulling the towel from around his shoulders.

Atsumu approached towel-first, aiming to wipe the blood from Sakusa’s neck and at least minimize the threat as best he could. But it was right when Sakusa caught sight of him that he moved, stumbling back a few steps with a frenzied, yet furious look on his face.

“Don’t touch me!” He shouted.

“Just let me—” Atsumu reached out with the towel.

“Don’t!” Sakusa screamed, taking more unsteady steps back

The drops of blood started to move. Sakusa’s breathing became more erratic as they started to trail down towards his shirt.

“Sakusa, please—” Atsumu said lowly to him.

Sakusa couldn’t risk responding and letting the blood travel any further. And Atsumu had gotten so close that Sakusa had backed almost fully to the wall of the gymnasium. Sakusa’s face was still deathly pale and wrought with fear. Atsumu could see his white-washed fingers shake at his sides as he retreated. With a swift turn and a desperate hand clamped to his mouth, Sakusa darted out the door.

Atsumu used to not believe that people could die of terror,

he didn’t think that, anymore.

Chapter Text

Professional athletes don’t just miss practice—well, unless something is really wrong. Hence why Atsumu felt his chest tighten when he walked into MSBY practice the day following Bokuto’s injury and didn’t see Sakusa anywhere.

The feeling certainly wasn’t disappointment, Atsumu was slightly pleased to have an entire practice free of the man’s judging gaze and snide remarks. But it didn’t make his sudden absence any less concerning. And Atsumu searched everywhere, even up until the middle of the day’s practice, checking the front door at every opportunity hoping to see a familiar head of curly black hair saunter through. Not that Sakusa seemed like the type to be fashionably late, but Atsumu wasn’t so concerned with the reality of Sakusa’s disposition as he was with whether the guy was gone for good or not.

“Miya!” The coach barked at him from the sidelines, “Focus!”

He must’ve looked pretty stupid with his jaw hanging slack, staring at the empty entryway to the gym. Atsumu didn’t mean to get caught up in his own thoughts, especially during conditioning, but it was so boring doing the same things over and over that his mind could only focus when he was thinking about the missing teammate.

“Damnit,” Atsumu hissed to himself as he caught up with the other players who were already at the other end of the court.

His legs burned from the side-steps they’d been forced to do for what felt like the last three hours to improve their lateral movement. A thin sheen of sweat had formed on Atsumu’s forehead and the front strands of his bleached hair were starting to stick to the moisture. He hissed his exhales through gritted teeth to try and seem as able as some of the other players. The only ones who seemed unfazed by the duration of the exercise were Hinata and Bokuto.

“Where’s Sakusa?” Atsumu asked breathlessly to Bokuto once he finally caught up.

“No clue,” Bokuto replied, “maybe he’s sick?”

Admittedly, Atsumu was having a hard time taking Bokuto seriously with a rather bulky bandage wrapped over his nose which had apparently been broken by the prior practice. He didn’t seem too bent up over it, jumping right back into practice without a thought to how he could realistically break his nose a second time while they played. Most of the bruise was covered by the bandage, but Atsumu could see slivers of it poking out from the top and bottom.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Atsumu asked, his heavy breaths now turning to wheezes.

“What? My legs?” Bokuto quirked his brow.

“No,” Atsumu replied, “your nose.”

Bokuto looked down quizzically for a moment before perking right back up.

“Huh,” Bokuto said, “totally forgot that happened for a minute.”

He then broke into a signature smile which was followed promptly by him trying to cross his eyes to look at his own nose, during which he gained at least half a yard on Atsumu in the exercise. Atsumu groaned and looked towards the wall as his final destination. If he could just make it to the wall—

“Gimme one more round!” The coach barked.

“This guy can’t be for real,” Atsumu whispered to himself.

Just as the order was given, Atsumu’s fingers had finally brushed the plastic padding on the opposite wall. He wanted nothing more than to hunch over for a moment and take a well-deserved break, but he’d never hear the end of it if he did. And he had to make sure Sakusa didn’t think he was some kind of wimp.

Sakusa’s not here, Atsumu reminded himself.

Thus, he reluctantly turned and ignored the sweat droplets that were falling onto his eyelashes and continued to assault his body with the longest conditioning session ever held.

Eventually, the coach ended his torture activity in favor of an albeit less torturous activity which was making them all sit on the wall for as long as he wanted them to. Atsumu took a moment to catch his breath and wipe his face, feeling the sweat on his back stick to his shirt then to the plastic padding attached to the wall. He didn’t used to sweat this much or even get so fatigued during practice, but his medication had put his body all out of wack. Sure, he wouldn’t have harrowing, intruding thoughts while he was at practice, but the fatigue from his sleepless nights, the weight he’d inevitably gained, and the interrupted standing temperature of his body made it almost as unbearable. He could choose to either be visibly or invisibly capable each day. Perhaps he was always late to practice because he was lying in his bed, pill in hand, reviewing the same pro/con list ad nauseum.

Now, he was feeling burning ropes tie around his leg muscles and core as he sat against the wall which was quickly going slick with his hot sweat. Hinata was beside him, definitely feeling the effects of the position, but not being as obvious as his haggard neighbor.

“Weird that Sakusa’s not here,” Hinata mumbled a bit breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu replied, “y’think he’s sick?”

Atsumu hoped he didn’t seem to eager to talk about the subject. Frankly, he’d forgotten for a nice ten minutes where he nearly dropped dead in the previous exercise, but now that he’d returned to a somewhat normal bodily state, the idea started to poke at his mind once again.

“He wears a mask like, all the time,” said Hinata, “maybe he was out in the cold for too long or somethin’.”

Both of them were clipping their words in favor of conserving their oxygen, but Atsumu didn’t think that they’d have much more to say on the topic even if they weren’t sitting in invisible chairs against the wall. The reality was that no one knew where Sakusa was, perhaps except for the coach. But he hadn’t said a word about the absence during the entire practice, so the entire thing remained shrouded in mystery.

“Huh,” Atsumu half-grunted, “can you really just—miss practice?”

His words got strained as a new wave of pain flooded through Atsumu’s body.

“Don’t know,” Hinata mumbled in response.

“Maybe a doctor’s appointment?” Atsumu glanced back towards the door.

“I—really don’t know, Atsumu,” said Hinata, a quizzical look pasting over his face.

Atsumu wished he could throw the idea out of his head as easily as Hinata and Bokuto could, but it kept shouting at the back of his mind. It felt like an obsession, an intrusive thought, but it wasn’t particularly repulsive or revolting, with the exception of Atsumu’s little pocket of anger that he felt any time he imagined the guy’s face. Sakusa’s last words to Atsumu on the sidewalk had been burned in his mind.

You’ll never understand the hell I live in.

We don’t have a damn thing in common.

Atsumu had tossed and turned in bed that night thinking of all the things he should’ve said back, all the words he could’ve hurled right back into Sakusa’s smug face. And he had every intention of laying it on him after Tuesday’s practice, but Sakusa disappeared after the whole incident with Bokuto’s blood. Atsumu searched for him when practice finally ended, but all his things were gone from the locker room and he was nowhere to be found. And, at that point, all the nasty things Atsumu wanted to say to Sakusa had dissolved upon seeing his horrified face. He really only looked for him because he wanted to know if he was okay.

His absence couldn’t have anything to do with what happened the day prior, could it?

“Alright, stand up, get water, take a break,” one of the assistant coaches commanded from across the court.

Atsumu’s body sighed with endless relief as he let his body crumple to the ground. He let his head loll onto the wall behind him and his jaw hang open to let in as much breath as possible. The inside of his body felt so impossibly hot, he didn’t want anything more than he wanted some cool water, but his bottle was so far away, and he couldn’t get up immediately or he might actually hurl. As a rattling breath coursed through Atsumu’s chest, he admonished himself for appearing so weak. He wasn’t like this in high school. If Osamu saw him in this state, he’d never hear the end of it. What happened in all those years? The faster Atsumu could reclaim his old life and his old brain, the faster all the weaknesses would go away. It was the light that reminded him in which direction the end of the tunnel was and that there was even an exit at all.

Someone knocked the condensation-covered outside of Atsumu’s water bottle against his kneecaps.

“Here,” Hinata chirped with a small grin, “I got your towel, too.”

Sure enough, Hinata was gripping Atsumu’s grimy black towel in his other hand. Atsumu took the bottle then the rag.

“Thanks,” he muttered through an exhale before burying his face into the soft towel.

“I was impressed with your lateral agility,” Hinata said brightly, “you may not have been going as fast as all the other guys, but your form was loads better than theirs.”

Atsumu looked up at Hinata’s grinning face. Coming from anyone else, the compliment would’ve felt hollow in Atsumu’s head, but he’d never known Hinata to be anything but entirely sincere.

“Y’think so?” Atsumu eked out.

“Yeah,” Hinata nodded vigorously, “it’s not always the best to be the fastest, y’know?”

Atsumu’s gaze fell into his own lap for a moment. Feeling a smile creep up into his lips, Atsumu suppressed it with a long sip from his water.

“Thank you,” Atsumu told Hinata who was still hovering rather closely.

“And you’re in a much better mood when Sakusa’s not around.”

A laugh escaped from Atsumu’s chest before he could stop it. Hinata was right, but there were few people in Atsumu’s life who would be so blunt about it. It always seemed that the guy’s brain was buzzing with too many things to give much of a damn about social cues. Atsumu couldn’t help but smile in response.

“Yeah,” Atsumu pressed the towel to the back of his neck, “but he’ll probably be back tomorrow to raise more hell, so I can’t get too comfortable.”

Atsumu was wrong a lot.

And he was especially wrong then since Sakusa didn’t show up to Thursday’s practice either.

“I mean, did he think the break started yesterday?” Atsumu asked Bokuto as they sat side-by-side on a bench in the locker room.

“Maybe,” Bokuto replied, shoving on one kneepad with a great deal of struggle.

Atsumu scoffed, “Idiot.”

The coaches had announced at the very first practice that there’d be a short break early in the season to ensure that all of the nutritionist appointments had been taken care of and that each player would have an opportunity to test their mobility in the new uniforms. Atsumu had been lucky enough to finish each of these things rather early in the month, so he was looking forward to a pretty empty long weekend that extended to Monday practice. He’d even thought about driving home to see Kita and Aran, but it would take too long to get there and back and Atsumu would lose so much of his weekend driving that he tabled the idea early on. He thought about asking Osamu to come to his apartment again, just so he wouldn’t be totally alone the entire weekend, but four whole days with Osamu didn’t sound any more appealing than being lonely for the same amount of time. And Osamu always put too much garlic in his food which would give Atsumu such bad heartburn that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so the weekend would cease to be relaxing in more ways than one.

Still, Atsumu checked the front door of the gym constantly, waiting for Sakusa to walk through it and give some excuse for missing nearly two practices in a row. Someone could argue that Atsumu wanted him there, but it was more realistic to say that the curiosity was eating him alive. Considering how curt their last conversation had been and the very last state he saw Sakusa in, it was no doubt that Atsumu was dying to know what became of him. The only logical explanation he’d heard was that he really was just sick. He’d also joked to himself that Sakusa was abducted by aliens, which was a nice thought at its incarnation but quickly descended into possibly accidentally wishing ill will on others which would solidify the fact that he’s probably a serial killer who has terrible thoughts about harming others and he should really just turn himself into the police now because if anything happens to Sakusa it’s definitely his fault—

Yeah, he was gonna have to take this to therapy.

Therapy was Atsumu’s last resort as far as seeing Sakusa again. If he wasn’t at therapy, then there was definitely something going on. It wasn’t like him to miss something so imbued in his routine. He always got there early and seemed invested enough to keep coming back each week. Atsumu didn’t want to admit that he sort of hoped he’d be there, simply so Atsumu could satisfy his rampant curiosity. He had to show up to therapy, right?

“It’s not cool that he’s missing a day when he knows we do practice games,” some other teammate commented from nearby, “now the whole roster has to get shifted around and it’s gonna mess up the schedule for the rest of the month.”

“I didn’t think about that,” Atsumu mumbled in response.

Now that he’d heard it, the teammate was right. It was kind of a jerk move to skip out on a practice day like this. It might mean that some players won’t get to accompany him on the court until their very first game which was what the activity was trying to avoid.

“What a dick move,” Atsumu whispered to himself, anger slowly balling up in the center of his chest.

“And he still hasn’t gone to the nutritionist,” another teammate chimed in, “at least, that’s what I overheard from the coaches’ conversation.”

Atsumu scoffed, “What’s this guy’s deal?”

The burning curiosity that was sitting in Atsumu’s core slowly turned to hot flames of frustration. Atsumu wasn’t so much hopeful that Sakusa would walk through the door as he was pissed that he’d thought of him at all. Even if he was sick, he could’ve given everyone a heads up. What if everyone else was sick now, too? Atsumu had a nasty habit of feeding off of other people’s anger, and today was no exception. And as he shoved on his shoes and filled up his water bottle, his insides seethed with the thought of Sakusa’s carelessness and his biting words that still lingered in the back of Atsumu’s head.

“Dickhead,” Atsumu hissed to himself as he nearly stomped out onto the court.

With narrowed eyes, Atsumu took one final glance to the entryway, hoping that Sakusa would walk through and give Atsumu a chance to give the spiker a piece of his mind. His entire body had gone hot now, half from the warmup and half from the building frustration that was filling his bones with pure acid. If Sakusa wasn’t going to be a team player, then Atsumu was going to be a million times better than he was.

“Uh, ‘Sumu,” Hinata crept up behind him, “are you doing alright?”

Atsumu pursed his lips into a straight line and planted his feet on the court.

“I’m better than alright,” Atsumu’s words seethed with anger, “let’s just start the damn game already.”

Hinata didn’t look too convinced, but he took his place on the court anyways. And to say that Atsumu played a mean practice game would be an understatement. It might’ve been because of how pissed off he was or because he’d gotten a good bit of sleep the night prior, but it didn’t matter once he was on the court. All of Atsumu’s sets were clean, his mind was sharp as a tack, and his feet seemed to move quicker and more accurately than his thoughts. His gentle high-fives and back-pats of praise had turned into full-strength slaps on his teammates as Atsumu tried to channel the building frustration in his body through hitting something, anything. And since he didn’t get to hit the volleyball much at all, his teammates appendages would have to do.

“Nice!” Atsumu whispered to himself after a particularly tough point was won for his side.

As they reset for the next set, Atsumu was hunched in front of the net, watching the team converse on the other side. His body was buzzing now, teeming with irritation and adrenaline, and he couldn’t help but bore seething-hot eyes into the back of Bokuto’s head. And the man must’ve felt it because he turned to look at Atsumu just a few moments in. Bokuto’s smile melted at the sight of Atsumu’s expression and his eyes went wide.

“You’re really serious about this practice game, huh?” Bokuto asked in a wavering voice.

“I’m always serious,” Atsumu bit back harsher than he intended.

Bokuto sealed his lips closed and quirked his brow.

“Okay,” he said in a small voice before turning back to his teammates.

Atsumu didn’t feel his body even begin to calm down until the warm water of the locker room shower was rolling down his back. But even so, he still felt the residual irritation crawling up his chest and into his throat, begging to be released in the form of indirect bitching.

“And the only reason I had to play like that was because Sakusa just couldn’t be bothered to show up!”

Hinata was in the shower on his left and Bokuto was in the shower to his right. They were only divided by a tile wall that didn’t even reach the ceiling, so sound would travel easily enough between them to hold a conversation. But neither of them were responding much. They had somehow simultaneously decided to keep quiet and let Atsumu gripe for as long as he needed to. Atsumu knew that, so he kept going.

“What, he was just taking a day off?” The phrase fell from Atsumu’s tongue sour and pungent like a rotten bite of fruit, “You can’t take days off when you play pro!”

The only sounds Atsumu got in response were the three showerheads running simultaneously and the faintest click of a shampoo bottle from Bokuto’s side.

“And he doesn’t give a shit about his team because, if he did, he would’ve either been here or given a damn good explanation of why he’s not!”

Maybe the hot water was making things worse. Atsumu sighed and let the droplets fall from the tips of his hair onto his nose and mouth. He reached back to the shower knob and turned it almost all the way to the opposite end. Immediately, icy spikes of water pounded into his back. He winced at the onset, but slowly grew used to the searing sensation to the point where it almost felt good. Beneath the water’s cold touch, Atsumu sensed his hot ball of anger fizzling out with a hiss.

What if I got so angry that I hurt someone?

The thought took over Atsumu’s mind completely. He saw images of the two men on either side of him, heads bashed into the tile wall and all because Atsumu didn’t know how to manage his own frustration. Isn’t that how serial killers felt? Didn’t they get so angry to the point where the only thing that could soothe them was the sight of blood? Atsumu felt the hot steam of his dissolving anger start to cloud his racing thoughts.

No, he commanded the thoughts, just let me finish this shower, please.

“Atsumu?” Hinata called out to him in a small voice from the other stall.

Atsumu heard him, but he was too busy beating the heel of his hand against his temple. When simply willing the thoughts away didn’t work, Atsumu would resort to more physical representations of knocking the thoughts out. When they got really bad, he’d get this twitch in his eye and neck, but it was embarrassing to do in front of other people, so he tried his best to suppress it. One therapist had called it a “tic” or something, but Atsumu wasn’t listening very hard when she explained it. He could only think of the bug after she said the word, like a “tick”.

“Yeah?” Atsumu finally eked out an almost sufficient reply.

“Can I borrow your body wash?”

Hinata sounded almost scared to ask. And rightfully so, as far as Atsumu knew, he was a serial killer who had to take cold showers to calm his anger and couldn’t stop imagining his teammates dead on the locker room floor.

He let out a long sigh. A strong chill ran down his spine as the cold water finally started to hit him. Grabbing the plastic bottle, Atsumu reached around the wall to hand it to a hesitant Hinata. Dipping himself back under the falling water, Atsumu pressed his forehead against the smooth, white tiles and let the sharp grout edges dig into his skin. He wasn’t angry anymore, but everything felt off, like when you eat a lot of food and then look back at all your empty plates and wonder why your old self didn’t have the discerning power of your current self. Then you’d feel all empty inside and guilty for things you may or may not have done.

And as the water trailed over his top lip and into his mouth, Atsumu couldn’t help but think of all the empty plates he’d left on the court.

The long weekend was rather relaxing, by Atsumu’s standards. He woke up at noon each day, trudged to the kitchen for a cup of instant ramen, and would plant himself on the couch to watch reruns of some show a former romantic interest had gotten him hooked on in high school. It was when he was still dating girls, so it was some reality show that he had to watch on his own so as to not subject himself to his friends’ incessant mocking. He didn’t enjoy the premise or content of the show as much as he liked how mind-numbing it all was. When he was watching it, he didn’t have to think too much and could enjoy his food without much distraction. And he was usually scrolling on his phone while it played, so he wasn’t paying that much attention, anyhow. He’d also successfully dodged a call from his mother sometime during the long four days by explaining that he had a very important practice to be at in just three minutes and had no time to sit an chat. In reality, he had just put a pan of pizza rolls in the oven and if he didn’t watch them like a hawk, they would burn. Atsumu only lied to his parents when it came to things as important as pizza rolls.

When Monday finally crept up on Atsumu’s lazy form on the couch, he felt his stomach sink at the prospect of going to practice the next day and having to forgo his preferred lifestyle which consisted of doing absolutely nothing. But he perked up when he remembered rather late in the day that therapy was still going on. As the hour neared, Atsumu’s body began to prickle with anticipation. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was hoping to see Sakusa that night. He’d taken his four days to put the whole situation out of his mind, but the residual anger was easily accessible. Atsumu ruminated over all the arguments he’d prepared in the shower and all the curt glares he’d rehearsed in the bathroom mirror, sure that he was going to win whatever argument he and Sakusa were bound to have when they saw each other again, that night. Even if Sakusa didn’t have a good excuse for his prolonged absence, Atsumu had a piece of his mind reserved for him and he wasn’t going to chicken out this time.

The anticipatory buzzing sensation in his body only intensified as he walked through the brisk air to Dr. Hirai’s office. His mind was doing its usual loops and circles, thinking and thinking until Atsumu would literally tell it to shut up. Sometimes he wished he could have a moment, just one moment, where he didn’t have a single thought. Since high school, Atsumu had only been able to dream of a quiet mind. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his fleece-lined jean jacket to combat the temperature that was dropping every day. Atsumu was no stranger to the cold, but he didn’t get out as much as he used to now that he was living in the city. There was no snow to shovel and no orchards to cause mischief in, just rows of buildings and lines of cars jammed together along the road. Atsumu tuned out the incessant honking and grumbling engines as he spotted Dr. Hirai’s office in the distance.

Both the walk and the entryway to Dr. Hirai’s office had become embedded in Atsumu’s routine, by now. Atsumu liked it when he was familiar with a place and he knew exactly where to put his shoes and what door led where and a host of other things he tended to worry about when he was going someplace for the first time. It was almost as if he’d rehearsed the dumping of his things in the corner of the entrance and counted the paces it took to get to the door where he’d stood frightened just a few weeks ago. And as Atsumu felt the cold, brass doorknob beneath his fingertips, his heart started to thrum right at the base of his throat. He straightened his posture and prepared himself to meet Sakusa’s icy gaze on the other side as he sat all pompous-like in that flowery blue chair. Atsumu scoffed at the thought of it, but even his attempt at dismissal didn’t still his beating chest. Swallowing his heart back down into his body, Atsumu turned the handle and pushed open the door.

His eyes went first to the flowery blue chair—it was empty.

He’s in the bathroom, Atsumu’s mind reasoned, that’s why he’s not here, right now.

The rest of the group was already settled in. This time, Hayato and Akari were chatting on the longer green couch while Tamura was sat in Akari’s usual spot, glancing nervously down at her phone. It was a rather short amount of time between when Atsumu sat in his chair and when Tamura had engaged him in conversation.

“Your shirt,” she pointed to Atsumu’s chest, “you play volleyball?”

He was wearing a shirt Inarizaki had made for nationals one year. It had their team name and motto and a graphic of a volleyball right in the center.

“I do,” Atsumu replied with a polite grin.

He didn’t want it to seem to obvious that he was glancing towards the door rather frequently, fully expecting Sakusa to walk through at any moment. Atsumu wanted to be the first to shoot him a disapproving glare, when he did.

“Do you just play for fun?” Tamura asked.

“Well, I actually—” Atsumu almost stumbled over his words, “I actually play for a professional team.”

“Really?”

Tamura’s eyes went wide.

“Yeah,” Atsumu replied with a nod.

It hadn’t really occurred to him that the rest of the therapy group didn’t know that he played volleyball or that he and Sakusa knew each other outside the five of them. In some cases, it would feel dishonest to be one person in therapy and one person at volleyball practice, but Atsumu didn’t feel ingenuine in either. It was more like he was two separate, whole Atsumus in either place, both having stark opinions of the other. And it wasn’t like his teammates had any business knowing his personal life and the random strangers who now knew too much about his personal life had no business knowing how well he did in practice. The only overlap was himself and Sakusa Kiyoomi.

“You wouldn’t happen to play for the Black Jackals...” Tamura trailed off in disbelief.

“Actually, I do,” Atsumu replied, feeling a bit of pride swell in his chest.

“Oh!” Tamura exclaimed, “My son loves the Jackals. I took him to a game a few years ago and he decided that he wanted to play volleyball. He plays on his school’s team, now.”

As Tamura rambled about her son, Atsumu watched her eyes go glassy and her mouth curl up into a smile. Atsumu couldn’t imagine his own mother talking about him with such a loving look on her face. He always felt like a nuisance to his mother—to both parents, for that matter.

“Would you come over to the house sometimes to play with him? He’s always begging me to join him in the backyard, but I hurt my back a few years ago and—well, I wouldn’t know what to do with a volleyball anyways,” she explained.

Atsumu didn’t like kids all that much. It wasn’t like he hated them, but he didn’t go out of his way to spend time with them. But the look on Tamura’s face was so sincere, so desperate to give her son some sort of outlet for his passion. Atsumu wished that his mother had done the same for him every once in a while.

“Sure,” he replied, “I’d love to.”

Before Tamura could shower Atsumu in gratitude, Dr. Hirai settled himself into his chair and looked out towards the group.

“Let’s get started,” he said cleanly and succinctly.

“Wait,” Atsumu blurted out, “where’s Sakusa?”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud. It had been more of a thought when he saw the empty chair, but he must’ve been thinking hard enough about it for the thought to slip right out of his mouth. He froze when he heard his own words and the speed at which he’d said them. Atsumu had almost cut Dr. Hirai off completely.

“Sakusa called to tell me he’s not feeling well and won’t be joining us tonight,” said Dr. Hirai rather flatly.

Atsumu’s back fell flush against his chair. His stomach sank as Dr. Hirai spoke and his ears filled with fuzz when the session finally began. The groups words were quickly drowned out by the drone of Atsumu’s own thoughts.

So, he was sick.

At least, that’s what he told Dr. Hirai.

Would Sakusa lie to Dr. Hirai?

Atsumu didn’t say much in the session that followed. Besides the little spiel at the end that he had to give about his challenges and how he was improving, to which he gave a pretty abridged version of his thoughts, Atsumu didn’t say a word about anything else. He was usually at least a bit active in the discussion, but he couldn’t stop staring at the empty chair and wondering if it was really true, if Sakusa was really sick. Even as the session ended and the group dispersed, Atsumu found himself stuck to the seat of his chair like a statue forever bound to the green, velvet monstrosity.

Dr. Hirai had to pry him from his paralyzed state with a knowing glance and a few parting words.

Atsumu mumbled something resembling a goodbye in response, but he couldn’t even hear his own voice. Why was he obsessing so much over this? It wasn’t like Sakusa would give him a second thought if he was gone for a long time. Had OCD really fucked his brain up this much that he would obsess over things that virtually meant nothing to him? He didn’t even know how to care for someone who was sick or, like, approach them.

But there was someone who did.

In the very next moment, Atsumu was back out on the sidewalk with his phone in his hand, a familiar number dialed into it. The ringing phone played into the shell of his ear as he walked towards his apartment.

“Atsumu?”

It was a small voice, but a comforting one, nonetheless.

“Kita.”

“I—Atsumu, hello,” Kita replied rather formally.

“Hey,” Atsumu began, “how are ya?”

“I’m—I’m alright.”

Kita’s voice kept wavering as he spoke, like he had a question hanging on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah?” Atsumu replied.

“Atsumu,” Kita said flatly, “why are you calling me?”

Atsumu reeled back for a moment. Kita wasn’t one for high emotions in his speech but he never spoke so curtly.

“Whaddya mean?” Atsumu asked, his accent coming back in full force.

“Well—” Kita paused, “you never call me.”

“What?” Atsumu replied in an appalled tone.

“Since graduation you really—haven’t called all that much.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“And you only call when you want somethin’.”

Atsumu’s jaw went slack. What a ridiculous thing for Kita to say. He didn’t only call him when he wanted something.

This time was just a fluke.

“Well, I was callin’ to ask a question but—” Atsumu began.

Kita cut him off, “See? You want somethin’.”

“Yeah, my friend is sick an’ I was gonna ask you what you bought for me that one time I was sick. You remember? Back in high school?”

The same sinking feeling from when Dr. Hirai had said that Sakusa was sick returned with a vengeance. He didn’t call a lot of his friends from high school because it was one of the things he was trying to forget, but there was no way Kita was right in his wild assumption.

“That’s all?” Kita asked, a thread of disappointment woven through his tone.

“I—I guess,” Atsumu stammered, “and—I’m wonderin’ how yer doin’, as well.”

“Are ya?”

“Kita, I dunno what you want from me!”

It wasn’t until he was practically shouting that Atsumu noticed he was surrounded by a rather robust group of people and they were all looking right at him. Atsumu flashed them a sheepish grin before taking a few steps to the side to get some more privacy.

“It’s fine, Atsumu, don’t worry about it,” Kita replied curtly.

“But—”

“If someone is sick, they probably just want a nice hot meal,” he continued, “considering that they’re an adult and have medicine of their own, that’s the best thing you can do.”

Atsumu found himself wandering down a new street as he listened to Kita’s soothing voice over the receiver. Maybe it had been a while since they’d spoken.

Monster, monster,

Miya is a monster.

“Is that all?” Kita asked.

“Actually, Shin,” Atsumu began, “I was wonderin’—”

And that’s when Atsumu turned his head and peered into the large convenience store window, the inside of which was shrouded in ultra-bright overhead lights which poured onto the dark sidewalk. There was a good amount of people milling around grabbing things from the shelves, but Atsumu looked a little closer at one particular aisle that seemed barren. His lips parted to say his next words to Kita just as a tall man appeared at the end of the empty aisle, only a water bottle and a prescription bag in hand. And even through the slightly distorted mirror and beneath the blinding lights, the sight was unmistakable.

It was Sakusa.

“K-Kita,” Atsumu stammered, feeling his heart start to quicken, “I’m gonna have t’call you back.”

“Fine,” Kita replied bluntly.

“I’ll—I’ll call you sometime this week, alright?”

“Goodbye, Atsumu.”

It was Kita who ended the call. Atsumu winced at the loud click which indicated that he did, and he looked at his phone screen for a moment to let the thoughts flood through. There were so many thoughts that he wanted to ruminate on, but Sakusa was only one window away from him. It had been a grave choice that Atsumu had to make but seeing Sakusa seemed a little more pressing than patching things up with Kita—whatever “things” there were to patch up, Atsumu still had to figure out. But his body was wracked with anticipatory dread as he walked feverishly through the glass door of the convenience store.

Atsumu hadn’t planned out a single piece of his new venture into Sakusa’s territory, so when the masked man responded to the sound of the tingling door, Atsumu slid masterfully behind a tall display of chips before he could be seen. He peered carefully around the corner and watched Sakusa scan the rest of the tiny store for whomever had just walked in. Atsumu gulped as Sakusa shifted to another aisle, his eyes still narrowed and searching.

So now that he was in the store, what was Atsumu’s grand plan? Spoiler: it didn’t exist. For now, the plan was to hide in this aisle and watch for Sakusa to come back out and walk towards the register. Maybe he should go stand outside and make it seem like he was just walking down the street and he just happened to bump into Sakusa. Or maybe he should wait outside the front of the store and admit that he saw him through the window. A million questions ran through Atsumu’s head as he watched the store closely, hunched behind a rack of chips. At the same time, all the nasty things he wanted to hurl at Sakusa came flooding back. The bitter anger settled in its usual spaces. Atsumu’s eyes narrowed as he watched the end of the aisle even more sinisterly. He was gonna get him this time, he was going to exact his revenge, he was going to—

“What are you doing here?”

The deep voice came from behind him. Atsumu’s eyes went wide and his heart lept to his throat as he registered what was going on. And when he craned his neck behind him, Atsumu was met with Sakusa’s towering form and darkened, narrow stare.

Atsumu straightened his posture almost immediately, returning Sakusa’s icy glare.

“Shopping,” Atsumu fibbed.

Sakusa’s brow dropped.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered behind his mask.

“Oh, what, I can’t shop?” Atsumu bit back.

Sakusa tried to roll his eyes subtly, but Atsumu grew up with a brother, so he knew an eye roll when he saw one. And as badly as he wanted to say something clever and biting and rehearsed, there was only one question hanging from the tip of Atsumu’s tongue.

“Why weren’t you at practice?”

Damn, he sounded way more curious than angry. He didn’t want Sakusa thinking he actually cared.

“I was sick.”

“You don’t look sick,” Atsumu retorted immediately.

Yeah, it was lame, but it was all he could think of. Atsumu wasn’t one for thriving ‘on the fly’. Sakusa’s eyes narrowed and his grip tightened around his little white paper baggie.

“You of all people should know what it’s like to need a day off because you’re sick enough in the head.”

Sakusa mumbled to the point where Atsumu almost couldn’t hear him, but the message came across loud and clear. And with the onset of his words, Atsumu’s heart sunk down out of his throat and descended to his feet with the rest of his organs in tow. He felt his defensive shoulders drop with a slow exhale as all the terrible things he had planned to say to Sakusa fizzled out. It felt like he’d turned the shower water as cold as it would go, not a single flame was left flickering.

“I’ve been going to the doctor every day to get tested for—” Sakusa had to stop and prepare himself, “HIV and—HPV and—all those things. And I couldn’t go back to where it happened, I’d—”

Atsumu felt incredibly stupid. It wasn’t a new feeling, but it was just as brutal every single time. Of course, it had all been connected to the incident. Atsumu watched Sakusa’s face flush green as he searched for the words to tell Atsumu what he had been doing without sending himself into another spiral. He wanted to tell Sakusa that he was crazy, he didn’t have to get all those tests done. But he knew it would be reassurance, and reassurance was no help for treating OCD.

“Oh,” was all Atsumu could say.

Sakusa’s eyes raked from Atsumu’s feet to his face with his signature judgmental glare. Atsumu wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear completely. He was so stupid to not think that the episode of panic would last so long. It’d happened to Atsumu before, a few years ago, but he hadn’t flipped out like that since. He’d gotten into a fight with some neighborhood kid over a pick-up volleyball game and refused to leave the house for a week, convinced that he was a murderer. Atsumu knew what it felt like to disappoint everyone around him by having an illness he couldn’t control. And as intimidating as Sakusa was making himself out to be, Atsumu couldn’t help but notice the dark rings under his eyes and the ghastly pale flush of his face and hands.

“Lemme buy you a meat bun,” Atsumu blurted out.

It was like the spirit of Kita Shinsuke possessed him. He didn’t know what else to say, and they were standing right next to the hot case where the pork buns were sitting idly on the red-hot rack. After all, Atsumu hadn’t come up with a semblance of a plan since he walked into the convenience store.

“No, thank you,” Sakusa said coldly.

“Too bad,” Atsumu grabbed the tongs and two wax paper pouches, “I’m buying two.”

“I said no thank you,” Sakusa repeated with greater enunciation, but Atsumu pretended he didn’t hear and used the tongs to put the buns inside the pouch.

“You don’t have to eat it, but I’m buying one for you.”

“Atsumu—”

“It’s a pork bun, Sakusa!” Atsumu turned to face Sakusa with a burning glare, “Just take it!”

Sakusa’s heavy brow lifted from over his eyes. His once snarling lips melted into a straight line. He straightened his posture and glared down at Atsumu. But Atsumu didn’t give him any time to respond before he was plopping the pork buns onto the counter and paying for them with some wadded-up cash he had stashed in his pocket. Without looking back, Atsumu walked out the front door of the convenience store and waited for Sakusa to finish his purchase. The man finally walked out with his things in a plastic bag. He walked reluctantly towards Atsumu, an irritated look on his face.

Atsumu held one of the pork buns out towards Sakusa. He eyed it for a moment with a disgusted look. Atsumu’s body shivered partly from the cold, but even more so from the silence between the two of them. Eventually, Sakusa reached his free hand up to the pork bun. The wax paper crinkled as he pressed his fingers around it and slid it slowly out of Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu was looking right at him, but Sakusa’s eyes were trained on the food. Even as he pulled the thing towards his chest, Sakusa’s gaze followed.

Sakusa was the one who began walking, probably in the direction of his apartment. Atsumu followed. What else was he supposed to do?

And he was probably lucky that Sakusa was so focused on the pork bun that he had now edged out of the pouch’s opening so he could get a really good look at it. They walked slowly, slow enough for Atsumu to take his own pork bun out of the pouch and take a monstrous bite. He chewed while watching Sakusa peer at the bread and the steam rising from it. Looking to one side, then the other, Sakusa left no spot unchecked. Atsumu swallowed the mass of food he had in his mouth so he could speak.

“It’s not contaminated,” he said casually, “I checked.”

Sakusa shot him a stony side-eye for just a moment before his eyes returned to the steaming pastry. With a hesitant hand, Sakusa hooked his finger around the top edge of his mask and pulled it down under his chin in one fluid motion.  His mouth was slow, but he eventually parted his lips and wrapped them around part of the bun. When he pulled back, Atsumu stifled a laugh after seeing how small of a bite Sakusa had taken. He’d had barely reached the filling.

But he chewed. Albeit, slowly, but he seemed to move the bite from one side of his mouth to the other, observing it from all angles even when it was between his teeth. After a long session of chewing, Atsumu finally watched the small bite travel down Sakusa’s throat with a swallow. Atsumu turned back to his own bun and took another too-big bite as they continued to walk in silence down the pavement.

“You take Paxil?” Atsumu asked with half a bite still in his mouth.

Sakusa looked at him menacingly, but he didn’t say no. And besides, Atsumu had seen the prescription name clear as day when they met in the store.

“So do I,” Atsumu turned his gaze back down the sidewalk, “I gained like seven pounds my first few weeks.”

Sakusa didn’t reply.

“And now, at practice, I sweat like a whore in church,” Atsumu muttered.

“A what?” Sakusa looked at him like he was absolutely bonkers.

Atsumu cracked a small smile and tilted his head.

“You never heard that before?”

“No,” Sakusa whispered, his subtly appalled gaze now turned away from Atsumu.

“Eh, must be regional,” Atsumu mumbled.

They walked in silence for a few moments more. Well, it wasn’t complete silence if you counted the honking cars and other pedestrians ranting into their phones and the crickets that were downright abusive with their noise at night.

“It makes me nauseous,” Sakusa muttered before taking another miniscule bite of his bun.

“That’s the only side effect I managed to avoid,” Atsumu replied, “but I was throwing up every morning when I was takin’ Prozac in high school.”

“The dry mouth is far worse than the nausea with Prozac,” said Sakusa after swallowing his previous bite.

“I passed out a bunch during practice because of it,” Atsumu recalled, “Coach thought I was on drugs—well, y’know, the illegal ones.”

Atsumu looked over just in time to see Sakusa nod. It wasn’t anything grand or obvious, but just the subtle bobbing of his head indicated a sort of approval that sent a surge of warmth through Atsumu’s chest. It was—acceptance. Even if it seemed small and insignificant to anyone else.

“The worst of them all was Anafranil,” Sakusa mumbled before taking another bite.

“I’ve only taken the two,” Atsumu remarked.

“How long have you been medicated?”

Unfortunately, Sakusa asked the question right as Atsumu had shoved the remainder of his bun into his mouth. Atsumu’s eyes widened as he looked over to Sakusa, his mouth bulging with pork bun. Sakusa’s face scrunched in mild disgust, but he seemed almost amused as he watched Atsumu try to chew and breathe at the same time.

“My second year of high school,” Atsumu said after finally swallowing the last of his food, “but the thoughts started my first year.”

Atsumu swore he heard Sakusa hum or mumble in some sort of understanding, but it could’ve also been the general rumble of the city around them.

“When—when did you start—y’know—”

It sounded as awkward coming out of his mouth as it did in his head. And he’d asked right as Sakusa took a normal-sized bite of his food, so Atsumu was just standing there like a goob waiting for Sakusa to reply. And there was a good chance he wouldn’t answer Atsumu’s question at all. He’d been so hesitant to share personal details in therapy, there was very little chance that he’d divulge Atsumu any more than he already had.

“I was seven.”

Atsumu inhaled sharply. He’d only been struggling for six years or so, he couldn’t imagine having the thoughts as a child. How old was Sakusa? How long had he been like this? Atsumu tried to do the math in his head, but there were too many variables and he wasn’t that good at math to begin with.

“It began as emetophobia then—” Sakusa sealed his lips in thought, “it became contamination.”

His words were clipped and hurried. And he even took a bite of his food after he was finished speaking to try and dull the effect. It had to be more than ten years that he had OCD, fifteen? Atsumu’s chest went tight as the thought looped over and over in his head.

“I used to get such bullshit advice before I knew it was OCD,” said Atsumu flatly.

A sharp exhale fell from Sakusa’s nose. It was the ghost of a laugh, but nothing more. It was a scoff, if anything.

Atsumu looked up to the sky, “My mom would tell me to just ‘change the words in my head’ like that was gonna do anything.”

Sakusa was making pretty good progress on his meat bun. Maybe the conversation was keeping him from convincing himself that it was contaminated.

“And the meditating, d’you know how many times I got told to meditate?” Atsumu shot an amused glance to Sakusa.

He wasn’t expecting much from Sakusa. He especially wasn’t expecting to see the man toss his head back gently and let out an annoyed groan.

“Fucking meditation,” he grumbled, “as if I ever want to be alone with my thoughts.”

“Exactly!” Atsumu replied.

Sakusa took a moment with his tilted head to look up at the stars which dotted the ink-black sky. His curls fell soft against the porcelain sheen of his forehead and the moonlight glittered against his dark eyes. Atsumu swallowed nervously as he watched Sakusa push the very last bite of pork bun into his mouth, the entire thing of which he succeeded in eating without touching. He crumpled the wax paper in his hands and stuck the trash in the plastic bag which held his water and his medicine. Immediately afterwards, he pulled his mask back up over his nose, not even taking a moment to finish his final bite. It was like he was itching to put it back on. But Atsumu was so mesmerized watching his skin change paleness beneath the cocktail of the moonlight and the streetlights that his body lurched forward when Sakusa finally stopped.

Sakusa looked over at him with a quizzical glance. Atsumu turned back forward to see that they were now standing in front of a small apartment complex. It’s must’ve been where Sakusa lived. When Atsumu turned back, Sakusa’s face fell back into its typical stony appearance.

“Thank you for the food,” he said plainly and formally.

“You’re welcome,” Atsumu replied.

Sakusa looked at him for one moment more. His gaze softened a tad, even though his mouth maintained its pin-straight line. His chest rose with a deep inhale and he released it with a quick sigh.

“Goodbye.”

It was like Sakusa was throwing the word at Atsumu to distract him while he ran in the other direction. Before Atsumu could reply, he had already turned and started down the path towards the outdoor stairs.

“Wait!” Atsumu called out to him.

Reluctantly, Sakusa spun on his heel and glared at Atsumu.

“You should come to practice tomorrow,” Atsumu told him, “It’s the only way to not be so scared of it anymore.”

Atsumu wished he could’ve channeled Dr. Hirai like he’d channeled Kita earlier that night, but it didn’t go exactly as planned. Sakusa’s brow fell and he looked irritated with the suggestion, but he didn’t say anything back. He just stood there for a moment, scowling, before he continued his trudge to the apartment stairs. Atsumu watched him climb up the metal steps and let himself into one of the doors. Now, the only sound came from the nearby cars and the obnoxiously loud crickets.

No matter how friendly their walk had been, Sakusa still looked at Atsumu the same way—like he was contaminated.

It was Atsumu’s chest that got impossibly tight first. It was so intense he nearly had to double over in pain. His heart inched towards the edge of his ribcage and began to thrum. But it wasn’t the beating heart he’d get while he played, it was more weightless and erratic. Atsumu pressed his hand against it to try and calm the sensation, but it only got worse. Atsumu tried to take a breath in, but it stung and ached. He tried to take another breath in, but there was nowhere for it to go; it was like his entire chest had been filled with concrete. Even as Atsumu started walking towards his own apartment, the sensation only got worse and worse. The rest of his body felt like it was on fire, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes.

He swallowed down one wave of nausea after another, but it was no use.

Oh, Atsumu thought, I haven’t had one of these in a while.

That was when the panic set in, the familiar pang of fear at the center of his stomach that just worsened the feeling in his chest. Atsumu’s mind began to fill with seemingly every word he’d ever thought in his life; they whizzed around like wasps searching for someone to sting.

I gotta call Osamu.

It was the only coherent thought out of them all. So, with trembling, clammy hands, Atsumu fished his phone out of his pocket and fumbled with it a bit before dialing his brother’s number.

“Pick up, pick up,” he whispered to himself as he dashed down the sidewalk with little regard for those around him.

The receiver kept ringing. And ringing.

“C’mon, ‘Samu,” he groaned, still holding his chest in pain.

“Yeah?”

When his voice finally crackled over the line, Atsumu felt part of the pain in his chest subside.

“Osamu, I’m havin’ another one,” he wheezed.

“Another what?”

“Panic attack,” the words came out all croaky and small.

“Really?” Osamu asked in disbelief, “but you haven’t had one o’ those since you were fourteen.”

“I know,” Atsumu could only whisper now, “but I’m havin’ another one.”

Atsumu reached a street crossing at which he had to stop and feel around to make sure his heart was still beating. His breath still stung and the cold air wasn’t much help.

“Well, what’re yer symptoms?”

“Um—” Atsumu muttered, “I got—I got this real bad tightness in my chest—and I can’t breathe—”

“Okay,”

“An’ I feel like my body’s on fire, and my heart’s beatin’ like I’m runnin’ across the court.”

“Uh-huh,” Osamu’s response was slow and uncertain.

“So, I—I’m just panicking, and I can’t breathe, ‘Samu.”

“Doesn’t sound like how it used to feel.”

Atsumu’s face curled in confusion. He crossed the street and began to massage the center of his chest.

“Whaddya talkin’ about?”

“You had really specific panic attacks in high school, and these weren’t the symptoms,” Osamu said casually.

“Well, maybe symptoms change, you ever thought of that?” Atsumu spat over the receiver.

“I mean, I guess. You sure it couldn’t be anything else?”

Atsumu thought back to the day he’d had: to Dr. Hirai and Sakusa and the meat bun.

“Didya eat somethin’ hot?” Osamu asked, “Because sometimes you eat somethin’ hot then breathe the cold air and it messes everything up.”

In time with Osamu’s words, Atsumu started to feel the weight from his chest lift. And he had finally turned down a familiar street which meant he was only a few blocks away from his apartment.

“I guess that could be it,” Atsumu mumbled.

“I just don’t think this is one o’ yer panic attacks,” Osamu said, “it sounds more like—”

“What?” Atsumu waited eagerly.

The silence crackled over the line for a moment as Osamu thought.

“Nothin’,” he said.

“Not nothin’,” Atsumu whined, “tell me!”

“It’s nothin’, ‘Sumu,” he repeated, “drop it.”

“Fine,” Atsumu grunted before ending the call.

Sure, it was childish, but it was Osamu. What, were they supposed to be adults with each other now or something? The sensations had improved somewhat as he got closer and closer to his apartment, but his panic attacks always got better when he talked to Osamu.

“Not the same symptoms, my ass,” Atsumu whispered to himself before stuffing his hands angrily in his pockets.

His heart was still fluttering and beating wildly at the edge of his chest. He just needed to get back into his apartment and take his medicine and calm himself down, that was all. Atsumu had a very specific set of things he did to ward off his panic attacks and it was going to work because this was a panic attack, he just knew it.

And what did Osamu know anyways?

Chapter Text

“G’morning.”

Atsumu found his body stiffening at the sound. He was hunched over his duffel bag, searching with both hands in the deep, dark cavern for a roll of athletic tape when he heard it. Sure, every teammate on MSBY shuffled in and gave a quick ‘good morning’, but this one didn’t sound like any of the others. It was low, almost too low for anyone other than Atsumu to hear, and the voice trailed off at the end so as to pretend nothing was said at all. When Atsumu looked up, he only saw Sakusa’s back rounding the corner.

It couldn’t be, Atsumu thought.

Sakusa never said good morning. He didn’t say it to anyone on the team and he especially refused to say it to Atsumu. But for some reason that Atsumu couldn’t decipher if he tried, Sakusa had grumbled out a quick greeting as he passed him in the locker room. Before Atsumu could say anything in return, Sakusa had disappeared in a crowd of bodies and the chatter had risen to an incomparable volume. Atsumu glanced around to try and catch another glimpse of him, but he was gone. If Sakusa had really been the one to tell him ‘good morning’, he didn’t want any attention surrounding. Atsumu sighed, conceded, and shoved his head back into his cavernous gym bag.

“What’re you lookin’ for?”

Hinata’s bright and cheery tone lifted the weight of Atsumu’s previous interaction almost instantly. His gaze rose to see Hinata leaned over him, trying to get a look into his gym bag, too.

“My athletic tape,” Atsumu groaned, “but I think I’m all out.”

“I’d offer you some, but I don’t have any either,” Hinata frowned.

“Wow, we’re really good at this ‘professional athlete’ thing,” Atsumu teased.

Hinata chuckled and tugged at his shirt a bit to loosen it from his neck. Beneath the sharp, pricey lights of the locker room, the strands of his orange hair glowed golden. Atsumu peered closer at it, mesmerized by the way it shined to effortlessly.

“So,” Hinata leaned in closer and whispered, “Sakusa’s back.”

He divulged the information like it was hot gossip he’d read in a magazine. His eyebrows almost met his hairline and his eyes went wide. When he was done speaking, he tilted his head.

“I know,” Atsumu replied in a pretty loud whisper of his own, “I told him to come back.”

“You did?”

Hinata reeled back about an inch and quirked his brow. Atsumu realized his mistake all too late; he could only sit with his lips parted and his eyes trained on Hinata’s confused expression for so long before it became suspicious.

“You saw him outside of practice?”

Atsumu’s brain refused to give him anything of substance to say back. He was afraid that if he started talking, he wouldn’t be able to stop and the therapy sessions and everything associated would just come spilling out.

“Yeah,” he eked out, “just—just in passing.”

A harsh burn started to creep up on Atsumu’s cheeks as he lied so blatantly. If Hinata had been a more observant person, he probably would’ve caught on to Atsumu’s horrified expression and tomato-red face, but he was never one for nuance.

“Oh,” Hinata chirped, shrugging, “okay.”

Following his instant acceptance of what was obviously a bold-faced lie, Hinata turned and bounced over towards the lockers on the other side of the room. Players had started to file out a few minutes prior, so it was just Atsumu, Hinata, and two other players left lollygagging. Atsumu mourned the loss of his athletic tape with a subtle groan then zipped his gym bag up. With a burst of energy, Atsumu hoisted himself up from the bench and abandoned his bag in pursuit of all the other players who had already vacated the locker room.

If anything of substance had happened between Atsumu and Sakusa the night before, it certainly didn’t change much.

Perhaps Atsumu had put a little too much meaning into the gruff greeting he’d received or that he was the only one who interpreted buying food for someone as a sort of peace treaty, but Sakusa was just as cold and curt as ever before.

“I told you to wait two seconds before jumping,” Sakusa hissed at him during a practice game.

“Sorry,” Atsumu spat back, obviously not that sorry.

“Don’t apologize,” Sakusa retorted, “be better.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes and half-hoped that Sakusa was watching. He tossed the ball to the player on the back line who was setting himself up to serve while the rest assumed their positions. Atsumu glanced over to his left where Sakusa was hunched slightly, his hands poised to shift quickly into a receiving position if need be. His eyes were narrow and pointed straight forward, his mind running over every possibility and every play he could conduct. Atsumu let a soft tch fall disapprovingly from his lips. He didn’t mean to be so open with his distaste, but if that was the energy Sakusa was going to grant him at every practice, then he would be a coward to not reply with the very same energy.

“Miya, left!” Sakusa barked from his position.

The play raged on, the ball volleying for far longer than usual. Atsumu’s insides curled at the sound of his family name. He’d gotten so used to people calling him Atsumu because he’d always played on a team with his brother, so hearing the name be barked so ferociously directly at him made Atsumu grimace with disgust. So, when the play ended and the point had been determined, Atsumu turned breathlessly to Sakusa.

“Just call me Atsumu,” he sighed.

Sakusa’s head was slow in turning to return the glare. His brow was knitted and low and his lip quirked.

“I’m not calling you by your first name,” he articulated through a frown.

“I don’t care about all that name hierarchy stuff,” Atsumu shook his head, “I just prefer being called Atsumu.”

“I will call you what I wish,” Sakusa spat in return.

“Fine then,” Atsumu turned back towards the net and assumed his readied position, “then I’m calling you whatever I want.”

If Sakusa made any sort of face in return, Atsumu didn’t see it. The ball was already mid-air, hurtling towards the libero on the other side; Atsumu watched as it entered a play on the opposite end of the court which was effectively stopped by the libero on his own side.

“Atsumu!” The libero called out to him.

“Got it,” Atsumu shouted back, running so he would be directly under the ball when it reached his hands.

“Left!”

Atsumu peeked out from under the ball to see Sakusa on the left side of the court, hunched and ready to run into a jump. He glanced over at Atsumu tentatively, watching for any sign he might give.

When the surface of the ball finally brushed Atsumu’s fingers, he set it towards Sakusa and paired it with just one word.

“Prick!” He shouted as the ball flew from his fingers.

There was only a split second where Atsumu could see Sakusa’s face melt in sheer surprise. He stood there for a moment, form fully prepped to spike to the ball, but he was still caught in the word that Atsumu had just called out to him. He was so caught up, in fact, that his spike was late. And off.

“Fuck!” Sakusa spat towards the ground.

Atsumu watched the ball hit just outside the line of the court. The referee blew the whistle and awarded the other side a point while the players cheered across the net. Atsumu was almost too afraid to turn from them to where Sakusa was sulking, but he had to get a look at the guy’s face or he’d never forgive himself. And sure enough, Sakusa was standing with his elbows glued to his sides and his gaze trained onto his shoes. Atsumu tried to lean and get a good look at his face, but all he could really see was the angry heaving of his chest and back moving his torso just slightly with every inhale and exhale. Atsumu’s mouth broke into a smirk as he watched Sakusa ball up his fists.

With his tongue darting out between his lips, Atsumu stifled a laugh and directed his face towards the ground so no one else would see. But before he knew it, someone was stomping over to him. And he didn’t even get to look up until that someone’s fingers were wrapped around the front of Atsumu’s shirt, pulling him closer.

“What the fuck did you call me?”

It was the most expressive Atsumu had ever seen Sakusa. His eyes raged with hot, angry flames and his lip was twitching all around and with every passing second, his grip around Atsumu’s shirt got tighter. At one point, they were so close that Atsumu could feel Sakusa’s breath fan his nose. If he was being honest, Atsumu was a little frightened—but Sakusa would never know that.

“If you’re gonna call me whatever you want, then I can call you whatever I want,” Atsumu feigned confidence amidst the anxious thrumming of his heart.

“I missed that spike because of you,” Sakusa spat.

And by spat, he really spat. Atsumu felt a single flicker of saliva fly onto his cheek. Sakusa’s heaving breaths continued, one after the other, fanning across the already heated skin of Atsumu’s face. Atsumu gulped but refused to let on that he was anything but 100% confident in what he’d done.

“Professional spikers don’t get thrown off by things like that, do they?”

Atsumu swore he heard Sakusa growl. Even though he thought it was impossible, Sakusa’s fingers wrapped even tighter around the fabric of Atsumu’s shirt as he held them just inches apart from one another. Sakusa’s lips parted decidedly and Atsumu braced himself for the flaming words that would surely follow.

“Get back in the game, idiots!” The coach shouted furiously from the sidelines.

There was no one else he could be referring to but the two idiots caught in a ferocious little stalemate right at the edge of the net. Sakusa pursed his lips and took one final moment to glare menacingly at Atsumu before he released his shirt and turned away. As he walked, Atsumu smoothed out the wrinkles left by Sakusa’s vice grip and let out a long, seething exhale. A twinge of amusement appeared in his chest as Sakusa retreated; in some ways, it almost felt like he’d won. He’d called Sakusa the nasty name, gotten to watch him squirm in response, and didn’t get told off by anyone he really cared about.

It was a satisfying enough feeling to last him the week.

Even though they bickered over and over as per usual, Atsumu had a sense that he could always win regardless of how it started. Knowing that he could set Sakusa off with just a single word sent him on a power trip he never thought he’d get to experience. Usually, it was Osamu who would poke fun at Atsumu to get a reaction, but it felt good to have it be the other way around. As fazed as he might’ve actually been by Sakusa’s seemingly uncontrollable anger, he would rather die than let it show. And with each passing, spiteful day, their walk down the street eating meat buns seemed more and more like a fluke.

It’s partly why Atsumu arrived embarrassingly early to therapy the following Monday. The other part was so that he could as Dr. Hirai a question.

“You’re early.”

The statement wasn’t so much of a judgment as it was a simple statement of the truth. Atsumu slid sheepishly through the doors and watched Dr. Hirai climb into his usual chair with a brand-new cup of tea in his hand. When he was settled with one leg crossed over the other, he peered at Atsumu with inquiring eyes, watching him as he took his usual seat on the other end of the circle.

“Well, I—I had a question,” said Atsumu.

Dr. Hirai lifted his brow, “A question?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu fiddled with the edge of his coat and only looked up at Dr. Hirai when he felt that it was absolutely necessary, “you see—”

Atsumu stopped himself, wanting to be as clear as possible. He glanced up at the doctor before returning to the enthralling thread hanging from the hem of his coat.

“I used to have panic attack,” Atsumu muttered, “but then they stopped for a long time.”

He heard Dr. Hirai hum.

“But I had another one last week.”

Dr. Hirai hummed again, this time, a little more affirmatively.

“So, I called my brother and told him how I was feeling, but he said it wasn’t anything like my other panic attacks, but I’m so sure that it was one.”

By now, Atsumu had abandoned the loose thread and was looking at Dr. Hirai, waiting to see any sort of change in the man’s expression that would validate what he was telling him. Instead, the doctor sat in his seat with the same, soft expression that he always carried.

“So—” Atsumu stammered a bit, “I was wondering if panic attack sensations can—can change.”

“Change?” Dr. Hirai asked.

“Yeah.”

“Huh,”

The doctor’s gaze fell pensively to the floor. His tongue poked at the skin inside his lower lip as he pondered the strange query. Atsumu’s hand returned instinctively to the thread, desperate to find something to fill the silent moment.

“What were you doing when the panic attack started?”

Dr. Hirai was looking directly at him, brow knitted.

“I was—I was walking—with Sakusa,” Atsumu glanced out the window.

“Ah,” Dr. Hirai hummed with a touch of amusement.

“I just saw him at a convenience store then I bought him some food and we—”

You’re rambling, Atsumu.

Atsumu tore his gaze from the window and looked at his knees now, letting his words trail along with him.

“That’s all,” he muttered in a near whisper.

“And that’s when the episode began?”

“Yeah.”

Atsumu felt like a broken record. All he wanted was some reassurance from Dr. Hirai that everything was totally normal and there was nothing wrong with him, but he had this sneaking suspicion that Dr. Hirai wasn’t the type to dish out reassurance for free.

“It’s possible,” Dr. Hirai said, “not likely but, possible.”

Atsumu fiddled with his clothing even more. His heart started to race at the thought of something being wrong with him again. The fear of going backwards started to course through him.

“But if my panic attacks are coming back, that means I’m getting worse, right?”

Again, Atsumu couldn’t stop his stupid tongue before his brain could catch up which landed him sitting jaw-agape across from Dr. Hirai. He could’ve said it far more tactfully, but it was done now, there was no going back. Dr. Hirai parted his lips and inhaled softly, eyes trailing around the room.

“Do you think you’re getting worse?”

Atsumu swallowed the words he really wanted to say in favor of actually thinking it through. If he said yet, Dr. Hirai might certify his suspicions and then Atsumu would spiral for the rest of the week about it. But if he said no, then Dr. Hirai might disregard his previous question. Would Atsumu be criticizing his therapy methods by saying that he does feel like he’s getting worse? Every time Atsumu tried to dig for the truth, he’d always hit the same layer of bedrock. Every fucking time.

“I don’t know,” he finally conceded.

Dr. Hirai only nodded and pursed his lips. They sat there in silence for a moment longer. Atsumu hoped that Dr. Hirai was only thinking of something very clever and helpful to say, but when Hayato rolled in not a minute later, it was obvious that Dr. Hirai hadn’t been concocting anything at all. He greeted Hayato gently and proceeded to gaze out the window wistfully while taking occasional sips from his tea.

The rest eventually filed in like they always did. Tamura greeted Atsumu warmly and rambled on about her son for a bit. Hayato slumped in his seat and nearly nodded off, blaming a long day at school for his drowsiness. Akari stumbled in just at the last minute with her hair falling out of its neat updo, and following close behind was Sakura Kiyoomi.

When he caught sight of Sakusa, Atsumu felt his back go pin-straight. Even though he wasn’t feeling so under Kiyoomi’s thumb anymore, Atsumu had two keep up a rather curated defense when he was around. So as he slinked into the room and slipped into his usual powder-blue armchair. His mask was tugged over most of his face, so anything of his eyes that Atsumu could see was hidden behind his curly black bangs. The session began swiftly and Atsumu was forced to turn his attention elsewhere.

“Trauma.”

Dr. Hirai’s voice was clear as a bell peeling through the low hum of chatter. They all were forced to look at him and drink in his subtly smug expression.

“You’re all traumatized, you know that, right?”

Akari furrowed her brow and crossed her arms tight over her chest. Tamura fiddled nervously with the handle of her purse while Hayato’s eyes were now far from drifting off into sleep.

“A lot of people think that trauma is reserved for survivors of abuse and war-torn countries,” Dr. Hirai peered out to the group, “but the definition expands a little wider than that.”

With a chaste glance over to Sakusa, Atsumu watched his eyes fall to the ground.

“Anytime the mind perceives a threat, something that would threaten the safety of the body and spirit, it seeks comfort and relief from someone they trust,” the doctor continued, “OCD functions similarly, it perceives a threat to the self.”

Atsumu wanted to pick at his skin. He only began to dig his nails into his skin when the thoughts started all those years ago. It hurt to pull the surface skin off, but he had to channel the nervous energy out somewhere into the world. He used to bite his nails, then when his nails got too blunt, he’d peel at his hangnails, then when all his cuticles were soaked in blood, he had nowhere to turn but to the skin of the back of his hand. He’d sit in class for hours, peeling at the skin and pulling it back as far as it would go then he’d bitch about how bad it stung when he’d go to volleyball practice in the afternoon. Since he moved, he’d been rather successful in avoiding situations that would make him anxious enough to elicit the desire in him, but the feeling returned with a new fervor.

Thus, he started to pick, finding a small scarred place on his right hand and digging his nail beneath it and suppressing a grimace of pain.

“But, with OCD, there is no comfort from this threat. There’s reassurances, but our brain always eventually undermines those and you can’t just ‘turn off your brain’.”

It was a familiar sting to Atsumu. Sure, he was listening, but he was also pulling his skin right off his hand. Quite honestly, he wished he wasn’t hearing any of what Dr. Hirai was saying.

“Thus,” he held his hands out, “trauma. And it follows you. It changes your behaviors and makes you a different person.”

Atsumu suppressed the desire to shake his head.

No, he thought, all I have to do is forget the silly trauma and go back to how I was.

“What we do here will help you disregard the thoughts and the compulsions that follow, but the trauma reaches wider than that. You’ll have to do the hard work of healing, too.”

No.

No, no, no.

I’m going to get better, Atsumu thought, my OCD hasn’t changed anything about me, I’m sure of it.

Atsumu’s finger dug in even further. He was picking one flake of skin off after another, flicking them onto the patterned carpet. It hurt, but letting the anxious feeling flood recklessly through his body would hurt infinitely more.

“Maybe you can’t go back to who you were before,” Dr. Hirai said, “but that doesn’t make getting better any less worth it.”

Atsumu’s finger stopped dead in its tracks. His gaze flicked up to Dr. Hirai who was sitting casually and taking a slow sip from his tea. The ‘no’ hung heavy on his tongue. He wanted to shout it over and over. Dr. Hirai was wrong. He had to be wrong. Atsumu had sworn at the beginning that once he was rid of his stupid mental illness, then he could go back to who he was before and be happy like he used to be. There was no point in therapy or medication if that wasn’t the case.

“With that being said,” the doctor cleared his throat, “let’s get started.”

Atsumu didn’t want to get started. He wanted to tell Dr. Hirai that he was wrong. What did he know anyways? Maybe he was new to this therapy thing. Atsumu promised too many people that, once he came back, he would be all better. He would go away, get better, then be who everyone always wanted him to be.

And he would be happy.

Dr. Hirai might know about OCD, but he didn’t know a thing about Miya Atsumu.

The next day at practice was grueling, more grueling than any day they’d practiced prior. Atsumu assumed that they were just getting into the meat of the season since their first official game was fast-approaching, but he prayed that the pace would slow following the match. He wasn’t getting enough sleep to uphold such a lifestyle and he was waking up each morning with new sore places. The only good thing that had come from the sudden intensity in practice was that both he and Sakusa were far too focused to snipe at one another. Throughout the long hours of practice, they’d only had a few chances to cast short, snide glances at one another after a flubbed serve or a botched spike. In fact, they’d flubbed and botched so much that one of the assistant coaches forced them to stay behind to practice their timing.

Neither Atsumu nor Sakusa were too excited about this development, but there wasn’t anything they could do except for obey. So, they stayed. Nearly two hours later, the coach finally conceded and released them to the locker rooms. Atsumu’s entire body felt like it was engulfed in flames and his head was filled with a dry, cottony feeling that he couldn’t shake. Ten-pound weights might as well have been strapped to his feet with the way he was sulking towards the locker room doors that Sakusa had disappeared behind not a minute before him. When he walked in, he avoided eye contact with the tall man who was hunched at his respective locker. Atsumu slumped onto the bench and reached for his gym bag that was thankfully sitting right where he left it. He heard Sakusa fiddle with something in his locker, it sounded like clothing. Meanwhile, Atsumu kicked his shoes off with a sigh and felt the cold air hit the parts of his feet that were already aching. He reached into his bag and dug around for a change of socks that he was sure he packed.

“God,” he groaned, “that prescription they gave me makes my body hurt like hell when I overwork it.”

Atsumu spent enough time alone now that he was used to talking to himself. A part of him wished that Sakusa hadn’t heard, but he didn’t care enough to check. And besides, Sakusa was the only one who understood what he meant by prescription, and it hearkened back to their conversation from just a week ago. Making friendly small talk seemed much more appealing to Atsumu than sitting there in tense silence.

But Sakusa only grunted in response. It was a short hum that crept up from his chest that Atsumu couldn’t tell whether it was a grunt of affirmation or a grunt of “stop talking to me”. The silence fell thick between them once more and Atsumu squirmed at the sensation. As he slipped on his fresh socks, the gears turned in his mind.

“When I get better and can stop taking all that medication, I’m gonna be the best volleyball player in Japan.”

It was sort of a joke considering how Atsumu accented it with a chuckle, but there was a grain of truth to it that kept him going. When Atsumu thought about high school and all the crazy stamina he used to play with, he can’t help but wish he had it all back—paired with his now polished technique, he’d be unstoppable. But the thoughts had zapped him of his energy and motivation, leaving him near empty. Now he was all technique, but he didn’t know if he could make it through an entire match anymore.

“There’s a lot of shit I’m gonna do when I get better,” Atsumu’s voice went low but retained its clarity.

Atsumu’s mind flipped instantly to the little compartment he’d created full of all his dreams. When he got better, he was going to finally rent an apartment he actually liked then earn enough money to buy a house for his mom, the one on the coast that she always gawked at when they went on vacation. He was going to start dating again and would never have to sequester himself in the bathroom with a panic attack ever again. He was going to get infinitely better at volleyball, sleep ten hours each night, maybe start that business with Osamu—

“What do you mean ‘get better’?”

Sakusa had been suspiciously quiet while Atsumu rambled on, but the sharp question forced Atsumu’s gaze over to the lockers. Sakusa’s head was turned over his shoulder and he was sporting a rather dark expression. There was something in his hands, but he wasn’t paying it much mind. Rather, he was interrogating Atsumu.

With a hesitant chuckle, Atsumu knitted his brow at him.

“Like—get better,” Atsumu said matter-of-factly, “when I don’t have OCD anymore.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed. Atsumu straightened his posture.

“Idiot,” Sakusa tsked and turned back to his locker.

“What?” Atsumu retorted, “Why am I an idiot? Am I an idiot thinking I’m gonna get better? Why else would I be in therapy?”

Sakusa set down whatever he was holding and turned his body just a quarter so that he didn’t have to crane his neck so much. His eyes were still narrowed and his brow was low, but he seemed too tired to pick a fight, so everything was softened at the edges with fatigue.

“You really don’t listen to Dr. Hirai, do you?” He said lowly, “OCD isn’t something you get rid of. You have it forever.”

Atsumu’s first instinct was to laugh. It had to be some kind of joke. But the small grin that had spread across Atsumu’s face melted quicky when he saw the serious shapes of Sakusa’s features.

“You’re crazy,” Atsumu scoffed, “Of course you can get rid of it. You just have to keep trying—and when it doesn’t work, you try harder.”

Sincerely, Atsumu thought that would be the end of it. Sakusa was still glaring at him, but he’d returned dutifully to his gym bag, zipping it up with all his sweat-soiled belonging tucked inside.

“And when I do get rid of it,” Atsumu continued, “it’ll be like it never happened.”

“Shut up!”

It was a coarse, guttural shout, tearing through the heavy silence of the locker room. Not to mention that it’d been paired with a sharp rap to the outside of the lockers. When Atsumu craned his neck over to Sakusa, he watched the side of his fist slide down from where it had pounded against the metal.

“Sakusa—” Atsumu began in a small voice.

“Shut up, Atsumu!”

Instantly, Atsumu heart started to pound against his sternum. He pulled his lips between his teeth and suppressed the ropes of anxiety that were already trailing up from his feet. Sakusa’s face was turned in towards the back of the open locker, so all Atsumu could see of him was the heaving inhales and exhales in his back. Through the thin t-shirt, he watched each of Sakusa’s vertebra shift beneath his skin and the colored fabric. Only faintly could Atsumu hear his actual huffing breaths from behind his blue mask.

“Fine,” Atsumu whispers.

In a huff, he picked up his gym bag and slings it dutifully over his shoulder. With a final glare over at Sakusa, he notes how the man hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still breathing angrily into his locker, fist pressed against the cold black metal exterior of the neighboring unit, and he didn’t show any signs of continuing the conversation.

And Atsumu should’ve just left. In retrospect, he should’ve left without another word and caught the late bus which would take him to his apartment where he could make a pack of instant ramen and watch Fast and Furious movies until he passed out onto the couch. But, of course, that’s retrospect, an alternate reality that he’ll never really get to know—not when he chose to deliver the final blow of the altercation.

“Sorry I’m not a fucking downer about my mental illness like you are. It’s not my fault you’ve given up already.”

It was snide. The words tasted sour sitting on his tongue, and they tasted even more so once he’d said them. Halfway through, he had a sense that he should stop. But retreating in front of Sakusa sounded like something a coward would do, and Atsumu wasn’t a coward. Instead, he was just an asshole.

Suppose he deserved the sucker punch that Sakusa hailed upon him.

He wasn’t even fully paying attention while Sakusa bounded over to him; with his obnoxiously long legs, it only took about three steps to get close enough. Once he was standing there, Atsumu got one second to observe his absolutely furious expression before his gaze was forced sideways by the hardest punch he’d ever felt against his jaw.

Immediately, the pain spread all throughout the left side of his face. He held his hand instinctually to the spot and shouted a quick expletive. It was then, hunched over in pain and looking at Sakusa’s shoes, that he could register what had really happened. Sakusa had punched him, like, really punched him. His jaw pounded and stung, but he forced himself upright regardless. Sakusa was standing right in front of him, fists readied at his sides and hot air heaving from his nose and mouth. His eyes were obscured beneath his sharp brow to the point where they seemed to change shape with his emotion. That emotion, of course, being pure and unadulterated rage.

“The FUCK?” Atsumu shouted.

He’d fought with his brother countless times. Atsumu knew what he was doing. Thus, using both hands to shove Sakusa away by his shoulders was almost like second nature. But he and his brother had always been pretty evenly matched as far as strength, so he was expecting Sakusa to hobble back like Osamu always did.

But he wasn’t expecting Sakusa to not react at all to the motion and respond, instead, by shoving Atsumu all the way to the ground.

At Atsumu’s ass hit the ground with a loud thud, the stinging sensation coursed evenly through his cheek like it had in the other. Sakusa was much stronger than he expected, strong enough to topple Atsumu with one blow. The familiar, tangly ball of anger started to form in the center of his chest when he was forced to look up at a towering Sakusa who was still fuming and panting behind his mask.

Atsumu’s face pinched. He ignored the bruising pain that was shooting through his backside and used his hands to hoist himself back up. But before he could rise back to his feet, Sakusa had hunched over and used his hands to shove Atsumu back down by his shoulders. The force sent Atsumu’s back to the hard, locker room floor with a thud.

“Ah!” Atsumu exclaimed as his back lit up with pain.

But Sakusa wasn’t satisfied. From his hunched position, he let his knees fall to the ground on either side of Atsumu’s hip and hovered menacingly over him. Atsumu tried to register it all a little faster, but his mind was too clouded with anger and shooting pain. When he finally re-engaged, Atsumu lifted his hands to try and pry Sakusa off of him, but the large spiker was quicker, grabbing both of Atsumu’s wrists and locking them in mid-air.

“Stop lying to yourself!” Sakusa screamed at him.

Atsumu struggled to try and wriggle his hands from Sakusa’s warm, calloused grip, but it was no use. In all the places of his body where there was no pain, fury took up residence and gave Atsumu enough strength to buck up his hips in an effort to knock Sakusa off. The man’s core must’ve been unbelievably balanced considering how unfazed he was by the maneuver; he barely moved from his hunched position over Atsumu’s torso. And he was relentless with Atsumu’s arms, holding them up and rendering them immovable.

“Why do you care what I do?” Atsumu spat back at him.

“I don’t,” Sakusa cried.

As he did, Sakusa released one hand from Atsumu’s wrist and used it to grab a handful of Atsumu’s bleached hair. And he pulled—hard.

“Fuck!” Atsumu shouted at the sensation.

Already, Atsumu could feel the blow to his jaw bruising. He could even sense a faint trickle of blood trailing from his lip. But he didn’t have time to think about all that, not when he had a free hand. Using the newly released, limb, Atsumu reached around and pinched the soft part of Sakusa’s side as hard as he could. Immediately, he shouted in pain, released his hold on Atsumu’s locks, and tilted to his right.

It was one of Atsumu’s favorite maneuvers. Once Sakusa had completely lost his balance, Atsumu tucked his knees tight against either side of Sakusa’s hips and used the weight of his already tilting body to roll over in that direction. Atsumu felt the ground disappear from beneath his back and, before he knew it, Sakusa’s back was thudding against the ground and Atsumu’s knees were flush against his hipbones, pinning him in place.

Sakusa assessed the situation immediately, reaching out to get ahold of Atsumu’s hair again or maybe land another punch, but Atsumu made quick work of immobilizing Sakusa’s arms just like he had previously. Atsumu’s breath rattled in his chest and fell from his lips in short, hot huffs. His heart was beating so hard at the edge of his chest that he could feel his entire body thumping to its beat. Sakusa was incredibly strong, being nearly successful in wrenching his hands from Atsumu’s sweaty grip three or four times, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins was enough to keep Atsumu’s stance steady.

Eventually, Sakusa’s struggling slowed, his breaths became long and pained. He squished his eyes closed and turned his head to the side as if he was anticipating a punch in return. And Atsumu was fully prepared to give it to him. He let one hand go and prayed that Sakusa wouldn’t get any bright ideas while he revved up his arm to deliver a harsh blow to the man’s cheek. But when Sakusa finally gained a free hand, he didn’t reach around to pinch Atsumu’s side nor did he move towards Atsumu’s hair. He simply let the hand fall. His other hand was still caught in Atsumu’s grip, but there was no effort made to flip Atsumu back over. Instead, the hand laid limp on the locker room floor beside where Atsumu’s right knee was holding Sakusa’s hip hostage. Atsumu watched it out of the corner of his eye, waiting for it to move—but it never did.

When he turned back to Sakusa, Atsumu willed the anger coursing through his body to give him to strength to punch Sakusa for real, to give him what he always deserved. Because asshole, heartless pricks like Sakusa Kiyoomi deserved to get their shit rocked. Pricks like Sakusa who skip practice and criticize every set Atsumu has ever tossed and starts fights in the locker room deserved to get punched. Atsumu had to do it. This might be his only chance.

As his arm swung towards Sakusa’s face, Atsumu watched intently. He wanted to watch as he got the upper hand on Sakusa. But just as his hand was close enough for Sakusa to sense it with closed eyes, Atsumu watched his entire face flinch. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

Atsumu froze. It wasn’t by choice; it was more like his body had gained a sort of separate sentience that refused to punch Sakusa Kiyoomi in the jaw. Atsumu shook his head and willed his arm to move. He even reeled it back to try again, but his body wouldn’t respond. Atsumu gritted his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath. Beneath him, Sakusa had tilted his head to expose one cheek, the other flush against the hard floor, his mask pushed slightly to the side. Faintly, Atsumu could hear him sniffle. If he watched closely, he could see Sakusa swallow thickly, the kind of swallow you have to do when you’re holding in tears.

He couldn’t do it. No matter how bad he wanted to, Atsumu couldn’t hit him. His body seethed and bubbled with fury, but he couldn’t bring himself to act on it. Maybe it was because Sakusa had retreated so readily or because Atsumu was remembering their short walk down the street, but a glimmer of tenderness grew in his mind. It wasn’t ‘Sakusa, grade-A prick’ beneath him anymore—it was ‘Sakusa, 7-year old with Contamination OCD, soft voice in the therapy circle, wearing gloves on the bus’ beneath him. There was a vulnerable quality to his expression that Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to take advantage of and it was obvious that Sakusa was trying his darndest to hold back tears.

Suddenly, Atsumu’s body grew heavy. It was partly the fatigue of the long practice that finally hit him, but it was more so the rapidly dropping adrenaline levels in his body that did the trick. Thus, Atsumu slumped onto the ground beside where Sakusa was laying, effectively unpinning his knees from the sides of Sakusa’s hips and freeing him. If his whole demeanor had been an act to make Atsumu let his guard down, now would be the best time to land another blow. But they both just sat there, Atsumu hugging his knees to his chest with one hand and using the other to wipe the blood from his lip, Sakusa sprawled out onto the ground trying to even his breath. When Sakusa’s hand finally did move, it was just to nurse the skin of his hip. Atsumu must’ve been holding on harder than he thought.

That’s how they were for a few silent moments, licking both their internal and external wounds. Atsumu hung his head to look at his lap as the pain in his cheek and backside became even more prevalent. They were both hurt in some way. But there was something about the way the fight ensued that made Atsumu feel like he was never trying to hurt Sakusa in the first place. He was just so angry that he had to retaliate when attacked. Did Sakusa feel the same way?

It was actually Sakusa who was the first to move. He adjusted his mask over his nose and sat up as quickly as he could without blacking out. Without glancing at Atsumu, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed his gym bag, retreating wordlessly to the door. Atsumu watched as he disappeared out the exit and felt the floor shake as the door closed loudly behind him. He sighed. Tender fingers trailed back up to his aching cheek. He could already feel the bruise forming.

Damnit, Atsumu thought, I’m gonna have to ride the bus like this.

Atsumu did eventually make it back to his apartment. A pot of ramen was boiling on the stove and the first Fast and Furious movie was cued up on the TV, but his mind was elsewhere. Any time his mind was unoccupied with how to cook ramen, he was thinking about what Sakusa had said and the look on his face as he waited to be punched across the face.

OCD isn’t something you get rid of.

You have it forever.

Just as the timer on Atsumu’s stove beeped, he heard his phone ring from the coffee table. He scrambled to pull the pot from the burner so he could race over to his phone before he missed the call. It was Osamu.

“Hey, loser,” Osamu said.

If Atsumu had looked a little closer, he would’ve noticed that it was a video call but, instead, he let Osamu stare at the ceiling while he scooped his ramen into a bowl.

“Why are you calling me?” Atsumu asked bitingly.

“Yikes,” said Osamu, “What’s up with you?”

By now, Atsumu had carried both his steaming ramen and his phone over to the couch and, once he was settled, he pulled his best uninterested face to show off his injuries. Once the phone was level with his eyes, Atsumu watched Osamu’s face pinch.

“Ouch!” He said through a light chuckle, “Who’d you piss off this time?”

Atsumu rolled his eyes, “S’not important.”

He leaned the phone against a vase-looking thing that the prior apartment’s residents had left. It was a good place to put his remote, so he kept it, and now it was acting as a pretty spiffy stand for his phone.

“Hold on, Aran’s calling,” Osamu muttered.

Almost instantly, Aran’s face appeared in the call next to Osamu just as Atsumu shoved a bite of food into his mouth. His jaw stung as he unhinged it and it burned dully as he chewed, but he was so goddamn hungry after the long practice that he couldn’t care.

“Ojiro!” Atsumu exclaimed in a muffled voice.

“Hey y’all,” Aran said calmly, “Holy shit, Atsumu, what happened to your face?”

“Oh, he was just born like that,” Osamu teased.

“Shut up,” Atsumu muttered, “Got in a fight.”

“With who?”

Atsumu took another bite of ramen and rolled his eyes.

“Not important.”

“You’re no fun,” Osamu whined.

“Oh yeah?” Atsumu scrunched up his face to emphasize his mocking tone.

“Why did I get patched into this?” Aran asked, brow quirked.

A knock echoed through Atsumu’s apartment. His eyes went wide, the bite of food he was carrying to his mouth catching in midair. Osamu and Aran stared at him from the screen.

“Are you gonna answer the door?” Osamu asked flatly.

“Y-yeah,” Atsumu stuttered.

No one ever knocked on his door. Atsumu set his ramen bowl down softly on the coffee table and took one chaste glance back at his phone where Osamu and Aran were waiting for him to disappear from the screen. He padded softly towards the front door, his heart rate quickening with each step. Whoever it was, the first things they would see was the massive bruise that was forming on his cheek.

With a trembling, hesitant hand, Atsumu opened the door a crack.

The first thing he saw was a black curl. When he opened the door a little wider, he saw the two little moles stacked one above the other. And if the mask hadn’t been his greatest indicator, the slitted brown eyes would’ve given him away instantly.

“What are you doing here?” Atsumu asked curtly and quietly; he didn’t want Aran and Osamu listening in.

Sakusa’s face was stony as usual, but he didn’t look mad. In fact, his curls were still matted with sweat and he hadn’t changed out of his practice clothes. He was futzing nervously with something in his giant coat pocket.

“I—” he began gruffly, refusing to meet Atsumu’s eyes.

Atsumu watched him grimace at the floor for a few moments before conceding with a sigh, his face melting into complacency. Gazing up at Atsumu, Sakusa pulled a handful of things from his pocket.

“I brought you some things—for your injuries.”

His voice was so low that Atsumu could barely hear him; it took an extra second for him to register what Sakusa had just said. It certainly helped that Sakusa was holding a mass of things out to him with a pin-straight, outstretched arm. Atsumu looked up and observed his permanent scowl.

“It’s—antibiotic for your lip—” he cleared his throat, “and an ice pack—for your bruises. And pain reliever.”

Sakusa spoke like he was holding in a sneeze. Whenever he was making eye contact with Atsumu, he looked strained and uncomfortable; it seemed much more natural for his eyes to wander around. Atsumu conceded his efforts to catch Sakusa’s eyes and reached through the doorway to grab the things from Sakusa’s tight grip. He wrapped his hand around the ice pack first and felt the tips of his fingers brush Sakusa’s calloused palm. Atsumu swallowed his heart down from inside his throat, begging it to return to his chest. He took the bottle of pills next, letting his fingertip brush against the lines of Sakusa’s palm once again; flames licked the places where it touched, and the cold air in the apartment hallway just made the absence all the more obvious. Once he’d taken the antibiotic cream, too, Atsumu retreated his hands.

“Thanks,” Atsumu muttered.

Sakusa’s eyes flickered all across his shoes, then Atsumu’s sock-clad feet. He pulled his hand back just as quickly, shoving it decidedly in his coat pocket. Sakusa pursed his lips. Atsumu wondered if he was going to apologize. Maybe Atsumu should apologize first—yes, all Atsumu had to do was say he was sorry and then everything would be—

“Goodbye.”

Almost as quickly as he’d retracted his offering hand, Sakusa had turned and started down the long hallway. Atsumu was left standing in his doorway, hands laden with gifts and lips parted in the shape of an apology. He stood there for a moment more, registering Sakusa’s sudden absence and the curt nature of his farewell; it wasn’t an angry ‘goodbye’ or anything, it sounded more like he didn’t know how else to end the encounter. It was like he panicked and said the first thing that came to mind.

Atsumu glanced down at the paraphernalia in his hands. His chest got tight. His mind raced. Even as he closed the door and retreated back into the apartment, Atsumu couldn’t tear his mind away from the interaction.

Perhaps—

“Earth to Atsumu,” Osamu groaned from the phone.

Atsumu set the things hurriedly onto the coffee table in a place where neither his brother nor his friend could see them. He shoved himself back into the couch cushions.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Who was it?” Aran asked.

Atsumu glanced over to the things Sakusa had given him. He ignored the buzzing in his fingers and the weightless quality of his chest in favor of starting back in on his dinner. Atsumu looked at the phone and pulled as nonchalant of an expression as he could muster.

“It was nobody.”

Chapter Text

Atsumu was late.

His “I’m going to close my eyes for thirty minutes” had turned into a three-hour nap during which he had one of those stressful dreams that you wake up from feeling sticky. When he’d read the clock and found that it was already five past six, he panicked and grabbed his coat, rushing outside in the very next moment. He was still in his practice shorts and jersey which became glaringly obvious as the biting autumn wind pricked at his exposed knees as he sped-walked to the therapy place.

Though his lungs stung from the cold, he couldn’t afford to stop and catch his breath. He’d never been this late for therapy—maybe he shouldn’t go at all. Would Dr. Hirai be mad? Sakusa probably would be, but Atsumu didn’t care what Sakusa thought.

Atsumu’s wounds had healed almost completely; the splits in his lip were the first to close up while the bruises were still a deep red splotch that spanned the harsh line of his jaw. It didn’t hurt too much and Atsumu would never admit it, but he liked how badass the wounds made him look. No one had to know that he’d gotten them from a petty fight with his volleyball teammate in the locker room. Sakusa’s offerings had helped, too. The ice did wonders for the swelling and Atsumu credits the ointment for speeding up the healing process of his lip, but the last thing he wanted to do was say an outright thank you to Sakusa for the gesture. Sure, he’d given him stuff to aid the wounds, but he never really said that he was sorry.

Finally, the building came into view and Atsumu checked his watch again. Ten minutes past.

“Damnit,” he whispered to himself as he swung open the grand door.

Hastily, he shoved off his tennis shoes at the entrance and shivered at the sudden change in temperature, being sure to close the portal to the cold world behind him. With his eyes trained onto the warm wooden floor, Atsumu raced down the long, thin corridor that led to the proper room. He took the chaste moment alone in the stuffy air to catch his breath and defrost his fingers while simultaneously planning every possible excuse he could use when he arrived ten minutes late to therapy. He could say that he was held up at practice, but Sakusa would know he was lying. He could be honest and say he was taking a nap, but that seemed more like something Hayato would do and Atsumu didn’t want to seem like the lazy high schooler he secretly felt like.

“Huh?” Atsumu grunted when he spotted another pair of shoes in his line of vision.

When he glanced up, he saw Sakusa towering over him, his customary mask pulled over his mouth and nose and his eyes stern. In the impossible slim hallway, there was no way the two of them would be able to pass comfortably beside one another without some sort of adjustment. Atsumu hung his head and turned his body so that his back was facing the wall beside him. Sakusa shuffled as well, swinging his shoulder around just a few degrees. As they passed one another, Atsumu looked up at Sakusa’s face, his eyes trained on the end of the hallway.

Yet, as their bodies aligned at the passing point, Sakusa looked down at him and knitted his brow. Atsumu felt his body stiffen at the sight, unable to move with as much fervor as before. It was by some act of God that Sakusa slowed to. And, for a moment, the pair of them were stood with their chests just inches from one another, glaring. But were they really glaring? It didn’t feel like that, really.

Sakusa’s eyes were stony and his expression was grim, but it was nothing out of the sort. The fact that he was even looking Atsumu in the eye spoke volumes for the extent to which they could stand each other. Atsumu swallowed thickly as they gazed for just one more passing moment. His heart crawled steadily up to his throat where it thrummed in anticipation.

“We waited,” Sakusa muttered.

“Oh,” Atsumu hummed, “I just—”

Sakusa’s brow lowered inquisitively. Atsumu sat there with his jaw hanging like he was stupid, meeting Sakusa’s expectant eyes. Why couldn’t he think? It was like his brain had filled with cotton, there was no space for sound or thoughts or anything of the sort.

“Thanks,” he murmured instead, desperate to break from the interaction.

Sakusa nodded rather slowly before continuing his walk down the hallway towards the bathroom—or, that’s where Atsumu assumed he was going. Since Atsumu stood and waited for Sakusa to walk, he felt the edge of Sakusa’s shoulder brush against the side of his own. Sakusa’s skin was cold, cold enough to send a series of tingles down Atsumu’s arm. Once he heard Sakusa’s footsteps retreating, Atsumu’s right hand flung up to grip the part of his arm where Sakusa’s skin had touched and try to shake the sensation. He swallowed, desperate to dislodge his heart.

His head was the next thing to get a good shake. It was his go-to action for when the intrusive thoughts started to creep, and there was nothing more intrusive than the lingering feeling of Sakusa’s skin on his arm.

“Shoo!” He hissed quietly to his own thoughts.

In another attempt to soothe his body’s panic, Atsumu raced down the rest of the hallway and ducked sheepishly into the adjacent room where the other therapy-goers were engaged in low conversation. They all looked up to watch Atsumu as he hummed a quick ‘sorry’ and slipped shamefully into his usual chair. Dr. Hirai smiled warmly at him which made Atsumu’s cheeks bur even brighter in embarrassment.

“I overslept,” Atsumu blurted out.

“No problem,” Dr. Hirai reassured him.

Atsumu heaved a sigh of relief. He shot a quick smile to Tamura, then to Hayato. Tamura’s warm, greeting grin melted quickly into horror.

“What happened to your face, dear?” She asked in that classic mom voice.

His fingers flung up to the bruise that was obviously still visible. Atsumu chuckled.

“I uh—I fell,” he fibbed, “at practice.”

“You sure?” Hayato quirked his brow, “Looks more like you got punched to me.”

Atsumu’s body froze. He parted his lips to defend himself, but no sound was coming out. Hayato peered further at his injuries, no doubt diagnosing what had really happened.

Tamura gasped, “Did you get in a fight?”

Right then, Sakusa slipped through the door to the room and shuffled to his seat on the opposite end of the circle. Instinctively, Atsumu’s eyes shot to him as he walked.

“You totally got in a fight,” Hayato teased.

Sakusa stopped and his head snapped to where Atsumu was seated. His gaze was piercing, waiting for his answer. Atsumu’s entire body rushed with fear as his eyes flickered between Sakusa and Hayato.

“I swear I didn’t get in a fight,” Atsumu feigned as much confidence as he could muster.

“Okay,” Hayato said sarcastically.

By the time he looked back, Sakusa had shimmied himself into the powder blue chair and disengaged from the ordeal. Even if Hayato had figured out that Atsumu was in a fight, he would never be able to find out that it was Sakusa who’d punched him.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

Atsumu’s body started to calm at the sound of Dr. Hirai’s honey-smooth voice. The doctor did a slow inspection of the group before him then furrowed his brow in preparation for a question.

“What does OCD desire?”

Atsumu stared at his lap. When he thought of desire, his mind flew to romantic things: one person desiring another, something you pursue, someone you pursue.

“Control,” Dr. Hirai answered his own question.

He let the silence hang for a moment as everyone thought.

“Our brains hate that we can’t control every little thing that happens. We want answers and, when there are none, we panic. Whether it’s our sexuality, whether we’re a murderer, or whether we’ve touched something that will make us sick.”

Atsumu glanced up just in time to see Sakusa squirm uncomfortably in his chair at the blatant mention of his theme. And Atsumu wasn’t going to lie, he’d done the same thing just a few words later.

“Beating OCD starts with accepting those small uncertainties,” he continued, “and it’s rotten work, but it has to be done.”

The doctor shifted just slightly so he was facing the of the circle where Tamura and Hayato were sitting.

“Tamura,” he said, “are you going to murder your husband with the kitchen knife?”

Tamura’s lips parted to reply, but her eyes grew wide before any words could fall from them. The color drained from her face and she began to stutter and let out a string of ‘I don’t knows’ and ‘maybes’ that grew choppier the longer she sat.

“You don’t have to answer,” Dr. Hirai rescued her, “but observe how right when the thought entered your mind, you immediately gave it meaning. Your inability to give a definitive ‘no’ sent you spiraling down all the possibilities.”

Tamura slumped slightly in her seat, face tinting pink with embarrassment.

“It’s okay, everyone here does the same thing,” Dr. Hirai said sincerely, “when we acknowledge the thoughts with a quick ‘maybe, maybe not’, we start to strip them of their power.”

Maybe, maybe not.

Maybe, maybe not.

Atsumu may be a murder, but he may also not be.

Still, Atsumu shuddered. How could he find peace without knowing for sure that the former wasn’t so? Everyone else could give a definitive no to that question—why couldn’t he?

“It takes practice,” the doctor said, “—and vulnerability.”

Atsumu glanced up and watched Dr. Hirai’s eyes lock right onto his.

“When knowing ourselves feels like walking through a haunted house, we stop letting people in to know us, afraid that they’ll get scared off forever.”

Swallowing down the thick, viscous concept, Atsumu looked back down at his feet. Before all of this began, Atsumu used to make friends like it was second nature. Sure, they always liked Osamu better, but it never really seemed to bother Atsumu. Yet, when he started to feel the anxious sensations and think such awful things, Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to talk to all his friends in good conscience. What if they could see the terrible things that he’d thought about them? What if they got to know him then hated him for what they learned? After all, the closer he got to someone, the more gruesome and more frequent the intrusions became.

Atsumu couldn’t even look at his own mother, anymore.

His mind raced. Aran and Osamu and Suna and Kita; they all flickered through his mind like a movie on fast forward, all the terrible things that Atsumu could possibly think appearing in his mind. He squished his eyes closed and willed the thoughts away.

Maybe, maybe not.

Maybe, maybe—

Dr. Hirai said something, but it didn’t quite process in Atsumu’s raging mind. He opened his eyes and looked right at Sakusa who was looking right back at him.

Silence.

His brain slowed, letting the loud thoughts slip seamlessly out of his mind. Sakusa hardened his brow just as Atsumu stopped thinking altogether. Dr. Hirai babbled on about something to the side, but neither of them were listening. Maybe Sakusa was ruminating too, maybe his thoughts had become too much at the simple suggestion of coping with the uncertainty just like Atsumu’s.

Man, Atsumu thought, I must really not be close to this guy if I don’t get any intrusive thoughts when I look at him.

Atsumu chuckled lightly at the thought. Sakusa quirked his brow in suspicion, but they both turned back to the conversation at hand before anything else could be communicated. Atsumu smiled subtly.

His brain wasn’t quiet, very often.

When the session finally ended, Atsumu took his time gathering his things and saying goodbye to Dr. Hirai and the rest of the group. Sakusa was making slow work of padding down the hallway so that by the time he had one of his shoes on, Atsumu was also at the doorway. Sakusa didn’t look at him as he approached, choosing instead to focus hard on tying his other shoe and slipping on his coat. Atsumu slipped his shoes on and grabbed his coat from the rack just as Sakusa opened the front door, letting the cold night winds swoosh in and send goosebumps all up Atsumu’s arms. He shimmied out the door as he put his coat on.

“Sakusa!” He called to the man who was a good ten feet away from him.

Sakusa turned and glared at Atsumu while he closed the gap between them.

“Ya hungry?” He asked.

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed.

“No,” he said curtly.

With a shrug, Atsumu looked back down the sidewalk.

“Alright,” he murmured, fully prepared to walk ahead and spend his evening alone.

“But—”

When the word fell from Sakusa’s lips, it was Atsumu’s turn to stop walking and turn back. Sakusa stood in the center of the sidewalk like a statue in an awkward position, one hand lifted slightly towards Atsumu and the other hanging strangely at his side.

“I could eat,” he said hastily.

Atsumu looked at him for a moment with a quizzical glare. Hadn’t he just said he wasn’t hungry? Was he trying to trick Atsumu? All Atsumu really wanted was another pork bun from that convenience store but, knowing Sakusa would be walking in the same direction, he didn’t want it to seem like he was following him or anything. The best option seemed to be inviting Sakusa to walk and eat with him like last time which, admittedly, he was regretting.

Sakusa caught up to him with just one and a half strides. Once they were parallel, they began to walk. They kept a pretty brisk pace with Atsumu needing some kind of food in his stomach as soon as possible. Usually he would eat after practice then go to therapy, but he’d taken his god forsaken nap which had zapped all of his time, and he’d been suppressing stomach grumbles for the past two hours.

They walked in silence. Every once in a while, Atsumu would glance over to Sakusa to try and catch a twitch or shift in his expression, but he stared dutifully forward, his hands shoved in his coat pockets and the smallest puffs of breath jutting out from the front of his mask made visible by the cold air. Atsumu watched his feet for most of the walk, wracking his brain for something to say that would coax Sakusa into some sort of conversation. He could bring up their fight, but it didn’t seem like the right time. It would probably never be the right time, anyhow. He could talk about therapy, but his brain felt all jam-packed with Dr. Hirai’s words that he couldn’t imagine rehashing it all so soon.

Atsumu whispered a quick prayer of gratitude when the convenience store came into view. Sakusa walked in first, pushing the door an extra inch so Atsumu could follow him in. They made a beeline for the case of hot food items and Atsumu’s stomach finally grumbled at the sight and smell of what sat on the rack. He thought that no one heard, but Sakusa’s glare told him otherwise.

“I’m really hungry,” Atsumu joked.

Sakusa turned back to the hot case with a subtle roll of his eyes and grabbed a sheet of wax paper to set on the tray. He then grabbed another sheet of wax paper from the same stack to create a barrier between his fingers and the tongs that were sitting atop the case. Carefully, he reached in and picked up one meat bun, set it on the tray, then repeated with the other. Atsumu watched on, his mouth salivating.

Hastily, Sakusa grabbed the tray and walked towards the register. Atsumu snapped back to reality and ran after him, meeting the man at the counter where the cashier was sitting with a stern look on their face. Atsumu fumbled for his wallet in his pocket. He opened it and peered into the dark pocket, digging for whatever coins were rolling around the bottom. When he looked back up, however, Sakusa was handing a few dollar bills to the cashier.

“Wait,” Atsumu said.

“You paid last time,” Sakusa said flatly without meeting Atsumu’s gaze.

“But you really don’t—”

Sakusa’s head snapped to the side and he shot a mean glare towards Atsumu. It was a kind act he was doing, but he wasn’t doing it in a very kind way. Sheepishly, Atsumu shoved his wallet back into his pocket and watched as Sakusa took the change from the cashier and took one bun off of the tray. He turned to walk towards the door just as Atsumu took the other bun, muttering a quick farewell to the convenience store attendant.

Once they shuffled back outside, the cold air assaulted all the exposed parts of Atsumu’s skin. He shivered and tried not to drop his bun from his trembling hands. Sakusa started steadily east towards his apartment, the route they’d walked last time, and Atsumu had to break into a quick jog to catch up. Atsumu’s legs had started burning with soreness after practice ever since the two of them had to stay late; it was to the point where he’d have to ice various muscles before he could fall asleep. And tonight was no different.

As they kept a steady pace, Atsumu was growing wearier and wearier of walking.

“Sakusa,” he called to his teammate, “can we sit for a bit? My legs are killing me.”

Sakusa, who was only a few feet ahead of him, turned and furrowed his brow at the suggestion. Atsumu stood there pathetically, one hand gesturing to one of his legs where the pain was searing. With what seemed like a quick roll of his eyes, Sakusa walked towards Atsumu and the bench he was conveniently standing next to. Atsumu was the first to sit, feeling the immediate relief in his calves and hamstrings. Sakusa shuffled to the opposite end of the short wooden piece, sitting slowly and steadily against the slats. He seemed uncomfortable with the sensation at first as he shifted his backside against the hard surface, but he eventually relinquished the quest.

Hungrily, Atsumu dug into his bun, peeling back the wax paper and holding off for just one more moment to take in the yummy smell. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sakusa open the wax pouch carefully and use the same hand to pinch the center of his mask and hook it under his chin. With one bite in Atsumu’s mouth, he watched Sakusa part his lips and take a hesitant first bite of the bun; his eyes squeezed shut as he did.

“Taste the contamination yet?” Atsumu joked.

Sakusa’s jaw froze and he turned with the most sinister look that could possibly appear on a human face. He leaned towards Atsumu, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“It’s a joke,” Atsumu swallowed his bite.

Slowly, Sakusa began to chew the tiny bite and eventually swallowed it with a visible grimace.

“Well, you’re not very funny,” Sakusa grumbled.

“Ouch,” Atsumu hissed, “y’know you’re a little too blunt sometimes.”

“I’m just honest,” he replied plainly.

“Yeah, but sometimes people lie to be nice,” Atsumu took another bite.

Sakusa looked at him with a half-confused, half-judgmental expression.

“Why would anyone want to be lied to?” He asked in disbelief.

“Y’know,” Atsumu’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of food, “if someone gets a haircut that you don’t think is very good but they think it’s cool, it’d be rude to tell them what you actually think, so you just say you like it.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t see any point in commenting on someone’s haircut in the first place.”

“That’s fair,” Atsumu shrugged.

They resumed their silent eating for another minute, the rushing cars and chattering passersby mere background noise to their conversation. Sakusa hunched over his bun like he was protecting it from the dangerous world that surrounded him, and he peeled back the wax paper so gently you’d think whatever was inside was a living thing. At some point, he pulled his phone from his pocket and Atsumu watched the contours of his face drown in bright blue light.

Atsumu was always a tad nosy. Well, maybe more than a tad. He liked to know things about people, and he was bad at observing the boundaries that apparently were common knowledge to everyone else. So, when he peered over to see Sakusa’s home screen right before he closed it, he didn’t have enough sense to stay quiet and pretend that he hadn’t seen.

“Is that—Star Wars?” Atsumu asked.

Sakusa side-eyed him.

“What?” He hissed.

“Your phone background,” Atsumu motioned to his pocket, “it was Star Wars—right?”

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed and his lips went thin.

“Sorry,” Atsumu leaned back, “just curious.”

Atsumu busied himself with another bite of his bun and waited for the incredibly tense moment to pass. Sakusa must’ve done the same. But Atsumu didn’t know when to shut up.

“I’ve never seen the movies,” he said off-handedly.

“You’ve never—”

Sakusa had turned almost completely towards the other end of the bench, his face sporting a sort of half-angry, half-disbelieving expression.

“Impossible,” he spat.

“No, really,” Atsumu shrugged, “my friends have seen it but it never really interested me.”

“But it’s—” Sakusa voice strained, “it’s Star Wars. They’re classic films.”

With every word Sakusa’s voice increased in both pitch and volume in a way that sent Atsumu reeling back on instinct. Even his body was getting worked up over the simple prospect that Atsumu had never seen some movie.

“Okay?” Atsumu shook his head.

“W-w-a—” Sakusa stammered, “everyone’s seen it.”

When Atsumu looked over, he was met with the most intense glare he’d ever been subjected to. Sakusa was leaning towards him, right hand gripping the bun so tightly his fingers were about to pierce right through the wax paper and left hand balling into a fist.

“I don’t even really know what they’re about,” Atsumu replied sheepishly.

“They’re about—they’re about family and trust and corruption and—” Sakusa’s eyes darted every which way as he relayed the concepts with a firm, passionate voice.

“Cool,” Atsumu chirped sometime after he was finished, “maybe I’ll watch ‘em some—”

“And people always use the excuse of not knowing which movies to watch first which I just think is stupid,” Sakusa grumbled, “watching in episodic order just gives you more backstory on Anakin which could potentially have adverse effects on how you enjoy the story but there’s obviously a directorial purpose to starting the story in the middle or else George Lucas wouldn’t have released them that way.”

Who? Atsumu wanted to ask. It was like Sakusa was rambling to him in some foreign language and all Atsumu could do in response was nod and act like it was all processing.

“Then they go on and say, ‘but the prequels aren’t well-made’ but that’s not the point, right?”

Atsumu nodded again. He had no idea what was going on.

“People just don’t appreciate Anakin’s story like they should because they’re too focused on the order of the movies,” Sakusa broke for a moment to take a small bite, but the words were falling out of him like a tidal wave.

“Who?” Atsumu asked.

“Jedi Knight of the Galactic Republic,” he said matter-of-factly.

Atsumu’s jaw hung agape, “Right.”

“Well, you’d have to watch Clone Wars to get a real sense of his character,” Sakusa muttered through a bite, “but that’s a whole other thing.”

Atsumu was sitting frozen, staring wide eyed and the last few bites that remained of his food. Even if he tried to feign knowledge about the topic, he wouldn’t be able to. There were too many words he didn’t know and Sakusa was talking way too fast for him to keep up. As he gave another nod of reassurance, Sakusa curled back into himself and lowered his voice to it’s normal volume.

“Sorry,” he muttered, staring at the pavement, “I didn’t mean to—”

“I don’t mind,” Atsumu interrupted him.

Sakusa’s eyes trailed up to Atsumu. His expression was still firm, but there was a touch of color in his cheeks that indicated embarrassment. Why would Sakusa be embarrassed to talk about something he likes?

“I just know a lot about Star Wars, that’s all,” he mumbled into his lap, “I get that it’s not that interesting.”

“I think it’s interesting!”

It wasn’t until the words had fallen from his mouth that Atsumu realized how animated his voice had become. He didn’t know where the tone came from but seeing Sakusa’s confidence drop so quickly sparked a sort of need in Atsumu to remedy it. After all, what point was there to having a rival if you both didn’t think you were the very best?

Sakusa glanced at him, then returned to his lap.

“You don’t have to lie,” he tore a tentative bite from the bun with his teeth.

“I’m not lying,” Atsumu pressed, “it really is interesting.”

Sure, it wasn’t the most captivating subject matter, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t interesting. What was for more interesting, in actuality, was the sudden change in Sakusa’s demeanor when the subject arose. After all, if Sakusa had a topic that never seemed to run dry for him, then maybe they wouldn’t have to walk or eat their buns in silence anymore.

The pink twinge on Sakusa’s cheeks deepened at Atsumu’s reassurance. He shoved the last bit of food into his mouth and crumpled the wax paper. Atsumu held out his hand where he’d shoved his own trash and waited for Sakusa to give him the discarded waste. With drifting eyes, Sakusa shoved the little paper ball into Atsumu’s outstretched hand and gazed down the pavement which was emptying quickly with the waning night.

Atsumu slipped the trash into his pocket and leaned back onto the bench, letting the warm and satisfied feeling of being pleasantly full calm his entire body. He watched slyly out of the corner of his eye, waiting for Sakusa to slip his mask back on now that he’d finished his food. Sakusa shuffled awkwardly in his seat for a moment, but the mask stayed shoved beneath his chin. Atsumu fiddled with his fingers and let the silence grow thicker with each passing moment.

“Y’know, I have heard about one guy, Kylo?” Atsumu said, “Aran and Kita were arguing about him at practice one time.”

Sakusa’s eyes brightened.

“Kylo Ren?” He said curtly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu said hesitantly, “I think that’s him.”

“Well, there’s a lot of discourse surrounding his role in the newer movies and whether he was really connected with Rey or if that was all just a ploy by the director, but—”

It was nice. It was pleasant to have Sakusa jabbering on in his ear because, when Sakusa was talking, then there was no space in Atsumu’s brain for the terrible thoughts to slip in and ruin his night. He spoke with little intonation and expression, all his words were flat stones paving a walkway, no one higher or thicker than another, but Atsumu liked it that way. It was like he was listening to a lecture by a professor, except the subject matter wasn’t so educational as it was fantastical.

Even as they started walking again, Atsumu felt his body calm as they strode down the sidewalk towards Sakusa’s apartment. Sakusa walked dutifully beside him, raving about some character named Poe then some other guy whose name started with an M that, no matter how many times he said it, never registered in Atsumu’s brain. Every once in a while, he’d turn to Atsumu and seek confirmation with a firm “right?” or a simple raise of the brow, and Atsumu would just nod. The longer he talked, the longer Atsumu’s mind would be free of horrific thoughts, and the longer he could enjoy the freedom from his own thoughts.

“But if we see Rey and Kylo in a sort of yin yang relationship which should really be obvious from their clothes then we can assume that they have to work against one another in order to maintain stability, but it would also suggest that they need to maintain a sort of proximity, of closeness. It doesn’t matter if they hate each other because they’re already bound to one another because they have a piece of the other within them.”

“Uh-huh,” Atsumu replied, catching about 30% of what Sakusa was saying.

“And when Snoke brought them together, he actually ended up strengthening their partnership. He thought they would oppose each other because one was “good” and the other was “evil”, but when you’re around someone long enough then you start to focus more on the things you have in common rather than the things that make you different.”

“Hm,” Atsumu hummed, staring down at his feet.

It was when Sakusa was muttering about some character with a name that Atsumu sincerely thought was some sort of witch’s curse that he heard Sakusa’s phone buzz in his pocket. Sakusa paused mid-sentence and pulled the thing out begrudgingly. When he read the caller ID, he heaved a sigh and answered it.

“Yes?” He said bitingly.

Since they’d turned down a less inhabited street of the city, it was rather silent all around, hence why Atsumu could hear the female voice flooding over the receiver near perfectly.

“You know that’s not a polite way to answer the phone!” She whined.

“Mom—” Sakusa groaned.

“Do you answer your doctor like that? What about your father, do you answer the phone like that when your father calls?”

“Dad never calls me,” he hissed.

“Well, you never call me,” the woman whined.

Atsumu stifled a grin and stared at the ground. He wasn’t going to admit it but hearing Sakusa get reamed by his own mother over the phone was a special kind of satisfying.

“I—” Sakusa’s voice went quiet as if he was trying to hide the interaction from Atsumu, “this really isn’t a good time.”

“Omi!” His mother cried pathetically, “When will it be a good time then? When I’m dead? Is that what you’re waiting for, for me to die?”

Omi.

Oh, that was rich. Atsumu mouthed the name, feeling his lips form around the simple syllables then break into a mischievous smile.

“Don’t talk like that,” Sakusa hissed into the device, “it’s just not a good time.”

Although his face would say differently, Sakusa’s demeanor had certainly changed when speaking with his mother. He was still blunt and flat, but the ends of his sentences tended to trail, and his tone was overall—softer. If it was Atsumu on the other end of the line, he would’ve told him to ‘fuck off’ and hung up the phone ages ago.

“I’ll call you tomorrow night, okay?” He articulated.

“Promise?” she insisted.

“Swear,” Sakusa sighed.

“Okay,” his mother’s voice instantly got sweeter, “I love you Omi-Omi.”

Atsumu smiled once again at the nickname. When he glanced up at Sakusa, he watched the man’s eyes dart frantically between Atsumu and the phone he was holding up to his ear.

“Yeah,” he muttered, ears tinting pink.

“Aren’t you going to say it back, Omi?” His mother pouted.

When Sakusa looked over, Atsumu was smiling slyly and lifting his eyebrows in anticipation. He grimaced for a moment, no doubt cursing Atsumu silently.

“I—love you too, Mom,” he grumbled.

“Bye bye, O—”

She didn’t get to finish saying the name a third time, Sakusa had ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket before she got the chance. He pursed his lips and quickened his pace just a little bit. But even his obvious evasive maneuver couldn’t wipe the grin from Atsumu’s face. He caught up with the tall spiker and grinned.

“Omi?” He said teasingly slow.

Sakusa’s nose crinkled. His lip quirked.

“Omi,” Atsumu repeated.

“Do not call me that,” Sakusa spat without even a glance in Atsumu’s direction.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu repeated in a sing-songy voice.

Sakusa pursed his lips even tighter while his cheeks began to flush a deep shade of red.

“I am going to kill you,” Sakusa growled.

Atsumu giggled, “But it’s such a cute name.”

Sakusa began to walk even faster, but Atsumu was too pumped with adrenaline to even think about slowing down.

“My mom is the only one who calls me that,” Sakusa muttered, ears now completely pink.

“Not anymore,” Atsumu taunted.

Sakusa’s hand made harsh contact with Atsumu’s left shoulder, nearly sending him right off the curb of the sidewalk

“Over my dead body will you call me that name,” he spat.

“Whatever you say—” Atsumu glanced over, “Omi.”

Sakusa scoffed and rolled his eyes very obviously this time. Atsumu straightened his posture and puffed his chest, feeling rather victorious over Sakusa, just this once. They slowed their pace a bit before falling back into a tense, mutual silence.

“I haven’t called my mom in—” Atsumu chuckled, then hesitated.

He really didn’t know how long it’d been. Sure, he’d gotten texts and such, simple reminders like his father’s surgery and Osamu’s new job, but he hadn’t had a full conversation with her in one or two years, it seemed. They parted on bad terms after Atsumu graduated high school. She’d said something about Atsumu being “too much work” and a “burden” on her life and Atsumu had called her some nasty name he wouldn’t repeat anywhere else.

She was right. He was a burden and too much work to be around, but he didn’t know that yet. It took almost a year for it all to really sink in, the same year that Atsumu lost all his friends, too. Everything seemed to slip away, one after another, until he had nothing. That was when he moved to join the Jackals, when he was completely and utterly alone.

“I wish my mom would leave me be,” Sakusa mumbled.

How long was he going to wait until he put his mask back on? Atsumu thought with a knitted brow.

“She cares a little too much,” Sakusa rolled his eyes, “but it’s because I’m her only kid and her job was always taking care of me.”

Atsumu wondered what it would’ve been like if it was his mother’s job to raise him. He imagined life without Osamu, just him and his mother forever and ever. Perhaps she would be more pleased with him if she never had Osamu to compare him to.

Thankfully, his apartment had just come into view, and the new pace they’d set was ensuring they’d reach it sooner than expected. Atsumu chuckled as he watched the tint of Sakusa’s face deepen with what he assumed to be pure rage at Atsumu using his little nickname. But it was the same feeling he’d gotten earlier when he watched Sakusa struggle, a sort of satisfied and giddy feeling. It felt like payback.

When they reached the gate that led up to the simple, two-story apartment complex, Sakusa made quick work of finagling it open with both of his hands. Considering the loud creak it made when he opened it, Atsumu could decipher the age of the metal which would suggest why it was so difficult for Sakusa to open.

It was silent in that passing moment—silent enough for the thoughts to reappear and the old anxious feelings to bubble up in Atsumu’s body.

No, he thought, just give me a few more minutes.

Before he knew it, Atsumu was peeling at his hands again, running his nails into the scarred and mangled skin that surrounded his fingernails and pulling as hard as he could, desperate to distract his mind with the pain of the peeling skin. Sakusa had to turn back to close and lock the gate fully or, at least, that’s what Atsumu saw as he watched the man’s feet.

“Stop,” he said curtly.

He paired his blunt command with a sweeping grip on Atsumu’s wrist that was attached to the offending hand. Sakusa’s fingers wrapped all the way around Atsumu’s thin wrist and his fingers were hot and calloused. Atsumu thought back to the brush of Sakusa’s arm against his own in the hallway and the subtle touch of his fingers when he placed those things in his hand one week ago; he remembered the licks of electricity jutting from the parts of his skin where the contact occurred. He froze like that, his fingers opening to the winter chill and Sakusa holding his hand still.

“You’ll just make it worse,” he said flatly.

Atsumu glanced down at his other hand where, sure enough, blood was starting to pool in his cuticles and drip down the ravines on either side of his nails. In the next moment, Sakusa dropped his hand and exposed Atsumu’s skin back to the cold air, merely the ghost of his touch remaining. His heart picked up its pace as if Atsumu was breaking into a run, but the extra blood rushing through his body just made it harder to think.

“Goodbye,” Sakusa said curtly.

As he turned to race towards the complex, Atsumu snapped back into reality.

“Goodnight—Omi,” he said teasingly.

Sakusa spun on his heel, lips parted to shout something snide to Atsumu who was leaning against the front gate. Even his hand lifted to point a finger or maybe give him a specific one, but he could only stand and seethe for so long. Eventually, Sakusa scoffed and rolled his eyes, conceding what seemed to be a fruitless effort to make Atsumu forget the embarrassing name. With what sounded like a growl, Sakusa turned back, pulled his mask up over his nose, and trudged up to the stairs.

Atsumu’s smile faded as he watched the man climb up the steps and disappear behind the first door on his left. His body was thrumming, begging him to ruminate on all the terrible things his mind was fixating on. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. If he focused, he could nearly feel Sakusa’s grip still gracing the skin of his wrist.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself.

Both hands carded through his bleached hair and pulled hard. With his elbows planted on the top bar of the fence, he could hang his head and tighten his grip around the thin strands. Did he look at anyone wrong at therapy today? What was that thing Dr. Hirai asked Tamura? About whether she was going to kill her husband with the kitchen knife? What if Atsumu killed someone with his kitchen knife?

Oh, he thought, I don’t live with anyone.

But what if he went to his neighbor’s place and killed them? Oh god, had he ever thought about that? He should’ve moved out to the country instead and braved the commute, then there would be no way he’d murder any of his neighbors. How could he have been so stupid, moving into an apartment?

Once hand dislodged from his hair to pound against the front of his skull. He groaned, a futile attempt at silencing the screeching thoughts.

The only thing he could do was tear his mind away and focus back on the lingering feeling of Sakusa’s hand on his wrist. As the sound of the thoughts began to melt away, they became the dirge of Sakusa’s voice explaining some lore Atsumu was not clued in on but listened to anyways. The impossibly real feeling impulse to hack all his neighbors to death felt eerily similar to the urge he’d had to use Omi right in Sakusa’s face. He chuckled lightly at the memory of his stony grimace and pink-tinted cheeks.

Sakusa, huh?

Of all his intrusive thoughts, that one was certainly the least harrowing.

Water trickled hot and fast down Atsumu’s body. The sensation was nearly lulling him to sleep, especially considering that he’d been up all night checking his door to make sure it was locked and pushing all of his knives to the back of his sock drawer so he wouldn’t suddenly become a sleepwalker that grabs knives from the block and murders their neighbors. He’d eventually fallen asleep at some ungodly hour, but he’d spent the long two hours in a nightmare that, when he awoke, flooded his body with nausea. And all throughout practice, the nausea had stayed, pulsing and stinging the edges of his stomach. He couldn’t take his medication because it would only increase his fatigue and there was no way he’d make it through an entire practice that way.

Hence, he stood in the shower, his mind bombarding him relentlessly with ruminations and unanswerable questions. Now that practice was over, he could take a dose of his medication and feel loads better, but he had just stepped into the shower and his pills were in his gym bag in the next room over. Planting his forehead against the tile, Atsumu squished his eyes closed and prayed to whoever might be listening.

He was unbelievably tired. His body felt like it was going to disassemble at any moment, fall apart completely from the sheer fatigue. He’d played alright during practice, but one of the assistant coaches had picked up on his drop in technique and pulled him aside to ensure that he would be up to par for the game that Saturday. It took Atsumu a few seconds to know what she was saying, but he gaze some sort of feigned smile and lied through his teeth that he felt completely fine and he would totally be able to play three whole sets in just a few days.

Even Sakusa had picked up on his condition.

“You have to get closer to the net,” he’d spat after losing a point to the other side, “I can’t hit balls that are ten feet away from my hand.”

Atsumu just rolled his eyes and worked his right shoulder which had been throbbing with pain ever since he woke up.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Sakusa hissed.

“Just—tired,” Atsumu groaned in response.

“Well—” Sakusa pursed his lips, “suck it up.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu whispered to himself, heaving a long sigh from the interaction.

It was like night and day the way Sakusa would speak to him outside of practice and during practice. No matter how well their conversations might go when they were walking, meat buns in hand, Sakusa’s biting intensity during practice was always an ice-cold reminder to Atsumu that they weren’t friends, not even close.

But that didn’t stop Atsumu from watching his technique from the sidelines as they started to rotate out for technique work. He was a good player; perhaps he wasn’t good enough to be an asshole on the court, but he was certainly getting there. Yet, it was amusing to see a powerhouse player spike a ball like a bullet when, just a few nights ago, the same man had been rambling on and on about some place called Tatooine.

During Atsumu’s sleepless nights, he would always search for something else to think about, something that would distract him enough to soothe his racing thoughts but not distract him so much that he would be awoken by interest. In all those prior nights, he’d never really found anything that worked. But now, he thought of Sakusa’s voice, particularly his voice when he was dumping heaps of info onto Atsumu that made virtually no sense but was interesting enough to listen to. He’d imagine his flat tone coursing steadily through his brain like a rushing river, the words passing haphazardly by the eyes of Atsumu’s mind. Dr. Hirai had instructed them to not give the thoughts any value, and this was certainly a series of thoughts that held very little value to Atsumu. It didn’t mean anything more.

Yet, the tactic stopped working so well once Atsumu found himself alone in the locker room showers, only the pattering water against the tile and the rushing air in the vent above him acting as background chatter. He ran his hands down his dripping face, reveling in the moment where his eyes were closed. He could fall asleep right there against the shower wall. Maybe a little nap wouldn’t hurt—

“Goddamnit,” he hissed right as his eyes fluttered closed.

His mind was a minefield that he was forced to sprint through. At first, he just didn’t mind the explosions, but they hurt too much and were too loud to ignore forever. In those days, he’d subjected his friends to the most controlling behavior he could possibly exhibit, demanding they go home when they were having a great night out and getting nervous around them with no explanation. And whenever they’d ask why he was acting so strangely, Atsumu would always say the same thing:

“You wouldn’t understand.”

No one understood. Even if he tried to explain himself, he would only seem crazy to his friends and his family. If he was understood, then maybe he would’ve gotten better faster—perhaps he would be his old self already. They would never understand. Atsumu would forever be a monster to them, to everyone.

“But why me?” He’d asked of his therapist.

The poor sap just looked at him with a fake little expression that communicated just a professional amount of pity.

“Of all people, why did I have to have a broken brain?” Atsumu spat, “It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not,” the therapist replied.

“Everyone always says that there’s a reason for everything,” he seethed, “so what’s the fuckin’ reason? What good is this gonna do, huh?”

The therapist didn’t respond. He simply sat with that dumb expression on his face.

“There’s no point.”

Someone walked into the shower room.

“Uh—hello?”

They didn’t respond, but Atsumu could hear their feet stop at the sound of his voice. They were somewhere in the hallway that connected the two rooms, walking in either direction.

“Hey, uh, if you could, whoever you are, could you grab a bottle of pills from my gym bag?” He called out over the sound of the streaming water, “It’s a black bag with red stripes and the bottle is orange. I’d really ‘preciate it.”

Atsumu listened intently next to the curtain. For a moment, there was no response, but the footsteps started not a moment later, disappearing down the long corridor that connected the two rooms. Atsumu sighed and let his back fall flush against the dripping wall behind him. He closed his eyes and waited in earnest for the mystery teammate to return with his holy grail.

Just a few more seconds, he pled with his thoughts, c’mon.

Soon enough, the footsteps returned and grew louder and louder as they approached his shower stall.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Atsumu muttered.

The first thing he saw reach through the edge of the curtain was the orange bottle with the white cap. But whose hand was that?

Oh.

The fingers were long yet blithe, curling lazily around the bottle. While it really could’ve been anyone, the well-kept nails made it unmistakable. When Atsumu really peered at his palm, however, he could trail whitish, raised lines with his eyes.

Scars?

“Th-thank you,” he sputtered, realizing how long he’d been staring.

He took the bottle by the cap and removed it gently from Sakusa’s hand. A bottle of water appeared next through the same gap.

“I brought you water, too,” Sakusa mumbled.

Atsumu’s mouth went dry. He tried to regulate his breathing before taking the bottle and thinking of what to say.

“I was just gonna drink the shower water,” he said.

“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” Sakusa spat.

Atsumu could practically hear the grimace of disgust on his face. Swallowing thickly, Atsumu fumbled with the bottle cap, his wet and soap-slicked hands sliding all over the plastic. He’d tucked the water bottle under his arm, but it was sliding quickly from his hold. Atsumu felt his face go hot with panic. Why was he so nervous?

Through the white, plastic shower curtain, Atsumu could see Sakusa’s shadow move just an inch away from the stall.

“You alright?” He asked in a tight, clipped voice.

Atsumu suppressed a cheer when he finally got the cap off. He shoved a pill in his mouth and gulped down as much water as his mouth could handle, praying that it might soothe his burning face, too.

Sakusa wasn’t asking very sincerely, but Atsumu had learned that Sakusa wasn’t always one for expressing tone like everyone else. But that didn’t make Atsumu want to bare all. Sure, Sakusa had seen all his dirty laundry in therapy, but he wasn’t about to clue him in on every panic episode he has in the locker room shower. It’s not like they were friends.

Right?

“Yeah,” Atsumu fibbed, setting the water bottle down on a little shelf that jutted out from the corner of the shower.

It always took a while for the pills to kick in and, until then, Atsumu would just suffer and wait for the relief. With his hands, Atsumu slicked his freshly washed hair back onto his head and pulled his lips in between his teeth.

“Actually,” he said, “could you do something for me?”

“What?” Sakusa’s tone was suspicious of Atsumu’s intentions.

“Talk, please,” Atsumu requested, “about all that—that Star Wars stuff. Just anything about that.”

There was silence for a moment. Atsumu sighed with the acknowledgement that he’d probably wierded Sakusa out completely.

“Why?” He asked curtly.

“Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Atsumu bit back.

Another moment of silence befell them. Atsumu watched Sakusa’s shadow shift on the other side of the curtain just a tad.

“Well, I never got to talk about that Han Solo theory,” he said lowly.

“Great, yeah,” Atsumu sighed, “talk about that.”

Sakusa began in the very next beat. His voice was steady and flat just like before, and he was off to the races almost immediately using terminology that Atsumu had never heard and telling the story in such great detail that Atsumu wondered how many times this guy had actually seen these movies. Aren’t there like nine? Well, there were the movies then the Clone War series and the Mandalorian series. Why did Atsumu know that?

By some act of god, it started to work. As Atsumu focused more and more on Sakusa’s even voice, his thoughts began to fade into the background. Finally, Atsumu’s chest was loose enough for him to sigh in relief. Sure, his chest was feeling normal again and the thoughts were silencing, but his heart was still in a fit. His face kept flushing red. It was probably the lave-hot shower Atsumu had been standing in for almost thirty minutes, now. Impulsively, Atsumu flipped the handle so the water would get cold instead. After a few seconds, the showerhead’s icy fingers assaulted Atsumu’s chest and he felt an immediate sort of relief.

He was panicking, surely. There was really nothing to panic about, but that had to be the diagnosis. Why else would Atsumu’s fingers feel like, if they buzzed any longer, they might fall right off? The sick, flittering feeling in his stomach must mean the same thing. Sakusa was still talking. This guy must have some kind of super-genius memory to even know this many words.

And still, Atsumu’s body was simulating the feeling of being on a loopy rollercoaster.

Don’t ruminate, he commanded himself, Dr. Hirai said you can’t ruminate.

But Atsumu’s curiosity got the better of him. Where had he felt this feeling before? He thought about the panic attacks he used to have before games in the bathroom and the feeling of eating a food he didn’t like and how his body would curl when he’d get his test grades back; none of them seemed to match. The feeling was too familiar to be new, that was the only thing he was certain of.

“And Rey is technically—” Sakusa rambled on.

Rey?

Reiko. Atsumu had known a Reiko in high school. She was in his bio lab. He actually had a huge crush—

Something clicked all too slowly. Atsumu’s mouth went dry as he did another mental once-over of the sensations in his body. He nodded when he made the association.

He’d finally figured it out where he knew the feeling from.

Huh.

Oh.

Chapter Text

“Oh no,” Atsumu whispered to himself.

“Atsumu?” Sakusa paused in the middle of his speech.

Flames licked the tips of Atsumu’s fingers. The remainder of his body flooded with a sort of nervous buzzing that he couldn’t shake. If his mind had been refusing to shut up before, this thought seemed to finally do the trick. It was like his brain had flatlined.

“Uh—” Atsumu stammered with Sakusa listening just inches away.

The side of Atsumu’s body that was nearly brushing the shower curtain lit up with sensations. Having Sakusa’s shadow so close by didn’t seem so daunting a minute ago, but now it seemed to fill Atsumu’s brain with a thick layer of fog that sent him into a frenzy. He was standing, naked, with Sakusa just on the other side of the thinnest shower curtain known to man. Atsumu’s face flushed hotter than they ever had in his life.

“You have to leave.”

The words slipped from Atsumu’s lips as easily as the shower water dribbled down his back. He noted the panic in his own voice and hoped that Sakusa was bad enough at picking up on subtle emotions to miss it.

“Excuse me?” Sakusa asked bitingly.

“You—you just gotta go,” Atsumu replied breathlessly.

His shadow remained for another pensive moment. Atsumu swallowed thickly and prayed that Sakusa would leave him be. How could he step out of the shower with a face that could rival the outside of a fire truck? Oh god, where was his towel? Did he forget his towel?

“Alright,” Sakusa muttered with a vein of uncertainty still flowing through his voice.

Atsumu heaved a sigh of relief as his shadow grew smaller against the white shower curtain and his footsteps faded down the long corridor. With the heel of his hand, Atsumu pounded against the front of his skull. With his other hand, he shut off the shower water and took one shivering moment in the remaining mist, listening to the final dregs drip from the shower head like a ticking clock. After another shuddering breath, Atsumu snatched the pill bottle and soap from the little shower shelf and willed his fingers to stop trembling against the slick plastic.

Impossible, he thought.

There’s no way I could be—

“I gotta call ‘Samu,” he hissed to himself, one hand slapping against the wall just outside the shower in search for his towel.

Thankfully, it was hanging right where he always left it. He snatched it and pulled it into the shower through the tiny sliver left by the curtain.

It—it just doesn’t make sense.

He wiped his shoulders first, then caught the drips of water trailing down the planes of his stomach. Flipping the towel, Atsumu pulled the thing up to his head and scrubbed his hair viciously at the roots.

It could be anyone, he wondered.

Absolutely anyone.

Dragging the towel down to his face, Atsumu let his nose nuzzle into the soft plush for a tense moment. His chest heaved with hot, stressed breaths.

But—

Sakusa?

While his face was engulfed with the thick fabric, he might as well make good use of it. Atsumu screamed, feeling the cloth muffle all the sounds that traveled out of his mouth. It felt the slightest bit relieving. But if he didn’t get Osamu on the phone in the next three minutes, he might lose it entirely.

Wrapping the towel expertly around his waist, Atsumu poked his head out into the corridor to make sure that Sakusa was really gone. Once the coast was clear, Atsumu raced out of the shower stall, pills and potions in hand, ignoring the slippery tile beneath his feet. He hoped the cool air of the hallway would relieve some of the heat from his cheeks, but every time Sakusa’s face would appear in his mind, he’d feel the color return and the same sick feeling tugging at the base of his stomach.

He peeked around the corner that led to the main area of the locker room to check once again for Sakusa. Thankfully, the entire place was barren. Atsumu’s shower must’ve been longer than he thought. He darted in, making a beeline for the part of the bench where he’d left his clothes. Atsumu made quick work of slipping on his briefs to gain at least a little coverage before his mind went right back to the task at hand. With his heart thrumming ceaselessly, Atsumu nearly tripped while racing to his open duffel bag on the other end of the bench.

Atsumu muttered to himself as his hands traversed the dark expanse of his gym bag. He hoped, prayed for his fingers to graze the smooth edge of his phone, but all he could feel was some socks that were definitely not clean and a bottle that at one time had pills, but now sat empty and abandoned in the bag. Once he felt the familiar plastic case, Atsumu heaved a sigh.

“Thank god,” he whispered.

With trembling fingers, Atsumu called Osamu in under a second. He put it on speaker and listened to the phone ring once, then twice, then another time.

“C’mon, dickhead,” he hissed at the screen.

Atsumu shuffled back to his clothes and tore through the pile in search of his sweatpants.

“Hey, you’ve reached Miya Osamu, leave a message,” the phone sounded.

Atsumu scoffed and leaned over.

“Answer your fucking phone,” he shouted after the beep.

With Osamu a bust, Atsumu tried the next best thing.

“C’mon, Aran,” he coaxed softly as he dialed another number.

Setting the phone back onto the bench and punching the speaker button, Atsumu returned to scouring his pile for a goddamn pair of pants. Where were his pants?

“—sorry I’m not here right now, leave a message!” Aran’s voice flowed brightly from the speaker.

“Ah!” Atsumu grimaced and reached for the phone to end the call before he had to leave another incendiary message.

Really, Kita would be the next best thing, but the chill of their prior interaction sent a shudder down Atsumu’s spine.

Suppose there was only one fool left to call.

“If he picks up, I’ll eat my pants,” Atsumu grumbled.

“Once I find them,” he added lowly while glancing chastely at the mess his clothing had made on the floor.

He dialed the number and repeated the routine, setting the phone on the bench and hitting the speaker.

“Is this a joke or something?”

Atsumu’s first instinct was to sigh in relief. His second instinct was to sneer at the sound of Suna’s lazy, scratchy voice.

“Whaddya mean by that?” Atsumu asked bitingly.

“Well, your name showed up on my phone which never happens so I’m either getting pranked and the guys are right outside with the cameras or you’re on the brink of death and accidentally dialed my number while hurtling towards the earth,” Suna teased.

“Believe me, calling you wasn’t my first decision,” Atsumu retorted.

“So—why are you calling me?”

“Aha!” Atsumu held his sweatpants up like a trophy, “found my pants.”

“Did you call me for moral support in your pants quest or something?” Suna groaned.

“Shush,” Atsumu hissed at him, “I’ve got a problem. A big problem.”

He stuck one leg into his pants and hopped to get the hem over his foot.

“Forgot how to play volleyball? Remember that the ball can’t touch the ground,” Suna teased in a mock-baby voice.

“You’re a regular Shimura,” Atsumu bit, “no it’s—shit, ‘Samu’s calling.”

“Patch him in,” said Suna.

With an irritated sigh, Atsumu shoved his remaining leg into his pants. He rushed over to the phone and added Osamu to the call.

“I’m gonna save that extremely rude message you left me and say it was the last thing you told me before you died,” said Osamu.

“Not the time for your comedy set,” Atsumu spat.

Osamu didn’t respond, there was only a slight sound of muffled brushing on his end.

“What’re you doin’?” Atsumu asked.

“Adding Aran,” Osamu said casually.

“I called him, he didn’t pick up,” Atsumu explained.

While he griped, Atsumu straddled the bench with one leg on either side and the phone sitting in the center.

“Hello?” Aran’s voice crackled over the receiver.

“Hey,” Atsumu whined, “why didn’t you pick up when I called you?”

“Can I opt out of answering that?” Aran asked meekly.

“He likes me better,” Osamu said flatly.

“Then why don’t you two get married?” Atsumu hissed.

“I’m leaving this call if you guys are just gonna argue the whole time,” Suna said lazily.

Atsumu sighed and fiddled nervously with his fingers.

“Reiko!” Atsumu shouted into the phone.

“Who?” Aran asked.

“Reiko—y’know, Reiko.”

“Reiko from your bio class?” Osamu asked.

“Yes, god, Reiko,” Atsumu sighed.

“What about her?” Suna muttered.

“I—god—” Atsumu groaned and planted his face in his hands.

At this rate, it would take him forever to get to the actual problem that was plaguing him. It was undeniable now; the feeling had burned so long in his body that there was no way it was a fluke.

“I like someone,” he muttered.

“Oooh,” he could hear the smile in Aran’s voice, “what’s her name?”

Atsumu’s jaw went slack.

“What’s—his name?” Aran asked sheepishly, “Th-their—name?”

Atsumu sighed, “His name is—not important.”

An exaggerated gasp sounded from one of the three.

“You’re gay?” Suna shouted over the receiver.

“Count your fucking days, Rintarou, I mean it,” Atsumu seethed.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve been past the gay thing for years,” Osamu waved off, “tells us about him!”

“He’s—” Atsumu took a deep breath, “on MSBY.”

Atsumu’s heart thrummed at the edge of his chest. He felt like he was about to hurl, and even having his shirt off wasn’t helping with the heat that was burning in his cheeks and shoulders. He scratched the back of his neck with his stubby fingernails.

“The locker room jus’ got ten times more interesting, huh?” Osamu joked.

“Oh my god,” Atsumu groaned, a new wave of heat washing over his face.

“If he’s a spiker, don’t let him slap your ass,” Suna’s voice was muffled like he was eating something, “that shit’ll bruise.”

“Wait—” Osamu’s voice got more animated, “don’t tell me it’s that guy you hate.”

Atsumu squished his eyes closed and suppressed a scream.

“How do you like him if you hate him?” Aran asked genuinely.

“So it is him!” Osamu shouted.

“It—” Atsumu hesitated, “we argue, constantly, we call each other names and can’t even begin to function on the court—but it’s the same feeling, I swear to you, the same feeling I had when I knew I liked Reiko.”

“So—you don’t hate him?” Aran asked.

“I do!” Atsumu blurted out, “I hate his guts and his—stupid face.”

“Takes ‘fuck you’ to a whole new level, huh,” Suna giggled.

“I need you guys to be serious about this,” Atsumu whined.

“I don’t see what the issue is,” Aran said, “if you like him, then ask him out.”

“But I don’t like him, I hate him,” Atsumu repeated, “and he hates me so the chances he’d say ‘yes’ if I did ask are absolutely non-existent.”

“I’m still stuck on how you caught feelings for a guy ya hate,” Osamu chuckled lightly.

“Join the club,” Atsumu sighed.

A moment of silence shrouded the four of them. Atsumu sighed and started to feel the color drain from his cheeks. He reached behind him to grab his crumpled shirt but, instead of slipping it on, he used the fabric as a barrier between his clammy fingers that he’d been twisting and pulling for god knows how long.

“So—” Suna mumbled, “you into degrading or something?”

“God, Suna,” Atsumu groaned.

“C’mon, man,” Osamu overlapped him.

“Ew,” Aran said somewhere in the mess of groans.

“What?” Suna asked exasperatedly, “it’s a genuine question.”

“If this becomes Miya Atsumu kink discourse, I’m leaving,” Osamu said very seriously.

The voices trailed off into another moment of silence. Atsumu rubbed the fabric of his shirt between the pads of his fingers and heaved a relieving sigh.

“How do I make it go away?” He asked in a small voice.

“Y’can’t,” Osamu said plainly.

“Anybody else?” Atsumu redirected flatly.

“Sorry, man. If ya like someone, ya like someone,” Aran explained.

Suna went next, “I’m with the idiots on this one. You’re toast.”

Atsumu sighed audibly. He stuck one arm through the shirt but gave up after the seemingly unsurmountable feat. Atsumu glanced towards the door of the locker room before conceding back to his phone.

“Maybe just try to not think about him?” Osamu suggested sheepishly.

“Yeah,” Atsumu whispered.

“Think about how much you hate him,” Aran added.

Surprisingly, it was the soundest suggestion Atsumu had heard yet. That’s all he had to do, he had to focus on how much he actually hated the guy. Atsumu tried to reminisce on all their spats during practice games and that particularly vicious fight they’d had in the very locker room where he sat. He imagined Sakusa’s voice in his head, the same biting tone that had sneered at him after that first therapy session and declared that they would never be friends and that Atsumu would never understand his mental illness even though they had the exact same illness.

The door to the locker room creaked. Atsumu’s gaze snapped up. Sakusa poked his head through the gap between the door and the frame, eyes locking instantly onto Atsumu hunching over his phone. If Atsumu had been wearing a shirt, things probably would’ve been different, but the exposure ensured that all the deep red blush he’d spent the last half hour suppressing returned with a vengeance.

Sakusa’s eyes were firm on Atsumu’s face as he shuffled through the slim opening.

“Forgot my kneepads,” he mumbled.

“Wait,” Osamu said over the receiver, “is that—”

With a flying finger, Atsumu ended the call and swallowed his instinctual apology just in case Sakusa hadn’t heard. Even if he had, he didn’t care much. Sakusa made a beeline for his locker and dug around for his kneepads. In the moment that Sakusa’s back was to Atsumu, he glanced down at his bare chest and felt a streak of panic pierce his heart. So, without getting caught up in the complicated piece of fabric, Atsumu slid his arms and head through the proper holes as quickly as he possibly could. Once he’d tugged the thing on entirely, Sakusa had closed his locker and sauntered back to the door.

Before he shimmied back out into the hallway, Sakusa turned to take one last look at Atsumu. His brow got heavy and he peered at Atsumu for a moment.

“Are you alright?”

No, Atsumu wanted to shout, no I’m not.

I’ve gone bonkers and I hate you and like you all at the same time.

“Yeah,” Atsumu whispered, “all good.”

Sakusa nodded deftly and turned, closing the door behind him with a soft click. Once he was truly gone, Atsumu planted his face in his hands one last time. He let the hot surface of his face intermingle with the sweat on his palms and the warm breath from his mouth.

Thinking of how much he hated Sakusa worked wonders until he was looking right at the man’s face.

Because when he was, he couldn’t think at all.

“Atsumu!”

Some unbearably chipper voice had called to him from the locker room door. At least it definitely wasn’t Sakusa.

“Hinata, me, and some other guys are going to the bar, you in?”

When he glanced up, Atsumu saw Bokuto standing firmly in the doorway nearly buzzing with excitement. His smile was wide and expectant.

While Atsumu had originally planned to crawl home and tuck in with a bowl of noodles and a terrible action movie, but the thought of going to a bustling bar and getting a massive amount of alcohol in his system sounded much more appealing. Maybe it would help him forget about Sakusa.

“Y’know what, yeah, I do wanna go,” Atsumu replied.

“Huzzah!” Bokuto shouted before disappearing behind the door.

“What?” Atsumu squinted and chuckled as he heard Bokuto’s resounding footsteps fade into the distance.

By the time they were settled at the bar, the sun had set and shrouded the city scape in an inky black night that was cut through by the hordes of lights that lined the strip. Atsumu was on beer number three, meaning only a comfortable buzz had settled in his head. The only times that he was thinking about Sakusa was when Hinata wasn’t chirping about something in his ear about some high school memory or when he wasn’t watching Bokuto get unreasonably competitive at the string, ring, hook game.

“He’s about to rip that hook right off the wall,” Atsumu said.

“God, he’s been at it for an hour, at least,” Hinata chuckled and sipped his drink.

“And he’s not even drunk,” Atsumu added.

Sure enough, Bokuto was still holding the half-empty beer that he’d ordered nearly two hours ago when they first arrived. It was undeniably lukewarm by now, but he didn’t seem to care. Getting the ring on the stupid string to catch on the hook was far more gripping than sipping his drink. Atsumu, on the other hand, was draining the dredges of his third drink and waving the bartender over for another.

It had been this older guy the entire time they’d been there, but as the post-work businessmen crowd started to shuffle in, the staff switched out seamlessly while the existing patrons suckled on their respective liquors. So, the bartender that responded to Atsumu’s wave wasn’t who he thought he was—but he did look strangely familiar.

He was average height, had black hair that he brushed back into a half-messy coif, and had a jaw that was angled and slim. When he caught sight of Atsumu, he grinned casually and his twinkling brown eyes raked over Atsumu’s features.

God, where did he know this guy from? Considering that he looked like a lot of other guys in Japan, Atsumu might just be going crazy. Maybe the alcohol was finally hitting.

“What can I get ya?”

When the bartender leaned onto the counter, Atsumu watched his arm muscles tense and his massive hand splay against the wood. He looked young, probably fresh out of high school—definitely 18 if he was serving alcohol.

Oh god, Atsumu thought, it’s the guy from the bus stop.

It felt like ages since he’d gone to the very first MSBY practice. He’d almost completely forgotten how harrowing that first bus ride had been and how intensely the guy had checked him out even though his knobby knees had been all exposed to the cold air.

The man pulled his lips between his teeth and raised his eyebrows as he waited for Atsumu’s response.

“Uh—” Atsumu stammered, “maybe a—”

“How about I surprise you?” The bartender leaned forward and spoke lowly to Atsumu.

His gaze was intense, intense enough to freeze Atsumu in place. It took everything within him to creak out a nod that looked half-normal. With a grin and another once-over of Atsumu’s face, the bartender turned and attended to another bar-goer.

Atsumu licked his incredibly dry lips and stared down at the empty bottom of his mug. Hinata started in on some other story, having garnered the attention of nearly every other person sitting at the counter. It was astonishing that Hinata hadn’t processed how captivatingly attractive and enamoring he was, but he wasn’t exactly the most observant guy. He just went on and on, his toned and tanned arms acting out whatever batshit story he was telling.

“Here,” said the bartender.

A drink came next, clinking against the wooden counter. It was a shorter glass filled with an amber liquid cut through by two oversized ice cubes that were clear all the way through. The bartender leaned against the bar once again and tilted his head flirtatiously.

“Go on, give it a try,” he motioned to the glass.

Atsumu, with some dumb look on his face, nodded and picked up the cool glass hesitantly. He maintained eye contact with the bartender as he tipped the glass back and let the liquid run through his lips. Even in his mouth, it burned. And it was so much worse going down his throat that he couldn’t suppress a grimace. The bartender chuckled.

“Whiskey sour,” he said casually, “my personal drink of choice.”

“You must have a throat of steel,” Atsumu smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“No, just lots of practice,” he grinned again.

Atsumu gulped and flicked his eyes away from the man’s heavy gaze. A pit started to open up at the bottom of his stomach that made him feel woozy and unbalanced. Either that or the whiskey sour was stronger that he thought.

The aftertaste of the drink wasn’t so bad actually. It was almost good enough for him to brave another burning sip. When the liquid slipped past his lips once again, Atsumu grimaced significantly less that before and even pulled a small smile towards the bartender who was still watching him intently.

“Don’t go too crazy,” he teased before dashing off with a final dazzling grin.

“Atsumuuu,” a voice whined behind him.

The next sensation was a strong hand gripping his shoulder. Immediately, Atsumu was shook on his stool by said firm hand, nearly toppled out of his seat completely. He turned to see an exuberant Bokuto right behind him.

“So, are you gonna get his number?”

“What?” Atsumu gasped.

“Uh, he obviously thinks you’re hot,” Bokuto rolled his eyes, “so get his number!”

“I—” Atsumu stammered, “Bo, that’s—”

Bokuto leaned towards him, “When I was eight, I refused to eat anything for dinner but steamed carrots for the entire year. My eyes never lie.”

“That’s—that’s a strange fact that I now know about you,” Atsumu replied.

“I’ll just get his number for you,” Bokuto suggested.

“No!” Atsumu reached out and grabbed both of Bokuto’s wrists before he could dart off and make good on his promise.

“Well, then you have to promise me that you’ll do it,” he pled.

“I promise,” Atsumu half-fibbed, “really.”

Bokuto peered at him for a moment, but something far more gripping and exciting pulled him away before he could figure out that Atsumu was lying through his teeth. Sure, the bartender was cute, but Atsumu couldn’t get his mind off of Sakusa long enough to think about whether or not he’d actually want to go on a date with some guy he’d seen at the bus stop all those weeks ago. And besides, the bartender didn’t make him feel like Reiko did, and that was apparently his only indicator.

Atsumu glanced back up after taking another swig of his sour drink to see the bartender in question shooting him an equally chaste glance. He grinned. Atsumu panicked.

“I need another one a’ these,” Atsumu sighed, staring at the now empty glass.

Atsumu never wanted to admit that he was a lightweight. It had led to a few unfortunate nights in his hometown with Osamu and Suna, but he still wouldn’t admit it, even after waking up with one cheek in the toilet and one streaked with tears. In any case, it only took two more whiskey sours for Atsumu to reach the point where he was struggling to walk in a straight line and every story from high school was slipping haphazardly from his lips.

“’Sumu,” Hinata slurred, “There’s no way you can walk home like that.”

Hoisting himself up with his hands, Atsumu willed his feet to keep him upright as he slid off of his seat.

“Wrong,” he shouted, “when I was thirteen I broke my leg while ‘Samu n’ I were creek divin’—an’ hemademewwalk all the way home.”

Atsumu leaned towards Hinata as he told the story. He hoped all the words that were coming out of his mouth were actually coherent, but all he could do was hope.

“Then I fell in a mud hole,” Atsumu poked Hinata’s chest, “got an ear infection n’ had ta lay in bed fer a whole week.”

Hinata chuckled.

“Just get your receipt,” he waved Atsumu off.

Atsumu complied, slapping his hand all over the surface of the counter in search of the thin paper. When he found it, he pulled the paper close and peered at the strange runes that were scribbled upon it. All the letters and numbers swam around endlessly.

“Hinata, I can’t read this,” he whined.

Hinata snatched the paper from his hand and peered at it just as closely as Atsumu. After a few long moments of thought, Hinata’s eyes grew wide as dinner plates.

“This is a phone number,” he grinned.

“What?” Atsumu snatched the paper back.

“Atsumu got a phone number!” Hinata called out in a sing-songy voice.

“Shut it!” he snapped back as they shimmied out the door.

Sure enough, another close look confirmed Hinata’s claim. Scribbled on the back of the thin receipt was a series of numbers with an unreadable name above them.

“So—you gonna call ‘im?” Hinata clung tightly onto Atsumu’s elbow as they hobbled out to the street.

“You got the number?” Bokuto approached Atsumu a little too quickly.

“Told ya I would,” Atsumu boasted right in his face.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t call him,” Bokuto threatened with a very serious finger to Atsumu’s face.

Atsumu reeled back, “Uh, it’s literally none a’ yer business who I call.”

“I’m just saying,” Bokuto raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m walkin’ home,” Atsumu waved off the small group that had gathered outside.

“No way,” Bokuto shook his head, “you can’t even stand up.”

“Wrong,” Atsumu tried to steady himself on his feet, but he must’ve looked as off-kilter as he felt, “’n y’all’s apartment is all th’ way ‘cross town in that direction,” Atsumu pointed, “I’m ‘n that direction” he pointed behind him.

“Just don’t fall in a gutter,” Hinata giggled.

“If I do, you’ll be th’ first t’know.”

With their parting words, Hinata and Bokuto waved furiously at Atsumu and started off in the opposite direction. Atsumu watched for one more moment, just to make sure that the idiots remembered what they were doing long enough to actually make it to the metro station just at the end of the strip.

“I think I’m gunna call Akaashi,” Atsumu heard Bokuto slur out in the distance.

“Bo, it’s 2am,” Hinata replied

“But I wanna call him,” Bokuto pouted and whined like a little kid.

Atsumu chuckled drunkenly and turned so he was facing the direction of his apartment. Even in his swimming vision, Atsumu could make out the general shapes of the familiar signs and ignore the glaring spots in his vision left by the impossibly bright streetlights. He squinted and began his trek down the sidewalk, focusing entirely on putting one foot in front of the other.

His plan had worked, in part. The alcohol had dulled the sound and intensity of Atsumu’s thoughts long enough to make him forget entirely about Sakusa. Even as he plodded down the street, snaking in one direction then another, his mind was filled with deafening cotton that took up too much space for any harrowing thoughts to intrude.

He even smiled as he walked. Maybe this was all he had to do to get over Sakusa for good, get drunk every night.

No, Atsumu, he thought, that’s alcoholism.

He pouted at the reality and shoved his hands in his pockets. Atsumu could see each of his heaving breaths appear before his eyes as it mingled with the cold winter air. As he walked, he glanced all around to smile at hammered businessmen and the occasional police officer. Somewhere down the strip, Atsumu turned his head to look into a shop whose window was sporting the brightest neon sign he’d ever seen. When his eyes grazed over it, he thought he’d gone momentarily blind. Eventually, his gaze adjusted, and he could finally see all the things in the window. It was a cluster of posters, most of them for games and movies that Atsumu had never heard of.

The sign said something about comics—American comics. Atsumu peered closer at the posters, one in particular catching his eye. It was a medium-sized poster with a bunch of characters crowded around one another. There was a girl at the very top dressed in all white and wielding some strange weapon. The character below her was dressed in all black with a giant helmet covering his face and neck; he held a weapon that looked just like the girl’s except for the color. Atsumu’s eyes trailed down just a little further and he struggled to make out the short, simple words.

“Star Wars,” he sounded out to himself.

“Ah—shit.”

If the encounter in the locker room had been the swelling of the wave, surely whatever Atsumu was feeling at that moment was the crash. A blush of sobriety crept through every limb and made his head spin. He’d successfully not thought about Sakusa for nearly four hours, but a little poster had made all the time seem moot. The feeling, the Reiko feeling returned stronger than before. Atsumu wanted to stare at the poster forever and let the butterflies in his stomach flit around endlessly, but he couldn’t.

Atsumu attached himself to things. It was a bad habit. He liked to find people and belief systems and hobbies and careers to latch furiously onto, hoping that they’d bring him the wholeness that he so desperately sought after. But, like clockwork, each flame would flicker out and the smoke of his intrusive thoughts would pervade the entire thing. His mind would grow dark and grim about all aspects of his dying obsession to the point where he’d have to swear off of it forever. He’d done it to Reiko.

But he couldn’t let it happen with Sakusa.

And they hated each other. That was the final judgment. There was no way that the fact would ever change, so Atsumu would only get his hopes up to be let down. And being stuck with Sakusa’s defeatist attitude about OCD would no doubt dampen the dreams he has of complete recovery. There were a million reasons why it wouldn’t work, why it was crazy to even imagine.

So why was Atsumu still staring at the goddamned poster?

He scoffed and turned. The longer he looked at it, the longer the feeling would prevail, and the more attached he’d get to the mere idea. His wobbling trod down the sidewalk became a brisk stroll with a very pointed end goal in mind. Atsumu wanted to burst into his apartment and roll directly into bed to forget this day ever happened.

He swallowed back all his stupid drunken feelings and turned the corner sharply, finally in the direction of his apartment complex. The stores became even more familiar, and he even recognized a guy he’d seen slinking around the convenience store a few months ago. With the fuzzy outline of his home in sight, Atsumu quickened his pace and dug his hands further into the warmth of his coat pockets.

Even though the thought of Sakusa had been sobering, he was still tripping over cracks in the sidewalk and struggling to read even the simplest of words. When he reached the gate to his complex, he battled with the lock like he’d never seen the thing before. He hoped that no one would see him and assume he was some sort of hooligan trying to break in. Once he’d won the battle with the gate, Atsumu shoved himself in through the front door and took his short moments in the elevator to lean against the cool wall and take some cleansing breaths. He could still taste the whiskey sours atop his tongue that was feeling a little too large for his mouth and no matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t stop the floor from moving side-to-side beneath his feet.

At his door, Atsumu fumbled with his key and hissed a string of curses when he dropped them onto the wood with a series of clatters. He groaned and picked them up, finally sliding the right key into the knob the right way. Atsumu nearly rejoiced with singing when he barreled through the opened door and could finally flop onto his cheaply made couch. Sure, the wood panels dug uncomfortably into his back, but he really didn’t care.

Atsumu sighed as he sank into the leather cushions. As nice as it was to finally be home, the silence was just as violent as he remembered. If he let it sit too long, he would surely start thinking about Sakusa and everything attached to the idea of him. So, Atsumu felt around the coffee table for the remote and turned the TV on with a simple click.

He yawned as he heard the new drone over the television. He never watched the news, it just wasn’t interesting enough, but the thought of sitting up and actively changing the channel sounded like hell to him. Thus, he listened to the anchor’s voice ramble on and on about some economic crisis or whatnot. Atsumu even let the sound lull him into a half-sleep, he felt his eyelashes tickle his under-eyes as he shimmied further into the cushions.

“Breaking news,” the TV suddenly sounded crisper that before.

Atsumu opened his eyes and flopped his head to the side to watch the screen. The anchor was now surrounded by a map of the Atsumu’s city and a video feed in the corner of some horde of police cars parked by the sidewalk. Atsumu’s brow knitted as he listened to the anchor tell the harrowing story.

“A man was found bleeding out on the sidewalk at the corner of 3^rd and 12^th, officers have identified seventeen stab wounds trailing from his neck all the way down to his hips.”

Atsumu sat up slowly as he listened to the tale. His heartbeat quickened and he swallowed down the lasts of his alcohol in light of the sobering news story.

“The perpetrator is unfortunately still at large and officers are encouraging citizens to avoid the surrounding area until further notice.”

Oh, Atsumu thought, how terrible.

Now, if Atsumu could turn his brain on and off at will, this would’ve been one of those moments where he flipped the switch and shut down his thoughts until he was ready to have them again. But it’s never the first thought that gets him. It’s always, always the second.

Did I do it?

Atsumu shuddered. His eyes sped back to the TV screen which was now some guy at the scene of the crime. In the background, Atsumu watched an endless stream of policemen bustle around the yellow caution tape, picking up little pieces of gravel from the ground and taking reports from some shaking passersby. Just like the anchor said, there was no culprit in sight.

What if the culprit wasn’t there because the culprit was Atsumu?

“That’s crazy,” Atsumu whispered to himself and shook his head, “fucking insane.”

But what if you did it but the alcohol made you black out long enough to forget completely?

“Oh—god,” Atsumu sighed.

His body flooded with a sickening anxiety that he’d only felt a few times before.

Hands, hands.

Atsumu glanced down at his palms to check for any kind of wear that would have to appear after stabbing some guy with a knife seventeen times. Even though his palms looked mostly normal, there was one streak of red across the top, just an inch below where his fingers ended.

“Oh, no,” he panicked, his hands trembling.

He was insane. He was entirely crazy. But what about the smallest, slimmest chance that he was right? What if he was so drunk off of those dumb whiskey sours that he committed a horrendous murder and forget about the incident entirely. With the same trembling hands that he’d checked ten seconds earlier, Atsumu shed his jacket and scoured the entire thing for a spot of blood. It was nearly impossible to see correctly in his dark apartment, but if the light was on, he was entirely sure that he’d see blood spattered all over the nylon.

“Okay, okay,” Atsumu murmured, “I need to calm down.”

But there was no calming down. How could Atsumu be calm right after he committed murder? There was no way he’d feel so nervous if he didn’t do it, right?

“Gotta—gotta call ‘Sumu,” Atsumu clambered for his phone.

“Shit,” he hissed to himself, “it’s too late to call.”

Atsumu stood. It took him a few seconds to steady himself, but the panic alerted him enough to keep him upright.

“There’s no way I could’ve done it,” he muttered to himself, “even though I did walk down that street, I would remember it, right?”

He paced towards the TV, eyes cast down to the floor.

“But I was drunk,” he continued, “drunk enough to forget. And my hands hurt and my jacket has stains on it which means I may have done it.”

He paced away from the TV towards the kitchen. He was scratching his palms now, making sure the skin caught underneath his short nails.

“I did it, didn’t I? I killed him,” Atsumu stammered.

His heart was beating like crazy, pumping an enormous amount of blood and adrenaline through his veins at breakneck speeds. Atsumu’s mouth went dry. He looked back up at the television just as the camera panned towards the strip in front of which the murder had taken place.

“No,” he whispered.

It was the comic bookstore, the one where Atsumu had stood and thought about Sakusa for a little too long.

“No!” He cried, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

While there were a million reasons for Atsumu to turn off the TV and go to bed like nothing had happened, the tiny chance that he’d actually committed the crime ate away at him. What if he did it? But what if he didn’t?

Atsumu planted his elbows on the counter and carded his fingers through his hair before pulling hard. He was just panicking, that was all. He had to go and take another dose of medication and forget it all. He’d feel better in the morning.

Murderer, that’s what you are. Murderers are the ones who can do something so terrible then just go to sleep afterwards.

“No,” Atsumu mouthed, thumping at his head.

“I gotta—” he whispered, “I gotta go.”

In the very next moment, Atsumu snatched his keys and raced out the door, darting down the hallway as quickly as he could without making a ruckus. It wasn’t until he was outside that he felt the wind’s chill and noticed that he’d left his jacket up in his living room. He considered going back up to get it, but he had a nasty case of mental tunnel vision that was messing with him bigtime.

“Which way?” Atsumu glanced all over and tried to gather his thoughts enough to at least walk down the right street.

He’d only been to this place once. Well, he hadn’t actually been there, but he’d passed it a few times and taken note of it. With a sharp turn to his left, Atsumu started down the sidewalk shrouded in the blue-black night that was bordering the impending morning. Atsumu crossed his arms tight against his chest to try and consolidate some warmth, but the pace he was walking at ensured that he was as cold as possible and that his hair was whipping violently through the wind.

It was like his eyes were glued in front of him. He’d pass the occasional midnight stroller, but he couldn’t pay them any mind. They didn’t know that he was a murderer. He couldn’t subject strangers to that. And as badly as he wanted to call his friends, he couldn’t drag them down with him. If he was actually a murderer, he didn’t want any of his friends to be a part of it, it wasn’t fair to them.

“It’s gotta be around here somewhere,” Atsumu muttered, a shiver trailing all through his voice.

Sure enough, just a couple hundred feet in front of him was the police station. Atsumu gulped and raced towards the front doors from which a pool of white light streamed out onto the sidewalk. He took one more long, cleansing breath before opening the door, feeling his heart pound and flitter at the edge of his chest.

He opened the door to be met with a wave of warmth and a nearly blinding wall of light. Atsumu squinted and hurried in, making a beeline for the desk where a few younger-looking officers were twiddling their thumbs and staring at their phones.

Atsumu’s body felt incredibly heavy. He flopped onto the counter like he was about to go comatose and wondered how frazzled he must’ve looked to the overnight workers.

“I—hello,” he began.

What was he even supposed to say? The officers eyed him strangely as he shivered and breathed heavily just a few feet from their faces.

“Can we help you?” One of the officers asked.

“Well, I—I think I—I think I stabbed that guy—the one on the corner.”

The words came out all jumbled, but they came out so easy that it must’ve made some kind of sense. The officer’s brow knitted as he listened to Atsumu’s ramblings.

“What?”

“I think I—stabbed that guy—maybe—” Atsumu said.

“You think you did?” The officer quirked his brow.

“Yeah,” Atsumu said in a small voice.

“There’s no way, kid,” the officer suppressed a chuckle, “we already caught the guy.”

Atsumu blinked himself back into reality. He waited for another moment just to make sure the guy wasn’t joking.

“You—already got him?” Atsumu muttered.

“Yes,” the officer nodded like he was talking to a child, “the other precinct just took him in.”

Atsumu’s mouth went dry. He even shook his head just to ensure that he wasn’t dreaming.

“So—I didn’t do it?”

“Not as far as I know,” the officer teased.

With his falling levels of adrenaline, Atsumu’s head ducked down so he was staring at the sickly-green counter on which he was leaning.

“How about I let you make a quick phone call to someone who can pick you up and then we can sit and calm down for a minute? Does that sound good?”

Atsumu must’ve looked as insane as he felt. The wind had probably done some nasty things to his hair and a half-drunk man stumbling in at 3AM probably wasn’t the standard for sanity. The officer was enunciating to him just in case he didn’t understand at a normal pitch and speed. But, frankly, making a phone call and sitting down sounded very nice.

“Yes, please,” Atsumu said in a small voice.

The officer led him gently down a hallway, Atsumu rubbed at his arms for warmth and thought of who he would call. He had to call Osamu. Even though he knew his twin brother would laugh himself sick and never let him live this down, he was the most likely person to drive down and get Atsumu from the station. It would be a long drive, but what other option did Atsumu have?

“Here’s the phone,” the officer said in his best preschool teacher voice.

Atsumu nodded and planted himself right in front of it. He picked up the receiver and let his finger hover over the first digit of Atsumu’s number. And he should’ve called Osamu first, he should’ve just gone with his first idea, but the idea of Osamu laughing at him cut him right to his core. Osamu wouldn’t understand, he would never understand.

So, Atsumu dialed another number.

He shivered as the receiver rang. Out of the corner of his eye, the officer was watching on from a distance, probably to make sure Atsumu didn’t have another psychotic break. The receiver rang a few more times and, with each one, Atsumu’s stomach sank lower.

“Hello?”

“Omi?”

Fine, so he was still a little drunk. He wouldn’t have used the name if he wasn’t.

“Why in the world are you calling me at such an ungodly hour?” Sakusa’s voice was gruff and muffled with sleep.

“Omi I—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Please I—”

“And why are you calling me from the police station?”

Atsumu’s jaw went slack. What was he supposed to say?

“Are you okay?” Sakusa’s voice went even and serious, Atsumu could imagine his knitted brow and slitted eyes.

“Yeah, I just—” Atsumu sighed, “I saw this news story and it was this guy that got stabbed on a street that I walked down and somehow I convinced myself that I did it and I just panicked and let the thoughts get the better of me and tried to turn myself into the police and so I’m here and they think I’m crazy which honestly—they may be right.”

Sakusa didn’t respond. Atsumu chastised himself for letting the entire story slip out so seamlessly, but he didn’t know what else to say. He’d spent all this time worrying about being too vulnerable with Sakusa but there was something about the whiskey sours pumping through his system and the blinding lights of the police station that made the fear seem stupid.

“And now I have to call Osamu to come get me and he’s just gonna laugh about this whole thing and complain about how long the drive is and he’ll just never understand why I did it.”

“Don’t.”

Atsumu blinked and shook his head.

“What?”
            “Don’t call Osamu,” Sakusa grumbled.

“Why not?”

“I’ll come get you,” he mumbled, “just—sit tight.”

“Wait, Omi—”

Atsumu’s protest was interrupted by Sakusa hanging up the phone. He stood there, slack-jawed, for another moment before hanging the phone on the hook in shock. What if Sakusa was telling a joke? Not that he seemed like the joking type, but Atsumu had to at least consider it.

At least he had a lot of time to think about it while the police officer led him to a holding cell that was really just a smaller-than-usual room with a bench and a two-way mirror through which Atsumu knew that all the officers were watching him and sniggering. Another officer brought him a blanket and a cup of water which he cozied up into at the edge of the bench. With the blanket warming the sides of his arms, Atsumu focused on taking little sips from the edge of the paper cup which was half-filled with lukewarm, plasticky water.

His mind was finally beginning to calm from the panic and his body was fatigued from the rush of adrenaline. With every passing minute, Atsumu was even more sure that Sakusa was playing a cruel prank on him, saying that he was going to pick him up from the police station in the middle of the night when he’d really just gone back to sleep after chuckling evilly. Atsumu pursed his lips and bowed his head. He didn’t know which was more embarrassing: admitting himself to the police for a crime he didn’t commit or having his teammate that he hated and definitely didn’t have a small crush on possible coming to pick him up from said police.

“Miya?” The officer called from the door.

When he opened the door up all the way, Atsumu caught a glimpse of the towering form behind him. Sakusa was clad in a giant black coat keeping the parts of his body that weren’t covered by his t-shirt and sweatpants safe from the cold. He had his usual mask on over his nose and mouth, but his eyes weren’t as piercing as usual. Instead, they were tired and droopy. Atsumu observed the noticeable bags beneath them and gaunt nature of his cheekbones.

“Oh,” Atsumu muttered as he shed the blanket and the cup.

He felt his face go hot from the shame of having Sakusa see him in such a state, but it was combatted by the relief of Sakusa showing up at all. He shuffled past the police officer and looked up at Sakusa who looked only half awake.

“Here,” he muttered, shoving something towards Atsumu.

Atsumu took the heavy jacket that was being pushed into his arm. He slid one arm through, then the other, before zipping up the front. As they followed the officer silently down the hallway, Sakusa kept his eyes forward and even.

The jacket smelled like him. It smelled like soap with a hint of aftershave. Atsumu cozied himself further into the fabric and took in a deep breath. His heart did a flip at the sensation and his stomach went weightless. His cheeks burned with the proximity, he hadn’t been this close to Sakusa since earlier that evening when he’d realized that—

“Alright, you are free to go,” the officer motioned towards the front door.

“Thanks,” Atsumu said sheepishly, bowing his head.

“Hey,” the officer pulled Sakusa to the side for a moment, Atsumu stayed by the door but listened on.

“Y’know, if you want,” the officer whispered and eyed Atsumu, “we can call the guys from the hospital and have him admitted.”

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed. He gave the officer the look that Atsumu was so used to getting, the narrowed eyes and pinched brows. It seemed even more menacing with the shadows that were cast on his wrinkled tiredness.

“He’s fine,” Sakusa hissed.

“It was just a suggestion, I’d seriously think about it—”

“He’s fine,” Sakusa repeated icily.

Atsumu watched as Sakusa tore his gaze from the officer and darted towards the door. Atsumu followed after another glance at the officer who looked frozen in place from fear.

Suddenly, Atsumu was back in the early morning chill but, this time, he was cozied in the best smelling jacket he’d ever encountered. Sakusa walked a few steps ahead of him. Thankfully, his threatening expression had softened a tad into a folded sort of fatigue. His hair shined from the moonlight and Atsumu could make out the bridge of his nose from the shape of his mask. He looked down at the road and wracked his brain for something to say.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu muttered.

He waited with bated breath for Sakusa to scream at him, maybe through another punch to his jaw which had finally healed. Or maybe he would just stand there in silence for the rest of their walk, leaving Atsumu to wonder what he was thinking and torture himself with the assumptions.

“It’s alright,” Sakusa mumbled in reply.

Atsumu sucked in a quick breath, shocked by the fact he got any reply at all. He watched Sakusa pull his mask down and tuck it under his chin; his mouth was curled in a perpetual frown, dragged down by tiredness, and the tip of his nose was red from the cold.

As cruel as he and Sakusa were to each other, there was that undeniable fact that they understood one another. Atsumu didn’t have to go on and on explaining himself on how he ended up at the police station, Sakusa simply knew.

Despite the fact that the events that preceded their walk were each sobering in their own special way, Atsumu was still finding it difficult to walk in a straight line, so much so that he kept tripping on loose pieces of gravel and nearly falling into the gutter. He felt Sakusa’s judgmental gaze flicker over to him a few times, but he was too inebriated to care.

“Just—” Sakusa hissed, “hold onto my shoulder.”

They paused for a moment in the middle of the dark, silent road. The streetlights emphasized the hard, serious line of Sakusa’s brow as he offered his shoulder to a stumbling Atsumu.

“I just—didn’t know if I could touch you,” Atsumu mumbled.

“You’re not contaminated,” Sakusa said flatly.

“What?”

“You’re not—” Sakusa scoffed like he was angry at himself for letting such a phrase slip out, “you’re not contaminated, now hold on.”

Atsumu just stood there, lips parted in such a subtle surprise you’d think he’d separated entirely from the reality of his mind. He eventually conceded, planting a firm right hand onto Sakusa’s left shoulder. They took a moment to adjust before continuing down the street.

With Sakusa pressed firmly against his side, Atsumu felt invincible. Yet, his heart was going bananas and his face was flushing bright red. He tried to stare down at the road and not think about the fact that he was touching Sakusa, albeit, through a few heavy layers of clothing. Even so, his fingers tingled, and he had to swallow his stomach down out of his throat.

“Are you sure I’m not contaminated?” Atsumu asked half-jokingly.

“Well—you’re like—volleyball,” Sakusa stammered.

“I’m like a volleyball?” Atsumu quirked his brow.

“No!” Sakusa was exasperated, “I said you’re like volleyball.”

“Okay,” Atsumu replied, “so—how?”

“Because,” Sakusa scoffed again, “when things become routine for me, they’re less likely to seem contaminated. It’s why I can play volleyball and like, touch things in my own apartment.”

“Oh,” Atsumu nodded, feeling Sakusa’s body shift beneath his.

At this distance, he could smell the same soap/after-shave mixture that had nearly incapacitated him earlier. And when Sakusa turned to talk, Atsumu could catch hints of toothpaste in his breath. His face flushed deeper. He really had to get this guy out of his head.

“When I get closer to people, the thoughts just get worse,” Atsumu chuckled.

Atsumu’s finger dug into Sakusa’s shoulder for stability as another wave of wooziness washed over him. Sakusa turned to make sure he was alright. Atsumu looked up and met his gaze. The toothpaste and soap and whatever else invaded his senses, and he heard the first bird of morning chirp somewhere in the distance. Sakusa’s other hand had reached out to catch a possibly falling Atsumu, but the hand simply hovered, never meeting Atsumu’s side.

Sakusa swallowed thickly, his eyes flickering down Atsumu’s face. His tongue darted out to wet his thin, pink lips and Atsumu mirrored him on instinct. They just stood there on the sidewalk, staring. It seemed less like an intentional gaze than a competition of who would let up first. Sakusa’s jaw moved the tiniest bit before he tore his eyes away and focused back down the empty street.

“Your apartment is right up here,” he said in a wavering voice.

Atsumu looked down at his shoes. He let all the anticipatory air he was holding in escape his lips in a cloud. They began their trudge down path towards a familiar looking building. Atsumu pursed his lips. He was crazy. He’d gone all the way to the police station, drunk out of his mind, to try and admit himself for a crime he convinced himself that he committed. And now he’d inconvenienced some guy he hated to come pick him up because he was the only person who would ever understand.

“I’m a monster, Omi,” Atsumu eked out.

If he wasn’t just coming off of the whiskey sours, he wouldn’t have said it. But all his words seemed loose and slippery, especially at this time of night. He regretted it right after he said it.

“So am I.”

Sakusa had said it small enough that, at the right gust of wind, Atsumu wouldn’t have heard it, but it was like Atsumu ears were tuned to hear his voice, to make out the smallest of mutterings.

The door of the apartment complex came all too suddenly. Once they barreled in, Atsumu found a series of items to help him stay upright, so he reluctantly tore his hand from Sakusa’s shoulder and used the wall, then the side of the elevator, then the hallway wall to keep him moving forward. Once they reached his door, Atsumu fumbled for his keys for the second time that night while Sakusa watched on.

When Atsumu finally got the door open, he froze. He at least had to say goodbye. So, he turned.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

The only thing he had planned on after turning was muttering his chaste farewell, but he certainly hadn’t prepared for Sakusa to be so close. There was no semblance of softness in his expression, even though the fatigue would try to fake it. His hands were stuffed dutifully in his pockets like always and he pursed his lips while eying a frozen Atsumu.

“Oh—your jacket,” Atsumu glanced at the heavy fabric that encased his shoulders.

“Keep it,” Sakusa commanded, “give it back to me at practice.”

Atsumu’s fingers dropped from the zipper which he was entirely prepared to undo. He bowed his head a bit in a sort of silent gratitude.

“And call in sick tomorrow,” he continued, “you’re no good on the court if you’re tired.”

There he was, the normal Sakusa.

“Is that a challenge?” Atsumu joked.

“It’s not a challenge if I know I’m going to win,” Sakusa said lowly.

Atsumu chuckled and let a stray smile grace his face.

“You won’t—tell anyone about this—will you?”

Atsumu looked up at Sakusa with pleading eyes. He swallowed thickly as he waited for Sakusa’s dry or snide response. Perhaps he’d get lucky and the reply would be both dry and snide.

“I don’t hate you that much,” Sakusa mumbled, the smallest smile stretching across his face.

It couldn’t even be considered a smile, it was the ghost of a smile, long dead. But, still, it filled Atsumu’s chest with such an immediate warmth that he was tempted to thank him just for the gesture. Before Atsumu could even consider it, however, Sakusa had turned and started down the long hallway.

Atsumu only watched for one more moment before letting himself into his apartment. He’d left the TV on. Atsumu chuckled at himself and leaned his back against the closed door. He pulled the collar of the jacket up slightly and took in another deep inhale. He stopped himself, afraid that the scent would go away if he breathed it in for too long. His grin melted in the very next moment.

“Fuck,” he whispered, letting the back of his head knock against the door.

The Reiko Feeling was undeniable: the fluttering stomach and pounding heart, the sicky feeling in his entire body and his buzzing fingertips. But with all of that considered, what was with the warmth spreading through his chest?

Atsumu sighed.

“I’m never drinking again.”

Chapter Text

That Saturday marked their very first game.

They had to travel to the stadium, just a long bus trip that forced Atsumu to wake up before the sun and spend half of the ten hours sleeping in his bus seat. With bleary, half-lidded eyes, Atsumu trudged up to the bus, peering at the headlights blaring through the thick fog. One step after the other, Atsumu reminded himself that he would soon be sitting on the uncomfortable seat where he could zonk out for as long as he wanted.

And if his eyes had been opened all the way, he probably wouldn’t have knocked his head right into a firm shoulder.

Sakusa turned and peered down at the sleepy Atsumu with his own sagging eyes.

“G’morn—,“ Atsumu trailed off.

“Morning, Miya,” Sakusa replied lowly.

They were some of the first to shuffle onto the bus. Anything on the sides of Atsumu’s vision had gone so blurry he couldn’t even make out the general shapes. His tunnel vision only allowed him to shove his gym bag in the overhead compartment and slide into the seat below. He cozied himself with his arms pressed against his chest and his head leaning against the window beside him. Through the glass, Atsumu could feel a faint winter breeze seeping through the pane—it was a comforting, refreshing feeling, enough to lull Atsumu into a numbing half-sleep.

Despite the rumbling and shaking of the bus, Atsumu was able to fall into the kind of sleep that he awoke from with a solid line of dried spit trailing from the corner of his mouth down his neck. He worked out the crick in his neck with a small grimace as he adjusted his eyes to the new morning light that streamed through the bus window. Atsumu groaned quietly and glanced to his side with narrowed eyes.

Sitting beside him was none other than Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Atsumu’s body flew into a frenzy at the sight. Thankfully, he was asleep. He had his arms crossed politely across his chest and his legs folded atop one another to consolidate space between his body and the seat in front of him. His head was tilted only slightly, his raven curls splayed along the head rest of the chair. Sakusa’s chest moved languidly up and down as he slept, the air slipping seamlessly through his nose. His thin lips were sealed effortlessly.

Atsumu felt his face flush. He quickly readjusted himself and forced his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight. He allowed his body to be overtaken by the sensations of the moving bus—the occasional pothole and whoosh of the passing breeze. With a clammy hand, Atsumu wiped sheepishly at the dried spit trailing from the corner of his mouth. Of all the spots on the bus, why would Sakusa choose the seat right beside Atsumu? Maybe he had meant what he said that night, about Atsumu not being contaminated. Perhaps—

Atsumu shook the thought from his head. He was crazy. He was crazy to think anything had changed between them, especially since their silent tirade during practice games never rested. Since they’d forgone actually speaking to each other mid-play, the two of them had found a series of looks that communicated things they would normally say. Atsumu would glance over just as Sakusa assumed his position and if Sakusa was looking over, Atsumu would set higher, but if he was looking under, he’d set a little lower. Atsumu had tried to explain the system to Hinata and Bokuto one day after practice but they’d just looked at him like he was crazy.

“Look over?” Hinata had asked, “Over what?”

“Just—over,” Atsumu replied with a shrug.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Bokuto chuckled from ahead of them.

“Well, it works,” Atsumu retorted.

Hinata sighed, “Why don’t you guys just talk again? This seems like so much more work.”

Perhaps they were right. Especially as Atsumu watched Sakusa’s sleeping head bob along to the beat of the speeding bus, he wondered if they’d been fighting for far too long. It seemed as simple as treating each other the same at practice as they did after therapy when they’d take their walks, but there was a harsh wind of vulnerability that seemed to accompany it. It was the harsh wind they’d tried to avoid by hiding their disorders and going quietly to therapy, and meeting there had just been one big fluke. Yet, now, Atsumu and Sakusa had established a very specific relationship, a performance for the rest of the players that letting go of might reveal the secret they were so desperate to hide.

Thus, they clung to the façade of normalcy that let them be professional volleyball players by day, monsters by night.

Still, Atsumu’s stomach fell flat at the pit of his body and his heart skipped every other beat as he watched the rising sun stream through the opposite window and catch the frizzy bits of Sakusa’s curls. He glanced down at Sakusa’s hands, both of which were tucked into the crook of the opposite elbow—yet, at a certain angle, Atsumu could see the tips of his fingers poking out. The skin of Sakusa’s face was smooth and pale, nearly translucent in the pinks of the morning. Atsumu’s fingers itched to roam all over his skin, to grab onto the fingers that Sakusa was so unfairly keeping hidden away and card through the impossibly soft-looking curls. If he wasn’t crazy before, the thought of even attempting to brush Sakusa’s cheek as he slept should’ve signaled Atsumu’s eligibility for the madhouse.

With a shake of his head and a hard stare out the window, Atsumu sighed in defeat. Not only would the concept of touch send Sakusa down some sort of contamination spiral but giving in would ensure Atsumu feel closer to Sakusa than ever before, and the thoughts were sure to follow close behind. Even if Sakusa would understand, he could never fully know—he could never know the kinds of things Atsumu thought, no one could.

“Hey, hey!” A whisper rose from the seat behind Atsumu.

Atsumu turned and saw Bokuto, wide awake, peering over the tall seats.

“D’you have a marker?” He hissed.

Once Bokuto caught sight of Sakusa sleeping soundly, he slapped his hand over his mouth and shot two wide amber eyes at Atsumu.

“No, I don’t,” Atsumu whispered, “why do you need it, anyways?”

“Oh,” Bokuto grinned, “Hinata’s asleep, I wanna draw a dick on his face.”

“Oh! Atsumu, thank goodness.”

Right as Atsumu had shimmied into the building and begun to shed his heavy coat, Tamura had appeared behind him with an even thicker coat and a large purse gripped to her chest. She grinned as she kicked off her shoes and brushed the snow from her hair. Atsumu acknowledged her with a nod before pulling the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his wrists to consolidate warmth.

“Ever since I told my son that I know a member of the Black Jackals he’s been talking nonstop about it,” she chuckled.

“Oh, wow,” Atsumu grinned subtly, his chest puffing with the compliment.

“And I know you’re a busy young man, but it would mean everything to him if you came to the house and just played a little bit,” she glanced down sadly, “he’s an only child so the best partner he can get is the wall and—I feel so bad sometimes—”

Atsumu grinned as Tamura rambled on about how much she wished she’d had another kid so her son would have a friend but she was too old when she had him and all the doctors warned her about having another.

“And now with my bad knees I can’t do anything too strenuous and his dad is always out on business—”

“I’d love to,” Atsumu cut in.

Tamura’s shoulders dropped in relief as she shot Atsumu a hopeful glance.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu replied.

Now, Atsumu wasn’t the biggest fan of kids. Rather, he actively avoided them. But there was something about the desperation in Tamura’s voice and the way she pled on behalf of her son that made Atsumu feel tied to the obligation. Atsumu wished his mother had cared about his interests like that—maybe things would be different, now.

“Oh, thank you,” Tamura cried and grabbed Atsumu’s hands excitedly, “he’ll be so excited. You’re a real saint, Atsumu.”

Without another word, Tamura released Atsumu’s hands and bounded down the hallway with a new jaunt to her step. Atsumu couldn’t help but chuckle and consider what he’d just gotten himself into.

He was startled by the harsh, winter breeze flowing in through the opened door; Atsumu’s hands flew across his chest upon instinct as a large figure slipped through. Even though he was wearing a coat that rivaled the Michelin man himself and the thickest scarf Atsumu had ever seen, there was still a characteristic black curl peeking out from the brim of his winter hat and an unmistakable scowl peering over the edge of his mask.

“It’s cold,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the knit fabric.

“Hey, Sherlock, leave some mystery for the rest of us,” Atsumu chuckled and brushed some flakes of snow from his arm.

“I don’t like being cold,” Sakusa grumbled as he shed his coat.

“Don’t move to Russia,” Atsumu replied offhandedly.

“Rats,” Sakusa hissed, “five-year plan foiled.”

Atsumu had fully intended on racing down the hallway after his casual joke, but Sakusa’s words prevented his body from working properly. Had Sakusa just—made a joke? Did they just have actual banter?

“Well, there’s always Florida,” Atsumu half-joked.

He’d suspected that the joke had been a one-time thing, some mistake that Sakusa has made. There was no way he would continue such a ridiculous conversation.

“Yes, and then I can kill myself right when I get there.”

Sakusa had successfully shed his eons-long scarf, puffy coat, and hat which left him in a thick, burgundy sweater and a comfortable looking pair of jeans. He’d tugged the sleeves up to reveal his forearms which would’ve taken all of Atsumu’s attention if he wasn’t so busy standing there, mouth agape after an actual joking interaction with Sakusa Kiyoomi. Well, he still wasn’t sure if the ‘killing himself’ was a joke or not, but that didn’t stop his jaw from going slack.

When he passed Atsumu on a dutiful quest down the hallway, Sakusa stopped and peered at Atsumu’s expression for a moment.

“You’re catching flies,” he muttered.

Atsumu sure was catching something.

And so was the nature of Atsumu’s expression during the entire therapy session. He’d chosen to stare at his shoes as much as humanly possible because every single time he would glance up in Sakusa’s general direction, he would make unfortunate eye contact with the guy. What are the odds that every time he looked was also the times that Sakusa was looking at him?

Dr. Hirai was droning on about—something. Atsumu wasn’t listening. Was the heater on high or something? Atsumu was almost tempted to tear his sweatshirt off halfway through the allotted hour because it was so damn hot in that room. Of course, he would’ve done it if he was wearing a shirt underneath. Instead, he just dripped sweat in his usual green upholstered chair and hoped that no one would notice.

He was almost singing the praises of the cold winter he’d been dying to escape just an hour prior as the session ended. Atsumu had bundled back up into his puffy coat and hat but exposed his clammy hands to the breeze to try and cool down the rest of his body. As always, he and Sakusa fell into the familiar rhythm of giving each other a single look of acknowledgement at the entrance of the building then walking eastward. They shivered and relied on the beating of their shoes on the pavement to warm the extremities of their bodies.

“That was a good play you did at the end of the third quarter—at our last game,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu glanced up and silently appreciated Sakusa’s attempts at conversation. Volleyball was their common ground, the safest center of the Venn diagram that never seemed to fail them.

“Bokuto was on an 11 that day,” Atsumu replied, “it’s all him.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sakusa mumbled.

“I’m not gonna praise you to your face,” Atsumu huffed a hot breath into his palms and rubbed them together.

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the familiar shop came into view. Atsumu considered suggesting some other place to eat, not because he was tired of the meat buns at this place but because he was the kind of guy that got restless staying in one place for too long.

“D’you—wanna go someplace else?” Atsumu inquired.

Sakusa turned and glared at him like he’d just suggested they strip and run through the streets of Japan.

“Why?”

“Well—I was just thinkin’—”

Atsumu’s jaw moved up and down and his lips formed around uncertain words. Sakusa eyed him more evilly with every passing second, and his breath started to quicken with a subtle sort of panic.

“And I’m—screwing with your routine, aren’t I?” Atsumu bit his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Big time,” Sakusa grumbled in response.

“Sorry,” Atsumu chuckled and guided the two of them into the familiar shop.

He could almost feel Sakusa heave a sigh of relief beside him as the fluorescent light bathed them both and welcomed them into the shop. They bought their usual buns—it was Atsumu’s turn to pay—and sat together on the bench where Atsumu had begged they take refuge not two weeks earlier. There was some strange stain on the very edge of the bench that Sakusa had shimmied away from mere seconds after they sat and Atsumu could feel his body tense as the inches between them grew smaller and smaller. Thankfully, the nice moment faded away as Sakusa peered back at the strange spot of white on the wood and grimaced in disgust.

“We can find another bench, Omi,” Atsumu chuckled.

“No,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“Routine?” Atsumu leaned towards him.

“No,” Sakusa groaned, “my legs are just sore.”

They tucked into their respective meals. Sakusa seemed almost eager to pull his mask beneath his chin and take the inaugural bite from his food; it was a nice change from his usual hesitation during which he’d check every edge of the bun for a bit of mold.

“Atsumu,” said Sakusa very seriously.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Atsumu’s body tensed. His heart started its usual ascent to the base of his throat and he couldn’t ignore the way his blood started rushing through his ears noticeably quicker than before. With an impossibly dry mouth, Atsumu eked out a single word.

“Sure.”

It was a wimpy little word, but what else was he supposed to say? Sakusa shifted himself in his seat and knitted his brow.

“Do you mind if I—” he stopped himself.

Atsumu gulped.

“What?” He prodded.

“D’you mind if I laugh about what happened a few nights ago?”

Atsumu craned his neck to get a good look at the smile that was ghosting over Sakusa’s lips. His eyes were staring expectantly and Atsumu could’ve sworn he watched the guy’s chest convulse in a single, suppressed laugh.

“Excuse me?” Atsumu scoffed.

The corners of Sakusa’s mouth twitched. When he pursed his lips, it was obvious that he was holding the smallest of laughs behind it. The skin beneath his eyes wrinkled the tiniest bit as he pulled his lips between his teeth and his shoulders shook up near his ears.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Atsumu spat.

It was then that Sakusa’s lips parted and a bubbling, bright laugh slipped from his open mouth. He let his head loll behind him, his curls brushing along the expanse of his shoulders. After a few seconds, he’d take in a breath but only to prepare for another series of giggles.

Atsumu chuckled along with him in a sort of half-astonishment that stripped him of any critical thinking skills in that particular moment. As surprised as he was, Atsumu was too distracted by the clear sound of Sakusa’s laugh to care about anything else. He’d never admit it, but he could sit there and listen to him laugh for hours.

“You—” Sakusa laughed, “you went to the police—for a crime you didn’t commit!”

With his free hand, Sakusa clutched his stomach and kept laughing. Atsumu tried to hide the flush in his cheeks with a mean look at his half-eaten bun but he didn’t want to look too mean, lest Sakusa stop laughing.

“And—they put you in a holding cell,” Sakusa kept laughing with no end in sight.

“Alright,” Atsumu shook his head.

“God, you gotta know how stupid you looked sitting there in that little blankie,” Sakusa said rather breathlessly.

“Y’know,” Atsumu mumbled through a bite of food, “if anyone else was laughing about this, I’d knock ‘em out.”

Sakusa hunched over and tried to regulate his breathing while still letting a loud chortle slip every now and then.

“Fine. When OCD makes you do something embarrassing and you come crying to me for help, you’ll regret this,” Atsumu hissed.

Apparently, his threat didn’t sound as menacing as he meant it to since Sakusa was launched into another fit of laughter.

“I will?” He asked with a wide grin.

Atsumu shivered, partly from the cold and partly from seeing Sakusa smile. Was this the first time? His teeth were all bright white, but they weren’t in the most even line—they crowded around one another and overlapped at the edges. Atsumu wondered if his uneven rows of teeth were the reason that his smile was the slightest bit lopsided; it rose more on the right then on the left. Atsumu couldn’t stop staring at his smile that was higher on the right than on the left, no matter how hard he tried.

“I’m sorry,” Sakusa whispered while waving Atsumu off with his free hand, “this is just all the laughter I held in from that night. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Since when did you care about hurting my feelings?” Atsumu hissed.

“Fair point,” Sakusa sighed.

In a weird bout of silence, the pair returned to what remained of their meat buns.

“This feels weird,” Atsumu mumbled.

“What?” Sakusa asked.

“Us—getting along,” Atsumu stared down at his feet.

Sakusa gave him a strange look, Atsumu curled sheepishly into himself as he finished off his food.

“Say something mean to me or something,” Atsumu requested.

Sakusa was taken aback for a moment. His lips parted and closed around unspoken words.

“I think your voice is annoying,” he said rather seriously.

“What?!” Atsumu cried.

“You can’t ask me to say something mean to you then get mad about it!”

“Well, I was expecting you to just throw around a ‘screw you’ or something but instead you went right for the jugular,” Atsumu whined.

“I just told the truth,” Sakusa took another bite of his food.

Atsumu scoffed, “I think your hair is stupid.”

Sakusa’s hand flew up to his messy, black mop almost immediately. His fingers almost disappeared entirely within the silky locks and Atsumu wanted nothing more than for it to be his hand in Sakusa’s hair.

“Excuse me?” Sakusa said in a menacingly low voice.

It was a lie. Atsumu didn’t think Sakusa’s hair was stupid. Rather, he thought his hair was far from stupid. Like if stupid was on one side of the longest bench in the world, Sakusa was sitting on the complete other end with his stupid mop of stupid curls.

Not only was Atsumu a madman, he was a liar now, too.

It was a clear, sunny morning when Atsumu went to Tamura’s. He’d rolled out of bed at some ungodly hour because his mind refused to let him sleep any longer and spent his Saturday morning searching for a pan amidst his still packed boxes with which to make eggs. Of course, that was after one failed attempt to make eggs at the bottom of a soup pot. Osamu would kill him if he saw.

Now, as noon was upon him, he was taking in the sun’s rays like a plant with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. In this gym bag was a professional-grade volleyball and a jersey he’d snagged from the back rooms that he thought Tamura’s son would go crazy over. Atsumu stood in the empty residential street for one more moment before climbing up the slight incline of the driveway bordered by flowers—no rocks, of course.

Atsumu suppressed a chuckle as he knocked on the front door. After a few seconds of silence then the sound of muffled shuffling in the distance, the door creaked open tentatively.

“Oh!” Tamura sighed, “It’s so great to see you, Atsumu!”
            She nearly pulled him into the house, refusing him even a moment to slip off his shoes at the entrance.

“Minato’s in the yard,” she added as she tugged Atsumu through the house.

It was a small house, smaller than where Atsumu grew up. There was a tiny kitchen off to the left where a simple wooden dining table had been adorned with three matching chairs. Lining the walls was a series of bright green plants either hanging from the ceiling or sitting on the dusty wooden floor in various colored pots. The TV buzzed in the background with some news story or weather report—Atsumu couldn’t tell. There was the faintest scent of green tea and ramen wafting through the air.

Eventually, the pair of them reached the screen door in the back through which Atsumu could see a small, lanky boy bumping a volleyball around, dropping it over and over in the lush grass.

“Getting him to wear a sweatshirt when he goes outside is an endless battle,” Tamura groaned, “getting him to come in for dinner is even harder.”

She pulled the screen door open by the handle and called out to the boy.

“Minato!”

When he heard his mother’s voice, Minato let the volleyball roll along the ground as he shot a suspicious glance at Atsumu.

“Who’re you?” He asked pointedly.

“I’m—uh—” Atsumu got very insecure very quickly, “my name is Miya Atsumu.”

“Okay?” He quirked a brow.

“I—” Atsumu’s mouth went dry.

He shot a harrowed glance at Tamura, but she wasn’t being much help.

“Minato,” Tamura leaned through the doorway, “Atsumu plays professional volleyball.”

Minato turned with wide eyes.

“The Black Jackals?” He asked in quiet astonishment.

Atsumu nodded.

Minato’s grin spread wide across his face, crooked and missing teeth on display. Atsumu could even see the smallest of gasps suspend his chest as he began to buzz with the idea.

“You have to teach me how to set, please!” The boy begged, bounding over to him.

“Yeah, of course,” Atsumu replied with a chuckle.

Tamura left them soon after and Atsumu made good on his promise. He took out the professional-grade volleyball and let Minato take the first ten minutes to just run his fingers over the seams and gawk at the material. He asked a million questions about the set-up of the court, what each player does, all the different strategies he’d read about in this one book his mom had got him.

Atsumu taught him how to hold his arms when receiving a ball and set for him a few times just so he could revel in the feeling of hitting a spike. Atsumu’s love for children wasn’t growing three sizes or anything, but maybe this kid wasn’t so bad. There was the smallest chance that it was because Minato reminded Atsumu of himself.

“I have a favorite player on your team, y’know,” Minato said as they bumped the ball back and forth.

“Oh, yeah?” Atsumu inquired,

“Yeah,” said Minato matter-of-factly, “number fifteen.”

Atsumu almost missed the ball with his arms. He had to nearly dive to get the ball against his skin, the impact nearly shaking him from the daze he’d been tossed into.

“Oh,” Atsumu replied, “the wing spiker.”

“Mmhmm,” Minato nodded, “he’s the best player there.”

Atsumu wanted to bust out laughing. If Sakusa was here to listen to this, he’d get the biggest head ever. Little did Minato know that his favorite powerhouse spiker was going to the same Monday night therapy session as his mother.

“I wanna be a wing spiker,” Minato bumped the ball with his arms.

Atsumu suppressed another chuckle.

“If you wanna be a good spiker, you need to find an excellent setter first,” he crooned.

“Really?”

“Yup,” Atsumu bumped the ball, “you find a great setter then you don’t piss him off.”

Minato eyed him strangely.

“And you—don’t repeat that word, either,” Atsumu added.

As they continued to pass the ball in silence, Atsumu’s mind wandered to Sakusa. Afternoon birds chirped in the distance and the usual buzzing of the crickets was dulled by winter’s chill. March had just reared its ugly head, signifying a few more weeks of snowfall and ice, but April brought hope of spring flowers and afternoon rain, two things that reminded Atsumu of home. Sakusa’s birthday was coming up. The 20^th, wasn’t it?

“Minato!”

The ball rolled onto the grass as Tamura’s voice flowed from the sliding door. She was leaning against the frame, holding the landline against her chest.

“Your father’s on the phone, you wanna talk to him?”

“Dad!” Minato cried, lanky limbs rushing towards the door.

He tore the phone from Tamura’s hand and rushed into the house, already chattering excitedly into the speaker. Tamura’s eyes followed him in then turned to Atsumu who was collecting the volleyball and stuffing it back into his gym bag.

“Could I interest you in some tea?” She asked softly.

Atsumu shivered even beneath his layers. Tea sounded like a dream.

“That’d be nice,” he replied.

Tamura led him in towards the wooden table they’d passed earlier. Minato had holed himself up in his room but since the door was so close by, he could hear faint voices travelling through the wood. Tamura busied herself with an old, rusted pot on the stovetop and, while it boiled, pulled two mismatched teacups from the cupboard.

“Sorry about the bad timing with his father calling,” she said, “he rarely gets a moment to himself while he’s travelling so Minato would even stop playing volleyball to get a chance to talk to him.”

“I don’t mind,” Atsumu chirped, “my dad was the same way.”

“Businessman?”

“For a while,” Atsumu stared at the surface of the table, “then we found out he had a bunch of girlfriends in a bunch of different places and—”

Tamura had turned to him with a rather harrowed expression. Her eyes started to mist. Atsumu’s jaw hung agape.

“I didn’t mean—not that—,” he stammered.

“It’s alright,” Tamura reassured him quietly.

“He never called when he was away,” Atsumu told her, “and he and my mom would just fight whenever he was home.”

“I’m sorry,” Tamura pulled the kettle from the burner, “no kid deserves to live like that.”

Atsumu parted his lips to agree, but no sound would come out. There was something about the scent of fresh green tea and the cozy clutter of the house around him that made all the old memories surface. He never talked about his dad, not even to Osamu, but being around Tamura felt safe, like she would understand.

She turned towards the table with two steaming cups and set one in front of Atsumu while keeping one for herself. Tamura shimmied herself into the seat across from Atsumu’s and took an inaugural sip from her cup. Atsumu mirrored her, grimacing slightly as the liquid burned the roof of his mouth; even so, he felt his insides begin to defrost in a pleasant way. When he glanced back up, Atsumu watched Tamura fiddle with a chip in the rim of her cup and stare at the surface of her tea.

“Can I—ask you something?”

Tamura looked up with kind eyes.

“Of course,” she grinned.

“How do you do it?” The words tumbled from Atsumu’s lips.

Tamura’s brow knitted.

“Do what?”

“Get married, have kids—with all the thoughts and stuff?” Atsumu asked, “Because whenever I think of doing any of that, all I can imagine is the terrible things OCD will concoct about them.”

Tamura only nodded thoughtfully. Atsumu wanted to stop and give her a chance to respond, but the words kept bubbling up within him like a fountain.

“And I just want to get better before I subject someone to living with me or, god forbid, loving me,” he continued breathlessly.

Tamura looked on in silence; the ghost of a grin was teasing her lips.

“Not that—not that you don’t deserve those things—!” Atsumu had to asterisk himself after realizing what he’d implied.

“It’s alright,” Tamura cut in.

Atsumu sighed and curled into himself. He stared at the surface of his tea and caught a quick glimpse of his own reflection; his eyes were downturned and tired, and his lips were torn up from his own anxious chewing.

“There’s this—person,” he said, “and I don’t wanna get too close to them because I know my mind will just tear it all to shreds.”

Silence fell between them for a few quick moments, moments in which Atsumu was forced to stare at himself in the surface of his tea and wonder if he sounded as insane as he thought.

“I used to be just like you,” she said softly.

Atsumu’s eyes flickered up to Tamura’s soft expression.

“I’d toss and turn at night worrying if I’d ever be able to fall in love or have the kids that I always dreamed of having,” she continued.

Atsumu rubbed the back of his neck and wondered if Tamura had read his mind. It always came in the night, the foreboding loneliness that blanketed him in darkness and strangled all hope from his body. He would sit and yearn for the touch of strangers because they’d never have to truly know him, only hold him and run their hand down the center of his back like he always dreamed. Atsumu wanted to be held without being known, loved without the unholy perception of his mangled mind. Was it truly too much to ask?

“I wanna tell them but—” Atsumu hesitated, “no, y’know, I’m just gonna drop it. I’ll just wait until I’m better and then I’ll tell them.”

He shook the thought psychically and mentally. He willed the image of Sakusa to just disappear and leave him be. He’d done it before, forced himself out of unwanted feelings, and there was nothing keeping him from doing it again. When he was better, then he could pursue it. When he was better—

“But what if you never get better, Atsumu?” Tamura asked, “What if you end up waiting for the rest of your life? What then?”

Atsumu took in a shuddering breath. It had terrified him to see Tamura in that therapy group. He thought for sure that when he was her age, he would be long past the whole ordeal, and maybe being married and having kids would make the whole thing go away. But Tamura was here, still as tortured and harrowed as before, seeking refuge from the mind she couldn’t trade away. Atsumu had refused to hear the truth from any other well-intentioned soul, but it sent a shudder down his spine as he watched the sun glint off of Tamura’s gold ring.

“I don’t know,” Atsumu muttered.

“You can’t let OCD keep you from living the life you want,” Tamura added.

Atsumu pursed his lips and focused on the rim of his teacup. He chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek and tasted the familiar iron.

“And, honestly,” Tamura leaned in, “my son—I love him infinitely more than I am afraid of my own thoughts. I wouldn’t trade him for even the worst intrusions.”

Atsumu’s lip began to tremble. His mind flashed with images of the life he always wanted: going on dates in the park, waking up with someone beside him in his bed, wasting every night in series of long kisses and soft whispers. Could he really have it?

“You know, sometimes,” Tamura began, “I imagine my thoughts as those pictures my kid makes for me.”

Atsumu looked up just in time to see Tamura chuckle lightly. Her eyes wandered and became unfocused as if she were seeing the memory painted out before her.

“He’ll show me drawings sometimes which are really just lines and shapes in various crayon colors, no rhyme or reason.”

She took a small sip from her tea in thought.

“And I could sit there for hours, asking about every shape and every color and torture myself trying to figure out what it all means but—” she glanced down at Atsumu, “there’s really no point, is there?”

Atsumu pulled his lips between his teeth and suppressed a few insistent tears.

“So, instead, I just say ‘very cool’ and let him take the picture away,” she said, “and then it’s over.”

Now, Atsumu was never one to understand metaphors right out the gate, but this one felt simple, almost too aligned with his reality.

“When my mind shows me something that’s awful and confusing I just say ‘very cool’ and let it go.”

With a gulp, Atsumu mustered the courage to glance back up at Tamura and reveal to her the mist of his eyes and the reddening edges of his nose. Her face fell in that motherly sorrow where there’s nothing she can do but listen and frown.

“They don’t understand,” he eked out, “my friends, my family, no one understands and if they did—god, they’d hate me.”

It was a miracle that his voice was the only thing indicating that he was near tears, it swooped and wavered like a leaf falling from a tree, and his eyes felt like they’d glossed over with ice that threatened to melt the longer he kept them open. Tamura stared seriously at him.

“Have you ever wondered that maybe no one understands because you’ve never given them the chance?”

Atsumu’s posture straightened. He swallowed the sour reality with a wince. The year before he left home had been messy. He’d abandoned all efforts with most of his friends because he couldn’t imagine them knowing the terrible things he thought about them—how could they ever understand? How could he live with himself knowing he’d lost every friend he’d ever truly cared for? And he’d done all the distancing because he was afraid of losing them, but hadn’t he lost them anyhow?

He was supposed to get better. He was supposed to go away and get better so that he could be the friend he always should’ve been, be the son he always should’ve been. But everything was worse, instead. Everything was worse and it was all Atsumu’s fault.

“So this—person you care for,” Tamura’s brow dropped as if she knew, “I think I’d give them a chance.”

Atsumu nodded. There was something growing in his chest, a strange sort of warmth he only remembered feeling on those clear summer afternoons down at the creek with his brother and Aran. It was a sureness, a certainty—hope.

“You’re right,” he said softly.

Tamura smiled. Atsumu nodded.

“You’re right,” he returned the grin.

“I have a feeling you have something to do, now,” she replied.

“I do,” Atsumu said brightly, “but—do you mind if I use your bathroom first?”

Tamura sat for another moment in thought before breaking into a pleasant grin.

“Down the hall,” she motioned to her right.

“Thank you,” Atsumu said breathlessly, rising hastily from his seat.

He acknowledged Tamura once more with a half-bow before rushing off down the hall towards the closed door at the very end. He swallowed all his newfound excitement down into his fluttering chest so he could enter the bathroom calmly. He turned the handle and opened the creaky door which led into the windowless room. Atsumu glanced behind him and flicked on the light before glancing back out into the space.

Sure, there was a toilet and a sink and a bathtub, but that wasn’t the thing that caught Atsumu’s attention.

Lining the walls from top to bottom was a million sheets of paper decorated with childlike drawings. The only spaces of wall left visible were the slivers between the papers some of which had been tacked onto the wall while others had been taped. Even the mirror had been plastered with drawings done in bright crayon or marker or even glitter. Atsumu’s breath hitched in his chest as he glanced to his right and was faced with a photo depicting three stick people, each in a different Crayola hue, standing hand-in-hand next to a square that must’ve been a house.

There was one next to it—it was a car. There was someone in the car, but Atsumu couldn’t tell who it was supposed to be.

And beside that was a tree covered in pink glitter. At least, Atsumu thought it was a tree. He peered closer, but it wasn’t much help. His breath felt heavy in his chest as he turned his attention back out to the bathroom.

The endless stream of pictures stared down at him. The tears he’d been so successful at shoving down rushed back up to his eyes in a flood.

I love him infinitely more than I am afraid of my own thoughts.

Atsumu’s finger trailed down one of the marker lines, observing the indent in the paper with the pad of his index. His lips parted to release a relieving breath. Atsumu gulped and held back more tears.

I wouldn’t trade him for even the worst intrusions.

“Oh my god,” Atsumu whispered.

He didn’t have time to stand there and think any longer. If he didn’t do it now, he’d lose his chance.

Who cares if I’m like this for the rest of my life? He thought

I have to do it.

Without another thought, Atsumu flicked off the bathroom light and rushed down the hallway. He muttered a quick yet polite goodbye to Tamura who had a knowing glimmer in her eye and he even spared a moment to bid farewell to a passing Minato who had tugged on the MSBY jersey and rushed back out to the backyard.

Atsumu tugged on his coat and slipped out the front door into the blistering cold. But it didn’t matter, nothing mattered. With a smile breaking across his face, Atsumu took in the rays of the sun for a moment, letting the warm feeling in his chest spread to his arms and fingers. In the very next moment, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed a practiced number.

“Omi?” He said when the receiver picked up.

He didn’t reply, but Atsumu was sure he was listening.

“Omi, I have something to tell you. It’s-it’s really important and it can’t wait so can we meet somewhere? Maybe our usual convenience store?”

“I can’t,” Sakusa eked out on the other end.

“W-well, we can meet somewhere else, if you want,” Atsumu stammered.

“I can’t, Atsumu,” Sakusa insisted.

Atsumu’s chest deflated. His heart began to sink towards his feet and his lip trembled. But Sakusa wasn’t finished.

“I can’t because—I’m sick.”

Atsumu’s ears perked up. The warm places in his chest were replaced with a prickly fear. It seemed so simple, being sick—Atsumu had been sick all the time as a kid. But Sakusa’s voice shook like he was staring over the edge of a cliff; when he wasn’t speaking, Atsumu could hear his breath shudder over the receiver.

“I gotta go,” Sakusa whispered.

The receiver clicked in the very next moment and Atsumu was left standing in the middle of the empty street with the sun glinting off of his coat and his silent phone pressed to his ear. His lips formed around all the words he wanted to say but couldn’t bring himself to vocalize. His heart tore at every extremity like it was being pulled in a million different directions.

Atsumu imagined going home and forgetting it all, maybe reveling in his newfound joy for a little longer, but he couldn’t seem to imagine dismissing the thought of Sakusa from his mind. What if he wasn’t okay? What if he was all alone? What if he did something crazy like Atsumu did that one fateful night? Atsumu sighed.

“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?”

Suppose that’s how Atsumu ended up at Sakusa’s apartment door, two heavy-laden grocery bags in hand. He’d stopped at the corner store to buy every possible item for every possible ailment Sakusa could possibly have. He bought cough drops and a cold compress and stomach tablets and headache reliever pills and throat spray which was shoved in one bag while, in the other, there was a mountain of instant ramen and teabags that Atsumu had just pulled at random from the shelves.

His hand trembled as it rose to the level of the door, fully prepared to knock. He swallowed nervously as he imagined Sakusa’s grimace at the sight of him. What if his words on the phone hadn’t been a cry for help but just a simple informing of his current state? Atsumu was such an idiot. He was an idiot for buying all that stuff and just assuming Sakusa would want to see him.

And Atsumu wasn’t much of a caretaker, anyhow. Everything he knew he’d learned from—

“Shinsuke,” he whispered to himself.

His hand lowered as he remembered their last interaction. Atsumu stared at his shoes sheepishly while he recounted Kita’s harsh tone, ribbons of hurt flowing through it, and how he’d torn into Atsumu for his behavior the year before he left.

He had to make it right.

Dropping one bag onto the concrete, Atsumu dug his phone out from his pocket and dialed Kita’s number. His cheeks puffed with a deep exhale as the tone sounded over the speaker.

“Hello?”

Atsumu’s mouth froze. Why was he calling Kita, again?

“Hello?” Kita repeated more insistently.

“H-hi, Shin, it’s Atsumu.”

Silence fell over the line.

“Alright?” Kita broke the tense moment.

“I’m—I wanted to call and—damn this isn’t comin’ out right,” Atsumu sighed exasperatedly.

“Atsumu, what’s going on?” Kita groaned.

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

Atsumu blurted it all out. He didn’t mean for it to sound that way, but Kita’s presence was always so foreboding, even when it was just his voice over the phone. Atsumu squinted and suppressed a disappointed groan at his own failure.

“For what?” Kita inquired.

“For—for bein’ such a shit friend all those years,” Atsumu said, “for lyin’ and pushin’ you away, I never shoulda done it.”

“It’s alright, Atsumu,” Kita cut in sweetly.

“No! It’s not alright,” Atsumu insisted, “I shoulda just been honest with ya but instead I ran away and hurt everyone and I’m shit for doin’ it.”

“Atsumu—”

“An’ I get it if ya hate me, you’ve got every right to, I just had to apologize so only forgive me if you wanna—”

“Atsumu.”

The sincerity in Kita’s voice finally shut him up. Atsumu took in a few deep breaths and let them tumble from his lips in clouds that formed in the air before him.

“I forgive you,” Kita said softly.

“Ya don’t have to, like I said you—”

“I forgive you,” he repeated, slower that time.

Atsumu’s jaw went slack as silence stretched between them.

“My brain is all messed up, Shin,” Atsumu admitted softly.

“I know,” Kita replied, “Osamu told me.”

“He did?”

“Didn’t tell me all the details, but I know,” Kita said, “we all do.”

Atsumu stared again at his shoes. He’d had a sense that Osamu had spilled the beans, but he’d begged his brother to keep the details to a minimum. And even Osamu didn’t know every nook and cranny of Atsumu’s issues.

“I’ve never been mad at you, Atsumu,” Kita soothed, “Hurt? Yes. But not angry.”

Atsumu sighed in relief.

“I just wish you’d told me something was wrong, I would’ve loved to be there for you.”

Atsumu swallowed a pocket of tears. He bit the thumbnail of his free hand as Kita spoke, his friend’s voice sending calming waves through his entire body.

“I’m sorry,” Atsumu eked out.

“I know how you can make it up to me,” Kita replied.

“How?”

“Next time I visit, you tell me the truth,” he said.

Atsumu cracked a smile.

“Deal.”

“Is that all?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu fiddled with his coat, “I’ve actually—got something to do, right now.”

“Okay,” Kita replied, “I miss you, Atsumu.”

With a sigh, Atsumu’s eyes crinkled happily.

“Miss you, too,” he muttered.

They exchanged short farewells before ending the call. Right as the call dropped, a wave of nervousness flooded through his body. Sakusa’s door was so terrifying to look at, a threshold into a forbidden world. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and picked up the bag he’d left on the concrete.

With a hard swallow and a prayer in the form of an exhale, Atsumu rounded back to the door and lifted a hand to knock.

The sound echoed through the room on the other side. He panicked for one moment, hoping he remembered correctly which apartment Sakusa always sauntered into at the end of their walks.

“Omi?” He called hesitantly.

No reply. Not even a shuffle of feet on the other side.

“Sakusa, I—brought you some stuff,” he continued.

Yeah, he sounded like an idiot.

“I was just—in the area and—”

He groaned in defeat. It was a last-ditch attempt for him to turn the handle, but it was only because he wasn’t expecting the door to be unlocked.

Realistically, he should’ve stopped right there. Atsumu had never committed a crime before but trespassing in his friend’s apartment wasn’t about to be his first charge. Atsumu pursed his lips as he opened the door just an inch. It didn’t creak or make any sort of noise, it just opened and revealed a dark apartment on the other side.

His door is unlocked, Atsumu thought, that’s unsafe, I should probably go in and tell him that his door is unlocked.

In Atsumu’s overwhelmed mind, the reasoning was sound enough to defend opening the door all the way and shuffling inside.

Atsumu took a deep breath as he shut the door behind him and let his body be engulfed in the dim apartment light. It wasn’t very clean, Atsumu wondered if he was in the right apartment. There was nothing loose sitting on the floor or anything, but the kitchen counters were sporting a healthy layer of clutter ranging from old mugs to unopened bills. The coffee table was in a similar state, a pile of books teetering on the edge and a few empty water bottles decorating the other end. All the lights had been shut off leaving only the large window on the opposite wall which let afternoon sunlight stream in unrestricted.

Slipping off his shoes, Atsumu ignored the thrumming of his heart.

“Omi?”

“Atsumu?” He called from some distant room.

Atsumu’s mouth went dry.

“Omi?” He repeated, nearing a door from which he assumed the sound came.

The door was opened just a few inches, and there were no lights on in their either. After another cleansing breath, Atsumu used his shoulder to open the door enough for him to shimmy through.

When he did, he was faced with Sakusa’s bed, in the center of which sat Sakusa in an old, battered t-shirt, ratty athletic shorts, and threadbare socks, holding his knees to his chest and shivering.

“I was—your door was unlocked,” Atsumu said in a panic.

Sakusa gulped. His face was pale, but Atsumu felt it was more from fear than anything. His nose had tinted pink and his cheeks burned ever so slightly. He glanced over at Atsumu with glassy eyes.

And in the smallest of voices, Sakusa whispered:

“Help me.”

As if it was second nature, Atsumu dropped the bags onto the ground and rushed towards the bed where Sakusa shook.

“Tell me what happened,” Atsumu commanded.

“I woke up with a sore throat and then—and then it just got worse and my face it hot and I keep checking in the mirror to see how pale I am but it keeps getting worse it just keeps getting worse, Atsumu,” he rambled.

His voice was small and whiney. He was panicking but in a completely different way than he had with the blood. Then, it was the possibility of the worst-case scenario that sent him spiraling, but now the worst had happened, and he was sitting in the middle of it. Atsumu could sense Sakusa’s panic as he got closer to the side of his bed.

“What if it’s pneumonia? What if I fall asleep and then contract pneumonia and then I die in my sleep?” Sakusa hissed, “I can’t even close my eyes to take a nap.”

“Okay, you need to just—lay down,” Atsumu whispered.

“I can’t!” Sakusa cried, “I’m dying, I just know it.”

“Just lay down for me,” Atsumu took ahold of Sakusa’s shoulders and started leading him towards his propped pillows against his will.

“But you have to tell me I’m not gonna die, you have to tell me everything’s gonna be okay,” Sakusa whined, shaking beneath Atsumu’s touch.

“I’m not giving you reassurance, it’s just gonna make it worse,” Atsumu insisted.

Eventually, Sakusa relinquished himself against the pillows which were propped up on his metal headboard. Atsumu finally got a chance to look around his room which was about as tidy as the rest of his apartment. He had a desk in one corner with a little lamp and a hoard of comic books spread along the surface that wasn’t occupied by the giant monitor and lit-up keyboard. On the opposite wall from his bed was a series of posters—Star Wars posters, to be exact. A bookshelf sat in another corner stocked with textbooks and volleyball magazines and sci-fi art anthologies.

His sheets were dark blue, and his comforter was gray checked. At the end of his bed was a soft-looking knit blanket that fell off each edge and brushed the wood floor. His dresser was on the wall where a large window had been covered with white blinds and leaning against the dark wood was a lightsaber. The only reason Atsumu knew that was from that poster he’d seen in the window, the big man wearing black was holding an identical one in it.

Atsumu suppressed his urge to call Sakusa a huge nerd—it didn’t seem like the right moment.

“You’re alright, Omi,” Atsumu soothed as he rescued his bags from the floor.

Sakusa’s head lolled to the side and gave Atsumu a good view of his curls that’d plastered to his forehead with sweat. There were dark, sagging bags under his eyes and his lips were chapped from shallow, quick breaths.

“I think you have a cold,” Atsumu muttered as he dug through one of the bags.

“How do you know?” Sakusa asked insistently.

“I don’t,” Atsumu replied.

Sakusa sighed and let his head fall against the headboard as he stared up into the ceiling. Atsumu retrieved some cough medicine and shoved it into Sakusa’s hand.

“This should make you feel better and also knock you out,” Atsumu said, “two birds, one stone.”

Sakusa took the bottle reluctantly and immediately turned it to read the warnings on the bag.

“Uh-uh,” Atsumu reprimanded, tearing the bottle from Sakusa’s hand, “no checking, not on my watch.”

Sakusa pouted as the bottle was ripped from his grip. Atsumu struggled a little with the childproof cap before opening it and pouring just the right amount into the plastic cup. Sakusa eyed it suspiciously before accepting it.

“Bottoms up,” Atsumu teased.

Sakusa sniffed the medicine and checked the dosage once more. However, when Atsumu caught his eye with a look, Sakusa pursed his lips and gave in, guzzling the liquid in one fell swoop.

“Want ramen?” Atsumu flashed the package to Sakusa.

Even though he grimaced, Atsumu was already on the move. He vacated Sakusa’s room and shuffled into the kitchen he’d passed earlier. Avoiding the clutter, Atsumu pulled the top off of the instant ramen and filled it with water from the sink. He tossed the thing in the microwave and set the timer for it to cook.

In the moments that passed while the ramen cooked, Atsumu planted his hands on the edge of the counter and took a deep breath. His chest was fluttering just like all those times before and his breath was rattling inside his hollow mouth. He was thrumming with adrenaline. What the hell was he doing? It was like he’d taken one look at Sakusa and hadn’t been able to focus on anything else but caring for him, making every ailment go away. Seeing Sakusa in such a state made him feel worse than ever before. Maybe because he understood.

The microwave beeped and Atsumu retrieved the ramen from it. Atsumu opened a few drawers with trembling fingers in fervent search for a pair of chopsticks. He found some in a drawer that also sported a lighter, two old birthday candles, and a mess of take-out menus. He opened the fridge and spotted a brand-new water bottle which he tucked beneath his arm. With a deep breath, Atsumu hauled all his gathered things into the bedroom and prepared himself to see Sakusa once more.

“Here,” Atsumu said, setting the ramen on the nightstand and handing the water directly to Sakusa.

He took the bottle with a weary look. It was likely that the cough medicine was already working its magic. Sakusa glanced at the ramen cup and grimaced.

“Eat,” Atsumu commanded.

Sakusa hmphed, but eventually wrapped his blithe fingers around the container and pulled it up to his nose. Atsumu glanced around awkwardly in search of someplace to sit. He could sit in the desk chair, but it was kind of an awkward distance from the bed. He could sit on the floor—

“Here,” Sakusa grumbled, shifting a few inches towards the right edge of the bed.

It was mostly wordless, an empty acknowledgement, but Sakusa was obviously making room on the other side of his bed for Atsumu to sit. And Atsumu would be rude to decline. Thus, he shuffled around the edge of the bed and sat very tentatively on the other side.

The comforter smelled like Sakusa. Hell, the entire room smelled like Sakusa. Atsumu felt his brain quickly going fuzzy from his overwhelmed senses, and feeling the bed dip beneath his weight was just making it all worse. Atsumu sat awkwardly on the edge for a moment before responding to Sakusa’s strange look and swinging his legs up onto the comforter. Using his hands, Atsumu shifted himself up the bed until he was leaning against the headboard.

Sakusa was working at the ramen tentatively with his chopsticks, full focus obviously going to the action of eating. He was so focused that he couldn’t even notice Atsumu having a full-on crisis beside him.

It was quiet in the room, bar a fan humming in the corner. Atsumu fiddled with the hem of his shirt and stared at his feet which he’d now crossed toward the end of his bed.

“I never get sick,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu glanced over just as he shoved a reasonably sized bite of noodles into his mouth.

“I make it a point to never get sick,” he continued after swallowing the food, “because any sickness could be the one, the thing that finally kills me.”

Atsumu chuckled, “Y’think a cold is gonna be the thing to kill you?”

“Colds become pneumonia,” Sakusa grumbled, “or they’re indicators of a low immune system which is possibly—”

“Stop,” Atsumu commanded gently.

“Fuck!” Sakusa shouted, nearly sloshing the hot ramen broth all over his lap.

He knocked his head against the headboard and squished his eyes closed. His mouth curled up like he was trying to hold in tears like Atsumu was at Tamura’s house. His knuckles went white as he tightened his grip around the paper cup.

“Why can’t I be like you?” He whispered.

Atsumu reeled back. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and let his eyes trail to Sakusa’s crossed feet at the end of the bed, one sock pulled up loosely to his calf and the other bunched at his ankle.

“Whaddya talkin’ about?” Atsumu inquired.

Sakusa chuckled breathily. He shook his head.

“You’ve got all this—hope. You think you’re gonna get better,” he hummed.

Atsumu’s cheeks flushed.

“I used to think like that,” Sakusa continued lowly, “I imagined my life after it was gone, all the things I was gonna do.”

He shoved the chopsticks into the half-eaten pile of noodles and put the cup back onto the nightstand with a sniff. Sakusa used his left hand to fiddle nervously with the skin of his right palm. Atsumu stared at it, getting his first good glimpse of the white scars that striped from the pads of his fingers to the heel of his hand.

“And then one day I woke up, and it hit me,” Sakusa sighed, “I was never gonna get better.”

Atsumu swallowed hard and tore his gaze from Sakusa’s hands. He nearly shivered from Sakusa’s words.

“I’m never gonna get better,” he whispered.

As Sakusa bowed his head, Atsumu watched on with parted lips. He wanted to say something comforting, something to clue Sakusa into his psyche and give him a sliver of the hope he’d been toting all these years. But nothing sounded good enough. Even reassurance was empty, and every encouragement was void. All he could do was stare at the scars on Sakusa’s hand and wonder if things might’ve been different if they met a long time ago. Why had he not met Sakusa sooner?

“Did this when I was a kid,” he mumbled, motioning to his palms.

Atsumu tore his gaze away and tried to pretend like he wasn’t gawking. Sakusa didn’t seem fazed.

“Well, I was fourteen,” he hummed, “fifteen, maybe. I always felt like the germs were seeping into my skin and the only way to make them go away was to—tear them out.”

A shiver ran down Atsumu’s spine. His eyes drifted to the distance between their bodies—or lack thereof.

“I’d just sit in my bed and rip my skin open with my nails, over and over, hoping the feeling of the germs would just go away,” he whispered weakly.

Sakusa closed his fingers into his hand, hiding the evidence of the hurt, but the image was already burned into Atsumu’s mind. It haunted him: the white coloration of the marks, the way his skin tightened around the raised portions. Atsumu wanted to touch them, run his fingers through the ravines of his palm. He wanted to hold his hand.

Atsumu’s cheeks flushed at the thought. He straightened his posture and inched just a centimeter away from Sakusa. Folding his hands, Atsumu swallowed his heart down.

I want to hold his hand.

I want to hold his hand.

Atsumu shouted at his brain, begging it to stop. It was definitely better than his usual gruesome intrusions, but it was eliciting a very similar sensation in his body.

“Do you wanna—watch a movie or something?”

The words tumbled from Atsumu’s mouth. Thank god they were even in the right order. He couldn’t tell if it was the desperation to end the tense, silent moment or an attempt at escaping his own harrowing thoughts.

Sakusa eyed him suspiciously, but he didn’t seem totally opposed.

“Maybe,” he said hesitantly.

“We could watch, uh, that one movie,” Atsumu rambled.

Sakusa’s eyes narrowed and his brow dropped.

“The uh—Empire Strikes Back?” Atsumu said slowly.

Sakusa quirked a brow.

“A—New Hope?” He self-corrected.

Sakusa’s brow lifted and his eyes glimmered.

“Really?” He asked softly.

Atsumu shrugged, “Yeah, why not?”

A ghost of a smile twitched over Sakusa’s lips.

“It’s in the living room, below the TV,” he said sheepishly.

Atsumu flashed him a weak grin before heaving himself off of the bed and shuffling into the living room. He located the shelving beneath the TV which was cluttered with more movies that Atsumu had ever seen in his life. Atsumu had only ever collected the entire Fast and Furious series, there was no way Sakusa had seen all these movies.

Eventually, his eyes landed on the correct movie and he pulled it gingerly from the endless row. As his grip tightened around the case, Atsumu poked his head back into Sakusa’s room. He’d pulled a laptop out from somewhere and started it up and when he caught sight of Atsumu in the doorway, he extended a weak hand for the movie. Atsumu fumbled with the case for a moment before dislodging the movie and handing it to Sakusa. As he started up the movie, Atsumu re-acquainted himself with the other side of the bed.

He shimmied a little closer since the laptop wasn’t so large, but he didn’t want to scare Sakusa off. Sure, he’d said that Atsumu wasn’t contaminated, but what if that was just a one-time thing? What if it wasn’t true now?

Sakusa adjusted the screen so they could both see it, but he gave Atsumu a strange look as he noticed the distance between them. He wouldn’t relent until Atsumu inched closer. Once Atsumu had a good, even view of the laptop, the edge of his thigh was brushing Sakusa’s.

Atsumu’s entire body was wracked with worry. His heart beat incessantly at the edge of his chest; he wondered if Sakusa could hear. His cheeks ran tomato-red with more heat than he’d ever felt in his life and he wished nothing more than for his mind to shut up about holding the guy’s goddamn hand.

With a gulp, Atsumu watched the movie open with a series of rolling yellow words. He couldn’t read them fast enough and, even if he could, his brain couldn’t make anything good of it. Sakusa shifted only slightly, but it was enough to close the foreboding gap between their shoulders. Atsumu shivered at the contact, feeling Sakusa’s skin brush against his own. It burned, just like every time before. Atsumu bounced his foot nervously as the movie’s title flashed against the screen.

“Did you lock the door?” Sakusa asked.

“Don’t know,” Atsumu shrugged.

“I have to go check,” Sakusa started to shift from his seat.

“No, you don’t.”

“What if someone breaks in?”

“If someone breaks in, I will simply jiu jitsu them into submission,” Atsumu teased.

Sakusa’s brow knitted. He shimmied back into his seat.

“You don’t know jiu jitsu,” he replied lowly.

“Uh, false, I have seen many movies where jiu jitsu was used and it looks easy enough.”

Sakusa chuckled breathily and shook his head.

“Now I really don’t trust you to protect me,” he said bitingly.

“Hm,” Atsumu joked, “let’s find the uncertainty in this intrusive thought.”

“The only certainty I have is that I’m certain you’re a big fat liar.”

Atsumu chuckled and let his shoulder move. against Sakusa’s. He inched even closer, Atsumu could sense his curls almost tickling the skin of his cheek. The movie began with some characters Atsumu half-recognized from a poster that was tacked onto Sakusa’s wall.

“You’ll get sick if you stay,” Sakusa whispered.

His breath brushed along Atsumu’s cheek. It was toothpaste and ramen and cough medicine, but Atsumu couldn’t get enough. When he talked, his shoulder moved ever so slightly. Atsumu’s mind reeled, overwhelmed with simply being so close to him.

“I don’t care,” Atsumu replied.

Sakusa didn’t reply. Instead, he guided his eyes dutifully towards the screen where the movie was starting to get interesting. Atsumu tried to focus, but he couldn’t, not with so much of Sakusa touching so much of him. His left hand was splayed on his thigh—it was the place he eventually landed on after putting it in a bunch of different awkward placed. Sakusa’s right hand was fiddling with a loose thread his shorts.

Atsumu shifted his hand slightly, mostly in an attempt to wipe the sweat from his palm. The bottom of the laptop that was half on his knee was sending a strange amount of heat through his body. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sakusa’s fiddling fingers slow to a stop. Both of their eyes were now trained on the skin, but Atsumu could sense Sakusa’s fingers moving, nearing his.

His heart tightened. His chest became a marching band, beating and singing and marching to some overwhelming tune.

I want to hold his hand, his mind chanted.

Memories of Sakusa’s words in therapy haunted him. The way he’d spoken so bitterly about his last girlfriend, how he couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Atsumu couldn’t live with himself if he became another horror story for Sakusa to tell in therapy. If it meant getting to stay with Sakusa for one more day, he would never hold the man’s hand.

The first brush was purely accidental. Just the skin of Atsumu’s pinky against the nail of Sakusa’s. Both of them pulled their fingers back after the contact in some subtle sort of panic.

The second brush was intentional.

Atsumu didn’t mean for it to seem so obvious, but it was like his finger moved all on its own. Before he knew it, his entire pinky was pressed up against Sakusa’s. He wondered if Sakusa could feel it shake. What if he was making a mistake? What if Sakusa was about to tear his hand away and scream at him to get out?

Atsumu was just about to pull his hand back when Sakusa’s pinky moved atop his and hooked gently around it.

Atsumu’s heart went into a fit. His breath got all caught up somewhere in his throat and he couldn’t dislodge it. Sakusa’s pinky shifted and Atsumu could feel a small scar rub against his knuckle. Atsumu’s mouth ran dry and he resisted the urge to look, lest he scare Sakusa away.

Or maybe Sakusa didn’t know what he was doing. Maybe the cough medicine was doing a number on his brain and incapacitating him from making actual decisions, that’s why he was holding onto Atsumu’s pinky. But even if it was some fluke, some trick of the universe, Atsumu didn’t want it to end.

He wanted to hold onto Sakusa’s finger for the rest of his life.

Even though he felt like he could float away, Sakusa’s small grip was keeping him grounded to the earth. They flashed in his mind, all the images he’d seen while at Tamura’s house of the dates in the park and the lazy mornings splayed in bed. He could only imagine Sakusa in each of them, the dreams wouldn’t even exist without his face.

Atsumu tried to take a few deep yet subtle breaths. Maybe, if he was really lucky, he could shift again and finesse himself into holding Sakusa’s entire hand. He felt nauseous just thinking about it. Maybe if he just looked over, he could work up the courage to say what had been hanging heavy on his tongue when he left Tamura’s. Thus, he turned his head, heart thrumming with the anticipation.

A small smile broke across Atsumu’s face just as the pinky that was gripping his curled further around the appendage and he saw the state Sakusa was in.

Perhaps it was good that he was already fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Atsumu tapped his foot anxiously while the line at the coffee shop inched on at an excruciatingly slow pace. He’d planned on getting up at seven so he’d miss the Sunday morning rush, but he’d taken a late shower which led to him sitting in bed and getting sucked into some new paranormal investigation documentary and, before he knew it, three am was rolling around and he was balls deep in a Wikipedia page about cell phone towers. Naturally, his eyes didn’t open again until ten, and now he was not only fighting the morning rush but the early trickles of the lunch rush as well.

He fiddled with the zipper of his coat while the barista took yet another order. It wasn’t like he was impatient or anything, his body just didn’t manage well staying in the same place for too long, it made him anxious and antsy in a way he couldn’t describe. His phone buzzing was a real godsend, in that moment.

Sakusa MSBY: Thank you.

Atsumu peered at the text while his heart was sent into a sickening flurry at the sight.

Sakusa MSBY: For yesterday.

Yesterday.

Sakusa had slept through basically the entire movie. Thankfully, it was more entertaining than he’d anticipated, so Atsumu sat and watched the entire thing; it would’ve been nice if Sakusa was awake to ramble on about the characters and plotlines but, instead, he was snoring softly just inches away from Atsumu throughout the whole movie. In the moments where his attention wasn’t gripped by Carrie Fischer, Atsumu’s body was flying into a panic, his pinky seemingly cemented beneath Sakusa’s

He was scared to move or even flinch in case such a tiny ministration would force Sakusa to retract his pinky. Atsumu wondered if he could feel it, even in his sleep. Had he meant to hold onto him? Had it been some big misunderstanding?

Should he ask about it?

Atsumu: no problem

Atsumu: the movie was actually really good, I liked it

With trembling fingers, Atsumu slid his phone back into his pocket and paired the movement with a long, deep breath. If he thought too hard about texting Sakusa, his hands would start to clam up and the probability that he would drop his coffee would only increase.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself as he felt his phone buzz again.

With those same trembling fingers, Atsumu tugged his phone back out of his coat pocket. He took a moment to shuffle forward as another coffee shop patron left with their goods.

Sakusa MSBY: You did? Really?

Atsumu typed out the first half of a response, but his mind was so swimmy that nothing sounded right. Pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth, he chewed on an already raw spot.

Sakusa MSBY: If you’d like, we could watch the next one.

Sakusa MSBY: Tonight.

Sakusa MSBY: But only if you want to.

Atsumu sucked in a breath. He took a chaste glance around the coffee shop to make sure the new flush of his face wasn’t on display for surrounding patrons as his thumbs hovered over the keys.

“What can I get ya?” The barista’s voice appeared.

“Uh—” Atsumu stammered, his eyes snapping to the source.

How did he get so far in line already?

“Flat white,” he blurted out, “please.”

The barista grabbed a cup with a nod and scribbled something on the outside. There was only a handful of seconds before he’d have to pay for his drink and his phone was still in his hands, primed to respond to Sakusa’s message.

Atsumu: sure

Honestly, he’d typed it out and planned on sending it later—and by sending it later, he meant looking at it for a couple hours and thinking of all the worst-case scenarios of actually sending it. Curse his technological addiction and hordes of new habits that led him to send the message right after he typed it. In a panic, he tossed his phone back into his pocket and busied himself with paying for his coffee, hoping the barista didn’t notice how white his face had gone.

He willed his body to at least keep him upright as he waited for the hot drink and escaped not a moment after he grabbed it.

The biting spring air was rather refreshing in light of Atsumu’s unrelenting panic. He took an inaugural sip from his drink just a tad too early, the stinging burn of hot liquid spreading all over his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

“Yikes,” he hissed, already parading down the bustling sidewalk.

He’d cross one street and turned down another corner before his phone began to buzz. Atsumu’s first thought was that Sakusa was calling him, the mere suggestion sending a jolt of electricity up his spine. But when he looked at the screen, the caller ID told him otherwise.

“Hello?” He answered.

“Hey, where the hell are ya?” Suna’s voice crackled over the receiver.

“Um,” Atsumu peered up into the blazing sun, “I’m walking home? Just got coffee.”

“Well, walk a little faster because I’ve been standin’ outside your apartment for the last thirty minutes,” Suna groaned.

Atsumu’s eyes went wide.

“Wait, really?” He cried.

There might’ve been some moment where Atsumu ended the call, but he was far too caught up in quickening his pace and weaving through endless crowds of people. When he finally arrived back at his apartment, Suna was exactly where he said he was, clad in a warm looking jean jacket and his soft brown hair tossed back effortlessly.

When he cracked his signature smile, Atsumu couldn’t help but return the favor.

“Oh my god,” Atsumu shouted as he jogged over, careful to keep the hot cup of coffee steady in his hand.

When he reached Suna, he felt his friend’s strong arms wrap around him and lift him just an inch off the ground. Atsumu was still careful with his coffee, but he hugged him back as best he could.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Atsumu asked.

“Getting nice and cold before I return to the pits o’ hell,” Suna chuckled.

“How’s California?” Atsumu patted his hand on Suna’s shoulder.

“Ass,” he replied, “it’s hot and loud and full o’ sweaty wierdos.”

“Sounds like a night with the Inarizaki volleyball team,” Atsumu teased.

“You’re not wrong,” Suna replied.

“Still playing?”

“Of course, I’m still playing,” Suna spat back, “I could kick your ass, now.”

“Bet,” Atsumu challenged him.

They continued to chatter and push each other around while they snatched a loose volleyball from Atsumu’s apartment and began the trek to the little abandoned grassy knoll that Atsumu had found after his MSBY tryouts which was just the perfect size for sitting and thinking about everything he’s done wrong in his life—and it wasn’t a bad place to play volleyball either.

It was a familiar sort of routine, the movement of the ball between the pair’s arms, the familiar sting of skin after the contact and the sound of the ball whooshing into the clear sky.

“I went to go see your brother, but he was havin’ some sort of mental breakdown,” Suna muttered.

“Over what?”

“He got fired from his line cook job,” he chuckled.

Atsumu quirked a brow, “Fired?”

“Kept changin’ the recipes, owner was pissed,” he explained, “they got in this huge fight and then Osamu tipped a vat of mayonnaise onto the ground and stormed out.”

“Typical,” Atsumu scoffed.

“Now, not only is he public enemy number one for that restaurant,” Suna added, “he’s been unceremoniously banned from every other restaurant in a ten-mile radius.”

“You’re kiddin’.”

“I don’t joke about your brother,” he replied, “and it’s so funny to me that he definitely has to move now. The restaurant industry has literally run him out of town.”

“Oh, he’s never livin’ this down,” Atsumu shook his head.

“Hey,” Suna bumped the ball back to him, “what’s the deal with all those boxes in your apartment?”

Atsumu glanced down sheepishly after returning the ball.

“Just—haven’t had the time to unpack,” he fibbed.

“Right,” Suna was only half-convinced.

“Really.”

“You’ve been here for months,” he persisted, “how do you live?”

“I’m doing fine,” Atsumu groaned.

“You’re sleeping with only a top sheet,” Suna squinted, “where’s your comforter?”

“It’s—” Atsumu paused in thought, “somewhere.”

Suna chuckled but ultimately chose to drop the subject. For a few moments, they continued passing in a sort of comfortable silence, the only sounds being the chirping birds in the nearby trees and the whistling wind that whipped Atsumu’s hair in all directions. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine springs back home, standing in the countryside at the edge of the creek bordered by the old shed where he and his friends would sit and plan all sorts of mischief.

Before he left for good, Atsumu had paid one last visit to that shed, all by himself. He ran his fingers over the rotting wood walls and picked pennies and nickels off the ground. It terrified him, the thought that he and all his friends had gone to that shed for the very last time without even knowing it. That’s how his life felt. There was this one day that was the last normal day he’d ever live and he didn’t even know it; now he strode around his psyche running his fingers over the rotting edges and picked up things he’d accidentally left behind.

But unlike the old shed that he could return to,

he could never go back to who he was before.

“So,” Suna’s voice crooned, “tell me about the guy.”

“What guy?” Atsumu scoffed.

“The guy you were talkin’ about on the phone,” he explained.

“There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Liar.”

Atsumu scoffed again, but the flush of his cheeks probably looked as telling as it felt. He’d successfully escaped the thought for the past hour or so, but it never truly went away, just got shuffled amidst all his other obsessions.

“I like him,” Atsumu replied flatly, “that’s all.”

“Then ask him out,” Suna insisted.

“Can’t.”

As the ball flew through the air towards Suna, he shifted his arms to catch it instead. With the ball trapped between his hands, Suna shot Atsumu a serious look.

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated,” Atsumu hummed.

“I bet ya twenty bucks it’s not,” Suna replied.

“Suna, I’m sick!”

Suna’s taunting expression fell for a moment. He eyed Atsumu strangely as if he’d just announced that he’d joined a cult or something. Atsumu’s heart was going a mile a minute, his mouth was running desert-dry, and his mind was screaming at him to stop what he was doing.

“Need some medicine?” Suna joked.

“No, I’m sick—in the head,” Atsumu sighed.

“I think we all know that,” Suna replied facetiously.

“Suna.”

Atsumu wasn’t serious very often, at least, not around his old friends. So when his voice dropped half an octave and his brow fell heavy over his eyes, he watched Suna’s posture straighten.

“Yeah?”

“I—” Atsumu’s jaw went slack

Suna tilted his head. Atsumu struggled to form the words. He’d imagined this situation a million different times with a million different outcomes, but they all ended in Atsumu, alone. How was he supposed to say this so Suna wouldn’t hate him forever?

“I have this—this messed up brain,” Atsumu gestured solidly, “and this thing happens where I think terrible things about people who mean a lot to me, and it freaks me out.”

Suna didn’t move much—just listened. It almost made Atsumu more nervous to continue.

“And if it freaks me out then it will definitely freak you out,” he added, “and I was—I was supposed to come here and get better so I could go home and make it all right.”

Still, no response. Suna’s eyes narrowed, but that was because the sun had moved just to the tops of the trees and were blaring an afternoon heat through the fields.

“I mean, the worst shit you could imagine,” Atsumu’s voice began to waver, “and I don’t actually wanna do it but—well, I don’t actually know whether I wanna do it or not, but that’s what kills me!”

The words tasted stale. Atsumu wondered how long he’d been keeping them locked up in his chest. They were worn and shriveled and sun stripped. Yet, Atsumu’s chest felt loads lighter without them, like he’d shed a bag full of rocks that’d been tied around his neck. Now, all those rocks sat before Suna. Atsumu feared he was going to be stoned now that he’d provided all the proper ammunition.

“Okay.”

Suna’s voice was as flat and disinterested as usual. Atsumu’s mouth hung agape at the sound. He’d just poured his heart out and all Suna could say was—

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” Suna shrugged, “okay.”

Atsumu shook his head in disbelief, “You’re not freaked?”

“I don’t get freaked, you know that,” Suna chuckled.

“Suna—”

“It’s not somethin’ you can help,” he shrugged, “so—I understand.”

I understand.

“You do?” Atsumu felt his throat start to tighten.

“Totally,” he replied flatly, “I took a psychology class my first year of college.”

“So you’re an expert?” Atsumu quirked his brow.

Suna rolled his eyes but paired it with a subtle smile. Instantly, Atsumu felt the oppressive atmosphere between them lift.

“But what does this have to do with the guy?” Suna served the ball to start another volley between them.

Although Suna had changed the subject, Atsumu was still shaking the shock of their prior interaction. Suna had accepted it so readily, he’d even said that he understood. Was it true? Did he actually understand?

“It has more to do with it than you know,” Atsumu sighed.

“Do you still hate him?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? If Atsumu was interested in continuing his little charade, he would’ve pulled some anecdote out of his ass and not only confirmed his hatred of Sakusa but defended it with evidence. But doing so would feel like a performance, a farce. And Atsumu was tired of lying to his friends.

“No,” he groaned, “I don’t.”

“Hey, that’s step one,” Suna taunted.

“Doesn’t matter ‘cause it’d never work between us,” Atsumu’s flew exasperatedly into the air.

“You don’t know that”

“I do know that! It’s just true,” Atsumu returned the ball with a grimace.

“What if, and hear me out, you just ask him on a date—and he says yes?” Suna asked rather theatrically.

“But that’s just it! What if he says yes?” Atsumu sighed.

“Then you have a hot boyfriend?” Suna egged on with a confused expression.

“No, then he has to like me!”

As he pressed his fingers into the sockets of his eyes, Atsumu heard the ball drop and roll along the soft grass.

“I’m failin’ to see the problem,” Suna persisted.

“I don’t deserve him!”

Atsumu’s hands stretched out in a sort of veiled desperation. His eyes were stinging from his digging fingers and he was willing the sun to dip behind the tree line and stop burning the back of his neck to a deep crimson. Those words, they’d been trapped up inside him for so long that they felt foreign, spelled in characters of a language he didn’t speak. Yet, in another sense, it felt like something that he’d been saying over and over for months, just in a different order or with different words.

Suna knitted his brow and rescued the ball with one hand, tucking it under his arm.

“I don’t—I don’t deserve good things,” Atsumu continued in a tight voice, “I mean, look at me! I’m a monster, Rin.”

Atsumu felt the familiar knot of tears start to crawl up his throat. As much as he wanted to take a moment to calm down and keep himself from crying, the words kept flowing out like the dam holding them back had crumbled from the years of pressure and longing. Thus, the tears were almost inevitable. They welled at the line of his lower lid like soldiers prepared for battle. It had been a long time since Atsumu cried—like really cried.

“I’m gonna be like this for the rest of my life!” He beat his chest with the tip of his pointed finger, “and I’ll be the shittiest person in the world to subject someone to that—t-to loving that.”

The tears were insistent, now trailing down his hot, red cheeks. Every time his jaw would hang agape in preparation for more words, the afternoon breeze would suck all the moisture out of it, making speaking at all hurt. In the same fashion as his eyes, his heart was leaking blood.

“The same brain that makes all these terrible thoughts couldn’t possibly know how to love anymore,” Atsumu’s voice cracked and wobbled, “I look in the mirror, and I don’t even recognize myself!”

He already felt his eyes going puffy and red-rimmed. His finger was jabbing so hard into his sternum that it was starting to ache. He felt entirely stupid sobbing like this in front of Suna, especially as the snot and tears were mixing unceremoniously and dribbling over his top lip.

With both hands, Atsumu dragged up the skin on either side of his head and carded his fingers through the bleached part of his hair. He sucked in a rattling breath.

“Atsumu,” Suna said lowly.

“God,” Atsumu hissed to himself.

He bowed his head and watched a few tears drip from his cheekbones and disappear into the grass below. Every thought of Sakusa sent a sharp spike through his chest. His arms felt impossibly heavy, like they weren’t even his own. It was the same feeling he’d had after his diagnosis where all his limbs felt like they were hanging by a thread, and if he moved too quickly or made too rash of a decision, he’d fall apart completely.

“Atsumu,” Suna repeated.

He was more serious this time. Atsumu had no choice but to crane his neck and wipe at the space between his nose and top lip with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Suna was standing a bit closer, the volleyball long gone somewhere behind him. His brow was low and his eyes narrow.

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you don’t have to get better before you’re worthy of bein’ loved?”

Atsumu held his sleeve over his mouth for one moment more. Frankly, it had never occurred to him. Atsumu could describe the moment that followed his diagnosis where he’d immediately thought of all the things he’d do when he was better, and all the avenues he was going to take to get there. There was no sense of the now because the now wasn’t any good. He’d so seamlessly pushed everything into the future that he’d never considered what it would be like to live in it and still not do all the things he dreamed of.

This was the future. Perhaps it wasn’t the future he wanted, but it was the only one he was ever going to get. And here he was, sobbing in front of his best friend lamenting all the lost years.

I’m going to get better one day.

I’m going to be better one day.

Today. Today was ‘one day’.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered through the muffle of fabric.

“You don’t have time to stand here and apologize to me,” Suna shook his head.

Atsumu let out a shuddering chuckle and ran his hand through his hair as Suna patted his shoulder firmly.

This was the future, the one he’d always waited for.

And he was blowing it.

“Good to see you again, Miya,” Dr. Hirai greeted him.

Atsumu bowed his head before slipping into his usual chair. Naturally, his eyes fell to Sakusa’s seat which was surprisingly vacant. It was still early, it was just Atsumu and Hayato and the doctor. Tamura tumbled in not a moment later, greeting Atsumu with a gentle hand on the back of his head and a chaste smile directed down at him.

He mirrored her smile. The hand felt familiar, its placement so natural, it was the same way his mother used to comfort him.

Even with his realization the day prior, Atsumu had been a certifiable mess at Sakusa’s place. He shimmied in the door and caught Sakusa cooking something on the stove, some instant sort of meal that Atsumu would buy while drunk. He teased him for not being able to cook which Sakusa replied with a scowl, but then the panic washed over him.

“My mom never taught me,” he’d muttered.

“Obviously,” Atsumu chuckled, “my brother did all the cooking, though.”

“Really?” Sakusa hmphed.

“Yeah, but apparently he’s not very popular in the Hyogo restaurant circuit, anymore.”

Sakusa replied with a blithe grin, the kind that sent Atsumu’s heart into a flurry. He was feeling well enough to stand and, although the thoughts and compulsions were still constant, Atsumu had become an expert in redirecting him to various distractions, one of those being the next Star Wars movie.

“See him? That’s Lando,” Sakusa leaned towards Atsumu while pointing to the TV.

They’d situated themselves on Sakusa’s short leather couch with their feet on the coffee table. Atsumu sat there awkwardly, unsure if clean freak Sakusa would be okay with feet on his coffee table, but when he swung his own legs up and shot Atsumu a strange look, Atsumu followed suit.

“Who?” Atsumu asked.

“Calrissian,” Sakusa replied.

“Bless you.”

“Watch the movie,” Sakusa groaned.

“I am!” Atsumu protested with a wave.

As they inched closer and closer naturally during the course of the movie, Atsumu’s mind was unrelenting in reminding him of their last encounter and making sure that he couldn’t think of anything but getting to hold Sakusa’s pinky again. Really, the distance was only so Sakusa could lean over and whisper fact after fact into Atsumu’s ear, but his scent was intoxicating, distracting Atsumu from the movie almost entirely.

Today is ‘one day’, he reminded himself.

Once Suna had left to take the long bus ride back to Atsumu’s hometown, Atsumu had taken to his bathroom where he stood in front of the mirror and practiced exactly what he was going to say to Sakusa. He had it all memorized, including how he would save himself if Sakusa turned him down. Yet, the worry still poked at the back of his mind:

What if Sakusa didn’t even consider them as friends?

Not six months ago the two of them were at each other’s throats, ready to battle in the center of the court. Now, they were sitting together on the smallest couch in existence watching a movie like they’d been friends for years.

“Omi, I—” Atsumu’s voice shuddered.

“Oh, you gotta watch this part,” Sakusa cut him off, his eyes glued to the screen.

Atsumu sighed and suppressed the wave of adrenaline that had only begun to rush through his body. Reluctantly, he turned back to the TV. As the movie played on, Atsumu became strangely aware of his left hand and its proximity to Sakusa’s right hand which was resting casually in his own lap. He could see it out of the corner of his eye, twitching and fiddling with some loose thread on Sakusa’s shorts.

I want to hold his hand.

The old mantra returned. It tortured him, it was the new music on his endless carousel ride, and if he removed his hands from the pole to plug his ears he might fall right off.

“And this is the character I was telling you about, you have to pay attention if you wanna understand anything about the prequels,” Sakusa motioned to the TV.

Atsumu nodded and sighed. His eyes trailed Sakusa’s hand for only a moment as it dropped back down to the couch, but instead of falling back to his thigh, it landed somewhere in between Atsumu’s thigh and his own. His breath hitched in his throat and he could only dislodge it with a swallow.

“That’s the guy from the last one, right?” Atsumu asked, motioning with his left hand.

Sakusa nodded and hmphed some response.

Fully aware of the direction of his hand, Atsumu lowered until he felt the cold leather of the couch cushion make contact with the pads of his fingers. As he relaxed his hand, he could almost feel the heat radiating off of Sakusa’s hand that couldn’t have been more than a centimeter away.

There was something happening on the screen, but Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to pay attention, not when a part of Sakusa’s body was so close to a part of his. The music blared so loudly that Atsumu could barely hear his own racing thoughts.

The fabric of the couch that was resting beneath Atsumu’s fingers dipped just slightly. He kept his eyes trained dutifully on the TV, even as he sensed Sakusa’s fingers inching closer. It was a ruse, that was all. Sakusa was just resting his hands on the couch cushion, that was all. He was resting his hands on the couch cushion entirely unaware of how close Atsumu’s hand was and when he touched it, he was going to recoil faster than light.

So, when the sides of Sakusa’s fingers brushed the sides of Atsumu’s, he found himself counting the seconds until Sakusa tore his hand back.

One.

Two.

Three.

His hand began to move. Atsumu’s heart sunk to his feet as he felt Sakusa’s fingers shift, but the absence he was waiting for never came.

Rather, Sakusa’s fingers traveled centimeter by centimeter until they were resting atop Atsumu’s.

His heart thrummed ceaselessly at the edge of his chest. He gulped. This was just another trick. Sakusa was going to realize what he was doing and stop.

One.

Two.

Thr—

Before Atsumu could even finish his thought, Sakusa’s fingers were turning to thread through the spaces between Atsumu’s. Hesitantly, the pads of his fingers moved towards Atsumu’s palms. Atsumu was sure he’d stopped breathing entirely.

One.

Two.

The fingers tightened.

One two—one—

One.

They grazed his palm. Atsumu moved instinctually against him, molding his fingers against Sakusa’s. It was a strange way to hold onto one another, but neither of them dared to moved—if they did, the moment would end. They held onto each other like letting go would let them fall right into the graves they’d dug themselves for years. It was the only moment that Atsumu felt like he could release his vice grip on the carousel horse—

because even if he fell, Sakusa would be falling with him.

Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you don’t have to get better before you’re worthy of being loved?

The feeling lingered on for the rest of the night, even when they were forced to separate by the long movie credits. Their eyes wandered towards one another, taking note of their matching blushes and torn-up lips, but they didn’t exchange a single word about it. Instead, Atsumu mumbled a quick goodbye and shuffled out the door, saving his moment of panic for the gate outside.

Now, as he waited for Sakusa to walk into therapy, he kept wringing his fingers through one another, the tingling and electricity from the contact still rushing through. He watched Hayato mess with the buttons on his shirt and Akari slide into her usual seat, the familiar turnings of the group. But everything felt different. There was a foreboding energy coming from the folded piece of paper that Dr. Hirai was twiddling between his fingers.

Sakusa shuffled in just as the clock struck six. He didn’t look at Atsumu until he was comfortably in his seat and, when he did, his cheeks went crimson. At least, that’s what Atsumu could see poking out from the top edge of his mask. He diverted his gaze immediately, his focus going to his fingers which were opening and closing against his palm.

“Great, now that we’re all here,” Dr. Hirai settled himself in his chair.

His usual calm, flat expression had been taken over by a sly smile. The doctor’s eyes moved languidly from one person to another, and when he reached Sakusa, he took a deep breath in.

“We’ve been with each other for a while now,” Dr. Hirai hummed, “and whenever I’m with one group for a while, there’s something I like to read them.”

He pulled the paper closer, the one he was messing with, and unfolded it. It did look rather old, the paper was yellow and worn at the edges, and Dr. Hirai treated it with such care.

“A friend of mine wrote this for me, a former therapy patient,” he clarified, “it’s a good reminder, so I keep it around and wait for the right time to read it.”

His gaze trailed back to Sakusa who was listening on intently.

“Sakusa, would you mind reading it to the group for me?”

Sakusa knitted his brow as he gazed at Dr. Hirai’s outstretched hand and the paper that was held at the end of it. Reluctantly, he took the paper by the edge with his thumb and index and pulled it towards himself.

“Stand,” Dr. Hirai commanded gently.

He shot another harrowed look to the doctor, but the man was insistent. Sakusa eventually complied and hoisted himself out of his seat. He took a few moments to shift his feet and steady his body while casting uncertain glances around the group. Atsumu straightened his back and let his eyes trail to Sakusa’s eyes which were narrowed and scanning the paper intently.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the doctor encouraged him.

Sakusa cleared his throat. His hand rose to scratch the side of his neck.

“But we’re frankenstein’s monsters of our own creation,” he began.

His voice was as even and ice-cold as Atsumu remembered, but it was a comforting sound now. He couldn’t help but grin.

“Favoring the pieces of ourselves we want to be while hauling the burden of all the limbs we wish we could leave behind.”

Atsumu crossed his arms over his lap and rubbed the ends of his fingers up and down the skin of his elbow. Sakusa adjusted the paper in his hand and cleared his throat again, more subtly this time.

“We’re disciples of the belief that love doesn’t exist because no one’s reminded us that our hearts weren’t left on the workbench.”

The paper began to quiver. Sakusa’s brow twitched and his lips pursed. Atsumu watched him swallow thickly.

“And we are broken mirrors,” he continued.

His usual steady voice had begun to teeter. Atsumu thought he’d never hear his tone so off-kilter, it didn’t seem right.

“—destined to show altered reflections of one another.”

In an instant, Sakusa’s eyes flickered up to meet Atsumu’s. They returned to the paper in the very next moment, but the sensation of being seen coursed strong through Atsumu’s arms and legs.

“We may be hostile at first, but it’s only because we’ve met in the unfortunate circumstance of our inescapable selves.”

Sakusa was almost whispering now, desperate to keep control over his tone. Atsumu was taking steady, deep breaths for the exact same reason. His chest felt impossibly heavy, like he’d taken on a whole new burden in place of the one he’d shed with Suna.

“Either—” Sakusa exhaled, “we must continue to believe that we are monsters who will eventually learn to love.”

A stretching silence pulled from one end of the group to the other. Hayato had curled into himself, an obvious mist hazing over his eyes. Tamura was chewing on her thumbnail, a tear trailing down her left cheek. Akari was more stoic than the rest of them, but her brow was still curled, and her lips were desperately sealed.

“Or consider that we were never monsters to begin with—”

Sakusa’s eyes flitted back up to Atsumu. They were deep, shining with longing, and turned down almost sadly.

“—and we have known how to love all this time.”

As he uttered the poems parting words, his lips quivered. His fingers pressed into the edges of the paper until it folded beneath the contact. Though the moment had passed, Sakusa’s intense gaze was glued to Atsumu.

“Thank you, Sakusa,” the doctor said lowly, gesturing for Sakusa to sit.

Sakusa’s throat bobbed with a thick swallow before he tore his eyes away from Atsumu’s face and he handed the paper back to Dr. Hirai whose eyes trailed Sakusa as he sat back down.

“The poem spoke to me years ago, I hope it bears some meaning for you,” Dr. Hirai said softly.

The group reacted minimally. Most of them were still trying not to cry. Yet, without any words, there was a sort of unspoken understanding between them all—they were monsters, masses of limbs holding memories they never wanted to make, but they could love.

In fact, they deserved it.

They eventually took refuge in their routine, talking about their achievements and struggles throughout the week. During the entire session, Atsumu was stealing hesitant glances at Sakusa, and Sakusa was always looking right back at him.

“Well, that does it for today,” Dr. Hirai nodded to the group.

It tore Atsumu unceremoniously from his daydream. It was palpable enough to distract him for the entire hour, and he was in a sort of daze walking down the hallway and slipping his shoes and coat back on.

As always, Sakusa was waiting right outside the door for Atsumu to join him. He tapped his foot impatiently and fiddled with his fingers in his coat pockets. Atsumu shot him a small smile and they began their trek towards the corner store.

It was a quiet walk. Crickets made their appearance just as the sky started to go pink, the sun slipping below the city’s horizon. Atsumu considered the implications of reaching for Sakusa’s hand; but he could only imagine how it might feel and whether Sakusa would rub his thumb up and down the back of Atsumu’s hand. The thought sent a blush to his cheeks.

“You’re a natural,” Atsumu teased.

“Excuse me?” Sakusa hissed as they slid into the store.

“Should’ve gone into poetry reading,” he said.

“Shut up,” Sakusa scoffed, turning his head to mask his flushed cheeks.

The bun fit perfectly in the palm of Atsumu’s hand. They walked with a new certainty, their steps planned and practiced. But when they left the store in their usual fashion, Sakusa paused.

“Can we walk somewhere else tonight?” He asked plainly.

Atsumu turned on his heel.

“Sure,” he replied.

Swiftly, Sakusa started off in the complete opposite direction of his apartment building. He walked so quickly that Atsumu had to jog to catch up to him. He turned down a street that Atsumu had never seen before; it was lined with unfamiliar stores and street signs and passersby. Atsumu’s heart thrummed in his chest as he kept up with Sakusa. It was like the man had a new brightness and insistency in his steps, like wherever he was going he absolutely had to be.

They turned down another unknown street. Atsumu shot Sakusa a worried glance, but he wasn’t looking. He was practically racing down the pavement now, his black curls flitting through the spring breeze. The sun was dipping lower and lower at the horizon, Atsumu wondered if they were going to make it to their destination while there was still sunlight.

The only thing that Atsumu knew was that they were nearing the coast, a little inlet where a man-made river had been built to direct the water through. Atsumu remembered seeing it on the bus ride to his tryouts, and although he’d made a mental note to visit eventually, he never found the time. Eventually, the pair escaped the shadows of the tall city buildings and found themselves shrouded in the orange light of the setting sun and facing the edge of the stream.

Atsumu had to squint his eyes as Sakusa raced ahead towards the bridge the connected the two sides of the river. The light created a cloud around Sakusa, a sort of pinkish halo around his silky curls. When Atsumu’s eyes finally adjusted, the sight nearly sent him hurtling towards the ground.

Sakusa had turned, perhaps noticing that Atsumu was no longer following. He lifted his right hand to tug his mask down below his chin and flash Atsumu a ghost of a grin. The watercolor tones of the sunset enveloped him in bands of gold and red, and the remaining rays glittered off of the frizzy parts of his curls. In his other hand, he held the bun gently, more interested in reaching the bridge than he ever was with eating it.

The sight coaxed Atsumu forward like he had no choice in the matter. He neared Sakusa, step-by-step, the rate of his heart quickening with each foot he traveled. When they met once more, they sauntered towards the bridge, the sounds and bustling around them disappearing almost immediately.

The moment Atsumu’s feet hit the edge of the bridge, he felt the wind pick up and whip his hair every which way. Sakusa had already taken his place at the metal railing, watching the sun tease the line of the universe while his own curls flurried around and tickled his long, thick lashes. Atsumu was almost afraid to stand next to him, like he was interrupting an intimate moment.

“I wanted to apologize,” Sakusa said flatly once Atsumu joined him at the railing.

The metal bars were chilly to the touch; yet, Atsumu wrapped his hands around the top and used his right elbow to lean on, letting him turn to face Sakusa.

“For what?”

“For—” Sakusa inhaled, his eyes still glued to the sunset, “treating you the way that I did—when we first met.”

Atsumu chuckled lightly. However, with one peek at Sakusa’s eyes, he saw the genuine hurt that dripped from them, the regret that threatened to spill out like tears.

“I was—a monster,” Sakusa shook his head.

“So was I,” Atsumu half-grinned.

A sigh of relief fell from Sakusa’s lips. Even so, he would not tear his gaze from the sunset, not even to look at Atsumu.

“You were everythin’ I was afraid to become,” Atsumu said lowly, “so I tried to hate you like I hated what you represented.”

It was then that Sakusa turned his head and gazed worriedly at Atsumu.

“You’d accepted it, the fact that you had OCD,” he continued, “to me, that looked like givin’ up.”

Sakusa’s eyes trailed to the pavement with a curt nod. Atsumu watched his knuckles begin to flush white around the metal railing.

“I was jealous of you,” he said plainly, “I wanted all the hope you had of getting better.”

Sakusa’s words were clipped and hurried. When he was finished, he sealed his lips tightly. Atsumu smiled.

The sun had become more of a blob, a half-circle that was threatening to fall further and further out of sight. Atsumu’s ears tuned to the loudest sound he could hear: the endless rushing water beneath the bridge where they stood.

Sakusa eventually shifted so he was facing the sun again, and Atsumu shuffled an inch closer so he, too, could watch the sky change hues and the stars begin to twinkle.

“So you’re not scared of me?” Atsumu asked jokingly.

Sakusa scoffed, “Scared? Why would I be scared of you?”

“Because of the thoughts,” Atsumu said, “like, what if I was thinking of pushing you off this bridge, right now?”

Sakusa turned and peered coldly at him.

“Then I would hook my foot around the bottom of the railing, reach back up, and pull you into the freezing water instead.”

Atsumu’s eyes went wide. Sakusa’s face remained very flat and serious; he meant every word of what he’d said, after all. Atsumu let a laugh slip from his lips, his small smile cracking into a wide grin.

“What?” Sakusa asked defensively.

“You don’t think I could kill you that easily?” Atsumu leaned towards him.

“I think you’re wildly underestimating my survival instincts,” Sakusa replied lowly.

Atsumu laughed again. This time, he had to hunch over the railing from the force of it. He knew that Sakusa was looking on judgmentally, but he couldn’t care, not when Sakusa was so close to him.

His mind flickered back to the first time he saw Sakusa without his mask, that first day of practice on the court. He wondered if he fell in love in that moment or in some random moment much later than that—perhaps it didn’t matter. What mattered was that they were together.

“Do you come here a lot?” Atsumu asked.

“Every day before practice. I’ve always watched the sunrise here, but never the sunset.”

Atsumu shifted his hand a centimeter closer. Sakusa’s fingers lay immobile against the bar and there was a chance that even if Atsumu did touch them, they would be too cold to register any sort of sensation.

“I thought you might like to see it,” Sakusa added.

Although Sakusa was affixed on the barely-there sun, Atsumu was staring only at him. He thought of the moment walking home where Sakusa had slung him over his shoulder and helped him stay upright—how they’d looked at each other for a long moment, eyes flickering up and down like the waves of the river below. He wondered—

“Omi.”

Sakusa glanced over at him with an exhausted sort of look. He was never going to relinquish the heinous nickname, was he?

“How do you feel today?” Atsumu asked.

With a knitted brow, Sakusa eyed him strangely.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, with contamination and stuff,” Atsumu clarified, “how do you feel?”

Sakusa’s lips turned down and his eyes darted every which way.

“I feel—fine,” he mumbled uncertainly.

Atsumu’s heart felt like it was going to pump right out of his chest. His throat had closed a long time ago and he had to work for every breath he took in and every breath he released into the air. Even though his fingers trembled noticeably, he reached up to Sakusa’s chin where his mask had been shoved earlier.

When he caught sight of Atsumu’s hands, Sakusa reeled back an inch or two, and he stared at the hands with a terrified expression. But, eventually, he leaned towards the touch, just as Atsumu pinched the top edge of the mask and pulled it back over Sakusa’s mouth and nose. The entire time, he looked on as if Atsumu had gone completely insane. As he situated the mask over Sakusa’s nose, Atsumu could feel short, hot puffs of air travelling from his mouth. His own lips shook with the anticipation.

Consider that we were never monsters to begin with—

Sakusa’s eyes eventually shifted from Atsumu’s hands to his eyes. With a deep inhale, Atsumu prayed to anyone who might be listening that he was doing the right thing. His mind raced and raved, begging him to keep going and stop all at once.

and that we have known how to love all this time.

Without another thought, he leaned in.

There was a point between where he originally stood and where Sakusa was standing that Atsumu closed his eyes, so he didn’t know he’d made contact until the rough fabric of Sakusa’s mask was rubbing along his lips.

It was a hesitant, clumsy kiss, barricaded by two, thin sheets of fabric that Atsumu swore he would curse for the rest of his life. Still, he could feel the distinct shapes of Sakusa’s lips behind the fabric, thin and warm.

Atsumu stayed for one moment more, his eyes pressed closed and his lips slotted with Sakusa’s, the rough fabric catching at some dry patches. He wanted to move. He wanted to tear the mask away and do it for real, feel Sakusa’s actual skin against his own. But Sakusa hadn’t moved a muscle since Atsumu had made the contact, even his lips were set like twin stones, one in between Atsumu’s lips while the other rested atop them.

Atsumu didn’t dare open his eyes. What if Sakusa was terrified? What if he’d jeopardized everything they’d only just mended?

That, at least, was what half of his brain was saying.

The other half was spinning.

Sakusa. He was kissing Sakusa Kiyoomi. He wanted to stay like this forever, their lips pressed, exchanging short puffs of air. His mind was filling with cotton fast, he couldn’t even hear the rushing river anymore.

Oh my god,

what am I doing?

The thought came crashing down on Atsumu like a wave. It felt so real, so suffocating, he couldn’t breathe as it flashed over and over in his mind. So, with his eyes still screwed shut, Atsumu pulled his face away from Sakusa’s, feeling the immediate absence against his lips, and turned to the side.

He couldn’t look at Sakusa, he just couldn’t. Whether he was standing there with an entirely disgusted expression or the same angry eyes he’d flashed when they first met, Atsumu would never know.

Because he’d bolted off the end of the bridge before he could get a glimpse.

“Wait, Atsumu!”

Even though he heard Sakusa calling out behind him, he wouldn’t look back, not for anything in the whole world. He only knew how to run—how to race down the unfamiliar roads in pursuit of his home.

Tears stung at his eyes. His lips tingled from the sudden exposure to the cold. Atsumu’s heart begged him to stop, to turn back, but his mind was egging him further forward, farther away from the man he’d just abandoned on the bridge.

He’d ruined everything,

hadn’t he?

But we’re frankenstein’s monsters

of our own creation,

favoring the pieces of ourselves we want to be while

hauling the burden of all the limbs we wish we could

leave behind.

We’re disciples of the belief that

love doesn’t exist

because no one’s reminded us that our

hearts weren’t left on the workbench.

And we are broken mirrors

destined to show altered reflections of one another.

We may be hostile at first,

but it’s only because we’ve met in the

unfortunate circumstance of our

inescapable selves.

Either

we must continue to believe that we are monsters who will eventually learn to love,

or consider that we were never monsters to begin with

and we have known how to love all this time.

Chapter Text

When Atsumu was seven years old, he found the magical spot in the field a few miles from his house.

He’d been the victim of taunting from his twin brother and his friends long enough, so he started to run down the road and didn’t turn back. Wiping tears from his bleary eyes, he didn’t look at the signs or the sun or anything, his heart was too torn up to care anyways. Thus, when the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky went ink black, he started to panic. There were no lights in the countryside besides the sliver of moon that hung in the sky and the stars that accompanied it. Atsumu stood on the side of the road with his mouth agape, familiar names caught up in his throat.

“Osamu,” he whimpered.

His eyes trailed as far down the road as the moonlight would allow him. The gravel was digging into the balls of his feet and his heels had gone all raw from running without shoes. Sweat dripped into his eyelashes and mixed with old tears.

“Mama?” he eked out.

Even if he’d tried to navigate his way back home, he would’ve ended up blinded by the night and too fatigued to go any further.

A soft brushing arose behind him. The crickets that had once acted as background noise to the rushing blood in his ears grew louder and clearer. Turning slowly on his heel, the field came into view.

It was a vast landscape, reaching as far as his young eyes could see, a patchwork of reeds and wheat and unkempt grass. It towered over him, the tallest reeds could tickle his noise while he was standing up straight, and the shortest ones just brushed his hip. The moonlight glittered off of the very tops of the reeds and when they swayed in the night breeze, they cast shadows on the edge of the old dirt road where Atsumu was standing.

Like the field had some magnetic pull, Atsumu found himself shuffling into the field, using both of his hands to part the grass and make a path for himself as he moved further in. As his hands slipped from the sides, the grass would tickle the backs of his arms and legs where the sweat was already drying in the night chill. Yet, wrapped in the arms of the field, Atsumu was pleasantly warm and his feet sighed with relief padding along the soft dirt ground.

Instantly, the panic in his body subsided. His once dry mouth felt normal and the relentless trembling in his hands had stilled. He kept walking, on and on, not quite sure where he was going but not worried in the slightest about it. He could’ve walked on forever. Perhaps he would eventually reach the end of the field, or maybe the end would never come, and he could walk forever and ever, far away from all the taunting and teasing.

But, for now, he wanted to lie down.

He traveled a few more feet into the field before finding a pleasantly soft spot where he could lie down without killing his back. Gingerly, he lowered himself onto his hands then kept shifting until he was on his back. Sometime during the process, he’d closed his eyes—he didn’t want to look until he was sure he’d be looking at the sky. So, when his back was comfortably flush with the dirt, he let his eyes finally fall open.

The sky was bigger than Atsumu ever remembered. The stars twinkled all over like freckles across heaven’s giant face, the moon as its eye watching over him. Atsumu lifted his hand and jutted his thumb out to measure the distance between the moon and the brightest stars in the sky; it was about the end of his thumbnail to the center of his first knuckle. There was usually only one brightest star but, tonight, there were two, one below and one about a thumbnail’s length above it.

Two brightest stars—he couldn’t wait to tell Osamu about it.

A pang of sadness shot through Atsumu’s heart. It was the first moment since he’d crawled into the field that he felt small—and looking up at the sky, he couldn’t imagine feeling any bigger than a speck. Yet, he was happy. For a brief moment, he wasn’t Miya Atsumu, he was only a speck, a stroke of paint against the canvas of the endless universe.

Insignificant, yet content.

The sound of the rustling reeds surrounded him, and he felt safe amongst the chirping crickets and buzzing June beetles that were swarming his head. He wanted to be small forever.

“Atsumu!” One of the crickets called out to him.

The sound was very far away. Atsumu furrowed his brow and listened again.

“Atsumu!”

The sound was no cricket.

It was his mother.

“’Sumu, baby, are you out here?”

Atsumu scrambled up as hastily as his lanky, young limbs would allow. Just as his head peeked over the reeds, a pair of blaring headlights shot through the darkness.

“I told you he ran this way, Mama!”

A smile cracked onto Atsumu’s face at the sound of his brother’s voice. There was a familiar old truck pulled up on the side of the road, but there was no driver—perhaps because his mother was racing through the field towards the tuft of her son’s hair that was peeking over the reeds.

He ran towards her, parting the grass with even more insistency than before.

“Mama!” He cried.

When they collided, his mother made quick work of wrapping her arms around him and entrapping him in the tightest, most suffocating hug.

“I am so mad at you,” she whispered in a teary voice.

Atsumu didn’t mean to cry, but he felt the hot tears fall all on their own. The space where his chin was digging into his mother’s shoulder was already damp with his snot and sweat. His mother only held him tighter, rubbing a comforting circle around the expanse of his shoulders.

“Oh, my baby,” she hummed.

She planted kisses all over his face, on his forehead and his eyelids and his chin. Though they only stayed in the field for a few more moments, it felt like ages to Atsumu. While he sat in the car with Osamu pinching at his sides, he could only gaze out the window and wish he was lying in that field again, feeling small and happy.

There was no other place that made him feel that way.

Atsumu couldn’t sleep.

He’d been tossing and turning for what felt like hours and every time he looked at the clock, he’d heave a sigh and slam his head back into the pillow defeated.

Images of the evening played on an endless loop in his mind. The colors of the sunset peeking out from over Sakusa’s curls, his bubbling laugh travelling through the spring breeze, the feeling of his lips between Atsumu’s.

Atsumu groaned. He grabbed the pillow beside him and pressed it over his face to muffle his scream. By the time the pillow was back in its original place, Atsumu was all the way awake all over again. He peered at his alarm clock

3:45am.

It was no use. He’d even taken his medication on time, but his brain still wouldn’t quit. He was lucky that the thoughts weren’t harrowing and haunting like usual—rather, the thoughts sent shivers through his body and made his heart skip beats. Yet, the excitement would only last so long. He was sure that he’d screwed up everything with Sakusa. What was he thinking kissing him? And in such a stupid way, too?

Atsumu used his fingers to drag down the skin beneath his eyes in anguish.

Everything felt like it was moving around him, spinning and shifting and twisting around. He took out his mental checklist.

Suna—check.

Kita—check.

Aran—sorta check, they had never really been on bad terms.

Osamu—

Atsumu sighed. After himself and his father, Osamu was the one Atsumu was angriest at. They’d lived together for years, they shared a womb, yet Osamu never understood what he was going through. He was always coarse with Atsumu no matter how terrible his mental health was. There was nothing he wanted more than to get back at him, to exact his revenge for all the years of cruelty. Maybe the next time Osamu was visiting the apartment or Atsumu was back in his hometown he could finally—

“Oh my god,” he whispered to himself as the realization flooded through him.

He scrambled for his phone on the nightstand. Pulling the cord from the port, he dialed one of his most recent numbers. While it rang, he pressed the phone to his ear and flopped back onto the pillow so that his eyes were trained on the ceiling.

“I am gonna kill you for callin’ me at such an unholy hour,” Osamu’s groggy voice crackled over the receiver.

“I was fifteen,” Atsumu said.

Osamu was silent for a moment.

“What?”

“I was fifteen years old in my first year of high school,” Atsumu recanted, “and I’d had the shittiest day at school. The thoughts were bad and at some point, I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Atsumu,” he whispered, “why are you tellin’ me—?”

“I ditched practice and just ran,” Atsumu continued, his voice finally starting to waver, “and I kept runnin’ until sunset, I don’t know why it was just all I could think to do.”

Honestly, he’d forgotten this story—he’d forgotten it until tonight.

“I couldn’t look at you or mom so I just—” his voice got caught up somewhere between his chest and his throat.

“Atsumu,” Osamu replied lowly.

“And, at some point, I ended up at this—field,” Atsumu felt the first tear trail from the corner of his eye down the side of his head, pooling somewhere on the pillowcase, “and I sat in the middle of it feelin’ so small and insignificant.”

Osamu didn’t respond. Atsumu felt his face go hot with shame from crying so openly while his brother was just on the other end of the phone, but he couldn’t help it, not after years of holding back. It was the same field, the one he’d gotten lost in as a kid, and he had the feeling he couldn’t find anywhere else—right down to the two brightest stars in the sky.

“All I could think to do was call you. So, I did,” he whimpered, “I gave you my location and you said ‘okay’—and then you hung up.”

There were tears on both sides of his face now, creating a collection of damp spots all over his pillowcase. His chest kept getting tighter and tighter, but he supposed it was the aftermath of letting years of resentment roll right off of him.

“And then you showed up ten minutes later in dad’s old truck,” Atsumu sucked in a shuddering breath, “I got in, you handed me a stick o’ beef jerky, then you drove me home.”

He had to whisper now to mask his wavering voice, gut with how often he was sniffling, he really wasn’t hiding anything.

“You didn’t ask any questions about why I was in that field,” he whispered, “or how I got there or anythin’. You just—drove.”

Atsumu heard Osamu sniffle on the other end. Whether it was because he was crying or just suffering from springtime allergies, Atsumu would never know, but he liked to entertain the former.

“I was so mad at you for all these years because you’d never understand but, that day, you didn’t need to understand—you just had to be there. And you were.”

Atsumu felt a cry rattle in the center of his chest, the rest he tried to keep trapped behind pursed lips.

“You’re a really good brother, ‘Samu.”

The words barely came out. He hoped if they translated well over the speaker because there was no way he’d be able to say them again without losing it completely.

“And I love you,” he added.

He listened to Osamu’s heavy breathing on the other end. Maybe he’d fallen asleep—the thought almost made Atsumu chuckle.

“I love you, too,” Osamu replied in a low voice.

Atsumu inhaled sharply. When he released the breath, he felt the weight of twenty-three years fall from his chest. As he smiled, hot tears fell over his top lip.

“Well,” he muttered, “that’s all.”

“Next time you’re gonna pour your heart out, make it happen in the PM,” Osamu grumbled.

The call disconnected in the very next moment. Atsumu set the phone onto the nightstand and let the silence of the night fill in the spaces left by the dropped call. Even though the weight off his chest felt phenomenal, the rest of his body was still restless, and his mind was racing.

He could get up and make himself some dinner. He could watch Fast and Furious 2 again. He could walk all the way to the police station in a craze again. Or—

he could play volleyball.

Hinata and Bokuto had pulled Atsumu aside after practice one day in a very dramatic fashion.

“We found a key,” Bokuto had whispered to him.

“What?” Atsumu replied.

“Shh!” Bokuto pressed his finger to Atsumu’s lips.

“A key to the court,” Hinata hissed.

“You did?”

“Yeah, me and Bo have been using it to get in some midnight practice,” Hinata added.

“It’s under the mat at the back door,” Bokuto wiggled his eyebrows.

They’d let him go in as dramatic of a fashion as they’d pulled him aside, and he tucked the information away to process some other time.

Now felt suspiciously like that time.

Atsumu swung his legs to his left and heaved himself up off of his bed, a flood of energy flowing through him. He didn’t even have time to think about Sakusa and the kiss as he slipped his sweatpants on over his briefs and tugged his shirt over his head. Atsumu tumbled towards the front door in the darkness, making sure to grab his phone and keys on the way. At the door, he pushed on his tennis shoes and slipped his arms into his coat.

Atsumu raced down the hallway and down the concrete stairs. When he was finally out in the open, he felt a shiver run down his spine. The buses had stopped running a long time ago, so Atsumu was relegated to travelling by foot. It would take a while, but it wasn’t like Atsumu had anything better to do. Thus, with a sigh, he started his trudge through the city.

It was a tad later than when he’d left the bar, so even the usual drunks had vacated the streets. His walk was quiet, the only real sound coming from the buzzing streetlights and the pound of Atsumu’s feet on the pavement.

He didn’t mind it actually, the silence. He would’ve gone mad as a teenager with no stimulus to keep him occupied but, as he got older, he found his own thoughts to be more interesting than anything else. He thought of Sakusa—the moment their pinkies brushed, Sakusa’s finger intertwining with his, the smell of his coat from that one night. While the thought of him made Atsumu’s chest feel warm, the knowledge that he’d probably lost him made everything feel cold. Perhaps a few good serves would be enough to get his mind off the whole thing.

He passed the comic book store and the movie theatre and the corner store. He turned and passed the library and the massage place and the doctor’s office. When the courts finally came into view, he was sure that he’d been walking for a year or two. All the lights that usually illuminated the parking lot had been turned off and the only way Atsumu knew where to go was because he went there every day. Shoving his hands further into his pockets, Atsumu rounded the left side of the building and peered around, just to make sure no one was lurking around.

When he was sure the coast was clear, Atsumu shuffled to the back door where a large black mat was laid before it on the concrete slab. He took one last wary look out to the darkness before crouching at the mat to lift the corner.

But when he glanced up to the back door, Atsumu furrowed his brow.

The light was on inside.

Tentatively, and with a thrumming heart, Atsumu pressed at the door and felt it open at his touch. He took a deep breath before poking his head through the opening and peering inside.

THWACK.

Descending gracefully to the ground was Sakusa, trailing the volleyball with his eyes as it bounced on the other side of the court. Atsumu’s breath hitched in his throat. The golden light of the court flooded every edge of Sakusa’s form—it glittered off of the ends of his curls and shimmered on the folds of his t-shirt and sweatpants. He crouched over and planted his hands on his knees to catch his breath, sweat dripping down from his forehead.

Atsumu tried to shimmy inside as silently as possible, but the slam of the heavy metal door gave him away instantly. He winced when the sound echoed through the court and shot Sakusa a sheepish look when his neck craned to look.

“Hey,” Atsumu muttered.

“Hi,” Sakusa replied breathlessly.

What the hell was he doing? Not twelve hours before this very moment, Atsumu had kissed Sakusa. He was frozen in place, scared out of his mind for what Sakusa would say, which direction he would run in just to get the hell away from Atsumu. Maybe he should leave first, just to spare himself the embarrassment.

Instead, Sakusa picked up a ball from the cart and motioned to Atsumu.

“Throw me a set?” He asked softly.

Atsumu’s mouth went dry. He blinked a few times and shook his head, just to be sure he heard Sakusa right.

“Y-yeah,” he stammered, stumbling towards the court.

Sakusa watched Atsumu as he shed his coat and tossed it off to the side. With both hands, Atsumu took the ball carefully. Sakusa’s eyes flickered all over his face and, for a moment, neither of them moved, they could only stare.

Atsumu was the first to break away, turning towards the net with the ball clutched between his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sakusa shuffle into place. Thus, with a deep breath, Atsumu positioned himself.

As always, the ball felt familiar in his hands—the pads of his fingers trailed down the stitching and the rubbing of the leather against his palms felt like his youth. He let his eyes flutter closed and his mouth crack into a small grin.

When he set, he felt like he was floating. The ball would rush off his fingers like the running water of the creek, all he had to do was dip his hand in and savor the sensation. When he really listened, he could almost hear the croaking frogs that sat on the nearby logs and the June bug he trapped in a jar that had holes poked in the lid. He could hear Osamu chattering to Aran in the distance and the thwip of a fishing line darting towards the water.

And the sound of Sakusa’s hand hitting it over the net was the lure breaking the surface of the water with a plop. It was the rush of the warm summer wind through the tall cedars and the splotches of sunlight that passed through the leaves. When he turned to look behind him, Sakusa was watching on, waiting. On the other side of the court, the ball rolled towards the wall.

“Any critiques?” Atsumu asked.

“No,” Sakusa shook his head, “it was perfect.”

With a smile, Atsumu grabbed another ball. He set it just like the last, feeling pure power run through his veins as the leather brushed his fingers and the familiar smack of the ball against Sakusa’s palm came the perfect number of seconds afterwards.

However, when he looked behind him again, Sakusa was hunched over to catch his breath again, an obvious bead of sweat dripping from the end of his curl. His brow was low and his eyes were narrowed. When he shifted his right hand, Atsumu saw that his entire palm was bright red.

“Omi,” he whispered.

“Throw me another,” Sakusa commanded in a hiss.

Atsumu complied, picking up another ball from the cart and getting into position. He swallowed nervously, but set the ball anyways, hearing Sakusa grunt from behind him as he jumped up to reach it.

He landed back onto the court with a thud and when Atsumu turned to see the damage, he watched Sakusa reel back a few steps.

“Hey, if you need to take a break—” Atsumu stepped towards him.

“Another,” Sakusa snapped at him.

“Really—”

“Another,” he repeated in a lower voice.

Atsumu nodded to mask the downcast of his eyes. Maybe he should ask about what happened at the bridge, the thought was eating him up inside to the point where he could barely set. With trembling hands, he picked up another ball. His body felt all off-kilter, his mind even more so. Atsumu wanted to turn back and insist that Sakusa sit, even just for a minute, but he set the ball anyways and prayed that Sakusa wouldn’t fall right on his ass after he hit it.

Not a moment after the ball left the tips of his fingers, Atsumu heard the familiar thump of the ball against the court—but it wasn’t the only thump he heard.

Atsumu turned in a panic to see Sakusa on the floor, hoisted upright by only his hands. His chest was heaving with deep, heavy breaths and the sweat that had been dripping once every so often was now streaming from that same front curl in a constant stream. His tongue was nearly hanging out of his mouth like he was a dog running through the streets in summer.

“Omi,” Atsumu chuckled.

Sakusa shot him a very serious look, but his cheeks burned in embarrassment. Atsumu smiled, suppressed another chuckle, and offered an outstretched hand to Sakusa, feeling a shuddering wave of déja-vu pass through him. But instead of Sakusa scoffing and blowing him off, he peered at Atsumu’s fingers in a thoughtful moment.

Ever so slowly, Sakusa lifted his right hand and reached for Atsumu’s hand. The first contact sent a flurry of sparks through Atsumu’s arm even though it was just the rough, calloused tips of Sakusa’s fingers brushing Atsumu’s palm. When Sakusa’s fingers wrapped around his hand, Atsumu’s brain went absolutely haywire—so haywire that he almost forgot to pull.

Sakusa was pretty helpful in hoisting himself up, so much so that they were both standing in no time. But he didn’t let go of Atsumu’s hand. Atsumu even relaxed his hand briefly to see if it would set off a chain of reactions where Sakusa would let go and they’d return to sets and spikes.

Instead they just stood there, panting and staring. Sakusa’s eyes trailed over the line of Atsumu’s hair then to his nose. Atsumu wasn’t exactly sure what he looked at next, but it was lower than his nose. Perhaps—

Maybe it was that Sakusa grew tired of just standing there, holding onto a sweaty Atsumu. Or maybe he was wracked with a bout of muscle spasms.

Neither seemed likely considering the way Sakusa pulled Atsumu towards him—hard.

As Sakusa’s face came crashing into view, Atsumu wondered what he was going to do. Was he going to punch him out? Was he planning to toss him to the side and start swinging while he was incapacitated on the floor?

Before he could even answer his own query, Sakusa’s lips were sealing over his.

It took a few seconds for Atsumu to understand what was even going on. For those few seconds, it was just one pair of lips over his, still and unmoving. His eyes were darting all over, perhaps to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming.

It wasn’t until Sakusa tilted his head that Atsumu’s eyes could flutter closed, confident that he was definitely awake, and this was definitely real.

Every dream he’d had of their kiss earlier that day was coming true—Sakusa’s actual lips were pressed to Atsumu’s with no flimsy piece of fabric to shield them. And it was all he’d imagined, warm and soft. Sakusa’s lips were soft and—well, that was the only word Atsumu could think to use.

Unsteady hands rose to the sides of Sakusa’s arms. He was tentative in pressing his palms against Sakusa’s skin but, as he did, Sakusa’s own hands flew up to grab the sides of Atsumu’s face and tilt his head even further. He tugged Atsumu’s face up as they shifted, deepening what was already a mind-boggling interaction.

With Sakusa’s hands nearly engulfing Atsumu’s jaw, he couldn’t even think anymore. Atsumu’s heart was beating out of his chest and the rest of his body was flooding with pure fire. Sakusa’s scars grazed Atsumu’s skin and sent a shudder down his spine. He pressed his fingers into Sakusa’s arms to hold on, sure that if he let go he’d float right away. The tip of Sakusa’s nose pressed into Atsumu’s cheek as he dove deeper and deeper.

Even though their ministrations against each other’s lips were small an understated, each sent sparks flying through Atsumu’s limbs. How long had they been like this? When was the last time they breathed?

It was as if Sakusa read his mind. As the long moment ended, Sakusa used his hands to pull Atsumu’s face away slowly. It took an extra second for Sakusa’s eyes to flutter open but when they did, Atsumu was met with his large brown eyes watching over him with a sort of soft desperation.

And then, the feeling came.

Atsumu thought he’d never feel it again, the sensation from lying in the middle of that field. Yet, looking at Sakusa, he couldn’t ignore the moon-like eye that watched over him and the two brightest stars in the sky stacked one on top of the other right above his eyebrow. In that moment, Atsumu felt so small and insignificant, like a splotch of red in a field of wildflowers. But he was happy. He didn’t think he could ever be so happy.

Sakusa leaned in, seemingly to kiss him again, but he stopped right as his nose brushed the side of Atsumu’s. His eyes watched over him, terrified and desperate and warm, his breath was hot and huffy against Atsumu’s lips which itched for another kiss.

“I have obsessed over the most disgusting, terrifying things you could ever imagine, but you—” Sakusa whispered,

Atsumu’s heart thrummed.

“—you were the first beautiful thing I couldn’t stop thinking about.”

Without another word, Sakusa pulled Atsumu’s lips back against his as if all his breath was caught somewhere behind the man’s teeth. Although it was deep, he kept his lips fairly closed as if he was afraid.

Open up, Atsumu’s mind begged.

All I want is for you to trust me.

Atsumu knew Sakusa would never be the first to do it, so he tentatively parted his lips and invited Sakusa to follow suit. With slightly trembling lips, Sakusa began the slow process of parting them. Atsumu smiled and shifted his hands so he was carding his fingers through the thick black curls that covered Sakusa’s head. Sakusa mirrored him, letting his hands slip from Atsumu’s jaw so one could grip his side while the other reached across to his back.

He couldn’t help but return Sakusa’s sentiment: his mind was unequivocally stuck on Sakusa Kiyoomi. Of any intrusive, repeating, harrowing thought he’d ever had, this was the only one he wouldn’t mind having for the rest of his life.

Just as Sakusa pushed his tongue past the invisible barrier they’d been obeying for far too long, Atsumu felt his hand trail down the center of his back—just like he always wanted someone to do.

Atsumu parted breathlessly from the addicting kiss with a small grin.

“I hate you,” he whispered.

Sakusa’s brow curled. His glittering brown eyes raked over Atsumu’s features.

“Really?” He asked pitifully.

Atsumu chuckled, “No.”

Atsumu wasn’t sure how long they stood there locked in the more drawn-out kiss Atsumu thought could ever actually happen, but all he knew was that when they finally left the court, the sun was peeking out over the horizon. So, Atsumu took Sakusa’s hand and tugged him to the bridge where they’d been the prior evening while they talked about pointless things, stupid little stories from childhood and new volleyball techniques they wanted to try out. There were so many words hanging on the edge of Atsumu’s tongue, more serious inquiries into the future, but those things could wait.

After all, Atsumu wanted to see if the sunrise was all Sakusa had said it was.

But, frankly, they were too busy staring at each other to notice it.

“Better isn’t always a feeling.”

Dr. Hirai grinned out to the group.

“Oftentimes, it’s a state of being. You’re better without even realizing it.”

Atsumu glanced up to flash a smirk and a flirty eyebrow wiggle at Sakusa who rolled his eyes in response.

“Every time you wake up and put your feet on the floor, you are better than you were yesterday by the sheer virtue of yesterday being behind you,” the doctor continued, “Even if you do the exact same things from the moment you wake up to the moment you fall back asleep, you are better than ever before.”

Tamura reached her hand over to the arm of Atsumu’s chair. He took it without thinking, feeling a wave of comfort flow through him as a weathered thumb rubbed over his knuckles.

“It’s when you realize that fact and begin to invest in that state of being in small, intentional ways that you’ll start to feel it.”

Sakusa glanced up once more, just to make sure Atsumu was still watching. A soft blush peeked out from the edge of his mask.

“If it were me, I would begin with a task that’s so small and insignificant—” Dr. Hirai eyed Atsumu, “I’ve been putting it off for far too long.”

Sureness took root somewhere in Atsumu’s chest. He knew what he had to do, but it wasn’t the right time, not yet.

“Excuse me,” Akari mumbled.

In an instant, she’d scrambled up and slid out the door that led into the long corridor. The group watched her leave and sat in the strange silence that followed, wondering if someone should go out and fetch her.

“Well, in the meantime, we might as well get started,” Dr. Hirai instructed.

However, he was cut off by the sound of the door, opening then closing with a click. Akari was pressed up against the wood with a sheet-white face and a cell phone clutched to her chest.

“I quit my job,” she blurted out.

Atsumu shot a wide-eyed glance to Sakusa who was watching on with a confused expression.

“I hated it,” she added hastily, “from the moment I got there it’s been dogshit and I’ve been meaning to quit for ages but—it was never the right moment.”

Everyone seemed to be sporting a different sort of panicked look—well, everyone except for Dr. Hirai.

He was grinning from ear to ear.

“That’s nice to hear,” he mused.

With a bit of a wobble in her step, Akari trudged back over to the couch and lowered herself back onto the cushions. Even though her face was very slowly gaining color back, her mouth was twitching into a smile. Atsumu swore it was the first smile he ever saw out of Akari.

And her rash decision had gotten the gears moving in Atsumu’s mind. He was itching for the hour to be over, occupying himself with the knowledge that Sakusa was sitting right across from him, getting flustered any time Atsumu dared to look at him.

When Dr. Hirai finally gave his parting words, Atsumu stood up, bid Tamura a chaste farewell, and dashed out into the hallway where he slipped on his coat and shoes and took his position outside the door to wait for a very specific man to follow.

Sakusa pushed open the door and buttoned up the remaining half of his coat while Atsumu watched on, buzzing in place.

“What’s up with you?” Sakusa asked bitingly.

Atsumu smiled, “I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Where?” Sakusa peered down at him.

“It’s a surprise,” Atsumu teased.

Sakusa grimaced, “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.” Atsumu waved him off, “Oh! But first—”

Without warning, Atsumu wrapped his fingers around the collar of Sakusa’s coat and pulled him closer with one hand while he used the other to tug Sakusa’s mask down, certainly now that they were close enough for the kiss to feel as effortless as breathing.

Sakusa was stiff at first, not one for grand public displays of affection, but the kiss was too intoxicating for him not to melt into it. Atsumu lingered for a moment more, savoring the toothpaste and green tea taste that never seemed to go away. They parted eventually, but not before Atsumu could nibble at Sakusa’s bottom lip.

“Was that it? Was that the surprise?” Sakusa asked coldly.

“You wish,” Atsumu teased.

In the very next moment, Atsumu had grabbed Sakusa’s hand and begun pulling him through the streets. They turned corners and passed familiar shops, all while the sun teased the horizon. Atsumu’s entire body buzzed with anticipation and his heart leapt from the right side of his chest then to the left then back again in a relentless dance. The cold, brisk air stung his lungs, but every glance back to Sakusa would remind him how little he cared about such inconveniences. He would much rather feel a little sting than get to where they were going any slower.

Sakusa tried to ask where he was being pulled to, but Atsumu wouldn’t give him the chance, instead moving faster than ever before. Sakusa couldn’t even come up with a good guess until they were barreling towards Atsumu’s apartment.

“What are we doing here?” Sakusa asked breathlessly from close behind.

Atsumu didn’t respond. Instead, he tugged a little harder on Sakusa’s hand as they ascended up the stairs towards the door that led to Atsumu’s hallway.

It was such a long corridor that when Atsumu bounded down it, he felt like he was flying. Perhaps the fact that Sakusa’s fingers were intertwined with his made the feeling all the more real.

“This is the surprise?” Sakusa asked, heaving, “Your apartment?”

Atsumu chuckled and fumbled to unlock the door. He shot one last giddy look to Sakusa before rushing inside that made the spiker’s face curl in half-fear, half-confusion. Atsumu darted towards his bedroom door and tossed it open to reveal the mess of boxes that was still piled up all over the room. Sakusa eventually appeared behind him, placing a firm hand on Atsumu’s shoulder to steady himself.

To Atsumu, better had always been a destination, a glimmering light at the end of a long torturous tunnel. But it didn’t feel that way anymore, rather, better had become the journey itself, the winding path that rose and dipped in unexpected places and the signs that urged him to keep going. Perhaps he would feel it one day, the ‘better’ everyone always talked about, but he had a feeling it would hit at some innocuous moment like in the time between putting on his right shoe and his left shoe or the one-thousandth time he hit his toothbrush against the edge of his sink. This was simply the first step.

Atsumu turned and grinned.

If it were me, I would start with something so small and insignificant that I’ve been putting it off for way too long.

“We’re gonna unpack these boxes,” he said.

Sakusa’s brow dropped, “What do you need me here for?”

Atsumu carded his fingers gently through Sakusa’s curls, pulling back the front part to reveal his large, brown eyes and his perfectly placed moles.

“Because I like you a lot,” he whispered.

Atsumu would’ve probably stolen another kiss in that moment if he wasn’t so eager to get started. So, in a flurry, he grabbed the first box from the pile and watched on eagerly as Sakusa followed suit, choosing another box from the stack.

“I want it on the record that you roped me into this,” he grumbled.

“Whatever you say, Omi,” Atsumu replied.

And it was in this same apartment, approximately one year and two months later, that Atsumu would find himself waking up to a blaring alarm with a very heavy arm entrapping him to the bed.

“Mm, Omi,” he whined groggily as he battled the arm to give him enough leeway to reach for his phone.

Sakusa didn’t budge. He was always a heavy sleeper. It was a downright miracle that Atsumu could reach far enough to turn off the impossibly loud alarm that seemed to go on forever.

“No,” Sakusa grumbled, using his anvil-like arm to pull Atsumu back beneath the comforter and against his warm chest.

Atsumu squirmed against his grip.

“We’re gonna be late,” he whispered.

“Don’t care,” Sakusa muttered, cozying in beneath Atsumu’s right arm.

“We have practice, Omi,” he said softly, turning his head to let his nose brush along the man’s forehead.

“Mm,” Sakusa grumbled again, “no we don’t.”

“You try that trick every morning and it never works.”

The sunlight glittered through the curtains they’d hung up only a few weeks ago. The two of them had gone to seemingly every furniture store in a 25-mile radius only to end up in the same ‘sheer v. blackout’ debate every single time. They eventually landed on semi-sheer and Atsumu grew to love the feeling of the sun kissing his eyelids each morning and the pools of light the sun created on the comforter.

Sakusa’s nose nuzzled into the center of Atsumu’s chest, his frizzing curls tickling the underside of Atsumu’s chin. Atsumu pressed his fingers into the moles that speckled Sakusa’s back, drawing lines between them like he was commanding the constellations.

“I’m quitting the team,” he muttered.

“No, you’re not,” Atsumu hummed in response.

Sakusa groaned again and started to kick the blanket off with his feet. He slept with it every night, and for good reason. Sakusa fought tooth and nail to even have it on the bed.

“Kylo cannot go on the bed,” Atsumu had grumbled when they first started living together.

“Why not?” Sakusa pouted with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“I’m not waking up from my night terrors with Adam Driver staring at me,” Atsumu had protested.

As always, Sakusa wore Atsumu down and now he was greeted every morning by Kylo Ren’s face splayed across the blanket. It was part of a series of compromises that ended in two of Sakusa’s special edition Star Wars posters, three of Atsumu’s Fast and Furious sportscar replicas, and two figurines from their new shared interest: Neon Genesis Evangelion.

The alarm started to blare again. Atsumu sighed and battled the same arm to turn and shut it off—for good, this time. He successfully pried himself from Sakusa’s grip and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. While he rubbed his eyes, he glanced over to the little index card that was taped above the nightstand. It read:

Just because you thought it doesn’t make it true.

It was a reminder. The apartment was full of them, actually. There was one on the fridge urging Sakusa to not throw away food just because he gets a ‘feeling’ it’s gone bad. And Atsumu caught sight of another on the bathroom door that he was trudging groggily towards. He yawned and scratched at his hip, shuffling in front of the mirror. There was another card taped to the edge, for Sakusa:

Don’t look up the symptoms of brain cancer, it won’t make you feel any better.

Atsumu scrubbed at his teeth with the toothbrush while watching his weary eyes in the mirror. Sakusa eventually appeared behind him with a half-lidded gaze and his characteristic morning scowl. Once Atsumu had spit and rinsed out his mouth, he felt Sakusa’s arm wrap around him and press a pill to his lips.

“Meds,” he grumbled.

Atsumu whined, “I’m weaning myself off.”

“Not during the qualifiers,” Sakusa muttered, “you’re too in your head to raw dog it.”

“Ew,” Atsumu grimaced, “don’t say it like that.”

Sakusa was insistent, meaning that he didn’t relent until Atsumu had definitely swallowed the pill. They'd graduated from Dr. Hirai's therapy group a handful of months ago, but they'd only learned recently that he'd put the old house up for sale and moved to the States. Something about New York, but Atsumu wasn't one to pry. Instead, he and Sakusa were putting up a good fight to buy that old house.

The two of them went to Hayato's graduation, too. As a gift, they brought him his first bottle of alcohol (strangely Sakusa's idea) and took him to the MSBY court for a bit of midnight volleyball which had become the pair's favorite pastime. On the first Saturday of every month, Atsumu and Sakusa would have lunch with Tamura and play volleyball with her son in the yard. And they'd offered an office position at MSBY to Akari, but she too had fled the country—something about a band she wanted to follow around the world?

He vacated the bathroom and trudged into the walk-in closet to grab his practice clothes. The taste of the toothpaste had awoken him a little, so he could shove on his shorts and t-shirt with focused eyes, even though he had to sit on the edge of his bed to put on his socks.

He stifled another yawn as he sat and felt the mattress dip beneath him. He’d only slipped one sock on when Sakusa approached him and loomed close. Atsumu quirked his brow and looked up at the towering man.

“You’re in my seat,” he said lowly.

“Oh, fuck off,” Atsumu chuckled and kicked Sakusa’s shin with his socked foot.

Sakusa smirked and shuffled off to the kitchen, already fully clothed. Atsumu pulled on his other sock and snatched his phone from the nightstand. When he followed Sakusa into the kitchen, he saw the man in question peering at the milk carton with a steaming travel mug of coffee sitting before him.

“’Sumu, do you think this milk has gone bad?” He asked.

Atsumu pressed his shoulder up against Sakusa’s and looked at the top of the carton.

“The expiration date’s not for another week,” Atsumu told him.

“Yes, but—” Sakusa groaned, “we opened it a long time ago, what if it’s gone bad anyways?”

He’d unscrewed the cap so Atsumu could grab it and give it a sniff.

“It’s fine,” he announced.

“But—” Sakusa began to protest.

Before he could, Atsumu wrenched the carton from Sakusa’s hand and poured a good amount into his coffee cup.

“Hey!” Sakusa whined.

“Drink it,” Atsumu instructed.

Sakusa eyed him coldly as he turned.

“Ah!” Atsumu looked back and pointed accusingly when he saw Sakusa about to pour the liquid out into the sink.

“Drink the coffee!” He commanded.

Sakusa grumbled and pouted as Atsumu patted his arm and walked back into the bedroom to grab his things. He had to shove over a pile of dirty clothes to find his volleyball and pull his gym bag from under the bed which was riddled with a bunch of empty boxes from the figurines that were now decorating every surface of the room.

Once he’d shoved all his things into the bag, including a loose roll of athletic tape and an extra water bottle for when Sakusa inevitably looked into his and got convinced that a deadly mold had festered on the mouthpiece, he hauled it over his shoulder and poked his head back out into the kitchen.

“I’ll have to ask,” Sakusa muttered into the phone.

Atsumu shuffled to his side while Sakusa pulled the thing to his chest and covered the microphone with his hand.

“Tobio’s in town and Shoyou wants us to go on another double date,” he whispered.

“What? No!” Atsumu hissed, “Last time we went out with them, I got kicked in the head.”

“And Shoyou said that, if prompted, Tobio would love to apologize for the unfortunate incident,” Sakusa said gently.

“No,” Atsumu insisted, “no way.”

Sakusa leaned towards him with a growing pout.

“But Tobio’s rich,” he said, “and we need rich friends.”

“We’re professional volleyball players, too!” Atsumu protested.

“Who live in an expensive part of town,” Sakusa added, “and if we’re gonna afford the Millennium Falcon Lego set then we need to start saving.”

“I’m not getting another concussion for the Millennium Falcon,” Atsumu hissed.

Sakusa pulled the phone back up to his ear and smiled teasingly at Atsumu.

“We’d love to,” he said cheerily.

Atsumu smacked him playfully on the arm and shot him a mean look. Sakusa only smiled and continued to go on and on about how excited he was to go to the very expensive bar the pair took he and Atsumu to last time.

Atsumu fetched Sakusa’s gym bag, which he always packed the night before, and handed it to him right as Sakusa was saying goodbye over the phone and in just enough time for Atsumu to lean in and say his own farewells.

Sakusa took his gym bag and hoisted it over his shoulder to free up his hand for his coffee. Atsumu padded towards the door and started to slip on his shoes with Sakusa in tow. He pulled a clean mask from the box beside the door and pulled it over his face, making sure to adjust the nosepiece. Atsumu leaned against the door frame and gazed at Sakusa.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Sakusa furrowed his brow, “What?”

Swiftly, Atsumu wrapped his hand around the back of Sakusa’s neck and pulled his face closer. He sealed his lips over Sakusa’s with the mask creating a thin barrier between them. Sakusa’s breath huffed with a soft chuckle as Atsumu tilted his head, the mask’s fabric rubbing over his lips.

Sakusa was the one to reach up and pull his own mask down to ensure that they got a real kiss in before they had to leave. They parted with only a minute or so to spare.

“Why do you always wait until the very last moment to kiss me good morning?” Sakusa whispered.

“It’s not about the point,” Atsumu replied teasingly, “it’s about the game.”

Sakusa rolled his eyes. Atsumu grinned.

“Wait,” Atsumu whispered.

Sakusa’s brow dropped, “Yeah?”

Atsumu glanced around for a moment at the cluttered apartment, the suncatchers hanging in the window, and the unceremoniously stacked collection of mugs that took up an entire corner. His eyes caught sight of the pile of movies beside the TV and the polaroids they’d tacked up all along the doorframe. If he tilted his head a few centimeters to the right, Atsumu could read the index card that was taped up behind Sakusa’s head, upon which a simple phrase was scrawled.

Better isn’t always a feeling.

To Atsumu, it was good, all of it: yesterday, today, even tomorrow, by the sheer virtue of living to see them all. And if you asked Atsumu to describe his life in that moment, he would probably tell you it was good.

He might even say—

it's better.

but I will tell you this:

despite every lie you've ever been told,
every bitter shortcoming and 
bridge you have burned,
all the words you wish you could take back and
the breaks that should've left you for dead,

you are going to meet
someone,
someday,
who is going to assure you that
there was nothing wrong with you,

ever.

the end

edit 04/13/2021

wow, the response to this work has been so overwhelming, i could sit for hours reading comments from people who have seen themselves in this work and perhaps found an instance of “better” somewhere within it.

this past week has been hard for me, but in the midst of it i found this reddit post that was made by a haiku bot and it just brought me to instant tears i need you to see it:

yeah, instant tears. so simple but so real. and it’s all i can realistically say to some of you, even though i want to give so much more. that’s all. thank you for reading <33