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The darkness is encroaching on him again.
Thick fingers wriggle and poke at his insides, churning his gut, shaping the clay of his emotions into something hard to grasp, hard to halt. Mischievous digits testing the boundaries of the prohibited.
They come from nowhere and everywhere.
From his morning jog, the way the unforecasted rain feels unbearable against his skin as the cold pokes needle thin holes through thin athletic clothes.
From the shaky hesitance of his first step into a set.
From his serves, hitting the tape each time or flying out of bounds.
From opening his water bottle post-practice, hands cramped and clenched tight around the metal, eyes unseeing as he responds reflexively to a teammate’s joke. Feeling like everyone’s eyes are on him.
There is no reason for the fingers to poke harder at the clay of his nerves. He knows this. These things happen. Everyone has bad days.
This happened in high school, too. He played it off then and he can play it off now, draw the facade back in place and lock it down.
But.
But, the fingers keep probing.
Atsumu swallows his water, feels like his mouth is even drier than before.
He can’t tell what the fingers are trying to shape. He can’t identify a single emotion, doesn’t recognize the blob his clay has become anymore. He wonders if the others can see it. If they can see how soft he is, how moldable. How the fingers probe but he’s helpless to stop it, how weak he is at this very moment, like a puppet with its strings cut.
He wonders if they’ll still approve of what shape the clay takes when the fingers are done.
His thoughts spiral, the twisting in his gut harsh as the fingers curl into fists and pound .
He stays longer, claiming more individual serve practice. Seeking the steadiness that volleyball has given him. It has always yanked the fingers away forcefully, molding the clay back into an unsteady little ball to be better repaired at a later date.
But not this time.
Even when his breathing is harsher still, and his aim is off because lifting his arms has become painful, nothing distracts from the constant pounding of clay.
Sweat drips into his eyes as he stands there, toes edging the end line, arms too heavy to lift for another serve after enduring both regular intensive practice and his own hellish training. He doesn’t doesn’t know what time it is. He can’t bring himself to care.
The fists continue to pound.
He doesn’t even realize his feet have carried him back to the locker room until he’s standing in the corner of it, staring blankly at his burgundy duffle on the bench. No one else is here. They’ve all gone home for the day, left Atsumu to himself.
His lip trembles.
There’s no reason for this. There’s no reason for this . Everything is perfectly fine, so why is he standing here, trembling, raking hands through his hair and pulling so hard it hurts? What started this? There was nothing. Nothing .
Nothing started this. It just happened.
How is he supposed to live when pounding turns into sharp claws tearing clay to shreds, when he can’t even pinpoint the source of the darkness eating at him? When not even volleyball can save him?
A harsh sound rings out in the cold space of the room, and Atsumu realizes it’s him. He’s sobbing.
He bites his lip to try and stop it, but all that achieves is a taste of iron, blood leaking into his mouth from how hard his teeth press down. The darkness is coming, and he can’t hold it off. Here, in this damp space, smelling faintly of sweat and unfulfilled dreams, he’ll succumb to claws and fear, and let himself be molded into something ugly.
There’s nothing to stop him from crouching down, curling into his legs as his mind is swallowed, as his shaking becomes so bad he can’t stop it, as his head hurts with how much hair he’s surely pulled out by now. He vaguely recognizes the tears on his cheeks, but they feel cold like the rest of him.
The clay is mere pieces by now, torn apart and ravaged in a battle he can’t control. And yet the claws won’t stop until there’s nothing, until every piece is too small to salvage.
Another sob tears out of his chest, unbidden. It rakes through his chest painfully.
There’s a whisper in response, somewhere. He can’t tell where it comes from. Only that the darkness swallows it back up before he can grasp at it.
And then, it comes again. And again. And again. And again. The whisper is calling his name.
“Atsumu.”
His throat feels dry. He can’t respond. His hands remain clamped in his hair. He can’t reach out.
“Atsumu.”
The darkness is powerful, laying waste to his mind while the claws make work of his gut. He feels like he’s suffocating, choking on something indiscernible.
“Atsumu!”
Suddenly, a warm touch. So different from the cold that envelops his limbs, that tears away at his being.
He leans into it subconsciously, the tiny part of his mind still holding onto sanity chanting come back, come back, come back!
The touch, only light before, becomes heavier in response. Larger. It scoops up the cold until he feels it pressed against something even warmer. Like a blanket, covering him until his face is no longer pressed into cold knees but instead a soft heat, smelling of chemicals and citrus and a hint of spice.
The cold compresses into a tight ball, letting the warmth fill the absence in his limbs, in his skin as another round of sobs wrack his body.
“Atsumu.”
A voice, not his own, no longer a whisper. It’s deep and familiar, and Atsumu finds his mind drawn towards it. The darkness shrieks, high pitched and affronted, wavering as some steady, insistent force pushes back.
“Atsumu, come back.”
His hands and arms unclench of their own accord, reaching for that voice, for that calm presence. He feels them wrap around something firm. His grip is tight, aching for the reprieve this warmth seems to give.
Somehow, his own voice finds its way back.
“...hurts.”
A harsh shudder through his body. The feeling of a rough exhale from above.
“What hurts, Atsumu?”
The darkness is retreating, but the claws are still thrashing. Pieces of clay are scattering.
His whole body trembles, fisting the soft cloth in his hands tighter. In response, the warmth becomes firm in its hold.
“Everythin’ ,” He gasps, reaching, reaching, reaching. His mind and his body chant in unison, stay stay stay. He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud.
“I’m here, Atsumu.”
“Don’t leave me . ”
“I won’t. I’m here.”
He sucks in a shaky breath, inhaling the scent of citrus and drowning his mind in it. There’s a flutter of recognition tickling at his thoughts.
Omi-kun.
Suddenly, the darkness is gone completely.
His whole body shakes as he curls himself tighter into the embrace of his teammate, his friend, his Kiyoomi. His face finds a pale neck, equally as warm as the rest of him, and he buries himself there.
Like stomping a particularly disgusting insect into the pavement, the claws halt. Stopped by a strong grip, dragged back into the abyss by disturbingly flexible wrists and thrown into a cage with a lock. Back into the recesses of his thoughts to be examined at a later date.
“Omi,” He whispers shakily, breath fanning against goosebump-ridden skin.
“Yes,” A deep timbre confirms, and Atsumu can feel it through their contact. A shift and he feels a hesitant hand thread into bedraggled hair, soft in contrast to its former touch. “It’s okay. I’m here for you, Atsumu.”
He doesn’t know why those words feel like something more. He doesn’t know why they reach straight into his gut, why he feels pale, spindly fingers picking up every single piece of clay.
Each piece is meticulously collected, until there remain no more shreds to be gathered and that familiar hand is delicately shaping the clay of his nerves back into something neat, precise. Movements are steady, methodical, careful. Until all that remains is a compact, concise little ball, finished as things always are with these fingers. With this warmth and this smell.
His lip still trembles pitifully, but for a different reason now. Tears still drift down his cheeks, but who can fault him for it when he feels the shift of a neck and the light press of lips against his temple?
The clay sits still and firm, buried in his gut, surrounded by the much more pressing weight of a heat so grand it leaves him feeling full yet light at the same time.
His grip grows tighter, and a soft huff brushes against his ear.
“Let’s go home, Atsumu. This floor is disgusting.”
For the first time all day, Atsumu laughs.
“Okay, Kiyoomi.”
The darkness is nowhere to be seen.